Willows tried to take the largest bag from her but she was having none of it. She and Sean and Annie could handle their own baggage.
Willows felt as if he’d been punched in the heart. Well, what had he expected? He realized he hadn’t given the reunion much thought, other than to hope everything would go smoothly. But what else could he have done? There were times when it was necessary to give in to a sort of mindless optimism simply because it was the logical thing to do.
Willows led his entourage out to the unmarked Ford. The snow had stopped but as they crossed the parking lot it began again, fat white flakes that fell straight down out of the sky. No one except him seemed to notice. Having spent a couple of winters in Toronto, he supposed they’d become inured to inclement weather. He unlocked the trunk. While the luggage was being packed he unlocked all four doors and then climbed into the car and started the engine. He’d already learned to let them stow their own luggage, so he was making progress, wasn’t he? He switched on the heater and windshield wipers.
The Ford rocked on its springs as Sheila slammed shut the trunk.
Willows had thought all three of them might scramble to squeeze into the back seat, but to his intense relief, Sheila chose to sit up front.
He waited until everyone had buckled up, then drove slowly through the parking lot, braked for a stop sign and merged with the flow of traffic heading back towards the city.
Sheila said, “I have to tell you, Jack, that I didn’t expect you to be here to meet us.”
Was he being complimented or lectured? He glanced at her but she was staring out the windshield and he couldn’t read her face. He concentrated on the traffic.
“I want to make it clear to you that I very much resent the way you assumed it was perfectly all right to show up without warning, just… take over.”
She’d started out all right, but now she was using that bitchy, pedantic, lecturing tone of voice that so quickly wore him down.
Willows said, “If you didn’t want a ride in, Sheila, why did you leave your flight number on the answering machine?”
“So you’d know when to expect us.”
Willows said, “Oh, I see. My mistake.”
“No, Jack. It wasn’t a mistake, it was a deliberate attempt to undermine my authority, to compromise my sense of independence.”
In the back of the car, a match flared. Willows peered into the mirror. Sean slouched low in the seat, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
Annie stared rigidly out the window. Everything in her face said she was determined not to get involved.
Wary of making a serious misstep, Willows glanced at Sheila. No help there. He was beginning to understand why she’d come hack to Vancouver.
He pulled the Ford over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. Sean’s leather jacket creaked as he sat up a little straighter. Willows said, “This is a non-smoking vehicle, Sean.”
“So?”
“So, if you’re going to smoke, you’ll have to step outside.”
“You’re going to leave me here?”
“No, of course not. We’ll wait.”
Annie giggled softly.
Sean said, “Hey, shut it!”
Quietly but firmly, Willows said, “Don’t talk to your sister like that. Or me. Or your mother. Now get rid of the cigarette or get out of the car.”
Sean muttered a few words no one was intended to hear, pushed the door open and flung himself out of the car, slammed the door shut. A passing truck caught him in its headlights. The Ford’s side window was streaked with melting snow; through the pebbled glass Sean looked like a weirdly distorted apparition as he paced back and forth in the slush, his cigarette glowing red.
Annie said, “Nice one, Daddy.”
Willows turned and smiled. It was a comfort to know he had an ally.
The car door jerked open. Sean glared at him. He flicked the cigarette away, climbed inside, slammed the door and exhaled fiercely.
There was a lengthy pause and then the seatbelt clicked sharply. It was the last sound anyone made until Willows pulled up in front of his house.
He waited until everyone was out and then grabbed Annie and Sean’s suitcases and strode briskly up the walk towards the house.
Behind him, the trunk slammed shut.
He unlocked the front door, stepped inside the house and deactivated the burglar alarm, switched on the hall light, turned up the thermostat. He’d left the door open and was acutely aware of Sheila struggling up the front steps. He made his way along the hall to the rear of the house and put Annie’s and then Sean’s suitcases in their rooms.
Sean said, “I need an ashtray.”
Willows said, “When this was my parents’ house, my dad had to smoke out on the porch. The same rule applies to you, son.”
Annie disappeared into her room and softly shut the door.
Sean slammed his.
Willows would have to talk to him about that, put a stop to it before it became a habit. But not now, not now.
He found Sheila standing in the middle of the living room. She had the slightly off-balance air of someone who’d been dropped off at a station long after the last train had departed.
She said, “You’ve been busy.”
Willows nodded. At one point after they’d split up he’d intended to sell the house, and had gone through it ruthlessly, piled a small mountain of unwanted valuables in the lane and paid a kid with a pickup truck to haul it all away to the recycling depot and dump. He’d done a lot of painting, as well. But that had been more to give himself something to do than anything else. Sheila had paid a kid with a ponytail serious money to paint the dining room walls flamingo pink. He’d used a big sponge, instead of a brush. Willows had bought a can of latex paint and spent a pleasant Sunday afternoon listening to a ball game while restoring the room to its original eggshell white.
He said, “Nothing major’s been done. The kitchen is still in the kitchen. The dishes are still in the sink.”
