by Brent Pilkey
“No,” he grumbled, shoving those thoughts away. To revisit that night would invite madness and he needed to stay alert, aware of his movements. Unconsciously, he rubbed a hand across his chest, soothing ghostly pain.
He stared down into the valley, watching as the odd car passed by beneath him. The vale was dense with summer foliage, still thick and lush, untouched by the arid days of August to come. The valley snaked north through the city and could take him far from here, safely out of sight from hostile or curious eyes.
But go where? Away from here was still within the city and the city was toxic. Coming here, hoping to hide among its faceless masses, had been a mistake. There was no place safe for him.
But the question remained: where to go?
“Anywhere but here,” he concluded and vaulted the railing, vanishing into the undergrowth.
How much time had passed since he had dropped from sight? He didn’t know; he had lost his watch sometime, somewhere behind him as he pushed through the woods, scurrying from shadowed tree to shadowed tree. He had followed the contour of the valley, keeping well away from the road, until he had come across a path. Its broad, well-packed surface spoke of regular use but at this time of night its length was untravelled but for himself. He jogged along its empty stretches and despite his apparent solitude, he kept a wary eye ahead and behind.
The forest’s peaceful stillness calmed his mind and soothed his fears. And then the trail abruptly ended, butting up against a paved, populated road. His flight had come to a sudden, despairing stop.
He sat with his back to a tree, the road a ribbon of unwanted civilization barely glimpsed through the trees. Everything was unravelling, had been for some time now. It all started with that asshole in the laneway. The asshole and his green-haired whore.
“Fucking whore. If I ever find you, I’ll fucking kill you.” His voice was soft yet menacing enough to silence the night creatures around him.
Unravelling. The time in the hospital, leaving Sherry. The fight with Sherry, and Sherry . . .
“Falling,” he whispered. “She fell.”
He waited, expecting his sister to say otherwise, but Sara was mercifully quiet. Maybe even ghosts can get tired of nagging.
All he wanted was a normal life. A life free of violent, drunken fathers, drug-addicted mothers and dead sisters who refused to stay dead. He’d come close with Sherry. The voices had stilled, the memories faded, the shame and anger chained.
But now . . . now it was all gone. Nothing but empty memories and useless hopes. As useless as the women in his life.
What about Sandra? a little voice asked, his own voice. Could he have that normal life with her? Would she accept him as he was?
No, she wouldn’t. He remembered the revulsion on her face when she had touched his chest, felt the damning scars beneath his shirt.
A siren blared to life nearby and Taylor dropped to the forest floor, hugging the earth to hide from the police. But no police came and soon the siren faded from hearing.
“A fire truck,” he quietly assured himself. “Or an ambulance. They aren’t looking for me here. Not here.”
But they were looking for him. He shot at the cops. Had he hit any of them? He didn’t think so, but it didn’t matter. Shooting at them was just as bad. They’d never stop chasing him, hunting him. They’d never stop.
“They know,” Sara said from beside him.
His sister, his dead sister, was sitting on the roots next to him. Taylor uttered a short shriek of fear and flung himself away from her. He scrambled backward, pawing at the dirt and digging furrows with the heels of his shoes until he slammed hard enough into a tree to snap his head against the bark, shooting flashes of darkness across his eyes.
He clamped his eyes shut until the pain subsided, praying, hoping, that when he opened them, Sara would be gone. Cautiously he slitted his eyes, raising them slowly, fearing what he would see.
Sara was still sitting on the tree roots next to his backpack. Her hair was short, as she had always worn it; long hair had never suited her and she had hated it when it had obstructed her vision, especially in sports. She was wearing her AC/DC shirt and the old pair of jeans she refused to throw out no matter how many patch jobs Mom had done on them.
“They know,” she intoned, her voice the hollow din of a broken bell. “When they catch you, everyone will know.”
