“Okay. I have a copy of your statement from the VPD. You first called to report Ms. O’Meara missing at 9:45 pm on Tuesday evening, October 7th. What you were doing that evening, prior to your phone call to the VPD?”
“I was making dinner. Morgan texted me that afternoon to remind me she planned to run after her film lab at the downtown campus was done. She’s usually home by 8:00 pm. Trinity Street, where we live, is only a few blocks from New Brighton Park where we like to run. She wasn’t home by 8:45 pm, then 9:00 pm, so by then I was very worried. She hadn’t called and she was already an hour late. I called her cell, but she didn’t answer. I thought maybe she’d fallen and twisted an ankle. So, I ran over to the park.”
“And when you arrived there?”
“I went to the pedestrian underpass that leads to the pool and the running paths. She usually parks close by.”
“Can a car drive through that underpass to the park?”
“No, the way is blocked. My car was parked close to the pedestrian entrance. Morgan wasn’t in the car. I checked and the car was locked. There was no other car in the parking area. I took the pedestrian walkway, past the pool area and checked the trails along the beach. I didn’t see her anywhere, so I climbed a small rise in the park itself, thinking I would get a better vantage point. Still, I had no sign of her.
Then I returned to where she had parked the car and headed up to Bridgeway Street. You follow along there for a few minutes and you come to a trail that runs along the inlet to Burnaby. Now I’m running, because I think maybe she’s twisted an ankle, or she fell and broke her leg; something terrible like that. But still there’s no sign of her anywhere. When I reached the Burnaby trail, I took it, ran all the way to the Burnaby turnaround and back, looking everywhere for her. By now, it’s been dark for several hours and I’m thinking: Why are you looking here? She wouldn’t run the Burnaby Trail in the dark. She would have run along the beach, where there’s light and I returned to the park. It’s a completely open area and there’s no sign of Morgan anywhere. I already know she’s not there and by then, I was really scared.”
There was a long pause. Lucas rubbed his face with both hands. Sighing audibly, he continued.
“I left the car that night because I thought, what if she returns to the car and it’s not there. Then I ran home as fast as I could and called the police because in my heart, I knew she was gone. But the VPD wouldn’t take a missing person’s report, because Morgan hadn’t been missing for 24 hours. I knew they wouldn’t, of course! But I tried to anyway because she would never, just, not call!”
“And after you called the police?”
“Then I called our friends, Kate and Bart.
“What is Kate’s last name?”
“Brennan.”
“Bart has the same last name?”
“They’re married, but no. Morris, Bartholomew, Bart Morris. The three of us returned to the park and searched again with high powered flashlights, both the beach trails and the wooded trail. I went back alone early the next morning. Then, the three of us searched again, a few hours later. I called the VPD that evening, yesterday, and filed a missing person’s report.”
“Okay. So, it’s probable that Ms. O’Meara was abducted sometime Tuesday night between approximately 6:00 pm, when she arrived at the park and 9:15 pm, when you say you arrived at the park for the first time.”
“Yes. I would say that’s right.”
“Can anyone vouch for your presence at your house on Trinity Street, before you came to New Brighton Park, or your presence at the park itself?”
“No. I was alone at the house. I don’t remember seeing anyone at the park after I arrived.”
“So, all I have is your word?”
“Yes, my word only.”
“You said earlier you’ve known Morgan for seven years. How would you characterize your relationship with her?”
“We’re close. She means the world to me. I love her very much.”
“You aren’t seeing anyone else?”
“No.”
“Has Morgan cheated on you recently, or in the past?”
Lucas looked at James.
“Answer the question please, Mr. Arenas.”
“No.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“That’s all for now, Mr. Arenas. Thank you for your time.” He ended the interview and rose from his chair. He was done with Lucas.
