by Lorena May
Her phone dings. She tugs it out of her shirt pocket, reads it, gasps and sets it on the table for Luka to see. Scarlett has texted. ‘I’m ok. Stop worrying.’
Chapter 8
~ Darby~
Tuesday morning, Darby sits on the corner of her partner, Mel’s, desk.
“Grandpa’s an old softie,” she chortles, reaching over to give him a mock punch on the shoulder in response to his admission that he took his grandson to the Oiler’s hockey game in Edmonton over the week-end, against his wife’s advice. The kid’s seven. He’d get as much out of a local Rockydale game for a fraction of the price!
“Ah, what are you gonna do with all your millions anyway?” she teases.
Mel harrumphs. “And how about you? How was your week-end? I’m guessing Bojangles played a big role.”
“Skye and I rode the whole day Sunday.” Darby stands, picks up her coffee and drinks. “It was f – It was glorious.” Her eyes dance with mirth. “And what a good rider Skye is. She rode a lot when she lived on the reserve. She’s – I don’t know – when she’s riding she becomes herself. She sheds all the bullshit she has to put up with at school.” Darby walks toward the door and hesitates, turning back. “Oh, and Jim Doherty is back in town. The three of us went to Dairy Queen for a bite.”
Mel smiles inwardly at the red flush creeping across her cheeks. “He seems like a good guy,” Mel says. “Are you going to see him again?”
Darby avoids his gaze. Her eyes take on a haunted look. “You know me, Mel. I fu- I don’t wanna get involved.”
He tilts his head. His eye-brows furrow. “What happened to you Darby?”
She stands there, defeated-looking for a moment. Like all the stuffing’s been punched out of her. Then she draws herself up, and becomes, once again, the strong, confident woman he knows. Abracadabra. She’s a shape-shifter.
“Life’s a bitch, Mel, and then you get over it.” She winks, and gives him a lop-sided smile before turning and heading toward her own office, next to his.
Her phone is ringing. It’s Jill, calling from reception. “Darby, are you busy? A young couple would like to see you. Emily Sims and young man.”
“I’m not busy, Jill. Send them in.”
The young man leads the way. He is ruggedly handsome, and he walks with a jaunty kind of spring to his step. Em walks behind him, hands in pockets, eyes down-cast, her steps hesitant. Darby greets them with handshakes, and Em introduces her friend. “Sergeant Greer, this is Luka. He suggested we come see you about my sister.” She says this apologetically.
Luka greets Darby and gestures for Em to enter. He follows. When they’re sitting, Darby goes to her computer and pulls up her notes on the missing woman. Possibly missing. “I sent Scarlett’s photo to all the precincts throughout the county,” she says, averting her eyes from the computer to look at Em, who sits on the edge of her chair, gently biting her lip, looking hopeful. “But there’s been no sign of her. Sometimes no news is good news.” Darby stands to approach Em, and sits on the edge of her desk, looking into Em’s eyes. “Have you heard any more from her?”
Em pulls out her phone and hands it to the policewoman. “Just this.”
Darby studies the texts. “Do they sound like your sister is really okay? You know her normal.” She looks quizzically at the young woman, whose knee is bouncing rapidly now.
“She’s usually more forthcoming,” Em says. “And not so proper.”
“I’ve tried tracing her phone several times, but she must turn it off when she’s not texting.” Darby bites her lip. Why? I wonder.
Luka watches Em intently, leaning toward her, his expression thoughtful. “Tell the Sergeant about Jed,” he says. He has a foreign accent. Eastern European? His speech is gentle and appealing.
Em looks at Darby through troubled eyes. “That night in the pub – when Scarlett went missing - we saw an old associate of my dad’s. He threatened us a long time ago. I think he. . .”
Startled, Darby struggles to remain calm. Fuck! A threat? She didn’t mention it the other day. “What happened Em?”
Em’s hands clench into fists, and she gives Darby a pained stare. Luka touches her arm as if to reassure her. He’s there for her, but she looks like a child alone in the dark. Finally, she speaks. “We were children and we saw something we shouldn’t have seen. He told us he’d kill us and our little sister if we ever told.” Her shaky voice weakens to a whisper.
“You have a younger sister?”
