by Marc Strange
They stopped near Argyle’s shiny brass shrine. “You’d think with all the money they spent on this place they could have stuck a roof over the porch,” said Orwell. The two men looked at each other for a moment. Georgie grinned, Orwell sighed. “Henceforth I suppose we’d best exercise extreme discretion where this subject is concerned.”
“Ah hell, I don’t know. I might not be up to it.”
This time Orwell’s laugh was full-bellied. “You might aw shucks a jury, my friend, but it won’t work on me. Any minute now, you’ll start breathing fire.”
“I just might,” Georgie said. He spun his umbrella one last time and then furled it. “If nothing else, I’ll have him back on the street before five. Least I can do.”
“Oh dear,” Orwell said. “Gord Blumberg is in for a fight.” He opened the door and waved Georgie through.
Anya dozed most of the afternoon, curled up on the little couch, listening to the rain dancing on the fire escape. Once, she got up to see if the cat was back and to check the lane between the buildings. No sign of cat or killer.
“Is this George?”
“Yep.”
“This is Anya Daniel. It is true Edwin is gone for a week?”
“Yeah, says he’ll be back next Tuesday. Something about his sister’s in the hospital.”
“Who is driving tonight?”
“We’ve got four working tonight, because of the rain. You’ll have to wait ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Is that woman driving? What is her name, Olivia?”
“She’s on a run up to Fenelon Falls. She’ll be back in an hour.”
“I do not like her, anyway. Who else is driving?”
“The new guy.”
“What new guy?”
“Name’s Simon. He’s filling in for Ed.”
She hung up. She did not trust new guys. New guys were always suspect. She would walk home. They will not kill me. Not while they are still looking for it. And they will not do anything stupid, not while there are police poking around. You have to bide your time. Stay very quiet. You think you are close, you must be close, you have eliminated all the other possibilities. And as long as you think I have it, you will be careful. Oh, who knows? You might get frustrated, grab me off the street, threaten me with pain. But I do not think you are ready for that yet, are you?
What does it matter anyway? There is only so far a person can run, only so long you can keep running. After a while you give up. Or lose your mind. Or they kill you. Or you kill them.
Steady monotonous rain without electricity or thunder. Vankleek Street was bare of pedestrians. Cars went by with wipers slapping, the people inside were dry and warm and listening to music. She let the rain plaster her hair to her scalp, ruin her shoes, soak the shoulders of her coat. She did not care. She broke her prime rule and took a direct route, straight down Vankleek where at least the lights were bright.
Past the Royal Hotel. Music called to her from inside, a woman’s voice, one of those black women who sing like they are on their way up to heaven. She remembered the Royal had a snug bar away from the pool tables and the big screen television in the main room. Inside it wasn’t crowded, even in the big room. The smaller room was deserted except for a nuzzling couple in a corner booth, and a young man with dark, curly hair standing behind the bar. He reminded her of someone she once danced with — the curly hair, sharp nose, curved like that bird who eats pine cones. No. Not a dancer. He reminded her of Ludi. That nose.
“Vodka,” she said. “Is it cold?”
“I keep one in the freezer,” said the bartender. “But it’s the premium stuff, Absolut.”
“I will have two or three,” she said. “Probably three.”
“Ice, twist?”
“Do you have any caviar?”
He laughed. “No.”
“Then just vodka, straight, in a small glass.”
“Still coming down, eh?” he asked as he poured the shot.
“Of course,” she said. “I only drink when it is raining.”
The Chief arrived at the back door of the Irish House at the same time as an overloaded delivery guy from Mama Rosa’s Pizza, who was wearing a poncho like a pup tent to keep rain off the six extra-larges in his arms. Orwell graciously held the door for the lad, then followed him down the hall past the His and Hers. The Pride of Erin, as the pub was bravely named, had a large back room suitable for gatherings. A hand-lettered sign reading “Reserved for Private Function” was propped on a chair by the entrance. The sign had seen much use over the years and was stained and creased from revelries past. A Guinness representative passing through town the previous month had festooned the place with harps and silly hats and there were tenacious shamrocks and bloody leprechauns everywhere. Orwell was sure remnants of St. Patrick’s feast would stick around until the Halloween decorations went up.
