by Tim McGregor
There were two chairs in the kitchen but the table was gone. Half the cupboards were empty and almost all of the decorations. Certainly anything that was nice or of good quality was taken down and packed up, shipped away. Christina was the artist, the one who had taste and style. He couldn’t match colours to save his life. The only framed picture he had owned when they moved in together had been a Hopper painting called Nighthawks. Christina had laughed at it when he showed her and promptly banned it from the house, declaring it pedestrian in the extreme. He didn’t know exactly what that meant, art appreciation not being a prominent part of his make-up. He hung it in the garage and left the decorating to her.
Placing a bag of take-out on the counter, he looked at the two chairs and wondered where he would eat. The chairs looked lost and sad without the table. He turned on the radio for company but the chattering nonsense of the DJ was so grating that he turned it off again. The fridge, he learnt upon opening it, was like the rest of the place. Emptied. Condiments on the door shelves, a carton of eggs and a few bottles of pale ale.
Snapping one open, he crossed into the equally ransacked living room. She had taken the sofa but left the love seat. He wondered if that was meant to be ironic. Or maybe cruel, since she knew it was too small for his frame and how he hated it. He sat down on it but the back wasn’t tall enough to lean against and the seat was too short for his legs. He got up again, sipped the beer and decided he would put the damn thing out on the curb the next garbage day.
Crossing to the back of the house, he hit the wall switch and entered the studio. Or what had been her studio. It was back to being a plain old sunroom now. This room had been cleaned out completely, save for a tidy pile of debris swept into the centre of the floor. A few last things were still push-pinned to the wall. A vintage postcard from Arizona and a photograph of Emily Carr torn from a magazine. A small card with a picture of a fox on the front. He opened it up. It was from him to her, an apology for something he had messed up a long time ago. The screw-up in question wasn’t mentioned in the card itself and he couldn’t remember what it was now. He tore down the postcard and the Carr photo and tossed them into the pile on the floor.
The studio still smelled of solvents and paint and linseed oil but underneath that was the smell of her. Smell triggered memory so he turned out the light and stepped out of the room, closing the door after him.
The take-out from the Owl was cold by the time he got to it. Lacking a kitchen table, he took it out to the backyard and ate it at the patio table. Mercifully, nothing had been touched out here. The night had turned chilly and, alongside the cold dinner and beer, he shivered in the damp patio chair. Was this to be his future? Eating cold take-out on mis-matched furniture?
His phone went off. He answered it. “Mockler.”
“It’s your lucky day, detective,” rattled the voice on the other line. “Mine too.”
“Tapeworm,” groaned Mockler. “This better be something real, cuz if you’re trying to shake me down with another sob story, I will crack your skull open.”
“Nah, man. It’s the real deal.”
Mockler put the carton of short ribs on the table and pushed it away. “Okay. I’ll bite.”
“The white whale,” chittered the informant. “He walked right past me.”
Mockler sat up. “Gantry? Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Where are you?”
“Outside Hamilton General. You want I should follow him?”
“No. Stay put. I’ll be right there.”
Mockler dropped the cell back into his pocket and turned for the back door but then stopped. He ran to the garage and disappeared inside. Emerging a minute later, he carried something under his arm into the house.
The eastern wall of the living room was the widest and, for that reason, the one where Christina had hung her favourite piece of art. An original Basquiat, framed and under glass. It was long gone now but the nail it had been suspended from remained in the wall. Sliding the picture frame against it, he hung his print of Nighthawks and took a moment to admire it before hurrying out the door.
~
“You sure it was him?”
“Do I wear glasses?” Tapeworm rubbed the knuckles on his left hand where John Gantry had once broken two of his fingers. “I’d know that son of a bitch anywhere.”
They stood outside the hospital looking down Victoria Street. Mockler kept his distance from the police informant. The man reeked of something that had crawled up out of a sewer grate. Which, when Mockler thought about it, was why the man was such a keen gatherer of intelligence. Tapeworm slithered through the worst kinds of social strata.
“Which way did he go?”
Tapeworm chucked his chin in a southerly direction. “Toward Barton.”
Mockler cast his gaze at the intersection. Billie lived on that street. They were only six blocks from her building.
“Aren’t you gonna go after him?”
“No. But you’re gonna tail him.”
Tapeworm turned his head to spit onto the sidewalk. “Tail him? The man’s a ghost. How am I supposed to shadow him?”
“By being in the right spot when he pops up,” Mockler said. “You know the Hellfire club? The one no one’s supposed to know about.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Don’t jerk me around.” The club he was referring to was an organization of well-heeled Hamiltonians that were into the occult, based loosely on the infamous Hellfire Club of eighteen century England. Mockler had been doing his homework since the last time the slippery Englishman had been spotted in town. The club was known to be frequented by Gantry. The problem was that the club itself moved about the city, never occupying the same location for very long. “You know the one I mean.”
“I don’t want nothing to do with those freaks.”
“Too bad,” said Mockler. “Find out where the club is meeting now. And set up camp.”
