The Calling

by Inger Ash Wolfe

  'If they're not going to eat it they do.'

  'Go ahead,' she said, and he unwrapped it and ate it in five bites. Spere ate like a camel, his mouth slewing side to side. Hazel wondered how anyone could stand him outside of a professional context, and then she remembered that he was married and had three kids, and that at the summer fund-raising picnics, he was often the only cop in the place whose family looked like they were enjoying themselves. The whole world was stuffed with crazy imbalances like this. Spere: a happily married man.

  'How's the back?' he said, making her jump a little. She had to remind herself she'd only been thinking her thoughts, not saying them.

  'I'm ignoring it,' she said.

  He crumpled up the wax paper and stuffed it into the little plastic tub that was the garbage can. Then he dug in his coat pocket and took out a single white pill. He offered it to her. 'Jack's script was for three pills. I held one back, thinking you might want it.'

  She looked at it, a single Valium. 'I bet Gord Sunderland would love to have a photographer here right about now.'

  'I told you, I didn't—'

  'I know you didn't,' she said. 'And this is very kind of you, Howard, but I think I'd better live with the discomfort tonight.'

  He nodded at her, closing his fingers over the pill. He was putting it back into his pocket when he opened his hand in his lap and pushed a fingernail into the pill. It snapped in half. He looked at the two pieces lying there in his palm like he was expecting them to do something magical.

  Hazel reached over and took one of the halves. 'This'll just take the edge off.'

  'That's what I'm thinking,' he said.

  She swallowed it with a dry mouth. 'After this night is over, Howard, you're going to go back to being a thorn in my side, right?'

  'I promise,' he said.

  'Because too much has changed in my life lately to take you transforming into a gentleman.'

  'It won't happen,' he said. He settled back into his seat and stared out the windshield.

  She looked at the digital display on the dashboard. It said 11:13. She looked at it ten minutes later and it said 11:16. Howard had closed his eyes. The wait was going to kill her. She got out her cell and dialled the house.

  'Paula?' said her mother.

  'No, Mum, it's just me. I wanted to call and see how you were.'

  'Very full, a little drunk, and up sixteen dollars.' She lowered her voice to a whisper. 'Sally Eaton will call anything.'

  'I'm sorry I lost my temper with you before.'

  'You're under a lot of pressure, Hazel. You need a vacation.'

  'I do.'

  There was laughter in the background. 'How's your stakeout? Are you having fun?'

  'You are drunk, aren't you?'

  'Just a moment, dear.' Her mother held the phone away from her mouth. 'Clara, will you get that? It's Paula.' She came back to Hazel. 'Stupid woman. She owes us twelve dollars in antes. I better go. But if you catch your man, you can have the last piece of pie, okay?'

  'Thank you.'

  'Don't wake me before ten tomorrow!'

  Her mother hung up, and Hazel put the phone down on the console between the seats. Her mother, drunk with her pals on a Friday night. When am I going to learn how to live? she thought.

  The cold wind outside the car drove the snow into the headlights and went rustling through the tops of the trees. The branches whipped in sudden frenzies and gusts of snow exploded off the branches where it had settled. Then everything would come to stillness briefly. They'd sat silently for nearly another hour watching the occasional traffic move past slowly as well as a few nightbirds taking their dogs out for a last walk before turning in. It was nearly midnight; there had been no word from inside the house nor from the roving cars nor the men stationed on the rooftops since eleven. The radio silence was spooky. Even with a half a Valium inside her, Hazel Micallef was wide awake. She kept as still as she could in the driver's seat; any shifting sent shivers of pain down into her leg. The Valium made it feel as if it didn't matter, but she knew from experience that as soon as she stood up, she'd get a full dose of something else. In a matter of minutes this would all be over and she could move on to the next part of her life. In three weeks' time, she'd undergo a test even her GP warned her was 'unpleasant'. A CT myelogram. A spinal tap to fill her spine with ink, followed by a scan. Nothing else would be as definitive: after the test, they'd know if it was the knife for her or not.

  Midnight came and went. 'Christ,' said Spere, rousing himself. 'What if he doesn't show?'

