Tell Anna She's Safe (9 page)

Would Sergeants Lundy and Roach listen to me, like Quinn had? I wished he were one of the investigators. Whether he really thought me crazy or not, he seemed to be giving me the benefit of the doubt. What a relief it would be to confide in someone. But how could I confide in him when I didn't even trust myself?

Trust. Supposedly you had to know someone to trust them. But I trusted people every day—even people I didn't know. To a degree. Otherwise I would never leave my house. I assumed people were who they appeared to be. I assumed they said what they meant and meant what they said. I looked in their eyes for verification.

I had every reason not to trust Tim. Manslaughter was an accident but it was still taking another person's life. And now—I had to consider the possibility—he might have taken Lucy's life, too. But when I looked in his eyes, had I seen guilt? Cruelty? A crazed killer?

No. I had seen a lost little boy. A man who had spent the last ten years in prison and had been back on the outside for only a year—a year more or less in Lucy's “care.” He was not going to know how to get along without her. He'd said he didn't even know how to pay the bills. The odd way he was acting could be as simple as his being upset that he'd lost the person who took care of him.

But when I thought about the things he'd said, they didn't add up. And some of his words were disturbing. I heard them over and over again in the dull light of dawn.

She had a recurring dream. She dreams she's being choked. She screamed so loud she woke up the tenant two floors above us.

I know how easily she can be hurt—when we play-wrestle on the living room floor.

I tried to block out the images that shoved their way into my mind. Whether my crazy dreams, and Detective Godbout's assumptions, were correct or not, I knew one thing for sure: I had to end all contact with Tim.

Another thing was equally clear: I needed to search for Lucy. It was a long shot, as Sergeant Quinn had said. Such a long shot. But I needed to try. I didn't want any more dreams, or visitations, or whatever they were. I didn't want to be “taken over” that way. I would approach this logically. Maybe now that I had made the decision to search for her, maybe the dreams would go away. But at least they had given me something to go on, and I seemed to have Sergeant Quinn on side. Now if only Roach and Lundy would listen to me.

I tried to will myself to sleep. I wasn't going to be any good in the morning if I didn't get at least a few hours of rest.

I'm paddling in a red canoe on the river. Unafraid. The water is calm. I'm just below the covered bridge in Wakefield. In front of me, floating on the river, is a small barge. On it lies a figure. She is face down. Wearing gauzy lavender-coloured pants and top.

I paddle towards her, but I can't get any closer.

I come to the shore. I leave the canoe, and I'm walking in a meadow. The grass is brown.

In the distance, in the meadow, the same lavender-dressed figure is lying on some kind of a raised bed. Face up.

It is Lucy.

Her hair is spread over the end of the bed, as if someone has brushed it into that cascade. But it's not dark; it's long and blonde—strawberry blonde.

I approach slowly. She looks pale, haggard. She has no expression on her face.

When I reach her, I bend over her body and sob.

6.

T
HE ICE CUBES ON MY
eyes helped. They reduced the puffiness and made me at least look like I'd had more than two hours sleep. The shower helped too. And the rush of adrenalin. It was becoming my daily fix.

The police station had lost its intimidating feel overnight. It wasn't just the daylight. It was my new connection to the place.

Maybe, I thought, as I took the elevator up to the second floor to Major Crimes, maybe the connections worked the same way with prisons. Maybe that explained how Lucy had been able to walk through much more daunting doors. There had been someone she knew inside. Someone she trusted. She'd had more reason to trust Tim than I had to trust Quinn, whether he was an officer of the law or not. She'd known Tim longer, had got to know him first through correspondence and phone calls. But then, it had probably made no difference. The connection, she'd said, had been immediate.

It was suddenly clear. What Lucy had been talking about. There was a big difference of course. My connection to Quinn was far from romantic. But a connection was a connection, no matter how it manifested itself. That was why the police station felt entirely different at nine o'clock on a Thursday morning than it had at two a.m. the previous night. Even though I knew Sergeant Quinn wasn't even inside.

Sergeant Roach met me on the second floor, at the same door that Quinn had. He took me into a windowless room that might, or might not, have been the same one I had been in with Quinn. He left me and returned a moment later with Sergeant Lundy.

They listened to me describe the previous night. They listened to me repeat my half-truths. They assured me they followed all leads, no matter what the source. They tried to hide their skepticism behind their kind, closed faces.

I didn't blame them for their doubt. It reflected my own. But I was angry too. At them. At myself for having dreams that were making me act like a fool. And, if I was honest, at Lucy, too, for putting me in this situation.

I kept my anger in check. I didn't get thrown out.

