by Joan Boswell
Rhona shuffled paper from one pile to another. Maybe Hollis had found something new. She punched in her cell phone number.
“Anything new? Did you identify the mystery girl at the funeral?”
A pause. Rhona’s antennae quivered. Silence usually meant the person was deciding whether or not to lie.
“My phone’s dying—I’ll call you from one that works.”
Clever evasion. Hollis knew something and didn’t want to lie but didn’t intend to share the information. Rhona waited for the phone to ring. It did.
“Simpson.”
“It’s Zee Zee. I have the warrant for Allie Jones’s house. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Rhona waited ten minutes, but her phone didn’t ring again. She called Hartman’s house. Hollis had gone out.
Frank approached her desk. “Just the woman I want to see. Come into my office.” He led the way.
“This case is bogging down. Murder. Arson and attempted murder. No suspects. Give me a rundown of the avenues you’ve explored.”
Rhona explained what they’d done. Frank suggested other options. They tried thinking outside the box. Hollis glanced at her watch. Six thirty. Opie wouldn’t be too happy. Nor was she—breakfast had been a long time ago. Two coffees and one bottle of water had left a void.
Frank’s phone rang. “At the Hartmans’? I thought we had surveillance there.”
“What is it? What’s happened?” Rhona said.
* * *
“Second place, they came second.” Etienne announced to Hollis late on Saturday afternoon as she joined the family in the garden. David and Tomas, windblown and smiling, lounged at the glass-topped table. Their nearly empty Molson beer bottles had left a multitude of wet rings. Etienne stood between them. All three dipped into a large bag of lime flavoured tortilla chips. Manon and Curt lay stretched out on chaise lounges.
“Great to sail again,” David said to Hollis.
“And he’s good,” Tomas said. “We’ve made the quarterfinals. We’ll practise on Tuesday evening.”
Curt raised his diet drink can. “To the winners. I’ve been dethroned—Tomas and I haven’t won anything for months.”
“Dethroned? The king loses his crown in a coup and goes into exile. Isn’t your analogy a little overdramatic?” Manon said.
Curt frowned. “Manon, don’t criticize everything I say. It was a metaphorical remark.”
Not again. The way they picked at each other kept everyone on edge.
“You do have a talent for self-aggrandizement, but never mind. It’s time to eat. You’ll stay and have supper with us?” Manon said to David.
“Love to.”
They rose, collected bottles and glasses, and moved to the kitchen, where Hollis helped Manon set out the food. Settled at the table, they passed platters and loaded their plates. The conversation was desultory until the doorbell rang.
“I’ll go. It’s probably Bobby. We have a new sponsor, Cleanway Window Washers. They’re giving us baseball shirts with their company’s name on them.” Etienne pushed his chair back and headed for the front door.
A thumping bang. The house shook.
For a brief moment, the group around the table froze like figures in a waxworks display.
Manon sprang from her chair and raced from the room. The others were right behind her.
“Oh no, mon dieu, not Etienne,” she screamed.
Twenty-Four
Etienne lay face down on the porch floor. Manon fell to her knees. Etienne lifted his head and struggled to rise.
“Don’t move,” Manon said.
Hollis grabbed her cell phone.
A crater fragmented the hedge. Beyond it, a man with a mop of white curls lay face down and unmoving. His arms and legs splayed, his head pushed against a yellow fire hydrant’s base, he sprawled atop a woman. A black umbrella like Arthur’s stuck out of the bushes. Was it Arthur?
“A bomb’s exploded.” Hollis gave 911 the address.
The woman squirmed, shoved and wriggled out from under the man’s inert form. Without looking at him or anyone else, she scuttled off down the street.
Curt charged to the edge of the porch and stopped.
“If that’s Arthur lying there, and he isn’t already dead, I’ll kill him.” Curt’s quiet intensity was more terrifying than a shout.
“No, Papa, no, no,” Etienne pleaded shakily.
