Cut to the Quick (34 page)

“You killed Ivan.”

“Bingo.”

“And set the fire to kill Etienne.”

She'd
told David they were watching the stars. She had obviously been dispensable. Hollis slid down two more steps, where she could see into the living room.

“Without her miserable dog, they'd have died.”

“And you sabotaged the boat and killed Tomas. You are a monster.” Curt reached into his shirt pocket.

David laughed—a chilling sound.

“Those won't do you any good. You didn't notice, but I switched them from their normal brown glass bottle to a clear plastic one. They've lost their potency. Grab away. It's going to seem perfectly natural—a heart attack—everyone knows about your bad heart.”

Hollis couldn't sit still. She slammed down the stairs and into the living room. “He won't have another heart attack. I've heard every word. Curt's right—you are a monster. Whatever your mother did to…”

David leaped across the room, grabbed her and threw her onto the floor. He sat on her back and twisted her arm behind her back. Excruciating pain filled her mind.

“The meddler. You're about to join the others—you're not family, but you know too much.”

A searing pain in her ribs. She jerked involuntarily. Her arm felt as if it might break, might tear away from her body.

“That was nothing,” David snarled. “To get biblical—I'm cutting to the quick, cutting the quick out of my life. The quick will die. I'll inherit everything.”

Curt, clutching his chest, moved to help her.

“Don't even think about it, old man. I'll slice you to ribbons.”

“Drop the knife. You're under arrest.”

Hollis lifted her head. This was what salvation felt like.

Rhona stepped into the room with her gun pointed at David's chest.

David didn't move.

Rhona repeated the command.

“I won't go to jail again,” David said. He twisted to one side and lunged forward. “Never.” The knife blade glinted as David drove it into his own chest.

A guttural grunt. Hollis rolled over. David, his hand under him, lay jackknifed on the floor, his face an agonized mask. Then his features softened and sagged. His body collapsed.

Rhona reached for her cell phone. She requested an ambulance before she and Zee Zee rolled David over. An elaborately carved knife handle protruded from a growing crimson stain. Rhona placed her fingers against his throat.

“No pulse.”

Curt, who lay gasping for air, became her priority. She loosened his collar and took his pulse.

Hollis raised herself to her knees. David had almost fooled her. Certainly his references to the price negligent parents would pay and the hostility in his voice when he said his mythical father hadn't been there for him had triggered a question in her mind. And his spider tattoo—a mark that meant he'd been in prison. It hadn't been much, and it had taken a long time and a combination of circumstances for her to figure out that David was the one person who'd had the means and the opportunity to tamper with the brakes, set the fire and damage the boat.

“This morning we matched the fingerprints on the parking pad. They belonged to him.” Rhona nodded at David. “A B.C. prison released him earlier this year after he served time for murdering his mother when he was a juvenile.”

“And intended to kill his half-brothers and his father,” Curt gasped.

Wailing sirens heralded the ambulance's arrival.

* * *

Hollis went with Curt to the hospital. After they had admitted him, she went outside to phone Manon and tell her to start back for Toronto. By noon, she'd learned the odds were good that Curt would survive until his heart surgery the next day. She tried to visit Tomas, who was out of intensive care but not allowed to have any visitors. Outside again, she called Penny and related the unbelievable story.

“I'm having a hard time grasping it, and I was there,” Hollis said.

“It won't bring Ivan back, but it's good to learn the truth.” Penny paused. “Speaking of truth, I've thought about the baby and made a decision.”

Hollis surreptitiously crossed her fingers.

“You can inform Ivan's parents about me without giving my name. Then tell me how they react, and I'll decide whether or not to meet them.”

“Fair enough. I promise to give you a true and unbiased impression,” Hollis said.

Hollis had one more task. It was one o'clock and time to hustle to
OCAD
, a few blocks from the hospital, and tell her tale again. She knew Curt's class would be assembling, unaware that he was in the hospital.

