Текст книги "Murder on the Run"

Автор книги: Medora Sale

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter 2

April Fools’ Day and Jane Conway sat hunched over her desk and stared without seeing at the pile of Grade Nine lab reports in front of her. If only she could force herself to mark them, to get them done and out of the way. The childishly messy script and awkward diagrams of the one lying on the top of the pile depressed her. Perhaps if she put that one at the bottom and started with a slightly better-looking one? This was a stupid game to try to play with herself. She ran her fingers through her light brown hair with irritation to lift it off her face. God, how she hated Sundays! Dreary, drab, dull—the April sun poured in through her dirty windows and made her apartment look tawdry and poor. And she was tired, tired beyond belief, and felt wretched. The scene in Miss Johnson’s office kept crowding into her mind, the scene when her last thin thread of security and respectability had been neatly sliced.

It had been classic. Friday afternoon, that’s when they always give you the bad news, so you can spend the weekend digging your fingernails into your palms in rage and despair on your own time, instead of theirs. It wasn’t really that she liked teaching. She had hated that first year, and realized that most of the students disliked her, except for a few drooping masochists who licked her boots and fawned pathetically for the occasional smile or pat of approval. It was Doug, in his smugly practical way, who told her that if she hated it, she should quit at Christmas; but of course she hadn’t. She had waited until her one-year contract hadn’t been renewed, so that she could suffer through the maximum amount of humiliation over it all. Graduate school had seemed such a haven at that point. In her naiveté she had thought that no one could fire you from graduate school. They just don’t call it that. Now what was she going to do? For years she had known that she would need a safe, conservative job to balance her private self, or. . . . Already she could feel herself being sucked into the dark chaos she sensed was all around her. Dammit! They had almost promised her when she had taken this crummy fill-in appointment—five months, and having to work with someone else’s notes and ideas, with every student comparing you unfavourably with the person you were replacing—had promised that when the science department expanded next year, there would be a job for her. Now what was she going to do? But her mind refused to consider the future. When she tried to think about it, her mind shied away, dodged, turned to other things, refused to compute beyond tomorrow’s teaching load.

The ringing of the phone snapped her out of her mood and set her heart racing. It had to be Paul. This call should have come days ago, but never mind. This would make up for it at long last. Her voice was crisp and cool, expertly concealing the chaos that ruled her soul. The coolness degenerated into malice as soon as she realized who was on the line. “Oh, Mike. Yes, what did you want?” A pause. “That sounds dreary even as an alternative to marking lab reports. And that’s what I’m doing.” She held the phone away from her ear a moment. “I’m afraid it’s not something you can do in company, and I really do have to get them done.” Another pause. “No, I have no intention of making next week difficult because I didn’t get things done today. You’ll have to console yourself some other way. Try reading a book, or something. You might find it a fascinating experience.” At that she delicately dropped the receiver back on its cradle.

This was useless. What time was it? Maybe she should go up to the gym and work out for a while. The calming concentration, the quiet narcissism of all those jocks, polite and pleasant, but never paying any real attention to the people around them—that was what she needed. To be accepted and ignored at the same time. A run would be too isolated; the emptiness of her apartment was already beginning to spook her. But she needed to work off some of her restlessness. She jumped up quickly and reached over into the corner for her gym bag. The sudden movement made her lurch for a second or two in dizziness, but she took a determined breath, set her jaw, grabbed her jacket, and headed for the door.

As Jane Conway’s slightly battered old orange VW Beetle moved down the drive from the parking lot behind her apartment building, a nondescript figure in a discreetly commonplace gray Honda that was parked across the street started his engine and pulled out slowly behind her. A group of three girls chattered earnestly on the steps of a house up the street, and as the VW passed them they stared for a moment and broke into fits of giggling. Unaware of car or girls, Jane drove steadily until she came to a stop sign. She pulled over, stopped, and opened her car window. The gray Honda stopped behind her; its driver glanced about him, got out, and walked up to her open window, smiling broadly. She gave him a blankly frozen stare, bent her head to listen to what he had to say, put the car in gear, and carried on.

Sunday should be a good day here, she thought, as she hurried down the steps into the health club. People were usually doing other things on Sunday afternoon: cooking enormous dinners, or dallying with their lovers, or hiking in the countryside. Maybe she would have the women’s locker room to herself, at least.

