Tell Anna She's Safe (6 page)

“It does not have to be you.”

“But I just want to light a fire under their butts and then I—”

“Ellen, I do not want it to be you.”

There was a silence between us.

“How was your trip there?” I asked at last.

“
Bon
. I got here Sunday. There was snow in Marathon.”

Another long pause.

“Marc,” I said finally. “Why did you phone?” My heart was beating fast.

Another silence. I felt him reviewing all the possible answers, rejecting most of them, and settling on the mundane: “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I'm fine,” I lied.

“You are not.”

“No. I'm freaked out. Marc, I was stupid. He knows where I live.”

A sharp intake of breath over the line. “You … had him to our
house
?”

I shut my eyes. Hoping that would prevent the tears that were threatening to form. “Don't,” I said, “yell at me.” My voice was barely audible.

Another intake of breath. This time slower. “I don't want you to stay there. I
warned
you about him.”

Closing my eyes wasn't making any difference. I swiped at the tears. “Marc. That does not help. And where am I supposed to go?”

“Here.”

“
There?
Thunder Bay?”

“I'll pay for your ticket.”

I felt an almost physical wrenching in my arm sockets: I wanted to go. I didn't want to go. I tried to think of practical reasons why I couldn't. “The dogs.”

“Mary Frances will take them.”

No
. It wasn't fair. He was always wanting me to go to him. “Will you come home?” The question came out sounding like a child pleading.

“Ellen. I can't. I just hired a crew. We're just getting organized. I can't leave. You know I would….”

I didn't know that at all.

Marc was silent, too.

Finally I trusted my voice. “I'll be fine. I've got the dogs.”

“Oh yes, our big brave dogs.”

The sarcasm was so unlike him it caught me off guard. “I've got the police.”

“You think they are going to give you twenty-four-hour protection?”

“No, but maybe they could talk me out of my fears.”

Marc snorted.

This also uncharacteristic response fired me up. “Right,” I said. “You could give me much better protection than the police.”

“
Oui
.”

The quietness of his tone threatened to spill the tears in earnest.

“How is your leg?” Marc asked.

“My leg?” The pain, I realized, had dissipated. Just since Tim's call. “The chiropractor's helping,” I said, to say something.

“Did she say anything about running?”

“Yeah, she said probably in a few weeks. I'm skeptical but I'll see how I feel.”

“Why don't you go to stay with Mary Frances?”

“I'm
fine
,” I said. “He has no reason to—”

“But if you are scared—”

“I'm
not
scared.” I was defensive. And also lying.

“Marc,” I said. “I'll be fine.” I was talking very fast. “I'm going to phone the
Sûreté
and find out what's going on. Tim says Lucy's family is coming up from Toronto tonight. They want to go to the site. We're meeting at the station in Hull tomorrow to demand action. I'll call you tomorrow night.” The urge to hang up was so strong I made sure we actually said good-bye before I gave in to it.

On Wednesday morning I made the brief walk from the market to the Château Laurier. Ottawa's fairy-castle hotel, with its copper-topped roof and turrets, was home to the local
CBC
radio station. I let a liveried doorman hold a heavy glass door for me and made my way across the marble-floored lobby. An elegant elevator carried me up to the seventh floor, where I told my story, the bare bones version, to a reporter and her tape recorder.

Afterwards, I bought some food in the market and headed back to the office. I sat at my computer and pretended to work. Every fifteen minutes I checked my answering machine at home for a message from Tim.

At noon I drove back across the interprovincial bridge to the police station in Hull. There was no sign of Detective Godbout or Tim or Lucy's family. I continued on up the highway to Chelsea. No traffic to contend with now.

River Road finally looked like the scene of an investigation. Several dark blue sedans and a police van were parked on the shoulder. A German shepherd was being put into the back of the van. There was a police boat out on the river. The activity both relieved me and worried me.

Two big men in tweed sports jackets were standing with Detective Godbout. They extended their hands to me in turn: Sergeant Howard Roach and his partner, Sergeant Alan Lundy.

“Ellen McGinn,” said Sergeant Roach. “Or should I pronounce that ‘Mc-Gin'?” He pronounced it with a soft ‘g'. “Then you could call me McScotch.” He winked. He was a tall man with a shock of white hair and a ruddy complexion. A pronounced widow's peak disguised an otherwise receding hairline.

“That would be my preference, too,” I said. I was used to the jokes on my name. “Did they—did they find anything?” I didn't think they would have been standing around like this if they had, but I needed to ask.

Lundy shook his head. He was the bulkier of the two. He looked like he had been squeezed into his clothes. Under his tie, the top button of his shirt was undone, and only one of his jacket buttons was done up. He didn't smile, but there was a kind of grim sympathy in his expression.

“The dogs have just finished a search,” said Roach. He nodded over at the van. “They're going to bring them back this afternoon.” His eyes never stopped moving. They looked everywhere except at me. But I had the feeling he was memorizing everything about me, including my vital statistics and my car make and plate number.

“Have you seen Tim Brennan today?” I asked. “I was supposed to meet him and Lucy's family in Hull but they weren't there. He said the family was coming up from Toronto last night. They wanted to see where we found Lucy's car. I thought I must have missed them.”

They had not seen Tim. “We'll drop by later this afternoon to take your statement,” said Roach. “I've got the directions you gave us yesterday. Will you be at work or home?”

“Home,” I said. I wondered where Lucy's family was. And Tim.

When I got home, I automatically pushed against the front door, expecting it to give. It didn't. The car keys were still in my hand. I found the little-used house key and jammed it into the lock.

