The Endless Knot

Howard’s timing was impeccable. Zack had just moved closer to the window when the EMS crew came out with a gurney bearing a body in a body bag. My knees began to shake. Zack reached his arm around my legs to steady me.

Howard spoke for us all. “Such a small bundle to cause so much grief.”

The three of us were silent as the gurney was loaded into the ambulance, and the ambulance drove off. It was impossible not to be stunned by the horror of what was unfolding, but the ceremony of dealing with the coffee helped. I poured three mugs full. “Who found the body, Howard?” I asked.

He dumped a heaping soup-spoon full of sugar into his mug and stirred. “I overheard one of the cops say it was her kid.”

“Kathryn never mentioned that she had a child,” I said.

“And I never saw a kid there,” Howard said. “Must have been pretty quiet.”

At that moment, a sleek black BMW made its way through the barricades and sidled up to Zack’s car.

“Here’s Margot,” Zack said.

Margot had a few words with the cops outside and then, briefcase in hand, she marched ahead. Her blonde hair was casually tousled, as if by a friendly wind; her lipstick was very red, and her open camel-hair coat revealed a creamy form-fitting dress that clung to a form that deserved to be clung to. Zack performed the introductions. When it came to me, his smile was playful. “I believe you two have met,” he said.

Margot’s eyes found mine. “Not my finest hour,” she said.

“Nor mine,” I said, extending my hand.

Margot took my hand. “Congratulations,” she said. “I mean that. I hope you and Zack will be very happy. Now if there’s nothing else … Mr. Dowhanuik and I need to talk.”

“Is that all right with you, Howard?” Zack asked.

Howard grunted assent.

Margot reached into her bag and removed a tiny red leather case. She opened it and handed me her business card. “If there’s anything I should know about, give me a call. Zack has my unlisted number.”

“Sounds like the bases are covered,” Zack said. “Ready to go, Joanne?”

“Just a minute.” Howard beckoned me over. “Tell Charlie everything will be okay,” he growled.

Zack had to steer the Jaguar carefully to get through the onlookers and media trucks that had begun to assemble outside the barricades. I felt a twinge of guilt when I spotted the NationTV van, and an even bigger twinge when I saw Brette Sinclair pushing her way through the crowd. That said, I’d had enough. When we stopped at the corner to let a young mother with a jogging stroller cross, Zack turned to me. “So do you think Howard killed Kathryn Morrissey?”

“No, but I wish I knew what he and Margot were chatting about. What did you make of him asking me to tell Charlie that everything will be okay?”

Zack shrugged. “It’s certainly a statement ripe for interpretation. Could mean ‘don’t worry about me.’ Could mean ‘don’t worry about Kathryn’s murder because I’ve got it covered.’ ”

“Could mean a lot of things,” I said, “but let’s not go into the Twilight Zone. There was no reason for Howard to kill Kathryn. Whatever damage she could do to him had already been done. And sodden as his brain has been of late, Howard’s too shrewd to confess to murder on the off chance that Charlie might be involved.”

Zack’s glance was quick but assessing. “So you think Howard must know something?”

“Or thinks he knows something,” I said. “After the shooting, Howard kept a close eye on Kathryn Morrissey. If he was watching her place last night, it’s possible he saw Charlie.”

“Howard’s a drunk, Jo. It’s possible he sees a lot of things. The fact is there was no reason for Charlie to go to Kathryn’s house. The trial was over.”

“And justice had been served,” I said. “But Sam Parker was dead, and Charlie blamed Kathryn.”

“You talked to him?”

“No, Mieka and Peter did. Apparently Charlie was livid. He thought Kathryn should be punished for what she’d done. Pete couldn’t control him, so he called Mieka.”

“And Mieka was able get Charlie to cool it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But we should probably find out before Howard gets himself in any deeper.”

I took out my cell and started hitting the speed dial. My daughter didn’t answer, neither did my son or Charlie. “No luck,” I said. “Would you mind dropping me at NationTV – I might be able to find out something there.”

“Your wish is my command,” Zack said. He patted my leg. “I’ve always wanted to say that to a woman, but it’s so cheesy.”

“And cheesy doesn’t matter with me?”

“No, because we’re committed. We spent four hours looking at paint chips so we could find a colour we could both live with for our bedroom. You’d never put yourself through that with another guy.” He executed a neat U-turn and we were back on Albert Street. Five minutes later we were at NationTV.

“If you need a ride home, give me a call,” Zack said.

“Where are you going to be?”

“Back at our house, working on the list for the retrofitting.”

“You’re the most focused human being I’ve ever known,” I said.

Zack shrugged. “The sooner those bedroom walls are painted Lavendre de Provence, the sooner we can move the bed in.”

I gave my name to the commissionaire at NationTV. He called Rapti and she buzzed me through the door that led to the newsroom. Rapti wasn’t in her cubicle. She was by the window, with a telephone cradled between her ear and shoulder, taking notes. When she saw me, she held up a finger indicating one minute. I took a chair and perused the latest photos of Rapti’s cat, Zuben. Rapti hated cats, but she loved Zuben, with whom she shared what she characterized as a complicated and deeply textured relationship.

I was trying to decide whether a photo of Zuben in a Santa hat was ironic or deeply textured when Rapti came over. “Where have you been?” she said. “Jill’s been hollering at me because she couldn’t find you.”

“I was watching the EMS team bring out Kathryn Morrissey’s body,” I said.

Rapti sat down on the edge of her desk. “You knew about that already? That must mean your boyfriend has been hired to defend somebody.”

“No. It just means I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. However, I am prepared to exchange information. What do you have?”

“Not much yet,” she said. “Kathryn Morrissey was killed with …” Rapti squinted at her notepad. “I can’t make out my own writing, but they were some sort of Chinese carved figures.”

“Baku,” I said. “She owned a pair of them. They’re supposed to capture bad dreams.”

“They weren’t on the job last night,” Rapti said tartly. She stared at me. “Trade you places. I need the computer.” We switched and Rapti, an effortless multi-tasker, began typing up her notes and filling me in. “From what we’ve heard,” she said, “Kathryn Morrissey’s death was horrific. Her murderer used the baku to bludgeon her to death.”

I swallowed hard. “Any idea who did it?”

“Not so far. Kathryn Morrissey’s son found her this morning.” Rapti checked her notes. “He’s thirteen years old.”

I shuddered. “Imagine finding your mother like that. He’ll never get over it.”

“I guess not,” Rapti said. “We’re trying to track him down, but he seems to have been invisible.”

“Try the neighbourhood schools,” I said. “If he is thirteen, he has to be enrolled somewhere.”

“Good thinking,” Rapti said. She tapped into the Regina school listings. “Boy, who knew there were this many schools in Regina?”

“You can eliminate most of them,” I said. “Given where Kathryn Morrissey lived, the logical possibilities are Pope Pius XII and Lakeview.”

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, I choose Pius XII,” Rapti said. She aimed a perfectly manicured nail at the keypad of her telephone and tapped in the number on the screen. When her call was answered, she gave me a thumbs-up sign. “This is Rapti Lustig from NationTV,” she said “Do you have a student there by the name of Ethan Morrissey. He’s thirteen. Thank you, I’ll hold.”

“Ethan,” I repeated, and my chest was heavy with the burden of information I didn’t want to carry. “And you say he’s thirteen?”

Rapti heard the apprehension in my voice. Her eyes darted from her computer screen to me. “Something you can contribute?” she asked.

“He’s not at Pius XII,” I said. “He’s at Lakeview. The surname isn’t Morrissey, it’s Thorpe.”

Rapti’s eyes blazed with interest. “Anything more?”

“He’s a friend of Taylor’s,” I said.

“Let me phone Lakeview,” Rapti said. I sat down while she made the inquiry.

Suddenly, it was too much, the covered body on the gurney, the baku, the fragile vulnerable boy finding his mother. “Rapti, I’ve got to get out of here. I’m feeling sick.”

“Hang on, Jo,” said Rapti. “The police have found him. They’re taking him to his dad’s.”

Somewhat relieved, I stood up and left while Rapti was thanking someone at Lakeview for their courtesy. I took a cab to the new house. Zack was in the living room hard at work on his notes.

He beamed when I came into the room. “Perfect timing. There are decisions to be made, and I don’t want to make them alone.”

I didn’t respond. Zack moved closer to me. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” I said.

For the next fifteen minutes, I sat on the floor, and Zack stroked my hair and offered comfort as I related what seemed increasingly to be a nightmare. “I don’t know what to do next,” I said finally.

“Sure you do,” he said. “Find out the truth. The only thing worse than knowing is not knowing.”

I pushed myself to my feet. “So I guess my move is to go to Charlie’s and tell him that, despite the fact that a woman he hated was murdered and he may or may not have been in the neighbourhood at the time, he has nothing to worry about.”

Zack raised his eyebrows. “That ought to start the ball rolling,” he said.

Charlie’s house was in the city’s core, nestled between a pawn shop and a building that had once been an adult video store but now sold discount bridal gowns. Only a bride who was a retail addict or suicidal would have ventured into that neighbourhood after dark, but the 1930s bungalow that Charlie tenderly restored for a woman he had loved and lost was an oasis of sweet innocence. With its Devonshire cream clapboard, dark green louvred shutters, and lace curtains, the house evoked a time when people left their doors unlocked and visited with neighbours on soft summer nights. It was a welcoming place, but that afternoon my only greeting was from Pantera, who was body-slamming the door in his eagerness to see who was on the other side.

I’d given up and started back down the walk by the time Charlie finally came to see what was going on. When he called my name, I turned and saw that he wasn’t alone. Peter and Mieka were standing behind him in the shadowy hall. Faced with a stranger at the gates, my children and Charlie had obviously decided to present a united front.

Pantera’s tail-wagging was manic, but nobody else seemed glad to see me. As the silence grew awkward, I waded in. “So what’s going on, Mieka,” I said. “I thought you were going back to Saskatoon this morning.”

Pete, always the peacemaker, took over. “Mum, this isn’t a good time for you to be here.”

“It’s not a good time for you to be here either,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be at the clinic?”

His face flushed with embarrassment. Pete and I had always been close; shutting me out was hard for him. “We just have a couple of things to work out,” he said miserably.

I stood my ground. “I have something to work out too,” I said. “Charlie, this morning your dad called Zack because he needed a lawyer. We were at your father’s condo when the EMS workers took out Kathryn Morrissey’s body. It wasn’t a great way to start the day, and the situation isn’t going to get any better. I think we need to sit down and talk about what happened last night.”

No one offered me a chair; in fact, no one even budged. The signals were clear: any conversation we had would be brief and tense. For a few moments we faced one another in uneasy silence. “So is Zack Howard’s lawyer?” Mieka asked finally. Her hand had been resting on Charlie’s upper arm. Now it slid down until her fingers found his.

I tried to ignore the intimacy. “No,” I said. “Zack didn’t feel he was the best choice, but he did introduce Howard to someone else.”

Charlie’s voice was cold. “Why does my father need a lawyer?”

“I don’t know. But he did ask me to deliver a message to you. He said, ‘Tell Charlie that everything will be okay.’ ”

Mieka and Peter exchanged glances.

“Anybody care to fill me in?”

“Sometimes there are things it’s best not to know,” Pete said. “There was some confusion last night – can’t we let it go at that?”

“Pete, a woman was murdered.”

Charlie stepped closer. “We were together all night.”

“The three of you? Am I supposed to believe that Mieka left her kids on Halloween so she could stay up with you and her brother eating popcorn and watching horror movies?”

“It wasn’t the three of us, Mum,” Mieka said quietly. “Pete had an emergency at the clinic. It was just Charlie and me.”

“All night?”

“All night,” she said.

“But, Mieka, if you were asleep in a different room …”

“I wasn’t in a different room, Mum. I was with Charlie.” She looked away. “I’m sorry, Mum.”

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” I said. I peered into my purse, found Margot’s card, and handed it to Charlie. “This is the number of your father’s lawyer. Call her or don’t call her. Your choice.”

When I left, nobody waved goodbye.

