Woman Chased by Crows

by Marc Strange

  for Karen

  Acknowledgements

  For friendship, assistance and favours too numerous to list here, I offer my deepest appreciation to the following accomplices: Fred Petersen, Bob Séguin, Lisa Murray and Ian Sutherland

  He had almost nothing left.

  Only the sapphire and a couple of diamonds, maybe three, he didn’t know how many, he hadn’t opened the bag in a while. If Louie was still talking to him, maybe he could sell him one. The troll wasn’t answering his phone. Probably monitoring his calls. Still pissed off. Couldn’t make it over to the Danforth, anyway. No cash. What a ridiculous situation.

  He had three stones worth a fortune, maybe five stones — it was time he looked — a nice diamond, not too big, easy to move. One carat, maybe. Louie would give him five for it, surely. No he wouldn’t. Louie would know he was desperate. He would take advantage. He was a thief after all, what do you expect? But three hundred at least. Something. He needed to eat, he needed to pay for this shitty motel room, he needed to get away. Get away — what a great plan. Look where he was: back where he started, a cab ride from the very place he had jumped the fence. Except that he couldn’t afford a cab ride. A fortune in stones, and he was broker than the panhandler on the corner.

  It was time he checked the package to see what was left. Please Jesus, there was one small diamond that he could sell in a hurry, without attracting too much attention. He opened the closet and took down the shelf above the clothes rack, dragged over a chair and stood on it, reached up and pushed the cheap cardboard ceiling tile out of the way, felt around in the dust and mouse droppings until he found the cloth bag, climbed off the chair and spilled the contents onto the stained chenille bedspread. Good! Two diamonds. Two of them. One of them was small enough, one-and-a-half carats probably, maybe a bit less. Such a waste, selling it for a fraction of what it was worth, but a man has to survive. The sapphire was too big to just give away. He needed to get somewhere. Montreal. If he was careful, he could survive in Montreal. There was someone there who could afford it.

  “Been waiting all night for you to come home,” said the visitor who came out of the bathroom.

  “Oh Christ!” he said. “You scared the shit . . .”

  “Is that all of them?”

  “That’s all that’s left.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I swear.”

  “Put them back in the bag.”

  “Just leave me one, please, the small diamond. I need some cash so I can pay for this shitty room. I need some cash so I can eat something.”

  “No, you don’t,” said his guest, and shot him in the head.

  It is always the ruby that takes centre stage in an ornament. The rest — pearls, sapphires, even diamonds — dance attendance upon a great ruby like a corps de ballet.

  It is safe to say that Newry County doesn’t harbour many rubies, and that whatever red stones are held in the jewellery cases and safety deposit boxes of Dockerty’s upper crust, they are neither large, nor legendary, nor, in some cases, genuine. Certain of the dowagers residing on The Knoll are known to have good pieces: Mrs. Avery Douglas is the current custodian of a five-strand natural pearl necklace, a Douglas family heirloom worthy of at least five burglary attempts over the years, including the recent, unprosecuted break-in by their crack-smoking second cousin; Doris Whiffen has a tiara once worn to a reception at Windsor Castle, but not by her; and Edward Urquehart has thirty-odd carats in loose diamonds along with his Krugerrands in a safety deposit box at the Bank of Commerce. None of these are paltry, and some are truly precious, but if all the gems held in all the private safes in Dockerty were heaped upon a table, they would not begin to approach the value of a certain chunk of pigeon’s blood corundum. Not in dollars, not in legend, not in human life.

  In an early year of the nineteenth century, a man whose name is now lost in the dust of history picked up a loose stone bigger than his fist from a scattering of detritus near a limestone cliff north of Mandalay. Even in the rough, it glowed like a hot coal. It is estimated that it weighed at that time over four hundred carats. A master cutter produced three notable gems from it: an elegant twenty-three-carat cushion cut that is still part of the Iranian National Treasure, a round stone of eighteen carats once stolen by Clive of India, and a masterpiece of ninety-seven carats, one of the largest rubies ever known. Not a garnet, not a spinel like the Black Prince’s legendary stone, but a true ruby, a gem of perfect colour. But size was not its most significant characteristic. In its heart there was a star. Star rubies are among the rarest gems on the planet, and most are small. The Sacred Ember, as it came to be known, was peerless, unique, priceless.