“What?” Curt turned to his son, who had ignored his mother’s order and rolled over. Etienne levered himself to a sitting position. Manon’s arms, wrapped around him, did not stop his shivering and shaking.
“No, Papa, no!”
Curt focused on Etienne.
“It was her, not Arthur. Arthur yelled at me.” Etienne’s teeth chattered.
“What? Yelled what?”
Etienne stared as if Curt had asked a really stupid question. “Get away. Don’t touch it.”
“And then…”
“Arthur ran to the porch—the box was on the top step. He grabbed it, threw it in the bushes and chased the lady.”
“What lady?”
Hollis ran down the steps. The woman had disappeared. They’d all stood like dummies, and she’d escaped. Hollis didn’t even think she could give the police a useful description other than that she’d been middle-aged and middle-sized. But right now, Arthur needed help. Not that she could do anything medical. She ran over and stared down. He lay on his stomach, arms and legs splayed out as if he’d been dropped by a giant. No blood. His back moved slightly. He was breathing, but she knew better than to move him.
Wailing sirens drew closer.
Thank heavens. Arthur needed help. A barrage of noise. One after another, police cars, fire trucks and an emergency response vehicle screeched to a halt. Uniformed figures surrounded Arthur. Others approached the porch.
Dèja vu: fire night all over again. They were living in a nightmare. Every time life appeared to be about to return to normal, something awful happened.
Arthur hadn’t moved since they’d come outside.
Hollis clutched the nearest police officer’s arm. “We saw the woman who bombed the house but didn’t know she’d done it until after she’d walked away.”
The officer sent a car to look for the mystery woman. But if she’d reached Parliament Street and its crowds, there was little hope they’d pick her up.
The ambulance attendants who had dealt with Arthur hurried back with the appropriate equipment and loaded him into the ambulance. Lights flashing and siren shrieking, it raced away.
More police swarmed the scene.
A female medic clumped up the porch steps and squatted beside Etienne. “Does anything hurt?” she asked.
“No, but I’m really, really cold.”
“That’s shock. I’ll do a quick once-over. Let me help you lie down. When we’re sure it won’t do any harm, we’ll load you on a backboard to move you.”
“Move him where?” Manon tightened her grip on Etienne.
A police officer approached Hollis. “Was anyone outside when the blast went off?”
She pointed to Etienne. “He was.” The paramedic crouched beside Etienne looked up and said, “He needs a hospital check-up. Superficially he’s okay, but concussion from the blast may have done damage we can’t see.”
Manon rocked back and forth with her arms clutched against her chest.
“Since the blast didn’t blow his ear drums, it probably wasn’t huge. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” The medic spoke calmly. “But he must go to the hospital.”
“I’m coming with him,” Manon stated. Hollis, Curt, Tomas and David clustered on the porch while the police taped off the area. Curt moved back to lean on the wall and slowly slid to the floor. His bleached grey face and sunken eyes told his story.
“My pills,” he croaked.
“Where are they?” David said.
“In my shirt pocket or in my bathroom.”
Tomas found them in his pocket. “Tw
o. Under my tongue,” Curt whispered.
A police officer saw what was happening and called for a third ambulance. Two other officers clomped to the porch. The first one, a man of average height and unremarkable features, spoke to them. “Can anyone give us details of the blast?”
Curt, crumpled on the floor, shook his head.
“We weren’t outside. Etienne, the little boy who went to the hospital, saw it. Tomas, David or I can repeat what he told us,” Hollis said.
“First, we’ll send this gentleman to the hospital. Then we’ll talk.”
After Curt and Tomas had left, the younger officer removed a notebook from his pocket. “Now I’ll take a statement,” he said.
“Let’s go inside,” Hollis suggested.
At the kitchen table, Hollis and David repeated Etienne’s story. Then they talked about Ivan, SOHD, Arthur and the fire. When the officer had all the information recorded in his book, he contacted the ambulance service.
“The two men are at St. Mike’s. The little boy and his mother went to Sick Kids,” he said.
