Drawing Blood (25 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

Abigail

Jesus, that is not my husband.

Abigail was perched on the piano bench, Archie playing with wooden blocks at her feet. A man was sitting on the sofa, looking like an out-of-place stranger. Which he was.

James didn’t come to her door proud and handsome in his uniform. He didn’t drop a duffel bag and wrap her up in a bear hug so that tears ran down her face and relief washed over her like a warm tide. He had stood on her stoop in clothes that were too big for him, shuffling his feet until she finally invited him in. He sat on the very edge of the sofa, ready to run at any time.

She couldn’t even recognize her husband in any part of his physical appearance. His shoulders looked wide but strangely undersized compared to the thinness of his neck and chest. His collarbone was painfully pronounced. His face was lined around the mouth, between the eyebrows, and he had bags under his eyes that she had never seen on him before. The backs of his hands showed all the tendons and veins, and they were browned as though bruised somehow. He didn’t look like a soldier returned home: he looked like the concentration camp survivors she’d been hearing about. He twitched and his body was tensed like a spring. Even Archie seemed to feel the man’s anxiety: he never usually made strange with people for this long, but he was as wary as a child could be.

What the hell can I even say to him?

Emily and her husband, Tom, had left them to have a few hours alone. Abigail wished they’d stayed. This wasn’t the homecoming she’d wanted for the first five years James was gone.

She cleared her throat, and she started with a question that didn’t sound like she was accusing him of anything. “How … how have you been?”

He gave a dry humourless laugh. “Terrible.”

The grandfather clock ticked away cheerfully, oblivious to this tense scene. Abigail wanted to scream.

“Where did Tom find you?” She kept her tone neutral, even happy.

“Paris.”

Her nails dug in to her palms. All this time he’d been in France and hadn’t come for her. She wanted to hit him more than she’d wanted to hit anyone in a long time. He owed her some kind of contact, didn’t he?

“What have you been doing in Paris?”

“I can’t remember,” he answered quickly, finally looking at her. He tensed his jaw, daring her to question it further. His eyes gave the briefest flicker to Archie before looking back at his hands.

Fair enough. He can be mad about the red-headed bastard his wife had. But he was avoiding me before he ever knew about Archie.

“Are you okay?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t want to come here. I just wanted to stay where I was.”

Emily had told her enough of where he’d been the last couple years that Abigail didn’t want to hear anymore. He’d been hurt in Normandy, discharged, and promptly taken up recreational morphine use. That would explain the nerves, the weight loss. But he must have seen a lot of bad before that to end up this empty.

“What did you do for money?”

“Still had my pay coming in.”

Right, while she was here mending socks and selling eggs and vegetables. Perhaps she didn’t have as much right to hate him as some wives would have, but at that moment she didn’t care. She wanted to shake him and scream until he reacted in some way that let her know he was still in there.

Night fell gradually. She put Archie to bed, and Emily and Tom returned. They were staying in the spare room, what had been her parents’ room. Archie’s crib was in her bedroom, where she’d kept the double bed she’d had since arriving in France. She offered to take the couch, but James said that wouldn’t be necessary, he could sleep anywhere.

It was a fitful effort, but at some point Abigail drifted off, only waking when the mattress bowed. She woke up with a start then realized it was James climbing in to bed with her. She was about to roll away on to her side to give him room, but he grasped her shoulder and pulled her back. She was about to say something when he put his hand over her mouth.

Her heart went triple-speed in the time it took him to whisper, “Be quiet.”

During that time his other hand pushed up her nightdress, and pushed her legs apart. Abigail’s mind was addled from sleep, but her body remembered this feeling. There was no way –

She opened her mouth to cry out but his hand tightened down on her again, pressing her head further in to the pillow. Abigail was crying; tears running down her face and under his hand as he climbed on top of her. With strength she didn’t know she had, she freed her hands from his grasp, slapping, punching and scratching at his face and neck. He cursed loudly, trying to pin her arms. She was furious, mean, and had a lot to fight for suddenly.
Not again, and certainly not from you.

