Watcher (11 page)

By the time I ran through all this stuff in my head we'd reached the bakery. As we went through the doorway I made up my mind that the next time I saw this guy on the street, I was going to try to give him the slip and follow
him
.

It was time I found out who he was for sure, and what he was up to.

chapter fifteen

“I'
ve had it with this bakery stuff,” I told Tack on the way home later. “It's a waste of time and I'm not getting up at the crack of dawn again for no good reason.”

He didn't say anything and at first I thought he was mad, but then he whacked me on the arm and started laughing.

“You gone off your head, or what?” I asked, smiling in spite of myself at the way he was grinning.

“Naw, man, I'm good. I asked the aunt today 'bout the job situation and she told me she won't know for maybe three, four more weeks.”

“No way.”

“Yeah. I said in that case we be done today.”

“Yeah? Well,
good
.” A twinge of guilt hit me, and I added, “So, are you gonna forget about this girl?”

“Looks like.”

It was totally out of character for Tack to give up on a girl like that and it made me immediately suspicious.

“Okay, what's going on?” I asked. “You
didn't
just decide not to bother with her.”

That's when he admitted that he'd been talking to Teisha at Pockets the evening before (while I was getting my butt whipped by Loren) and that they'd decided to hook up again.

“So
why
did we go to the bakery today?” I demanded.

“
You
went 'cuz you didn't
have
this here new information.
I
went 'cuz I
said
I'd be goin'.”

I let that sink in for a minute.

“You
will
pay for this,” I said finally, keeping my voice calm and even. “You know that, don't you?”

“Sure do,” he said.

“Just when you think it's safe — when it looks like I've forgotten all about this, revenge will come swooping down on you.”

“Uh-huh,” he agreed.

“I hate to see you going around nervous all the time —” I began, but then I was distracted by a familiar figure in the distance.

“I think that's him,” I whispered (even though there was no way he could have heard me from that distance). “The guy who's been following me.”

“You sure?” Tack squinted and peered toward the guy.

“Not a hundred percent,” I admitted, “but I
think
it's him.”

I had an idea then, to stop at Suleiman's — the restaurant he'd been watching me from a week or two back. It would be a good vantage point for us. Besides, I'd discovered a few bucks stashed in my dresser when I'd been fumbling for clothes earlier, and I was hungry.

By the time we got to the restaurant there was no sign of the guy, but we settled into a table where we had a view of both streets. We slouched down a bit so it wouldn't be easy for him to spot us.

Suleiman's was the main place we went to eat when we had a little coin to spend on not-so-fine dining. The place had a certain character to it that you might call charming if you weren't real fussy how you used the word.

There were eight square tables and a counter, all pretty typical of your small family-run restaurant. Some effort had been made to decorate but it didn't quite come together the way it was probably supposed to. Still, it was comfortable and familiar and we liked the feel of the place.

We stuck to the cheaper things on the menu, like hummus with warm pita bread or falafel sandwiches.

Suleiman, whom everyone called Sam, was both cook and owner. He came out of the kitchen now and then and stood at the counter, looking around and wiping his hands on his apron. When he spotted us, he always came over and shook hands and said something like “Good to see you gentlemen again,” or “I hope you're finding everything satisfactory.” We always told him it was the best food anywhere.

This might've even been true, for all we knew.

There was no handshake from Sam that day, since he was at the back table drinking espresso with a big bearded fellow. He lifted a hand and nodded to us like we were important customers, then he went back to what seemed like an intense discussion.

There was only one other table occupied at the time and the couple seated there was almost finished eating. The waitresses were wiping down display cases where they kept their desserts — stuff like baklava. (Lynn and I tried that once, the stacks of thin phyllo pastry layered with nuts and dripping in sticky syrup. Lynn thought it was the best thing ever but I felt like I'd been given a sugar overdose.)

Sabra, a niece of Sam's, came over to our table carrying iced water with lemon.

“You guys gonna have the usual?” she asked. She'd waited on us lots of times over the years. She also flirted with us in a kind of nervous way. I was never sure if the nervous part was because she worried that her uncle would catch her or that we'd take her seriously.

“Just hummus,” I said. “No falafel.”

“Special today is stuffed vine leaves,” she said. “Very good.”

“Nah. We got a bit of a cash flow problem.” Tack sighed.

But when she came back with our order, she'd plopped a couple of the vine leaves on the edge of the plate, anyway.

“You try for the next time.”

“Thanks,” I said. “By the way, Sabra, there was a guy in here, oh, about a week ago, and I don't know if he ordered anything, but he stood over there for a while, staring out the window.”

“I think I know the guy you mean,” the other waitress, Helen, said from behind the counter. Helen was probably older than my mom but she acted a lot younger. She wore a lot of rings and makeup and she was real friendly. “He came in to use the washroom but, afterward, he didn't leave right away. Like you said, he stood by the window and looked out for a few minutes. I thought it was a bit strange. He could have seen a lot more if he'd just gone outside.”

“You ever see him before, or since?” I asked, though I don't know what I was hoping to find out.

“Not that I remember,” she said. “Why? Who is he?”

“I don't know,” I said. I realized that if I started talking about someone following me, I'd come across as a bit whacko. “I, uh, thought he looked familiar, so I was wondering if I knew him.”