“I’m sorry, Sara.” He held a hand out to her, reaching for her and warding her off simultaneously. “I’m sorry you’re dead but you had to die. You had to.”
Sara sadly shook her head, but who she mourned for, Taylor didn’t know. “I didn’t have to die. You didn’t have to kill me.”
“But I did,” he sobbed. “Father made me.”
“Don’t be blaming me, boy.” Taylor’s father stood off to his left, the distant streetlights shining faintly through him. “You’re useless, boy. You’re only good for one thing.” His father reached for him.
Taylor leapt to his feet, fleeing back along the forest trail. And like any wounded, frightened animal, there was only one place for him to run to.
A woman. Jack just couldn’t get his head around the possibility. Granted, Furlington — if that was his name; Jack was still favouring the idea of the sister’s boyfriend using the dead brother’s id — was on the short side but the sheer savagery of the attacks said they were done at the hands of a man.
Kris and Jack temporarily had the office to themselves. Jack studied Kris. She was an amateur bodybuilder, nationally ranked, and more muscular than most guys ever dreamed of being. But even without the boob job she still wouldn’t be able to pass for a man; her face was too feminine, spiky hair and all.
Kris glanced up from her computer and caught Jack staring. She smirked. “I know what you’re thinking, Jack.” She stretched and Jack couldn’t help thinking that breasts that spectacular should not be paired with arms that freaking big. “You’re wondering if I could pass for a man.”
“Um, something like that,” he admitted. “Okay, I can see a woman posing as a man but not fooling co-workers, people who see her all the time. No disguise is that good.”
She shook her head. “Think about it, Jack. Maybe she’s a masculine woman to begin with. Add in some steroids, growth hormone, testosterone and you’ve got one muscular woman. And if she was taking enough testosterone, it could make the bones of her face grow.”
“Really?”
“Yup. You can see it with the real hardcore women bodybuilders. Their jaw and brow will thicken. Some go for surgery to have the bones shaved down.”
“That’s gross, but . . .”
“But you’re thinking about boobs, aren’t you? Typical cop.” She laughed quietly. “Not every female athlete goes out and buys herself a set of jugs and you said our suspect looked pretty lean.”
Jack nodded. “Not quite as lean as you get when you’re competing but close. He, I mean she, whatever, wasn’t carrying around much excess body fat.”
“And that could take care of the boob problem. Some of the women I compete against are so flat when they diet down, if their posing suits weren’t padded, they’d have no breasts at all. Or maybe our girl tapes them down.”
“So you think we’re looking for the sister?”
Kris shrugged. “Who knows. We could be chasing the sister or a friend of hers or someone who just happened to pick up the dead kid’s id one day. We’ll know when we catch him. Or her.” She smiled. “Whoever.”
“Fucked up, whoever it is.” Jack spun his chair to his computer. He pulled up the person-query screen and typed in the surname Furlington, searching under female this time. Let’s see what that gets us. Jack drummed his fingers, waiting for the computer to spit out whatever information it had, but all it did was spin the hourglass icon moronically.
Wonderful. Great time for the computer to freeze up.
&nbs
p; His cell phone chirped and it was his turn to freeze when he saw Karen’s name in the display. An elated thrill squeezed his stomach but it was laced with fingers of cold dread.
He flipped the phone open. “Karen?”
“Hello, Jack.”
Okay, not a warm hello but definitely not cold. I can live with that. “I’m . . .” He swallowed nervously. “I’m glad you called.”
Karen paused, then said, “I don’t know why I’m calling. Shouldn’t you be the one calling me?”
“I . . .” He drew a deep breath and plunged in. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”
Another pause but what it meant — did she agree with him or not? — he didn’t have a clue. “Why wouldn’t I want you to call?”
“Hang on a sec.” Jack left the office, seeking whatever privacy he could find in the hallway. “I’m back. Why wouldn’t you want me to call?” He repeated her question, knowing he was stalling for time. But there would never be enough time. Again, he steeled himself and simply spat it out. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, that you deserve better, and maybe . . . maybe you’re right.”
