12 Rose Street

by Gail Bowen

  Madeleine and Lena sprinted over to show us their ribbons. Zack took their photos and introduced them to Cronus. The girls’ personalities had long ago declared themselves. Madeleine – like her mother, Mieka; my eldest son, Peter; and me – was fair-haired, green-eyed, earthbound, and risk-averse. Lena had the black Irish good looks and mercurial temper of my younger son, Angus, and my late husband, Ian. As different as they were, the girls were unusually close. When the whistle blew to announce the next race, they handed us their ribbons and took off. Cronus watched as they lined up, and then turned to face Brock and Zack.

  “I’ve heard a rumour that you should be aware of,” Cronus said. “There’s a plan to abduct one of the kids here today.”

  Simultaneously, Zack and I looked towards our granddaughters. The foot race had begun. Madeleine was a strong runner and she was out in front. Lena lagged behind the pack. When she spotted us watching, she stopped to wave.

  “Tell the little one she’ll never win if she takes her eyes off the prize,” Cronus said.

  “I’ll tell her,” Zack said. “Cronus, did whoever passed this rumour along to you say that any child in particular has been targeted?”

  Cronus was watching the race as avidly as if he’d bet money on it. “My source says that they just want to take a kid – any kid.”

  My heart was pounding. “Why?”

  “Come on, Joanne. A smart broad like you can figure this out.” Cronus’s tone was sharp. “Not everybody wishes Zack and Johnny Football here well. People are impressed by the way they’ve managed to stickhandle the R-H Centre into being. They’re starting to believe that Zack and Johnny Football have the stones to run the city. But a turnover at City Hall is not good news for the groups who’ve had our current mayor and city council by the short and curlies since the day they were elected.”

  “And if a child were abducted at the opening,” Brock said, “the centre would be screwed from day one, and Zack and I could wave goodbye to our chances of being elected.”

  Cronus nodded. “You guys have been making a lot of promises. Racette-Hunter is Zack’s baby and you’re the director. If you can’t keep a neighbourhood kid from being snatched at a picnic, people are going to think twice before they trust you to run this city.” He turned towards me and narrowed his eyes. “You should be watching the race, Joanne. Madeleine is about to win.”

  Obediently, I turned in time to see our granddaughter cross the finish line. Lena and a little red-headed girl had given up and were strolling along chatting.

  Zack moved closer to Cronus. “Do you know who’s behind this?”

  “I have some thoughts,” Cronus said.

  “Have you shared your thoughts with the police?” Brock asked.

  Cronus’s expression was withering. “You grew up in this city. How long did it take you to start believing that cops were your friends? And you were a poster boy for all that cultural sensitivity shit. The authorities do need to be involved. That’s why I’m standing here talking to you. But keep my name out of it.”

  “We can do that,” Brock said. “But so far all you’ve given us is a rumour. We need more – a lot more.”

  Zack’s voice was deep and gentle. “Cronus, it took courage for you to tell us about the planned abduction, and believe me, I’m grateful. But knowing something terrible is about to happen isn’t enough. We have to stop it.”

  No one spoke. Zack, Brock, and I watched as Cronus scuffed the grass with the toe of his white summer shoe. He was weighing his options. It was a big decision, and as the seconds ticked by, my pulse picked up speed. When I felt my blood pressure spike, I moved in front of Cronus, so close that our faces were just inches apart. “The future of Racette-Hunter is on the line,” I said. “That means that the future of this neighbourhood is on the line. More importantly, a child’s life could be at stake. If there’s any way you can short-circuit this plan, you have to do it.”

  The warm September air was alive with the sounds of life in the city: a dog barking, a car alarm blaring, the siren tinkle of an ice-cream truck’s bell, a boy calling out a friend’s name with growing frustration – Riley, Ri-ley, RI-ley! RI-LEEE!!! The world was going on around us, but like lovers, Cronus and I were focused wholly on each other. Close up I could see the marks of life on Cronus’s face: a surgical scar above his left upper lip and another on the right side of his nose, a slight pouching in the skin under his polar blue eyes, a droop in the flesh beneath his chin. Cronus’s examination of my face was equally intense. Finally, his face relaxed and a small smile played on his lips. He had reached a decision. “What the hell,” he said. “We only live once. Might as well make it count. Right, Joanne?”

