Cut to the Chase (28 page)

“Willem had an…” Hollis paused. “Had” wasn't exactly the right verb. She should say that two men from the Russian mob kicked the shit out of him and left him for dead, but this wasn't the time, particularly with Jack there. “…an accident and he's going to stay with me tonight.” She hoped her tone conveyed the sense that the circumstances, however bizarre, were perfectly okay. “His ribs are damaged, so he can't use the railing, and Jack is helping him,” she said.

“Willem? You did say Willem?”

“Yes.” Silly in the circumstances, but she added, “Willem, this is Candace.”

Candace must have figured it wasn't the time to comment on Willem's role in their lives or on his arrival. “It's a good thing Jack was home. Do you need me to help too?” she said.

“We're doing okay. Slow and steady,” Hollis said.

“Glad to meet you, Willem, even if the circumstances aren't the best. Hollis, I have mac and cheese left from our dinner. I'll bring a dish up once you're settled,” she said and returned to her apartment.

“Your landlady?” Willem asked.

“Yes.” Hollis wasn't about to talk about their friendship. They continued to sit on the floor, waiting for Willem to signal his readiness to continue.

“I'm the downstairs tenant,” Jack said. “I'm here because Candace's brother, Danson, is a lacrosse player and scout for the Toronto team, and he persuaded his sister to allow me stay here.” Why he needed to explain this to Willem was beyond Hollis. Maybe he felt he should make conversation.

“Have you heard any more about Danson? Has anyone figured out where he's gone? The team needs him,” Jack said to Hollis.

Damn. Willem might make the connections if Jack didn't shut up.

“You okay, Willem? Can we do the last flight? I'm sure we're keeping Jack from something important,” Hollis said.

“No, seriously, something must have happened to him. I mean guys go AWOL if the loan sharks are after them or they want to run away with a woman, but Danson was keen about this year's team. I can't see him doing an end run like this.”

“It is strange,” Hollis agreed.

“Have you filed a missing persons report?” Jack persisted.

“Jack, we have. Nothing has turned up. Now let's get Willem upstairs.”

“Missing person,” Willem mumbled.

The jig was up.

G
ood
thing we wore the vests. She could have done you serious harm,” Ian said as Rhona straightened her clothes and collected herself.

“Who knew she was that strong,” Rhona's jaw set in a hard line. “Enough pussyfooting around. Time to take the place apart.”

Hands cuffed behind her back, Katerina slumped in the chair, talking to herself exclusively in Russian.

“My god. I'm sorry. I never think she attack you. She crazy,” Spike said. “I watch her for you.” He patted his mother's shoulder and said something that sounded reassuring.

Katerina paid no attention. She'd retreated to another reality.

Hand still on his mother's shoulder, his gaze moved from one detective to the other. “She had really hard time when she came to Canada,” he said. “She had profession in Russia. Here she clean houses. Then my brother was killed. He her star, her hope for future. She go crazy.”

Despite the attack, Rhona felt sorry for the wreck huddled in the chair. She always wanted to know the back story—how people got to be the way they were.

“Was she right? Would your brother have been a success?”

Spike patted his mother's shoulder again. “Who can know? I not think so. He want quick money.” He sighed. “He think crime pays. No, he not her hope for future, but she believe.”

“Let's do our search,” Ian said.

They left Spike talking gently to Katerina.

The kitchen, messy and stacked with dishes and half-eaten food, told them nothing except that Katerina was a poor housekeeper. The dining half of the living room held a large table, almost obliterated by piles of books and papers, baskets of wool. One corner was devoted to picture framing. At least six deep shadowbox frames were piled precariously one on top of the other. A hammer, staple gun, glue and tape lined up on the edge of a rectangle of oilcloth provided an indication that Katerina was sometimes tidy and methodical.

“Seems like she was in the picture-framing business,” Ian said. He allowed his gaze to roam the walls of the combined living room dining room. “She didn't hang them here.”

Rhona opened a sideboard crammed with dishes and dusty glasses. Books were piled on the floor.