“Yes, Abigail. She works at the Evangelical Church.”
Darby reaches out to pat the young woman’s arm, then thinks better of it, placing her hands on her own knees. She keeps her voice warm and soothing. “Em, you’re safe with us. We won’t do anything that would cause you or either of your sisters harm. Do you think this Jed may have kidnapped Scarlett?”
Tears spring to Em’s eyes and she stares at the Detective. “I think maybe.”
Darby is silent a moment, treading carefully. “Em, can you tell us what you and your sister saw as children?”
Em stares at the wall as if reading a teleprompter. She speaks in a monotone. “We went for a ride in the country. We stopped off the road behind some trees, and a big, black truck was parked there. Jed got out and so did the guy in the black truck. We could hear them yelling and arguing. Jed pulled out a gun that he waved around for a while. Then he shot the guy. He just fell into the snow. There was blood...” Her eyes fill with horror as she relives the memory. She covers her face with her hands. “It was loud. When Jed came back to the truck he looked all twisted and red and he yelled at us. We thought he was going to shoot us too. But he didn’t. He told us if we ever told a soul he’d kill us all.” She looks at her feet. They are shuffling around on the floor almost frantically. Her body vibrates like a lopsided washing machine.
Luka, sitting beside her, stares at her for a moment, shaken. Then he places his hands on her forearms, and says, “Em. I’m so sorry.”
She turns to him and presses her face into his chest, shoulders shaking, as he puts his arms around her shoulders, holding her. Tears stream down his face. Darby remains still and silent. Her heart breaks for the poor girl. What she’s kept in this whole time!
Em jerks upward in her chair, almost knocking Luka over. “I’m sorry,” she says, roughly rubbing her eyes dry with the cuffs of her parka. Her jaw is tight and her face wears a determined look. This is not a woman who is comfortable showing emotion.
Darby retrieves an iPad from behind her desk. She opens it, scrolls, and hands it to Em. “I’m going to have you look through these photos and see if you can spot Jed, okay? We’ll find him and hopefully your sister.”
Em grabs the iPad, anxiously staring at the pictures in front of her.
“If Jed is known to us his picture may be there. We’re looking for a Jed Anderson, maybe Anders or some last name you think begins with an ‘A’, right?”
Em nods, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I...“
Darby shakes her head, giving her a weak smile. “It’s okay. You were just a little kid.”
Em’s eyes well up. She sets her mouth in a hard line.
“I haven’t found him through a name search. And he may be using an assumed name. Make yourselves comfortable.” She gestures toward her computer. “I’ll keep looking in the database to see what I can find. Would you like something to drink?”
Em shakes her head, focused on looking at the photos in front of her. Luka glances over her shoulder, settling comfortably into his chair. “I’m good, thanks.”
A murder! She witnessed a murder! Darby is itching to ask more about it. Is it a cold case? Still unsolved? She clamps her mouth tightly, and concentrates on her own computer. She won’t push. One thing at a time. But if Scarlett has been kidnapped by a murderer; someone she can testify against, they need to find her.
She glances, now and then, at the two young people scrolling fixedly through mug shots. Suddenly, Em’s breath hitches. Her eyes flash – what is it? T
error? Horror? Her face pales. Hastily she swipes the picture, going onto the next. Luka’s head flinches slightly, and he rubs his chin. He’s noticed it too.
“Do you see someone, Em?” Darby asks, peering across her desk at the iPad that is vibrating on Em’s quivering lap.
“No!” she barks, shaking her head. She becomes poker-faced. “No. I’m sorry. I thought ... but it wasn’t him.”
“That’s okay,” Darby says. “Just take your time.”
WHEN SHE’S SCOURED all the photos Em looks up, setting the iPad on Darby’s desk. Dejected, she slumps forward. “He’s not there,” she says, a stony expression on her face.
Darby keeps her voice bright and optimistic. Rising from her chair, walking around her desk, lowering her body to crouch in front of the wretched young woman, she speaks soothingly. “It’s okay. I’m going to take you to our sketch artist. He’s one of the best in the province. You just need to picture Jed in your mind and describe him. He’ll cue you for precise features, and have you look at pictures to compare the guy you remember. Can you do that?”
