The Dead Letter

by Finley Martin

  Everything unfolded in a slow motion for Anne. Not a myth, she thought. It was a peculiar observation to punctuate a horrific experience, but it was her last thought before she lost consciousness.

  The Arsenaults’ car had hurtled across the station lot, grazed a gas pump, and struck Anne’s car. It exploded in a blast that lifted it off the ground, shattering the windows of the station. Shards and splinters of debris flew in every direction. Shrapnel tore across the room. So did shredded racks of newspapers, candy boxes, and chintzy souvenirs. The fragments punctured plastic bottles and pressurized aluminum cans, and they sliced through shirts and hats and the flesh of those trapped inside the building. Then a huge fireball erupted in the midst of the wreckage of the two cars outside. A wave of intense heat singed nearby parked cars, and billowing smoke drifted into the station.

  Screams and shouts followed the trauma, heard outside first and faintly inside. Shrieks and sobbing followed the recovery of one’s senses, the sight of fallen bodies, the spectacle of blood dripping from wounds and seeping through clothing, and the dread of unspeakable consequences.

  Paramedics and firefighters arrived on the scene within five minutes. They found that most of the damage and most casualties had been very near or inside the building.

  The scratch-and-win woman had just stepped away from the counter when the explosion happened. She had turned toward a wall of flying glass and was splattered with fragments. One splinter caught her throat and nicked the jugular vein. She bled heavily. The store clerk escaped serious injury. Her position and a solid counter had shielded her.

  The man behind Anne was critically injured. The force of the blast had thrown him into Anne, and she was driven headfirst into the service counter. Several others, browsing the displays nearer to the source of the explosion, were hospitalized for severe wounds. One never recovered consciousness and died of burns. It could have been much worse, news reports later claimed, if the station clerk hadn’t pulled the emergency fuel shut-off switch for the pumps.

  Anne was the last of the injured to be transported by ambulance to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. She was semi-conscious at the time and rode alone.

  50.

  Dorval Airport. A three-hour layover. What a waste, thought Ben. He could almost walk to Ottawa in three hours. Now he was stuck, just a taxi ride from historic Old Montreal, the site of the finest international cuisine in Canada. Nothing focuses the mind better, thought Ben, than the hope of a magnificent meal in a world-class restaurant. One of his favourites, an Indian restaurant, hung temptingly in his memory. Should he risk a taxi ride in? Then he recalled once spending two hours in a snarl of traffic on a Montreal expressway. Perhaps he shouldn’t.

  The Dorval layover wasn’t a complete waste, though. Ben worked through it and uncovered two lines of inquiry that might be worth following up on. The first was Tidewater, the organization Simone Villier had worked for. Very little of it had been mentioned in the case file, other than a brief interview with Simone’s immediate superior, a Dale something-or-other. The second was a deeper look at Chief MacFarlane himself. Stratford wasn’t his first job as a peace officer. As a rookie he had been assigned to Bridgewater, Nova Scotia, where he would have to have stirred up a bit of paperwork or been evaluated or remembered. Perhaps something worthwhile might turn up there. Or maybe, with a little luck, his new about-to-be-friends at RCMP headquarters might be able to dig deeper for him.

  Ben felt pleased with himself, and the craving for food had slipped temporarily from his mind. Ben repacked the file in his carry-on bag and headed for the boarding gate. His Ottawa flight had been called.

  The Queen Elizabeth Hospital was unprepared for the influx of victims at Emergency. The waiting room had been near capacity with walk-in patients when ambulances began to arrive. The critical and seriously injured were whisked into the trauma centre. Anne and several others with lesser injuries were placed on gurneys and left in a hallway for an available doctor.

  Anne regained consciousness there but remained dazed and disoriented until she recalled the circumstance that had led her to the gas station: Jacqui’s driving lesson.

  “Jacqui! Jacqui!” Her voice was weak and hoarse from the smoke she had inhaled. Her cough rattled with phlegm.

  Is she not here? Where is she?

