Читать книгу Undertow - R.M. Greenaway - Страница 8

The Crumbling Shores

Over the last several hours Leith had crossed the road from detachment to hospital more than once, anxious not to miss the cabinet kid’s first words. The cabinet kid’s name, he’d discovered through the team’s research, was Joseph Liu. Joseph had suffered a panic attack in the examination room and had been given a mild sedative. Now he was asleep. Leith had posted JD Temple at the boy’s bedside to be there when he woke.

But not knowing JD well enough to know how far he could trust her vigilance, he continued to check in from time to time. It irked her, he could tell. “What, you think I’ll forget?” she said, looking up from some kind of pencil puzzle.

She was in an armchair, backlit by fuzzy spring sunlight. She wasn’t only as snarky as a man, but dressed like one, too, in easy-fit canvas trousers and a fleece vest over a grey hoodie.

“You’re looking at your magazine there,” Leith pointed out. “Not Joseph here.”

“I’m looking at both,” she said. “People don’t just pop awake and start chatting. I’ll notice that he’s stirring when he’s stirring, if that’s okay with you.”

Leith felt like he’d just been peppered with rubber bullets. “Anyway, I was just passing by,” he lied. He stood by the bed, looking down at his greatest hope right now, the living witness. Joseph seemed unharmed. His clothes had been bagged as evidence. Maybe he wasn’t just asleep, but had sunken into a deep freeze to escape the horrors of what he’d seen and heard. Maybe the deep freeze would last for years.

The fact that Joseph had been hiding told Leith something. Joseph’s mom had probably seen trouble brewing, and she’d pushed him inside the cabinet for safety. This implied that the intruder had burst in rather unexpectedly. Enough time to hide the son, but not enough time to protect the infant, Rosalie — or Rosie, another name he had since added to the file — or herself.

What had Joseph seen, heard? What would he forget and what would he remember for the rest of his life?

“Hey, Joseph,” Leith tried.

Nothing.

From her chair, JD said, “Who calls their kid Joseph? He goes by Joey.”

“You figure?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, Joey,” Leith said.

Still nothing.

“Let me try,” JD said.

She switched places with him, and her voice softened as she leaned over the bed. “How are you feeling, Joey?”

Leith admired the simple tactic. Joseph was not only human, but Canadian, and as such he would feel obliged to answer if asked a direct question, even if that meant struggling out of a drugged sleep.

Leith was ready to give up and leave when Joseph’s foot gave a kick. The boy’s eyes flew open, now looking at the ceiling, and now at JD.

There was no fright in those eyes that Leith could see from where he sat. Just bleary astonishment. Leith could see JD’s smile reflected in the pale-blue windows that spanned the room, and he marvelled again at her transformation from tomboy to angel.

“Are you hungry?” she was asking.

Joey nodded.

“What would you like?” she asked, and she took the extra step of touching his face, smoothing his hair. “You can have anything you want. You name it.”

The boy considered. There would be a battle going on inside his soul, Leith knew. Memories and fear clashing with relief and hunger. Being human, he would suppress the bad and seek out the good. Damn, he’d spend the next however many years suppressing the bad.

“Taco,” was the kid’s first word, with a bit of a question mark on the end.

“Ooh, sounds lovely,” JD said. “I’ll get my assistant here to order some up, okay?”

She glanced around at Leith, and she wasn’t quite smirking, but there was a mean glint in her eye. Leith was already making the call. One taco for Joey, one for JD as a reward for good work. And two for himself, because he was suddenly ravenously hungry.

* * *

In the end, though, there were no breakthroughs. Joey — the name he responded to best — could tell them little they didn’t already know. Except that, no, mom hadn’t pushed him in the cabinet. He’d been playing hide-and-seek with her. Leith doubted mom and child had been playing hide-and-seek, at least not in the playful sense. Cheryl had probably only said so to make Joey hide. And fast.

And then — only a teaser — Joey said he had seen the man.

