Erasing Memory

by Scott Thornley

  The surface of the lake was almost still; the water lapped half-heartedly at the shore as if it had to keep up appearances. Vertesi walked slowly along the dry sand just above the waterline. He could see the bottom: a shoulder of hard sand that ran the length of the beachfront, extending a few feet into the lake before dropping off a couple of feet or more. He could see the silver slivers of minnows darting about in the deeper water. “What one thing …?” he said to himself as he looked back at the cottage nestled cosily among the trees.

  He thought about the boat, about how, if you were going to land it in order to carry someone to the cottage, you’d likely choose your spot so it was more or less in line with the stairs. He walked to the point opposite the bottom of the steps. Squatting down, he peered beneath the surface. Sure enough, there was a groove in the sandbar; it had been softened by the wavelets but was still a distinct V. He drove the stick into the sand just beyond the waterline to mark the spot. He took the camera out of his pocket and framed several shots of the V, checking each time to make sure it registered. It did, but because of the glare off the surface, only faintly. He rolled his pant legs above his knees and waded into the water several feet beyond the groove. “Fucking freezing,” he muttered. With the sun at his back he framed several more shots; the V was now more apparent.

  Vertesi looked down at his feet in the water, all greeny blue, the minnows racing around him. He was losing the feeling in his toes. He waded a few yards over, parallel to the shore, then came out of the water. Up and down the beach in either direction there was no sign of life, and other than a sail going by on the horizon, there was no sign of life on the water. He thought it weird, but then, considering it was a weekday in the middle of June, maybe not.

  He sat on the stairs to let his feet dry and made his notes—all of his observations and random thoughts, just as MacNeice had taught him—before wiping the sand off his feet, putting his socks and shoes on and climbing the stairs. Stankovics was dozing at the wheel of the patrol car. Too many doughnuts, Vertesi thought to himself, as he got in the car and drove off towards the next cottage down the lake.

  SEVEN

  —

  DRIVING ALONG KING, which ran west parallel to Main, MacNeice thought about the statement that this killing made. In an age of bombs, assault rifles, IEDs and an endless variety of automatic pistols, who’d go to the trouble of creating a syringe and then use something as crude as battery acid to erase someone’s brain … and why? That was it, he realized. Lydia Petrescu had been erased, just like wiping out a computer’s hard drive—the shell still intact but the device empty and useless. Who was this message intended for?

  He’d spent the rest of the afternoon fielding telephone calls, the first of which was from DC Wallace, wanting to know if there was anything new to report. He told him about the tentative identification of Lydia Petrescu and about her father and the weapon. Following that conversation, his phone began ringing with requests from the media for interviews. He could hear in the reporters’ voices the familiar frenzy that always surrounded a homicide, but he reminded them that Deputy Chief Wallace was the media contact; he had no information to report beyond what they’d been given by his senior officer.

  Slipping the Chevy into the spot reserved for Marcello’s father behind his old friend’s restaurant, MacNeice looked at the time on the dash—6:23 p.m. He turned off the ignition but left the switch on Auxiliary, as he needed to decompress before he ate. He reached over to the glove compartment and took out the wallet of CDs, flipping through till he found Lush Life. Slipping the CD into the player, he put the case back in the glove compartment; as he did so he remembered the cummings. He lifted the place-marker ribbon and opened the book to the page he knew was waiting like an old friend, or a pusher of pain—over time it had been both. He looked down and spoke the words that greeted him there: “I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart.”

  No one could remove Kate from him, no one could erase her. Lydia Petrescu had undoubtedly left memories with her family as well as the voice-mail message with her playing in the background, but something made his insides ache at the thought of her being erased from within in an instant. The idea that the attack had obliterated her talent—the thing that he imagined she loved doing most of all—seemed the point of her death. She was beautiful, but the killer hadn’t splashed her face with battery acid, hadn’t taken away her physical beauty. Instead he’d taken the thing that gave her life meaning, then laid her out as if the crime scene were a shoot for a fashion magazine.

  Realizing how miserable he was becoming, sitting in a parking lot with Strayhorn’s phantoms playing in his ears and a poem he knew by heart in his hands, MacNeice closed the book, put it back in the glove compartment, turned off the CD, grabbed his keys and went inside.

