A Year Less a Day (29 page)

“Mr. Maxwell,” he tries again, calling through the letterbox, but his voice echoes hollowly up the stairs.

The ladder is his only choice and he moves it into position under the trapdoor as stealthily as possible.
This is not only stupid, it has to be illegal
, he tries telling himself as he climbs, though he knows that's not the case—not unless he's planning on murder, rape, theft, or damage—which he's not. Trespassing with intent to take a peek at a suspect passport is a statute yet to be enacted, and Bliss worries more about getting lashed with a riding crop than stung with a prison term.

The trapdoor budges easily with a shove of his shoulder and Bliss is quickly in the loft, but the sound of passing
traffic startles him and he is readying to bolt back down the ladder when he spies the door to the apartment in the gloom.
In for a penny ...
he muses, and tries the handle. It's locked, and an enormous cast-iron escutcheon plate suggests that the lock is both old and substantial—though, he suspects, easy to pick with the right equipment.

The light is fading fast as Bliss exits the stables, but he has one more task before he leaves, and a few minutes later he is searching around in the snow for Daphne's shoes and doesn't notice the apparent heir to the estate ride up, his horse's hooves muffled by snow.

“Inspector—are you trespassing on my land for a reason?” calls the rider. “Don't you need a warrant or something?”

“Hot pursuit of a convicted criminal,” explains Bliss as he wades out of the drift and gestures to the imprints that Daphne had cut across the grounds to the road. Then he approaches the owner and points to the stables. “I suspect that he took refuge in here during the storm, Mr. Maxwell. That's why there's only one set of tracks.”

“But why are you looking here?” the rider demands. “Surely it makes sense to see where the tracks end—not where they begin.”

“That's true,” says Bliss, stalling momentarily. “But I wondered if he'd stolen anything—guns or weapons of any kind.”

“I don't think so.”

“Have you checked?”

If Bliss was hoping to worm his way into the apartment he was disappointed. “I'll be sure to phone your station if I find anything amiss, Inspector,” says the rider, dismounting and leading his mount toward the stables. “Now, if you'll excuse me ...”

“Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” says Bliss, with litte to lose.

The horseman turns with a growl. “It's Maxwell. I told you. I've never heard of Jackson.”

“Sorry, I forgot,” says Bliss, and he is left with no alternative but to retreat.

The main gates had been padlocked on his arrival and he'd been forced to abandon his car in the roadway and enter by a side gate. Now, the walk up the long driveway in the gloom of dusk is lengthened by the feeling that a pair of eyes are burning into the back of his skull, and it takes all Bliss's willpower to stop himself from turning around.

Bliss is right. The horseman does have a suspicious eye on him and watches him all the way to the gate, then he quickly tethers the horse, lets himself into the apartment and heads for the phone.

Mort, the porn merchant in Vancouver, is still in bed when his phone rings. “Yeah?” he answers.

“It's me,” says the apartment dweller, and Mort tells him to hang on while he shoos his latest schoolgirl out.

“Go and do something in the bathroom. Know what I mean, luv?” he says, unsure of her name.

“What, Mort?”

“I don't f'kin' know. Whatever f'kin women spend hours doin' in there. Just f'kin git. Know what I mean?”

“What's up?” Mort demands into the phone as the fifteen-year-old sulks off into the bathroom.

“We've got a problem. The pigs are sniffing around.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Some old woman has been shit-disturbing and a snoopy inspector from Scotland Yard's gotten involved somehow.”

“Bollocks,” says Mort. “He's way off his patch out there. Unless he's National Crime Squad.”

“Can we delay for a few weeks 'til it calms down?”

“How much does the dame know?”

“Not much, or he would've gotten a search warrant. It'll probably blow over if we give it time.”

“We don't have f'kin time. Maybe she could have a nasty fall—know what I mean?”

“Maybe ... But what's happening at your end? Is it all quiet now?”

