Killers

by Laurence Gough

  Then, in small, fuzzy, hellish-red letters outlined in black appeared the words:

  The End.

  Chapter 3

  Parker didn’t slam her fist into the pillow, or shout or even raise her voice, but her body was stiff with anger, there was a frosty glint in her eye and steel in her voice. She was furious — madder than hell — and not too tied up inside to say why.

  Willows had poured himself a small Cutty on the rocks and brought it upstairs along with a glass of wine for Parker. But neither of them was drinking. It was too solemn an occasion, somehow.

  Parker had turned on the bedside lamp. She’d dried herself quickly after her shower and there were still a few beads of water on her legs. She was wearing one of Willows’ blue uniform shirts and sat cross-legged on the big queen-size bed with her back against the headboard. The shirt was so large that the cloth VPD flashers hung halfway to her elbows. Although he didn’t dare say a word, Willows found Parker’s slightly rumpled look just this side of totally irresistible. Apparently unaware of this, Parker said, “I just don’t understand how you can let her get away with it.” Willows couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt as if he were being interrogated.

  Parker said, “Explain it to me, Jack. Is that too much to ask?” Willows stared out the window. The wind shifted and the snow danced. The mantle of white on the windowsill was visibly rising. Why was it that the only time the weatherman hit it right was when he had bad news?

  “Jack?”

  Willows broke down and sipped at his Scotch. He said, “The way I see it, I don’t have any choice in the matter.”

  “Come on, Jack. You can do better than that.”

  Willows hated it when Parker was sarcastic. She was so good at it. Her voice positively dripped with scorn.

  He said, “What am I supposed to do? She left a message on my machine. It isn’t as if we talked it over and came to a decision together. You know as well as I do that I didn’t have a chance to say a single word to her. If she wants to buy a ticket and fly across the country, I can’t stop her.”

  “No, but you could call her back and tell her there’s no room at the farm.”

  Willows said, “You make it sound so easy.” Now he was being sarcastic. Or was he just whining?

  “I thought…” Parker pulled the shirt a little lower over her knees. “I thought we were trying to develop the kind of relationship that depended on making important decisions together.”

  “We do, we do.” Willows rested a companionable hand on her thigh.

  Parker pushed his hand away. “I’m not talking about sex, Jack.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Well, what are you talking about? Commitment? Tell me something — where’s the commitment when you let your wife waltz back into your bedroom just like that!”

  Parker snapped her fingers under his nose.

  She punched him in the shoulder, hard.

  “Wake up, Jack!”

  Willows said, “What about Sean and Annie?”

  “They’re welcome any time. They can stay as long as they like. You aren’t married to your goddamn kids — that’s the whole goddamn point!”

  Willows drank some more Scotch. Why hadn’t he poured himself a double? Because he needed a clear head, even if he didn’t want one. He said, “I don’t think either Annie or Sean is old enough or mature enough to understand the distinction.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  “Call her back. Tell her she’ll have to stay in a hotel.” Willows turned towards the bedside alarm clock. It was closing in on two — five in the morning, in Toronto.

  He picked up the phone, dialled long distance and the Toronto area code, four-one-six, and then Sheila’s number. He hadn’t needed to look the number up in his book, and was acutely aware of the exasperation — or was it rage — pouring off Parker in waves.

  There was a double click. Ringing. And then a doleful computer-generated voice told him the number was out of service. He hung up.

  Parker said, “What?”

  Willows told her. He dialled his wife’s number again, with the same result.

  Parker swore with all the skill and authority of an experienced officer of the law. She gulped half her wine and swore again, but more specifically.

  Willows downed most of his Scotch.

  Parker said, “You see what she’s doing, don’t you?”

  “Using the children,” ventured Willows.

  “That’s right, Jack. She’s got one tucked under each arm and she’s using them to batter down the front door. And you’re letting her get away with it.”

  Willows got his book out of the bedside table and looked up a number, started dialling.