“You think you’re not good enough for me? Is that what you’re saying?”
Sy dead, Jenny almost shot then brutalized. Karen taken hostage in their own home, pistol-whipped. Despair and guilt draped across his shoulders like a wet, heavy blanket.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “Maybe.”
“I can’t believe what you’re saying,” Karen said and now her voice was cold. “I spent most of today arguing with my parents. They both think I should leave you. And every hour you didn’t call or show up at their house gave more weight to their argument, proved to them I could do better. They said if you truly loved me, you’d come after me. I told them you would but you didn’t. You didn’t.”
The hurt in Karen’s voice was palpable and it hit Jack in the guts like a cold knife. I caused that, he thought wretchedly. I’m so sorry, Karen. “I wanted to, but . . .” But maybe you’d be better off without me.
“But what, Jack? What?” Karen’s pain was frosting over, icing into a cold anger. “I waited for you to call and you didn’t. So I need to know, Jack, what’s more important to you. Me or the job and that tramp you work with?”
“That’s not fair, Karen. We were doing a hooker sweep and she had to dress like that.” Jack felt his anger stirring.
“Just tell me, Jack,” Karen demanded venomously. “How long have you been fucking her?”
“What?” Jack couldn’t believe what he heard. “I’m not —” He looked up and down the hall furtively. “I’m not fucking her,” he said in a forced hush.
“Then why are you whispering, Jack? Don’t want your girlfriend to hear?”
“I’m at work, Karen,” Jack defended hotly. “It’s not exactly the most private place for this kind of talk.”
“Then come home, Jack,” she said simply.
“You’re home? At our house?” Hope fluttered excitedly in Jack’s stomach. If she had come back to the house . . .
“Yes, Jack. I’m home. So come home and we’ll talk.”
“I . . . I can’t,” he said miserably, Jenny’s battered face stared at him accusingly from within his thoughts.
“Can’t or won’t?” Karen challenged.
“Don’t you think I want to? But I can’t, Karen. We’re —”
“Goodbye, Jack.” Karen hung up.
Jack stared at the silent phone in his hand. He punched in Karen’s number. He had to make her understand. He couldn’t go home, not with that maniac out there. If Jack left now and someone else got hurt — another woman or a cop trying to arrest that asshole — he would feel responsible. Fuck, what if a copper got shot? The asshole had already fired at cops. Jack had to make Karen understand. They could talk tomorrow, all day. They could go to counselling if she wanted to. They could —
Her phone went straight to voicemail.
“Fuck!”
Jack’s anger ripped through the bog of guilt and bleakness he was wading in and he threw his cell phone at the wall. It exploded in a brief shower of plastic and electronics.
Kris stepped out of the office. “You okay?” she asked, eying the demolished phone.
“Yeah,” he said wearily. God, he was tired. Tired of all the shit with Karen and her parents. Tired of being forced to choose. Just tired. He forced a sickly smile. “Just a bit of a domestic, that’s all.”
“Ohhhh-kay,” Kris said uncertainly. “Do you need to go home?”
Jack shook his head. “I doubt there’s anything there for me now.” He scooped up the remains of his phone and dumped them in the trash next to his desk, then sank into his chair. Fuck, what a mess.
I’ll fix it later, he promised himself. I’ll fix it tomorrow, Karen. I swear.
But could he? Could it be fixed? Something had broken between him and Karen just now and he would have to admit that it might be beyond fixing.
He turned to his computer. Might as well finish up —
His search request had finally come back and he stared at it in disbelief.
“Kris,” he said slowly. “Get Mason in here. I know who Furlington really is.”
Friday, 27 July
0107 hours
“Stand by for the hotshot.” The dispatcher paused as details were relayed to her. “5111’s area. Large fight at the Guvernment nightclub, 132 Queens Quay. Ten to twelve people fighting, unknown weapons at this time. Units to respond.”