Driving home, I made a conscious effort not to think about anything beyond the consolations of a hot shower, warm pyjamas, and a long nap. Half an hour later, clean and in my favourite flannelettes, I thought sleep would be possible, but I was wrong. The photographs of Mieka, Greg, and the girls on my nightstand were impossible to ignore, and I was still staring at the ceiling when I heard Taylor come home from school. I pulled on my jeans and sweater and went down to meet her.

She was sitting on the cobbler’s bench in the front hall. Her jacket and backpack were on the floor beside her. She was taking off her boots, and her face was pale.

“I wish I’d known she was Ethan’s mother,” Taylor said.

I remembered Kathryn’s phone call. It was possible she had just wanted to talk about the problem that was developing between our children. More coals heaped upon my head. “I wish I’d known too,” I said.

“It must have been hard for Ethan coming here,” Taylor said thoughtfully. “Remember how weird he was that day he found out Zack was your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” I said. “Sometimes people are a little taken aback when they meet Zack. I thought that’s all it was. And then when Ethan started going to the trial, I figured it was a case of hero worship.”

Taylor narrowed her eyes. “Why would anybody worship Zack?”

“Well, he’s pretty successful.”

“A lot of people are successful,” Taylor said. “That’s no big deal. Besides, Ethan said he was interested in justice.”

“Like Soul-fire,” I said.

Taylor’s face was suffused with sadness. “Do you suppose that’s why Ethan stopped wearing his pentangle – because he doesn’t believe in justice any more?”

“The timing makes sense,” I said. “The verdict came down Monday morning and you said Ethan wasn’t wearing his pentangle Monday night.”

Taylor picked up her coat and bookbag and hung them on the hall tree. “What will happen to Ethan now that his mum’s dead?”

“He’ll probably go to his dad’s.”

“But his dad’s new wife says Ethan doesn’t fit into their family.”

“I guess Ethan will have to find a way to fit in.”

“It’s not fair,” Taylor said.

I put my arm around her shoulder. “No,” I said. “It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is.”

At five o’clock, Zack, the Family Man, came by unannounced and asked what we wanted to do about supper. No one was hungry, but as he pointed out sensibly, we had to eat. We went to Earl’s, a restaurant we all liked, and the familiar ambience – the sounds of other people’s laughter, the taped music, the clink of cutlery against china – was balm to our raw nerve ends. So was the litre of Shiraz Zack and I split and the virgin Caesar with extra pepper that Taylor ordered.

As she sipped, my younger daughter was still deeply concerned about Ethan’s fate. Taylor was not a person who worried privately, so Ethan and his future dominated our conversation. It was a grim topic. By the time our entrees arrived, we were all in need of diversion. A large and noisy birthday party at the next table offered deliverance. Taylor’s eleventh birthday was less than two weeks away, and Zack made the connection.

“Looks like they’re having fun over there, Taylor,” he said. “What have you got planned for your birthday?”

Taylor’s brow furrowed in concentration. “No party,” she said. “We just had one. Besides, with Ethan and everything, it doesn’t seem right.”

Zack’s fork stopped in mid-air. “So November 11 will be just another day – no gifts, no cake, no nothing.”

“I didn’t say that,” Taylor said quickly. Then realizing she was being teased, her brown eyes shone. “I love presents, and Jo always makes a cake. Maybe we could just have the family and Gracie and Isobel.” She turned to me. “Would that be okay?”

“It’s your champagne birthday – you’re turning eleven on the eleventh day of the eleventh month. You get to do whatever you want – within reason of course.”

Taylor’s smile was mischievous. “And since it’s my champagne birthday, I’m the one who gets to decide what’s ‘within reason.’ ”

Given the circumstances, the evening was a success. When Zack dropped us off, Taylor ran ahead so she could go inside and call Gracie and Isobel. We watched as she unlocked the door and disappeared inside. “She’ll be okay,” Zack said.

“I think so,” I said. “She’s still upset about Ethan. So am I. Every time I think about what’s ahead for him, I want to cry. But to be honest, I’m grateful Taylor doesn’t have to deal with him any more. His feelings for her were just too intense. He confused her, and I think he frightened her.”

“Ethan frightens himself,” Zack said. “But kids survive some terrible things. Let’s hope Ethan’s one of the lucky ones who gets to cut his own direction in life.”

“Like you,” I said.

“And you,” he said. “One of the things I love about you is that you do what you want to do and to hell with what people think.”

“Do you really see me that way?” I said.

“Sure you wear that same black dress every time we go to something fancy, and you’re marrying me. I rest my case. Now come on, Ms. Kilbourn, we were having a pleasant evening, let’s keep the good vibe going.”

“Do you want to come in?”

Zack shook his head. “Yes, but I have to go back to the office. Glenda called while you and Taylor were in the bathroom at the restaurant. She needs to talk. I’m meeting her at eight.” He glanced at his watch. “By my reckoning, that gives you and me time for a short session of romance.”

I moved closer. “It’s always all about you, isn’t it?”

“You bet. I paid for dinner, and that chocolate mud pie you ordered didn’t come cheap.”

It was too early to go to bed, I was too restless to read, and there was nothing I wanted to watch on TV. Inspiration about how I could spend the evening came when I looked out my bedroom window and saw a lone figure dart into the front yard of a house two doors down from me, emerge with a pumpkin in its hands, and spike it on the pavement. The village of jack-o’-lanterns we had created in front of our house was ripe for the picking. It was time to give our pumpkins an honourable burial in the compost bin. I started to call Taylor to help, but the prospect of spending time alone in the fresh cold air, stretching my muscles in a totally mindless task was seductive, so I tiptoed past her door.

I’d made one trip to the compost pile with the wheelbarrow and was on the front lawn loading up again when a voice called to me from the darkness. “Need a hand with that?”

I turned and saw Howard Dowhanuik. I was struck by two things: no matter the weather, Howard’s bald head was bare, but tonight he was wearing a toque; equally significantly, he was still sober. “Be my guest,” I said. We worked silently but comfortably, and when the last jack-o’-lantern was broken and stirred into the dead leaves, I suggested we go inside for tea. Howard didn’t ask for anything stronger, and I took that as a good sign.

We sat at the kitchen table. Howard made no effort to remove his toque. For the first time in a long time, he seemed at peace with himself, and the toque, scarlet with a whimsical Nordic pattern of elves at play, made him look reassuringly avuncular.

“So how did you make out with Margot?” I asked.

“Good. She’s a smart broad.” Howard caught himself. “Make that a smart ‘woman.’ ”

“Duly noted,” I said. I poured our tea. “Howard, what’s going on?”

“I told you. I thought I needed a lawyer, and I was right. The cops were back this afternoon. They went through all the garbage cans at the condo. It seems someone dumped my garbage and Kathryn’s, hosed down the cans, then put the garbage back in. My garbage was all mixed up with hers. Probably a prank.”

“No doubt,” I said. “The old dump-out-the-garbage/hose-down-the-cans/replace-the-garbage trick. We’ve all done it.”

Howard had the grace to look chagrined. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have tried to snow you, but you did ask, and my lawyer has instructed me not to tell.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll do the talking. I saw Charlie this afternoon. I went to his house to convey your message.”

Howard grunted, but he leaned forward, eager to hear news of his son. “And …?”

“And,” I said. “Mieka and Peter were with him. I won’t lie to you, Howard. I’m not thrilled that Charlie is involving my kids. Last night, Mieka and Pete both walked away from their own lives to be with your son, and this isn’t kid stuff any more. There will be consequences – serious consequences.”

My reference to the price my kids were paying for their loyalty to Charlie bounced right off Howard. His focus was narrow. “So why did Charlie want Mieka and Pete there?”

“Make an educated guess,” I said.

“Charlie needs an alibi,” Howard said.

“Bingo,” I said. “And Mieka is prepared to say she spent the night with Charlie. In my opinion, it’s a stupid decision. If she’s lying, she’s opening herself to a charge of perjury. If she’s telling the truth, she’s jeopardizing her marriage.”

“That’s not the point,” Howard said. “The question is – can she and Charlie make this story stick?” In a gesture I knew well from the old political days, each word of his question was separated by a pause and each pause was punctuated by a chop of his hand.

I was livid. “Is that all that matters to you? You’ve known Mieka all her life. Don’t you care about her marriage or about the fact that she’s doing something unethical? Howard, Peter left his clinic today to help Charlie work out a story. You’re Pete’s godfather. Don’t you care about him?”

“I’m sorry Mieka and Pete are involved, Jo. Really, I am. But your kids are strong enough to see this through. Through no fault of his own, Charlie isn’t.”

“So we pay for the fact that you were a lousy parent,” I said.

“Yes,” Howard said. “You do, because this is my last chance.” He reached up to rub his head and his hand encountered the toque. He ripped it off angrily. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me I was still wearing this?” He didn’t give me a chance to respond. “Do you know who gave me this? My daughters? Remember them?”

“Of course,” I said. “Both medical doctors. Marnie was very proud of them. She was proud of all her children.”

“She wouldn’t be proud of the way they’ve cut themselves off from me. I hear from them twice a year – on my birthday and at Christmas. This goddamn clown’s hat was last year’s gift – from both of them. That’s how little they know their father.”

“How could they know you,” I said. “You were never there.”

I regretted my words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Howard slumped. “Do you think I don’t know that? But I’m trying to make amends.”

“By saving Charlie,” I said.

“Did you know that today is All Saints’ Day?” Howard said. “Every year the good sisters who took care of Marnie send me a church calendar.”

“They haven’t given up on your soul,” I said.

“They’re the only ones,” Howard said grimly. “Anyway, today is the day the faithful light a votive candle and recite a rosary for the departed. This morning while I was shaving, I started thinking about who would say the rosary for me – couldn’t think of a goddamned person.”

“What about me?” I said.

Howard frowned. “You’re not even Catholic,” he said.

“I could learn how to say a rosary,” I said.

Howard stood up and pulled on his toque. “Well, get started,” he said. “Because I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

CHAPTER

13

There was a cab idling in front of my house when Willie and I came back from our run the next morning. It was still dark, just before seven o’clock, but the streetlight’s beam was bright enough to outline the silhouettes of two figures in the taxi’s front seat. Unsettling, but not so troubling as the solitary figure on my front door step. The collar of his pea-jacket was turned up and his watch cap was pulled low to obscure his face, but even from the street, I had no trouble recognizing the slender figure of Ethan Thorpe. He was carrying a box about the size of a small city’s telephone book, and he seemed frozen, unsure of what to do next.

I let Willie off his leash and he bounded up the walk towards Ethan. When Ethan turned to pat him, I called hello. Ethan was a handsome boy, but the unforgiving porch light revealed eyes that were swollen from crying and a face crushed by pain.

He held up the box. “I wanted to give this to Taylor. I rang the doorbell, but nobody came.”

“Taylor’s the Queen of the Sound Sleepers,” I said. “I can take the box if you like.”

Ethan clutched it to his chest. “I wanted to give it to her personally,” he said.

The cabbie honked his horn. Ethan darted a glance at the taxi. “I have to go,” he said. “We’re catching a plane.”

“We?” I repeated.

“My father and me,” he said.

“So you’re moving to Ottawa,” I said.

“No, Winnipeg – to a boarding school.” Ethan swallowed hard. “It’s supposed to be pretty good.”

The cab driver hit the horn again. Ethan thrust the package into my hands.

“Ethan, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. I know how difficult this is for you.”

His eyes met mine, and I hoped I would never again see such desolation. There had been no happy ending for Ethan. With a dead mother and an indifferent father, he was at the end of the line. I was all too familiar with the pattern. The private school at which I had been a boarder had been a fine one, but we all knew we were there because nobody else wanted us.

“Stay in touch, Ethan,” I said. “I mean that. I want to know how you’re doing.”

His laugh was harsh. “Yeah, right,” he said. “Could you tell Taylor …”

“Tell her what?”

The horn sounded for the third time. “Tell her I wish we could have been like Soul-fire and Chloe.” He ran down the path, jumped in the back seat of the cab, and slammed the door. I watched as the car sped away.

In our family, we always left mail and messages on the kitchen table, but I took Ethan’s parcel up to my room and placed it on the top shelf of my cupboard. It was going to be tough enough for Taylor to deal with the rumours and gossip at school; she didn’t need to start her day with a fresh reminder of Ethan.

