Last Call (16 page)

* * *

A few minutes later an O.P.P. cruiser pulled into a vacant spot behind the Jetta and the driver climbed out. She’d missed breakfast this morning and was looking forward to a toasted English muffin and a large double-double. On her way past the Jetta she noticed the open door, the running engine and the vintage guitar in the back seat and thought it odd. Then she saw the spatters of fresh blood on the seats and called it in, instinct telling her that something very bad had just taken place here. Seeing the red ribbon on that guitar, she cursed under her breath, wishing she’d arrived just a few minutes earlier.

––––––––

IN THE BASEMENT of Apostles Anglican Church in North York, a small group of people sat in rows of fold-out chairs, chatting and sipping coffee. A few others milled about the spacious room, laughing and catching up with friends. At the big chrome coffee urn by the entrance, attendees filled paper cups with steaming brew, spooning in generous heaps of Coffee-Mate. The overall mood was festive—it was a speaker meeting this morning, celebrating a solid member’s first full year of sobriety—but there was a spreading air of impatience now, too, the 10:30 meeting still not underway. The digital clock above the entrance read 10:46.

At the front of the room Jim Gamble stood by the podium with the meeting’s chairman, a rotund ex-biker named Sid. Jim had put on some weight over the past several months, most of it muscle, and his tremor had all but vanished. He was boxing again, paying for lessons—and groceries and rent—out of a regular paycheck from the job he’d acquired four months ago, ironically, working the pot sinks in the cafeteria at the Toronto General Hospital. He was healthier than he’d ever been in his adult life, clear-eyed and alert, and he was proud of that.

Checking the time, Sid said, “Jesus, Jimmy boy, we got to get underway here. Nothing more vicious than a room full of juice heads kept waiting.”

Jim scanned the room again, hoping to see Trish’s smiling face, but there was still no sign of her. He looked at Dean seated front-and-center with his cell phone to his ear and saw him shake his head.

Jim said, “Okay, chum. Might as well get started.”

Sid banged the gavel on the podium and the stragglers started filing to their seats.

* * *

During the ten-minute preamble, Jim stood with Dean at the back of the room, Dean trying Trish’s number every few minutes and getting only voice mail. Jim was genuinely worried now, picturing her car breaking down or worse, an accident out there on the highway. It wasn’t like her not to call if she was running late.

Jim was watching Dean dial her number again when he heard Sid call his name, and when he turned he saw everyone in the room craning their necks to look at him.

Sid said, “You’re up, man.”

* * *

Dean stowed his cell phone and followed Jim to the podium. He was worried now, too; but this was Jim’s day and, common things being common, Trish had probably just had some car trouble en route and was marooned somewhere outside of cell range. There were long stretches of dead air all along that highway, especially further north, and chances were good she was stuck in one of them. He thought of calling her home number—the other possibility was that she’d hit the snooze button on her alarm and was still sound asleep—but if her mother picked up, he didn’t want to have to explain why he was calling the house.

Now Sid left the podium and Dean stepped up, adjusting the mic to his height, saying, “Good morning, everyone, my name is Dean and I’m an addict and an alcoholic.”

There was a chorused, “Hi, Dean.”

Smiling, he turned to Jim, the man in constant, nervous motion now, and said, “Jim, I just want to tell you how proud I am to have been your sponsor during this difficult year. Your journey is a powerful demonstration of a fundamental principle of recovery. And that is that if you truly embrace the program, as you have, if you live it each day with faith, honesty and integrity, good things will always come from bad.”

He retrieved the medallion from his shirt pocket and slipped it out of its glassine envelope. Handing it to Jim, he said, “I’m honored to present you with this chip celebrating one full year of sobriety. What you’ve accomplished is nothing short of a miracle, and on behalf of everyone here I’d like to wish you many more years of the same.” He took Jim’s hand and shook it. “Congratulations, my friend. You’re an inspiration to us all.”

There was a hearty round of applause. As he left the podium Dean scanned the room again, but there was still no sign of Trish.