That seemed to satisfy her and she told me she'd try to find out who he was if he came in again.

Tack and I took our time eating, all the while keeping our eyes peeled for any sign of The Watcher. No luck, though, and after nearly an hour we gave up and left.

I didn't ask Tack to come up when I got to my place, because it had occurred to me that maybe Lynn could tell me something. She'd been older — seven years to my four — when he and Mom had split up.

Only, Lynn wasn't home when I got to the apartment. I'd normally have seen that as a good thing since I was so used to having the place to myself. It'd been weird lately, to walk in the door and find Lynn sprawled across the couch, or painting her nails at the kitchen table, or whatever.

I made a grilled cheese sandwich and ate it while flipping through the channels to see what was on TV. After that, I ate a couple of dill pickles and wondered what Lavender was doing right then. I told myself maybe I should give her a call, just real casual, have a yak. It never got past a thought.

I'm not sure what time I fell asleep but I woke up hours later feeling disoriented and groggy. The TV was still on and I heard someone talking from what seemed like a long distance off, about the Rideau Canal Waterway.

I sat up, squinting and blinking, trying to clear my head.

“That's my bed you're on, technically.”

I jumped a bit and kind of yelled. Not scared, just startled.

“
What
is
wrong
with you?” I demanded.

Lynn just laughed. She was curled up on the armchair across from me, brushing her hair.

“Well, it
is
,” she said. “My bed, I mean.”

“
Technically
,” I said through gritted teeth, “this is
not
your bed.
This
is a couch, which you happen to be sleeping on these days because you're a loser with nowhere else to go.”

“There are
plenty
of places I could go,” she snapped.

“Name one.”

“I could stay with friends — I have
lots
of friends you know — or go back to Conor, or rent my own apartment. To name a few.”

I was about to shoot her answers apart when I remembered that I'd wanted to talk to her. So, I swallowed my annoyance and said, “Yeah, you're right. Sorry.”

She looked suspicious for a few seconds, but then she relaxed and settled back in the chair again.

After a minute I mentioned that I could stand something to eat. She said she was kind of hungry, too, and we headed into the kitchen like a couple of combatants who'd formed a truce for the common good.

Lynn whipped up a couple of cheese omelettes; I made toast and we sat down to eat. I figured this was as good a time as any to find out what she knew.

chapter sixteen

“D
o you remember anything about our father?”

Lynn's head jerked up at my question, panic written on her face.

“Are you crazy? We are
never
to talk about him,” she whispered. Her eyes darted around as though there were hidden listeners.

“Why not?”

“Have you lost it altogether?” She looked around again. “Where's Mom?”

“I dunno. Out somewhere, I guess.”

“Are you sure? I mean, how do you know she's not in her room lying down or something?” She leaned forward, looking past me. “Her door's shut … she could be in there.”

“Her shoes aren't here,” I said, pointing to the doormat where she always slipped them off when she came in. “Just calm down.”

“You haven't been through what I've been through,” Lynn said, “so don't tell me to calm down. She goes ballistic if you even
mention
him.”

“Was he
that
bad?”

“He was a monster! Why do you think Mom freaks out if you bring him up?”

“So you've tried to talk to her about him?”

“Not for years. It was too painful for Mom. She'd get more and more worked up until she was nearly beside herself and I didn't find anything out, anyway.”

“But you must
remember
things about him. You were seven when they got divorced.”

“It's kind of jumbled in my head.”

“What do you mean?”

“I used to think I remembered a lot of things, but as I got older some of it got confused. Now, I can hardly tell which things I actually remember. A lot of it seems to be stuff Mom told me about.”

“Like what?”

“Well, it's hard to sort things out sometimes. When I try to bring back the actual
details,
it's all messed up in my head. Mostly, I remember Mom telling me to be careful and how if I ever saw him I should scream and run. It bothers me that I can't remember clearly, but that's probably trauma from the things he did, you know?

I knew what she meant. It was exactly what had been bothering me lately.

“One time that I had to talk to a guy — I think he was a social worker, Mom went over and over the things Dad had done to me, so I'd remember what I had to tell him. Only, she said when I told about it I had to say
I
remembered it. Otherwise, the guy wasn't going to be able to protect me. But later, I heard her telling the social worker that
she
hadn't known this stuff was happening until after Dad moved out and
we
started telling
her
what had been going on. It sounded like she'd never seen it herself, but it felt like she had told
me
about it. Her voice seems to be in the background in a lot of my memories.”

All of a sudden I felt as if someone had sunk a fist in my gut. “Mine are like that, too!” I told her. “It's as if they have her voice narrating them. I wish they were clearer.”

“Yeah, well, you were pretty young,” Lynn said. “And it must have been hard on Mom, having to talk about those things. She suffered so much. We all did. But, remember how she tried to make it better for us?”

“How?” I asked.

“Buying us things, taking us for ice cream or doughnuts. Stuff like that.”

“All parents do that,” I said.

“Yes, but she always got us something special anytime we'd had to talk about
him
, and the things he did to us. She loved us so much. Not like
him
.”

She looked like she was going to say more but she just swallowed hard a couple of times. Then she started crying.