I sat down on the bed and dialed Zack’s number. “I was just going to call you,” he said. “The contractor’s going to meet us at the new house in two hours.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” Zack said.

“I am enthusiastic,” I said. “Ethan Thorpe just left. He wanted to say goodbye.”

Zack sighed. “You didn’t need that.”

“Agreed. I would have felt better if Ethan and I’d had a chance to talk, but his father was in the cab waiting impatiently.”

“So Dad’s going to step up to the plate after all.”

“No,” I said. “Dad’s going to drop Ethan off at boarding school in Winnipeg.”

“What a champ,” Zack said. “We should introduce him to Mrs. Parker. They appear to be birds of a feather. Last night, Glenda asked me if there was any legal way her mother could keep her from attending Sam’s funeral.”

“Beverly’s trying to do that?”

“Yes. She even tried to enlist me to smooth the process.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Take a guess.”

I laughed. “My hero.”

Zack’s car was already at the house, but the contractor and I arrived at the same time. He was a balding, affable man with a very shiny green truck. He walked over to me with his hand out. “Ms. Shreve?” he said.

“Joanne Kilbourn,” I said. “But Zack and I are getting married.”

“Congratulations,” he said. “Incidentally, my name’s McCudden.”

“I’m pleased to meet you.”

Zack was in the living room, staring at his BlackBerry. He and Mr. McCudden introduced themselves and then we got down to business. There was a window seat in the living room, so Mr. McCudden and I sat there and Zack wheeled his chair over. I had come armed with a file folder full of clippings from magazines and printouts from the Internet. Zack had his own folder of notes. Mr. McCudden dropped both folders into his briefcase without opening them. “I’ll go through these tonight,” he said. “I’ve renovated about a dozen houses to make them accessible,” he said. “But you may have an idea I haven’t run into. Now, accessibility aside, tell me in one sentence what you want.”

“We want a good solid family home,” I said.

Mr. McCudden smiled. “Because you’re a good solid family.”

“That’s exactly what we are,” Zack said.

“In that case,” Mr. McCudden said. “I have some ideas you might like.”

Mr. McCudden zipped his jacket. “I’ll meet you here tomorrow with some preliminary drawings. Same time?”

When he left, I turned to Zack. “He doesn’t waste time, does he?”

“No, and considering that we’ll be paying his crew a bundle to get the job done fast and well, that’s a virtue.”

“How much is this going to cost us?”

“We’ll find out tomorrow, but it doesn’t matter.”

“If you want something, go for it,” I said.

Zack raised an eyebrow. “Are you mocking me?”

“No. Just quoting. But let me know if I’m going to have to take in laundry to pay for this.”

“I’ll let you know,” he said. “In the meantime, I have a favour to ask.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“You know, that doesn’t sound cheesy when you say it.”

“It’s because I mean it.”

“Good, because this is a biggie. It’s about Glenda Parker.”

“How did your meeting with her go last night?”

“Not great. Sam’s funeral is on Friday at Beverly’s place of worship in Calgary. It’s one of those big, evangelical, Family Values churches, and Beverly wants to put on a real show. She’s too savvy to hire goons to keep Glenda away, but she says if Glenda shows up, she’ll be shunned.”

“Ostracized? Wow. Beverly plays hardball, doesn’t she?”

“Glenda plays hardball too,” Zack said. “She’s determined to be at the funeral, and she is going to attend as a woman.”

“To spite Beverly?”

“No, to honour Sam. Glenda and I had a long talk last night. You know how she was during the trial – always there, but never drawing attention to herself. I figured that was just her style, but as it turns out she was afraid if she was overtly female she might jeopardize her father’s case. Do you know that every morning before she went to court she bound her breasts?”

“Oh, Zack, that’s terrible. I didn’t realize …”

“That Glenda has breasts. Well, she does. Her endocrinologist has her on female hormones. Apparently, Glenda has to live as a female for two full years before the specialists will do the surgery. Sam knew how important the surgery was to Glenda. He didn’t want her to lose any time, so he urged her to dress as a woman during the trial.”

“But she wanted to protect him.”

“Right. Anyway, now she wants to honour him by appearing in public as the person she really is.”

“Good for her,” I said.

Zack squeezed my hand. “I figured you’d say that. Jo, Sam’s funeral is going to be a tough day for Glenda. I told her you and I would go with her.”

“I’m glad you did,” I said. “Is that the favour?”

“No, Glenda wants to make sure she gets ‘the right look’ for the funeral. She wondered if you could help her pick something out.”

I groaned. “Zack, you must have noticed that fashion isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

“You always look great.”

“And 90 per cent of the time I’m wearing jeans and a sweater. But I do know where the good shops are, and I’d be happy to take Glenda around. So what are you going to do while Glenda and I are bonding?”

“Catch up on my files. I’ve been letting things slip lately.”

“So the Statue of Liberty has returned to her place in New York Harbour,” I said.

Zack held up an admonishing finger. “I’m going to cut back. You watch.”

“I plan to,” I said. Then I kissed him hard.

Knowing that the city’s centre wouldn’t be as busy as the malls, we drove downtown where there would be fewer heads to turn and eyes to stare. Money was not an issue, so I took Glenda to the most expensive store in town. I am a reluctant shopper, and the concept of retail therapy has always eluded me, but as Glenda stood in the muted light, holding a creamy silk blouse against the gentle curves of her new breasts, the tension left her body. After a lifetime of masquerade, she was at last going to be herself.

The saleswoman who helped us was discreet and knowledgeable. She offered possibilities that flattered Glenda’s lithe, athletic body, and withdrew so that Glenda could make her own choices. In the end, Glenda chose a cool and cleanly cut oyster boucle suit that concealed and revealed in all the right places. When we left the shop, we were triumphant. Our only real problem came later when we tried to find women’s dress shoes that would fit Glenda’s long and very narrow feet. At the third store, we succeeded and Glenda’s relief was palpable. When she found a pair of runners in her size and, they were on sale, we decided to celebrate with a glass of wine at my house.

After we carried in our booty and hung up our coats, it was reward time. “So what’ll it be, Glenda,” I asked. “White or red?”

“Would you mind if we wait on the wine,” she said. “I’d like to try my outfit here where I can really look at it. I was a little rattled when we were at the shop.”

“I know the feeling,” I said. “There’s a full-length mirror in my room upstairs. Take your time.”

It was half an hour before Glenda returned, but when she came into the kitchen I saw that she hadn’t just been trying on clothes; she had been transforming herself. She had smoothed back the long bang that had partially hidden her face and for the first time since I’d met her, she was wearing makeup. Her blush and lipstick were subtly and flatteringly applied, and the startlingly blue eyes that were so like her father’s were now accented by shadow, liner, and mascara. It was clear she had spent more than a few evenings practising. She’d added a delicate gold chain and thin hoop earrings to her outfit, and the effect was stunning.

She touched her necklace. “This belonged to my dad’s mother. Does it work – I don’t mean just the chain – the whole thing?”

“It works,” I said. “You look beautiful.”

Glenda’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear someone say that.”

I handed her a tissue from the box on the counter. “Here’s a tip,” I said. “Don’t wear mascara if you’re in a situation where you think you might cry.”

Glenda dabbed at her eyes. “It’s the hormones,” she said. “But thanks – I’ll skip the mascara when I go the funeral.”

After she’d changed into her everyday clothes, Glenda came back downstairs. “I appreciate this, Joanne. It was good of you to give up your day.”

“The day’s not over.”

Glenda shook her head. “No,” she said. “It yawns before me. Would you mind if I listened to those old records of my dad’s again?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Indifferent housekeeper that I am, everything’s just as we left it.”

She winced. “Not quite everything,” she said.

After Glenda disappeared into the family room, I Googled the website of Beverly’s church and read her minister’s most recent sermon. He called upon the faithful to enter the battle for our nation’s soul by becoming politically involved. His version of Onward Christian Soldiers was scary stuff, but I knew this was a vein worth mining for my book, so I opened the link to past sermons and read on. I was engrossed in the complexities of his attack on the separation of church and state when Taylor came in.

She pitched her backpack on a chair, poured herself a glass of milk, and sat down opposite me. “Who’s here?” she said.

“Glenda Parker,” I said. “How did you know there was somebody here?”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “Sweet yellow Volks beetle in the driveway. Bunch of boxes from Hall & Rae in the living room. Music playing in the family room. So where’s Glenda?”

“She’s listening to those records her dad made.”

Taylor nodded. “Ethan wasn’t in school today.”

“I know,” I said. I took a breath. “Taylor, Ethan won’t be back at Lakeview. He came by this morning before you were up. He’s going to school in Winnipeg.”

“But his father lives in Ottawa.”

“It’s a boarding school. Ethan says it’s supposed to be pretty good.”

“Did he seem okay?”

“No,” I said. “But he’s dealing with some heavy stuff. He needs time.”

Taylor picked up her milk then put it down without drinking. “I’m glad he’s gone,” she said quietly. The words tumbled out. “I’m sorry about Ethan’s mother, and I’m sorry that he couldn’t move to Ottawa with his dad, but I’m still glad I don’t have to see him every day.” She looked at me gloomily. “That was an awful thing to say, wasn’t it?”

“Not if it’s true,” I said.

“But Ethan’s so alone,” Taylor said.

“Maybe after a while, you can e-mail him.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t even want to think about him.”

Her vehemence shocked me. “Was it that bad, Taylor?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. She pushed her chair back. “I’m going up to my room. I need to talk to Isobel and Gracie.”

“I’ll call you when dinner’s ready,” I said.

She glanced back over her shoulder. “What are we having?”

“Something cheap, fast, and irresistible,” I said.

“You haven’t decided, right?”

“Right.”

It was close to five when Glenda came out of the family room. It was obvious she’d been crying, but she was composed and ready to talk. “The night my father died, I had a kind of breakdown – my psychiatrist called it a ‘psychiatric episode.’ I can’t remember anything that happened from the time I left the hospital to the time I woke up in my apartment the next morning. My doctor says it’s not that uncommon – that if there are too many assaults on the mind, it can just shut down – self-preservation, he says.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “Still, it must have been frightening.”

Glenda put her fingers to her temples. “It was terrifying. But just now, when I was listening to my father sing, it was as if he was right there in the room with me. We used to joke about being able to read each other’s minds. Hearing his voice again brought him close. I knew exactly what he’d say about my ‘psychiatric episode.’ ” Glenda straightened her spine so that her posture was like her father’s. “He’d say, ‘Kiddo, those were the worst hours of your life, why would you want to remember them?’ And he’s right. I have years of wonderful memories. Those are the times that matter.”

I followed Glenda into the front hall. She shrugged on her jacket, then bent to pick up her packages. “And now,” she said. “Back to what I laughingly call my life.”

“Glenda, why don’t you take the records with you?” I said.

She smiled. “I don’t have a record player.”

“Then take the record player too,” I said. “Zack and I are getting married soon. We’ll both have to leave things behind. I’d really like you to have the Sam and Bev collection.”

“In that case, I’ll take it – the whole kit and caboodle – as my dad would have said. And I’ll cherish them, Joanne. I promise you that.”

Zack was home at six o’clock on the button. Over our martinis, I filled him in on my afternoon with Glenda. Taylor was subdued at dinner, but she perked up when Zack asked her if she had any ideas for the bare, institutional walls of the room that housed the pool at our new home. As she started to float possibilities, the light came back into her eyes, and I thought, not for the first time, how lucky she was to have her art.

At eight, Zack finished his coffee and turned his chair towards the door. “Time to go,” he said.

“I thought you were going to cut back,” I said.

“I am,” he said. “I called McCudden this afternoon. If it’s okay with you, he’s going to convert that bedroom at the end of the hall into an office. That way, I’ll be able to work at home.”

“That doesn’t move the Statue of Liberty,” I said.

“Does it please you?”

“Yes,” I said. “It does. Apart from teaching and office hours, I can work at home too.”

“Better and better,” Zack said. “Okay, now I’ve really got to make tracks.”

“Is this a foretaste of what’s to come?” I said.

“Probably,” he said. “Are you all right with it?”

