The CP gave Bergeron to me. And from the very first minute I saw him, I knew we had lost. Remember the scene at the end of Psycho when Anthony Perkins, as Mother, is sitting all alone in a chair in an otherwise empty room? His head is bent, and at the last minute he raises it and looks directly at the camera, and the demon looks at us out of his eyes. There is nothing human about him. Marc Bergeron looked at me the same way. And I knew it was all over. The criminal justice system wouldn’t lay a glove on him. Even if we found the body, he would never stand trial. His attorneys would claim insanity.
My “knowing” — the Llewelyn prescience — was born the day I interviewed Bergeron for the first time.
As I sat opposite him, the information just popped into my consciousness: Bergeron had another car. I felt as though a low-voltage charge had just sizzled through my brain. Without even thinking about how I would explain this to the CP, I ran from the interview room to a phone. With the help of the British Columbia Insurance Corporation, which maintains up-to-date records on all vehicles, we traced the car that afternoon. It was parked at Bergeron’s absent buddy’s dilapidated farmhouse in Saanich, the windows taped up with newspapers, as if he were preparing to paint it. Inside was the sexually violated body of Annie Graves. She had suffocated. Her bicycle was in the trunk.
Marc Bergeron was declared unfit to stand trial by reason of insanity, and incarcerated in a psychiatric hospital outside Prince George. But not before I had spent enough time with him to know that he was no more insane than you or I. Neither crazy nor unintelligent, he was, instead, the most cold-blooded schemer I have ever encountered. He knew right from wrong—that was obvious because he had taken such pains to conceal Annie’s body. Aside from the child molestation on his record, I suspected a score that had never seen the legal light of day. He had hinted at them under questioning, smirking all the while. Insane? No. Marc Bergeron had chosen to do these terrible things. But why?
That was the question I wanted answered, and it was the one answer that Bergeron withheld from me. Until the day he was scheduled to leave for Prince George. Prison authorities delivered a scrawled message to me from him, written in haste as he was leaving. Nothing incriminating—after all, he was insane, wasn’t he? It was just one line on a piece of paper. Because I can, it read. Nothing more.
I resigned from the CP’s office that afternoon. The criminal justice system had left Marc Bergeron untouched.
But it had chewed me up and spit me out. I no longer wanted to be a part of a mechanism that declared itself helpless in the face of the evil represented by the Marc Bergerons of the world. And I was convinced it was evil. Funny, I had never thought much about the concept before that time. And I hadn’t thought for years about the Llewelyn clairvoyance. When confronted with both of them, I ran.
I rented a shack on Texada, in the Gulf Islands. On a cove that didn’t have a name. And fished. Without a hook. Every day I motored out to an unnamed hunk of rock, dropped anchor, propped my pole against the side of the boat, and lay there and watched the clouds. Or the rain. At night, I drank myself to sleep. I lost twenty-five pounds, and all interest in life. If it hadn’t been for Jan Principal, I might have gone down for the count.
One day in early April, Jan just appeared on the wharf as I was getting ready to go out to my hunk of rock. Tall, blond, disgustingly healthy, she looked me over critically, frowned, and said: “You look like hell.”
“What’s it to you?” I asked her, surprised at how difficult speech was. My voice was raspy, and my mouth had difficulty shaping the sounds. With a start, I realized I hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks.
She ignored the question, and came to stand between me and my boat, hands jammed in her parka pockets. “I bet you haven’t had a bath since you got here.”
“You lose,” I told her. “I’ve been rained on three times. Now get out of my way.”
She scowled, and drew herself up to her full six feet. “Rude, aren’t you?” she said.
I lost my temper then. “Who the hell are you?” I shouted. “My mother? Leave me alone, dammit!”
“Listen, kid, you’ve been alone for two months,” she said quietly. “Your rock is directly in line with my study window. I can’t help but see you. Every time I look up from the typewriter, there you are. Getting dirtier and skinnier.” She looked me up and down. “You’re pitiful. Whatever your problem is, surely it’s not worth killing yourself over.”
