Tell Anna She's Safe

by Brenda Missen

  “We’re going to walk down the tracks,” said Tim.

  I watched them go. They walked slowly, chatting, disappearing around the bend. It was all wrong, their manner of walking. They looked like they were going for a pleasant stroll. No one was supposed to be going for a stroll when Lucy was missing.

  It seemed forever before they came back in view.

  They got in Tim’s truck. It pulled up beside me and Tim rolled down the window. “We’re going to the station in Hull,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet Godbout at three-thirty.”

  I didn’t tell him Detective Godbout was coming back. The two vehicles met a little way down the road. Words were exchanged from rolled-down windows. Then the green pick-up drove off, and the dark blue unmarked Sûreté vehicle pulled up beside me.

  The driver leaned over and opened the passenger-side door.

  Detective Godbout had sad, kind blue eyes. He looked more like a family physician than a police detective. It was the eyes, the clipboard in his hand. He might have been taking my medical history. The training was the same: ask questions that will illicit the truth, no matter how bad it is.

  There was a difference. A doctor will assume a headache and work towards a tumour. Detective Godbout was assuming the worst. And he was assuming Tim was involved. He wanted to know if I knew of any problems between Lucy and Tim. He wanted to know if I thought Lucy had been abused or beaten. He wanted to know if I knew of Tim’s criminal record. And what I knew about the “disparition” of Lucy Stockman. And what Tim’s reaction had been when I had talked to him on the phone and in person.

  Detective Godbout wrote out his first question on a piece of foolscap and handed me the clipboard and pen. I wrote out the answer I had given verbally and handed him back the clipboard. He wrote out the next question. Back and forth we went with the clipboard and pen.

  When I was done answering his questions, I had one of my own: “When are you going to start searching?”

  “If we don’t do it tonight, we will certainly do it tomorrow.”

  Tonight? Tomorrow? A woman was missing. They needed to do something now.

  It was as if he could read my mind. Detective Godbout smiled his reassuring family physician smile. “We will do everything we can. You leave it to our hands.”

  I was uneasy, but I had done everything I could do. The police were on the case. I drove home.

  The dogs were hyper for a walk. I started down the road, but with each uncomfortable step my nerves got more on edge. Now that I wasn’t sitting in the safe unmarked car with the kindly physician cop, his questions seemed more ominous. What if Tim had abused her? Or worse? And what if he came after me? How would I defend myself? And the house. With the doors unlocked, it was vulnerable too.

  I tried to keep walking but every nerve ending tingled. Thick bush lined the road on either side, obscuring the railway tracks that were only metres away. The nearest neighbours were below the tracks, right on the waterfront. I had never felt the isolation of where we lived before. Never felt fear. This wasn’t a fear of dream ghosts. This was a fear I couldn’t ignore.

  I headed back to the house as quickly as my leg would allow. In the kitchen, I rummaged through drawers until I found what I was looking for: Marc’s spare ring of keys and an old fishing knife. I stuck the fishing knife in my waistband and pulled my jacket back down to cover it. I worked the house key off the ring, locked the door behind me, and stuck it in my pocket.

  It was still a short walk. My nerves were shot, including the actual nerve down my leg. I left the dogs outside and did some stretching exercises on the living room floor. Detective Godbout’s words echoed in my mind: If we don’t do it tonight, we will certainly do it tomorrow.

  My anger took me aback. If the police weren’t going to take immediate action, someone had to. The word needed to be spread, the media needed to be called. I gave up on the exercises. I pulled out food to make a sandwich, mulling as I spread butter on bread. I jumped when the phone rang. The call display was only on the phone in the office upstairs. I hesitated, then picked it up. Tim wouldn’t be home yet.

  I was wrong about that. At the sound of his voice, my heart raced. I forced myself to sound normal. I didn’t wait to hear what he wanted. In my nervousness, I launched into my idea of getting the media involved. Horrified to hear myself suggesting that he help me.

