Tell Anna She's Safe (25 page)

The other side of the bed was empty. It was only seven-thirty. She was tempted to try to sleep awhile longer, maybe even just to sit up and do her meditation right there in bed. But she could hear cupboards banging overhead.

She rushed upstairs. A loud announcer on the radio was telling the Joke of the Day.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tim said, turning to smile at her. He looked sleepy too, unshaven, puffy-eyed. “'Bout time you got up; I been up for hours. You got any coffee in the house?”

“What on earth have you got on the radio? Where's
CBC
?”

“I don't want to listen to that crap. I found a decent station.”

“But it's
country.
Since when do you listen to country?”

Tim shrugged. “Just my whole life.”

Her mouth gaped. Who was this man, standing in her kitchen? “But I thought you liked jazz and classical.”

Tim shrugged again. “That's okay too. What do I gotta do to get a coffee?”

She clamped her mouth shut and turned to push the curtains back on the kitchen window. The sun was shining. It was going to be a beautiful day. Tim was allowed to have interests she didn't share. Didn't
know
about. “Let's go over to Bank Street,” she said. “We can find coffee and a croissant.”

She went back downstairs to dress. She would be patient. There was clearly going to be an adjustment period. Meditation and yoga could wait 'til later.

Outside in the sunshine, Tim took her hand. Such a simple thing to bring her such pleasure—a man who liked to hold hands.

At the corner of Bank Street, Tim paused and her hand was suddenly gripped hard. She was about to protest when it dawned on her: he was terrified. Of the traffic, the noise, the busyness. She understood this kind of terror. And she hadn't spent the last fifteen years in a penal institution. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

They walked along the store-lined street. She pointed out the shops—the Fresh Fruit Company, the antique store, the outdoor store where she had bought the mountain bike she'd given to him last night.

Tim was saying something in response, but she didn't hear it. There was a rushing wind in her ears. Because there he was, coming out of the 7-11 with a styrofoam cup: Curtis.

For a moment, she thought she was seeing things. She never ran into Curtis on Bank Street. The coincidence was astounding. And, by the startled look on his face, very real.

For a second they met each other's eyes, sharing the knowledge of knowing each other and knowing that Tim didn't know they did. There was a moment of what seemed to Lucy a silent debate of whether they would let him in on that knowledge. For a second she was happy for Curtis just to see them walking together, holding hands, as he rarely had. She would have been satisfied with that silent gloat if she hadn't seen the wariness in his eyes when she and Tim drew closer. He didn't want to be introduced.

That clinched it.

Neither man offered his hand to the other. Tim looked startled, then equally wary.

She wished she hadn't said anything. What had been fun as knowledge between Curtis and herself was awkward and embarrassing among the three of them.

Curtis raised his coffee, as if in a mocking toast, and got into his truck, parked at the curb right beside them.

Tim stared down the street after the truck. Then he turned back to Lucy, dropped her hand. “I thought you said he didn't live around here.” His voice was angry.

“He doesn't. I never see him around here. He must have stopped on his way to work.” It was ludicrous. She was being defensive—apologizing for Curtis.

She took Tim into the Second Cup. She left him at a table and went to the counter to order two lattes.

Tim made a face when he took a sip. “What is this yuppie crap? Alls I want is a coffee and doughnut.”

“All,” she said automatically.

The bewildered look on Tim's face irritated her. He should know that one; she had corrected him enough times. But she knew it wasn't just about his grammar, that bewilderment. It was about being in a yuppie coffee place on a city street. He looked like a biker in a tea room—an annoyed biker at that. Tim stood up—to go, Lucy thought, to the counter to order a plain coffee. He was at the door before she realized he was leaving.

“Where are you going?”

Half a dozen startled heads turned at her raised voice.

Tim didn't turn around. The next instant he was gone.