“I don’t have a problem anymore,” I told her. “I left it in the Crown Prosecutor’s office. Now I’m free. And if you don’t get off the end of my wharf, I’ll heave you into the Pacific.”
“I doubt that,” she said.
My patience snapped. I tackled her, and we both hurtled off the end of the dock into the green water of the bay. It was much deeper than I had figured, and heart-stoppingly cold. I came up sputtering and gasping, treading water, but Jan was nowhere in sight. “Oh, shit!” I yelled, and went down for her.
Never believe the old myth that says drowning people come up three times. I submerged, and in the jade-colored murk at the bottom found Jan, struggling feebly, her waterlogged clothes weighing her down. I swam around behind her, grabbed a handful of her hair, and pushed myself off the bottom. Our heads broke the surface, and she began to choke and cough—a good sign. If she was breathing, she would be all right. But first I had to get her to shore. I towed her into shallow water, and when my heels brushed bottom, I let her go. She lurched out of the water and up the beach, where she collapsed on a driftwood log, coughing her guts out. As for me, the unaccustomed exertion had taken its toll. I managed to walk three steps toward the beach before I passed out, and as I fell back into the water I recall thinking with black glee that it would now finally all be over. Finis. The end.
I woke up in an unfamiliar bed, in someone else’s pajamas, in a cozy room with a fire snapping in the hearth. I closed my eyes quickly. If this was a dream, it was sure a good one. I felt warm and safe. But where was I? My brain soon supplied a possibility—the blonde woman’s cabin, across the bay. I cringed. If I had been she, I might have left my would-be murderer floating in the water like a dead carp. Instead, she must have dragged me out and transported me back to her place. I wondered how. I also wondered why I didn’t remember any of it. A sick fatigue came over me then, and I closed my eyes and sank back into sleep.
When I awakened again, bright sunlight was flooding into the room. Jan was sitting in a chair by the window, reading. “You should have told me you couldn’t swim,” I managed.
She closed the book and looked over at me, raising one pale eyebrow. “What, and missed all that fun? Do I dare approach you, or will you tackle me again? Incidentally, I’m Jan Principal.”
“Caitlin Reece,” I said. “And you’re safe. I don’t feel up to tackling. But you’d better not get too close. As you remarked, I’ve neglected my personal grooming lately.”
She laughed. “Well, as soon as you’re able, you can visit the bathroom. It’s just out the door to the left. And I’ve made chicken soup if you want some.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Why?” I wanted to know.
“Oh, let’s just say that you were cluttering up my seascape,” she said, smiling inscrutably. “Also, Virginia Silver is a friend of mine, too.”
So Virginia had asked her to keep an eye on me. Somehow, I didn’t mind too much. I had a shower, washed my hair, cut it, then washed it again before I was satisfied that I was clean. A fresh pair of pajamas had appeared in the bathroom while I was in the shower, and I put them on gratefully. My ablutions had taken the little strength I had, and I was happy to crawl back into bed. Chicken soup and crackers were waiting for me on the night table. I devoured every bit of the food—nothing had ever tasted so good. Then, rudely, I fell asleep again.
Three days later, I was able to get up and take a half-hearted interest in life. However, I still could not bear to watch television news or read the papers. I still wasn’t up to coping with the real
world. Jan supplied me with a steady stream of science fiction and fantasy novels, and we watched nature programs carried by PBS. She made it easy to play hooky. It wasn’t until I had been there for three weeks that I realized what was happening to me—I was becoming more and more attracted to this wry, generous woman. I felt like a traitor—she had plucked me from a downhill slide to oblivion, offered me the hospitality of her house, and this was how I repaid her? But I could no more have stopped feeling the way I did than I could have stopped breathing.
The night I marched into her bedroom and made my confession, I felt as if I were going before a firing squad.
“The only thing I can think about these days is getting in bed with you, dammit,” I said belligerently from the safety of the bedroom doorway. Then I waited.
She took off her reading glasses, put down the manuscript she had been revising, and looked at me. “Is the prospect that frightening?”
