Killers

by Laurence Gough

  The woman who’d called was in a chatty mood. She wouldn’t stop talking, no matter how much Chris willed her to.

  The Mohawk, easing into the apartment, said, “Miss Carter?” The door swung shut, leaving him in darkness. He said, “Oh, shit.”

  A light snapped on.

  Chris stepped into the bathtub. He slid shut the frosted glass shower door and lay down, tried to make himself very, very small.

  The Mohawk guy had fallen silent. Chris studied a place on the tiled wall where the grout was starting to fall away.

  The Mohawk guy cleared his throat. He said, “Miss Carter? It’s Tony. You there? Everything okay? I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

  Suddenly the bathroom was ablaze with light, the fan rumbling, heavy footsteps on the tiles. Champagne gurgled out of the bottle he held tightly in both hands. He lay perfectly still.

  Tony said, “What the hell!” Then he said something else, that Chris missed because of the sound the toilet made, and the sudden cataclysmic drumming of his heart.

  Tony’s hand was on the pebbled glass of the shower door, and the door was moving.

  Chapter 23

  On his way home Willows made a slight detour to the neighbourhood supermarket. He’d been cooking for himself for a long time. There wasn’t much food in the house and the spices were all stale-dated. If the cupboard wasn’t bare, it certainly was scantily dressed.

  He paid a quarter to free up an ice-cold shopping cart from a long line of carts in front of the store, then pushed inside and idled up one brightly lit aisle and down the next, taking his time, making sure he had everything he needed. Tinned and fresh tomatoes. A large onion. A paper bag of brown mushrooms. Shallots. A crisp Romaine lettuce, bunches of carrots, radishes and green onions, a huge, lumpy field tomato and a horribly expensive English cucumber imported from California.

  At the meat counter he tossed two shrink-wrapped six-packs of chicken breasts into the cart. Further down the aisle he helped himself to a plastic container of fresh pasta.

  The section devoted to pet foods was enormous, and there was a wide range of prices. Willows decided to buy only the best — Barney was obviously in need of a few solid meals. He dumped a dozen small round tins and as many flavours of cat food into the cart, added a kilo box of Purina Cat Chow. What else did a cat need? A matched pair of bowls; one each for food and water. Flea powder and soap, a flea collar, name tag and soft wire brush. He added a five-kilogram bag of scented kitty litter and a plastic basin to put it in. So far, he’d spent almost twice as much on the cat as he’d spent on the family dinner.

  He rounded a corner and nearly drove his cart into a small table covered in a display of pre-cooked meats. Thin slices of blood-red sausage simmered in an electric frying pan. A woman in a white smock smiled at him and offered him an obsessively neat arrangement of toothpick-skewered slices of meat on a paper plate. His stomach churned. He hadn’t realized how tense he was. He went over to the dairy counter and leaned into the cold air, took a few deep breaths and then pushed his cart along to the section devoted to cheese.

  He eyed the shelves, searching for a block of fresh mozzarella. Finally he chose a quarter kilogram priced at nearly three dollars. The cost of food being what it was, no wonder people ate most of their meals out.

  At the bakery he plucked a loaf of French bread from a wicker basket and then, with an unfamiliar twinge of guilt, passed over the English muffins Sheila had always been so fond of.

  At the last moment, as he approached the line-up at the checkout counter, he remembered the garlic.

  Twenty minutes later the belt was pulling his groceries steadily and remorselessly towards a red laser beam and a girl whose name tag said ‘Lucinda’ was ringing up his purchases and bagging them at a pace Willows found exhausting just to watch.

  Foot-long lengths of black rubber heavy enough to make a decent sap were used to separate groceries at the checkout. Willows had dropped one down to keep his purchases separate from those of the customer in front of him. The man behind him hadn’t bothered — was waiting for Willows to do it for him. Willows covertly looked over the man’s purchases. The first items were three tins of sliced pineapple and a Province newspaper. The pineapple was on sale; he’d almost bought a couple of cans as he’d wandered the aisles. He let the checkout girl ring up and bag all three tins, but not the paper. He’d paid her and was waiting for his change when the guy behind him finally realized what had happened.

