by Glenn Muller
Wind gusted into the unit when she opened the door. It had come across Lake Ontario from New York State, an easterly. The latch clicked behind her. She stepped from the landing and walked silently through the parking lot and across the road, another spirit in the night blown away by the breeze. There might even be rain once the clouds slowed down.
CHAPTER 18
Wednesday, October 21st
“Want a ride, Mitch?” Fenn pulled up to the curb and pushed open the passenger door, but his fare went to the rear door first and shoved in the great bulk of a mailbag.
“Thanks, Chas.” The carrier shook the melting sleet from his hat and tossed it on top of the bag. “I'm just heading up to your building if you're going that way.”
Fenn had guessed as much. Mitchell Robinson, third-generation postie, had two delivery runs and always started the morning route at Fenn's apartment block. Even so, their paths rarely crossed during the day.
“I see you're still wearing your shorts,” Fenn said. “Refusing to give up summer?”
Underneath the waterproof cape, Mitch wore regulation blue knee-length pants. “Maria said I looked like a flasher in uniform; but I'm mostly doing indoor boxes these days and lugging that bag around keeps me warm.”
“I imagine it does. Anything in it for me—besides bills?”
“Actually,” said Mitch, “I think there is.” He twisted between the seats to search among the small packages that had been segregated from the flat mail.
“There you go.” He tucked a bubblepack envelope into the space between Fenn’s seat and the center console. Mitch was pretty sure it contained a compact disc but privacy was a major legal issue in his trade so he reserved comment.
“Wonder what that is,” said Fenn, giving the package a quick scan. “I don't remember ordering anything.”
The address was handwritten and there was no return destination. Fenn tossed it onto the back seat.
“Mind it isn’t one of those ‘free’ Internet trials that’ll charge your ass off with hidden fees.”
Fenn shot his friend a sideways glance. “Speaking from experience?”
“Somewhat. They make it sound like such a good deal but I canceled mine when I saw the first invoice.”
Mitch used his coat sleeve to wipe condensation from the side window and peered out. Houses, trees, people, and cars were splotches of colour that ran together and blurred past. He turned back to Fenn and said, “Are you still taking computer lessons?”
Fenn nodded. “I completed my second night school course, last week, and I'll probably sign up for more in January.”
“Preparing for a career change?”
“Possibly. A hard drive crash won’t put you in the hospital.” Fenn flicked on the indicator and stopped the car in front of his building.
Mitch slipped off the seatbelt. “Death by novice, is that it?”
Fenn smiled at the phrase. “The students aren't the problem. Nearly all accidents are caused by licenced drivers. When you are on the road eight to ten hours a day, year after year, it's only a matter of time before the odds catch up with you. Speaking of poor odds, where's our darts match this week?”
“We’re playing at The King's Head.” Mitch went to the rear door. “Their team has a perfect record so far.”
Fenn grinned. “Well. So does ours.”
“Yeah. But theirs is for wins. Our isn't.” He slung the wide strap over his shoulder and pulled the sack off the seat.
“Doesn't matter. I smell upset.”
“That might be me. I had chili last night.” Mitch shut the door and rapped on the roof. He walked off with an exaggerated limp from the load on his hip. Fenn checked that the lane was clear, signaled, and pulled away.
== == ==
Fenn’s next appointment, one of the many high school students in his schedule, turned out to be a no show. That occasionally happened and he made a note to rebook. It was nearly Noon, and since he was close to home decided to stop in, have some lunch, and call the office.
Brant Square was typical of the modern high-rise; fifteen floors of dwellings and a ground level concourse stacked on top of an underground parking lot. Off the side street were two short lanes separated by a low cement curb that lead into and out of the cavernous garage. Fenn lowered his window and fed a pass card to the tin sentinel. The barrier lifted and he started down the ramp.
From somewhere within, the roar of a powerful engine echoed off the concrete walls. A moment later a large sedan squealed around a pillar, chose Fenn’s lane, and headed straight for him. In a swift practiced motion he knocked the gear selector to Neutral and hit the brakes.
Fenn wasn’t fazed by aggressive drivers, he’d seen every type, but the threat of collision always got his attention. Quickly, he considered and decided against driving over the curb to avoid the impact. Why should he ruin his undercarriage for the sake of this nimrod? The guy would probably just take off and Fenn would be out of work and on the hook for a repair he couldn't afford.
Both feet on the brake pedal he held his ground. The oncoming tires locked up and pushed forth clouds of dust and smoke. Fenn pressed back into his seat to minimize slack in the safety belt. A matador waiting on the bull.
The sedan slid to a halt just before contact with his bumper. It was a late model Grand Marquis with two men inside. Both wore dark suits. Their features were obscured by light glare on the windshield but the driver looked vaguely familiar to Fenn. The stare down lasted another few seconds then, without so much as a backward glance, the sedan's driver engaged reverse. He spun the tires for a couple of metres then swerved up the outbound ramp leaving two long streaks of rubber.
Wondering what hell that was all that about, Fenn put the gear selector back into Drive and motored over to his parking spot. He shut off the motor, opened his binder, and wrote PMA 602 while he still remembered the number.
