Woman Chased by Crows Read online

  And that other stuff, what the hell was that all about? Some dead Russian? Some ballet dancer? Damn! I should have at least talked to the woman. I don’t even know what she looks like. He was probably up there to get her into the sack and settled for the psychiatrist because . . . why? Who cares? Younger, prettier maybe, available, handy. Like Dylan used to say, “Paul would fuck a snake if somebody held its ears.” Maybe he never got around to doing whatever he was in Dockerty to do. What did he do? Checked out the town, paid a courtesy call on the local cops, had lunch with the Chief, let them know he’d be nosing around — why bother doing that if he was just up there to get laid? Couldn’t be. He was in town for something. He checked into a motel. Planned on spending at least part of two days in town. So? So whatever it was, he never got around to doing it. Instead he got lucky with the shrink. Paid for it.

  She climbed behind the wheel and slammed the door, sat staring at nothing, muttering to herself. “Got me talking to myself, you dipshit!” She turned the key in the ignition. Turned it off. “So what’s your unfinished business, Paulie?” She tugged her hair away from her scalp until it hurt, until it cleared her vision.

  Checked in under the name “Smith” for Chrissake. And what’s up with you and the ballet dancer? Shit, you couldn’t tell a ballet dance from a bunny-hop. All the same to you, wasn’t it? People jumping around, right? You wouldn’t look at a dancer unless she was swinging on a pole with her clothes off. So, something about that Russian woman besides dancing. What? Not really your type, if you had a type, but you mostly liked them a bit younger, no? This dancer is, what, sixty? Something like that. Never into old broads, were you? Or even broads your own age. You were more into the cheerleader type, babes with boobs, or, oh who the hell knows, maybe you were branching out, maybe you were running out of cheerleaders, maybe . . . She started the car again, this time put it in gear and started moving, heading for civilization.

  But now she was stuck, now she was thinking like a cop again instead of like someone who’d been dumped without even a goodbye note. You were up there for something besides a quick roll in the hay, weren’t you, Paulie-boy? You were snooping around that ex-Commie ballet teacher. But why? Why not just brace her? Why all the pussy-footing? Why not just pay her a visit, bang through the door? Saw you do that enough times — excuse me, ma’am, I have some questions. What questions? Were you even going to talk to her? Or were you just trying to find out what everyone else knew about her? If she was just a loon, a compulsive confessor, why bother? Why the secrecy?

  What was it? A cold one of yours? Yours and Dylan’s? Cases that don’t get resolved are like bad debts. They keep eating at you, taunting, never figured this one out, did you, loser?

  And some dead Russian in a motel room on the Queensway? What’s all that about?

  I don’t want to know! She gave herself a mental slap. None of my business. All I want now is a long soak in my bathtub, up to my neck in bubbles, with a big glass of red wine, thinking about where I want to go for a little vacation. There’s time coming. Always time off when a cop loses a partner. They’ll probably make me see a counsellor, help me deal with the pain. Pain? Shit! I’d give him some goddamn pain. Somewhere warm and sunny. Maybe a week or two in Florida would help. Maybe.

  And so she paid her obligatory call on the counsellor, told her she was handling it okay, a bit shaken up, still angry but getting over it, handed her notes on the nightclub stabbing case to the other team working the same incident, they weren’t getting anywhere either, packed a bag and flew down to Jamaica, got some sun, drank pina coladas, even tried some local weed, listened to some local music. No one bothered her. Maybe because she was just some pale bony broad from the north, maybe because she glared at anyone who tried to start a conversation.

  Three

  Wednesday, March 16

  Patty Brennan’s newest horse was a three-year-old bay mare with long black stockings and a star between her bright eyes. The name in the quarter horse registry was Red Rollover’s Vixen, but she was called Foxy by the woman who bred her, and Patty thought it suited her. “She’s a smarty-pants,” Patty said.

  Orwell leaned over the top rail and watched his daughter brushing the mare’s mahogany coat. Foxy had her eyes on Orwell. “She’s watching me,” he said.

