That must have given her something to think about, because she was quiet all the way to Foul Bay Road. Which was just as well, because I was dead tired. Further conversation was impossible. My brain, along with my body, was limp with fatigue. I needed sleep, not banter.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I told Tonia as we pulled into the Uplands condominiums.
She nodded, and started to get out. “That’s fine with me.” One hand on the car door, she turned back to me. “Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“Just ... thanks.” She got out quickly, closed the door, and hurried through the rain up to her front porch. In a moment she was inside, and I saw lights go on. I backed the MG out of the driveway and started for home.
To Tonia’s credit, she hadn’t asked one question about Jan. Nor had she baited me again about the dinner party guests. Did we have a truce? I yawned until my jaws cracked. Stranger things had happened.
Wednesday
Chapter Eight
The morning dawned improbably bright and sunny. Coy April. Making us believe in life again. I staggered out of bed and stood at the window, bemused. Outside, the apple tree’s resident robins were busy setting up housekeeping amid the pink blossoms. Maybe they knew something I didn’t. I permitted myself a tiny surge of optimism.
Dressing quickly, I followed the glorious smell of coffee to the kitchen. The electronic brain of my automatic Krups coffee maker had done it again. Such a faithful minion—never a complaint, always with the coffee ready on time. And it didn’t chatter to me as I read the morning paper. Why, I thought guiltily, it was better than a wife. Caitlin, old kid, you’re pretty far gone down the road to misanthropy when you prefer the company of your Krups to that of another human being. The phone rang at just that instant, ending further thoughts of electronic companionship.
“Caitlin?” It was Tonia. She sounded madder than hell.
“Yes?”
“Why are you having my house watched?”
“I’m not.”
“Well, someone is.”
A little spider of fear walked across my neck. “Where are you now?”
“At school.”
“Okay. Why don’t you meet me at your house. Give me about twenty minutes. And just to be on the safe side, don’t get out of your car until you see me.”
Silence. “All right,” she said finally.
I hung up and thoughtfully finished the rest of my coffee.
I drove down Oak Bay Avenue to Beach Drive just to get a glimpse of the ocean. Today it was worth it. As I passed the park in front of Willows Beach, I could see the water sparkling through the trees, and a few brave boats scudding along in the straits, kicking up rooster tails of foam. There really isn’t a name for the color of northern seas under a spring sky. Pity. The Inuit people have several hundred adjectives to qualify the word snow. So what’s the matter with us? Dull-souled Anglo Saxons that we are, we can put people on the moon, but are defeated by description. Must technology preclude poetry? I sighed and turned inland into Uplands.
If Vancouver is the San Francisco of Canada, and Victoria the Santa Barbara, then Uplands is the Palm Springs. There are probably more millionaires per acre in Uplands than anywhere else in the country. Of course it looks nothing at all like Palm Springs, but it has a similar aura. A hush of wealth. It always reminds me of an enormous private park, with its huge Gary Oaks, lush rhododendrons, immaculately tended lawns, and here and there, tucked away at the end of winding drives, or discreetly hidden behind stone walls, the modest mansions of the ultra rich. Life at the top in Victoria.
I pulled into Tonia’s development—the new townhouses that some canny speculator had built just on the fringe of Uplands. I realized I had never been here in daylight, and was disappointed to note that they looked even more unprepossessing by day. The houses in the crowded enclave were joined together at strange angles, making the development look as if the contractor’s three-year-old had had a hand in its planning. Too bad. With a little more foresight, a really attractive development might have resulted. I simply couldn’t imagine living there.
I pulled into the driveway, and Tonia’s car pulled in after mine. She ran up the steps and into the house, and I followed.
“He was right out there,” she told me, taking me into the dining room and pulling back the curtain. “Just at the corner of the fence, where my property ends.”
I opened the sliding glass doors and went across the back yard. Where Tonia’s stained wooden fence ended and a hedge of cedars began was a small gap a person might squeeze through if he were slim, but it wasn’t a short cut that led anywhere. Except to Tonia’s back yard. A dozen cigarette butts were ground into the damp earth. Tonia was right—someone had been here, just standing and smoking. And there was nothing to look at but Tonia’s house.