Damn. There was a tall redhead, looking slightly confused, standing in the middle of the room holding a gym bag. Jane glanced briefly at her, opened a locker, and started to strip off her sweater and jeans. “Excuse me,” said the redhead. “Are these lockers assigned? This is my first time here and I don’t quite—”

“No,” Jane snapped, jerking her workout clothes out of her bag in a gesture which she hoped would discourage further chat. She turned her back and started to dress, suddenly shy of displaying her body in front of a stranger. You’d think I was a self-conscious fourteen-year-old, she thought as she pulled up the pants and dropped the top over her head. Then anger edged out her despair. Why in hell can’t I be left in peace! It gave her the impetus to stride out toward the weight apparatus as though all were normal, fixed, healthy, and even in her life. Outside the facility, time dozed on the quiet Sunday streets.

He sat sprawled in his armchair, in a suburban development far from the centre of town, his long legs spread out in front of him, his handsome face slightly flushed. He was staring at his wife, whose plaintive voice was mixing oddly with the sound that blared from the television set. “Turn the fucking thing off if you’re going to say something, then.” She pushed herself up from the couch and moved slowly over to the set. She turned down the sound, hesitated for a moment, and then clicked the TV off. He continued to stare at her.

“Anyway, that’s what the doctor said. He’s worried about the cramping and spotting and wants me to go to a specialist—a Dr. Rasmussen. He says he’s very good. And probably I’ll have to quit work since I have to stand up all day, and that may be what’s causing it. The store doesn’t have any jobs where you can sit down all day. You know that.” He made no response. She took a deep breath and plunged on. “This specialist charges $250 over OHIP, but Dr. Smith says he can’t handle complications like this as well as the specialist would.” She took another deep breath and looked carefully at him, trying to judge his reaction.

Her words flowed around him, meaningless and ugly, bouncing off the wall and booming erratically into his ears—“quit work . . . $250 . . . specialist . . . complications.” As he looked at her, her body seemed to balloon grotesquely in front of him. The small protuberance of her belly grew larger and larger, threatening to engulf her completely. Shaken, he looked at her face. It floated loosely, puffing out, twisting, turning into shapes of exquisite ugliness, throbbing in accompaniment to the urgency of her words.

“You’re not even listening to me. This is important. I know we can’t afford it, but he says I’ll lose the baby. And I know it doesn’t matter to you, but I won’t let that happen. Will you listen to me!” Her voice rose to something between a wail and a shriek.

He clutched his hands cautiously together. The rage flowing through them made them burn and jump and he held them carefully on his lap so that their spasms would not be visible. Very calmly he said, “Of course I was, Ginny. And we’ll just have to do what the old guy says. I mean, we don’t have much choice, do we?”

“Oh, honey. I knew you’d be reasonable about it. I was just afraid that you’d be awfully worried about the money.” Relief flooded through her, and she made a move across the room as if to kiss him. He got up hastily and headed for the stairs—down three steps, past the kitchen placed cutely at the front of the house, turn, down six steps to the family room, turn, and down five more to the garage dug safely in under the townhouse complex. Smells of dinner cooking drifted up and down the stairways as he passed along them. Almost every room in every unit was on a different level, yet only in the bathroom and the garage did he feel safe and private. He switched on the light and headed for the sole object in his world that was his alone. He unlocked the door and climbed in on the driver’s side. He took large gulps of air to settle himself and reached for an enormous folded map lying casually on the passenger seat. The lights on the walls lit up the brightly coloured array of streets, parkways, parks, and wildlands that make up greater Metropolitan Toronto.

Circled in black was the enormous townhouse development on the northwest edge of the suburbs where he lived with his Ginny. There was an X in the center—“my house.” Scattered about the large green areas on the map were big red circles: one in the top right-hand corner, at Serena Gundy Park; one lower, toward the left, at High Park; one in the center of the map, not very high up, along a strip of green that used to be a railway line, called the Belt Line; and one to the southeast of that, around the Rosedale Ravine. Somewhere inside each circle was a clear, thick purple X. He looked doubtfully at the last one. Perhaps he hadn’t earned it. It had been entered a little prematurely. He reached into the glove compartment and drew out a plastic pouch filled with felt-tip pens in a rainbow of colours; he picked out a red one and let it hover over the map, drawing invisible circles around now this green space, now that one. He seemed to settle on an area, traded the red pen for a yellow one, and made a small mark with it beside another patch of green on the map. That done, he looked critically at his addition, put away the pens, folded up the map, and sat and stared unseeing through the windshield at the raw two-by-fours and industrial-grade plywood that made up the walls of his haven.

