“I choose.”
He turned his attention back to the rest of the pen and said, “That’ll be it for now, everyone. We’ll be sorting out various details in the weeks to come, but you’ve got nothing to worry about. In fact, as I said, you’ll be getting more resources, not fewer. You’ll have what you need.”
He pushed off the desk and walked past Hazel into the hallway she’d come down.
“Let’s go to your office,” he said.
She followed him. “You want me to clean it out now?”
“Look, Hazel, you’ve got your hands full. With one body and an attack on someone else, this is a big case now. Commissioner Willan thought you could use me.”
“I could use you?”
He waved his hands around at the mess on her desk. “I can make do in the pen for the time being.”
“Are you looking forward to being a mall cop, Ray? Because that’s what Willan is dreaming of. A big shiny Cops ’R’ Us for the whole county.”
“Chip Willan is going to bring OPS Central into the twenty-first century, Hazel. You should come along.”
“Are all the kids doing it?”
He shook his head and decided to sit behind her desk. He was done trying the soft landing. “Why don’t you just do the rest of your script, Hazel? Then we’ll do mine, and then you can call me some names, and this’ll be over and done with.”
“Do you think I’m the villain in my script, too?”
He sat up straighter and leaned over the desk. “I have no idea who you are right now. It would be interesting to know that. It might help me to understand what, exactly, has been going on up here for the last week or so.”
“I’ll save it for the judge, Ray. In the meantime, Willan’s up to his shoulder in your fundament and he’s dying to work your mouth, so talk.”
She noted the faint, upward curving of his lips.
“Fine. You’ve got two attacks, some kind of insane woman armed with a stun gun, you’ve got Roland Forbes buying cigarettes again, and a detective on vacation in the midst of a huge case. Have I left anything out?”
“Looks like you have your sources.”
“I thought you might have some details to add to my outline.
“Nope,” she said. “See you later.” She made to leave, but he spoke, in a firm tone, to her back.
“You’re free to go when I’m completely debriefed.”
“You’re debriefed,” she said. “Girl kills man, cop pretends to smoke.”
“Is that what your report says?”
For the first time, she locked eyes with him. This man had been her colleague and then her deputy. A good man, a solid detective. But never much of an imagination, and, she even thought it then, a little long in the tooth. This was what Willan was replacing the dinosaurs with. And she was supposed to report to it.
“You’ll have my report when it’s done, Detec – what do I call you, anyway?”
“Hazel …”
“What’s your rank, Ray?” He didn’t answer her. Superintendent, probably. She pushed her tongue hard against her upper teeth. “Will I get a memo?”
“We’re getting six new bodies in here, Hazel. More resources. At least one more detective, and our own forensics guy.”
“You mean someone’s losing six bodies.”
“Port Dundas will be the hub for all of Central.”
“Well, good for Port Dundas, then. See you later.” She went to the door. “Did your script end this way?”
“Sort of.”
“No, it didn’t.” She was already halfway out. “I didn’t call you an asshole.”
] 17 [
It was best to stay to the sideroads. It was a strange feeling to drive; she hadn’t been behind the wheel of a car for more than two years. The feeling of freedom was incredible. She could just point the thing south and be gone. But she had a job to finish, and she was intent on seeing it done now.
When she got to Gilchrist, she drove the car down a gravel road and parked it in what appeared to be an unused garage back from the road a ways. The garage door was stuck in an open position and a rusted boat launch took up a third of the space. She was able to wedge the car in alongside. From beyond the falling-down little building, the car was in shadow. It didn’t matter now, though, if anyone found it: she was mere kilometres from her destination, and once she finished her business there, she’d be gone. No one would be able to trace the car to her, even if they did find it. This was the backcountry. No more cottagers this deep in: two hundred lakes of varying sizes seemed to be enough. That’s about how many she counted within a two-hour drive of that big city on the map: Toronto. She’d been there once for a couple of days, and she thought now of the pleasure of going back there. There was nothing keeping her here after this. And if Terry didn’t have what she wanted, Sugar would. Mr. Sugar would have it for sure. She had to leave him for last, to be safe – he was pretty close to where she’d started – and she’d figured him for it all along. But Terry, just in case. Maybe it was Terry. She’d always thought that he had no idea what he was actually involved in, he was that dumb. He was soft and dumb and he’d take whatever he was offered. And he didn’t seem like a guy with much money, anyway. It was probably a waste of time. Still, it could be him. If it was, then she’d be able to stay away from Mr. Sugar altogether. That would be a good thing.