“What you looking for?” Spike asked from the living room where he'd pulled a chair close to his mother and sat watching the two detectives.

“This and that,” Rhona said.

Katerina's head snapped up, and her body tensed as if she was about to spring from her chair. “Secret police take everything.” She raised her voice. “No good. I have no money. Nothing to take. Thieves. Secret police are thieves.”

“Katerina.” Rhona scrunched down until she was on eye level with Katerina. “Katerina, do you have something you'd like to tell us?”

“Tell you?” Katerina repeated and smiled her chilling smile. “You find out. I not have to tell.” She smiled again and dropped her head. “You find,” she said and reverted to Russian.

“What's she saying?” asked Ian.

Spike cocked his head to one side and leaned close to his mother. He listened for some moments before he lifted his gaze to Rhona. “She not making much sense. She keep saying rhyme that has to do with numbers and colours.”

“Can you translate?” Ian said.

Spike listened again. “One for one, red for you, two is more, green for go, three four, three four, purple blue, purple blue, never a gun, never run…” he stopped. “I not understand the rest.”

Rhona suspected she knew exactly what the rhyme was about. She hoped she was wrong. “We'll make a quick survey.”

Ian opened the bedroom door, stepped in and stopped as if he'd smacked into a wall. “Oh, my god,” he said.

Rhona, following behind, repeated, “Oh, my god,” and added, “trophy cases. She was making trophy cases. Like a big game hunt.”

“She wasn't finished,” Ian said.

“That's why there are several finished boxes and the materials to make more on the dining room table.”

“They're pretty, in a macabre way.”

Rhona regarded the black-framed shadow boxes lined up on the wall. Each held a similar composition.

On a roughly painted red background, knitting needles crossed at right angles, precisely dividing the space into four squares. A cardboard figure with outstretched arms was affixed to this crucifix. Wool wrapped the entire body, except for the head. Each head was black with a white oval mouth opened in a scream and solid white eyes. A scarf of the same wool hung on the right edge of the case.

“That was how she did it. Won their trust. Made them a scarf. Presented it, wound it around their necks and stabbed them with the knitting needles.” She shook her head. “It's ingenious.” A noise behind her caused her to whirl around.

Spike's hands covered his mouth and his eyes, widened with shock, stared at the grotesque montages. He'd gasped when he'd seen what the boxes held and heard their conversation. His gaze moved from the boxes to them and back to the boxes again.

“She killed drug addicts,” Rhona said as she reached for her cell phone and asked for back-up. “We have to take her in,” Rhona said.

They turned to Katerina, who had stopped mumbling and begun a keening, high-pitched wailing as her rocking increased.

“What will happen to her?” Spike said. “She need help.” He shook his head. “I feel bad. I know she need help and not make her go.” He glanced at the knitting that had fallen to the floor when his mother had launched herself at Rhona. Then he swung around and counted the boxes on the wall. “She kill six men? Mother kill six?” His eyes revealed his incredulity, his inability to accept that his mother was a serial killer and, if the boxes on the dining room table told the tale, had intended to kill many more.

“Rats,” Katerina said.

Spike focused on his mother. “What rats?” he said.

“Them,” she said and pointed to the bedroom. “Rats die. I do it. Not sorry.” Having said that, she lifted her head and tried to rise. With her hands pinioned behind her back, she found it impossible. “Help me up,” she said to Spike.

He didn't move.

“Go ahead,” Rhona said.

On her feet, Katerina spoke again. “We go,” she said and moved toward the door.

“What will happen to her?” Spike asked again.

“I can't say for sure. There will be a bail hearing within forty-eight hours, but I'm sure she won't get bail, that she'll be referred for psychiatric assessment. After that, the court will likely send her to mental health court, where they may sentence her to a long-term commitment in the hospital for the criminally insane in Penetanguishene. I don't know for sure, but that is a possibility.”

Spike absorbed the information in silence.

Much later, once they'd delivered Katerina to the cells, the two detectives looked at one another.

