by Rick Mofina
“Janie?”
“Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was fear, or anger, or my life, but I let myself get caught up in the moment because I had to stop the screaming. I had to stop it. Yes, I participated in the murders. I set it all in motion so everything that happened was my fault.”
Tracy recapped his fountain pen and slowly screwed it closed while staring at Janie in silence, carefully absorbing, weighing and processing everything he knew so far; everything he’d read and everything his client had just admitted.
It left him ambivalent, contending with opposing feelings about his client and the case ahead.
* * *
In Winkler, a short distance down the highway from Morden, Nicola Hope Gorman sat across from her lawyer, Belinda Walker, a former prosecutor who worked for Legal Aid.
Walker was in her forties. Her auburn hair was tied in a ponytail. She had thin, straight eyebrows behind her glasses. Her mouth pressed closed, giving her a poker face, while she listened to Nikki giving her account of that night on Old Pioneer Road.
“It was Janie’s idea to sneak into the house and take the money she said the Tullocks owed her.”
“Janie’s idea? Not yours?”
“Yes.” Nikki’s cuffs jingled as she corralled the hair from her face. “She left the window open so we could get in but we couldn’t find any money, which really pissed her off because she hated the Tullocks, especially Connie.”
“Because—” Walker glanced at her notes “—Janie claimed that the Tullocks owed her babysitting money?”
“Not only that, Janie said Connie treated her like crap. She loathed that woman.”
“You admit that alcohol was involved that night. That you brought the vodka?”
“Yes, because I was scared. We were drinking but we weren’t really drunk. We were kind of feeling like we could do anything.”
“What happened when you got inside?”
“Like I said, we looked everywhere, couldn’t find any money. Then the Tullocks came home. They weren’t supposed to get home for days so it just freaked us out. We thought Roy Tullock had guns so we got knives.”
“Then what?”
“We had to defend ourselves. When it was finished, we talked about our pact, our blood oath never to tell anyone a word and just went home like nothing happened.”
Walker’s eyes widened slightly, she pursed her lips, then made notes. Then she took a moment, removed her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose, replaced them and continued making notes.
But her mind strobed with images police had shared of the murder scene and she saw the blood, heard the screams.
Walker took a breath. Preparing a defense would be challenging.
But the trial and verdict were a long way off.
Before that time, Nikki, Janie and Marie were transferred to larger correctional centers in different cities.
Thirty-Six
Cielo Valle, Orange County, California
Present day
“Showtime.” Ben pressed the volume on the remote.
A spurt of dramatic theme music burst from the living room TV as KTKT’s News at Five began.
Once Emma had told Ben and Kayla about being interviewed for a news profile of school counselors, they insisted on watching it together. As the broadcast got going, Emma assured herself that doing the story was for the greater good, yet she couldn’t shed her discomfort at the attention.
Several news items played, while Kayla tapped away on her phone to friends, Tug snuggled at her feet. “When is your story coming up, again?” she asked.
“Maggie Shen said it would be immediately after the second commercial break.”
The second block of TV ads played—shampoo, health food, pet care and insurance. The story was up.
Ben, sitting next to Emma on the sofa, patted her hand when she appeared on the screen. It was strange seeing herself again on TV. The item seemed to go on forever but the entire piece was under two minutes. Still, the airing troubled her because it would reach so many people.
Who else would see this—and see her?
It ended with Ben saying, “Well done, Em.”
“Yeah.” Kayla read her phone. “My friends think it’s cool you’re a celebrity, too.”
Emma’s phone vibrated with a text from Glenda Heywood.
Good job, Emma. Checked off every box. Just what we needed.
“Who’s that?” Ben asked.
“Glenda, my boss. She liked it.”
“Great, then that settles it,” Ben said.
“Settles what?”
“You had a successful TV story and I have book news I want to share. We’re going out to dinner to celebrate.”
* * *
They went to a favorite Mexican restaurant of theirs, La Cocina De Mi Prima.
On the way, Emma received more messages on her phone.
Maggie Shen said:
The piece looked good. We’re getting a lot of positive feedback online. People think you’re a hero. Thanks for your help.
As they were seated, she received a text from Carson Clark’s mother, Sonia:
The news report was hard to watch but we feel that if helps one troubled teenager, it was worth it. Your work is so vital, Emma. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Carson sends his thanks, too.
Emma blushed, sent Sonia a quick message of thanks and encouragement, put her phone away, touched the corners of her eyes as she smiled at Kayla and Ben, then picked up her menu. After taking their orders, their server brought them a bowl of tortilla chips and salsa. They dug in.
“Okay, so what’s your news, Dad?” Kayla crunched on a chip.
“We’ve confirmed a story for the next book.”
“The one in Sweden?” Kayla said.
“No, Sweden’s been shelved, too many complications right now.”
“Wasn’t there one in Berlin?” Emma took a chip.
Ben shook his head as he chewed.