Cheers for the arrival of food were followed almost immediately by hearty but respectful greetings as the Chief stepped in. He gave them all his most comradely handshakes, one after the other, with extra attention paid to the guest of honour, to whom he expressed the Dockerty Police Department’s official appreciation for twenty-five years of service, as well as the Chief’s personal good wishes and hopes for a comfortable and well-deserved retirement. He then presented the man with a medallion affixed to a small wooden plaque, and held a pose and a handshake long enough for the official and unofficial photographs. Having done his duty, Orwell accepted a cup of coffee, declined a slice of pepperoni and mushroom, and eased his way to the edge of the crowd.
As retirement parties go, the one for Billy Meyer was subdued, but it was early yet. The Chief, by no means a teetotaller, was nonetheless abstemious in public. Things would liven up after he’d gone and after the family men headed home. Dermot Grice, the publican, would be selling more drink to fewer people once the old hands settled in for war stories and lies.
Orwell’s plan was to stick around for the presentation of the going-away appliance, collect Leda from rehearsal down the street and be on his way home by 9:30. Not that he was in a rush to return to the domestic fray. Erika was pointedly not speaking to him. Patty was in her bunkroom in the barn, polishing saddles and weeping. When he took her supper, he’d been told to go away. How one generous impulse could have ruined so many lives was beyond him. Let’s face it, if they were really right for each other, this situation wouldn’t have wrecked things. And if it did, perhaps it was good that they confronted their incompatibility now rather than later. When he made that observation to his wife, he’d been met with stony silence, although after she’d stalked out of the bedroom he was sure a stream of German invective had trailed her down the stairs. His buttons were only half-polished. He was definitely in the doghouse if she was willing to see him leave the house in that state.
He spotted Stacy checking in with Staff Sergeant Rawluck. As one of the designated drivers, she would be on call until everyone else was safely home. It was understood that while Orwell was easygoing in many areas, he was the fist of doom on the subject of alcohol and driving under the influence thereof. God might help a Dockerty cop caught behind the wheel with liquor on his breath; the Chief wouldn’t.
“Evening, Detective,” he said.
“Good evening, sir. Thought you’d like to know, I got a hit on one of those names.”
“One of the missing smugglers?”
“Yes, sir. Female, Ludmilla Dolgushin. Montreal. Body was found inside a refrigerator at a dump site.”
“When?”
“Found twenty-one years ago.”
“Goodness me.”
“Wasn’t identified for over three years. No leads, no connections. Open case.” She lowered her voice. “Montreal is suddenly very interested in what we’re doing. I said I’d check with you about coordinating our efforts, but I didn’t go into detail.”
“Splendid,” said Orwell. The even
ing was getting much more interesting. “Two dead bodies now connected somehow to our visitor from the big city.”
“Who is also dead,” said Stacy.
Orwell put down his coffee cup and led the way to a quieter corner. “Have we given any thought to a connection between his death and the other two?”
“Can’t see one yet. Looks like jealousy. Not well planned. Impulsive.”
“I suppose,” he said, dubiously. He drummed briefly on the grimy wainscotting then grimaced as he checked his fingertips. “But you’ll still be looking into that aspect.”
“Of course, sir.”
“’Course you will, Detective, ’course you will. I know that — just thinking out loud.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “I mean, it’s a big coincidence.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Big.” He wiped his fingers and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Yessir. Big coincidence.”
“I’ve been thinking, sir.” She turned her back to the room, held up a fist and began laying out her thought process one finger at a time. “If it was a coincidence, just something that happened out of the blue, say, and if this business with missing diamonds or whatever has Montreal diamond dealers, or Toronto pawnbrokers, or maybe even a Metro cop involved, then maybe the ‘coincidence’ upset a lot of people’s plans.”
