Terminally Ill

by Melissa Yi

  Ryan and I watched them go. He put his arm around me. “You okay?”

  “Sure. But we’d better stand guard to make sure no one gets here before the police does.”

  He pressed his lips together. “Okay. Let’s do it from the stairs, though. We can still see down the hall, but that way, if anyone jumps out, or if a meth lab explodes…”

  A meth lab? Did those stink? Before I could ask, Ryan had already grabbed my arm and started walking double-time toward the stairs. Fortunately, he’d grabbed my left arm, so I used my right hand to call the cops.

  Chapter 20

  The police arrived in just under 30 minutes. “Better than a pizza,” I whispered under my breath.

  Ryan squeezed my hand and gave me a dark look. Right. No smart comments. I wanted to explain that it was my way of whistling in the dark, as Charles Wallace put it in A Wrinkle in Time, but Ryan’s body had stiffened, waiting for the police to come down the stairs.

  Two officers, a man and a woman, clomped down the stairs in full gear, including baby blue shirts, bulletproof vests, and a heavy-looking tool belt. The man’s radio crackled. He said to me in French, “It was you who called us? What is your name?”

  “I did,” I said. I ended up spelling my name for him, even though I secretly thought he should have gotten it from his dispatcher or whatever. He wrote it down with a pen in a little spiral ring notebook. No tablet computers for our boy in blue. Probably just as well since he was already carrying a gun, a billy club and a flashlight on his tool belt, just for starters.

  Next it was Ryan’s turn. “Je m’appelle Ryan Wu,” he said, and I had to smile at his school boy French. His accent was pretty good, but I could tell he was a little rusty since high school.

  “W-u?” said the officer, frowning.

  Ryan nodded in agreement. I couldn’t help thinking that if the cop was so bamboozled by my three-letter last name and Ryan’s two-letter surname, it didn’t bode well for how they’d tackle Hugo’s odorifous apartment.

  “Why did you call the police?” asked the cop.

  I tried to explain, as best I could, in as few words as possible, while thinking, Are you going to go in there? Next the female cop had some questions, like how well I knew Hugo (not well) and why Lucia had a key (I don’t know, but I’m sure she could tell you).

  “All right. Let’s move you outside,” said the male officer.

  “What? But aren’t you going in there?” I asked.

  “We have to secure the premises,” he said.

  After a minute, I realized it meant getting rid of civilians like me and Ryan. “But if we go, anyone could enter the apartment. We’re—acting as security!” I couldn’t remember how to say guard in French, but I remembered security, since we have security at the hospital.

  “We’re securing the scene,” said the woman in English. “We have to make sure everyone is safe.”

  “But even if you guard the stairs, someone could come out of the other apartments and enter Hugo’s,” I said. On cue, the musical apartment switched from French folk music to Metallica, and a familiar figure appeared on the stairs above us.

  I’d met Inspecteur J. Rivera twice before, both times in Côte-des-Neiges; but either he’d switched jurisdictions or he’d decided to check this call out himself, even though he seemed no more pleased to see me than he would, say, a slobbering Doberman. My heart sank.

  Inspecteur Rivera managed an oily grin that sat poorly on his broad-featured face. “Doing more ‘detective’ work, Dr. Sze?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m trying not to, Inspecteur. But the man disappeared, and we thought we’d better check on him.”

  “Was it your suggestion that the four of you check on him?”

  “Well. Yes,” I admitted.

  “Why did you bring them to his apartment? Why wouldn’t you let the police handle it?”

  “I know that it’s part of the police jurisdiction. I did go on your website to check the list of missing people.” Should I compliment him on how they’d uploaded people’s pictures, hair, and eye colour? No, maybe that sounded condescending. The Ottawa police had done the same thing, but better. The Montreal site came up as a list of names and dates, so if you didn’t know that information, you had to click on each one to get a picture. Meanwhile, the Ottawa site came up with thumbnail pictures right away. I said, more tactfully, “I knew you probably wouldn’t have the resources to search for him tonight. Lucia had the key to his apartment. It just made sense to check on him before we bothered you.”

