If Looks Could Kill

by Michael Blair

  When Ryan closed the door of my office my mouth went dry and my heart began to pound in my chest.

  “I’m running out of time,” he said. His voice seemed unnaturally loud in the small office. “If I don’t find her soon there’s going to be some serious hell to pay.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, gratified, and a little surprised, that my voice didn’t quaver.

  “It means,” Ryan said, “that if you’re smart you’ll tell me where she is. This is a stupid and dangerous game she’s playing. I don’t think she has a clue how stupid and dangerous it is. People could get hurt. I don’t want to see anyone get hurt. Do you?”

  “No. But I don’t know where she is. Even if I did,” I said, “I’m not sure I would tell you.”

  Ryan shook his head slowly. “I thought you were smarter than that, McCall. It just goes to show how wrong you can be about people. Look, why make more trouble for yourself? You seem to have enough to worry about.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I went by your place this morning,” Ryan said. “Is your house really sinking? Remind me never to live in a houseboat.”

  “What do you know about my house sinking?” I asked.

  “Me? Nothing. Nothing at all. All I’m saying is that there’s lots worse kinds of problems than your houseboat sinking, trust me. Save yourself the aggravation, just tell me where Carla is.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Threatening you,” Ryan said, smiling widely. “Hell, no. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. Did it sound like a threat?”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “Well, it wasn’t. I’m just telling you the way things are. Look,” he added, standing, “I gotta go to L.A. for a few days. Think about what I said. I’ll give you a number you can reach me at.” He wrote the number on a business card and dropped it onto my desk. “Think about it,” he said again. “Think about it real hard.” He opened the door and left.

  * * * * *

  I got home around four o’clock, still a little unnerved by my conversation with Ryan. There was no sign of Bernard Simpson or his crew, but they obviously hadn’t finished; their equipment littered the docks and the house was still exhibiting a slight list. The water was back on, at least.

  Hilly would be home around five-thirty. Day camp let out at five and she usually hung around the arcade for a while before coming home. The message light on the answering machine was blinking rapidly, indicating three messages.

  “Mister McCall, this is Davy at the community centre. Your daughter did not come to day camp today and as per our policy I am calling to confirm that you are aware of it. Thank you.”

  I didn’t wait to hear the other messages. I hit the STOP button and immediately began to panic. The first thing that popped into my mind was that Ryan had kidnapped her to exchange for information about Carla, information I didn’t have. Christ, was that what he’d meant by “lots worse kinds of trouble”? Then I remembered what Daniel had said about a man hanging around the arcade treating the kids to free video games.

  “Get hold of yourself,” I said aloud.

  The message light on the answering machine was still blinking. I pressed the PLAY button. Maybe one of the other messages was from Hilly.

  “Thomas, this is your mother speaking…”

  I hit the FAST FORWARD button until the machine beeped. All I heard when I released the button was a hollow click.

  I rewound the tape a little and pressed PLAY.

  “…speaking. If your father is there, would you please tell him the repairman says it will cost two hundred dollars to replace the dishwasher motor.”

  She rambled on pointlessly for half a minute more while I jittered in frustration and kept my finger away from the FAST FORWARD button. Finally she hung up and the machine beeped.

  The third message was nothing but a second or so of silence followed by a hollow click.

  I swore and hit the button that speed-dialled Daniel’s number. He’d told me he was going to be spending most of the day on a job site, but if Hilly was watching television, perhaps she’d pick up. His line rang four times, then clicked as the call was forwarded to his cellular. He answered it on the second ring. There was construction noise in the background.

  “No,” he said. “I haven’t seen her, but she knows where to find the key. If she isn’t there, though, don’t let your imagination get the better of you.”

  Easy for him to say, I thought as I hung up.

  She wasn’t at Daniel’s. I rang Maggie Urquhart’s bell, but no one answered. I went to the arcade and asked the kids there if any of them had seen the girl with the ferret. None had. Discouraged – I really had hoped to find her there – I went to the ferry dock and checked with the drivers and attendants. A number of them remembered her, but none of them recalled seeing her this morning, sorry.

  On my way back to the house I stopped at the dive shop. Perhaps Hilly had taken Francine up on her offer of diving lessons. But the man behind the counter told me that Francine wouldn’t be back until late that evening. And, no, no little kids had come in asking for her.

  Back home I dithered for a few minutes, wondering what to do next, then I called the police. Within fifteen minutes two constables were at my door, a woman in her late thirties or early forties and a man in his twenties. They looked around, exchanging looks, but did not comment on the equipment on the dock or the condition of the house.

  “Am I overreacting?” I asked after the policewoman had taken the report and Hilly’s description. The tag on the breast pocket of her uniform blouse read M. FIRTH.

  “No,” Constable Firth said. “Technically, there’s still a forty-eight hour waiting period for reporting missing persons, but we don’t apply it to children.”

  “I’m not sure I find that reassuring,” I said.

