Little Boy Blues

by Mary Jane Maffini

  She shrugged.

  I squeezed into the small dim living room. The most noticeable thing in the room was the proliferation of carnations, lilies, mums, plus a few ferns. Every surface was covered with vases, most of them parked in front of framed photos.

  It was obvious she didn’t care much who I was and whether whatever I wanted took a long time or not.

  She sat in one of two matched chairs in a trendy minimalist design. The gloom exaggerated the deep circles under her eyes. I wondered how long since she’d slept.

  “First, let me say how sorry I am about your husband.” She nodded. “I understand how you feel. I’ll try to make it easy.”

  “Why does everyone say that? No one understands how I feel.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I hate that. I always want to tell them to fuck off.”

  “Point taken. Five years ago, a drunk driver killed my husband. I understand better than most.”

  This time she made eye contact. “Even that doesn’t help me.”

  “It will be a long time before anything helps.”

  “How long did it take you to feel normal again?”

  “I’ll let you know.” No point in avoiding the truth. “But it gets easier.”

  She turned and stared at a ten by twelve colour photo of a smiling bride and groom.

  “If you say so. We got married in April. This was our honeymoon. We had to wait until school finished.”

  “A boy is missing in Sydney,” I said. “He is developmentally challenged and probably in great danger.” She kept her gaze on the photo. “I believe his disappearance and your husband’s death are connected in some way.”

  She snapped around. “You think this boy killed Greg?”

  That had never crossed my mind. “No. But I think the boy may have witnessed the accident.”

  The dark eyes flashed. “It was no accident.”

  “You mean someone ran your husband down deliberately?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  I chose my words carefully. “Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

  “What difference does it make? You probably won’t believe me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe you?”

  “The police didn’t.”

  “Police don’t believe anyone. It’s their training.”

  “This is not a joke,” she said.

  “Who’s joking? It’s the way they are. They’re used to getting torn apart on the witness stand, having their cases crumble, having people lie and misinterpret things.”

  “You’re saying I’m misinterpreting what happened?”

  “I’m saying I’m not the police, and I would really like to hear whatever you can tell me about the hit and run.”

  “Call it what it is. Call it Greg’s murder. Would you like to hear about Greg’s murder?”

  “All right. Tell me what happened. Then I’ll tell you about Jimmy Ferguson. Maybe we can figure out what the hell’s going on.”

  Her nails dug in her palms. “The car hit him. Aimed right for him. It wasn’t an accident.”

  “That can happen with a drunk at the wheel.”

  “I don’t think it was a case of drunkenness,” she added. “We are talking about a one-eighty like a Formula One driver could handle.”

  “A U-turn?”

  “Yes. The car was headed away from us and slowed down, and that killer made a perfect U-turn, aimed straight at Greg and accelerated.”

  “Could the driver have panicked?”

  “No,” she said, “I told you it was deliberate.”

  I’ve found out the hard way that when we try to make sense of death, we often search for guilty parties. Accidents and mistakes leave us struggling to find meaning. It helps to have someone to hate. I know. “I understand the police are treating this as an accident.”

  “Screw the police. I was there. Do you want to hear what I saw or not?”

  “I do. You were saying the killer made a U-turn, and it looked like he was in full control of the wheel, then he drove off without stopping.”

  “I thought you were going to listen. This is what happened. We had come up from the boardwalk to that street that runs along it. We heard the fries were great.”

  “The Esplanade.”

  “Whatever. Greg was ahead of me. I was dawdling. I noticed this car driving by at a moderate speed, but the killer was looking around, searching for somebody. You with me?”

  You bet I was with her.

  “That’s when the killer slowed down, made a very controlled turn and then aimed, I repeat, aimed right for Greg.”

  “What did Greg do?”

