Right then, it’s words coming out of me one after another, even though there’s part of me that’s busy thinking I’m braver than I should be, that I should know enough to slow it down. That I don’t have anything I’ve got to explain.
“All this other stuff? It’s all in your heads, boyos. Mary went back to her family. Or else she went out west. Either way, I’ve told you I’ve got no idea where she is now, and I don’t want to know, either. You should be asking someone else, not me.”
In my head, there’s the absolutely clear sound of someone telling me to just shut up, but another part of me isn’t listening.
“As for anything else you think I did, well, you can go on thinking it.”
I know it’s stupid. I know it’s just like daring them to do something, to tell me they’ve got something else that puts me somewhere I’ve said I hadn’t been.
I just can’t seem to stop myself. The words come pouring out, and it feels good.
“So maybe if there’s nothing else you guys have to say, nothing else you have to ask me about, maybe you can just go ahead and let me go. I’ve been helpful — I’ve come in here and I’ve told you everything you wanted to know, and I haven’t been snuffling about ‘where’s my lawyer’ and ‘why are you picking on me’ or any of that.”
I straighten up.
“I’ve got stuff to do — I’ve got a job I’m supposed to be at. A job I’ve had for years. Night shift tonight — but you guys have to know that already, if you know so damned much about me.”
When I get up to leave, they just sit there, watching me go, and they don’t say anything. Don’t try to stop me. This, I think, this is the point where, if they actually have anything solid, they get out handcuffs and tell me that I’ll be staying in lock-up for a while.
But they don’t.
When I’m going though the door, Dean gets up from where he’s sitting and walks me down through the hall to the front of the police station and out past the security, a couple of cops sitting there waiting for the people out on bail to come in and sign the book before heading on their way again. I push the big glass door open with the flat of my hand.
“Don’t think we won’t be talking to you again,” he says, and even Good Cop sounds a little bad now. In its own way, it’s the scariest thing that’s been said to me yet.
He doesn’t stop me from going through the door, doesn’t stop me from heading out into the sun, and I can’t help myself, can’t help but turn back and give him a little wave, a little kind of half-salute.
So close, and yet so far. That’s what I want it to say, that’s what I really want to say, even if it would just end up making more problems for me.
Outside, it’s sunny, and I find myself wishing I hadn’t driven there, because suddenly, I just want to walk.
I want to walk fast, want to feel the stretch in the muscles of my thighs as I push forward, that nice clean feeling almost like the muscle fibres inside your legs are tearing themselves apart, but in a good, reconstructing kind of way.
They say you have to tear muscle to make it come back stronger. I really think that has to be true, that when you push things right to their limits, they go ahead and set new limits for themselves.
The leaves will be changing before long, the last of summer falling off the trees so they can wait for spring to come around fresh and start all over again, and even if I did walk, there’d still be enough time to get to the store before my shift.
And the mangos are out on the counter at the house, probably still sweating those great round drops of mango juice that bead up right out of the flesh, so full and round and waiting.
Chapter 51
(St. John’s, NL) — The Royal Newfoundland Constabulary (RNC) is continuing to investigate a series of missing person cases, and will hold a press conference at 10:30 a.m. on Friday morning, Sept. 15, to provide media with an update on progress in the investigation.
Dean stood, watching Walt leave, watching the glass door swing closed. Scoville came down, flopped into a chair in reception. “Well?”
“You know it. I know it. Never in Alisha’s house?” Dean looked again at the glass door, at the clear single handprint backlit on the glass. “Call Ident and tell them to get down here. We’ll see if that says otherwise — and we already have the prints they found at her place. We can charge him with break and enter to start. Stalking, maybe.”
Scoville nodded.
“Did you see his face when we showed him the photos? Get some forensics guys lined up, and we’ll take ourselves a trip to the country. Finally, a few cracks in Mr. Ice. Won’t be long now.”
Scoville stood up slowly, smiling.
