Cold Mourning. Brenda Chapman

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СКАЧАТЬ be long asleep.” Laurel leaned forward and for a second he thought she might kiss him on the mouth. He felt her lips brush his cheek and the disappointment was more than it should have been. “Don’t wait up.”

      “I never do,” he mouthed at her retreating back. The musky smell of her stayed on his skin, like a memory that would not leave him alone.

      This time, it was an older bald man who delivered Tom’s silver Mercedes to the front of the hotel. Tom tipped him generously before slipping behind the wheel and pulling away, careful not to spin the tires on the patches of black ice. The doorman was spreading salt from a bag onto the driveway when Tom glanced into the rearview mirror. The temperature had risen since they’d driven to the hotel some four hours earlier, but it was still a cold night. He was glad for the blasts of dry heat coming out of the vents on either side of the dashboard.

      He drove toward the Rideau Centre and made a right onto the Canal driveway, following its curved length to the Pretoria Bridge. He stayed to the same side of the canal and continued south through the Central Experimental Farm. The blackness of the sky sequined in stars and the reassuring hum of the car’s powerful engine gave him the feeling of driving in the country, even though the farm was surrounded by subdivisions and commercial buildings. Turning onto Prince of Wales, he passed a string of bungalows with Christmas trees lit up inside their living rooms. He continued on to what used to be the country but was now a series of new subdivisions that had sprung up along the Rideau River. Winding Way, where his six bedroom grey stone with the three-car garage nestled, was another ten minutes away. The thought of going home to his mausoleum of a house was suddenly depressing.

      Tom stopped at a light and watched a woman and a boy around ten years walking along the other side of the road. It was late for the kid to be up. At that age, he’d have been long asleep no matter holiday or school night. The kid hung back, dragging his feet.

      For a moment, Tom flashed to the boy he’d been and the parents who’d tried to cocoon him from the world’s worst. They’d been lower middle class with strong Catholic values in a more innocent time. They’d be appalled at today’s youth if they were still alive. The world had changed drastically even between the short years raising Geraldine and Hunter and now Charlotte. He shuddered to think what lay ahead for his youngest daughter. Sometimes it felt like too much to deal with. He saw himself now, a man approaching sixty with more money than he would ever spend and no ability to keep the women in his life happy. He was running on empty, drained of conviction, an utter failure in anything that mattered. The innocent, hopeful boy he’d once been was long gone.

      But maybe, just maybe, there was still hope.

      The light turned green. Tom released his grip on the steering wheel and pressed his foot on the gas pedal. The car powered forward while he rummaged inside his coat until he grasped his cellphone in his suit jacket pocket. He held it for a moment, debating with his inner voice that told him to just go home. Loneliness won out in the end. He kept one hand on the wheel as he looked down and punched in the familiar number. Two rings and her voice like warm honey in his ear.

      “Tom? Is that you?” He could tell he’d woken her. He smiled to think of her tousled hair and bleary eyes.

      “Yeah. Would now be a bad time…?” He hesitated, not sure he could get the words out. Her breath exhaled stronger in his ear but she didn’t speak. He knew she was weighing what his call could mean and whether she should let him in. “I shouldn’t have called,” he said, now sorry that he had. He shouldn’t have put her in this position. They’d agreed last time that it should be just that until they’d both made some changes.

      “I’ll leave the back door unlocked,” she said at last. Her voice was stronger as if she’d shaken away the sleep.

      “I have a bottle of Grand Marnier with me,” he said. “I’ll pick up a few glasses from the hutch on my way to your bedroom.”

      “I’ll be waiting.”

      She hung up before he did, but the night seemed less empty than it had a moment before.

      It was three a.m. when Tom pulled into his own driveway on Winding Way. The outside lights were on but the interior was in darkness except for a light in Winnie’s room on the far side of the house. She’d probably put Charlotte to bed and then fallen asleep reading. He turned off the engine and sat with his arms resting on the steering wheel, looking at his fortress until the car cooled and the chill began seeping into his bones. Only then did he stir himself to step outside the car into the winter night. Snow had begun to fall and it wet his face when he lifted his eyes to the sky. A bank of clouds had blown in to hide the stars.

      The ticking grandfather clock marked time as he padded upstairs in his socked feet. He’d left the lights off and the branches of the oak tree made dark patterns on the wall through the windows that lined the staircase. Laurel’s bedroom door was closed. He hesitated for a moment standing next to it, listening to hear her inside. At last he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Her bed was empty, the covers folded neatly over the pillows.

      He quietly closed the door and continued on to Charlotte’s bedroom. Her door was partially closed. He pushed it fully open and stepped inside. The one bright spot in his marriage was sleeping on her back, one arm wrapped around her favourite teddy and the other flopped over the side of the bed. He moved closer and gently lifted her arm to place it under the covers. She stirred and mumbled something but didn’t wake up. He straightened and looked down on her. Charlotte had inherited Laurel’s thick mane of hair. If her eyes had been open, he’d be staring into the same violet ones that had made him throw away his twenty-year marriage to Pauline. He reached out a hand to push the lock of hair that had fallen across Charlotte’s face but pulled back his hand before he touched her silken hair. Leave her, he thought. Don’t chance disturbing her sleep.

      He raised his hand to his lips and blew a kiss toward his sleeping daughter before backing as quietly as he could from her room. It was time to find his bed. Maybe tonight he’d had enough to drink so that his sleep would be long and dreamless. It would be the first time in a long time and his body could use the rest. His mind could use the oblivion.

      2

      Wednesday, December 21, 8:50 a.m.

      Kala Stonechild sat in her Ford pickup in the parking lot of the Ottawa Police Station just west of Elgin Street. She’d spent the better part of the night driving and could have done with a shower and a good night’s sleep. Instead, she had ten minutes to make it inside or risk starting off on the wrong foot. It might be better if she restarted the truck and pointed it north. If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have done just that. She grimaced at herself in the rearview mirror and tucked stray strands of black hair behind her ears. She rubbed the grit out of her eyes with the backs of her hands.

      Ready or not.

      Stepping out of the truck was a pleasure after fourteen hours of driving. Her right leg had cramped and she winced as pain shot up from her calf. She took an extra turn around the lot to get the circulation flowing before heading toward Elgin Street and the front door of the station. The building was three storeys and flat grey, taking up a city block. The entrance was glassed in windows with a view of a giant mural painted the width of the far wall. Police officers in the community stared down at her in frozen stances. The uniformed cop on the front desk had probably been watching her on a television screen the whole time, but he barely glanced at her as she stepped up to the desk.

      “I’m here to see Staff Sergeant Jacques Rouleau,” she said, looking around the foyer, taking in the layout. His voice drew her back.

      “And СКАЧАТЬ