She recognized Terry’s driveway, it was the one with the wooden cowboy silhouette whose arms spun in a breeze. It had taken her less than half an hour to walk here from where she’d stashed the car. She knocked on his door.
“Hi, Terry,” she said.
He cast his eyes out wildly beyond her, looking for something he didn’t find. “What are you doing here?”
“I come to say hello.”
He held his teeth together tightly. “I’m not alone, f’r chrissake.”
“No matter! Invite me in.”
A woman’s voice came from the hallway. “Terry? Who is it?” She arrived beside him. This would have to be the wife. “Hello there!”
“Hello, madam,” said Larysa. “I’m Kitty.”
“Kitty, what a lovely name. Come in. Are you one of Terry’s students? I mean, Mr. Brennan’s? Isn’t that so hard to say? Come in.”
Terry stood aside and she entered the house and walked through the little front hall to what Terry had told her was called an “atrium” the last time she’d been here, more than a month ago. “A very beautiful house,” she said.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Brennan. Soon she would say, “Call me Bridgit,” or whatever, and then they would be on a first-name basis. Mrs. Brennan came around her and led the way into her kitchen. “I don’t meet a lot of Terry’s students. You must be in grade twelve?”
She laughed. “Oh, I’m older. Mr. Brennan is tutoring me. I call him Terry, too.”
Mrs. Brennan’s smile did not skip a beat. “Ah, that’s right. Terry mentioned he might have to work late on and off because of you! But I didn’t realize he’d started.”
“I make time during the day,” said Terry lightly. “During lunch I fit in half an hour, and Kitty stops by my office.”
“How excellent. Sit. Come and sit.” She dropped the two of them off at the kitchen table. Then Larysa saw her make a face. Her eyes and mouth sucked up into the middle of her features and she was saying, “Ooo, ooo!” – what on earth was she doing? But then she saw it was a baby. A baby on the counter in its little rocker chair. She hadn’t known that Terry was a father. A baby with a baby. She stared at him while his wife fussed over his offspring. It looked like all of the muscles in his face had gone slack.
Terry Brennan mouthed, What the fuck?
Mrs. Brennan put on the kettle. Now Larysa saw the fat pink fist writhing above the edge of the chair. “How old is baby?” she asked.
“Five months. A total tiger. Terry can barely lift him.” Larysa walked around the table to the counter. Terry’s eyes widened. The baby was roiling in his little bouncy chair, all arms and l
egs and belly and diaper. He was naked except for his diaper. He looked like a raw chicken wrapped in a hand towel.
“Look at him go.”
“He’s fulla rocket fuel!” said Mrs. Brennan. She was a pretty woman. Young, probably mid-thirties. How long had she been in the picture? And what did she see in dumb, slow Terry? Larysa smiled to herself. The only thing anyone could see in Terry. He was malleable. And she’d given him a son. “You hungry, Kitty? I can always make you a quick toastie.”
Larysa laughed. “What is a toastie?”
“Bread, cheese, toaster oven. Or bread, tuna, cheese, toaster oven. What is your accent?”
“From Paris,” Larysa said.
“I thought you sounded French.”
“Sometime people say I talk like Eastern European, but people with good taste always know I am French.”
“Je parle un peut!” Mrs. Brennan said.
“Oh, very nice,” Larysa said. “You are a very good French speaker!”