I went back inside and locked the sliding door. Then I went on into the kitchen. There was something else I wanted to see. I stood in the kitchen, looking out over the cedar fence to the tall pines that grew thick on the University grounds just across Landsdowne Road. It was a perfect line of sight. Maybe a hundred feet. Not far at all. The photographer must have stationed himself within those trees, and taken pictures. For the burglary? Or the blackmail? I shook my head. Maybe when I got the photos back there would be some answers. I closed the shutters, blocking the view of the kitchen, and went up to find Tonia.
On impulse, I went into the spare room—Tonia’s study—to take another look at the pines across the road. I stood in the middle of the room, looking pensively out to the trees. Thinking I saw something, I took one step forward, and there was, almost simultaneously a sharp crack, a shattering of glass, and a bright, hot agony in my left shoulder. I fell to the floor, too surprised to yell.
“What’s happening?” Tonia called, coming at a dead run.
I ground my teeth against the pain. “Get down on the floor!” She stood there staring, and I kicked out at her with one sneakered foot. “Get down! Someone’s shooting at us!”
She threw herself to the rug and crawled toward me.
I turned over and looked at the window. From my vantage point I could see only sky. No pine trees. Good. That meant the sniper couldn’t see us, either. I rolled on my side and drew my gun.
“Caitlin, be careful!” she whispered.
I scrambled over to the window and cautiously raised my head above the sill. Nothing happened. I brought my gun up, braced it on the sill, and sighted down the barrel. There was nothing but pine tree. The sniper was gone. Agile little bastard. I slumped to the floor.
“Now what?” Tonia asked.
“Now we stay here until I figure out whether or not I can crawl to the bathroom. Or wherever you keep your first aid supplies.”
I put my gun down and risked a look at my arm. It could have been worse. The bullet had ploughed through my navy windbreaker and wool turtleneck, leaving a ragged rip. I parted the fabric and looked inside. There was a long, deep gash in my shoulder muscle, sullenly seeping blood. I decided I didn’t want to look at it any more and lay down on the rug.
“Caitlin!” Tonia exclaimed, finally realizing what I’d been looking at. “You’ve been shot!” She sat up.
I lurched over and pushed her down with my good arm. “Stay down, okay? I’m not entirely sure he’s gone. Let’s not give him another target.”
Tonia wriggled around until she was on my left side, leaning over me. She touched the bloody rip in my jacket. “Why, Caitlin?” she asked me. “I can’t understand why this is happening!”
“Neither can I,” I told her, “but you can be damned sure I’m going to find out.” Several minutes had now passed, and my arm was beginning to hurt like hell. “Let’s crawl on into the hall,” I suggested. “I’ll go first. You shut this door behind us.”
Tonia slammed the door, and we crouched side by side, looking at each other in the gloom of the hallway. Her eyes were enormous. I ground my teeth. There’s nothing like getting shot to banish
lustful thoughts. You’re safe today, Konig, I thought. From me, at least.
I heaved myself to my feet and wobbled into the bathroom, shedding jacket and sweater as I went. I turned on the light and looked at the damage in the mirror. And immediately regretted it. I always did hate the sight of blood. Especially my own.
“Shit,” I said weakly and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet.
Tonia was busy hauling things out of the medicine cabinet. “I don’t know what to do,” she said in a panic. “It looks awful. It probably needs suturing. Let me call—”
“No. Don’t call anyone. You wanted to keep the police out of this, didn’t you?”
She nodded, comprehension dawning.
“Do you have some peroxide?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.” I opened the bottle, took a deep breath and poured the peroxide onto my gashed arm. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the pain hit. Tonia caught me as I oozed onto the floor. Somewhere far away I heard the bottle break. I could only have been out for a few minutes, and when I came around I was lying on something incredibly soft, something that smelled good. I opened my eyes. I was lying on Tonia’s navy lambskin jacket. She had rolled it up and put it under my head. I looked up. She was just finishing putting a patch on my arm. “Mmmph,” I managed.
