Running from the Dead

by Mike Knowles

Jones nodded.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow, after I get to Cartwright.”

  12

  Jones got in the door a few minutes before four in the morning and walked straight to his bed. His head ached from paint fumes and his back was sore from painting inside the cramped bathroom. He fell onto the mattress, closed his eyes, and let his body shut down.

  Jones heard his alarm at eight and started the scavenger hunt for his phone with his eyes still shut. His hands groped across the usual surfaces and came up with nothing. He finally gave in and sat up so that his eyes could check his hands’ work. It took about twenty seconds for him to see that they had told the truth and another thirty seconds to realize that his cell was in his pocket. Jones silenced the phone and plugged it in to charge before he walked to the bathroom.

  After he was clean, Jones worked on getting fed. He had slept for only four hours, so he tried to balance the scale with food. He poached two eggs and ate them with an English muffin. He tossed the plate in the dishwasher and did a quick scan of the contents of the fridge for any fruits and vegetables on death row. The commercial-grade blender made short work of the old produce, and Jones poured the contents of the blender into a tall cup he could drink while he drove. He checked the cupboards and found a couple protein bars that had expired a few months before. He put the bars in a backpack along with an empty thermos and checked the street one more time before he walked out the door to his Jeep.

  The 401 out of Toronto was slow, but that was just the city’s default setting. The highway was a major artery and Jones had always felt the term was apt because it was always clogged. As the city became harder to see in the rear-view, the traffic thinned and Jones moved the Jeep into the centre lane and kept it ten over the speed limit.

  After a couple of hours, Jones pulled off the highway to get gas at a rest station. Nothing much had changed since the last time Jones had been out that way. A little over five years ago, a case had brought him out to see an inmate at the Kingston Penitentiary. Jones’ client was trying to prove that his brother had been wrongly convicted. Jones had interviewed the prisoner five times. The first time was to get the facts and the next four were to confirm what he had figured out on the first visit—the man was guilty. The con’s brother, a former player for the Toronto Blue Jays, didn’t take the news well. He fired Jones, and Jones hadn’t driven up that way since.

  When the tank was full, he parked near the entrance to a rest-stop that had used a Starbucks to fuse two fast-food chains together. He ordered a high-end coffee that got only the price right and walked back to the Jeep to make the call. He didn’t check his phone for the number; it had been on his mind since he discovered it hiding under the sink.

  Jones took a sip of coffee and listened to the phone ring. When he heard the machine pick up, he ended the call. He got back behind the wheel and reverse searched the phone number the same way Sheena had done the night before. The number gave him a name and Jones immediately went to Facebook to try to give it a face. Almost everyone had an online fingerprint, and most left their prints all over Facebook. It turned out, Norah Sinclair was not most people. There was no evidence that she had ever touched anything on Facebook. Jones took another drink and then started down another avenue. He narrowed the search to the name and the town and came up with a link to a church newsletter. Jones tapped the link and when the file was ready, he typed Norah’s name into the search bar. The search immediately highlighted two words in incredibly tiny font in the header. Norah Sinclair was a church secretary.

  Jones finished the coffee and then dialled the phone number for St. James United Church; the call was answered before he had the empty cup in the cupholder. “Thank you for calling St. James United Church. How may I help you?”

  “Good morning, ma’am. My name is Sam Jones and I am a private investigator.”

  “Get out of town.”

  “I know. I don’t seem so private after I finish telling you my name.”

  Norah paused a beat and then laughed. The laugh was loud and unrestrained. Jones got the sense that Norah probably knew that, and laughed anyway because she didn’t care about what people thought. He liked the laugh, and felt a twinge of guilt about what he had to say next.

  “I didn’t know that was a real job. I thought private investigators were just something in movies.”

  “It’s a real job, and I’m sorry to say it is nothing like the movies. There aren’t any gunfights or car chases. I spend most of my time writing reports for lawyers.”

  “Oh,” Norah said. “That can’t be much fun.”

  She actually sounded as though she meant it. Jones felt another twinge, but he didn’t let his voice show it. “Days like today help. I am working for one of those lawyers I mentioned on an estate case.”

  “Estate. Do you mean a will? Oh, no. Did someone in the community die? You should really talk to Father Tim. He handles all of our donations.”

  “This isn’t about the church,” Jones said. “I have been tasked with finding several estranged relatives named in the document.”

  “And my name was in the will?”

  “That is what I am trying to determine. I just need to confirm some details with you. Could you please tell me your name?”

  “Norah Sinclair.”

  Jones paused as if to consult a list, and then cheerfully said, “Perfect. Tell me, Norah, is your mother’s first name—” Jones lifted the empty cup close to the phone and ran his thumb across the surface to simulate flipping pages.

  Norah was kind enough to answer right away. “My mother’s name is Barbara. Is that the name you were looking for?”

  “Just give me a second,” he said. Jones swiped the cup twice more before he said, “Bingo.”

