Chapter 435: Is the Public Security Good?

Chapter 435: Chapter 435: Is the Public Security Good?

The plane is empty.

Only Declan Pierce is in the Gulfstream G650. The seats are spacious, the armrests cool, and the cabin quiet enough to hear the faint airflow from the air vent. He sits by the window, sunglasses low, hat brim pulled down, a gray scarf wrapped to his chin, his entire body hunched inside a black coat, revealing only half his face and a silver-gray hearing aid on his ear. His fingers rest on the armrest, knuckles slightly protruding, skin thin enough to see the blue veins underneath.

The flight attendant pushes the food cart over and stops at the aisle for two seconds, first looking at him, then bending down and saying in a soft, standard volume: "Mr. Pierce, would you like something to drink? Or a meal? We have prepared..."

Declan does not respond immediately. His head turns slightly, as if "looking" toward the source of the voice, but the hat brim blocks his vision, also obscuring his expression. Several seconds pass before he speaks, his voice hoarse, as if layered with rough sand in his throat: "Do you have paper and a pen?"

The flight attendant pauses, quickly adjusting her expression: "Yes, I’ll get it for you right away."

She turns back to the work area, opens the storage cabinet, and finds a stack of A4 white paper and a black ballpoint pen. Hesitating a bit, she grabs two more pencils. Returning to Declan’s side, she carefully places the items on the small table in front of him, speaking softly: "Mr. Pierce, the items you requested."

Declan still does not raise his head, just softly responds with "Mm." He first touches the paper, his fingers tracing the edges, as if confirming its size and position. Then he reaches for the pen, uncaps it, bites down on the cap, while the fingertip of his other hand presses along the center line of the paper.

The pen tip touches the paper, making a soft rustling sound.

The flight attendant stands in the aisle watching for a few seconds. The man’s fingers are very steady, his grip almost standard, each stroke neither rushed nor slow, as if he has done the same thing countless times. She notices his face slightly turned while drawing, as if listening to the sound of the pen tip rubbing against the paper, the silver-gray hearing aid glinting briefly in the light.

Quietly retreating to the work area, she sits in a chair, watching through the gap in the curtain. Declan keeps his head down, the brim covering most of his face, only revealing the part of his chin, pale as paper. He is very focused, sometimes pausing the pen tip, as if contemplating something, then continuing.

The first page depicts a woman’s profile. Her hair is lifted by the wind, her head bowed, bending over to pick something up. There is nothing else in the scene, just her, as quiet as a frame of a frozen old photograph.

The second page shows her from behind. She stands in front of an old window, through which the outlines of trees are seen, branches bending in the wind, her head slightly tilted up, as if looking at something far away.

After finishing, he takes the two pieces of paper, separating them by a few centimeters—he "cannot see," but his fingers gently brush the paper surface, confirming whether the ink has dried or not. Then he carefully folds the two pieces of paper and places them in the inner pocket of his coat, pressing his fingers outside the pocket, pausing for two seconds before withdrawing them.

He does not draw again for the remainder of the flight. Closing the cap on the pen, he sets it on the table, takes off his sunglasses, and presses his fingertips to his brow. Sitting for a while, he turns his face to the window, "gazing" outside through the tinted lenses. Later, when the flight attendant comes out to refill water, she sees him sitting there, motionless, like a sculpture.

She approaches to refill his water cup, glancing at the shadow on his profile. The hearing aid on his ear emits a tiny glint, yet she is unsure if the device is turned on.

As the plane traverses the clouds, the body trembles slightly, Declan’s eyelashes flutter, but his eyes remain closed. He is curled up in the seat, a mass of black, breathing lightly and shallowly. The ballpoint pen on the small table rolls a bit with the airflow, but he does not reach out to steady it.

He is thinking about Tanya. Imagining her packing in that bungalow, recalling her voice reading poems to children by the playground, picturing her standing alone in the yard for a long time at night, calmly telling Leo Rhodes "someone came last night" the next day. He envisions her lips slightly pursing as she speaks, her fingers habitually rubbing the hem of her clothes—a nervous tic she displays occasionally.

When the plane lands, the cabin window shows a line of orange-red light, the twilight pressing against the horizon. Declan is the last to disembark, the flight attendant standing at the cabin door, watching him rise slowly, feel for the seat back, walk to the aisle, and retrieve a folding cane from under the seat, snapping it open with a click.

Probing the edge of the gangway as he descends, his pace is neither fast nor slow, each step tested before he firmly places it, maintaining a steady height and rhythm. At the gangway’s bottom, he pauses, tilting his head slightly, seemingly discerning direction. The hearing aid transmits faint sounds of wind and sea waves, like muffled through a blanket.