  “She sees everything. Right, gorgeous?”

  “Pretty colour.”

  “Pretty girl. Bright as a penny.” Patty moved forward to brush along the sweep of the withers and back. “And sharp as a tack.”

  “I talked to Georgie. He says it’ll take a couple of months.”

  “It’s sweet of you and Erika to want this. But you don’t have to go through all this nonsense.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing. When you own property you like to think it’s yours to do with as you will.”

  “Sure you’re not trying to get rid of me?” She laughed.

  “Just the opposite,” he said. He watched her for a moment, enjoying the sight of her. For a brief instant he saw her mother. The same generous mouth, generous bosom, generous hips. A big, good-looking woman with a hint of sadness in the tiny crease between her eyes. “I guess I’m trying to keep us all close.”

  She stopped brushing and turned to face him. “There’s no rush, you know.”

  He suddenly felt awkward. “You like that spot over there by the creek, right?”

  “It’s a perfect spot, Dad.” The mare nudged her. “Okay, okay, get back to work, got it.” She resumed the long strokes. Foxy bobbed her head. “So bossy.”

  “I mean if you and . . .”

  “Gary.”

  “I know his name,” he said. “I’m just confused. Around Christmas you were sort of hinting at a June . . . you know.”

  “Well, we sort of hinted our way into . . . later.”

  “You okay, Pattycakes? You upset, or anything I could do?”

  “Everything’s fine. We just have a few things to work out, you know, one of them being where we’re going to be. In the long run.”

  “And I’ve made things difficult, pushing you to live next door.” He rubbed his face. “I’ll mind my own business. One of these days.”

  She came to the rail to lean close to her father, head to head, almost as tall as him, one hand on top of his. “Don’t go all dramatic, Daddy, I love the idea of living over there, and Gary doesn’t hate it, he’s just, you know, an independent guy, wants to make sure he has some part in things.”

  “Well, whatever you want, sweetie. You know.” He stepped back. Smiled and shook his head in wonder. “Sometimes, in a certain light, you look so much like your mom.”

  “Does it make you happy, or sad?”

  “Both. Mostly happy. And it’s only a flash, just in a certain light, or a certain angle, I don’t know. Most of the time you look just like you, which has to be one of the best looks on the planet as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I like your big face, too, Daddy.” The mare came up behind her and bumped her again. “No, that’s enough for you,” Patty said.

  The crows in Armoury Park were cawing as she walked by, telling the world all about her. The most unmusical birds in the world, she was sure. She hated it, that they were so unmusical. She’d been almost enjoying the morning, but now the rain was starting and the crows were complaining about it. Raspy shrieking, no doubt passing the word along that she was on her way, bringing rain with her. Gossips and liars. And thieves.

  In the animal kingdom, stealing is a way of life — food, mates, territory — the fast animal from the slow, bigger from smaller, aggressive from timid, clever from dull. Animals don’t consider it stealing, Anya knew that, not the way humans do. It’s about staying alive — sustenance, procreation, defence. Animals are aware of risk, but right and wrong don’t apply. Except for crows. Crows, she believed, were different. They were robbers at heart. They stole as humans did, because they wanted
a thing. Why else would they steal shiny things, useless things? And, like humans, they knew they were stealing. Why else would they have warning systems? And lookouts.

  She saw the man standing by the fountain right away. He was staring at a newspaper, but he was not reading it. Big man, bony skull like a concrete block. He was wearing a hat and a long coat and gloves and his newspaper was getting wet, flapping against the wind, creasing the wrong way, but still he pretended to read. Why do you not mob him? He is the interloper. You can see that. He does not belong here, he has never been here before, go and yell at him.

  She wasn’t surprised to see the man. And likely he wasn’t alone. Are you here somewhere? Sergei? I see your boyfriend. Where are you? She could feel it. A presence. Had felt it for days. He was close. The red-haired man found her, and Nemesis followed him.