  Anne called out again: “Jacqui!” Her voice broke again. She turned her head, saw no one, and tried to sit up, but a passing nurse intervened, urged her to remain calm, and asked her what she needed.

  “My daughter,” she said, “and her girlfriend…were there.” Her eyes were filled with fear and unanswered questions, but the nurse assured her that she would inquire, even though she’d not seen any young people brought to Emergency.

  Anne’s heart leapt hopefully at the news. Thank god they’re okay, she thought. But a short while later, a bit less confused, her mind reprocessed the meaning in the nurse’s words in a different way: If they’re not here, then they must be dead.

  “Where is she? Where’s my daughter? Jacqui!” Anne screamed and raised herself up on the gurney. Her feet touched the ground, but her legs collapsed beneath her. Two nurses hurried to her side. Anne weakly resisted. An Emergency-room doctor calmly filled a syringe.

  51.

  Constable Timothy Foley had graduated the Summerside Police Academy earlier in the year. He was lucky to have been offered a job so quickly. He was thrilled by it, but he was bottom man in seniority, slightly above station gofer, and trusted with little beyond the ABCs of his duty assignments with the Charlottetown Police force. It was a small blow to his ego. He was eager to do more. He wanted to use his skills and prove his worth. But that wouldn’t happen today.

  His day had started lazily. A few hours into it, the call came in—an explosion and fire at the service station on the Trans-Canada Highway. Both City Police and RCMP responded. His adrenaline surged. An exciting hour of drama followed. His role, however, proved to be little more than that of spear-carrier in a high school Shakespearean tragedy. Then, almost too quickly, it pretty much ended, except for traffic control and following detectives roaming the scene.

  He started the engine and pulled away from the devastation of the gas station. Smoke still lifted from a few hot spots in the ruins. Firefighters kept a spray on them as well as the gas pumps. The acrid smell of burnt rubber and melted plastic hung in Foley’s nostrils.

  He looked in his rear-view mirror at the two women in the back of his cruiser.

  “First, we’ll head for admissions at the QEH. Hopefully, your mother will there, Jacqui.”

  Perhaps I should have said “likely,” Foley thought to himself…or “I’m sure she’ll be….”

  Jacqui said nothing. Nor did Rada. And the rest of the trip to the hospital passed without words. Jacqui was numb, and, if she had dared to hope that her mother was alive, her hope was crushed by the indelible image of their twisted and burnt-out shell of a car.

  Foley inquired for Anne Brown at the Emergency desk. The nurse on duty wrote a room number on a slip of paper and explained that she had been admitted a few minutes before. That was Jacqui’s first good news since the explosion. The second was the floor nurse who reassured her that her mother was well but resting.

  After reassurance that the girls would be all right, Foley took his leave. Jacqui sat by her mother’s bed and watched her breathe. She looked small and pale and fragile, almost like a child, she thought.

  “Mom?” Jacqui spoke when she saw her mother’s head move and her eyelids quiver.

  Anne heard the words as if part of the dream she was having, a bizarre dream, none of which she would later remember.

  “Mom, wake up. You’re all right. We’re all right.”

  Now Jacqui sounded as if she were weeping, but she couldn’t see her and, despite the soothing words, believed that Jacqui sounded troubled and needed help. Anne struggled, her arms felt trapped, and
something covered her face.

  “Nurse, I think she’s waking up.”

  It took a few minutes for Anne to orient herself to her surroundings, a bed in a general ward of the hospital. Jacqui was sitting in a chair next to the bed. The nurse slipped through the curtain divider and removed an oxygen mask from Anne’s face.

  “Won’t need this anymore,” the nurse said. “You’re doing just fine. And you’ve got some company. So I’ll let you two chat. I’ll be ’round again in a few minutes.”

  “Don’t cry, Mom,” said Jacqui, bending down and wrapping her arms around her mother.

  “I’ll cry if I want to. I thought you were dead.”

  “And I thought you were,” said Jacqui. Both laughed and cried at the same time.