Tapeworm scratched at his armpit. “That’s gonna take some time. Better be worth it.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
The police informant muttered under his breath and shuffled away. The detective turned around to take in the broad side of Hamilton General Hospital. The same hospital where both he and Billie had been stitched up after running into that freakshow cult at the Murder House. It was also the same hospital where Billie’s friend was recovering from a serious stab wound, her survival uncertain. Tapeworm had spotted Gantry inside.
No way in hell that was just a coincidence.
After finding the right floor, he identified himself to a nurse working the graveyard shift and was shown to Kaitlin Grainger’s room. He thanked the nurse and stepped into the room.
Kaitlin remained as he’d last seen her, still and unconscious in the bed. The lighting in the room was dim but he could tell that her colour hadn’t improved since his last visit. She was pale.
The nurse entered after him and bent over the bed, checking on the patient.
“Is she all right?” he asked.
“Stable. No change.”
“But nothing’s been tampered with? All the tubes and stuff are fine.”
The nurse double-checked the drip tube and the monitors. “All as it should be.”
“Did you see anyone come in here tonight? A man, about six-three, skinny?”
“No one but me has been in here all night,” she said, checking the dressing one more time. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I’ll need a few minutes, if that’s okay with you.”
The nurse told him to take all the time he needed and left the room. Mockler stood near the door and slowly scanned the room. Nothing looked out of place or even disturbed. The flowers in the vase were wilted and drooping. What had Gantry been doing in here?
He checked the bathroom but there was nothing there. A toothbrush in a glass. He looked over the contents on the bedside table but saw nothing unusual. Turning to the young woman in the bed, he could see noth
ing out of place. Kaitlin’s hair had been brushed by someone and folded back from her face. An idea occurred to him. Taking her chin, he turned her head to one side then the other.
And there it was.
A small mark behind her left ear, tucked under the lobe. A symbol drawn with what he supposed was permanent marker. It resembled a crude cross but the lines were curved and one end of the cross-tree was an arrowhead. He had seen a mark like this once before, tucked behind the left ear of a dead woman in a tenement house. That was the first time he had crossed paths with John Gantry. He hadn’t a clue what the symbol meant, just more of the limey’s craziness. Had he snuck into the hospital, past all the staff at the nursing station, just to scribble this little mark on her?
Realizing he should know better than to parse anything that crazy bastard did, he glanced up at the window and saw the same symbol there. Barely visible, it had been traced by a finger through the dust on the glass. The bent cross with the arrow point.
He couldn’t help from trying to decipher it. Was the sign on the window meant to be seen from the street, signalling which room the woman was in? He dismissed that idea. The sign on the window was barely visible in the room, let alone from the outside, four floors up. He went over the room again but found no other mark. He scratched his chin and considered what to do next.
Taking a tissue, he cleaned the window, obliterating the mark completely. Then he went to the bathroom to dampen a cloth and he scrubbed the mark from Kaitlin’s skin. Marker is hard to clean and he almost expected the woman to wake up from the exertion he was applying but her eyes remained closed, her breathing slow.
The cloth was stained black by the time he was done but most of the symbol was gone. He tossed the cloth back into the bathroom sink and turned to leave but hesitated.
Was it just his imagination or had it suddenly gotten cold in here?
Chapter 7
“DID YOU FORGET ABOUT Thanksgiving again?”
Billie rolled her eyes to the ceiling. She forgot it every year. Aunt Maggie had called as she was getting ready to leave to ask if she had plans for the long weekend. “Yeah. I did.”
“It’s almost tradition,” Maggie said on the other end of the line. “I haven’t planned anything. I just wondered if you remembered.”
Unlike the American tradition, Canucks celebrated Thanksgiving in early October and, every year since she had moved away from home, it always snuck up on Billie. Coming before Halloween, it just always seemed wrong to her. This year had proved no different, even though the holiday was clearly marked on the calendar in Billie’s kitchen.
“Things have been a little crazy around here,” Billie said. “I haven’t even thought about it.”
“I know. How is Kaitlin?”
“She’s the same.”
Maggie sighed. “Well, at least she’s not gotten worse. That’s something.”
“I suppose,” Billie said unconvincingly.
“It must be awful to see her in that state.”
“It’s scary, how lifeless she seems.” Billie eased into a chair and pulled on her shoes. “I’m just on my way to see her now.”
“Send her my love. Did my flowers get there?”
“They did. They were beautiful.”
“So,” Maggie said, “about Thanksgiving. Do you want to come here? I thought about inviting Dean from next door. I don’t know if his son is coming or not but this will be his first holiday without Barb.”
Billie leaned back, thinking about Maggie’s house out near the beach. “I’d love to come home but I can’t. Not with Kaitlin in the hospital.”
“No, of course not. Why don’t I come to you? Is your stove working?”
“You don’t have to come all the way out here, Mags. I know you hate city traffic.”
“I’d like to see you, honey. It feels like it’s been too long.” There was a pause and then her aunt went on. “I’ll come up Sunday morning and we’ll cook. How does that sound?”
“Great. But do you want to cook a whole bird if it’s just the two of us?”
“I’ll get a small one. Invite the ladies over. I’d love to see them too.”
“Okay,” Billie said. “I should run. Love you.”
