第 112 页

“Isn’t it the wrong season for that?” asked Elenwë. “Shouldn’t we be drinking hot cocoa and curled up by the – no, okay, I see how it is.”

From the front yard, loud whoops greeted Aredhel’s appearance, along with the sound of an engine revving. Smoke rose from a grill that had been wedged into a snow bank, and red cups were in prominence, containing something that almost certainly wasn’t hot cocoa. Someone was playing music loudly through small speakers, and someone else was yelling.

“If you go over fifteen at the curve, Tyelko, I will actually castrate you.”

“Ahh, Andreth baby, live a little.”

“I’m trying to, that’s why I mentioned it.”

Elenwë, who had followed warily at Aredhel’s heels and already had her hands stuffed into her armpits against the cold, groaned. “I don’t even want to know.”

Aredhel settled her hat at a more rakish angle. “Street skiing.”

“No.”

“The plows haven’t come by yet, the conditions are perfect…”

“No.”

“It’s totally safe.”

“It really isn’t.”

Behind the wheel of the Fëanorions’ ancient minivan, Celegorm revved the engine and then started slowly down the snow-covered street. Behind the car, Andreth dropped her ski goggles down over her eyes and wrapped her mittened hands around the towline that was tied to the hitch.

“Ready?” Celegorm called.

Andreth dropped into a starting crouch. “Gun it!”

The car sped up, and Andreth sailed behind it, her skis carving through the fresh powder. Cheers filled the air again, and Elenwë covered her eyes.

Celegorm did one slow loop of the cul-de-sac, pulling Andreth behind the car in a spray of snow, speeding up around the final curve. As he did, Andreth let go of the rope and leaned into the shoulder of the road, where a small jump had been built out of the packed snow. As she cleared it, Aegnor let out a piercing whistle and whooped. “That’s my girl.”

Celegorm came to a stop in front of the house as Andreth popped off her skis and tossed snow into Aegnor’s face as he tried to approach her. He dodged, laughing, and grabbed her anyway as Celegorm saluted Aredhel and gestured to the crowd.

“Who’s next?”

Maglor came out of the house, wearing a tight fitting jean jacket entirely unsuited to the season, and Celegorm honked the horn. “You want a go, Káno?”

“You couldn’t pay me to ‘have a go’,” said Maglor, and bee-lined for the bench by the mailbox, where Caranthir was lounging with a cigarette. “Share?”

“Only if you go put on a real coat first, you frigid hipster.”

Celegorm tapped his fingers idly on the wheel. “I’ve got half an hour before I need to go to work. Who’s up? Speak now, or forever hold your – ”

“Ingo!” A snow-covered Aegnor caught ahold of Finrod, who’d followed Maglor out and was standing watching with Curufin on the front steps. Curufin immediately retreated, an expression of intense skepticism on his face, but Finrod was laughing.

“Oof. Aiko, no, let go – ”

“Take a spin!” Aegnor started to manhandle Finrod down the steps. “Come on, you did ski team, you can do it.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

Curufin looked at him from where he'd planted himself against the doorframe. “Seriously? You want to risk your neck on this?”

“I don’t even have my skis or boots,” demurred Finrod, still being propelled down the front walk as Aegnor deposited snow down his neck in a fond sort of way. “And – ”

“Wear mine! We’ve got the same size feet.”

“Absolutely insane,” said Curufin, and then raised a hand to his forehead in disbelief as Finrod shrugged and followed his brother. “Seriously? Is this how you want to die?”

Finrod shrugged. “It’s as good a way as any.” He smiled as Curufin rolled his eyes but didn't leave the doorway.

By the sidewalk, Finrod shed his wool coat and accepted a helmet and goggles from Andreth and turned to Aegnor. “Where are your boots?”

Andreth chuckled at the sight of him in his neat argyle sweater and grey slacks as he pulled off his shoes and buckled on Aegnor’s ski boots. “It’s a good look,” she said, shoving the helmet down over Finrod’s eyes, and Curufin shook his head.

“It’s really not.”

Fashion choices notwithstanding, soon Finrod was clipped into Aegnor’s skis and had dropped Andreth’s goggles over his eyes. He tightened a pair of borrowed mittens over his hands, and picked up the towline. “If I die,” he called to Curufin, “You can say ‘I told you so’.”

“I look forward to it.”

At that point, Galadriel, who had been sitting on the bench with Caranthir and Maglor, got to her feet. She was already in full ski gear, and she waved her hand that wasn’t holding a red cup. “Tyelkormo!”

“Yeah?”

“How do you feel about doubling up?”

“Always good,” said Celegorm. “But wait, specify.”