“Yes,” I said. “Are you all right with the fact that I have a full life of my own?”

His gaze was steady. “That’s another reason I love you,” he said.

Taylor and I were unloading the dishwasher when Howard Dowhanuik called. I asked him to hold till I moved to another room. When I picked up, I explained that I didn’t want Taylor to hear me talking about Kathryn Morrissey’s death.

Howard was gruff. “I’m not going to say anything to upset the apple cart. I just wanted you to know (a) that Margot Wright is a great choice for a lawyer, (b) that the cops were back this afternoon, and (c) that they took my fucking vacuum cleaner.”

“Thanks for the update,” I said.

“You’re welcome, but I wanted your opinion about that vacuum cleaner. Why would the cops take it?”

“I’m guessing they talked to your neighbours and discovered that in the eighteen months since you moved into your condo, you never had a fire. On Halloween night, smoke would have been billowing out of your chimney. Neighbours in condos tend to notice things like that. And the police probably took note of the fact that by the time they interviewed you early on the morning after Kathryn’s death, you had already vacuumed up the ashes from your one and only fire.”

“Shit,” he said.

“Whatever,” I said. “Tell Margot. She’s paid to listen, and she can’t be asked to testify against you in court. I can. And Howard, talk to Charlie. You’re getting in deep and I’m not certain you have to.”

“Do you know something?”

“No,” I said. “But tread carefully. Martyrs have to wait hundreds of years before they’re recognized as saints.”

“You think I’m trying to be a martyr.”

“I know you are. And lately, there’ve been times when I would have paid good money to see you flayed, but this isn’t one of them. You’re setting yourself up, my friend.

Talk to Charlie.”

“I’ll try.”

I hadn’t even made it back to the kitchen when the phone rang again. It was Howard. “My son answered and when he heard my voice, he slammed the phone down in my ear. What do I do now?”

“Short of keeping your lawyer informed and your mouth shut, I don’t know. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”

After Howard hung up, I stared at the phone. Charlie might not be talking to his father, but my kids were still talking to me. I dialed Peter’s number. He was voluble about the emergency that had taken him back to the clinic Halloween night. There’d been a call on his answering machine around nine from a boy whose dog had been hit by a car. The dog was hanging on, and Peter had gone to the clinic to do what he could. It hadn’t been enough, the dog died. He was home shortly after eleven.

“And your sister was with Charlie then.”

“Mum, please …”

“Peter, this is important.”

“They were together when I got back.”

“Where were they – in the living room, the kitchen, where?”

“Mum, don’t do this.”

“Were they in Charlie’s room when you got home?”

“Yes.”

“Were they just talking or what?”

Peter’s voice was exasperated. “They were in the same room,” he said. “I didn’t go in there to see what was going on. You’ve never once asked us to rat on each other. Don’t start now.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry, Pete. I’m getting a little desperate.”

“I know, Mum, but it’ll be all right. Really, it will.”

My daughter and I had never had any trouble keeping open the lines of communication. Most often our conversations were as inconsequential as they were deeply satisfying, but the Mieka who answered the phone that night at her home in Saskatoon was a stranger – guarded and suspicious.

As soon as she heard my voice, she established the boundaries. “I’m not going to talk about Charlie, Mum.”

“You have to, Mieka. The police are finding evidence that connects Howard to the murder.”

“What kind of evidence?”

I told her about the police’s interest in the garbage cans that belonged to Howard and Kathryn Morrissey, and about the fact that the forensic people had taken Howard’s vacuum for testing.

For the first time she sounded frightened. “Do the police think that Howard found something incriminating and burned it?”

“I don’t know what the police think, Mieka, but that’s what I think.”

I had knocked her off base. The sureness was gone from her voice. “I’ll talk to Charlie.”

“You do that,” I said. “And, Mieka, I know your feelings for Charlie have always been intense, but you can’t let Howard take the responsibility for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“The police will find something that will prove Howard’s innocent. Then he can just walk away.”

“Mieka, this isn’t a TV show. There are real consequences here.”

“I have to go, Mum,” she said. “The girls need me.”

“That’s right,” I said. “They do. Don’t lose sight of that, Mieka. If you know something, tell the authorities or at least talk to me. Please.”

We were taking the eleven o’clock flight to Calgary for the funeral, so I had time to stop by Howard’s Friday morning before we left. Nothing had changed. The silence from my daughter had been resounding, and Charlie hadn’t returned Howard’s calls. The police, however, had been attentive. The mills of the gods were grinding, but Howard seemed oddly tranquil. He was sober. He liked Margot. He seemed reconciled to his fate. When I left, he asked me to tell Glenda Parker that she had been fortunate to have Sam Parker as a father.

We shared our cab to the airport with Glenda. It was the first time Zack had seen her as a woman, and when he told her she was lovely, her pleasure was poignant. On the flight west, Glenda was quiet but controlled. As a white-knuckle flyer, I was working on control myself. Whether it was the diamond brilliance of the day or the fact that Zack never let go of my hand, my pulse didn’t lurch into triple digits during the hour and fifteen minutes we were in the air. When the mountains came into view, Zack leaned towards me. “How would you like to come out here for our honeymoon?”

I turned to him. “I’d love it,” I said. “I love the mountains and the sky and the trees and the air and the light. When the kids were all at home, we used to strap our ski equipment to the luggage rack of the station wagon and drive here for the weekend.”

“I didn’t know you skied.”

“Well, we do. Mieka’s really good,” I said.

“We could get a place out here if you want,” he said.

“Skiing wouldn’t be much fun for you,” I said.

“But it’d be fun to watch,” he said.

Beverly Parker’s church was on the airport side of the city. It was a sprawling octagon surrounded by a parking lot with enough spaces to service a mid-sized shopping mall. Our cab dropped us off at the main entrance where a burly man with a brushcut, a fixed smile, and eyes glazed with the joy of being born again greeted us. He pumped Zack’s hand. “I recognize you from the trial,” he said. “Thank you for clearing Sam Parker’s name.” The man took my hand and pumped it. “Welcome,” he said. “We’re glad you’re here.” His eyes slipped over Glenda and focused at a point beyond my shoulder. “More people arriving,” he said. “This is going to be a big one.”

“Thank you for helping us honour my father, Mr. Phillips,” Glenda said to the man’s retreating back.

“Someone you know?” Zack asked.

“My Little League coach,” Glenda said. “Taught me how to throw a curve ball.”

Zack picked up on the tension in Glenda’s voice. “Even assholes have their uses,” he said evenly. He looked around. “So what’s the deal with this church – it is a church, isn’t it?”

“Not just a church – the one true church. And as you can read on that tasteful sign over the main doorway, this atrium was the gift of Samuel and Beverly Parker. I’m surprised my father’s name is still there. He left the church when the elders came to him and advised him to disown me.”

The sign was tasteful; the lobby, less so. The Samuel and Beverly Parker Atrium had all the defining features of an overpriced shoddily built hotel: the soaring glass roof, the water fountain that spewed eternal healing streams of recirculated water, the small forest of flourishing tropical plants, the groupings of plush, welcoming couches and chairs. But there were also concessions to the day-to-day demands of running a church that apparently aimed to meet all its parishioners’ needs. Signs indicated the location of gyms and meeting rooms. A wall was lined with machines that dispensed soft drinks, chips, and candy bars. A large pixelboard streamed announcements of events that would fill the calendars of the faithful from cradle to grave: Moms and Moppets, Junior Explorers, Volleyball (boys), Volleyball (girls), Teen Movie Night, Networking for Success, Family Life, Single-again Bridge, Estate Planning for Seniors.

Zack was fascinated by the range of activities. “If you belonged to this church, you’d never have to leave the building,” he said.

“That’s the idea,” Glenda said dryly. “They want to keep you safe from the taint of secular humanism.” She squared her shoulders. “I guess we’d better go into the worship space. I doubt if anyone’s reserved a seat for me.”

The large auditorium had a stage, a podium, and hundreds of seats banked theatre-style. The place was already packed, but there was an accessibility section in the first row that still had room. We settled in and listened as a disembodied voice on the sound system announced that television screens had been set up in the gymnasium and meeting rooms and overflow seating was available. Finally, Beverly Parker entered and took her place, not far at all from where we were sitting. In a terrible and tasteless cosmic joke, the suit she was wearing bore an uncanny resemblance to Glenda’s.

Even Zack noticed. He leaned close to Glenda and whispered, “It looks better on you,” and the three of us exchanged furtive smiles. It was our last light moment. When Sam’s casket, mahogany, dark, and gleaming, was carried in, Glenda’s intake of breath was jagged. After the pallbearers had set the casket in place, Beverly stood and placed a simple spray of roses on its lid. The flowers were of the same delicate pink as Alberta’s provincial flower, the wild rose, and I swallowed hard.

The service was simple and mercifully short. The hymns, played over the public address system, had a professional slickness that kept them from tugging at the heart; the eulogy, delivered by an old rancher friend of Sam’s, was brief and affectionate. The minister delivered the prayers and read the psalms with practised ease, and when he offered the benediction, I thought we were home free. But as the pallbearers picked up the casket and started back down the aisle, Sam’s voice filled the auditorium. He sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” in a voice so strong, sweet, and passionate that it seemed impossible it would ever be stilled. Beside me, Glenda slumped and covered her face with her hands. After the last note had died, she straightened and fixed her eyes on the space where the coffin had been. I took her hand in mine. There were no words to ease the sting of that moment.

As we made our way out of the church, I noticed an ugly and unmistakable phenomenon. Many people recognized Zack and came over to thank him for helping Sam. Picking up on my connection with Zack, people nodded and thanked me for coming. But no one acknowledged Glenda’s presence. The shunning was corrosive. Glenda chewed her lip. “Apparently the mercy of our Lord and Saviour doesn’t extend to me,” she said.

Zack turned to his wheelchair to the door. “Let’s get the rock out of Dodge,” he said. “There’s a bar at the airport. We could all use a drink.”

“Good plan,” I said. “Let me pay a quick visit to the bathroom, and I’ll be right with you.”

“They’re a little hard to find,” Glenda said. “I’ll come with you.”

We walked across the atrium together, and Glenda guided me down a corridor that led to the bathrooms. She pointed to the Women’s. “Success,” she said. “I might as well come in too.”

A woman came through the door, spotted us, and stepped in front of Glenda. “That’s yours over there,” she said pointing to the Men’s.

I glared at her. “Not any more.” I opened the door to the Women’s bathroom. “After you, Glenda,” I said, and like heroines in an old movie, Samuel Parker’s daughter and I swept in.

CHAPTER

14

The martini we had at the lounge in Calgary Airport wouldn’t have made anyone’s top-ten list, but it did the trick. My shoulders began to unknot and the signs of strain disappeared from Glenda’s face. Zack was sanguine by nature, but Sam’s funeral had hit him hard and the martini seemed to help. We were headed for the pre-boarding area when I spotted Brette Sinclair across the concourse at the ticket counter.

I touched Zack’s shoulder. “Somebody I want to talk to over there,” I said. “I’ll catch up with you.”

Brette was in line behind a man with a cat cage and a woman with three children under the age of three. She was tapping her foot and looking ticked off. She beamed when she saw me. “Boy, that was a trip, wasn’t it? That church scared the be-jasus out of me. Did you check out the Topics for Discussion at the Family Life Centre? Curing Homosexuality Through Prayer, A Woman’s Place, Culture-proofing your Kids. Can you believe it?”

“Well, when you’re writing your article, don’t blame Calgary. Blame Beverly – that church she’s connected to is a little weird.”

“More than a little,” Brette said. “And why would I blame Calgary? I was here once for Stampede and I had me a cowboy.”

“Was having a cowboy on your life list?”

“No, but he should have been.”

“Anyway, why would I blame Calgary? It’s a great city. You westerners are so tetchy.”

“With cause,” I said. “So are you headed back to Toronto?”

Brette frowned. “No such luck. I’m standing here to exchange my ticket to Toronto for one to Regina.”

“What’s in Regina?”

“Now who’s denigrating the west?” She frowned. “I thought you would have heard. The police arrested Howard Dowhanuik. They’re charging him with the murder of Kathryn Morrissey.”