  Pointing, he said, “That’s my pineapple!”

  Willows ignored him.

  Lucinda said, “Excuse me?”

  “He took my pineapple.”

  Willows accepted his change.

  The guy said, “Hey now, wait a minute…”

  Willows had read Lucinda correctly. She had plenty of front-line experience and wasn’t combat shy. Sounding cheerful and spiky, she said, “What am I supposed to do? He paid for it. If it was yours, you should’ve kept it separate…”

  *

  Except for the outside security lights, the house was always dark when Willows got home at the end of the day. Old expectations die hard; it was a shock to drive up and find the house ablaze with light. Willows turned off the Ford’s engine. He reached behind him for the cat. Barney hissed and dug his claws into Willows’ coat, but allowed himself to be picked up. He held on tight as Willows carried him up the walk to the house, unlocked the front door. He called out, but there was no answer. He shut Barney away in the bathroom and went back outside for the groceries.

  For the first time, he noticed that someone had shovelled the snow from the porch stairs and from the walk in front of the house. He unlocked the car and retrieved the groceries, carried them inside and down the central hallway into the kitchen, dropped them on the counter. The tap was dripping. He turned it off. Somewhere in the house, someone was playing a radio. Willows tracked the sound to Sean’s bedroom. He knocked and waited and then opened the door. The bed was in ruins and the room stank of stale cigarette smoke. Willows turned off the lights and radio. He left, shutting the door behind him.

  The door to Annie’s room was open. Willows glanced in, just to make sure she wasn’t there. A vase of fresh-cut flowers stood on her desk by the window. She’d hung the burgundy cashmere sweater he’d given her the previous Christmas over the back of her chair. He doubted if the sweater still fit, and was touched by the gesture.

  He walked back down the length of the hall and stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, then went up, a tread creaking underfoot.

  The television in the den was on, but the sound had been turned off. There was no one in that room or in any other upstairs room.

  In his bedroom, Willows pushed the night table away from the wall. His Beretta hung inelegantly from a nail. He ejected the pistol’s clip and racked the slide, clearing a round from the breach. Like a lot of cops, Willows firmly believed there was nothing more dangerous than an unloaded gun. But Sean was clearly not stable. Willows wasn’t going to risk coming home and finding his son in the basement with a bullet through his heart.

  He stood up, dropped the clip in his pants pocket, hung the pistol on the nail and pushed the night table against the wall.

  Back in the kitchen, he opened a can of crabmeat-flavoured cat food and spooned it into a bowl, poured fresh water into another bowl. He dumped half the kitty litter into the plastic container and took it into the bathroom. Barney was under the tub, meowing pitifully. Willows put the cat box on the floor next to the toilet. The cat shifted around, showing Willows his stern.

  Willows went into the living room, slipped a Lyle Lovett CD in the player and went back into the kitchen and cracked open a Kokanee. He sipped at the beer, then crouched and pulled a big, black iron pot from the bottom shelf of the cupboard…

  An hour later the kitchen smelled very tasty indeed, and Willows was still busy. He dumped mushrooms in a colander, washed them thoroughly, cut off the stems and quartered them and tossed them into the pot. He dipped
a wooden spoon in the pot, sipped and frowned, added a teaspoon of oregano. By now he was deep into his second beer, wailing happily along with Lyle’s Large Band. How had he managed to forget what fun toiling over a hot stove could be?

  Soon the sauce was simmering away nicely, steam rising into the heat, bubbles heaving up to the surface and bursting with a fat lethargy that was almost insolent.

  Willows went to work on a salad. By the time he’d finished, Lyle had long since packed it in.

  Willows set the table for five. He made a trip to the bathroom and checked on Barney. Man’s second best friend was still wedged under the tub.

  He went back into the kitchen, opened his third beer of the evening, wandered into the living room and slipped a Rita MacNeil CD into the player.

  Time was slipping by. It was getting late. Where in hell was everybody?