  One

  Monday, March 14

  Orwell Brennan’s parking space under the chestnut tree offered a generous mix of March’s bounty — icy puddles, crunchy slush, broken twigs from last night’s blow. He dunked his left foot ankle-deep in scummy water getting out of his vehicle. This made him dance awkwardly onto the dry pavement, at which point he looked heavenward. Mondays always start out bad. Laura used to say that, usually with a laugh. His first wife was killed by a drunk driver late on a Sunday night. That long ago Monday morning had started out very bad. On a scale of one to ten, a soaker didn’t register.

  Spring was Orwell’s second-favourite time of year; a season full of the things he looked forward to all the long Ontario winter — an unselfish angle to the sunrise, spring training in Dunedin, the ospreys circling the big nest near RiverView Lodge. As with most men his age, the arrival of spring signalled a victory of sorts and he routinely breathed more deeply as the vernal equinox drew near. The sodden pant cuff slapping his ankle as he climbed the stairs to his office reminded him that he was a tad previous in his anticipation. It wasn’t spring yet. Hitters might be looking for their swings and pitchers working on their stuff in the Florida sunshine, but Newry County was still salted sidewalks and distressed footwear.

  “In early, Chief.” Sergeant George was a tall, cadaverous man with a face like a basset hound; baggy eyes and dewlaps.

  “I am a bit, aren’t I?” Orwell said without elaboration. He headed for his office. “Did you leave me any shortbreads, Jidge?”

  “Not following, Chief.”

  The office door clicked shut. Sergeant George saw the Chief’s extension light up briefly and then blink out. The Chief was back again almost immediately scanning the outer office.

  “Something I can help you with, Chief?”

  “Paper towels? Rag? I’ve got a wet shoe.”

  “Got Kleenex.”

  “That’ll do.” Orwell accepted a wad of tissues, put his left foot on a chair and did what he could to dry his leather. “Beats me how the bag always gets so nicely folded when you work the night desk.” He tossed the wet paper into a wastebasket.

  “Seen the Register this morning, Chief?”

  “Why no, Jidge, I haven’t.”

  Sergeant George held up a fresh copy of the paper. “Didn’t think you and Donna Lee were that chummy,” he said.

  The front page featured a shot of Mayor Bricknell and the Chief, both smiling, each holding one handle of a trophy. Dockerty High had won its first basketball tournament in ten years. The award ceremony had taken place Saturday night and evidently nothing sufficiently newsworthy had happened in the intervening thirty-six hours to knock it off page one.

  “Didn’t think she was going to be there,” Orwell said.

  “Wouldn’t miss a chance like that. Not in an election year.”

  The flag out front snapped in the brisk and chilly wind, the trailing end of a March gale that had the house moaning
all night long. He stood for a moment next to the bronze plaque bearing the likeness of his predecessor, Chief Alastair Argyle, noting that a pigeon had recently saluted the great man. To Orwell’s eye, the white stripe across the former chief’s cheek wasn’t unattractive, rather it gave the dour face a gallant aspect, like a duelling scar, a Bismarck schmiss.

  As was his custom, Roy Rawluck arrived marching, no other word for it, striding out of the parking lot, heels clicking, arms swinging, sharp left wheel to the entrance. “Bright and early, Chief,” Roy said with a nod of approval. It was rare that Orwell arrived before his staff sergeant.

  “Sharp breeze this morning, Staff,” he said. “Fresh, as the farmers put it.”

  “Coming or going, Chief?” Roy was frowning, just now noticing the desecration of his late boss’s memorial.

  “Going, Staff. Soon to return.”

