My body froze with joy and relief. "Cass! Honey, are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Dad, don't worry. Everything is okay. Please do what Veronica asks. She won't tell me what it is, but I know it's important. She says there was no other way you'd talk to her and that's why she took me. But I'm okay. I'm fine. Really!
"Dad, we've been talking and talking. I was so wrong about her! She's led the most incredible life! I mean, I've been sitting here the whole time, listening, with my jaw hanging down. She's made documentaries, she's lived all over the world, she was in the Malda Vale awhile . . . She's done so much. She knows so much. It's amazing.
"I was really mad at her at first, but not anymore. And she loves you, she loves you so much. You've got to do this one thing for her. If not for her, then do it for me. She wasn't going to call you yet because she's so afraid, but I made her. Please meet her and then everything will be all right. I know it. I'm sure of it."
"Cass? One two three?"
"Yes, absolutely. One two three."
It was our secret code. We had worked it out when she was a child. It was our way of asking if everything was all right without having to say it, in case the wrong ears were listening.
"I'll meet her. But you don't know what she wants to talk about?"
She giggled. It was the most extraordinary thing. In the middle of all that anxiety and dread came the holy sound of my daughter's silly laugh. I knew then for sure she really was okay.
"Veronica won't tell me! You still won't tell, will you?" From somewhere nearby, I heard Veronica say, "Nope," and both of them laughed. Like two girls jammed into a phone booth together sharing the phone while talking to some boys.
"All right, put her back on. But Cass, for God's sake be careful. No matter how much you like her, she gets unbalanced sometimes. I love you. More than life. I'm so glad to know you're all right."
"I'm fine, Dad. I swear! One two three."
The phone changed hands again on their side, wherever the hell that was. "Sam?"
"Where do you want to meet?"
"At the Tyndall house in Crane's View. Can you make it in two hours?"
"Yes. Veronica, don't you dare do anything to her."
"Never. She's a special girl. But don't bring anyone, Sam. Don't tell anyone." Abruptly the phone went dead. That was all right though because I couldn't catch my breath.
Snow began to fall ten minutes after I got on the road. Luckily most of the drive to Crane's View was on the parkway because the stuff was beginning to stick with a vengeance.
Clutching the steering wheel as tightly as I could, my head locked in one position, I glared through the windshield and tried not to crash into everything. A mighty sixteen-wheel trailer truck bombed by in the fast lane, the jolt from its airstream slamming my car. I wanted to be that truck driver then. Oblivious to the weather, sure that my tons of truck and cargo would keep me glued to any road. The guy probably had country-and-western music howling from ten cranked-up speakers in his cab. He was probably singing "Goodnight Irene" and steering with only one hand.
I hated Veronica for seducing a young, trusting woman into believing her love, that foul black soup, was really ambrosia she would willingly fill my cup with until she died. I pictured the two of them sitting in a grimy roadside diner somewhere, working on their fourth cups of thin coffee while Veronica hung her head and spun magnificent lies about what went wrong with our love. Cass, the great listener, would sit very still, but there would be tears in her eyes. When Veronica finished on some triumphantly tragic note, my converted daughter would reach over and tightly squeeze the other's lifeless hand.
Luckily my car hit a patch of ice and for a few blood-freezing seconds slid left, right, back to center. My mind burned clean of all Veronica thoughts. First get there. Concentrate on the road. Get there.
Snow was flying wildly all around when I drove into Crane's View. The scene would have been beautiful, worth a stop and a long look round, if the day had been different. As it was, I barely kept control of the car. Every few minutes it decided to ice-skate, so I had to keep the speed down to a crawl.
The day was already full of too many highs and lows but looking back now, one of the images that stays most firmly in my mind was driving down Elizabeth Street. A mile or so from the Tyndall house, I saw a lone figure trudging through the snow like a soldier on winter maneuvers. Hup hup hup. There was nothing else around – no cars, no people, the only sign of life a traffic light forlornly blinking its yellow warning to no one. Just this one person and what the hell was he doing, out walking in this blizzard? I couldn't help slowing even further to have a look at the hearty goof. Johnny Petangles. Wearing only a white dress shirt and black trousers, bare hands and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap pulled down low. I loved him. Thank God for something normal today. Loony Johnny out on his daily rounds in the middle of a Yukon blow. His mouth was moving. I wondered what television advertisement he was repeating, what song he was singing to the wind and snow and arctic emptiness around us. Just Johnny and me out in the swirl. If I stopped to offer him a ride he would only look at me blankly and shake his head.
There were no cars on the street when I pulled up in front of the Tyndall house. The driveway went up at a slight angle and I didn't want to risk getting stuck so I parked directly in front.
When I got out the wind gusted snow into my face and made me close my eyes. I locked the car door and turned toward the house. Lights were on in the ground-floor rooms. I stood there, hoping to see something inside. Hoping to see my daughter standing at the window.
A scraping down the street announced a snowplow was on the way. It was so quiet otherwise that the sound of the blade on the pavement was remarkably loud and reassuring. Like Johnny out on his march, the snowplow doing its job said, when this is all over, beyond this hour's fear, is your everyday and soon you can have it back again. I waited until the truck had passed and was ridiculously happy when the driver gave me a wave as he rumbled by.
I took a deep breath, made fists and started for the house. The fresh snow crunched beneath my boots. I was so hot from worry I could feel myself sweating beneath the heavy coat. I said to myself, be calm. Hold your temper. Just go in there and get her back. Just get her back. Just get her back.
The brass doorknob turned smoothly in my hand.
I walked into the house and closed the door gently behind me. The hall floors shone with wax, the house was so cold my breath came out in plumes.
"Veronica?"
"In here."
Her voice came from the living room. The room where they'd pissed on Johnny Petangles, the room where Pauline had carved on the wall. I walked in.
Sitting on the floor in the middle of the room was Pauline Ostrova.
Same red hair, same face, same clothes I had seen her wearing in an old photograph I kept framed on the wall in front of my desk. For a few seconds a hundred years long, everything I had known, lived, thought about for the last months went up in smoke. Everything I believed was wrong. She was alive!
I was so overwhelmed by the apparition that it took more seconds to realize it wasn't Pauline, but Veronica made-up so perfectly that she could have fooled anyone into believing it – for a short while.
She clapped her hands like a child and laughed. "It worked! I can't wait to tell Cass! She said you'd never fall for it but you did. You thought I was her!"
I wanted to strangle her. "Where is my daughter, Veronica?"
"Oh come on, give me some credit, Sam. For two seconds I had you. Did you see this?" She jumped up and ran over to the wall where Pauline had done her artwork. "Look! Pauline did it –"