* * *

She came to with a terrible headache, groggy and disoriented. She couldn’t move, and realized only gradually that she was strapped to a chair of some kind, her head raked back so far all she could see was the water-stained ceiling. In those initial moments of disorientation, she thought she must be dreaming—then that little dog was in her lap again, and she remembered the attack, and panic surged through her like an amphetamine. She tried to cry out but produced only a wet, inarticulate gurgle, and realized that her mouth had been propped open somehow. She could feel cold metal rods against her tongue and palate now, and something like blunt claws or hooks stretching the corners of her mouth. She had a bad moment when she thought she might drown in the pool of saliva that had accumulated at the back of her throat, but after a few tries she managed to swallow it.

Then he was beside her, shooing the dog off her lap, leaning over to look in her mouth, the stink of him making her want to vomit.

Giving her that peaches ’n’ cream grin now, he said, “God
damn
, girl, these ivories are
flaw
less. Not one filling. Jesus in a jacked-up sidecar, you are the
one
.” He aimed a penlight into her mouth, saying, “And lookit this. A
di
amond. My, aren’t we the trendy little cooze.”

Helpless tears flooded Trish’s eyes. She knew he was going to kill her—this had to be the guy who’d abducted those other girls—and she thought about never seeing her mom again, or Stacey or Dean, and in that moment she made a fierce, little girl’s wish that her dad would come and save her.

Now he showed her a syringe filled with amber fluid, saying, “Normally I’d keep you nice and alert for your surgery.”

Surgery?

“But today I’m gonna cut you some slack. We don’t wanna risk chipping these beauties, now do we.”

Trish felt the jab of a needle in her arm, then a spreading bloom of warmth in her face and chest.

“You fucked up my favorite necklace and you gouged my neck pretty good, and for that I oughta feed you to the Rotties...”

She tried to concentrate, tried to gauge his intentions from his words, but his voice was breaking apart like a weak radio signal now, and she was sinking again, down into that bottomless black shaft.

* * *

Jim examined the medallion as the applause subsided and Dean returned to his seat. It was an oval-shaped disc with some heft to it, the A.A. logo in red on the front and an inscription on the back that read,
Jim G, 1 year. Faith, Truth and Love. Serenity Group.
He squeezed it in his fist, proud for the first time in decades.

When the audience settled, Jim looked out at them and felt a swoon of terror. He’d never spoken in front of a crowd before and he wanted a drink. Wanted it bad. He rubbed his parched lips and a clown in the back row said, “Thirsty, Jim?” and everyone laughed and he was okay again. He said, “Good morning, folks, my name is Jim and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Jim.”

“I had my first drink when I was twelve. I was a blackout drunk from day one, and there are long stretches of my life I can’t even remember.”

The clown said, “Probably better that way,” and instead of laughter this time there were murmurs of assent.

“A guy at a speaker meeting I attended in my first week of treatment said, ‘I knew I was an alcoholic when I sunburned the roof of my mouth,’ and I remember thinking that was pretty funny. But tragic, too. In my years on the street I did much more damage than that, and not only to myself. So much pain. So much wasted time. But you know what? I don’t regret a minute of it now. Because it brought me here, to all of you.

“On this very special day, I have only one regret. And that is that my daughter Trish couldn’t be here to share it with me. I don’t know why she didn’t make it and that scares me. Caring is new to me and it can be pretty terrifying. I’m sure she’s fine...but I’m afraid. I wanted to tell her...”

Tears scalded Jim’s eyes and he cuffed them away.

“I wanted to tell her in front of everyone here how grateful I am that she brought me into her life. The first time she laid eyes on me I was fresh out of the gutter, more dead than alive in a hospital bed. She told me once how she used to imagine I’d be someone special, a heart surgeon or an executive, something like that. When she saw me that day in the hospital, she could’ve just walked away and I’d’ve been none the wiser. But she didn’t.” He looked at the vacant doorway, still wishing she’d whisk through it red-faced, out of breath and apologetic, but here and safe.

The tears got away on him now and he let them.

“I wanted to thank you for that, Trish, and tell you that...you make me feel like I’m someone special.”