The car pickup is twenty meters away, the driver a local middle-aged man named Gurney Abbott, round-faced, dark-skinned, wearing a navy jacket. He pauses at the sight of Declan but quickly strides over, stopping in front of him: "Mr. Pierce? I’m Gurney Abbott, here to take you to town."

Declan presses the hearing aid deeper into his ear, nodding slightly.

Gurney reaches to help with luggage, but Declan subtly sidesteps, his cane sweeping the ground, taking a step sideways, walking towards the car on his own. Gurney hesitates momentarily before catching up to open the rear door for him.

Once on the highway, Declan remains silent. Gurney glances occasionally in the rearview mirror, seeing the man sitting in the back seat, his face turned to the window, the brim hiding his eyes, though his lips move slightly, as if silently reciting something or simply pursing dry lips.

"Mr. Pierce," Gurney tentatively asks, "shall we head straight to Breyburn, or find a place to rest first?"

Declan does not answer immediately. After quite some time, he replies, voice raspy: "Go to the school first."

"The school? Town Central Primary?"

"Mm."

Gurney asks no more, driving onto the county road, fields stretching on either side, on good days you can spot the sea’s surface glittering like silver fragments.

By the time they reach Breyburn, it’s almost dark. Gurney stops the car at the alley gate outside the town’s central elementary, turning off the engine, and asks back: "Mr. Pierce, we’re here. Would you like me to accompany you inside?"

Declan lowers the car window a crack. The alley is narrow, wind flowing in carrying scents of grass and earth, distant child voices, likely from kids still playing wildly on the playground after school. He listens for a while, then raises the window again.

"No need." He paused, "Is there any vacant house on the road behind the school?"

Gurney Abbott thought for a moment: "There are a few old houses on the back street, they’ve been empty for years, but they’re in bad shape, the walls are peeling."

"Take me to see them."

The next morning Tanya Sinclair had a Chinese class.

She glanced at the sky outside the window; the sunlight was bright white and warm. She closed the textbook and said to the second-grade children: "How about we go to the playground to read poetry today?"

Around twenty children froze for a second, then cheerfully got up and rushed out.

A little girl with pigtails was so eager that she didn’t wear her shoes properly and hopped along at the back, grabbed by her desk mate shouting "Your shoes! Your shoes!" She went back to put them on properly.

Laughing behind them, Tanya thought of Caden and Joy, picking up the Chinese textbook as she walked out of the classroom.

The old track on the playground was gray and dusty, with wild grass in the middle, turned warm after a morning of sunlight. She let the children sit on the grass by position, and she also sat on the grass cross-legged, opened the textbook and found the poem to study today.

"’A Village Dwelling,’" she swept aside the hair blown by the wind, "Grass grows, orioles fly in the second month, willows brush the embankment intoxicated by spring smoke. Children dismiss from school early, eager to take advantage of the east wind to fly kites."

The children followed her, chanting along, melodious and adorable.

By the third round they could swallow it whole, even though some words came out uncertain, their soft, doughy voices were carried away by the wind.

Tanya sat on the grass with the textbook spread on her knees, listening to the children’s tender voices read line by line, feeling a tranquility she hadn’t felt before.

She couldn’t help but take out her phone to snap a few photos, the distant sky was beautiful too; she turned the camera and shot, when suddenly there was a shadow standing by the fence.

Tanya immediately put down her phone, looked with her naked eye, but saw nothing.

Yet she was certain, she wasn’t seeing things.

A shadow flickered among the tree shadows by the fence, it was someone standing against the wall, then retracting. It was so brief, too quick to catch.

Tanya frowned slightly; this was an elementary school, full of children.

If someone sneaked in, it would be trouble!

She stared at the spot for about ten seconds, then naturally closed the textbook, and stood up. To keep from scaring the children, she maintained a gentle smile and said: "Read by yourselves twice, and I’ll come quiz you later."

With the students settled, Tanya walked along the track towards the fence, bending at the corner to pick up a stick, about arm’s length, with some weight.

Holding the stick, she walked to the base of the fence, took a deep breath, and peered outside.

The outside was empty, the wind rustling the dry grass and leaves.

No one.

Tanya didn’t leave immediately. She held the stick, checking the surroundings again—left was the road to the town, right was the turn to the school’s backdoor. Both sides were empty.

Gently exhaling, Tanya slowly put down the stick, didn’t toss it, but held it as she walked back.

She smiled at the children: "Alright, now I’ll start quizzing."

At lunch, she sat down opposite Leo Rhodes with a bowl. Leo, nibbling on a piece of rib, looked up and blinked at her.

"Ms. Sinclair..."

Tanya got straight to the point: "Mr. Rhodes, how’s the security in town?"