Sheila studied the couch. It and a matching chair had been recovered in her absence, but with identical material, in the original pattern. Something had changed but she wasn’t at all sure what it was. Willows couldn’t blame her. He glanced covertly around, trying to see the house through her eyes. It was amazing how many fiddly things he’d done, especially during the first year she was gone, simply to keep himself moving. He said, “I put the spare bed in the sewing room. I hope that’ll be alright.”
Sheila nodded. The ‘sewing room’ hadn’t seen needle or thread since Willows’ mother had died. “That’ll be just fine, Jack.”
There were three bedrooms upstairs; the master and two smaller rooms. One of the rooms had been turned into a den. Willows did his reading there, and it was where he kept his trophies and citations. He kept his firearms there, as well, in a wall-mounted safe hidden behind a framed 25-meter pistol target with the bullseye shot out. The other room, which was the smallest of all, was used from time to time as a guest bedroom. Sheila could have stayed there if she had wanted to, but he’d correctly guessed she’d prefer to sleep as far away from him as possible.
Sheila yawned hugely. She apologized automatically, and glanced at the fireplace mantel, did a double-take that was almost humorous.
She said, “Where’s the clock?”
“In the basement.”
“Why — is it broken?”
Willows said, “The ticking never stopped. It drove me crazy.” He didn’t see any point in adding that what drove him even crazier was the fact that the ticking was often the only sound in the house.
“Why didn’t you just let it wind down?”
“I’ll put it back, if you want.”
“No, leave it in the basement.”
Willows said, “I’m going to have a drink. Would you like a Scotch or a glass of wine?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jack. What time is it?”
Willows checked his watch. “Quarter to ten.
”
“Almost one o’clock, in Toronto. I’m tired, I’m going to bed.” Willows couldn’t leave well enough alone. He said, “We’ve got to talk, Sheila. I don’t have any idea what the hell’s going on, and that isn’t right.”
“Not tonight, Jack.”
He’d heard that line before, though in a completely different context. He grinned. Sheila gave him a look made up of equal parts pity and disdain, snatched up her suitcase and hurried lopsidedly out of the room.
Willows went into the kitchen and poured two fingers of Cutty into a lowball glass. The freezer was working just fine but the ice-cube tray was empty. He sipped at the Scotch, decided he’d survive. He left the kitchen, strolled down the hall and knocked on Annie’s door, and was given permission to enter.
His daughter had changed to a sloppy sweatshirt and faded jeans. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed with a magazine in her lap.
Willows said, “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” Annie’s eyes were red and puffy. Two years ago, Willows would have known what to do. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
He said, “What’re you reading?”
She shrugged. “A trashy magazine aimed at the heart of the easily exploited pre-pubescent female market.”
“Trashy but popular, I bet. So tell me, what’s Elvis been up to lately?”
Annie smiled. She snatched a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose.
Willows said, “He out of the army yet?”
She nodded, blew her nose again and tossed the used tissue into the wastebasket next to her desk. “Did you clean my room?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for the daffodils.”
Willows smiled.
She said, “You cleaned the whole house, didn’t you, Daddy?”
“It needed it.”
“Did you put flowers in Mummy’s room?”
“Hers are on the dining room table.”
“How is she supposed to know that?”
“She’s a pretty smart cookie — she’ll figure it out if she wants to.”
“Daddy?”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“Do you love her?”
Willows sat down on the edge of the bed, leaned over and kissed his daughter lightly on the tip of the nose, just as he’d always done. He said, “Yes I do,” and gave her nose a tweak.
She said, “I knew you did. I just knew it.”
Willows checked his watch. He said, “It’s past one o’clock, Toronto time.”
“But I’m not in Toronto anymore.”
Willows laughed. “True, but you’ve had a long day. Unless you don’t mind sleeping in until noon tomorrow, I think it’s probably a good idea to get some sleep.”
“You’re such a diplomat! I’m going to have a bath before I go to bed, okay?”
“Whatever you like, Annie.” Willows had washed or sent to the dry cleaner all the clothing she’d left behind, including her flannel Bugs Bunny pyjamas, but she’d outgrown everything and would probably want to chuck it out or give it away.
She said, “Are you going to be here in the morning?”
He nodded. “You bet, but not for long. I’ll be on my way downtown by eight-thirty at the latest.”
“Gonna catch some bad guys?”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Catch any lately?”
“Sure, lots of them. But they were too small, so I threw them back. Night, honey. Sleep tight, don’t let the bugs bite.”
Annie smiled, remembering the old catechism. “See you in the funny papers.”
Willows softly shut her door, and walked down the carpeted hall to Sean’s room. He knocked lightly. There was no answer. He hesitated, knocked again, and called his son’s name as he opened the door. The room stank of cigarette smoke. Sean lay on his back on the single bed that suddenly looked much too small for him. He was still wearing his black leather jacket. His skin was pallid. A lock of oily hair fell carelessly across his forehead. He didn’t seem to be breathing. Willows’ eyes darted wildly about as he looked for a hypodermic or empty pill bottle. He stepped into the room, turned on the bedside lamp.
Sean blinked. He sat up and then fell back, stared blankly up at the ceiling as he told his father to please go away and leave him alone.
