What's Left Behind

by Gail Bowen

  As I took Debbie’s jacket, I could feel her tension. Zack and Debbie needed to take control of the situation immediately, Bridie Doyle’s photograph with the chilling message “An Eye for an Eye” was likely to create a groundswell of hysteria in our city. The stakes were high, and after Debbie joined us on the terrace, she and Zack got right to business.

  When I started to leave, they both beckoned me to stay. I didn’t hesitate. Bridie needed all the help she could get. Zack deferred to Debbie. “So where does the investigation stand?”

  “We have dozens of officers combing the city and surrounding areas. Our public information officer issued a statement to the media telling them what we know and showing the picture of Bridie on the rocking horse. The officer encouraged anyone with information to contact the Regina police or Crime Stoppers.” Debbie’s voice was wearily resigned. “We’re nowhere. Slater Doyle is the key. I sat in on the interview with him. He loves his daughter and he’s terrified for her. During the interview his whole body was shaking. That kind of physical reaction can’t be faked. Doyle said he would do anything to get his daughter back.”

  I picked up on the note of doubt in her voice. “But you didn’t believe him,” I said.

  Debbie nodded. “He’s holding something back. I’ve been racking my brain trying to pinpoint the moment when I sensed Doyle had omitted a key piece of information. He gave every appearance of a man who was being absolutely open. He answered every question without hesitation, and he revealed details without being pressed. But I’ve been a cop for over thirty years, and I know there’s something Doyle isn’t telling us.”

  “Do you think he’s protecting somebody?” Zack said.

  Debbie shrugged. “Why would he sacrifice his daughter, the person he loves most in this world, to save someone else?”

  “It’s possible that Bridie isn’t the person Slater loves most in this world,” I said. “He could be covering for someone who was at the party.”

  “Doyle claims the relationships he had with the men at the party were casual,” Debbie said. “There were eight of them. We were able to track them all down and they back up Doyle’s story that for them Doyle was just a rich guy with a big house who promised them booze, cocaine, and a place to connect.”

  “That fits in with the assessment of Slater’s behaviour made by the men Milo spoke to in the bars,” I said. “They say he’s desperate and his use of alcohol and drugs has been reckless.”

  Zack made no effort to hide his disdain. “And Doyle was so set on destroying himself that he brought strangers into the house where his daughter was sleeping,” he said. “It’s possible somebody at the party learned that Bridie lived there and realized that, somewhere down the line, she could be useful.”

  “I don’t think so,” Debbie said. “They’re not poster boys for healthy living, but they all have solid alibis for their whereabouts this morning.”

  “So we’re back to the scenario where a stranger just happened to stroll by the backyard while Slater just happened to be passed out, and the stranger abducted Bridie,” Zack said. He turned to Debbie. “I’m assuming the yard is fenced?”

  “Yes,” Debbie said. “Two-metre-high redwood fence around the perimeter of the yard. Two lattice-top redwood gates: one opens onto the back alley and the other opens onto the lawn leading to the street. The house is on a corner lot. Both gates have keyless combination locks. The gate to the alley was locked. The gate to the street was wide open.”

  “Doesn’t add up, does it?” Zack said. “I guess one of the guests could have left the gate open when he left.”

  “They all swear they came in through the front door, stayed in the house till the party was over, and left through the front door.”

  “So that leaves Slater,” I said. “I’ve seen him with Bridie. Slater’s a rat, but he loves that child. He’d never purposely leave that gate unlocked.”

  “He would if he knew she wouldn’t be harmed,” Debbie said.

  Her words, heavy with unthinkable possibilities, hung in the air between us.

  Finally, I broke the silence. “Debbie, do you really think this is a sham.”

  “It’s possible,” Debbie said. “I know that Slater works for Lancaster. They have a nasty track record, and their referendum agenda has been suffering since Lee Crawford’s murder.”

  “So Lancaster might be behind this?” Zack said. “Their support has been hemorrhaging since the funeral. If they can spin Bridie’s kidnapping to make it seem as if the kidnapper abducted Bridie as retribution for Lee’s murder, it will stanch the flow.”

