by Rick Mofina
Now, Olivia felt the pull of that memory evolving into an urgent message compelling her to call her aunt in Chicago. Call Maureen. Tonight.
The dishes done, she fetched the number from a drawer in the living room. It was early evening in Illinois. She glanced at the grandfather clock as the number rang. A man’s voice answered, late sixties, subdued, tired.
“Uncle Randall?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Olivia in San Francisco.”
“My goodness. Olivia, it’s so nice to hear your voice. How are you?”
“I’m fine. How is Aunt Maureen?”
Her uncle hesitated. “To tell you the truth, she’s been in and out of the hospital. But I know she’d love to talk to you. Just a moment.”
Olivia heard the phone being shuffled and her uncle’s distant voice rattling in their big house in Oak Park.
“Mo! It’s Olivia in California! Yes!”
The extension clicked and Olivia was overcome by an emotional whirlwind, for her aunt’s voice was identical to her mother’s.
“Liv, is that you, dear?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, it’s so good to hear from you, sweetheart. Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
How do you begin to reconnect with the few remnants of family you have? How do you begin to make up for time you lost? Olivia fought her tears.
“Aunt Maureen?”
“What is it, dear?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Whatever do you have to be sorry for?”
“It’s been so long since I’ve called, or replied to your letters. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right, dear. You’re calling now.”
“How are you feeling? Uncle Randall said you’ve been in the hospital?”
“Some days are better than others. The last round of surgery went well, but tell me about you.”
Olivia suspected her aunt’s health was much more grave than Maureen and Randall were letting on. She’d detected it in her uncle’s voice when he first answered.
“I’m fine. I was thinking, I’d like to come and see you in Chicago, a visit. Is that all right?”
“Is that all right? Darling, I’ve wanted you to visit for so long.” Her aunt repeated the news to Olivia’s uncle. “When, Liv? You’ll stay with us. I’ll call Heather. They’re in St. Louis now after Martin got transferred from Tampa. Maybe they’ll visit too. We could have a little family reunion. They have two little boys now.”
“Two?”
“Cutie pies. Devon is two, Dillon is one.”
“I’ll come soon. I’ll call you when I have the dates and my flight and details.”
“Yes, dear. This is wonderful news, so wonderful. Olivia, I am so happy you called.
“Me too.”
Soaking in her tub that evening, Olivia peered at her scented candles and reflected on how far she had come from that terrible night on the Golden Gate Bridge. On how the tragedy of Iris Wood, a person she had never met, had somehow offered her salvation, forcing her to take control of her life, leading her to Ben, to reconnect with the fragments of her family, to feel hope, to touch it, to taste it, to risk her heart and be alive in this world. Olivia cherished her new self-confidence, her strengthened self-esteem, and vowed not to abandon those who had helped her find it: her on-line friends. In sharing their anguish, their pain, the torment from the universe of lonely-hearts, they encouraged her to be brave and take a successful step into life.
Time for me to help them.
Olivia sat at her computer, wrapped in her robe, her face glowing from the monitor as she went on-line to chat with her pals out there, thanking them, telling them briefly and without many details that she had met a wonderful person who needed a little understanding and to be forgiven for his past.
A friend from San Diego was the first to respond: No need to thank us. We’re all here to help each other.
That’s what friends are for, wrote a friend in New Orleans.
You made it over the wall, cheering in Philly.
So what’s his “past?” Old girlfriends? Ha ha, said a Nashville friend.
Annalee in Dallas was applauding: What a great thing, reconnecting with your family.
Hey, livinsf, you go, girl, but just make sure he’s telling you EVERYTHING about his past and is not like some of the LOSERS that have inflicted their sorry selves on me, came advice from Boston.
Olivia nodded. Yes, she was careful about getting too close to “virtual people,” especially after reading a recent article in the Star about the dark side of on-line dating.
So who is this new person who needs forgiveness? one friend wrote.
We all need forgiveness, right? I actually give it out every day. (smile), Olive answered, chuckling because she sold greeting cards.
The friend left the chat site and sent her an e-mail.
I asked you about forgiveness. I’m the person seeking it.
An e-mail exchange flowed between them.
Did you truly mean it, livinsf, when you say that if you found the right man your love would wash away the sins of his past life?
Yes I truly mean it from the bottom of my heart.
I need your help.
How can I help you?
I’ve just made a horrible mistake. I trusted my heart to someone who, like you, had promised they could help me.
What happened?
They lied.
Sounds like you were hurt.
Deeply.
I’m so sorry.
Can you help me survive this?
Yes.
I need to know something from you and it must be the truth.
Olivia was cautious. Pulling up her guard. No personal information. No meetings. Nothing weird or you terminate the conversation, she warned herself before writing What do you need to know?
Do you truly mean it when you say that if you found the right man your love would wash away the sins of his past life?
I do.
You can forgive any sins of his past life?
Yes.
Explain how you would not betray that forgiveness.
I believe pure love can defeat any darkness.
Any darkness?
Any darkness.
Thank you.
Have I helped you?
No reply came.