Galadriel passed her cup to Maglor and pushed off from the bench so that she glided on her own skis to Finrod’s side. “This hitch can take two ropes, yes?”

Celegorm grinned. “I’m always down for an Arafinwion double-team. Hook on up, Artanis.” He glanced at the dashboard clock and winced. “And then, fools, I gotta go to work.”

Aredhel jeered loudly from the sidelines. “Booo. I haven’t even gone yet!”

“Triple team!” said Celegorm brightly, but was shouted down.

* * *

Mablung started his shift on time, and alone.

His shift-mate didn’t show up until forty minutes past the hour, jogging down the trail to the aviary as he pulled on the orange vest that the preserve had all their rangers wear over his bulky winter parka. Celegorm yanked a furry hat with earflaps over his head and caught his breath, while Mablung wordlessly handed him a shovel. Apart from their nod of greeting, they exchanged few words as they set to work shoveling out the enclosure and the paths around it. As the snow finally stopped falling, the eagle Thoronodor shook his great head and flapped his wings, hopping off his perch to investigate Celegorm as he knocked snow off low-hanging branches that were creaking dangerously under the weight.

Mablung watched as Celegorm chuckled and murmured to the bird under his breath, inquiring, indistinct sounds that made Thorondor twist his head curiously. The eagle clacked his beak and fluffed out his feathers, snapping playfully at the snow Celegorm flicked his way, until Mablung realized he was so preoccupied with watching this exchange that he hadn’t bent his back to his task in several minutes. He had just turned away to start clearing the path to the owl cages when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Sticking his shovel upright in a snow bank, he dragged off his hat to wipe his brow, and then pulled out his phone, holding his gloves between his teeth so he could unlock the screen with bare fingers.

“Oh,” he said in surprise. “Oromë is texting me.” As Celegorm looked up, his eyes narrowing, Mablung belatedly remembered an exchange that had taken place not far from here, and not long ago, in which Celegorm had made him promise never to say Oromë’s name to him again. But perhaps, Mablung thought, the point was moot now that they – Mablung’s forehead furrowed as he read the text, and quite lost his train of thought.

Celegorm turned away from the eagle and tossed his own hat down on the ground, shaking his head so that his sweat-soaked hair flopped into his eyes. “Oh, good, that’s just what I like to hear, that my boyfriend is texting you.” He shoved his shovel into the snow alongside Mablung’s. “What, are you two like bffs now, texting all the – ”

“Get a grip, Fëanorion." Mablung waved an impatient hand at him. "This is the first I’ve gotten from him since we – went to – ” Mablung lost focus again and trailed off, re-reading the text to make sure he understood it, as Celegorm raised his eyebrows.

“Well, what is it?”

“He says he heard from his brother-in-law. The police chief.” His phone buzzed with another text message and Mablung opened it at once. His eyes widened. “Oh my god. They found Túrin?”

Celegorm stopped drumming his fingers against his thigh. “No shit. Where?”

“He doesn’t say. But they...the police have spoken to him? Holy shit, wait that can’t be right, but...” Mablung’s heart was starting to thunder in his chest. “Oromë says he’s heading over to the station now to find out more, and he’ll wait at the front entrance for me. I can go hear what Tulkas has to say, I can meet him in fifteen minutes if I – ” Mablung broke off and glanced over. Celegorm was watching him, his expression unreadable. “If I leave now.” Celegorm still didn’t say anything, and Mablung dragged his free hand through his hair, frustrated and anxious. “I know my shift isn’t over.” He glanced unhappily at the yet unshoveled paths and then back at his phone as Oromë texted him the station address. “Shit. I’ve still got until 5:30.”

Celegorm sighed, his breath a cloud in the cold air. “Go ahead.”

“What?”

“Go ahead, go meet Oromë at the station. See what the news about Túrin is, I’ll cover for you.”

“Really?” Mablung reached out and gripped Celegorm’s arm, gratitude making him unwise. “Are you sure? Fëanorion, seriously, I – ”

“Get a grip, Lungumá.” Celegorm pulled himself free and gave a crooked smile. “This just means you’re gonna owe me a favor.”

Mablung did not pause to interrogate the situation further; however much Celegorm’s generosity might give him cause for confusion and suspicion, he knew it was no time to pass up on the opportunity offered. He clapped Celegorm on the shoulder – Celegorm looked pained – and took off, all but running down the path to the parking lot and his car.

-

Oromë was waiting outside the police station when Mablung pulled up, standing so still against the brick wall that at first, Mablung didn’t see him. “I realized I should have offered to pick you up,” he said as Mablung parked haphazardly and sprinted to the front door, nearly tripping as he spotted Oromë and drew up short. “I hope it wasn’t an inconvenience – ”

“No problem, no problem,” said Mablung quickly, waving a hand. “I got here fine, I’ve got a car. What’s the deal?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Oromë held open the door and gestured. “We’ll find out more from Tulkas.”