Her aunt returned the love and Billie hung up and headed for the door. The thought of seeing aunt Maggie was the first nice thing to happen in an otherwise terrible week. She was actually looking forward to it this year.
~
Clutching a fresh bouquet of carnations and pansies, Billie checked in at the nursing station to see if there was any change in Kaitlin’s condition. When she was told it was the same, she reminded herself what Maggie had said about it not being worse. Crossing to Kaitlin’s room, she found both Tammy and Jen already there.
“Hey,” Billie said. “I thought it was my turn to sit with her?”
“Could be,” Tammy said. “I’ve completely lost track of the schedule.”
Billie looked at her other friend. “How are you feeling, Jen?”
“Tired,” answered Jen. “I didn’t sleep much.”
Billie looked back down the hallway. “Is Kyle here?”
“We haven’t seen him.” Tammy made room on the table for Billie’s flowers. “That was quite the blowout he had.”
Jen glanced quickly at Billie before looking away. She didn’t say anything.
“The nurse said there’s no news,” Billie said. “Kaitlin’s gonna keep us guessing, huh?”
Tammy laughed. “Are you kidding? She loves the attention.”
The tiny joke seemed to lighten the mood a little. Billie perked up. “Hey, what are you guys doing for Thanksgiving? Maggie’s coming to town. Why don’t you come for dinner Sunday?”
“I gotta see my folks,” Tammy said. “That’s too bad. I miss Mags.”
“Jen?” Billie tried not to sound too hopeful.
“Oh, uhm, I think we have plans,” Jen said, her fingers fussing with the tissue in her hand. “With Adam’s family.”
Everyone in the room knew it to be a white lie, probably even the unconscious woman in the bed, but Billie let it slide.
Tammy reached down to pat Kaitlin’s hand. “She’s cold again. Should we get her a blanket?”
“I’ll ask the nurse,” said Jen, standing up. “I need to get to the shop.”
“I should go too,” Tammy said, checking the time. She turned to Billie. “How long are you staying?”
“The morning. Maybe longer.”
“Okay. We’ll give you a call later.” Tammy gave a wave as she rushed to catch Jen. Jen hadn’t even said goodbye.
Billie pulled the chair closer to the bed and plunked down, trying not be angry. What was Jen’s problem? She’d been so distant this past week but now she’d been downright rude. What, Billie wondered, had she done to piss her off so bad? She couldn’t think of anything besides Jen’s stance on her abilities. Jen dismissed any such notion, and had since the start. It had to be something more than that.
“Heads up,” said a nurse sweeping into the room. She tossed a blanket to Billie and hurried on.
“Thanks!” Billie called after her. She unfurled the blanket and draped it over her friend. Smoothing it down, she touched Kaitlin’s arm and felt the chilled skin. The girl was freezing.
The chill spread rapidly through the room, like a window thrown open in February. Then a sound hissed from somewhere. It took a moment before she realized it was coming from Kaitlin. Her jaw had slacked, leaving her mouth open. The hissing issued from Kaitlin’s throat as if she had sprung a slow leak.
The woman’s eyelids rolled back. The whites of Kaitlin’s eyes were blemished with burst blood vessels.
Billie leapt from the chair, squeezing her friend’s hand. “Kaitlin?”
The hissing sound shifted, becoming a wet gurgle.
“Kaitlin, it’s Billie. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand, honey. Do something.” Billie turned to the open door and hollered for a nurse to come. When she looked back, Kaitlin’s lip
s were moving, but something wasn’t right.
The voice was all wrong.
…Billie…
Billie startled back to get away but Kaitlin’s hand sprang to life, locking onto her wrist.
…did you think I forgot about you…
She tugged but Kaitlin wouldn’t let go. Or, the thing inside Kaitlin wouldn’t. “No,” she gasped. “Leave her alone.”
…we’re late, we’re late… said the voice hissing from Kaitlin’s throat. …for a very important date….
Thrusting her foot against the bed frame, she pushed off and broke free of the grip. Tumbling back, Billie collided straight into the nurse rushing in to see what all the hollering was about.
~
Finding the club hadn’t been all that difficult. Getting past the doorman was another story.
“Not gonna happen,” said the brute standing outside an old industrial building on Wilson. “Now get outta here. You’re making the place look shitty.”
Tapeworm seethed, even though he knew the doorman was right. He didn’t fit in with the posh crowd inside the club. Not in appearance anyway, with the labels on their clothes or the finery of their jewelry. Perversion and degradation, well, there he could match any of them.
“Look,” Tapeworm pleaded, “I’m not crashing, I’ll stay out of the way. I’m just looking for a friend of mine.”
“I won’t tell you again, bud. Clear off before you’re carted off in pieces.” The doorman moved forward, forcing Tapeworm to back away. “Go.”
Backing up, Tapeworm heard a vehicle rumble up to his left. A black Escalade pulled to the curb before the entrance and when the doors swung open, a cacophony of heavy music blared out. Angry death metal. Tapeworm watched as two men exited the big vehicle. Their appearance matched the music blasting from the speakers and Tapeworm wondered if the new arrivals weren’t a band set to play at the club tonight.
