The Endless Knot

by Gail Bowen

  “They’re everywhere,” Zack said. “And I like your legs. Anyway, Margot and I saw each other for a while and then we broke it off. End of story.”

  “It wasn’t the end of the story for Margot. She’s still steaming.”

  “So what did she say?”

  “She said you were a son of a bitch. I let that slide. Then she said that one way or another, you’d fucked 90 per cent of the people who were at the dinner tonight. And I let that slide. Then she asked if you were still into threesomes.”

  “And you didn’t let that slide.”

  “No, I said you didn’t need threesomes because you had me.”

  “Sounds like you handled the situation.” He stroked my cheek. “But you’re not happy, so what Margot said must have got to you.”

  “Yes, I guess it did.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  “You want people to like me.”

  “It sounds stupid when you say it, but yes, I do.”

  “Jo, with a couple of exceptions, the people in that room weren’t my friends, they were competitors or adversaries. It doesn’t matter if they like me. What does matter is that they respect me because that means that, a lot of the time, they’ll settle rather than face me in court. And, believe it or not, that’s good news for everybody.”

  “I understand that. What I don’t understand is why you have to play so hard to win.”

  “Because that’s the way I am. I’m like that guy in Candide. ‘I’m neither pure nor wise nor good, but I do the best I can’ – for my clients, for my friends, and, if you’ll let me, for you. I’ve never lied to you, Jo, and I’m not going to lie about what Margot said. There were threesomes. You may have noticed that the mechanics of sex don’t always work for me. Three-ways with interesting partners helped for a while. But what you told Margot was true. As long as I have you, I don’t need anybody else. I’ve loved you since the night we had dinner at The Stone House. You reached over and took my hand, and for me, that was it. If what Margot said has screwed us up, I won’t know what to do next.”

  “It’s not just Margot, it’s everything. I just wonder if we’re moving too fast.”

  “You think that hasn’t occurred to me. Jo, ask anybody – ask Margot, for crissake – I’ve never been known to rush into commitments. There was never any reason. I had everything I needed: my job and my law partners, and then last summer when Chris drove his car into the lake and everything at Falconer Shreve turned to shit, I felt like somebody had dropped a piano on me. When I was finally able to focus, there you were. And despite everything, even losing Chris, I knew that the best part of my life had just begun.”

  Zack had been sitting across from me at the table. He moved his chair so he was beside me. “And now it seems you’re finished with me,” he said. He was pale and the shadows of exhaustion under his eyes were deep.

  But it wasn’t pity that drew me to him. The words formed themselves. “Whatever happens, I’ll never be finished with you,” I said.

  He slumped with relief. “And I’ll never be finished with you,” he said. “Not ever. Come here. Let me unzip you.” I stood and turned so he could undo my dress. I let it fall to the floor. I was still wearing my bra and the black slip with the lilies Zack liked.

  He kissed the small of my back. “I think we’re ready to get married,” Zack said.

  I turned to face him. “So do I,” I said.

  He drew me to him. “Thank God for that,” he said. “Thank God for that.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  My first thought when I awoke the next morning was that Zack and I were, in the parlance of a gentler time, betrothed. My second thought was that we had forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and get to the airport if we were going to catch the 6:00 a.m. flight that would get us back to Regina in time for the trial.

  It was going to be a big day. Kathryn Morrissey was testifying. The filmmaker Jean Renoir once said that the trouble with life is that everyone has his reasons, and Kathryn, articulate, attractive, and intelligent, would be a force to be reckoned with as she explained hers. Even Garth Severight wouldn’t be able to blunt her effectiveness on the stand. Since Too Much Hope had been published, Kathryn had given a hundred interviews placing her actions in a context that suggested she was acting in the finest traditions of the third estate. She was going to be a thorny problem for the defence, but as the propellers revved for the flight home and Zack snapped open his computer, his focus was not on the Crown prosecutor’s appealing victim but on real estate.