  Half an hour later, Parker knocked twice and walked in the door. Willows tried not to look startled. She slipped out of her coat and tossed it on the banister. He turned down the stereo. She gave him a warm smile. “Forget you invited me?”

  He started to deny it, caught himself.

  Laughing, Parker put her arms around him. He kissed her lightly on the mouth and asked her if she’d like a glass of wine.

  Parker said, “Something smells delicious. Could it be you?”

  She’d brought a bottle of cold Chardonnay. In the kitchen, Willows fought the cork as she dipped a spoon into the pot, sipped.

  “Too much garlic?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s perfect.”

  He poured the wine. As Parker accepted her glass she said, “Where is everybody?”

  Willows shrugged. “The house was empty when I got home.” He told her about the blazing lights, the dripping tap and the radio.

  “Have you noticed any spaceships hovering over the house lately, Jack? Tractor beams, that sort of thing?”

  Willows said, “Let’s eat.”

  They’d finished the meal but were still sitting at the table, drinking coffee, when Sean arrived. The boy slammed the door behind him and slung his black leather jacket across the sofa. He started towards the kitchen and then saw Parker and stopped short.

  Willows said, “Sean, you remember Claire Parker…”

  “Yeah?” Sean fished a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, leaned over a candle and lit up, turned his back on them and strolled into the kitchen.

  Parker lifted her wine glass and then put it down on the table without drinking.

  Willows said, “I’ll be right back.” He followed his son into the kitchen. Sean was leaning against the fridge, his skin pallid in the harsh light, cigarette dangling from his tight disapproving mouth.

  “I told you not to smoke in the house.”

  “Maybe you should’ve asked me.”

  “Put it out or take it out, Sean.”

  “Or what — you’ll shoot me?”

  Willows took him by the arm and led him down the hall to the front door.

  “Kicking me out, Daddy?”

  “Not you — just the cigarette.”

  Sean stood there on the threshold, looking sullen. Something pressed against Willows’ ankle. An orange blur scooted across the porch and down the steps, vanished in the darkness.

  Willows called Barney’s name, swore.

  “Temper, temper.”

  Willows fetched Sean’s black leather jacket off the sofa. He went back outside, handed the jacket to his son and gently shut the door. Sean shrugged into the jacket, zipped up. He leaned against the porch railing with his hands in his pockets. The cigarette glowed red. Under the porch light his thin, angry face was a jigsaw puzzle of black and white.

  As Willows made his way back to the table Parker smiled and said, “Rebel without a pause.”

  He nodded grimly.

  “So what’s bothering the kid, aside from holes in the ozone, the rainforest stuff, puberty, and the fact that he’s being bounced around like a pinball?”

  Willows said, “I don’t know how I forgot, but he doesn’t like chicken.”

  “Well, that explains almost everything.” Parker turned and looked behind her, out the window. “He’s a nice-looking kid, isn’t he.”

  “Think so?”

  “Got his daddy’s looks, I’d say. He just flipped his cigarette on to your neighbour’s lawn. Why don’t you invite him back in?”

  “He doesn’t need an invitation — he lives here.”

  “Maybe he isn’t too sure about that.”

  Willows sighed heavily. He pushed back his chair, stood up and walked towards the door.

  Sean waited until Willows stepped outside and then, timing it perfectly, lit a fresh cigarette.

  Willows went back into the house.

  Parker was on her knees in front of the fireplace. Willows had prepared a fire and she was trying to light it with a candle.

  Willows said, “I’ll do that.”

  “No, you won’t. And next time, use more kindling. I don’t think this is going to catch.”

  “It’ll catch.” Willows knelt and pushed the iron lever that opened the flue. Parker gave him a look. He said, “Like a Scotch?”

  “I better not, Jack. I’d hate to have to badge my way out of a roadblock.” She put her hands out to the rapidly growing fire. “Have one yourself, though, if you like.”

  Sean had his back to them. Willows kissed Parker’s hand. Her dark eyes were lustrous and unfathomable, her hair backlit by the fire. He kissed her on the mouth and she made a small, hungry sound.

  The front door swung open. He looked up expecting to meet his son’s contrite and apologetic eyes. But it was Sheila and Annie who stood in the doorway, not Sean.