  Parker said, “What are you doing?”

  “Calling her parents.”

  The phone rang twice and then Sheila’s father picked up. His voice was clear and firm. Despite the hour, he sounded as if he had been interrupted in the middle of a good book. Willows knew better; Ross habitually rose at six in the morning and always got eight hours’ sleep.

  Willows identified himself. He assured Ross that nothing was wrong, and then told his father-in-law that he wanted to speak to Sheila.

  “She isn’t here, she’s staying with a friend.”

  Willows said, “I phoned her, but the line’s been disconnected.”

  “Yeah, well. She’s moved. Didn’t she call you?”

  “A couple of hours ago. She left a message on my machine.”

  “Useful things, answering machines. Might even get one myself.” Ross cleared his throat. “What happened, you got something new going?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  There was a pause. Willows could almost see his father-in-law scratching his chin. After a moment Ross said, “She’s been through some tough times, Jack. The past couple of years haven’t been easy.”

  Willows said, “You can’t turn back the clock, Ross.”

  “What about Sean and Annie?”

  “They’re welcome any time.”

  Ross said, “The way Sheila sees it, she and the kids come as a package. All for one, and all that crap. Don’t quote me, by the way.”

  No fear of that. Willows heard a female voice in the background and Ross’s words of reassurance. Then he said, “You want to talk to Elizabeth?”

  “Say hello for me.”

  Ross chuckled into the phone. “Will do, Jack.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve got to follow the party line, son. But you take care of yourself, understand?”

  Willows said, “Sorry I woke you, Ross.”

  Ross disconnected.

  Willows hung up. He sat there for a moment with the telephone in his lap, and then put it back on the bedside table.

  He finished his Scotch.

  Parker said, “Jack?” Her voice was soft and light as falling snow.

  He looked at her.

  She held out her arms, opening herself to him.

  *

  Willows snapped awake as violently as if he’d had a pistol barrel shoved into his face.

  His heart pounded in his chest. In his sleep, he’d kicked off the sheets. He felt feverish, and his body was slick with a thin sheen of sweat. He lay quietly, listening so hard it hurt, until he was sure that he and Parker were alone in the house.

  He turned his head towards the bedside clock. It was quarter past four. It came to him then, the reason he’d awakened, why he feared there might be an intruder in his home.

  It was quarter past seven in Toronto. Sheila and the kids would already be up, eating breakfast or perhaps doing a little last-minute packing.

  Parker was lying on her side, facing away from him. The swell of her hip was outlined in the snowy window.

  He whispered her name, very quietly, then leaned into her, close enough to hear the slow, steady cadence of her breathing.

  Suddenly he felt very lonely, and vulnerable as he hadn’t felt since Sean was born.

 
The truth was, when he’d heard Sheila’s voice he’d felt a twist of desire, a longing for the life they’d shared; complacent, perhaps, but full of trust. It was Sheila who’d made the decision to separate. Somewhere deep inside himself, he wasn’t too sure he’d ever really let go. Parker had suspected as much, no doubt.

  Willows lay there, wide awake, wondering what in hell to do, for a very long time. Finally he gave up on the idea of going back to sleep, eased out of bed and slipped on his red, green and yellow terrycloth robe and went downstairs.

  In the backyard, the snow balanced precariously on the dark limbs of the fruit trees was over an inch thick.

  Willows poured a finger of Cutty into a lowball glass. He turned towards the refrigerator but decided not to risk ice because the clatter might wake Claire.

  In the morning, the roads would be sheer hell. He’d be driving an unmarked police vehicle and it would be fitted with snow tires. But since the city rarely experienced more than two or three days of snow each winter, most drivers didn’t bother with the expense of special tires. Even fewer drivers knew how to handle a car in the snow. Almost no one had sense enough to leave his car in the garage and take a taxi or the bus.

  Willows drank some Scotch, held the glass up to the dim light coming in through the kitchen window. He started towards the living room, hesitated, and then snatched the bottle off the sink.