  “Right,” I said.

  Cronus’s next words were a surprise. “I need you to take a picture of Brock, Zack, and me together.” He reached into his leather shoulder bag, found his phone, and handed it to me. Then he crouched beside Zack’s chair and motioned Brock to squat next to him. When everyone was in position, Cronus said, “You guys put your arms around my shoulders and smile. I want a photo that shows that the three of us are good buddies.”

  I took enough shots to make certain I had one that met Cronus’s criterion and handed him the camera. He gave me the thumbs-up and showed the photo to Zack and Brock. “That should do the job,” he said.

  Zack was frowning. “So what is the job?”

  Cronus flicked his tongue. “I’m sending off this photo of the three of us with a message.” He started to tap out the message, but his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. He flexed them, then began again. It was a laborious process. He typed slowly – repeating a series of numbers out loud as he entered them: “2-5-1-0-0-6.” Task completed, Cronus dropped his phone into his bag, withdrew a large manila envelope, and handed it to Zack. “Here’s my contribution to your campaign. I’m a cash-and-carry guy, so keep an eye on it.”

  “I will.” Zack extended his hand to Cronus. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Hey, it’s my city too,” Cronus said.

  “Yeah, and what you just did for this city was major,” Zack said.

  Cronus shrugged. “I had a silver bullet and I used it. It was no big deal.” He shook hands with Zack and Brock and then he held out his arms me. I was surprised at the gesture, but I embraced him warmly. When we stepped apart, Cronus’s face was soft. “That was nice,” he said.

  The three of us watched silently as Cronus made his way back across the green. Surrounded by laughing kids, he was a lonely and enigmatic figure. “Any ideas about what that little exercise with our photo was all about?” Zack said.

  I shook my head. “You heard the man,” I said. “That photo is the silver bullet.”

  Zack pulled out his phone. “I have faith in Cronus,” he said. “But even silver bullets have been known to miss the mark. I’m calling Debbie.”

  “Tell her to meet us here,” I said. “The kids’ activities are all taking place on the green. If Debbie is going to secure the space, she’ll need to be familiar with it.”

  Debbie Haczkewicz was in charge of the Regina Police Service’s Major Crimes Section. Enduring friendships between police officers and trial lawyers are few and far between, but Debbie and Zack went way back. Fearless, dogged, and passionate about their work, they were kindred spirits. As soon as Zack began talking to Debbie, Brock left to find Margot, and I phoned my daughter, Mieka. She and her friend Kerry Benjoe were in charge of the children’s activities, so I asked them to round up Declan, Taylor, and the other volunteers who were helping with the kids’ games and meet us on the north side of the green.

  After I hung up, I turned to Zack. “I guess now we just wait.”

  “We have our own security here today,” Zack said. “And we have volunteers from the neighbourhood. No shortage of bodies – just a question of how to deploy them.” Zack shifted his chair so he could take in the area. “Logistically, we’re in good shape.”

  Shelley Gregg, the architect who designed the Racette-Hunter Centre, b
elieved that kids who lived in a neighbourhood where they could never safely run free needed a space where they could play without fear. The eight buildings that housed the classrooms and the recreation facilities all had large windows overlooking the green. The windows were there to let in more than light. Racette-Hunter offered people a place where they could change their lives. Changing a life is difficult work. Seeing the kids every day was intended, in Cronus’s phrase, to help people keep their eye on the prize.

  By the time Debbie Haczkewicz arrived, Lexi Hunter was perched on Brock’s shoulders watching Declan, Taylor, and the other volunteers spread out a dozen rainbow parachutes. The scene had the bright innocence of a Grandma Moses painting, but Debbie’s presence was a grim reminder of the cloud that hung over the children squealing with delight under the billowing silk.

