'Qui: The Fall of Ottawa' Part 2, Chapter 2

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"This car is something else," Sam said as she buckled up in the passenger seat of James's Celica. "It's very…orange." She chuckled to herself as her colleague sat down beside her and raised an eyebrow. God, he barely fit in here despite how surprisingly roomy the car was. She had to admit that she liked tall men, and James was definitely that, but she couldn't help wondering if being that big ever became more trouble than it was worth. She felt the typical shiver of fear run down her spine as he got close. She was getting used to that despite how nonsensical it was–somehow the more her instinct told her to get away from this man, the closer she wanted to get.

"You don't care for it?" he asked as he slipped the key into the ignition.

"Oh, it's fine," Sam said, somewhat flustered. "I think my tastes are just a tad out of date, that's all. My parents were hippies and I grew up in a house filled with bright colors and flower-power. Mom kept the decor up even after Dad left her; I guess there's comfort in sticking with something you're used to."

Qui shrugged. "Honestly, I barely remember my parents or what their old place looked like. It feels like so long ago." There was a wistful look in his eyes and Sam was somehow sure that he meant exactly what he was saying–he really didn't remember much about his past, or at least that portion of it. She wondered how that could be possible; it was surprisingly difficult to determine his actual age, but he couldn't be older than his mid-thirties, could he? She tried very hard not to look at that strange scarring on his neck that he was always trying to cover up with his long hair. He'd suffered…maybe his memory was repressed for a reason. She held back an involuntary shudder, a sudden wave of anxiety pricking at her nerves due to her overactive imagination. She felt the urge to comfort him, but that would be wildly inappropriate of her, not to mention the fact that she just couldn't physically bring herself to get any closer to him. Not yet, anyway.

"That must have sounded strange," he said as he pulled out of the garage and onto the road. "Someone like me should have a better memory than that, right?"

"I wasn't going to say that," Sam stuttered. "It's not really my business."

He nodded thoughtfully. His expression had a pensive look to it, like he was starting to reconsider whether or not it was a good idea to open up to his subordinate. "Everyone has their own reasons for getting into this job," he said after a lengthy silence. "I clean up messes–I make organizational problems go away. I like to see to the core of things." He flicked the car's turn signal and merged onto the Queensway before continuing. "I didn't always have control over my life. Now I do. Everyone's like that to one degree or another–we remember what we want to remember and just try to survive with whatever's left. We're all selfish creatures."

"That's not true," Sam said, incredulous. "You've done good work at the station. You didn't really have to clean up all the corruption. You could have singled out a token troublemaker, fired him, and coasted easy for the rest of the assignment. But you didn't–you took the job seriously and we're all better off for it. That's not the work of a selfish man."

"It's a bit of a drive down to the murder site," he said, ignoring her comment entirely. "Glad they built this highway. It makes navigation a lot easier."

Sam bit off a hasty reply. It felt like she'd accidentally struck a nerve. What was she missing? Clearly James didn't feel like he deserved her praise. Maybe he was one of those 'I'm just doing my job' types? That was okay; at least it was better than the guys who got into the gig just to go on a power trip. She might as well go with it. Keep things professional. "Yeah," she said. "It's great. They're building a new highway north-south, too, but it's been caught up in construction hell for years now, same as this road was in the 60s. For now you'll need to take another route down."

James nodded, clearly relieved that she was willing to let the topic drop. "When we get to the scene, I want you to take the lead," he said. "Show me how it's done around here while I shadow you."

"No problem," Sam replied. "But I thought you'd want to get a closer look at that knife work. It really seemed to be bugging you back in the station." She'd seen that look in his eyes when he was examining the crime scene photos. Sam had been on the force long enough to recognize when a detective had a hunch, and James clearly wasn't coming out here just to give her some company on the road. He wanted to see that body close up and personal. She knew that much for certain, but what she didn't know was why.

"You have to admit it's unusual," he said as he pulled off the highway and onto a smaller road leading south through the west end of the city. "Most knife wounds aren't quite that vicious, and I've seen a lot of them over time. It was hard to tell from the photos, but the victim almost looked like he was attacked by an animal. Those bikers really tore into the guy."

Sam nodded "They use some kind of serrated knives. It's been pretty consistent since they changed their MO once the turf war was over. It really bothered me the first few times I saw it, but it's true what they say–if you see something often enough, you can get used to almost anything. I'm not sure what that says about me, but I don't lose sleep over it anymore." She swallowed down the thought that came to her next. She had gotten used to the knife crime, but she'd never be able to forget what she saw under that hotel–Cranston's monstrous appearance. She'd been trying to put it out of her mind and act like everything was fine, but every so often she encountered a crack in the mental walls she'd built up to forget about the incident. She didn't want to believe that James had anything to do with that woman. Cranston always spoke by proxy, and she hadn't exactly seen James standing with the woman, only speaking. She hadn't seen much of anything until the commissioner burst through the ceiling and lashed out at the spy. 

"God," she muttered under her breath. "It must have been a dream…"

"Sorry?" James replied. "Did you say something?"

He was concentrating on the road, navigating his way through the unfamiliar city when she could have been helping him. At least he hadn't heard what she was saying while she was talking to herself.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "It was nothing. Take a left at the next stoplight and it's a straight shot ahead. We'll be there in about ten minutes."