“Yeah. Some screwy woman got her jugs on the front page and stirred up the law a bit, but the old doc set 'em straight with the death certificate. Jordan Jackson is just a box of ashes—know what I mean?”

“I've had a call from England about a Jordan Jackson,” Phillips had told Ruth as he'd finally prepared to leave for work, and Ruth's expression had drained. “No. Don't fret,” he'd continued. “It's probably someone with the same name or somebody has gotten hold of his passport. Probably stole it from his room in that apartment building.”

“I'm still trying to come to terms with his death,” Ruth had said with a worried mien. “I don't think I could stand another shock.”

“You have nothing to worry about. It's not Jordan, I promise,” Phillips had said as he'd kissed her goodbye, unaware that he had unleashed another nightmare in her mind.
What if he's not dead?
she'd asked herself.
What if he really did go to L.A. for treatment? What if he turns up cured? Oh my God—what if I lose Mike now?

Ruth sees her world spinning out of kilter again as she waits for a bus to take her to Trina's. It's a couple of months since Jordan's disappearance and, if anything, the news of his death was a relief, even if it did occur several weeks before she actually missed him. The fact that he was no longer suffering was a comfort, so the possibility, however remote, that he may still be alive plays on her mind, and sends her into a convenience store in search of a chocolate bar.

Don't do it.

But I want one
, she tells herself at the door.

You know what'll happen.

Just one, I promise
.

You can't have just one. You've never had just one.

I will this time; honest
.

Phone Trina and ask her, then.

She'll say no
.

Don't do it then.

“A Hershey's milk chocolate bar please,” says a familiar voice.

I told you not to.

“The family size, Ma'am?”

“Sure. Go for it.”

Oh, no—not the family size. What an idiot. You know you can't.

“There's a special on this week, Ma'am. Three for the price of two.”

“Oh, great. Yeah. Why not?”

You stupid fat cow.

“That's seven dollars, twenty-three cents, including the tax ma'am.”

“I'm not sure that I've got enough,” says Ruth searching the bottom of her bag.

“What about that lottery ticket ma'am?” says the assistant, spotting the ragged piece of paper in her purse. “Have you checked it? You never know, you might have won ten bucks.”

“It's probably out of date,” mumbles Ruth as she hands it to the young man while continuing to count pennies. “How much did you say?”

“Seven-twenty-three,” he replies as he scans the ticket. Then he pales and starts to hand it back. “Sorry. I can't pay this ma'am. You'll have to go to the lottery office.”

“Oh, I haven't got time for that. Just give me one bar, then.”

“But ... but you've won.”

“Well give me all three, but hurry, or I'll miss the bus.”

“No. I mean you've really won.”

“How much?” she asks with a glimmer of understanding.

“I don't think I'm supposed to say,” he replies, nervously checking to see if other customers can hear.

“What are you talking about?”

“I think it's supposed to be verified at the office first.”

“Look. I'm going to miss the bus in a minute,” says Ruth in frustration as she begins opening the chocolate.

“You'll have to ask at the office,” says the flustered assistant.

“I will if I've got time. But, like, what is it, fifty or something?”

“It's a little over five million,” says the assistant cagily, adding very quickly, “but don't quote me, and don't blame me if the machine's screwed up, either. I'm only telling you what it says here.”

“How much?” she says, dropping the chocolate.

Ruth leaves the bar on the floor and walks past the bus stop as the rain begins to pound down. The lottery ticket in her hand is beginning to get saturated, and she puts it back into her purse convinced that the young assistant had made a mistake.

Throw it away then
, says the voice in her mind.

But what if you really have won?

Wake up, Ruth. Losers like you never win
.

But he said you'd won.

Then what?
asks the voice.

Then you can pay back all the money you owe. You can pay Trina—who lied about hiring Hammett and thinks that you didn't figure it out; and her husband and kids who know what you're supposed to have done and adore you anyway. Then there's Mike who's been treating you like a princess for the past few months. And Raven—if it hadn't been for her nagging you would never have bought the ticket. Even Tom, not that he deserves it after lying to the police about you, but at least you wouldn't have to worry about him popping up out of the blue with his grubby hand out.

