Cod Only Knows

by Hilary MacLeod

  “She’s been in scrapes before and got out of them.”

  “What?”

  Finn’s voice startled her. Jamieson hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. “I was thinking about Hy. Where she might be. What has happened.”

  “I’m thinking about her, too. Thinking. But not worrying.”

  “No?”

  Finn pressed his lips together, his brow wrinkled. “Not yet.”

  She didn’t believe him. Those were worry lines on his forehead.

  They were. Hy had disappeared, along with Abel. What was going on?

  ***

  “I killed her. Of course.”

  “My God.” Finn’s eyes opened wide. Jamieson said nothing. Jasmine spoke again:

  “People… I killed her. Of course.”

  “That is Brock Ferguson, no doubt.” Jamieson sat down, silenced by shock. She believed Ferguson had killed his wife, but she had no proof. Could this be proof? “Where did this come from?”

  Ian shrugged his shoulders. Winced. It hurt. What didn’t?

  Jamieson and Finn had been on their way to the police house. They were almost at Ian’s when Jamieson got his urgent message.

  “Could it have been television?”

  Ian shook his head. “You hear it. That voice is as distinctive as a fingerprint. Anyone would know who it was.”

  The voice, it’s true, was unmistakable. But how could she possibly use…

  “…the testimony of a parrot.” She completed the thought out loud.

  “It’s not testimony.”

  No, it was not testimony. It was a confession. An admission of guilt. Not coming from the man. Coming from the bird.

  “What am I going to do with it?” Jamieson’s eyes appealed to Finn, then to Ian. They were silenced by the rarity of the situation. Jamieson, asking their advice? Finn was more used to it because of his forensic role in some of her investigations. Still – what she had sought from him had been facts, not advice on how to conduct an investigation.

  “We better use it, however we do, soon. Jasmine goes on these jags. This may be the only thing she’ll say for days or weeks, then she’ll bury it and never say it again.” Ian stroked Jasmine’s tail feathers, something she particularly liked.

  “Days…or weeks?” Jamieson looked over at Ian.

  “Best to say days. At most, days. She likes to get attention, so if she’s getting it, she’ll keep it up.”

  “I killed her, Jasmine?” Finn coaxed. “Did you say I killed her?”

  Jasmine was stubbornly silent.

  “She doesn’t respond to coaxing. If she knows you want it, she won’t give it to you. Best to ignore her for a bit, and she’ll do it again.”

  She did – over and over again, much to the trio’s satisfaction. Jasmine, star of her own show, the bird at the centre of…what? A criminal investigation? A murder?

  “I killed her. Of course.”

  “It’s a keeper alright.” Ian smiled.

  “How do we use it?”

  Asking their advice again. And using “we.”

  “Can you confront him with the bird?” Finn smiled, and, suddenly, they were all laughing. It was a serious matter, but it seemed so ridiculous.

  “I could ask him to the police house. Jasmine could be there.”

  “Better bring him here. Jasmine won’t go without me.” Ian ruffled her feathers. She bit him and flapped away, landing on Finn’s shoulder.

  So much for parrot loyalty. Ian held out a finger, and wiggled it, a silent signal that always brought her to him, because it was always followed by a treat.

  “She went to the barn without you.”

  “That was different.”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course. I killed her.” Jasmine flew off Finn’s shoulder and around the room. “Killed her. Killed her. Killed her.”

  “Oh, yes, she likes this one.” Ian held out a hand for Jasmine to return to him. Still, she didn’t. “She’s improvising.”

  Jasmine perched back on Finn’s shoulder. “Did my ‘of course’ trigger that?”

  “Of course. Of course… Of course.” Jasmine was flying around the room again.

  “How much does she improvise? Turn the words around?”

  Ian shook his head. “Not that much. She takes them to pieces, divides them into parts, but she doesn’t create new meaning.” He paused for a moment. “Not usually.”