“I want to go to Manon and Etienne, but I don’t think I should leave the house unguarded. The bomber could come back.” Hollis shrugged. “I know it’s highly unlikely, and the door will be locked. Nevertheless, I feel someone should be here.”
“Not a problem. Nothing on my agenda. I’ll stay with MacTee until you’re back,” David said.
Hollis drove carefully—she knew shock affected your reflexes. Would Etienne have internal injuries? She dreaded what she’d find. She remembered a program about the 1917 Halifax explosion victims. Initially, many had seemed perfectly fine but died later from the effect of the concussion or whatever they called the waves generated by a blast. The paramedic had thought Etienne was okay. Presumably the hedge and veranda had protected him. But what about Arthur? He’d been in the open and subject to the full impact. And who was the woman? Had Curt suffered another heart attack, or had his collapse resulted from shock? What would this latest calamity do to Manon’s fragile emotional state? Ready or not, Hollis had to ignore her feelings and be strong for the entire family.
At Sick Kids, the emergency room nurse directed her to a cubicle. A doctor wearing a non-frightening pink smock and almost young enough to be a patient tested Etienne’s ears.
Manon smiled at Hollis. “He’s fine. They don’t think there are any ill effects.” Her eyes shone, and she continued to smile as if she’d found the “on” switch and planned to ignore the “off ” one forever. “We are so lucky.” She tilted her head and peered behind Hollis. “Where are Curt and Tomas?”
Hollis realized the ambulance with Manon and Etienne had sped away before Curt had collapsed. No need to alarm her. Let her hang on to her joy for as long as possible.
“Tomas and Curt are at St. Mike’s.” She extended her arm with her palm facing Manon—the universal sign telling Manon to wait before she said anything. “Just a precaution, given Curt’s heart trouble.” She hoped it was true, but even if it wasn’t, she needn’t worry Etienne and Manon. “Since you’re both fine, why don’t I slip over to St. Mike’s to see how he’s doing?”
“What about Arthur?”
“Arthur’s also at St. Mike’s. I don’t think they caught the woman.”
Etienne struggled to get out of bed.
“Sweetie, calm down. I have tests to run. We’re checking you over.” The doctor gently pushed him back.
Etienne resisted. “She did it. The woman who left—she did it. She was walking away from the porch when I opened the door. It was her. She left the bomb.”
The doctor reached into her smock pocket and extracted a cell phone. “Have security come to Emerg immediately,” she ordered.
“I’m sending you and your son upstairs,” she said to Manon. “And I’m arranging for security to wait with you until the police arrive.”
Wide eyes and a trembling mouth replaced Manon’s smile. “Mon dieu, it isn’t over. It will never be over,” she wailed.
Hollis patted her friend’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine with police protection. I’ll scoot over to St. Mike’s now. Do you have your cell phone?”
“No cell phones in the hospital,” the doctor said, pocketing her own.
She meant that the plebes couldn’t use them—they were fine for medical personnel. “What floor will Etienne be on? May I call the nursing station?” Hollis asked.
The doctor gave her the emerg extension and assured them she’d tell the staff to expect the call.
“I wish you’d stay,” Manon said, grabbing Hollis’s hand. “But you must warn Curt and Tomas. They may be in danger— she may be planning something even worse.”
* * *
Rhona was horrified. “A bomb—the anti-abortionists. We should have pushed for the search warrant sooner.”
“Nothing we can do at the Hartmans’. We’ll go to Allie’s. If she isn’t there, the super will let us in.”
Frank stared at her. “What’s this about?”
“We told you. We interviewed Allie Jones. She’s obsessively anti SOHD . When we visited her after the fire, she wouldn’t allow us to search her apartment. Her reaction made us suspicious. We applied for a search warrant. It arrived late today,” Rhona said. She flipped through her bag to make sure she had everything they’d need. “We’ll call the techies if we find anything.”
* * *
Before leaving to visit Allie, Rhona and Zee Zee withdrew their guns from their lockers and pulled on Kevlar vests.
“If she managed to evade the police, I expect she went home to pretend she hadn’t been out all day,” Rhona said.
