Grave Situation (14 page)

Tonight, she read over her final
entry. Deciding to add a few lines, she took out the
pen:

Another sleepless night. I’m doing
my best to get through this. So many things on my mind right now.
The Devil seems to be still knocking on my door and he’s
relentless. I know that’s my problem. So many times I just sit and
stare at the phone. So many times I fight with myself not to pick
it up and make that call. Trixy, I must remind myself, it’s all for
her. One day I may look back at this period in my life and be proud
of myself.

When she finished writing, Cathy
closed the diary and put it back in the drawer. She shut out the
light and slipped under the covers again. Still, sleep wouldn’t
come. She tossed and turned until daybreak.

At 7:45, she got up, padded to the
window, and opened the blinds. The morning sun spilled into the
room with such intensity, it made her squint. Quietly, so not to
awaken Trixy, she pulled a bathrobe from a hanger in the closet.
Then she went out to the hallway where she stopped cold. Something
was out of place. Trixy’s bedroom door was open.

Odd. Her sister usually slept until
after lunch with her door closed.

As Cathy looked inside the room,
she saw the bed was still made. No one had been in it. Around her,
the apartment felt still, silent.

Worried, Cathy went to the living
room and called Trixy’s cell phone. After several rings, a recorded
voice told her the person she was calling was not answering or was
out of the service area.

Strange,
Cathy thought.
If Trixy
had her phone shut off, it would go directly to her voice
mail.

All at once, she lost her appetite
for breakfast. She refused to imagine her older sister in trouble.
Not the strong woman she had always admired. Impossible.

By ten-thirty, Cathy had called
eight times. This was unlike Trixy. Cathy began pacing through the
apartment, trying to keep tragic thoughts at bay. She had never
felt so alone, so afraid.

She walked to the window in the
living room and watched the street.

Maybe a man had paid Trixy to spend
some extra hours with him. It happened before. But in those
instances, Trixy had always called. Maybe she had simply forgotten
this time.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded outside
in the corridor. They were light, a woman’s. Cathy hurried to the
door and put an eye to the peephole. Through it, she saw the convex
image of the elderly neighbor across the hallway, coming home in
her Sunday dress. Cathy felt herself sag with disappointment. She
leaned her back against the door. The plain clock on the kitchen
wall read ten past eleven.

There had to be something she could
do. She refused to call the police. Trixy would hate it if she
did.

Come noon, however, the fearful
young woman felt she had no choice.

18

Halifax, May 9

8:30 p.m.

Diminishing light filtered through
the window as Cathy finished her story.

Allan watched her in silence while
he constructed a framework of questions.

“Is Trixy your
sister’s
real
name?”

Cathy stared at
her hands. “Her real name is Cynthia. She legally changed it
to
Trixy
to piss
off Mom and Dad.”

“When was this?”

“Three years ago, maybe. Just
after she started into prostitution.”

“When you say
‘
to piss off Mom and
Dad’
, I gather there are problems between
them?”

Cathy emitted a long breath. “Where
would I begin?”

She rose and turned on an overhead
light. For a long time, she stood with her back to him, arms
folded. She seemed very far away. Allan sensed other issues at play
here.

“Should I talk to them?” he
asked.

When Cathy turned around, he saw
the anguish in her face. She took a step toward him, and then
abruptly stopped.

“No!” she
blurted. “You
mustn’t
tell them about this.”

At once, she put a hand to her
mouth. Surprise registered in her green eyes. Perhaps, Allan
thought, at her sudden outburst. She seemed to stare through him
for a brief time. Then she turned sideways, looking at the floor.
In the silence her body was stiff and still.

Allan scrutinized her. To him,
Cathy Ambré had the troubled look of someone who internalized a lot
of personal conflicts. Reflexively, his eyes were drawn back to the
needle tracks in her arms.

“Your parents deserve to know
about their daughter,” he said at last.

“Why?” Suddenly, her voice
changed. It became low, reflective. “They don’t know her or even me
for that matter. We have our lives, they have theirs.”

“Both
you and your sister don’t get along with your
parents?”

Cathy shook her head a fraction.
“It’s mostly my father.” She faced Allan, averting her eyes from
his. “He had high expectations of us. But neither one of us exactly
lived up to them.” Her eyes seemed distant, sad. Her voice took on
a despairing mood. “When Dad found out Trixy was into prostitution,
he tried to give her money to stop. Then pretty much disowned her
when she wouldn’t. They’ve been on the outs ever since.

“My turn came a few months ago
when he found out about my problems.” She winced, as if wounded.
Then distractedly, she glanced toward the door. “My father put me
out. I made a bad choice and he put me out for it.”

As Allan listened, he heard
something other than her words—a trace of embarrassment buried in
her tone.

Bad choice? Drugs?

A flush, he saw, had crossed her
face. He wondered if Cathy’s father had given up all hope on his
older daughter, only to put all of his stakes in the other
one?

Allan tried to imagine what it
would do to him if Brian ended up on drugs. Somehow, he couldn’t.
The only certainty was that despite whatever trouble his son would
face in life, his father would be there for him.

“I’m sure your
father loves you very much,” he said at last. “It was probably hard
for him to do what he did. Sometimes allowing your child to hit
rock bottom is the only way they’ll seek help for themselves. If in
fact, they truly
want
help.”