  “What happened?” asked Anne. She struggled to sit up, still a bit fuzzy-headed. Jacqui placed a second pillow behind her.

  “Rada wanted to try my mascara. It would have been awkward in the car, and the lighting would have been better in the washroom, and you had been in line for so long…anyway, we were only in there for a minute when we heard a crash and an explosion. The light went out in the washroom, and we tried to get out. We didn’t know what was happening. We were so scared. But the door wouldn’t budge. We couldn’t get out. We were stuck there. We pounded and pounded, but nobody came. All we heard was screaming and sirens and…”

  Jacqui started to shake and cry again at the retelling. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. Anne reached out for her and she dropped down on the bed next to Anne. Anne held her there and soothed her.

  “That’s okay, babe. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  Jacqui sobbed for a few minutes in her mother’s arms and, without moving, began to speak again.

  “… And then someone must have heard us. The firefighters…they tried to get us out but couldn’t. A few minutes later they used some kind of grinder or saw to take the door off. We couldn’t believe what we saw. Our car…was hardly there…and you weren’t…”

  Anne felt her daughter’s squeeze, and she hugged her back and held her safely against her. “It’s okay, baby.”

  “The firefighters took us to a paramedic, and the paramedic took us to a police officer, and he drove us to the hospital. That’s about it.”

  “That’s plenty for now. And Rada’s okay, too?”

  Jacqui nodded.

  Rada had remained at a waiting area near the ward and called her father. He arrived twenty minutes later.

  Ahmed Kikovic was a deskbound engineer and designer, and, like most men in a sedentary occupation, he carried a noticeable waistline. Ahmed was in his early fifties and always wore a coat and tie to work, in spite of a very relaxed company dress policy. His hair was full, trimmed and swept straight back, greying at the tips. His eyebrows were bushy. They gave him a fierce look, especially when he was distressed, and this was one of those times.

  “Rada,” he cried as he entered the waiting area. The place was empty except for his daughter, who looked dishevelled, tired, and dejected, alone at the end of a cushioned bench. He grabbed her by her shoulders and looked directly at her. “Are you all right? It was on the radio, too.”

  Rada nodded but began to cry and put her arms around his neck. He held her gently for a few moments and then stood up.

  “Where is your hijab?” he asked.

  “It must have burnt in the car,” she said. She sounded apologetic and embarrassed. Her hand rose to her head as if it might still have been there.

  Ahmed took another step back and looked at her more closely.

  “What change is this?” he asked, surprised.

  Rada’s glance dropped to the floor.

  “What is that on your eyes?”

  “Eyeliner?” she said. “It is allowed.”

  “The other?” said Ahmed, still pointing. His voice had risen. His tone had grown harsh.

  “They call it mascara.”

  “And is it halal?” he demanded. “And perfume? I can smell it. Is it halal? And where do you get this mascara and this perfume?”

  “From Jacqui.”

  “And those clothes?” he said pointing to her skirt.

  “It’s Jacqui’s. We just play. We exchange clothes. We were just playing,” she said and tugged at Jacqui’s skirt, but it wouldn’t pull down more than a few inches above her knee.

  “This is not playing. You are not a child any longer. You are a young woman. A Muslim woman. Soon you will be ready to marry. But what righteous man will find you worthy to be his wife if he sees you like this? You will bring shame upon yourself and your family.

  “All this is haram!” he shouted and waved his arms. Two nurses emerged from the doorway to another ward. At the raised voice of Ahmed they directed severe stares and walked past.

  “I did no harm,” Rada said. “I did no wrong.”

  “So, now you rewrite scripture. Yes? What a wise child you have become in that school of yours. At sixteen, you speak on tradition. At sixteen, you interpret the Quran.”

  “I did not mean that.”

  “Perhaps not, but you have become wilful and grown weak…and you have led her to this place,” he said. His finger pointed at Jacqui. She had just pushed through the doors from the general ward to see if Rada was all right. She froze in place at the condemnation Rada’s father had levelled at her. Then Ahmed turned fully around toward Jacqui. Both alarm and dismay swept over her.