  He snorted and jerked his head at the officers. The female one escorted us outside the building to a tree beside the front walk. Lucia and Archer had already staked it out, with Lucia smoking a cigarette.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” said the officer, in English. “We have more questions for you.”

  “Is this far enough away if a meth lab blows up?” I asked, also in English, since I’m not sure how to say meth in French, but she just waved at us and strode back into the building. She didn’t even hesitate. Now that’s courage. I don’t mind doing my utmost to save lives, digging my hands into chest or abdominal cavities and whatnot, but deliberately risking my life, entering a potentially hazardous building? Wow.

  “What’s going on?” said Lucia, blowing out some smoke.

  “They’re checking out Hugo’s apartment.”

  “But why do we have to stay?” A whine hummed in her voice, but Archer didn’t seem to notice that or her cloud of noxious smoke. He just stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

  “They’re just doing their job, babe. It’s okay,” he said.

  Ryan circled to the other side of the tree, so we were upwind of Lucia’s cigarette, and checked his watch. He didn’t say anything, but it was past 8 p.m.

  “Sorry I got you tangled up in this,” I said.

  He shrugged. “At least I got to do something besides babysit Mrs. Lee this time.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. That was one way to look at it. “You did the computer modeling for her too.”

  “This one’s more hands-on, but I’m glad the police are wrapping it up.” He squeezed my hand. His hand felt warm and certain. “And once you get back to Ottawa, it’ll be perfect.”

  I started to nod, but actual words froze in my throat.

  His body stilled. “You’re coming back, right?”

  “Um. I think so. I’ve got to make an appointment with the dean. I’ve just been getting the runaround from his secretary.”

  Ryan exhaled sharply.

  “I’m on it. I just have to make it work with my schedule. I promise.”

  He shook his head, but after a minute, he squeezed my hand. “I’m trusting you on this one, Hope.”

  I nodded. God, this was awkward. It kind of made me wish for a meth lab explosion. While we stood in silence, still holding hands, but not exactly lovely dovey, Archer burst out laughing. He said to Lucia, “Nah, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” asked Lucia, her voice dripping with hurt.

  “Well, I’ll ask him. You never know.”

  I sidled a little closer, wondering what they were talking about. Archer kept silent while he was texting, presumably asking Elvis, but then he said, “It might be a little over the top for him. All those girls, you know.”

  “Elvis doesn’t like girls?” asked Lucia.

  “Oh, he likes girls just fine. But he’s only had one girlfriend, this one he had since high school. Sara. And she was…I dunno, a hippie. You know, no bra, long skirts, always protesting about something. She made him wear sheep—I mean, she was—”

  “She made him wear sheep?” said Lucia.

  My back was shaking, I was trying so hard not to laugh. Ryan’s teeth gleamed in the light from a street lamp. He was trying not to laugh, too.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” said Archer.

  “No, tell me. He was…wearing a sheep costume for Hallowe’en?”

  I bit down hard on a laugh, imagining
Elvis as the back end of a sheep costume.

  Archer didn’t seem to notice. “No, not a costume. It was…oh, hell. Just don’t tell anyone this, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “She used to make him wear sheepskin condoms. I know, it doesn’t sound like that big a deal, but they’re about four times as expensive as latex, and it doesn’t make any sense. If she’s this vegetarian tree hugger, why should she go for these condoms made out of sheep? And they don’t even protect against HIV or nothing. I called her on it once, and she got all huffy about it, said that it was between her and Elvis. I almost said, Yeah, that’s the problem, it’s what you’re putting between you and Elvis.”

  Lucia giggled.

  “Anyway, Elvis wouldn’t talk to me for the next two weeks, so I had to butt out, and that was the last time I said anything about him and his girlfriend.”

  “What does that have to do with his show on Friday?” she asked.

