“I don’t drink coffee at night. But Devlin’s tea would be good.”
“Devlin’s it is then.”
They found a table. Casey brought coffee for himself and tea for Emma. Emma had to listen carefully over the loud buzz of conversation, for Casey spoke quietly, never raising his voice.
“How are your colleagues at school taking these murders?” he asked.
“Just as you’d expect,” she said. “The women leave the school as soon as the three o’clock bell rings. Home before dark. What do you know about this latest murder?”
“Nothing really, except she was killed on the thirteenth day, just like the others.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was playing with the numbers and noticed that each of the three murders is thirteen days apart.”
“There’s a murder every thirteen days?”
“Looks like it so far.”
“Do the police know this?”
“I told Wexler, who told his police friend.”
“So now they know. Did they know before Wexler told them?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Do you know why it’s always the thirteenth day?”
Casey shook his head. “No idea.”
He walked her home through the wind and the rain to her apartment at Killarney Place.
“Thanks, Casey,” she said with a grateful smile. She didn’t ask him in.
The Quiet Man, she thought as she watched him walk off in the rain.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 15
It was almost as though the killer had been reading Casey’s mind. An open letter to the police appeared in Friday’s morning’s Province: Maggoty: A word from the Angel of Death I am chosen to destroy, to kill and to cause to perish upon the thirteenth day all women which are harlots. Esther 3:12.
CHAPTER NINE
Today was the day.
She was ready.
The meat was pink and angry-looking toward the center. When she held it under her nose and sniffed, there was definitely a nasty odor. Thousands of nasty bacteria marching about in the bloody fibers of the pork. Though perhaps marching was the wrong word. Exploding might be more like it because, according to her library book, Clostridium botulinum was a sporulating bacillus, like mushroom spores exploding. Albert would swallow them down in the spoiled meat. Once they invaded his bloodstream, still sporulating like fireworks, Matty supposed, they would cause neurological and vision problems, fatigue, vomiting, diarrhea and death.
According to the book.
Today was Sunday, Albert’s birthday. Not that they ever wished each other happy birthdays anymore. For years, birthdays had come and gone with zero recognition, like Christmas and Easter. But Albert would be getting Clostridium botulinum for his birthday this year. And by tonight or tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest, Matty would be living alone in her own home once again.
She popped the two chops into the oven.
A short time later, they sat down to dinner. She served Albert his chops covered in apple sauce.
She watched him brandish knife and fork.
That was when she knew she couldn’t do it.
As much as she longed for freedom, and for the house to belong to her again, she simply could not go through with it.
Albert started cutting into his chop.
She wanted him dead and gone, but she was not a murderer.
She threw down her knife and fork with a loud clatter that caused Albert to wince.
He stopped sawing at his chop and stared at her.
“This meat isn’t right. I had my suspicions when I put it under the grill, but now I’m certain.” She reached over and whisked Albert’s plate away from him.
“What!”
“The meat’s off. No sense in making ourselves sick.” Before he could protest further, she quickly scraped the food off both plates into the garbage. “You can’t be too careful with pork. Wait till I see that butcher at the market! I’ll give him what for! I’ll do you some scrambled eggs instead. You like those. And we can still eat the vegetables.”
His face was red. He stood and hurled his napkin onto the table. His voice loaded with loathing and contempt, he said, “Call me when you decide that dinner is ready.”
Matty’s legs felt wobbly. She took the knives and forks off the table, then gripped the counter and collapsed onto her high stool in the corner of the kitchen, trembling uncontrollably and weeping into the tea towel.
Rusty Carlson had always walked to the gym, only two blocks away. But nowadays she drove her car. A woman couldn’t be too careful, not with a homicidal maniac in the West End. Lance had volunteered to escort her, but she told him she could manage perfectly well on her own. She hadn’t got to where she was in life by depending on any man. Besides, Lance was hardly ever home in the evenings.