  “Now you’re overreacting,” she said. “Look, we get lots of calls like this. Most of them are false alarms. Kids being kids. But we take them seriously, believe me. The best thing you can do is keep calm and call everyone you can think of she might be with.”

  “She hasn’t had time to make many friends,” I said, realizing I didn’t even know Courtney’s last name nor where she lived.

  “Kids make friends easily,” she said. “She’s probably with one of them right now. We’ll check with the community centre and see if there are any other kids who didn’t show up today.”

  I mentally kicked myself. I hadn’t thought of that.

  Constable Firth wrote a number on the back of a business card and handed it to me. “That’s the case number. When your daughter comes back, or if you hear from her or think of anything else, call the station and give the desk sergeant that number. He’ll pass the message on to me.”

  I wanted to tell her that it was possible that Hilly had been abducted by Vince Ryan, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I didn’t really believe it – I didn’t want to believe it – and I was afraid that if I said it I would believe it, that saying it would make it true.

  “And when she gets home…” Firth said.

  “Yes?”

  “Be firm with her, let her know how badly she scared you, ground her for a couple of days, but don’t go overboard. By the looks of things around here you’ve had other things on your mind lately. Maybe she’s just trying to get your attention.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I got three kids of my own,” she said. “Between them and this job I’ve got a pretty good feel for these things.” We shook hands and they left.

  * * * * *

  Hilly got home at quarter to six, acting as though nothing was wrong. But she was a lousy actor. Guilt was written all over her.

  “How was your day?” I asked casually, although I was almost faint with relief.

  “Okay.” She put Beatrix on the kitchen counter. The ferret jumped into the sink and began licking the drops from the faucet. “What’s for dinner?”

  “I haven’t thought about it,” I said, picking
up the telephone. I started dialling the number on the card the police had left.

  “Who are you calling?” Hilly asked.

  “The police.”

  “The police? Why?”

  “To tell them you’re home.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  I gave the desk sergeant my name and the case number and told him that everything was okay.

  “The officers who took the report will be there within half an hour.”

  “Is that really necessary?” I asked.

  “Yes, they have to see the child to close the report.”

  “All right, we’ll be here.”

  I hung up.

  “You called the police,” Hilly said.

  “I was worried,” I said. “Actually, I was scared half to death. Where were you?”

  “With Courtney.”

  “Okay, you were with Courtney. Now where were you?”

  “Just hanging around.”

  “Could you be more specific? I checked the arcade and a few other places.”

  “Just hanging around,” she said again. “Different places. We went downtown and took the SeaBus across to North Van.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the day camp? Did that kid give you a hard time again?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s just boring.”

  “Listen,” I said. “I’m pretty upset. And angry. Some kind of punishment is definitely in order. Until further notice the arcade is off limits.” I stood up and turned the cold water tap until the faucet ran slowly. Beatrix drank thirstily. “Haven’t you given her anything to drink today?”

  Hilly looked stricken. “I forgot.”

  The police constables arrived ten minutes later. I called Hilly down from her room. We sat around the kitchen table and the policewoman introduced herself to Hilly as Mabel Firth and asked her where she’d been during the day, with whom, and was there any particular reason why she’d not gone to the day camp? Hilly told her what she’d told me.

  “Don’t you think you should have told your father you were going to spend the day with your friend?” Officer Firth asked.

  “I suppose. I didn’t think it’d really matter, though. He was busy.”

  I winced inwardly.

  “Had he arranged for other people to look after you when he’s at work?”

  “Sure. Daniel or Mrs. Urquhart.”

  “Did you tell them you were going to spend the day with – ” She consulted her clipboard. “ – Courtney?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Your father was very worried about you. And those other people you mentioned, they’re probably worried too. It’s a very scary thing for grown ups when kids are missing.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  I hugged her and said, “Next time tell me, all right.”

  Constable Firth stood up. “Okay, I guess we’re done here.”

  I shook hands with them both. “Thanks again.”

  “No problem,” the policewoman said. “You,” she added, spearing Hilly with a look. “I know sometimes it looks like grown ups don’t have time or aren’t interested, but give us a chance. We might surprise you.”

  Hilly said she would and went upstairs. I walked the officers to the door. Constable Firth told her partner she wanted a word with me. He nodded and said he’d wait in the car.

  “I like Hilly,” Constable Firth said. “She seems pretty level-headed. My youngest girl is only a year older than Hilly and I know how difficult it can be to hold down jobs and raise kids these days. My husband works for the city too, but his hours are a little more regular than mine. Still, it can be tough, especially when a child is handicapped. How long has Hilly been hearing impaired?”

  “Since she was four,” I said.

  “My oldest has had epilepsy since he was nine,” she said. “The meds keep it under control now, but when he was Hilly’s age he didn’t have an easy time of it and there were a few behavioural problems, nothing very serious, thank god. How is Hilly coping?”

  “I think she’s coping pretty well,” I said. “It’s something she’s lived with all her life. There was a kid at day camp who harassed her, but that doesn’t happen very often. She can be a little selectively hard-of-hearing from time to time, as can we all, and occasionally she’s turned her hearing aids off, like kids will sometimes stick their fingers in their ears, but she’s never used her handicap to get her own way.”