Tulkas was waiting for them in his office, a file open before him, his ruddy face grave as he pored over it, pausing at one point to give a photograph particular scrutiny.

He closed the file when they came in and nodded perfunctorily as Oromë introduced Mablung. “Have a seat, you two.”

Mablung sat but immediately leaned forward, perched at the edge of his chair. “What do you know?”

Tulkas linked his fingers over his belly and looked at Oromë. “So the name you gave me a while back, Andróg: You wanted to know if I’d seen him in any reports of criminal activity. At the time I said no, but of course he could be using a different name…”

“Yes, I remember,” said Oromë, as Mablung made a barely suppressed noise of impatience. “You said you’d keep looking. Did you find him?”

“Not exactly. But I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground for you and had my folks on the alert for anyone coming in with that name or talking about the boys you mentioned, Turambar and Cúthalion.”

Mablung was barely in his chair at this point, his impatience so tangible as to be a separate entity. “Did it work? Were you able to track them down? Do you know where they are?”

Tulkas shook his head slowly. “ ‘They’? There is no ‘they’. There is just him. Just the boy.”

Mablung shook his head decisively. “Beleg wouldn’t leave him. If Túrin’s around, Beleg won’t be far behind. Did you find him through that Andróg person? He’ll know.”

“There was no need to use Andróg.”

Oromë frowned. “What do you mean?”

Tulkas picked up the file, glanced at the photograph clipped to the front once more, then laid it down. “Turambar walked in here on his own, Oromë. He’s in my cells right now. He turned himself in.”

-

“He doesn’t look good,” said Tulkas, as they walked down the hall to the holding cell. “But I promise you he came to us like that, we didn’t touch him – ”

“Don’t worry, I trust you.”

“I don’t,” muttered Mablung, “but it’s true that Turambar’s never had a problem getting himself messed up on his own.”

Tulkas didn’t seem affected by Mablung’s skepticism. “One of my officers took his statement, or as much of it as he could understand. That was the first trick - the name he gave us wasn't the one you told me. I don't suppose the name 'Neithan' means anything to you? No? But I thought I recognized him from that picture you sent from the team website, and then we ran his prints against some taken from Turambar's residence after the Orgol case. Seems to be the same kid. Anyway, we took some pictures, and we're going to follow up on what he told us, the usual procedure. We offered to get him cleaned up and check out any injuries he might have, but he refused. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him without a fight, and we figured it might cause more trouble to force him.” But Tulkas looked troubled. “He’s not hurt so far as we can tell, but…”

“But?” Oromë was looking more and more grave.

"The statement he gave - "

The rest of what Tulkas was going to say was cut off as they came to the holding cell and Mablung let out a soft curse.

“Jesus, you weren’t kidding.”

Túrin was crouching in the center of the small cell, practically kneeling on the ground, his hands covering his face. He was taller than Mablung remembered him from the few times he’d seen him as a skinny freshman, when he'd been all gangling limbs and still had a slight childish roundness to his face. He was leaner now, ropey muscles standing out in his bare forearms as he dug his fingers into his tangled black hair. He was whispering something to the ground, his voice a gravelly singsong, his words indistinguishable. Tulkas stood back, locking his hands before him as he watched silently.

Oromë crossed to the cell first. “Túrin.” He touched the bars, trying to get Túrin’s attention. “Túrin, are you okay?”

Túrin didn’t respond, just kept half whispering, half singing, to the floor.

“I know you’ve been through a lot, but we’re here to help you out. Can you tell me if you’re okay? Are you hurt at all?”

Túrin shook his head frantically, but because his face was still covered as he mumbled on, it wasn’t clear if it was in response to Oromë’s question or not.

Oromë took a breath. “We know about what happened last summer. Don’t worry, Mablung’s spoken with Nellas, and we know the incident with Saeros was self-defense. You’re not going to be prosecuted for that, you have my word for it. Anything that’s happened since can be sorted out, I’m sure, and between us and Thingol we can raise enough for your bail – ”

“No.” Túrin didn’t raise his head, but he stopped whispering. His voice was hoarse, as if it had been stripped from overuse, and came out muffled by his hands. “No bail.”

“It’s just part of the process. Son, we can at least get you out of here and home, get you clean and comfortable…” Oromë’s voice trailed off as Túrin pulled his hands away from his face. They saw that his hands were filthy, stained with something dark brown that had flaked off in places, dirtying his face. His grey eyes were red-rimmed and wild, standing out starkly against his tan skin.