Eventually, Anne grew tired and self-aware, but she also became more agitated and angry as if something ugly were working its way up from deep inside her. She abandoned the cadenced punching. Hard jabs and crosses took its place. Her attention to the bounce and gyrations of the bag grew more intense and focussed because Anne saw something that no one else could see in the bobbing, elusive leathery bag. She saw the smug leers of Buddy and Frank—the ones who had terrorized her on that dark country road. She saw the frightening sneer of Cutter Underhay who had tried to kill her and her daughter. She even saw the duplicitous faces of MacEwen and Carmody and Peale whose political goals had obstructed her investigation.
After she had finished, her chest heaved and her arms felt like lead. Beads of sweat rolled down her face and neck. Her T-shirt was damp, but somehow she felt strangely pleased. It wasn’t until she had spent ten minutes in the sauna that she felt a wave of exhaustion sweep down upon her. She showered, changed into street clothes, pinned back her half-dried hair, and drove home.
The house was quiet with Jacqui away. Too quiet, thought Anne. She turned the TV on for company. She flicked through the channels, but nothing caught her interest. She thought about making supper, but, with Jacqui’s absence, there was no point. Besides, she felt too exhausted to eat. Perhaps later, she thought. Then she lay back on her couch, pulled a blanket over her, and descended into a deep sleep almost at once.
The sun was lowering. The TV fluttered. Commentators and show hosts jabbered away, but Anne was oblivious to it all.
“She sent me packing,” said Walter Bradley, Chief Investigator with the Department of Labour.
“What did she say?” asked MacEwen, his boss’s boss.
Walter Bradley had been around politics long enough to know that he had better choose his words carefully or his future might become suddenly very unpredictable, and he was just five years short of retirement.
“I knocked on the door, identified myself, and asked her if I could enquire about her application for exhuming the remains of Simone Villier.”
“Go on,” said MacEwen impatiently.
“‘Can’t you leave me alone?’ she says. Those were her exact words. Then she tries to shut the door. My foot was already halfway in and caught it. I say, ‘I’m conducting an official investigation for the Province and need to know if anyone pressured you to file that application. Ms. Darby, for example. Did she urge you to file the papers?’”
“And did she?” asked MacEwen.
“The woman wouldn’t give me a straight answer. She kept saying ‘What difference does it make? I don’t give a care for the paper. Do what you want with it? She wasn’t pregnant.’ I say, ‘What do you mean?’ and she says, ‘It doesn’t matter anymore. Simone wasn’t pregnant. Nothing matters now. So get your damn foot out of my door and go away before I call the police.’ So I leave. And that’s what happened,” said Bradley, and he looked closely at the Labour minister to determine if he had given the proper answer.
MacEwen said nothing. He got up and left the room, tossing back a quick “thank you” on his way out.
MacEwen returned to his office, closed the door behind him, and picked up his desk phone.
“Wendell, just wanted to get back to you on the matter we were discussing. The mother was distraught. Not much to go on yet. But it seems she’s lost interest in exhuming the body. No. She just keeps on saying that she wasn’t pregnant, and she doesn’t care anymore. So it’s good news. Pass it along to Fenton? Right.”
MacEwen hung up his phone and breathed a sigh of relief.
64.
Madame Desjardins gave instructions to Jacqui, left an emergency number, and told her that she would return around twelve, but not later than one. Her seven-year-old son, Luc, gave her a hug and returned to watch the end of a Disney special on cable. He was snacking on a plate of orange slices when Madame Desjardins left.
Jacqui sat down beside him on the carpet. She chatted about the TV programs she had watched as a child, and she pointed out the high quality of graphic effects in the film that he was watching, but Luc was more interested in the pleasure of the experience than Jacqui’s childhood memories or qualitative analysis. Then the doorbell rang.
Jacqui opened it to Rada. The sight of her was a surprise.
“Hi.”
“I didn’t think you’d be coming,” said Jacqui. “after what your father said.”
“I didn’t know if I’d be coming either,” said Rada. “May I come in?”