Tessa, Patel, Kate and Bert stopped talking when she appeared.

“I'm here with bad news.” This wasn't going to be easy. Might as well get it over with, but where to start? “Curt is in the hospital. He's scheduled to have a quadruple bypass tomorrow.”

A collective groan.

“There's more. David Nixon was not what he seemed. He murdered Curt's son Ivan and tried to kill me and Curt's other two sons. Earlier this morning he killed himself.”

“What?” Kate said. Her face and the other's faces reflected total incredulity and shock.

Absolute silence.

“Wow,” Bert said, his eyes wide. “He seemed so normal.”

“I didn't think so—I thought the way he reacted to things was creepy,” Kate said. “And the way he attacked me, I think he knew how I felt. I didn't like him, but I never would have picked him out as a murderer.” She ran her hands through her spiky hair. “More than just a murderer—a mass murderer.”

“And a terrific artist,” Patel said. “Remember the slides of his work?”

“I remember what he said when we had to introduce ourselves. Does anyone else?” Kate asked.

The others shook their heads. “This isn't word for word, but he said he shattered something that was whole, that he was interested in what was left after a cataclysmic event had occurred. That was the word, ‘cataclysmic'. He was telling us what he was doing in his painting but also his real intention—to destroy the family. Very weird.”

“What happens now?” Patel said.

Hollis had wondered the same thing. “
OCAD
will let you know. I have to get back to the house.”

Kate impulsively hugged Hollis. “You have all our emails— keep in touch.”

Hollis promised she would and headed back to the Hartmans' to care for MacTee. She walked in the door and had to race to answer the ringing phone.

“Hollis, Zee Zee and I want to take you to lunch tomorrow at Little Ethiopia. It's our thank-you for your help.”

“I'd love to come. And I'll have more to tell you.”

* * *

Rhona looked up to see Frank approaching.

“Well done,” he said, giving her two thumbs up.

“Thanks.” Should she tell him what she thought? Why not? “I've been told you are opposed to responding to gut feelings, to intuitions, to anything but scientific data.”

Frank nodded.

“If we'd listened to Curt Hartman's wife early in the investigation, we might have nailed the perp sooner.”

Frank waited.

“She told us she believed her young son, Etienne, was in danger because the whole family was being targeted. We dismissed her as high-strung and neurotic. But she was right.”

“I think you misunderstood me. No police officer with any experience denies the importance of intuition. I acknowledge that, but I also emphasize the need to be familiar with and use all the latest scientific tools.” He smiled and shifted uncomfortably.

Rhona wondered what was coming next.

“You said you loved the Island. I'm taking Juno there on Saturday. Would you like to come?”

Was he asking her for a date? Not likely, that wasn't allowed. Senior officers did not date junior officers. Maybe it was the equivalent of an apology for his attitude. But why second-guess him—it might be fun.

“Nothing I'd like more.”

* * *

At Little Ethiopia, a restaurant off Yonge Street north of Wellesley, the three women chose not to sit outside on the patio, because the temperature hovered around thirty, with the humidex pushing thirty-five. Indoors, Zee Zee spoke Amharic to the waiter, whose face brightened as soon as she began. She ordered Ethiopian beer to cool them down while they considered the menu.

“The sample platter is best for newcomers to our food,” Zee Zee said. “When you've tried many items, you find which ones you prefer. I'm having
yedoro infille,
chicken in hot sauce, and
ye'atakilt alich'a,
vegetable stew, but they're an acquired taste.”

Hollis and Rhona took her advice and opted for the platter.

“We make quite a ritual of washing our hands before we eat. That's because we don't use cutlery.”

The waiter delivered a basket of what looked like spongy pancakes or uncooked crumpets.

Zee Zee picked up a piece. “This is
infera,
Ethiopian bread. We use it in place of cutlery. When you're presented with a platter, small quantities of whatever you're eating—lentil, split pea or meat curries along with
lab,
a spiced mixture of cottage cheese and yogurt—these are ladled on top of a layer of infera.” Zee Zee demonstrated how to tear small pieces of
infera
and scoop up the food.

