Also in the MacNeice Mysteries series
Erasing Memory
The Ambitious City
Raw Bone
Copyright © 2018 Scott Thornley
Published in Canada in 2018 and the USA in 2018 by House of Anansi Press Inc.
www.houseofanansi.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
“Foreign Affair” — Words and music by Tom Waits. Copyright © 1977 Fifth Floor Music Inc. All rights administered by BMG Rights Management (U.S.) LLC. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard LLC.
House of Anansi Press is committed to protecting our natural environment. As part of our efforts, the interior of this book is printed on paper that contains 100% post-consumer recycled fibres, is acid-free, and is processed chlorine-free.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Thornley, Scott, author
Vantage point / Scott Thornley.
A MacNeice mystery
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4870-0332-6 (softcover). —ISBN 978-1-4870-0333-3 (EPUB). —
ISBN 978-1-4870-0334-0 (Kindle)
I. Title.
PS8639.H66V36 2018 C813'.6 C2018-900495-9
C2018-900496-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018931767
Book design: Alysia Shewchuk
We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada.
For SBT
The fire in your heart
contintues to reveal
the light within.
When you turn the corner
And you run into yourself
Then you know that you have turned
All the corners that are left
— Langston Hughes, “Final Curve”
[Prologue]
Father Howard Terry was just beginning to nod off when a rapid burst of amber shards raced along the living room ceiling and slashed across the bookcase. Irritated, he closed his dog-eared copy of King Solomon’s Mines and waited for it to stop.
A minute later he heard the heavy thump of a truck door closing, followed by footsteps on the stairs and three sharp raps of the door knocker. He placed the book on a side table and checked his watch — 9:48 p.m., an odd time to be making calls. His body was tucked deep into the armchair, and Terry struggled to hoist himself to his feet. He walked on stiff legs to the door.
His son called from upstairs. “You got that, Dad?”
Looking through the bevelled glass of the window, Terry saw the reflective X glowing brightly on the back of a man in an orange traffic vest. Splinters of light ricocheted off the side of his hard hat. Hearing the clunk of a deadbolt, the man swung around and peered through yellow-tinted wraparound safety glasses.
Howard Terry opened the door. “Can I help you, young man?”
“Dundurn Hydro, sir. Is this . . .” He paused, withdrawing a notebook from his side pocket. “. . . the Matthew Terry residence?”
His son, halfway down the stairs, called out, “I’m Matthew Terry. This is my dad, Father Terry. Is there a problem?”
The man informed him that power surges were being experienced in the area because of the recent rainfall. If it was okay with them, he was there to check their electrical panel. The Duke Street relay station was indicating that their house was the source of the surges.
“At best, sir, it’s a reset. Worst, we’ll have to replace your meter.” He hoisted a large orange nylon bag over his shoulder and picked up a metal toolbox before stepping inside.
Father Terry closed the door behind him and, out of habit, turned the latch. “Looks like serious work, son.”
Stepping past him, the man said, “This stuff? Naw, it’s all for show.” He sat down on the bench near the door, opened the bag, and retrieved two clear plastic bags. He put them over his boots before standing again. “Don’t want to mess up your floor.”
Father Terry appreciated the care he was taking. “You’re working overtime, then?”
“No, just my shift.”
“Can I offer you coffee or tea, perhaps, when you’re finished?”
Matthew Terry was impatient and didn’t mind showing it. “Dad, he’s probably got a lot —”
The man interrupted him. “You’re right, I do have a lot to do. But I’d be grateful for a coffee.” He picked up his gear and followed Matthew to the basement door. Looking back, he added, “Black, with a spoonful of sugar.” He smiled at the old man and disappeared down the stairs.
Father Terry went through to the kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker and then the kettle for tea. He took three cups from the cupboard, though he was certain his son would decline. Matthew never had empathy for those he referred to sneeringly as “common people.” He’d likely excuse himself the moment they emerged from the basement.
As the coffee brewed, Terry wondered what had made his son such a bitter man. He smiled sadly at his own grey reflection in the window above the sink, certain that he was staring at the reason. How it had happened, and when, was lost on him. Matthew had seemed a sour soul from the beginning. He shared his mother’s temperament, along with her assessment that his father was a weakling and a failure. Terry found that hard to dispute. He dropped a chamomile teabag into his mug and reached for the kettle.
Suddenly the kitchen went dark. Moments later, Terry heard two muffled pops from the basement — faulty fuses, he guessed. Apart from the strobe effect of intermittent orange shards, Terry was in total darkness. He turned to feel his way to the door and was halfway there, hands outstretched, when the power was restored and light once again filled the kitchen.
[1]
“Do you know why you’re here?”
MacNeice smiled and took a deep breath. The sheer curtains covering the open windows behind Dr. Audrey Sumner billowed casually, sending pale grey shadows of the mullions dancing across the fabric. He would have been happy to spend the hour watching them move, ideally with something mellow from Miles for a soundtrack. Though Sumner exuded patience, she was waiting for a response. He wondered if she might wait through the entire session.