  Marcello’s back door, available to staff, family and only a few friends, led straight into the kitchen, where his wife, Chris, was the chef. Amid the clattering of dishes and the hum of exhaust fans, the happy chatter, laughter and occasional singing, MacNeice always felt at home. Usually as he passed through, Chris would tell him what to order and remind him that if he didn’t like it, he should just send it back and she’d make something else. This last was always delivered with a smile; for the decade that Chris had been feeding him, MacNeice had never sent anything back.

  As he eased onto his stool at the bar, Marcello himself, a pocket-bull of a man with a ready grin and an endless supply of jokes, wandered over, looking somewhat conspiratorial. “I’ve got something new for you,” he said. “Chamomile grappa.” Seeing MacNeice’s eyebrows rise, he added, “Trust me, it wakes you up before it puts you to sleep.” Then he cracked up, slapped MacNeice on the shoulder and turned towards the shelf for the bottle.

  It was perhaps the smoothest and certainly the sweetest grappa he’d ever had. Before he could say anything his eyes had not already expressed, Marcello whispered, “I’ve got two bottles for you. Give me your keys and I’ll put them in your trunk.”

  “You read my mind, March. Grazie. Put it on my bill.”

  “You got it. Sparkling water, and I’ve got a nice Shiraz.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Before he turned away to pour the drinks, Marcello put the daily paper in front of him. MacNeice scanned the front page without interest before pushing it aside and looking up at the television, where a hockey game was in progress.

  “A rerun from last week,” Marcello said. “Tonight, though, the Leafs play Chicago. That’s always a great game.”

  Marcello and his father both loved hockey. Before he got married, March had been a decent goalie. The position of the television, high up and angled towards the espresso machine, made it a bit difficult for anyone but the bartender to watch it without getting a stiff neck. MacNeice’s bar stool afforded the next best view in the house.

  Neither of them took his eyes off the screen, but MacNeice had already begun to drift back to Lydia, or more specifically, to her father. While he was obliged to inform him of his daughter’s death as quickly as possible, MacNeice decided that he and Aziz would not pay the man a visit until the morning. Apart from Betty’s identification, which could not be considered irrefutable, the girl’s identity was officially still a mystery. Things would be better for everyone if it was done in the morning.

  A bell sounded in the kitchen and one of Marcello’s cadre of beautiful, bright young wait staff went to retrieve his first course, zuppa di pesce. Placing it in front of MacNeice with flirty efficiency, she asked, “Pepper, Mac?”

  “Does it want it?”

  The waitress and he both looked to Marcello, who drew down the sides of his mouth in consideration. “Naw, not this one. Go without.”

  As MacNeice was finishing the soup, his cell rang. It was Vertesi. “Well, sir, nobody knows the guy who owns the cottage.…” Vertesi paused, maybe because of the music, the background noise of the place, or maybe it was MacNeice’s greeting, a kind of throaty “mm-huh.”

  “You�
�re at Marcello’s. Cool—say ciao to him for me. Yeah, so they know the name of the doctor but nothing about him. And sorry, Mac, I didn’t nail his whereabouts today as promised.”

  “No problem, Michael. I’d given you a lot to do.”

  “Well, here’s the thing—I just got home and I’m downloading the images from my camera. They’re not exactly Time magazine but you can clearly see a groove in the sand. I shot it every way from Sunday and marked it with a stick, but if the wind is up tomorrow it may all be gone.”

  “Not bad for a dark-horse theory. What did you find out about the troller?”

  “That’s the thing—no one heard the boat. And everyone I talked to said they’d look if they heard a boat out at night, ’cause I guess that’s what they do. One did suggest that if the breeze was coming down the lake, like towards the scene, and apparently it was, there’s a likelihood they wouldn’t hear it at all if it was revving low for trolling.”

  “And the marinas?”

  “The first had shut down for the night, but the guy who works on the motors at the second one was still there. He says he thought they did rent out a runabout, a cedar-strip job that he didn’t see come back. When he walks me around to its berth, which is empty, he says, ‘No way that was an overnighter, since it has no running lights on it at all.’ He scratches his head and says, ‘Some of the day trippers up here are city-stupid, though.’ Even with a moon, the lake can be tricky at night—a lot of shoals and rocks. He figured maybe the guy ran aground and took off without letting them know.

