Chosen for Death (8 page)

I felt lousy. The past week had left me bone-weary, and today's interview with Lemieux hadn't helped. I needed a cup of tea to settle my stomach and soothe me with its heat, but I was too tired to go back downstairs. I got a drink of water from the bathroom, kicked off my shoes, and lay down on the bed. I fell asleep thinking about a little blond girl clutching a bouquet of stolen flowers. The picture gradually faded and became a wooded path. Someone was walking toward me, out of the shadows, holding out flowers. As she stepped into a shaft of sunlight, I recognized Carrie. She came closer, and I could see that one side of her head was matted with blood. A bold, almost jaunty streak of blood ran across her face. She was half-naked, walking awkwardly because of the stick between her legs. She held out the flowers. They were faded roses. "You've got to help me, Thea," she said.

I took the roses. Her hands, as they touched mine, were cold as ice. "You're cold, Carrie," I said.

"No, Thea, I'm dead." She giggled. "Cold as death." She spread her hands in a supplicating gesture. "Find the person who did this to me, Thea."

"You've got to help me, Carrie," I said. "Tell me where to start."

"I can't," she said. "I'm dead." She fell backwards on the ground and lay there like she had in the picture. I put my hand over my mouth and fled backwards, screaming. My screams woke me up.

Drenched with sweat, I staggered into the bathroom, stripped, and stepped under the shower. The icy water woke me up in a hurry. The towel I grabbed smelled like Carrie. I dropped it and went back into the bedroom, still dripping. The sun was gone, but the sky was still light. My growling stomach reminded me I'd subjected it to serious abuse. I pulled on some black sweats and a loose sweater and went downstairs to see what I could find to eat. I put on water for tea and was rummaging through the canned goods when someone knocked. So Mrs. Bolduc hadn't gone away after all.

I pulled the door open, prepared to dismiss her curtly. Detective Lemieux was standing there, holding two brown grocery bags. "Go away," I said, and shut the door. He knocked again.
Go away
probably wasn't in his vocabulary. People who indulge in Gestapo tactics aren't usually amenable to polite dismissal. I tried ignoring the knocking, but he wouldn't give up. Finally I opened the door, prepared to do battle. Behind him, silhouetted against the light in an upstairs window, I could see someone, Mrs. Bolduc, I assumed, watching.

I stood aside and let him in. He carried the bags into the kitchen and set them down. "I brought dinner," he said. "There isn't much here for you to eat." In a soft plaid shirt and pleated cords, he looked more human, but he still looked ready to jump to attention. Maybe he was just naturally stiff. Nothing a little yoga couldn't cure.

"You've got to be kidding," I said. "What am I supposed to do? Forgive you for being deliberately sadistic because you brought some groceries?"

"I was hoping," he said.

I kept the counter between us, watching from a distance as he unpacked the bags and made himself at home, stunned by his bravado. He set out steak, salad stuff, a loaf of crusty bread.

Mushrooms, peppers, and onions. Threw the grocery bags into the trash. And started to cook. Cool as a cucumber while I was trembling with rage. He got out a cutting board and a knife, sliced up the vegetables, and tossed them into a frying pan with some olive oil. He took a bottle of Scotch down from the cupboard above the sink, fixed two drinks, and handed one to me. "Maybe you could set the table," he said.

I hadn't said anything before because I was speechless with fury; now I found my voice. "What on earth do you think you're doing?" I said. I meet all sorts of people, doing the work I do, and I spend a lot of energy working out my approaches so I can get the information we need to write successful reports without being too threatening. I'm good with people. I've spent endless hours on the phone and in meetings with people who are difficult to comprehend, or who don't want to be understood, and I can usually make the situations work, but Lemieux was in a class by himself. Maybe he was from another planet.

"Making you dinner," he said. "You don't look like you take very good care of yourself." He put the steak under the broiler, and the bread in the oven to warm up. Neither of us said another word. I just stood there, stunned, watching him. He acted like he'd been in her kitchen before. But then, he probably had, if he'd searched the apartment.