  “My husband calls it the ‘guilt stick,’” Mabel Firth said. “You can’t let them get away with it, of course. The thing is, though,” she added, “they’re the ones living with the handicap, not us. They have a right to feel sorry for themselves from time to time.”

  “Hilly is the least self-pitying person I know,” I said. “She learned early that no matter how bad things might be for her, there were lots of kids worse off than she was.”

  Mabel Firth smiled. “That’s a lesson all of us need to be reminded of now and again.”

  Chapter 22

  I wasn’t in the mood to cook, so I decided to take Hilly out to dinner. As we reached the intersection of the finger dock and the main dock, we almost collided with my father, Maggie Urquhart and Harvey. They were coming from the direction of the gate. My father was holding Harvey’s leash. He seemed pleased to see me. Harvey, not my father.

  “Hi, Stinkpot,” my father said to Hilly.

  “Hi, Grumps,” she said.

  “What are you doing in Vancouver, Dad?” I said.

  “Eh? Oh, I had some business to take care of,” he said. “I rang your bell but you weren’t around. I bumped into Maggie here and she kindly allowed me to accompany her on her errands.” He looked at his watch. “Goodness, I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ve been bending this little lady’s ear for hours.”

  “I’m going to do your father’s chart,” Maggie said.

  “Oh,” I said. Since when was my father interested in astrology? Or was it the astrologer?

  Dad looked embarrassed. “Ahem, well, y’know. What’s the harm?”

  What harm indeed? I thought. “Hilly and I are going for dinner,” I said. “Would you like to join us?”

  “Ah, we’ve eaten,” my father said. He looked at Maggie, then said, “Tom, Maggie’s been telling me she’s a little concerned about the lack of security around here.”

  “Lack of security? What do you mean? The gate’s always locked. And you’ve got an alarm system, don’t you?” Not to mention Harvey.

  Maggie nodded, but added, “There was a man on the docks the other day, on this side of the gate. He was taking pictures.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it” I said. “Tourists are always trying to get onto the docks. Someone must have left the gate open. It happens.”

  “I’m sure this man wasn’t a tourist,” she said. “I’m very sensitive to people. He didn’t feel like a tourist.” I wondered what a tourist felt like. “There was something sinister about him.” She shook her head. “Not sinister, exactly. I’m probably just reacting to his disfigurement. But he wasn’t a tourist, I’m sure of that, even though he was dressed like one.”

  “What disfigurement?” I asked.

  “His hand,” she said. “It was like a claw. He was missing the middle fingers of his right hand.”

  It wasn’t until Hilly and I were walking back home from dinner that I remembered the two-fingered tourist with the video camera we’d seen on the boardwalk last week.

  * * * * *

  In the morning, to make sure they got there, I delivered Hilly and Beatrix to the community centre, with instructions to go straight to Maggie’s afterward. As I was walking to the ferry dock, I saw Francine loading diving gear into her Jeep. I waved and she waved back. She looked so nice in her cut-offs and T-shirt that I went over and said, “Hi.” Once you got used to it, her muscular development was really quite interesting.

  “Hi,” she replied with a smile.

  “Um,” I said, getting right to the point. “If yo
u’re going to be around later maybe we could get together for a coffee or something and talk about Hilly’s diving lessons. That is, if you’re not too busy.”

  “No problem,” she said. “Why don’t you come by the shop around five.”

  I said, “Great. See you later, then.”

  She reached for a big gunny sack on the cobbles, but I got to it first and hoisted it into the back of the Jeep.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “No problem,” I said, pressing my hand against my back just above my kidneys and exaggerating the strain in my voice, but not much. “I think I’ve hurt myself.”

  “You have not,” she said. “Have you?”

  “It’s a small price to pay to preserve the honour of my gender.”

  She laughed, but I hobbled almost all the way to the ferry dock. I was walking more or less normally by the time I got to the studio.

  “Thank god you’re here,” Mrs. Szymkowiak said. “I think they’re killing each other.”

  “Who?”

  “Roberta and Ronald.” Mrs. Szymkowiak always called people by their full given names.

  There was a muted crash from the back of the studio. Mrs. Szymkowiak moaned and wrung her hands. “Do something,” she said.

  “Damn,” I said, but she expected more and pushed me toward the back of the studio.

  The lab door was locked. It wasn’t supposed to be, not ever. It wasn’t supposed to even have a lock. There was another crash, followed by a heavy thud. The dividing wall shuddered. It wasn’t a supporting wall, not especially sturdy, but it wasn’t exactly flimsy, either.

  I banged on the door with my fist. “What’s going on in there?” I called. “Ron. Bobbi. Unlock this door.”

  The door opened and Bobbi stamped out, face red and ugly with anger.

  “You stay the fuck out of here,” Ron Church shouted at her back. “I catch you goin’ through my stuff again you’ll be real sorry, I guarantee that.”