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was one of those strange number things, Detective Sergeant Martin Reesor thought, looking at downtown Toronto from Wendell Holcomb’s twenty-fifth-floor room in his hotel.
Belinda Holcomb’s apartment was on the twenty-fifth floor, and the office where she had worked was on the twenty-fifth floor. Now, her exhausted father, Wendell, was sitting on the king-size bed of his room on the twenty-fifth floor, talking on the phone to a funeral director about the final arrangements for taking her home now that her body had been released.
“That’s how you prepare it for transporting. Is that a casket?” Wendell said. “I see. Do I sign that form at the airport?”
Across the city through the rain, Reesor saw the SkyDome, where the New York Yankees were playing the Toronto Blue Jays. He’d had plans to be at the game with his nine-year-old son. His ex had custody. Things usually worked out all right since the venom between them had been replaced by court-ordered clauses. But when Reesor had to cancel, his ex gave the tickets to her new boyfriend. He was sitting in the Dome with Reesor’s son right now because Belinda Holcomb had been murdered. Reesor had to swallow it because this was his life. Belinda Holcomb was his case. Had been since his pager went off a few days ago.
Wendell finished his call. He did not speak, letting the hum of the air conditioner fill the silence.
Reesor’s eyes were like black ball bearings, shining hard from his bald head. He was six one, two hundred pounds, with a thick black moustache. The job had exacted a toll on his life. So, with each case he forged a little personal payback by way of relentless righteous investigative excellence. Woe to the susp
ect who drew Reesor. His leather shoulder holster squeaked when he turned from the window to his partner, Detective Jackie Winslow, on the bed next to Wendell, rubbing his arm.
“We’ll talk with our services people on how you can make arrangements to get her belongings from her apartment shipped home later. They’ll talk to her landlord, okay, Wendell?” Winslow said.
Wendell nodded, staring at his shoes through his thick-framed glasses. He was sixty-six years old. His thin white hair was parted neatly, laced over his ruddy skin. His face was the creased, weatherworn face of a God-fearing farmer. His was a life that had been invested in the land, directed by a moral compass, guided by the Good Book.
Reesor saw the hotel room’s King James Bible splayed open on Wendell’s night table, next to his airline ticket. His suitcase, a fiberboard deal which may have been fashionable in the 1960s, smelled of mothballs. It was open on the dresser, a framed picture of Belinda at the age of seven, laughing, arms around her grinning father, his hair thicker, darker, rested atop a folded shirt, next to a sweat-stained John Deere ball cap. Had the cap been tossed in by mistake during his anguish after notification, or on purpose for comfort?
Wendell was wearing black shoes, black socks, navy pants, a white shirt loosened at the collar with an out-of-style checkered tie that clashed with his jacket. It was what he was wearing when they picked him up at the airport the other day. It seemed he was dressed for Sunday church in a small rural town. Wendell placed his large workman’s hands with their powerful fingers and short, worn nails on his knees, the words crawling out of his raw throat as he uttered, “I’m ready to take her home now.”
On the drive to the airport, Reesor and Winslow reviewed what they could of the case with Wendell, who sat in silence, the car’s wipers thumping, the radials hissing. At one point, Wendell said, “Belinda was supposed to get married, have a family and stay home. I don’t know how her mother is going to survive this.” In the rear-view mirror, Reesor saw Wendell cover his face with his big hands.
They stayed with him at Pearson International until he boarded, watching the jet slowly roll from the terminal, its running lights strobing, turbines whining. The rain not letting up. Aboard, a broken-hearted father, the body of his murdered daughter in the cargo hold. A country girl going home for the last time, to the edge of Altona, Manitoba, near the Minnesota border. She would be buried in a small cemetery of the Red River Valley amid fields and fields of sunflowers.
Working their way through traffic from the airport, Reesor and Winslow said little. Reesor turned on the car’s radio to catch the ball game, keeping the volume low as the rain fell and the wipers pulsed.
“FIS expects to have more results from the crime lab for us tonight,” he said. “I want to go back to the squad, go through some statements. Maybe go back on some people tomorrow.”
Since they were called out to Belinda Holcomb’s murder, everything that had to be done so far, everything that could be done so far, had been done.
Cause of death: multiple stab wounds to her heart. It was a small art-house theater. Two tickets were sold for the showing. No security cameras. Three on the staff. Ticket seller, snack seller and usher. Projectionist had been reading a book. No one remembered the suspect or saw a thing, except the girl at the snack bar.
“Maybe the guy was wearing glasses and was kinda ugly, I can’t say for sure. Maybe he was tall and talked to the woman. I thought they were sorta together and, my God, this is really creeping me out, my God, a woman was murdered and we were there, you know, I’m really not sure I remember anything.”
No witnesses. No weapon found. No other injuries or suspect substances found. No evidence of sexual assault, or sexual activity whatsoever.
“I think he stalked her, Jackie, followed her there,” Reesor said after they returned to headquarters from the airport and headed up to the squad room.