Eleanor Scott sat in the pleasantly comfortable sitting room on the second floor of the principal’s house, a glass of Scotch and water in her hand, looking quizzically at her friend Rosalind. It was late Friday afternoon, the nadir of Rosalind’s life. Her usually bright-eyed, somewhat malicious expression was beginning to look dangerous. Heaven help anyone, thought Eleanor, parent or student, who impinged on her existence right now. Even her exquisitely tailored silk blouse and pale linen suit were looking the worse for wear. It was odd that Roz had gone to the trouble to coax her over here on such a bad day.

“You’re looking a bit frazzled, Roz,” she commented cautiously. “You should come over to my place and get away from all this. It’s nice and quiet—Heather’s off with her daddy. And then when the roof caves in over the gym or the cops raid the residence, nobody would be able to find you.”

“Thanks for the thought, El,” she said wearily, “but I couldn’t move an inch to save my soul. And besides, it’s not that bad. I had a new phone installed up here with a bell that shuts off.” She put her elegant, well-tanned legs up on a small needlepoint-covered stool and dropped her head back on the chair in an attitude of total collapse. “But you’re basically right. If anything more happens, I think I’ll quit, or have a nervous breakdown. That would brighten up their lives, wouldn’t it?”

Eleanor tried to laugh at the strained effort at wit. “I don’t see what could possibly be that bad right now, though. I would have thought that everyone would be calm and happy after two weeks of sun and sand.” Roz raised her head and then an eyebrow in her friend’s direction. “And you should be looking more rested than you do, considering. I thought you were spending the break in Tortola. With Maurice.”

“I did,” she said, with a yawn. “Or at least eight days of it. But he had to get back early, and so I stupidly came back with him.” Maurice was the one aspect of Rosalind Johnson’s life that she managed to keep away from the constant surveillance conducted by six hundred intensely curious students. “Anyway, the break didn’t help. Things are worse now than they were when I left. I’m not sure that I can stand it anymore.” She finished her drink and wandered over to the sideboard to get another, leaving her shoes halfway across the intervening area. “First of all, one of the girls is going to get murdered. I know it, and I can’t convince them that it’s a serious threat. They just give me that ‘Oh God, here she goes again’ look and switch off. And if one more teacher leaves in mid-year to have a baby I think I’ll scream.”

“Who is it this time?”

“Physics. You’d think there’d be a million of them out there looking for jobs, wouldn’t you? Well, there aren’t. There may not be many teaching jobs open, but there sure as hell aren’t any physicists hanging around looking for half a year’s work. The one I finally managed to get is an absolute disaster. She’s a sadist, and she’s always late. You don’t know anyone who can teach physics, do you? And is in need of a job? I’d do it myself—it can’t be that hard—but no one is stupid enough to take on this job from now until the end of June.” Roz laughed ruefully over her glass, “And if something doesn’t happen pretty soon to smooth everything over, I’ll have to find another science head. Cassandra is going crazy.” She sighed. “Oh, well. I could be worse off, I suppose. At least I don’t have a rash of resignations to cope with—yet.” At that she spilled some Scotch on her pale pink silk blouse. “Damn,” she said, dabbing ineffectually at it. “Look at me. Anyway, you’re wondering why I called you over. I think it was partly because I felt like talking to someone who has nothing to do with educating the young, and partly to discuss business. Do you remember old Cufflinks?”

“Good Lord! Miss Links. You’re not going to tell me that she’s still alive! She must have been ninety when she was teaching me geometry.”

“Not quite. But she was over seventy when she retired fifteen years ago. Well, she died last year and left us her house.”

“My God! Why?” Eleanor tried to imagine a circumstance in which she would consider leaving anything valuable to her present employers, Webb and McLeod, Real Estate, pleasant though they were. She couldn’t.

