Mist Walker

by Barbara Fradkin

  “I’m listening, Mr. Whelan.”

  “I wrote letters, you know. Since I been on disability, I’ve been taking courses. I knew my rights. I knew who to write to.”

  “I’ve read the letters, but I need specifics. Did you have any proof?”

  Instead of answering, Whelan cast him a sidelong glance and turned to make his way over to the front stoop. He eased himself down with a groan.

  “Sullivan. You from up the Valley?”

  Sullivan nodded. “Near Eganville.”

  Whelan permitted himself a grim smile. “Thought so. I was at school with your brother Joe. Detective Sergeant, eh? Joe always said you were the smart one. What’s he up to anyway?”

  Sullivan kept his expression carefully neutral, but inwardly he was surprised. He’d always thought no one in his big, noisy Ottawa Valley farm family had ever noticed him, which suited him fine. It didn’t pay to draw attention to yourself in the Sullivan house. It paid to keep your head down, out of reach of the flying fists and drunken diatribes of Sullivan Senior. Escaping the farm had been the second best move Brian had ever made. Marrying Mary had been the best.

  Glad for the icebreaker, Sullivan joined Whelan on the stoop. “Joe’s still up on the farm. Doesn’t work it much any more, of course, leases most of the land to a big dairy operation that moved in nearby, but he keeps a few head. Does odd jobs, landscaping, snow removal.” In between drunken binges, he thought but didn’t add. “When did you come down to the city?”

  “1978. Me and Annie were just kids fresh out of high school. I came down to work in construction, helped build most of Orleans here—” He stretched his hand to encompass the winding sprawl of suburban homes. “Before my back gave out. Now of course, sometimes I can hardly walk. Quinton J. makes in an afternoon what I get in a week from disability.”

  Sullivan waited. He could have posed his question again, but he sensed that the man was working his way around to it. For a moment, Whelan stared at his hands, picking bits of dirt from under his chipped nails.

  “You got kids?” Whelan asked.

  “Three.”

  “Girl?”

  “My oldest. She’s fifteen.”

  Whelan nodded. “Bad age. That’s when my son really started to hit the skids—he was living with me at the time, and he’d just go on these black rampages. Couldn’t reach him, couldn’t talk to him. He’d spend hours up in his room listening to heavy rock and playing creepy games on the internet. He’d been a good kid, you know, smart in school, wrote poetry. He’d taken care of his mother when she had her breakdowns, taken care of Becky since the day she was born. She was his little sister, and what happened to her, it nearly killed him.”

  Sullivan nodded. How often over the years had he seen children forced into the protector role before they were even out of primary school? Forced to call 911 when Daddy took to Mommy with a knife. Forced to get meals and shepherd all the siblings to school while their parents slept it off. His own sister Pat had done that for him, and now she was on her third husband, still looking for someone who’d take proper care of her.

  “Yeah, that’s rough on a young lad,” he said. “Lot of responsibility. How’s he doing now?”

  Whelan shrugged. “Up and down. Had a pretty bad coke habit for a while, thought I was going to lose him, but he has his music now. He gets a lot of stuff out in his music, you know? So I’m hoping... Just like with Becky. She’s starting to come out the other side.” He raised his head to give Sullivan a grim look. “A father knows his kids, see. You know something’s wrong. She’d always been a handful, my Becky. Lots of spunk, lots of sass. You say black, she’d say white. But she was a beautiful little girl, the picture of her mother in those days. Loved life. Till Quinton J. came along. That’s when I seen the change, way before she ever had Mr. Fraser as a teacher. She’d come to visit me, she’d cry, she didn’t want to go back home. She started destroying things, locking the bathroom.”

  Whelan paused, focussing intently on a piece of dirt beneath his thumb. His hands shook. “That’s when I started trying to go for custody. But that’s not proof, eh? My lawyer said I’d need a psychological assessment of her, but I didn’t have that kind of money. And even after the charges were laid, I told the CAS what I’d noticed, and they said that was normal in divorce. Said she was trying to get her daddy back, showing signs of stress and mixed loyalties they called it, and they said my custody battle only made it worse.”

