by Joan Boswell
“Too bad he doesn’t like going out,” Willem said.
Hollis had googled the address. It was uncanny how you could examine a house right down to the location of the garbage cans. This too must help thieves. It saved them wandering around wondering where the doors and windows might be.
Although she’d reassured Willem and Candace that this was a routine reconnoitre, the tightness in her shoulders and dryness in her throat told her she’d lied. If visiting this house was the last thing Danson had done before he disappeared, she must be careful. At least she could be found if anything happened to her. Being found and being safe were not the same thing. Bodies were found—she didn’t want to be one of those.
Her beat-up truck could draw unwanted attention if she parked it near the house in the upscale neighbourhood. Instead she left it in a strip mall several blocks away on Avenue Road. There were two take-out restaurants in the mall, and since it was Friday evening, the stores were open. Her truck would be unremarked. After she locked it, she wondered if leaving it here was a bright move. What if she had to run for her life?
Run for her life—it sounded like a B movie. “I’m in high drama mode,” she said to the dog who paid no attention. She hadn’t said biscuit, dinner, walk or bed—those were the words he listened for. Instead of paying attention to her, he sniffed his way from bush to bush surveying the record of the dogs who had preceded him. Friday must have been garbage collection day—empty recycling bins littered the street and gave MacTee more tantalizing smells to investigate.
Forty-seven Cormetto street lurked well-back from the road. In this affluent north Toronto neighbourhood the houses had been built on large lots. A street light revealed it to be a two-storey brick centre hall plan with an attached single car garage. It resembled many other houses she’d passed on her walk down the street.
No lights burned in the house.
She checked out nearby houses. Lights shone toward the rear of the nearest house on the right. A porch light glowed above the front door of the house on the left, next to 47’s garage. Flyers strewn on the porch suggested the owners had been away for some time.
Although no one appeared to be home, the darkened windows might mean that the occupant had drawn the curtains tightly. Caution was required. She released MacTee’s leash and encouraged him to accompany her up the drive. Instead he wandered off on a tangent, and she let him go, knowing he’d be fine and not wanting to call him until she’d finished her surveillance.
What if Danson was imprisoned inside? If he was and she rang the doorbell, she’d alert his captor. What would she say if someone answered the door? If it was spring, she could say she was canvassing for the Cancer Society. Snowsuits—she’d claim to be collecting for needy children. But she wasn’t going to ring the bell. Instead, she’d circle the house to see if any lights shone from the windows. If the house was totally dark, it would be time to discover if Danson was inside.
Toronto’s glowing night sky reflecting from low-lying clouds didn’t provide much illumination. What if she stepped on something or bumped into a metal garbage can? What if there was a dog? She gave herself a mental shake. Enough of the “what ifs”.
It was stupid to bumble along in the dark. Time to risk someone seeing her flashlight’s beam and calling the police. She flicked it on and slipped along the side of the garage to survey the back of the house.
No lights, no noise. It seemed unoccupied, but that didn’t mean Danson wasn’t inside.
Something moved in the deep shadow near the back door. She jumped, directed her light and confronted a masked face. One of the millions of raccoons that inhabited Toronto. Their adaptation to city life had swelled their numbers to the point where statisticians claimed they outnumbered humans. Not what she wanted to see. She retraced her steps and stopped well away from the beast.
There was a pause while she peered through the darkness and listened for the dog. She couldn’t see or hear MacTee but willed him to stay away from raccoon territory. MacTee hated the masked marauders and responded by barking and chasing—the last thing she needed.
Standing in front of the house, she hesitated. How could she let Danson know a friend, a rescuer, was outside? As the cold seeped through her thin-soled shoes, she remembered one of Candace’s conversations with the police. She’d told them about the nail polish on the key and about another signal she and Danson shared.
What had she said? The sensation that information was almost but not quite within her grasp drove Hollis crazy. She tried word associations. Little boy, danger, door. Closer. It had something to do with the door, with Danson coming home when Candace was alone. What was it?