  Tim’s little-boy voice calmed me down. He sounded eager, innocent, but out of his element. He had, he said, no idea how to start a publicity campaign. I flipped through the phone book, looking for city newspaper phone numbers to pass on to him, and offered to call CBC radio myself. Unable to avoid agreeing to check back with him. When I got off the phone, I looked at the sandwich and felt sick.

  The phone rang again two minutes later. Again I hesitated and then picked up the receiver.

  I wasn’t prepared for the voice at the other end. Its familiarity was like a massaging hand on a muscle you suddenly realize is tight.

  “Oh, Marc.”

  I wanted to cry. I never cried.

  I told him about Tim calling. And about finding Lucy’s car. I told him about being questioned by the police. I told him I was happy to leave it in their hands and not get involved. I told him I’d spent the day in complete frustration because the police weren’t doing anything.

  “They said they’d bring out the dogs, put a boat in the water. I went up to the site in the morning, and talked to the construction workers and nothing, nothing has been done. And then I talked to Tim—”

  “Ellen—”

  “And he was frustrated too—”

  “Ellen—”

  “And we decided we’d start calling the media—”

  “Ellen!”

  “What?”

  “You just said you did not want to get involved.”

  “I don’t. God knows I don’t. But the police are dragging their asses. And Tim seems so helpless. He has no idea who to call. Someone has to do something, to—”

  “It does not have to be you.”

  “But I just want to light a fire under their butts and then I—”

  “Ellen, I do not want it to be you.”

  There was a silence between us.

  “How was your trip there?” I asked at last.

  “Bon. I got here Sunday. There was snow in Marathon.”

  Another long pause.

  “Marc,” I said finally. “Why did you phone?” My heart was beating fast.

  Another silence. I felt him reviewing all the possible answers, rejecting most of them, and settling on the mundane: “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  “You are not.”

  “No. I’m freaked out. Marc, I was stupid. He knows where I live.”

  A sharp intake of breath over the line. “You … had him to our house?”

  I shut my eyes. Hoping that would prevent the tears that were threatening to form. “Don’t,” I said, “yell at me.” My voice was barely audible.

  Another intake of breath. This time slower. “I don’t want you to stay there. I warned you about him.”

  Closing my eyes wasn’t making any difference. I swiped at the tears. “Marc. That does not help. And where am I supposed to go?”

  “Here.”

  “There? Thunder Bay?”

  “I’ll pay for your ticket.”

  I felt an almost physical wrenching in my arm sockets: I wanted to go. I didn’t want to go. I tried to think of practical reasons why I couldn’t. “The dogs.”

  “Mary Frances will take them.”

  No. It wasn’t fair. He was always wanting me to go to him. “Will you come home?” The question came out sounding like a child pleading.

  “Ellen. I can’t. I just hired a crew. We’re just getting
organized. I can’t leave. You know I would….”

  I didn’t know that at all.

  Marc was silent, too.

  Finally I trusted my voice. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got the dogs.”

  “Oh yes, our big brave dogs.”

  The sarcasm was so unlike him it caught me off guard. “I’ve got the police.”

  “You think they are going to give you twenty-four-hour protection?”

  “No, but maybe they could talk me out of my fears.”

  Marc snorted.

  This also uncharacteristic response fired me up. “Right,” I said. “You could give me much better protection than the police.”

  “Oui.”

  The quietness of his tone threatened to spill the tears in earnest.

  “How is your leg?” Marc asked.

  “My leg?” The pain, I realized, had dissipated. Just since Tim’s call. “The chiropractor’s helping,” I said, to say something.

  “Did she say anything about running?”

  “Yeah, she said probably in a few weeks. I’m skeptical but I’ll see how I feel.”

  “Why don’t you go to stay with Mary Frances?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “He has no reason to—”

  “But if you are scared—”

  “I’m not scared.” I was defensive. And also lying.

