Cut to the Chase

by Joan Boswell

  “Tell you?” Katerina repeated and smiled her chilling smile. “You find out. I not have to tell.” She smiled again and dropped her head. “You find,” she said and reverted to Russian.

  “What’s she saying?” asked Ian.

  Spike cocked his head to one side and leaned close to his mother. He listened for some moments before he lifted his gaze to Rhona. “She not making much sense. She keep saying rhyme that has to do with numbers and colours.”

  “Can you translate?” Ian said.

  Spike listened again. “One for one, red for you, two is more, green for go, three four, three four, purple blue, purple blue, never a gun, never run…” he stopped. “I not understand the rest.”

  Rhona suspected she knew exactly what the rhyme was about. She hoped she was wrong. “We’ll make a quick survey.”

  Ian opened the bedroom door, stepped in and stopped as if he’d smacked into a wall. “Oh, my god,” he said.

  Rhona, following behind, repeated, “Oh, my god,” and added, “trophy cases. She was making trophy cases. Like a big game hunt.”

  “She wasn’t finished,” Ian said.

  “That’s why there are several finished boxes and the materials to make more on the dining room table.”

  “They’re pretty, in a macabre way.”

  Rhona regarded the black-framed shadow boxes lined up on the wall. Each held a similar composition.

  On a roughly painted red background, knitting needles crossed at right angles, precisely dividing the space into four squares. A cardboard figure with outstretched arms was affixed to this crucifix. Wool wrapped the entire body, except for the head. Each head was black with a white oval mouth opened in a scream and solid white eyes. A scarf of the same wool hung on the right edge of the case.

  “That was how she did it. Won their trust. Made them a scarf. Presented it, wound it around their necks and stabbed them with the knitting needles.” She shook her head. “It’s ingenious.” A noise behind her caused her to whirl around.

  Spike’s hands covered his mouth and his eyes, widened with shock, stared at the grotesque montages. He’d gasped when he’d seen what the boxes held and heard their conversation. His gaze moved from the boxes to them and back to the boxes again.

  “She killed drug addicts,” Rhona said as she reached for her cell phone and asked for back-up. “We have to take her in,” Rhona said.

  They turned to Katerina, who had stopped mumbling and begun a keening, high-pitched wailing as her rocking increased.

  “What will happen to her?” Spike said. “She need help.” He shook his head. “I feel bad. I know she need help and not make her go.” He glanced at the knitting that had fallen to the floor when his mother had launched herself at Rhona. Then he swung around and counted the boxes on the wall. “She kill six men? Mother kill six?” His eyes revealed his incredulity, his inability to accept that his mother was a serial killer and, if the boxes on the dining room table told the tale, had intended to kill many more.

  “Rats,” Katerina said.

  Spike focused on his mother. “What rats?” he said.

  “Them,” she said and pointed to the bedroom. “Rats die. I do it. Not sorry.” Having said that, she lifted her head and tried to rise. With her hands pinioned behind her back, she found it impossible. “Help me up,” she said to Spike.

  He didn’t move.

  “Go ahead,” Rhona said.

  On her feet, Katerina spoke again. “We go,” she said and moved toward the door.

  “What will happen to her?” Spike asked again.

  “I can’t say for sure. There will be a bail hearing within forty-eight hours, but I’m sure she won’t get bail, that she’ll be referred for psychiatric assessment. After that, the court will likely send her to mental health court, where they may sentence her to a long-term commitment in the hospital for the criminally insane in Penetanguishene. I don’t know for sure, but that is a possibility.”

  Spike absorbed the information in silence.

  Much later, once they’d delivered Katerina to the cells, the two detectives looked at one another.

  “Next question is, was she connected to Gregory’s murder and Danson’s disappearance?” Ian said.

  * * *

  Hollis thanked Jack after he’d assisted Willem to her bedroom. Although she realized he wanted to stay and quiz her, to learn what had happened to Willem and what she knew about Danson, she shepherded him to the door.

  “Thanks again. We couldn’t have made it up here without you.”