“There were a couple here, Minneapolis and Boston?” Emma said.
“No, all of those cases are recent with potential legal issues. It made the publisher’s lawyers uncomfortable. So... Canada.”
“Canada?” Emma repeated, a shadow falling across her face, drawing looks from Ben and Kayla. She reached for her water glass to mask her dismay, forcing herself to remain cool. Canada was a big country, she told herself, there were a lot of possible crime stories. “Sorry, something went down the wrong way.”
Kayla turned to Ben. “What’s this one about?”
“It’s a terribly tragic case.”
“Dad, hello, you were a crime reporter, your books are about murder. They’re always terribly tragic cases.”
“It happened about twenty years ago. A family was murdered in a small town called Eternity, Manitoba.”
Emma felt the earth quake; all the blood had drained from her face.
“Eternity,” Kayla said. “Cool name.”
“There were three young girls who called themselves The Skull Sisters.” Ben said, “Anyway, I was thinking that after I went there and finished researching, you guys could join me. We could take the train that goes across Canada and through the Canadian Rockies and—Emma? Emma, are you okay?” Ben reached for her hand. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Ben and Kayla exchanged glances.
Emma covered her mouth with her cloth napkin and stood. “Sorry, something isn’t agreeing with me. Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
Forcing herself to keep it together, Emma walked toward the bathroom until she was out of sight, then, with her stomach writhing, she hurried. Rushing into the ladies’ room, she startled two women at the sink before disappearing into a stall. She gasped, bile burned up the back of her throat, her stomach heaved and she dropped to her knees and vomited into the toilet.
“Are you all right in there, dear?”
Breathing hard, spitting and wiping at her tears, she managed: “Yes. Thank you. I just need a moment.”
My God, my God, my God... Ben’s going to Eternity to write about the case! Of all cases—never in a million years did I think he would choose mine. How can this be?
Standing, wiping her mouth with a tissue, drying her eyes with trembling hands, unable to stop the agonizing image of...
...one hand gripping the knife held high in the scream-filled air, its blade dripping blood, another hand fighting frantically against it...
Steadying herself, Emma struggled to gain her composure. She had to do it fast before Ben sent Kayla in after her. Once she heard the two women leave, Emma went to the sink, rinsed her mouth, checked her face and hair.
First the threatening note, then Marisa Joyce Narmore’s death, even Kayla asking more questions about her life, and now this—
Stay in control, she told her reflection. You can survive this if you stay in control!
Emma composed herself and rejoined Ben and Kayla.
“Look, if you’re not feeling well we can go home.” Ben touched her shoulder.
“Sure,” Kayla said. “We’ll get it to go.”
Emma waved away their concerns while sipping water.
“I think it was a combination of swallowing the wrong way and nervousness from being on TV.”
Ben and Kayla studied Emma for a few seconds—stopping when the food arrived.
“All right, as long as you’re okay,” Ben said.
“I’m fine and so glad you’re going to start a new book,” Emma lied.
For the rest of their evening her ears throbbed with a clear, shrill alarm. Her heart thudded against her chest.
I’ve got to do something. Maybe I can stop him from writing the book, nudge him in a different direction? But even if I can’t do that, he still may never learn the truth because my identity was sealed by the court. Let’s see how this plays out. I can survive this if I stay in control.
Thirty-Seven
Manitoba
2000
The taxi traveled through the northeast corner of Brandon to its destination: The Brandon Correctional Centre.
Marlene Klassyn paid the fare with a modest tip, reported at the desk, was checked by security, then taken to the visiting room and directed to one of the booths, where she waited on her side of the glass for her daughter.
Minutes later amid electric buzzing and metal clanking, Janie appeared in a prison jumpsuit and took her place. Her hair, longer and stringy, didn’t detract from her eyes with those upswept corners, her high cheeks speckled with acne, her beauty. They each reached for the telephone handsets.
“How’re you doing?” her mother asked.
“Look where I am. How do you think I’m doing?”
Janie took stock of her mother—her skin and eyes looked yellowish and she’d lost weight.
“You look sick. Are you drinking more? You didn’t have to come.”
“I wanted to see you.”
“Here I am. How did you get here?”
“Bus then a cab. I had to sell the car.”
“Why?”
“To pay for the move.”
“You moved?”
“Yes, I would’ve visited you sooner but I had to move. They fired me at the club for obvious reasons.”
“Where did you move to?”
Blinking back tears, Marlene said: “I got a room above Harry Hoyt’s Bar.”
“That bar? The bar of the intoxicated conception?”
“Please, Janie.” Her mother’s face crumpled and she covered it with her free hand. “It was all I could afford. I’m on social assistance now.” Her mother fell into a harsh sickly coughing fit lasting for half a minute before she recovered. “I’m doing the best I can to hang on but, Janie, please. I have to know...why? I can’t understand. I just can’t. Why did you do this horrible, horrible thing? Why?”
“Why? I could ask the same thing of you.”
“What?”