  As Mieka and Kerry Benjoe went through the security precautions that were in place, Debbie took notes. The children were all wearing numbered red wristbands with the R-H logo. Adults who brought children to the centre were wearing matching numbered bands. No child would be allowed to leave the R-H Centre with an adult whose wristband did not match the child’s. The kids were on the buddy system and every fifteen minutes, a volunteer blew a whistle and hollered, “Buddies.” The action didn’t resume until every child had been paired. The children had been told to check the photo IDs worn by the adults to whom they could go if they were lost or scared.

  Debbie nodded when the two women finished their report. “So as long as the children stay in this space, they’re safe,” she said.

  Zack picked up on the edge in Debbie’s voice. “But there’s no guarantee the children will stay in this space,” he said.

  “None,” Brock said. “In theory, they’re all to be under adult supervision at all times, but kids are unpredictable. They dash ahead. They see a friend and wander off. The question now is whether we should go public with this.”

  Since her husband’s death, Margot had been determined to make Racette-Hunter a reality. We all knew hers would be the deciding voice in the decision and our heads turned her way. “We don’t go public,” she said. “If we do, we might as well shut the doors to R-H right now. We’ve done everything we can to make this facility safe. All we can do now is build on what we have. We can coordinate our security with the police. We can text safety reminders to our volunteers. We can be vigilant, and we can pray.”

  Brock took Lexi from his shoulders and lifted her into the air. She giggled gleefully as he began to pump her up and down. “Margot’s right,” he said. “Let’s just get through the day.”

  Brock’s words were clearly intended to bring the meeting to a close. Mieka and Kerry took the hint, said their goodbyes, and headed back to where volunteers were now distributing pails of ping-pong balls to each of the parachute groups. The game they were about to play had been around since Mieka was little. The kids had to work together to make the parachute rise and fall so the ping-pong balls would pop up in the air. It was a team-builder. Given Cronus’s news, it seemed an inspired choice.

  We all watched as Mieka and Kerry headed towards the parachute games, but when Debbie started to leave, Margot and Brock exchanged a quick glance and called her back. They summoned Zack and me as well.

  Brock moved closer to Margot. “You or me?” he said.

  “Me,” Margot said. “Debbie, Brock and I may be able to shed light on these threats. After my daughter was born, I decided to try to have a second child with donated sperm. Another pregnancy at my age was a big decision, and I couldn’t afford a misstep, so I boned up on genetics. The upshot of my reading was that I decided against an anonymous donor. I wanted someone I knew and respected. I asked Brock. He agreed, and I’m now three months’ pregnant.” Zack’s eyes met mine. Margot had never intimated that her donor was someone she knew.

  Brock gave Lexi one final pump up and down and then nestled her in his arms. “As a gay man, I’d always figured that a child wouldn’t be part of my life,” he said. “The prospect of being a biological father was a gift. I talked it over with my partner, Michael, and he agreed. And then he changed his mind. My guess is that Graham Meighen changed it for him.”

  “What’s Graham Meighen got to do with this?” I said. Meighen was a prominent developer in Regina who had always opposed the centre. He was also a vocal supporter of the current mayor, Scott Ridgeway.

  “When Michael moved to Regina, Meighen took him under his wing,” Brock said. “Graham was very welcoming to me too until I became director of Racette-Hunter, then the big chill hit. When I decided to run for council, Meighen and his friends announced they were supporting my opponent, Duane Trotter, and told Michael that he had to choose sides.”

  “They made Michael choose?” I was incredulous. “I can’t imagine high rollers like Meighen being involved in that kind of schoolyard stuff. Do those guys take blood oaths too?”

  “Whatever they do, it’s the tie that binds,” Brock said. “Michael and I had been together two years. I thought I knew him, but he went with Meighen’s group.”

  “People have a way of surprising us,” Debbie said curtly. “What’s Michael’s surname?”

  “Goetz. Dr. Michael Goetz. He’s a psychiatrist.”

  Zack turned to Debbie. “Dr. Goetz is responsible for all those shiny billboards Brock’s opponent is putting up all over North Central.”