  'He'll show,' she said. 'He's going to prove to us he can do it.' She keyed the radio quietly. 'Maintain positions.' She got a 'copy' from Wingate and from Fairview across the road from the Batten house.

  'What's the chance he's changed cars?' said Spere. 'Are we sure the officers on point are going to see him coming?'

  'They're just the first line of defence. He'll probably get through. But when he does, he won't be out of the car long before we're on top of him.'

  'Are you shooting?'

  'If he so much as tilts his head, yes.'

  They sat in the cold for another forty minutes and watched the snow coming down. It was blowing past in more than two directions, a soft chaos. At one-fifteen, Wingate radioed her. 'I'm sorry, Skip. But the mother's getting pretty anxious in here.'

  'Did she take a pill?'

  'I think we'd need an elephant tranquilizer at this point.'

  'Keep her calm,' said Hazel, but as she was speaking another voice broke in, saying please advise. 'Who is this?' she called. 'I do not copy—'

  'A car—' came Fairview's voice, breaking up, over the radio.

  'God, he's there,' said Spere.

  '—in front of the house—'

  'Who has him?' There was a flurry of voices: Glencoe and one of the officers inside the house by the name of Shepherd.

  'Shepherd, if you're at a window, get away from it. Glencoe?'

  'Here—'

  'You have a clear shot?'

  'It's not the right car—'

  'He could have changed cars!' shouted Spere into the handset.

  'He's getting out,' said Glencoe. 'I repeat, I have a suspect going up the walk. Rick, you got him?'

  The other shooter came on. 'I can see him, but he's yours, Glencoe.'

  Spere was already out of the car, shouting toward the houses. 'Take a shot, goddammit!'

  'Howard!' she called after him, but he was already in the street, the snow closing around him. 'Goddammit! I need an ID!' hissed Hazel into her radio. 'You know what this guy is supposed to look like—'

  'Shoot your fucking guns!' shouted Spere from the road.

  'It's not him – it's a kid,' said Fairview, 'a teenager. He's carrying something.' They listened to the officer scrabbling across the roof to a new location. 'Positions inside the house—'

  'We're ready,' came Wingate's voice.

  'This isn't our guy—'

  They heard a shot fired, and Hazel threw the car door open and sprang from the car. 'Man down!' shouted Glencoe, and she was in the road, sprinting. She hit the verge on the other side and something low in her back twanged and she went to the ground as if she'd been shot. Spere heard her shout and rushed back to her. 'Help me up—'

  'Can you walk?'

  'Goddammit,' she roared as he lifted her from the road. 'Is this fucking week ever going to end? Go! Let's go!'

  He took off ahead of her and, willing herself to move through the pain, Hazel took off after them. They rounded the corner and already they could hear shouts from the house. Wingate and the three other officers were flying out of the house and three of the roving cruisers had fishtailed onto the street from two different directions. There was a pile of three men on top of the suspect, and he was screaming in agony. They all arrived at the same instant, and Hazel dragged the cops off the kid. He'd been shot through the thigh and he was roiling on the ground, a star of dark-red blood soaking the snow. She could see all the porchlights going
on up and down the street. 'Who are you?' she shouted, falling on him and turning him face-up. 'Who are you!'

  'Oh God! God!'

  'Who are you!'

  'Danny! My name's Danny!'

  A frightened thought rushed across her mind, and Hazel lifted herself off their suspect. 'Is anyone still watching the house?' The men looked back and forth over her. 'For Christ's sake, someone get into that bedroom!' There was a sudden shudder and the small crowd of officers flew apart. She returned her attention to the kid on the ground beneath her. 'What are you doing here? Who sent you?'

  'I come from Bond Head,' he said. The tears were pouring down his cheeks. 'I been five hours in shitty weather, lady.'

  'Why.'

  'A guy paid me a hundred dollars to deliver a letter.' The thing he'd been holding was lying in the snow ten feet away, where it had landed after the kid had been knocked flying by the officers in the house. It was a small, white envelope. She could see from where she was that her name was on it, in a tight, black script. 'I swear to God!'

