by Baigh Queen
Forty-eight Canary Drive. Beside the front door are two mailboxes, one beside a large A the other beside a bedazzled B. It glitters in the sunlight, completely out of place on the red and yellow bricks. There aren’t even any flowers in the garden—only a large patch of dirt beside the stairs and brown grass.
Bane heads towards the front door and I follow. I make sure to wave at the man mowing the lawn down the street, just in case Bane’s brought me here to murder me. At least then there would be one witness.
When Bane reaches the house he opens the screen door and picks a key out from his keyring, shoving it into the top lock. It works.
“You live here?”
“I just have a key,” he replies without looking back at me. He pushes the door open and then steps back, holding the screen door for me.
“You first.”
He rolls his eyes but steps inside. I’m still moving slowly, more from suspicion than my ankle. The house opens into the living room, two couches and a television, and not much else. The walls are blank on my left, and to the right is the kitchen. Two blue recycling boxes sit by a tiny table and two plastic chairs. One of the boxes holds a container of protein powder. “You said you didn’t live here.”
Bane’s eyes follow mine to the powder. “You got that from protein powder?” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t live here, just crash sometimes to look after who does.”
I furrow my brow.
He clarifies. “Not Lily. She lives downstairs.” One large finger points to a door with a deadbolt on the other side of the kitchen. I walk over, taking in the old appliances and the large number of plain cereal boxes on the counter. The window overlooks the front yard, dirty and smudged.
I knock on the door and receive no answer. Hesitantly I resist the instinct to look to Bane for direction. Part of me wonders if he’s telling the truth, leading me to a basement with a deadbolt in a grimy plain house. It’s more than a little suspicious considering our history of being nemeses. I try the doorknob and it turns, opening wide.
A sigh escapes through my nose. The light over the rickety wooden stairs is out, but I can make out a dim yellow glow at the bottom. “Lily?” I call.
There’s silence a moment before I hear a small sigh. I turn my head to look at Bane, still in the same spot in the living room, hands in his pockets. He shrugs at me. My body isn’t screaming that this is a trap, though the many jock-tricks-desperate-loser movies that exist spring to mind. Still, I take each step carefully, putting as little weight as I can on the questionable railing.
“Lily?” I call again. No answer.
Each step creaks and groans beneath my weight. When I make it to the bottom my ankle is beating in tune with my heart, but I find Lily. She’s passed out on a round table, hair a halo around her as her forehead presses into the wood. If it weren’t for her shoulders slight movement I would have thought she was dead. But it’s not Lily that keeps my attention, it’s the whiteboard behind her.
The map of Canada is sparse, save for a few pins and dates. I inch closer, finding the strength to overcome the pain in my ankle as curiosity takes its place.
“1983, 1985, 1991,” I read quietly. All of the dates are stuck beneath pins, all over the towns that were originally bombed. My eyes take in the entire map, memorizing it though I already know the dates--I’d never seen it laid out like this. In a line travelling across the country. I’d read the theories, but seeing it now...it feels all the more real.
On the right of the map is a list titled “Reasons He Vanished” and a long trail of explanations as to why the Roundabout Bomber stopped his reign of terror. Most of them are basic; died, went to prison, murdered by the government. But one strikes my interest. “Forgot?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lily shouts. Her chair and table screech as she shoots up, slamming her hands on the table. I jump and whirl, nearly toppling over. I manage to catch myself on my good foot, planting it on the concrete floor.
The stairs let out loud creaks as Bane peeks down them. When he sees Lily he comes all the way down, the top of his head nearly touching boards that cross along the ceiling. His eyes slide over Lily as she rubs her own, and then move on to the board. One brow rises but he stays silent. I like this new, quieter Bane.
“Did you do all this Lily?” I knew she had done her research, but I thought that meant reading a few articles. Not...mapping out what happened. I look back at the board, taking in the dates again when I see one in Nova Scotia. 1979. I furrow my brow.
Lily looks at Bane and turns to face me. She’s still in her uniform, and I wonder if she’s changed at all since I originally saw her at the park. She nods at me as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out an elastic, running her hands through her hair before putting it up. “Uh, yeah. Once I start researching something I can’t stop--so this just seemed like the next best step.”
I nod, looking back to the list of reasons. “Forgot?” I question.
“Just a theory I’m working on.” She waves me away, the very same motion I give my mother when I’m trying to write and she won’t stop asking me questions.
Lily pushes the heel of her hands into her eyes. When she removes them she looks at Bane with a squint. “Grandma’s not here.”
“I know,” he says.
I’m finding it hard not to ask too many questions right now. But my mouth has other ideas and I say, “Grandma?”
“My father’s mom,” Bane explains with a smile.
I run my tongue over my teeth. “I meant--”
“Shouldn’t you be focusing on this?” Bane sticks one hand in his pocket and uses the other to point at the board Lily has created. Not only does she have a list of reasons he disappeared, she has a list of the original suspects, with pictures to boot. There’s only two, both of them truck driver’s that drove a similar route the bomber went with a couple of missing points. I recognize both of them from my own research, but I haven’t seen any new people in town that match their descriptions.