  “Marc,” I said. “I’ll be fine.” I was talking very fast. “I’m going to phone the Sûreté and find out what’s going on. Tim says Lucy’s family is coming up from Toronto tonight. They want to go to the site. We’re meeting at the station in Hull tomorrow to demand action. I’ll call you tomorrow night.” The urge to hang up was so strong I made sure we actually said good-bye before I gave in to it.

  On Wednesday morning I made the brief walk from the market to the Château Laurier. Ottawa’s fairy-castle hotel, with its copper-topped roof and turrets, was home to the local CBC radio station. I let a liveried doorman hold a heavy glass door for me and made my way across the marble-floored lobby. An elegant elevator carried me up to the seventh floor, where I told my story, the bare bones version, to a reporter and her tape recorder.

  Afterwards, I bought some food in the market and headed back to the office. I sat at my computer and pretended to work. Every fifteen minutes I checked my answering machine at home for a message from Tim.

  At noon I drove back across the interprovincial bridge to the police station in Hull. There was no sign of Detective Godbout or Tim or Lucy’s family. I continued on up the highway to Chelsea. No traffic to contend with now.

  River Road finally looked like the scene of an investigation. Several dark blue sedans and a police van were parked on the shoulder. A German shepherd was being put into the back of the van. There was a police boat out on the river. The activity both relieved me and worried me.

  Two big men in tweed sports jackets were standing with Detective Godbout. They extended their hands to me in turn: Sergeant Howard Roach and his partner, Sergeant Alan Lundy.

  “Ellen McGinn,” said Sergeant Roach. “Or should I pronounce that ‘Mc-Gin’?” He pronounced it with a soft ‘g’. “Then you could call me McScotch.” He winked. He was a tall man with a shock of white hair and a ruddy complexion. A pronounced widow’s peak disguised an otherwise receding hairline.

  “That would be my preference, too,” I said. I was used to the jokes on my name. “Did they—did they find anything?” I didn’t think they would have been standing around like this if they had, but I needed to ask.

  Lundy shook his head. He was the bulkier of the two. He looked like he had been squeezed into his clothes. Under his tie, the top button of his shirt was undone, and only one of his jacket buttons was done up. He didn’t smile, but there was a kind of grim sympathy in his expression.

  “The dogs have just finished a search,” said Roach. He nodded over at the van. “They’re going to bring them back this afternoon.” His eyes never stopped moving. They looked everywhere except at me. But I had the feeling he was memorizing everything about me, including my vital statistics and my car make and plate number.

  “Have you seen Tim Brennan today?” I asked. “I was supposed to meet him and Lucy’s family in Hull but they weren’t there. He said the family was coming up from Toronto last night. They wanted to see where we found Lucy’s car. I thought I must have missed them.”

  They had not seen Tim. “We’ll drop by later this afternoon to take your statement,” said Roach. “I’ve got the directions you gave us yesterday. Will you be at work or home?”

  “Home,” I said. I wondered where Lucy’s family was. And Tim.

  When I got home, I automatically pushed against the front door, expecting it to give. It didn’t. The car keys were still in my hand. I found the little-used house key and jammed it into the lock.

  I was changing into jeans and a sweatshirt when the phone rang. It was CBC Television, wanting an interview. I arranged for them to come at four.

  I had not been off the phone two minutes when it rang again. “I’ve been trying to get you,” said Tim. “We’re here at the Tulip Valley restaurant—me an’ Anna and Doug.”

  “Anna?” The hair on the back of my neck prickled.

  “Yeah, Lucy’s sister and her husband Doug. That Quebec cop Godbout is supposed to come an’ talk to us. D’you wanna meet us here?”

  Lucy’s sister. Lucy must have mentioned her sister’s name to me and it had lodged somewhere in my memory. I could not have pulled it out of thin air.

  I glanced at the clock on the stove. One o’clock. Roach and Lundy wouldn’t show up for awhile. I had time to go. Maybe they would show up there, too.