“Merci.” The kettle boiled, and Mrs. Brennan turned her attention to it. Larysa looked back down on the baby. Just beyond the upper rim of the bouncy chair, she saw Terry sitting utterly still in his chair, his eyes on her, his mouth frozen in a half-made expression. “So what does Terry tutor you in?”
“Law,” said Larysa.
“Law?” said Mrs. Brennan. “Since when do you teach law, Terry?”
“Law of averages,” said Larysa.
“Oh, math! That’s not law.”
“Law of jungle.”
“Oh, ho,” said Mrs. Brennan now, but there was finally something there, Larysa heard it, the first inkling in the woman’s voice. She moved away from the preparation area and back toward her baby.
“I like a cheese toastie,” Larysa said. Mrs. Brennan leaned over and smelled the baby.
“Oh my, what a rude little baby!” she cried. “Filling his diaper in front of a guest!” The baby had smelled neutral, even nice. But Mrs. Brennan scooped him up and took him out of the room. The instant she was gone, Brennan sprung to his feet and had her forearm twisted up in his fist.
“What the heck are you doing here? How’d you even get here?”
She wrenched her arm away from him. “Tell her come back, Terry. Baby can stay in the other room. But she should be here for this, no?”
“I don’t know what you want, but whatever it is, it can be dealt with the next time I see you.”
“Sure. You think you ever see me again after today? You’re very not smart, Terry.” She showed him the folded hunting knife. “Tell her come in, or I put this into your eye right now and cut it out. Then I go find the baby. Cut baby up.”
“Hey, Colleen! Come back in here.”
“I’m just settling the baby!”
“The baby better wait.”
Colleen crept back into the room. “Whatever this is, I don’t need to be any part of it.”
“It’s nothing,” said Terry. “She just wants a refund because I’m not, I guess I’m not the best tutor for her specialty. How much is the refund, Kitty?”
Then Colleen saw the folding knife in Larysa’s hand. She took a moment to categorize it and put her hand over her mouth.
“She’s going to hurt little Stephen!”
“No, she’s not,” said Terry Brennan.
His wife stood there on one side of the kitchen counter, trapped in her terror. Larysa said, “Terry have something which belongs to me.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Just remind me again what the figure is?”
“Oh, Terry,” Larysa said, laughing brightly. Of course he didn’t have it. But she wasn’t done. She was here now. She said, “Are you sure? Don’t you pick up something of mine?”
“Ah! Ha ha!” Terry Brennan said, urgently remembering something that wasn’t there. “That! Of course, I forgot I had that. Now where did I put it?”
The blade came out with a metallic whack and instantly she had the point at the side of his neck. Mrs. Brennan shrieked very briefly, like a gun going off. Larysa grabbed a handful of hair from the back of Terry’s head and pushed the tip of the knife in, bending his throat back. He swallowed. A little dot of blood appeared under the point. “Go and bend down on the counter. I am moving you there. Careful.”
“I have whatever you need,” he said.
“Terry?” said the wife quietly. “Who is she?”
“She’s from the special needs group, Colleen. It’s gonna be okay. I know her. Right, Kitty? We’re going to talk about this.”
“Yes, absolutely we talk,” she said. Brennan was braced against the countertop, his arms at his sides, and she held the knife against the softness under his chin. “Tell Colleen Brennan what it is you have.”
“Please, Kitty.”
“Tell her what it is. Then you take me to it, and this is over. I go.”
“Terry, you can tell me,” Mrs. Brennan said, her voice wet and anguished. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. Just tell her what she wants to know and we’ll deal with the rest of it.”
“Your wife is beautiful,” said Larysa, “she has good thought. You should listen to her.”
The baby began squalling in another room.
“Stay,” Larysa said when Mrs. Brennan twitched. “He is almost ready for tell you.”
The eye that faced her, in the side of Terry Brennan’s head, roved wildly, like a spooked horse, and he said, “I’ll tell her about it all, Kitty, I’ll confess it. But I still don’t know what it is you think I have …”
“I know,” she said, “I know you don’t have it.”
“Good.”
“And I know you will tell her everything.”
“I will! I will!”