“Sure,” said Jacqui, and waved her into the room. “This is little Luc Desjardins,” she said.
“I’m not ‘little,’” he said without looking up.
“Luc, this is Rada. She’s my friend, and she’ll be visiting a while. Is that okay?”
Luc looked at Rada, nodded, and returned to his program.
“He’s almost ready for bed…not quite as sociable as usual. Did your father change his mind?”
“No. Neither have I. We had an argument, and he told me I couldn’t leave the house for the whole weekend. I told him I promised to help you babysit. It made no difference. He never changes his mind.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. I went to my room, locked my door, changed, and went out the window.”
“I’m not so sure that was a good idea.”
“I have the right to opinions, don’t I? I have the right to make my own friends, don’t I?”
“I guess,” said Jacqui. She couldn’t recall Rada ever speaking so harshly or angrily before.
Rada removed her hijab and sat down on a large armchair. Her cheeks were damp with tears.
The TV movie had ended, and a series of tasteless, loud commercials flashed across the screen. Luc looked up and over toward Rada.
“Why is she crying?” he asked.
“Rada is having a sad day,” said Jacqui.
“Why?” he asked.
“Maybe she’ll tell you another time. Right now, it’s bedtime. Your mother said. Remember? Right after the show. So off we go.” Jacqui laughed, scooped him up, and carried him off to his bedroom.
Jacqui tucked Luc into bed, kissed him good night, and returned to the living room a few minutes later. She heard water running in the washroom. Then the doorbell rang again, and she ran to answer it.
Bobby Fogarty and Sig Valdimarsson stood in the open door frame looking very uncomfortable.
“Ya know, it just doesn’t feel right, knocking on a teacher’s door in the middle of the night,” Bobby said.
“It is kinda creepy,” added Sig.
“It’s not the middle of the night. It’s eight o’clock. And what’s to be scared of? Madame Desjardins is a nice teacher.”
“Yeah…but still…”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come in. Sit,” she said, pointing them toward the sofa.
Jacqui started to giggle.
“What’s so funny?” Self-consciously, Bobby examined his clothes. Perhaps he had spilled something on them, he thought.
“You both look so-o-o guilty right now. It’s funny, but cute, too. Happy birthday, by the way.”
“Thanks. You’ve been out of touch with everyone for a couple days. Didn’t know what was up. Heard rumours. You all right?”
“Nothing serious. Just shaken up. Mom is overprotective. So she boarded me with a friend of hers. I’ll be back on Monday. Miss me?”
“Sure.” Bobby sounded uncertain, but Jacqui didn’t notice.
Instead, she looked admiringly at Bobby. Then she looked confused. Bobby’s eyes and the eyes of Sig were fixed somewhere else. Jacqui swung her head around. Rada had just entered the room. She, too, looked confused.
“I don’t think you’ve met. Rada, this is my friend Bobby Fogarty, and this is Sig Valdimarsson. You may have seen them at the school. Boys, this is Rada Kikovic,
my buddy.”
Rada took a seat in the other armchair, across from Sig. She clasped her hands together and cradled them in her lap. Her eyes avoided the boys on the sofa and alternated between Jacqui and the oval coffee table and the paintings on the wall.
“Can I get anyone a coke?” That seemed to get Sig’s and Bobby’s attention, and that was good enough for Jacqui. “Rada, would you like to pour a few glasses? I’ll have one, too. I brought a bottle. It’s in the fridge. Ice in the freezer, glasses over the sink, first cupboard on the right.”
Rada felt not only ill at ease but physically ill as well. She felt like a rabbit caught in an open field. She could scarcely move, and her thoughts had broken apart into glittery bits that defied repair. So Jacqui’s request of her was a relief. Any excuse to leave the room provided a respite.
Sig felt self-conscious as well. He had been staring at her, but he couldn’t help himself. Something about her compelled his eyes to follow her. He saw a serenity and dignity and quiet beauty that he had never experienced before, and it was intoxicating. He imagined that she had caught him staring at her, and he looked quickly away. Until now, his glances had been fleeting, but, when she stood to leave, their eyes met and lingered momentarily and, for each fraction of that second, both of them experienced a trembling of undefined emotion and fear.
