I didn’t tell her that I’d seen Mindy and Ben together the previous day.
“I think she faked her kidnapping,” Sam said.
“Why would she do that? Now she’s hiding out in Markham.”
“Mindy was part of whatever Becca and Gabe are up to.” Sam’s eyes sparkled as she gained momentum. “They must’ve had a falling out. She probably shafted them.”
She glanced at her watch. “It’s 1:05. I wonder what happened on Redman Road.”
I hoped the police were giving Becca and Gabe a good grilling.
The doorbell rang. “That must be Kyle with the groceries,” I said, getting up.
Sam followed me to the door. I flung it open and found myself face-to-face with the man who’d answered the door at Michelle Blake’s condo: Gabe Quincy He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, a black scarf looped casually around his neck. Fierce brown eyes, five o’clock stubble.
Behind me, Sam gasped. “Gabe, what are you doing here?”
He ignored her. “Ms. Tierney,” he said with a practiced smile. “I’m Gabe Quincy. Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
My instinct was to slam the door shut in his face, but I wanted to call the police before he left. I held the door open, and he followed Sam into the house.
My cell phone was on the kitchen counter, and I figured the landline upstairs was a better bet. “I’ll be back in a moment,” I said, moving toward the staircase to the second floor.
Gabe placed a hand on my arm. “I’ll just be a minute. Hear me out.”
The look in his eyes told me he wasn’t going to let me out of his sight. I shook my arm free and gestured to the kitchen. I joined Sam at the table, and pointed to the empty chair beside her. Gabe remained on his feet, lounging against the doorframe.
“Sit down,” I told him.
“I’m fine right here.”
“Why did you take Mindy Manuel from her home?” I asked.
“Is that any business of yours?”
The cordless phone rang in the sunroom. I figured it was Hardy calling from Redman Road. I jumped to my feet.
“Don’t answer it,” Gabe said.
“This is my home,” I said, “and I’m answering my phone.”
His face turned ugly. “Stay in that chair!”
I did what he said. He was bigger and, I assumed, stronger than me.
“You mentioned Mindy Manuel,” he said. “You must know where she is.”
“Probably at home.”
“You’re lying.” He turned to Sam. “Where is she?”
“Mindy Manuel? I met her once when she came to the office to see Dean. I have no idea where she is now.”
“Another lie.”
“Is that why you’re here?” I asked him.
“Partly.” He stared at Sam. “Your girlfriend told me you were at your boss’s place.”
How did he know where I lived?
My cell chimed on the counter. Sam jumped to answer it.
Gabe grabbed her arm. “Let it go.”
Sam sank back into her seat, and Gabe went on. “I’m here to see Daisy La Douce.”
“What?” Sam cried.
“You sent Becca a message under your username.”
“How…?”
“How do I know you sent that e-mail? From its wording. Daisy said she was ‘really jazzed about’ the home Becca is selling. And jazzed just happens to be one of your favorite words.”
Sam shrank into her shell: shoulders hunched, neck drawn into her shirt, arms crossed over her chest.
“Seems like you—and Daisy—didn’t make the viewing. Well, Becca wasn’t there, either. She saw through your trick.”
Gabe moved away from the doorframe. “Cross us again, Sam, and you’ll be sorry.”
She looked up at him, her eyes full of loathing.
I followed him to the front door.
“I’ll be watching you, Pat,” he said before he left.
A shiver ran down my spine as he walked away from the house. His vehicle wasn’t parked at the curb, and I watched as he walked down the street. When he turned the corner, I locked the front door, and made a beeline for my cell in the kitchen.
“We waited an hour for Rebecca Quincy,” Hardy said when I reached him. “Why didn’t she show?”
I told him about Gabe’s visit. “He figured out that Sam sent the e-mail to Becca,” I said.
“Did you get Quincy’s license-plate number?”
“He wasn’t parked on my street.”
“No idea where he’s staying?”
“No, but he’s looking for Mindy.”
“Let me know if you see him again. But be careful.”