MacNeice took another breath. “The last two cases were very hard on my team . . . hard on me.” A blue jay called from the garden, so loud and sharp it might have been inside the room. He looked at her and smiled. It was a good omen, he thought, as he searched the shadows for a flash of wing between the sun and the sheers. “Beyond the physical trauma, I think it’s reasonable for Wallace to question what psychological damage might have occurred during my time in Homicide.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “And do you have an opinion on that?”
Of course he did. MacNeice knew that his dreams weren’t normal. Flying beside a talking bird wasn’t normal. And he was also having conversations with Kate, who’d been dead for years. He wasn’t speaking out loud, but in his mind he’d speak to her and she’d respond. He also suspected that his consumption of grappa as a sleep aid had increased to the point where the distinction between want and need was blurring.
“Leaving aside that I’m unqualified to answer that, I can say that I’m developing a theory. It goes something like this . . .”
Sumner put down her pen, folded her hands, and looked over her glasses at him. He couldn’t tell if she was amused, intrigued, or both. He told her
about cops he’d known who dealt with homicide fatigue by putting in time at the firing range, hammering round after round into paper targets. Others turned to drink, punched holes in walls, or fought constantly with their wives or husbands. Few ever volunteered to go into therapy.
“I haven’t done any of those things — a few glasses of grappa being the exception.”
“True,” Sumner said softly. “But you moved on to the next case very quickly.” Referring to her notes, she added, “Two bodies pulled from the bay. Another explodes in Gage Park, and that one led to the discovery of his young wife. He’d tortured and buried her in a basement. Following that, you nearly drowned trying to save her son.” She smiled briefly and again waited patiently.
He returned the smile but didn’t take the bait. “Here’s my theory. I talk to my wife, who died ten years ago. For a long time I’d dream that she was somewhere near but just out of reach. Those were cold-sweat nightmares.” MacNeice put his right hand to his temple, as if shading his eyes from a bright light. “Now I’m having quiet conversations with Kate in my head.”
He looked over to see if Sumner’s eyes had widened, if she was smiling or appeared concerned, and was greeted only by the gaze of a committed listener. “I believe on some level that she’s there and that I’m not talking to myself. In those conversations, I shed or siphon off the violence and bloodshed of my job so that I can work another day.” He wanted to stop talking about it before he convinced himself he was crazy. “That’s it. That’s my theory. My conclusion? I don’t have PTSD because I’ve got someone I can talk to at any time. And I can say anything to her.”
He was expecting Sumner to lecture him on the dangers of magical thinking, but she didn’t. She smiled and picked up her pen, then waited, sensing that he wasn’t done.
As a detective, MacNeice understood the power of dead air — the vacuum that begs to be filled by speaking. Throwing caution to the wind, he continued. “It’s not just with Kate. It’s worse. I can look at a bird, or a coyote, and if they look back at me, as they often do, I can imagine a conversation with them. Meaningful stuff, where I actually feel I’m being coached by a higher being.” An uncharacteristic grin crept across his face as he heard his own words.
“Do you have these conversations in the heat of the moment?” Sumner asked.
“No. In that moment I’m focused on what’s in front of me. I see things — a tic, a worn sleeve, a torn carpet, a tightening of the jaw, a flicker of nerves around the eyes or mouth.”
The list could have gone on. It could have included how Sumner picked up her pen with the index fingers and thumbs of both hands to lay it slowly on the desk. He suspected that the tiny ritual served as a pause, like engaging the clutch before selecting a gear. He also noticed that she was too disciplined to be caught glancing at her cellphone when it lit up with a message. And he spotted traces of hand cream shining on the windowsill behind her chair, suggesting that she stood there to enjoy her garden or to unravel a tangled thought.
When she laid her hands palms down on the desk, he studied her fingers. They were straight and elegant, but sturdy like a gardener’s. Her fingernails were trimmed close and free of nail polish. She raised the fingers of both hands slightly. He assumed the gesture was meant either to suggest that he refocus his attention or to make a point.
“While Deputy Chief Wallace holds you in the highest regard, Detective Superintendent MacNeice, he is nonetheless concerned about your health. Therefore these sessions are indeed mandatory, but he wanted me to assure you that they are compassionate and not punitive in intent.”
MacNeice’s eyebrows snapped upward and his attention returned to Sumner’s face. Her words weren’t remotely like Wallace’s, but he smiled and accepted that it was her interpretation of what he had said. “I understand. Thank you.”
“Are you currently in a relationship, Detective MacNeice?”
“No.”
[2]
The next morning, as the sun crested the mountain, MacNeice left his stone cottage. Originally the gatehouse for an estate long since gone, it was nestled among the trees below the escarpment, the only destination on a lonely road. He climbed into the Chevy and headed for the hill Kate had referred to as “a pretty woman’s bottom.” The trip was long overdue. Before she died, MacNeice had made a solemn vow to visit her grave every month, but he hadn’t been there since December, more than four months ago. That broken promise filled him with guilt. Kate might have known it would happen; she had chosen the site because it would force MacNeice to leave both Dundurn and the Homicide Division to be with her.