So three evenings a week, she took the elevator down from her Lagoon Drive penthouse apartment to her secured underground parking. She then drove her BMW a few blocks to the underground parking underneath the fitness center and rode the elevator up to the gym. And simply reversed the procedure when she had finished her workout. It was foolproof: not a single step onto the perilous street.
On Friday evening she drove out of her garage into torrential rain and wind. She turned on the wipers as she cleared the gate and headed for the fitness center.
Rusty Carlson hadn’t become the president of Canadian Woman magazine by taking chances. She was a professional who had planned her career patiently and carefully. Making sacrifices, avoiding distractions and accepting success as her due after so many years of single-mindedness and hard work. Taking chances was the gambler’s way of life. Rusty Carlson was no gambler.
She drove into the fitness center garage off Haro Street. Plenty of parking spaces. She picked a slot near the elevator.
All those years of sacrifice and hard work had paid off. Now that she had reached her goal, she was starting to take more time for fun and relaxation. She was starting to make changes and define her own personal lifestyle. Part of that new lifestyle was regular fitness workouts. Another part was her new love life, something she would prefer husband Lance to know nothing about.
The gym wasn’t crowded, which was one of the advantages of coming in the late evening. The music was thumping away as usual. She did her stretches and warm-ups on the mats. Then she moved to the StairMaster and the weight machines. Content with her own thoughts, she seldom talked to anyone. If people spoke to her, she usually nodded, smiled politely and moved away.
Lance was a workaholic. Perhaps that was what had attracted them to each other ten years ago. They had both been studious and hardworking, serious about their futures. Lance now had his own software company. He loved the work. Computers were his passion. And he loved Rusty. At least she was pretty sure he did. And she loved him. She couldn’t see, however, why this should be any reason to spoil her fun.
Sex with Lance had become a habit. Once a week, Saturday or Sunday night, but never both. He climbed on top to have his floppy disk scanned. Then with a few humps and pumps and wriggles of her internal hard drive, she downloaded his deposit, emptying him of his cache, and it was all over for another week.
“Say, would you mind spotting me a set?”
She turned. It was that beautiful muscular man. The one with the skimpy rag of a shirt, who always looked so preoccupied and serious. Doc, everyone called him. She followed behind, admiring his triangular back and firm buns.
He lay on the bench, chest under the barbell and feet on the floor. A position that had the effect of thrusting his lumped crotch into prominent relief. He gripped the bar with both hands and lifted it down over his chest ten times. Then he rattled it back into the rests with a loud groan. He stood and wiped his brow with a towel.
“Thanks.” He held out his hand. “Stanley Blunt. Everyone calls me Doc. Appreciate the spot.”
She ignored the hand. “Rusty Carlson.
You’re quite welcome.”
&nb
sp; She was not about to ask him why he was called Doc, because she didn’t want to know. Doc indeed. My god! What a bod! Well endowed in all respects. What would he be like in bed?
She worked out for a little over an hour. Time to go. In the locker room, she peeled off her gloves, washed her hands and glanced in the mirror. Her new black exercise suit looked good on her. Skintight, it made her feel sexy. She had the figure for it, so why not show it off. Had Doc liked what he’d seen? She pulled her tracksuit on over her exercise suit. She never showered at the fitness center, preferring her own bathroom at home. Who knew what kinds of bugs and germs grew to maturity in public showers these days! TB was on the rise again because antibiotics no longer did the job. One would have to be a complete fool to take unnecessary risks. Just last month, Sandra, her health and fitness editor at the magazine, had run an article on the new “hot” diseases, Ebola virus and dengue fever. Their increasing ability to travel by airplane from Africa to North America in a matter of hours. Scary.