Cathy gave him a long contemplative
look. Her mouth opened slightly. She seemed to parse her
thoughts.

Allan waited out her silence. He
sensed her absorbing what he had just said. For a strange instant,
he expected her to tell him something. But then she quickly looked
away and the moment passed. She sat down again and leaned back in
the sofa, as if deflated.

“I don’t need any help,” she
muttered, shaking her head.

All too
familiar
, Allan thought. The inability of
an addict to admit they have a problem or to see the impact their
illness has on the lives around them. Part of him wanted to grab
her by the shoulders, make her listen to his own experiences about
the women like herself, even kids, he had seen throwing their lives
away.

“Do you see your parents at all?”
he asked.

“Mom calls. Once she stopped over.
Dad never does.” She gazed at the coffee table now. “I know he’s
ashamed.”

“Why would a father be ashamed of
his child?”

She looked up, a fresh look of hurt
in her eyes. “I messed up things in my life. Big time.”

“What happened to you?”

He knew the question was
perfunctory, the answer already obvious to him.

Cathy was silent for a moment.
“I’ll keep the story short. I got mixed up with a guy I shouldn’t
have. We were both in university. He seemed like a good person. But
like Trixy used to say, ‘most men seem nice on the surface. It’s
once you get to know them that tells the real story.’

“I found out later he was deep
into drugs. Marijuana. Hash. Heroin. Being young and naïve, I soon
began experimenting. Then found that I couldn’t stop. The drugs
left me in a state of mind I had never experienced before. Nothing
else mattered. My grades soon began to slip. Then my
attendance.

“I went to my boyfriend’s room one
night and found him in bed with someone else.” Her nose wrinkled.
“The look on their faces was priceless. Shock. Guilt.
Embarrassment. Caught with their hands in the cookie
jar.

“I was speechless and sick to my
stomach. He was stuttering through an explanation when I threw his
room key on the bed and walked out.

“I lost him and won a drug habit I
couldn’t kick. Everything seemed to spiral out of control for me
after that. I never finished my final year. It’s surprising how
fast things can happen.”

The simple words expressed the
grief of a life scarred by mistakes not yet resolved. Allan felt
sorry for her.

“I noticed the track marks,” he
said.

Cathy seemed to flinch. As if by
reflex, she touched the scars in the crooks of her arms. When she
spoke, her voice was soft. “I finally kicked the habit. I don’t
take anything now.”

“You just up and quit?”

Cathy’s stare was as level as her
voice. “Yes.”

It came to Allan that something was
being withheld, something she didn’t want him to know. She was
speaking with a cop after all.

“Are you receiving
treatment?”

Cathy shook her head. “I went cold
turkey.”

“Still have the
cravings?”

“Yes.” She looked down, fidgeting
again. “It was hard at first, but the cravings aren’t as bad as
they were. Some days are better than others.

“I have to do this for myself and
for Trixy. I know what a burden I’ve been on her. She’s been my
savior through this ordeal.”

“It’s still hard to do without
professional help.” Allan said. “Even a doctor never treats his own
illness.”

Cathy squared her
shoulders and looked him in the face. “I can do it. I
will
do
it.”

Allan detected conviction in her
tone. But her eyes, fixed on the coffee table again, revealed her
doubts.

“This isn’t really about me,” she
said, looking sideways at him. “This is about my missing
sister.”

Yes
, Allan thought glumly.
I guess it is.

He tried to detach himself, become
an investigator again. “When you left your parents, you came to
live with your sister?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you have a job?”

Another
nod.
“Had
one. I
worked part-time at the Harbor View Lodge as a
chambermaid.”

“Did you ever have any problems
with a dealer?”

“No.”

“Do you owe any of them
money?”

Again, Cathy shook her head and
then a look of wonder crossed her face. “Do you think I had
something to do with Trixy’s disappearance? That a dealer did
something to her because of me?”

“You must understand, I have to
explore all avenues. Nothing personal.”

Cathy’s lips became a tight line.
“No. I don’t owe money to any of them.”

“Vice has
already found out that Trixy was dropped off by
Call A Cab
at ten forty-seven at the
corner of South and Barrington. Do you know if that’s the location
she usually takes up shop?”

“Yes, it is.”

Cathy’s eyes suddenly became moist.
She rose from her seat, walked to the kitchen, and pulled a Kleenex
from a box on the table.

When she returned, she said. “I
know something happened to her. When I call her cell, it says the
person I am calling is not answering or is out of the service area.
If she had her phone shut off, it would go directly to her voice
mail.”

“I’m sure Vice will be checking to
see if any calls were made on her phone since her disappearance and
in what areas those calls, if any, were made from.” Allan looked up
from his spiral. “How close are you and Trixy?”

“Very close.” Cathy sat down
again, dabbing at an eye with the Kleenex. “Why?”

“So, if she were having personal
problems, she would confide in you?”

“Definitely.” She summoned a
prideful look. “We’re best friends. We never keep
secrets.”

“She’s closest to you?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, Allan observed her
with quiet scrutiny.

At last, he asked, “Are you full
siblings?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Any other brothers and
sisters?”

“No.”

“Is it possible that your sister
went to a friend’s house? Have you done a telephone
search?”