“Yes. But she changed tacks.”
“In what way?”
Legal ethics dictated that she maintain her client’s confidentiality. But Kate needed some advice. And she figured that since Randall had been the referring lawyer, it wasn’t unethical to get his opinion. Junior lawyer to senior mentor, et cetera, et cetera.
“She wants to strike down the provision in the Criminal Code that makes assisted suicide a crime,” she said.
“She’s going to mount a challenge?”
“No. She doesn’t feel she will live long enough to appear in court.”
“So…” he said, his tone thoughtful, “she’s going to attack it from the legislative end.”
“Bingo.”
“I suppose it could work. It will keep the fight going even if she dies. Who is her member of Parliament?”
Kate exhaled. “Harry Owen.”
“Isn’t he the ‘tough on crime’ guy?”
Kate could picture Randall, brow furrowed, as he tried to puzzle out the implications of this situation.
“Yes, indeed, he is.”
“She’s going to need one hell of a public relations campaign.”
“I agree.” Kate hesitated. “That’s why I told her I wouldn’t be her lobbyist.”
He was obviously as surprised by Frances’ request as Kate had been. “Why did she want you to do that?”
“She said that since I had survived an attack by a serial killer, then I would understand her desire to dictate the terms of her own death… .”
“So she thinks you would be more personally invested in it?”
“I think so. She also said that my so-called fame would help her cause.”
Darkness had fallen. The window reflected her face against a background of dark, streaked glass.
“Well, you are quite a public-relations coup, Kate. Frances’ team could put a good spin on this. It would certainly help her case, at least in the court of public opinion.”
“I’m not a professional lobbyist, Randall. I don’t know the first thing about it. She’d be much better off with someone who knows how to work the system.”
“I’m not sure I agree with you, Kate.” Randall’s tone was thoughtful. “I think, given you are trying to sway Harry Owen’s tough-on-crime position, you are better off letting the voters do the talking. He’s pandering to fear. You have more credibility than he does. He talks the talk, but you walked the walk, Kate. You are the epitome of toughness. You can show that being ‘tough’ on vulnerable, dying people is inhumane.”
God. That kind of made sense.
“It was actually a very savvy suggestion by Frances,” he added.
“But that’s exactly the reason why I don’t want to do this.”
“Because you’re famous?”
“I’m not famous,” Kate said with a slight edge to her voice. “What I meant was I don’t want to dig up the past again. It’s taken me a long time to get over what happened to me. I’m finally moving forward.” She swallowed. “I can sleep again.”
She heard him exhale. “Sorry, Kate.” His voice was gentle. “That was presumptuous of me. You’ve been through a lot.”
She wanted to throw herself against him, to let him stroke the tension from her shoulders, to murmur that he was wrong to add more to her already burdened conscience.
But he had chosen to move over six hundred miles away and lick his wounds in private.
“Kate, I understand how you feel.” His voice became low. “I wish I was there with you. I should never have asked you to see Frances Sloane. I’m sorry. It’s just… I trust you. I knew you would do right by her.”
“How would you feel if you were asked to trade your notoriety to help her cause?” she asked, trying hard not to sound defensive—but failing.
There was a pause. “I would…” She could tell he was choosing his words carefully. He cleared his throat. “Kate, I’m different than you. I guess I would do it because it would make me feel that I hadn’t been made a victim in vain. That I could do something positive with it. That the person who hurt me and my family had not triumphed in the end.”
Kate’s fingers gripped the phone. Would the Body Butcher triumph in the end? Would she die from the same disease that had robbed him of reason?
“Oh, God.” Kate could hear the blood rushing in her ears. It pulsed through her veins, sustaining her body.
And yet, it could be infected.
She herself could die a terrible death.
The inverse of Frances’. One where her mind became a sponge, full of holes, little vacuums of dementia.
She would be helpless. Unable to reason. Unable to communicate her wishes.
Unable to ask someone to take her out of her misery.
Because she wouldn’t even be aware she was in it.
She had almost died alone last year. Just her and a serial killer.
If she died tomorrow, the only being whose life would truly be affected would be her dog, Alaska.