  “Nothing. He was facing across the street and trying to figure out where we should go next. He never saw the car.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “First, I stood there. Stunned. It didn’t make sense. Then I thought, that car’s going to hit Greg. I ran to push him out of the way.” She struggled to control herself. I’m not such a physical person, but I reached out to her. “I think I made it worse.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes. Greg turned toward me, probably wondering what I was yelling about, and the car hit him.”

  “It’s the fault of the driver. Not yours.”

  “The fault of the killer.”

  “Yes. The killer.”

  “I keep asking myself, what if? What if we’d crossed earlier? What if we’d gone down on the boardwalk directly like Greg wanted? Lots of what-ifs. No answers.”

  “Look, choosing to cross the street at that moment doesn’t make it your fault. It’s hard to get your head around that, but it’s important if you want to live with yourself. Trust me.”

  “Cross the street? We weren’t crossing the street. We were right on the sidewalk. Greg landed in the street as a result of the impact, but he started on the sidewalk.”

  “My God. Were you able to identify the car?”

  “Dark blue or black, medium-size. Sedan. Nothing out of the ordinary and, no, of course, I didn’t get a license plate number. The car was dusty, dirty and you couldn’t have read the number even if you had time to.”

  “You saw dirt on the plate?”

  “I didn’t. But I heard someone else mention it.”

  “Did you notice who said it?”

  “No. My husband was lying on the sidewalk, horribly injured. I didn’t even turn my head to see who was speaking. Only Greg mattered.”

  I cleared my throat. “After the car hit Greg, what happened?”

  “He flew up in the air and banged into the window of the car. I think it shattered. Then he rolled off onto the street. It felt like slow motion. People rushed over. Someone called the police with a cellphone. Everyone was very kind. Trying to help him. Trying to help me.”

  “And the driver?”

  “She reversed and turned really fast. After Greg rolled off the car, the car shot down the road.”

  “Did you say she?”

  “Why? Didn’t you know?”

  “No one mentioned it. It wasn’t in the paper either. Did you recognize her?”

  “I’d never seen her before. I have no idea who she was.”

  “Did you see where she went?”

  Lianne shook her head. We both were silent for a long time, each in our world of bloody memory.

  Finally she spoke. “If you find any way to bring her to justice, I want to be part of it.”

  “Right. Here’s the situation. I am looking for a missing boy. He seems to be on the run from Sydney. One thing we know: he was at or near Fuzzy’s Fries on the same day your husband was killed. His name is Jimmy Ferguson. He has brain damage. He’s a child in a man’s body, sweet and loveable. His family say when he’s afraid, he hides. An unidentified woman was seen chasing him in the afternoon. Now with this new information, I’m asking myself if Jimmy saw something, saw the hit and run driver and recognized her as the same woman. He may have run away as a result. It looks like he is still alive, bu
t if he does know who she is, he’s in grave danger.”

  She stared at me, unblinking.

  “Or it may be that the same psycho killed your husband and tried to kill Jimmy too.” I handed over my copy of the “Have You Seen our Jimmy” poster.

  Lianne took the poster and squinted at it.

  “Do you remember seeing him around near the time of the murder?”

  She closed her eyes and sat quietly for a minute. “No. I didn’t see him then. But I saw him earlier in the day. Does that make sense?”

  “Can you remember where?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m having a lot of trouble with concentration lately.”

  “Takes a while to get over that.”

  “So you think he may have seen something.”

  “It’s the best theory we have. If you do think of something, could you contact me?”

  “For sure. It will feel good to be able to help him.”

  “Yes.” I fished out a Justice for Victims card and scribbled my home and cellphone numbers.

  “Call me collect if you think of anything, even something far-fetched.”

  “I will.” She handed me back the poster of Jimmy. “Would you like to see a picture of Greg?”

  Oh, shit. “Yes.”

  She stood up and moved to the sideboard with the most vases and plants. She plucked a picture from behind a cyclamen. “This was my favourite shot. Not as good as the professional ones, but I took it myself, and it was so him. This is what I have left.”

