The Endless Knot (25 page)

I went back downstairs, opened the door to the deck, and called her name. There was no answer and I could feel the edge of panic. I tried to cling to logic. Two hours ago, Taylor had been safe in her bed. She was still wearing her pyjamas. When she was making art, she was oblivious to everything else. If I went to her studio, I would find her content and at work.

Unless I was there by invitation, Taylor’s studio was off limits, but at that moment, I was beyond respecting her privacy. The temperature had plummeted the night before, and as Willie and I walked across the lawn, the frost crunched beneath our feet.

Taylor’s studio had been built when she came to live with us. She was four years old, but she was already an artist – a prodigy who had inherited her mother, Sally Love’s, talent and a great deal of money. It seemed sensible to use some of that money to build Taylor a place where she could really make art. The studio was not a Sunday painter’s shack. It was about the size of a modest one-car garage, but the architect had designed it with an awareness of an artist’s need for light and space. The north window was large, and even from a distance, I could see that the room was empty. Hoping against hope, I knocked at the door, then opened it.

Taylor and I had long since agreed to disagree about the chaos that was her bedroom, but her workroom was always ordered: canvases, canvas stretchers, palettes, oils, acrylic paints, turpentine, brushes, rags for cleaning, rags for wiping paint into a canvas – everything had its place. The order Taylor brought to making her art was tonic, and I always felt happy in her studio. The “little painting” Taylor was working on was on her easel, and as it always did, Taylor’s art took my breath away.

For much of my life, I had been around people who prided themselves on their intellect, but Taylor’s gift came from a different well – one that was deep and mysterious. The painting before me had a languorous beauty. It was of our swimming pool. When Zack and I had lunch beside it on the Friday before Thanksgiving, the water had shimmered with a magic that I thought grew out of a golden afternoon and passion. But the brilliant turquoise of our forty-year-old pool had been magic for Taylor too.

As always in her paintings, Taylor herself was front and centre. A white diving board was suspended over the pool, and Taylor was sitting cross-legged on its end with her cats in the hollow of her lap. Our pool didn’t have a diving board, and Bruce and Benny regarded the water as the devil’s territory, but Taylor had created a place where boundaries were transcended. Despite everything, I found myself experiencing the wonder and peace of that idyllic world. Then, as quickly as it came, the spirit that flowed when I gazed at Taylor’s painting contracted into the cold focus of a vanishing point. Where was the girl who had painted this picture? Where was my daughter?

I closed the door to the studio, called Willie who had been racing in circles on the lawn, and walked back to the house. When I bent to take off my runners, it hit me. If Taylor had been in her studio that morning, her footprints would be visible in the frosty grass. I went back out to check the lawn, but I saw at once that it was too late. Willie and I had obliterated whatever tracks might have been there.

I was making mistakes that I couldn’t afford to make. I needed to take a deep breath and use common sense. Attached to the refrigerator door by a starfish-shaped magnet was a list of the names and phone numbers of Taylor’s friends. She had written it out at my request, and the sight of the familiar names in her small neat hand brought a pang. I picked up the phone and began. It was a holiday, and my call awakened more than a few parents. Groggy but obliging, they woke up their children. No one knew where Taylor was. Everyone was reassuring. She was a good girl, responsible, not the kind to get in trouble. When at last I reached the end of the list, I was close to tears. There was only one more call to make.

For three years I had been involved with an inspector on the Regina Police Force, and I still remembered the number for headquarters. I dialed and waited. The officer who answered was gruff. When I gave her my name and address, told her Taylor’s age, and revealed that she had only been missing for three hours, the officer could barely contain her impatience.

We lived in the south end of the city, an area of geographical privilege where children were shepherded from school to lessons to play-dates by attentive parents who were only a cellphone call away. Taylor was the only child in her circle who didn’t own a cell. It had been a sore spot between us, but despite her imprecations, I hadn’t caved. When she argued that if she had a cell, I would always know where she was, I countered with my trump. Cellphones worked both ways, and at eleven, she should be learning to make independent decisions. I told her I trusted her, and I didn’t need to be checking on her every fifteen minutes. Reluctantly, Taylor had accepted my logic.