  “An eye for an eye,” I said. “My God, what kind of people are we turning into?”

  Zack was grim. “Desperate people, and I don’t get it. There are valid arguments on both sides of the new bylaws issue. Whoever wins, there’ll be a compromise. The world will not come to an end.”

  “Reasonable people have probably figured that out,” Debbie said dryly. “But there are extremists on both sides of the debate, and despite my theory about Doyle, we have to look hard at all of them. Can either of you identify one of your supporters who might have done this?”

  “That’s my bailiwick,” I said. “Zack made his position on the bylaws clear, but he hasn’t been involved in the day-to-day strategies for the referendum. I’ve been working on tactics with Zack’s executive assistant, Norine MacDonald, and our political strategist, Milo O’Brien. I’ll call them and see if they can meet us here after dinner and come up with some names.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Debbie said. “In the meantime, Zack, you and I have to figure out how to keep a lid on this situation. Any possibility we could get together after Jo’s meeting?”

  “Why don’t you stay for supper?” I said. “We’re having a casserole of something that might or might not be chicken, but I’m going to put some panko and grated cheese on top, so it should be okay.”

  Debbie smiled. “Best invitation I’ve had all week,” she said. “I’ve been living on takeout.”

  After supper we cleared away the dishes, Taylor went to her room to do homework; Zack and Debbie went to the study; and Milo, Norine, and I went into the living room to deal with the depressing possibility that one of our supporters was holding a five-year-old child captive.

  The task would have been daunting if it hadn’t been for Milo. The alliance of groups in favour of the legislation was a loose one and our numbers had been steadily growing. During the university term, we’d had a number of student supporters: some were idealistic and committed; some were just troublemakers. From the outset Milo had insisted we keep a close eye on our allies. Political movements attract all kinds of people, including those Milo referred to as the bat-shit crazies. To win the referendum we had to control the message and that meant keeping an eye out for supporters who might have slipped a gear.

  Norine, Milo, and I had shared many light-hearted moments, but that night we were sombre. As we assessed our most ardent allies, I felt like Judas Iscariot, but the image of Bridie spurred us on. We all clung to the hope that Bridie’s kidnapper was an extremist whom none of us knew. Nonetheless, by the end of our meeting we’d red-flagged ten people who, while perhaps not directly involved themselves, might be able to identify the person who was.

  Piper Edwards was vivacious and persuasive. It was easy to imagine her convincing a five-year-old to get in the car with her so they could go on a great adventure. There was no logical reason for Piper to be involved in Bridie’s kidnapping, but I remembered how vicious she had been at the CPG meeting so I left her name on the list.

  When I described the hothead student who’d attacked George Sawchuk at the CPG meeting at Lee’s the day she was killed, Milo had no trouble identifying him. His name was Brendan Beverage, and in my career as an academic in our university’s political science department, I had met and failed many students like him – so certain that they were right that they refused to listen to counter-arguments, so busy with protests that they failed to come to
class or hand in assignments. Already on the list, his name moved up a number of notches. I didn’t know the name of the woman at the farmers’ market who believed humans are just travellers on this earth; however, the knife edge in her voice as she quoted the five-word principle of Babylonian law after Lee’s funeral suggested she was well worth tracking down. Her waist-length silvery hair and flowing skirts made her seem charming, and I could imagine Bridie taking her hand and being led to a place where the woman could mete out a punishment commensurate with Lee Crawford’s murder.

  Coming up with a list of people capable of abducting a five-year-old child had been depressing work, but it kept my mind from the horror of imagining what was happening to Bridie. The idea of hands touching her, violating her, made my stomach turn. And as we readied ourselves for bed, Zack watched me with concern.

  When I slid into bed beside him and we kissed goodnight, Zack felt the stress in my body. “Do you want me to call Henry Chan,” he said. “There’s a drugstore on Broad that delivers. Henry could prescribe something that will help you sleep.”

  “I’m not sure I want to sleep,” I said. “I’m afraid of what I might dream.”

  “Why don’t we go for a swim?”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “We’re already in bed.”

