by D. L. EVANS
Christopher desperately wanted his own pet frog. For weeks, he’d been anticipating any objections he would receive from his mother and rehearsed counter strategies. It was clean, didn’t make any noise, (not much anyway); it wouldn’t cost anything as he would expertly catch it himself. He would even catch the flies and creepy bugs to feed it. Mom would have to agree. It was a brilliant plan.
Mister Lucky, (the perfect name) would reside royally in a freshly cleaned peanut butter jar, complete with breathing holes in the top. Of course, there was a certain element of danger in his plan, and he’d been forbidden to go near the river where Mr. Lucky lurked, but what eight and a half year old was ever deterred from his plans out of fear of disobeying his mother? Besides, he had his new rubber boots, (they squeaked magnificently) and if he were fast enough, she would never know that he had taken the short cut along the river on his way home from school.
It was a quest, like that story about Jason and the Golden Fleece. Reassured by the idea that he was just like Jason, he went over the plan again in his mind. He would head for the shallow section full of lily pads and tadpoles that he had previously reconnoitred; snap up a champion jumper and no one would be the wiser. How he would explain Mister Lucky without prior approval from Mom was yet to be considered.
Mothers always said no. No, he could not have a puppy, they barked too much.
No he could not have a kitten, they clawed the couch. No he could not have a white rat, they were horrible things, mom said. Well, what could she say about a clean, quiet, free frog? She would have to say yes for sure.
At the three fifteen bell Christopher slipped into his new yellow boots, tucked his glass jar under his Blue Jays jacket and ran for the classroom door. Today, he was the first one across the playing field behind the school. After a quick check to be sure no one was watching, he moved the board that covered the hole in the fence and slid down the ravine to the Don River. His boots were a bit big but he liked the way he could slide his feet around inside and the way they made really cool sucking noises in the mud.
He unzipped his jacket and caught a whiff of peanut butter. Holding the jar up to the sky he noticed some telltale smudges and regretted cleaning it himself. It should have gone through the dishwasher, but then Mom might have asked what he was saving it for. She would have guessed about the frog. Mom could see right into his brain. No, he’d done the right thing. Mr. Lucky would be a surprise. Never mind that the jar wasn't spotless. Maybe frogs liked peanut butter! Who wouldn't!
The river curved to the right and the shallow spot with the lily pads was just beyond a stand of weeping willows. There would be plenty of frogs to choose from and the best jumper would probably pop right into his jar, with the peanut butter smudges for bait.
Christopher scuffed quickly along the path around the trees and suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, his heart hammering in his little chest. How could the lily pad pond have disappeared? Water rushed by, deeper than he remembered and not a frog in sight. Three days of rain must have changed things he guessed. Not to be deterred from his quest, (Jason never gave up) Chris remembered another place along the river near Governors' Bridge. He would have to run now to still be home on time.
A large uprooted tree, half submerged stuck out several feet into the rushing river. The exposed root ball was jammed into shallow rocks with bulrushes growing askew on both sides. The water was mirror calm in the protection of the fallen tree trunk, but its branches reached like snakes into the turbulence further out. It was a challenge worthy of a hero. Christopher paused to catch his breath, and unscrewed the jar lid. As he edged out on the fallen log he laughed, delighted to see a scurrying mass of green hiding in the rushes. The plan had finally come together. The mighty Jason saw the Golden Fleece. Mister Lucky, the king of frogs, popped his shiny head out of a hole in the tree trunk shortly ahead. Christopher kneeled awkwardly in his big yellow boots, careful not to rock the log and cause the frog to jump. Eyeball to eyeball they stared at each other as he gently eased onto his hands and knees and crawled, with the jar, to within reach of the prize.
Mister Lucky kept very still, puffing his chin in and out at the advancing boy. Could he smell? Maybe he wasn't hungry. Chris manoeuvred the jar so the open top faced the frog and waited. Huge bubble eyes blinked and webbed feet moved a fraction towards the water, ready to jump. Christopher held his breath... just one chance before it escaped. He aimed the jar and lunged forward. The action caused the log to roll, and Chris scrabbled for a handhold on the smooth tree trunk. The jar went flying into the rushes and Mr. Lucky made the most astounding leap of its little amphibious life, croaking in triumph as Christopher tumbled into the river and was dragged into the current.
The shock of the cold water forced the breath out his lungs as he struggled, hampered by the heavy boots. Chris knew how to swim. Dad had taught him in the pool. It had been easy in the warm swimming pool, supported by Dad's strong arms, so why was it so difficult now in river?
Don't breath the water, kick to the surface. He knew the drill; it just wasn’t working like it should. He was turned in a somersault, bouncing along the bottom. The water tasted awful and he felt light-headed from holding his breath. Don't swallow, don't breathe.
He was getting dizzy, so it was hard to concentrate on what Mom was saying about his boots. Bubbles in his ears. What was she saying? ‘Louder Mom, I can't hear you.’ Boots are heavy, can't move... legs anymore. Then, suddenly he understood, kicked them off and lashed upwards toward the light. Don't throw up, don't breath until you reach the top. Being very light-headed wasn’t unpleasant, he thought, but strangely, it was getting very dark.