“She didn’t have much family, apparently, or at least, family that counted. I think there was an unpleasant nephew, or something like that, and she preferred to see us get the property. After all, she taught here for forty years. Anyway, the board has decided that we don’t really have much use for a house in North Toronto, and that, rather than rent it out any longer, we should put it on the market. Would you like to handle it for us? I told them you’d be able to look after it all without having to have your hand held constantly. That’s what’s killing us about the rental agents. They drive the business manager crazy with phone calls.”

“Aren’t you a sweetheart! I could use some extra business right now. How about pouring me another drink, too, and telling me something about this house. Like the inflated price the board thinks it’s going to get for it.”

Roz shook her head as she headed for the Scotch. “You can worry about the house later. Divert me with some interesting gossip now that I’ve spilled all the secrets and scandals of my existence to you. What’s new in your life?” She handed Eleanor a replenished glass.

“In that sense, nothing.” Eleanor shrugged with an exaggerated grimace. “Absolutely nothing new or interesting at all. In fact, I’ve been forced to take up health and fitness in my spare time these days.”

“My God, whatever for? That’s something I preach at the girls, but I certainly wouldn’t want my friends to go in for it. What are you doing? Let me warn you, if it’s all that jazz dancing and stuff, I have a staff member who tried it and she’s limping around in a brace.”

“Uh-uh.” Eleanor shook her head in vigorous denial. “I’m running two slow miles every day, and I’ve joined a health club. I’m working out on weight machines.” She flexed a bicep in Roz’s direction.

“Good Lord, Eleanor. What an idiot! I’d never have believed it of you,” she said, lifting one neatly shaped eyebrow.

“Come on, Roz. I had to do something. I couldn’t climb up to my apartment without panting. I was going to have to stop selling anything but bungalows in case I couldn’t make it up the stairs.”

“But weight-lifting! It sounds absolutely ghastly.”

“It’s really not as awful as it sounds. Lots of cute young male creatures there—you know, the very nice but serious types. The other women are pretty snarky, though. I said something quite innocuous to someone in the locker room the first day I was there and she bit my head off.”

“Probably thought you were making a pass at her.”

“Good God! I suppose you’re right. Well, I’ll just have to be very circumspect while changing, I guess. You should try it, though. Then when some kid gets lippy, you can pick her up and throw her out the window. I’m sure Maurice would love you with sleek, rippling muscles.”

“What a disgusting thought,” said Roz, stretching out one perfectly formed leg in front of her, and eying it critically. “And just where are you doing all this running? Not out there on the streets, I hope. At least, not all by yourself. I’d hate to have to find another real estate agent because your mangled corpse was found in a park somewhere. Seriously, you know, it isn’t safe.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Eleanor, with an involuntary shudder. “First of all, I don’t run down in the ravine and places like that. I stick to the sidewalks out here. And I’m much too tall to tempt him—everybody knows he likes his women short.”

“Well, maybe so,” said Roz, shaking her head dubiously, “but that kid up at AGS was a pretty athletic type, agile, strong, and fast on her feet—a demon field-hockey player and it didn’t do her any good. Of course, at that age, they really think they’re immortal and they’re not very cautious. But I do wish you’d be careful—otherwise I’m going to have to come out and keep you company, God forbid.”

“You’re overreacting, Roz,” said Eleanor, reaching for her coat as she stood up. “Can you imagine anyone tackling me?” She murmured something about next week for the house as she gathered up her belongings and got out the door. She walked toward the parking lot in a less frolicsome mood, however, than she had assumed for her friend’s benefit a few minutes before. In the fading twilight houses, trees, and bushes melded into a single threatening mass, out of which suddenly emerged a tall, broad-shouldered man. Eleanor found herself stiffening, and moved rapidly toward her car, her heart pounding. When he passed her, she realized that he was just a boy, doubtless come to whirl one of the girls away for a dizzy Friday evening. “El, you idiot,” she muttered, as she tried to put the key into the lock with trembling fingers.