“Oh no,” I groaned.

“Oh yes,” Brette said. The man with the cat left with his ticket in one hand, his cat cage in the other, and a smile on his face. Brette watched him bounce across the concourse. “Looks like it might be my lucky day. Now if they can handle Mother Courage that quickly, I’ll be set.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“Well, let’s see. The police found a partial print from a bloody shoe in the alley and a remnant of burned rubber in the contents of Howard Dowhanuik’s vacuum cleaner. They’ve got their man, and my old room at Hojo’s is waiting for me. I can’t believe NationTV hasn’t been in touch with you.”

“I had my cell turned off during the funeral,” I said. I took the phone out of my bag and turned it on. There was a text message from Jill: “What goes on?”

“I should call in,” I said.

“Be my guest,” Brette said. “It’s not as if I’m going anywhere.”

When I passed on the news of Howard’s arrest, Jill was livid. She had begun her career as a press officer in Howard’s government and she retained a lingering affection for him. “I don’t believe this for a moment. What’s the matter with those cops? Howard has had his troubles, but he’s not a murderer. Jo, find out what’s going on. Howard was always kind to me. Said it was about time there were more smart broads in government.”

“Ever enlightened,” I said. “I’m in the Calgary airport right now, but Zack knows Howard’s lawyer. I’ll see what I can find out.”

I hung up and checked my watch. “I’ve got to go, Brette,” I said. “I hope I’ll see you on the plane.”

Brette stared morosely at the woman with the three little children. “If I make it, you know who I’ll be sitting beside.”

When I told Zack about Howard, he immediately called Margot Wright. It was a brief call, but he picked up the essentials and relayed them to me. The police had arrested Howard at 1:00 p.m. Regina time. Howard was handling himself well – not giving anything up except his name and address. Margot had implored him to tell her the whole story. He insisted he had, but she didn’t believe him.

“So where is Howard now?” I said.

“In the cells at the cop shop,” Zack said. “Margot managed to get a bail hearing tomorrow, but Howard will be there overnight.”

“Can I see him?”

“Nope. Just his lawyer. And, Jo, you don’t want to see that place. The drunk tank is just down the hall from the cells, so the smells and sounds are pretty much what you’d expect in the seventh circle of hell.”

“It might be a useful experience for Howard,” I said. “Still, there must be something I can do.”

“Actually, there is,” Zack said. “Margot wondered if you could find out Charlie’s shoe size.”

Glenda had been listening impassively, but the reference to shoes caught her attention. “Why would they be interested in that?”

“Evidence,” Zack said. “Somebody somewhere is trying to put the pieces together.”

Glenda frowned, looked down at her own fashionable pumps, and retreated into silence.

When I got back to my house, Charlie was there. He and Taylor were watching The Simpsons. Charlie jumped up when he saw me.

“No need to move,” I said.

“I was just sitting here wondering how you’re feeling about me these days.” His gaze was level. “How are you feeling about me these days, Jo?”

“Conflicted,” I said. “But I’ll work it out. Right now, your father should be the focus.”

“Can I see him?”

“No,” I said. “He’s only allowed to see his lawyer.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Do you care?”

“Yes, I care. I’m not a monster, Jo. I understand what my father is doing.”

I stepped closer. “What is he doing, Charlie?”

Charlie shrugged his thin shoulders. “Playing the hero. Taking the rap because he thinks I’m involved in what happened to Kathryn Morrissey.”

“Are you?”

“I didn’t kill her, Jo. My father should have more faith in me. Of course, that would involve understanding what I’m capable of, and he barely knows me.”

“So are you going to step forward and tell the truth?”

Charlie’s laugh was bitter. “Who do you suggest I talk to, Jo? The cops? How interested are they going to be in hearing that I didn’t kill Kathryn Morrissey? My father? You tell me I’m not allowed to see him. Not that it would make any difference if I did. As always, my father has made up his mind about what needs to be done and he’s doing it.”

“Why do you hate him so much?” I said.

“I don’t hate him. I came over today because I think this hero act of his is idiotic, and I was hoping somehow to communicate that to him. But since that appears to be impossible, I’ll be off …”

I glanced down at Charlie’s feet. He was wearing hiking boots that looked as if they’d just come out of the box. “Nice shoes,” I said. “Are they new?”

“As a matter of fact they are.”

“Did you get them in town?”

“On the Internet. I’ve got these freakish long, skinny feet. Anyway, I can give you the website if you want.”

“Sure.” I stepped closer to him. “Charlie, I was there when you were born. I hate the way things are with you and your father, but I haven’t stopped caring about you.”

Charlie nodded. “Right,” he said. “I’ll call my father’s lawyer and see if I can get her to deliver my little message.”

“Good.”

He leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Take care of yourself, Jo.”

The morning newspaper was filled with news of Howard’s arrest. For his trip to police headquarters, Howard chose to wear his scarlet toque with its pattern of elves at play. Margot wore leather. In the photo splashed on the front page, they made a striking couple.

Taylor and I had breakfast, then I dropped her off at school and went down to NationTV to see what I could find out. When I arrived, Rapti was across the newsroom chatting with a colleague. I went to her cubicle and, while I waited, looked around for any new photos of Zuben.

“I haven’t got our Halloween photos developed yet,” Rapti said when she returned. “Zuben went as a cat.”

“I wish you’d come to our place.”

“Next year,” Rapti said. She reached back and knotted her shining black hair into a ponytail. “So have you got something for me?”

“No. I was hoping you had something for me. Have the police found out anything more about that footprint they found in the alley?”

“Just that it was no big deal. It came from one of the shoes that poor kid – Ethan – was wearing when he found his mother’s body. Apparently he tried to revive her and he got pretty bloody. He took his clothes out to the Dumpster. I guess he was in shock. Anyway, my source says the footprint is insignificant.”

I stood up to leave. “Thanks,” I said. “Would it be a problem if I pass this along to Howard Dowhanuik’s lawyer?”

Rapti shook her head. “Be my guest. She probably already knows. And, Jo, stay in touch. Jill will want a backgrounder on Howard Dowhanuik.”

“I’m around,” I said.

Margot Wright wasn’t on my speed dial, so I called Zack. “The footprint is a non-starter,” I said. “The police say it belongs to Ethan.”

“I’ll tell Margot,” Zack said.

“And now that it no longer matters,” I said, “tell her that Charlie’s feet are long and freakishly skinny. Also, Charlie’s going to get in touch with her. He wants to send a message to his father.”

“Hmm,” Zack said. “Progress.”

“I hope so.”

“You sound kind of down.”

“Just fresh out of optimism,” I said.

“Then, let’s talk about something nice. What should I get Taylor for her birthday?”

“Well, let’s see, I think I covered the ‘A List’: a box of Kolonok Art Brushes that, Taylor tells me, are the best, a new journal, some frilly underwear, and a book about Diego Rivera. She did mention she’d like a mani-pedi at Head to Toe.”

“What’s a mani-pedi?”

“A manicure and a pedicure. The mani-pedi comes with an assortment of chocolate truffles – very decadent.”

“If that’s what Taylor wants, that’s what she shall have.”

“I hope it’s always like this for her,” I said.

“Me too,” Zack said. “She’s a great kid and I love that we’re going to be a family. Now, gotta go. Got to do something to pay for that mani-pedi.”

I spent the day working on my book. My visit to Beverly Parker’s church had given me fresh insight into the new values war, and raised provocative questions about how politically combative the conservative movement in our country might become. Zack was home at six to have dinner with Taylor and me. He was gone again by eight, and I worked on my book until bedtime. Life had a pattern, and I was grateful.

On the morning of Taylor’s birthday, I went in to give her a nuzzle before Willie and I took off on our run. She rolled over and smiled without opening her eyes. “Happy birthday,” I said. “You smell good. What is that perfume you’re wearing?”

“Gracie made it. It’s a mixture of patchouli oil, lavender, and something else I can’t remember.”

“Gracie makes perfume?”

“There a store on 13th Avenue that has all the stuff. You just give them the person’s perfume profile, and they help you pick out what you need.”

“What’s a perfume profile?”

Taylor propped her chin on her elbow and yawned. “Three words that describe the person. My words were ‘artistic,’ ‘independent,’ and ‘loving.’ Gracie and Isobel chose them.”

“Gracie and Isobel were right on the money,” I said. I started out of the room. Then obeying an impulse, I came back and put my arms around my daughter.

She yawned. “I had an idea for the mural in the new house.”

“Want to tell me?”

“It’s a secret – but I’ve made some little paintings – just trying things out.”

“Good. Willie and I are going for our run – be back in an hour.”

“Mmmm.” Taylor burrowed deeper into her covers and went back to sleep.

I took her gifts downstairs, put them on her breakfast plate, then hooked Willie’s leash to his collar. It was November 11, Remembrance Day, and the morning was cool, misty, and silent. Willie and I circled the lake. By the time we came to the legislature, the army trucks were bringing in the ancient cannons that would be fired at eleven o’clock, shots through history that froze the marrow.

Taylor’s gifts were still wrapped and on the table when I got back. She was sleeping in, and why not when it was her birthday and a holiday to boot? After I’d showered and dressed, I came downstairs, made myself a bowl of yogurt and blueberries, picked up the newspaper, and prepared myself for the rare adventure of breakfasting alone.

It was close to eight o’clock when Zack called, asking if there were last-minute guests to add to the reservation list for dinner. Taylor had decided she wanted to go out for ribs on her birthday, and Zack needed to know if we wanted a bigger table.

I called upstairs to Taylor, and when she didn’t answer, I ran up to her room. She wasn’t there. I checked her bathroom. It was empty.

I picked up the extension by Taylor’s bed. I had left the phone in the kitchen off the hook, and I could hear the chalk-screech dissonance of Hindemith’s Mathis der Maler in the background. “I can’t find her,” I said.

“Taylor just turned eleven,” Zack said. “She’s probably decided it’s time to see the world.”

“Not funny,” I said. “Also not like Taylor. She’s a homebody. I don’t think she’ll ever leave.”

“That’s okay with me. I like having her around,” Zack said. “Gotta go. I have a meeting downtown.”

“It’s Remembrance Day,” I said.

“The meeting is with some money guy from Vancouver. This was the only day his calendar wasn’t booked solid. Give Norine a call if we need a bigger table for dinner tonight. She’ll be at the office.”

“It’s a stat holiday in this province, remember?”

“Holiday, shmoliday,” Zack said. “There’s always work. Tell Taylor I’m looking forward to watching her blow out the candles.”

I stared at Taylor’s empty bed. It was unmade – not a surprise, but her pyjamas weren’t under her pillow, and if she’d gone out, that was unusual. Taylor was a creature of habit, and after she’d dressed, she always placed her pyjamas under her pillow. But lately, when she was working on a piece of art, she’d put on her boots, throw a jacket over her pyjamas, and work in her studio for an hour before school. It was possible our talk about the mural had ignited a spark and she was painting.

I went back downstairs, opened the door to the deck, and called her name. There was no answer and I could feel the edge of panic. I tried to cling to logic. Two hours ago, Taylor had been safe in her bed. She was still wearing her pyjamas. When she was making art, she was oblivious to everything else. If I went to her studio, I would find her content and at work.

Unless I was there by invitation, Taylor’s studio was off limits, but at that moment, I was beyond respecting her privacy. The temperature had plummeted the night before, and as Willie and I walked across the lawn, the frost crunched beneath our feet.

Taylor’s studio had been built when she came to live with us. She was four years old, but she was already an artist – a prodigy who had inherited her mother, Sally Love’s, talent and a great deal of money. It seemed sensible to use some of that money to build Taylor a place where she could really make art. The studio was not a Sunday painter’s shack. It was about the size of a modest one-car garage, but the architect had designed it with an awareness of an artist’s need for light and space. The north window was large, and even from a distance, I could see that the room was empty. Hoping against hope, I knocked at the door, then opened it.

Taylor and I had long since agreed to disagree about the chaos that was her bedroom, but her workroom was always ordered: canvases, canvas stretchers, palettes, oils, acrylic paints, turpentine, brushes, rags for cleaning, rags for wiping paint into a canvas – everything had its place. The order Taylor brought to making her art was tonic, and I always felt happy in her studio. The “little painting” Taylor was working on was on her easel, and as it always did, Taylor’s art took my breath away.