“Thank God you’re all right,” Tonia said.
Well, that was debatable. But I sat up anyhow. Acting like a wimp is bad for client morale. In a few minutes I figured I’d be able to stand. Terrific progress was being made here. “Yeah, I’m all right. Getting shot tends to slow me down a little, that’s all.”
Tonia was horrified. “You mean this has happened to you before?”
“Once,” I confessed. “When I was doing something about as dumb as making a target of myself in your study window.”
“I thought you just...solved mysteries. Helped people.”
I smiled ruefully. “Well, sometimes I have to take a few lumps along the way.”
I decided I didn’t want to put my bloodstained sweater back on, and asked Tonia for something to wear. While she was gone I decided to stand up. We couldn’t sit here chatting on the bathroom floor all day. I lurched to my feet and grabbed hold of the basin. When I didn’t fall over I celebrated by washing my face and cleaning the dried blood off my arm.
Tonia reappeared with a burgundy sweatshirt, and slipped it over my head. “Nice color,” I commented. “At least if I leak, the blood won’t show.”
I decided to do something really difficult, and took a few steps. My feet seemed to be working fine, but I suspected it was only temporary. “How long will it take you to pack a bag?” I asked Tonia.
She looked at me, eyes wide, and swallowed audibly. “About five minutes.”
“Good,” I told her. “I’ll just lean against the wall here while you do it. And don’t forget any books or papers you might need.”
“Where am I going?” Tonia asked.
“My place. Uplands Estates is clearly a very unhealthy place to live.”
“But it was you they were after, not me.”
I glared at her, and she backed down, evidently thinking it best to humor me. “Still, better safe than sorry,” I told her. “And hurry up, please.”
She disappeared into the bedroom, emerging a few minutes later with a small suitcase. “I need a manuscript from my study,” she told me. “I have to deliver a talk on Sunday.”
I nodded. “Get it. It’s safe.” I had begun to feel terrible, and wondered how I was going to make it down the stairs to my car.
“I’ll put this load in your car,” Tonia said. “Then put my car in the garage. I’ll put the lights on a timer.” She looked at me apprehensively. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“No to both parts of that question.”
She hurried away, and I closed my eyes. I wanted nothing more than to slither down the wall, lay my head on that thick blue carpet, and crawl away someplace where there was no pain.
“Caitlin,” Tonia said, “I’m back. Let me help.” She put my good arm over her shoulder and took my weight as we carefully descended the stairs. What a waste, I thought, as her warm hand clasped my bare skin under the sweatshirt. She deposited me in the passenger seat of my MG and then backed the car out of the driveway. I had the presence of mind to tell her where to take me before I passed out.
Tonia brought me to an old and very special friend, Maggie Kent. In 1956 she’d had her license pulled for performing an abortion on a thirteen-year-old raped by her own father. Since then, she’d been practicing underground medicine, barely scraping out a living. I wouldn’t have dreamed of letting anyone but Maggie take care of my ailments. We kept each other’s secrets.
Numbed, sutured, and chemically calmed, I then allowed Tonia to put me back in the passenger seat and drive us home. All I could think about was going down for the count when I crossed my threshold. That, and the clock ticking down to Saturday.
As we turned onto Oak Bay Avenue, it started to rain. So much for the promise of a glorious day. April had fooled us again. And, for a variety of reasons, I felt like the biggest fool of all.
“I need your help,” I said, as we pulled into the driveway. “Doc Kent’s chemicals are about to do me in, and I can’t afford to mess up any more.” She looked at me curiously. “I’ll take it off your half of the bill,” I told her, giggling a little. God, what had Maggie pumped into me?
Once we’d locked ourselves safely in my living room, I leaned against the bookcase to deliver my swan song.
“What I want you to do is to call Val for me. Make sure she’s all right.”
Tonia looked at me curiously. “Why shouldn’t she be?”