  “You’ll tell me if you have any news about Danson?” Jack said.

  She promised and shut the door.

  Willem lay with his eyes closed. How serious were his injuries? If his assailants had left him for dead, they must have done serious damage. Internal, invisible injuries could kill him. His pallor frightened her. She should call an ambulance, hand him to professionals who could assess his injuries and take appropriate action. She sighed. If he deteriorated, she would. For now she’d do her best to care for him.

  She untied his polished brown brogues, noticing their quality as she carefully removed them. Willem sighed, but his eyes remained shut. His hands lay palms up at his sides. They were marked with traces of blood, as was his face. She gently pulled the folded quilt from beneath his feet and draped it over him. Then she fetched a bowl of warm water and a wash cloth. Without applying pressure, she sponged his hands and face.

  His eyes remained closed, but he spoke. “Give me half an hour to recover from Mount Everest, and we’ll talk.”

  In his condition, he was making jokes! Mount Everest indeed. “We don’t need to talk,” Hollis said although she desperately wanted to know what he’d found out about the Super Bug. “Sleep. I’ll wake you in an hour to check your pupils.”

  Willem’s lips curved, but he winced as the gesture pulled on his split lip.

  Hollis left the bedroom door slightly ajar to hear if he called out. In her combination living room and workroom she stood in the middle of the room and weighed her options. Before she’d finished, Candace, carrying a covered white bowl and a baby monitor knocked and entered the apartment.

  Hollis placed her finger on her lips and nodded toward the bedroom.

  Candace plugged in the monitor, and lowered the volume. The repeating CD of soothing lullabies that Elizabeth listened to each night invaded the room.

  “Heck of a way to meet Willem,” Candace said in a low voice with a faint smile.

  Hollis didn’t think it was a moment for levity. Willem was badly hurt, and she felt horribly guilty

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take it lightly,” Candace said.

  “I know. I’m being hypersensitive, because if he hadn’t offered to help us, he wouldn’t be in this state,” Hollis said and pressed her lips together to keep from crying.

  “Never mind how you feel. This isn’t about you,” Candace said.

  The reproach reached its target. It was time to stop thinking about herself.

  “You’re right. I’m making him open his eyes hourly to see if there’s any change. He has a concussion. If he gets worse, I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “Does what happened to him have any connection to Danson?”

  “I don’t know. Two guys beat him up because he’d been asking questions about the Super Bug in the wrong places. After it happened, he called me because he’d found out something, but I won’t know what it is until he’s in better shape.”

  Willem moaned.

  “Come and tell me if you think he should go to the hospital,” Hollis said.

  Both women stood beside the bed. Willem’s eyes remained closed. He shifted and groaned, took a deep breath and again adjusted himself with an accompanying moan.

  “His poor face. It will be weeks before those black eyes are okay and it doesn’t stop hurting him to eat or smile or move his mouth,” Candace whispered.

  “It’s like weight watchers,” Willem whispered.

  “Willem, how ca
n you joke when you must hurt like hell?” Hollis said.

  Willem opened his eyes. “I’m glad I’m alive.”

  Once again, knowing he believed the thugs had intended to kill him shocked Hollis. She felt like she’d been kicked in the chest—she found it hard to draw a breath. “I’m glad you are too,” she said.

  “Were you followed here?” Candace asked. Hollis heard the anxiety, the underlying panic, in her voice.

  “Willem did everything he could to make sure he wasn’t,” she said reassuringly.

  “They thought they’d killed me,” Willem said. He moved slightly and groaned involuntarily. “Damn near did. You don’t follow a dead man.”

  “If they kicked you until you passed out, you may have internal bleeding. It could kill you, and then they would have succeeded. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “You don’t want to be responsible for a dead man in your bed do you?” Willem answered.

  “I’d prefer a live one,” Hollis said.

  “I’m volunteering,” Willem said. He opened his eyes and locked his gaze with Hollis, who felt herself blush.

  “Let me see your pupils,” she said. “I’ll get a flashlight.”

