Chapter 7 Chapter Six

Harry sat on the verandah with a box of letters in front of him, some of which were yellowed with age.These letters were written by his mother, one a year, the oldest dating back to when he was seventeen.She wrote each letter and mailed it at a time calculated to make sure it arrived on a specific day, the anniversary of the killing of her two sons.Twenty years later, it would seem unbelievable that Harry died that day.But that is indeed a fact.Harry was not breathing or had a heartbeat when the two Tampa police officers broke down the door, found the two young boys lying in the garage and began performing CPR on them.But CPR only worked on one child... only one came to life, and that child was Harry.

Harry picked up his most recent letter, the only one he hadn't read yet.Every year, he had to force himself to read the latest letter from his mother.This time he procrastinated longer than before, because he knew that once he read the letter, he would read it over and over again, suffering the disgust brought by the madness in the letter over and over again.Also, he had to force himself to go through all the letters from his mother, hoping to find enough clear and strong evidence from each letter to submit to the parole board, thus preventing them from releasing his mother. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the letter.He looked at his hands and shook his head slightly.The criminal on the street would love to see this fright in him, this weakness of will in him, to pounce on him, make him vulnerable, make him a possible victim rather than a threat.But they wouldn't see the fear, and he had to make sure that would never happen.If he could no longer hide his fears, if that day did come, he knew he would leave the job without looking back.

He took the letter out of the envelope.It was ordinary letter paper issued by the prison, with horizontal lines.The return address on the envelope is only the name and prison number.The beginning of the letter was the same as before, and the first sentence of the text, except for the number of years Jimmy had been dead, had not changed. The letter was written in a neat, dense handwriting, each letter so small that it occupied no more than an eighth of an inch above the horizontal line.Harry stared at the letter, imagining how the small dense letters, driven by the willpower of his mother, flew out of her twisted mind and gathered on the letter paper like insects.He remembered his mother's appearance from childhood, she was always so gentle and considerate, especially when he was a child.Later, as he approaches puberty, the mother becomes uncannily distant, as if she lives in a world away from him.He remembered when he was nine, and whenever she knew he was in the bathroom, she would stand outside the door and ask him what he was doing, why it was taking so long, and warn him not to do anything wrong.At the time he had no idea what she meant.He was still a few years away from puberty then.Slowly his mother became more and more abnormal.Now he understood, but at the time he thought it was him who upset her.He didn't pay much attention to it at the time, thinking that things would pass naturally.She is his mother, so he believes that of course she loves him.That's how it should be.Jimmy also noticed a change in her, which he said was a strange time for her.But to Jimmy, it was more of a fun thing to do.Mommy's having a weird time, Jimmy would say, and giggle.

There was a light knock on the screen door to the verandah, and Harry looked up to see Jenny Walsh standing there smiling at him. "Are you working?" she asked. "If so, I don't want to bother you. I've heard about your new case on the news. I mean, you're leading the investigation. Sounds like Horrible." She took a breath, "God, what am I talking about." It was a bright night, with a full moon high in the sky.The clear moonlight poured down like water, illuminating one side of her face, where her short golden curls shone brightly, while the other side of her face was buried in deep shadow.He felt that she was like an elf floating along the sea breeze, looking beautiful and mysterious.

"No, it's not a job," said Harry. "Come on in." He put the letter away and put it back in the shoebox. Jenny sat down at the round outdoor table, next to Harry.Jenny's eyes fell on the old shoebox. "A letter from my mother," he said. "I heard today that she's going to be released on parole. Regardless of what the prison psychiatrist says, I want to be able to explain to the parole board that she is not on the mend." "Keep her in prison...is that what you want?" Jenny asked. "It's what I hope for." "It must be hard, just in time for you to have that big case."

"It's hard when I'm vacationing on some quiet island in the Caribbean. I just don't want her back in my life. I don't want her to be a part of my life anymore." Jenny looked at him , nodded slowly.Then her eyes returned to the box of letters.Oh Harry, she thought, my dear Harry, she is here now whether you can see it or not, and she will always be here whether you want it or not.All the letters in the world, all the parole boards are not going to change that. She didn't mention these words, but smiled and said, "Would you like to go for a walk on the beach?" Harry nodded, "Of course. Let me put these letters away first." Jenny smiled at him, Wondering if he would actually be able to put them away.

There was a small palm tree on the street in front of Harry's house, and a car was parked under it.The driver stood idly behind the wheel, looking first at the street and then at Harry's house.Not a bad house for the cops, thought the watcher.Harry's house, old and unsightly as it was, would still be worth a full million if it were knocked down entirely.He wanted to see where the detective lived.He's going to investigate the case, and you never know when it's necessary for you to be here.It was easy to follow him home, but he had been very cautious, following at a distance, lest he be exposed, although sometimes it may not be necessary to be so cautious.Criminals seldom stalk cops for revenge, so usually only bad cops worry about being stalked, and he had no reason to think Harry Doyle was that type.

He started the car and turned around quickly.There's no point in walking around here and risking being seen.He's got what he needs.Now it is best to play shrewdly and discreetly, as always: like a twig on a great tree, too common to be noticed, but always there.