Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  “Well, now he knows what we know — which isn’t much. The press conference is scheduled for Monday morning at eleven o’clock.”

  “Do you think this was a one-off?”

  “Seems like a lot of effort for a one-off.”

  Aziz apologized for interrupting his dinner, then said, “Mac, why don’t you go up north tomorrow? It might help to clear your head.”

  “Thanks, Fiz, but I think I’d better stay here.”

  [9]

  “Did you ask God to save you?”

  MacNeice glanced up at her. Sumner’s eyes were fixed on his. “No, I didn’t.” He cleared his throat unnecessarily. “I was running out of breath. The boy was no longer fighting to save himself; he was dead weight. We were underwater. I was failing. It wasn’t heroic. I couldn’t let go at that point, even to save myself.”

  “Tell me more about that.”

  MacNeice envied her stillness. There was no evidence of the internal twitches he was certain she could see flickering behind his eyes or pulling at the corners of his mouth. Without realizing it, he began rubbing the heel of his right thumb. She noticed. Of course she’d notice.

  “I remember two bodies from a decade or so ago.” He looked down at his hands. “I never forget the bodies.” He continued massaging his thumb. “Two men dead in an industrial lot out in the east end, one from knife wounds, the other from strangulation. We weren’t able to tell if the one with the knife had acted in self-defence against an attacker who was strangling him, or if it was the other way around. It took two of us to pry the dead man’s hands off the other’s neck.” He cleared his throat again. “Though I’d heard about it, that was the first time I’d actually seen a death grip.” He sat up straight and took a deep breath. “Underwater, I was holding on so tightly to that boy. If it had ended differently, that’s how they would have found us.”

  Sumner’s face softened, but she was still waiting.

  “The next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes, surprised to see the paramedics and firefighters standing over me. The boy was alive too, on the ground not far away. I remember the smell of wet grass. I closed my eyes. After a while, I sensed someone directly above me and I looked up to see Aziz. That was when I prayed.”

  “Prayed to whom?”

  MacNeice swallowed hard. This was a question he’d avoided asking himself since Kate died. Throughout her illness he had quietly prayed for miracles. If there was a line between praying and begging, he’d crossed it the day she was diagnosed with cancer. After each prayer he would kiss her cheeks and whisper softly, “My love is like a red, red rose,” though he didn’t know why. She’d smile briefly, and that was reason enough to continue saying it. In the last few weeks she was either too weak to respond or comatose from the morphine, but he kept on saying it.

  The last time he prayed for a miracle, he was returning to the bedroom after a shower. Sensing a terrible quiet, he stepped inside quickly to find that she was gone. A tear had pooled in the hollow beneath her right eye — the last living thing of her. He dipped his ring finger into the hollow and touched the tear to his lips. Lying beside her, he begged her spirit to send him a signal, though of what, he didn’t know.

  “I prayed to the great unknown — a god I can neither define nor defend, a being I’d never have invented but for Kate’s illness.”

  “It must have been difficult to realize that your prayers didn’t make any difference.”

  The remark stung. MacNeice was overtaken by an involuntary headshaking, as if he were dodging a careening fly. When it stopped, a weak smile drifted across his face. “I wanted to be granted a miracle on credit, with no deposit other than the unsupportable claim that I’d be a better man. When it was all over and she was carried out of the cottage, I whispered, ‘My love is like a red, red rose’ for the last time.”

  MacNeice thought losing her might have been different if he had attended church every Sunday, singing hymns with conviction, reciting words of salvation. Kate would still be gone, but he’d be comforted by knowing she was in heaven. Except she had been cremated, put in the ground to more or less become soil, and he was left with only a shred of a romantic poem he didn’t know and a god he’d invented who hadn’t come through.

  “And when you were lying on that wet grass, who were you praying for?” Though her pen was poised, Sumner hadn’t used it.