  From the other side of Stella Street, Georgie Rhem was waving his walking stick. Orwell could tell it was Georgie by the feathers on his Tyrolean hat and the distinctive kink in his hawthorn stick. The jockey-tall lawyer was otherwise hidden by the sooty drift lining the curb. “Soon to return,” Orwell repeated, heading across the street. Roy marched inside to get his can of Brasso. Argyle’s face would be shining again in no time.

  “Where to, Stonewall?” Georgie wanted to know. “Timmies? Country Style? The Gypsy Tea Room isn’t open yet.”

  Banked piles of snow followed the concrete walkways on the shaded side of the Armoury, dirty, spotted, stained and slushy, revealing as they melted a winter’s worth of litter and unclaimed dog scat. Orwell detected, or thought he did, a tinge of yellow in the willow near the fountain.

  “First to leaf, last to leave,” he said.

  “Say what?”

  “It’s what Erika says. That willow’s yellowing up.”

  “Jaundice, likely,” Georgie said.

  “Not the prettiest time of year, I’ll admit,” said Orwell.

  “Think she’s had some work done?” Georgie was stopped at a campaign placard planted beside the walkway on spindly wire legs.

  “Who? Donna Lee?”

  “She looks prettier than usual, don’t you think?”

  The poster read: “Reelect Mayor Donna Lee Bricknell ~ Experience + Commitment = Consistency.”

  Orwell tilted his head. The Mayor’s photograph was flattering and he suspected some technical process had smoothed her wrinkles a bit, but having spent an unpleasant hour with the woman the previous Friday in her office, he was pretty sure she hadn’t undergone any facelifting. “Looks the same to me,” he said.

  “Don’t think this reelection’s going to be the simple formality it was in years gone by,” said Georgie.

  “How many will this make?”

  “She’s got six terms under her belt.” He tapped the placard with his stick and resumed walking. “This would be number seven.”

  “Think she could lose?”

  “Possibility,” Georgie said. He pointed at an opposing campaign poster on the other side of the park. A handsome young man with an expensive haircut beamed at the world in general. “Young Mr. Lyman over there has the blood of career politicians in his veins. Son of a sitting MP, grandson of a senator. I smell ambition.”

  “Wouldn’t think a small town mayor’s job would be big enough.”

  “Gotta start somewhere, Stonewall.” They waited for the light to change at the intersection. “Hell, he’s only twenty-six. Be in Ottawa before he’s thirty-five.”

  “No six terms for him,” said Orwell.

  Anya was on the couch. “It was gone for almost a year, now it is back.” She fidgeted. The psychiatrist wouldn’t let her smoke.

  In her dream the man has no face and there are shadows across his eyes. In her dream she is always ready for him, bathed and scented, wearing a white nightgown like a bride, lying on top of the covers, her feet bare, her pale gold hair across the crisp linen pillowcase, her hands tucked under her buttocks, her eyes open as he enters the dark room. When he raises the pistol to kill her, she lifts herself as if to meet her bridegroom’s beautiful hands. And when he pulls the trigger she wakes up, lost, missing him.

  “Every night?”

  “No. Not every night. But often. Enough. Often enough.”

  “Once a week?”

  “More than that. Just not every night. Some nights he does not come.” She stood up, rolling her neck and shoulders as if waking from a fretful sleep. “I am going outside to have a cigarette now.”

  “You can wait a bit longer. We’re almost done for today.” The psychiatrist drew a square on her notepad and filled in the space with crosshatching. “And you never see his face?”

  “It does not matter. It will not matter. It could be anyone. They can send anyone.” Anya moved around the room, a restless cat. “They could look like anyone. Young, old, a woman even. In my dream it is a man always, but they could send a woman.” She stopped at the window. “But in my dream it is a man.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I cannot tell you that. It is probably dangerous for you that I talk at all.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “You think it is all right because you think I am delusional. You think the assassin is in my mind.”

  “Isn’t the assassin already dead?”

  “They will send another one.”

  After Anya left, the psychiatrist labelled the cassette case and filed the session with the others. There were almost a hundred now. Some of them had red tags. This one didn’t rate a red tag.