Sig’s eyes lingered a bit longer and bolder than hers. They followed her as she left the room and headed into the kitchen. Her eyes were bright, her skin was smooth, and the way she moved seemed both naive and sensuous. Sig felt uncomfortable when he found himself staring at the empty doorway through which she had disappeared, so he returned his attention to Bobby and Jacqui.
“Big party?” asked Jacqui. Bobby shrugged.
“No. Just Sig and me, my sister, mom and dad.”
“What’d you get?”
“A really good pair of soccer shoes. Interchangeable cleats.”
“Cool.”
“And clothes,” he said, gesturing toward the zip-up sweater he wore. “Part cashmere.”
Jacqui reached across and ran her hand over the sweater.
“That’s so-o-o soft,” she said. “I love it.”
Jacqui heard the clink of glasses in the kitchen and motioned to Sig.
“Would you give Rada a hand in the kitchen with the drinks, please, Sig? Thanks.”
Sig blinked, faltered, and managed to nod. Sig had an athletic build and played on two varsity teams throughout the year. Nevertheless, he felt unusually awkward and ungainly as he stood and walked toward the noises Rada was making in the kitchen.
“Here’s something else,” she added. Jacqui reached into a cloth bag next to her chair and pulled out a rectangular package. It was wrapped. A red ribbon encircled it. A bow fronted it.
“What is it?” Bobby gave it a little shake.
“You have to open it to find out,” she said.
Bobby gave her a little grin, and then he attacked the wrapping with a disturbing vitality. The ribbon, bow, and wrapping paper fell to his feet, and Bobby held the present in his hand, at a suitable distance away in order to scrutinize it. It was a picture, matted and framed, and signed by the artist.
“Cool,” he said. “What is it?”
“It’s a picture…,” she said. “…of you… I sketched it myself.”
“Thanks, Jacqui. That’s real nice.”
Sig and Rada walked into the room, glasses of pop in their hands. The ice clinked with each step. Both were smiling. “Look,” said Bobby. He held up his present.
“It looks kinda like you,” said Sig with uncertainty.
“It is him,” said Rada.
“That’s what I said.”
Then the doorbell rang several times, and there were impatient knocks on the door.
65.
MacFarlane took his time circling the block. At this hour the occupants of neighbouring homes had settled into sedentary routines, and the streets were quiet. On his first pass MacFarlane had seen only two people abroad, a woman following her leashed dog and a shaggy-haired teen with a guitar case strapped to his back. He passed Anne’s house a second time. Then he eased his car to the curb, and waited in the dark. The pale glow of a cell phone lit his cheek.
“Stratford Police Department. Constable Williams,” said the voice answering.
“Williams. Chief MacFarlane. Anything going on that I should know about?”
“No, sir. Quiet all afternoon and pretty quiet so far this evening. How’d your meetings go?”
“…well…very well. Just tying up some loose ends. By the way. I got a tip on the possible location of Michael Underhay. I’m following up on that. So I may not be available for a while…maybe not until tomorrow afternoon. If there’s an urgent matter, call Sergeant Deale. Got that?”
“I do…and have a good evening, sir.”
MacFarlane clicked off, rolled down the windows of his car, and scrutinized the nearby houses. He heard nothing, and he saw nothing out of the ordinary. MacFarlane would have preferred to do this late at night as he had when he planted the explosives in Anne’s car, but events were developing more quickly than he had anticipated. Time was running short. The timeline had to be compressed.
MacFarlane had always been concerned about timing. He didn’t like rushing into action. He believed that’s when mistakes were made. He had witnessed it dozens of times in the criminals he had arrested over the years—good planning undermined by hasty implementation. But now, as he thought about this present modification, he concluded that it may even be more advantageous. His car was a common model and, parked where it was, it should draw no attention and, if someone should see him, there was little chance anyone would recall the particulars of anyone passing by at eight or nine o’clock at night.
