Killers

by Laurence Gough

  That was another thing about Mexico — the weather was better.

  He turned on the radio, fiddled his way across the dial, stumbled across a Garth Brooks tune and cranked up the volume until he could hear the music over the blast of the heater.

  At twenty-five minutes to twelve he put the Subaru in gear and set out upon his crosstown voyage.

  Thirty minutes later he pulled into the tiny public parking lot at the far end of Trout Lake. The trash can was no more than two hundred yards away; a dark green rectangle silhouetted against the snow.

  The lake was so perfectly oval that it looked as if it had been man-made. It was fairly large; about a quarter of a mile across and half a mile wide. Except for a black, kidney-shaped area of open water at the near end, the lake’s surface was frozen solid and covered in snow.

  The park itself was a perfect rectangle about four blocks long and two blocks wide. There were a few small trees down at the far end, but otherwise the whole area was open as a desert. Chris turned off the car lights but let the engine idle. Either Susie was tucked away in the trash can, or she hadn’t showed up yet.

  Chris figured he better find out which was which. He turned off the engine. The door squeaked as he pushed it open. Snow creaked under his boots as he made his way down a gentle slope to the trash can.

  The can was big — waist high and almost a yard across. Big enough to hold a woman.

  He walked right up to it, peered inside. There was nothing much in there except a few non-returnable bottles at the bottom and a Domino’s Pizza jacket with the right arm ripped off.

  No Susan, though.

  Chris walked across slippery, hard-packed snow to the shore of the lake. The small body of open water was shiny black and very still, reflecting pinpoints of light from the street. A few small dark birds floated in the middle of the water. A yellow sign said ‘Thin Ice — No Skating’.

  Chris walked along the shore until he came to where the ice started. He walked a few more feet and gingerly put one foot on the ice to test its strength. It held. He edged out inch by inch until he was about a foot from shore. The ice felt solid as concrete.

  He moved out a little further and then walked along parallel to the shoreline. There were marks on the ice, that he was sure had been made by skates. He broke into a kind of shambling trot and then braced himself and slid almost twenty feet, came to a gentle stop.

  Somewhere in the darkness behind him a duck quacked plaintively.

  Chris skated clumsily along the shoreline until all the fun had gone out of it, then went back to the Subaru and started the engine. It was important to keep the car warm. When he made his getaway he wanted it to start with the first turn of the key.

  He switched on the radio. The country music station had changed to a talk show format. A woman wanted to know why her trucker boyfriend refused to make love except in his eighteen-wheeler, at highway speed…

  At quarter to one Chris left the warmth of the car and walked back down to the trash can. Behind him, there was a sudden burst of alarmed quacking. The open water was chopped to a white froth as the flock of ducks lifted off, wheeled past him and rose up into the city lights and vanished in darkness. He peered towards the lake, crouched down low so anyone creeping towards him across the frozen surface would be silhouetted against the lights on the far shore.

  He saw no one. He began to relax; could feel the tension easing out of him as palpably as if someone had pulled a plug. He told himself the ducks had smelled a cat or raccoon, or some other predator.

  Directly in front of him, about fifty feet away, the surface of the lake bulged. A pinpoint of light swelled and burst, reformed, trembled and was still.

  Chris, squinting down at the dial of his watch, saw nothing of this. All he knew was that it almost one. Christ, where could she be?

  Somewhere high overhead the birds were circling, the wind in their pinfeathers making an eerie, high-pitched whistling sound.

  Distracted, Chris looked up.

  On the lake, the surface of the water fractured in thin streamers of light. A shiny black form rose out of the inky blackness. It was as if the lake was giving birth. A gleaming oval disc of light seemed to levitate above the surface of the water, glide slowly and silently towards the shore. A bright spark of moving light marked a lightning-rod of steel. Small waves pulsed against the muddy shore with a sound like muted laughter.

  Chris turned. He slipped on the snow.

  He thought, There she is.

  The spark of light dipped towards him. There was a snapping sound, as if someone had released the tension on a gigantic rubber band. The air vibrated.