“I don’t think she’ll expect us. We’re making a pre-emptive first strike. If we’re lucky, she may have the same clothes on— we’ll send them to the lab for a residue test.”
At the site, they buzzed Allie’s apartment. “It’s the police. We’re back with a warrant,” Zee Zee said into the speaker phone.
“Not until my lawyer arrives,” Allie replied.
“Let us in,” Zee Zee ordered, but Allie didn’t respond.
Fortunately, the building had a manned entry hall desk. They flashed their cards, displayed their warrant and asked the concierge, a nervous-looking brunette in her mid-thirties, to let them in.
“Early evening is busy. I shouldn’t leave my desk,” the woman protested, licking her lips. Her gaze shifted from Rhona to Zee Zee and back again.
They waited. “There won’t be gunshots or anything, will there?” Her lower lip trembled.
Rhona and Zee Zee exchanged glances—who knew?
“Give us the appropriate keys,” Zee Zee said.
The girl removed one from the ring and passed it to them. In fact, she almost threw it at them before she retreated into her glassed-in office as if it was a bunker in a war zone.
Upstairs, Rhona and Zee Zee drew their guns and knocked. “Police. Open the door,” Rhona commanded.
When nothing happened, Rhona inserted the key and pushed. The door swung open. Guns ready, they edged into the hall.
Allie, in a flowered summer dress, her arms akimbo, smiled sweetly at them. “Too much TV watching, girls,” she said. She extended her hands. “I don’t have a weapon.”
Rhona extracted the warrant from her bag. “We’re taking you to the station. Have you changed your clothes today?”
“Why would I do that, and what business is it of yours? But, as a matter of fact, I have.” She paused for a moment, as if giving herself time to invent a story. “I picked this outfit because it’s cooler than the one I was wearing.”
“We want you to bring whatever you wore earlier. My partner will accompany you to your room where you will show us what you wore and pick other clothes to take to the station,” Rhona said. She waved the warrant. “We’ve also arranged for our technical experts to come in and go over your apartment.”
Allie regarded them impassively. “Is this where I call my lawyer?”
When she’d made the call and shown th
em the clothes, she retreated to the living room sofa, where she sat erect, ankles crossed and hands folded. Rhona and Zee Zee, gloves on, left her perched on the sofa while they searched the apartment.
In the freezer, they found a bundle of fireworks wrapped in plastic and tucked under a frozen salmon slab.
“That explains why the blast did so little damage—the bomb was really a giant firecracker,” Zee Zee said in a low voice.
But beneath the kitchen sink, they found the essentials for serious bomb-making neatly stored in an empty dishwashing detergent box and a large Tim Hortons coffee can.
Zee Zee shook her head and pointed to the can. “This wouldn’t do a lot for Tim’s image, would it?”
“I think they’ve become such a part of the Canadian psyche that nothing will damage them,” Rhona said.
“We expected to find something, but it still shocks me,” she nodded toward the living room, “that she would do this.”
“Given what she has here, we can be glad she only used the fireworks. And aren’t we glad we caught her?” Zee Zee said.
“We’ll leave this to the techies. Let’s get her downtown and charged.”
Allie smiled as they led her away.
Twenty-Five
Chaos reigned at St. Mike’s emergency, where the neighbourhood walking wounded waited for treatment. Their friends and supporters crowded the anteroom. Stretchers lined the halls. The triage nurses worked at full speed.
Hollis surveyed the gurneys in the corridor—no Arthur, no Curt. No Tomas sitting in the waiting room among anxious, murmuring families, women in chadors and street people, drunken or overdosed. She couldn’t barge through the door leading to acute care. She also hesitated to enter the area where medical professionals treated the less severely ill or injured. Instead she disregarded instructions fastened to the wall and plunked down on the last empty molded plastic chair. These seats were designated exclusively for those waiting to have their data recorded before medical teams dealt with their problems. Three individuals later, the middle-aged nurse, tired circles under her eyes, beckoned Hollis forward.