  She pushed up, willing herself to stand. The kid rolled into a ball, moaning. One of the men inside the house returned to the front door with both Rose and Terry. 'I want the whole perimeter of the house staked out. You've shown your faces now, so just make sure no one gets within five hundred metres of this place.' She'd been hearing doors opening and closing; in a matter of moments, they'd have a crowd. 'Keep people away from here!' she shouted to the officers in the cruisers.

  'What's happening?' said Terry.

  Hazel limped across the lawn, waving Wingate's hand off, and leaned down to pick up the small envelope. It weighed almost nothing. She'd left her gloves in the car and already her hands were beginning to freeze.

  'Don't touch that, Hazel,' Howard Spere said.

  'It's for me,' she said, panting for air. She put a fingertip under the edge of the flap and tore the envelope open. Her heart was pounding. She pinched the sides of the envelope and looked inside. There was a single, stiff piece of paper within. She drew it out and instantly dropped it into the snow, as if it had burst into flame at her touch.

  'My God—'

  'What is it!' called Spere from ten feet away.

  She fell to her knees. Instantly, her people were around her, their voices rising in fear. In the snow, a plasticized little square lay on its face, its black back shining up like a piece of slate. Wingate kneeled beside her, his arm around her shoulders, but she couldn't speak. 'Skip? Hazel ... what is it?'

  'A Polaroid,' she murmured.

  He reached down in front of her and turned it over. A wave of light moved over its surface.

  'That's my house,' she said, taking it out of his hand. 'That's a picture of my house.'

  * * *

  She said goodbye to her daughter, put the phone back on its hook, and came out cradling three glasses between her hands. Clara came down the hall with a strange look on her face.

  'It's not Paula,' she said.

  'Oh for God's sake.'

  'It's a man looking for Hazel.'

  'All right, just a moment everyone,' Emily said, and she put down the last glass and wiped her fingertips on the front of her pants. 'I'll go see what he—' she started to say, but before she could finish, Clara Lyon's face had disappeared in a spray of blood and bone. Clara fell back as if in a faint and, stepping around her, holding up a steel mallet drenched in gore, was a man in a long black coat. The whites of his eyes glowed a pale yellow and his skin hung from his skull as if it were dripping from the bone.

  'Emily Micallef?' he said. She stared at him in mute terror. The man stepped to her. 'I am Simon of Aramea.'

  22

  Saturday 27 November, 4 a.m.

  At the age of six, she'd lost her mother in a supermarket. Once a month, her mother would drive down to Mayfair to the big grocery store and Hazel would be allowed to push the cart up and down the aisles. She was old enough to read the prices on the little red stickers and already quick with numbers, and Emily gave her the task of choosing the least expensive brand of julienned green beans, or to calculate how much two sirloin steaks would cost. In her head, Hazel could see the numbers coming together, could hold the ones apart in her mind as she added the tens first. If, during this monthly outing, she was particularly useful or clever, her mother would buy her a barley-sugar sucker at the checkout, or even allow her to choose a cake for after supper.

  They'd been in the aisle with the rice and dry beans and at the end of the aisle, turning toward the dairy section, Hazel realized that she had been following a woman wearing the same coat as her mother. She turned and went back down the direction she'd come, but her mother was not there. Neither was she in either of the aisles on either side, nor in the frozen foods section, nor at the meat counter. Hazel stopped at the front of the store, where the pyramids of tuna and washing powder stood before the cashiers, and she recalled (now, as her entire complement of officers assembled at the station house in the middle of the night) that it was dark through the high windows at the front of the store, storm clouds had gathered, and she was afraid. But she did not want to call out or ask an adult for help because she thought if she did her mother would never reappear. What she feared most would become real. She clutched the cart's handle and began to search up and down the aisles in an orderly fashion even as a grip of terror tightened in her belly. At last she found her, at the very back of the store, inspecting a carton of eggs. She was picking each one out, turning it over and replacing it in its cardboard cup. Hazel rolled the cart up to her. 'How many eggs is a dozen and a half?' her mother had asked her, and Hazel told her eighteen. 'Did you find what you were looking for?'

  'Yes,' said Hazel.