I weaved towards my bedroom. “Just do it,” I called. This was no time to discuss with Tonia my suspicion that the bullet that had creased my shoulder had not been meant for me at all.
“Caitlin!” I heard her say in alarm. Then I heard nothing else.
I opened my eyes and had an attack of déjà vu. Where am I, I yammered to my brain. Texada, it suggested. There was a woman sitting in a chair by my bed, reading. The lamplight shone on her glossy hair. I knew her, but the name just wouldn’t come. I closed my eyes, waiting for it all to make sense. No, it was unlikely that this was Texada, because Jan’s hair was blonde, not black. I squinted. Whoever this was, our faces were on the same level, and I looked at her from my horizontal position, wondering if this was some steamy romantic dream. If so, it was a pretty dull one. Surely my id could do better. If this wasn’t Jan, just who was it? I closed my eyes, then opened them again.
Tonia looked at me over the magazine she was reading—a current copy of The Canadian Forum. Boy, what excitement. I couldn’t wait to see what happened next. Maybe she’d read to me. Some pithy political commentary—the stuff fantasies are made of.
“Caitlin,” she said in relief, putting the magazine down. “How are you feeling?”
Nope, this was no fantasy—everyone felt terrific in romantic dreams. This must be real life. Too bad. “I feel awful,” I told her. “What are you doing here, anyhow? Watching me snore can’t be much fun.”
“You scared me to death. I called your doctor friend, Maggie Kent.”
“Why?” I inquired gruffly. “You’re not my nurse.”
“No,” she said, putting a hand on my forehead, “I’m not.”
Real life or fantasy, I decided this was a dumb conversation. What I really wanted was to be left alone so I could have a good cry. My arm hurt like hell, the hours were slipping away, and I was feeling very sorry for myself.
She got up from her chair, poured some water, and brought it to me with a small capsule.
“What’s this?” I asked. “Unless it’s hemlock, I don’t want it.
“Doctor Kent said to take it. It’ll help the pain. And make you sleep.”
I was tempted. An extend period of oblivion seemed very attractive. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight.”
>
“Of what day?”
“Wednesday.”
Thank God it was still the same day. Well, maybe I would take the pill. “Will I be able to get up in the morning?” I asked Tonia. “This won’t turn me into a zombie or anything, will it?”
“I don’t think so. But what if it did?”
“I have work to do,” I said. “People are counting on me. As Frost said, ‘But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.’ Of course, I don’t have miles to go tonight, but—”
“Shut up and take the damned pill,” Tonia said roughly. “You’ll be up at the crack of dawn ready to slay dragons or whatever you think you need to do. God, Caitlin, give yourself a break.”
I shook my head but took the pill. “I’m holding you responsible,” I told her. “Did you call Val?”
“Yes. She’s fine. Enjoying a domestic evening with Baxter.”
“Sounds thrilling,” I said. I began to count the seconds, waiting for the pain in my arm to stop. God, when? It throbbed with every one of my heartbeats, a slow, dark, persistent pulsing of agony. “What about you?” I whispered, closing my eyes. “It’s past everyone’s bedtime. Why don’t you just toddle off to the spare bedroom? I’m okay now.”
“I’ll go in a few minutes,” she said. “Do you want anything?”
Between the pain killer and my own fatigue, I was having trouble concentrating. “Just some more water,” I told her.
She held a glass to my lips and I drank what I could. She settled down again in her armchair, and switched off the bedside lamp.
The pain killer was making me giddy, and I hung onto the mattress, fearing I might float off. I felt light and insubstantial, and imagined my spirit to be a bird, beating its wings in preparation to take flight from my body. The wings beat in rhythm with my pain, and I began to be afraid that when those wings of agony stopped beating, my spirit would leave my body behind, a useless shell from which it had finally fled. But before the wings stopped, a black tidal wave rolled over me, and I rose to greet it, my mind appalled at the eagerness with which I embraced oblivion.
The Always Anonymous Beast Page 8