  “You teach her to be bold and shameless and to display herself like an ornament in a shop window. A pity you have no father to instruct you. And your mother…she works and provides and that is right…but she pursues labours which are unsuited for a woman…and we see how that path has served her today…the visitation of chaos and destruction. It is a sign and a warning.”

  Jacqui wanted to shout out that it had been an accident, nothing more, but she could not make herself speak. Only her eyes could speak and that was to tell Rada she was sorry. Tears were streaming down Rada’s cheeks. Her eyeliner and mascara had weakened their hold and were staining her cheeks. Her father took her arm and led her down the long corridor toward the stairs to the exit.

  52.

  “You had a rough day at the office, haven’t you, my dear?”

  Anne was sitting up in her hospital bed, waiting for Jacqui to return with a real cup of coffee from the cafeteria when the woman entered her ward and drew back her curtain.

  “Edna, what are you doing here?”

  “I was visiting old friends when the ambulances started to arrive. They needed help obviously…especially with all these government cutbacks…so they pressed me into service, so to speak…as a volunteer.”

  “But you’re a vet.”

  “I was a nurse…,” she said. It was a rebuke, but a gentle one and well-meant. “…and still am.”

  “So you are.”

  “Besides, no classes today…no meetings…nobody at home to nag…and glad to help out. Saw your name on a list and thought I’d pop in.”

  “I appreciate that, Edna. It was very kind of you.”

  “How are you feeling? Really.”

  “A bit achy and tired…the gash on my shoulder is sore. A few stitches. So, no strapless evening gowns for a while. But well enough to go home.”

  “A head injury?” Edna asked, pointing to a bandage on Anne’s head. Anne nodded.

  “Did you lose consciousness?” Anne nodded again and shrugged it off. Edna returned a rather sober gaze without comment.

  “I come from a long line of stubborn, hard-headed Irish and German stock. I’ll be fine.”

  Edna seemed temporarily distracted, and then caught herself and replied: “I’m sure you will. Anyway, I brought this. Thought you could use it.” Edna drew a slip of paper from her handbag and handed it to her. “If I’ve underestimated, let me know.”

 
Anne looked at it thoughtfully. It was a cheque made payable to her. Anne put the cheque on the food tray next to her bed and pushed it back toward Edna.

  “Thanks. It’s fine…and generous, too. A bit premature though. The case is incomplete, and I dislike billing for half a job.”

  “No matter. I was very satisfied with your efforts. I’ve gotten my money’s worth, I’m sure of it. I’m also sure that I don’t want to put you at any more personal risk.”

  “You don’t believe that all this is related to my investigation, do you?”

  Edna opened her mouth as if to speak, but found no words.

  Anne continued: “This was clearly an accident…a one-off…not related to anything but chance.”

  “And the suspension?”

  “You heard about that?”

  “It’s in this morning’s paper. A small article.”

  “Oh my god. Those bastards. They’re determined to destroy my business, aren’t they? Edna, don’t let that discourage you.”

  “It won’t. Perhaps some time in the future we’ll continue the investigation. As for right now, I think I want to step back a bit and get some perspective.”

  “If it’s about the money, don’t…”

  “It’s not that. Even going this far has been quite hard on me emotionally, and I need some distance. For now, anyway, our business is over. Thanks again, Anne.”

  Edna gently shoved the cheque a bit closer to Anne. Then she patted her arm, turned, and left.

  When the privacy curtain around Anne’s bed swung shut, she could hear the little sounds from occupants of the five other beds in her ward: the coughing, soft dialogues among friends, the shuffle of slippers across the tiled floor, the bustle of nurses coming and going. But none of it was a tonic for the emptiness Anne now felt. Her client had quit, and that meant she no longer had a valid claim to investigate on her behalf. The Guardian news story would soon dry up any current business, and probably that would poison the well of potential clients. On PEI business had always been fuelled by word-of-mouth references. Now, as far as Darby Investigations was concerned, only a lingering bad taste would prevail.