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provided a singular hopeful moment when it snaked through Lake Wales where the old Bok, or ‘Singing’ Tower stood, its bells tolling as Thiery drove by. The area’s small hills and moss-covered oaks reminded him of his home in northern Florida and made him long to be there.
    He listened to the carillons playing, a melancholy sound that reminded him of the music from
Phantom of the Opera
. He slowed the car and opened the windows to hear the haunting sounds better, then found himself thinking of masked gunmen bearing assault weapons, strafing their way through a small schoolhouse filled with frightened children. He became filled with an empty sadness, then anger, considering the incongruity of the beautiful music and the atrocious event that had brought him here. He never had to worry about such tragedies when his boys were at school, and he wondered what was happening to society as a whole.
Was it lost? Could it get any worse?
In just over a year, the country had gone through the Aurora theatre shootings, the Sandy Hook shootings, and the Boston Marathon bombing, all perpetrated by young men, most, barely out of their teens.
    He thought of his sons, Owen and Leif, and wondered how they were doing. He tried to call them, just to check on them, but neither answered. He made a mental note to try again when he got settled in to whatever cheap motel he could find.
    Thiery stopped at a convenience store to get a soda. While browsing the shelves, he watched a couple pull up to the gas pumps. They both got out of the car. The man had no arms and his wife placed something in his top shirt pocket before grabbing the pump handle and inserting it into the car. Thiery noted she had huge biceps and wondered if it was because she had to do more with her arms because her husband could not. The man came into the store. He nodded to the clerk and leaned forward, obviously a regular customer there. The clerk withdrew a credit card from the armless man’s shirt pocket and looked out the window to see which pump he was at. Thiery marvelled at the symbiotic relationship the trio shared. His loneliness bore down on him again, and he tried to shrug it off as he got back into his car and onto the road.
    Thirty minutes later, he arrived in Frosthaven. It was easy to find the only elementary school in town. The governor had beaten him to the scene by about fifteen minutes. Thiery was pleased with that. He didn’t want to arrive together and appear to be Croll’s gopher boy, though in truth, that was exactly what he was. Thiery was comfortable talking with the press, but didn’t want to try to talk over the governor as they searched for the right words to address a community undoubtedly in shock and looking for answers that would not be easily forthcoming.
    He parked the car and saw the governor already talking to the media. Generator-fed lights beamed bright spots into his face before the sunset. Croll looked like a small nocturnal creature caught in the shadows. Thiery knew he should go over and stand next to him as he, in turn, would designate the FDLE as the organization that would be taking over the investigation. But the thought of asking the local police chief to step aside while he and Croll bathed in the limelight did not appeal to him. He decided, instead, to take a quick look at the school, first. The governor was in love with the cameras, and it would be a perfect opportunity for him to remind everyone what a wonderful, caring man he was. Thiery expected he would milk every second of it.
    He noted dozens of memorials had already been placed on the sidewalk: pastel teddy bears, bouquets of flowers, signs made up with words like ‘God Bless you, Dr Montessi’ and ‘We will never forget you, Mrs LaForge’, written with magic markers in a rainbow of colour. ‘So long, Mr Swan’, ‘Thanks for taking care of us, Nurse Nora. Now, God will take care of you’. Candles lined the path and flickered in the slight breeze. Crude, white