Em nods.
“We’ll get a drawing that resembles him, and we’ll take that picture all over the county. Don’t despair, Em. We’ll find him.”
WHAT DID SHE SEE? When Darby returns to her office she picks up the iPad Em has left on her desk. Skimming through the mug shots, she finds it. A photo of a middle-aged man, his chestnut-brown hair slightly receding, staring into the camera with startling emerald-green eyes. His name, Dave Sims. He’s the spitting image of his daughter. What’s she keeping from us? Is she protecting him?
Chapter 9
– Em~
It’s been a long day. Ken, the sketch artist is skilled and personable; patient with Em’s indecisions. But it’s taken hours of grueling recall. The end result is incredible, however. The picture he’s drawn looks very much like Jed. When, finally, Luka and Em leave the precinct she is weaving slightly. Luka places a supportive hand on her back. It feels warm and reassuring. She turns to him, stopping to gaze at his sturdy face. What a wonderful friend he is. Tears spring to her eyes. “Thank you, Luka. Thank you for coming with me today.”
He smiles, bowing slightly. “The pleasure is all mine, Jamila.” Beautiful girl. (She looked it up when last he called her that).
He takes her hand. Her flesh tingles. “Let’s get something to eat. Delicious Syrian dinner.” He leads her to her car. She is slightly woozy. Light-headed from the raw emotion; the worry, the memories, the fear that has her in its grip.
He cocks his head, and looks at her through narrowed eyes. “Are you okay to drive?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
He lives in a walk-up apartment not far from the police station. It’s a three-story building, squat with a flat roof, faced with old stucco. The small entrance and hallway are time-worn and grimy. Em and Luka sniff the pleasing smells of garlic and spices as they tromp up the worn, carpeted stairs. Three flights. When he opens the door to his home they enter a different world.
The place shines red, green and gold. Laying on the linoleum floors are several rugs crafted in intricate patterns. Everything, from the carved wooden sofa and chair to the finely sculpted tables, is covered in rich tapestries. Em stands, looking around, her mouth hanging open.
“It’s beautiful!” she says.
“My mother.” Luka shrugs his shoulders, giving her a goofy grin. “She has a Syrian furniture and textiles store in Edmonton. My mother still looks after me.” He grins, a lopsided grin.
Em wanders around, looking at photos. She stops to stare at what must be Luka’s family in Syria; a woman wearing a red hijab smiling as she holds a laughing little girl. The young Luka, about five, sits between her and a dark-haired man who holds a small boy; a boy who appears to be almost bursting from his lap with life and laughter. Em is filled with admiration and envy. What must it be like to be raised in a family like that? “Does she clean it for you too?” she asks. The place is spotless.
He laughs. “No, but she’s a tyrant when it comes to checking up on me. She will not allow me to be like most Syrian men. My brother and I cook and clean. My sister not so much!”
He gestures toward a small kitchen, separated only by an island. Piles of heavy text-books with intimidating titles like ‘Experimental Electrochemistry’ lie jumbled, upon it. Many are open, some almost falling off the counter, others heaped on each other. He bobs his head toward the clutter, grinning. “My mother would not approve! Come. Let’s make dinner.”
Em leans against the counter watching him take tomato, cucumber and radishes from the crisper in his small, white fridge. He places them in front of her. “Want to cut these for fattoush?”
She shrugs, beaming up at him. “Sure. I’d love to.”
The afternoon is one of the happiest Em has ever spent. In spite of everything. They slice, sautée, steam and bake, listening to bewitching Syrian music. Luka chatters about his family; their slip-ups and foibles in a new country with a different language and culture. He tells her about the time his father took the hand of a man he worked with; normal behavior in Syria. The friend was confounded and his father had to fall all over himself explaining that the gesture was not suggestive in any way. He tells her about his classmates, and their antics. They laugh the time away.
Words bubble from Em’s lips; a rare and wonderful feeling. “Once my dad brought fish home for dinner. Cod from Newfoundland. We were going to have a feast. Scarlett baked potatoes, I made a salad and Abi carried the cutlery to the table.” She giggles, her face breaking into a beaming smile. “Dad carried the platter of fish he’d fried to the table like this.” She crooks her arm, palm flat, carrying an imaginary tray. “He was so proud, pretending he was a French maître de.” She gestures dramatically. “Well, we started eating. Abi was the first to say, ‘This fish is awful!’. I spit the bite in my mouth out it was so horrible, and Scarlett screamed when she swallowed hers!” Em breaks into laughter.
