In the dream, the younger version of himself held on to the fishing line as it grew suddenly taught. He called out to his father in the muted words of dreams, but the man just nodded silently at his son, giving him license to reel in the catch. With the syrupy motion of fantasy, he had reeled in the line, until he saw the vague shape rising up from the depth. Even though undefined in shape, he could tell it was a big one. A smile of pride and pleasure spread across his face; this was no sunfish, more likely a massive pike minnow.

He dragged the resistant beast closer to the surface, and with a final burst of energy, he yanked the creature out of the water and into the boat. But, it wasn’t a fish, or even a river crab; it was a massive white spider, with panicky, spindly legs, that skittered against each other, as it pulled crazily at the fishing line tangled around its long fangs. Even in the dream, the rocking motion of the boat seemed terrifyingly real.

The horror of the object pushed Anthony Morrelli up from the slumber of sleep. Although not fully awake, some signals were coming through his dream, merging reality. Despite slipping free of the dream’s illusion, the sensation of the wind on his face remained. He opened his bleary eyes to discover someone was stroking his face.

He turned his head to see a small elderly man sitting next to him, touching his cheek. At first, he was confused.

‘You have such beautiful skin,’ the old man smiled.

‘What?’

‘Just lovely, golden almost.’

‘Old man, if you touch me again,’ Anthony said, in a low deep voice, ‘I’ll break your fucking jaw.’

‘So very soft,’ the old man continued, almost dreamily himself. He then reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a gleaming hip-flask.

Now, Anthony was suddenly interested, and his scowling expression evolved into something much more amiable. Whatever perversion the old guy subscribed to could be overlooked, for the sake of a free drink.

The small man unscrewed the lid of the flask in a methodical manner, then politely offered it to Anthony. ‘Would you like a drink?’

For an unusually perceptive moment, Anthony paused. What if the old pervert had spiked it? He glanced around, and realised the bus was almost full of commuters. If the weirdo was dumb enough to try anything, there was an entire bus of upstanding citizens ready to step in. So, Anthony threw caution to the wind.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Wild Turkey,’ the old man smiled, and his eyes twinkled.

As the bus hurtled onwards, Anthony grinned, and took the flask from the old man’s hand. Tipping the container back, he swallowed three deep gulps of the sweet bourbon, and returned it.

‘With a dash of strychnine,’ the old man added softly.

‘What did you say?’

The old man did not respond. He was too busy reaching across the aisle to access a black Gladstone bag from the opposite seat. When he turned back, he was holding a coil of semi-transparent rubber tubing and an oversized syringe. Anthony, however, was not distressed at the sight of the old taxidermist preparing his tools; he was too busy convulsing and thrashing around in his seat, like someone possessed.

In the cool glow of the blue lights, the old man whistled as he worked. Occasionally, he would call on his fellow passengers to assist by restraining Anthony in his final futile moments, to hold the camera, or to help strip the body. Others would assist by unpacking the plastic sheeting and the large, glass mason jars from the over-head locker.

9

In terms of April weather, the drive up to Barstow was a pleasant one. The sun was warm in the beautiful Californian sky, and the morning haze had burned off to leave the air clear and clean. Leighton had collected Vicki from her beach house – arriving ten minutes early. This was a side of the city homicide cops rarely visited, and, consequently, he had taken almost half an hour to find Vicki’s home in the exclusive beach house complex. Then - afraid of hurrying her too much - he rolled down his window, and sat in the car listening to some Woody Guthrie, until she appeared at the side of his door. She was wearing a faded University of San Diego t-shirt, and had black bandolier bag draped over one shoulder.

‘Morning, Detective,’ she said, and smiled warmly.

‘Good morning, Miss Reiner. You all ready?’

Leighton glimpsed something familiar at her bright eyes, and her long hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. He felt a moment of nostalgia so powerful it threatened to eclipse all other rational thought.

‘Raring to go,’ Vicki said cheerfully.

‘Okay.’ Leighton shrugged. ‘Put your bag in the back seat, and jump in.’

As Leighton waited for Vicki to get in the passenger side, he gazed at the row of flawless beach houses. They were not the most opulent properties at the beach front, but they still whispered of exclusive wealth. Leighton estimated their value to be somewhere between one and two million dollars apiece.

‘Nice home,’ he said, as she clicked the buckle shut on her seatbelt.

‘Yeah.’ Vicki shrugged. ‘It used to be.’

Leighton looked at her inquisitively, sensing some shift in her mood. In a moment it had gone, replaced with her smile, and she returned to her previous disposition.

‘I just mean, I’m fairly messy,’ she said, but Leighton didn’t believe her.

Deciding it was better to let the matter drop, he put the car into drive, and they headed off.

They had travelled along the smooth grey interstate for fifteen minutes, before the clamouring traffic spread out, and allowed them both to relax. The car windows were opened just far enough to keep a comfortable breeze of morning air blowing through the interior of the car.

The first thing Vicki had noticed when she stepped into it, was that Leighton’s car was immaculate. He had on old style cassette player in the middle of the dashboard; beneath this, was a small shelf, in which a row of plastic cassette cases was carefully arranged in alphabetical order.

‘You just had this thing cleaned just for me?’ she joked, but Leighton just raised one eyebrow quizzically, and shook his head.

‘I just like a tidy car,’ he said by way of an explanation.

‘Yeah, but there’s tidy, then, there’s super-tidy.’

Leighton frowned slightly but said nothing.

‘Come on,’ she pressed. ‘This car is clearly too clean - humans need chaos to thrive.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ he said, feigning irritation.

‘You need to explain this - the neat thing.’ Vicki laughed.

‘It’s not a neat thing; it’s just how I am.’

‘Okay,’ Vicki nodded in agreement. ‘So, where does that neatness come from?’

‘Well,’ Leighton sighed, and adjusted the rear-view mirror, ‘I’m not sure. It just kind of makes sense. For a number of years, my job involved dealing with mess.’

‘Mess?’ It wasn’t really how Vicki had ever considered police work.

‘Yeah, you know, messy lives, messy crime scenes, messy desks. I suppose this,’ he nodded towards the overly tidy interior of the car, ‘is my small place of order.’

He let out a wry chuckle. ‘Sometimes, when I’d get called out in the night, my mind would still be groggy by the time I’d arrive at the scene. I’d take a tour of the place, make all the notes I could, and then, I’d go sit in my car. It was kind of like finding a quiet place in the middle of a storm. Some sort of haven, I suppose.’

He paused for a moment, then adjusted his rear-view mirror again. ‘I reckon most people could survive just about anything, if they get their own little patch of space, and keep it free from the mess of the outside world.’

‘The Leighton Jones mess-free method,’ Vicki said resolutely, and smiled at him. ‘You could sell that idea and become a millionaire.’