“Next question is, was she connected to Gregory's murder and Danson's disappearance?” Ian said.

* * *

Hollis thanked Jack after he'd assisted Willem to her bedroom. Although she realized he wanted to stay and quiz her, to learn what had happened to Willem and what she knew about Danson, she shepherded him to the door.

“Thanks again. We couldn't have made it up here without you.”

“You'll tell me if you have any news about Danson?” Jack said.

She promised and shut the door.

Willem lay with his eyes closed. How serious were his injuries? If his assailants had left him for dead, they must have done serious damage. Internal, invisible injuries could kill him. His pallor frightened her. She should call an ambulance, hand him to professionals who could assess his injuries and take appropriate action. She sighed. If he deteriorated, she would. For now she'd do her best to care for him.

She untied his polished brown brogues, noticing their quality as she carefully removed them. Willem sighed, but his eyes remained shut. His hands lay palms up at his sides. They were marked with traces of blood, as was his face. She gently pulled the folded quilt from beneath his feet and draped it over him. Then she fetched a bowl of warm water and a wash cloth. Without applying pressure, she sponged his hands and face.

His eyes remained closed, but he spoke. “Give me half an hour to recover from Mount Everest, and we'll talk.”

In his condition, he was making jokes! Mount Everest indeed. “We don't need to talk,” Hollis said although she desperately wanted to know what he'd found out about the Super Bug. “Sleep. I'll wake you in an hour to check your pupils.”

Willem's lips curved, but he winced as the gesture pulled on his split lip.

Hollis left the bedroom door slightly ajar to hear if he called out. In her combination living room and workroom she stood in the middle of the room and weighed her options. Before she'd finished, Candace, carrying a covered white bowl and a baby monitor knocked and entered the apartment.

Hollis placed her finger on her lips and nodded toward the bedroom.

Candace plugged in the monitor, and lowered the volume. The repeating CD of soothing lullabies that Elizabeth listened to each night invaded the room.

“Heck of a way to meet Willem,” Candace said in a low voice with a faint smile.

Hollis didn't think it was a moment for levity. Willem was badly hurt, and she felt horribly guilty

“Sorry, I didn't mean to take it lightly,” Candace said.

“I know. I'm being hypersensitive, because if he hadn't offered to help us, he wouldn't be in this state,” Hollis said and pressed her lips together to keep from crying.

“Never mind how you feel. This isn't about you,” Candace said.

The reproach reached its target. It was time to stop thinking about herself.

“You're right. I'm making him open his eyes hourly to see if there's any change. He has a concussion. If he gets worse, I'll call an ambulance.”

“Does what happened to him have any connection to Danson?”

“I don't know. Two guys beat him up because he'd been asking questions about the Super Bug in the wrong places. After it happened, he called me because he'd found out something, but I won't know what it is until he's in better shape.”

Willem moaned.

“Come and tell me if you think he should go to the hospital,” Hollis said.

Both women stood beside the bed. Willem's eyes remained closed. He shifted and groaned, took a deep breath and again adjusted himself with an accompanying moan.

“His poor face. It will be weeks before those black eyes are okay and it doesn't stop hurting him to eat or smile or move his mouth,” Candace whispered.

“It's like weight watchers,” Willem whispered.

“Willem, how can you joke when you must hurt like hell?” Hollis said.

Willem opened his eyes. “I'm glad I'm alive.”

Once again, knowing he believed the thugs had intended to kill him shocked Hollis. She felt like she'd been kicked in the chest—she found it hard to draw a breath. “I'm glad you are too,” she said.

“Were you followed here?” Candace asked. Hollis heard the anxiety, the underlying panic, in her voice.

“Willem did everything he could to make sure he wasn't,” she said reassuringly.

“They thought they'd killed me,” Willem said. He moved slightly and groaned involuntarily. “Damn near did. You don't follow a dead man.”

“If they kicked you until you passed out, you may have internal bleeding. It could kill you, and then they would have succeeded. You don't want that, do you?”