The Weight of Blood

by D. B. Carew

  Brandon shrugged. “All I know is, once you cross the line, there’s no going back. We end up being no better than the criminals we’re after.” He looked at his empty bottle and gave a heavy sigh. “I should go. Let you get back to sprucing up your place.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Long after Brandon had gone, Chris continued thinking about their conversation. He decided he needed a run to burn off his nervous energy. He changed into his running gear and left his apartment for the streets of his neighbourhood.

  Adrenalin rushed through his body and it didn’t take long to find his rhythm. But it wasn’t only the physical high from running that he was looking for. Running also helped him slow down his thoughts and focus his mind.

  Today’s run had him thinking about the black SUV. Was it the same vehicle he saw each time? Was it following him? Knowing the licence plate would go a long way toward answering his questions, but he had only had a partial plate number. He suddenly figured out a way he might be able to track down the vehicle and fist-pumped the air in celebration of his breakthrough.

  By the time he got home, Chris was physically tired but mentally energized. He was excited at the prospect of identifying the driver of the SUV, but tonight, his anticipation was reserved for his evening with Stephanie. He quickly showered, dressed, and drove to her condo.

  After a brief deliberation, Stephanie and Chris ordered in from a local Chinese restaurant. While they ate, they caught each other up on their days. Stephanie talked enthusiastically about the positive feedback her manager had given about the group she was running. As Chris listened to her spirited voice and saw the sparkle in her eyes, he found himself overcome with love for her. This moment, this feeling was one he wished he could hold onto and never let slip from his memory.

  Stephanie poked him in the arm. “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?”

  “I was, I am. Really,” he said sheepishly, his cheeks flushed. “Okay. You want to know what I was thinking?”

  She nodded.

  “I was thinking how lucky I am to have you. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing. We could be folding laundry for all I care. I’d be the happiest guy in the world because we’d be together.”

  “Are you telling me you want to fold laundry?” she teased, but her eyes were misting over.

  He ignored her wisecrack. “You have to hear this.” He pulled out his smartphone and scrolled down his artists’ icons until he landed on Pearl Jam. “This song is from a sound check in Italy during their tour in ’06.” He walked over to her sound dock, pressed a few buttons and “Faithful” started playing.

  He motioned for Stephanie to join him on the couch and wrapped his arm around her. They listened in silence to Eddie Vedder’s powerful delivery of the song until it was over.

  “Right now, this is one of my favourites,” Chris said. “It doesn’t matter what kind of day I’m having. I play this and I automatically feel better.” He locked eyes with Stephanie. “I love the fact that I can share this with you. It’s how I feel about us.”

  “Are you saying you’re always going to be faithful?” she joshed.

  “What I’m saying is that my world is empty without you and I love being with you.”

  Stephanie’s eyes glistened. “You’re staying tonight.” She kissed him passionately. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  What am I going to do?

  The question had been clanging relentlessly inside Chris’ head since four in the morning, making it impossible for him to fall back to sleep. He was lying in a warm bed next to the woman he loved. So why couldn’t he enjoy this moment and shake the feeling of impending doom?

  Chris watched Stephanie’s peaceful, rhythmic breathing. How could he protect her? He couldn’t shake the feeling of danger that permeated his life. Were the people he loved safe? His heart was hammering in his chest, heralding another anxiety attack. He tried his breathing exercises, but to no effect. He attempted to distract himself by visualizing a comforting, safe place. But what do you do when your safe place itself is under attack? Is there refuge anywhere? He finally sprang out of bed, defeated and enraged.

  “What’s wrong?” Stephanie asked sleepily.

  “Gotta get some air. Sorry to wake you.” He retreated to her living room, opened the sliding door to her balcony, and stepped out. The cold, damp night air hit him hard.

  “Another bad night?” Stephanie asked, joining him on the terrace, a white cotton robe draped around her body.

  Her presence startled him. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Unfortunately.”

  He walked back to the living room, and Stephanie followed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not much to talk about. I shouldn’t have stayed over. Now I’ve screwed up your sleep, too.”

  “I don’t care about that. I’m more worried about you, Chris. Talk to me. Let’s work through it together.”

  “What is there to say, Stephanie? I’m trying, I’m going to counselling. But I’m still having panic attacks and I still have nightmares. It’s frustrating.”

  “I know that, Chris, and you’re doing the right thing with seeing Nathaniel. But healing takes time.”

  “It sure does.” He started to get dressed.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home. I’m really sorry.”

  He left her condo. With every step away from Stephanie, he wondered if he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

  Chris stopped to load up on caffeine at a Starbucks on the drive back from Stephanie’s condo. He had a whole day to kill before the Canucks game. What should have been a source of joy and excitement now felt more like a dreadful obligation. In his current mood, he didn’t feel like doing anything with anybody. Even running was too gargantuan a task. Instead, he decided to spend the next few hours trying to distract himself from his worries by listening to music. It didn’t take long for him to doze off.