For much of my life, I had been around people who prided themselves on their intellect, but Taylor’s gift came from a different well – one that was deep and mysterious. The painting before me had a languorous beauty. It was of our swimming pool. When Zack and I had lunch beside it on the Friday before Thanksgiving, the water had shimmered with a magic that I thought grew out of a golden afternoon and passion. But the brilliant turquoise of our forty-year-old pool had been magic for Taylor too.

As always in her paintings, Taylor herself was front and centre. A white diving board was suspended over the pool, and Taylor was sitting cross-legged on its end with her cats in the hollow of her lap. Our pool didn’t have a diving board, and Bruce and Benny regarded the water as the devil’s territory, but Taylor had created a place where boundaries were transcended. Despite everything, I found myself experiencing the wonder and peace of that idyllic world. Then, as quickly as it came, the spirit that flowed when I gazed at Taylor’s painting contracted into the cold focus of a vanishing point. Where was the girl who had painted this picture? Where was my daughter?

I closed the door to the studio, called Willie who had been racing in circles on the lawn, and walked back to the house. When I bent to take off my runners, it hit me. If Taylor had been in her studio that morning, her footprints would be visible in the frosty grass. I went back out to check the lawn, but I saw at once that it was too late. Willie and I had obliterated whatever tracks might have been there.

I was making mistakes that I couldn’t afford to make. I needed to take a deep breath and use common sense. Attached to the refrigerator door by a starfish-shaped magnet was a list of the names and phone numbers of Taylor’s friends. She had written it out at my request, and the sight of the familiar names in her small neat hand brought a pang. I picked up the phone and began. It was a holiday, and my call awakened more than a few parents. Groggy but obliging, they woke up their children. No one knew where Taylor was. Everyone was reassuring. She was a good girl, responsible, not the kind to get in trouble. When at last I reached the end of the list, I was close to tears. There was only one more call to make.

For three years I had been involved with an inspector on the Regina Police Force, and I still remembered the number for headquarters. I dialed and waited. The officer who answered was gruff. When I gave her my name and address, told her Taylor’s age, and revealed that she had only been missing for three hours, the officer could barely contain her impatience.

We lived in the south end of the city, an area of geographical privilege where children were shepherded from school to lessons to play-dates by attentive parents who were only a cellphone call away. Taylor was the only child in her circle who didn’t own a cell. It had been a sore spot between us, but despite her imprecations, I hadn’t caved. When she argued that if she had a cell, I would always know where she was, I countered with my trump. Cellphones worked both ways, and at eleven, she should be learning to make independent decisions. I told her I trusted her, and I didn’t need to be checking on her every fifteen minutes. Reluctantly, Taylor had accepted my logic.

As I stared at the unopened presents heaped at her place at the table, I knew I would give anything if Taylor had pummelled me into submission, and there was a number I could dial to hear her voice.

When my husband died, I had collapsed. We had, in theory, been all in all to each other, and it had taken me years to become a woman who didn’t need another person to help her face a crisis. But that morning I needed Zack. I tried his cell, and immediately got his voice mail. If his cell was off, the meeting with the man from Vancouver must have been important. I dialed Norine MacDonald’s number.

Her voice was warm. “Zack told me to expect a call,” she said. “How many new best friends have been added to Taylor’s guest list?”

For a beat I couldn’t take in her words. Norine was a citizen of the old world of safety and certainty, and I had moved on.

“Norine, it’s not about the party. I … I can’t find Taylor.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. In my mind, I could see Norine’s face, impassive, intelligent, assessing the information, and deciding what to do next. “Zack’s meeting is at the Delta,” she said finally. “They only had a couple of hours, so they’ve sealed themselves off, but I can get a message to him. He’ll call you.”

“Thanks.”

“Joanne, if there’s anything I can do …”

“I’ll let you know,” I said. When I hung up, my hands were shaking. Fear and low blood sugar. I knew I should eat a piece of fruit or pour myself a glass of juice. These were sensible actions, but I couldn’t move. I was frozen. When the phone rang, I leapt.

“Zack, I’m sorry to drag you out of your meeting,” I said.

The man on the other end of the line cut me off. “Is this Joanne Kilbourn?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Douglas Thorpe. I’m calling about my son.”

When I didn’t respond immediately, Douglas Thorpe felt the need to explain. “My son is Ethan Thorpe. He’s a friend of your daughter Taylor.” He enunciated each syllable with exaggerated slowness and clarity. A phrase my grandmother used in her old age flashed through my mind. “He spoke to me as if he were attempting to teach a cow to talk.”

“Ethan’s at school in Winnipeg,” I said.

“But he’s not at school. That’s why I’m calling.” Frustrated, Douglas Thorpe’s enunciation became even more precise. “Ms. Kilbourn, the headmaster of Ethan’s school just phoned me. My son is missing. The headmaster talked to Ethan’s roommate. The boy found your daughter’s name and telephone number in Ethan’s desk. That’s how I was able to call you. The roommate says Ethan wanted to be with your daughter on her birthday. Today is Chloe’s birthday, isn’t it?”

“My daughter’s name is Taylor,” I said, but my knees had begun to tremble.

“Then the roommate must have been in error,” Douglas Thorpe said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Don’t hang up,” I said. “Mr. Thorpe, Ethan drew comics. There was a character named Chloe in them. She was modelled on Taylor. Today is Taylor’s birthday. She’s only eleven. She’s too young for this.”

“I agree,” he said. “Nonetheless, the headmaster believes Ethan is on his way to Regina. There are buses he could have taken or he might have hitchhiked. But the headmaster is certain he was heading for your house.”

The kaleidoscope had shifted. The new images were unsettling, but not terrifying. A boy, intoxicated by the heady cocktail of hormones and loneliness, had run away from his school to see a girl who had been kind to him. As a mother of four, I was only too familiar with the wild excesses of adolescent emotion and behaviour, and I cobbled together a sequence of events that seemed plausible.

Ethan had arrived when Willie and I were off on our run. He had rung the doorbell and Taylor, half awake, clutching the joy of a day when possibilities rose like pink balloons, ran downstairs expecting a surprise. When she opened the front door, Ethan was there. She would have been taken aback, but it was her birthday. Ethan, a romantic who had somehow navigated the 550 kilometres between Winnipeg and Regina, was standing there with a gift – probably a new comic featuring the adventures of Chloe. He had suggested a walk along the creek, and that’s where they were – walking.

But the fabric of this bright scenario unravelled as quickly as I wove. Taylor was frightened of Ethan’s intensity. She would never have gone off alone with him.

On the other end of the line, Douglas Thorpe had raised the volume. Apparently, he thought I’d stopped listening. “Ms. Kilbourn, I asked if I could speak to your daughter.”

“She’s not here,” I said. “Mr. Thorpe, the truth is I don’t know where she is. I took our dog for a walk, and when I came back, Taylor was gone.”

“Ms. Kilbourn, you should make every effort to find your daughter.”

His sense of urgency was contagious. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” I said.

“If Ethan arrives there, call me immediately.” Douglas Thorpe gave me his number, and I thought our business with each other was finished. I was wrong. “One other thing,” he said. “Don’t leave Ethan alone with your daughter.”

My heart was pounding. “Mr. Thorpe, why did you and your new wife send Ethan out here to live with his mother?”

“My wife has other children,” Douglas Thorpe said.

“And so you just shipped Ethan out here because he was in the way?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” he said, and his tone was grudging.

“Complicated how?”

“My wife didn’t want Ethan around her children.”

I didn’t want to hear what came next, but Douglas Thorpe had decided to share. “Ethan has problems.”

“Sexual problems?”

“No. Problems with his temper. He loses control.”

“So you made sure your wife’s children were safe and let Ethan roam around.”

“Ethan’s difficulties are a great concern for my wife and me,” he said primly.

The call-waiting notification beeped on my telephone. I was certain it was Zack, but I had to press ahead with Douglas Thorpe. “Call the police,” I said in a voice that shocked me by its chilly authority. “Tell them what you just told me. Tell them to find Taylor and your son.”

“I don’t believe there’s any reason to involve the authorities at this point,” he said. “Just find the children and call me.”

“And exactly what will you do?”

“Make certain my son gets back to school. They’ll be watching him closely now.”

“Because he might harm somebody.”

“I think we have to face that possibility. That’s why I called. Whatever you may think, I’m a responsible parent.”

“Mr. Thorpe, for the record, I don’t consider you a rational parent. I think you’re a scumbag, and I’m not going to waste any more time talking to you. I’m going to get help.”

I hung up and tried Zack’s cell. He picked up on the first ring.

After the windy self-justifications of Douglas Thorpe, Zack was a relief. He heard me out and moved into gear. “I’ll call the police and give them Taylor’s description. Do you have any idea what she was wearing?”

“No – her pyjamas, probably her ski-jacket. It’s green.”

“You said you saw her what – less than three hours ago? Ethan and Taylor are kids without a car. They can’t have got too far.”

“If anything’s happened to her …”

“Taylor’s fine,” Zack said flatly. “And so are you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I went back to Taylor’s room and began hunting for something – anything – that would tell me where my daughter was. I had never once searched my children’s rooms. When other parents talked about rummaging through drawers, reading diaries, unearthing secrets, I was appalled, but that morning I was a madwoman. When I was through I was sick at heart. My daughter’s secret life was touchingly innocent – a beginner’s bra hidden in her sock drawer, a boy’s name written many times in many colours on a page of her journal, a paperback copy of a steamy chick-lit novel with several pages dog-eared. Blameless.

There was one last place to check. The box that Ethan had delivered the morning he left was still on the top shelf in my bedroom closet. I returned to my room, took the box from my cupboard, picked up the scissors from my desk, and slit the mailing tape. A stench – sweet and animal – assailed me. Ethan’s newest comic was wrapped in heavy clear plastic. I lifted it out of the box and then I began to retch. At the bottom of the box on a piece of velvet was the pentangle. It was covered with dried and clotted blood. I ran into my bathroom and vomited. Then I splashed my face with water and went back to the horror. I picked up the comic and unwrapped the plastic. There was a note inside. Five words: I did it for you.

Downstairs, Willie was barking. Reflexively, I went to my window to see what had got him going. When I looked down into our backyard, I saw my daughter. She was walking towards her studio, head bowed. As I had imagined, she had put her new green ski jacket over her pyjamas. She was wearing my favourite of her winter hats: a black angora toque with little cat ears on top. Ethan was behind her, very close, with one arm draped awkwardly around her shoulder. He was wearing a winter jacket too. His was black – as were his jeans and boots.

I raced down to open the kitchen door. Willie rocketed past me. I called out to Taylor. She turned, but there was something unusual about the way she moved. My daughter was a girl who bounced through life, but that morning she was like a sleepwalker. With the grace of a long-time dance partner, Ethan turned with her. That’s when I saw the sun glint off the knife he was holding at her throat.

The moment Willie spotted Taylor, he had bounded towards her. Now, tail pounding the frozen earth, he sat in front of her and Ethan, waiting for someone to acknowledge his presence.

Ethan tensed. “Get the dog away,” he said. He looked as if he was going to cry, but the hand holding the knife against my daughter’s throat didn’t move. “Get the dog away. If he jumps up on me now, my hand could slip.”

“Willie, come,” I said. He cocked his head as if he was attempting to remember a word from an ancient language.

“Come,” I said again. Amazingly, he loped towards me. “Good dog,” I said, then I grabbed his collar.

“Put him in the house,” Ethan’s voice cracked with emotion. He tightened his hold on Taylor and guided her towards the studio.

With my hand still looped through Willie’s collar, I took him back to the house, pushed him into the kitchen, and closed the door. His howls of indignation followed me as I ran towards the studio; Ethan and Taylor were already inside. Surprisingly, Ethan made no move to stop me when I opened the door. He was still standing behind Taylor, but he had changed the position of the knife. Now the handle was clasped in his closed fist and the shaft was vertical with its point touching the tender flesh under my daughter’s chin.

Taylor was dangerously pale. “Ethan, you have to stop this,” I said. “Taylor’s going into shock.”