  “What does this mean?” Norah said. “Who would have left me money?” She was too excited to wait for an answer, and immediately asked another question. Her follow-up was spoken in low tones with the receiver cupped close to her mouth. “How much money are we talking about?”

  “I can’t say,” Jones said.

  “Oh.” Jones could hear the disappointment in her voice.

  “I can’t speak to how much money you are going to receive, but I can say that my client, Mr. Pembleton, is a lawyer of some importance. He doesn’t take on small cases, Ms. Sinclair.”

  “Oh my goodness.”

  Jones could hear the excitement in her voice. She was already spending the money in her mind. She had likely taken a brief second to think about all of the bills she would pay before she dusted off all the dreams she had stored in the far corners of her mind. Jones heard a small chuckle and figured Norah was already past the bills.

  “If I could just confirm your address.” Jones paused, scratched the cup, and then gave her the address he had found online.

  “That’s it.”

  “And what would be the best time for Mr. Pembleton to reach you there?”

  “I work until five every day. I have the weekends off, but I imagine your boss does too. So he can call after five, or between twelve and one. That’s when I take my lunch. I usually go out, but I always have my cell on me.”

  She gave Jones the number and he jotted it down on the side of the coffee cup. He told her that Mr. Pembleton would be in touch the following day and said goodbye.

  The feeling he had about lying to Norah matched the taste the coffee had left in his mouth. Lying was never a preferred first step; it made for a cheap foundation that was difficult to build anything upon. But with so little to go on, the lie was a necessity. He had one shot at getting a lead off a single phone number—he couldn’t risk losing it. A cheap foundation was better than standing in the mud.

  13

  Cartwright was a beautiful town with a main street lined with boutiques and restaurants. Jones spotted a burger place and pulled into a vacant parking space out front. He couldn’t see an empty
table through the window and took it as a good sign. He walked inside and took up a spot at the end of a line four deep. The restaurant was filled with the scent of charcoal and a thin haze of smoke was visible in the light streaming through the window. Jones was grateful for the line; it gave him time to work his way through the menu. By the time he got to the counter, he had decided on a burger topped with avocado and a fried egg. The guy behind the counter took the order and then called Jones back to the register after he had taken a look at the avocados and decided they weren’t ripe enough. Jones didn’t bother looking at the menu board again.

  “What do you get?”

  The guy behind the counter had a lot of weight on a frame built on a deep respect for sitting down.

  “Kahuna burger.”

  Jones scanned the menu board until he found the burger. “Really?”

  He smiled. “Trust me.”

  The burger and fries arrived just as two men in mechanic’s coveralls started wadding up their wrappers and bussing their own table. One of the men raised his chin toward Jones to let him know the table was all his. Jones nodded his thanks, slid into the booth, and immediately began to unwrap the burger. He lifted the sandwich and examined the layers. The kahuna burger had a thick patty that resembled nothing on the McDonald’s menu. On top of the patty were two fat pieces of bacon, coleslaw, and a hefty pineapple ring. The concept was strange, but the smell made total sense. Jones bit into the burger and spent a second considering it, before he attacked what was left.

  When he was finished, Jones got back in line. The guy behind the counter smiled when Jones reached the register.

  “Told you it was good.”

  “You didn’t lie,” Jones said.

  “You want another?”

  Jones shook his head. “There’s no way I have room for another. I’m just going to pick up something for a friend.”

  “Your friend want fries, or onion rings?”

  “Not sure. I’ll take an order of each.”

  The guy behind the counter smiled. “I wish we were friends.”

  Jones drove to St. James United Church and pulled into a spot next to one of the two cars parked there. Jones didn’t know anything about the United Church, but the building told him that it had been around for a long time. He checked his watch and saw that he had five minutes until noon. He let the Arcade Fire song on the stereo finish and then walked to the church office door. At exactly twelve o’clock, he pushed the buzzer. No one answered. He waited half-a-minute and then tried again. His second effort got him the first response. Jones gave it another thirty seconds before he tried a third time.

  “Can I help you?” The voice that came out of the intercom matched the one that he had heard on the phone. The words used by the tinny voice were window dressing. Norah didn’t sound like she wanted to help anyone. She had been on her break and Jones had forced his way into her time.

  “Norah Sinclair?”

  There was a pause. “Yes?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I’m about to leave for lunch,” she said. “I will be back at my desk in an hour. Well, fifty-eight minutes.”

  Jones leaned closer to the buzzer. “This isn’t church business, ma’am. I need to speak with you about a private matter.”

  Norah thought about this for as long as it took her to imagine the worst. When she spoke, she sounded a little scared. “What is this about?”

  “Someone is in trouble and I think you can help.”

  When Norah opened the door, Jones was surprised. He had imagined her older, shorter, and more matronly—he was one for three. Norah Sinclair was in her fifties, with a marathon runner’s physique. She had her coat over her forearm, and Jones could see a rounded bicep that had escaped her sleeve. She had not tried to fight the grey in her hair and it had taken over. The sides were military short and the top long, like wild silver grass. Glasses covered a lot of real estate on her face, but she pulled off the look. She also somehow managed to pull off the Notorious B.I.G. t-shirt she was wearing.

