Acts of Murder

by L. R. Wright

  “Of course I am.”

  “When?”

  “Oh—soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Give me an hour?”

  “Sure.”

  He walked restlessly from room to room, edging past the wardrobe, stepping over packing boxes—and was suddenly reminded of Sid Sokolowski’s retirement party, back in December. He hadn’t realized how many personal possessions Sid had kept secreted away in various detachment cupboards until he’d watched the sergeant retrieve them and pack them in boxes: photographs of Elsie and their five daughters, of course, several coffee mugs, a few books, but also a collection of paperweights, some fishing tackle, a cushion with a knitted cover, a couple of flower vases—Alberg was amazed.

  They had helped him load the boxes into his vehicle, then everyone not on duty had trooped to Alberg’s house in Gibsons for food and drink. And at an appropriate moment, late in the party, Norah Gibbons had wheeled out of the sunporch Sid’s wooden armchair. Alberg remembered how it had squeaked and squealed, and the bewildered look on Sid Sokolowski’s face, which was by then flushed and damp, as he recognized the sound.

  “Here, Sarge,” Norah had said, grinning at him, “Staff says you can take it with you.”

  And Sid had stroked its back tenderly, making helpless croaking noises, waving his beer in the air. Alberg had been terribly afraid he was going to weep as he lowered himself into the chair and scooted across the living room floor.

  Alberg, looking out the window, was reluctant to admit that months had passed since Sid had sent him his new address and phone number, on a postcard: Alberg hadn’t once called him. He thought Cassandra had sent a Christmas card, from the two of them, but he wasn’t sure.

  He didn’t want to talk to Sid. He didn’t want to know how unhappy Sid was, retired.

  Of course, maybe he wasn’t unhappy.

  Alberg thought about his IN basket, crammed with paperwork, overflowing with it. He imagined what his IN basket would look like a week from now, a month from now, a year hence, if he were to just leave it alone to collect more paper, to begin gathering dust. Paperwork would spill onto his desk, submerge his desk, eventually, cover the floor, pile up on the floor until the room was stuffed full of paper, until it would no longer be possible to open the door.

  “To hell with it,” Alberg muttered, pulling on his jacket. He’d go down to his boat for a while.

  ***

  It was about nine-thirty when Andrew got home. He sat in the car for a moment, hating it that he wasn’t happy to be home these days, hating it that he had nothing to say to Janet.

  He had never before so resented not being smart. A smart man would know what to think, what to do, what to say to his wife. But Andrew just kept going over and over it in his mind—the fact that there had been a baby, and Janet had killed it.

  No no, he told himself, shutting his eyes, vigorously shaking his head. She hadn’t killed it. It wasn’t a baby yet, when it died. Andrew knew all this stuff. He understood it. He knew about it being Janet’s body, and she had a right—he knew all that.

  But his heart was bruised and aching as he climbed wearily out of the car and walked toward his house, because he also knew that what had been inside Janet’s body was as much his as hers: and more than hers, more than his, it had been its own, its own potential person. And Janet had snuffed it out like a candle flame before it had had a chance to—

  Here he was doing it again, he thought unhappily, going up the front steps. He needed somebody to talk to, that was for sure. He’d talked a little bit to someone at work, but that hadn’t been very satisfactory. Maybe he should try again.

  Andrew stood by the door, reluctant to open it. There was this huge canyon between them now, and Andrew, watching Janet get smaller and smaller on the other side of it, had no idea how to cross over to her.

  He reached for the knob, glancing at the living room window—and noticed for the first time that there were no lights on inside.

  And his first reaction—he didn’t admit this, later; he never admitted it—was relief: maybe he could go quickly to bed, he thought, and fall asleep, and not have to talk to Janet, or listen to her. And maybe tomorrow he could sneak out of the house before she awakened and find somebody to talk to who could help him with this mess.

  His next thought was that it still would have been daylight when Janet got home, and that maybe she’d fallen asleep in front of the TV.

  But the door was locked.

  He told them later that that was when he got the first bad feeling. Janet wouldn’t have locked up unless she was going out somewhere. And if she was going out, she would have phoned to tell him.

  Okay, so she went out on the spur of the moment, he thought, as he let himself in. He didn’t even bother to call out, he told them later, because he could feel that there was nobody home.

  He went around turning on lights and looking for a note, because maybe his feelings were all screwed up and he was getting the wrong message. But there wasn’t any note.

  Andrew told them later that he’d never felt this way in his whole life before: terrified, and not knowing why. And guilty, too, although he didn’t tell them that.

  He phoned Janet’s boss, Mr. Alexander.

  “We shut up shop early today, Andrew. I left about four-thirty and I’m pretty sure Janet was going home almost right away.”

  “Did she take the bus?”

  “I don’t think so—she was putting on her running shoes when I left. Don’t worry, Andrew. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. She’s probably gone off somewhere with a friend.”

  He called Clara next.

  “I saw her leave,” she told him. “She knocked on the window when she passed and waved at me.”

  “What time was this?” said Andrew, holding tight to the phone, frowning at the beige wall-to-wall carpeting that covered every room in the townhouse except the kitchen and the bathroom.

