by Tara Moss
The Canadian West Coast had endured a long winter and spring had not yet dared to raise its head. The hard earth at Makedde’s feet would be dying for sunlight and warmth, but there was none to be found here. Not today.
In her right hand she clutched a card and a small spray of pale yellow baby roses, gripped tight so they wouldn’t blow away. They were gifts for a friend. She had braved the weather to pay her respects to Catherine Gerber, and although she felt a gnawing loneliness at that moment, she was not alone. Her father, Les, and his girlfriend, Ann Morgan, sat in a minivan a few metres away, waiting for her patiently and giving her space to do what she had to. But she didn’t have long. In a few minutes they would need to drive her to the airport, where she would board a long flight to Australia.
Dammit, Catherine. This is no birthday party, is it?
She forced a smile, but it faded with the next gust of wind.
The hilltop memorial held a small wall of marble plaques marking the final resting places of cremated loved ones. On her many visits, Makedde, or Mak as her friends called her, had developed a morbid habit of perusing the names and dates on the plaques, and adding up the varying years of life. Henry Lee Thompson 1898–1984. Eighty-six years old. Josephine Patrick 1932–2001. Sixty-nine. Her friend’s marker was on the bottom row, right-hand side, and she was one of the younger ones in this block of memorials. She had been only nineteen when she was murdered, practically a child. In fact, south of the nearby Canadian–American border, Catherine would have been legal to drink as of today, her twenty-first birthday. This day should have been a coming of age for her. It should have been a big party, Mak thought.
She reached down and pulled some dry, blackened roses from the metal holder by Catherine’s plaque and let them blow out of her hand in a gust of wind. She watched them for a moment as they took flight and disappeared in the valley of gravestones below. She recognised the white ribbon holding them together. It was her previous bouquet.
Am I the only one who visits her?
She couldn’t help but feel a flash of anger directed at Catherine’s neglectful foster parents.
Don’t waste your thoughts on them. You have much bigger fish to fry.
Mak placed her flowers in the holder and felt some minuscule and short-lived sense of satisfaction. At least Catherine had fresh flowers now, bright and cheerful, as she would have liked them. The yellow petals seemed to be the only colour for miles: the sky, the cemetery, the wall of plaques—it all seemed so grey and depressing.
Don’t cry, dammit. Don’t.
She had one more thing she needed to do. Makedde knelt on the hard stone tiles in front of the memorial, the numbing cold seeping through the knees of her jeans. She bowed her head for a moment to get up her courage, and with a deep breath she ripped open Catherine’s card.
HAPPY 21ST BIRTHDAY!
I miss you, Cat. Your friend always, M.
Mak pushed her hand flat against the marble square and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she slid the opened birthday card into one of the ridges around Catherine’s plaque so it stuck in place. The wind would take it soon, but it was the best she could do. She crumpled the envelope into a ball and put it in her pocket.
I’ve gotta go now.
Mak stood up and brushed off the knees of her jeans. It was time for her to fly across the globe to Sydney, Australia—a beautiful destination for most people, but this would be no holiday. Makedde was the prosecution’s key witness in the trial of the sadistic Ed Brown, the man who had abducted nine young women and murdered them senselessly; slaughtered and defiled them, and in the process had captured the public’s imagination as the epitome of evil, his acts making gruesome news headlines across the world. He had savagely ended Catherine’s life, and Makedde herself had been terrifyingly close to being his next victim. She had promised her dead friend justice for the wrongs that had been done to her, and although she could never truly make things right, taking the witness stand to help convict Ed Brown was one thing she could do. After a long and troubled eighteen months, the time had finally come for her to testify in court.
We’ll lock him away forever, Cat. I promise. And he won’t be able to hurt anyone else ever again.
What lay ahead would be no easier if she dwelled on her loss. It was too much to bear thinking about.
‘I love you, Catherine,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll get him for you. Wish me luck.’
She turned away from the bank of memorials and walked towards her father’s minivan, prompting Les and Ann to look up from their conversation in the front seat. Her father offered a solemn nod through the foggy windscreen and Ann started the engine.