  “It was a prayer of gratitude. First, just for seeing the boy breathing beside me. And then for Fiza — DI Aziz. She was . . .” His voice softened to a whisper. “Heroic. When I opened my eyes” — he cleared his throat — “I thought for a moment she was an angel.” As if to manage the impact of that sentence, he added, “It was the play of light, with the mist curling all around her. Her eyes were shining and she was smiling.”

  “A mirage.”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “Except Aziz is very real.”

  “Of course.”

  [10]

  “Is your name really William?”

  The man said nothing as he lifted himself slightly and produced a handgun from behind his back. Howard Terry’s eyes widened at the sight of it. His mouth opened, but he said nothing. He thought he’d have more time to get ready, to say something, to forgive the young man sitting so casually before him. He looked down at the weapon. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

  Seeing the reaction on Terry’s face, William laid a hand flat on the pistol and swung the barrel towards the wall. “Sorry, it was getting uncomfortable under my butt.”

  Terry managed a weak smile but continued to study the gun. “What is it?”

  “Ah, that’s a grey polymer CZ P-09. Czech, originally.” He patted it the way Terry imagined a salesman might. “Nine millimetre, with a twenty-one-round double-stacked extended magazine. Well, nineteen rounds now,” he said, gesturing towards the basement door. “This long appendage is a suppressor — a silencer. I use it for two reasons: one, because it’s quiet, and two, because I think a loud noise is unnecessarily cruel and inhumane.”

  “My —” Terry looked into his eyes, expecting to see some sign of hate or derangement. He found neither; if anything, the man’s gaze was compassionate.

  William reached down and took a bundle of cloth from his bag. He stood up, put the bundle under his arm, and lifted the weapon. “It’s time, Father Terry.”

  Climbing the stairs, Terry’s legs felt like lead. Behind him, weapon in hand, William ensured there’d be no escape.

  “Leave your underwear on, Father Terry, but remove the rest of your clothes, please.” William placed one of the pieces of fabric on the railing and unfolded the other. “You’ll be wearing this nightgown.” He held it up. “It’s one-size-fits-all.”

  Terry’s eyes widened and he shook his head. It was an involuntary act; he was aware that he had no choice. William raised the barrel slightly to emphasize his point.

  Terry stood before him as bravely as he could manage. There was a brief moment when he wondered if old-age pee stains were evident on his white underwear, but then he understood that worrying about incontinence was a trivial concern at this point. With as much dignity as he could muster, Father Terry took the nightgown and pulled it over his head. It had a magical effect. The fabric was less than friendly, but somehow he uncurled his spine and stood erect. He imagined Thesiger’s silver-handled crescent sword hanging from a twilight blue waistband, and a white headscarf wrapped loosely across his face so that only his weathered eyes could be seen. He was ready to wander the Empty Quarter under heaven’s eternal blanket, following its stars to the next oasis where he and his camel would sleep.

  William’s face lit up and he smiled. He seemed to know what Terry was thinking. “Don’t worry about your clothes, Father. I’ll put them away.” He stepped forward, put his hands on Terry’s shoulders, and moved him into position on the threshold of Matthew’s bedroom.

  Fear
tremors rippled through Terry’s body. This is the moment, he thought. This is going to happen and I can’t do anything to stop it. He ignored his shaking knees and straightened his back. It wasn’t that he was determined to be manly at this moment — he’d never had the urge to be, and wouldn’t know how anyway — he simply wanted the death Thesiger might have had, had he not withered away from Parkinson’s in a Surrey retirement home.

  William levelled the P-09 at Terry’s chest.

  “One last question. No one will —”

  The pistol spat twice. Terry’s chest imploded and he was thrown backwards, desperately reaching out for the doorframe to keep from falling. He looked down to see two red plumes blossom through the holes in the cotton. The pain, sharp and intense, was strangely brief. He struggled to keep his footing and struggled harder to breathe. But his legs gave way and then he was falling, floating.

  William caught him and, like a father laying a child down to sleep, he eased Terry gently to the floor. “Only a few moments more, Father. Thank you for your courage. May God bless you and keep you.” He gently stroked Terry’s silver hair back into place. “My name’s not William.”