Would she be in the same situation as Frances? Asking someone to help her before it was too late—and no one would? Not even someone who could end up in the same situation? She pressed her hands to her temples. Her veins throbbed against her fingers.
“Oh, damn. I’ll do it.”
“I don’t think you will regret it, Kate. She needs your help.” Randall paused. “Do you realize,” he said, his tone pensive, “that if Frances succeeds and the law against assisted suicide is struck down, then we might have an argument to get Don Clarkson out of jail?”
Kate exhaled. “No…” She hadn’t even thought about Don Clarkson since her meeting with Frances. But, of course, the whole reason that Frances had come to see her was because of Randall’s involvement in the Don Clarkson case. His old friend had been rotting in jail for the past five years, serving a sentence for murder after he had tried to end a patient’s suffering. The law was, indeed, a slippery slope. And he had tumbled down it. “But that wasn’t assisted suicide.” It had been considered euthanasia.
“But if we could strike down assisted suicide, it might crack open the door for Don.”
She swallowed. “Good point.”
“I was only incarcerated for a few days, Kate. He’s been in there for five years. It sucks the soul out of you. You were the one who got me out of there. I will never forget how hopeless—and helpless—I felt.”
The weight in her chest had returned full force. “I will do my best, Randall. But I think it’s an uphill battle.”
“Perhaps. But it might spur other people to agitate.”
Kate sat down at the kitchen table. Alaska leaned against her leg. She stroked his head, his fur soothing under her hand. “You’re right. It isn’t just Frances’ fight.” Or mine. She felt lighter. “Thank you. You’ve given me some clarity.”
“I miss you.” His voice was low. She remembered last summer, after they had saved Lucy and Nick, how he had pressed her numb, wet body against his in the boat. His arm clasped her to his side as if he would never let go.
But he had.
And so had she.
So much for clarity.
The silence on the other end of the phone expanded. Randall waited for her reply. She wanted to say, “I miss you, too.” Hell, she wanted to say, “Fly home.” If she was really honest with herself, she wanted to add, “And spend the weekend at my place.”
But those words stuck in her throat. She had no idea where Randall’s head—or heart—was. He had chosen to move six hundred miles away and lick his wounds in private. Why the hell had he left her? She was hanging in limbo, getting older, watching her biological clock ramp up into overdrive. She cleared her throat. “How are things?”
“So-so. Nick is still sticking pretty close to his room, but he has had a good year at his new school.” His voice dropped. “Lucy is still suffering from a lot of nightmares.”
“I’m sorry.” She hesitated. “I had those too, after…I was attacked. They do lessen over time.”
“Sometimes I get so angry I have to punch the wall. You should see my knuckles.”
She bet the wall didn’t look so hot, either.
He cleared his throat. “Listen, Kate, the kids are still a long way from getting over Elise. I can’t…” He exhaled.
“I understand, Randall.” And she did.
Yes, indeed, she did.
The sprinkle of rain had paused. The clouds held their breath. “Look, I’ve got to run. I have some work to do. I don’t have the first clue about being a lobbyist.”
“Of course.” He did an admirable job keeping his tone casual, Kate thought. Too admirable. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do,” she lied.
9
McNally switched on the shaver, humming under his breath.
After years of shaving with cheap disposable razors, this mundane task had become one of his daily pleasures. His adrenaline surged when the vibration of the electric shaver connected with his jaw. He took his time—because he could.
He ran his hand over his cheeks. Nice and smooth. He guided the beard trimmer along the sides of his goatee. His hand was steady, the edge precise and symmetrical. He cleaned up the line running down the middle of his chin with a triple-blade razor. It had been expensive—but he would never use a cheap blade again.
Nice work, McNally. He wondered if Kenzie would recognize him with the goatee. He had filled in, too. His face was squarer, his neck thicker, his shoulders dense with muscle.
He squirted the citrus-smelling aftershave gel into his palm and smoothed it over his skin. Mmm.
He turned his head back and forth, examining his reflection in the mirror. A week’s growth had obscured the tattoo, but his hair needed cleaning up. The uniform one-eighth inch burr cut had a few uneven patches.
And today, of all days, he wanted to look his best.
He grabbed the clippers, flicked on the switch, and ran it over his scalp. Christ. He had nicked himself.
