Dark Matter

by R. D. Cain

  He closed his eyes and revealed the card. When he opened his eyes, he was looking at the card he dreaded most. The image was of a man wearing black armour, holding a black flag and looking down onto a battle from the heights of his pale horse. Death. The card of transformation to a new life.

  Death is going to visit you, Mr. Nastos. The spirit world is calling your name.

  13

  Wednesday, October 24

  Nastos rocked the frying pan, rolling the diced vegetables in the oil and spices. He dialed the heat to medium, then cracked three eggs, pouring the yolks into the sink to be washed down, and put the whites into a small mixing bowl. Madeleine wouldn’t eat yolks because of the cholesterol, but he and Josie liked the flavour, so he squirted in some Dijon mustard. The Dijon brought back the original egg colour and gave a creamy texture with few added calories and no cholesterol, just the way Maddy specified. He sprinkled in some grated cheese and poured the egg over the sautéed vegetables.

  Josie was in her pyjamas at the kitchen table. Madeleine seemed distracted. She was wearing a business suit and standing next to Josie, going through yesterday’s mail. The toast popped and Josie went over to get it; toast fetching and drink pouring were her contribution to breakfast.

  Nastos slid the cooked eggs onto the plates. “Ready for the ROM, Josie?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready.” Josie finished pouring, then put the juice jug back in the fridge. Nastos saw her glance at her mom and pick up on the fact that she wasn’t being herself. She seemed disappointed.

  Nastos asked Madeleine, “So, what is it?”

  She slid a letter over to him. It was upside down; still, he could tell from the handwriting that it was from his mother. She told him, “Write back, it’s been long enough.”

  He didn’t want Josie here for what might be coming. “Hey, Jo, go get changed real quick, would you?”

  “Sure, Dad.” She left, giving him a look that told him she knew he was trying to protect her from an argument. It was beginning to happen a lot lately.

  He turned the burner on the lowest setting and picked up the letter, examining it. He felt it for thickness and twisted it to see if it contained any pictures. No, only paper. He dropped it unopened into the recycling box.

  “I’ve been in touch with them on Facebook, Steve.”

  The mere thought of his parents made the kitchen feel like it had just shrunk. He was never going to allow them to be near Josie. The first memory that came to mind was the trip to Niagara Falls when he was thirteen. Mom, Dad, Steve and his little sister, Carrie, were planning to hit the wax museum, take the Maid of the Mist boat tour and walk under the falls, just the four of them. They had looked forward to it all week. The kids were told to pick out their own clothes because their father was busy in the garage, getting the car ready for the long drive.

  Nastos chose jeans, running shoes and a T-shirt. He and Carrie waited out in the car; then Mom brought out a bag of food for the car ride, and then Dad came out. Horn-rimmed glasses, a collared golf shirt and perfectly polished black shoes.

  They laughed and sang songs on the drive. Dad pointed out cars he liked; they ate snacks and drank pop. When they parked near the falls two hours later, they exited the car and gathered together. It was then that Dad went crazy. “Is that what you choose to wear? There’s no colour on your shirt. What if you get wet from the Falls? Where can we bring you dressed like that?”

  Carrie had made the mistake of wearing running shoes. Dad freaked out even more on her. People were going to think she was a boy, or worse. Whatever worse was, Nastos had no idea until he was much older. Anyway, they left. They all filed back into the car and drove straight home. For two hours, their father lectured them about how they had ruined the trip for their mother, who cried into her hands, seeming to reinforce what he was saying.

  After the grounding, when he had tried to apologize to his mom for something he still didn’t understand, she kept changing the subject. Just like she always did, she changed the subject. At the time, he had felt abandoned; now he saw that she was just trying to pretend that the family wasn’t in constant chaos. She was living in a dream world where everything was perfect and Dad wasn’t half-crazy. Nastos’ father had obsessive compulsive disorder, and unless you were a mind reader, sooner or later you’d do something that set him off. That last thing Nastos wanted to do was give his parents a chance to do to Josie what they had done to him.