Rusty brushed her hair in the mirror, fogged slightly from the excess steam from the shower room. “Rusty” was actually a misnomer. Her hair was auburn, faded a bit now. And really no longer auburn, except for what her hairdresser coaxed from it. Her real name was Lorraine, but nobody had called her that since college. She moved her face closer to the mirror. She was thirty-nine and felt great. Still had her looks. Hadn’t allowed her body to get sloppy. She thought about Bill Murchie and smiled into the mirror. Bill was her secret lover. They were planning to get away for some heavy-duty sex on Saltspring Island this weekend while Lance attended a software conference in San Francisco.
She’d met Bill in the elevator one afternoon riding down from her office on the top floor to the coffee shop on the ground. He was a handsome “suit” who got in at the fifteenth. With the elevator to themselves, he had smiled and introduced himself. He was with the firm of McBay and Katz. Had seen her around and thought she looked like an interesting woman. Could he buy her a coffee?
Soon it was, “Why don’t you stop by my place for a drink on the way home?”
His luxury apartment on Beach Avenue had a fine view of English Bay. Soon she found herself dropping in for a drink on the way home once a week, usually on a Friday, to relax and unwind.
She didn’t love Bill, but he was the best thing to happen to her love life in a long while. This weekend she planned to turn the tables and tie him up for a change. Having all that power over him-what a total turn-on!
She headed for the elevator. With only a few cars in the parking garage, it was deserted and quiet. She slid in behind the wheel, started the car and drove out of the garage. The rain and wind were worse. The street was empty, with the Denman traffic lights swinging wildly in the high wind. She drove into the back lane that led to Lagoon Drive. Almost home.
The lane was dark.
“Stop here!”
The shock of the man’s voice and his breath in her ear caused her to slam her foot on the brake. At the same time she felt, and saw in the rearview mirror, the long blade of a knife at her throat. She swooned with fright. A volcano erupted in her belly covering her thighs in a stream of urine.
“Drive slowly till I tell you to turn.”
She couldn’t move her head without being cut with the knife. There was nobody in the lane. She took her foot off the brake, and the car rolled forward.
The West End killer.
The rain was slanting into the clunking wiper blades, and she was going to die.
No, she wasn’t! Not without a fight. What if she floored the accelerator and sideswiped the concrete wall of an apartment building and then flung herself out the car door? She might be killed, but it was a chance, a risk. She could even race the car, slam it head-on into the side of a building and kill them both. Not a mere risk but almost certain death, ridding the world of a monster.
“Don’t even think of it!” growled the voice behind her.
Her insides turned to custard.
“Drive into the park.”
She did as he ordered, driving slowly past the golf course, thinking furiously. The curb here was high. Beyond the curb there was a wire fence surrounding the golf course. Beyond that was a parking lot. Beyond the parking lot, there was a strip of forest before the drop onto the seawall. If she were going to do something, it would have to be here and now. If she drove into the deserted parking lot, he would tell her to stop and it would be all over for her.
She gathered her courage and stabbed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The powerful BMW leaped forward like an unleashed hound. She jerked the steering wheel. The tires hit the curb hard, but the car kept going, leaping over the curb and crashing into the fence with a scream of tortured metal. The BMW continued forward on the sidewalk, bucking and plunging, dragging chain-link fencing along with it into the parking lot.
The lot was empty. She hung onto the wheel, keeping her foot down on the gas pedal. The car crashed into a concrete divider and came to an abrupt stop. The seat belt held her. Fingers scrabbling, she couldn’t get her door open, couldn’t release the seat belt.
The wind howled.
She turned her head painfully and saw him coming over the seat at her.
The rain drummed steadily on the roof of the car like a dirge.
CHAPTER TEN
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16
“Another body this morning.” Jack Wexler’s mournful tones sounded even more mournful over the phone.
“Where?”
“Stanley Park golf course.”
“Jaysus! That’s four.” Casey, just back from his run in the park, was beginning to cool down and couldn’t wait to soak in a hot shower.