  “Not much, Lu. It’s just like what I said, it’s going to be kind of just him and me on Friday. It’s not a real show, you know? The coffin will already be on stage and we’re not dropping him into the water. I won’t need any heavy equipment, so I didn’t ask Hugo to help out, and I’m going to be the MC. It’s just a little hospital fundraiser, you know? So we don’t really need you and your, uh, friends.”

  Hmm. Sounded like Lucia was trying to rustle up a bit more work for herself and her pals.

  “You don’t want me to come?” Lucia yanked the cigarette out of her mouth and pushed her face close to Archer’s like she was going to jab him with her chin.

  “No, like I said, you can come. I’d love to see you there. Maybe we could grab something to eat after, you know, have a little night on the town…”

  “You don’t want me to come on stage?” She threw her cigarette butt on the ground. It glowed for a second before she ground it into the dirt with her white boot.

  “I told you, Lu. I want you there, but Elvis is kind of just wanting me and him for this one. You get that, right?”

  “You—you—bastard!” She swung her purse at his arm. It was a tiny white clutch. She could have done more damage by slapping him.

  “I swear, Lucia, if it was up to me, I’d have you front and centre. I’d have you selling tickets and T-shirts and help wrap him in chains. No one does it better than you, baby. No one.”

  She stomped away from him, toward the street.

  I exchanged a look with Ryan. None of us were supposed to leave the premises, but what should we do? We couldn’t exactly sit on Lucia. Well, I guess Archer would have a good time with that, but what if she charged him with assault afterward?

  Ryan shook his head. He didn’t want to chase after her.

  Archer was already hot on her stiletto heels. “Lucia. Come on, sweetheart. Don’t do this, baby.”

  Shoot. If he took off, too, Inspecteur Rivera would blame it on me. “Um, Lucia,” I called into the darkness. She’d already reached the sidewalk and was clipping south on her stilettos.

  “Archer. The police.” I raised my voice, but he raised his hand in a quick wave and hurried after Lucia.

  “Let them go,” said Ryan. “The police can chase after them. They’ve got the resources.”

  “Okay.” I was starting to get cold, though. The wind had picked up, and it felt humid, like it was going to rain. I was only wearing a thinly-lined nylon jacket.

  Ryan wrapped his arm around me.

  “What if the police make us wait here for an hour?” I asked him. “You need to eat and get back to Ottawa. I’ve got to sleep.”

  Ryan sandwiched my hands between his, warming mine up. “First things first. Do you have any gloves?”

  “I left them in your car.”

  He pressed my hands until the numbness ebbed a bit and I could feel the warmth of his skin. “I’ve got mine, but let me warm you up a little first.”

  “Okay,” I said faintly. “I want to Google meth labs, and I’ve got to have functional fingers for that. Can I use your phone?”

  He used my hands to pull me closer before he blew on our hands, steaming them up with his breath. “Does that feel better?”

  I laughed. “It does, actually.” But the rest of me was starting to freeze. I cleared my throat. “You don’t think that the smell was—I mean, it was really rotten. And Hugo was missing. So you think that was—”

  He pulled my hood over my head instead of answering. “Better?”

  I tilted my head up so I could see him. “Yeah. Not sexy, I’m sure, but warmer. Do you have your phone handy? Mine’s a relic.”

  “Warm is more important right now. And you’re always sexy anyway.”

  I licked my lips and let him change the subject. “That sounds like one of the signs on Ste. Catherine street: 100 percent sexy, 100 percent of the time.”

  “That would be truth in advertising, for you.”

  I blushed. Ryan wasn’t usually busting out with compliments, so when he said stuff like this, it carried more weight than when Tucker did it. “Back atcha,” I said faintly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I said, very conscious of his hands on mine, despite the numbness in my extremities.

  He smiled again, using my hands to pull me close to him. He unzipped his jacket.

  “I can’t take your jacket. You’d freeze!” I said.

  He shrugged. “I’m not as cold as you are. But we can share.” He drew my arms around his torso, one on each side, so now our bodies were pressed against each other.

  I licked my lips, suddenly very warm, even before he said, “You can lift my shirt up and put your hands on my back. I don’t mind.”