Mak got in. ‘Alright, let’s go.’
They pulled away in silence as she stared out the window, disturbed by the way a string of letters carved into cold marble could slowly take over the once vivid memories of her late best friend. Time blurred memories of the dead, even when the pain of their leaving remained fresh. Her mother and Catherine were slowly fading, like a dream upon waking, fragmenting and growing indefinite. She could no longer keep hold of them as they slipped away into the shadows.
Makedde’s carry-on bag was at her feet, her boarding pass in hand. She had her warm turtleneck pulled up to her chin and the trench coat wrapped tightly around her. She could still feel the chill of the icy wind that buffeted Catherine’s memorial. She was vaguely aware that some of the passers-by in the airport terminal were looking at her. Her father and Ann were also looking, their faces etched with concern rather than curiosity.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ she said, wondering if any of them would really buy her false confidence, herself included.
Standing tall in her heeled boots, Mak’s gaze was level with her father’s deep blue eyes. Les Vanderwall was still handsome in his early sixties, even though the past two years seemed to have aged him ten. At present he suffered from an uncharacteristic pallor thanks to a serious peptic ulcer that had recently taken a turn for the worse, unsurprisingly perhaps, considering his daughter’s involvement in the upcoming murder trial. It had been an unfortunate two years for both of them. None of it was her fault, of course, but Mak felt somehow responsible. Losing Jane would have been more than enough. But then there was all this.
That worried look. Dammit, Dad, don’t look at me like that.
‘You will do fine, Mak. In fact, you’ll do better than fine. You are one of the strongest young women I know.’
It was Ann Morgan who spoke. The clinical psychologist wore a brave smile and her admirable armour of calm was contagious. She was petite and rounded, with short, stylish auburn hair and warm brown eyes—a deceptively gentle exterior housing a sharp intellect and strong spirit. One of her hands rested comfortingly on Les’s arm as he stood tense and silent. The relationship between Les and Ann had blossomed in the past several months. He had regained most of the weight he’d dropped after Mak’s mother, Jane, lost her battle with cancer. The occasional smile had even returned to his face, despite the considerable challenges of late.
Thank God he is no longer alone in that big house, his wife dead, his world empty. Thank God Ann has brought some life back to his private world…
‘Thanks,’ Makedde replied. You’re pretty strong yourself, she thought.
‘Just think of the weight your testimony adds to the prosecution’s case. He’ll be locked away forever.’
With every ounce of her being, Mak hoped that was true.
‘And then you can get on with your life, Mak. You’ll have that PhD under your belt and all this behind you in no time.’ Ann stepped forward to squeeze Mak’s hand gently. Mak gave her a quick, heartfelt hug in return.
‘That would be nice,’ Mak replied. Her thesis was not on track. Her life was nowhere near on track either. With any luck this trip truly would put that regrettable chapter of her life to rest, and she could finally move on.
Oh Dad. She turned to embrace her father. His face was so pale.
The retired
detective inspector was stoic as usual, one of that old school of strong, silent men. His pallor worried her, as did his tense look. He had to take it easy. Mak hated it when his brow was furrowed like that. She couldn’t help but notice it was always herself who caused it. Theresa, her younger sister, never once made that brow furrow. And it sure wasn’t Theresa who had given him that damned ulcer…Theresa with the benign hubby and the happy bouncing baby girl. Theresa who had never done anything wrong, or risky, in her whole life. Sometimes Mak wondered if they were even related.
It’s okay, Dad. Just a little longer and this nightmare will be over.
Her father had wanted desperately to go to Sydney with her, had fought every step of the way to come along, but Dr Olenski would not allow him to travel. If he had followed all of Dr Olenski’s advice a year ago, he might have been practically cured on a course of antibiotics already. But no. This was Les Vanderwall, formerly Vancouver Island’s most formidable detective inspector, and he didn’t take orders from anyone. Stress had aggravated his condition until he was now touch-and-go for surgery in the next few weeks.