I didn't get anything else either. Except promises and reassurances. “And thank you for your concern. What helps us most is the concern and support of Lucy's friends.”

Bullshit. What they needed most was to find her.

I stood in the middle of a chaotic room full of desks and phones and officers dealing with paperwork drudgery, and I refused to leave until they assured me they were going to put a tail on Marnie. I laughed as I said it. They laughed too.

“Shall we throw her out of here?” they joked.

But Lundy spoke to a man with long hair and blue jeans, and my impression was that he was going to be the one to follow Marnie. I tried to tell him where to look.

“Go home and get some sleep, lady,” said the undercover officer in blue jeans. “Leave it to us.”

I clamped my mouth shut so I wouldn't say something rude.

I headed for the phone as soon as I got in the door, to tell Angel I wasn't coming in to work. But there was no dial tone. Instead there was a woman's voice. “Hello? Is that Ellen?”

“Yes.”

“This is Trish Cousins. I'm a friend of Lucy's. I give her massage and reike treatments. Counselling too.” She spoke slowly but there was anything but calm in her measured tones. “I'm not sure why I'm calling. I wanted to talk to another friend of Lucy's. This whole thing is so strange. Tim called us on Sunday, and talked to Marnie—my partner. I think you met her recently.”

So Marnie
was
a friend of Lucy's.

More poured out of her. Her relationship with Lucy these past ten years, both professional and personal. How she had helped Lucy work through her fears. Fears of making the trips to prison, of getting involved with Tim. And then through the relationship stresses that had followed. How she and Marnie had tried to be supportive of the relationship and to be friends with Tim after he'd got out. How she had been away at a healing workshop all weekend and had only arrived back late Sunday afternoon when Tim had called and talked to Marnie. “I found it strange they were talking so long on the phone when we knew Lucy was missing.”

We knew Lucy was missing.
Sunday afternoon
.

Here was something Sergeants Lundy and Roach might pay attention to. I let Trish keep talking. I made sympathetic responses about how strange it was. I promised to keep in touch. We hung up and I immediately called the Ottawa police. I didn't need to look up the number anymore.

Neither Lundy nor Roach was available. I left both my home and work numbers for them.

I couldn't sleep. I took the dogs for a short walk, and then I changed and drove to work.

By one o'clock I still hadn't heard back from the police. I tried again. They were still unavailable. My heart sped up when I made the decision to ask for Sergeant Quinn.

“She said Tim called
Sunday
afternoon,” I said when I had filled him in. “She said they knew Lucy was missing. But Tim told me he didn't start worrying about her until Monday. That was the reason he gave me for waiting so long before phoning me. My name was right there on the calendar for Sunday afternoon. I should have been the first person he called if he thought she was missing.”

“I'll be sure to pass this on to Roach and Lundy. Do they know how to get hold of you?”

I gave him both my numbers.

He tried to reassure me. “They
are
on the case, Ellen. I know that doesn't help. You sound exhausted. Go home and get some sleep.”

The familiarity somehow seemed natural. The tone wasn't condescending like the undercover cop's. The tone was concerned. And the concern was welcome.

Angel, too, wanted me to go home. But I didn't want to be at home.

“Come and stay with us,” he said.

“I can't. The dogs.”

Angel shrugged.

At four o'clock I drove my weary body home.

*

TRISH'S CONCENTRATION WAS GRATIFYING. SHE
knew every knot, every sensitive spot like a lover. No, more than a lover. A lover touched you at least as much for his own pleasure as for yours. Trish's hands, her giving, her concentration, were there for her alone. This was an hour for herself. Even Trish's being gay didn't put any edge to it. There was no sexuality in this room; there was just her body—wired and knotted and electric—and Trish's strong fingers working their magic—the magic of turning electric wiring into mellow Jell-O. They call me mellow Jell-
O
, she sang in her head.

Not today
came a more prosaic, contrary voice. Today, her muscles seemed irrevocably seized. And for good reason. During last week's phone call, she had offered to be put on Tim's visiting list.

He had sounded particularly low. His mood swings didn't bother her. They were entirely understandable; she had nothing but sympathy for them. He had much more reason than she did to be depressed. She just wished she could be there for him. Sitting at the end of a phone wire was anything but being there.

So she asked. Part of her couldn't believe she was asking. It would mean at least a four-hour drive to get to Warkworth. There wasn't even a direct route between the prison and Ottawa. She'd have to zigzag her way west on the minor highways.

She wasn't expecting Tim's laugh in response to her question. “You mean join all the others on my list? You might have to fight over time slots.”