  Chris felt something slither into him. He looked down. A thin black shaft — the last few inches of a three-foot-long teflon-coated anodized aluminium spear — protruded from his chest. The barbed stainless steel point had struck him just below the breastbone, pierced him through and chopped his spine in half.

  He collapsed in a heap on the hard-packed snow.

  The slap of Iris Roth’s fins sounded like scattered applause as she made her way up the slope. She knelt, gripped the bloody shaft with both hands, grunted loudly as she pulled it free.

  Chris saw his faint, ghostly image reflected in the glass of her face mask. He looked very pale. The woman who had hurt him slung her spear-gun across her back. He felt nothing as she dragged him towards the water.

  There was the sound of an engine. A car swung into the parking lot, stopped with the headlights focused on the green-painted metal trash can. Chris heard laughter, car doors slamming. The woman who held him in her arms crouched low but kept moving. He saw that her mask had begun to fog. Was that why his image was so indistinct, faded and blurred? She reached the shoreline and backed slowly into the water.

  The engine and headlights died. Chris heard more laughter and the squeaky crunch of footsteps on the snow. Black water closed around him, burying him.

  He heard screams. Flashlight beams skittered across the snow.

  Iris backpedalled until she bumped gently against the edge of the two-inch thick shelf of ice that covered the lake.

  She let the kid drift while she struggled with the thirty-pound weight belt, slipped it around his narrow waist and cinched it tight.

  Chris was still alive. Water sloshed in his gaping mouth. A skullcap of ice had already formed on his head.

  But he was alive. He was still alive.

  A widening beam of light swept across the surface of the lake.

  Someone cried out. Someone else laughed and laughed and laughed.

  Iris rolled Chris over and pushed him down and away as hard as she could, with all her strength.

  She felt the pressure of the water swirling round her as his drowning body glided silently beneath the ice.

  Chapter 27

  Willows arrived home at six-thirty. He’d planned to throw together a salad while a couple of steaks thawed in the microwave, cook a few Idaho potatoes in the microwave while he pan-fried the steaks. It wasn’t exactly cuisine gourmet, but it wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to prepare.

  He unlocked and swung open the door and the mouth-watering smell of good food that had been simmering for a long time hit him flush on the nose. He went down the hall and into the kitchen. A huge pot of spaghetti sauce burbled quietly on a back burner. Water boiled in a two-quart pot on another burner. Willows called out and Annie cheerfully responded. She was in the dining room. The table had been set for four. Candles had been lit and she’d used the good napkins, his mother’s linen. She gave him a bright smile, got up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

  Willows eyes strayed to the four place settings.

  Annie said, “I thought you might invite Claire over for dinner.”

  Willows nodded. He said, “I see.”

  “You thought Mummy had come back, didn’t you?”

  “The possibility crossed my mind.”

  “Pretty scary, huh?”

  Willows smiled. “Sean around?”<
br />
  “He’s in his room. He told me he got kicked out of the 7-Eleven for trying to steal a pack of cigarettes.”

  Willows saw the tears welling up. He put his arms around his child’s thin shoulders.

  Snuffling into his shoulder, Annie said, “I don’t care if she never comes back. From now on, I’m staying with you.”

  Willows said, “That would make me very happy, Annie.” It seemed such an inadequate response. He held his daughter close, trying to convey his love for her with all his heart and soul.

  Annie pulled away from him. She fished a thick wad of tissues from her sweater pocket and blew her nose. “That creep’s going to dump her sooner or later, and she knows it. But she wanted so badly to get away.”

  Willows kissed her on the forehead. She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve been boozing it up.”

  “In moderation.”

  “At Freddy’s?”

  “Yeah, at Freddy’s.”

  Annie wiped dry her eyes. “Well, that’s not quite so bad, since he’s famous for watering his drinks. Hungry?”

  “Starving,” said Willows.

  The meal was as good as it had smelled, and Willows refused to let it bother him when Sean decided to eat in his room, and then left the house without explanation. Annie had baked an apple pie for dessert. She insisted that Willows phone Parker and invite her over.