  Nastos turned to Madeleine. “I know you’ve emailed them, but I never will. You’ve heard the reasons. People like that never change.”

  Josie came into the room full speed. She skidded to a halt and grew concerned when she felt the mood in the room had only gotten worse. She spoke quickly. “Dad, the sheet says I have to be at school early today because the bus leaves early!”

  “Jo, you’re still in pajamas.”

  “I know, but I mean for breakfast, will it be done in time? I don’t want to be late.”

  He smiled, “Jo, go change, I’m serving it out right now.”

  He wondered if maybe she was checking on him, making sure Maddy wasn’t being too harsh.

  As she left he added, “And it’s going to be cold this morning, so wear something warm.”

  Madeleine sipped her OJ and returned to her argument. “Yeah, I’ve heard the stories. It’s just that they’re in their seventies. Wouldn’t it be nice to have an understanding with them before they’re gone? Do you want to hate them the rest of your life?”

  Nastos served the omelettes onto the plates. So much of this had come up while they were in counselling for what had happened to Josie. The psychologist Mills was a decent guy and had sided with Nastos. Now Nastos just wanted the mood to brighten up, for Josie’s sake. “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll see Dr. Mills about it.”

  Madeleine appeared to take no enjoyment from her victory. Josie ran down the stairs wearing jeans, running shoes, a long-sleeved T-shirt. She slid into her chair at the kitchen table, grabbed a piece of toast and started on the eggs. Nastos rubbed her back. “You look great. Stuff your face and we’ll get you to school.”

  It was nine-thirty in the morning when Nastos made it to Carscadden’s office, across from Moss Park. The office was in darkness. Nastos found the key on his key ring and slid it into the lock. The alarm chirped when he pushed the door open and he typed in 1967, the last year the Leafs won the Stanley Cup. Carscadden was a Leafs fan and liked the code because it was easy to remember. Nastos liked it because it was the one password that wouldn’t have to change for the rest of his life.

  He flicked on the foyer lights, relocked the door and left the phone on bypass. Carscadden’s office was unlocked. Nastos sat at his own desk and opened the ever-thickening Lindsay Bannerman file. A picture of her was clipped to the first page. She was sitting against a blue background — standard school picture fare. She was posed. Her hair wasn’t perfect, but it was close. She looked both happy and mischievous through a crooked little smile. A younger version of Lindsay could be Josie’s sister.

  He pulled out the scrap paper with Jessica Taylor and Anita Bonghit’s names on it, then remembered that he’d been sent MP3 files of their phone intercepts by Bannerman’s buddies at the phone companies. A quick reverse lookup of Bonghit’s address returned the name Dean Bunting. He wrote the new name next to Bonghit.

  Phone taps, which would normally take specialty warrants signed off by judges and cost a police service thousands and thousands of dollars in administration fees, Nastos could get for free by whispering the password Lindsay. Nastos turned on his computer and realized he should have grabbed a coffee.

  He logged in to his Gmail and listened to the intercepts. Jessica’s phone was active every few minutes. They were always incoming calls and it was always men. The average conversation was Jessica saying hello followed by a man asking if she had any time available today. Jessica would offer a time and th
e man would take it. Sometimes a price was confirmed, sometimes it wasn’t. Jessica was an independent contractor. From the beginning, Nastos had feared that Lindsay might be involved in the sex trade. If she was, she’d have learned everything she’d need to know from Jessica.

  Seven calls in and there were no conversations with Jessica mentioning Nastos or Carscadden poking around, until call number eight — the first outgoing call.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hey, Jess. Busy today?”

  “Yeah, but they’re all premature ejaculators, so it’s quick money.”

  The other female voice laughed. Taylor continued, “Anyway, I just had two guys here looking for Lindsay.”

  “Cops?”