  The case of Anya Daniel was a personal commitment for the doctor and in a very real sense the only responsibility worthy of her talent. Were it not for Anya and her “special” situation, she wouldn’t spend another day in this tiny, empty, backward little town. Some day, if things worked out, she might produce a paper, or even a book (with all the names changed, of course) detailing the bizarre elements of the case. The truly unique aspects would be fascinating, and not only to the psychiatric community.

  They walked their coffees back through Armoury Park, Orwell acknowledging the occasional wave or nod of a passerby with his customary magnanimity, Georgie bouncing a few steps ahead, the scrappy flyweight of fifty years back still evident in his step. “Shouldn’t be that big a deal, Stonewall,” he said. “Not like you’re planning a housing development.”

  “Thin edge of the wedge is how the township views it,” Orwell said. “You’d think it’d be a simple matter to build a second house on your own property.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be some leeway if it’s for a family member.”

  “Claim they’re merely protecting the farmland.”

  “Tell you what, my friend,” Georgie said. “They’re fighting a losing battle. New highway goes in, you’re just close enough to be a bedroom community. Won’t be too many years.”

  “That’s what they’re concerned about, and I sympathize, but hell’s bells, a man wants to build his daughter a house on his own land, it should be a right.”

  “Hey, if they turn you down, we’ll sue. Happy to take it to the Supreme Court. That’d be a helluva ride. But I’m not that lucky. My guess, they’ll get one look at you in your brass and gold — you will remember to wear the dress blues when you make your pitch?”

  “I’ll bedazzle them.”

  “— and they’ll rubber stamp the application forthwith.”

  “Forthwith.”

  “Even so, you’re going to want all your ducks in a nice straight line. Everything they could possibly want — pictures, plans, estimates, maps, all the forms filled out.”

  “Hate forms.”

  “World’s built outta forms. Beats me how you’ve come so far.”

  “It’s a wonder,” said Orwell.

  Georgie spun around, planted his feet, grinned, threw a soft left jab at his big fr
iend’s chest. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

  Orwell shrugged. “Not quite. I may be jumping the gun. They haven’t exactly set a firm date.”

  “Dragging their feet, are they?”

  “Being prudent, I guess. Patty’s had one bad marriage, can’t blame her for thinking things through.”

  “Is there no escaping the man?” Georgie was pointing. Orwell looked over his shoulder to find Gregg Lyman’s face smiling at him. Lyman’s campaign placards were twice the size of Donna Lee’s. His campaign colours were blue and silver, his slogan was “A Breath of Fresh Air,” his image had a healthy glow. “There’s been money spent,” said Georgie.

  “His?”

  “Well, the family’s, I guess.”

  Sam Abrams, the burly bearded owner and managing editor of The Dockerty Register, was heading their way, briefcase bulging, overcoat flapping, delicately stepping around wet spots on dainty feet. Graceful as a dancing bear, thought Orwell.

  “Register going to endorse anyone, Sam?” Georgie asked.

  “It’s a one-paper town, Georgie — I can’t afford to take sides. Fair and impartial, right down the line.”

  “Coulda fooled me with that front page this morning.”

  “Hey, the Kingbirds don’t win a championship every year.”

  “Oh? Is that who won? Looked like Donna Lee was getting the trophy.”

  “She wasn’t scheduled to show up, was she, Chief?”

  Orwell shook his head. “There I was, ready to hand the loving cup to the captain, and I find myself in a tug-of-war. Hope that’s the last of it.”

  “Wouldn’t count on it, Stonewall.”

  “I’ll make sure Gregg Lyman gets a photo-op real soon,” Sam said. “As soon as he does something even vaguely civic.”

  “Well, you and the Chief here are required to tippy-toe,” said Georgie. He gave his walking stick an airy twirl. “Happily, I don’t have to be circumspect. I can come right out and say I don’t much care for either one of them. Tell you one thing though, young Lyman didn’t get that haircut in this town.”