‘I should get going,’ Makedde announced, and glanced anxiously at the sign behind her.
VICTORIA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. DEPARTURES THIS WAY.
The ‘International’ part of the airport’s name was really a bit misleading. Rather than a huge, bustling airport full of international jetsetters bound for all corners of the world, the airport was international only because it had some departures to Seattle, a mere forty-minute flight away. Looking at that sign, Mak felt it was almost impossibly hard to leave the tranquil safe-haven of Vancouver Island, the home of her youth. She would be flying straight into the centre of a media circus. She would have to relive her ordeal in court. She would have to testify while he sat there in the dock, only metres away. He would be right there in the same room as her.
ED BROWN THIS WAY.
If only Andy had aimed that bullet a little more to the left, it would have been over already. But of course such thoughts were pointless and frustrating, and led her straight into another area it was best not to dwell on—the whole muddled situation with Detective Andy Flynn.
Just get on the plane, Mak.
‘I should really get to the gate lounge.’ This time she meant it. ‘I’ll see you in a week or so. Dad, please take it easy and do everything the doctor says, okay?’ Les nodded bleakly. At his side, Ann, too, gave Mak a nod, as if to say that she would personally see to it that he got better. ‘This will be over in no time.’
‘Have a safe trip.’
‘I will. I’ll be fine.’ She gave the two of them one more hearty embrace. ‘Say bye to Theresa for me,’ she said. Her sister had not come to the airport, which was par for the course. ‘I hope Connor’s birthday is a blast.’
Ann’s son, Connor, had a big eighteenth coming up. It was good that Ann would be there to help organise it. The relationship was still fragile, since Ann and Connor’s father had split a couple of years before. Mak wondered what Connor thought about her dad, now that he was on the scene. Was it awkward?
Ann nodded. ‘We’ll see you soon.’
Finally Mak broke away, making exaggerated kisses and doing an impersonation of the Queen’s wave, her hand held like a twisting spoon. ‘Ta ta!’ she said, doing her best to ease the tension. ‘I love you.’ She rounded the corner to walk through security.
‘You’ll be fine. It’ll be a stroll in the park,’ she mumbled to herself, staring at the ground as she walked.
‘What was that, ma’am?’
It was a bulbous-nosed airport security guard, looking at her with bright eyes that wandered momentarily down her body and back up again. He probably hadn’t even realised he’d done it, or that she’d seen him do it.
‘Oh nothing,’ she said politely. ‘Just muttering to myself.’
Mak chucked her carry-on bag onto the conveyor and watched it disappear into the X-ray machine. She tried to walk past the guard and through the electronic scanner.
‘Hey, how tall are you?’ Now the guard was standing on tiptoe, far too close for comfort, clearly pleased with himself for being the fifty-thousandth person to ask about her unusual height. She noticed with distaste that he smelled of pickles and poor hygiene.
‘Six feet and a little,’ she said. ‘And you must be what? Five-seven?’
He nodded. ‘You guessed it, honey. And I lurve big women.’ He swayed towards her a fraction. Ah, yes, canned pickles. Charming.
‘You know, the National Center for Statistics say that the height of the average man is five feet nine inches.’ She looked him over. ‘Hmmm, below average…’ She left him with that thought and strode through the metal detector, taking her carry-on as it rolled out the other side of the X-ray machine, and headed to her gate without further interruption.
CHAPTER 2
‘I wanna be loved by you,’ Marilyn Monroe crooned. ‘You and nobody else but you…’
Suzie Harpin hummed along as she vacuumed the house, cutting a swathe of spotlessness through each of the rooms. She ran the vacuum head over the carpet again and again, detouring around the hefty garbage bags full of clothing and junk she had rounded up and arranged against the walls, like hay bales awaiting collection.
‘I wanna be loved by you, alo-o-o-ne. Boop boop beedooo…’
Suzie had the stereo up loud, delighted to have found a CD she liked amongst Ben’s boring Led Zeppelin, AC/DC and Skyhooks albums. That type of music was not to her taste. There was nothing romantic about ‘Living in the Seventies’ or ‘Long Way to the Top (If You Want to Rock ‘n’ Roll)’.