Chapter 3

He drove slowly through the narrow streets that made up the center section of the subdivision, accelerating steadily and smoothly to compensate for curves, slowing down and braking without any sudden movement or jerkiness. That was how cops drove, he thought with satisfaction, and professional chauffeurs in their long black limousines. No one noticed you if you drove like that, as long as you didn’t go too slow. Those were the ones they looked at—the slow ones. And the fast ones. Never the ones whose vehicles moved with fluidity and grace. “Fluidity and grace”—he had had a teacher who used to say that all the time. Funny expression, but he liked the feel of it on his tongue. He realized with a start that he had been waiting for too long at the stop sign. That was very bad. Someone might notice him if he waited too long at a stop sign. Nervously he shifted his foot from brake to accelerator with a jerk and swore as the engine roared in response.

He accelerated onto Highway 401 but stayed in the collector lanes. Only two exits and he would be leaving again. Then the wheel lurched involuntarily in his hand as he caught sight of the bright yellow of a police cruiser in his side window. Damn! But they were after other suckers today, not him. Not him—they would have no reason to be after him. They passed, and he flicked on his right-turn indicator. Yonge Street was relatively uncluttered at ten o’clock on Monday morning, and he got to Lawrence Avenue faster than he had anticipated. His mouth was dry with fear; his hands slimy on the steering wheel. He slowed down as he came closer to the intersection, hoping that an amber light would force him to stop. Damn these timed lights. They dragged you downtown before you wanted to get there. Then it changed and he stamped hard on the brake. A mistake. He looked at his watch; it was only 10:20. He had planned to get there at 10:30. That was the time he had written down in his operations book in the glove compartment. Should he drive around for a while? There were too many dead ends and one-way streets around here to do that. He might get lost and then he would be late—and that could be dangerous. The roaring in his head distracted him. It took a honk from the cab behind to make him realize that the light had changed again. Shit! Another mistake. He pretended he was looking for an address on a piece of paper so that his hesitation would be perfectly understandable to anyone looking at him. No one was.

He made a fluid and graceful left turn into the tiny street by the park and followed its twisting route into a quietly solid and expensive neighbourhood. The park was on his right. According to the map, it should disappear soon behind a line of houses and then reappear for a long stretch. A tallish woman in flat shoes and a pale spring coat walked confidently toward Yonge Street. With a single, competent flick of the eye he took in her height, her speed, and the number of houses around him. That would be poor strategy. His self-confidence returned. He congratulated himself on the dispassionate and cool manner in which he had been able to classify her as impossible. “Dispassionate.” That was a wonderful word, too. He continued on, slowly, but not too slowly. “Dispassionately the enforcer surveyed the scene and coolly chose the most strategic opponent.” Some day he would write a book.

Suddenly he realized that he had passed the built-up area and that there was nothing to his right but parkland shading off into ravine. His throat constricted in panic again, and the roaring started once more in his ears. Up ahead he saw a girl—a short girl with darkish hair, walking slowly along a path in the park—all alone. She was so obvious. Maybe she was a trap. If he were a cop, that would be what he’d do. But there wasn’t any place for one to hide. So she was alone, Christ, were these bitches stupid. He brought the vehicle to a standstill very gently. With practised ease he slid rapidly over to the passenger side and glided out, leaving the door open; holding his map in his hand, visible to all, he composed his face into a puzzled frown.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, in his pleasantest tone, with a grin that his social worker used to describe as “engaging”—he liked that term, and used to practice looking engaging in front of his bathroom mirror—“but could you—” A sharp growl cut him off. He jumped back. A monstrous Doberman plunged out of the undergrowth on the edge of the ravine. Its face was contorted in rage, showing its long yellowish teeth. Christ! He hated dogs. Vicious, filthy creatures. They made him shiver in disgust and fear.

The girl laughed. “Sorry, but Caesar gets a bit over-eager about protecting me. If you don’t come any closer, he won’t do anything. You were saying?”

His mind cleared for a second. “Oh, I wondered if you knew where”—he grasped for a name—“Hawthorne Crescent is? I seem to be a bit lost.”

“Sorry,” she smiled. “I don’t know the neighbourhood that well. I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s okay,” he mumbled backing toward safety. “I’ll just check my map again.” He jumped back onto the passenger seat and slammed the door, almost faint with terror. As the girl and the dog moved down the street, though, anger began to flood in to replace the fear. The next time he’d look and listen more carefully. But he had failed here. A second failure, now. That last time he had panicked like some stupid kid and run—all because of a bloody old lady and another dog. Perhaps he should move back out to more remote areas again, until he had polished his technique sufficiently to be good enough for inside the city. The city took nerve, determination, and skill.