Driving north to choose the plot, Kate had been reclining in the passenger seat, propped up with pillows. MacNeice remembered how she had whispered through the pain that it would be okay if he eventually stopped coming to see her. She’d meant it. He had recoiled at the idea but said nothing. Instead, he’d reached over and held her hand until she drifted back to sleep.
As he turned onto the narrow road, MacNeice caught the reflection of the fresh spring canopy on the car’s hood and the sparkle of sunlight through the leaves. He had to drive slowly where the road had heaved up during the winter, and he welcomed the distraction of sunlight and the riot of a new season. He was happy to stop thinking about Kate’s final days.
At the intersection with the highway, MacNeice reached over to the glovebox to retrieve a CD from his collection. Sonny Criss’s Saturday Morning. He’d never heard a better soundtrack for the beginning of a long drive, and it was Saturday. He slid the disc into the player and waited for it to begin, before joining the northbound traffic.
He had yet to turn on his cell, but MacNeice decided to check in with Division before leaving town. It had been quiet in Homicide for several weeks, giving his team a much-needed break. But that might be too much of a good thing. Swetsky had summed it up best: “Folks round here better start killing each other soon, or we’re gonna have homicide cops doing traffic control.”
* * *
The cleaning lady called it in just after eight a.m. She’d opened the door to silence — no morning talk radio from the kitchen, no “Good morning, Luisa” from Father Terry. Keys in hand, she stood on the threshold listening for the sound of the shower or the creaking of floorboards upstairs. “Hello. It’s Luisa,” she called. It had been three days since her last visit, and she hadn’t been told that the Terrys were going away. Concerned that she may have misunderstood or forgotten, she stepped inside and eased the door shut behind her.
With her next breath, Luisa was caught short by a terrible smell. Had something gotten inside and died? As her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the foyer, she noticed the bloody tracks on the hardwood floor leading from the basement door to the kitchen, and from there upstairs to the second floor. Luisa covered her mouth and nose with her scarf and quickly moved outside, quietly closing the door.
Within minutes two patrol cars had arrived at the scene, parking on the street on either side of the driveway. Two uniforms circled the house, checking for signs of a break-in, while the others tried to calm a very distraught cleaning lady.
Homicide detectives Michael Vertesi and Fiza Aziz arrived shortly afterwards. As they walked up the driveway, Vertesi took in the black Mercedes. “Nice wheels.” Aziz led Luisa to their car while Vertesi spoke with the uniforms and organized a perimeter to protect the fresh tire tracks in the driveway.
* * *
MacNeice stood at the Terrys’ door, putting on gloves and a mask and plastic covers over his shoes. Aziz was in the doorway to the kitchen, feet astride a large bloody footprint, taking photographs of a folded cloth on the table. “Just in time, Mac. We’ve got two dead by gunshots in the master bedroom — Father Howard Terry and his son Matthew — but it’s not as simple as you’d think. It looks like the son was shot in the basement and then moved upstairs.” She pointed to the blood trail. “From the dried blood and the smell, it’s been at least a couple
of days.”
Vertesi appeared on the second-floor landing, lifting his mask. “So far, boss, it doesn’t look like anything was taken. Wallet, cash, keys to the Mercedes — all here. But like Fiza says, it’s pretty strange. The footprints come up from the basement, where there’s a big puddle of blood near the electrical panel. Looks like the killer carried the body from there.”
MacNeice stepped over the footprint and made his way into the kitchen. He smiled wearily at Aziz, but his attention was drawn to a large bloody handprint on the doorframe.
Aziz was looking at something in the kitchen. “That cloth — it’s not a tea towel or a facecloth — was left neatly folded on the table. The killer used it to mop up the blood. Though from the look of things, he wasn’t very thorough.”
“Maybe he knew the cleaning lady was coming,” Vertesi said.
“Not now, Michael,” said MacNeice, studying the handprint. He opened his own hand next to it, noting that the bloodied one was larger. The fingers were spread wide, like those he’d seen in the prehistoric caves of France, though they’d been tiny compared to this one.
“He likely worked alone. There’s no sign of other foot or handprints.” Aziz took her pen and pointed to a crease line in the handprint. “He was wearing gloves.”
The carafe from the coffeemaker was on the stove, a teabag in a saucer, and two empty mugs in the sink. Another mug, clean, sat on the counter. Two glasses were on the table. Both contained water, one almost empty.
From the cleaning lady, they’d learned that Howard Terry was a retired priest and his son, Michael, a successful businessman. For six years Luisa had come to the house twice a week. “She calls it beautiful,” said Fiza, “but all I see is a depressing pile of grey stone, with every room sinking in dark oak wainscoting.”
A century ago the Terry home would have been considered luxurious and elegant, but now it was just a remnant of another time, a fading reminder of old-money Dundurn. Whatever lustre its interior had once held was dulled with age, and the exterior offered little hope of relief.
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