by Vicki Delany
“I took the job with him ‘cause I admired his earlier work. I thought I could learn something. Then I saw the crap he was producing these days.” She threw up her hands. The overhead light shone off her glasses. “I could learn more from a kindergarten class, or from my fuckin’ cousin Amy.”
“Why did you stay with him then?”
“Job offers aren’t exactly falling all around me, you know. I lost the job I had in Toronto, lugging around equipment for a food photog. She fired me, the creep. Said she didn’t like my attitude, but it was jealousy, pure and simple. She started a whisper campaign against me, saying I was a problem.” Barton snorted. “So I decided to leave Toronto.” Winters made a mental note to locate this previous boss and find out what had really happened. He said nothing, sat back and let Barton vent all her rage. Give them enough rope…
“Even when I realized what a washed-up has been Rudy was, I figured he could help me out. Introduce me to the right people, you know, show some of my pictures around.” She laughed, the sound so harsh and brittle it made the hairs on his arms rise up. You could use that laugh to frighten small children into going to bed on time. Winters stole a glance at Madison, willing the man not to make a sound. Barton was talking to herself, justifying everything she did. If she remembered they were there, where she was, it would all be over.
“I should have realized what would happen. Instead of showing my pictures around, letting people know about me, he started saying they were his, that he’d taken them.” Blotches of red rage were breaking out on her face and neck.
Winters heard Madison’s chair squeak. Outside in the hallway a man laughed. Barton picked up her coffee cup. Her fingers picked at the cardboard rim. He thought she’d clammed up, but she began talking again.
“When I finally realized what was going on, I figured I could talk some sense into him. His fifteen minutes were over and there was nothing he could do about it. Stealing my pictures wasn’t going to help him get his career and reputation back.”
She abandoned the cup and rubbed at her face. It had gone quiet in the corridor, and silence filled the room.
Winters waited, scarcely daring to breathe. “Sounds sensible,” he said at last.
“Of course it was. But he wasn’t. The fuckin’ jerk.” She looked up, and stared straight at him. Her eyes were clear and intelligent, and she knew full well what she was saying. “He dared to laugh at me. I made sure he wouldn’t laugh again.”
Madison let out a long breath. “How did you do that, Miss Barton?”
“He was a real weirdo, had an incredible phobia about germs. When I got to his room he was holding a glass of water. There was champagne in a bucket and some food on the table, but he didn’t offer me anything, stuck-up bastard. I told him I knew he was stealing my pictures, and he said I didn’t have enough talent for him to want to use anything I’d done. He was lying. I said I’d take him to court, and he laughed. He put the glass down and went to the bathroom. When he got back he started snapping out orders for the next day, as if nothing had happened. He drank out of the glass of water and it was my turn to laugh. I told him I spat in it when he was out of the room. That freaked him all right. He ran into the bathroom with his fingers stuck down his throat like a model at a dessert party. It was absolutely pathetic. I didn’t really plan to, I was just wanting to give him a scare. But when I saw how easy it would be I decided it was time to put an end to his misery.” She lifted her hand so suddenly, Winters started. “And bang. It was done.”
“Where did you get the gun?” Madison asked.
“Picked it up in Toronto. For protection.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
He found Eliza in bed with a magazine. Her eyes were red and a snowstorm of crumpled tissues were scattered across the duvet. It was her habit to get up early during the week, to be at her computer shortly after the markets opened in the East. That she was still in bed at ten o’clock was not good.
He sat on the edge of the bed and lifted her hand. He kissed it and stroked the palm. Tears ran down her face.
They said nothing for a long time. Then she spoke, her voice very soft. “I didn’t kill Rudy, John.”
“I never thought, not for a minute, that you did. I was angry and jealous and scared, and yes, worried that people would laugh at me because of a thirty year old photograph. You were right, Eliza, I did think it was all about me, and I left you alone to fight this. All I should have been thinking about was how to support you. Can you ever forgive me?”