She grabbed her bag and ran out the door. There was no sign of him in the direction of her house. She turned to scan the other way. And spotted him several doors down, frozen on the spot. He looked, she realized, like herself, having a panic attack. Except it was even worse for him: he wanted to go home but he had no idea where that was.

She arrived at his side, out of breath. Took his arm. “Tim,” she said gently, “it's the other way.”

Tim came out of his daze. The look in his eyes shifted. He shrugged off her hand. “I know it's the other way. I'm looking for an effing coffee.” (Lying to save his pride, she knew.) “And after I get some, I'm going to turn myself in to the police.”

“What?”

“I obviously don't fit in here. And you don't care. I'm goin' back.”

“You can't do that.” It was Lucy's turn to panic. Everything she had worked for, for so long … admitting to everyone she had failed. She wasn't sure he even had the option of going back. She didn't want him to go back.

“Let's go home. I'll make coffee there. Then we'll go to the Welfare office.”

17.

S
TEVE QUINN SEEMED TO FILL
the house. He also seemed ill at ease. I was in my own place, on my own. And yet there was still a barrier. The barrier of the case. And Quinn didn't step over that barrier. He didn't hug me or kiss me. As usual, I was conflicted about that.

It was four o'clock on a hot August afternoon. I was back at work now, but had come home early to meet him. He had an hour, he'd said on the phone. He couldn't come any later. He had to be somewhere by five-thirty. If I hadn't known better I would have thought by his tone that he meant home for dinner.

He was in work clothes, but the sleeves of his white dress-shirt were rolled up to his elbows and the top button undone, revealing even more of that thick mat of chest hair. “Now this,” he said, looking up at the tongue-in-groove ceiling, “is exactly the kind of place I'm looking for.”

I was pleased to hear it, but surprised. It seemed too small, too “quaint” for him. Belle and Beau came and nosed at him. Marc had dropped them off that morning, his truck already loaded for his trip down the Dumoine. For the first time, the sight of the canoe in the back of the truck didn't fill me with dread. I told him to enjoy himself and realized I meant it. There was nothing at stake anymore. I could be generous. It felt good. On impulse I hugged him good-bye. And then wished I hadn't. The physical memories were too fresh, too tender. And his response too warm. Now, in Quinn's presence, I banished him from my head.

“So the dogs
are
yours,” said Quinn, giving Belle a pat on the head. “Did you get custody?”

“Shared,” I admitted.

“So you are having contact with Marc?” Was there a note of anger in his voice? I gave him a quick look but his face wore an expression of mild curiosity.

“Just over the dogs.”

I took him out to the backyard and through the break in the trees at the bottom of the yard. We crossed the railway tracks and I led him through a narrow opening in thick bushes. You had to know it was there. I liked that. The path opened onto the small grassy point. Shrubs lined the southeast side. In them I had stashed a folded lawn chair. The northwest side sloped down to the water, lined by rock and small boulders.

I gestured to the point as we came through. “This, in theory, is my access point.”

“If you wanted access,” Quinn said, nodding his understanding. Then he gestured at the lawn chair in the bushes. “Nice secluded place to sunbathe.”

I ignored his suggestive tone.

We crossed back over the tracks and ducked through the break in the trees into my yard. I spoke over my shoulder. “I'd offer you a beer, but I doubt you're allowed on duty. Would you like a—”

“Beer, yes.”

He shrugged when I turned to look at him. “I've taken the rest of the day off.”

We sat in the Muskoka chairs in the backyard with the dogs at our feet and clinked beer bottles. “To your new life,” he said. “You've got a really nice set-up here. I'm envious.” Then he added in a more serious tone, “I hope you've been able to put all this behind you. Though I realize you can't really until the trial is over. But take a break while you can. It was a stressful few months for you.”

“When is the trial going to be? I've been going crazy over it. The defence is going to take me to pieces over my witness statement to the Quebec
Sûreté.
I wish you guys had taken my statement later that week when I was thinking more clearly.”