  Terry blinked. He could taste blood in his mouth. His breathing was ragged as he slowly accepted the dying rhythms of his heart. Looking up, he mouthed the words Thank you.

  With his final breath, a bubble of blood broke through Terry’s lips and splattered over his face. His executioner took out a clean work cloth and tenderly wiped the old man’s face until it was clean.

  Now he moved quickly. At 4:15 a.m. he placed a brass V on the carpet, packed away all his gear, and quietly left the house on Amelia Street.

  [11]

  “How did you two meet?” Sumner asked.

  Hours later, MacNeice couldn’t recall what he’d said to her, but whatever it was, it had been brief. He didn’t know why he wanted to keep that part of his life to himself, given what he’d already told her. But, as with a treasure or a secret, when you’re alone and you open that box, you’ve got no choice but to look inside.

  It was her shadow that had captivated him. She had appeared on a street in Paris when he was in his early thirties. He had gone to France in early October to understand why so many of his heroes had gone there — a few writers, but mostly jazz musicians like Sidney Bechet, who’d spent a year in a Parisian jail for a gunfight in the street, Duke and the Count, Holiday and Simone, Bird and Miles, Monk and Billy Strayhorn.

  Until then, the only life MacNeice had known was Dundurn. In Paris he wanted to walk quietly — to be the stranger, the wanderer — but mostly he wanted to get murder out of his head. It seemed odd for a homicide cop to admit, but thinking about it now, MacNeice realized he had gone there to find himself. He’d follow clues, pursue leads, look for tiny things that might expose who he was. He knew the trip was a romantic idea, but he didn’t care. He wanted to hear the musicians, to see how Parisians had responded to them. He wanted to breathe in Paris the way they had, to be grabbed and attached by the same magnet to something that wasn’t going anywhere.

  One afternoon before the clubs opened, he left his hotel on the rue de Buci and started walking. The sun hung low in the sky, spilling a golden haze over everything and everyone. He was studying people, the cars and scooters, the buildings — but most of all the couples sitting outside cafés. He was inhaling more deeply than he had in a long time and he could feel his shoulders returning softly to their bone-weary cradles. The stiffness in his legs was melting away and his rangy optimistic stride was returning. As he turned onto a narrow street, he noticed the liquid shadow of a pair of legs ahead. A swing tune he’d heard the night before had been running through his mind, to the extent that he didn’t know exactly where he was. Paris was working its magic. He’d finally left Dundurn behind and was as lost as he imagined Strayhorn and Bechet had been. He watched the long grey shadows stretching towards him on the cobblestones. Resisting the urge to look at their source, he smiled at the elegance and certainty of the stride. The gap between them, opening and closing as they crossed boulevards and turned down lanes barely wide enough for a compact car, grew longer as the sun sank lower. He was determined to follow those legs for as long as there was sun, and after that for as long as there was moonlight. He wasn’t stalking — not really — or if he was, he was stalking shadows. He smiled, impressed that he could trail someone for half an hour without being discovered.

  She hopped a curb. The shadow folded slightly before lengthening again; the end of it reeled him in and flowed past him. He was too close to the shadow’s source. He stepped onto the cobblestone road, intending to fall behind before once more matching its pace.

  Too late. The shadow stopped and its owner turned. MacNeice stumbled on the curb. The woman looked at him suspiciously, angrily, and said in English, “You’ve been following me, haven’t you.”

  It wasn’t a question. Her eyes fixed on him before glancing up the street to see if there was someone she could call on if necessary. There wasn’t. He swallowed hard and felt his face getting warmer, redder. “Not exactly. Yes . . . but not exactly.”