“Lean against me, Taylor,” he said gently. “You know – the way Chloe leans against Soul-fire. It’s all in the book I left for you.” Taylor’s eyes were half-closed, she swayed. “You did read it, didn’t you?” Ethan asked. Taylor remained silent, and Ethan exploded. “You were supposed to read the book. It explains everything.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you didn’t read it. You’re just like all the others.” The tip of the knife pierced the skin on her throat, and a drop of blood appeared.

When I saw her blood, I reacted immediately. “I didn’t give her the book,” I said. “It’s my fault.”

Ethan eyes met mine. “So she doesn’t know.”

I shook my head. “No, Taylor doesn’t know anything.”

“I can tell her,” Ethan said. His voice became very soft. “It’s the end of Chloe and Soul-fire – their last adventure. They’re attacked by this monster dragon. She’s huge and she can’t be killed. Soul-fire does his best. He takes his sword and plunges it into the dragon’s neck again and again. There’s blood … blood everywhere. Finally, the head is severed, but it grows back – not just one head but two. Every time, Soul-fire cuts off a head, two grow back in its place. He tries so hard, but he knows the dragon will always be there. Soul-fire knows that the one place the dragon won’t follow him is through the Gates of Death. So he takes his golden knife and he holds it to Chloe’s throat and …”

Taylor’s eyes seemed to roll back in her head; her knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor. I knelt and took her in my arms. Ethan raised the hand that held the knife.

“Don’t,” I said, shielding my daughter’s body with my own.

“No matter how much I try to kill her, she never goes away,” Ethan said. “I smashed in her head and she grows another one. She comes to me in my dreams.”

My face was pressed against my daughter’s body. I turned my head so that I could see Ethan. “Who comes to you in your dreams?” I asked.

“My mother,” he said.

That was when I screamed.

“Stop,” Ethan said. “Please just stop.” But I didn’t. I screamed again and again and again.

“I don’t want to kill anybody else,” Ethan said. Beneath me, Taylor’s body was so boneless that I could feel the beating of her heart. When the studio door opened, I felt cold air, then I heard Zack’s voice. “Come over here to me, Ethan,” he said.

Eyes closed, I waited, still shielding Taylor from what was to come. Ethan’s footsteps moved towards the door, and I thought how vulnerable Zack was in his wheelchair. “Give me the knife,” Zack said. The silence that followed was interminable. Then Zack said the words that finally allowed me to exhale. “Good move,” he said. “Now we can figure out what to do next.”

I helped Taylor to her feet. She was still pale, but her body was no longer limp. I took in the scene. Zack’s chair blocked the doorway. Ethan was facing him, his back to us.

“What’s going to happen to me?” he asked.

“The police are out front,” Zack said. “We weren’t sure what was going on, so they let me come ahead. What will happen next is up to you.”

“I killed my mother,” Ethan said. “She wasn’t going to let me go trick-or-treating with Taylor.”

Taylor gasped, but if he was shocked, Zack didn’t reveal it. His tone was matter of fact. “Then you’re going to need someone who’s on your side.”

Ethan hung his head. “No one’s on my side.”

Zack’s eyes met mine. I nodded.

“I’m on your side,” Zack said. “I won’t lie to you. You’re in a lot of trouble, but you’re thirteen years old, and that means the law thinks you deserve another chance. Do you think you deserve another chance?”

“I don’t know,” Ethan said.

“Well, you’re going to have some time to consider the question.” Zack reached into his pocket, pulled out a package of Spearmint LifeSavers, and offered it to Ethan. “Want one?” he asked.

“I guess,” Ethan said, and he popped a LifeSaver into his mouth.

Zack waited as Ethan crunched his candy, then he turned his chair to the door. “Time to face the music, kiddo. Are you ready?”

Ethan nodded. “Could I have another LifeSaver?”

Zack handed him the packet and looked over at me. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours. Are you and Taylor going to be okay till then?”

“We’re going to be fine,” I said. After Zack and Ethan left, I put my arm around my daughter and led her to the house. “Taylor, I think we should see a doctor.”

“No,” she wailed. “No. I don’t want to go out. Not now. Just let me stay here with you.” Her eyes were huge and frightened.

“All right. We can stay here,” I said. “Let’s go up to the bathroom so I can put something on that nick under your chin.”

I had to close my eyes as I dabbed hydrogen peroxide on the spot where the knife had broken my daughter’s skin. If the blade had gone deeper, I could have lost her. “Ethan didn’t hurt you in any other way, did he?” I asked.

Taylor shook her head, and I said a silent prayer of thanks. I ran a hot bath, poured in the lavender milk bath powder, and helped my daughter sink into the water. Then I brought her a mug of sweet, milky tea and set it on the edge of the bathtub.

“Want me to stay or leave?” I asked.

“Stay,” she said. I flipped down the toilet lid, and then, for the first time since she’d moved into our house, Taylor and I spent a half-hour together in utter silence. After she’d towelled off, I helped her into her pyjamas, tucked her into bed with more tea and a plate of toast, and stayed with her until she fell asleep. Then I went into my bathroom and dialed Zack’s number.

“I’ve been trying to get you,” he said.

“I turned down the ringer on the phone so Taylor could get some rest.”

“How’s she doing?”

“It’s hard to say. She’s asleep now.”

“How are you doing?”

“I wish you were here.”

“I will be,” he said. “A few more hoops to jump through on this end.”

“So what’s happening?”

“Ethan told me his story. I have to get in touch with his father. The YCJA – sorry, the Youth Criminal Justice Act – says parents have to be notified, involved, and in some cases ordered to attend youth court proceedings. But Ethan’s mother is dead …”

“Because Ethan killed her,” I said.

“Can’t talk about that,” Zack said, “but I do need to get in touch with Ethan’s father and Ethan won’t tell me his name or where he lives.”

I gave Zack the number Douglas Thorpe had given me. “I should warn you,” I said. “This man is a total prick.”

“I’ve always wanted to meet a total prick,” Zack said. “I guess today’s my lucky day. So what do you think? Is Douglas Thorpe going to tell me to take a hike, so his trusted family lawyer who hasn’t been in a criminal courtroom in thirty years can take over?”

“He won’t be pleased that you’re involved,” I said. “You’re high profile, and Mr. Thorpe wants this to go away.”

“Even if his son gets buried in the system until all of us are but a memory?”

“I think that would be his preference.”

“Hey, guess what?” Zack said. “Mr. Thorpe’s preference doesn’t count. According to the YCJA, if Ethan’s father’s choices aren’t in Ethan’s best interests, Ethan has the right to be represented by a counsel independent of dear old Dad.”

“You sure you want to take this on?” I said.

“You bet,” Zack said. “That kid has not had what I would call a lucky life. Right now, there’s a psychologist testing him to see just how damaged he is.”

“Anyone who talked to Ethan for five minutes would know he has serious problems.”

“The system runs on experts, Jo. The opinion an expert forms now will help down the road when it comes to sentencing.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“The charge will be murder. Because of Ethan’s age, if it’s first degree, the maximum sentence is ten years; if it’s second degree, seven years max.”

“So Ethan could be back walking among us when he’s twenty.”

“Do I detect a hardening of your gentle heart?”

“I’ll get over it,” I said. “Whatever happened to easy answers?”

Zack laughed softly. “Welcome to my world.”

CHAPTER

15

Taylor was still sleeping when I went back to her room. I pulled her desk chair close to the bed and drank her in. She was beginning to look like herself again. Her cheeks were rosy with sleep, and her breathing was deep. When she awoke, she cat-stretched and furrowed her forehead. “What time is it?”

“A little after noon. You slept through the cannons.”

For a moment she seemed confused. “So it really is my birthday,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And all that stuff with Ethan really happened.”

“Yes.” I moved closer, “Taylor, I think it will help if you tell me about it.”

Taylor’s usual speaking voice was melodic, but that morning the music was gone. As she described the time she’d spent with Ethan, her tone was lifeless. “Somebody threw something – pebbles, I guess – against my window. I thought it was Gracie and Isobel coming to surprise me, so I ran downstairs. When I opened the kitchen door, Ethan was there. Everything happened so fast. Ethan pushed past me, slammed the door, and grabbed me. He had that knife. He said a bunch of stuff about Soul-fire and Chloe. I was really scared – not just because of the knife, but because of the way he looked. He told me to get my jacket because we were going away together. I said I didn’t want to go. Then he pointed the knife at my heart.” Taylor touched the left side of her chest. “This is where my heart is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s where it is.”

Taylor moved her hand reflexively over the vulnerable area. “He made me go to this place under the footbridge where he used to hang out after school.” She raised her eyes to me. “He kept his knife pointed at me in case I yelled if anyone went by on the bike path. Sitting still like that I got really cold, and I said I wanted to go home. Ethan said we didn’t have homes any more – we just had each other. I knew I had to get away, so I told him I’d made a painting of Soul-fire and it was in my studio.”

“Was there really a painting?”

She nodded. “I was going to send it to him at his new school. I wanted him to know everybody didn’t hate him. We were on our way to see the painting when … when you came.” Taylor closed her eyes, moaned, and turned away from me. I sat on her bed and stroked her back.

“It’s all right,” I said. “Everything’s all right.”

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Zack took him to police headquarters.”

“And he won’t be able to get out.”

“Not for a long time.”

“Nothing will ever be the same,” she said.

She was silent again, and I could feel her drifting from me. I had not given birth to Taylor, but from the day she came to me, the connection between us could not have been closer. She was a girl whose life was filled with passions: her family, her friends, her animals, making and experiencing art, chatting, eating with gusto everything from paella to licorice whips. No matter what her mood, I had always known how to reach her, but that day I was at a loss, and so I waited.

Finally, responding to one of those inexplicable internal shifts that push us back from the abyss and into life again, Taylor sat up. “Can we go down to the creek? There might be some birds.”

“Good idea,” I said. Her decision didn’t surprise me. Taylor was four when she became part of our family, but she had already known a lifetime of tragedy. Within a period of six months, every adult in Taylor’s life had died. I adopted her because she was the daughter of the woman who had been my closest childhood friend and because there was no one else to care for her. A frightened child, she was saved by three things: her art, our family, and the creek that flowed behind our house.

For a body of water in a residential area close to the heart of the city, it was large – twenty-five metres across. In spring, the creek was swollen and tumultuous with runoff from snowy fields on the outskirts of town; in summer and fall it was tranquil, a mirror reflecting the prairie’s living skies; in winter it was ice, thick enough to support skaters and tobogganers. Always, it was a place of rustling indigenous grasses and intense bird and animal life.

The first spring Taylor was with us, I bought her a sketchbook and she and I had started a bird list. At the beginning, she had drawn pictures of the birds she spotted, and I had written their names. In later years, Taylor had recorded her finds herself, but she continued to draw detailed miniatures of the birds she identified: the rare ones that swooped down for a moment in the course of their great migration, and the usual suspects that were part of our everyday lives: western grebes, cormorants, mallards, mourning doves, thrashers, warblers, blackbirds, and the faithful and ubiquitous sparrows. She began her bird record anew every year – seven books so far. The eighth, pocket-sized and bright orange, was waiting on her plate with the rest of her forgotten birthday gifts.

Taylor pulled underwear, socks, blue jeans, and a shirt out of her dresser drawers and went into the bathroom. When she came back, she was dressed and she’d run a comb through her hair.

“Ready to go?” I said.

She hesitated. I could see the uncertainty in her eyes, but she knew she couldn’t stay in bed forever.

The world we walked out into was the shade of half-mourning that grieving Victorians used to affect after the blackness of the first grief was fading. Earlier, the sun had sent out a few tentative beams, but they’d been extinguished by the weight of a November sky. Underfoot, the wintry earth was leached of colour. A skim of ice covered the silent creek.

With no particular plan, Taylor and I sat on the bench we favoured and looked around us. After a while, she pointed across the creek to a tree, leafless and gaunt against the scudding clouds. “I saw a Japanese etching like that at the Mackenzie Gallery,” she said. “Just earth, tree, and sky. Ink and paper. The lines were so simple, but every stroke was right. I wanted to make art like that.”