“Stop worrying. You'll be fine.”

“They won't ask me about the—dreams will they?”

“El, I honestly don't know.”

I didn't normally like my name being shortened, but it came so naturally out of Quinn's mouth—sounded so
familiar
—I didn't mind.

“But why are you worried?” he added. “We often use psychics.”

I sighed. “And you think they're kooks.”

“Well, when they're sexy kooks, we don't mind.” He was laughing at me. “You'll be subpoenaed,” he added. “As for when?” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “The wheels of justice.”

He saw my look of dismay. “Don't worry, they
are
moving. There will be a pre-trial hearing first. Probably this fall or winter. I can't say for sure when, but
soon
.” He gave me a significant look and repeated, “
Soon
.”

Then it was his turn to sigh. He punctuated it with a long swig of beer. “Anyway, stop stewing about it, Ellen.” He sounded annoyed. “Put it out of your mind.”

“You've got to be joking. I think about it all the time. I have a thousand questions.”

He spread his hands. “Well, take advantage of the fact that I'm here then. Ask away.”

But my mind went blank. I spread my own hands in a gesture of futility. Where to begin?

“How are you doing here on your own? You're not nervous? Not afraid?”

“No. You've got him safely in custody, haven't you?”

“Yes, the bastard. Just give me five minutes with him.”

He must have seen the look of alarm on my face. “It boils my blood when I think about men like him beating up on women, and frightening other ones. I hope they throw away the key this time.”

“Just how bad was it—Tim beating up on Lucy?” Curtis too had hinted at abuse. But he hadn't known any details. Did
I
want to know them?

“Pretty bad. A couple of trips to the hospital that we've been able to ascertain so far. Once for a sprained ankle. That was in the fall. The other for a sternum injury. Much more serious. That was at Easter. Just the week before she went missing. God knows how many injuries didn't make it to the hospital.”

I cringed. “What were they fighting about?” The differences Curtis and I had talked about didn't seem serious enough to warrant physical violence. Did the injuries correspond with her contact with Curtis? She'd been with
him
at Easter. I tried to hide the shudder that ran through me.

“What weren't they fighting about?” said Quinn. “Money was a
major
issue. And it's clear he was jealous. Of all Lucy's male friends but especially her ex, Curtis Fry.” He nodded at me. “You met him. You were talking to him at the memorial.”

Did he notice everything? I nodded. I didn't trust myself to talk about Curtis. For various reasons. “You said before he defrauded her. How did he do that?”

Quinn was shaking his head. He glanced at his watch. “That's a longer story than I've got time for now. But you know she set him up in a handyman business.”

I nodded.

“Well, that took a lot of money—according to Brennan. He told us he kept saying to Lucy ‘you gotta spend money to make money.' He claimed to be buying tools, supplies. And he needed a truck. But funnily enough, the first truck got stolen—and all the tools with it. That was in the fall I think. So of course he needs another truck, and more tools. And then—lo and behold—that one gets stolen too.”

“So I don't see how that's defrauding her.”

“Sweetheart, it wasn't really stolen. The first truck was found burnt out in a field. He probably set fire to it himself. Him and his friends. The tools were gone. No doubt he got money for them. And probably for the second truck too—it was a van, a Curbmaster, all set up as a portable workshop. I can't remember how much Lucy poured into the business. Something like nine thousand dollars in the first month alone. And the thefts, and the burnt-out truck, provided a convenient excuse for another scam of his.”

“Which was?”

“He was being threatened—he said—by a biker gang. They were—he said—extorting money from him.” He snorted.

“How do you know it's not true?”

Quinn just shook his head at my naiveté. “It's all lies. Everything he fed her was lies.”

“So he told her about the threats?”

“Probably not at first. But when the money started disappearing from her account, she no doubt confronted him. And he had his story ready.”

“He had access to her account?”