As I stared at the unopened presents heaped at her place at the table, I knew I would give anything if Taylor had pummelled me into submission, and there was a number I could dial to hear her voice.

When my husband died, I had collapsed. We had, in theory, been all in all to each other, and it had taken me years to become a woman who didn’t need another person to help her face a crisis. But that morning I needed Zack. I tried his cell, and immediately got his voice mail. If his cell was off, the meeting with the man from Vancouver must have been important. I dialed Norine MacDonald’s number.

Her voice was warm. “Zack told me to expect a call,” she said. “How many new best friends have been added to Taylor’s guest list?”

For a beat I couldn’t take in her words. Norine was a citizen of the old world of safety and certainty, and I had moved on.

“Norine, it’s not about the party. I … I can’t find Taylor.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. In my mind, I could see Norine’s face, impassive, intelligent, assessing the information, and deciding what to do next. “Zack’s meeting is at the Delta,” she said finally. “They only had a couple of hours, so they’ve sealed themselves off, but I can get a message to him. He’ll call you.”

“Thanks.”

“Joanne, if there’s anything I can do …”

“I’ll let you know,” I said. When I hung up, my hands were shaking. Fear and low blood sugar. I knew I should eat a piece of fruit or pour myself a glass of juice. These were sensible actions, but I couldn’t move. I was frozen. When the phone rang, I leapt.

“Zack, I’m sorry to drag you out of your meeting,” I said.

The man on the other end of the line cut me off. “Is this Joanne Kilbourn?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Douglas Thorpe. I’m calling about my son.”

When I didn’t respond immediately, Douglas Thorpe felt the need to explain. “My son is Ethan Thorpe. He’s a friend of your daughter Taylor.” He enunciated each syllable with exaggerated slowness and clarity. A phrase my grandmother used in her old age flashed through my mind. “He spoke to me as if he were attempting to teach a cow to talk.”

“Ethan’s at school in Winnipeg,” I said.

“But he’s not
at
school. That’s why I’m calling.” Frustrated, Douglas Thorpe’s enunciation became even more precise. “Ms. Kilbourn, the headmaster of Ethan’s school just phoned me. My son is missing. The headmaster talked to Ethan’s roommate. The boy found your daughter’s name and telephone number in Ethan’s desk. That’s how I was able to call you. The roommate says Ethan wanted to be with your daughter on her birthday. Today
is
Chloe’s birthday, isn’t it?”

“My daughter’s name is Taylor,” I said, but my knees had begun to tremble.

“Then the roommate must have been in error,” Douglas Thorpe said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Don’t hang up,” I said. “Mr. Thorpe, Ethan drew comics. There was a character named Chloe in them. She was modelled on Taylor. Today is Taylor’s birthday. She’s only eleven. She’s too young for this.”

“I agree,” he said. “Nonetheless, the headmaster believes Ethan is on his way to Regina. There are buses he could have taken or he might have hitchhiked. But the headmaster is certain he was heading for your house.”

The kaleidoscope had shifted. The new images were unsettling, but not terrifying. A boy, intoxicated by the heady cocktail of hormones and loneliness, had run away from his school to see a girl who had been kind to him. As a mother of four, I was only too familiar with the wild excesses of adolescent emotion and behaviour, and I cobbled together a sequence of events that seemed plausible.

Ethan had arrived when Willie and I were off on our run. He had rung the doorbell and Taylor, half awake, clutching the joy of a day when possibilities rose like pink balloons, ran downstairs expecting a surprise. When she opened the front door, Ethan was there. She would have been taken aback, but it was her birthday. Ethan, a romantic who had somehow navigated the 550 kilometres between Winnipeg and Regina, was standing there with a gift – probably a new comic featuring the adventures of Chloe. He had suggested a walk along the creek, and that’s where they were – walking.

But the fabric of this bright scenario unravelled as quickly as I wove. Taylor was frightened of Ethan’s intensity. She would never have gone off alone with him.

On the other end of the line, Douglas Thorpe had raised the volume. Apparently, he thought I’d stopped listening. “Ms. Kilbourn, I asked if I could speak to your daughter.”

“She’s not here,” I said. “Mr. Thorpe, the truth is I don’t know where she is. I took our dog for a walk, and when I came back, Taylor was gone.”