He couldn’t say whether this man knocked or rang the bell first. He couldn’t say where he had come from, either, the front door or back. Or whether he was admitted or barged in without invitation. He couldn’t say how long the man was in the house before the violence began. He didn’t know if his mom knew this man, or what they had said to one another, except the man was shouting at his mom. If she had addressed the man by name, he couldn’t say. Joey had never seen him before, he didn’t think. He couldn’t describe him, except he was big. Between every answer, he had a question, piercing and plaintive: Where’s my mom? Sometimes it switched to Where’s my dad?

How do you tell a four-year-old that all he considers safe and forever is gone? JD explained that something had happened to his mom, and she couldn’t be here with him, but she loved him very much. They would find his dad soon, she promised. She also reassured him — this time it wasn’t a big white lie — that his grandmother Zan was on her way to see him. This news seemed to ease his heart a bit. Just a bit, though his chin wobbled and his eyes filled with tears.

When JD asked what colour the man’s hair was, he couldn’t say. If he had a beard or not, couldn’t say. Joey didn’t see anybody else except the big man shouting at his mom. Rosie was crying. He heard his mom screaming. Joey demonstrated how he had covered his ears so as not to hear.

JD asked Joey if he’d been hiding before the man came, or after. Again, he couldn’t say. He was beginning to withdraw again, softly sobbing, and Leith decided it was enough for now.

He returned to the house on Mahon with JD, and they looked at the cabinet where the boy had hidden. JD squatted down and looked inside. “This is the kind of useless space where things get lost, so people end up installing those spinny rack things.”

Leith knew what she referred to, a circular wire shelf unit that rotates, just like he had in his own home back in Rupert. He shivered to think what would have happened if the Mahon homeowners had stuck one of those contraptions in here. There would have been no room for a four-year-old to hide, in that case. And then maybe there’d be a third victim in this attack. With gloved hands he tried the door, opening and closing it. The door was split down the middle, hinged for its corner configuration. It had been shut tight when Ident discovered the little boy five hours ago.

He said, “Get in there and see if you can shut it from inside.”

JD said, “You’re joking.”

He was, and like all his attempts at humour, it fell flat. He said, “Wouldn’t be easy, though, would it?”

JD agreed, it would be a hell of a job, shutting that door from inside. Especially if you were four, squished into the lower shelf, and scared out of your wits. “Someone shut it,” she suggested. “Mom, I guess.”

Except Joey said he had seen the man. Leith and JD looked from the cabinet door to the living room, visible from here but some distance away. Leith didn’t think Cheryl had been close enough to shut the cabinet door. She was over there, dealing with her assailant. An assailant who had wrestled her child from her arms. Rosalie had fallen or been thrown, banged her head on the coffee table. Blood had seeped through her brain, eventually killing her.

Leith said, “Or how about it was the killer himself? How about it was the dad? Loved his son too much to harm him. Shut him in here so he wouldn’t witness what he was about to do to Mom?”

JD didn’t answer right away, but studied him so pointedly he thought he had the remains of a taco on his chin. He swiped at it with his palm. She said, “If it was his dad, he would say it was his dad. The kid’s shocked, but he’s grounded. I think he saw a stranger in his house. Not his dad, and not somebody he knows. If it was someone he knew, he’d say so. Lance Liu didn’t do this.”

So who shut the cabinet door, and where was Lance Liu? Leith wondered. He checked his watch and realized it was getting close to quitting time. His phone rang as he and JD left the murder house — Doug Paley calling him back for the debrief.

* * *

The late afternoon debriefing had gone well, and Dion was pleased with himself. He drove away from the office in his new used Honda Civic, replaying it in his mind. He had dazzled everyone with his performance. He’d dazzled himself! Nervous, but hadn’t shown it. He had stood and delivered a strong, stammer-free report on Sigmund Blatt, reciting Blatt’s criminal record: some assault, some drugs, some theft, but all fairly minor and dated, going back to his younger years. He had finished with his opinion that Blatt needed further observation. And Sergeant Bosko had been there to see this great performance, which meant an “A” for his comeback report card.

Public speaking had never been a problem for Dion, before the crash. He had enjoyed having the floor, sometimes to the point of having things thrown at him, pens and balled-up sandwich wrappers. After the crash, talking one-on-one was a challenge. The words didn’t flow. Talking to a group never happened, because he avoided groups altogether.

