“Well, you’ll have plenty of opportunity to take things personally in Port Dundas, James. Be careful what you wish for.” She was looking at the computer screen. The dripping SAVE HER was revealing itself anew. An awful lot of planning had gone into what they’d seen over the last seven days, almost as if the people who had uploaded this material knew their audience better than it knew itself. Hazel entertained, for just a moment, an inside element, someone within these walls who was communicating, either on purpose or unwittingly, with the perpetrators. But what made better sense was that the people who were driving this macabre charade had a strong grasp of investigative process. They knew it would not take long after the mannequin was found for the police to make their way to the website. And at that point, they’d have the attention of the OPS for as long as they wanted it. It made her feel like there was a ghost sitting on her shoulder. That made her think of what was sitting on her other shoulder. “I don’t think I told you I met with Commander Willan. You know, Mason’s replacement?”
“You didn’t mention it. What’s he like?”
“Stalin with a surfboard.” She sighed. “He sees me as the rope bridge all you young folks are going to walk over to get to the promised land of efficient policing. He basically called me a dinosaur.”
“All the dinosaurs I’ve known were the best police, Hazel.”
“The dinosaurs may be good police, James, but they can never solve their own extinctions.”
Wingate found himself riven by the image of his superior officer looking crestfallen behind her desk. She seemed more defeated now than all the times he’d visited her at home, when she’d been in nearly unbearable pain, looking tiny on her couch in a terrycloth robe. “Skip? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“Because you seem -”
“I know,” she said. “Apart from having a man trapped in my computer, live animals and body parts appearing on my desk, a CO who thinks I’ve outlived my usefulness, and expensive gifts coming from missing friends, I also happen to have a pill problem. And it appears I’m to quit in the midst of all this nonsense. So, I’m slightly less than okay.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” she said firmly. “Just do your job and don’t think about me. We need to get in front of this.”
“I should have thought through what I was doing at Eldwin’s.”
“You did. You’re not a dinosaur, remember that. Now go back to your desk and have a good think. At the rate things are going for that man in the chair, we all need to get on our game.”
18
Sergeant Geraldine Costamides had been successful, as Hazel knew she would. She returned to the station house looking slightly shame-faced, which meant that she’d spun a particularly good story for the benefit of Becca Portman and managed to shake loose everything they needed. There were two unpublished chapters now. Costamides made copies of them and passed them out to Hazel, Wingate, and Fraser. Then she stood at the lectern, her glasses hanging around her neck. She cleared her throat. “Are we ready? Everyone tucked in with their hot milk?” “Go ahead, Gerry,” said Hazel.
Costamides lifted her glasses clear of her long chin and settled them on the bridge of her nose. She curled the pages she held in her hands and clacked the bottom of them against the lectern before laying them flat. “The Mystery of Bass Lake,” she began, “chapters four and five.”
Nick Wise had been sitting at his kitchen table, the newspaper open in front of him, his pen hovering over the page, when his doorbell rang. Ah, he thought, “damaged,” but then there was the sound of a car driving off and he laid his pen down and went to the door.
What he saw on his front stoop froze his blood. Wise looked hurriedly up and down the street, but there was no one and he quickly stepped around the form and got his arms under the greasy tarp. There was a note pinned to it with a fishhook, but it would have to wait until he got inside. He struggled with the weight and finally got it into his living room, rivulets of sweat running off his chin. Then he went back to the door and shut it hard, turning the lock and putting on the chain.
He stood in the hallway looking at the grey thing staining his fireplace rug. He’d moved away to make sure she’d never find him again, but here she was. The bitch. He leaned over the tarp and unpinned the note. It said, “If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours.” He put the note aside and slipped his finger under the edge of the wet tarp and slid it back. It fell away from its contents with a wet slap against the floor and there she was, at least, there was most of her. She lay headless on his floor, immutable as an eternal verity. He reached behind himself and pulled a chair toward him. “What am I going to do with you?” he said. Brackish water was damaging his floor. She stank. He sighed heavily. “Fine. Wait here.”
He went out the back, across the big lawn to the garage, and got into his car. The old house was almost two hundred kilometres away, but obviously, whatever plans he had for a quiet afternoon were shot, so he might as well drive. Two hours later, entering the city, he felt like the past two years had never happened: he was still in that city, still living that life. He drove in along the lakeside highway, up past the no-longer-new baseball stadium, through the bustle of Chinatown, and up into the university district. There, he turned onto Cherry Tree Lane, drove under the chestnut trees, and parked. Perhaps there had once been cherry trees here. Maybe the street was misnamed. He stood on his old front porch under one of the hundred-year-old chestnut trees and turned to take in the view he’d had for so many years: the two little parks, the old church. But there was no time for nostalgia: he had a mouldering body lying in his front room.
A path in the alleyway between houses led to a gate. He pulled the little string that opened the latch and went into the little laneway separating them. There was a second gate leading into his old backyard; the same old string that lifted the latch hung out from between the slats. In the tiny yard behind – there had only ever been enough space there for a couple of tomato plants in tubs and maybe a little pot of basil – he went directly to the corner farthest away from the gate and got on his knees. Luckily, nobody walked back here and the soil was pretty loose, so he could dig at it with his hands. How he hated to get his nails all dirty, but this had to be done, and so he dug concertedly until his nails scraped against the top of something made of wood. He worked around the object until he’d revealed a little damaged casket big enough to hold a bowling ball.
No one had seen him. He knew people barely paid attention in cities. You could get away with anything in cities if you were just a bit careful. You could get away with murder.
He drove at a good clip back to the house, made it in ninety minutes, and parked in the rear. Before he went in, he grabbed a little round tin from the shed in the garden, of the type that once held pastilles. Her body was exactly where he’d left it (he’d had, perhaps, an ounce of doubt about that, considering the fact that it had found its way to his house), and he kneeled beside it and opened the little wooden box. Her head – green, shrivelled, hollow – was inside. He laid it on the floor, face-up, pressing the two halves of her cut throat together. Dirt trickled out of her dry eye sockets. The little pastille tin was full of fishhooks and he used them to pin her head to her neck, a neat little row of black, gleaming stitches. When the last one was on, she sat bolt upright in her place and swivelled her face to him. Her bright, brown eyes came through the dark of her sockets like headlights coming out of a tunnel. “Hello, Nick,” she said. “Long time.”
“Not long enough,” he said.
Sergeant Costamides laid the pages down flat and slipped her glasses off. “Well, that was interesting.”