Sam was crying when I disconnected. I drew a chair close to hers, sat down, and put an arm around her.
She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. “Gabe’s dangerous. He turned Becca into a different person.”
“What did he do to you?”
She was silent for a good minute. I waited, knowing she had something to tell me, and that she had to do it in her own way.
“I was 13 when he started seeing Becca.” Her voice was so soft I had to lean closer to hear her.
“And you thought he was great.”
“He was the older brother I never had. Smart, funny, listened to what I had to say. At first.”
“Then he started coming on to you.”
She closed her eyes for a moment or two. “He started giving me hugs when Becca wasn’t around. Touched my breasts a few times. Just a brush of his hand, so I wasn’t sure if it was by accident. I tried to keep out of his way.”
“But that wasn’t always possible.”
She lowered her eyes. “One night, Mom and Dad went out, and Gabe put on a movie in the rec room. Lipstick. He must have brought it over because it wasn’t a movie my parents would have watched.”
I remembered the ’70s film starring Margaux Hemingway. A thriller about rape. Not a movie for a girl of 13.
“Becca made drinks for us at the bar,” Sam went on. “Vodka and orange juice, screwdrivers. When the movie began, Gabe started running his fingers up and down my arm. I didn’t like it, but Becca was sitting on his other side, so I figured he’d stop soon. He paused the movie, and she made more drinks. Really strong ones. When he started the movie again, she said she was tired and went upstairs.”
I put an arm around Sam.
“The movie was awful,” she said. “A man attacked a beautiful woman.”
I remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
Sam examined her fingernails before going on with her story. “We heard Becca moving around upstairs, then the house was silent. The next thing I knew, Gabe was lying on top of me, pulling down my pants. I screamed, but Becca didn’t come down. He spread my legs apart and…” She shuddered. “He kept saying, ‘You want this, Sam. I know you do.’”
She started to cry again. I took her in my arms and let her cry herself out. In my mind’s eye, I saw Gabe running a hand down Sam’s back, slipping it under her shirt, pulling down her track pants. But it wasn’t Sam I saw him fondling; it was Laura, and I was outraged. No, I told myself, be outraged for Sam. She was a child when Gabe raped her, and the trauma continues to haunt her.
When Sam’s tears subsided, I sat back and looked at her. “Gabe raped you, Sam. Did you tell your parents? The police?”
She shook her head. “Only Becca. I told her the next day. She said I’d had too much to drink, and I’d had a nightmare. She said alcohol gives people bad nightmares.”
I could barely control my anger. Sam was 13 years old. Why would she be having nightmares about being raped at 13? “And you believed it was a nightmare?”
She shrugged. “She had me convinced that was what happened in spite of… I was sore the next day. I should have known a nightmare wouldn’t have done that. But I wanted to believe her. She was my big sister. And Gabe never touched me again, so I thought she was right.”
Becca must have heard Sam screami
ng, yet she didn’t go to her. It sounded like she’d plotted Sam’s rape with Gabe. But even if she hadn’t, she didn’t do anything when Sam told her about it the next day. She tried to convince her it hadn’t happened.
And, years later, Becca stood by silently again when Gabe enlisted Sam in the hospital scam that nearly put her in jail. Some sister she was. And she was still with the man who had masterminded all this.
“Raping you was a power trip,” I told Sam. “Gabe was showing you that you were under his control.”
“I’ve dreamed about that night for years,” she said. “I wake up from those dreams feeling helpless and humiliated.”
“Gabe wanted you to feel that way. It was part of his agenda, but it was not your fault. Keep that in mind.”
“There’s no getting away from him. Becca is my sister, and Gabe is her husband. Sometimes my parents and I don’t see them for months, but they always turn up again.”
“Families are important,” I told her. “Strong families stand by one another.”
“Like yours.” Sam sounded wistful. “And you opened your arms to Tommy when he needed a family.”
“We try.” I took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “But sometimes a family member can be hurtful, even toxic. When that person threatens your well-being, you need to avoid her. Becca is your sister, but you may need to cut her out of your life.”