It was late afternoon when Lucas and I left 100 Mile House and headed home. It was unseasonably warm for the South Cariboo, an immense, rugged plateau, just above the Fraser Canyon. The afternoon sun was low and red in a cloudless sky. A few patches of yellow remained but most of the trees were resolute, brown skeletons, lifeless among the green pines.
Expecting cold weather and snow on the ground, Lucas had brought warm blankets, a pillow, my winter parka, gloves, and an oversized toque. Over my feeble protests, he bundled me up.
Alex had suggested we avoid the Coquihalla, a high altitude, mountain highway, where weather extremes were common and there was always the threat of snow this time of year. More to the point, I’d suffered a concussion and the altitude wasn’t a good idea. Instead, Lucas took the scenic route via the Trans-Canada Highway that wound its way through the canyon created by the Fraser River.
Lucas was grim and his hands clenched the wheel tight. Incapable of conversation, I dozed beside him, seat partially reclined so I could watch the scenery—sheer rock walls, a solid mass and below them the Fraser, muddy with silt. I’d taken some of the pain medication just before we left the detachment office. Despite the breathtaking scenery, I was soon asleep, lulled by the rhythm of the car as Lucas took the winding curves above the river. We made it to the town of Hope in good time and Lucas got out of the car briefly to stretch his legs.
“We’re less than two hours from home, sweetheart. Are you hungry?” he asked when he got back in the car.
I shook my head and patted his arm. “Home.” All I really wanted was a warm bed and the oblivion of sleep.
Lucas gassed up and got a takeout burger at the White Spot. He pulled back onto the highway and that’s the last thing I remember until I woke up as we were crossing the Alex Fraser Bridge coming into Vancouver.
We arrived at our cottage on Trinity Street by 11:00 pm. Lucas told me the next morning I fell asleep in my pyjamas, sitting on the side of the bed. I don’t remember him helping me undress or tucking me in.
CHAPTER 7
Alex dropped Gwen at home and returned to the detachment. He found James at a computer in the main office.
“What’s your take on this abduction, Alex?”
“I think it was a targeted hit.”
“Do you think she knew the perp?” James asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“What about the boyfriend?”
“He seems genuine.”
“Well, I thought he showed a lot of fear when I interviewed him. In fact,” and James checked his notes before continuing; “at one point he actually said, ‘I was so scared’ and when he first saw O’Meara, just after he arrived, he was crying.”
“I’m sure he was frightened. The man’s a criminologist and my bet is he imagined the worst. His partner was missing. He gets a phone call that she’s been rescued, a long way from home. He gets here, only to find her banged up pretty bad.” Alex regretted wasting his breath on James almost immediately.
“Yeah, yeah, I know all that, but I’m thinking maybe Arenas was afraid because he had something to do with the abduction.”
Desocarras was getting the familiar feeling he often got when dealing with James.
“Well,” James continued, "she’s native and the boyfriend’s native.” Alex noted James’ emphasis on the word.
“I only talked with him briefly, just before he took her back to Vancouver. My guess is he’s from Central America, or Mexico. He could be Mayan, though h
e’s too tall for a Mayan. I think his racial heritage is mixed.”
“Mayan? Mixed?” James shrugged his shoulders dismissively, trying to hide his confusion.
“I’m mixed heritage. My mom’s people are Spanish, my dad, Shuswap. I identify as Shuswap.” He didn’t use the traditional name of the Shuswap nation, Secwépemc. It’d just confuse James—even though he’d been working for years in their traditional territory.
“As for Arena’s possible involvement, my gut tells me he had nothing to do with O’Meara’s abduction. I think something else is going on. She could have been a random hit, but I don’t think so.”
James still looked dubious.
“Did she remember anything about her abduction?”
James consulted his notes. “No, but she did describe a man she walked past in the parking lot, just after she parked her car. He was bending over the trunk of his car. But she can’t remember anything after she walked by the car and the only other people she remembers are a couple that walked past her. That tells us something.”