Hollis and Rhona followed her lead and shovelled their way through the offerings on their platters.

“This is really good. Some of it is spicier than I'm comfortable with,” Hollis said.

“You get to know which you prefer. By the way, I have to tell you that Ethiopian cuisine developed completely without sugar. In fact, it's traditional to put salt in your coffee.”

Rhona and Hollis had demolished the toppings.

“The bottom pieces of
infera
are best, because they've soaked up all the juices,” Zee Zee said. “We won't do the coffee ceremony today. Actually, because it takes about three hours, Ethiopians usually only prepare it on holidays or weekends. Coffee drinking and cultivation began in Ethiopia about a thousand
A
.
D
., so we've had lots of time to work on the ceremony.”

They sat back with regular coffee and discussed the case.

Hollis told them about Penny.

“Not telling us was irresponsible, you know,” Rhona said.

“I planned to do it. The boat accident intervened.”

“Not good enough. You didn't know whether or not she was covering for her family. They could have murdered Ivan. It turned out okay, but if you're ever in a similar situation, you're morally obligated to share information.” Hollis was suitably chastened.

The conversation turned to David.

“Not being part of a family is devastating to a child,” Rhona said. “Families are the foundation, aren't they? In First Nations culture, the government until recently wouldn't allow women who married white men to keep their Indian status. If the woman was divorced or widowed, she couldn't go back to the reserve, and her children were not considered to be Indian. The law affected thousands of women and was very destructive. It kept my grandmother from returning to her reserve until she was an old lady.”

“Sort of a continuing but more subtle version of what the slave trade did to families?” Zee Zee added.

“With David, it was more than that—but I'm sure all those separations as well as his mother's abuse helped to make him the way he was,” Hollis said. “Was he a sociopath or a psychopath?”

“Hard to say,” Rhona said.

“Whatever he was, he nearly killed me. From now on, I only want to meet a man like him on the pages of a novel.” Rhona glanced at her watch. “I'm going home to put together an
IKEA
bookcase and unpack a few boxes. The decision has been made—I'm in Toronto to stay.”

* * *

Two days later, Hollis joined Manon in Curt's hospital room. Curt lifted a hand in greeting. “Hell of a way to bypass,” he said. “Seriously, thank you for saving my life.”

Manon moved a second chair next to Hollis's. “We're grateful. I still find it hard to believe David would plot to kill us all in order to inherit Curt's money.”

“I've been thinking about his motivation. Who will ever know for sure, but I think it was more than that. David wasn't stupid. He must have realized early on that his plan wasn't going to work out, that suspicions would arise when everyone died. That sooner or later he'd be caught. I don't think he cared. He kept going because he wanted to pay Curt back for
his
suffering by making Curt feel pain and fear. I doubt if he rationalized those feelings—I think he was obsessed and cunning. A couple of things he said triggered alarm bells, but I really wasn't paying attention. I mean, who would have thought Ivan's killer would be an artist, let alone that he'd be taking Curt's course?”

Curt nodded. “He took us all in. We've arranged for his cremation. Late in August when I've recovered and Etienne returns from camp, we'll take his ashes back to the reserve. I'll carry them and bury them in the briefcase his mother made me.”

Tears rolled down Hollis's cheeks. Curt appeared to have made a Saul on the road to Damascus conversion. She didn't know if it would last, but it was great to see.

Curt's eyes shone with his unshed tears. “I wonder if he would have been different if I'd gone back.” He shook his head. “My parents lived in Prince George and died in a car accident while I was in New York. I flew home to bury them and never wanted to see British Columbia again. But I feel guilty.”

“His mother could have called you. She must have been aware that you would have at least paid for his support. She was to blame too,” Manon said.

Hollis held her hand up. “Enough with the blame. I have some news.”

Manon and Curt waited.