Suddenly his head broke the surface reminding him that he was in mortal danger. He gasped and screamed. A quick breath and he was sucked back down into the cold brown swirls. Smooth rocks on the bottom. Chris pushed upwards but could no longer feel his legs. As water found it’s way into his lungs, the fear and cold changed to a calm floaty feeling. He was drifting now. It's O.K. Mom. I'm not afraid. Sorry about the boots. Sorry.
As the roaring sounds receded, everything went whispery and soft. Light played through the water like shifting curtains. Christopher closed his eyes. Then, something gently touched the side of his face. A caress. He opened his eyes and saw a hand. A mermaid was reaching for him. With his last ounce of strength he grabbed her hand and held on tighter than he had ever
held on to anything in his life. She was strong, like his Mom and pulled him up towards the light. Her long hair brushed around his face. He smiled as he broke the surface of the river and gasped a lung full of air. Who would have thought a mermaid would come just in time to save him? He must remember to thank her, he thought. Then, blackness closed in completely, and except for his tightly clenched hand, his little body went limp.
Christopher had been seen falling into the water by a group of teenagers who were hanging out on Governors' Bridge. Several ran to call the police and an ambulance, while two of them rushed down the ravine at breakneck speed and raced along the riverbank, following his progress down the middle of the churning river, attempting to gain on him and get ahead where they could intercept him.
The river curved past the stand of willows where they quickly waded out into the freezing water. The little boy's body was being tossed around like a toy as it was carried quickly toward them. They watched as he went under, surfaced again, screamed once, then disappeared again. He was alive. The now hysterical teenagers, chest deep in the swirling current, were themselves breathing with difficulty. Suddenly, just out of reach, the little Blue Jays jacket bobbed to the surface, was spit out of the main current into an eddy, which channelled the child into a tangle of dead branches that obscured the bank a hundred feet further along. Desperate not to lose him again, they splashed through the murky water, linked arms and made one last lunge for the now unconscious child, and caught a handful of sodden baseball jacket.
When the police car and ambulance arrived simultaneously at the riverside momen
ts later, they found two wet teenagers still waist deep in the water, sobbing loudly and shivering uncontrollably from exhaustion and hypothermia as they bent over Christopher, who was floating on his back. One was supporting his little head while the other breathed stubbornly into his unresponsive mouth.
It was a shocking sight, even to the veteran cops. They had trouble pulling the two crying teenagers off the child to make it possible for the paramedics to do their job.
Only then did they realize why the boys had remained partly in the water themselves instead of carrying the child up away from the water’s edge. The little boy’s left fist was locked firmly to the swollen hand of a body, which was still tangled in the thick branches, slightly submerged in the tea coloured water.
One of the policemen gently forced open the little fingers, releasing the child’s death grip from the hand of the corpse. Strands of weed hung from the child’s neck as the paramedics carried him, still limp and unconscious, to the waiting ambulance where he was wrapped in blankets as CPR continued without interruption.
The two shivering teenagers stopped sobbing as they were led out of the water. An unnatural quiet settled over the scene. In a state of shock, they were wrapped in blankets and eased into the back seat of the warm police car.
One of the cops walked over to the ambulance as the other attempted to get some sort of cohesive statement from the boys. When one of the paramedics sensed his presence and looked up, the question written on the cops face needed no translation.
We’ve got a faint heartbeat, but we just can’t get him to come out of it. Maybe in the water too long, possibly brain damaged... too long without oxygen... can’t tell without further examination. We’re almost ready to transport... Nothing more we can do here. “Do we know who he is?”
“No. The boys are still pretty much in shock but they definitely don’t know him. It was just luck that they were watching when he fell in.”
As the ambulance pulled away to the wail of the siren, the coroner's office was notified and the two cops set about the grim task of wading back out into the river and retrieving the body.
Christopher came to without warning in the ambulance and mumbled something indiscernible about Mister Lucky and some yellow boots. The relieved face that smiled down at him told the boy gently that he was Mister Lucky to have come out of that river alive.
The two cops stood knee deep in the icy water once again, pulling the corpse gingerly by the legs, attempting to free the entangled body still gently moving in the current several inches below the water. As it came free, the hardened veteran struggled with the sour taste at the back of his throat. The naked and battered corpse of a woman floated to the surface without a head.
As they manoeuvred the remains into a body bag, they discussed keeping the lid on the gruesome details. Little Christopher and his teenage saviours would never know that in his death grip, the child had been holding for his life to the hand of a headless corpse.
Chapter Twelve
ADAM STONE:
The Half Moon Bar, where I was headed to meet Mack, is one of those small, poorly lit hideaways just off the beaten track but technically still in the downtown core. It’s the kind of place where you find loners with no inclination for social intercourse, nervous couples without matching wedding bands, and businessmen insulating themselves for their inevitable trip to the suburbs and domestic bliss. The only parking spot available was on the boulevard, so I eased the Healy up over the curb and into a space reserved for taxis, holding my breath as I waited for the low-slung exhaust pipe to become intimate with the concrete. When I was rewarded by the familiar sound, I killed the engine, pocketed the key and walked in. It was a relief to find that some things never change.
