By the Time You Read This (11 page)

17

D
ELORME ORGANIZED HER LIST
of names geographically, and that put Frank Rowley at the top. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting from a man with his own plane—an oversized brick mansion high on Beaufort Hill, maybe. Or one of those old Victorian places down on Main West. But Frank Rowley, it turned out, lived in a plain little house of white brick just a couple of blocks from the bypass. Delorme pulled into the drive and parked behind a tan Ford Escort, a modest, unassuming vehicle that did not fit with her idea of a man who flew.

A small maple in the front yard had dropped all its leaves in a colourful circle, but a trim row of holly bushes against the front of the house was deep green. Even before she got out of her unmarked, she could hear the screech and wail of an electric guitar. It sounded as if some tormented ghost had broken loose in the neighbourhood.

The guitar screamed, halted, then started up again. A Beatles riff this time, but Delorme couldn’t have named the song.

In answer to her knock, a completely bald man of about forty opened the front door, still wearing his guitar. Men and their toys, Delorme thought.

“Mr. Rowley?”

“That’s me. Can I help you?”

She held up her ID. “Can I take up a few minutes of your time?”

The interior of the house smelled richly of something baking, and Delorme noted with approval a white scuff of flour on Rowley’s bald head.

She followed him into the living room, where dolls and stuffed animals were strewn across a colourful rug like victims of some benign catastrophe. There was a child’s scooter, and large gaudy books splayed open on the couch and chairs. Delorme tripped slightly on the edge of the rug.

“Sorry,” Rowley said. “It’s got a bad repair—only reason I could afford it.”

“You have kids, I see,” Delorme said. “How old are they?”

“We have one daughter—Tara. She’s seven. She’ll be home from school soon. Please, have a seat.”

Delorme sat in a deep armchair with split-log legs and arms. All of the furniture had a comfortable, country-style, lived-in look, lots of wood everywhere, and cushions and throw rugs, not to mention the larger rug with its deep blue and black chevrons. And the owner of all this, a middle-aged man with a guitar over his shoulder and a head that would not have been out of place on a billiard table. The man in the pictures had almost shoulder-length hair, and in any case Delorme had no reason to suspect Rowley, since his plane merely appeared in the background of one photograph. Also, his daughter was too young. But she sized him up anyway.

“Mr. Rowley, you have a pilot’s licence, is that correct?”

“That’s right. I work for Northwind,” he said, naming an airline that flew small planes out of Algonquin Bay to northern cities such as Timmins and Hearst.

“Business is slow these days?”

“No, I work four days on, four days off, which is why you find me here doing the house-husband thing.”

“And you keep a small plane at Lakeside Marina, right?” Delorme read him the tail number from her notebook.

“Why? Did something happen to it?”

“I just want to make sure I’m talking to the right person.”

“You are. Can I get you a coffee or something? I was just about to make a pot.”

“No, that’s all right. Thank you.”

“And I’ve got some pretty spectacular muffins that should be ready soon. Tara’s crazy about them.”

Rowley switched off a Vox amplifier and leaned his guitar against the wall. It was a big black instrument with lots of knobs and chrome, and Delorme thought it would be more suited to country music than the Beatles, but guitars were not her strong point.

“Are you down at the marina a lot, Mr. Rowley?”

“Depends what you consider a lot. If I go there, it’s just because I want to take Bessie up.”

“Bessie?”

“Bessie the Cessna.” He grinned. “That’s just her name, don’t ask me why. I take her up once or twice a week for maybe an hour or two at a time. Wendy—that’s my wife— wanted me to get rid of it. Too dangerous, she says. But I can’t give it up. I just love to fly, and it’s a lot more fun on your own than it is for work.”

“I can imagine,” Delorme said. Rowley looked like a man who enjoyed his life, baking muffins and playing guitar surrounded by scattered books and toys. “Do you know many of the people at the marina?”

“Well, I know Jeff Quigly, the manager.”

“Anybody else?”

Rowley shrugged. “Not really. I don’t hang out there. I don’t go to the bar afterwards or anything, like a lot of guys do. Place is kind of a clubhouse, when you get down to it. But it’s not a club I’d want to join—you know, guys whose idea of a good time is to get a case of two-four and go out on the lake to get absolutely rip-roaring drunk. Not something I enjoyed in my twenties, and I’m sure as hell not interested in my forties. Besides, I got a wife and kid. I don’t know where these guys find the time.”