He got out of his car, retrieved a large hockey equipment bag from the trunk, and closed the rear hatch soundlessly. Then he walked toward Anne’s house, two doors up the street.
MacFarlane wore black sneakers, blue jeans, a bulky navy pullover, and a Boston Bruins cap. He blended well into the mottled blotches of a shadowy street. As he approached Anne’s house, he looked around carefully. The outside light was off. He looked for a motion detector, but found none. Then he turned up her driveway. Her rental car was parked at the upper end, just beyond the side entrance.
The house bordering Anne’s driveway was dark, just as he had found it the last two evenings he had driven past. Newspapers sticking out from their delivery box suggested that the neighbours were away. The large maple trees along their property line cast deep shadows on Anne’s home. But the foliage had blocked him from seeing a small light burning in a downstairs side window of her home.
The light in that window didn’t discourage MacFarlane. He had planned to take her by surprise anyway, hopefully with very little struggle, and he knew that, if he had to, one quick blow could render her unconscious. However, one thing did raise his concern—the sound of voices coming from Anne’s living room. Visitors would scotch his entire plan.
MacFarlane heard the mutter of mixed voices, but not clearly. He had to know what was happening. So MacFarlane moved more closely and stealthily alongside the building just beneath the lit window. He raised himself up to a corner of a pane and peered in. Anne was asleep on the sofa. The voices had come from the TV, where broadcasters were discussing a weather forecast on a news channel.
MacFarlane checked the physical layout of the room and moved toward the side entrance. He set the equipment bag down and tried the handle. It was not locked. The handle turned, and the door opened soundlessly into a tiny entry with two steps leading to the kitchen. The inside door was ajar. MacFarlane worried about the steps, but they were firm. He crouched on the upper tread and nudged the door. It opened a crack, enough so that he could see Anne clearly.
Quietly, he removed a flask and a cloth from the pocket of his pu
llover. He removed the cap, doused the cloth, and pushed the door again, but this time the door squeaked. Anne moved restlessly on the couch. He remained frozen for several minutes. Then he pushed the door open wide enough for him to slip through the frame but, at that moment, the door loosed a mournful groan. The noise jarred Anne from her sleep, but she was too late. She glimpsed a looming black shape enveloping her. Her arms went up defensively, but the weight of the man was too much. She felt the wind driven out of her. She attempted to scream but something jammed her mouth and nose. She gasped for breath and smelled something sweet and pungent. Then consciousness slipped away.
MacFarlane taped her ankles together, then her hands, and added a firm strip across her mouth. He recovered the hockey equipment bag from outside. Then he laid Anne inside, zipped it closed, carried her to his car, and placed her in the trunk.
Anne was unaware of how long she had been unconscious but, when she awoke, she felt sure that she was in the trunk of a car and, from the smoothness of the ride, she was confident that it was a main highway. For a while she struggled against the bindings that held her, but it was futile, and gradually she became aware that escape had become secondary to a more immediate threat to her well-being. Nausea.
Anne could still taste the drug that had knocked her out. It lingered in her nostrils and throat. A sickening sweetness clung to it. The odour inside the canvas bag was appalling, too, but in a different way. It was rank with the indelible stench of old sweatshirts and rancid footwear. Together, the odours churned her stomach, but she fought back the urge to vomit. She realized that, with her mouth still taped shut, she would asphyxiate if she threw up.
The car suddenly swerved off the main highway onto a secondary road. She half-rolled inside the equipment bag. The blackness disturbed her sense of balance. She felt disoriented and lightheaded, and she felt the initial twinge of a spasm.
Something, she did not know what, brought to mind her long-ago pregnancy, her birthing of Jacqui, and the discomfort and pain she endured during that traumatic ordeal. Controlled breathing was a godsend of a technique that had been taught at prenatal classes she and her husband, Jack, had attended. It had eased the hurt then. Perhaps it would do the trick now.
The Dead Letter Page 22