I run my eyes over it all again. “I don’t think any of the original suspects were involved. They have alibis for some of the dates, and neither of them look like the types to be into vintage hats.”
Lily raises her nose in the air. “What does that look like?”
“Hm?” I turn to face her.
“The kind of people that are into vintage hats.”
I think a moment but only one name comes to mind. “Brett, I guess.” I mumble the reply as guilt settles in my gut. Why did I have to be so mean to him when he’s trying to help? However the guilt is still surrounded by my anger for him treating me like a child.
Bane’s pocket begins to ring and he answers immediately. I’m about to start asking Lily where she got the information for the 1979 date when he abruptly hangs up and pulls the handcuffs off his belt. His footsteps are like thunder on the concrete as he walks over to me and grabs one arm. Within seconds he swings me around and the cuffs are linked on both my wrists.
“What the hell?” I question. “You’re arresting me? For what?”
“You’ll find out at the station,” Bane says. Even Lily seems caught off guard as she stands there, mouth agape and watching the scene unfold. Bane starts to push me towards the doors, but he’s holding my left arm pretty tightly to allow me to walk properly. My ankle is hurting again.
It’s slow going up the stairs, and my muttering and curses aren’t making us move any faster. When we reach the top I ask, “At least tell me what the hell this is about?”
“What do you think it’s about?” Bane questions back.
“I don’t know you two-bit blue canary,” I reply, “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
Of all things, Bane let out a laugh. “You’ve done a lot wrong. Like sticking your nose into this investigation.”
I stop, forcing Bane to start to pull me. Resisting is pointless so I go along with him as he makes his way to his cruiser. “Wait, so there is an investigation?”
Chapter Ten
I’m elated that there’s an actual investigation going on. So elated that I manage to shrug off the fact that I’m still in cuffs and sitting in a small interrogation room with my foot elevated on the second chair. I know there’s two interrogation rooms in the building after taking a tour with my eleventh grade law class; one that is 24 x 12, with a two-way mirror and a long table taking up most of the room, and the other one a literal closet that they made into a mini interrogation room because...well actually I don’t know why. Lord knows we don’t ever have more than one person to interrogate in this town. I’m only stuck in this one because of the man that cuffed me. Bane of my existence.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here for. There’s no clocks on the walls, and usually my phone acts as my watch so I’m at a loss. All I know is that thankfully nobody can watch me through a two-way mirror in here, and there’s an investigation going on. They’re looking into the bombing! I made them look into it. A sense of pride blooms in my chest, but falls as soon as I hear the door opening.
It’s heavy and clunky, and whoever is on the other side struggles to push it open. Not Bane, at least. I lean to my left, hoping to get a look at whoever is there but find it isn’t a cop. It’s an outsider, and one that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.
Osh’s bright red coat stands out in the dull lighting of the room. Her black hair shines, despite the ugly yellow lighting. I’m grateful there isn’t a mirror on one of these walls, because I’m certain I look like a washed out disaster. I lick my lips as she pushes her hair back after her struggle with the door. It swings shut with a slam.
“Ms. Weaver,” the woman says.
“Osh,” I reply. It feels strange to call her by her nickname, considering she still makes my adrenaline rush, but she had insisted. And my small town attitude compels me to give her that much. It’s all I plan on giving her though.
Osh takes the one and a half steps to the chair opposite me and is about to sit down when she sees my foot. I go to move but she waves at me, instead choosing to sit on the table and twist her spine to face me. I watch her, looking her up and down. She really doesn’t fit in in Goderich.
“I have to say,” Osh begins, “this is the first time I gave a girl my number and she didn’t call right away. I’m a little insulted.”
My mouth opens and I’m trying to make words come out, but I’m too focused on her little smile. The bright red lipstick is different than before, her lashes darker and longer. Did she put on more makeup for this? I blink at her, wondering what that could mean.
“Did you even look at the card?” she asks.
I look at the ceiling in thought. “Actually, I didn’t.” Between fighting with Brett, then fighting with Bane and seeing Lily, I hadn’t even glanced at the card. “My bad.”
Osh runs her tongue over her lips. “Well what you would have seen was my business.”
“I figured.”
With a frown Osh reaches into a pocket on the inside of her coat and pulls out a silver card-holder. She gets a card from it and places it on the table, sliding it over to me and putting her black manicured nails on display. When they return to her side I read, “Sharpe Investigations.”
I blink again. Then again. And before I know that’s all I can do. “Wait, you work for—”
“Own and operate,” Osh says. She rolls her eyes as she tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Well, I have partners. I’m here deciding if the Roundabout Bomber really is back; you would have known that if you’d taken that ride with me.”
I snort. “Surely you see how creepy it is for some strange woman to just ask me into her van?”
Osh flinches back, eyes widening. “I’m not creepy--and it’s an SUV, not a van.”
I can’t help but smile at her surprise. “You...that’s why you feel so weird. You’re a reporter.”