I was changing into jeans and a sweatshirt when the phone rang. It was
CBC
Television, wanting an interview. I arranged for them to come at four.

I had not been off the phone two minutes when it rang again. “I've been trying to get you,” said Tim. “We're here at the Tulip Valley restaurant—me an' Anna and Doug.”

“
Anna?”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled.

“Yeah, Lucy's sister and her husband Doug. That Quebec cop Godbout is supposed to come an' talk to us. D'you wanna meet us here?”

Lucy's sister. Lucy must have mentioned her sister's name to me and it had lodged somewhere in my memory. I could
not
have pulled it out of thin air.

I glanced at the clock on the stove. One o'clock. Roach and Lundy wouldn't show up for awhile. I had time to go. Maybe they would show up there, too.

The Tulip Valley restaurant sat at the intersection of Highway 105 and River Road, a ten-minute drive north of my place. It was here that Tim had gone in to ask directions the other night. I checked the road sign at the corner and smiled wryly. It said
Chemin de la Rivière
. I doubted he was bilingual. He'd probably had good reason to stop after all.

The restaurant did double duty as a coffee shop and sports bar.

Tim was sitting at a table on the restaurant side with a man and a woman. Anna thanked me for coming. Her voice had the same low timbre as Lucy's, but her colouring and features were fairer. And she emanated a milder temperament. Her eyes were big and brown, filled with gentleness and worry. “Dad wanted to come too. But he's not well. And this—” Her voice broke.

Beside her Doug put a hand over hers. He was a tall lanky man with a full beard that hid most of his face. He wanted to order me a coffee and hear every detail of my finding the car.

I described the events of Monday evening.

In the back of my head, Lucy's voice was whispering, insistent.

I tried to ignore it. I was going to sound like some kind of flaky visionary if I passed on her “message.” And why give false hope? But Lucy's voice compelled me. Lucy's voice and her sister's eyes across the table.

I made my voice apologetic. I didn't tell her who had given me the dream message—just “a friend.” I felt Tim listening. I wished I had waited until we were alone to speak.

Anna's eyes gleamed with tears. And gratitude. Suddenly Doug was handing over a sheaf of paper. I glanced down and was startled to see Lucy smiling at me from a photocopied photograph. I hadn't thought of posters. I promised to put them up.

Detective Godbout arrived with his kindly, now tired, physician's eyes and no reassuring news. The dogs had picked up no scent. That, said Detective Godbout in his careful English, meant it was now in the hands of the Ottawa police; that was the last place Lucy had been seen.

He asked if anyone had questions. They did. His answers were not guaranteed to satisfy. He knew this. He spread his hands in apology and left us.

We pushed back our chairs and rose to go.

Anna touched my arm. She let the others go on ahead. “Can I call you, to…?”

“Of course.” I gave her my phone number. I didn't think I had anything helpful to offer, but I couldn't refuse.

“Curtis is sure he did it. But I don't know. He's so upset. I don't think he's thinking straight. Maybe—”

“Curtis?” I interrupted. That name had been in one of Tim's letters.

“Curtis,” repeated Anna. She must have seen my blank look. “It was Curtis she was living with when she met Tim. Tim was so jealous.”

Lucy hadn't just been seeing someone; she'd been
living
with him.

“We all wrote letters of support to the National Parole Board—me, my father, Doug, all her friends. We pledged our support. You said she was safe. Do you think she's just … got away?”

I had no answer for her. None I believed. I hugged her close. I told her I would call her if I heard anything.

She was turning to go but this time I stopped her. “Anna, I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, but the person speaking in my dream wasn't just any friend.” I paused and met her eyes. “It was your sister.”

A startled look came over her face. And then something like confusion. “I'm sorry,” I added. “I know it sounds crazy. And I hope it doesn't upset you. But I thought you should know.”

Her eyes filled with tears again. She nodded, wiping her cheek. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Through the open door we could hear Doug calling her. “I should go, but I—I just need to ask you.” She hesitated, looked away. Looked back at me. “Are you sure she said, ‘Anna'”?

I nodded. “I had no idea who ‘Anna' was but the name was clear. I only realized it was you when Tim mentioned your name when he called this afternoon.” I looked at her questioningly.

She gave me a teary smile. “Okay. Thanks. Really, thanks, Ellen.” She pressed my hand and rushed out of the restaurant.

The television crew arrived at my door just after I did. They rolled the camera while I taped one of Doug's posters to the side of the cluster of green mailboxes at the top of the road.

In the photo on the poster, Lucy is standing on her front porch. She is dressed up to go out somewhere, wearing a knee-length patterned dress and heels. She is smiling right beside the block-lettered words “
MISSING PERSON
” and her physical description.

LUCY STOCKMAN
46 YEARS OLD
5'1" TALL
100 POUNDS
DARK BROWN SHOULDER LENGTH HAIR
TANNED COMPLEXION, BROWN EYES
LAST SEEN APRIL 22 (SAT) WEARING A DARK BLUE COAT WITH SMALL RED STRIPE, BLACK OR NAVY COLOURED TIGHT PANTS, NIKE RUNNERS.
HER YELLOW AND WHITE SUZUKI SIDEKICK WAS FOUND PARKED ON RIVER ROAD JUST SOUTH OF THE LARGE ROCK QUARRY AT THE BOTTOM OF THE HILL WHERE THE ROAD CONSTRUCTION SITE IS.

The police contact information was provided at the bottom.