It had been a while, but Stan Sanderson, the owner, sporting his heavily waxed captain-of-the-guards moustache welcomed me like an old friend, splashed a neat double bourbon into a glass and slid it over to me without any prompting. The sign of a good bartender. I made suitable noises about how dashing he looked and ordered a burger with the works. He nodded to a table in the corner, said he would bring it over, and by the way, someone was waiting for me.
Mack nursed a dark beer (he only allowed himself one a day) and jabbed at a salad. He looked up as I approached. “Well if it isn’t my old friend from the land of the rich and famous. Must be a couple a months since we got together huh?” Toothy smile, cute dimples, dark curly hair in need of a cut.
“Yah, I guess it is," I smiled. "Nice to see ya, you old bastard.” The handshake was warm and familiar.
“Glad you called. It’s been too long since we’ve seen your ugly face at the station. How’s the new book coming?”
“I’m kickin’ around a few ideas...” I said.
Mack nodded and let the lie pass, his mouth full of salad.
Quickly changing the subject, I asked, “What are you working on downtown?”
“Got my head up my ass on something, Adam,” Mack mumbled as he munched and swallowed. “Missing women that I know are dead. No one wanted to believe me for sure ‘til yesterday. Not that I blame them... means a serial killer. A kid almost drowned in the Don River yesterday and when they pulled him out he was holding on to a corpse.” He paused for the reaction to his dramatic sentence. I must have looked suitably shocked. Then he added, “The dead body was a woman.”
"Yah,” I managed dryly. “I read about the little boy almost drowning, in the morning paper. I don't remember anything about a body though."
Mack smirked, "You read the sanitised version and that's not the worst bit. The first cops on the scene both have young kids and had the good sense to keep it quiet. No one was allowed near the river so no one has blabbed to the press... yet. They just told the media that two boys rescued a kid that they saw fall into the river and when they got to him, they spotted the body in a tangle of branches. The third kid called the cops and an ambulance on his cell phone. Good thing too." He paused then finished his beer.
"Adam," he continued, "the little lad who was unconscious, was, praise the Lord, holding hands with the corpse. Christ, can you imagine? She was naked and had been neatly decapitated. What a sight that musta bin. Thank God it didn’t turn out to be a photo opportunity for the local media creeps. The kids only saw the dead hand holding on to the kid. The rest of her was still out of sight, underwater. Still... they will probably see that rotting hand reaching for them every time they close their eyes for the rest of their lives. Probably going to finance some shrink’s retirement.”
"Sweet Jesus. Do they know who she is?" I asked.
"Off the record..." Mack replied, "It’s not official yet... it's one of my missing women, name of Jasmine Train. So now it’s a murder investigation like I always knew it was. I was getting some flack from the chief because she was just listed as a missing person but I had a hunch... Her husband’s already in the looney bin over her goin’ missin’, but I don’t think he coulda done it. They had this sort of weird mother/son relationship and when she just disappeared, he lost it."
"God, the perp must have cut off the head, huh? Are you still searching for... it... in the river?"
"Naw. It's long gone,” Mack said. “Mighta washed out into the Lake, of course. Our boys went over the whole Don Valley but didn't find anything. She coulda been killed and thrown off one of the bridges. Last week the local school in Moore Park had Environment Cleanup Day or some such thing, and trampled everything in sight. Good timing huh?... Y’know Adam, the other two females are going to turn up soon too. Sure as I’m sittin’ here, the same freak did them too. And if I’m right, there’ll be more, and they'll be beauties as well.” He paused for effect, knowing I would take his predictions seriously. The lack of hard evidence didn't dilute his conclusions, his ‘gut’ was never wrong.
Mack’s intense blue eyes were cold, narrow and pissed off. "The media hasn’t linked’em yet but they’ll connect the dots when we find the next body. Adam, this must be the first time that a goddam corpse actually sav
ed a life.” He paused; appreciating the effect the statement was having on me. I quietly agreed, imagining the scene like an episode in a Steven King movie. “The kid also would have been washed out into the Lake if... if he hadn't grabbed the corpse’s hand and given the teenagers a few seconds to wade out and get to him. Nasty Adam, real nasty…” Mack switched gears again and said, “I haven’t told you the latest... I spotted that big shot in Fraud, a limey name of Charles Reese on stakeout. I think he was married to Queen Elizabeth, or Grace Kelly, or someone.”
I laughed.
Mack continued “Transferred here some months ago from Vancouver but originally he was from merry old England, complete with the ‘orrible mumble accent. To make a long story short, I spotted ‘im and his team watching some big wigs and one of ‘em was Roger Smythe himself.”
I must have reacted because Mack winked conspiratorially, and went on. “Seems it’s possible that our boy may be involved in some hanky panky with his investments. I hope it blows up before Lauren gets too involved. She hasn’t said anything about well… you know, getting hitched to this jerk, has she?”