His tone was humorous but not bitter. She liked that he could laugh at himself even when he was low. Then the laughter went out of his voice. “Lu, are you sure?”

She loved the way he shortened her name. No one else ever had. There was such affection in it. “Oh, Tim,” she said, “I would be honoured.”

There was a long silence on the other end. She sensed he was fighting tears. She hoped he didn't sense her fight against the sudden onset of panic.

A new car would help. Her ancient Horizon would never make it to Warkworth. It was time for a reliable vehicle.

Tim went online from the prison library and together they decided on a Suzuki Sidekick. She took one for a test drive and found it a fun, spunky car. And the four-wheel drive made her feel safe. Maybe she would begin to enjoy driving. But more than the car, she needed the nerve.

Before she knew it, Trish was lifting the sheet for her to turn over. She had got nowhere near a relaxed state during the first half hour. She shifted onto her back and watched Trish work her fingers up her left arm.

“Do you think you could knead some courage into those muscles?” she asked.

Trish smiled her serene smile. “And what do you want courage for today?”

She answered, keeping her eyes on Trish's face. “The courage to visit a medium-security penitentiary two hundred miles from here.”

Her words had the expected effect. She felt Trish's hands stop, watched her trying to keep the worry and wariness off her face. She smiled inside at the struggle she'd created.

“Are you doing research for Correctional Services?” The question was asked in a casual tone.

She kept watching Trish's face. She was torn between wanting to create shock and needing to receive support. “Personal research,” she said.

Trish shifted her hand to her wrist. It was light, gentle. She closed her eyes to take in that gentle, caring touch. Trish was a professional; no matter what she might be thinking inside, her hands, the tools of her trade, would always emanate support.

“You're becoming more involved with this guy.”

She kept her eyes closed so she wouldn't have to see what might be in Trish's eyes. A fear reflecting her own?

“You know I don't normally stop a massage halfway through,” said Trish after a pause, “but it might be good if we talked for a bit before I continue. Do you want to do that?”

She did. She gathered the sheet around her and pulled herself up into a cross-legged position. She might have felt she was sitting on the doctor's examining table, except that Trish half-leaned, half-sat on the table herself, in that informal way she had. Then Trish smiled and prompted her with her usual invitation. “So tell me.”

“I'm being put on his visitor's list.”

“And how do you feel about that? Setting aside your fears, for the moment, do you want to go? Could you drive that distance?”

“Yes.” She was answering the second question. She had no idea about the third.

“What about Curtis?”

She sighed. “The writing is on the wall and it was there long before I met Tim. You know it as well as I do.” She sighed again. “I really thought things were going to work out with Curtis. I thought we were going to make it, but he bailed. Funny how he always says I'm in denial, but one thing is clear as day. He's not there. It's a slow-moving train with Tim, but I think that's better. We can't rush into anything.”

Trish was nodding, but there was concern in her eyes. “But you can't ignore his history. It might have been an accident, but he was violent.”

“I know. God, I know. And I'm terrified. But what else is new? It's time to face my fears, like you're always wanting me to.”

“Lucy. This is one instance, anyway, where you have every reason to be afraid. I don't want to tell you what to do, but this might be one time where it would be good to listen to your fears.”

“But it's not Tim I'm afraid of. It's Warkworth, it's the prison itself. It's the drive there—when have you ever known me to drive so far from home? I know it sounds crazy, but what about Lucy Stockman doesn't sound crazy? This really is an opportunity to get over my phobias. I mean once and for all. I'm tired of living my life in fear.”

“So you think the answer is to stick your head in the lion's mouth?”

She grinned. “No, but couldn't I at least go look at him through the bars?”

“If you want me to help you get over your dread of
zoos
I'll gladly help,” said Trish.

They laughed.

“Anyway, Tim's not a lion,” she said. “I know it looks bad; he's in prison for being violent. But I believe him when he says it was an accident, and if it was an accident, then he's no more culpable, has no more capability for violence, than half a dozen other men I know. Including the one I'm living with. There's a reason I met him, Trish. I read his letters, listen to his voice on the phone, and I know, it's a certainty inside, that everything that surrounds him—the violence of his past, the violence of the institution he's in—it's all illusion. That violence is not who he is, any more than my phobias are who I am. I feel he's come into my life so that the fear I am debilitated by can meet the violence that has debilitated him, and we can each be each other's rehabilitation. I have never seen anything with more clarity.”

Trish put her head in her hands and groaned. “Oh God, you're out-therapizing your therapist.”

Her eyes glinted mischievously. “On the other hand, I just want to go visit a guy in prison.”