  Norah saw him looking at her shirt. She pulled it away from her body and tilted her head to get a better look at the man wearing a graffiti crown. “People always talk about Tupac being better. I never saw it. In my opinion, Biggie was always the king.” She let go of her shirt and Jones saw that the fear that had been in her voice had crept onto her face. “Who are you?”

  Jones put down the bag of food and reached into his pocket. He extended his hand and offered her his card. She took it. “My name is Sam Jones and I am a private investigator.”

  She suddenly looked more confused than afraid. “We just spoke.”

  “We did. I’m sorry, but I lied to you earlier. This isn’t about an inheritance.”

  The confusion gave way to anger and Norah flared her nostrils the way a dragon might have before it set a knight on fire. She looked at the card again for a second and then clicked her tongue. “Talk fast, you’re fucking up my lunch.”

  The profanity caught Jones off guard.

  “This isn’t fast.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “The swearing threw me for a second.”

  “I’m a bad fucking Christian. Sue me. Oh wait, you can’t because you don’t really work for a lawyer.”

  Jones reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his phone. He used his thumb to unlock the phone and he held it out to Norah.

  She took the phone from him and held it tight enough for the veins on her forearms to bulge. “You know, for that stunt you pulled, I should just smash the phone and close the door in your face.”

  Jones was worried she might do it. “Look at the picture first.”

  She ignored the phone and stared into Jones’ eyes. “I’m serious. I should.”

  He believed her. “Please,” he said.

  She heard something in the word that was greater than the sum of its parts and she looked at her hand.

  “What is it?”

  “That’s what I need your help with.”

  She sighed and lifted the phone up so that she could see the screen. Her eyes narrowed when she recognized the digits. “It’s my phone number.”

  “I know.”

  “Who wrote this?”

  “It was under the sink in a café bathroom in Toronto.”

  Norah looked up from the phone. Her eyebrows arched and created deep lines in her forehead. “You drove out here from Toronto because you saw in a bathroom? Look, pal, I don’t know what this is, but there is no good time here. I don’t give a fuck what you think you read.”

  “Swipe to the previous picture.”

  “If this is a picture of your junk, I’m calling the cops. My brother-in-law is a cop; he will fuck you up.”

  “Just look at the other picture.”

  Norah used her index finger to swipe the screen. Jones noticed her nails weren’t painted. She bit them too much to put nail polish on them. She saw the picture, and Jones watched her closely as she read it. It almost felt like an invasion of privacy. There was a sudden wave of surprise that crested as a larger wave of sadness washed over it. In that moment, Jones saw Norah. She had been carrying something for so long that she had forgotten how heavy it was; the picture reminded her.

  “Who wrote this?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “That’s what I came here to find out.”

  Norah forced herself to look away from the picture. “What is this to you?”

  Jones shrugged. “She needs help.”

  Norah heard something she didn’t like. She crossed her arms and the whisper in her voice became a growl. “You like to help young girls. Is that it? Why, so you can get them to thank you?”

  “No,” Jones said.

  Norah put her hands on her hips, forming pointed triangles at her sides. At that moment, Jones thought she looked like a predatory bird
. “What is this to you?”

  “They don’t always come back,” Jones said. The words came out faster than he had expected. “But if you look, sometimes they do.”

  Tears fell in heavy drops onto Norah’s cheeks. “Is that what you think? That I didn’t give a damn? She ran on me. I was here. I was here for her. I was here the whole time and she ran. I thought if I waited, she would come back to me. So I waited, but she never came back.”

  “Who is she?” Jones heard a desperation in his voice that he hadn’t expected.

  “Her name is Lauren. She lived with me for three years.”

  “She’s not your daughter?”

  “Not by blood, but she’s mine. Lauren came to me when she was thirteen. The church works closely with The Children’s Aid Society, and the child protection workers know I foster kids. They give me a call whenever they have trouble placing a kid.”

  “That is kind of you.”

  Norah shrugged. “I needed help once and I got it. I try to be that for other people.”

  Jones held out his hand for the phone. Norah gave it back. “What makes you think it was Lauren who wrote this?”

  Norah smiled. “The writing. I’d know it anywhere. It took her forever to put anything on paper. That kid would turn every grocery list into a calligraphy exhibition.” She pointed at the phone. “That’s her.”

  14

  Norah scoffed at the onion rings and fries Jones had brought with him; she did not scoff at Jones’ offer to buy her lunch. She chose a tea shop that was across the street from the burger place and nowhere near as busy. Norah ordered an “chick”en-salad sandwich and a Darjeeling tea. She noticed Jones staring at the word on the menu board and said, “It’s a vegan sandwich.”

  “Made by a chick,” the woman behind the register said. She was wearing an apron covered in flour and when she pushed her hair behind her ear she left a streak of white in her bright red hair. She caught Jones’ glance and laughed. “I used to try and be careful, but it never made a difference. No matter what, I always seem to go home with flour in my hair.”