Bernadette took a deep breath and began. “There was a man here today.” She described Frieda’s seeing the man in the hallway.
“The part that I don’t like,” she said, “is that she thinks he was peeping through the mail slot. He’s not just someone knocking on the door of a business or a friend. Normal people don’t do that.”
Ron shrugged and blew on his coffee. “I guess they do, if they’re curious.”
“But curious about what? The only thing that’s changed is Henry moving in, Ron.” She felt her eyes welling and tried not to blink. “Do you think he’s brought this with him?”
Ron smiled. “Oh, Bernie. There’s no point in getting worked up. It’s just someone with poor manners. God knows the world is letting people get away with murder these days. Maybe someone wanting to ask about vacancies?”
“I doubt it. There’s no sign or anything saying that’s the company’s address.”
“That company has been good to us over all these years, Bernie. It’s built a roof over our heads and put food on the table. The lawyers have everything sewn up so tight that no one will ever be able to undo it.”
She kissed him on the cheek before she left. He was her oldest and dearest friend in the world. His advice had always been right in the past. She tried to imagine what her life would have been like if they hadn’t met, and it was too crazy to contemplate.
Maybe it’s just Henry’s little cat, with its black-and-white suit, bringing back all these old fears.
1971: The Passenger
The passenger looked around at the others seated in the terminal. In his dark suit and overcoat, there was nothing to suggest that he was different from any other man there; the uniform of the middle class trying to maintain its dignity as everything in the world fell apart. Or maybe they simply couldn’t see what was happening.
There were fewer than forty people sitting in the hard-plastic chairs, waiting for the boarding call. A Boeing 727 should seat somewhere around a hundred and fifty. Thanksgiving used to be the most travelled time of the year. Now, lots of young men were in Vietnam. Some had crossed the border into Canada to get away from the draft. Those who stayed behind were getting laid off left, right and center; maybe they had gone north for Canadian jobs, too.
A young blond woman, perhaps in her early twenties, wearing a dark airline uniform and a pillbox hat spoke over the PA.
“Passengers for Northwest flight 305 from Portland to Seattle should now prepare for boarding.”
He looked down at the copy of the Oregon Statesman in his hand. A small box at the top of the front page gave the forecast. “Variable cloudiness with scattered showers. High near 50. Low tonight near 35.”
Cold. It’s going to be cold. I didn’t need to pay a dime to learn that.
He lit a cigarette with the dying embers of the one before and breathed deeply. He also didn’t need to be the first one on.
The rest of the headlines were just the same miserable news as the last year.
Colleges Told to Cut Program, May Have to Fire 70 Profs.
Dow Jones Drops Below 800 Mark.
Bloody Nixon, though. He was untouchable, wasn’t he?
Defense Funds Approved: Nixon Wins Votes in Senate.
Congratulations. Build more planes. But you killed the SST here, didn’t you? Between that and the poor sales of the Fat Albert, Boeing had put fifty thousand people out of work in twelve months. That was a good name for the 747 program alright. Fat. That was where they should’ve trimmed. Not like the 727. There’d never be a better airliner.
He tipped his tinted glasses up to look at the plane outside on the tarmac. They had wheeled the boarding stairs up to the door in front of the wing. Women held their coats over their hair as they walked through the drizzle, belts blowing behind them. Men wearing suits just like his own hunched their shoulders as close to the rims of their hats as possible. Two stewardesses with tiny, useless umbrellas stood at the bottom of the staircase and went through the motions of helping people over the first step.
His foot felt for his meagre luggage beneath his seat: a paper bag and a briefcase. In all the sixteen years he carried that leather case to and from work, it had never felt so heavy.
With a last deep puff, he stood and pressed the remainder of the cigarette into the gray sand of the ashtray. He knocked ashes off his tie with the corner of the newspaper before tossing it onto his seat.
It’s all the past anyhow.
Yesterday’s news.
If this all went well, everything would be different. Tomorrow, he’d wake up a new man.
Chapter Twelve
Tess slugged back the first glass of water. She refilled, and took it with her into the bedroom, peeling off her sweaty clothes. She had made good time, as far as she could tell: forty blocks in nine songs. She wasn’t going to win a marathon, but it was still a fine start to the day.
She transferred her music to a speaker. Lovely Day by Bill Withers filled the room, and she danced out of her bedroom as the chorus kicked in. Some mornings the song was different, but never the routine that followed. By seven-thirty, she was showered, fed, dressed and in her studio reading through the writer’s comments from the day before.
She co-created the Time Doctors comic with Luba Mirova four years ago, after meeting at the San Diego ComicCon. They had been seated next to each other at a table, to sign autographs. They hit it off and, although they were rarely again in the same room together, each found this to be the smoothest working relationship they had ever had. Scripts, outlines, layouts, and dialogue were all exchanged digitally. When necessary, the two met via video chat as naturally as though they shared a desk.
Tess sipped her coffee, sitting cross-legged in her window overlooking Richardson Street, taking in Luba’s notes. Their process was efficient, and she read with that wonderful relaxation that comes from being ahead of schedule.