  “I’m not sure,” said Clara. “Before five-thirty, though, because that’s when I took off myself. Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, she hasn’t come home yet, that’s all. And I’m worried.” He leaned back on the sofa and then sat straight again, looking at the window, seeing his distorted reflection there.

  But Clara just said the same thing Mr. Alexander had said. “Oh, Andrew, Janet’s probably just gone out for a hamburger with somebody.”

  Clara reminded him of several more of Janet’s friends, and he called them all, but nobody had seen her.

  Andrew then got in the car and drove slowly along the rain-slick streets of his neighborhood, retracing what he thought Janet’s steps most likely would have been. In the dark, wet night this was a hopeless task, and he knew it, but he didn’t know what to do instead.

  He went home, eventually, but he couldn’t sit still there. He had a petrifying sense of urgency. He found himself looking in drawers and closets—for what, he couldn’t have said. Finally, he hurried back out to the car.

  ***

  The new sergeant was sitting at Sokolowski’s old table in the reception area, familiarizing herself with the casework, when Andrew burst through the door. The duty officer started to get up.

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Eddie. “What can I do for you?” she asked, approaching the counter.

  She saw a man slightly shorter than she was, wearing a gray suit, a white shirt, and a tie. His dark blond hair curled almost to his shoulders. He had blue eyes, a triangular face with a wide forehead and a narrow chin, unusually full lips, and a prominent Adam’s apple.

  He leaned heavily on the counter with both hands and looked searchingly at Eddie. “Are you a cop?”

  Eddie looked down at her uniform. “I guess I am.”

  “My wife—I don’t know where she is.” He was pale and shaky.

  Eddie walked around the counter. “What’s your name?”

  “Andrew.”

  “Sit on the bench there, Andrew,” said the sergeant, and she
sat down next to him. “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Janet. My wife is called Janet Maine.”

  “Janet. That’s a pretty name. Okay, Andrew. Tell me.”

  He concentrated, staring at the floor. “I called people. And this is what I know. She left work between four-thirty and five-thirty. She walked home, but she never got there.” He clasped his hands tightly between his knees. “She didn’t phone me. She didn’t write me a note. She wouldn’t go off anywhere without phoning or leaving me a note.” His shoulders hunched, as if he had pain somewhere. “I drove around,” he said, “looking for her. I don’t know where she is. I don’t know where she went. I’m very afraid for her. That something’s happened to her.” He continued to talk, haltingly, stopping sometimes to suck in air through clenched teeth.

  Eddie listened intently. When Andrew finished, he lifted his gaze from the floor and looked into her face. She felt the weight of his distress, which she knew he hoped to transfer to her. But even if she were to accept it—which she would not—this wouldn’t rid him of it, but only double it.

  Besides, Eddie knew that if his wife had disappeared, Andrew Maine was the person most likely to be responsible.

  “We can’t do anything until morning, Mr. Maine,” she said.

  “Oh my god,” said Andrew, who couldn’t begin to imagine how to get through the night.

  “I want you to phone somebody, your boss, a friend, a relative—I want you to do it from here.”

  “Oh god,” said Andrew, shaking, his hands pulling at his hair.

  “And you go on home with this person,” said the sergeant, gently removing his hands from his hair. “And tomorrow we’ll look for your wife.”

  A person wasn’t officially missing until he or she had been gone for twenty-four hours. But Eddie Henderson thought they ought to start looking for Janet Maine as soon as it was light.

  ***

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home, Staff, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “You’re probably right, Sergeant,” said Alberg, on the kitchen phone. He and Cassandra were packing dishes they hardly ever used. “What is it that I want to know?”

  “A guy came in to report his wife missing. And I’ve been reading the files, and—”

  “Rebecca Granger,” said Alberg. Cassandra turned to look at him, newspaper in one hand, a large serving platter in the other. Alberg sat down at the table. “Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Tell me about it.”

  He listened. Cassandra sat down, too. He took one of her hands and became apparently engrossed in the lines in her palm. “Okay… Yeah… No, we don’t have to wait. First light.”

  When he’d hung up, Cassandra said, “What is it?”

  “Probably nothing,” said Alberg. “Somebody didn’t come home when she was expected.” He got up and went into the living room, where he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at his wingback chair. It was pretty old. Probably time to replace it. He found himself jingling the coins that were in his pockets. This had been a habit of his father. Alberg realized that he hadn’t thought about his father for a long time.

  He wanted to get into his Olds and drive out of Gibsons toward Sechelt, to the place where Rebecca Granger’s body had been found seven months earlier; to the clearing a couple of miles from Sergeant Bay.

  He heard rain falling outside and imagined it falling in the clearing, clattering on salal and blackberries, pattering on the carpet of pine needles. He imagined a freshly dug grave. But the breeze would smell of spring.

  Cassandra came up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. “Are you okay?”

  He’d feel like an idiot, pushing through the forest, branches snapping in his face, showering him with their collections of raindrops while more fell on him from the sky.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said to Cassandra. He turned around. “Let’s pack some more dishes.”

  But tomorrow, he thought. It wouldn’t hurt to go take a look tomorrow. In the morning. As soon as he’d emptied his IN basket.