Luka begins to snicker. They erupt into hooting hilarity, even though he hasn’t heard the punch-line.
Between guffaws, Em says, “It turns out it was salt-fish. You need to soak it, changing the water for twenty-four hours, then simmer it . . . not just fry it. Poor Dad!”
They finish the afternoon off by sitting at Luka’s small table, covered with a white cloth, eating by candle light. The meal is delicious: A Syrian chicken dish seared with cumin, coriander and turmeric, baked with a tomato sauce, couscous and the Syrian salad.
“I have no wine to toast this special time,” Luka laments. They clink glasses of water. “To a special friendship,” he says.
“To us.” Em glows, basking in the wonder of it all. She feels happy. Normal. She looks across the table at the man sitting there, eating, looking at her intently, chattering, chuckling. He is sturdily built, and wears a long-sleeved, black t-shirt, open at the neck, revealing a touch of curly dark hair. His eyes are clear grey, and they twinkle and dance. His skin is the color of strong tea, his hair a nutty brown. It’s thick and wavy, poking up here and there, a few tufts falling over his thick, dark brows. She longs to reach out and touch it.
WHEN EM ARRIVES HOME she feels as if her truck has driven on auto-pilot, so absorbed was she in reliving the afternoon. The twinkle in Luka’s eyes as he spoke, gesturing excitedly. His easy smile and full lips. Has she ever felt so free and comfortable? So attuned to another person? Knowing he had studying to do and work tomorrow, she’d finally torn herself away - reluctantly.
He insisted on cleaning up, chucking her under the chin, raising her face to look into his. “I am here for you. Do not be afraid to call for my help,” he said as she was leaving, his eyes serious for once. Those eyes of his . . .He stood in the door-way, his broad shoulders filling it, hands in his jean’s pockets. “Drive safe, Jamila,” he’d called out. Her heart skipped a beat. Jamila.
When Em drives into the yard the first thing she notices is a black jag parked outside the garage. She pulls up alongside
it and jumps out. Does Abi have rich company? She exits the truck, still filled with happiness.
As she walks toward the house, a large, imposing, bald-headed man with thick features stands by the back door. He wears a long, black coat. An angry scar runs across his right cheek. Around his neck a thick gold chain glistens under the porch light.
He lights a cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame, drags deeply and glances up at Em. “You must be the middle sister, Emily.” His voice is honeyed.
“I am.”
“I’m here to see Scarlett, but your little sister tells me she’s away.”
Em nods.
“Do you know where to find her?” he asks, blowing smoke rings nonchalantly into the darkness. “It’s important.”
She feels adrenaline rising through her chest. “What’s it about?”
A menacing note creeps into his tone. “Let’s just say your big sister has been a bad girl. She’s messed with the wrong people.”
Em narrows her eyes, staring at him.
“Tell Scarlett we need what she owes us by Friday noon. If she doesn’t ... Well, you wouldn’t want to see anything happen to your pretty little sister, Abigail, now would you?” He gestures toward the house sneering.
Flump. Her heart drops to the ground.
He steps from the porch, saunters down the path, stopping briefly to stare into her face through hard, dark eyes. He opens the door to his car, casting one last warning look at Em, slides in, revs the motor and drives away.
Scarlett! What have you done? Em’s breath comes in little shallow gasps. Abigail!
Chapter 10
~ Darby~
The roads are icy; treacherously so, and Mel drives hunched forward, eyes peering intently through the windshield.
Darby scans the file she’s grabbed off the printer. “It’s a cold case, Mel. Unsolved. It says here that a male, later identified as Rick Mullen, thirty-seven, known drug dealer, was found with a single gun-shot wound to the chest just off Highway 11 in a small field surrounded by trees, May, 1999. He was shot with a 30-0-6 rifle. Just like Em said!” She looks at her partner, eyes blazing. “AND a person of interest is one Jedidiah Andrusyszyn!”.