* * *
Five o’clock. With Gregory identified as the Super Bug and the multiple drug addict murders solved, the two detectives anticipated a long-awaited, free weekend.
“Planning anything special?” Ian asked. A breakthrough, she thought. He’d asked a personal question. To date their relationship had been businesslike, and he’d revealed little about himself and shown no interest in her life, although she’d shared bits and pieces.
“I love biking on Toronto Island, but in November when the weather man calls for traces of snow, it’s not an option. Doing absolutely nothing, vegging out sounds good. Saturday paper, a little shopping, maybe a movie. What about you?”
Ian nodded. “Probably much the same.”
Definitely not a breakthrough in their relationship. Their desks clear, they collected their coats.
“Should we call Hollis again?” Ian said.
“I have my cell phone.”
“You’ll be off-duty.”
“True, but I can connect her to help if she needs it. I’m uneasy about Hollis. These connections to the Russian mob are bad. If she had a clue about them, she’d back off, but that isn’t her style. If Danson’s disappearance is mob-related, she’s in over her head and in danger if she muddles around and upsets them. They don’t take kindly to nosy people.”
* * *
Shifting from one frozen foot to the other, Hollis glimpsed MacTee’s shadowy form sniffing closer and closer to the dark house. She had to act before he picked up the raccoon’s scent. What had Candace said? She searched frantically through her jumbled thoughts seeking a replay of the conversation. It had been when the police had discussed keys—that much she remembered.
Then it came to her.
When either Candace or Danson approached the house, they whistled a specific tune to tell who was at the door. It had been a children’s song.
She ran through a roster. First, nursery rhymes, but it hadn’t been one of those and understandably so. What if Danson had been bringing a friend home and he’d had to whistle baby stuff? It had been something to do with animals. A sense of panic. Animals. Horses, cows, dogs, cats—none of the above. More than one animal. No, Candace had said they’d been living in Quebec and chose an appropriate song. Something in French. French songs? “Au Claire de la Lune”? “Alouette”. That was it—the song about plucking feathers from a lark.
Nothing happened when she pursed her lips and blew. The cold had stolen her whistling power. She wet her lips, inhaled and started again. This time a thin, almost inaudible, sound quavered forth. Whistling wasn’t going to do it. She’d have to sing and sing loudly.
Her mind flashed back to grade school when the music teacher had gently suggested that she mouth the words to a song the class was performing in the Christmas concert. Ever since, self-consciousness about her voice had kept her from singing in public.
But there was no public here. She wasn’t making her stage debut. There appeared to be no one home in the Smith house or the house next door. If there was a chance that Danson was inside she needed to risk all, fill her lungs and bellow.
When she finished several verses accompanied by appropriate references to tête, bec and ses yeux she stood still and listened. First, she heard the hum of distant traffic, the wind swishing in nearby trees, then it came—the faintest whistled
rendition of “Alouette”.
Absolute shock.
While she’d hoped Danson was inside, in her heart she’d believed this was an exercise in futility, because his protracted silence meant he wasn’t here or he was dead. It took seconds for her mind to process reality.
He was alive.
“Danson, where are you?” she shouted before she could stop herself. Singing was one thing, but what if calling out alerted Jacob that she was there?
“In the garage,” he replied in a faint voice.
How could this be when she stood in front of the garage door? He couldn’t be gagged, or she wouldn’t have heard him. He must be ill.
“Are you okay?”
“No. But I’m alive,” he said in a voice so quiet, she strained to hear.
She rushed to try the door. Grasping the handles, she strained, then said, “I can’t budge this. If I break a window, I can get in the house and let you out.”
“No.” His voice was stronger.
“What?”
“No.” His voice grew stronger. “There’s no time to spare. Jacob broke into the safe an hour ago. He told me because he wanted me to know he’d found the vital information he needed. Since I would not longer be useful to him, he was leaving me here to die. Have you got a phone?”
