Serpents Rising (28 page)

I
stopped for groceries and wine in preparation for cooking dinner for Jill the next night. Then I drove the rest of the way home and cleaned house and drank a slow rye and Diet Coke as Gordon Lightfoot, then the Rankin Family provided pleasant background sounds.

I called Jill on her cell and left a message telling her to come any time after six and not to bring anything. The house looked decent and the Rankins were wrapping up
Endless Seasons
, my favourite of their albums.

I built a second rye and Diet Coke and sat down in the leather recliner to think. The meeting with Delores Bain had been unsettling.

I hadn't enjoyed pushing her. But she had kept information from me the first time we'd met — information that, despite her assurances that Appleton the predator could never be Appleton the killer, might have been important to me.

Thing was I knew nothing more than I'd known before I paid my second visit to Northern Horizon Academy. I sat and drank my whisky and thought hard. And no matter how I dissected and analyzed it all, I kept coming back to Richard Appleton.

What I didn't have was anything that looked remotely like evidence. The man had preyed on young girls from a position of trust. What could be slimier? And he had gone to jail because of the testimony of those girls. And now two of those girls were dead, one the result of a deliberately set fire, and the other….

Revenge is a powerful motivator. And if it turned out that there was anything at all suspicious in the death of Elaine Yu, then that would be significant. But would it point any more clearly to who killed Donna?

That was a question I couldn't answer. I hoped that Cobb, a few days of R and R under his belt, might have more answers — even
one
more answer — than I had.

And that was the last thought I had before falling asleep in the recliner.

When Cobb arrived just after nine the next morning I was no longer in the chair. I had woken at around three a.m. and shifted to my bed for the last few hours of sleep, sleep that was punctuated with a dream about a car race in which I was driving the Accord. It was a sort of NASCAR, sort of Formula One race and I was frustrated that no matter how hard I tried I couldn't seem to make any headway in the race. As stupid as that sounds, dreams never seem stupid when you're having them and I woke around seven a.m. in a bad mood and nursing a headache.

By the time Cobb arrived I'd gone for a run, had a shower, downed three extra strength Tylenol, and four glasses of water. Half the recommended daily intake. I was ready.

Cobb set two Starbucks take-out coffee containers on the counter and took up residence in the recliner. He had dressed winter casual. Jean jacket over a Route 66 sweatshirt, faded jeans, sneakers not laced up.

The bagels had been staying warm in the oven. I had cream cheese and jam set out on a TV tray that was older than I was.

I pulled the bagels out of the oven.

“Whole wheat or plain?”

“Whole wheat? There's a whole wheat bagel?”

“Sure, they got lots of flavours now.”

“But whole wheat?”

I shrugged.

Cobb shook his head. “There are rabbis all over North America in shock right now.”

“I take it you'll want the plain.”

“Good call,” Cobb said.

I sat on one of my kitchen chairs opposite him. I'd poured my coffee into a New York Yankees mug Donna had given me for a birthday present. Cobb left his coffee on the counter for the moment, working instead on a bottled water he had brought along.

Probably just getting started on his recommended daily intake.

For a while we ate bagels and talked about the Flames.

Then I told him about my encounter with Delores Bain. He furrowed his brow but didn't say much.

“It feels like it's so close,” I said. “That the answer to who killed Donna is just out of my reach and if I could just put a couple of things together it would all be right there.”

Cobb nodded. “It's like that in my business a lot of the time. Sometimes it all comes clear and sometimes it doesn't.”

“So what's next?”

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked at me. “I called a few people in Prince Albert, some local cops and an RCMP guy I know. The accident that killed Elaine Yu may not have been all that accidental.”

I set my coffee mug down.

“More.”

“Elaine Yu was a home care nurse. Travelled around to people's homes administering their meds, doing minor tests, changing dressings, bandages, and the like. She had come to Canada with her family from a little village just outside Beijing. She was twelve, went into grade seven. Never looked back. Bright, hard-working, I heard a lot of the same things about her that you've told me about Donna.

“The RCMP cop I talked to, First Nations guy named James Moostoos, he worked on the case. He told me Elaine was returning to Prince Albert after a home visitation. Sometime between nine and nine-thirty at night, she went off the road at probably close to the speed limit. Dry road, good visibility, no alcohol involved.”

I leaned forward, watched Cobb.