She noticed the sky growing dark outside the large living room windows, and she flicked off the vacuum cleaner. Giving a cursory look along the street, Suzie closed the curtains and checked the time. It was already early Monday evening in this sleepy western Sydney suburb and there was still so much she wanted to do before she headed home to get ready for work. She wasn’t used to keeping these hours and the lack of sleep had really hit her, but she was tough and she soldiered on. Her newfound domesticity excited her, and she threw herself into the role as fervently as she did any new project.
She had begun her chores by taking down all of Ben’s photos: the wedding photos that he still had around for some reason that Suzie could not comprehend, the goofy happy snaps with fishing mates, the old photo with his surfboard. They had gone into the first garbage bag. There was a lot more to be thrown out, but she’d made a start.
Soon she would have to tackle the clean-up. The clean-up was going to be so much worse than she’d thought.
‘I wanna be kissed by you…’
Not one to waste time even when she was tested by physical exhaustion, Suzie started the machine again and worked away, pushing the droning vacuum cleaner along the carpet of the hallway. She made it right up to the bathroom door before she finally turned it off.
She frowned.
Plugging her nose with two fingers, she stepped into the bathroom and stopped short at the small pool of blood hardening around the carcass of her brother. She was not sure what to do with the body in the long term, but that was okay. There was no great rush. She had several days to get everything ready, and she didn’t have to worry about anyone snooping around in the meantime. But the rising stench would not do. She would have to get him in the bathtub before he made more of a mess, then bag him and move him somewhere more convenient.
Oh, what a stench…
It was with great interest and a sense of serendipity that Suzie had come across Spanish fly and learned of its powers. Spanish fly had, she knew, a somewhat inflated reputation for enhancing sexual prowess. It was believed by some to inflame and arouse, but only by way of a bit of poisoning. Cantharidin was in fact a blistering agent, and like all poisons, the deadliness was in the dosage. Suzie had been careful to administer a sufficiently large amount of the pure form of the poison to terminate her brother, but the result was so much messier and less efficient than she had anticipat
ed. Everything the pie had come in contact with—his lips, tongue, throat, stomach and entire digestive tract—had been ripped to shreds. But who knew it would take so long? Almost five hours had passed before Ben died. Suzie was not pleased.
While she was still watching her favourite soap opera, Ben had managed to somehow get himself up off the kitchen floor and stumble down the hallway to the bathroom to relieve himself when the poison’s grisly destructiveness had progressed all the way to his urinary tract. Imagine the shock and horror she felt in seeing him stagger past, losing his balance a few times in the process, leaving a bloody handprint on the wall and a mess of sick down the perfect carpet.
Terribly inefficient.
But never mind.
Now he was dead and she could get on with it. Suzie grabbed a mop and bucket from the kitchen and began the long and unpleasant task of making the bathroom presentable.
CHAPTER 3
Which nineteenth-century French painter started pointillism?
Georges Seurat.
‘Excuse me…’
Bolivia and which other country are the only two landlocked nations in South America?
Umm…Paraguay.
What was the name of the cyclone that devastated Darwin on Christmas morning, 1974?
‘Excuse me, Miss Vanderwall?’
Makedde looked up to find a deeply tanned Qantas airline steward addressing her. She fumbled around to take off her headset, tearing herself away from Coldplay’s moody tunes and letting the onboard trivia game penalise her for not choosing one of the multiple-choice answers.
‘Um, hello.’
‘Miss Vanderwall?’ The pretty steward had her blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, and she wore some of the darkest lip liner Mak had seen in some time. It was hard to take her eyes off the heavily drawn burgundy line as it moved with each syllable.
‘Yes? That’s me,’ Mak replied.
‘We’ll be preparing to land soon,’ the lip line said. The attendant squatted in the aisle beside Makedde’s seat and continued in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘We wanted to let you know that there will be some people to meet you at the gate in Sydney.’