I swallowed nervously. “Yes, it is.”
“It needn’t be,” she said.
“That’s easy for you to say,” I quipped, “but I’m not exactly an old hand at this sort of thing. In fact, um, well, I’m a little out of practice.” That was some understatement. For the past seven years in the CP’s office, and four years in law school before that, I had devoted my life mostly to work. And with a few exceptions, my romantic liaisons lately had been limited to the pages of novels.
To my infinite relief, she smiled. “This isn’t something you forget how to do. Believe me.”
“That’s reassuring. Why do I feel so nervous, then?”
“I don’t know. Come on over here and we’ll discuss it.”
I walked around the bed, weak-kneed, and sat beside her. “I feel like a fool,” I confessed. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
She put her hands on my shoulders. “I think it’s an excellent idea,” she said, smiling. “You’ll see—it’s like riding a bicycle. It all comes back to you surprisingly quickly.”
She was right—it did.
I stayed with Jan for three more weeks, until she had to go to Toronto on business. We both knew by then that what had happened between us could not be sustained. Our prickly personalities were too similar—we would have quickly come to the point where we couldn’t stand to be with each other. But I saw our relationship end with plenty of anguished regret, and my time with her was one of the periods of my life I will always treasure. The day after she left, I took the ferry back to Victoria and rejoined the human race.
Jan Principal turned my life around in more ways than one. She gave me the time to heal myself, and to get to know myself. There was more to Caitlin Reece than a brain, she showed me—there were feelings, too. During the time I spent with Jan I decided what I was going to do. I had failed Annie Graves and her parents, but there were plenty of other people I could help. Even it if meant operating outside the law. Why? Because, to paraphrase Marc Bergeron, I could.
After fifty laps of the health club’s pool, fifteen minutes in the sauna, and five minutes under the shower, I felt like going home and crawling into bed with a cat and a good book. Instead, I dried my hair and decided to go and fortify myself with a late lunch. Or an early dinner. As I dressed, I looked at myself critically in the mirror. Caitlin Reece, soon to be thirty-nine, five-foot-eight, 140 pounds. Not exactly a sylph. But a girlhood of running, jumping, riding, and swimming had resulted in muscles—muscles that had to be kept toned in sedentary middle age. I made a face at myself. Middle age. It sounded like a particularly dismal village in the British Isles.
And here we have Middle Age, just down the road from Girlhood-under-Bridge. And not quite as far as Greater Senility. I grimaced, examining my teeth. Still all mine, even if they weren’t pearly white. I batted my eyes. Not too bad. Somewhere between green and grey. My complexion was okay—no warts or wens or wattles. And my hair was still reddish brown. Or brownish red. Not grey yet. All in all, I’d give myself a six and a half on the proverbial scale of ten. Well, maybe a seven. No prize, but nothing to be ashamed of, either.
A light rain had begun while I had been inside the restaurant stuffing myself, and I walked to my car feeling irritable and gloomy. By April, we west coast denizens have seen about as much rain as we can take. Fungus has begun to grow between our toes. Those who can afford it, flee south to dry out briefly in some infernal sun-blasted clime. Those of us who can’t, remain bravely behind, growing more sodden and surly by the week.
Sneezing, I let myself into my MG, cursed the ill-fitting cloth convertible top, and started the wipers. I felt as though I were getting a cold, and shivered a little, wanting to go home. Instead, I forced myself to think about the business still ahead of me this evening. And Val. I switched on the heater, remembering Jan again and feeling lucky. Poor Val with her insupportable burden of shame and guilt. Well, that was her problem. Mine was getting the letters back. Nothing more.
Chapter Three
I made a quick trip home to pick up some things I figured I’d need. My living quarters are one-half of an old duplex on Monterey Street, solidly inside the village of Oak Bay. Oak Bay is, of course, part of Victoria—Canada’s “best bloomin’ city,” or as the tour guides say “a little bit of Olde England transported to Canada.” There’s something special about cities by the sea—people seem happier there. It’s as if the sea provides a permanence our lives lack—it was there yesterday; it will be there tomorrow. Despite its moods, you can count on it.