  “Michael’s always prepared to pay for what he wants,” Brock said. “I can deal with billboards. And I can deal with the crap that’s making the rounds about my private life. I’ve been accused of pretty well everything, and I’m still walking around.”

  Lexi had fallen asleep in Brock’s arms. He turned to Margot. “Should I put Lexi in her stroller? She may not understand the words we’re saying, but she picks up on tones.”

  Margot nodded. “See if you can slide her in there without waking her.”

  Wide receivers are fast and agile. Brock had Lexi settled in her stroller in seconds. When she saw Lexi was content, Margot turned back to us. “Brock’s concerned about my reputation,” she said. “There’s a rumour going around that any man who wants a job at Peyben has to perform stud service for the boss.”

  The anger rose in my throat. “The logical source of that one would appear to be Dr. Goetz.”

  Brock lowered his eyes. “There aren’t any other possibilities,” he said. “Margot and Michael and I were the only ones who knew that I’m the father of her baby.”

  Margot did her best to raise a more palatable possibility. “It’s possible Michael confided in someone,” she said. “People talk. Someone else could be spreading the rumour.”

  Debbie had a way of cutting through emotion. “Let’s get back to the problem at hand,” she said. “Spreading an ugly rumour during an election campaign is not a crime. Conspiring to abduct a child from a public gathering is. Do you think Dr. Goetz is capable of making that leap?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Brock said. “In the last year, Michael has done a number of things that I didn’t believe he was capable of.”

  “Such as … ?” Debbie asked.

  Brock’s laugh was short. “Such as breaking off with me and going back to his old boyfriend Slater Doyle.”

  “The breakup was a surprise?” Debbie asked.

  “It was a body blow,” Brock said. “We were fine – enjoying our life together, making plans for the future – and then Michael started questioning everything about our relationship. It was as if he was trying to find a reason to leave.”

  “And he found one,” Debbie said.

  “He did. I don’t want to go into it, but what Michael did didn’t make any sense. Certainly going back to Slater Doyle didn’t make any sense. Slater is destructive and unethical and Michael knows it.”

  “Brock’s right about Slater Doyle,” Zack said. “He was a lawyer, but he was disbarred for dipping into clients’ trust funds and falsifying his firm’s trust ledgers to cover his tracks.”

  “Now he’s running Scot
t Ridgeway’s re-election campaign,” Brock said. “And he’s managed to get Michael involved with Duane Trotter’s campaign. And that’s another thing that doesn’t make sense. It’s hard for me to be objective, but Trotter has done nothing for the people of Ward 6. He’s a lackey for the developers and the only reason he wins is because Ward 6 has such a dismal turnout at the polls. Trotter’s backers have deep pockets and that means all his campaign has to do is put up billboards in high-traffic areas, spend a bundle on media, then get out their core vote.”

  “Who is their core vote?” Debbie asked.

  “Not to put too fine a point on it,” Brock said, “they’re people who hate Aboriginals. Michael and I lived together happily for over two years. I know him. He’s not a bigot. He cares enough about at-risk kids to publish journal articles with concrete recommendations about how to save them. Now he’s backing a candidate who lards his speeches with code words like ‘hard-working,’ ‘community-minded,’ ‘law-abiding,’ ‘contributing members of society,’ ‘givers not takers.’ The phrases seem perfectly innocuous, but his supporters know that Trotter is drawing a line. On one side are people like them; on the other are people like me.”

  “Dog whistle politics,” I said. “Slimy but highly effective.”

  Lexi stirred in her sleep, and Margot knelt down to soothe her. Debbie lowered her voice. “Brock, this is a delicate situation. Nothing has happened yet. All we have is a rumoured threat that, in all likelihood, is groundless. Dr. Goetz is well liked in this city. I’ve never dealt with him personally, but his reputation is solid.” Debbie raised her hand in a halt sign. “Of course, none of that matters if he’s party to a conspiracy.”

  On the green, the parachute popcorn game had reached a fever pitch. Kids were starting to scream and the parachutes were flapping violently. Mieka and the other volunteers were moving among the children, collecting the ping-pong balls and explaining the rules for a quieter game.