  He’d put on the headphones, listen to a little more Sonny Criss, or maybe some Charlie Parker. Perhaps the music would help him find a way out of his predicament.

  He sat down heavily on the sofa, unscrewed the cap from the bottle with a quick twist of his thumb. He’d have to watch himself, take care not to drink too much.

  Yeah, sure.

  Chapter 4

  There was a place downtown, about a hundred-fifty seater with a ten by sixteen foot screen, that showed art movies and National Film Board stuff, some pretty decent foreign films that hadn’t been able to attract a distributor. Chris Spacy and his girlfriend, Robyn Davis, had gone to see an Italian animated film called Gladiators. Robyn thought the film was hilarious but Chris had trouble reading the subtitles and kept pretending to fall asleep, snoring like a chainsaw with his mouth wide open and his head lolling on her shoulder, heavy as a block of cement. After a while the neighbouring intelligentsia became sufficiently irked to start hurling small coins as well as large insults.

  So they’d walked out and it was snowing, who’d have guessed?

  Chris drove a little four-wheel drive Subaru Justy that Robyn had been making the payments on pretty much from the day she’d bought the thing, three hundred dollars a month, rain or shine.

  It was still early, and Chris suggested they take a spin around Stanley Park. Put the Subaru through its paces.

  Robyn said “Yeah, okay.” Terminally bored. As if she was doing him the world’s biggest favour. Chris knew right away where she was going because she’d taken him there so many times before. River country. Cry me a river country, to be exact.

  He said, “Just once around the park. Where’s the harm? Tell you what, you can be in charge of the tape deck, play whatever music you want.”

  “Pavarotti.”

  “Gimme a break.”

  Laughing, Robyn slipped the tape into the player and twisted the volume control.

  Chris turned the key in the ignition, revved the engine hard. The wipers made a miniature snowstorm as they cleared the windshield. He manoeuvred the boxy little car back and forth in the parking spot and then put it in first gear, jumped on the gas and popped the clutch. The sudden acceleration made Robyn drop her seatbelt. The buckle cracked her on the knuckles. She swore. Chris grinned maniacally at her as the Subaru charged down Georgia Street, letting the tachometer needle slide deep into the red zone before he bothered to shift gears.

  Chris’s philosophy of life in general and cars in particular was elegant in its simplicity: Break it before it wears out.

  At that time of night traffic in the city was usually pretty light. Tonight, it was even thinner. The snow had kept a lot of people at home and the commuters from West and North Vancouver who drove daily into the downtown core to work in the towers had long since made the return voyage to their colour televisions, gas fireplaces and family pets.

  So, except for the odd taxi and occasional bus, Chris had the road to himself.

  Driving at exactly twice the maximum speed limit, he was able to hit green lights right down Georgia all the way to the last one at Robson. From that point on he was inside the park and there were no more traffic lights, nothing but miles and miles of wide open road.

  Chris had a minor control problem as he took the right-sweeping turn past Lost Lagoon. There was a bus route all the way down Georgia and the snow had been pounded to slush, but it was clear from the untrammelled state of the road that very little traffic had entered the park. He was toying with the idea that he might be going just a bit too fast when he hit the virgin snow. The Subaru, stricken, went into a graceless sideways drift. Chris cursed manfully. He lifted his foot off the gas pedal so energetically that his kneecap cracked against the underside of the steering column. He turned into the skid, but, due to inexperience, overcorrected.

  Pavarotti — or maybe it was Robyn — screamed in terror as the Subaru pirouetted flirtatiously across two lanes reserved for oncoming traffic, jumped the curb and slid sideways down a snowy slope. A gaggle of drowsy Canada geese fled in disarray. The Subaru hit the pea-gravel walkway that encircled Lost Lagoon.

  Chris noticed that the steering wheel no longer seemed to be connected to the rest of the car. For all the difference it made, he might as well be safe at home instead of sitting behind the wheel. He fumbled through the many pockets of his black leather jacket, found a joint and lit up.