Sadistic bastard.
Hollis reached into her purse, clutched her phone and pulled it out.
“Phone 911. Don’t stay on the line. Go home. Now. As fast as you can. Make sure Elizabeth is okay. Guard her with your life then call the police.”
“Elizabeth? What does Elizabeth have to do with anything?”
“Jacob found her birth certificate. She’s inheriting from Jacob’s father. If she dies, Jacob gets more. He said he’d get rid of her. Throw her from an overpass was what he said.”
“I’m gone,” Hollis said as she called to MacTee and headed down the street, wishing she hadn’t parked in the strip mall. They broke into a run. At Avenue Road, with MacTee right at her heels, Hollis zigzagged across the street, narrowly avoiding honking cars and screeching brakes. In the parking lot, she opened the passenger door, boosted MacTee in, ran around and flung herself in the driver’s side.
Time for the cavalry.
It took seconds to punch in Rhona’s number. When the detective answered on the second ring, Hollis, backing out of her parking space, gave her the address where Danson was imprisoned and told her the danger Elizabeth might be in before she hung up. She didn’t have time to answer questions.
Careening down Avenue Road then down Yonge Street she made herself slow down. Being in a crash wouldn’t help anyone.
As she drove, she sorted through the implications of what Danson had said. Poppy had the stamp collection. Likely Poppy and Charles Smith had been lovers. Okay, that was fine. Given what she knew about Jacob, his father must have believed the stamps would never get to Poppy, unless he gave them to her himself. Why had he done this three years before? Unless he’d known he had some dreadful disease.
She braked hard to avoid a car that had turned left from the right lane. MacTee catapulted to the floor. Stupid drivers.
Where did Elizabeth fit in the picture? If he’d left money to Elizabeth, why wouldn’t he have left something for Candace? This didn’t make sense. Before she could worry the problem further, she reached the house.
Friday night. Not a parking space to be had. She felt like abandoning the truck on the street, flashers on to alert motorists, but she couldn’t risk others’ lives. Instead, she backed up and jerked into Candace’s driveway, pulled up behind Jack’s van, which was parked in front of the garage, and threw herself out of the truck. With MacTee at her heels, she raced around the house, unlocked the door and pelted inside, colliding with Candace, who was coming up from the basement holding a mop and a pail.
Scrambling to her feet, she sprinted for the stairs without stopping to help Candace.
“What’s wrong?” Candace shouted after her.
The door to the apartment was open.
Hollis tore inside. Had Jacob already abducted Elizabeth? Too awful a thought.
“Elizabeth. Where are you, Elizabeth?” she called.
“She should be in her crib. Jack said he’d watch her while I checked out the flood in the basement,” Candace said coming in behind her. They ran to the baby’s room.
“My god, she’s gone,” Candace cried.
For Hollis, everything suddenly fell into place. Jack was Jacob. He’d been living in the house since he’d appropriated the identity of a lacrosse player when he read Danson’s e-mails and took Danson’s keys. Before Hollis could digest all of this information, she heard Willem’s shouts and Elizabeth’s screams.
“Upstairs—the fire escape,” Hollis said, already moving toward the door and the stairs. Surely Jack wouldn’t throw Elizabeth from the fire escape? He’d realize the game was up and back off. But he didn’t know she’d blocked his van, didn’t know she’d found Danson, didn’t know she knew who he was. Why hadn’t she cottoned on sooner? When she’d asked him questions about his job or the lacrosse team, he’d always taken time to reply. Now she realized he’d needed to reorient himself to his acquired personality. When she noticed that his van had Ontario, not Quebec plates, she should have followed up.
Upstairs, Hollis and Candace confronted a bizarre scene.
Twenty-Two
Rhona was on the way to the Metro store on Eglinton Avenue when she received Hollis’s call. She pulled over, phoned in and had the dispatcher send cars and officers to rescue Danson and to block Elizabeth’s abduction.