  Parker stood up. She and Sheila exchanged smiles, shook hands. Annie smiled at her father and then at Parker. Willows asked her if she remembered Claire, and she nodded and smiled again. Willows offered Sheila a drink. Annie warmed her hands by the fire. He asked her if she’d like a hot chocolate.

  Sheila said, “Annie’s tired. She’s still adjusting to the time-zone change.”

  “I’m not that tired.”

  Willows said, “It’ll only take a minute. She can take it to bed with her, how’s that?” Before Sheila could respond he added, “Let me get your wine,” and beat a dignified retreat to the kitchen with Annie skipping alongside. As he mixed sugar and cocoa into a mug, he asked her where she’d been.

  “Downtown, for dinner.”

  Willows added milk, set the microwave at two minutes on high. “Better get ready for bed, Annie.”

  “Okay.”

  In the living room, Claire and Sheila were talking about the weather. Where was Sean? And when was Sheila going to ask what had happened to him? The microwave beeped. Willows gave Sheila her wine. He was in the kitchen stirring the cocoa when Annie reappeared wearing the flannel Mounted Police pyjamas he’d given her — along with a moderate sum of cash — for her last birthday.

  “I’m washed and brushed and flossed and I kissed Mummy goodnight. Where’s my cocoa?”

  “Right here, Miss Wonderful.”

  “Tuck me in?”

  Willows nodded happily. Annie ran down the hallway ahead of him. He heard her jump into bed. The lamp came on. When he caught up with her she was lying on her side by the light with a paperback in her hands. The Old Man and the Sea.

  Willows put the cocoa down on the night table. “What happened to science fiction?”

  “I read it all.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, straightened the duvet. Annie said, “Where’s my crazy brother?”

  “He’d must’ve gone for a walk.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “I had to enforce the local no-smoking bylaw.”

  Annie said, “Don’t worry about it. He’ll be back, probably.”

  “Probably?”

  “He had an argument with Mum a couple of months ago, ran away and broke into an empty house. He stayed there three days, until a neighbour calle
d the cops.”

  “Police,” said Willows.

  “Cops!”

  Willows bent and kissed Annie on the cheek. “Drink your cocoa and read your book. One chapter, okay?”

  “Mum said we could stay with you as long as we want. Is that true?”

  Willows hesitated.

  Annie said, “She was talking about us — me and Sean. Not her.”

  Willows said, “Your mother’s right. I love you both and you can stay with me as long as you like.” He kissed her again. “Lights out in ten minutes.”

  “Good night, Daddy.”

  “Night, Sweets.”

  Annie said, “I love you too…”

  Under the circumstances, Willows thought it best to get straight to the point. Entering the living room, he said, “I understand you’re going back to Toronto.”

  “Annie told you?”

  “Inadvertently.”

  Sheila drank some wine. “I’ve had them for three years, Jack. It’s your turn. If that sounds a little harsh…”

  Parker stared at Sheila, her eyes flat, offering nothing and expecting very little in return.

  Willows said, “You’ve talked to Sean?”

  “He knows what’s going on. They both do. We talked it over, all three of us, before we left Toronto.”

  “Too old, are they? Not quite as cuddly as they used to be?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Jack. It demeans both of us.”

  Willows heard the heavy thump of boots on the front porch steps. The door opened and Sean came in. He shut the door behind him. Barney’s head poked out of the top of his jacket. The cat’s ear lay flat on his head and his green eyes looked very angry.

  Sean grinned at Willows. “I found him in the garage. He’d stuffed himself in between a couple of logs in the woodpile. Strange cat. Where’d he come from?”

  “An alley in the west end. He sneaked into the car this afternoon.”

  “Climbed into a cop car?”

  Willows nodded.

  “Weird.” Sean went over to the fire, sat down on the tiled hearth. He took a can of cat food out of his pocket, hooked his finger in a metal ring and pulled off the lid. Barney’s ear came up. His eyes widened. Sean unzipped his jacket. He used his fingers to pinch a bit of meat from the tin, offered it to the cat.