the bell rang. Riggan put the phone to his ear, without taking his eyes off the magazine.
– Good morning. Sheriff’s Office. How can I help?
Riggan listened to the person on the other end of the line for a couple of minutes, then hung up and hurriedly began calling the sheriff’s car over the radio. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the keys to the front doors and ran to the exit.
When Bernard Hughes gave a speech to those present, often wiping the damp skin under his eyes with a handkerchief, the distinct sounds of someone’s footsteps began to be heard inside the church. Despite the fact that Riggan was wearing sneakers, his steps still echoed throughout the entire room, because he no longer bothered about decency and all that. He jogged on his tiptoes and stopped between the rows, looking for the sheriff’s head. Like everyone else, Desmond also looked back when he heard loud footsteps. He saw Riggan’s face, very alarmed by something, who motioned for him to come out for a few words. Desmond was greatly surprised by this. He understood that the guy would not just leave the office and rush here with all his might, as evidenced by his deep and frequent sighs, which were so difficult for him. The sheriff immediately stood up from his seat, heading towards the exit.
Maurice Callaham worked as a security guard at a dance school. At the age of sixty-three he was no longer particularly worried about spasms throughout his body and pain in his knees. It is unlikely that with such a physical form he would be able to repel unauthorized entry into the building. But since he was not guarding gold and foreign exchange reserves, the school management decided not to deprive him of his job. Instead, they paid attention to the conscientiousness with which Maurice approached his work. Even the fact that, with a height of one hundred and sixty-four he already weighed more than eighty, did not cause any concern to the school director or his deputy. They valued the reliability of employees, since a new security guard, like a potential employee for any other position, was perceived by them as a pig in a poke.
Maurice was in the habit of constantly smoothing his mustache in both directions, thereby checking its smoothness and levelness, so that he knew when it was time to cut it. For his age, Maurice had a rare quality: he had a good knowledge of modern musical art. In addition to the fact that the school taught dances to various music, across the street there was a video and music rental store, where an acoustic speaker was installed on the street side, from which some kind of music was constantly playing. Maurice liked most of the compositions, so when he got bored, he went out onto the terrace or opened the entrance doors, after which he began to walk around the nearest rooms and dance, and when the music was already familiar to him, he also began to silently move his lips, as if singing along. These were one of the few times Maurice put stress on his knees, but did not experience absolutely any discomfort. He simply danced and sang, and his soul rejoiced. At the same time, he did not go through any particular genres or styles. He liked pop, retro, blues, jazz, rock, disco and much more.
That morning Maurice started his next shift. He stepped off the bus, holding his lunch bag in his hand, heading towards the dance school, which was a two-minute walk from the bus stop. Every time he got off the bus, Maurice was interested in his sixty-four-year-old colleague Anthony Herb, whom he most often replaced. He wondered how soundly Anthony slept, since only twice in Maurice’s memory had he found Anthony awake when he went on shift. As soon as the noise of the bus died down, music began to reach Maurice’s ears. It was still difficult for him to understand what kind of song it was, but he was already in a hurry to find out. Halfway through, he recognized the notes of “Stop” by Sam Brown. And from that moment on, Maurice’s steps slowed down. He did not walk, but swam in the calm waves of music. At moments he even lowered his eyelids and made more characteristic movements with his hands, moving to the beat of the music. While Maurice walked to school at this pace, Sam Brown had just finished singing. She was replaced by Rammstein, and the eyes of Maurice Callaham saw the body of Gloria Nelson on the main staircase with her face broken and hidden under a layer of dried blood.
10. The shortest path
Darkness has not yet filled the streets of Heartstone, but the last rays of the sun have already dissolved. There was less and less traffic on the roads. The lights of street lamps and advertising signs were already evident, and the light in the windows of houses was clearly visible.
Deborah Minton was bustling around the kitchen like a top, not stopping for a minute. Watching her from the outside, there would hardly be anyone who would believe that this woman was a teacher who taught children the fine arts. In terms of her activity, Deborah was more suitable for the work of an athlete or a courier who, even on her own two feet, would never be late with a delivery. She was almost finishing stuffing the chicken with vegetables when she suddenly decided to check the top shelf on the refrigerator door. Deborah discovered that she had no yeast and called her daughter:
– Ursula.
A twelve-year-old golden-blond girl in a blue long-sleeved T-shirt and garnet breeches came running at her mother’s voice. Ursula had dozens of thin braids on her head. She had been begging for such a hairstyle for a long time, although the parents did not understand where their child saw such a style, because Ursula herself had no idea why it was suddenly happening. Since Deborah was very late at work those days and did not have time to braid her daughter’s hair, she asked Ursula to wait until the end of the week. But the husband, running his hand over his hair, said that it was time for him to get a haircut and it would be better for him to take his daughter with him, so that while he was getting his hair cut, someone would do the girl’s braids at the same time. John Minton owned a local bakery, so he never spared money for his daughter. He told Ursula that her hair should be done by a professional stylist, although he knew that three of the four hairdressers who worked in the salon were self-taught. But it was more important for him to present his daughter with information that would make her feel like a princess.
Ursula ran up to her mother and said, looking at her with a questioning glance:
– What?
Without lowering her head, Deborah took out a few coins from the box, gave them to her daughter and said:
– Bunny, go to the supermarket for yeast.
– I’m already flying – the girl barely said before she immediately rushed off.
– Ursula – Deborah slowed her down. – You don’t fly, you walk. And look both ways when you cross the street.
– Okay – the girl answered on autopilot.
Deborah said the same words every time she sent Ursula to the store. Despite the fact that the supermarket was located directly opposite the house, and there were almost no cars on the street, Deborah blindly followed her habit.
Ursula entered the sales area and said, waving to the cashier:
– Hello.
– Hello sweetie – nineteen-year-old Cassandra Bello answered with sleepy eyes, yawning at the end of the phrase.
– How are you? – Ursula asked, approaching the cash register.
Cassandra rested her head on her palm, leaning on a relaxed elbow, and answered, almost closing her eyes:
– I am sleepy.
– Well, what about the rest?
– The rest is fine.
– Well, make sure that no one robs the cash register.