  It also didn’t take long before he was jolted awake by disturbing images of rotting corpses. He gave up on sleep and rolled out of bed. Searching through his cluttered closet until he found his dated Canucks jersey—emblazoned with a 10 for Pavel Bure—he threw it on and got ready for the game. He figured that finding a parking spot near the arena would be next to impossible on game night and decided to take the SkyTrain near his apartment to downtown Vancouver. The minute he arrived at the Metrotown platform, he realized he’d made an enormous mistake. Hordes of passengers were clumped together jostling for the few remaining spaces on the train that had just arrived. He didn’t board that train, deciding instead to take his chances on the next one being less crowded. All the while, he was acutely aware of his rapidly increasing heartbeat. The crowds, the noise, and the overwhelming tension had Chris feeling as if he was going to pass out.

  Staggering over to a less-crowded part of the platform, he managed to brace himself against the wall before lowering his body to the ground. He closed his eyes and massaged his aching head, waiting for the moment to pass.

  “Hey, what are you doing there?” A Transit Police officer stood over Chris, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “Uh ... don’t ... feel good,” was all Chris could manage in his present state.

  “Well, go somewhere else. No loitering here.”

  Chris was oblivious to what the officer was saying. His head felt as if it were going to spin off his body.

  “Get up! Move on!”

  Chris looked up and saw that a crowd was forming around them now as passengers became alerted to the scene developing before them. He heard taunts and catcalls, mostly toward the officer. The man used his radio to call for backup and was quickly joined by another officer who moved in to disperse the mass of people.

  The first officer briefed his partner on his interaction with Chris, summing up his encounter with “Probably a mental patient off his meds or a druggie. Either way he’s not cooperating.”

  The second officer, appearing more sympat
hetic, leaned slightly down toward Chris, who remained hunched on the ground. “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

  Chris was finally starting to come around. He summoned enough energy to say, “No problem,” then took a deep breath and slowly rose to his feet. He looked at the first officer. “For your information, I’m not a ‘mental patient’ or a ‘druggie.’ But what if I was? That’s how you treat people?” He walked away, incensed and embarrassed in equal measure.

  A train approached the station, and he started walking toward it, but his anxiety worsened with every step. The thought of stepping onto a crowded train and into an even more crowded and emotionally charged hockey arena sent shivers up and down his spine. He texted Horace to say that he’d had a family emergency and apologized for having to miss the game.

  He retreated back to his apartment, but not before making a pit stop at a nearby liquor store in a desperate attempt to numb himself.

  He knew from his first sip of rum and cola that it would not be his last, as he drank with reckless abandon.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Chris was slow in coming to his senses the next morning. The ache in his head was surpassed only by his sense of shame. He tried to shake it off with a hot shower and strong coffee before heading to work.

  He approached Horace at the reception desk with a guilty look on his face. “Sorry I bailed on you last night. How much do I owe you?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I had no problem selling the ticket. It’s the freakin’ playoffs, man! You missed a good one, though. They’re right back in it.”

  “Yeah, I caught the highlights.”

  “It’s not the same as being there, Chris, but maybe next time. Oh, and I managed to get this for ya.” He reached into his desk and handed an official Canucks program to Chris.

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.” Then, looking at the program, “I know someone who’ll appreciate this even more.”

  After checking his voicemail messages, he grabbed a few art supplies from a stationery cabinet and hurried to Alpha Unit for a meeting about Marvin. Dr. Stevenson updated them on her phone conversation with the Crown Attorney assigned to Marvin’s case. First, that forensics had confirmed that the blood found at the scene of Mr. Bianchi’s murder did not belong to Marvin, and second, that the Crown was re-examining the charges filed against Marvin in light of this new development. Chris did his best to act surprised, not wanting to tell them Brandon had already shared the news with him. He did, however, express his suspicion that the mystery person’s blood might belong to Marvin’s brother.

  “Do you think Marvin could be covering for his brother?” Alex asked.

  “The lawyer said the police are wondering the same thing. I told him that the way Marvin presents to us appears to be genuine and I certainly haven’t seen anything that suggests he’s overplaying his illness. Have either of you noticed anything?”

  Both Alex and Chris shook their heads.

  “What role Marvin’s brother plays in this case is an interesting question, but one that is ultimately up to the police, and them alone, to determine.” She looked pointedly at Chris, giving him the distinct impression she was sending him a message. “Now, are we ready to see Marvin?”

  Alex left the room to get the young man.

  When they were alone, Dr. Stevenson gave Chris a stern look. “Florence came to my office this morning. Did you really go to Marvin’s house? You look terrible, by the way.”

  “Uh ... yeah.” His face flushed with embarrassment. “How did Florence know?”

  Dr. Stevenson shook her head in disbelief. “She received a call from the RCMP. They said you provided one of their officers with a possible address for Marvin, along with a second address for person or persons unknown, and that you had done this after visiting the homes yourself. They asked Florence if it’s standard procedure for staff to visit the homes of patients under criminal investigation. So naturally, Florence asked me the same question.”

  “What did you tell her?” Chris could feel the familiar Florence-related anxiety stirring inside him. He didn’t need any more trouble from the director, not now.

  Dr. Stevenson paused for a long moment. Chris suspected she wanted to let him sweat a little. Finally she said, “I told her that sometimes the process of collecting collateral information on our patients involves home visits.”