My house felt cold to me, and I turned up the thermostat a little. There was no furry grey body in his usual spot by the hot air register, so I figured Repo must be upstairs in my tenant’s greenhouse, lolling under the growlight and keeping an eye on the sprouting catnip plants. What a life. Remind me to check the box labelled cat when the reincarnation requests are handed around. I filled his food dish with Meow Mix, and changed his water, just in case he deigned to put in a appearance for dinner.
My tenants, Malcolm and his wife Yvonne, displaced Australians, run a health food store in Oak Bay. It’s a thriving business, and despite their own glowing good health, I resist being converted. Hearing about the alleged benefits of spirulina and evening primrose oil produces the same effect in me as do the intricacies of bubble memory, or selling stock short—my eyes glaze over, and five minutes after having been enlightened, I’ve forgotten every word.
From a locked cupboard in my study I took a tape recorder, telephone attachment, earphone, and, after a moment’s deliberation, my Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum. Feeling a little chilly, I changed clothes quickly, into a pair of tan corduroy slacks and a white wool turtleneck. I clipped the gun to the back of my slacks and put on a tweed jacket that hung nicely, concealing the bulge. I do not have a license to carry a concealed weapon—they are almost impossible to obtain in Canada. So I try to forget that I’m breaking the law. As the wags say, better to be judged by twelve than carried by six. I also have a Colt .45 automatic, but I prefer the reliability of a revolver. There’s nothing to jam. Critics might say that the .357 semi-wadcutter load is a bit of overkill, but friends of mine in the police department have told me a sufficient number of hair-raising tales of bad guys who get up after taking four or five .38 rounds, that I prefer to have an extra edge. If I have to shoot someone, I want him to go down and stay down.
In the bathroom I took a Contac and two aspirin, gargled, and decided I might live until bedtime. But not if it was too far away. I palpated my glands gently and winced. Where had this bug come from? Just for insurance, I swallowed a handful of Vitamin C capsules. Linus Pauling might well be right.
I maneuvered by ancient MG into the tail end of commuter traffic and drove through the drizzling dusk to the television studio. Not quite seven o’clock. I wanted to be there when Valerie left. I had seen her drive away in a white Porsche, so I figured she wouldn’t be too hard to find. She wasn’t. I parked on the street, outside the studio lot, and watched. In a few minutes Valerie and about a dozen other people came out a side exit. She
took a few minutes to reach her car, find the keys, and heave purse and briefcase into the back seat. I started the MG and slipped in behind her as she left the lot. Her license was one of those vanity plates. VAL, it said. Discreet. I wondered if her lover had given it to her.
For six or seven blocks I stayed a few car lengths behind her, not really thinking anything would happen. So when an old Buick wagon passed me and pulled in between us, I was surprised. I jotted down the license number on the back of a McDonald’s napkin, settled back, and waited. The three of us drove around the park, through the University grounds, and into the Uplands Estates condominiums on Cedar Hill Crossroads. Valerie turned right onto Arbutus and the Buick followed. I went down one to Dogwood, turned right, and right again to bring me back onto Arbutus. Valerie’s car was just pulling into the driveway of number 163. The Buick crawled past the house and stopped at the corner. It was now fully dark.
I passed the Buick at the corner stop sign and noted two young men, both white and clean shaven, one with sandy longish hair and glasses, one with short brown curls. Brown hair was lighting a cigarette as I passed the car, and I got a pretty good look at both of them as the match flared. They drove off toward the campus. I briefly debated the wisdom of following them, but time was pressing.
At the local McDonald’s I ordered a chocolate milkshake. It seemed to help my sore throat. I sat in the car until seven-fifty, sipping it, then drove the short distance back to the condominiums. The black silhouettes of bare-branched Gary Oaks loomed like monstrous skeletons against the darker sky, and I shivered a little as I walked up the sidewalk. Valerie let me in, looking curiously at the paper bag in my hands.
The Always Anonymous Beast Page 2