== == ==
The maintenance manager will have to get me a new key, Fenn thought, standing in the hallway outside his apartment. Seeing as someone had used a sledgehammer to pound the lock through the door, the key in his hand was now redundant. The door wasn’t open though neither was it quite closed. A little push and it swung open halfway and bumped into something. He leaned across the doorsill to look inside and was stunned by what he saw.
The interior had been hit by a tornado. Or two tornadoes, in suits. Without favour or discrimination nearly every item in his modestly furnished sanctuary had been slashed, smashed, overturned, or emptied on the floor.
Items that didn’t easily come apart, like his desktop computer, had been partially dismantled then tossed, and his brick and board bookcase now resembled a lumberyard tip with the books splayed-open like lifeless seagulls. Both the sofa and easy chair had been disemboweled and upended with their fiber fill innards scattered across the room. Fenn had to climb over the contents from the hall closet to reach the bedroom, and when he did was glad he hadn't owned a waterbed.
Whatever the intruders had wanted, they had made a thorough job of searching for it. They'd even discovered some long lost cat toys.
“Mogg! Where are you?”
Mogg had never before failed to greet him at the door. A feeling of dread flushed away his shock and anger. The stuff on the floor obstructed his view under the bed so he heaved the box spring and mattress up against the wall.
No cat.
From bedroom to balcony he tossed aside clothes, turned over drawers, and hastily searched every mound, crevice, and crawlspace he came across. It took mere moments but as each second passed his sense of foreboding grew. The broken front door offered a faint ray of hope. Fenn ran out into the corridor.
“Mogg! Come on Puss. Here, Moggy!”
His voice bounced around each of the stairwells without a cry in return. He commandeered an elevator and visited each floor but returned dazed and empty-handed to his apartment. Against the loss of his furry friend, the trashing of his apartment held little significance. He left the door ajar.
<
br /> Cats have good survival instincts, he told himself. A few notices posted about would alert the other tenants. Someone was bound to spot the overstuffed feline and bring her home.
He straightened up the easy chair, covered the exposed springs with the least vandalized cushion, and dropped into it. The situation was totally overwhelming and incomprehensible. At a glance it was impossible to tell what, if anything, was missing or why the place had been done over. It was as he stared at the blank spaces where his pictures used to hang that he realized the single clue the scene offered.
If this was vandalism for vandalism’s sake, or as revenge for some perceived slight, there would likely be graffiti or a message spray-painted on the walls. There was not. Nor had any light bulbs, windows, mirrors, or glasses been purposely smashed. The intruders had definitely been searching for something. He was still in the easy chair, trying to decide where to start the cleanup, when a sharp intake of breath came from behind.
“Mother of God.” The voice started as a whisper then grew rapidly in volume. “What's been going on in here?”
Fenn leaned around the wing of the chair. At the doorway was a short barrel-chested man holding a toolbelt. In a matter-of-fact voice Fenn said, “Mr. Bedeer. Come on in. You’re just the person I want to see.”
Only not at this moment, he added silently.
CHAPTER 19
The maintenance manager took a couple of tentative steps into the room and stopped. His mouth opened but his jaw moved soundlessly as he took in the extent of the damage. At the sight of the sconces hanging from the walls he managed to form words.
“That's it! I'm not renting to any more single guys like you. You're nothing but trouble.”
“When have I ever been trouble,” Fenn protested. “In case you haven’t noticed: I'm the victim here.”
“It's the kind of people you attract. Coming and going at all hours. Money for beer, but never for rent—”
“What? I scarcely get visitors, and I've never been late with the rent. Screw you.” Fenn was past the point of caring about tenant-landlord relationships. He just wanted to be left alone.
Mr. Bedeer stepped over the turntable of Fenn’s stereo system and briefly stuck his head into the kitchen. Whatever he saw made him shudder, but at least the avalanche from the hall closet stopped him from heading that way.
“This time of year I have to give you two months notice; but I want you out before Christmas. You're going to pay for all of this, mark my words—including fixing your mailbox.” The manager held up his toolbelt.
“Mailbox? What's wrong with my mailbox?”
“As if you don't know.”
Like a little tank retreating from the front, Mr. Bedeer backed his way out. He tapped on the door with the handle of a screwdriver.
“This can't be fixed. Needs to be replaced. Take a few days to get a new one.” He gave the apartment one last look. “Not that it matters anymore.” He spun on one track and trundled off down the hall.
“I want it fixed tonight.” Fenn called after him. “The security in this place, stinks!”
Fenn stood with hands on hips and tried to will himself to action. At times like this Mogg would be at her best, purring and rubbing against his legs. A supportive voice would do a world of good right now and he wondered what state the phone was in. Incredibly, it was sitting intact on the floor with its cord still connected to the wall. He picked up the handset and dialed.
“Asha. It's Chas. I need you to rebook the rest of my day.”
He summed up the situation in a few sentences. After an initial expression of concern, Asha commiserated without overreaction. She promised to salvage his schedule as best she could. Before hanging up she urged him to call the police, and offered to drop by after work.
“At least you won’t notice I haven’t dusted,” he said.
