Lost Girls (21 page)

. . . They say there's a fraction of truth in every story.
In this the Lady of Murdoch is likely no different. But
how much truth there can be in a tale of a vengeful spirit
returned from the dead to lay claim upon the living is a
matter of faith more than fact. One way or the other
Murdoch's history has been shaped as much by this one
unnamed stranger as by influential merchants, the passing
fortunes of industry, and the decisions of elected officials.
We will never know who we are if we fail to remember
what has come before--both the victories and the disgraces.All the public pride of glory and the private shame
of ghosts.

It has been said that we only fear that which we do
not know. Yet perhaps what we fear most is not the
possibility of the unknown, but all of the horrors that we
know to be true.

The chapter ends here, with this insertion of amateur metaphysics to go along with the amateur history. Still, there's something in this section of Dundurn's writing that feels different from the rest. The brief emergence of a voice. Intent, fervent. Something personal.

There's nothing to do but go to bed myself now. Empty my pockets out onto the flaky varnished surface of the dresser. The sound the coins make like an ancient machine clattering to its final stop.

I place Dundurn's book there on top of the change and spiraled tufts of lint, but something in the angle of the spine flips the back cover open a second after I pull my hand away. There, glued to the inside of the last page, a small yellow envelope holding the Due Date card.

Pull it out with my thumb and lay it flat, run my finger under the stamped dates and handwritten names. Last borrowed only six months ago. The signature the same as the one beside the X at the bottom of my Form of Retainer. My client. Thomas R. Tripp.

Iconfess it's something of a personal lawyer joke that my worst mark at law school was in Professional Ethics. Would never have taken it at all if it hadn't been mandatory, which could be said for most of my colleagues as well. But at least they went to the trouble of faking it, offering up the ''right'' answer for every hypothetical put to them by the forty-five-grand-a-year Justice Ministry schmuck hauled in to teach it. From what little I can recall, the entire course could be broken down into a handful of fundamental rules one had to repeat a dozen times out loud in order to pass:

Don't take
all
the money held in trust for someone else.

Take a good long look before accepting sex from clients in exchange for fees.

Try not to lie, but if you feel you must, try first to say nothing at all.

And this: If a young lawyer ever feels he's losing control of a case--however slightly--he should seek the advice of a senior member of the bar before things are allowed to go any farther.

That would be me.

So it is that the next morning I call Graham with the intention of talking to him one-on-one, but he's not in. And when he calls back I can tell immediately it's from the boardroom, over the speakerphone, and that Bert's there, too, the clicking of his lighter and bubbly throat clearings giving him away.

''So, Bartholomew, how goes it? Everything in order and geared up, I trust?'' Graham sings, using the same voice he uses on his most humorless clients.

''Pretty much. I mean, there's nothing in the disclosure materials that we didn't know already. And although the DNA results aren't back yet, no matter what they say I think we still look good.''

''Of
course
you look good. Always did, always will. Now, what about Sir Thomas Tripp of the Village of Murdoch. Is he being reasonably cooperative?''

''Cooperative wouldn't be quite the word, no. He's not entirely stable, actually, although he'd fall well short of insanity on a psychiatric assessment. But he does claim to hear voices.''

''What kind of voices?'' Bert joins in from what sounds like the farthest corner of the room.

''It's not clear. A woman, I think he said. Or a group of women, talking together all at once.''

''Sounds like the definition of hell to me.'' Bert coughs.

''Is he going to be
all right
?''

''I shouldn't have to call him to testify, if that's what you mean.''

''That's
exactly
what I mean. Very good. Any other preliminary matters?''

''I wouldn't call them
matters,
but, yes, there're some things I wanted to--some vaguely troubling things I thought I'd air out. Nothing to cause concern, but I felt that bringing them to light at this point might be a good idea.''

''Bartholomew, what
are
you
on
about? Have you fallen in love or something awful like that? If so, I know Bert and I can offer nothing but our strongest discouragements.''

''It's not love. It's little things. Coincidences. Funny stuff.''

''Intriguing,'' Graham says, sounding not at all intrigued. ''Do go on.''

''Well, for example, there's this stripper who was working in the bar downstairs who's been calling the hotel almost every night, waking me up. I know it's her because I answered once and it was her voice.''

''And what did she want? Your lap for a private dance, perhaps?''

''No, Graham. Crank-call sort of shit. But there was something about-- It's like she wasn't just kidding around. You know what I mean?''

''No,'' Graham says at precisely the same moment Bert says, ''Yeah.''

''And she's not the only thing. There's some people in town trying to get under my skin. To distract me.''

''And
how
is that done?''

''The other night there were two girls standing across the street from my bedroom wearing these old cotton dresses. Waving up at my window. And it's getting pretty bloody cold up here.''

''I'm sure it was just your fan club, Bartholomew, bidding you out onto the balcony for a speech or blessing.''

''Don't fuck around, Graham. It's like they were trying to freak me out.''

''Now, now,
now,
'' Graham soothes. ''There's no need to be
freaked out
. We're here and we're listening.''

''And so far we haven't heard shit,'' Bert cuts in, collapsing into a chair that screeches in protest as it accepts his weight. ''So some kids do a little routine on you. Small towns are like that, they don't like outsiders. Especially outsiders doing the job you're doing. My advice is acquire some balls and get on with it.''

''Thank you for that, Bert. As usual your comments have been very thoughtful.''

''Piss off.''