  “No, guys her dad hired. You don’t know where she is, do you, Beth?”

  Nastos wrote down the name Beth on a scrap of paper as well as the time and date stamp from the phone call.

  “Only time I ever met her was at the group session and you were there,” Beth replied.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  “You think she’s in trouble?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  There was a distant sound of a doorbell. “Gotta go, Jess, there’s a one-hour guy at the door.”

  “Okay, talk later.”

  The phone went dead. Nastos listened to the rest of Jessica’s messages; they were all more johns booking times.

  Bunting’s phone was only used once, when he ordered pizza for dinner. There was nothing to rule him out.

  Nastos heard glass rattle and the front door chimed open. Hopkins called out, “Nastos, you in here?”

  “Yeah, I’m in the office.”

  She rushed into the office and tossed a copy of Toronto Today magazine on the desk so he could see it. “Check out the cover,” she said.

  Nastos angled the magazine straight and saw the front-page picture of Anthony shaking hands with a police detective at headquarters. The headline read “Saint Anthony” Asked to Help Police.

  “You’re kidding me.” Nastos read some of the article, barely listening to Hopkins as she spoke.

  “Yeah, right after I heard all about this guy from Kevin, I saw this at the newsstand when I was grabbing my lottery tickets.”

  The story was fairly short for a front-page lead.

  Shortly before this picture was taken, world-renowned psychic and native of Toronto Anthony Raines, or “Saint Anthony” to his followers, helped Toronto Police Service with a missing persons case that had left them stumped for thirty days.

  Rebecca Morris’s remains were found shortly after a tip by Saint Anthony. Raines’ career took off years ago, when he helped police with a previous investigation, bringing closure to a grieving family whose son had been murdered. While this case ended tragically, and the family wish that Anthony had become involved sooner, a police spokesperson speaking on condition of anonymity expressed relief that at least the Morris family could begin the grieving process and admitted that they should have sought his expert advice sooner.

  Saint Anthony can be heard on NewsTalk radio on Wednesday, where he’ll be discussing his forthcoming televised show at Casa Loma on October 26th.

  Nastos put the paper down. It was an advertisement poorly disguised as news — an advertorial. Anthony must have paid for it.

  Hopkins was thinking along the same line. “Do you think he offered to help the Bannermans just for the media coverage?”

  Nastos found himself nodding. “Yeah. That guy’s all about money.”

  Hopkins removed her jacket off and slung it over her arm. “He’s taking a big risk. If she turns up dead, his career is over.”

  “These con artists just rewrite the facts anyways.” Nastos closed the paper and slid it back over to Hopkins.

  “Hey, did Carscadden tell you that ‘Saint Anthony’ drove to my place after leaving the Bannermans’?”

  “No way! What the hell did he do that for?” Hopkins came closer, coveting the good gossip.

  “He said he wanted to offer Madeleine a free reading. Trying to soften me up by going through her.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Yeah. If he was a better psychic, he’d know that Maddy and I aren’t on the best terms right now. What a loser.”

  “Sorry about you and Maddy. She’s not seeing what a catch you are. I’ll talk some sense into her.”

  Nastos reached for a piece of paper from his desk and wrote something down. He slid it across to Hopkins and she read it out loud.

  “Dr. Bruce?”

  Nastos said, “Yeah. That was the personalized plate of the vehicle that Anthony drove to my house. ‘DRBRUCE.’ Actually, Raines was the passenger.” Nastos smiled to himself. “He had a dude driving him — if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  Hopkins shook her head. “You’re as bad as Kevin. Want me to run the plate?”

  “Yeah, we’ll run it and stick it in the file. May as well earn our twenty grand. And hey, where’s your little boy-toy?”

  “Oh, he had to see Viktor, then he has the meeting with the Police Services Board over your lawsuit — he won’t be here till noon.”

  That was bad news. “Great.”

  “What do you need?”