He thought he should start with a garbage bag in hand and went to the kitchen. There, every cupboard, drawer, box, jar, and tin had been opened and their contents dumped onto the floor. Some Corning Ware had survived and a couple of mugs remained on the shelves, but the microwave was in the sink and the wide-open refrigerator door revealed an emptiness that exceeded the norm.
The broom was handy by the counter and he pushed a path through the debris. The refrigerator was angled across one corner; something Fenn had done when he’d moved in to break up the boxiness of the space. He shut the door and listened for the sound of the compressor kicking in. Instead, he heard a soft “Meow.”
“Mogg? Where are you?”
‘Behind the fridge,’ came the tremulous reply.
Fenn found the step stool and used it to get up on the counter. He peered over the top of the refrigerator. Two large green eyes peered back at him from the bottom of the triangular well. It was the best thing he’d seen all day.
“Great hiding spot, Mogg. Just hard to get your furry butt out of, eh, puss?”
He pulled the unit away from the wall and picked up his feline friend. Mogg put her large paws on either side of his neck and proceeded to drool on his shoulder. They went from room to room and assessed the damage and, together, they decided that the outcome could have been much worse.
== == ==
Mainly so folks wouldn’t be stepping over his underwear Fenn managed to get most of the bedroom sorted before the cavalry arrived. He’d been at it for three hours but progress had been slow. Although he was happy to see that Asha had rallied the troops, Dieter and Carole tended to adopt a journalistic approach and preferred to broadcast damage reports rather than play an actual part in the relief effort.
At the moment Dieter was tilting the television back and forth making the loose bits inside rattle around.
“Do you have insurance, old chap?”
“Not on this stuff. Most of it is leased, anyway.” Fenn had almost got his bookshelf back together.
“Well, if you're going to have a few more expenses this month,” Carole piped in, “we can tuck some more students into your schedule. Asha, when we get back to the office, be a dear and see who else we can give to Chas.”
Asha was busy in the kitchen and didn’t reply.
“That's all right, Carole. I'm pretty well booked at the moment—but I'll let you know.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” Carole swiped at wisps of white fiber clinging to her chin. She had managed to re-stuff one of the cushions, but when asked how she would stop it from coming out again her solution was to turn the ripped side down and sit on it. She then proceeded to pour wine into a mug from one of the two bottles they’d brought. Mogg jumped up beside her and settled in. Happiness was a warm bum.
Asha emerged from the kitchen sporting a large pair of washing gloves, the yellow rubber contrasting brightly against her all-black attire.
“Why, Miss Fabiani. You are the height of fashion.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fenn. You'll be happy to know that your microwave still works, though your toaster is, well, toast. Shall I start on the bathroom?”
“Madame is too kind—but I’ll look after that. How would you like to order pizza instead?”
Asha was one of those people who always knew the phone numbers for pizzas, and taxis, and stuff like that. And she had an uncanny knack of knowing who had the best prices. She made the call then said, “I got the 2 for 1 deal so you’ll have leftovers for breakfast. We can eat in half an hour.” She put the gloves back on. “By the way, Chas, did the police come over at all?”
“They said I should just submit a damaged and missing goods report when I had one.”
“Kind of odd they wouldn’t come out for a B&E, don’t you think?”
“They probably have more important things to deal with.”
Fenn hated to deceive Asha but Mr. Bedeer's comment about his mailbox had led him to the object of the raid. That is, it had when he was gathering loose envelopes together and his brain finally made the connection. He’d confined Mogg to the bedroom and ran down to his car for the package Mitch Robinson had g
iven him.
Mitch had been correct about it containing a CD jewel case, but Internet promotions generally didn’t include a miniature figurine of pure gold or a handwritten letter. The small labels on the jewel case and its contents only revealed that it was part of an archive. Without any working equipment on hand Fenn would have to wait to examine it more closely. The letter was more forthcoming but on a totally unexpected and personal level.
It was from his estranged father.
Fenn had read it through a couple of times without comprehending why his father, absent for most of his life, had sent him this mysterious package. It was another strange element in a day full of them. There was no point calling the police unless he told them about the package. If he did, the police would want to take it with them and he wasn’t yet prepared to relinquish it.
Whether all three items, or just the letter, represented a link to his past it was tangible evidence that one of his vague memories was actually a live person. Fenn’s past had always been relayed through second-hand accounts and rumours. The package was a connection to someone who could fill in the gaps, and having just received it Fenn was not about to give it up.
The party broke up around nine p.m. with Carole’s suggestion that Dieter stay with ‘poor Chas’ overnight, and Dieter’s exegesis that ‘poor Chas’ probably wanted to be alone at a time like this.
Asha gave Fenn a hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Call me if you need me.”
And then they were gone. He pushed the door against the jamb, and put the broken TV behind it to keep it closed.
Casually waving her tail, Mogg sniffed her way around the apartment. It hadn't been quite this clean for a long time, although it did look a bit beat up. Fenn went to the bedroom and brought out the bubblepack envelope. The postmark was dated two days previously and stamped in Hamilton. He examined again the disc, the figurine, and the letter that began with Dear Charleton, and ended with Your Father.