She used her free hand to stroke his cheek. “As long as you believe in me I can face anything. That man, that Madison, he’s making threats. He said it would go easier on me in court if I turn myself in.”
Winters felt a knot in his gut. “And what did you say to that?”
“That I am certainly not going to confess to something I didn’t do.”
He wiped a tear off her cheek. “You won’t be hearing from him again. We arrested the one who did it less than an hour ago. Madison is doing the paperwork and telling everyone what a hot-shot detective he is.”
“Then it’s over?”
“It’s over.” Before coming home, he’d gone for a walk along the shores of the Upper Kootenay River. He tore the old photograph into shreds and threw the pieces into the water.
“Since the day we met, John, you’ve always been the only one.” Eliza gave him a small smile and wiggled under the covers. She was wearing a turquoise satin nightgown with thin straps and white lace trimming the deep neckline. The tears had stopped. “I hope you know that. You’ve been out of this bed for too long. Get in.”
She gave him a wink, broad and bawdy, yet tinged with sadness.
He didn’t need to be asked a second time.
Chapter Thirty
“Five-one?”
“Five-one here.” Molly Smith answered the radio. It was ten days after her father’s death. The funeral was over, the home-made casseroles and plates of squares had stopped coming, Andy’s mother and sisters had been and gone, Sam had taken his family back to Calgary, and Lucky had reopened the store. Smith didn’t think her mother was coping all that well, but she had the support of her vast circle of friends and work was better than hanging around the house with only Sylvester for company.
Smith had gone back to her apartment and back to work. Today was her first shift since the funeral. She felt guilty at how nice it felt to be at work and away from the drama of her family.
“911 hang up. 34 Redwood Street,” Jim Denton said over the radio.
“Five-one. Ten-Four.” She stuck her arm out of the window, to warn the car behind her she was turning, and did a U turn in the middle of Front Street. Someone had called 911 and put down the phone without speaking. The police always answered those calls—it could be a child in trouble, a battered woman afraid of being overheard, a hand reaching across and taking the phone.
Smith unfastened her seat belt as she rounded the corner. A boy was doing wheelies in the middle of the street. He dropped the front wheel of his bike when he saw her and turned sharply to head in the opposite direction.
It was early afternoon and school had just let out. Parents were walking small children home. Weighted down by backpacks almost as large as them, the kids looked like turtles carrying their houses on their backs. A cluster of teenage girls dressed in tight jeans and short skirts and colorful tops giggled and preened as they strutted their stuff. Across the street from number thirty-four an elderly lady raked up winter’s debris from her small patch of garden.
Smith notified dispatch that she’d arrived, switched off the engine and got out of the car. The yard of the house she was interested in was a mess of weeds, broken bikes, and abandoned furniture. Plywood covered the bottom right window. The porch steps creaked under her boots, but there wasn’t a sound from inside the house. She knocked on the door. “Police. Open up.”
The door opened a crack. A woman peered out, blinking against the light of day. Her face wasn’t much more than
a skull with a bit of skin stretched across it. Her pupils were black pinpricks in red eyes. She wore a dirty white T-shirt and faded jeans and a line of blood dripped out of her right nostril.
“Did you call 911, Ma’am?” Smith asked.
“Yes,” the woman said, her voice very low.
“I’m coming in. Stand back, please.”
She put her hand on the door and it swung open. The woman stared at her with frightened eyes and Smith took a step forward. Her fingers moved for the radio at her shoulder. “Are you alone, Ma’am?”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw something moving toward her. She ducked instinctively and began to turn. She felt a sudden, blinding pain in her left shoulder, and staggered backwards. A hand wrapped itself around her arm, her own hand was pulled away from the radio, and she was jerked forward. She stumbled into the house, stars dancing in front of her eyes, her shoulder screaming. She made a grab for her gun, but before she could get a grip, her left ankle gave way in a shower of pain and she dropped to the floor.
A great weight settled across her back.