  “So then I’m walking to my car when he calls, ‘Chief, check this out.’ I go back to him and he points to a beat-up Dodge pickup. ‘That’s been sittin’ here for two days. It must be the guy who rented the runabout. Can’t think of anyone else who owns it.’ And so I call in the plate and it turns out it’s a guy I know—Ronnie Ruvola, a twenty-eight-year-old from the west end with a record ranging from B and E to dope dealing.”

  “Don’t know him. Is he a serious player?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll find out. I got the mechanic to take me to the marina’s tuck shop and office. The owner, John Gibbs, wasn’t there, but the mechanic pulls up the receipt from the credit card. The card says ‘Robert Raymond Walters,’ but he gives me a description that matches Ronnie. He also rented a tackle box and fishing pole and even added live bait to the credit card. Gibbs was apparently pissed because that boat had been rented for the following day to some day fisher. He had to upgrade him to a Boston Whaler. I’ve had the pickup taken in to the pound and I’ll go back to interview Gibbs.”

  “A good day’s work, Michael. Aziz and I have news too, but not to be discussed, as she says, over a cellphone. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Marcello came over, martini shaker in hand. “Anytime I see you on your cell here, I’m concerned. Everything okay?”

  “The soup’s terrific and, yes, all’s well. Say, March, before the place gets into all that thumpa-thumpa stuff, can I hear ‘Nun Ti Lassu’?”

  “No problem. Chris’ll love it too. But one of these days I’m gonna teach you that not all Sicilian songs are sad.”

  EIGHT

  —

  SATURDAY MORNING CAME EARLY at the lake. Tim Bookner and his four-year-old son Aidan were sitting on the rear deck of Tim’s handsome twenty-four-foot Limestone, Book’s Boat, designed for heavy weather on Georgian Bay. Anchored fore and aft, the boat bobbed gently in the breeze coming off Billings Island. Tim had been fishing on this lake since he was Aidan’s age. He knew where the pickerel and bass were, and he was proud to be introducing his son to his heritage.

  For the first half-hour Aidan ate animal crackers. When he was full, he threw one towards a gull that was hovering over the boat. The small cookie barely had time to hit the surface before the gull swept it up and banked high overhead before returning for more. Excited, Aidan pointed up at the bird, calling out in his high-pitched outside voice, “Dad, the bird just ate a lion! A lion!” Father and son howled with laughter, and they kept howling as one by one Aidan tossed up the remaining lions, monkeys, giraffes and elephants. In less than five minutes he’d fed half a box of safari wildlife to five gulls and was spent from laughing.

  Though they both had lines overboard, Aidan was more interested in looking over the side, hoping to catch the moment when a fish would grab hold of his orange and yellow rubber wiggly. His life jacket was tethered to the rail surrounding the engine housing, so there was no chance he could fall over.

  “There’s someone looking at me, Dad.” The boy was staring directly down.

  His father turned slightly towards him and said, “Where?”

  “Waving at me—down there, in the water.” Aidan waved his small pink hand, hesitantly at first but then vigorously up and down, the way he did when he was glad to see someone.

  “Maybe it’s a mermaid. Does she have a fishy tail?” Tim kept his attention on the end of his rod, waiting for any movement that would indicate the big moment he was looking forward to—when he and Aidan would land tonight’s dinner and return home triumphantly.

  “No. His hair’s like mine, only longer. Dad, he keeps waving at me.”

  “Maybe you’re seeing your own reflection, like in your mirror at home.”

  “No, Dad. He’s in a boat.”

  There followed a silence that made Tim uneasy. He looked over at his son, who was still waving, slowly now, hesitatingly, downward. Tim put his rod in the white vinyl tube and went to sit on the cushioned bench beside Aidan, who turned to his father and said, “See, Dad? See him there—he’s waving at me.”

  Tim looked down. “Oh fuck! Sorry, son. Oh my fucking Christ—oh sorry, Aidan, sorry Daddy’s swearing. Oh shit, oh shit!”