“Moostoos told me their investigators' best guess was that her car, which was a 2002 Toyota Camry, was forced off the road on a highway south of Prince Albert. Near a place called St. Louis. The car rolled into the ditch and she was killed instantly. No witnesses.”

“Then how do they know she was forced off the road?”

“Damage to the driver's side of the car was inconsistent with a rollover, consistent with a vehicle being smashed from the side. Paint on the Camry that was from another vehicle. Could have been from an earlierfender-bender but there was no report of an accident involving the Camry prior to that night. The investigating cops wrote it up as a suspected road rage incident.”

“Road rage,” I repeated.

Cobb nodded. “It happens. Idiot gets pissed off, pulls up alongside the person he's pissed off at, bumps the vehicle, maybe not wanting to put it right off the road but making a point.”

“And if it
does
go off the road …”

“Too damn bad.”

“Except maybe this wasn't road rage.”

Cobb shrugged. “Maybe not.”

He spread cream cheese over the last of his bagel and popped it into his mouth.

“When did it happen?” I asked.

Cobb pulled a notebook out of his jean jacket pocket and flipped it open. “October 18, 2005.”

“Less than six months after Donna was killed.”

“Yeah. And just over a year after Appleton was released from prison. And one other interesting tidbit Moostoos was able to tell me … one year to the day after the crash, the family received a note in the mail that read, ‘Too bad your daughter didn't spend more time taking driver's ed.'”

“Jesus. Didn't that tell them something?”

“They already figured the thing was deliberate. Checked with all the body shops for unreported repairs. Nothing. Back to road rage. The note was consistent with someone with anger management issues.”

I stared at the floor for a long while. “So where does this take us?”

“It takes
me
on a flight to Saskatoon in the morning, then a rental car journey to Prince Albert, and maybe St. Louis. It's pronounced St.
Louie
, by the way. Maybe I can learn something from the incident reports. Or maybe not.”

“I could come with you.”

Cobb drank some water and shook his head. “Not really a two man gig. Besides, I owe you one … maybe more than one.”

“You don't owe me. Something I just thought of. What about the other girls. There were six victims, not counting Appleton's step-daughter. What about…?”

Cobb nodded. “I thought about the same thing. Did a little checking during my time off. All are alive and well, although one girl, a Casey Kingsbury — lives in Nanaimo now — had her dog run over, got a new dog, and it was run over just a few weeks after the first. Both times the dogs had somehow got out of a fenced yard. Might be nothing or …” He shrugged.

“Weird,” I said. “But the girls themselves, they're all okay?”

“Uh-huh. Anyway, I plan to be in and out of Saskatchewan in a hurry. I'll stop by Monday, Tuesday at the latest, and let you know what I found out.”

He stood up, took his coffee from the counter, and sat back down.

I watched him swirl the cup around, then take a long sip.

“You think there's a connection between Donna's death and what happened to Elaine Yu?”

His eyes narrowed. “Too early to say 100 percent, but I've never been a big believer in coincidence. And the notes both one year to the day after each of them was killed screams same killer.”

“Okay, so let's say we can connect the two deaths, what then?”

“I don't know. Maybe we have to take another look at the Appletons, Mr.
and
Mrs.”

“You think a woman is capable of doing the things that this person did?”

“Adam, there are women, clearly not as many as men, but they're out there, who are capable of unimaginable horrors. I'm not saying Mrs. Appleton is one of them, but I'm saying we can't rule it out.”

“I was thinking of the physical act of forcing someone's vehicle off the road; that feels more like a man.”

Cobb shrugged. “Ever hear of Danica Patrick? Okay, I'm being flippant, but the truth is there are actually very few physical acts that you can rule out the possibility of a woman doing, other than those that require the strength, that men, because we're bigger, might have.”

I was having trouble with that. “And yet, most all of the mass killings have involved male shooters.”

Cobb nodded. “True. Along with the vast majority of violent crime. And I'm probably like you — this feels like a male perp. I'm just saying we can't ignore the possibility that either of the Appletons, or both of them working together, are responsible for both deaths.”

I nodded. “Maybe.”

He took another sip of coffee. “The part that bothers me is the same thing that's bothered me all along: any harm either of the two girls could do Appleton had already been done, which means they were no longer a threat.”

“Yeah.”