He looked again at the crowd; there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. He said, “Thanks to you guys, I’m a citizen now. I have a social insurance number, a driver’s license and a paying job. I even have a cell phone.” He dug it out of his pocket and held it up, sending a tinkle of laughter through the room. “Although I barely know how to use the damned thing. It’s a flip phone, which I think is cool as hell, but my daughter and Dean here keep ragging me about it. It’s a new age when something as amazing as this little sucker can be out of fashion in under a year.” He put the phone away and held up the medallion. “Thank you for this, and for what it represents. Like Dean said, for me, this is a miracle. I’ll treasure it always.”

Jim left the podium and moved down the center aisle, shaking the hands that were offered and flinching at the hearty back-claps he received along the way. A fearful apprehension had taken root in his heart, and with each step he took toward that empty doorway it shaped itself more vividly into a terrible certainty.

Something bad had happened to his daughter. And it was his fault.

* * *

Trish stood naked before Bobcat, the sick bastard lounging in his torture chair like a Lord, sipping beer and petting that evil little dog in his lap. Her mouth was a throbbing, bloody wound, the tip of her tongue probing each raw socket as if by its own volition. She had her arms crossed over her breasts, all she could manage to deflect his greasy gaze.

He set the dog on the floor now, saying, “Lower them arms, girl. I wanna see them perky little titties.”

A vicious
”Fuck you”
rose to Trish’s lips and she choked it off, her mother’s voice in her head now, telling her to do whatever the man said, whatever would keep her alive.
Then the first chance you get, kick him in the balls and run like hell.

She lowered her arms.

He said, “That’s better,” and undid his belt. “Now, how about you do a nice little dance for Bobby. We’re gonna have us a talent show tonight,” he said, looking past Trish to the redheaded woman on the floor behind her; naked, gagged and bound, she’d clearly spent some time with Bobcat already. “The winner gets to live.”

Trish began to dance.

* * *

Dean said, “Why don’t I make the call. Her mom’s used to hearing from me.”

They were in Jim’s room now, in the halfway house he shared with a group of recovering alcoholics.

Shaking his head, Jim said, “I’m done hiding, kid,” and opened his cell phone. “If Trish picks up, no harm done, she can tell her mom about me in her own good time. But if something’s happened to her, then I’m responsible.”

He sat on a chair and dialed the number.

* * *

Sally grabbed the phone on the first ring. She was a basket case. Trish had promised to call as soon as she got to the flower shop, which should have been no later than ten this morning. It was after seven P.M. now, and neither she nor Sadie had heard a word from her. And the mailbox on her cell phone was full.

She said, “Hello?” There was a beat of silence and she said, “Trish, is that you?”

“No, Sally, it’s Jim. Jim Gamble.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“It’s no joke. I—”

“Because whatever it is, I don’t have time for it right now. I’m waiting for a call from my daughter.”

* * *

Jim shook his head at Dean. He could hear the dread in Sally’s voice, quivering just beneath the hostility, and his first instinct was to run from it, like he always had. His hand itched to break the connection.

But he said, “She’s the reason I’m calling.”

“What?”

“I...know her, Sally. I’ve known her for the past year.”

“What are you talking about?”

He told her.

* * *

Bobcat tied Trish’s left arm to a jack post in the center of the room. Then he lashed the redhead to the post with her back tight against it, extending her arms over her head, binding her legs at the ankles and thighs and stretching her pale body out as far it would go.

Now he pulled Trish into position behind the woman with the post between them, Trish’s chest against the woman’s back. Then he stood in front of the woman with a jackknife in his hand, a wicked looking thing with a hooked blade.

Grinning at Trish, he said, “I like you, little toad. You got heart. Not like this sack of meat.” He slapped the woman across the face, the poor thing so numb with pain and exhaustion she was barely conscious now.

In spite of her terror, Trish wanted to kill this bastard.

Wait for your chance, honey.

He said, “So here’s the deal. I’m gonna do a little...thing here. It’s a bit rude, but hey, it’s my party.”

Trish saw him lower the knife to the woman’s belly with the curved edge facing up. The woman was tiny, and Trish watched over her shoulder as the tip of the blade broke the skin in the midline below her navel, raising a bead of blood. With a low grunt he rocked the knife in and up, creating a neat incision about an inch long—Trish could actually hear the blade
pop
through the abdominal wall, like a thumb poking through a cellophane wrapper. The woman moaned but barely flinched. There was no fight left in her.