  I reached for the framed photo. I saw a slim, good-looking, relaxed young man, short dark hair, big goofy grin. Casual in his T-shirt and jeans. I felt a triple sense of loss. For Greg Hornyk, killed on his honeymoon. For Jimmy, missing and endangered. For Paul.

  Now I had something to think about on the long drive back to Ottawa. No one in the police had mentioned that a woman had run down Greg Hornyk, or that it had seemed deliberate. But then, obviously, I hadn’t asked the right questions.

  Lianne gave me a hug as I left. “Thanks for not saying stupid things about getting over it.”

  As I walked toward the Buick, I realized I was wobbling. Meeting Lianne had brought home one thing. I was nowhere near ready to have a life.

  Twenty

  Somehow, when I got back to the Tim Hortons, Mrs. Parnell had managed to get behind the wheel again. This was good, because all I could do was fight the rush of images. I saw Greg Hornyk crumpled by the hit and run driver, dying in his wife’s arms. Sometimes Greg had his own face, and sometimes he had Paul’s. I saw a terrified Jimmy Ferguson watching this senseless crime with horror, running. The images whirled through my brain.

  “Ms. MacPhee,” Mrs. Parnell said, some hours later. “Whatever is bothering you after that visit, perhaps you should talk about it.”

  “I don’t know where to start. Why would a woman mow down a total stranger in daylight?”

  “Early evening, Ms. MacPhee.”

  “Dusk,” Alvin said.

  “But bright enough to see, not pitch dark. Think about it. The place was full of witnesses.”

  “Do we know for sure this is what happened?”

  “No. I bet the police think she’s hysterical.”

  “Did the police discuss it with you?”

  “No. Deveau told me not to bother her.”

  “But you believe her?”

  “Oh, yes. I believe her.”

  Alvin spoke up from the back seat. “So the cops missed the boat. That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Looks like it. Although, in fairness, who would imagine such a thing? Greg and Lianne didn’t know anyone. They were travelling alone. So it would have been a random attack. The drunk driver theory has appeal in comparison.”

  “Maybe they wanted to take the easy way out.”

  “I am no fan of the police, but if you remember, they put plenty of muscle into trying to find Jimmy.”

  “Not enough,” Alvin said.

  “But they did get results. That’s why we’re on the road.”

  “That wasn’t the police.” Alvin wasn’t ready to believe the police would do anything right.

  Mrs. Parnell said, “Their forces were spread thin, and Ms. Hornyk’s belief the attack was deliberate would strike them as the emotional reaction of a bereaved woman. I assume they checked out the witnesses. Then the sensible thing would be to seek a drunk driver.”

  Alvin said. “Bunch of frigging dolts.”

  “It won’t turn out to have been sensible if the killer strikes again,” I said. “I think it’s all connected. We should try to figure out how.”

  “Careful, Ms. MacPhee.”

  I knew she didn’t want me to set Alvin off again. I avoided eye contact with her. “Even since talking to Lianne, I keep having flashes of the accident, even though I didn’t witness it. The images keep getting mixed up. My husband Paul and this Greg. But also Greg and Jimmy. It’s really disturbing.”

  “Ms. MacPhee,” she said warningly.

  “Maybe it would be a good idea to pull over at the next rest stop and have this talk,” I said.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry,” Alvin said. “I’m not going to lose it. I’ve got a grip on myself, for Jimmy’s sake.”

  “Okay, I think we have been looking at this whole sequence the wrong way. We concluded that Jimmy witnessed the hit and run, and that’s why he thinks he has to hide.”

  I looked at Mrs. P. She shrugged, but I knew I was in for an especially smoky ride. I went on, “I think we got that wrong.”

  “What drew you to that conclusion?” Mrs. Parnell said.

  “Do you mind keeping your eyes on the road?”

  Alvin leaned forward from the back seat.

  I said, “Lianne showed me some photos. Greg Hornyk was the same physical type as Jimmy. Short, dark hair. Slim. Older, but still young-looking. Walking in the same part of town. At the same time.”