  “I found us a house,” he said. “I must have looked at fifty listings, and I knew you wouldn’t like any of them, but this one is different.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Zack slid his laptop over to me. I glanced at the screen. “I know that house,” I said. “I’ve walked by it a thousand, thousand times.”

  The statement was not hyperbole. I had lived in my house for more than thirty years, and this house was on my route when I ran in the morning. In a neighbourhood of two- and three-storey houses where people tended to visit, it was an oddity – a sprawling, well-tended, one-storey ranch house that never showed signs that human beings lived inside. No toys, bikes, basketball hoops, seasonal wreaths, or holiday lights – just stone gargoyles on either side of the front door and discrete but tasteful landscaping that did not draw attention to itself. It was a quiet house that looked over the same creek my house backed onto.

  “Ever been inside?” Zack said.

  “No.”

  “Well, click onto the virtual tour. That’ll give you an idea. Incidentally, if you don’t like it, I’m going to suck gas.”

  “But I shouldn’t feel any pressure,” I said.

  “Nah, of course not.” His tone was light, but as I gazed at the pictures his eyes never left my face.

  Zack had no cause for concern. The house was a winner. The rooms were spacious, the windows were large, and the hardwood floors seemed splashed with sun. The kitchen was strictly 1960s, but it had generous counter space, hickory cupboards, and a walk-in pantry. The bedroom Zack and I would use opened onto a deck that looked out on the creek. There was also, mirabile dictu, an indoor swimming pool. “I think we just got Taylor’s vote,” I said.

  “How about your vote?” Zack said.

  I took his hand. “It’s a great house,” I said. “But this is a big step for me. I’ve lived in my place since Mieka was born.”

  “If you don’t want to move, we can get your house retrofitted.”

  “It’s a two-storey house. Zack. We’d have to put one of those gizmos on the stairs so you could get up to the second floor. You’d hate that.”

  “I could live with it. I want to be with you, Jo. I can put up with whatever it takes. I’m not going to fuck around about something as insignificant as having to use a gizmo.”

  I met his gaze. “You’d really put up with that just to please me?”

  “Sure. We’re not kids. We don’t know how much time we have.” His look was searching. “So what do you think?”

  I rubbed his hand. “I think we should make an offer on the new house,” I said.

  Zack was meeting Sam at the office before court, so on the way back from the airport he dropped me at my house. Whether I’d been absent for ten minutes or ten days, Willie was ecstatic to see me. Like Zack, he believed in going for what he wanted. In Willie’s case, it was his leash. I snapped it on, changed into my runners, and headed for the door. When I opened it, Ethan Thorpe was facing me.

  We both jumped. Ethan blushed and stared at his feet. “You must think I’m a stalker or something. I just didn’t want to miss Taylor.”

  “But you did miss her,” I said. “I was in Saskatoon last night, so Taylor stayed with a friend.”

  “A friend,” he repeated miserably.

  “You can see her at school,” I said.

  “I wasn’t planning to go to school,” he said.

  “Why not?”


  “Because it’s going to be a bad day,” he said. He fingered the pentangle that hung from the piece of hemp around his neck. “Sometimes, it’s just easier to stay away.”

  “Ethan, why do you wear that pentangle?”

  “The same reason Gawain did – to remind me that I should have courage and seek the truth.” He flushed. “I get the message,” he said. “I should be more like Gawain.”

  “You could give it a try.”

  When Ethan left, he was headed in the direction of school, but he was a boy who could change direction easily. He wasn’t mine, but I felt the kinship an adult who has been solitary as a child feels for the lonely, and I found myself hoping that wherever he was going, he would make it.

  I checked my watch and realized that if I was going to make it to court by nine o’clock, Willie and I would have to truncate our run. Instead of setting out for the lake, I led Willie through the backyard towards the levee that the city had built on both sides of the creek to protect us from floods during spring runoff. Indigenous bushes had been planted on the banks and now, after an early snow, the few leaves that clung to the branches had a spare Japanese beauty. Willie and I crossed the bridge that linked my neighbourhood, Old Lakeview, with the Crescents, the neighbourhood of the house where Zack and my daughter and I might now live.