“Don’t bother,” Jenny reproached, slapping at Jack’s hand as he reached for the radio. “Mason wants us to talk to that stripper and there’s plenty of cars going. Besides, I doubt we’d be that much help, anyways. You with a broken rib and me with a busted-up face.”
“Yeah, guess you’re right,” Jack reluctantly admitted. He stopped at the red light at Parliament and watched wistfully as two scout cars flew through the intersection, lights and sirens blazing.
“Are you sure?” Jenny asked. “About Furlington, I mean.”
“Absolutely. I was there, remember? Fuck, what a bloody mess that was. I’ve never seen so much blood.”
“More than the machete killing Manny’s working?”
Jack nodded. “Buckets.” The light turned green and Jack checked the time. “Just after one. The stripper should still be there.”
“Unless she’s already bailed to hook up with her boyfriend.” She paused then looked purposefully at her partner. “I hear your cell phone had a little mishap earlier.”
“What? Oh, yeah,” Jack confessed, chagrined. “Just a little disagreement with Karen.”
“About?”
Jack sighed. “About why I didn’t call, why I wasn’t at home, why I put the job ahead of her all the time. And when I said I couldn’t come home, she hung up on me.”
Jenny winced. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Nope,” Jack agreed, shaking his head. “Sounded pretty final to me.”
Jenny touched his shoulder in support. “You could go home, Jack. You don’t have to stay.”
He shook his head again. “This guy tunes you up, takes a couple of shots at us and you think I should go home? No way. Not while there’s still a chance of catching him. If you or anyone else got hurt . . . No way. I’m staying.”
“I understand why you’re staying, but Karen may not.”
“It wouldn’t matter, Jenny. Whether I go or stay tonight won’t break or fix us. Karen and I, I mean,” he said as he pulled the unmarked car to the curb out front of Filmore’s.
“Any unit to respond to a possible entry in progress. 285 Shuter, apartment 712. The complainant says a male is entering an apartment that is supposed to be vacant. Apparently, there was a suicide or suspicious death there last week. Any unit?”
Jack froze with one foot out of the car when the disp
atcher announced the address. “Get in the car,” he told Jenny. “Get in right now.”
She jumped back in and Jack wheeled away from the curb, pulling a tight U-turn on Dundas and heading for Sherbourne Street.
“What is it?” she asked as she buckled her seat belt.
“It’s him. Furlington. That’s where he used to live.”
“Damn,” Jenny breathed. She hoisted the mike. “mk 51, put us on that call on Shuter.”
“10-4, Major Crime. I have no one to back you up at this time.”
“10-4, dispatch. We’ll advise.”
Traffic was all but non-existent and Jack flew down Sherbourne. He didn’t slow enough for the left onto Shuter and the Taurus’s rear end slewed sideways. Jack fought the skid, righted the car and tromped the gas.
“Guess the suspicious death is a little more suspicious now that our friend is involved.”
“I’ll put my money on homicide,” Jack said as he pulled into the parking lot. 285 Shuter was the middle of three high-rises in Moss Park and Jack screeched the car to a halt by the front doors. They ran for the front door, Glocks already in hand, passing a group of residents drinking on the minuscule lawn attached to one of the ground-floor units.
“Somebody’s gonna get their ass kicked,” one of the drinkers commented as the two cops sprinted by.
Jack punched the elevator button but Jenny ran past him. “Stairs are faster.” She tugged open the stairwell door and darted inside. Jack followed her up the stairs, pulling on the metal railing with his left hand to haul himself up the flights faster.
Without needing to say anything, they both stopped the sprint at the fifth floor and proceeded the rest of the way cautiously, ears and eyes keyed to the floors above them. They paused by the seventh-floor door and Jenny slowly eased it open. The building was shaped like a wide V and Jack hated the layout. They were in the middle stairwell and would have to step out into the hall to see down either branch of the V.