  When we were dating, we used to sit on the floor. He would lift his shirt up, exposing his abs, and press my chilly hands against them, warming them up. Sometimes, I’d sit facing him and warm my foot soles on him. He said he didn’t mind. Even before we started knocking boots, it was just something he’d do for me. He was always a gentleman.

  So now, even though we weren’t officially dating, I couldn’t resist reaching around him to tug his shirt out of his waistband. He was wearing a cobalt blue dress shirt for work, but he’d tucked a black cotton T-shirt underneath it. I knew cold air must be billowing under his leather jacket, but Ryan never flinched.

  I snuck my hands on to his back, just above his waist. I could feel his muscles ripple under his flesh. Ryan is a runner, not a body builder, but he was lean and tight and I was going to have to turn off my brain before I started stripping him outside in November. Still, knowing I was playing with serious fire, I pressed both my palms and all my fingers against him, relishing the feel of his skin overlying those muscles.

  “Better?” said Ryan.

  I just about purred my answer.

  “Hope?” His voice had grown strained. Good. I rubbed my body against his, wrapping my arms around him tighter so he couldn’t escape. One great thing about guys is that you know when they want you. I let myself savour it for twenty precious seconds. Then I plucked the phone out of his back pocket.

  “Gotcha!” I lifted the black beauty up to eye level, behind Ryan’s head, since I still kept my hands locked around him. “Oh, you got the iPhone5. Drool time.” Unfortunately, after I managed to turn it on, it was also locked by a passcode. “Hey, can you unlock this for me?”

  His body jerked. “Hope.”

  I handed him the phone. “I was just kidding.”

  “No, it’s the police…” Ryan didn’t let me go, but he slowly spun me around so I could see what he’d spotted over my shoulder: an emergency ambulance with no sirens, but lights flashing, double-parking in front of the building, beside the two police cars that already filling up the parking spots.

  I let go of Ryan’s warmth. My mouth fell open.

  Two paramedics hopped out of the ambulance, slammed their doors, and popped open the back of their van. Even through the dim lights and tree branches, I knew what they were doing: cranking a stretcher up to full heigh
t.

  They bumped along the sidewalk. The skinnier, male officer glanced our way, but kept on moving into the apartment. They were wearing grey uniforms with a horizontal light grey stripe across the chest and back.

  So I wasn’t too surprised when they emerged half an hour later, carefully transporting a bright yellow body bag.

  Chapter 21

  Wednesday, I spent the morning with a chaplain who specialized in palliative care counselling. Reverend Nancy, a grey-haired woman wearing a tweed suit, gave me handouts and watched a video with me and wanted to discuss how Death Is Not The Enemy.

  I wanted to tell her, Reverend, it may not be the enemy, but it ain’t your friend, either.

  Just ask Hugo.

  Of course I didn’t know for sure who they’d taken out of that apartment. Inspecteur Rivera had grilled us instead of offering any information. He’d taken us down to the police station to make individual statements. It was the first time I’d visited this particular station, but I was cold and hungry and tired and couldn’t really appreciate the bite-sized interview rooms with the chairs fixed to the floor so that they could film the interview for later review. All Rivera had told me was, “We found a deceased body in the apartment’s bedroom. We will need further tests to identify him properly.”

  But in the morning, CBC and the other outlets were already reporting that a body had been removed from an apartment in Hochelaga-Maisonneuve. As soon as Reverend Nancy released me for lunch, I buzzed up to the library to check the Interwebz. All I found were the same news reports that the police had responded to a call and that a body was removed from rue Fabien, near Ontario street. Quebec provincial police Sgt. Bruce Cuvillers gave a statement, but said only that “We’re obviously at the beginning of our investigation. All details must be verified.”

  Ha. I wondered if Ryan and I would be getting more phone calls. Probably. Had they managed to find Archer and Lucia? Not to point the finger at them (well, sort of), but they definitely knew more than us.

  And why hadn’t Inspecteur Rivera made the statement to the press? Wasn’t this his case?