Shopping could wait. She screamed into a U-turn and headed south to Belsize Drive. It wouldn’t be long until the street swarmed with police cars. Just as she’d feared, Hollis hadn’t shared the information which had brought things to this crisis.
* * *
Jack stood with his back to the open fire escape doorway. His arms wrapped under Elizabeth’s arms as he anchored her to his chest. Willem clutched Elizabeth’s legs. It looked as if they might pull her in half.
Elizabeth continued to scream.
“Let her go,” Willem shouted.
How was he able to hang on like that with his broken ribs? He must be suffering excruciating pain. In two strides, Hollis flew across the room and head-butted Jack’s stomach.
“Fuck,” Jack gasped. He released Elizabeth.
His sudden action caused Willem to fall backward with Elizabeth on top of him. Hollis lay on the floor, where she’d dropped after attacking Jack.
Candace swooped in, enfolded the toddler in her arms and crooned comforting sounds to the frightened little girl.
Hollis scrambled to her feet and heard a scream and a thud.
Either the rusted railing had given way, or Jack had jumped. The rusted iron had always made Hollis nervous, made her edge downward with her hand on the substantial brick wall rather than the railing.
Hollis moved first. She stepped onto the fire escape landing. The railing was gone. Reluctantly she peered down. And saw nothing. November’s blackness encased whatever horror lay below.
Not for long.
Sirens wailed ever closer. Footfalls echoed as someone ran into the backyard.
Powerful flashlights flicked over Hollis’s truck, the van and rested on Jack lying spread-eagled on the paved driveway.
As Hollis watched anxiously, a police officer bent over him, straightened up and spoke to other officers crowding into the yard.
The door bell chimed.
Back in her kitchen, Hollis knew she must look as shell-shocked as the others did. Candace continued to rock Elizabeth, who’d stopped crying and squirmed to get down.
Hollis’s cell phone rang. She fished in her pocket and pulled it out.
“Hollis, Rhona here.”
“Did you get Danson?” Hollis asked.
Candace jolted as if the word Danson had been a bolt of electricity directed at her body. “Danson,” she echoed.
“They’re there n
ow. What’s happening where you are?” Rhona replied.
“We stopped him. Elizabeth is fine.”
“I’m on my way. You have some explaining to do,” Rhona said.
Hollis didn’t like her tone. This would not be a pleasant encounter, but it was true, she had withheld information. It was sheer good luck that had saved Elizabeth. She should have gone to Rhona, and she would have if she’d had any clue that Elizabeth was threatened.
“Danson’s alive,” Candace exclaimed joyfully. “He’s alive. That’s wonderful.” She flipped to Willem who stood next to her and flung her arms around him. “Alive, Danson’s alive,” she sang and squeezed Willem, who gave an involuntary gasp.
Candace released him. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His white face indicated he was anything but okay. “Where’s Danson?” he said to Hollis.
“I don’t know. Maybe the hospital. Rhona is on her way. She’ll tell us,” Hollis said.
“Where was he?” Willem persisted.
“Jack, who isn’t Jack—he’s Jacob Smith—imprisoned him in his father’s garage. He’s been there since he disappeared. Right before I got there, Jack cracked open the safe he stole from Poppy and told Danson he was leaving him to die in the garage.”
“Thank god we never gave up, that we kept searching.” Candace stepped forward and threw her arms around Hollis. “Without you, Danson would have died. Hollis, how will we ever thank you?”
Hollis returned the hug. “Candace, a lot of it was luck. When Rhona gets here, she’s going to be damn angry.”
The bells peeled again. Before the sound died away, thunderous banging reverberated up the stairwell.
Hollis disengaged herself. “I’d better let them in before they break the door down,” she said and headed downstairs. When she opened it, a bluecoated covey of bodies surged past her.
“We have the child—she’s okay,” Hollis said, and the men stopped.
The lead officer went upstairs to confirm what she’d said. She followed.