  He stopped picking and flexed his hands to form fists. His voice was so quiet, Sullivan wasn’t sure he’d heard. “She knew, though.”

  “What?”

  “Anne knew. That’s why she asked the psychologist to change her story. The school psychologist who Becky told in the first place.”

  Sullivan frowned. “That wasn’t in the file.”

  “It wouldn’t be, would it? Didn’t look good for the prosecution’s case. But that bitch detective knew, because the psychologist told her. And when the Crown wouldn’t drop the charges like Anne asked, Becky changed her story.”

  Sullivan had a sinking feeling. It was just a whiff of rot, but he had a sense that if he poked a little deeper into the police investigation, the stench might get much worse. He grasped at straws.

  “She didn’t recant, though,” he pointed out. “Just got confused about dates, how far he went...”

  “Yeah. Not enough to reopen the investigation, just enough to bring down the Crown’s case in court. Carefully coached by Anne, I’m sure. And probably, if you could find the strings, by that legal genius Quinton J. himself.”

  “But if Anne knew it wasn’t Fraser, if she knew it was her new husband, why...? We’re talking about her own daughter. Surely—”

  “Are you kidding me? Patterson was her meal ticket. Annie was always a looker, but she was getting up to thirty, and time was running out. He was a jackpot beyond her wildest dreams.”

  Ten minutes later, Sullivan was back on the Queensway, heading west towards the station. With a sense of dread, he mulled over the implications of Whelan’s story. If there had been a deliberate miscarriage of justice and a deliberate cover-up of crucial testimony by Barbara Devine that involved the very heart of Ottawa’s powerful old legal fraternity, Sullivan knew he was looking at the end of his career. He wouldn’t be fired, not even disciplined, but he could kiss his promotions good-bye, he could kiss the esteem and easy camaraderie of his fellow officers good-bye, and probably even kiss his job in Major Crimes goodbye. It would be back to ticketing speeders and rounding up drunks in the Byward Market in the dead of night.

  Goddamn Green and his nose for trouble, Sullivan thought. Now what?

  Before he’d even begun to formulate an answer, he heard his call sign over the radio. He responded, and as he listened, all fury at Green vanished from his mind.

  * * *

  Adam Jules’ face was the first thing Green saw when he came to. He was aware first of pain, then the acrid smell of bleach and alcohol and the discordant bleat of voices and machines. He opened his eyes, swimming up through layers of dense fog that blanketed all light and sound. Slowly, as scraps of fog lifted, Jules’ face came into focus. Lips tight, eyes narrow with apprehension, he loomed over Green’s bed.

  “Adam?” Green wasn’t sure he should move anything. Nothing felt as if it would respond anyway.

  Something like relief flickered in Jules’ eyes. “How do you feel?”

  “What happened?”

  Jules’ eyes grew hooded. “You’ve had quite the day. You don’t remember?”

  Green cast his thoughts back. What day? His confusion must have shown, for Jules’ lips drew even tighter. “The accident on Bank Street. Witnesses say you drove the woman to it.”

  Green shut his eyes against the bright light, hoping it would help, but his mind felt like molasses. Thoughts would not take shape, and he couldn’t find anything in his memory. Jules was bent close, hissing urgent words in his ear.

  “Michael, I’m supposed to get the docto
r now. But you have to tell me what happened, or how can I protect you?”

  Green’s head felt jackhammered, and nausea spun him in circles. Speech was a great effort. “I don’t know, I can’t remember.”

  The curtain drew back, and a swarm of white coats bustled in, poking instruments at him and peering dubiously at clipboards. One of them, a young woman half Jules’ age, shooed him outside then returned to wave a pen officiously around in front of Green’s eyes. Fighting pain, nausea and the faint budding of fear, Green ventured a smile.

  “So am I dying?”

  “Nope,” the woman replied without looking up from her clipboard, then walked out of the room.