  The Tulip Valley restaurant sat at the intersection of Highway 105 and River Road, a ten-minute drive north of my place. It was here that Tim had gone in to ask directions the other night. I checked the road sign at the corner and smiled wryly. It said Chemin de la Rivière. I doubted he was bilingual. He’d probably had good reason to stop after all.

  The restaurant did double duty as a coffee shop and sports bar.

  Tim was sitting at a table on the restaurant side with a man and a woman. Anna thanked me for coming. Her voice had the same low timbre as Lucy’s, but her colouring and features were fairer. And she emanated a milder temperament. Her eyes were big and brown, filled with gentleness and worry. “Dad wanted to come too. But he’s not well. And this—” Her voice broke.

  Beside her Doug put a hand over hers. He was a tall lanky man with a full beard that hid most of his face. He wanted to order me a coffee and hear every detail of my finding the car.

  I described the events of Monday evening.

  In the back of my head, Lucy’s voice was whispering, insistent.

  I tried to ignore it. I was going to sound like some kind of flaky visionary if I passed on her “message.” And why give false hope? But Lucy’s voice compelled me. Lucy’s voice and her sister’s eyes across the table.

  I made my voice apologetic. I didn’t tell her who had given me the dream message—just “a friend.” I felt Tim listening. I wished I had waited until we were alone to speak.

  Anna’s eyes gleamed with tears. And gratitude. Suddenly Doug was handing over a sheaf of paper. I glanced down and was startled to see Lucy smiling at me from a photocopied photograph. I hadn’t thought of posters. I promised to put them up.

  Detective Godbout arrived with his kindly, now tired, physician’s eyes and no reassuring news. The dogs had picked up no scent. That, said Detective Godbout in his careful English, meant it was now in the hands of the Ottawa police; that was the last place Lucy had been seen.

  He asked if anyone had questions. They did. His answers were not guaranteed to satisfy. He knew this. He spread his hands in apology and left us.

  We pushed back our chairs and rose to go.

&
nbsp; Anna touched my arm. She let the others go on ahead. “Can I call you, to…?”

  “Of course.” I gave her my phone number. I didn’t think I had anything helpful to offer, but I couldn’t refuse.

  “Curtis is sure he did it. But I don’t know. He’s so upset. I don’t think he’s thinking straight. Maybe—”

  “Curtis?” I interrupted. That name had been in one of Tim’s letters.

  “Curtis,” repeated Anna. She must have seen my blank look. “It was Curtis she was living with when she met Tim. Tim was so jealous.”

  Lucy hadn’t just been seeing someone; she’d been living with him.

  “We all wrote letters of support to the National Parole Board—me, my father, Doug, all her friends. We pledged our support. You said she was safe. Do you think she’s just … got away?”

  I had no answer for her. None I believed. I hugged her close. I told her I would call her if I heard anything.

  She was turning to go but this time I stopped her. “Anna, I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but the person speaking in my dream wasn’t just any friend.” I paused and met her eyes. “It was your sister.”

  A startled look came over her face. And then something like confusion. “I’m sorry,” I added. “I know it sounds crazy. And I hope it doesn’t upset you. But I thought you should know.”

  Her eyes filled with tears again. She nodded, wiping her cheek. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Through the open door we could hear Doug calling her. “I should go, but I—I just need to ask you.” She hesitated, looked away. Looked back at me. “Are you sure she said, ‘Anna’”?

  I nodded. “I had no idea who ‘Anna’ was but the name was clear. I only realized it was you when Tim mentioned your name when he called this afternoon.” I looked at her questioningly.

  She gave me a teary smile. “Okay. Thanks. Really, thanks, Ellen.” She pressed my hand and rushed out of the restaurant.

  The television crew arrived at my door just after I did. They rolled the camera while I taped one of Doug’s posters to the side of the cluster of green mailboxes at the top of the road.