“Full report on Monday morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But maybe we should keep an eye on Ms. Daniel for a while. Don’t want any more dead bodies showing up if we can help it.”
“I agree, sir.”
The Chief waved across the room. “Staff?”
“Chief?”
“A moment, please.”
Roy Rawluck disengaged himself from a knot of uniforms at the far end of the room and marched in the Chief’s direction. “I don’t know who organized this shambles,” he said, “but it’s a bloody poor show for twenty-five years on the job.”
Orwell gave a philosophical shrug. “The detective squad doesn’t have a man with your organizational skills, Staff Sergeant.”
“One of my lads reaches retirement, we do it proper. Last year . . .”
“That was a fine evening, indeed, Staff. Entertainment, good food.”
“And no one really liked Constable Druck,” said Roy. “Still, sent him off with ceremony.”
“However when I leave office, please allow me to slip out the back door,” said Orwell.
Roy looked somewhat offended by the suggestion. “Something you wanted, Chief?”
“There is. Requiring some coordination. We’re going to need a unit to keep tabs on someone.”
“Stakeout?”
“Protection. Anya Daniel. She may be in some danger.”
“We talking round-the-clock, Chief?”
“No, no. Nothing that critical.” He looked around, momentarily confused. “I don’t think . . . at least I hope not. What is that?”
Stacy said, “You’ve got Marvin Gaye in your pocket, Chief.”
Orwell looked somewhat embarrassed as he pulled out his cellphone. Leda had programmed the ringtones for him. “I’ll Be Doggone” meant police business. “Hello?” He made a polite quarter-turn away. “What’s up, Jidge?”
Roy, equally polite, also rotated his shoulder a quarter-turn and frowned at the sagging shamrock swags and distressed harp posters. “Could have had a proper event,” he harrumphed. “The Avalon has a nice buffet.”
Stacy, more familiar with cellphone etiquette in which loud one-sided conversations are the norm, stayed where she was. She heard Orwell’s voice change. “Where is she now? In the ambulance? Who caught it? Danaher?”
Roy was immediately alert.
“Right, tell him to lock things down. I’m on my way.” He closed the phone and looked at the two of them. “Staff, get someone over to Dockerty General Emergency.”
“That Daniel woman?”
“No,” he said with a look of bewilderment. “Lorna Ruth. She was attacked in her office.”
After a while she got bored with love noises from the couple in the corner, cooing, coaxing and half-hearted refusals. Oh for goodness sake, find a room. With a door. She had to leave anyway: getting drunk in a bar was too expensive these days. Her budget couldn’t handle her thirst.
It was still raining, but not as hard. The storm drains were keeping up. She crossed against the lights, moving lightly, dodging a solitary car and throwing the driver a wave. On the other side she crooked an arm around a signpost and swung back and forth, gathering her body, making sure it was hers. She was a little drunk. Not too drunk to walk home, or dance home if she felt like it. Or run. Her feet didn’t hurt. That was a blessing. She would be on the run again soon enough. It was unavoidable, inevitable, she could feel the threats gathering. Dark clouds and darker shadows. Deep breath now, chin up, look around, four directions, up and down the streets. Where were they tonight? It does not matter, really. They will show themselves soon enough. She turned up the collar of her coat, cinched the belt, tucked the end under the buckle and started moving, paying attention to shadows.
Well now, where should I run this time? East? West? North? Maybe far north, somewhere uncomfortable, somewhere the hounds would hate visiting, somewhere very cold. Serve them right. I have made it too easy for them. Letting them follow me to places with hotels and restaurants and hot water. I will run north this time. And then what? Then I will sit on an ice floe and quietly freeze to death and they will all give up.
On the far side of Armoury Park, Kasemore Drive curved uphill above the locks. A chain-link fence ran along one side, guarding the top of a wooded slope, and through the trees she caught a glint of water. The fence was sagging and there were many holes. Transients and teens used the cover of the trees for all sorts of things. A sidewalk ran along the other side with parked cars facing downhill along the curb.