  Parker arrived a little before nine, with a litre of expensive designer ice-cream. The three of them lingered over fresh pie à la mode. Annie chatted animatedly with Parker about the new school she’d start attending in the morning. A few minutes past ten, all the energy seemed to drain out of her at once. She yawned hugely, apologized to Parker, kissed Willows goodnight and went off to bed.

  “Sweet child,” said Parker.

  Willows had to agree.

  Parker said, “She’s going to be a real knockout in a few more years, Jack. You’ll be beating the boys off with a stick.”

  “A large, sharp stick,” said Willows. He suggested they go upstairs and watch a little television.

  Parker said, “Is that a euphemism?”

  “Come and see.” Willows offered her his hand, and she took it.

  *

  The phone rang twice and then the alarm went off. Willows rolled over. He turned off the alarm and picked up, realizing in a moment of clarity that Parker had left him so long ago that her side of the bed was cold.

  Homer Bradley was an early riser. He expected the same from his squad.

  “I wake you, Jack?”

  “Not yet.”

  An alert city sanitation employee had noticed a smear of blood leading from a garbage can to the shore of Trout Lake. He’d taken a look in the can and found a Domino’s Pizza deliveryman’s jacket with an arm ripped off. The man had called his supervisor, who’d promptly passed the call on to his supervisor, who’d called the cops. A car had responded, parked right next to Robyn Davis’s hot-sheet Subaru.

  Willows said, “I’ll call Parker.”

  “Claire’s already on it, Jack. I talked to her a few minutes ago. She expects you to pick her up on the way to the lake.”

  Willows showered and shaved, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt.

  He heard a noise downstairs in the kitchen, found Annie pouring freshly made coffee into his stainless steel thermos.

  She said, “I heard the phone…”

  Willows said, “You’re a sweetheart, but I don’t want you to do this again, understand?”

  Annie nodded, added cream to the coffee and screwed the lid down tight.

  Willows shrugged into a brown leather bomber jacket with a sheepskin collar.

  Annie hurried to the front door, held it open for him. “Got your keys and gloves? Gun?”

  He gave her a sourpuss look, and then a quick hug.

  She said, “Don’t forget your smile…”

  Willows told his daughter to shut the door before she caught her death of cold.

  *

  Alfred Cortez was a small, dark man in his early fifties. Tight black curls streaked with grey sneaked out from beneath his wool hat. His black plastic framed glasses rode high up on his snub nose. Beneath his down-filled jacket he wore a crisp white shirt and tartan tie. When he pulled off a heavy leather work glove to shake hands, Willows noticed that his skin was soft and white, the nails clean and recently trimmed.

  Alfred had been employed by the city close to twenty years. He enjoyed his job and worked very hard to ensure that he was the sort of employee in which the city could take great pride. The first words he spoke to Willows echoed his opening statement to the uniformed cop who’d answered his original call.

  “I didn’t touch nothing. Soon as I saw the blood I backed off.”

  Willows said, “That’s good, Alfred.”

  “I got a schedule, but I ain’t gonna worry about it. It’s my duty as a citizen to cooperate with the police, and I take that duty real serious. So what if I miss a coffee break. Did you ever miss a coffee break?”

  Willows nodded.

  “Well then, there you go.”

  The problem was, Alfred hadn’t seen anything and he didn’t know anything.

  Willows offered him a card. Alfred put the card in a battered, seam-split eel skin wallet stuffed with cards. He gave Parker a lingering smile. She gave him one of her cards. Alfred maintained eye contact with Parker as he said, “If I think of anything, I’ll give you a call.”

  “But only if you think of something,” said Willows.

  “Whatever.” Alfred adjusted the knot of his tie, which in his opinion was practically brand-new, since he’d scavenged it out of a garbage can hardly more than week ago. He tossed Parker another fetching smile, waved as she and her partner made their way towards the cop brass parked down by the water.