  “But you’re not going to sleep, and that means I’m not going to sleep. Swimming always relaxes you. Let’s give it a shot.”

  We swam for half an hour. As I moved through the water I could feel my muscles unknot. When my kids were little they called the loose-limbed fatigue they felt after a day of sports being “good tired.” That night when I climbed out of the pool, I was “good tired,” and Zack and I both slept deeply and well.

  The next morning at seven, Debbie and Zack had a press briefing in the mayor’s office. Taylor was still sleeping, so just Brock and I watched from the kitchen table as we ate breakfast after our run. Zack began the briefing by greeting everybody and introducing Debbie, and then the cameras zoomed in on the photograph of Bridie on the rocking horse. The image of the little girl with the white-blond, wavy hair and the terrified blue eyes had burned itself into my consciousness, but Debbie was pointing to the possible significance of details in the room where Bridie was being kept. The fact that the floral wallpaper was faded and ripped in places suggested that the room was in a house no longer in use. Debbie asked for citizen cooperation. Anyone who lived close to or knew of an abandoned house or building was asked to check it out thoroughly for evidence of occupancy.

  The task would not be easy. The lower third of Saskatchewan was once almost wholly agricultural. As mega-agricultural conglomerates swallowed up family farms, people moved to town. Simon Weber’s haunting photographs had revealed his intimate knowledge of the abandoned farmhouses and outbuildings near our city. He was still the prime suspect in Lee’s murder. The night before, feeling like a traitor, I’d told Debbie about Simon’s photographs and watched as she drew a line around his name, already at the top of her interview list.

  Debbie showed photos of Bridie in happier situations. Even when she was preparing to blow out the candles on her birthday cake, there was a sadness about the little girl that wrenched my heart. Debbie asked people to study the pictures and remember if they’d seen a child who resembled Bridie within the last twenty-four hours. The police were going through security tapes of convenience stores and gas stations, but they were relying heavily on citizens reporting anything that seemed suspicious. The contact information for Crime Stoppers flashed on screen and Debbie urged people to use it.

  Zack’s statement was short and to the point. He told people not to give in to hysteria or fear but to be vigilant in keeping an eye on their own children and in searching for signs of Bridie Doyle. He finished by saying that the Regina Police Service was doing everything in its power to bring Bridie Doyle’s abductor to justice, and he was confident that it was only a matter of time before the guilty parties would be in custody.

  When the briefing was over, Brock turned to me. “Did you notice that Zack didn’t promise Bridie would be returned to her home safely?” he said.

  “I noticed,” I said. “Every time I think about what that child is going through, I want to weep.”

  “So do I,” Brock said.

  “Has Michael mentioned how the ‘father of the year’ is doing?” I said.

  Brock snorted derisively. “No, and I haven’t asked.” Brock flexed his hands. “I’m glad we have a justice system, Joanne. Because if we didn’t, right now I’d be hunting down Slater Doyle, and when I found him I’d tear him limb from limb.”

  I spent the rest of the morning doing errands that had fallen by the wayside in the past week: talking to liaisons from the member groups of CPG about their strategies for getting out the vote; grocery shopping; picking up dry cleaning and food for the dogs and Taylor’s cats; and choosing bedding plants for the remaining empty pots on our terrace. I’d finished putting everything where it belonged when Zack called.

  “I just wanted to hear your voice,” he said.

  “Is it that bad?” I said.

  “Worse,” he said. “The city’s going nuts – the traffic on Crime Stoppers is unbelievable.”

  “Anything useful?”

  “Nah – just further proof, if we needed it, that there are a lot of very disturbed people out there.”

  “You sound like a boxer on the ropes,” I said. “Let’s go to bed early tonight. We’ll have two fingers of Old Pulteney, and you can paint my toenails.”

  “Finally, something to look forward to,” Zack said. “Do you still have some of that sexy Petal to the Metal polish?”

  “I keep three bottles stashed away in case of an emergency,” I said.

  Zack chuckled. “This qualifies,” he said. “I’ll be home as soon as I can sneak out the door.”

