The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (23 page)

Through my earpiece I could hear Jill’s voice. “I was just talking to Keith,” she said. “I think he and the lady lobbyist must have had a falling out. He says he’s coming home for Christmas, and he wonders if you’d take it amiss if he asked you for dinner.”

“I wouldn’t take it amiss,” I said, “but I may have other plans. I’ve met somebody else …”

“Do tell,” she said.

I started. Then the monitor picked up Sam Spiegel in Ottawa, the director began counting down, and we were on the air.

It was a good show. Keith outlined the more provocative proposals for revamping the American health-care delivery system, and Sam and I talked about some of the initiatives the provinces were taking at home. There were the usual ideological flare-ups about who had the right to expect what from whom, but we were spirited rather than vicious, and when the phone-in segment started, the callers seemed, for once, to be more interested in light than heat. The questions were fair and perceptive, and I relaxed and enjoyed myself. Sixty seconds before the end of the show, I was half-listening to Sam talk about wellness models, when the moderator in Toronto said, “Time for one more quick question. Go ahead, Jenny from Vermilion Hills, Saskatchewan, you’re on the air.”

I heard the woman’s voice. “Help me,” it said. And that was all it said. I looked over to Jill in the control booth; she was rolling her eyes back in a “what next” way. In Toronto, the moderator was signing off. We all said goodnight, and the light on the camera went dark.

I unclipped my microphone and went into the control booth. “Who was that last caller?” I asked.

“Crank or prankster, take your pick.” Jill said.

“Can you check with Toronto and see if they got that woman’s last name?” I asked.

Jill shrugged and punched a button. “Toronto, did you get a surname on that last caller? Okay. Yeah, we do know how to grow them out here. Thanks.” She looked up at me. “No surname,” she said. “Just Jenny, from Vermilion Hills, Saskatchewan. Never heard of it,” she added.

“I have,” I said. “Can you find out who cut off the call?”

Jill asked, then turned back to me. “They cut her off in Toronto.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I didn’t stop to take off my makeup. I grabbed my coat from the hook in the green room and ran upstairs and across the crowded lobby. On the stage, another children’s choir was singing, and a group of little kids was sitting on the floor around the tree stringing popcorn and cranberries. Jenny’s phone call seemed to be a cry from a different world. I was so preoccupied, I didn’t notice the man at the reception desk until it was too late. I ran straight into him. When he turned, I saw that the man was Paschal Temple.

As soon as he recognized me, his face lit up with pleasure. “I was just watching you over there on the television. With all this crowd, I couldn’t hear too well, but you looked very pretty. Well, this is good luck. I was just leaving something for you.”

“Did you come down here just to see me?” I asked.

“No, I’m killing two birds with one stone. We brought Lolita’s choir down to be on
TV
.” He gestured to a children’s choir just coming off the stage. “They’re so excited. Me too. Watching how they make a
TV
show was fun. Anyway, I’m sure you’re busy, so just let me give you my little package. It’s poor Kevin’s Bible. The warden gave it to me because he knew it had come from me originally.” He opened the Bible and took out a folded piece of paper. “I would never have thought to give the Bible to you, but when I looked inside, I found this, and I remembered you were interested in it.”

He handed me the Bible. I took it and unfolded the paper. It was a photocopy of the Biblical Character Building Chart that Paschal had shown me the night I’d gone to Bread of Life Tabernacle. Kevin had printed his name in capital letters on the top of the page and he’d printed pairs of letters beside some of the biblical passages that dealt with character-destroying qualities. The letters printed next to the notation for Wilful Blindness were my initials, JK; the biblical reference was to Psalm 146, the verse Kevin had sent me. I checked the other letters. Kevin’s own initials appeared beside the entries for Cowardice and Impurity. The initials MT were printed beside Pride and Falsehood. Maureen had received a letter too. There was a final set of initials, but this one didn’t have a character-destroying quality listed next to it. There was just a biblical reference.

Paschal Temple was watching me closely.

“Do you know what Exodus 20:13 is?” I asked.

His eyes were grave. “It’s the sixth Commandment: Thou shalt not commit murder.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry. I have to leave. It’s an emergency.”

“Can I be of any help?”