She caught him in the temple with her elbow. He swore loudly, letting go of her and climbing off the bed. Abigail shoved her nightdress back down and scurrying off the opposite side. James stared at her across the mattress and that’s when she noticed, obscurely in the pale moonlight through the window, that he didn’t wear his wedding ring anymore. She wanted to get away from him, but her son was in the crib and she wasn’t leaving him here with James.

“I’m your husband,” he spat. It was enough to wake Archie, crying.

“I don’t know who you are. But I’m not letting that happen to me again.”

Something flickered in his eyes, she barely caught it. For just the briefest moment it was James. “Again? Who?”

“A German officer. While I was here alone.”

If she’d expected sympathy she would have been disappointed. But she didn’t expect anything anymore.

Her husband left the bedroom. She heard his footsteps go back down the stairs then walk around the main floor for a couple minutes. Eventually the front door opened and footsteps echoed out on the porch.

She was sobbing now, hysterical, and the hiccups were painful as they pushed out of her chest and up her throat. Her hands were shaking and she had the urge to throw up.

James had died,
she told herself.
He didn’t survive the war. I’m legitimately a widow.

Abigail took Archie out of his crib as he yowled. She wanted something to hold on to. She was still trembling. At one time she’d actually thought having her husband around would have meant she was safe. After all those years of living under Nazi rule … Jesus. This might have actually been worse.

She forced her eyes closed, trying to cry quietly. She remembered Bossong’s assault, all that pain, then the humiliation of having to get up, walk past Phillipe Moreau and wash his semen off of her. It brought tremors to her as though the event was still fresh.

She held Archie tightly until he eventually dozed off, thank God. The entire house was silent except for her soft sobbing.

Just think of something else. Something pleasant. Just get some sleep tonight and tomorrow you can decide what to do.
Not an easy task; she was still in shock.
Don’t think of James. Think … about Archie.

That made her cry harder. She was failing him, she knew. He should be like every other happy kid: parents who love him and would do anything for him. His only stress should be eating his vegetables. This of course made her think of Archie’s father. With her eyes closed she could still see Elliot and that quiet, confident way he had. The smile that quickened her pulse in a good way, the taste of his lips, the way his hands were so careful on her skin.

She fell asleep with the memory of having Elliot warm in bed next to her, holding her close, making her believe nothing would ever hurt her as long as he was around. It worked until a sharp and sudden sound echoed through the house. She sat straight up in bed, immediately scared. She knew what gunshots sounded like. Was she having a flashback?

Archie was awake too, and he began wailing in outrage at having been startled so. She waited to hear more, but all she heard was the door to the guest room creaking open. She got to her feet and put her robe on as there was a knock on the door.

“Abigail?”

It was Emily’s husband. She pulled the door open, and he was standing there in slippers and two-piece pajamas. “Tom? What was that?”

“You heard it, too?”

Abigail felt panic come from nowhere. “Was that a gunshot?”

Tom put his hand on her arm. “Go back in your room. Shut the door.”

“I’m coming with you.”

He didn’t argue; he was Canadian. She put Archie back in his crib then followed Tom down the stairs stealthily, not wanting to startle anyone that might be in the house uninvited. Tom moved like a cat, she noted. He was slight of build so when he slinked from the kitchen to the living room there wasn’t the slightest creak in the floor.

There was no one there. The main floor was empty and James wasn’t on the sofa, either.

She remembered the sound of the porch door closing. She turned in slow-motion, and the inside door still stood partially ajar. She crossed the floor, her stomach sinking and her blood running cold. Tom called for her to wait, but she threw the screen door open before he could catch her. And then she covered her mouth and gave a cry, turning away as her knees gave out. She dropped to the boards of the porch.

“Oh Jesus. Jesus Christ, James.”

Abigail watched over her shoulder as Tom checked his throat for a pulse, but she knew he was dead. You didn’t have to be a nurse to know that when half your head is splattered across the porch wall there was no point in hoping for the best.

There was a Luger on the floor next to the bench where he’d dropped it. It was Phillipe Moreau’s Luger, which had been abandoned after the Canadians left. She hadn’t touched it in years. How he’d found it, hidden in the root cellar on a high shelf, she had no idea.

Emily was out on the porch, holding Archie. Abigail stopped her from coming out any farther, sweeping Archie out of her arms and taking him back in to the living room. Emily’s screaming was louder than Archie’s but she couldn’t help her. She at least had Tom.

