“Ivy was in the process of accepting the gift of redemption when she disappeared.”
“By which you mean . . . ?”
“Brenda had brought her to church several times. She was beginning to make friends with parishioners of her own age. She had seen me on several occasions, during which we had several long private talks.”
“And these talks concerned . . . ?”
“The trouble in her life. Her acceptance of sin as a way of living. Her weakness when it came to boys and drugs.”
“She’d already lost her virginity at thirteen?”
“I never said that.”
“Then what did you mean by ‘trouble with boys’?”
“Just that. She had trouble with boys.”
“And as regards drugs . . . ?”
“She admitted to me that she had smoked pot.”
“That’s not wholly unusual for many thirteen-year-olds.”
“Are you saying you approve of the idea of teenagers smoking pot?”
“No, what I’m saying is: it’s not a shocking revelation that a thirteen-year-old girl had tried it.”
“Did you try it when you were thirteen?”
“No—I was sixteen.”
“Did you like it enough to continue smoking it?”
“Actually, no.”
“Well, Ivy did like it . . .”
“Then I stand corrected.”
“I suppose you do,” he said.
“So Ivy had yet to be ‘saved’?”
“I am sure that, if she were to leave this life now, she would be with God in Heaven. Because right before she disappeared she did accept Jesus as Her Lord and Savior.”
“You didn’t say that before.”
“You didn’t ask me that before.”
“I’m asking it now.”
“Yes, in one of our last private talks, she finally did become born-again.”
“Which means she’s in paradise now.”
“She’s not dead,” he said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I can’t be sure. I simply have faith that she is alive.”
“In most cases of disappearance, if the child isn’t found within forty-eight hours, it’s foul play . . . and the person who has abducted the child usually resorts to homicide.”
“There are two things different about this case. The first is that Ivy is not a child, she’s an adolescent. And adolescents—if they disappear—often end up on the street somewhere . . .”
“Like Hildy Krebs and Mimi Pullinger?”
“Exactly.”
“You know they are on the street?”
“I have to surmise that they have drifted into a bad life.”
“But if Ivy had been saved before she disappeared, why then did she end up on the street?”
“If she is, in fact, on the street. People backslide, Nancy. They give in to their most base instincts and make mistakes.”
“Do you think George MacIntyre actually harmed his daughter?”
“The evidence points to his guilt. Just as there was a history of physical abuse by him in the MacIntyre household.”
“All perpetrated by George MacIntyre?”
“That’s what I was led to believe.”
“But never by Brenda MacIntyre?”
“You evidently have your suspicions that Brenda was not telling the truth.”
“Yes—I do have my suspicions.”
“And why is that?”
“Because of things that people have told me.”
“Such as . . . ?”
“Such as the fact that she assaulted George on several occasions, that she was violent with Ivy, that—”
“All lies,” he said, his voice quiet but definitive.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I am very good at sniffing out lies . . . and liars.”
“Is your nose that infallible?”
“I am not the Pope,” he said. “But I do understand the complexities of human nature. Just as I know when someone is not telling the truth . . . or is telling me they are something they are not.”
He looked at me directly as he said this—and that’s when I realized he had me figured out.
“But getting back to George MacIntyre . . .” I said.
“No, let’s get back to King and Sydenham streets in Dundas,” he said. “I mentioned that’s where the Assemblies of God church was in Dundas. You said: ‘Of course I know it. Passed it many times.’ The fact is, the Assemblies of God church is not on King and Sydenham. Just as there is no branch of the Bay in the town.”
“I was just playing along,” I said, knowing that I sounded completely unconvincing.
“Just as you were ‘playing along’ about being a reporter on the Vancouver Sun?”
He favored me with a big smile and continued talking.
“There is no Nancy Lloyd on the Vancouver Sun. I know this because when you called me I called the newspaper. Given the big media attention surrounding this case it’s best to check out everyone’s bona fides. Yours turned out to be false ones. Which, in turn, makes me wonder: Who are you and why are you so interested in this case?”
I stood up.
“I apologize for deceiving you.”
“You still haven’t answered my questions.”
“Who I am doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does matter. Because it’s clear to me that, though you might not be certifiably disturbed, you are nonetheless a woman in a very troubled place in her life. Very troubled indeed . . . to the point where I might even call you damaged. That’s why I agreed to see you, even though I knew you were lying to me . . . because I wanted to see who exactly was this damaged person and why was she so involved in Ivy MacIntyre’s disappearance?”
“I have my reasons,” I said, glancing at the nearest exit.
“I’m sure you do,” he said. “Fear not, I am not going to stop you from leaving here. I am not angry at you. On the contrary I feel desperately sad for you. Sad because it’s so evident that you are harboring an anger and a grief that has turned you against yourself and against the world. And sad because you are, I’m sure, alone and without love . . . and yet you reject He who loves you more than anyone else. And that is God. But to you, God doesn’t exist. To you, God is a fraud . . . even though it’s you yourself who has committed the fraud here today.”