"I don't want you here," I said. "I don't want your wretched dinner. I don't want anything from you, except for you to leave. I don't think you can have any idea what you did, showing me those pictures." He ignored me, and I didn't know how to make him go. I was still dopey from my unrestful nap, and although I'm not usually at a loss for words, I was confused about what to do. He seemed determined to make me dinner no matter what I said. "Does this mean you won't leave?" I said.

"That's right," he said, handing me two plates. I took them to the table, returning to the kitchen with the vase of fading flowers. I shivered slightly, remembering my dream. It was only a Pullman kitchen. I squeezed by him, determined not to touch him. I put the flowers in the trash, dumped the foul green water down the sink, and rinsed out the vase. Lemieux tapped a drawer. "Silverware's probably in here," he said. Automatically I picked out what we needed when what I wanted to do was throw myself at him and rake his face with my fingernails. I put silverware on the table. We were like a warring married couple who spoke only when necessary. I found two placemats and some napkins in a drawer.

"Shall I put out wineglasses, dear?" I asked sarcastically.

"You could," he said, refusing to be drawn.

I found two pretty cobalt ones, part of a set I'd given Carrie for her birthday, and put them on the table. She liked blue things. The placemats were blue and white Indian cotton. Then, because I didn't know what else to do, my Scotch and I went and sat on the sofa, as far from the kitchen as I could get, and tried to figure out what to do. Since he seemed set on feeding me, maybe I should just eat and then ask him to leave again. But what if he wouldn't leave? What could I do, call the police? I sat on the sofa, fuming, trapped with one of the most detestable men I'd ever met. It was worse than a blind date from hell. Lemieux ignored me, concentrating on his cooking. He was completely comfortable in the kitchen, a quality I'm not accustomed to in men. The whole situation was absurd. But, resentful as I was, I had to admit the food smelled good. Food today had been that weird pink stuff, the dregs of which I’d left at the police barracks, and I was starved. But I was afraid to eat with him. Afraid of what he might do.

I was feeling vulnerable and confused, especially here in Carrie's apartment, surrounded by her things and her scent, knowing she was never coming back. Having another person around could have made it easier, but not when it was someone I neither knew nor trusted. I sipped my Scotch, which probably only made things worse, and tried to summon the energy to deal with my feelings about Carrie and my antagonism toward Lemieux. When the phone rang, I almost dropped my drink.

"Hello?" I said.

"Oh, Thea, dear, I'm glad you arrived safely," Mom said. "How was the drive?"

"Fine. And I had no trouble getting into the apartment."

"Good." I could tell she was not in a mood to chat. She was just doing her duty. "Dad says we can store all Carrie's things over the garage until we decide what to do with them. You don't mind dropping them off here, do you, dear? It's almost on your way."

"Almost" meant an hour's detour each way.

"I have some space at my place, too. It will depend on what time I get back on Sunday. I'll call you before I leave."

"Well, dear. All right. You do what you must, but I was hoping you'd bring it here. I've sort of promised some of her things to the church fair. That's next week."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Carrie dead less than two weeks and Mom was already selling off her things. "I'm not sure we should be so hasty, Mom," I said. "Mike and I may want some of the stuff, and you may want to save things, too. I don't think any of us are ready to make those decisions right now."

"Thea, dear, you know I'm sentimental about people, not things. Things just clutter a place up. I hope I'll see you on Sunday." She hung up, annoyed. She liked people to do what she told them. I drank the rest of my drink and tried not to think bad thoughts about my mother, but I was already in a foul mood and her call hadn't helped. My anger and unhappiness were simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any minute.

"Soup's on," Lemieux called from the kitchen. He carried the steak to the table, set it down, and went back for the hot bread and salad. He went back a third time for the wine, then sat down across from me. I looked down at my plate, unwilling to meet his eyes. Afraid that my own words, as hot and steaming as the food, would come spilling out. I'd already lost control in front of him once today. I didn't want to do so again. Dinner looked delicious. The steaks were smothered in a thick layer of sautéed mushrooms, onions, and peppers. He poured wine into my glass, then into his, and lifted his glass. "Cheers," he said.