Abigail bounced Archie on her hip, shushing him and rubbing his back, holding him probably a little bit too tight. “It’s okay,” she whispered against his red hair, more for herself than him. Her hand shook as she smoothed it back and hugged him closer, trying to absorb the warmth from his little body in to hers. “It’s all right honey. It’s just you and me. You’re the most important thing to me. I’m going to take better care of you from now on. I promise.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Elliot

“I understand you served in the Army,” the older man across the desk from him said suddenly, his attention swinging from his father-in-law to Elliot himself.

“Yes, yes sir, I did.”

“My wife’s brother died in Italy,” the man said, looking Elliot up and down. “Where were you?”

“I was with the Third Infantry. Ummm … France, Normandy, Belgium.”

“Mud and rain.”

Elliot laughed. “Yes sir. They called us the Water Rats.”

“Sergeant?”

Elliot was uncomfortable with this man. It wasn’t just because he was the wealthiest man he’d ever met. Theodore (don’t call me Teddy) Thoureux had a way of looking you up and down while sitting that still made you feel about two feet tall. They were the peasants and he was the liege lord. Swearing fealty was not something Elliot was used to.

“I was promoted to Lieutenant.”

“Good for you,” he looked back to Janet’s father. “I want him lead contractor for this project.”

Carl Tandy nodded, looking up at Elliot from the seat behind his desk. “I was counting on that, Mister Thoureux. I have the utmost confidence in Elliot.”

“One of the great things about military men: they delegate and follow schedules.” Thoureux’s eyes swept him over again. “These aren’t just apartments. These are to be for upscale residents with good jobs that might not go in for the whole two kids and a dog lifestyle. They have to be perfect for the amount of rent we’re going to expect.”

Elliot nodded along with his father-in-law. “Absolutely,” Carl agreed. “Elliot’s got an eye for detail I really count on.”

“At our age we count on younger men for a lot of things … eyesight being one of the more minor ones.” Thoureux stood, offering Carl his hand. Carl took it while rising to his feet, smiling pleasantly. “It will be, I hope, a pleasure working with you, Tandy.” Then he offered Elliot his hand. “And you as well, Elliot.”

Elliot made sure his handshake was strong. When Thoureux left, Carl let out a whistle through his teeth and sat back down, spinning around to the trolley behind him. “I think that earned us a scotch, don’t you?”

Elliot sat where Thoureaux’s multi-million dollar ass had been parked, shaking his head. “Money doesn’t buy likeability, does it?”

Carl was pouring out a couple fingers in two glasses. “That man is the biggest asshole to walk the planet. But his money makes up for it in some aspects.” He handed Elliot a glass. “This is going to be big. We’re talking future detached homes in the best neighbourhoods if we land this.”

“I know. We can do it, I know we can. I just don’t relish the thought of that man breathing down my neck the whole time.”

“Get through this and maybe he’ll give you some slack on the leash.” Carl held the glass out and Elliot did the same. “Santé!”

“Santé,” Elliot returned and took a swig.

There was a knock on the door and Carl bellowed “Come on in!”

Elliot knew it was David by the sound of the cane. His friend came in, shutting the door behind him and settled in to the other chair across the desk from the boss. “So, how’d it go?”

“We got it,” Elliot said when Carl held a hand out to him to give the answer.

“That’s good … isn’t it?”

Elliot shrugged. Carl held up the decanter of scotch, but David waved it off.

“It might be good,” Elliot answered. “It’s a lot of money. And more money later if we do it right.”

“We will.”

Elliot had to grin. David’s positive outlook was back, and he was enjoying it. The whole office was enjoying it, actually. The women in administration adored him. The guys all liked him. He was fitting in perfectly, like he was as much part of the family as Elliot.

“I just found out a friend from back home is moving here. He got a job on the air base and he’s coming back from England in a month.”

“That’s great!” Elliot was hoping David would make a few really good friends. It’d be great for him to have someone he’d known around that knew him before the war.

“Yeah. I guess he’s married to some bird, he’s bringing her here.  She’s so excited to come to Canada. I figure that’ll end the first winter but … no matter.” They shared a chuckle. “I was excited, I had to come tell Elliot.”