He took a deep breath and leaned in closer to the mirror. The nick wasn’t noticeable behind his ear.
Steady now. He ran the clippers over the back of his skull, imagining it skimming the threads of the spiderweb tattoo stretching from ear to ear.
His freshly cut hair bristled under his palm, yet the hair was soft. When he had been out on parole, he discovered that women loved to rub their hands over his burr cut, never failing to compare it to a cat’s tongue.
Kenzie, he remembered, liked cats.
Kenzie, massaging his shoulders, licking his neck, whispering to him that he was the only one for her.
The familiar pressure tightened his chest.
Easy.
He tapped the stubble out of his grooming supplies and laid them side-by-side in a drawer in the vanity. He glanced at his watch. It was 8:40 a.m. He grabbed his jacket, put on a ball cap, despising Rick Lovett for making him wear it in the apartment building. McNally didn’t have much choice. This was the best job he could get. Right now.
Who the hell do you think you are, you ugly son of a bitch? It was a familiar refrain. He could write a song about it. Lovett had never dared to tell him what to do before McNally had gone to prison.
He’s got it all, now.
And you’ve got nothing.
But his luck was changing. He locked the door to his apartment, shoved his hands in his pocket and headed down the hallway, his step slowing as he neared number 114. A faint throb sounded through the walls—the stereo was turned up too high. He knocked on
the door.
No answer.
Music was too loud.
He knocked again. “It’s the superintendent,” he yelled.
He heard the chain sliding out of the lock. His blood thudded in his veins. The door swung open.
“Yeah?” A cute girl in her early twenties cracked the door open a few inches. Her hair was disheveled. She wore no bra under her tank top.
He fought the urge to push the door open.
Her gaze traveled over him. A flicker of fear in her eyes gave him a corresponding shiver of satisfaction.
“Your music is too loud. Turn it down,” he said.
He smiled and walked away, lifting his ball cap and rubbing his hand over his death’s-head tatt. He smiled all the way down to the car park.
He had parked the truck—screw Lovett, it was his now—right by the stairs. He loved the gearshift. He could control the engine, make it do what he wanted. He backed out of the parking spot, then shifted up to second gear and roared out of the underground parking. Lovett would shit bricks if he saw that. He switched on the radio, the tunes feeding his adrenaline. He was going to get his work done, and then wait outside Yakusoku Tattoo until Kenzie finished her appointments.
She would be so surprised to see him.
He could just imagine her reaction.
Her mouth, painted a deep red to match her hair, curved in delight. “John,” she said. She grabbed his face between her hands and kissed him on the lips. A hard, excited kiss that grew soft. And lingered.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she murmured into his ear. “I should never have left.”
Pain twisted his gut.
No. You should never have left.
His palms smoothed over her shoulders, a hard ridge beneath his palms. He collared her neck with his hands. “Why didn’t you call?”
“I’m sorry. I was so stupid.” Tears glittered in those gorgeous, heartless eyes. “I still love you, John.”
His hands tightened, squeezing.
She accepted her punishment.
“How much do you love me?” He increased the pressure.
She gasped, “With all my heart.”
10
“Everyone and their dog is here,” Ethan said to Lamond, as they walked into the autopsy suite.
Any of the staff of the medical examiner’s office that hadn’t been required at other scenes were clustered around the autopsy cart. Ethan spotted the gingery ponytail of Dr. Hughes, and took a final gulp of his coffee, tossing the cup in the garbage. He hadn’t shut down his computer until close to three last night. He wished he had time to run upstairs to Tim Hortons for another cup but it looked as if Dr. Guthro was getting ready to start. Lamond handed him a gown, and they slipped them on as they walked over to Sergeant Detective Deb Ferguson. Ethan was surprised to see the head of the Major Crimes Unit here. Usually only the primary investigator and an FIS detective showed up for autopsies.
But as they and the rest of the world knew, this was no ordinary autopsy. Although the conversation was muted, there was an undercurrent of suppressed excitement amongst the medical team.
Ferguson was already gowned, her unruly hair pinned in a bun. Freckles dotted her broad features. In her blue gown, she resembled a Scottish milkmaid awaiting her annual checkup. “Did you see the paper this morning?”
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