  Time drifted. People appeared and disappeared. Police officers who wanted his statement, nurses, doctors and technicians who poked and measured and extracted things for reasons that escaped him. An official-sounding doctor finally came to speak to him, but Green understood nothing of his monotone pronouncement other than the word concussion.

  Concussion. Concussions had destroyed countless NHL hockey careers and reduced heavyweight boxers to drooling idiots. Concussions scrambled the brain, disconnected the precious circuitry he so prided himself on. He lay alone in his little cubicle, abandoned for those more gravely ill than himself, left to his own elliptical and reverberating thoughts, and working himself into a first-class panic.

  Then Sharon walked in. Finally. Calm, practical, experienced Sharon, still dressed from work and breathing heavily from the rush.

  “Poor you!” she exclaimed, planting a careful kiss on his cheek. She was trying for her nurse’s cheerfulness, but the darkness in her eyes betrayed her. “Your face will be all colours by tomorrow, but you’ll be all right.”

  He tried to sound coherent as he explained about the concussion. “I want to go home, but they want to keep me overnight for observation.”

  “I know. It took some talking, but I’ve sprung you. I told them I was an experienced nurse.”

  “You haven’t done real nursing in years.”

  She made as if to swat him, but stopped herself. “I lied. But it’s good to see your critical faculties are still intact. Anyway, I’ve brought you fresh clothes, so as soon as the doctor signs you out, we’ll get out of here. I phoned your father, by the way, so he wouldn’t have a coronary when he sees the news.”

  Green pictured Sid, sitting alone in his senior citizen’s apartment where the TV was a constant background companion. A widowed Holocaust survivor, Sid had placed his only child at the centre of his world. “He’s not going to relax until he hears my voice.”

  “Tomorrow, honey. The sitter’s going to keep Tony all night so you can rest. However, that crazy dog is still at home and desperately in need of a pee by now, I suspect.”

  It was nearly midnight by the time they were able to get away, and Green was exhausted. Throughout the long ride, he floated and chased fragments of thought that made no sense. Whenever he dozed, Sharon prodded him awake.

  “Sorry, honey, doctor’s orders. Talk to me about today.”

  “I don’t remember anything after following Anne Patterson up Bank Street. Do they say I killed her?”

  “No. And she’s not dead,” Sharon added hastily. “She was in surgery most of the morning with bruises, lacerations, and some head trauma, but she’s stable.”

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  “She hasn’t come out of the anaesthetic yet, so they can’t say for sure. But from what the officers told me, she was really drunk, and she just ran in front of the police car. Like her mind was a million miles away.”

  Probably was, he thought, gazing through the darkness of the corn field. I know that feeling. That you’ve lost your anchor and have no idea what’s coming next.

  Thirteen

  Green’s first conscious thought the next morning was “What the hell am I doing on the living room couch”, closely followed by “What the bloody hell has exploded in my head?” He risked turning his head to survey his surroundings. Early morning sunshine slanted through the living room window and cast oblongs of sharp light on the carpet. Sharon was curled up fast asleep in the armchair, and Modo was stretched out in a pool of sun at her feet. Understanding dawned on him as he remembered the concussion and the long, bewildering wait in the hospital. Nervously he tested his memory, but found it still stopped short of the actual impact. Deciding a shot of caffeine might help, he tried to sit up and nearly cried aloud. Every muscle in his body felt pummelled. After a few cautious stretches, he slipped gingerly off the couch and limped into the kitchen. Modo seemed to fight conflicting loyalties but finally followed him in. The coffee grinder woke Sharon, who arrived with her make-shift nursing kit to check him over.

  “I feel two hundred per cent better,” he protested.

  “Yes, and in fifteen minutes you’re going to crash.” She shone a flashlight into his eyes and asked him to track her finger. “This is not something to fool with, honey. You ignore a concussion, and that scrambled eggs feeling could be permanent.”

  He wanted to prove his own invincibility, but the fifteen minutes had barely elapsed before he found himself flagging. His tongue tripped on words, and his limbs grew heavy. Humbled, he cradled his second cup of French roast in his palms and went back to the sofa.