  Orwell waited, patiently, he thought, at the end of the driveway for Leda to make some last-minute decisions regarding her outfit and to locate whatever it was that she needed so desperately for today’s activities. Why these items couldn’t have been resolved the previous evening was beyond him. His schedule was being severely tested by outside forces — daylight saving time, March Break, first rehearsal of Our Town. Leda wanted to run lines with someone before school. Someone named Peter. Oh dear, he thought. Well, she is seventeen, there was bound to be a Peter. Sooner or later.

  He beeped the horn three times, knowing full well that it wouldn’t speed up the process. On an ordinary morning, he would be using this hour for a solitary cruise along country roads, an indulgence he considered vital to his mental health, a time for checking out fields and trees and taking deep breaths. He was working himself into a mood. He could feel it. He was beset. Bloody idiot. The wedding had been arranged. He was sure of it. And now . . .

  He beeped again, more insistently this time, three long ones. Oh well, they’ll figure it out. None of his business anyway. And hell’s bells, he couldn’t be faulted for the impulse, the fatherly impulse to give his daughter a piece of land to raise horses, maybe raise children, a place on the other side of the hayfield, the hayfield that could be turned into a big pasture with a little work. And Erika was solidly behind the plan. Wasn’t she?

  “If she wants,” his wife had said. She was grating potatoes at the time, cold, previously baked potatoes. Orwell knew there was rösti in the offing.

  “Why wouldn’t she want?”

  “How should I know why wouldn’t she want?”

  “Well, if she doesn’t want, she doesn’t have to accept. I thought it would be nice to offer.”

  “Offer,” said his wife. “Don’t push.”

  And he hadn’t pushed. Sure, he’d looked into the red tape involved, that only made sense. Township telling him he had to have permission to give his daughter . . . and her husband, let’s not forget that part, husband to be, he hadn’t left him out of the equation. Damn! He was starting to feel like King Lear.

  Leda climbed in beside him. “You shouldn’t sit out here idling, you know,” she said disapprovingly. “It’s wasteful and polluting.”

  He put the car in gear, signalled right, even though there was no traffic and nothing behind him but a gate, and got moving. Finally. His sigh was audible. “If certain people were ready when they said they’d be, I wouldn’t be forced into idleness,” he said.

  The dashboard clock read 6:30, but in fact it was 7:30. He just hadn’t got around to resetting it. A small act of defiance. Or, he freely admitted, petulance. The Americans shoving the schedule forward arbitrarily annoyed the heck out of him, not to mention Ottawa’s usual lock-step response to go along with it. You can say it’s 7:30 all you want, but my internal clock knows different.

  Traffic was picking up, but not yet heavy. The sky was uniformly grey and rain was beginning to spatter the windshield.

  “You have to get rid of him, Oldad.”

  “Nonsense. He’ll be twenty-five years old next year and good as new. He’s a classic.”

  “He’s antediluvian.”

  “He is no such thing.” Leda was referring to her father’s venerable and beloved (by him) 1987 Dodge Ramcharger 4x4, always referred to in the masculine. “Bozo is a loyal, hardworking . . .”

  “Gas-guzzling, air-polluting . . .” Leda was an eco-warrior these days. Among other things.

  “He’s in complete compliance.” Orwell could hear the big V8 purring sweetly. It gave him pleasure. Stan, the master mechanic at Gary’s Service Centre, had Bozo tuned to perfection. “We passed our emission test with flying colours.”

  “Cost you nineteen hundred dollars to do it.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I’m not deaf and blind to the world around me, Oldad. I see things, I hear things, such as my mother going through the receipts and yelling, ‘Was it necessary to gold-plate the engine?’ only she says it in German.”

  “The engine is not gold-plated.” He sounded defensive, even to himself. “Certain parts might have a trace of nickel I suppose, certain areas are chrome.” Orwell would have been embarrassed to admit that he’d fallen in love with the Dodge many years back while watching a Chuck Norris movie called Lone Wolf McQuade in which the powerful machine had performed almost as many feats of strength as the star. Despite its quirks and peculiarities, Orwell was devoted to the beast, and over the years had lavished much care and a fair amount of cash on keeping Bozo (Erika’s name for him) in first-class condition. “Certain expenditures are necessary to maintain a classic.”