But today he had no choice, and he had tackled it head-on, and he had succeeded. Now his shirt was soaked like he’d been dunked in a tub, but he was okay.

The success thrilled him. Proof that he worked well under pressure, and since this job was all about pressure, he would do well at the job.

After a long walk and a meal downtown, he returned to the Royal Arms. The hotel stood like a cinderblock battalion on Lynn Valley Road, with its three storeys of rooms to let, its pub off the lobby to one side, restaurant on the other. He looked at the face of the building as he pocketed his keys. Something niggled at him, a task forgotten or a call he had failed to make. Whatever it was, he hadn’t written it down, and that was a mistake.

He entered the lobby, still frowning at whatever it was he had forgotten. He nodded hello to the desk clerk and climbed the stairs. In his room on the second floor he hung up his car coat and sat on the bed to remove his shoes. The curtains of the one large window were open, and city lights glared in.

The room wasn’t great. Painted in murky tans and browns, with accents of olive green, the colouring alone could make a man reach for the bottle. But right now, as he sat on the bed with his brand-new personal iPhone in hand, he didn’t care. He had a mission, and he needed to do it now, as he sailed the updraft of success.

Kate’s contact info wasn’t programmed into the phone, but it was imprinted in his memory, right down to the postal code. He entered her phone number, touched the connect icon. Four rings, each one jangling his nerves like a taser zap, before her voice came on the line. “Hello?”

He gasped. She sounded sexier and huskier than he remembered. “Kate,” he said. “It’s me, Cal. I’m back in North Van. Can we meet?”

Abrupt, but positively spoken, with a gloss of anticipation. He almost believed, even after burning his bridges with her, that there was a chance they would pick up where they had left off.

“Cal,” she said. The sexiness was gone. Still husky, but it was more the gritty rasp of someone just woken. “I was wondering if you’d call. How are you?”

Her matter-of-factness disturbed him. He was ready for anger, had his answers lined up, apologies and promises and declarations. He said, “You knew I was back?”

“Of course. Doug told me. And I’m really glad you called. I really am, Cal. Just the timing isn’t great.”

Kate Ballantyne was an artist and instructor. She worked at Emily Carr over on Granville Island, and lived in her own artist-instructor world, so different from his own. It had never occurred to him that she would stay in touch with the crew once he was gone, talking about him behind his back, exchanging news. “So where and when would you like to meet?” she said. “Tomorrow night? Eight o’clock, at the Quay?”

Already, his courage was banking. “I thought now, actually. I really need to see you. I could drive by. You’re still at the same place in Kitsilano? Because I could totally —”

“I am, yeah, but you can’t. Not tonight. For one thing, it’s really late.”

“Sure, but —”

“For another, my boyfriend will be home soon, so it’s probably not the best time to come rushing over. A little awkward.”

His thumb hit the disconnect button. He stared at the phone for a moment and then stood and threw it at the nearest wall. The phone dinged the drywall and thumped to the carpet. The TV mumbling in the next room went quiet.

Shame kicked in fast. Taking his disappointment out on the phone was childish. It was what hotheads did in the movies when their lives unravelled. He inspected the damage to the wall. Maybe the hotel would charge him for it, but probably not, because this was the Royal Arms, one of the last affordable inns in North Vancouver. Doomed, in fact. The waitress downstairs had told him demolition was set for next year. To make way for another five-star franchise hotel, she said. Because that’s what the world needs, another Hilton.

He leaned his forehead against the ding. Kate had a new boyfriend. Why was he surprised? She was a gorgeous, sociable woman, and he had stonewalled her. He felt dinner curdling in his gut. He felt socked by a terrible loneliness, and he understood what the feeling was. Homesickness.

Which made no sense. He was home.

No, he wasn’t. Home was that way. North. He had been in denial, believing he wanted to come back here. He didn’t really want to be back, wasn’t ready, and never would be. He hated it here.

He had hated it up north, but he had adjusted. Trouble was, he hadn’t realized he had adjusted until it was too late, and he had transported himself back to a city where he no longer clicked.

Now he understood. The north was different from anything he had known before. The northern people had let him in, and the northern air worked through his blood, and the northern trees could speak. He had been almost there when he left. Almost ready to learn the language of the northern trees.