I shook my head. Then I changed my mind. “You could add me to your prayer list,” I said, and I started for the door.

There were still cars coming into the parking lot behind Nationtv. A van waited as I pulled out of my spot, and it squeezed in as soon as I was clear. When I nosed out onto the street, I saw the silver Audi in my rear-view mirror. It was coming out of the parking lot behind me, and I had a pretty good idea now who was driving it. Suddenly, I was icily calm. I drove carefully along the streets that I knew would be fully lighted. When I got home, I used the electronic eye and drove straight into the carport. I used the
door between the carport and the kitchen to get inside. When I was safely in the house, I leaned against the kitchen door and closed my eyes. So far, so good. Upstairs in the family room, I could hear the sound of the television and of Taylor and the boys laughing. I dialled the number of the Regina police.

“Inspector Kequahtooway, please.”

There was silence. Then a click, and a woman’s voice.

“Inspector Kequahtooway is not on duty. Can someone else help you?”

“No,” I said. “Do you have his home number?”

“We can’t give out home numbers, ma’am.”

“Right,” I said, and I hung up and dialled Craig Evanson’s number.

He answered, sounding breathless and excited. “We’re on our way to the hospital, Jo. The baby’s coming. Manda’s contractions are five minutes apart.”

“Craig, I won’t keep you. I just need to get some directions. When you guys went hunting in the Vermilion Hills, you stayed in a cabin. I need to know how to get there.”

As Craig gave me the directions, I sketched a quick map. My icy calm was starting to melt. I was scared, and I didn’t want to leave anything to chance. I stuck the map in my purse, went up to my room, and changed out of my
TV
clothes into blue jeans, a sweater, and boots. I might have to move quickly, and I wanted to be ready. I walked down the hall to the family room. Taylor and the boys were watching
Blazing Saddles
. It was the beans-around-the-campfire scene, and Taylor was roaring.

“Pete, I need your car keys,” I said.

“They’re in my jacket pocket,” he said. “Can I use your car?”

“No,” I said. “Not tonight. Stick close to home, would you?”

Peter looked up from the screen. “You look kind of intense. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, and I hoped I sounded more certain than I felt.

I walked back upstairs and down the hall to the front door. Through the window, I could see the silver Audi parked down the street about half a block. It had started to rain, and the pavement looked slick. Peter’s jacket was hanging on the coat-rack. I found the keys, then I looked again at the jacket. It was an Eddie Bauer, rainproof, with a hood I could pull over my head. I put the jacket on. When I pulled up the hood, it covered the sides of my face. Peter’s book-bag was on the floor, and I picked it up and slung it over my shoulder. The empty book-bag gave me an idea. I went back up to my room, pulled the box of Jenny’s mementoes out from under the bed and slipped it into the book-bag. Downstairs, I checked my reflection in the hall mirror. In the dark and with my head down, I could pass for Pete. At least that’s what I was hoping.

There was no point in delaying. I opened the front door and ran towards Pete’s car. I didn’t look in the direction of the Audi until I got to the corner of Albert Street. When I checked my rear-view mirror, the Audi was right where I left it, and I sighed with relief.

Regina’s streets were busy, but there weren’t many cars on the Trans-Canada. It was 8:30 on a Saturday night, three weeks before Christmas. People had places to be; no one would be driving in this strange winter rain storm unless they had to.

The rain. If the temperature dropped five degrees, the highway would be lethal. But, as my grandmother used to say, there’s no point jumping off a bridge till you come to it. I tested Veronica’s brakes a couple of times. They held. For better or for worse, I was on my way, and I had to think about what I was going to do when I got there.

I tried to formulate a plan. The objective was clear enough: I had to get Jenny out. It was the obstacles that were shadowy. I didn’t know what I’d be walking into. Jenny had been able to phone. That meant she was alone. But if she was alone, why hadn’t she run away? I couldn’t get the pieces to fit.