  Chris let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Marilyn.”

  Now it was Dr. Stevenson’s face that turned red. “Do you realize how reckless and dangerous your actions were? Did you tell anyone you were going there?”

  Chris shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so. There’s a rationale behind our policies on home visits and working alone in the community. If anything had happened to you, nobody would have known where you were. This is so unlike you, Chris.”

  “I know. It was an impulsive move on my part.”

  “Chris, this is a murder investigation! If Marvin’s brother is involved and you showed up at his front door, you could have gotten yourself killed! What you did is more than impulsive. It illustrates profound poor judgement.”

  “I know. I —” he started to say, only to be interrupted by the arrival of Marvin and Alex.

  Dr. Stevenson changed her tone and proceeded to ask Marvin a series of simple, yes-or-no questions about his past few days on the unit. Was he sleeping okay? Was he eating okay? Was he having any problems with any of the other patients? Marvin responded to each question with a slight shake of his head, while avoiding direct eye contact with the psychiatrist. He appeared anxious to end the interview and kept looking toward the door, ready to leave, until he spotted the object in Chris’ hand.

  Chris took the cue. “Marvin, a friend got me this program from the Canucks game.” He felt his face burn hot as he thought back to the previous evening’s fiasco and how he’d dealt with it. “I know you like to review the stats on the players. This program has some pretty cool ones. Would you like it?” He offered it to Marvin.

  “Like it.” The young man’s eyes lit up, and he pulled the booklet from Chris’ hand.

  Chris offered to join Alex in accompanying Marvin back to his room, partly because he wanted to avoid further interrogation from Dr. Stevenson and partly because he had a question he wanted to ask Marvin when she wasn’t there. Once they were in the main common room of the unit, Chris motioned to Alex that he needed a minute alone with Marvin. Alex moved out of earshot, and Chris took Marvin over to a table.

  “Marvin, do you remember the car you were in when you stopped at the ice cream truck?”

  “Truck,” he repeated in a monotone voice.

  “Yes, truck. You know, Marvin, I’ve heard you’re really good at drawing. Can you draw a picture of the car you were in?”

  Chris reached into his bag and produced a package of crayons, which he handed to Marvin along with a sheet of paper. The young man pulled out a crayon and immediately started drawing. When he was done, he laid the crayon on the table.

  “That’s great, Marvin. Can you add the colour of the vehicle?” Marvin rummaged through the box and pulled out another crayon and proceeded to colour.

  Chris’ heart rate jumped so rapidly he could feel his head getting woozy when he saw the picture Marvin had drawn: a black SUV.

  “Okay, one more question, Marvin. Can you draw the licence plate number for that vehicle?” Without hesitation, Marvin wrote a series of letters and numbers depicting a British Columbia licence plate.

  Chris thanked him and motioned to Alex that it was okay to take Marvin back to his room. Meanwhile, he looked at the drawing as though it contained the winning numbers for a million-dollar lottery ticket. The sketch reinforced what he’d suspected all along. He actually had been followed. Marvin’s drawing, complete with a licence plate number, brought Chris a step closer to finding out who was behind that SUV and why he was being followed. Maybe it would also clear Marvin as a suspect in Mr. Bianchi’s murder and reveal the identity of the real killer.

 
; Chris could hardly contain his excitement as he made his way to see his patient Paul Butler.

  Nursing staff on Beta Unit had left Chris a message that Paul wanted to see him. As he passed the common room, he spotted two patients and a healthcare worker huddled around the TV watching highlights from last night’s Canucks game, engaged in a spirited discussion about the game. He checked in with Marissa in the nursing station.

  “Okay if I talk with Paul out here?” he asked, pointing to the empty dining area.

  Marissa nodded. “Sure, we don’t have anything going on right now, but the peer support worker will be running a group there in about an hour. I’ll get Paul.” She returned a couple minutes later with Paul. He walked to where Chris was sitting and took a seat opposite him. Marissa headed back to the nursing station.

  “I heard you wanted to talk with me,” Chris said.

  “Is there any news on the day leaves?”

  “I haven’t heard anything new.” Chris saw the dejected look on Paul’s face. “Is everything okay?”

  “Not really. Things were going really good for me at the clubhouse. First they offered me more hours, but I couldn’t take them because I had no day passes. Now they’re saying they put in a good word for me on a job, a real, cool job that I could have transferred to back home, but I can’t do anything about it because I can’t get day passes for an interview.”

  “I’m really sorry, Paul. I can look into whether our staff can take you for the interview, at least.”

  “I’m not even the guy who went UA, yet I’m getting punished for it. We all are. It’s not fair.”

  “I know. It’s frustrating.” Chris wanted to say more but figured he’d already made enough of a target of himself with administration.

  “Do you know when I’ll be transferred to Omega Unit?”

  Chris shook his head. He knew the wait-list for the discharge program was long. The Omega program consisted of five self-contained cottages located on the hospital grounds. Each cottage housed five patients, responsible for their own medication management, cooking, and house upkeep, providing an opportunity to demonstrate their independent living skills. “You’re pretty high on the list though.”