Horrifying as they were, the statistics were simply prologue. The real focus of the Web page was a letter addressed “TO ALL WHO SEEK JUSTICE.” It began: Some of you will question our decision to post autopsy photographs of Ariel Warren on this page. You want to remember Ariel as the vital, evolving woman she was, not as a corpse with a toe-tag. You will find the pictures disturbing. You will resent us for forcing you to confront images so stark and so real that to contemplate them is to feel the knife in one’s own back. Events in the past week have made it necessary for us to act. In the days before her death, Ariel attempted many times to leave her Intimate Partner. He refused to let her go. Now she is dead; her ex-lover walks the streets; one of her colleagues joins forces with her killer’s father; the police shrug. The Friends of Red Riding Hood refuse to abandon Ariel to the vagaries of a patriarchal law system, a system created by men to protect their own. Charlie Dowhanuik (a.k.a. Charlie D of CVOX radio) must be brought to justice. Hunt him down the way Ariel was hunted down. Phone him. E-mail him. Fax him.
A list of the numbers and addresses through which Charlie could be reached followed. The letter’s final paragraph was a call to arms. Jam the switchboard at his radio station with demands that he be fired. Phone him at home every hour on the hour. Make his life hell, the way he made her life hell. Join the Friends tomorrow night as we march to the house he shared with Ariel and demand answers to our questions. We will meet at 5:00 p.m. in front of the library where Ariel was murdered and march to the house on Manitoba Street that she tried so often to leave.
I dialled Howard’s cellphone. “Trouble,” I said. “I just checked the Internet. There’s an open letter there you should see. Do you have access to Charlie’s computer?”
“It wouldn’t do me any good. I don’t even know how to turn one on.”
“Get Charlie to do it.”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Just out.”
“You’ve got to do better than that,” I said. “You have to stay with him.”
“Jo, you sound a little hysterical.”
“I am a little hysterical. Listen to this letter, Howard.” As I read, I tried to keep my tone flat, to defuse the words. It was impossible.
When I finished. Howard uttered an expletive that even he should have been ashamed of using. Then he muttered, “Lynch-mob mentality.”
“They’re grieving, and they believe they’ll never get justice. It’s a dangerous combination. I think Charlie should lie low for a while.”
“Stay at my place?” Howard said.
“You’re not exactly an unknown quantity yourself,” I said.
“Where then?”
I didn’t welcome the answer that presented itself. But Charlie was Marnie and Howard’s son and, whatever else he had done, I now believed he would have cut off his hand before he raised it against Ariel. “Charlie can stay with us,” I said. “There’s an extra bed in Eli’s room.”
“I’ll bring him over as soon as he gets back,” Howard said.
“I’ll leave the key under the planter on the front porch,” I said. “You may be late, and I’ve had enough today.”
“You and me both, kid,” Howard said. “I wonder if this is ever going to end.”
I slept fitfully, waiting for the sound of the key in the lock or of Charlie’s footstep. Neither came. The next morning when the alarm went off, I padded down to Eli’s room; the twin bed next to his was empty. Charlie hadn’t spent the night. In the pit of my stomach, I felt the stirrings of anxiety. When I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I remembered Duke Ellington’s famous response to someone who had commented on the bags under his eyes. “Those aren’t bags,” said Duke. “Those are stored-up virtue.”
It took a few passes with the concealer to mask my stored-up virtue, but by the time Taylor came in to show me her outfit, I wouldn’t have drawn attention in a crowd. Taylor, on the other hand, would have – for all the right reasons. On many days she was an eccentric dresser, but today she had obviously considered the solemnity of the occasion. She was wearing her Nova Scotia tartan kilt, matching cream turtleneck and tights, and the beaded barrettes Alex had bought her at last summer’s powwow at Standing Buffalo. The all-Canadian girl, and she was as excited as I could ever remember seeing her. I drove the two blocks to the Legislature with the Mouseland canvas, carefully wrapped and balanced against the back seat. Taylor and I carried it up the steps of the Legislature together.
Bev Pilon and Livia Brook were waiting for us by the commissionaire’s desk in the first-floor lobby. Livia appeared less haggard than she had in a week. Her skin was faintly pink, as if she’d spent some time outdoors, and her mass of grey and chestnut curls was pushed neatly back with a tortoiseshell hairband. Mercifully, she had decided against wearing the poppy-spattered shawl that Ariel had made, and her outfit was both simple and attractive: tan cotton jumper, white T-shirt, and Birkenstocks, the uniform for female academics of a certain age.
Bev Pilon’s look was corporate cooclass="underline" a smart spring suit in apple green, honey hair artfully styled to look artless, makeup smoothly subtle. She beamed when she spotted Taylor, introduced herself, then took my daughter’s hand and headed for the stairs. Just as the ancient commissionaire noticed me struggling with the picture and came out of his booth, a cameraman from NationTV came through the front door. Kim took in the optics and waved off the commissionaire with a dazzling smile.
“Thanks, but we can handle this,” she said. Then, as cooperatively as the citizens of Mouseland, Bev Pilon, Livia Brook, and I carried Taylor’s canvas towards the rotunda where Marie Cousin and the grade-two class from Lakeview School were waiting for the presentation.
The ceremony didn’t take long. Livia presented Taylor with a plaque, then spoke gracefully of Ben Jesse’s commitment to making young people believe politics was an honourable profession. She quoted Ben’s comment that it was good for government when schools bring kids to see the Legislature in session, because when real children are present, our legislators are, occasionally, shamed into acting like adults. Bev accepted the jibe with a tinkling laugh and an impressive display of teeth. She gave Taylor a tiny Saskatchewan flag and a lapel pin, then summoned the cameraman from NationTV to get his interview. After my daughter had delivered her opinions on socialism, mice, and art, I went over to Marie Cousin.
“That was terrific,” I said. “And your subterfuge was brilliant. Anyway, I signed up as a parent-helper, so what’s next?”
Marie’s eyes were concerned. “You look a little weary,” she said. “Since the real purpose of your coming today was to see Taylor get her award, how about giving the tour a pass?”
“To use a word that Taylor tells me you believe should be kept in reserve, that would be awesome.”
The corners of Marie’s mouth turned up slightly. “Taylor told you about Cheops.”
“She did,” I said, “but at the moment, the idea of having the next hour to myself beats the prospect of seeing the pyramids by a country mile.”
We said our goodbyes, and then I joined Livia. She and I made our way back through the shadowy halls to the brilliant sunshine. After the chilly recycled air of the building, the warm outdoor air was seductively sweet. When Livia started towards her car, I was tempted to let her go, and head home to the lazy lounge on the deck, but the message of Ariel’s Web site was too urgent to ignore.
I went after her. “Livia, do you have a few minutes to talk?”
She shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“There’s a bench over there where we could have a little privacy,” I said, pointing to a green space between the Legislature and Albert Street.
We strolled along a path flanked by flowerbeds. In high summer, the area was a riot of colours and scents, but that May morning the spectacular beauty was still to come. Only the first tender green shoots of perennials and bedding plants were visible in the fresh-turned earth. The bench and the simple bronze memorial to Woodrow Lloyd opposite it were less than a minute’s walk away.