Lane spotted a couple of smiles from people who must have been her cousins. Another voice broke in. The smiles morphed into rage. “And we are proud of that name McKenzie!” Lane searched to find the face behind the voice. Aunt Peggy said, “I insisted on keeping my last name when I got married. I think there is reason to be proud of a name.” The voice was filled with implied superiority.
There was movement to Lane’s right. Beth stood up. Melissa stopped Beth with a smile. Beth sat down.
Lane looked up at a picture of the family sitting around a campfire in lawn chairs. A setting sun painted the lake waters in the background. Something nagged at the edges of understanding. He went back to cataloguing faces and impressions. He spotted a familiar face. Megan Newsome, neighbour to the Randalls, sat next to a man in a tailored black suit. On her other side sat half a dozen women with stylishly cut hair. Lane noted one was at least twenty years younger than the others.
“My grandmother and my grandfather took care of me before I went to school.”
Lane turned to look at the new speaker. Beth stood between her father and her aunt. “They took my brother and me for a holiday to Mexico for two weeks this winter. They took us to see Chichen Itza, and they took us to a place where the sea turtles nest. It was magical, and it is a memory I will hold close.” An image of Beth, her grandparents, and her little brother appeared on the screen. They stood in the tropical sun with the main pyramid at Chichen Itza behind them. Lane was struck by what had escaped him from the beginning of the memorial. The Randalls were a functional family.
David said, “Thank you for coming. Just a reminder about signing the guest book, and please join us for the reception upstairs.” Music began to play. Lane recognized Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. People began to stand and file out. Lane took the side door, making his way to the foyer where people were taking the stairs to the reception. He followed them, stopped, turned, and stood at the railing to observe goings-on down below.
Aunt Peggy, looking remarkably agile for a woman with a cane, made for the elevator, passing out of sight beneath him.
“But I saw you there that night.” The woman’s voice came from behind him. He turned, looking to find the person behind the words. A crowd of mourners shuffled through the double doors leading to the reception. He looked at the backs of people’s heads. Megan Newsome looked to her right. Lane saw she was surrounded by a quartet of carefully coiffed heads in various shades ranging from brunette to blonde.
The elevator door slid open. Aunt Peggy sprinted out, joining the crush.
“Anyone in particular you want me to get a shot of?” Nigel stood next to him, his earlobes and nose red from the cold.
Lane pointed at the clutch of hair approaching the doorway.
Nigel lifted the camera above his head. The flash fired. People turned. The flash fired again to illuminate several faces, including Megan Newsome’s.
“Good,” Lane said.
Nigel faced his partner. “Your voice has changed.”
Furrows appeared on Lane’s forehead as he turned to Nigel. “What?”
“Oh.” Nigel turned away.
“What?”
“It’s just -” Nigel unzipped his jacket.
“Well?”
“You sound different than when you were in the car.”
“Oh.” How do I explain I know the killer is in this crowd?
“Uncle, can you hold Indiana? Dan is sleeping, and I want to have a bath.” Christine sat on the couch in the family room. Indiana was tucked in the crook of her elbow. His face and thick black hair were visible despite the floral blanket cocoon.
“Glad to.” Lane sat down in the easy chair, waiting as she brought the baby over to him. Indiana was warm against his chest. A tiny hand appeared from under the blanket. Lane found himself counting fingers.
“You don’t mind?” Christine asked.
“You’re kidding, right? I love holding him.” He watched as Indiana frowned. The white dressing on his forehead moved up, then down.
“Matt and Uncle Arthur took Alex shopping for clothes.” She put her hand on her uncle’s shoulder.
Lane looked up at her, raising his eyebrows.
“For Indiana. They went shopping for clothes for him.” She hesitated. “Do you love him?”
“What’s not to love? He’s beautiful.”
“My mother called you Pauline. Was it what they called you when you were growing up?” Christine asked.
Lane nodded.
“Is it the reason why you don’t like to be called by your first name?”
Lane nodded.
“I’ll be quick.” Christine turned and went upstairs.
Lane watched Indiana’s face. He heard Dan snoring in the bedroom. He heard Christine turn on the water in the bathtub. Then he looked at his reflection in the black of the TV screen. One of the pictures from the Randall funeral rose up to the surface of his memory: an image of Robert Randall holding a newborn Beth. Lane forced himself to relax his jaw to keep from clenching his teeth. Then his memory projected the image of Robert Randall’s head, his brains spattered over the wall and ceiling.
Fifteen minutes later, Christine came downstairs wearing sweats, a T-shirt, and a white towel around her head.
“Go lie down. He’s sleeping. I’d just like to sit here and hold him.”
“Wake me up in half an hour.” Christine caressed Indiana’s cheek with the back of her forefinger, then went into the bedroom, closing the door.
An hour later, Matt, Arthur, and Alex arrived with a stomping of feet and a swell of cold air flowing down the steps. Sam wagged his tail, whimpering hello.
Arthur looked down the stairs and saw Lane with the baby. Lane put his finger to his lips.
“The baby’s asleep,” Arthur whispered. Three faces looked down the stairs, smiling.
Within thirty minutes, everyone but Lane and Indiana was tucked away in bed while the Randall case ran a marathon in Lane’s mind.
A little after one, Lane heard footsteps in the upstairs hallway. A few minutes later, the toilet flushed. He turned on the TV, watching a movie without any sound.
“Uncle?”
Lane opened his eyes.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Christine had her new mother I’m-the-protector-of-this-child look in her eyes.
Lane studied a still-sleeping Indiana. “What time is it?”
“Six. I asked you to wake me up after half an hour.” Christine picked up the baby. “He’s wet.”
Lane looked at his shirt, seeing he was wet too.
“Sorry.”
SUNDAY, JANUARY 26
chapter 7
“They need us down in Kensington.” Nigel’s voice on the phone was businesslike.
Lane looked at their kitchen chaos. Bottles waiting to be washed, the countertop needing a wipe, the dishwasher needing to be run, a tea towel on the floor in front of the stove, the microwave timer beeping to tell him the coffee was ready in the Bodum. “How many dead?”
“Two.”
“In a house?”
“Nope. On a fire escape behind a bookstore. So dress warm. Fibre is on his way. I’ll pick you up in fifteen.” Nigel hung up.
Lane had time to shower and put on layers of cotton and fleece underneath his polyester-shell winter jacket. He tied up his winter boots and stepped outside. The sun was bright. It reflected off the snow on the street and the front lawn. A white cloud from a passing car’s exhaust told him the same thing as his nostrils when he inhaled the January air: it was at least minus twenty. He walked down the front steps, climbing in the passenger side of the Chev. “Thanks for warming it up.” Lane closed the door, stuffing his black leather gloves on the dash and reaching for his seat belt.