  When she shone the flashlight in his eyes, the right one was about the same—still a different size.

  “Try to rest. I’ll do it every hour all night. I was once in the hospital from a fall downstairs and they woke me every hour.”

  “When was...” Willem said, but Hollis placed a finger near his lips. “Not now. Someday I’ll tell you,” she said.

  Back in the living room, Candace turned off the lights.

  “What are you doing?” Hollis asked.

  “Scoping out the street,” Candace said over her shoulder.

  “And?”

  “Jack is getting in his car. He must have a practice.”

  “It’s late, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe he has a date?”

  “Never mind Jack. The question is—does the Super Bug have anything to do with Danson?”

  Eighteen

  Ian and Rhona accepted congratulations. Their chief had arranged a press conference in the amphitheatre. He would do the talking, but he wanted the two detectives there to receive press accolades. He wondered aloud what the headlines would be. All agreed that the Sun would have the best one—it always did.

  Rhona celebrated their success, but she wanted to get on with the investigation, to pinpoint the connections, if there were any, with Gregory, the murdered Russian, and Danson, his missing landlord. There had to be a link, but she couldn’t join the dots. While her fellow detectives speculated on the headlines, she pulled out and reread the translation Hollis had given to her.

  Super Bug—she was aware of what that meant in terms of hospitals and medicine, but that meaning didn’t fit in this note. Unless it referred to a terrorist attack that would be launched with a super bug. Germ warfare had been a feature of the Cold War, and certainly there had been a scare in the U.S., when poisonous powders passed through the mails. Several people had died. The Russian gang experts should know. She picked up the phone.

  * * *

  “Go to bed,” Hollis said to Candace. “I’m going to set the alarm and wake every hour to make sure he’s okay.”

  “He should be in the hospital.”

  “I know, but…”

  Retching from the bedroom.

  Hollis reached Willem first. He was leaning over the side of the bed. A thin trickle of pink liquid slid down his chin and pooled on the floor.

  It was blood. Willem might have internal injuries.

  “Sorry,” Willem whispered.

  Hollis grasped his hand. “It’s okay. Not your fault, but there can’t be any argument. You absolutely must go to St. Mike’s.”

  Willem said nothing.

  “You won’t be alone. I’ll come with you. “

  “I’ll be okay,” Willem whispered.

  Hollis gently squeezed his hand. “No, you won’t. No one should be by himself at the hospital. You always need someone with you.”

  Willem drew a ragged breath. “Will you say you’re my wife?” His battered lips moved into a facsimile of a smile. “I’m a fast worker.”

  Although Hollis returned the smile, she didn’t feel like smiling.

  “If you say you are, they’ll tell you what’s wrong,” Willem added.

  “You’re right. The next-of-kin stuff. Of course I will,” Hollis said. She wanted to smooth the hair back from his forehead, to kiss his bruised face, but contented herself with holding his hand while Candace called 911.

  Minutes later the ambulance arrived, and the attendants, sweating and straining, manoeuvered the stretcher down the stairs. Each time it banged the wall Willem winced.

  Hollis had collected Willem’s wallet before they left the apartment. When she claimed to be his wife, the paramedics allowed her to ride in the ambulance.

  At St. Michael’s Hospital, Hollis offered Willem’s driver’s license, and the triage nurse recorded pertinent information. She assured Hollis that they wouldn’t have long to wait. Hollis didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. This was triage. Rapid entry meant you were seriously injured.

  Hollis stood beside Willem’s stretcher and held his hand. He opened his eyes briefly and gave her what might pass for a smile. “Hell of a way to get a wife,” he said and shut his eyes again.

  The wait was mercifully brief. The paramedics spent little time shifting Willem from their stretcher to the hospital’s and left to answer the next emergency call. Hollis wasn’t allowed to enter the treatment rooms, but the attending nurse promised the doctor would speak to her, and she could be with Willem again when he was out of the examining room.