  “You made the headlines,” Sharon remarked, settling into the armchair with her coffee and the paper. “Lots of gory photos of the police cruiser and your poor little car.”

  He reached for the paper, hoping the photo would jumpstart his brain, but all he could make out was the front hood of the mangled Corolla. “Fuck,” he muttered. “The insurance probably won’t pay a damn cent for that accident. Personal car used in the line of duty. Damn...” He rested his head wearily against the cushions, picturing the money swirling down the drain. “I’d better call Dad before he sees that picture. Can you bring me the phone?”

  When Sid Green heard his voice, there was silence on the phone. Then a whispered. “Thanks to God. Nu, Mishkeleh, you don’t look where you are going?”

  “It couldn’t be helped, Dad, but I’m okay. Everyone is okay.”

  “That woman you hit. She’s not okay, and they said on the news her husband is a big lawyer.”

  Through the blankness of his memory, Green felt a stab of worry. What if he had hit Anne? What if his own recklessness had been responsible for permanent damage? “Don’t worry, nobody’s going to charge me,” he said, praying he was right. “It was an unlucky accident. And Dad? If reporters come bugging you, don’t talk to them, okay? Let me handle it.”

  With a few more reassurances, he disconnected, handed the phone back to Sharon and slumped back in the pillows. Worry gnawed at him. “Any news on Anne Patterson in the paper?”

  “Her name’s being withheld at the request of the family—”

  “Which means Quinton Patterson. As always, trying to do damage control. Nothing in there about him suing me?”

  Sharon paused to scrutinize the article. “Not as of last night. Apparently, they hadn’t located all the family. Sounds as if the daughter hasn’t turned up yet.”

  “Yeah, that’s who I was trying to find—” His eyes flew open, and he sat up abruptly as a memory came back. “My God, Hannah! Bring me the phone again.”

  “What?” Sharon looked at him in alarm. He shook his head as if to reassure her that he hadn’t lost his faculties and dialled the station. No, said the clerk in Major Crimes, Hannah had never shown up or contacted them yesterday. Green ordered the clerk to put out a new bulletin for everyone to be on the look-out for her. As he hung up, he caught Sharon’s expression, which had changed from alarm to astonishment.

  “Hannah is in Ottawa? Your Hannah?”

  He held up a soothing hand. “Long story. She has apparently decided to check out her roots.” He dialled another number and waited impatiently through five rings before Ashley’s breathless voice snapped through the line.

  “Mike? She there?”

  Call display, Green rea
lized, old enough to be disconcerted.

  “Not yet. Has she been in touch with you?”

  Ashley launched into a tirade about his callous and cavalier attitude and berated him for letting her stew for almost twentyfour hours without so much as a phone call. He held the phone away and massaged his temple, choosing to endure rather than defend himself.

  “Something came up,” was all he said.

  “Oh, it did, did it? Well, I’m glad to hear some things never change. I hope your new wife appreciates her position on Officer Green’s list of priorities.”

  “I promise to update you every hour. I have to go now, but don’t worry, I have the whole police force looking for her. We’ll find her.”

  He extricated himself with relief and turned to Sharon, aware of the throbbing in his temple and the coffee churning in his gut. By the time he had finished explaining Hannah’s story, fatigue was steamrolling over him. He prayed that Sharon’s experience with the vagaries of human behaviour would save the day.

  “Should I be worried?”

  When she shook her head, he wanted to kiss her, but hadn’t the strength to leave the couch. “She’s sixteen, Mike. Lots of kids travel all over at that age, and she sounds like she’s nobody’s fool.”

  “Maybe not, but she’s still a middle class kid from the Vancouver suburbs, and if I know Ashley, she’s been pampered to death.”

  “Overprotective parents didn’t stop you any.”

  True, he thought. As Holocaust survivors, his parents had come by their paranoia honestly, but during his childhood this had not prevented him from breaching the walls of their fear to run wild and free through the rough inner city streets of Lowertown, clashing with the French Canadian youth who controlled the turf. But the memory of himself as a kid brought no reassurance. Teenagers could get themselves in such messes.