  I walked along the levee until I came to the spot where it met the yard of my new house. The levee’s uneven turf was not favoured by joggers, so Willie and I were able to sit on a rock in the pale morning sunshine and reflect in peace on the changes that were about to overtake our lives.

  I had told Zack that the indoor swimming pool would win Taylor’s vote, but it was the new house’s proximity to the creek that won mine. My life and the lives of my husband and children had been inextricably linked to it. When Ian had come back from a rancorous night in the legislature – too much emotion and too much Scotch, we had walked along the bank of the creek until his head was clear enough for sleep. In the year after he died, I’d walked the creek alone – remembering, and trying not to remember.

  In winter, the creek froze over and the kids skated on it and tobogganed down the bank behind our backyard and partway up the bank that led to the house Zack and I might live in together. My future had been there all along. Seemingly, the Turks were right about kismet: the course of events is predestined. All we can do is keep a firm grip on the toboggan.

  I was watching Willie decide whether his fate was linked with that of a duck floating on the glassy water when my cell rang. It was Zack. “Sam and Glenda send their best wishes,” he said. “They’re happy we’re getting married.”

  “I’m happy we’re getting married too,” I said. “Willie and I are on the levee, scoping out the new house.”

  “We can get the keys and check out the inside when court’s over. Hey – shouldn’t you be getting down here?”

  “I have another half-hour,” I said.

  “You might want to speed that up,” Zack said. “Big doings today.”

  “Kathryn Morrissey is testifying,” I said. “I know that.”

  “There’s an added attraction,” Zack said.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “No, but when you come into court, take a gander at who’s sitting in the front row of the seats reserved for the public.”

  The added attraction was worth more than a gander. Six of the thirteen subjects Kathryn had written about in her book had found seats that put them right in her sightline when she testified. If Charlie hadn’t been sitting with them, I might not have made the connection immediately. The photos Kathryn had chosen for her book had shown the Too Much Hope kids at the worst moments of their lives. With the exceptions of Charlie and Glenda Parker, whose only crime was a private burden they were forced to bear in public, Kathryn’s subjects had been whirling black holes of self-destruction. They had been photographed drunk, stoned, beaten up, or under arrest.

  Without exception, the young people in front of me were well groomed, self-possessed, and clearly struck by the gravity of the situation. As survivors of tragedies that had been played out in full public view, the Too Much Hope kids were also the subject of intense and feverish scrutiny from the press.

  When I slid into my accustomed place next to Brette, she was gleeful. “This is going to be so good. The word is that Charlie Dowhanuik arranged for Kathryn’s victims to be here today. She’s a cool one, but this is going to throw her.” She looked down at her notebook. “I need your opinion. I think I’ve identified everybody, but is that really hunky guy on the end Morgan Dafoe – the kid who drove the family speedboat into the dock and killed his friends?”

  “It is him,” I said. “He’s in medical school now. Kathryn promised him she’d write about how he’s trying to make up for what he did.”

  “He was drunk, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He was also fourteen years old. A friend of his mother’s decided Morgan was cute, and it would be fun to get him drunk.”

  “What happened to the friend?”

  “She got a slap on the wrist.”

  Brette swore softly. “And two kids die and another kid’s life is mutilated.” She stared over at the row where Morgan was sitting. “Speaking of mutilated lives, wasn’t Krissy Treadgold supposed to have her anorexia under control?”

  “When Charlie Dowhanuik interviewed her last spring, she said she’d gone to a clinic that specializes in eating disorders and she’d managed to turn things around.” I glanced at the young woman sitting next to Charlie. She was dressed fashionably in a vintage black velvet jacket whose generous cut couldn’t disguise the fact that the body inside was stick-thin. As she turned to talk to Charlie, Krissy Treadgold’s profile was as sharp-edged as a carving. “She doesn’t look cured to me,” I said. “She looks as if she should be hospitalized.”