Janie’s eyes widened, her face turned red, tightening as if something inside had erupted, forcing her to stand, adjusting her grip on the phone.
“Why did you sleep with some asshole you hooked up with at Hoyt’s Bar? Why? It’s why Dad left us. I’m the product of your one-night stand! You don’t even know who my father is, do you? Do you know how that makes me feel?”
“I told you it’s complicated. It’s not the same thing at all.”
Janie pointed at her mother, stopping short of stabbing her finger into the glass. “It’s the same damned thing! It’s all connected. It’s why I blame you for all of this!”
“Janie, please!”
Breathing hard, her nostrils flaring, Janie glared at her mother with all the hate she could marshal before slamming down the handset and leaving the booth to wait at the security door to be taken back to her cell.
As the jail door opened and swallowed her daughter, the cold clanking of the steel locks mixed with the gasping sobs of Marlene’s demolished heart.
* * *
Few words were spoken by Ned and Flo Mitchell during their long drive to Portage la Prairie.
They arrived at the Agassiz Youth Centre, where their daughter, Marie, was being held in a segregated unit. For a moment they sat in the truck staring at the imposing stone building, which resembled a World War One–era high school. Then Ned squeezed Flo’s hand and they went in.
Other than one-word responses of “yes,” “no” and “thanks” to the officers who checked their IDs, scanned them for weapons and drugs before escorting them to the noncontact visiting area, the Mitchells were silent. But rules shouted from posters on the wall about contraband and how inappropriate behavior and/or language would terminate a visit.
The room had a large window with a row of stools and telephones. Ned and Flo waited for several minutes before Marie appeared, taking a stool on the opposite side.
Flo pressed her open palm to the glass and kept it there waiting for Marie to press hers there, too.
Marie didn’t.
Ned picked up their phone then shouldered together with Flo, holding it between them so they could talk to their daughter.
Marie’s voice sounded small and distant when she said “Hello.”
Tears filled Flo’s eyes—her daughter, the accused multiple murderer.
“I wanted—” Flo’s voice trembled. “I made peanut butter cookies for you and wanted to bring them with clothes and books, but they said that I’m not allowed to give you anything. I have to mail them or something.”
Marie nodded. “They got a lot of rules.”
“They only gave us thirty minutes to visit,” Ned said.
“How are you?” Flo said. “I mean here, and with everything?”
“I got a place to myself. I eat in my room. I get a half hour alone in the yard to exercise. It’s a little lonely. I wish I had a TV. It’s boring.”
Ned exchanged a quick glance with his wife, repositioned himself and took a breath.
“Marie, we have to know if it’s true,” he asked.
She stared at her parents, reading the pain, terror and utter emptiness in their expressions, just as she had at Pike’s funeral.
“Is it true? What do you think, Dad?”
“We need to hear it from you.”
“My lawyer told me not to talk about it.”
“We’re your parents,” Flo said.
“We got a right to know,” Ned said.
Marie looked away, blinking back her tears, sniffling, brushing at her nose. Then she looked back at her parents before telling them in a voice barely audible: “It’s true. We did it.”
Ned shut his eyes, cursed under his breath and stifled a sob by covering his stubbled face w
ith a shaking, calloused hand.
Stabbed with a sorrow she could not bear, Flo groaned and, straining to breathe, she whispered: “You killed a mother, a father and two little children?”
Marie was silent.
“Why?” Ned’s voice creaked with pain.
Marie lowered her head, her hair curtained in front of her face. In a soft voice she said: “It just happened.”
“It just happened?” Her father’s anguish and anger seethed beneath the surface. He stifled another curse. “I was there to move the cars. I saw cops bawling and you tell us, ‘it just happened’? God, it’s like Pike all over—”
Marie’s head snapped up, her eyes locked onto her parents.
Flo seized his tattooed forearm. “Don’t, Ned. Don’t!”
Ned caught himself, struggled for composure.
“Don’t you have any remorse?” Ned asked. “Are you even sorry for what you’ve done?”
Marie was silent.
“You’ve ripped the heart out of the entire town,” Ned said. “Legal Aid was going to force us to pay for your lawyer. We had to prove we didn’t have the money. I would’ve lost the business, maybe had to sell the house. Do you even grasp the depth of the destruction you and—”
“Stop,” Flo said.
Marie’s eyes narrowed into slits, intensifying the fire burning in them. Assessing her mother and father, her body shook.
“You won’t have to worry about me ever again. I’ll be out of your lives just like you always wanted.”
“Don’t say that,” Flo said. “Why’re you saying that?”
“Why can’t you admit the truth for once? You always loved Pike more than me. You always blamed me for Pike. And it’s just like your husband said—this is Pike all over again, only this time with more dead people!”
“Please, Marie, don’t say that!” her mother pleaded. “Maybe when this is over we can get you the help you need—”
Marie banged the headset against the glass, dropped it to the counter, flashed both middle fingers at her parents and left.