“Again I apologize. If you’ll let me, I’ll just go now and never bother you again.”
“But I’d rather you bother me. Just as I’d rather you admit to me that you are willing to open your heart to God’s love and let Him heal your grief.”
“He won’t do that,” I said.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I have my reasons.”
“You sound so definite.”
“I am.”
“Now I am certainly not a Catholic—but I did once learn in theology school about Pascal’s Wager. You know about that?”
I shook my head.
“Pascal—a French theologian—stated that, even though we couldn’t be certain about God’s existence, weren’t we better off accepting it? After all, Nancy—or whatever your name is—if you were to get down on your knees right now next to me and let me bring you to Jesus, then the gift of Eternal Life would be yours. Think about that—Life Hereafter. Death Defeated. Not only that, but all your sins would be washed clean. Now give me one—just one—good reason why you shouldn’t accept the Greatest Gift You Will Ever Receive.”
I finally met his gaze.
“Because it’s all ridiculous,” I said.
And then I turned and fled.
TWENTY-FIVE
IDIOT, IDIOT, IDIOT.
This was my line of thought all the way back to Calgary. How could I have been so stupid, so naive, to think that His Holiness wouldn’t have checked up on me? The guy was a hyperambitious televangelist-in-waiting. As such, he was very protective of his image. So naturally he was going to make a phone call t
o verify that Nancy Lloyd was who she said she was.
What made this entire incident five times worse was the fact that Coursen was no slouch when it came to targeting other people’s weaknesses. The bastard read me like an open goddamn book—and knew exactly what buttons to push to make me squirm.
“On the contrary I feel desperately sad for you. Sad because it’s so evident that you are harboring an anger and a grief that has turned you against yourself and against the world. And sad because you are, I’m sure, alone and without love . . . and yet you reject He who loves you more than anyone else.”
If He loved me, none of this would have ever happened. But to say that would have been to engage in a dialogue about Emily—and that would have been manna from heaven for an evangelist like Coursen. The Bereaved Mother Searching for Healing. As it turned out he still caught me out in a major lie and so brilliantly turned the tables on me that he left me feeling as if I was completely crazy . . . which perhaps was the case.
Idiot, idiot, idiot. Getting obsessed about the persecution of a sad loser who might have been framed, but who—given all the conflicting evidence surrounding the case—might also be very guilty.
And now I wondered if Coursen had managed to write down the license plate on my car and had contacted the cops who, in turn, had contacted Avis Rent-a-Car, who, in turn, had informed them that the car had been rented to a certain Jane Howard of . . .
Idiot, idiot, idiot . . .
But maybe he’d do the Christian thing and let the whole matter drop. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . I’d get away with it.
That night, back home in my little apartment, I couldn’t sleep. When I decided that the night was lost, I walked down 17th Avenue to an all-night internet café and googled everything I could about the Rev. Larry Coursen. Most of the articles were connected with the Ivy MacIntyre case, but I did find the Townsend Assemblies of God official website, which had many glossy pictures of Coursen leading services, laying healing hands on wheelchair-bound parishioners, and posing with his wife Bonnie—a very blond, rather plump woman—and their two daughters, Heather and Katie. Under this photograph was the caption: “Family Is All!” There was also a biographical sketch of Coursen, talking about how he had been raised on the “Plains of Saskatchewan,” attended the Liberty Bible College in Virginia, then returned home to Canada to “begin his ministry.” After brief stints at Assemblies of God churches in Dundas and Toronto, “he was personally chosen to create a new ministry in Townsend, Alberta. Starting with only ten parishioners, the dynamic, inspirational leadership of Larry Coursen has resulted in a twenty-fold increase in membership and a Major Spiritual Impact in this corner of the Canadian West.”
From Toronto to Townsend. The powers that be in the hierarchy of his church must have decided he needed to be sent out to pasture. Or maybe they considered him just a little too ambitious too young, and thought a nowhere parish would teach him some necessary humility.
I printed off all the articles on Coursen, then spent the next two hours continuing to google everything else to do with the Ivy MacIntyre case—trying to fill any further gaps I had in my knowledge. All my predawn research turned up little that was new, bar those details on Coursen and the discovery that the Regina woman who had accused George MacIntyre of sexual abuse also had a previous conviction for prostitution. Her name was Chrissy Ely—and, according to the Regina Journal, she later rescinded her accusation against him, saying it was all a misunderstanding. (Now why wasn’t that more widely reported—and what made her have this volte-face?)
By the time I left the internet café it was nearly seven a.m. I gathered up all my printed papers. I zipped up my parka. I stepped out into the cold and, head down against the wind, pushed my way home, determined to finally get some sleep.
But as I approached the doorway of my apartment building I saw an unwelcome presence outside: a police car. Part of me wondered if I should execute a crisp about-face and get the hell out of there. Another part of me knew: There’s no escaping this. There were two uniformed officers in the car. They both got out as I approached.