“You still can,” I said. “Taylor, that tree is still there.”

“And it’s still beautiful,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s still beautiful.”

From the outset, Taylor was determined to go back to her old life, and all the external signs indicated that she had succeeded. The phone kept on ringing, the round of birthday parties and sleepovers continued, and as always, she was diligent about the schoolwork that she saw as a necessary evil to be dealt with before she could get back to her art. But she was edgy, easily startled, with a new and worrying habit of staring into space. For the first time ever, she asked me to sit with her in her studio while she worked. I brought in a folding chair and cleared a place for my laptop at the end of the table where she stored her paint tubes and brushes. Most of the time we worked in comfortable silence, but occasionally she asked about Ethan, and I passed along what I’d heard from Zack. The news was never good, and one afternoon I asked Taylor if she’d rather I didn’t tell her what was happening.

“I need to know,” she said. “It’s worse just imagining.”

Creating a mural for the walls that enclosed our new pool was therapeutic. Working at her sketches, Taylor seemed able to transcend the anxiety that had dogged her since the terrible morning of her birthday. When, finally, it was time to start painting in earnest, she was eager. The construction crew put up scaffolding so that Taylor could reach the tops of the walls and the ceiling, and as she climbed it, I could see her old confidence returning.

Taylor had made several small paintings of our old pool and I was curious about how the pool would figure in the new mural. As it turned out, it was the vibrant colour of the tiles that had attracted her. Before she began the mural Taylor covered the walls with a gem-bright paint that had the opalescent sheen of sun bouncing off turquoise. To stand in that room with the sunlight pouring through the windows of the room’s west wall was to experience a joy that was uncomplicated and unquenchable. Then Taylor began to add shadows and half-tones, and the mood changed. Some of the areas she shaded were small. Like the missing tiles in our old pool, these splashes of black made the blue around them sparkle with greater intensity. But there were larger areas of shadow too; spaces that seemed to beckon and threaten like the mouths of underwater caves. The fish Taylor painted swimming in the sunlit water were jewel-bright and playful, but the mud-coloured fish that swam through the curling plumes of weeds in the shadows were menacing. More eloquently than words, Taylor’s mural conveyed the truth that the sweetness of life can be taken away in an instant.

She waited almost two weeks before she painted the human swimmers on the mural, and the figures were unlike any she’d drawn before. Faceless, strong-bodied, wearing simply cut suits in bold primary colours, their powerful limbs propelled them effortlessly through sun and shadow alike. When I watched them come to life, the relief washed over me. My daughter was recovering.

Taylor had wanted to keep the mural a surprise for Zack until it was finished. When the big day came, she made him close his eyes as he wheeled himself in.

“This isn’t a joke, is it?” he said. “I’m not headed for the edge of the pool.”

“No joke!” Taylor said. “And you can open your eyes now.”

It was the only time in our relationship that I ever saw Zack at a loss for words. He looked around, shook his head in disbelief, and turned his chair to face Taylor.

“This is brilliant, Taylor. You must know that.” He held his hand out to her. “Could we look at it together?”

She shrugged, but I could tell she was pleased.

I watched as they moved around the mural. Occasionally, Taylor would point something out or Zack would ask a question, but mostly they simply examined her work with the care and the seriousness it demanded.

When they came back, Zack slid his arm around my waist. “How lucky can we get?” he said.

Taylor was standing on the other side of Zack’s chair, and when I looked into their faces, the words formed themselves. “I was just asking myself that very thing,” I said.

The weeks leading up to Christmas were full. My research on the values war was coming together, and Jill asked if I’d be interested in writing a documentary on the subject for NationTV. I’d sketched out a proposal, and it was a rush to sit at my laptop and lose track of time because I was having so much fun.

Zack was busy too, but his work wasn’t fun. Ethan’s case was viciously depressing – in large part because Ethan didn’t care what happened to him. His despair was exacerbated by guilt. Given what we had come to know about Ethan, it wasn’t a surprise when he confessed that, in an attempt to prove his worth to his mother, he had planted the bomb that blew up Zack’s office. Kathryn died without knowing how desperate her son had been to gain her approval. Now her son’s only lifeline was the man he tried to kill, and that painful truth was driving Ethan into a vortex of self-loathing and depression. Zack had managed to get Ethan committed to a mental health facility in North Battleford, but Ethan’s prognosis was a constant source of worry. And, as always with Zack, there were new files: the juiciest involved a government minister who had allegedly harassed, stalked, and then attempted to poison a colleague.

I had my own distractions: writing a mid-sabbatical report on my work, Christmas shopping, sorting through the dozens of invitations to parties Zack and I were expected to attend, deciding if my good black dress could survive what was shaping up to be a punishing social schedule.

Then there was Howard. He had pled guilty to obstruction of justice and been sentenced to a month at the detox centre and two hundred hours of community service. He was working off his sentence at the food bank, and I joined him in the warehouse two afternoons a week to pack Christmas hampers. It was a chilly job, and Howard was never without his scarlet, merry elves toque. When the other workers called him Old Saint Nick, he didn’t seem to mind.

Every night at six o’clock, Zack came home to have dinner with Taylor and me, and afterwards the three of us went over to check out developments at the new house. The renovations were proceeding at a pace that made me wonder if our new home would always be a work-in-progress, but McCudden was unflappable. He assured us that, contrary to appearances, we would be able to move in on January 1, and he spoke with such conviction that we continued to plan as if we would.

Every Sunday, without fail, Zack came to church with Taylor and me. When we had formally asked the dean of our cathedral to marry us, he hadn’t been quick to agree. He suggested that before we discussed the matter further, he and Zack have a talk alone. I didn’t question James’s judgment. I was a known quantity, and Zack was a very large question mark. The two men met several times. When I asked Zack what they’d discussed, he was circumspect. “Mostly, we talked about the kind of person you are and the kind of person I am. Then James asked me if I knew the difference between a contract and a covenant.”

“Did you?”

“Sure. A covenant is a contract made with the heart.”

A week before Christmas, Taylor came back from a shopping expedition with Gracie and Isobel, went to her room, and returned with a package in a gift bag. “Do you think Zack could get this to Ethan?” she asked.

“Zack always seems to find a way,” I said. “Could you tell me what’s in there?”

Taylor looked away. “Drawing pens and a sketchbook.”

When I gave Zack the package, he nodded approvingly. “I’m grateful to Taylor,” he said. “This present takes one name off my Christmas list. And I wasn’t looking forward to trying to find a gift for the kid who has nothing.”

“Is Ethan making any headway?”

“Without revealing too much, my client thinks his life is over. He may be right, but he still has another sixty years to put in on this planet, so he’s going to have to figure something out. Taylor’s present was inspired. I’ll see what else I can find to give him a reason to wake up in the morning.”

My family had always been hidebound traditionalists when it came to Christmas. We always bought the same kind of tree, put it up on the same day, and decorated it with the ornaments we’d used since the kids were little. We always unwrapped one present Christmas Eve and saved stockings and the rest of the gifts until morning. Even the suggestion that we might experiment with the recipe for the Yorkshire pudding we served with the Christmas rolled prime rib was rejected out of hand.

We were a family who found comfort in settling into the old grooves, but that year, for many reasons, the old grooves were no longer a comfortable fit. Mieka and Greg were still together, but they’d come to Regina at the end of November to tell us they were going to give their girls the best Christmas possible, then separate in the New Year. I was heartsick, but I was powerless to change the situation and so I focused on getting us through holidays.

It wasn’t easy. Greg had been at the centre of our festivities for thirteen years. He was the one who made the eggnog, led the carol singing, and shook the sleigh bells outside the window to tell us all that Santa was on his way. Knowing that this would be the last time he would be a part of our traditions would be painful for us all.

Taylor, too, was a concern. When I first broached the subject of moving, she was reluctant. The Regina Avenue house was the only home she could remember, but since the morning of her birthday the bad memories had crowded out the good. When she told me she no longer felt safe at the old house, I realized that Christmas there would be, at best, a mixed experience for her. Finally, there was Zack. He was, as Taylor memorably put it, my big sparkly top banana, but he had played no role in the years of Christmases we had celebrated on Regina Avenue.

It was time to start over, and so we went to the lake. Our decision was a good one. Zack’s partners and their families came out for the holidays too. The weather was cold and bright, and the snow was carol-perfect: deep and crisp and even. We skied, skated, tobogganed, ate too much, and went to bed early. We bought the last tree from a lot in Fort Qu’Appelle. The tree, of uncertain parentage, was frozen solid, and when it thawed, we discovered serious flaws. We strung it with lights that we paid far too much for, turned its bad side to the wall, and decorated it with paper snow-flakes and marshmallows. We all agreed it was the most beautiful tree ever.

Given the circumstances, it was a good Christmas, and there was an unexpected gift. Over the holidays, Pantera found the owner with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Pete and he had tried to make a go of it, but Pantera was too gregarious to spend days cheering up ailing animals at the clinic and too rambunctious to be left alone. Pantera did, however, love Zack, tolerate Taylor and me, and get along surprisingly well with Willie. And so, Zack and I left the lake to begin our life as a family with our daughter, her two cats, and our two dogs.

After Zack and I had announced our engagement, there had been no shortage of suggestions about the kind of wedding Zack and I should have. Angus was persuasive about the delights of a destination wedding – preferably somewhere he and Leah could surf and toss around a Frisbee. The idea of getting married on a beach with the waves splashing against the shore was appealing, but travel was difficult for Zack, so Bali was out. Taylor loved the idea of a formal wedding. When we cleaned out the basement, she unearthed the picture of the wedding gown I’d drawn for Katy Keene comics and showed it to Zack. He was fulsome in his praise. He was particularly fond of the way the doves nestling on Katy’s breasts reached towards one another to exchange a beaky kiss over her cleavage. But in the end we decided on something less elaborate.

When we told James that we wanted the quietest of weddings, he pointed out that in the Anglican Church, couples can marry during the ordinary morning service. The provision is an old one, a leftover from the days when flushed, apple-cheeked lads and lasses donned their Sunday best, stepped forth during the service to be married, and went back to picking hops or hoeing turnips the next day. The simplicity of the service appealed to us both, and so Zack and I were married during the Cathedral’s 10:30 Eucharist.

Not many people attend church on New Year’s Day. In addition to our family and Zack’s partners and their families, there were fewer than thirty congregants. The worshippers were evenly split between smartly dressed ladies from the seniors’ home next door and street people who wanted a place of warmth on a cold day. Mieka and Zack’s partner, Blake Falconer, were our witnesses. I carried a spray of white orchids and Zack had a boutonniere of marigolds.

Not surprisingly, the sermon was about beginnings, and James was pensive as he discussed the fact that Zack and I had chosen this first day of the New Year to begin our marriage. He quoted a Kierkegaard scholar who wrote that human existence requires real passion as well as thought, and James said that he was certain two people as passionate and thoughtful as we were could make a fine life together. He ended his sermon by saying that in a world in which the one certain thing is that we live in absolute uncertainty, celebrating the beginning of a new marriage on the first day of a new year demanded a leap of faith. Then he looked directly at Zack and me. “Leaping into uncertainty is terrifying,” he said, “but I saw your faces when you joined hands to take your vows. You two will land on solid ground. Just remember not to let go of each other.”

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GAIL BOWEN’s first Joanne Kilbourn mystery, Deadly Appearances (1990), was nominated for the W.H. Smith/Books in Canada Best First Novel Award. It was followed by Murder at the Mendel (1991), The Wandering Soul Murders (1992), A Colder Kind of Death (1994) (which won an Arthur Ellis Award for best crime novel), A Killing Spring (1996), Verdict in Blood (1998), Burying Ariel (2000), The Glass Coffin (2002), The Last Good Day (2004), The Endless Knot (2006), The Brutal Heart (2008), and The Nesting Dolls (2010). In 2008 Reader’s Digest named Bowen Canada’s Best Mystery Novelist; in 2009 she received the Derrick Murdoch Award from the Crime Writers of Canada. Bowen has also written plays that have been produced across Canada and on CBC Radio. Now retired from teaching at First Nations University of Canada, Gail Bowen lives in Regina. Please visit the author at www.gailbowen.com.