“Which makes revenge the only possible reason for Appleton or even the charming Mrs. Appleton to kill those two women.” He leaned forward as if to stand up, then changed his mind and leaned back again. “Begs the question — could either of them kill out of revenge?”

I didn't answer right away. “Based on my conversation with them, I honestly don't know. Appleton seemed genuine in the things he said to me. If my wife hadn't been the victim and if I was assessing the guy for someone else, I probably would say he doesn't seem capable of setting fire to someone's house knowing that someone might die as a result.”

“And you may be right.” Cobb tapped an index finger against the side of his coffee container. “Except that he was able to deceive so many people the first time around. Can we be sure he isn't doing it again?”

I nodded. “And there's Mrs. Appleton, who we know is capable of violence, but to what extent?”

Cobb didn't move. He was staring at a point on the wall just above and to the right of my left ear. Not saying anything. Barely breathing. Intense.

After a minute or so, he stood up.

“Okay, so I go to Prince Albert and I talk to some people and maybe I learn something.”

I stood up and reached out my hand.

“I appreciate what you're doing.”

He shook my hand. “I want to find the person who did this, Adam.”

I nodded as he turned for the door. “So do I,” I said.

And he was gone.

I looked down at my plate. I hadn't eaten much bagel. I'd lost my appetite.

I
was nursing a glass of red wine, surrounded by vegetables, condiments, and salad-making implements. I'd planned the menu carefully. A mussels starter I had gleaned long ago from a Peter Gzowski column in
Canadian Living
, then my own variation on a popular green salad that employs green leaf lettuce, red onion, cucumber, tomato, chopped yellow pepper, cashews, and a balsamic vinegar dressing. And finally a fettuccine carbonara that I had made once before and had actually worked. Why mess with a proven winner?

I had chicken parts I'd bought the day before simmering in water on the stove, creating a stock for the mussels. With the chicken, onion, salt, and pepper bubbling away, the apartment smelled pretty good.

I'm far from a gourmet and even farther from being a chef, but I like to cook and was kind of enjoying trying to come up with something that would dazzle Jill. She was bringing the dessert and no amount of wheedling from me could get her to drop even a hint as to what it might be.

I'm painfully slow in the kitchen, which was why I was working on the salad and the stock for the mussels at three o'clock, a full three hours before Jill's ETA. Michael Bublé was belting out “Heartache Tonight” (yes,
that
“Heartache Tonight”) with my help when I heard a rap on the door.

I set the cucumber down, turned down the flame under the stock, and wiped my hands on a nearby towel, headed for the door. I figured with my luck the caller would be a religious proselytizer, an insurance salesman, or a member of the Wildrose Party.

The person at my door was none of those.

I hadn't seen Lorne Cooney in a few months. It was good to see him now. He was wearing a dark blue sweat suit, a tan and blue toque, and light, what looked like cotton gloves. He was grinning at me, which came as no surprise since Lorne Cooney grinned more than anyone I had ever known. Just a happy Jamaican.

I grinned back at him, then threw an arm around him.

“It's been way, way too long,” I said.

“Truer words,” he said and returned the hug.

I stepped back and pointed the way in.

He stepped in a couple of steps, and I closed the door behind him. He stopped and looked around.

“Joint ain't changed much.”

“Hard to be creative in seven hundred square feet.”

“Especially when three hundred of 'em is taken up with the music collection. I see that ain't changed either. Why don't you get rid of all that Canadian shit and lay in some reggae?”

I laughed. “Find a spot in there and I'll get us a beer.”

“Talked me into it.”

He talked as he headed for the recliner and I pulled two bottles of Rickard's Red from the fridge, putting my red wine on hold for now.

“I wasn't going to stop, man, but I was running by here and the door downstairs was open, I figured what the hell.”

I handed him a beer and crossed to the hide-a-bed and sat. “I'm glad you did. I should've called you a long time ago but —”

“Shit, man, don't say that. You think I don't get what's been going on for you?”

“Thanks, Lorne.”

He took a pull of the beer and looked at me. “How you doin'?”

“I think it's getting better, I really believe it is, but there are times …”

He nodded and we drank beer without saying anything for a while.

The grin came back to his face. “Hey, guess who I had lunch with the other day?”

“Simon Cowell.”

“He called, but I told him I was busy. We talked Caribbean music and he said he'd call again sometime.”