Sam lowered her eyes. I hoped my words were sinking in.
Out of shock and shame, too few girls and women report sexual assaults. And it can take years before a survivor feels ready to talk about it. I wondered if Sam was finally ready. “Would you tell the police what Gabe did?” I asked.
Her head drooped. “It’s too long ago…15 years. It would be my word against his.”
She was probably right, but she still needed to talk to someone about that night. “There are counselors who can help you.”
Sam suddenly looked like a small child. “I want to go home,” she said softly.
Kyle arrived just then with several bags of groceries. I took the bags from him, whispering that I needed his help.
Five minutes later, he left to drive Sam home in his Mazda, the back wheel of her bike protruding from the trunk.
I thought about what Sam had just told me as I put the groceries away. Gabe was a monster. He’d raped Sam, he’d kidnapped Mindy. Then I pictured Mindy waving goodbye to Ben.
I’d had enough. I needed answers to the questions I had about the Quincys, Mindy, Ben, even Dean. I went into the sunroom, and punched Ben’s number into my cell.
“Cordova,” he answered.
“Pat Tierney here.”
“Ah, my financial planner. What are you up to?”
“It’s last-minute, I know, but I hear Nuit Blanche will be terrific this year. Are you free tonight?” Toronto’s giant street party attracted crowds of people every year. I could quiz Ben about Mindy, the Quincys, and Dean, but I wouldn’t be alone with him.
“Sure,” he said. “Nuit Blanche is a lot of fun.”
“Is Cordova Philanthropies a sponsor?”
“No. We’ve given grants to a couple of artists who are showing tonight, but we don’t get involved with the festival itself. What part of the city would you like to focus on?”
“Downtown,” I said. “Queen Street West.”
“Things should be warming up around 10.”
I told him that 10 p.m. would be a good time to head out. “We should take the subway downtown,” I said. “Streets will be closed, and traffic may be crazy.”
“Wear a warm jacket,” he said. “It’ll be chilly tonight.”
I had misgivings as soon as I hung up.
Chapter Forty-three
Ben and I got off the subway at the Queen station. Queen Street West was closed to motor vehicles, and we waded into a sea of people. Colored lights pulsed from the glass pedestrian bridge between the Eaton Centre and The Bay department store, and spilled over the crowd on the street below. Taking a closer look, I saw dancers moving behind the glass.
“Performance art,” I said. “I wonder what it means.”
Ben took the Nuit Blanche pocket map from his jacket. “Title is Continuum. Continuum of what? I have no idea.”
I pulled up my collar. The evening had turned colder, and I was thankful I’d worn my fleece-lined jacket.
We walked west in a crowd of people of all ages. Some wore festive accessories—crazy wigs, Stetsons, feather boas. A woman dressed in black leather behind us wore a stunning turquoise-and-silver dragon mask, her gelled blond hair fanning out behind it like golden snakes. An oversized snowman came up to us, bobbing his head in greeting, his mouth stitched into a twisted grin.
“Hiya, Mr. Snowman!” Ben said. “You’re a bit early for the Santa Claus Parade.”
The snowman gave us a bow, and I laughed with delight.
Nathan Phillips Square, the big plaza in front of New City Hall, was teeming with people. A large group had gathered around a hot-air balloon, whimsically decorated with pictures of lilies and daffodils, and the words Matteson’s Whiskey. The balloon rose into the air with a loud whoosh, its four passengers waving to the crowd from the wicker basket. It went up about 40 feet, and then came back down.
“A three-minute trip,” Ben said, looking at his watch. “I know Nuit Blanche relies on corporate sponsors, but the Matteson’s Whiskey balloon? This isn’t art. It’s a giant ad.”
“Still,” I countered, “it’s kind of cool to see a hot-air balloon in downtown Toronto.”
He took my arm as we skirted the crowd. As soon as I could, I eased my arm away from him, and pointed across the square in the direction of lively music. “Dixieland. Let’s take a look.”