  'Then let's pay,' said her mother. To her, Hazel had not been missing at all, and perhaps the entire episode had lasted less than two minutes. But Hazel had never forgotten the terror of thinking her mother had vanished.

  The overnight duty officers were Sergeant MacDonald, and constables Forbes and Windemere. Wingate had called the station house from the road, roaring back along the 121 with Hazel paralyzed in the passenger seat, telling the three officers that all hands were needed immediately, and when they arrived, all but PC Jenner and Sergeant Costamides were there. The moment Hazel passed through the doors, Forbes, Ashton and Windemere were given orders to hit the major highways west, north and south, and MacDonald and Wilton were to take unmarked cars and scour the side streets for suspicious activity of any kind in Port Dundas, Hoxley and Hillschurch.

  She stood in the pen in front of the rest of them and she knew her fear was naked. She could not muster at this moment what it would take to hide her torment from these people. Clara Lyon's body was on its way down to Mayfair. They had called Clara's daughter in Toronto, who was beginning the long drive north in a state of choking horror. Simon had herded Emily's three remaining guests – Grace Hughes, Margaret Entwhistle and Sally Eaton – into the garden shed and locked them there in their evening clothes. All three were in hospital suffering from hypothermia and there was some doubt that Mrs Entwhistle, already fragile with rheumatoid arthritis, was going to make it to morning.

  By the time the sun was coming up, they'd heard from all of the officers on patrol and there was nothing. In each of their voices, Hazel could hear the exhausted panic of having no time to succeed. There were no sightings of the car they believed Simon was driving, or reports of accidents, or untoward incidents of any kind. A call to Equifax established that Simon Mallick had two credit cards and a savings account, but he'd not made use of any of it in the preceding twelve hours. In fact, there had been no activity at all in any of his accounts since before the spring. In the station house, five constables had ceaselessly been dialling motels, inns, gas stations and all-night variety stores within three hundred kilometres to collect fax numbers; a hastily thrown-together description of Simon, Emily Micallef and the car was faxed out. If there was no fax machine, verbals were given. The entire place was roiling, but Hazel knew in the deepest
part of herself that the Belladonna would not be tripped up now. It was possible her mother was already dead, and that her killer had gone to ground. Grace Hughes was the only one of the three elderly ladies who was capable of talking to them: Kraut Fraser had gone to the hospital to interview her. She'd given the description of a man of skin and bone. She'd heard the vertebrae in his back grinding when he moved. He'd smelled to her of Juicy Fruit gum, she'd said, but underneath the sweetness, there was a scent of rotting meat. She told Fraser she was certain he was going to kill them all, but when he'd closed the shed door on them, he'd looked upon them all kindly and wished them a good night.

  'Juicy Fruit is ketones,' said Spere. He'd asked if he could speak to her in her office. 'He's starving himself. It comes from the breakdown of fat reserves. And if he wasn't crazy when he left Vancouver Island, you can bet he is now. If an old lady can smell ketones on this guy, then he's practically digesting his own body, including his brain.'

  'So this means my mother's dead or alive, Howard?' she snapped.

  'I'm just trying to give you a picture of the guy,' said Spere. 'What his state of mind might be.'

  Some of the overnighters had gone home at 6 a.m. to sleep for a few hours, and now they were coming back in, and some of the others were heading out, but reluctantly. All night long, it had felt to her like the place was shaking, as if they were on a ship in rough seas. It was no calmer now that daylight had come.

  She'd tried to avoid being in her office since arriving back in Port Dundas at 3 a.m. She hadn't wanted to see her desk, her phone, her chair, or any part of this room in which she'd failed to foresee the kind of upending Simon Mallick had plotted for them all. The room stank of her disastrous lack of foresight. She'd known he wasn't stupid, and yet she'd proceeded, in the thrall of what she thought of as her last hope, to try to trap him. And he had mocked her by striking at her very heart.

  She was aware that Howard Spere was staring at her with a tilted head. 'You okay?' he asked.

  'What?'

  'We were talking and you sort of zoned out. Maybe you should let one of your people take you home for a couple of hours.'