“Tell me what, Terry?” said the wife, and Larysa pulled him up off the counter, and then, her hand still on his shoulder, she extended him backwards and drove the knife deep into the middle of his back. This was a knife for quartering game. Brennan collapsed like someone had cut his strings, gasping air inwards the whole way down. She turned to his wife, who was as motionless as a photograph.
“How do you know if a man is telling you the truth?” Larysa asked her.
Colleen Brennan’s stunned eyes ticked over to the stranger. “What?” she said.
Terry Brennan was quivering against the back of the counter. “How do you know when a man tells the truth!” she shouted.
“No, no, no – ” the wife gibbered, and Larysa put the tip of the knife into her husband’s throat and pulled it across.
“Answer is: you don’t.”
] 18 [
Mid-afternoon
Hazel sent a text to Wingate – she figured a text might buy him a few more minutes of vacation than a call would – and put her phone back in her pocket as she went through the door to the sound of wailing. It was almost too raw to be human, and she realized it was a baby. The man’s wife was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to calm the infant, but there’d been too much sudden activity all around him and there would be no settling the baby down.
Mrs. Brennan rocked him in her arms, but she was silent, her eyes focused on something in another room. Spere’s SOCO team was already there when Hazel arrived, and it was ranging throughout the house, collecting samples, taking photographs, bagging items, dusting, swabbing, logging. When she came into the kitchen, Mrs. Brennan looked up at her briefly, confused. A PC from Fort Leonard had arrived before she or Spere’s crew had gotten here, a woman whose nametag said Quinn. The movements of the SOCO officers were ghostly in the background.
The girl had been here. This was all Hazel knew. But she had a name now: Kitty. The man had called her Kitty. She’d appeared at the house around three in the afternoon and half an hour later, she was gone, and Terry Brennan had been medevacked to Toronto Western for emergency surgery. But no one thought he’d make it.
The baby had settled a little now, his snuffles coming spasmodically, and Mrs. Brennan was whispering to him and stroking his head.
“Mrs. Brennan?
” Hazel said softly. “Do you think we can talk now?”
“I thought she was going to … kill Stephen.”
“How do you think your husband knew this Kitty?” Mrs. Brennan looked up, startled. Hazel put a hand on her knee. “Colleen? It’s okay. There’s no need to be afraid.”
“When is the hospital going to call?”
“Soon. They’re doing what they can. Was Terry involved in anything unusual you know of?” she asked, moving deftly over her omissions. “Or was he absent from the home a lot for unexplained reasons?”
“No … no. Terry taught math at Gilchrist Middle. She said she was a student of his. That he tutored her.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
“No,” she said quietly, wonderingly.
“Mrs. Brennan, did he ever go to Queesik Bay? You know, the reserve? It has a casino on it?”
The woman was clearly still thinking of something else, and her eyes drifted over to one of Spere’s SOCO crew, who was dabbing at a countertop beside her with a cotton-tipped swab. He examined the end of the swab and put the whole thing into a ziplock bag.
“Mrs. Brennan?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t keep tabs on him. Maybe I should have kept tabs on him.” The baby’s mood had changed and now he was grabbing at the necklace that hung down between Mrs. Brennan’s breasts. She smiled at him with a worried expression. “Can someone call the hospital?”
His pulse, she’d been told when she called, had been thready at the crime scene, his vitals almost non-existent. Spere’s team was packing up. “She didn’t go upstairs, is that right?” Spere asked the stunned wife.
“No, no. I think they were in the kitchen the whole time.”
“All right, then,” he said. When he walked past Hazel, she smelled hot mustard on his breath.
“I think he’s getting hungry,” Mrs. Brennan said, and for a moment, Hazel had thought she meant Howard. “Can I feed him?”
“Of course,” said Hazel, and she watched the woman going through the motions of putting the baby into his bouncy chair on the countertop. She opened her freezer door and took out a couple of colourful frozen pucks off a cookie sheet, one green, one tan-coloured.
A Door in the River Page 11