  The Emerg doctor spoke to Hollis before he hurried away. “We’re running tests to determine the extent of the internal injuries. He certainly has broken ribs. We don’t have beds upstairs, so we’ll keep him in Emerg until we diagnosis what we’re dealing with. The nurse will tell you when he’s back from x-ray.”

  When they transported Willem to a four-bed room in Emerg, Hollis foraged, found a battered molded plastic chair and perched beside him. Three o’clock in the morning might as well have been noon—the hospital throbbed with activity.

  “Go home,” Willem whispered. “I’m in good hands. They’ll call you. Get some sleep.”

  Sensible advice, which she hated to take. Leaving him seemed like a betrayal. However, exhaustion wouldn’t leave her as sharp as she needed to be. Outside the hospital, she hailed a taxi from the waiting ranks. Half an hour later she fell into bed.

  * * *

  Shrill screams pulled her from sleep’s deep pit.

  MacTee’s barking added to the cacophony of noise.

  “Noooooo, noooo,” a voice shrieked repeatedly.

  Hollis stumbled out of bed. The clock said nine. Was it Candace? Elizabeth? What had happened?

  MacTee whined and nudged her hand.

  “It’s okay,” she reassured him, although she was quite sure it wasn’t. Groggy, she staggered out of bed. Most normal people had dressing gowns, but if you had a dog and no fenced yard, you didn’t haul yourself out of bed in the morning, pull on a dressing gown and let the dog out. Instead you rose, dressed, and walked the beast. Her pyjamas would have to do.

  As she pushed her feet into her slippers, a barrage of bangs thundered on her door. Whoever it was continued to repeat her keening mantra in a high-pitched voice. Bizarre. She couldn’t think of an explanation, but in her foggy state that didn’t surprise her.

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming,” she shouted.

  When she flung the door open, she confronted Poppy. “My god, what’s happened?” Hollis said.

  MacTee raced forward to present a toy monkey.

  “No. Not now,” Hollis said and pushed him away.

  Poppy stopped screaming, sucked in air and released it in ragged gasps.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Hollis said.

  “Stolen. It�
�s gone,” Poppy said.

  “What? What’s gone?”

  “My safe. I was sure I hid it well enough that no one would find it.” Poppy shook her head rapidly and moaned, “Nooooo, noooo, noooo, it can’t be gone.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  Poppy stopped howling. Still hyperventilating, she managed to snap, “Of course not.”

  “That’s what police do. Investigate burglaries.” Hollis stepped back from the door. “I’ll call them.”

  Poppy grabbed Hollis. “No, you won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Her breathing slower and her words measured, Poppy’s gaze locked with Hollis’s. “Because no one broke into my apartment. Do you know what that means?”

  Hollis waited.

  “My keys are special ones. They can’t be copied at the hardware store. That means someone who has a key took the safe.”

  Hollis remembered the missing key on Danson’s ring. Candace had wanted to change the front door lock, then they’d decided that there was no point—too much time had passed. Obviously a bad decision.

  “Who has a key?” Hollis asked.

  Poppy’s eyes no longer stared wildly, and her breathing had returned to normal. Sharing her news had calmed her.

  It was the perfect time to pin her down and finally get straight answers.

  “It could only have been Danson or Candace,” Poppy said. “Alberto has a key, but he was with me.”

  “Danson? Why would Danson, who’s disappeared, come back and steal your safe?”

  Poppy shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “I think you do,” Hollis said. “Come and sit down. It’s time to talk about Danson, the safe and whatever was in it.” Poppy didn’t move. Hollis placed her hand on Poppy’s arm.

  Poppy scrutinized the hand as if it belonged to a prehistoric reptile. She shifted and flipped her arm. When Hollis did not remove the offending hand, Poppy raised her eyes and glared at her.

  Hollis tightened her grip. “It’s time for truth-telling. Things have been happening that you should know about, because you and that article in the paper are right in the middle of this mess.” She thought about Willem’s pain, about Candace’s overwhelming anxiety, about Danson and the murdered Russian. She frog-marched Poppy inside the apartment.