“Yeah, it does. I had a clear look at her assailant at the lake. It’s all in my report: red hair, his chin stubble too, so his hair isn’t dyed. Big man, well over six foot. If the guy in the parking lot back in Vancouver is involved, we’ve got two different perps.”
“Yeah. O’Meara said the guy at the lake had a crooked middle finger, his left hand. She said his face and hands were very red. Probably because he was pissed that you and your wife happened along when you did,” he said, with a small chuckle.
“Could be the redness is due to a skin condition.” Alex flashed to the scene at Gustafsen Lake and O’Meara’s distress and vulnerability. “I noticed how unusually red and puffy his face and neck were. I said so in my report.”
“Yeah. I saw that. So, you think he has a skin condition?”
“Maybe, or maybe he’s allergic to something.”
“Could be,” said James, handing Alex the interview notes. “It’s your case now. Good luck with it.”
“Thanks,” said Alex as he took the file.
“Your wife mentioned you’ve got a few more days off. Are you gonna try to get in some more fishing?”
“Not now,” said Alex, tapping the file and getting to his feet.
“See you,” said James.
“Yup,” said Alex. He left the room and went to his office. He checked but there was still no word on the blue pickup and that was worrisome. It’d been nearly eight hours since he’d called it in. The road leading into Gustafsen Lake was so badly rutted, just getting out to the main road would have taken the perp at least an hour, unless he’d put a lot of money into a new suspension. Alex doubted that. From what he could see, the truck was a run about. None of the roads in the area were high traffic. It was mostly locals this time of year. It was as though the truck had vanished. It was possible the perp lived locally, but highly unlikely, unless he was stupid enough to do his dirty work in his own back yard.
Sundown was in half an hour, so too late to pay a return visit to the lake. He’d take a few men there first thing tomorrow morning.
Lucas called Kate and Bart as soon as Morgan was asleep. Kate answered the phone.
“Tell me she’s alright.”
“No. She isn’t. They hurt her bad Kate.”
“Oh no Lucas!” Kate started to cry and handed the phone to Bart.
“Luke, is she okay?”
“I don’t know.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth when he started to choke up.
“Jesus. It’s okay Buddy.” Bart had put their phone on speaker. “We’ll be right over.”
Lucas pulled himself together enough to protest.
“Morgan’s out for the count and I’m not far behind her, to tell the truth.”
“You haven’t slept for days and you must be exhausted from all that driving,” said Bart. “We’ll come tomorrow morning, then. Is nine too early?”
“No. That works.”
“We’ll bring coffees and snacks and I’ll stay and help you take care of Morgan,” said Kate. Then, to Bart: “What time do you have to be at the hospital tomorrow?”
“Not till 1:00 pm,” said Bart.
“Okay you two, tomorrow morning then. I’m so glad you’re coming.”
After he got off the phone, Lucas went into the bedroom and sat quietly on the edge of their bed, watching Morgan sleep. When he first tucked her in, he’d elevated her head and shoulders with pillows to help her breathe more easily. He leaned over now and gently touched the bump on her forehead and examined the angry, puckered line that ran right into her eyebrow. It must have been a deep cut. They had to stitch it. Her beautiful face was covered in bruises. More bruises were visible on her neck. When he helped her undress, he’d nearly lost it when he saw the ugly bruises on her inner thighs, the mean welts on her back and stomach, the scratches on her hands. He tucked the blankets gently up under her chin, then went to the bathroom and closed the door. His gut heaved and he vomited, again and again until he was empty, then washed his face and rinsed his mouth.
Lucas returned to the bedroom and stood in the doorway for a long time, watching Morgan sleep. Thoughts of how she must have suffered overwhelmed him. He flushed with guilt and shame. No one with her. No one to help.
Checking carefully that both doors and windows were locked and secure, he moved to the living room and picked up a small armchair which he moved to the bedroom and placed close to the bed. But he was too wound up to sit still. He returned to the living room.