“Tell me a little about them. I need to know more about the people who hang out at the marina.”

“Why? What are you investigating?”

“Assault,” Delorme said.

“Oh, wow. Well, when I was talking about beer parties, I certainly didn’t mean to imply that any of these people would be capable of violence.”

“No, of course not. It’s witnesses I’m looking for. Can you tell me anything at all?”

“The only one I know very well is Owen Glenn.”

Delorme wrote the name in her notebook. She had already come across it at the marina, where the records showed he did not rent any of the slots that interested her.

“Owen’s a fellow flier. Owns a little Piper he likes to take up about once a month. I bump into him a lot, especially in summer. But we’re not buddies or anything. He’s much more conservative than I am. The couple of times politics came up, I had to politely excuse myself, you know what I mean? He’s the kind of guy who thinks Mike Harris didn’t go far enough with the budget cuts and who wishes we were in Iraq.”

“So he doesn’t own one of those cabin cruisers you see parked out there all the time?”

“No, he just has a little skiff, same as me.”

“Do you know any of those people?”

“Just to say hi to.”

“Really? But you go right past them to get to your plane, no?”

“The skiffs are around the north side of the marina. Under the deck of the bar? I just row out from there to the plane, so it’s not really conducive to chatting with my neighbours, if you want to call them that.”

“Do you know any of them by name?”

“Sure. There’s Matt Morton. He owns a cruiser. I’ve known Matt since high school, although I wouldn’t exactly call us friends. He was kind of a sports guy, and I was more of a—nerd, I guess you could say.”

“An artistic type,” Delorme suggested.

“An artistic type!” Rowley grinned. “Exactly. That’s me. Now all I have to find is an art I can master.”

“You were doing a pretty good Beatles impression, from what I heard. You play professionally?”

“Just a hobby. I play in a Beatles tribute band. Sergeant Tripper? We play weddings and bar mitzvahs mostly.”

“Which slot is Mr. Morton in at the marina?” Delorme knew the answer, but detectives learn early always to confirm a fact when the opportunity presents itself.

“Matt’s moored at the end of number three, on the north side.”

“Which is where, in relation to you?”

“About as close as you can be. I mean, sometimes I can see right down into his cabin. Not that I want to, particularly.”

“Why? Have you ever seen anything disturbing?”

“In Matt’s boat? No, nothing at all.”

“How would you describe Mr. Morton?”

“Matt? I don’t know. Medium-sized kind of guy. Used to play football in high school. Brown hair going grey—like all of us. Not that I’ve got much to worry about.” He grinned and rubbed a hand over his pate, missing the flour.

“Any kids?”

“A boy and a girl, I think. I don’t remember their names.”

“What about the slot opposite to Mr. Morton?”

“The south side? I don’t know them. Huge boat, though.”

According to Jeff Quigly and the marina’s records, the slot was rented by one André Ferrier. The rent was always paid on time, but the marina hardly ever saw him.

Delorme took down the information, then snapped her notebook shut. “Like I said, Mr. Rowley, at this point I’m just looking for witnesses. You’ve been very helpful.”

She gave him her card. On her way to the front door she tried to catch glimpses of other rooms, but there were no walls, no objects, no furnishings—nothing obvious, anyway—that matched the settings in the photographs.

“If I think of anything else, I’ll give you a call,” Rowley said. “But I’ve sure as hell never met anybody out there who seemed capable of assault.”

“You might be surprised,” Delorme said. “I’m constantly amazed by who turns out to be capable of what.”

18

F
REDERICK
B
ELL FINISHED HIS
strawberry shortcake and scraped up the last dabs of whipped cream with his fork.

“Are you sure this is low-fat?” he asked his wife, Dorothy, who was organizing things in the fridge.

“I got it out of
Heart Healthy,”
she said, her voice muffled a little by the fridge door. “It’s not high-calorie.”

“But that’s if you only eat one serving. What if you find yourself lusting for another?”

“You don’t get another.” Dorothy laid claim to a large store of common sense. It had served her well in her years as a nurse, and it served her equally well as a psychiatrist’s wife. “If you have another piece, you’re just defeating the purpose of reduced calories.”