“Body discovered at six this morning. Old man out walking his dog on the golf course. His dog was sniffing around something. He went to look. Same as usual, naked torso. Except the animals had been at it. Bit of a mess.”
“How’d you hear so soon, Jack?”
“Fraser called me.”
Detective Sergeant Fraser, Wexler’s old buddy.
“You call Ozeroff?”
“Not yet.” Wexler grunted and hung up.
Casey was no sooner out of the shower than his phone rang again. It was Ozeroff.
She was angry.
“Did you hear, Casey?”
“Yeah, Deb, I heard.”
“Goddamn maniac! Four women slaughtered and we can’t do a thing about it!”
“Everyone feels helpless, Deb.”
“I’m supposed to write a piece on tonight’s concert. I can’t go out. I’m terrified. Vera’s away at an acupuncture conference in Seattle.”
“Won’t be another killing for thirteen days, Deb. You’re safe.”
“Makes no difference. No woman is safe. I can’t risk it.”
“Stay home, Deb. I’ll cover for you. What kind of concert is it?”
“Vancouver Symphony. All Debussy. Orpheum Theater, eight o’clock.”
Casey groaned. “Any chance there’s two seats? We could go together.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. You sure you don’t mind?”
“It’ll raise my cultural quotient.”
“You’re a pal, Casey. I’m just sick about this latest killing.”
“Everyone’s sick, Deb.”
MONDAY, DECEMBER 18
Casey and Ozeroff were working in their cramped office when Wexler arrived from Cop Shop.
“They got a make on number four,” he said. “Cops didn’t even need to call Victoria for id. Her insurance papers were in the glove compartment of her car.”
“Who was she, Jack?” asked Casey.
“Lorraine Carlson, thirty-nine, magazine publisher, married, no kids, lived on Lagoon Drive, fitness center member. Car was swimming in blood.” Wexler sounded tired. “I tried to get a statement from the husband, but he’s in a state of shock. Couldn’t talk to me.”
Ozeroff leaned her elbows on her desk, head in hands.
“My turn this time,” said Emma Shaug
hnessy.
They pushed into Devlin’s out of the rain and found a seat, sharing with another couple, two men.
She brought the drinks, coffee for him, steamed cider for herself, nodded at their companions and sat down.
“Do you usually go away at Christmas?” asked Casey.
“Christmas Day. To my cousin’s family in Port Moody. You?”
He shook his head. Her dark brown hair had chestnut highlights, he noticed. It invited fingers. And looking into her eyes was like looking at a clear blue mountain lake. Or into a glacial crevasse, which he thought should have been a cold experience, but Emma’s personality was warmth itself.
“Do you like Christmas?” she asked, flushing slightly under his scrutiny.
He shrugged. “You?”
“Parts of it I like. It’s nostalgia really. What made you come to Canada, Casey?”
He shrugged again. “A Belfast bomb killed eight innocent victims in a shopping center. Three of them were my parents and my only sibling, a brother. His name was Eamon. I was twenty-five. Eamon was twenty-two. I should have been with them, but I was late. I decided I could no longer live in a city of barbarians.” He sipped his coffee. “What about you?”
“I came to the same conclusion. A Protestant bullet killed my kid sister in the crossfire on the main street of Derry. Annie was only seventeen.”
They sat in silence for a minute, remembering, thinking their own thoughts.
At Killarney Place, Casey watched Emma let herself into the lobby, then turn and wave.
He waved back and then headed home.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 25
It rained on Christmas Day. The Wexlers had invited Casey to have dinner with them, Midge insisting that he come. But he had turned them down, telling a white lie about a previous engagement. He ate Christmas dinner alone, his preference- drunken prawns at the Thai House. He sat at his table for almost an hour after his meal, drinking Thai tea and reading Ozeroff ’s Christmas gift, Walking the Dog, a collection of short stories by fellow Irishman Bernard MacLaverty. In this way he enjoyed his Christmas. No small talk, no dressing up, no false sentiment.
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