  “The book pushed her over the edge,” Brette said flatly. “I did a story on eating disorders, and you’re never really cured.”

  “Kathryn Morrissey is planning to make a victim’s impact statement,” I said. “Maybe the defence should get impact statements from the victims of the victim.”

  Brette grimaced. “You know, when I think about Kathryn Morrissey, I wonder if I have what it takes to be a journalist. I’ve read the texts. I know that truth is elusive and that the journalist’s job is to go in with a flaming sword and cut through all the contradictions and self-justifications until she finds out what really happened. But Kathryn knew the truth – we all did. Most of those kids had screwed up big time, but a lot of them were trying to make amends. All Kathryn cared about was selling books.” Brette snorted derisively. “I’d rather scrub toilets.”

  “I’m sure the defence would be pleased to hear that.”

  “That part maybe, but not the rest. Kathryn may be opportunistic, but she didn’t deserve to be shot.”

  “So if you were on the jury, you’d vote to convict Sam Parker?” I said.

  Brette chewed on her pearls. “If I were on the jury, I’d be feeling like Solomon about to cut the baby in half.”

  If Howard Dowhanuik’s testimony had been a slug-fest, Kathryn Morrissey’s was a soap opera. In retrospect, even the unpredictable was predictable. Dressed in a suit of soft grey, with hose and shoes in complementary grey, her silver hair smoothed back to set off her untroubled brow and brilliant blue eyes, Kathryn was a casting director’s ideal of the brave but suffering victim. When the court clerk called her name, Kathryn approached the bench, glancing at the jury box long enough to fix her image in their minds, then she stepped in front of the judge’s bench and waited to be sworn in. A flawless performance until she stood to take the oath and her eyes met those of the six men and women whose lives she had ripped apart by her blithe disregard for their trust and their need.

  Kathryn was a professional, but the appearance of the Too Much Hope kids was a distraction, and before she placed her hand on the Bible, she shot an angry glance at Garth Severight. He should have spared or at least prepa
red her for this, but he hadn’t, and now she would have to tread carefully. As Garth approached the bench to take her evidence, she was not happy. Kathryn was knowledgeable enough to realize that the Crown prosecutor was not her lawyer, but she knew she was his main witness, and she should have been told what was up. It was a variant of the old legal truism: false in one thing, false in all things. Garth had let her down and now Kathryn was on edge, wondering what other traps awaited her.

  That said, she acquitted herself well. Garth led her through her testimony with the courtly attentiveness of a gentleman at a cotillion. There were no surprises in her testimony. She had been enjoying a glass of wine on her deck. Sam Parker had appeared through her side gate. She recognized him from his appearances in the media. He was very emotional. He asked her to postpone the publication of her book. She explained that was impossible. He asked her if she realized what she was doing to his family. Kathryn told him people must accept responsibility for their own actions. According to Kathryn, her statement infuriated Sam Parker. He became, in her words, “a madman.” He pulled out his gun, aimed it at her, and said, “How does it feel to know this could be the last day of your life?” Certain he was about to kill her, Kathryn lunged at him. Sam pulled the trigger. At this point in her account, Kathryn grew teary, and Garth produced a snowy linen handkerchief and handed it to her with a flourish. Lazy as a lizard sunning himself on a rock, Zack watched the testimony with hooded eyes and a small smile playing on his lips.

  As Garth ceded his place to the defence, the energy level in the courtroom rose. The cage match between Zack and Kathryn had been hotly anticipated. The consensus was that he was good, but she was no slouch. She had been interviewed many times, often by questioners who were hostile, and she had learned to spin an awkward question, turning it back on the interviewer, making it seem that he, not she, was the character assassin. But as Zack wheeled towards the witness box, Katherine seemed surprisingly nervous. Her eyes darted towards the row in which the Too Much Hope kids were sitting and she asked for a glass of water.