“She tried to get him his own account but—funnily enough—the bank wouldn't give him one. So she gave him full access to her own. Including a bank card and a cheque book. So he was writing cheques left, right and centre. She had a thirty-thousand-dollar line of credit. But she never used it except very occasionally. And always paid it back within a week or two at the most. Suddenly, for the first time in her life, she finds herself in the red. And it just keeps getting deeper and deeper.”

“How do you know all this?”

“We've got a forensics accountant looking into her financial affairs. And the asshole's being questioned, and giving us his bullshit stories. We've just started talking to her friends too. The picture's beginning to come together. It's not a pretty one. Then there are the forged cheques and the whole Bill Torrence scenario. But,” he looked at his watch again. “I'm afraid I've got to get going.”

His mention of the forensics accountant reminded me of the other kind of forensics. “Was there any evidence found on her body?”

Quinn had got to his feet. “Well, I'd say ‘remains.'” His eyes were trained on mine as I stood up. “There wasn't much left of her. It was a hot spring. And she hadn't been buried.”

I put a hand on the back of the chair. “And is there any hard evidence in the—remains?”

Quinn shook his head. “No, the hyoid bone was never found.”

“The what bone?”

Quinn took a step closer. “Hyoid. It's the bone under here.” His hands were suddenly around my neck. He pressed his thumbs lightly on the front of my throat. “It's a small horseshoe-shaped thing. The one that breaks when you choke someone.”

“Don't press too hard then,” I joked. I wondered if he could feel my pulse hammering in my throat. I could still feel his hands after he took them away. They were warm and dry. Gentle. Presuming.

It was a moment before he stepped back. An electric moment.

He spoke in a neutral tone. “The only thing we have to go on is the teeth.”

“You mean her dental records?”

He shook his head. “No. Their colour. They were pink.”

“
Pink?”
I felt sick.

“There are three things that make the teeth go pink.” He spoke in a detached scientist's voice. “Choking, asphyxiation, and drowning.” He checked them off one by one on his fingers. “The pressure causes red cells from the blood vessels that supply the teeth to seep into the enamel. It stains them pink. We're running some further tests now.”

We walked back up to the house in silence. The vision of Lucy's pink teeth had made me feel sick. And angry.

“We are not—” said Quinn, beside his car.

“Having this conversation,” I finished. “I know. I do appreciate your telling me the things you do.”

“You deserve to know. And it really doesn't have any bearing on your own testimony, so there's no reason you shouldn't know. Except the Crown would have a fit. As he would if he knew I was here.” He began to jiggle his keys. “El.” He avoided my eyes. “I'm not going to be able to see you for awhile. Or call.”

I should have been relieved, but my heart jolted in disappointment. “Because of the case.”

He looked as though he was going to say something else, but he repeated my words: “Because of the case. One of us will be calling you when the hearing gets under way. You'll be called in for an interview to review your testimony. But until then….”

“I understand,” I said. I opened my mouth to say it was probably better this way. But it got covered, briefly, by Quinn's mouth.

“Now be good, ” he said, pulling back. And he was into his car almost before I had time to register the kiss.

I took myself down to the point to do just that. In the warm sun I leaned back in the lawn chair and closed my eyes. Replayed his kiss. It had been brief but warm.
Claiming
. He had no right to claim me, but there it was. I was letting myself be claimed. There had been no chance to ask him what was going on with us. Or with him. The slightly stressed air still hung about him.

His stresses probably didn't hold a candle to Lucy's. Her stresses wouldn't have started with money—or even, likely, Curtis. They would have been about the simple everyday things. A man gets out of prison after fifteen years and comes to live with you. He has little experience of the outside world. You have to show him how to do everything. Even how to get around. He has a lousy sense of direction and keeps getting lost. It would be like having a child suddenly on your hands. Worse, because you'd be expecting him to act like an adult.

Compound all that with your own fears and idiosyncrasies—and temper—and there would have been frequent fireworks.