“I’ve devoted my life to missing the point and defeating the purpose. I don’t see why I should stop now.” Bell swallowed the last of his tea. It was cold, but he didn’t mind cold tea; tea of any kind was good. Some British habits died hard.

“I found a really charming little cottage near Nottingham,” Dorothy said. “I left the picture for you on your desk. I don’t suppose you looked at it yet.”

“Alas, I have failed you once again.”

“Frederick, what’s so hard about taking a look at a picture?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I just haven’t accepted this idea of retiring back in England.”

“We’ve talked about it. I thought we agreed we’d both be happiest there. It’s a pretty little place, a short walk from the sea. And it’s near the Trent river. You’ve always said you wanted to live near water when you retire.”

“Heroic figures never retire. It’s not in our nature.”

“You’ll have to, one day, and I’m not having you mooching around the house through these endless Canadian winters.”

“England’s too bloody expensive. The pound is sky-high.”

“It’s come down a lot, lately. We can afford this place, and it’s so cute.”

On this one issue, Dorothy’s common sense had deserted her as far as Bell was concerned. Here in Canada they had a huge place, almost a mansion. But back in England even the pokiest little houses cost close to half a million quid. Dorothy seemed to have an exaggerated sense of what a psychiatrist made over here. It wasn’t as if they were living in the States. Oh well, she enjoyed looking at her cottages and gardens, and it didn’t hurt her to dream.

Bell put his dish and cup on the counter and pinched his wife’s behind.

Dorothy turned and gave his wrist a light smack. “Don’t you start with that now. It’s the middle of the day.”

“Nothing could be further from my mind. I’ve got a patient in five minutes. I must prepare my
gravitas.”

“Oh, yes. Mustn’t forget the
gravitas
. Where would we be without that?”

In their early days, back in London, Bell and his wife had been tearing each other’s clothes off constantly. But over the years they had settled into a more routine kind of sex life, and that was fine with Bell. They loved each other and looked after each other, and that was all he needed. Of course, Dorothy wasn’t in his class—not brilliant, not even a doctor—but she was good company. And still good-looking, even in her mid-fifties. She had the kind of thin face that ages well, and the slim figure of a much younger woman.

Bell washed his hands in the downstairs bathroom. He rolled his shoulders, then opened the door that separated the kitchen from the front hall and his office. A young woman with blond hair badly in need of a wash was sitting on the bench in the hall. Other patients might have leafed through a
New Yorker
or fiddled with an iPod, but this woman was just slouched in her coat, arms folded across her chest. This was Melanie, eighteen years old and the picture of misery.

“Hello, Melanie,” Bell said.

“Hello.”

Even in that single word he could detect a slowness, a thickness, that spoke of the enormous effort expended to express two syllables. Immediately, depression was a third entity in the room. Bell pictured it—him, really—as a silent figure, The Entity, caped and masked, invisible to the patient. Bell sometimes felt like the old priest in
The Exorcist
, fated to wrestle repeatedly an immortal nemesis. The Entity.

Melanie followed him into the office and sat on the couch, unbuttoning her coat and letting her shoulder bag slide to the floor. She leaned back and stared at her feet. Dr. Bell sat in one of the small chairs opposite, notebook on knee, not smiling, but face composed into an expression of calm expectation. It was important for the patient, after the usual pleasantries, to be the first one to speak; those first words revealed so much. But sometimes it was hard, as now, to wait for a client to overcome whatever it was they had to overcome before they could begin. The minutes ticked by.

Melanie looked a lot older than eighteen. She was small-boned and small-breasted, with something of a drowned-rat look, longish flat nose dividing stringy curtains of hair. The Northern University sweatshirt didn’t do a lot for her, either. When she finally did speak, she kept her eyes focused on her outstretched feet.

“I could barely come here,” she said.

“You found it difficult? Can you tell me why?”

“I don’t know …” A long pause while she remained still, except for one foot ticking from side to side like a metronome. “I’m just so sick of myself. Sick of thinking about myself. Sick of talking about myself. There’s nothing worth saying. So why come here? Why run through it all again and again?”

“You mean you feel that you’re not worth talking about? Or that nothing you say will help you get better?”