  “You’re on the wrong side of the enviro-war, Daddy. Admit it. You’re part of the problem.”

  “And you’re being overly harsh. This machine has done yeoman service since I bought him. Plus, he is now officially designated as a police vehicle. Special equipment, lighting package, heavy-duty . . .”

  “Everything about him is heavy-duty.”

  “That’s why I got him. He can carry five humans, two saddles, half a ton of tack, fodder, equipment, luggage, plus haul a two-horse trailer, all in comfort and safety.”

  “No airbags.”

  “No, he doesn’t have airbags, which is why you’re wearing the best four-point seat harness available and sitting in a bucket seat fit for NASCAR. It’s why he has a built-in roll-cage.” Orwell allowed himself a glance at his daughter. She was as safe as he could make her. She was also staring forward with folded arms and furrowed brow. “Look, sweetheart,” he began, gently, “save your money, take your driving test and we’ll see about getting you some kind of hybrid/electric . . . thing.” With a ton of airbags, he added silently.

  “That doesn’t really solve the problem, Oldad. It adds to the problem.”

  “I’m not giving him up.”

  “Couldn’t you at least save him for those rare occasions when you’re actually hauling Patty’s horse trailer and saddles and stuff?”

  “You think those Crown Victorias the department drives are better? Police cars have to be big and strong. You want the DPD all driving little electrics? I don’t think so.”

  “He’s not only bad for the environment, he leaves a gigantic carbon footprint.” She turned to him with her most superior expression, poised to strike a dagger into the heart of the debate. “SUVs are what went wrong with the automotive industry.” She bobbed her head like Foxy. Case closed.

  “Yeah, well sometimes they got it right,” he said.

  Orwell knew his daughter wouldn’t abandon the issue, but he was prepared to beat back her arguments as they arose. He wasn’t going to park Bozo any more than was necessary. He was not oblivious. The general consensus among the committed and socially aware was that machines of this type were on their way out. So be it, Orwell thought. That’s how it should be. The inevitable, but gradual, evolution of machines to be less damaging to the planet. He had no argument with that. He also lived in a rural area where a large portion of the population relied heavily on pi
ckups and other working vehicles. He somehow doubted that Fern Casteel was going to be ditching his Ford F150 for some time. And he’d like to see the Prius that could carry a load of logs and three big men with chainsaws as well as the beat-up, but still hardy, 1968 GMC pickup Rupert Kronick took into the bush five days a week.

  Besides, Orwell also believed in his heart that had his first wife been at the wheel of something bigger and stronger than the little Datsun she’d been driving that rainy night, she might still be alive. Case closed.

  He dropped Leda off outside the Globe Theatre, saw her run for the side entrance as the rain began to fall in earnest. There was a young man with odd-looking hair and a black leather jacket waiting for her. Oh dear. At least he was holding the door for her. Perhaps he wasn’t an axe murderer, a drug dealer or a serial rapist. Maybe he was just an actor.

  Her studio was undisturbed, empty. They will search it soon enough, she thought, they know where it is by now. She locked the door, both locks, checked the fire escape, the window latches, scanned the street below. When she turned from the window she caught sight of herself in the mirrored wall, a doll-sized shadow in a corner, pale face, fists clenched, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all.

  All that running, and look where it got you. Nowhere, absolutely nowhere. You changed your name so many times, it is a wonder you know who you are. Can you remember? Can you remember Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya? Can you remember how she was? How perfect? Immaculate technique, weightless as a moonbeam, tensile, like coiled steel, secure on point like a dagger. The Kirov’s next prima ballerina. Remember Anya Zubrovskaya. Do not forget her. There are no pictures of her. Not one photograph of her Giselle. She is erased. Wiped from history. Disappeared. You will not find her name on a list of Vaganova graduates, or the company rolls of the Mariinsky. She has been expunged. Forgotten.