“Maybe after that,” Dean said, “we’ll dig around in his backyard a little.”
“No one’s ever looked there?” Scoville was incredulous.
“You know the rules. You need less to dig through someone’s possessions than you need to dig up their yard.”
Chapter 52
Zuchini
Soup — chicken broth
Bread
Banans
cheese
Comparing the handwriting on the notes, I know every one that’s hers. Too many things the same, even some of the misspelled words. Always banans. It’s like fate telling you “hurry up, hurry up, I’m here again.”
It was like a dream, really, the way everything moved slowly and looked wrong, like there were problems with the light or the angle you’re looking at the room from.
Like I felt she was standing in a doorway, looking across the room, while, in real life, there isn’t a doorway where she was standing at all. As the confusion clears, it was just me at one end of the kitchen, her at the other, the furniture all gone so that the place looked completely different, barren. Her two suitcases were by the front door, and the diary had to be in one of them. Won’t be anything new in it, probably. It had only been a day since I’d been through it last. I mean, it’s always in the top dresser drawer. But there was enough already in that last entry: that she saw the guy.
That she saw me.
“It’s all right.” I said the words because I thought I should be saying something, because we couldn’t just keep standing there, silent and staring at each other.
I said it with my hands held straight out in front of me so that she could see my palms, so that she could see my hands were empty. As if they were harmless, as if things are always what they seem.
“It’s all right. It’s only me.” The car parked out front, waiting, a chance I had to take. I didn’t like that, but there wasn’t much choice.
She looked at me like she’d never seen me in her life before, but also like she was looking right through me and could see who I really was. And I couldn’t have that.
The lights in her kitchen have always been too bright for me.
It’s not my fault; that’s what I was thinking. None of it.
I didn’t even see her, not on the day she says she spotted me. And call my boss? The store? The police? I don’t think so.
I keep my eyes still, drop those lids, try not to show anything on my face.
Chapter 53
Lisa, who was looking for a cabin
Mary, who no one will ever find
Alisha, who shouldn’t keep writing
It’s my list. In my own handwriting.
The notepaper is real soft, folded and unfolded until it feels almost like cloth now. Each name in different ink.
It’s not anywhere you’ll find it, Officers.
Hold on.
The cops are at the front door. Banging. Again.
Acknowledgements
For those who have believed in this book and helped me through all the times I wanted to give up on it, thank you. For those who did not believe, thank you as well, because you’ve helped make it a better book as a result of your
doubts.
At House of Anansi, thanks are due to my familiar and expert editor Janice Zawerbny and to Sarah MacLachlan, a publisher who’s shown she’s willing to take a chance or two. For the eagle eye of copyeditor Linda Pruessen — I owe you several crucial debts.
Sincere thanks as well to the toughest of agents, Shaun Bradley of the Transatlantic Agency. We live to fight again.
The Canada Council for the Arts and the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council have provided that most necessary of things – financial support.
My sons Philip and Peter Wangersky have heard many things about this book, and have remained patient and thoughtful throughout the writing process.
To those who helped me collect hundreds of real grocery notes and want to remain nameless — you have my gratitude.
Finally, for my wife and fellow writer Leslie Vryenhoek’s constant support and exceptional editorial counsel, there are no words. Well, actually, there are two — thanks, love.
Russell Wangersky is a writer, editor, and columnist from St. John’s, Newfoundland. His five books include Whirl Away, a finalist for the Scotiabank Giller Prize and winner of the Thomas Head Raddall Award for Fiction; Burning Down the House: Fighting Fires and Losing Myself, a memoir of his years as a volunteer firefighter, which was a Globe and Mail Top 100 Book, won the BC National Award for Nonfiction, the Edna Staebler Non-Fiction Award; and The Glass Harmonica winner of the BMO Winterset Award. He works at the St. John’s Telegram as the news editor.
About the Publisher
House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”
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