And I boiled over. "Let's not carry this charade too far," I said. "This is not a social evening we're enjoying together and we're not friends. I don't like you. I don't trust you. And I don't understand why you're here."

"To talk about your sister." His dark eyes stayed on my face, waiting. His own face gave nothing away.

"You can just forget about that, Detective. If that's what you came here for, then prepare to be disappointed. In fact, you can leave right now. I am not telling you one more goddamned word about Carrie, do you understand?" The words were coming now, as unstoppable as a rushing train. I was tired of being polite to this awful man. "I don't know how you can live with yourself doing the things you do. It must take a pretty sick kind of man to show people photographs that awful of someone they loved."

He just sat impassively and stared at me. "Isn't it bad enough," I said, feeling the awful, choking sensation of tears behind my anger, "that the two people I loved best have died so violently? Why did you have to rub my nose in it? Don't you see I'll never get those pictures out of my head?"

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice so quiet I almost didn't hear it.

I wanted to argue with him about that, to tell him I didn't believe he was the least bit sorry, but he seemed so oblivious I didn't think it would do any good. I tried to get back on more neutral ground. I'd spent enough time being out of control in front of this man. My anger, like my sorrow, was a private thing. Not for public view. "Look, I'm grateful for the food. It looks delicious and I'm hungry. But otherwise, I don't have anything to be cheerful about." I cut a bite of steak. It was good. So were the vegetables. So was the wine. I concentrated on eating. Because I was hungry and because I hoped maybe the sooner I ate the sooner he'd leave.

He still hadn't said anything more. He just ate quietly, watching me. Then he smiled. "I was right. You were hungry."

Boy, he was a genius of a detective, wasn't he? What was he doing here, cooking for me and saying nothing? Was this another one of his ploys? He seemed so normal, almost pleasant, sitting across from me, eating his dinner. "What am I supposed to call you?" I said. "Trooper? Officer? Detective?"

"Trooper is OK. Or Detective. Or you could just call me Andre."

"Ok, Trooper," I said. "I don't know what you're up to here, but don't expect that just because you cooked me dinner, I'm going to be good company. I have no reason to trust you, no interest in talking to you. You might as well know that like Macbeth, you have murdered my sleep. Those pictures will keep coming back to me." No need to go into detail. He didn't have to know that I have terrible dreams. It was none of his business.

"I'm sorry." That was all he said.

"Maybe it's just the difference between you, as a policeman, and the rest of us," I said. "For you, seeing Carrie's body is just part of the job, the beginning of your quest. But I loved Carrie. Seeing that... knowing what was done to her... makes me feel sick, angry, bewildered. How can one person do that to another? And why show those pictures to me? What were you trying to accomplish? Why would you want to hurt someone like that? Were you planning to do that to my mother, if she'd come instead?" I was practically yelling, yet the words seemed to bounce off him without effect. His face stayed as blank as if I'd been reciting recipes. The futility of my anger made me angrier.

He refilled my wineglass. "You think I'm made of stone, don't you?" he said. "The cold, cynical policeman, right?"

"I have no reason to think anything else, have I?"

He waved his fork at my plate. "What about this?"

"I don't understand about this," I said. "I admit it. But after the pictures, I assume it's just another trick. Shock didn't work. Perhaps this is the attempt to get me relaxed and in a good mood, and then I'll cooperate with you and tell you all about Carrie and her wild sex life. It's a reasonable assumption, isn't it, now that I know how far you'll go?"

He frowned briefly as he considered and rejected a reply. Then he nodded. "It is. Wrong, but understandable. For some reason, Mrs. Kozak, you have a deep prejudice against police. A lot of people do, often for good reasons. But it makes you hard to deal with."

"But I'm not!" I said. "You're the one who's hard to deal with."