“Jane Howard?” the first one said to me.
I nodded, wondering how they knew it was me. I could see them sizing me up, gauging whether I was going to try and do a runner or struggle or . . .
“This is not an arrest, Ms. Howard,” the second one said as they moved to either side of me, effectively hemming me in. “However, you are wanted for questioning as regards an incident yesterday in Townsend. You can refuse to submit to questioning now, but that will entail one of us remaining with you at your apartment while we secure a court order to have you formally questioned by the RCMP. You can also request legal counsel be present during the questioning. That will also entail you being held by us until your counsel—or one appointed for you by the province—arrives. Or you can simply expedite matters by coming with us now.”
Did I really have much choice in the matter? I wanted it all behind me, so I told them: “I’ll come now.”
“That’s the smart decision,” the first cop said, lightly taking my arm and escorting me to their waiting patrol car.
They drove me to an unmarked office block on the edge of the Central Business District. We plunged into an underground car park, pulling in near an elevator. The policemen hadn’t spoken to me during the drive from my apartment. Once we came to a stop, the cop who wasn’t driving got out and opened the door for me. We waited for the other cop to get out. He punched a code onto a keypad. A door clicked open. Lightly touching my arm, the other cop informed me I should move forward.
Up we rode four flights. When we reached this floor, I was directed to turn right, then left. We came to a set of steel doors. Another code was punched into a keypad. Another click. I was ushered inside a small room with a steel table and three chairs. There was a mirror on one wall. I’d seen enough cop shows on television to know this was one of those mirrors that allowed people on the other side to observe the proceedings.
“Have a seat,” the first cop said. “Sergeant Clark will be in to see you in a moment.”
I sat down.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
“Black coffee with one sugar would be great,” I said, also thinking: I can’t imagine they always treat criminals this way. Maybe they’d decided I wasn’t a criminal, just a loon.
The door shut behind the cop. I took off my parka and attempted to slump into the steel-backed chair, the completely sleepless night suddenly hitting me. But these chairs were designed to keep their occupants rigid and upright. Even though I was profoundly tired, I did have to reflect on the fact that I had landed myself in a police station . . . an act of profound stupidity on my part.
The door opened again. A man in his early fifties came in. He was tall and had the build of an aging football player. His suit was gray, his tie an indifferent collection of stripes. And he was holding a steaming plastic cup.
“Ms. Howard? Sergeant William Clark of the RCMP. Here’s your coffee.”
“Thank you,” I said, accepting it.
“I’m not planning to detain you here, as long as the matter at hand can be resolved quickly . . . which, in turn, will depend on the answers you give me.”
“I’ll help you in any way I can, sir.”
He studied me as I said that, gauging my sincerity, then nodded his approval. During the drive over to what I now knew was a federal police building, I had made the decision to come clean with the cops. I would talk to them directly. I would not make excuses. I would tell them an approximation of the truth—because, after all, what is the actual truth in any situation like this? Sipping my weak black coffee—and ruminating again on the thought that a policeman actually offered it to me—I decided: They’ve had a complaint from His Holiness and they’ve had to investigate it. If I tell them what they want to know—as the sergeant informed me—they might just be done with me in an hour or two.
He asked me to confirm my full name, my address, my date of
birth, my place of birth . . .
“So you’re American?” he asked. I explained the Canadian passport—and how long I had been resident in the country. I sensed he knew all this already, but wanted to see how I would respond to his questions.
“This is not a formal interview,” he said. “You’re not under arrest. But we need to know why you were impersonating a newspaper reporter to gain access to individuals associated with the Ivy MacIntyre case.”
“Because I became obsessed with it.”
“And why did you become so obsessed with it?”
“Because I lost my only child in January last year.”
I articulated that sentence flatly, without emotion. Sergeant Clark looked down into a folder open on the table. I glanced over and saw there were clippings about Emily’s death on the top of the pile. He too had used Google to find out about me.
“In the wake of your daughter’s death, did you suffer from any psychological breakdown?”
“I’m sure you have all that in the file,” I replied.
He said nothing, but again looked down at his papers. Had he run a check on me already and found out that my accident was on a national police database down south? No doubt about it. No doubt at all.
“Now, I am given to understand that you hold a doctorate from Harvard and a very responsible job at the Central Public Library here in Calgary. I only spoke a few minutes ago with your boss, Mrs. Woods.”
“Did you tell her why I was being held by the police?”
“Yes, I did—even though, I need to reiterate, you are not being held by us.”
That’s the end of my job then.
“I did explain to Mrs. Woods that what you had done wasn’t criminal, but could become so were you to repeat such behavior again.”
“I won’t repeat it.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Speaking directly, the public prosecutor could—were we to approach him—make a case against you for impersonation, for perverting the course of justice, and for wasting police time. We’ve expended a good half day on all this; time that could be better used trying to track down the individual or individuals responsible for Ivy MacIntyre’s disappearance.”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Page 116