“Right. Who?”

“Janice.”

“Janice Mayotte?”

“The same. Except she's Janice Flynn now and got a belly on her that says there's gonna be another Flynn sometime soon.”

“Hey, that's great. I heard she'd moved to Toronto.”

Lorne nodded. “Married an architect and the next thing you know his firm sends him to Calgary to work out of the office here. Anyway, once she's done having this baby she figures we ought to get together and maybe do something cree-ay-tive, revive our little trio, maybe take the journalistic world by storm.”

I finished my beer and set the bottle down on the floor. “Another one?”

“I can't man. I got to finish my run. I'm trainin' for a half marathon, only five weeks away.” He looked at his beer. “I've already sinned.”

“Have to keep your strength up,” I said. “Anyway, the idea of working with Janice again sounds cool. You, on the other hand, I'm not so sure about.”

The grin. “You forget, I'm the brains of the outfit.”

“You're right, I did forget that. Did you two ever finish that series on the drug scene in Calgary, the one we were working on when …” I stopped as the bad memory hit me.

Lorne shook his head. “We kind of lost the desire with you out of the deal. Maybe that's something we should talk about when the three of us get together.”

I nodded. “Let's do that. I might have a few new insights that could be useful.”

Lorne stood up, looked around. “I see you got some stuff goin' on and I better be getting back to my run.”

I thought about explaining what the cooking prep was all about but figured it might be a longer story than either of us needed just then.

We walked to the door, I opened it, and we shook hands. “I'll call you, Lorne. I mean that.”

One final grin. “I know you do, man. And if you don't, I'll come around, maybe flatten your tires.”

He started bouncing on his toes. Getting back into running mode.

“Gotta run. Literally.”

“Don't sprain an ankle out there.”

“An athlete like me?” He laughed and headed off down the hall toward the stairs.

I picked up the beer bottles, put them away and returned to my salad. Three minutes later there was another knock at the door. I was laughing as I opened it, working on a one-liner to lay on the returning Jamaican, who had no doubt forgotten something. Or maybe decided to blow off the training for one day and have that other beer.

I pulled the door open.

And was wrong again.

Delores Bain looked very different out of school. She was wearing a long, black leather coat trimmed with silver-grey fur and high, laced leather boots that looked both chic and expensive. She was also sporting a hat that could best be described as funky — a black twenties throwback thing that looked much better on her than I would have thought. She was holding her gloves in one hand and smiling at me.

“Well … uh … hello,” I said. I'm pretty sure the surprise I was feeling was reflected in my voice.

“I won't stay long,” she said as if to set my fears on that score at ease. “I've been thinking hard about all this, and I'm not sure, but I may have something that could be useful to you.”

I stepped back from the door. “Please come in. I was just working on some dinner things for later. Can I take your coat?”

She stepped in, I closed the door and she shrugged out of the coat, handing it, the gloves, and the hat to me. My closet is the size of a kitchen pantry and is full of that part of my wardrobe that needs to hang. There was no room in there for Ms. Bain's winter outerwear, so I set her things on the recliner, meaning that she and I would both have to sit on the hide-a-bed.

“Can I get you a drink or a glass of wine? Coffee?”

She smiled again. “Coffee would be good.”

She may have noticed the half full coffee perk on the stove and been trying to be nice or maybe she just liked coffee. I gestured at the hide-a-bed and made my way for the kitchen. I poured two cups of coffee and set them in the microwave. Coffee, beer, and wine in the space of twenty minutes. Eclectic.

While the coffee was heating I turned to her. “I'm sorry I don't have any cookies or much to go with the coffee.”

“That's quite all right. I wasn't kidding when I said I wouldn't be long. I can see you're getting ready for company.”

I couldn't think of a response so I smiled. The microwave beeped and I turned back to it and fetched the two mugs.

“How do you like your coffee?” I asked her.

“A little milk if you have it.”

I fixed her coffee, added milk and sugar to mine, and made my way back into the living room area. I set her coffee in front of her, turned down the stereo, and sat down next to her.

“You said you had something that might help.”

She nodded and sipped the coffee.

“You mean help with who set the fire?”

Her shoulders moved slightly. “I don't know … maybe. I … do you think I could trouble you for just a little more milk? It's a bit … strong.”