Yeah. And the moment I walk into the lottery centre the bells will sound and the whistles will blow. “Five million dollar woman,” will scream the headlines and the first person on my doorstep will be Jordan's stingy mother, followed by Inspector Wilson, wanting to know why I waited nearly six months to claim a jackpot on a lottery ticket that I just happened to have bought the very day that Jordan supposedly announced that he was supposedly dying of cancer. The very day that he was last seen by anyone who knew him.

But you didn't know you'd won. You didn't even remember buying the ticket.

Isn't that just a teensy bit convenient?
says the voice, thinking of Inspector Wilson's reaction. “Now you won't have to share the prize with your husband; you won't even have to repay his mother—after all, it was Jordan's debt, not yours. The old witch was quite adamant about that. ‘I'm not lending you this money, young woman,' she told you. ‘This money is for my son's business. I hope you understand that. If anything happens to the two of you—he will be keeping the business. And don't think you're going to get half of it either. It was his money that built it, and his money that he keeps.' And all the time you were pleading poverty, saying you couldn't afford a lawyer, you were walking around with five million in your purse.”

But I didn't know.

And you think they'll believe you?

“Excuse me, are you OK?” asks a voice from outside as a grey-haired man with his poodle stops in concern.

“Oh. Yes. I'm fine,” says Ruth, coming to, amazed to discover that she has walked half a mile and is standing on the beach in Stanley Park where Trina chases the ducks.

“You're getting very wet,” says the man as he peers out from under his umbrella and tries to size her up;
then he has an idea. “Maybe you should take my umbrella,” he says, but Ruth declines with a smile.

“I'm OK. Honest.”

“I'd get you a taxi, but I haven't got enough money.”

It doesn't matter. I'm a multi-millionaire
, the voice in her mind is trying to tell her, but she knows he'll laugh. “I like walking in the rain,” she says, shaking the water from her hair and clearing her mind; then she heads back to the bus stop calling, “Thanks anyway,” over her shoulder.

“Hi Trina—sorry I'm late,” Ruth calls cheerily twenty minutes later, as she lets herself in the front door and feels something furry brush against her legs.

“Don't let the rabbit ... Oh, shit.”

“Sorry Trina,” yells Ruth as her friend tears out the door and races down the road in full flight while drivers blare their horns and swerve to avoid her. Ahead of her, a fluffy grey creature hops for its life and eventually disappears through a fence into the woodland.

“I didn't know you had a rabbit.” says Ruth, as Trina returns breathless.

“It's a stray. I was going to take it to the pound.”

“Trina—that's not a stray. It's a wild rabbit.”

“What! Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Quite sure. Where did it come from?”

“It was eating the guinea pig food ... Oh! Oh!” she says and dashes back through the house yelling, “I left the guinea pig out again.”

As Trina dances around the back garden, Ruth smiles, puts on her apron, and starts clearing the Button household breakfast dishes just like any other day of late.

Why are you doing this, you stupid woman? You just won five million bucks.

“And pigs might fly,” she says aloud.

But you have.

So what if I have?
she tells herself.
Do you think Trina and her family would want me doing their dishes and washing their underwear if they knew? Do you think they'd still want me living in their basement? Do you think Mike would still trust me if he thought I'd kept it secret? Do you think it would make me happy
?

You could buy your own house.

And live in it all by myself 'til I go back to jail—all by myself
.

You could treat yourself.

With candy bars and steak dinners—that's all I need
.

You could treat Mike and Trina.

The question in her mind stops her halfway to the sink with a stack of cereal bowls as she thinks her way around Trina's life and her house.
What could I possibly give her? She already has a magazine lifestyle; a beautiful home with a terrific view, a husband who loves her so much he forgives her for everything; two kids—one of each, just as it should be. She could be at the gym, skiing, or having her face done if she wanted, but she'd rather be washing old men's bums and rounding up strays
.