  Jamieson sighed. She was that close to a conviction, and her best witness was a bird, a bird that liked to play with words that could convict.

  Of course.

  She didn’t speak out loud when the idea came to her, for fear of triggering another frenzy from Jasmine. She’d need documentation.

  “Lester.”

  Ian and Finn looked at her, confused.

  “Lester,” she repeated. “He can document it.” Lester was here because his father Germaine was in hospital. He was a videographer who’d been making a killing the past several years from…well…killings at The Shores.

  “Of course.” Ian regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

  “Of course, of course, of course,” Jasmine spiralled the words up to the ceiling.

  Chapter 31

  The waves formed in long funnels, rushing at the shore, smacking into the boat, spilling water over its sides.

  Dot huddled in the cabin, tossed on the black waves, the water threatening to engulf the boat. Why had she come here? Why had he come – rocking on the waves instead of the comfort of his rocking chair? She knew why. She knew Abel. She was her father’s daughter and as stubborn as he.

  That’s why she was out here on the water, and he was, too, but nowhere to be seen now. So good at eluding others. He had brought her up to it, playing hide and seek with her. She was never as good as he. She couldn’t stay hidden for long, but he could disappear for a day or more, even when she’d go to the harbour to catch him as he came in from a day’s fishing. He became so good at it that he’d begun to recede further and further into the background of their lives.

  A wave loomed over the deck, and smashed down onto it, rocking the boat up on its side and almost over. Dot was thrown to one side of the cabin. She clutched the steering wheel. It was not an attempt to gain control of the craft. That, she knew, was impossible. She would just have to ride it out.

  ***

  “Perhaps you could explain why you’ve asked me here.”

  “Of…” Jamieson almost said “course,” but she didn’t want to trigger Jasmine too soon. Not that anyone had any control of the bird. She’d mouth off at any moment if she felt like it. All it might take was the sound of Ferguson’s voice, no matter what it was that he said. Jamieson knew that, but she wanted some control over the meeting. She looked at the parrot, occupied with chewing at her feathers. In the bookshelf next to her, Lester had concealed a camera, which was trained on Jamieson and Ferguson. It wasn’t procedure and might overturn a conviction if she got one, but, under the circumstances, it seemed the only thing to do.

  “It’s about your wife’s death.”

  “Of course.”

  That did it.

  Jasmine squawked, and flew up from her perch. She circled the room, and continued squawking.

  The squawk transformed into the unmistakable, booming voice of Brock Ferguson.

  “I killed her. Of course. I killed…killed…killed her.”

  Ferguson flushed beet red, to the tips of his ears.

  He opened his mouth to speak but was unable to, emitting only a few choked sounds that Jasmine immediately took up and mixed with her running repertoire.

  Ferguson was staring daggers at the bird. Jasmine continued her flight around the room, apparently oblivious to him but well aware of the attention her words were getting.

 
“Killed…killed…killed…course…course…course.” She began to wind down and perched on the back of the sofa, biting at her feathers.

  Ferguson looked as if he wanted to grab the parrot and choke her.

  “Do you have anything to say?”

  If Jamieson was hoping for a confession – and she was – she wasn’t going to get it. Ferguson’s mouth had dropped open, but he appeared to have nothing to say.

  “Or perhaps it’s all been said?” She pressed the point.

  Finally, Ferguson found his voice.

  “This is ludicrous,” he directed a sharp look at Jasmine. “Are you going to believe a bird?”

  “Believe a bird, about what? I haven’t said a thing, made any accusation, but you’ve heard what the bird had to say – in your voice.”

  “Yes, stole my voice and used it for a ludicrous purpose. This means nothing. The bird could have been trained to say that.”

  He obviously didn’t know Jasmine. “Training” was one word not in her vocabulary.

  “Okay. How about this? Did you kill your wife?”

  A faint “killed…killed…killed…” in Ferguson’s definitely masculine voice came from the bird on the sofa plucking her feathers. Then Jasmine changed her tune.