  Homer Bradley, Mel Dutton and Bailey ‘Popeye’ Rowland stood facing each other in a tight, black-coated circle down by the frozen lake. A strong wind ripped dark tendrils of cloud from the churning mass overhead. The sky was so dark that there were no shadows. All three men wore dark blue or black wide-brim hats that obscured their features. To protect themselves against the chill they had pulled up the collars of their drab winter coats, stuffed their hands deep in their pockets. Their heads were bowed, shoulders hunched against the cold. Bundled into themselves, they were motionless and silent. Their posture suggested an introspective, moody and amoral attitude. They resembled crows. A stranger coming suddenly upon them would have been alarmed. They looked as if they were plotting murder.

  Bradley and the others turned inquisitively as they heard the crunch of snow underfoot. They saw Willows and Parker moving down the slope towards them. There was an exchange of greetings.

  The smear of blood in the snow was twenty feet long and a hand span in width, framed on either side by shallow grooves in the snow. Heel marks.

  A small flock of ducks paddled lethargically in the shrinking body of open water. Behind them, the surface of the lake was flat and white, featureless, bland. On the far shore stood a copse of elms, branches shivering in the wind.

  Mel Dutton said, “Pretty, huh?” He tapped the Nikon slung around his neck. “I shot half a roll. Next year’s Christmas cards.”

  Popeye gave Dutton a disgusted look. The ME’s Monocle reflected a disc of light. A large brown paper bag stood open on the snow beside him. Willows took a peek inside. Popeye had collected a generous sample of red-stained snow. He caught Willows looking and bent to pick up the bag. Turning to Bradley he said, “Since you don’t have a body for me to examine, Homer, there isn’t much I can do here. How about I head back downtown, drop this off at the lab, let Goldstein have a look at it.”

  Bradley said, “I’d appreciate that, Popeye.”

  The ME nodded. He smiled at Parker. “You’re a single woman, aren’t you?”

  Parker nodded.

  Popeye smiled approvingly. “Good girl. Minimizes the risk of domestic violence.” He settled the paper bag in his arms and started up the slope to
wards the parking lot.

  Parker caught Dutton’s eyes. She said, “The trouble with Popeye is, I can never tell when he’s serious.”

  Dutton said, “He’s never serious. I know because I asked him once, and that’s what he told me.”

  Bradley said, “You finish taking pictures, Mel?”

  “Yeah, I’m finished.”

  “Well then, I guess the sooner you get back to your darkroom, the sooner we’ll see what you’ve got.”

  Dutton trudged up the slope. If he’d had a tail, it would’ve been tucked between his legs.

  Willows said, “Find anything in the Subaru?”

  “It’s locked. I’m having it towed to the impound lot for examination.” He crooked a finger. “Take a look at this.”

  Willows and Parker followed Bradley up the slope to the source of the bloodstain.

  Bradley crouched, pointed down at the thin streaks of frozen blood radiating outwards in the snow. “What’s that look like to you?”

  “A splash pattern,” said Parker. “I’d say somebody shot him with a small-calibre weapon, a twenty-two, maybe. Any casings?”

  “Nope.”

  Willows said, “Anybody hear a shot?”

  “It’s a very quiet neighbourhood, Jack. Nobody ever hears anything.”

  Behind Bradley a yellow tow-truck, lights flashing, drove down Semlin towards the park.

  Willows turned and looked at the lake. Dutton was right, it was a picture-postcard scene. He thought about the body that was surely out there, drifting under the ice. Somebody’s daughter, or somebody’s son.

  *

  Willows and Parker tailed the Subaru to the impound lot beneath the east end of the Georgia Viaduct. The car was driven over a sheet of heavy-gauge plastic. The tow-truck disengaged.

  A mechanic unlocked the Subaru with a master key. Ident swarmed over the vehicle’s interior, dusting down every square inch of surface area that could possibly hold a fingerprint.

  Willows popped open the glove compartment, found a stamped, pre-addressed BC Telephone Company envelope. He ripped it open. Inside was a BC Tel statement of account. The customer, Christopher Rand Spacy, was in arrears. He owed the company thirty-seven dollars and forty-nine cents. Twenty-two dollars and fifty-six cents of that amount was overdue. The envelope also contained a personalized cheque made out in the full amount owing. Spacy had signed the cheque.