  I had arranged with Mieka to pick the girls up from school that afternoon. As I sat in my Volvo in the parking lot of École St. Pius X, the firestorm that had started with the announcement of the referendum and engulfed so many lives seemed remote. The day was sunny and breezy – shorts and T-shirt weather – and the playground was filled with pretty stay-at-home mums with their preschoolers, toddlers, or babes in arms. Some of the braver kids were trying out the playground equipment. Next year many of them would be in kindergarten. Pius X was a good school, and with luck, the new kindergarteners would be students there for the next nine years.

  When the school bell rang, the doors shot open and the kids streamed out. As always, Madeleine came out with friends from her grade, and they stood talking as they waited for siblings. Also as always, Lena was among the last children to come out of the school. Mieka had called to tell the girls’ teachers that I was picking them up, so they came straight to the Volvo.

  As we drove down Albert Street, our granddaughters were uncharacteristically restrained. They were eighteen months apart, and Mieka always called them her Irish twins. I assumed the peace in the car was just a sign that the Irish twins were growing up. When we got to the condo, Lena grated pepperjack cheese so that the three of us could have our favourite snack, Triscuit nachos. As soon as the nachos were ready, I poured us all iced tea and we sat down at the kitchen table. When the silence continued, I knew there was a problem.

  “Did something happen at school today?” I said.

  Madeleine nodded. “Just before we got out of school there was a special assembly in the gym,” she said. “Monsieur St. Amand told everyone about Bridie being kidnapped. He told us we had to be especially careful and that if we saw or heard anything that might help the police find Bridie we should tell an adult.”

  “That’s good advice,” I said.

  The girls exchanged glances. “Maddy and I know something that might help the police,” Lena said. “But we aren’t supposed to tell.”

  I waited. Finally Madeleine said, “Bridie told us that her mother was going to send someone to bring Bridie to her for a visit.”

  “That’s not possi
ble,” I said. “Bridie’s mother is dead.”

  Madeleine’s face was grave. “We knew that, but Bridie was so excited about seeing her mother again we didn’t say anything.”

  “Bridie’s very young,” I said. “Her story may just be about something she wished would happen.”

  Lena’s headshake was vehement. “Bridie didn’t make up the story. Her father told her that someone was going to come and take her for a visit with her mother. He told her it wouldn’t be anybody she knew, but the person was a friend of her mother’s, and Bridie would be safe.”

  I felt a chill. “Did Bridie say if the person coming to get her was a man or a woman?”

  The gravity of the situation had struck Madeleine. Her answer was halting. “No,” she said. “Just that she was supposed to go with whoever came for her.”

  The girls had a jigsaw puzzle set up in the family room. I sent them in to work on it and called Mieka. Then I called Debbie Haczkewicz. Mieka and Debbie came up in the same elevator. I met them at the door, told them Bridie’s story, and then we went into the family room. Debbie talked to the girls separately and together. When she was finished, I walked her to the elevator. She was angry but controlled. “I knew Slater Doyle was holding something back,” she said. “Jo, do you have any idea why he would do this?”

  “Because Slater Doyle is out of control and desperate,” I said. “Lancaster Development is giving him one last chance. If he doesn’t win the referendum for them, Lancaster will throw Slater Doyle to the wolves.”

  “So Doyle throws his daughter to the wolves to save his job.” Debbie spit out the words. “There has to be a special place in hell for a father who would do that. He’ll pay for this, Joanne. He’ll pay for terrifying his child, and he’ll pay for lying to the police.”

  Our family and Margot’s family have small tables for deliveries outside our front doors. When I came back from walking Debbie to the elevator, I noticed a package on our table. It was from the photographer who’d taken the formal pictures at Peter and Maisie’s wedding and it was addressed to them in care of us. On the day of the wedding, I’d been intrigued by the skill with which the photographer captured private moments. Now the wedding pictures had arrived, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. I took the package inside, left it unopened on the sideboard, and went into the family room to check on Mieka and the girls. The puzzle of Aslan talking to Lucy was coming along well. We left the girls perusing the remaining pieces, and Mieka and I went into the living room.