  She had her hand on the courtyard door next to her. Why didn’t she step through and slam it in his face? She crossed her arms, dropped her chin, and waited for a coherent response. Her posture suggested that he should be quick about it. He started to explain that he was just following her shadow, but, realizing how ridiculous that sounded, he leaned against the opposite stone doorframe and told her everything. Dundurn, jazz — all those heroes; he spoke about the light, how like butterscotch it seemed at that time of day in Paris, about her stride and how fearless it seemed, about how beautiful her shadow was on the cobblestones, and how he meant no harm. He added that he would have followed her shadow for as long as there was light, simply because it was so beautiful. But that didn’t mean he was crazy or a predator; he’d simply come down with a bad case of Parisitis. He had gone there to get lost, and this was proof that it was working. He looked up and down the street and added, “I honestly don’t know where I am.”

  “I see.” She had softened considerably. Nonetheless, she again reached for the door. “Where are you from in America?”

  “Dundurn, Ontario, actually. In Canada.” That sounded so provincial that he shook his head, searching for better words.

  She dropped her hand, leaned against the stone wall, and waited. He told her about the clubs he’d been to and how the music and the place and all that he’d read and heard had come together in the shadows of her legs.

  “What is it you need to get lost from?”

  There was nothing specific — no lost love, no desperate need to flee, nothing at home that he was escaping. He finally said, somewhat apologetically, “I’m a homicide detective.”

  The door opened suddenly and a man in a dark blue suit stepped over the bottom frame into the street. He nodded to both of them — “Bonsoir, monsieur, dame” — as if he wasn’t surprised to see a man and a woman standing on opposite sides of his carriage door.

  “I love murder mysteries. Do you?”

  He was going to say no but was suddenly concerned that would put a swift end to their conversation. He thought she was beautiful, especially now that the anger had melted away. Her face was softer and brighter, even in the twilight, and her smile when she said mysteries disarmed him.

  She was waiting for an answer. Her eyes were lively; she was taking in the details of his face, enjoying his discomfort. Eye contact. It was so unlike his work, where people mostly looked away, at tables, walls, floors — or at their hands. She was wearing an ochre dress under a dark khaki raincoat. Her legs, initially braced for a confrontation, were relaxed as she leaned against the wall; they were clad in calf-length dark brown boots, one ankle casually crossing the other. A brilliant cerulean scarf hung loosely around her neck. Her shadow was already a memory. He wished he’d been more prepared, more polished.

  She smil
ed and let him off the hook. “Of course you don’t read them. One doesn’t fill an evening with the work of the day.”

  “No, I don’t. But you seem to understand that from experience. May I ask what you do?”

  “Ah, yes, well, I’m a violinist. And before you ask, when I go to a restaurant, I much prefer a quiet table.”

  He would say later that he had no idea what he was going to say next. He didn’t know where the words sprang from; they came out on their own, like shadows. “Let me take you to dinner. I promise you, it’ll be a quiet table.”

  [12]

  Sitting in Durand Park off Charlton, the stranger studied a young woman walking her miniature black terrier. The two seemed like kindred spirits. If she stopped to look at flowers or a hedge, the dog stopped to sniff or pee on them. Each time they walked away, it was like Fred and Ginger — light on their feet, moving together. He smiled.

  From the corner of his eye he noticed a young man approaching warily. Dishevelled and nervous-looking, he increased his pace towards the woman. With his faulty-­wiring gait, he wasn’t difficult to read; his legs moved like sticks. He appeared to be in his early twenties, with ratty hair and clothes that looked dirty even from a distance. He glanced around anxiously to see if anyone was watching. Six women were seated at a table near the playground, talking, while several more were with the toddlers attempting to climb the Big Toy monkey bars. A couple sat nearby on a bench. When the young man turned his way, he saw only a stranger immersed in a book.

  Before the young man arrived, the stranger had been discreetly sketching the women at the table, but when he saw the young man approach, he turned over the page and wrote down mid-20s / 5'-10" / 140–50 lbs / long brown unkempt hair / beard / cheek rash / close-set eyes / torn green and blue lumberjack shirt / faded Desert Storm cargo pants, a few sizes too large / black sneakers, mostly hidden by the pants. If his instincts were correct, he’d soon be giving that description to the woman to hand over to the police.