  Nastos picked up the office phone and dialed a number. He held up a finger for Hopkins to wait a minute.

  A woman’s voice answered his phone. “Records.”

  Nastos said brusquely, “Yeah, this is Inspector Koche, who’s this?”

  The woman became angry immediately. “This is Records Supervisor Sharon McLean, Inspector —”

  He cut her off. “Good, now listen here, McLean. I asked for some historical CPIC returns yesterday and I don’t have them yet. Where are they?”

  McLean asked, “What name?”

  Nastos huffed. “Listen, I don’t have a photographic memory; just look through your request stack and get it to me as soon as you can. You people.” He didn’t like being cruel to a stranger, but he reminded himself it was out of necessity for the con game.

  He waited till McLean came back to the phone. “There’s nothing here for you, Inspector.”

  “Mother of Christ. Tell you what, Sharon, this is what I need. Every missing persons case for the last forty days.”

  McLean held her ground. “You can do it yourself with Versadex.”

  Nastos stood up. “Listen, Sharon, Versadex and me, we aren’t on speaking terms. I’m going to send someone by to pick up the reports. Can you have them ready for this afternoon?”

  Nastos could hear McLean sigh. “Sure thing, I’ll have it at the counter, Inspector.”

  “Good. I think you’re the only one who knows what they’re doing there, Sharon.”

  The phone went dead. Hopkins asked, “Who’s Inspector Koche?”

  “Just some loser.”

  “What was that about?”

  “Feeling better.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not a cop anymore; I’m an independent instrument of karma. And it’s death by a thousand lashes for Inspector Koche.”

  14

  When Chavez lurched his way inside through the laundry room door, Anthony had heard the van and was waiting for him. He sounded bitchier than he intended. “And where the hell have you been?”

  Chavez grunted a response and kicked his boots off by the washing machine. He had a fresh, red scrape across his face, jagged like a shark’s tooth, running from his right cheek to his throat. His clothes smelled of musty earth.

  “I need a shower,” he said. “Then I need to sleep.”

  Anthony peeked out the laundry room window and saw that Chavez had parked the van in front of the garage instead of inside it.

  “The police have been here. You need to think of a new place to park. We�
��ve talked about this.”

  “After I sleep.”

  Anthony followed Chavez as he slowly climbed the spiral stairs and trudged through to the master bathroom. “You’ve been spending a lot of time up there. Is everything going okay?”

  “You mean the renovation at the other property, Anthony? That shit-hole you expect me to turn into a mansion like this?”

  Anthony felt like he’d been struck. Chavez knew very well what Anthony had meant. And the other property, when renovated, would be worth some much-needed money — though that wasn’t the real issue, and Chavez knew that. “Do I need to go and check?”

  “No. And it’s best if you don’t — we’ve discussed that.”

  Chavez leaned into the shower and cranked it to full heat. He leaned back out, dripping onto the floor. He peeled off his shirt and pushed down his pants, kicking his jeans off. When he was naked, he slid into the stall and hit the diverter, making sure it was turned to full heat.

  Anthony watched him lean backward into the hot stream, the water pouring down his hard face and body. His big jaw tilted upward to the faucet. He needed a shave; his cheeks would be abrasive. Chavez’s strong hands rubbed vainly at the sleep on his face.

  Anthony opened the shower door and spoke. “Those scrapes on your thighs, where did you get them?” The steam from the water dampened Anthony’s face.

  Chavez lathered shampoo in his hands and rubbed it on his head, then on his chest. Anthony noted the contrast of the white suds over the tanned skin and black hair.

  “I have no idea,” Chavez said. He leaned back and closed the door.

  It was all Anthony needed to hear. Chavez had avoided eye contact, didn’t touch him when he came in the door, didn’t invite him into the shower and said he needed a nap though it was daytime. Anthony put it together and understood. Chavez had raped one of the captives and he was racing to the shower to get rid of the evidence.