Willows went back into the kitchen. His glass was empty. He poured himself another and drank most of it down and helped himself to a refill. He carried the glass upstairs, took a long hot shower and went to bed, sipped his drink as he read a book called Five Summers, about a family growing up on the seashore.
In the small hours of the night an unfamiliar sound yanked him from a shallow, restless sleep. He switched on the bedside light. His stainless Smith & Wesson lay snugly in the rich burnished leather of the clamshell holster he’d owned for fifteen years. Somewhere in the house, someone was crying softly.
A spring creaked as he eased out of bed and reached for his terry cloth robe.
He stood quietly in the bedroom doorway, listening. The crying had stopped.
Willows went back to bed, shrugged out of his robe and slipped under the blankets. There hadn’t been time to locate the source of the crying. It could have come from anywhere in the house, and it might’ve been Annie or Sean or even Sheila who’d been weeping.
The way he felt, lying there all alone in the middle of the night, it could even have been him.
Chapter 16
In the morning there was two inches of fresh white snow on the windowsill. Looking a little farther afield, Chris saw a quintet of fluffed-out rock pigeons loitering on one of the powerlines that ran down the lane past the apartment block. His feathered friends had a shifty-eyed look about them — or was he a victim of his own larcenous mind-set? Chris turned and looked fondly down at Robyn. She was sleeping quietly. Her hair was rumpled and her lips were slightly parted. He knelt beside the bed and kissed her just below the ear. In her sleep, she swatted at him as if he was a small, essentially harmless insect, then rolled away from him, taking the bedclothes with her.
Chris stood up, stretched. He lingered for a moment, admiring the curve of her hip, and then made his way into the bathroom. He shut the door, urinated and flushed and ran the shower.
One of the things he liked best about weekends was that most of the apartment block’s tenants slept late, so there was plenty of hot water, for a change.
He tried to think of a clever remark about his penchant for getting into hot water, but couldn’t come up with anything smooth enough. He wondered what Robyn would think of her blackmail scam when she woke up.
*
He was in the kitchen spooning coffee into the machine when she breezed past the open doorway on her way to the bathroom, and he was just getting to the bottom of his first cup when she sat down opposite him with her hair wrapped in a florescent orange towel.
Chris said, “Morning, sex kitten.”
“That was then — this is now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, I get to watch you dance with the vacuum cleaner, maybe wax the kitchen floor?”
“I’ll wax your ass.”
Chris got up and poured her a cup of coffee, sliced a poppy-seed bagel in half and dropped it in the toaster. He got butter from the fridge and a plastic container of cream cheese from the cupboard, put everything down on the table in front of her.
The morning paper, folded in half lengthwise, lay on Chris’s side of the table. Robyn frowned as she tried to make sense of the lead headline.
The toaster decided enough was enough, and forcibly ejected the bagel.
Chris retrieved the bagel, put it and a dollop of cream cheese on a plate, put the plate down on the table in front of Robyn. She stared grimly at the food until Chris snapped his fingers in exasperation and fetched her a knife.
As she spread cheese on the bagel, Robyn indicated the newspaper with her chin. “Any good news?”
“Some really good news,” said Chris. He picked up the paper, pinched his nose and waved
it above his head. “Extra! Extra! Read all about it…”
“You keep reading your lines like that, you’ll be an extra all your life.”
“Funny…”
Robyn drank some coffee. “So what’s the good news — that I only dreamt we made love last night?”
Chris said, “Even better — I dreamed it. You weren’t even there.”
Robyn rolled her eyes, took a huge bite out of her bagel.
He said, “So am I an ace cook, or what?”
Robyn swallowed, drank some coffee. “Totally ace.” She pointed at the newspaper. “You were saying…”
“Gerard Roth was murdered.”
Robyn almost said who, but caught herself in time.
Chris said, “Front page stuff, Robyn. He drowned, but probably not in the whale pool. The new thinking is that somebody dumped him in there with the killers.”
“So, you did see something?”
“Bet your bagel, sweetcheeks.”
“Please don’t talk to me like that. It’s demeaning, and I love it, and it makes me feel so utterly helpless I want to puke.”
Chris went over to the kitchen counter, stole the pot right out of Mr Coffee’s arms and poured Robyn and then himself a refill.
She said, “What else is in the paper?”
Dramatically lowering his voice, Chris said, “The investigation continues.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s it. The news probably broke at the last second. The way the article’s written, it’s pretty vague. But the bottom line is, somebody bumped the guy off.”
Robyn nodded, distractedly chomped the last of the bagel to paste. Chris thought it was typical of her not to want to read the newspaper article herself. A lot of stuff, what she considered boring, she was happy to leave up to him. He read the newspaper for a while, the ‘Help Wanted’ section first, to verify the situation was still hopeless, and then the comics.
Robyn wet the tip of her index finger and chased down and captured the last few crumbs of her breakfast. She said, “You’re telling me the news is good because now we know for sure there’s somebody out there that we can blackmail. Is that right, is that what you meant?”
Killers Page 15