John Sanders was sitting in the back booth of a small rather grubby restaurant with a cup of cold coffee in front of him. As he glanced irritably at his watch a small dark woman slipped into the seat across from him. She smiled, then turned and gestured at Jerry, the morose proprietor. “What’s fattening, Jer?” she called. “Bring me a Danish if you have one.”

“No more Danish, Dr. Braston. I got a honey bun if you want. No one else likes them.”

“Great. Can you heat it up and put some butter on it?”

Sanders looked incredulously across the table. “Haven’t you ever heard of cholesterol, Melissa?”

“Look, the people I’ve been cutting up recently could have lived on goose fat and brandy and it wouldn’t have made any difference. They all seem to have been scraped up off the highway or bashed in the head by psychos. Besides, I didn’t have any breakfast this morning. They called me in early. Don’t nag, John. You remind me of my husband. Never marry a heart man; they spend all day nagging people and find it hard to turn it off when they get home.” She took the hot, extremely buttery bun from Jerry and began to attack it with vigour.

“What did you want to see me about, anyway? I can guess that this isn’t a pass, is it? No one seems to be turned on by the smell of formaldehyde these days—except my husband. I think he gets a secret thrill, imagining me down in the morgue. You know, a closet necrophiliac.”

Sanders grinned. “Well, I got your reports—”

“I should hope so,” she snapped. “Those damned things were done weeks ago. If you’re trying to tell me you just read them, after I busted a gut to finish them, that’s the last time I ever do a rush job for you, baby.”

“No, no,” he said hastily. “I read each one as soon as it came in. But they didn’t help much, that’s all.”

“What do you want from pathology? A description of the murderer imprinted on the retina or something? I gave you what was there—that’s all there is.” She finished her sticky bun and was trying to clean the sugar and grease from her strong, short-nailed hands.

“I’m not expecting miracles, but you’ve worked on all three of these, haven’t you?”

Melissa nodded, her eyes bright with curiosity and interest.

Sanders looked intently at her. “Well, isn’t there anything you get from the marks or patterns that would tell us something about him? I thought maybe you might have noticed something that didn’t seem to be the kind of thing you’d put in a report.”

Melissa shook her head. “There aren’t things like that in this sort of case. I mean, if I notice something, I put it in. There might be more information in those cadavers, tests we didn’t run because they didn’t seem pertinent—”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t really look hard for slow arsenic poisoning or black widow spider bites when the cause of death is so clear.”

“No, that wasn’t what I was thinking about. I mean, what do we know about him from the way he bashed them around, and from those knife marks—I don’t know. I suppose if I can’t see a pattern that tells us anything useful, there’s no reason why you should be expected to.” He pushed aside his coffee cup and rubbed his hand over his forehead.

“Come on, John,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t look so depressed. I can tell you a few things, but they didn’t come from cutting those girls up. I can tell you I wouldn’t go for a long lonely walk on a weekday between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m., especially in the vicinity of a large park.”

“All that tells me is that you’re not as stupid as some women, obviously. But I knew that already.”

Melissa ignored this. “He goes for girls who are rather short and have medium brown hair and are bouncy. All the cadavers were in excellent physical condition—except that they were dead, of course. It was hard to tell whether they were pretty or not. And he obviously doesn’t have a job, or at least, a day job, but probably has a late model car in good condition. So I would be looking for a fairly good-looking guy with light to dark brown hair who got fired around Christmas and is driving an ’83 or ’84 medium-sized car in a rather nondescript colour—light blue, gray, tan, something like that.”

John looked at her with interest. He had come to some of the same conclusions as Melissa had, but wondered whether she had based hers on something other than instinct. “Why?”

“The murders started in January, so before that he worked during the day or didn’t feel like killing women—the first seems likelier. And what kind of a man does a girl instinctively trust? One who’s good looking but not too good looking, with honest brown hair. If he looked like a rapist—whatever that means—wouldn’t you have had a lot of girls reporting attempts? I mean, he would have approached some females who ran or screamed or something. Unless you have had a lot of these?”