There’s a pause before Osh can say anything. “I just told you I work with Angus Sharpe, I’m not—”
“I follow his cases and I’ve never seen anyone named Oceane Song working for them,” I say. I lean back and try to cross my arms, only to pull on the hand cuffs. Straightening my arms and shaking my shoulders loose, I go on, “I know they were low on funds so I’m guessing they sold to you and whoever else to get some quick cash, and now you’re trying to go from reporting the crimes to investigating. That’s why you were trying to get me to come to you instead of the other way around. Sharpe Investigations is technically a private investigation firm that freelances with police and the government, so you weren’t sure on what you could and could not do.” I arch both brows at her gaping mouth. “Am I close?”
Osh’s mouth snaps shut. After straightening the collar on her coat she jumps off the table, her heels clicking against the tiles. She paces to the right, checking out the plain beige walls that act as my temporary prison. She links her arms behind her back as she turns to me. “I’m a partner at the agency. And while I may be…new, I’m an experienced investigator.”
“As a reporter,” I clarify.
Osh rolls her eyes but doesn’t correct me. She doesn’t agree either. “I’m working in a PR capacity right now. I go ahead of the team and do a little…research to see if the cases are worth their time.”
I lean my head back. “And you’re here to see if my blog post was true—if the Roundabout Bomber really is here in little ol’ Goderich.” I come forward, relaxing my elbows on the table. It’s cold through my sleeves and I can already feel the bumps raising on my arms.
“Have you checked any of the comments on your blog post?” Osh asks, narrowly avoiding my question. She pulls a phone out of her pocket and quickly unlocks it, already starting to scroll down what I assume is my most recent article.
“Not all,” I say slowly. “Is that why I’ve been arrested? Because of my post?”
“Oh, you’re not under arrest,” Osh reveals, “I suspect Officer Bane did that because he dislikes you.”
A strangled noise escapes my throat and I pull on the cuffs. “Then get me out of these!”
“Not yet.” Osh moves beside me and sits on the table, showing me her phone. I was right, she’s browsing my blog, or more accurately, the comments. Most of them I’ve already read but she’s zoomed in on one. It’s nice to see someone reporting the truth for once.
I shrug at her. “I’m more agreeable when I’m not chained to a table.”
“From what I hear you really aren’t.” Osh turns her phone back to herself. She continues to scroll casually, not even reading the words. “But you have a point.” Her head turns towards the door. “Officer?”
The door opens with ease, Bane holding the handle. I frown; he would be listening in on this conversation. He looks about as unhappy as me when he walks over and unlocks the cuffs, freeing me. I stand, a little shaky on my injury, and flip my hair over my shoulder. “Is that it then?”
“No,” Osh says. One hand plants on my shoulder, a firm grip as she pushes me back into the chair. I can’t think of a single thing to say back to her, because honestly? I want to see what they’re getting so upset about. It seems to be more than just me posting about the bombing.
“Clearly you weren’t aware that we were trying to lure whoever set the bomb out by spreading false information,” Osh goes on. She finally puts her phone down, setting it face up on the table.
Instead of taking her bait, I ask, “We? So your agency is investigating? Which means that I was right--this isn’t just some accident.” I stress the word in Bane’s direction, who just huffs and rolls his eyes.
“The Sergeant was kind enough to help us out though we haven’t officially taken the case,” Osh tells me. She tilts her head and looks down at me, her hair falling over her face. “We thought you screwed us but it seems you inadvertently helped us out. The bomber is on your blog.”
I gulp, eyes darting between the two. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Bane answers. He’s decided to let Osh lead this interrogation and leans against the far wall, arms crossed
over his chest. He’s staring down his nose at me, but there’s a hint of a smile starting on his lips. Haha, I played you. At least that’s how it feels. I grind my teeth, unsure if this means he really did pull one over on me.
“Then you’re welcome,” I say.
“Well,” Osh interrupts the glaring contest Bane and I have going on, “something strange has happened. After we put out a press report saying it was an accident, then Sergeant Bane’s office received this.” She reaches into her other pocket and pulls out a plastic bag labelled Evidence, and sets it beside her phone. A letter, written in some rather sloppy handwriting at that. I can barely make out half the words, but I can see the anger from whoever wrote it in the way they stab through the paper at some points. They tear through with words like “wrong, stupid, foolish”.
Osh picks up the letter, holding it gingerly between her fingertips. “I’ll read it to you--To the foolish buffoons that run the Goderich Police Department, you’re wrong. How stupid can you be to not see what I’ve done? Maybe I’ll have to prove to you that I’m back. Sincerely, The Roundabout Killer.”
I blink.
“He spelled sincerely wrong, in case you missed that,” Osh tells me. Her lips curve up in a smile. “And I can already tell that you can see what’s wrong with the letter.”
“Well the fact that there was a letter seems pretty weird,” I say. Never in his history has the Roundabout Bomber written a letter to the authorities. “And he signed it wrong.”
Osh nods.
“You didn’t tell me that,” Bane says, straightening from the wall. He only looks to Osh for a second before facing me again. “What do you mean he signed it wrong?”
“It’s the Roundabout Bomber, not the Roundabout Killer,” I explain with a shrug. “I mean, some people called him the Roundabout Killer but his official title from the media was the Roundabout Bomber.”
“Well, this guy likes to leave notes at his crime scenes,” Bane says, “not that weird he would send a letter.”