“No,” Charlie Bassing said. “She isn’t alone.”
Chapter Thirty-one
“Sergeant Caldwell, I might have a problem,” Jim Denton said. “Smith went to a 911 call on Redwood Street. She notified me when she first arrived at the scene, but hasn’t said anything since, and now I can’t raise her.”
“Where’s Dave?”
“Couple of kids were overstaying their welcome at Big Eddies and he’s gone to sort it out.”
“Get him over to Redwood Street immediately. Keep trying to raise Smith. Her radio might be wonky. Tell Dave I’ll be joining him.”
“Problem?” John Winters came out of the legal office, carrying a stack of papers to do with the pending trial of Diane Barton for the murder of Rudolph Steiner. Dick Madison had returned to his unit to receive high praise for a job well done. Winters was perfectly happy to let the Mountie have all the credit. That way he didn’t have to spend as much time in court. He and Eliza had finally been able to have their vacation in San Francisco. It had been nice to see the California sun putting some color in her face and bringing a smile back to her lips. Although the smile was small and rarer than it had been, and he knew it would take time before her faith in him was fully restored.
“Potential problem,” Caldwell said. “I’ve got an officer out of contact. Join me?”
“Glad to.” Winters handed the papers to the passing law clerk. “Who is it?”
“Molly Smith.”
Winters turned to Denton. “Locate Charles Bassing. He’s on a vendetta against Molly.” He grabbed a radio from the dispatch desk.
“Got it,” Denton replied.
Winters and Caldwell took the back stairs to the cars, moving fast. “You think this has something to do with Bassing?” Caldwell asked.
“Wouldn’t put it past him.”
Smith’s patrol car was parked neatly on the side of Redwood Street. There was no sign of the officer who’d driven it. The door of number 34 was closed and the curtains were drawn. As Winters got out of the vehicle, a second police car turned the corner.
Caldwell spoke into his radio. “Jim, have you heard from her?”
“Nothing. I tried her cell phone, but no answer there either.”
The officers looked at each other. Caldwell walked around the car to stand with Winters on the far sidewalk. “Let the Chief know what’s happening,” Caldwell said, “then contact the Mounties and ask them to send some help. Until I know otherwise we have a situation here.”
A woman was working in her garden. At a word from Evans she abandoned her tools and quickly went indoors. Four teenage girls watched the police from the veranda of a gentrified house. Evans spoke to them, and they also went inside.
“Four-Two,” Caldwell said. “Secure the street.”
Evans moved his vehicle a few yards down the road, where he parked it in the center of the intersection, lights flashing.
Radio. “Charles Bassing isn’t answering his phone, Sarge,” Denton said.
“Send someone around to his residence and place of business. If he’s not there, put a look out for on him,” Winters said, “Have him brought in if he’s found. Get a car to the corner of Redwood and Pine to block that end of the street. Evans has Fir blocked.”
“Ten-four. Horsemen are sending two cars.”
“This is your show,” Winters said to Caldwell. “How do you want to play it?”
“If Molly is in that house, and we have to assume she is, she’ll be well aware she should have heard from dispatch. Therefore, we have to assume she isn’t responding because she can’t.”
“Agreed.”
People came out of their houses to see what was going on. Evans sent them back indoors. An RCMP car, with the logo of three stripes and a horseman carrying a lance, arrived and moved into position to block the intersection to the west. Caldwell told them to send the next car into the alley behind the houses.
“We’ll phone first.” Caldwell leaned into the car and used the computer. He read the phone number for the house to Winters, who punched the numbers into his cell phone. In the quiet street, they might have heard the sound of a phone ringing inside the house, but no one picked it up.
“Can’t stand here all day,” Winters said. “I’m going to knock on the door.”
“Are you wearing a vest?”
“No.”
“I’ve got one in the trunk. Put it on first.”
They’d kept the car between the house and their bodies. Except for the police, the street was empty. Curious faces peered out of windows. An ambulance quietly pulled up behind Evans’ car.