Nobody says anything for a while, and I consider hanging up, walking straight down to the Lord Byron and injecting two or three rye-and-gingers into my system before calling back with the excuse that we must have been cut off. Then Graham's voice returns.

''Well, now, gentlemen. Shall we move on?''

''Wait. There's another thing. Kind of funny.''

''We like funny.''

''I've been around to the lake a couple times where Tripp is accused--where whatever happened happened. Anyway, I bumped into an old lady, a Mrs. Arthurs who lives on the water, who told me this story about an escaped mental patient after the war who was living in the woods, trying to get some of the local kids to go with her, kidnap them I guess, and--''

''What war?'' Bert interrupts.

''WW Two.''

''That was over fifty years ago!''

''I know.''

''So what's she got to do with Tripp?''

''Nothing, I'm sure. See, she kept trying to kidnap the kids in town because they'd taken her own kids away from her after they put her in the hospital. But before she could, all the men in town hunted her down and she ended up falling through the ice on the lake. They
forced
her out there. More or less executed her without a trial or reporting what happened or anything.''

''The point, Bartholomew?'' Graham laughs impatiently.

''The point is that Mrs. Arthurs is a witness.''

''A witness to what?'' Bert closes in on the receiver again. ''To
nothing,
that's what. Nothing
you
have to give a shit about. Your client is Tripp, not a bunch of fucking geriatric vigilante woodsmen.''

''I know. I know that,'' I say, finally hearing my own voice, how reedy and young it must sound at the other end. ''I'm sorry. I'm just tired, that's all.''

''Well, then, could we now lower the curtain on Count Barth's Monster Horror Theater for a moment and turn our minds to the matter of
relevance
? For God's sake, boy, if you took every campfire tale this seriously, I'm surprised they didn't throw
you
in the madhouse long ago. Now can we
please
proceed, but with the colorful local mythology edited out?''

There's the creak of a reclining chair followed by Bert's laugh that manages, always, to underscore a humiliation.

I manage to turn to my notes and muddle through a point-by-point summary of Goodwin's disclosure and the other items I've arranged under the heading EVIDENTIARY MATTERS, leaving out Tripp's bloody button-down, its removal from his freezer and deposit in the trunk of the Lincoln.

''Well, everything sounds in order. Doesn't it, Bert?''

Nothing.

''If that's all, Bartholomew, perhaps we can relieve Mr. Tripp now of the burden of our time and have you check in again, maybe next week, say, with a further update before--''

''There's something else.''

I hear my voice scratched up another half octave.

''Oh?''

''I've been thinking that I may take you up on your earlier offer.''

''Offer?''

''I may need some help.''

Bert snorts.

''Now, Bartholomew, I'm aware you're probably feeling nervous. That's perfectly understandable! My God, I was a
wreck
on my first murder. There's so much more to be
mindful
of. But Bert and I have absolutely every confidence--''

''It's fucking open and shut!'' Bert shouts, no longer in the background but with his mouth wrapped fully around the receiver. ''Open and fucking shut!''

''It's not the facts, Bert. It's the whole thing, keeping it all together, you know? I know I'm not being very clear.''

''No, no, no,'' Graham chirps, but his heart's not in it. ''We know
exactly
what you're talking about, Bartholomew. It's only that we know your apprehensions to be perfectly common. No defense lawyer, not a single one known to
history,
is unfamiliar with what you're experiencing. The eve of trial, the facts disclosed and assembled, strategies considered, your client's directions clear as they'll ever be, and
still
there's a butterfly in the bowels keeping you up at night. All perfectly common.''

''Yes. I guess that's true.''

Again there is a period with no sound traveling down the line, and it goes on long enough to make it clear that there will be no help from Lyle, Gederov & Associate. Maybe it's the publicity the case is getting in Toronto, a public outcry against the leniency the courts have shown to perpetrators of violence against children and we're not going to take it anymore, et cetera, et cetera. Or maybe they've just decided to let me handle this on my own no matter what comes up for the benefit of enriching my legal education. Whatever it is, the result is clear as the silence that separates us over the conference line.

''What's going on with you, Barth?'' This is Bert, his voice not quite level but not bristling with his usual rage either. ''Are you trying to say something you haven't told us yet? Do you have a
real
problem up there or not?''

Good question. And what I end up saying surprises me, the words escaping my mouth before I have a chance to haul them back in.

''I'm scared,'' I say.

There's a long pause free even of clicked lighter, creaking chair, or blown smoke. And when a response finally comes, it comes from Bert.

''It's your fucking job to be scared,'' he says with what might be taken for the restraint one hears in words of confession or kindness.

There's an orange line down the middle of the Georgian Lakes High School parking lot that separates the pickup trucks from the rest of the cars. A sign at the entrance clearly tells you which way to go: TRUCKS to the left and PARKING to the right. It can't be a space concern, as the lot stretches far beyond where the vehicles end, all the way to a wire fence that divides the pavement from the cemetery beyond. Maybe it's a kind of mechanical social club, the trucks preferring the exclusive company of their own kind and the cars just having to get along with each other in the automotive melting pot. And they're all here: the peppy Japanese sidled up to the overfed Americans and, standing alone among them, the silent Germans, conserving their energy. To the left the pickups sit solemnly together, backs to the crowd. Bumpers and rear windows pasted with their founding principles: REGISTER MY FIREARMS? NO FUCKING WAY! and ASS, GAS, OR GRASS--NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE. But whatever the rationale for the rule I obey it along with everyone else and park the Lincoln at the end of the line of cars, an overbearing guest that everyone pretends not to notice.