  The Subaru’s front bumper nudged the trunk of a weeping willow.

  Robyn said, “That was fun. Gimme a hit.”

  Chris passed her the joint. He tried reverse gear. Much to his surprise, it worked just fine. He backed up until he was in the middle of the pea-gravel path and eased into first, lightly touched the gas. A few minutes later they were back on the road again, good as new.

  Robyn was a member of Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, Tree Huggers Unlimited, and half a dozen outfits Chris could never remember the name of. If there was a mailing list, she was on it. About a ton of plant material recycled and converted into desperate pleas for cash was vomited through the mail slot every single month. Robyn was a passionate joiner. She was crazy about meetings, loved to mingle. Her latest fad was an animal rights group that called itself Animal Action. Fifty bucks and you were in. She’d paid sixty for the family rate, although they weren’t even engaged and probably never would be.

  Chris had gone to one meeting and that was it for him. Guys who wore faded denim coveralls and wandered around with their hands in their baggy-ass back pockets with their eyes full of unfocused rage were definitely not his type.

  Ditto for the legions of bright-faced girls who wore all-natural fabrics and shiny black Doc Martens and wouldn’t touch red meat if their miserable lives depended on it.

  Robyn thought they were okay, though. A little rough around the edges, but sincere. In Robyn’s book, sincerity was a rare commodity, worth pursuing.

  A few weeks ago, Robyn had paid ten bucks to join an outfit whose oddball name Chris couldn’t recall, but whose sole purpose in life was to outlaw the capture and display of killer whales. Orcas, they called them. Huge black and white mothers the size of a 7-series BMW.

  And Chris thought they were as nifty looking as a BMW, too. Sleek and shiny, with that ruthless get out my way or I’ll gun you down look that Chris admired so much. On the road it was the BMW’s famous kidney-shaped grille that filled your rear-view mirror. With the whales it would be a three-foot wide mouth full of six-inch teeth that you’d see coming up behind you.

  Same deal, essentially.

  Driving along at a sedate twenty miles an hour, the Subaru trailing a rooster-tai
l of snow as Pavarotti wailed away at them from both front and rear speakers, they cruised past the mock-Tudor bulk of the Coal Harbour Yacht Club, which Chris believed functioned primarily as a hangout for alcoholic rugby players. He’d lit another joint, and the Subaru’s cramped little cabin was full of smoke. Robyn had burned her share of weed and was feeling pretty relaxed, enjoying the passing view. When Pavarotti finally ran out of wind she took her turn, started singing ‘On the Road Again’ in a voice that sounded like a mouse on helium. Chris imagined a puffed-out mouse floating along at an altitude of ten feet or so as it sang a medley of Roger Whittaker hits. He couldn’t stop himself from giggling.

  Robyn said, “What’s so funny?”

  Chris shrugged.

  “Tell me.”

  “Forget it.”

  “You want a good time tonight, sailor, you better speak up loud and fast.”

  Chris said, “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

  “You better believe it.”

  What Chris believed was that he was starting to get the hang of it now. He steered the Subaru into the middle of the empty road, slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel.

  The little car did a perfect donut.

  Robyn shrieked with delight.

  Chris said, “You better think of some other way to pry it out of me.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him, and he flicked at it with his finger, but missed.

  She said, “Why is that, loverboy?”

  “Because any time I want it, all I have to do is snap my fingers. And we both know it.”

  “Oh, is that right?”

  Chris nodded emphatically. He said, “Because you need it more than I do. Your sexual appetite is out of control. And we both know that, too.”

  Robyn reached up and twisted the rear-view mirror so she could look at herself. She brushed her hair back from her cheek. The joint dangled from a corner of her mouth. Still looking into the mirror, she said, “Are you accusing me of insatiability?”

  Chris grinned at her. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  “You’re suggesting I’m some kind of nymphomaniac?”