“Ms. Kilbourn, you should make every effort to find your daughter.”

His sense of urgency was contagious. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” I said.

“If Ethan arrives there, call me immediately.” Douglas Thorpe gave me his number, and I thought our business with each other was finished. I was wrong. “One other thing,” he said. “Don’t leave Ethan alone with your daughter.”

My heart was pounding. “Mr. Thorpe, why did you and your new wife send Ethan out here to live with his mother?”

“My wife has other children,” Douglas Thorpe said.

“And so you just shipped Ethan out here because he was in the way?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” he said, and his tone was grudging.

“Complicated how?”

“My wife didn’t want Ethan around her children.”

I didn’t want to hear what came next, but Douglas Thorpe had decided to share. “Ethan has problems.”

“Sexual problems?”

“No. Problems with his temper. He loses control.”

“So you made sure your wife’s children were safe and let Ethan roam around.”

“Ethan’s difficulties are a great concern for my wife and me,” he said primly.

The call-waiting notification beeped on my telephone. I was certain it was Zack, but I had to press ahead with Douglas Thorpe. “Call the police,” I said in a voice that shocked me by its chilly authority. “Tell them what you just told me. Tell them to find Taylor and your son.”

“I don’t believe there’s any reason to involve the authorities at this point,” he said. “Just find the children and call me.”

“And exactly what will you do?”

“Make certain my son gets back to school. They’ll be watching him closely now.”

“Because he might harm somebody.”

“I think we have to face that possibility. That’s why I called. Whatever you may think, I’m a responsible parent.”

“Mr. Thorpe, for the record, I don’t consider you a rational parent. I think you’re a scumbag, and I’m not going to waste any more time talking to you. I’m going to get help.”

I hung up and tried Zack’s cell. He picked up on the first ring.

After the windy self-justifications of Douglas Thorpe, Zack was a relief. He heard me out and moved into gear. “I’ll call the police and give them Taylor’s description. Do you have any idea what she was wearing?”

“No – her pyjamas, probably her ski-jacket. It’s green.”

“You said you saw her what – less than three hours ago? Ethan and Taylor are kids without a car. They can’t have got too far.”

“If anything’s happened to her …”

“Taylor’s fine,” Zack said flatly. “And so are you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I went back to Taylor’s room and began hunting for something – anything – that would tell me where my daughter was. I had never once searched my children’s rooms. When other parents talked about rummaging through drawers, reading diaries, unearthing secrets, I was appalled, but that morning I was a madwoman. When I was through I was sick at heart. My daughter’s secret life was touchingly innocent – a beginner’s bra hidden in her sock drawer, a boy’s name written many times in many colours on a page of her journal, a paperback copy of a steamy chick-lit novel with several pages dog-eared. Blameless.

There was one last place to check. The box that Ethan had delivered the morning he left was still on the top shelf in my bedroom closet. I returned to my room, took the box from my cupboard, picked up the scissors from my desk, and slit the mailing tape. A stench – sweet and animal – assailed me. Ethan’s newest comic was wrapped in heavy clear plastic. I lifted it out of the box and then I began to retch. At the bottom of the box on a piece of velvet was the pentangle. It was covered with dried and clotted blood. I ran into my bathroom and vomited. Then I splashed my face with water and went back to the horror. I picked up the comic and unwrapped the plastic. There was a note inside. Five words:
I did it for you
.

Downstairs, Willie was barking. Reflexively, I went to my window to see what had got him going. When I looked down into our backyard, I saw my daughter. She was walking towards her studio, head bowed. As I had imagined, she had put her new green ski jacket over her pyjamas. She was wearing my favourite of her winter hats: a black angora toque with little cat ears on top. Ethan was behind her, very close, with one arm draped awkwardly around her shoulder. He was wearing a winter jacket too. His was black – as were his jeans and boots.

I raced down to open the kitchen door. Willie rocketed past me. I called out to Taylor. She turned, but there was something unusual about the way she moved. My daughter was a girl who bounced through life, but that morning she was like a sleepwalker. With the grace of a long-time dance partner, Ethan turned with her. That’s when I saw the sun glint off the knife he was holding at her throat.