The rain had stopped. The wind had picked up and through the living room window, he watched the Northern Star swing by her anchor in restless circles. She was moored where she’d been for two days now, still heavy with wheat, waiting her turn to unload. The lights on the inlet twinkled peacefully. Mocking him.
The night Morgan was taken, Lucas had a dream so real he understood a door had opened on memory. All he remembered were fragments: a bloated body floating in a bloody stream; smoke and fire. Last night’s dream. So vivid—a rhododendron bush, heavy with beautiful red blooms. A dream without sound. Lights on. Then off.
CHAPTER 8
When I woke, the sun was trying to poke through thick dark clouds. I slipped my feet into waiting slippers and moved to the bathroom to pee, wash my hands, dab at my face with a warm cloth. My lip was still a little swollen, the swelling on my forehead was down. The stitches are itchy. The bruises are starting to fade, turning yellow. I try to imagine them gone. Like it never happened. I can hear Lucas and Kate talking quietly in the kitchen. I smell coffee and I have a headache. Coffee might help.
I joined them in the kitchen, the love from both comforting, but I shrink from being hugged. They don’t let on if they notice. Kate makes me a coffee and I drink a little. The headache eases off. They tell me it’s Sunday afternoon. Lucas makes me scrambled eggs and toast. I try, but I can’t get it down.
Kate suggests a bath. She wants to help me undress and I’m instantly horrified and can’t stop shaking. I don’t want her to see the bruises on my thighs. She’ll know what happened. I don’t want to talk about it, not with her—not with anyone.
“It’s okay lovey. You can manage on your own. Of course you can.” I nod, mute, head down. She made sure I had everything I needed, then left, closing the bathroom door softly behind her. I undress and climb into the tub, holding onto the sides for balance as I drop slowly into the water. Immediately, the heat of the water stings the delicate and bruised vaginal skin. I panic and grab the side of the tub to get out, but even as I try to stand, the stinging has already started to ease off. And then, it stopped. I settle back into the water. Take up washcloth and soap; start to wash myself: every bruise, every scratch, everywhere they had touched me. Knew then why I wanted to be alone for this, my first move to reclaim myself from the men who laid their filthy hands on me, beat me, raped me, tried to kill me. When I was done, I eased back onto the bath pillow and let the water hold me ge
ntly.
The bath made me sleepy and I guess I’d stopped moving around. Kate was at the door, knocking quietly, asking if I needed anything. I told her I was okay. I got myself out of the tub and dried off. I put on the clean night gown she had ready for me, then made my way to the bedroom and climbed into bed. The last thing I remember was Kate gently tucking me in.
When I woke again it was just after 9:00 pm. I put on the waiting slippers and my housecoat, lying on the bed where Kate had left it, then went in search of her and Lucas.
“Sweetheart, you’re up.”
I tried to smile back—felt the pull of my lower lip, not quite able to respond.
“Are you hungry? I made you something to eat. Want me to warm it up?”
“Not really.” He tried to hide his disappointment. “Maybe later,” I lied. I walked over to where he was sitting on the couch, books and papers stacked beside him.
“Where’s Kate?”
“Bart took her home when it looked like you might sleep right through.” Lucas shuffled things around to make room for me.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked.
“Pretty good. A sleep marathon will do that.” It was the truth and it surprised me.
“It’s what you need. Your voice is stronger.” Lucas watched as my hand instinctively went to my throat.
Suddenly vulnerable, I tried to cover it. “What were you doing?”
“Just passing time, till you woke up.”
“We haven’t talked much.”
“It’s hard to talk with someone who’s fast asleep.” It was meant as a joke, but his eyes were dead serious.
We were both silent for a bit. I picked at the couch.
“We can talk, whenever you’re ready,” he said.
“Did you call my family?”
“Yes. Your mom’s brothers in Thunder Bay. Your cousin Tanaka offered to visit your Nokomis Effie and fill her in. We both felt it would be better if she heard this in person.”
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