Winters slipped the Kevlar vest over his jacket and adjusted the Velcro straps. He took a deep breath. “Guess I’m ready. I hope to God she’s having cookies and milk at the kitchen table and doesn’t realize her radio is off.”
***
“Not so tough now, are you, Molly?”
“What the fuck are you playing at, Charlie. Get off me.”
She lay face down on the dirty floor; pain coursed through her shoulder and the back of her left leg. Bassing straddled her hips and his hand moved along her side. It stopped, for just a moment, to caress her buttocks. The touch as light as a lover’s. She kicked and wiggled, trying to escape, to get out from under his weight. She felt like one of Frank Spencer’s red-headed toddlers, scooped up to be carried to bed. But instead of warm kisses and tons of love, Bassing, she knew, had nothing to offer but pain and humiliation. He laughed, the sound so mean it made her blood run cold. His hands began to move again, fingers reached between her legs, seeking the sweet spot. But she wore thick trousers, and the probing fingers moved on. They reached her gun belt, and she knew what he was after. Tucking her arm tight up against her holster, the way she’d been taught, she bucked harder, trying to toss him off. But he was heavy, very heavy. Her hands were jerked up behind her back, and Bassing shifted to trap them beneath his weight. Laughing, he ground his crotch into her body. Hard. Probing. Bile rose. She fought against the gag reflex.
“Nice, eh?” he said in a low voice. “There’s plenty more to come.”
In the corner, the woman whimpered.
“First things first. You learn lots of useful things in jail,” Bassing said. “Like how to get one of these things free.”
He pulled at the clips, gave the gun a twist, and yanked it out of the holster. His weight moved and Smith was clear. She flipped onto her back and looked up. Charlie Bassing stood over her, his legs apart, on either side of hers. He held her weapon and pointed it down at her face.
“Gotcha,” he said with a smile that froze her guts. The room was dark, the heavy curtains pulled tight. It smelled of sweat and tobacco and pot, unwashed clothes, food sitting out too long. And fear. Fear emanating from her. The baseball bat he’d used to bring her down lay on the floor beside him. She’d played ball in University and knew a Louisville Slugger when she saw one. A good
bat—tough and unyielding. Eyes focused on his face, she slid backwards, out from under his legs, and sat up.
He weighed maybe fifty pounds more than she did. She was runner-lean, a near-Olympic class skier, young and fit, but he was solid muscle. Without her gun, she was as good as dead.
For some reason Molly Smith thought of her mother. They’d just buried Lucky’s adored husband; it would destroy her if her daughter died so soon after.
Her radio crackled. Denton trying to get her to respond, tone rising with every request. His voice brought her back to the present, to this room. To Bassing. To survival.
“Throw that into the corner,” Charlie said.
Smith hesitated. He swung the gun and pointed it at the woman who’d opened the door. She stood against the wall, hands over her mouth, eyes round with shock. Blood had leaked into the deep crevices of her face; a crooked red river ran down the side of her mouth.
“You said you wanted to play a game,” she whispered. “You said it would be a laugh.”
Bassing ignored her. “I said ditch the radio, Molly. You have two seconds, starting now, or I shut that one up the easy way.”
Smith unfastened the radio and tossed it into the air. It fell to the floor with a thud as Jim Denton called “Five-One! Smith! Come in, Molly.”
“You’re out of your mind, if you think you can get away with this.” Her voice broke and she coughed in an attempt to clear her throat. “Assaulting a police officer is a serious offense, Charlie.”
“Assault,” he said, with the sneer Smith knew so well, “is the least I’m going to do. You and me, we’re going to have some fun. Before you die.” He lifted the gun so it pointed directly between her eyes. She could see all the way to hell. “My car’s out back. We’re going for a little ride before your friends get here. Stand up.”
“Charlie,” the woman said, “Can I go now? You said there wouldn’t be any trouble when the cops arrived.”
“Get into the bedroom and stay there.”