It was too bad really, I almost had a life here. Poky little town. A place to live, a place to work — for a while it was almost worth being alive. Well, nothing lasts forever. She had a limited capacity for happiness, anyway. She knew that. No doubt her mother’s influence. Mama was a melancholy soul. Sad-happy at the best of times. Happy-sad. And fearful, always. It rubs off. And then there was being Russian. Yes. North. I have decided. I will escape to the ice floes and the snow.
Ahead of her, a car door opened and the man got out. The big man, the one from the park, the one pretending to read the wet newspaper. He came around the back of his car and started toward her down the sidewalk. He looked exactly like what he was.
She spoke to him in Russian. “Who do you represent? Is Sergei still hunting? Are you his big dog?” She dodged into the middle of the road, testing the footing, checking escape routes. The man was forced to squeeze between the front bumper of his car and the rear of a minivan. One of his trouser legs caught on the van’s license plate and she heard him curse and stumble forward. She heard the material rip. She laughed at him. “What happened to the others? You running out of money? The last time you found me, there were three of you.” The man was in the road now, moving toward her, arms wide like a farmer herding chickens. “You asking me to dance?” The man scowled. No sense of humour.
Further up the road she could make out a narrow gap in the fence. She’d have to get past him to use it. She bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, flexed her toes inside her shoes, felt the asphalt through the soles, wet but tight, thin rubber, enough traction. She waited for him to get closer. She felt the icy calm and fierce clarity come over her, the peculiar state she entered when she stood in the wings listening for a single note of music, her cue to do what should be impossible, to hear an audience stop breathing as she took flight. And this rolling tank thinks he can catch me? Yuri was the only one who could catch me, enfold me in mid-flight, not this ordinary human with fat legs and clunky leather-soled shoes. Not on a
wet street, in the dark. Just a little closer, soon he will lunge, he wants me in a big bear hug, soon, a little closer . . . and . . . my cue.
When he made a grab for her, she ducked under his arms, spun behind him, shoved the small of his back. He stumbled, fell to one knee. She ran for the fence, heard him cursing and scrambling to gain his footing. The gap was narrow, a ragged slit made with bolt cutters, mended with wire, cut again. Just wide enough for school kids, or for a small woman. Halfway through, her buckle caught on a wire thorn and she got hung up as the man slammed into the chain-link making it rattle in both directions. He reached through the gap to grab her coat and pull her face against the fence. She could smell garlic and sweat. She spat in his eye. He tried to hit her and cut his knuckles on the jagged edges of the gap. She yanked the belt free of the buckle and slipped it through the loops, left it hanging on the wire. He lost his grip on her wet sleeve and she stepped back from the fence. She watched him for a long delicious moment, watched him struggle like a rhinoceros in a cargo net, his sleeve caught, his hand bleeding. He pounded the chain-link in frustration.
“You should put a bandage on that,” she said. “But the suit is ruined, you think?”
She was laughing as she picked her way down the slope through the dark trees. Deep delicious breaths. Survival. Nothing like death deferred to amplify the life force, recharge the energy reserves. There was a walkway at the bottom that ran alongside the locks, and further along there was a footbridge she knew, and on the other side of that, a street led to her street. She could still hear the rattle of chain-link fencing above her. The sound elated her. She was triumphant. That is the second time you failed to hold me, she thought. I do not think you are very good assassins at all. I do not think you work for Chernenko, or whoever inherited what was under his mattress. I think you are working only for yourselves. Common thieves, that is all. Is that what you have become, Sergei? You and your thug? Just thieves? How pathetic.
She emerged from the dark trees and checked the footpath. Deserted. Sergei must be close by. Waiting for me. Expecting a delivery. He will not be pleased with you, whoever you are. The thought made her quite happy. It was an unfamiliar feeling.