“The café staff said she sat alone for over an hour, acting like she was waiting for somebody. Maybe a blind date? Remember all the newspapers in her apartment? Maybe she hooked up with him out of the personals?”
It was getting late, a couple of detectives were working at the far end of the squad room.
“The newspapers were clean of any markings. We checked for ads. But we can go back on that. What we also need to do is more work on her computer. When the FIS guys tried to fire it up, it malfunctioned or something. They said they’re still working on it. Her ISP get back to you yet?”
“They say her account is garbled or something. They’re trying to sort it out. We’re hoping to track her activities.”
“Good. All right.” Reesor sat down and reached for a large file.
“What now, Marty? What about ViCLAS? Want to start filling out the book while we wait for FIS to call? We could get most of it done now.”
“Not yet. I want to go through the videotape and pictures of the crime scene. See if I missed anything. You checklist the book, see if we covered everything.”
Winslow knew her partner would scrutinize the scene material for hours. “All right. Since we’re going to be here a while, I’m going to get us some food.” She reached inside her drawer for a take-out menu, then called over to the two other detectives in the squad. “We’re ordering Chinese. You guys in?” They waved off the offer. They were on their way out.
Reesor opened the file with copies of enlarged photographs of Belinda Holcomb’s murder. She was in her movie theater seat, slumped to her left. Eyes open. Sweater and slacks soaked with blood, dripping to her shoes. Attacked in the dark from behind. The usher found her. Thought she was asleep. Never touched her. Called 911. They managed to get a patrol unit there fast, kept the scene clean.
When the food came, Reesor ate while rereading all the reports and statements they had so far, making notes on who they needed to talk to next.
Nearly two hours later, he stood, stretched, then poked around the containers of mushroom fried rice, almond chicken, deep-fried won ton, for leftovers, while Winslow peered outside. The squad room’s windows overlooked the street and she watched the traffic. Reesor had settled on a fortune cookie cracking it, reading the prediction on the ribbon: You will find the truth if you keep seeking it.
He shrugged, crunching on the cookie, passing the slip of paper to Winslow for her amusement, then answering his phone on the first ring.
“Homicide. Reesor.”
“It’s Fydor at the lab.”
“Anything new?”
“Yes, I think I’ve got something but it’s going to take me some time.”
“How long? You told me tonight.”
“Not tonight. Go home, I’ll call when I have it.”
“Come on.”
“Look, I’m jammed up. I’ve got to do more work on what we found at the movie theatre.”
“Well Fydor, can you give me a hint?”
A long, tense moment passed.
“I think your guy’s a traveler.”
THIRTY-NINE
At the Timberrock Hotel, snuggled in the sweet-scented alpine slopes of the Rocky Mountains in Banff, Alberta, Canada, Anna Clausner had been roused from a deep sleep by thudding and muffled cries coming from the adjacent room.
“This is unacceptable, Bill.”
Her husband had also been awakened. “Give it a few minutes. It will stop.”
Anna, a recently retired second violinist with the Philadelphia Orchestra, groaned. William Clausner, a historian specializing in sculpture at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, was an unusually patient man, but after several long moments, the noise had not subsided and he and his wife could no longer tolerate it.
The red digits on their luxury suite clock showed 3:07 A.M. William Clausner, blinked, rolled to his side, lifted the phone’s handset on his night stand, squinted, then pressed the button for the front desk.
“Front desk. How may we help you?” said a young female voice.
“We have been awakened by a dreadful racket coming from the adjacent room to our
right.”
“We’ll take care of it right away, Mr. Clausner.”
Located at the base of Sulphur Mountain, the resort’s design harmonizes with its surroundings. It’s common to see deer and elk from your window, which opened to a majestic view of eternal alpine forests, jade-colored rivers and the snow-capped Rockies. Ever since Anna Clausner saw a travel special on CNN, it had been her dream to visit. But this tumult.
What the devil was going on in there?
Anna went to the bathroom for a sleeping pill. Bill had resumed reading his paperback thriller, a break from the art history texts he usually studied. He was exercising his usual consideration of using his tiny book light so as not to disturb his wife. Anna returned to bed, nestling her back to his, gazing through their large window at the mountain peaks, silhouetted against the sapphire night sky, coming to the conclusion that the splendor of the setting had gotten the better of passionate young lovebirds in the next room.
Eugene Vryke was in the next room.
Alone. Wrestling death.
He had been sleeping when it attacked. Charge after charge of pain exploding in his brain, jolting him to the floor as he struggled to crush his pillow down his throat to silence his agony, groping in the darkness for his small plastic case of medication.
The vials. Injection. I need --
Don’t cry out. Biting his tongue. Reaching, feeling the plastic case, tremoring, a spasm rocketing the case out of reach across the carpet to the bathroom. No! Vryke moaning, crawling, standing, supporting himself on the walls. Wild spasms kicking inside of his skull. The case! Find the case! Room spinning. Floor liquid. Catching himself on the counter, doorknob, toilet, tub, light switches, hands going everywhere. The case! There! Opening it. The gun-handled hypodermic. The vials blurring, hands trembling.