The music led us to a long lineup outside a canvas tent. Two people dressed in pig costumes stood at the entrance holding plastic human heads on trays. “A commentary on eating meat,” Ben said, and we moved on.
We followed a group of young people in Roaring Twenties evening dress. “People-watching may be the best part of Nuit Blanche,” I remarked.
Ben smiled in agreement.
Back on Queen Street, two inebriated teenage boys veered in front of us. We stepped aside to let them pass. “Some people are fun to watch,” Ben said. “Others, you need to watch out for.”
“I got a bit tipsy from time to time at that age.”
“You?” he said in mock horror. “Who would have thought?”
West of University Avenue, Queen Street was open to traffic. On the south side of Queen, Greek music drew us into an alley where hundreds of shoes and boots were dangling from overhead ropes. A sign saying Take a Walk in My Shoes hung from a brick wall.
“Shoefiti,” Ben said. “Those shoes you see slung over power lines along country roads.”
“So that’s the name for it.”
A dozen or so people ambled through the alley, gazing up at the footwear. “I have more than 1,000 pairs of shoes and boots here,” a dark-eyed man with a goatee told us. “Each pair has its own story.”
Wielding a long wooden pole, he lifted up a pair of black high-heeled sandals. “Meghan Markle wore these when she was filming Suits here in Toronto.” He turned to us with a smile. “Would you like to add your shoes to the collection?”
I laughed and shook my head.
Ben bent down to untie the lace of one of his leather brogues.
“Not your good shoes, Ben!” I reached into my shoulder bag and took out a plastic case holding a pair of terrycloth slippers. “Here you go. I handed the slippers to the man with the goatee, who clipped them to a rope above our heads.
“Tie your shoelace,” I said to Ben, feeling like I was speaking to Tommy.
The snowman waddled into the alley, and stood staring up at my slippers.
“What’s their story?” the man with the goatee asked me.
“Not much of a story. I keep them in my bag in case I have to leave my shoes at a client’s door.”
“Whatever were you
thinking?” I said to Ben as we left the alley. “It’s too cold tonight to walk around without shoes.”
“We could’ve found a taxi and gone back to my place.”
Where Mindy had climbed out the basement window in her stocking feet. “Was it your idea to have Mindy leave your home without her shoes?” I asked. “That made it look like a real kidnapping.”
“What are you talking about?” Ben seemed genuinely puzzled. Then he shook his head. “Pat, sometimes things are exactly as they appear.”
“Meaning?”
“Mindy was taken to my home, but not by me. I had nothing to do with it. I was in Muskoka.”
“But you know her. Quite well, in fact.”
“I told you I met her in Dean’s office. I felt badly when I heard what happened to her, so I contacted her. I wanted her to know that I had nothing to do with her kidnapping. I offered to put her up in a hotel until all this blows over, but she refused.”
That was the best he could come up with? “How did you manage to contact her?” I asked. “The police wouldn’t give out her information.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Mindy does design work for a group that funds art projects in the city. The Toronto Arts Initiative. I recognized her name when Dean introduced us.” He smiled. “So I asked one of my friends at TAI for her contacts. Small world, isn’t it?”
Mindy had had her cell number blocked. The TAI people may have had another way of reaching her, but they wouldn’t have had her sister’s address. “You and I need to talk, Ben,” I said. “Is there some place where we can sit down?”
“There’s a party across the street at Campbell House. Want to check it out?”
“Sure.” I figured we could find a quiet corner, and I’d fire my questions at him.
Campbell House, the stately brick heritage house and museum on the northwest corner of Queen and University, was ablaze with lights. A tent was set up on its lawn, and well-dressed men and women strolled across the grass with glasses in their hands, apparently oblivious to the chilly weather. Music floated through the open front doors. Over the tinkling of a piano, a man’s gravelly voice was singing “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.”
“Ben, we’re not dressed for this party,” I said as he steered me through the front gates. In our casual street clothes, we looked like two drab sparrows amid the party people on the lawn.
Uncharted Waters Page 23