  ***

  It was three o’clock. The middle of the night.

  A mid-sized four-door sedan, metallic blue in color, proceeded rapidly through Sechelt along pavement that was shiny from a rain shower. The only light to be seen burned in an apartment above the hardware store.

  The car glided quickly through the town, then swerved abruptly, turning right onto a road that hadn’t existed a year earlier. It passed a collection of houses clustered along the hillside, advancing more slowly now, and gleaming, occasionally, as it proceeded through the light from widely spaced streetlamps. In the headlights a fine mist began to form—the start of another nighttime shower.

  The car reached the top of the hill, where the street ended. It stopped and remained there for several seconds, motor running, exhaust trailing into the air, headlights illuminating a bank of undergrowth that had spread among the fir and cedar trees. Then it turned left.

  This road—a lane, really—was not paved. There were ruts in it, and large stones. Denise Dyakowski drove slowly, her hands clenched on the steering wheel, lurching the car through puddles and mud. In the headlights she watched the trail become narrower, the trees moving closer, until eventually the underbrush spilled out from the forest and scraped against the car, making small grating noises.

  The lane now forged a ninety-degree angle and headed downhill. Its surface became still more rough. Denise drove so slowly that the speedometer was barely moving, but still the car bounced and rattled.

  In the headlights she could no longer see the track, only the thickening brush that leaned across the lane, that looked impenetrable, but she kept going, the car kept going, pushing through the dense foliage, battling a foot at a time, until it could proceed no farther. Denise revved the motor, but it was no use.

  She turned the motor off, and the headlights, and scrambled quickly out of the car. Bushes and saplings thrust themselves toward the open door, but she pushed them aside and got it closed.

  Denise leaned against the car, blinking. She could see practically nothing. She thought she heard the forest breathing.

  The car’s motor made a pinging sound as it began to cool. There was a soft slow pattering of rain on leaves, on trees, on the earth, on the car. There was no light anywhere, only the deep cool darkness of night.

  With hands outstretched, Denise pushed through the thicket that had wrapped itself around the car and struggled along the lane, back the way she’d come, uphill, stumbling from time to time, having caught the edge of her shoe in a rut or stepped on a slippery stone. The bushes rustled as she pressed through them, and sometimes blackberry brambles caught at her sweater.

  After a while she began to see better. The darkness seemed less dense, and she could make out shapes: tall trees, a huge boulder, and ubiquitous blackberry canes waving high in the air.

  The rain was a gentle shower, cooling her skin, soothing her skin as she pushed aside salal and broom. The rain had coaxed fragrances from the forest. Denise stopped to breathe them in.

  Suddenly she turned and shouldered her way into the woods and started blindly taking hold of branches, breaking them off. Most didn’t want to be broken—she had to tear at them, and sometimes gnaw them with her teeth. She tried to avoid the blackberries but there were other kinds of thorns in the woods, too, and she got several scratches. She backed out of the woods with an armful of branches, looked up the lane, and thought she saw the glint of a streetlight beyond the next curve. Denise set off through the dark wet night for home.

  When she got there she was exhausted, but she put the branches in a tall vase and filled it with water.

  A black plastic garbage bag, full and tied securely closed, sat in the middle of the kitchen floor. Denise walked around it several times while tending to the branches. Then she washed her hands at the kitchen sink—gently, because they were sore from tearing the branches free and had been pricked by brambles. She dried them,
and reached to turn out the light. Saw the garbage bag. Leaned against the counter and studied it, frowning. Then she lifted it, tentatively, testing its weight.

  Before she went to bed, she took it outside and put it in the shed with the others.

  May 1985 Abbotsford, B.C.

  MRS. O’HARA THOUGHT about the bed she shared with Tom: the mattress had such a pronounced hollow in the middle that the two of them inevitably became tangled together in sleep, and then in sex. A bed designed to incite procreation, one would have thought.

  They could have adopted, though.

  Whenever she looked at him in daylight it was as if she was observing another person entirely.

  In fifteen years of marriage it had never, ever occurred to her that another woman would find him attractive.

  When they reached the house, the sky was darker than it had been when Mrs. O’Hara arrived home from work, and the stars were brighter, and now there was the moon, as well, flooding the yard with light.

  What happens now? she wondered.

  Tom turned off the motor, pocketing the keys, and went around to Mrs. O’Hara’s side of the car to open the door for her. She allowed him to help her out. The touch of his hands was strange, conveying an alien firmness...but she knew she was making this up. Was it really true, then, that you don’t appreciate what you’ve got until you don’t have it anymore? Or, in this case, until somebody else has it as well?

  She leaned on his arm, crossing the yard, and was tempted to deliver her entire weight upon his shoulder, to make him collapse, or at least stagger. She clung to the railing as she made her way slowly and painfully up the stairs, with Tom behind her, and she thought maybe she ought to plunge backward down the steps again, deliberately, now that Tom was there to break her fall: maybe she could manage to land on his face and crush him to death.

  This was the first time killing entered her mind. It was a casual, insincere notion, proposed as an early attempt at self-defence, a slow, almost dreamy concept held aloft by a narcotic.