As I drove onto the overpass by Belle Plaine, the car started to make a gasping sound. I looked at the gas gauge, and uttered an expletive my grandmother would not have approved of. The needle was hovering a hair’s breadth away from empty. I patted the dashboard. “Come on, Veronica,” I said, “Pete says you’re one hot car. You can do this. You can make it.” She continued to climb, but she was coughing badly. I tried to visualize the highway ahead. Chubby’s Café and Gas Station was along here somewhere, but where? The rain continued to fall. The car continued to cough. Then, from the top of the overpass, I could see a fuzz of light on the right-hand side of the road. “Please let that be Chubby’s,” I said as Veronica coasted down the overpass onto the highway.

I was in luck. The café was less than a kilometre down the road, and Veronica made it right to the tanks before she coughed her last. Chubby himself filled her up. When he’d finished, I gave him my credit card and showed him my map.

“I have to get down there tonight,” I said. “Do you know of a shortcut I could take?”

He took the map between his thumb and forefinger and walked inside where there was light. I thought I had never seen a human being move so slowly. When he came back, he handed me my credit card and the map.

“No shortcut, not in this weather,” he said. “Just stay on the highway till you see the sodium sulphate plant.” He gave me my credit card. “Jeez, just a minute, I forgot something,” he said, then he turned and lumbered heavily towards the bright lights of the café. When he came out, he reached
through the window. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and he handed me a candy cane.

“Same to you,” I said. I finished the candy cane just as I came to the turnoff for the Vermilion Hills. As soon as I hit the grid road, I knew I was in trouble. The car started to fishtail on the wet gravel, and by the time I straightened it, I could feel the sweat running down my back.

There was no consolation when I looked up into the hills. In the spring, the Vermilion Hills are as beautiful as their name. In the summer, they’re alive with wildflowers. But in the winter, stripped of the softness of grass and flower, they are primordial and terrifying. That night, as I followed the hairpin curves of the dark road that took me into their heart, I was engulfed by a fear that seemed as atavistic as it was intense. Then, out of nowhere, a deer leapt across the road ahead of me, and I felt the fear lift. I wasn’t alone.

I held the map up to the light on the dashboard. I was almost there. A kilometre farther, I saw the yard-light of the cabin glowing dimly in the dark and the mist. I pulled onto the shoulder of the road, and began to walk. I wasn’t sure who was in the cabin, but there didn’t seem to be much point in announcing myself.

The rain was cool on my face, and the air was fresh. I took some deep breaths. “I’m coming, Jenny,” I said, and I felt strong and clear-headed. I stood for a moment, getting my bearings. The cabin was set back about a hundred metres from the road. It was isolated. The last lights I’d seen had been fifteen kilometres back. This was short-grass country, and there weren’t many trees around, but there was a windbreak of what looked like caraganas on the north side of the cabin. It would be a place to run if I needed one.

I could feel the adrenalin rush as I started for the cabin. The curtains were pulled tight, but as I moved closer I could hear music inside; it sounded like a radio or a
TV
. I told
myself it was Lolita Temple’s choir and that, if they were singing, nothing bad could happen to me.

I went to the front door and knocked. For a moment, the only sound was the music, then I heard someone coming towards me. When the door opened, I was facing Tess Malone.

“I knew you’d come for Jenny,” she said.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“Dead,” Tess said, and she turned away from me.

“But the phone call …”

Tess looked ghastly. Her hair, always so carefully sprayed in place, had come loose. In fact, it seemed as if everything about her had come loose. Behind the thick lenses of her glasses, Tess’s blue eyes always seemed perceptive, but this night she wasn’t wearing her glasses, and her eyes looked unfocussed. Even her body looked slack and shapeless.

“What happened to Jenny?” I said.

“She changed her mind,” Tess said.

On the television, a child began to sing “The Little Drummer Boy.” I glanced towards the set, hoping to see the familiar images of the Nationtv Christmas party, but the picture on the screen of the old black and white
TV
was so fuzzy, all I could make out was the shape of the singing child. It was a slender reed to cling to.

Tess went over and turned the sound down, then she started back towards the couch. She moved slowly. There was an open fireplace, with a roaring fire, and the room was stiflingly hot, but she pulled an afghan around herself.

“Tess, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on here.”

She lowered herself onto the couch. Beside it, there was a metal
TV
table. On it were the leftovers from a frozen dinner, an overflowing ashtray, and two packs of du Mauriers. Tess reached for a cigarette and lit it. I took the ashtray to the fireplace and dumped it, and came back to her.