“Sorry, it's been sitting there a while.”

She handed me her cup. I took it, stood up, and headed for the fridge.

When I came back she appeared to be studying what was going on in my kitchen. I couldn't blame her; the place was smelling better all the time.

I sat back down and looked at her. She seemed to be waiting for … what … the right moment … the right words? I sipped coffee and waited.

“First of all, I apologize again for the other day. I'm afraid I wasn't at my best, which doesn't excuse my treating you with less courtesy than you deserved.”

“No apology necessary.”

“You're very kind but there is and I do.”

She was struggling with getting into whatever it was that had brought her here and I didn't want to rush her. Neither of us spoke for maybe a full minute. She took in air, breathed it out through her nose.

“I'm … I'm not sure it means anything at all,” she said. “There was a teacher at the school; he died last year. Mr. Levinson, Gerard Levinson. He'd taught at NHA for almost twenty years and was, I suppose you could say obsessive in terms of his pride in the school.”

She paused, drank some coffee, so I did too.

“I know I'm probably imagining things, but I recall something he said once. He seemed as angry at the students who had spoken out against Mr. Appleton as he was at Appleton himself. Like they'd brought shame to the school by going to the police. Like they should have kept silent even after what Richard did. I remember thinking it was an odd reaction.”

“What was it he said?”

“I want to try to get it exactly,” she said and stared at the ceiling, searched her memory.

“He said, ‘It would serve those girls right if more shit happened to them.' I remember it was oddly vulgar of him to put it that way. He seemed … very frustrated.”

“Do you think this guy, Levinson, was capable of hurting people?”

“I suppose I've never thought about it before, but since we talked the other day I've found myself wondering if Gerard might've been so angry at seeing the reputation of a school he cared about so much being damaged, that he might have … done some things.”

I thought about what she was saying. Was it possible that someone could be as obsessive as the guy she was describing? Obsessive enough to kill people?

“Top up on the coffee?”

“I'm fine.” She smiled.

“What did you say the guy's name was?”

“Mr. Levinson. Gerard Levinson.”

“Right,” I said. “Gerald …” I stopped. That was wrong. She hadn't said Gerald. I looked at her and tried to think.

Come on, you've had one beer and less than a full glass of wine. Focus, for Christ's sake.

But that was the problem. I wanted to take in what she was saying. This could be the breakthrough I'd been waiting for. Someone who could hate enough to kill two girls. But it didn't feel right.
I
didn't feel right.

I looked at her and tried to form a question.

“How … old …” I couldn't think of how the question was supposed to end.

She was watching me.

“Are you all right, Adam?”

“Yeah … I … no …”

“Adam?”

“I just … Gerard, that's it, isn't it … you said Gerard, not … that other name.”

“Yes, Adam, that's what I said.”

She was smiling now and I knew. But what did I know? There was something wrong. Something wrong with me. She'd done … what? I was so tired, so dizzy, so …

It was right there.
Right there
. I knew what she'd done and I knew it was too late for me to do anything about it. The coffee. She'd put … something … in the coffee. I tried to get up. But my legs wouldn't help me. If I could just sleep for a minute or two, just a few minutes, but no, I can't sleep now, not now or —

I tried again to stand up. And almost made it.

The woman … I couldn't think of her name either but she was right there, looking at me. The smile … that damn smile was bigger now. Her face was closer to me. And she was speaking to me. But it wasn't making sense.

“You are a Goddamn fool. Did you really think I'd stand by and let you destroy what I've spent my life building and creating? Northern Horizon Academy is a wonderful place of learning. And it's a wonderful place of learning because of
me
.”

Why is she…? Sleep, just for a minute …

“You aren't going to ruin my life's work. Those pathetic women tried to do that and they paid the price for their interfering. Not all of them. Not yet. But they will. They all will. Just like your wife and that other little bitch. They got what they deserved.”

What's she holding … a needle … hypodermic … what is she…?

“All of them will pay. But there's no hurry for them. You, on the other hand, made yourself more of a priority, didn't you, Adam?

I tried to focus, felt my head, no, my whole body wanting to lean forward and just …

“How does it feel to know you are dying? I'm sure someone as stupid as you are thinks you'll be joining your wife in some blissful state of eternal joy. Well, good for you, you pathetic bastard. Good for you. You just hang on to that. While you die.”