She sat like this for an hour, before getting up to make another pot of coffee. She flipped open her laptop and reached out to Luba. The thin, blond woman’s face, with her angular glasses and Slavic features came up on the screen.
“You’ve nailed it again,” Tess said, by way of a greeting.
“I hope not. I’ve got a couple more changes.” Luba had never lost her thick Russian accent. “I tried to reach you last night. Did you lose power or something?”
“I was out.”
“Out?”
“Out.”
“You don’t go out.”
“I go out.”
“You go out for shopping, yes. But you don’t go out like ordinary people when they say they go out.”
“I’ll have you know that I had dinner with friends.”
Luba twirled her arms in feigned shock and pretended to fall out of her chair. “Good for you. I want details.”
Tess saw her own face blushing in the small inset image of herself.
“It’s not a big deal,” she said. “It was my new neighbor.” Tess ran Luba through the previous day: the knock on her door, the search for the missing cat, dinner, the “stolen” crosswords.
“I have to admit, as far as days go, it was a good change of pace. I think I needed that. Henry’s got his quirks, but there’s some depth there.”
Luba passed judgement with the clinical love of a close friend. “He seems like a paranoid, but the little girl sounds funny. Maybe she is not normal. Still, it is nice to hear that you went out. And I am worried about these holes in your walls.”
“You’re killing me,” Tess said, laughing. Her phone rattled on her light table, announcing a new text. She read the message aloud.
Dear Tess - I’m taking Hen for lunch across the street. Then we’re going to Granville Island and maybe Stanley Park. Would you like to join us?
And then a follow-up text came in.
(I’m Frieda from downstairs)
“Yes,” Luba said. “This girl is good people. You should go.”
Tess looked at the phone. “No, it’s okay. We’r
e in the middle of working.”
“No,” said Luba, her hand shooing away the camera. “You go. We will finish tomorrow. I like hearing that you are going out.” Luba blew a kiss at the screen and hung up.
Tess walked into her bedroom, phone in hand. She tapped on the screen with her fingernail. What made her so curious about Henry? Was it because he had shared a lot of personal details? She, on the other hand, had a history of canceling meetings with writers and publishing companies at conventions, simply because she couldn’t muster the courage that day to share her portfolio.
It occurred to Tess that, even though she had lived across the street for four years, she had never been in the café. Comic books paid the rent, but they didn’t afford a good deal more in Vancouver. Any money left over at the end of the month got rolled into her nest egg. Not that she would ever be able to own her own home in this city, but rents were skyrocketing everywhere, and someday she might have to move.
She looked again at Frieda’s message.
Today, Tess decided, would be a rare, indulgent, exception.
She replied,
Love to! And I have a surprise for you…
Tess trotted back to her laptop and added a watermark to the new script, diagonally across the page.
Top Secret – VIP Only.
She sent it to her printer and grabbed the sheets on her way out the door.
Henry heard the doorbell and turned from feeding the cat. Frieda was already running at the sound. She opened the door.
“Tess!”
“Hiya. Thanks for the invitation.”
Invitation? Fred!
“I told you I would bring you something,” Tess said, and she pulled some rolled up papers from her back pocket.
“What is it?” Frieda asked. “Blue blistering barnacles! It’s the next issue of Time Doctors.”
“It’s actually the next-next-next issue. You just can’t share it with anyone until it comes out, okay?”
Frieda bowed deeply. “I promise.”
Henry joined the conversation, putting a cardigan on over his T-shirt. “I’m guessing that you heard we’re going for lunch across the street. Is it decent?”
“Never been,” Tess said, shrugging. “I have something for you, too.” She handed him his newspaper, winking. “I’ll bet we beat the thief to the crossword.”
Henry tried to sound more relaxed than he’d been the night before. Hopefully, eschewing the suit and tie would help with appearances. “It’s a good thing. Otherwise, I was going to have to get the police involved.”
“You asked her about the crossword?” Frieda asked.
“Yesterday’s. That makes three that have gone missing.”
“See. I told you it wasn’t Poppa.”
They walked down the hallway. “Maybe we should have cameras installed?” Tess said.
Henry got in on the fun. “I bet it was that creepy dude from yesterday. Mister Creepy.” He waved his hands and made a haunting sound.
“Not funny, Hen,” Frieda said, her lip curled in a sweet little sneer.
Henry followed Tess down the row of booths to the very end. It crossed his mind to sit next to her, but he took the bench across instead, his back to the door. He shuffled over to make room for Frieda and watched the young girl slip in next to Tess.
In the brief hours that he’d had to plan Frieda’s visit, this wasn’t how he had pictured things. He’d imagined himself and Frieda bonding over some activity or outing.
Maybe this is better.
The trio spoke incessantly during the meal. Tess talked about drawing, Henry cautioned Frieda only once about drinking too much coffee, and Frieda brought out her notebook with a long list of the most random questions.
“Oh my god, you’re a riot,” Tess said through tears as she used her phone to search the Internet for ‘dark and bitter’. She convulsed with laughter and couldn’t explain what she’d found. So she just laid her phone on the table for them to read.