  “Killed.” In her Mick Jagger voice.

  “Killed.” Britney Spears.

  Oh no, thought Jamieson. Jasmine was beginning to improvise. Ferguson hadn’t answered.

  “I asked you – did you kill your wife?”

  “No, I did not. She died, as you know, of natural causes.”

  “You see, the thing is, I don’t know that.”

  “That’s your problem, not mine.”

  “I have every intention of making it yours.”

  “Not with that bird, you won’t.” He stabbed a finger at Jasmine.

  “I’ll ask you one more time.” She changed the question slightly. “Did you intend to kill your wife?”

  Jasmine looked up from her feather plucking.

  “Of course,” she said, in Ferguson’s booming voice.

  Ferguson sighed deeply. “What I did say, in a private conversation, is that people are saying, of course I killed my wife.”

  “People,” Jasmine grabbed on to the rest of the phrase she’d been missing. “People are saying, of course I killed my wife.”

  Jamieson deflated. She felt embarrassed at having followed a wild parrot chase.

  “You’ll excuse me,” she said to Ferguson. “Nonetheless, I must ask that you not leave the area until, and unless, I give you permission.”

  “Perhaps. But I may be speaking to your superior officer.”

  “Officer killed my wife. Officer killed my wife.” With those words, in Ferguson’s deep baritone, Jasmine erased any credibility she might have had.

  ***

  Still, they had it all recorded. Jamieson, Finn, and Ian reviewed the whole thing on Ian’s computer. It was uncanny, the two of them – the man and the bird – sounding exactly alike.

  “I wonder what the voice graphs would look like.” Jamieson advanced to the start again and ran it again.

  “They’d be remarkably similar.” Ian had studied the field precisely because of Jasmine and knew something about it.

  “Similar, but not exact. A voiceprint is even more unique than a fingerprint. They say fingerprints are an exact way to tell a person’s identity, but they’re not, actually. Mistakes have been made.”

  “I don’t know what to do with this, now that we have it. Now that Jasmine has changed her tune…”

  Ian had thought the “we” – she’d said it a few times – included him in a way that Jamieson never had before. He frowned. Now he realized the “we” meant Finn, not him.

  ***

  Hy’s heart was pounding, her hands gripping the wheel of the Cape Islander, bouncing on the swells churned up by the force of the wind. She was soaked through and shivering, cursing herself for having come out in this storm. But she’d had to. Curiosity drove her. She knew she was on the trail of Abel. She had followed the shadow to Big Bay, or nearly, and she had seen the hat. The boat was taking her to him, aboard the Annaben, wearing his Tilley hat.

  ***

  Dot came to, great black clouds billowing over her. She was amazed to be alive, surprised she’d fallen asleep in the storm. Then she felt the lump on the back of her head. When she moved it, her head pounded with pain. She’d been knocked out. Unconscious. Abel’s hat had saved her. She had stuffed it with things she didn’t want to lose – her cellphone, her watch, and the sterling silver necklace of a whale that Finn had given her. She’d wrapped it all up securely in a waterproof plastic pack and stuck it in the hat then secured it to her head. It was still on. Without that padding, the blow might have been fatal. She eased herself up and stood, finding her balance.

  She spotted another lobster boat. There was someone on the deck, waving.

  Dot squinted. Was it? It couldn’t be…

  “Hy!” Her voice was lost in the wind.

  “Hy!” she called again and began to wave her hands above her head, piercing pain knifing through her with every movement.

  The engine had conked out. She ducked into the cabin to restart the boat. It wouldn’t engage. Again and again she flicked the ignition, until she must surely have flooded the engine.

  The other boat had full power. It was heading toward her. The closer it came, the clearer it became to her.

  Hy. It was Hy.

  Thank God.

  ***

  It had taken Seamus hours to pull himself out from between the two cots in the back of Nathan’s van. He had collapsed onto one of them, his face an unhealthy red, sweat dripping down his forehead and blurring his vision. He was too fat to fit on the cot or stay lying on it for long. Half of him was over the edge.