  Tim covered his mouth, then grabbed at his hair. He quickly undid his son’s tether, took Aidan by the arm and put him in the wheelhouse seat, snapping his shoulder and seat belts on. Aidan had no idea what was going on but was awestruck to see his father so excited by the man in the boat. Tim went back and leaned over the side again. “Oh fuck. Oh shit—sorry, Aidan, Daddy’s bad language.” He retrieved both rods and tucked them into the hull rails.

  He turned the key with the happy-face float fob and the powerful Swedish diesel rumbled to life, sending two small clouds of black smoke out of the stern’s twin exhaust pipes. Running forward, he pulled up the anchor and stowed it haphazardly on the deck. As the boat began to drift, he hauled up the stern anchor, laying it and its line across the blue vinyl bench. In the wheelhouse he threw the transmission into reverse and powered the craft backwards with such force that the water crested over the swimming deck at the stern. He spun the wheel hard to starboard and swung the boat around, shifting back to neutral, then dropped the red ball gearshift down. The bow lifted so dramatically that Aidan wasn’t sure whether to be filled with fear or glee. He chose the latter and started squealing as if this was the best day of his life. The deep V of the hull settled down as the boat gathered speed, scattering the gulls that had been resting on the water as they digested their crackers.

  Turning around for a moment to watch the white wake breaking the stillness of the lake, Tim picked up his radio microphone and called, “Book’s Boat to Hangdog Marina.” Clicking off, he waited, but only static came back. “Book’s Boat to Hangdog. Come in, Hangdog.”

  “Hangdog. What’s up, Tim? We’re just getting started here. Over.” It was Kathy Doolittle, who ran the tuck shop.

  “There’s a fucking awful problem out here, Kath. You need to get the marine unit on it right fucking now. Over.” Tim dropped his speed to ten knots, but he couldn’t drop his heart rate. Suddenly he thought, What the fuck, I can hardly breathe. What if I have a fucking heart attack out here and I’m plowing ahead with Aidan wondering what the fuck!

  “Ah, Tim, don’t be messing with me now. I’ve got Walter here and I don’t want any guff—or foul language—from you. Over.”

  “No guff, for chrissakes, Kath! Walter, get a unit out here—just
off the leeside near the end of Billings Island. Look down, twenty feet. There’s a guy in a fuckin’ boat! Over.” Looking over to his son he mouthed another apology for the swearing. The boy had never heard these words before, so the apology was somewhat lost on him.

  “You mean on the bottom? Over.”

  “I mean he’s lying in a cedar-strip, one of Gibbs’s, I think. It’s got a tank, a freakin’ motor—and this guy. He’s waving his right arm, waving! Over.” Tim slowed to six knots.

  “Walter here. I’ve radioed the marine unit, but you’d better not be messing around, Tim. This is some serious shit. They’ll charge you and me with mischief and I could lose my licence. Over.”

  “Do me a favour, Walt. Call my wife, tell her we’re coming in. Ask her if her mother could come over this afternoon and take Aidan to the movies. Over.”

  Hearing this confirmed it—Aidan was having the best day of his life. He began his happy chant: “Oh yay, oh yay, oh yay.”

  —

  “HANGDOG TO Book’s Boat. Over.” It was Walter again, sounding more sober than Tim had ever heard him.

  “It’s me, Walter. Over.”

  “Well, there’ll be a uniform waiting for you when you dock. I let your wife know. She wanted to know what was wrong. I didn’t say. She’s on her way over too. Over.”

  “I’m fine with that, Walter. See you soon. Ask Kath to grab an Eskimo Pie out of the freezer for Aidan. Actually, I’ll take one too. Oh, and last thing, maybe call Old Man Gibbs and ask him if he’s missing a runabout. Over.”

  “Roger that, Book. Over and out.”

  The marina’s slips were coming into view on the port side. Tim looked back but could no longer see the island, and he began to breathe easier. He reached over and tousled his son’s hair just to hear the practised big-boy response, “Dad … stop!”

  Aidan couldn’t believe his luck. Usually he had to beg for an Eskimo Pie. “Did you ask Mr. Doolittle for Eskimo Pies?”