“That’s good to hear. Elliot’s going to be very busy in a few weeks.”

Elliot just nodded. The anxiety of impending fatherhood was just beginning, and now this apartment complex –

“I know. I’ll only see him at work.”

“I’m sure Janet will still want to feed you every Sunday.”

“That reminds me,” his father in law pointed at him. “Clair and I will be coming by on Saturday.”

Elliot tilted his head. “Oh … great. I’ll let Janet know.”

They passed around the pleasantries for twenty more minutes, and when five o’clock hit Elliot offered to give David a ride home. David chattered away about the living room of the house, which he had painted, and how the kitchen was coming along. He’d ripped out all the cupboards and was making new ones in the garage. It was a good thing he didn’t really have many dishes or any crockery. Elliot said he’d like to take a look.

The kitchen was a disaster. The stove was still in place and plugged in so he could eat, but all the kitchen kit and sundry was piled up on his dining room table.

Elliot caught sight of a jacket on the sofa, certainly not belonging to David. It was cashmere, he could tell by looking, and a dusty rose in colour. He pointed to it with a sly grin. “Have you made a new friend?”

David smiled and looked away. “Last Friday was a good night,” was all he said. “She left me a note with her phone number and forgot her jacket on purpose.”

Elliot sat on the armchair. “You sly dog.”

“Not only that,” David continued proudly, bringing him a beer from the fridge that had been moved and plugged in to a socket in the dining room. “She’s a shiny pebble.”

Elliot took the beer, laughing at the memory of his mentorship. “You found a shiny one.”

“I did.”

“You must have been really dressed up.”

“I was.”

They took a pull on their beers in silence. David wanted to tell him something. Elliot patiently waited, not saying a word.

“I’m actually kind of nervous about Tom moving out here.”

Elliot frowned. “How come?”

David shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been friends since we were kids. His parents took me in when Dad couldn’t be counted on. He had the perfect parents, five older sisters all doting on him. And I was the latch-key kid with no parental supervision. I was jealous of him, he was jealous of me.”

Elliot nodded. David picked at the label on his beer bottle.

“He looked up to me. It was me meeting girls at parties. Me introducing him to people. He’s coming here with a wife, and I haven’t matured past 15.”

Elliot leaned forward, beer dangling from his hand between his knees. “Hey – you grew up. Trust me. You’re both going to be different and older now. He’s a good friend, right?”

“One of my best friends. You’re the other one.”

Elliot was touched. He felt the same way about David. “It’ll be fine. One thing about men: we never really grow up. At least, that’s what Janet says.”

“She’s likely right.”

“See? You’re already thinking like a grown man.” He motioned to the jacket. “Is she the one, or just the one right now?”

David shook his head. “Just the one right now. Trust me.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay.”

David swallowed his mouthful of beer. “I’m fine, trust me.” He held up the beer bottle. “This is the hardest stuff I’m in to.” Then he pointed to the jacket. “And that’s the softest.”

“You’re kind of a pig.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

Elliot stood and wished him a good night, then drove his exhausted ass back to his house. He could smell supper before he even got through the door, and it made his stomach growl. Janet was her usually bustling self as he came up the steps from the back door, loosening his tie. She threw a “Hi, honey,” over her shoulder while putting a pot of water on the stove and turning on the burner.

He caught her by the hips, giving her a squeeze and kissing the top of her head. He let his hands come across to her stomach, rolling over the baby bump. She held still and let him touch her, then asked knowingly, “Are you okay?”

“I’m great. I’m lucky.”

She turned in his arms and hugged him awkwardly. “Yes, you are.”

“Supper smells fantastic.”

“Of course it does. But you kind of don’t.” She pulled away. “You were sweating today.”

He sniffed the arm pit of his shirt. She didn’t miss anything. “Yeah, we signed off on that Thoureux apartment complex.”

“That’s great!”

“It is. But it’s going to be a lot of work. I’m worried about overtime. Once the baby comes …” he let that trail off.

“You’re so sweet. But … you want to work on the project? Don’t you?”

“It’ll be good money.” She gazed up at him, her expression not even worried. She trusted him completely. She knew he wouldn’t let her down. He kissed her forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too. But please go change.”

“All right, all right.”