Frieda wrote into her notebook: Dark, bitter, and too hot for you.
Henry tried to straighten his face while he paid at the counter. The server’s mouth opened and closed as though she wanted to ask about the group but thought better of it.
When he returned to the table, Frieda and Tess were huddled together on their side of the booth and staring at him with wide eyes.
“Don’t turn around,” Frieda said. She bent forward over the table and spoke in a whisper. “Mr. Creepy is behind you.” Her eyes darted over Henry’s shoulder, to the booths behind him. “It’s him.”
Henry made to turn and look, but Tess placed both palms flat on the table.
“Stay calm now,” she said, her face still and serious. “He keeps writing something. He definitely has a pen. He’s thinking. Yes—” The corners of her mouth started to twitch. “It’s definitely a crossword.”
Tess and Frieda snickered.
Henry’s head spun. From where he stood, he could see that the man had spread things out all over his table. There was a laptop, and a thick, worn manila folder. A plate of food sat on the far side of the table from the man, untouched. The man sat bent in his seat, with a posture of exhaustion. His face and hands looked huge, disproportionate to the neck and arms they belonged to. In one large paw he held a pen, tapping lightly on the crossword laid out on the table before him.
Henry covered the distance in quick strides. He heard Tess’s voice behind him, indistinguishable.
“You wouldn’t have the rest of that paper, would you?” he asked the man sitting in the booth.
Without looking up, the large hands started scooping the miscellany from the table and stuffing it into a shoulder bag.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said. “I’ve just been having a bit of trouble with my own paper delivery.”
The man stood up, holding his stuffed bag wide open. He stood inches over Henry, looking down. Henry recalled the meatiness of the man’s hands as the stranger met his eyes.
“Move,” the man said. His wide mouth cracked only slightly, turning down at the corners.
“I’m just asking because you’ve been poking around the building across the street.”
The man stepped forward and away from the booth with his full weight. Henry was saved from being knocked down only by a pull at his elbow, in the direction of the entrance. Tess’s firm grip insisted he follow, with no room for negotiation. Frieda was already rushing out the front door.
As he hopped sideways along with Tess, he watched the giant of a man disappear into the restroom.
Outside, Frieda was red-faced and breathing heavily.
“What was that?” Tess asked.
“What?” Henry said. “I only asked if he had the rest of the paper.” The oddness of his own actions started to sink in a little. “The café doesn’t sell papers and that guy only had crosswords. Three.” He made a W with his fingers, as though this provided some greater evidence of a crime.
“Not everyone’s out to get you,” Tess countered, her hand lowering his.
Henry looked at the two of them. Frieda watched the door of the café behind him. Her eyes were wide and alert, like a small herbivore at an African watering hole.
“You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make a big deal there. I wasn’t trying to cause a scene. I’m sorry.”
Tess let go of his hand, and her face relaxed. Frieda remained wound like a spring.
“Hey,” he said, putting his arm around Frieda’s shoulders. “Let’s get on with our day. We’re never going to see that guy again anyhow.”
“Your uncle’s a kook,” Tess added, her tone lighter than before.
He steered Frieda in the direction of the road and Granville Island. Still, before turning the corner at the end of the block, he couldn’t help taking one look back at the café.
Three crosswords.
Three.
Chapter Thirteen
The Cheshire man finished counting aloud to six hundred before unscrewing his fists from
his eyes.
His hands still shook as he tried to blink away the bright spots. He had already been surveilling the house for a couple of days. He recognized the three people who left the café; it was the guy from downstairs, the girl from upstairs, and the girl’s kid. Now they knew that he was watching.
It won’t matter soon.
He was so close to getting what he’d come for. A calm came over him at the thought of going home.
He started cleaning himself up. He dried his hair and washed his armpits with paper towels. His shirt smelled, but it had to be better than the older one in the car, so he put it back on. He looked at himself in profile in the mirror and sucked in his stomach. He leaned in close, almost touching the mirror with his nose, and grinned as widely as he could.
He scraped his yellow teeth with his fingernail.
Oh, Mama. I’m doing it. I found Daddy and I’m bringing him home. They aren’t looking for him anymore and we can be a family again.
He reached one more time into his backpack, and took out the pill bottle, full again with the small, familiar white pellets.
Cheap Canadian drugs. That’s one good thing about being here. But we don’t have to worry anymore. Daddy is going to take care of everything.
He shook two into his hand, tipped his head back and swallowed them down.
Back in the café, his breakfast still sat on the table, cold, waiting for him. Those people were gone, though.
The Cheshire man crossed the street and descended the steps to Unit 5. He knocked several times before he heard the voice inside.
“For Christ’s sake, come in!”
He entered the suite slowly, wanting to savor every moment of what was to come.
Chapter Fourteen
Granville Island was a bustle of activity. Tourists flooded the market, with its random shops and artisans. People filled the sidewalks up and down Granville Street, beneath the bridge. Others came and went on water taxis across False Creek. Musicians played in every open-air space not reserved for parking. And, scattered throughout, industrial companies carried out the city’s commitment to a “working river”, loading and unloading barges of concrete and equipment.
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