  Mrs. P. said, “From a moving car, it could be easy to mistake him.”

  Alvin grabbed the seat back. “You mean the killer believed he was running down Jimmy?”

  “But it’s she, Alvin. The hit and run driver was a woman, remember?”

  “Lord thundering Jesus.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Were they wearing the same kind of clothes?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It didn’t dawn on me that the killer might have thought Greg Hornyk was Jimmy until after I left Lianne’s place.”

  “Perhaps you should confirm that, Ms. MacPhee, before we get too carried away with this idea.”

  “Right,” I said, reaching for my cellphone and digging Lianne’s telephone number out of my purse. I could feel their eyes on me. “Damn,” I said.

  “What is it, Ms. MacPhee?”

  “No service. Ninety per cent of this country seems to be a goddam dead zone.”

  “We’ll find a place to phone. Roll on, troops.”

  • • •

  Mrs. Parnell pulled in at yet another Tim Hortons not too far from Edmunston. It had everything we needed: coffee, food, bathrooms and a telephone booth.

  It was well after midnight, and Lianne didn’t bother to keep the surprise out of her voice when she answered.

  “Please don’t think I’m crazy,” I said, “but I need to know what Greg was wearing when he was killed.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “It’s important.”

  “Okay. He had on jeans, Guess jeans to be exact, and a whiteT-shirt.”

  “With a design on it?”

  “Plain. He didn’t like designs.”

  “And on his feet? Sandals?”

  “Running shoes. Nike with the swoosh. And, of course, he was wearing that stupid baseball cap.”

  “Colour?”

  “Dark green.”

  “Did he have a backpack?”

  “Yes.”

  “What colour was that?”

  “Dark green too.”

  “He wasn
’t carrying anything else?”

  “The bag from the video store.”

  “The video store?”

  “Is that important? We bought a couple of videos to take home. Souvenirs. Big whoop.”

  “Right.”

  “Greg said it would be the most excitement we’d get. Guess he was wrong.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  I heard the snuffle on the other end. “I would like to know why you are asking.”

  “You remember I told you about the missing boy, how I thought he’d been a witness.”

  “The boy in the poster. Jimmy.”

  “Now I believe the real target could have been Jimmy.”

  “But I saw that boy’s face. He didn’t look anything like Greg. No one could mix them up.”

  “Jimmy was last seen wearing jeans, his white T-shirt, no logo, a navy baseball cap. He had on new running shoes, not Nike but never mind, and he had a backpack. And he had been to the video store. I think the killer saw Greg from the back and figured she was getting Jimmy.”

  “You said that boy was like a child. That’s monstrous. How could anyone run him down?”

  “I don’t know. But you’ve helped us get closer to finding out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For letting me help. I feel so useless.”

  “Been there,” I said. “Felt that.”

  “Let me know if I can do anything else.”

  “You bet,” I said.

  • • •

  I rejoined the other two musketeers and their stinky dog in the Buick. Now we had something to keep our minds occupied for the rest of the long trip home. Why would anyone want to kill Jimmy?

  Except for our regular stops for gas and Tim Hortons for coffee and Timbits, I didn’t notice a damn thing through the last of New Brunswick and Quebec, not even the grinding crawl across the top of Montreal. Mrs. P. used her time at the wheel to relive her adventures as a transport driver during WWII, while Alvin seized the opportunity to bond with Gussie. I tried to sort out the junk in my head.

  I found myself wondering who Jimmy really was. Was he an innocent, almost saintly child as his mother believed? Was he the loveable kid brother Alvin feared for? Was he the confused, desperately ill burden the rest of the family chewed their nails over? Maybe he was the thoughtless, untrustworthy liar that Brandon’s mother thought she knew. Or the former young offender that Ray Deveau refused to discuss. Had he really stalked and attacked Honey Redmore? Was the truck driver who picked Jimmy up in Sydney and then dropped him in Moncton right when he said Jimmy knew exactly where he was going and why?