  He had begun to panic and had jumped up, bashed his head on the roof, and slammed his fists into the sides of the van until his knuckles were bruised and bloody. He had yelled and kicked at the doors, but they didn’t give. Not an inch. Tied securely. As he had tied them securely when he closed the old man in. Or thought he had.

  He sat down and started to cry.

  ***

  A huge wave curled up and attacked the deck, like a giant tongue licking at its surface. The tip of the tongue scooped Dot up and shoved her over the gunwales and into the ocean, the Tilley hat still on her head. The water swirled around and drew her under. Hy had pulled alongside the Annaben just as Dot went over.

  Dot.

  Tall, slender, female. Dot wearing the Tilley hat.

  Hy raced to the side of the Cape Islander in time to see Dot go down.

  “Dot! Dot!”

  Hy leaped from one boat to the other, taking no time to secure Fairweather’s boat. She didn’t even think of it.

  She raced across the deck of the Annaben and leaned over the side.

  Dot surfaced, her eyes closed. She appeared unconscious. So swift had the wave been in grabbing her up and casting her off that Hy hadn’t seen her head smash up against the side of the boat on her way into the water.

  Dot could swim, Hy knew, but not if she were unconscious. Hy could swim, too, but her skill hadn’t been tested in years. She was frozen, her blood spiked with adrenalin, her breathing ragged and shot with fear. She watched as Dot’s body spun, was sucked down and thrown back up. Hy’s hands clung to the gunwale. She peeled them off, searched quickly for a rope. Grabbed it. Tied it around her waist. Looked desperately for somewhere to secure the other end. She tied the rope to the steering wheel.

  A mistake.

  Hy summoned her courage and climbed onto the railing. She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look when she flung herself into the water.

  She didn’t have to. Look. Or fling herself overboard. Before she could, a wave slapped her from
behind and sent her flying into the churning water. She swallowed a mouthful of salt water as she went under and struggled back up to the surface, choking.

  She began treading water but knew she couldn’t hold out for long in the surging sea, sapping her strength and chilling her to the bone. She spun around and saw Dot surface again. With her eyes closed, she looked like a corpse.

  Maybe she was.

  Several strong strokes propelled Hy to Dot, to Dot’s body, tossed by the water, floating like a jellyfish, with no motion of her own.

  Hy was determined to bring her out.

  Dead or alive.

  Chapter 32

  Ian tried for the umpteenth time to call Hy on her cellphone, but there was no answer, just the voice mail. It was full – full of his messages to her. He hadn’t been able to leave any since yesterday.

  Finn was up on the widow’s walk at Ian’s place, the same concerns plaguing him, his worry both for his sister and Dot. Finn could see Big Bay from here. He saw no one in the harbour, along the shore, nor the capes, no one in the village, all chased indoors by the vicious storm. Here he was, getting drenched, and where was Hy? Abel? Safe? Somehow he doubted it.

  There was no point in standing, soaking in the rain. He must at least attempt to find them. He turned and sped down the narrow staircase, almost tripping in his haste. He didn’t stop to let Ian know what he was up to, but he didn’t have to. Ian guessed when Finn streaked through the kitchen, grabbed Ian’s keys off the table, held them up for permission, and slammed the door behind him. One more thing to make Ian feel impotent, stuck here on this couch, with only a parrot as a minder.

  Lights flashed on and off in his rear-view mirror as Finn backed out of the driveway in Ian’s truck. A vehicle was blocking him in.

  Jamieson. She’d come back to have another look at the video, or so she told herself. She’d really come back for Finn.

  He stuck his head out the window. She stuck her head out of hers.

  “Where are you going?” she called out above the rain, rivulets of water running down her face.

  “Looking for Hy.”

  “Why?” Jamieson frowned. Had Hy actually disappeared?