She looked at him for the first time, green eyes two pits of despair, then quickly back at her feet.

“Both, I guess.”

Dr. Bell let the silence hold for a few moments, let her feel her own exaggerations, or rather the exaggerations of the hooded figure lurking in the shadows just beyond her vision. The Entity always compelled his victims to speak like this: accuse themselves of worthlessness in order to prevent them from making the slightest effort to save themselves.

“Let me ask you something,” Bell said. “Suppose someone came to you—a friend, even a stranger, doesn’t matter—and said, ‘You shouldn’t even talk to me. I’m so worthless. I’m not worth even thinking about.’ What would you say to her?”

“I’d say she was wrong. That nobody’s worthless.”

“But you won’t accord yourself the same kindness you would someone else.”

“I don’t know … All I know is, I’m in this pain all the time. I’m sick of talking about it. Talking doesn’t help. Nothing helps. I just want it to be over. I even—”

“Even what?”

Melanie started to cry. After a moment Bell picked up the Kleenex box from the end table and handed it to her. She yanked out a couple but didn’t use them right away. She cried hard, hiding her face behind her hand.

“Why are you hiding?” he asked, and that only made her cry more. You could see the release in her shoulders, hear it in the jagged, breathy wails.

“God,” she said when the tears had left her.

“You needed that.”

“I guess so. Phew.” She sounded spent.

“You said, ‘I just want it to be over. I even …’”

“Yeah.” Melanie blew her nose wetly, still gasping and sighing. “Yeah. I was in Coles bookstore the other day and they had a book on suicide. Assisted suicide, I guess. It tells you how to do it—how to kill yourself—painlessly. Basically, you just tie a plastic bag over your head.”

“And?”

“Well, I didn’t buy it or anything. But I stood there in the store reading it for a long time.”

“Because you’d been thinking about killing yourself.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Straight factual question, Melanie—I need to know this: Have you ever actually tried to kill yourself?” He was sure the answer was negative.

“No. Not really.”

“How do you mean, ‘not really’?”

“Well, I scratched at my wrist with a razor blade once, but it really stung. I’m completely chicken when it comes to pain. I couldn’t even cut deep enough to make it bleed.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, a long time ago. When I was maybe twelve or so.”

“Twelve. Did you write out a note?”

“No. I guess I wasn’t serious. I was just miserable.”

“Worse than now?”

“No, no. Now’s much worse.
Much
worse.”

“How often are you thinking of suicide these days?”

“I don’t know …”

“You probably do, Melanie.”

It was impossible to make his voice any softer. He tried to suffuse every syllable with warmth and encouragement—above all, unconditional positive regard. You’re safe here, he wanted her to know, you can face any demon you can name.

“I think about killing myself a lot,” she said. “Every day, I guess. Mostly in the afternoons. The late afternoons. That’s when everything looks blackest to me. Another day is nearly dead and my life still amounts to nothing.
I’m
nothing. I hear my roommates laughing and talking on the phone and going out and having a good time, and they seem like, I don’t know, another
species
or something. I don’t think I was ever that happy. Four o’clock, five o’clock, another day down the drain. Another day trying to write an essay that is completely meaningless. Another day worrying about what my teachers think of me, what my friends think of me. That’s when I really dwell on it.”

“All these thoughts of suicide. Have you ever actually written out a note?”

“I’ve thought about it a lot, but I’ve never actually done it.”

“If you did, what would it say?” She doesn’t want to hurt her mother; it’s not her fault. Here she is in absolute agony, and it’ll be her mother she’s most worried about.

“I guess my note would say … I don’t know, exactly. I’d want my mother to know I don’t blame her. She did her best and all that. Bringing me up, I mean. Mostly on her own.”

“Melanie, I know you’re finding university a little demanding these days, the written work and so on, but I’m going to give you a little bit of homework, is that all right?”

Melanie shrugged. Tiny breasts shifted under her sweatshirt.

“What I’d like you to do is actually write that note,” Dr. Bell continued. “Put your thoughts in writing. I think it would be very good for you. It might clarify exactly what you’re feeling these days. Do you think you could do that?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t labour over it too much. It doesn’t have to be long. Just write out exactly what you would say if you were actually going to kill yourself.”