Woman Chased by Crows (11 page)

The cat was on the fire escape, looking in at her. Wet. Impassive. An unneutered tomcat, tiger-striped, orange and white, built the way mature tomcats get, heavy neck and shoulders, skinny ass, big balls. He never sprayed inside the studio. The first time he showed up at her window, she told him that the minute he lifted his tail inside her workplace, he would be banished for eternity. They had an understanding. She hadn't named him. She didn't feed him. Once, a few years ago, she left a dish of canned tuna out for him. He wouldn't touch it.

She opened the window enough to let him inside. He took his time, assuring himself that she was alone before stepping across the sill and dropping to the floor. He paused for a long moment and looked to be studying himself in the wall mirror.

“What do you see?” she asked out loud.

This is how one should live, she thought. This creature has no fear. He has no allegiance. All places are the same to him. He comes here when it suits him. Who can say how many other fire escapes, laneways, back porches he knows? Sometimes he goes away for weeks. Sometimes he stays for a while. Sometimes when he's bitten and bloody and hurt, he comes here to get better. Then he stays for a while.

“I think maybe you will have to find another fire escape,” she said. “I may have to find another escape myself.” She lit a smoke, deliberately closed the window and locked it. The cat jumped onto the settee under the photographs of her sad career, inspected the area carefully before settling himself. “You hear me?” she asked him. “Do not get too comfortable. That is the golden rule, is it not? Do not get too comfortable. The situation will be changing pretty soon, I think.” She shook the tea kettle. Good. She wouldn't have to go down the hall to fill it. She plugged it in. In the photograph above the tea canister, she was wearing black feathers. She shuddered involuntarily. “Have you ever killed a crow?” The cat didn't move an ear. “They are like elephants, you know, they never forget.”

And it wasn't even her fault. She was a child.

The crows near her home in Sosnovy Bor stole constantly. They took silverware off the picnic table, they took her father's medal off his coat while it hung in the yard, and they took her tiara when she was five years old. It wasn't a real tiara, it was a thing her grandfather made for her to wear with the tutu her mother had sewn. The jewels were paste and beads and pieces of coloured glass. It was pretty and she loved it. And a crow swiped it right off her head while she was dancing in the grass, swooped down and snatched it neat as you please, the way an eagle takes a fish from the ocean, took it and flew away to a tree and laughed at her, proud of what he'd done.

As soon as her grandfather picked up his shotgun, the crow took wing and the shot missed. But the tiara was left dangling on the branch. And against all reason save greed, or willfulness, the bird turned back to reclaim his pickings. The shotgun had two barrels.

What a racket. All the crows in the neighbourhood that day had something to say about the incident. Screaming and cawing and circling overhead. It didn't sound like grieving to Anya, crows lack the ability to
sound
bereaved, it isn't in their register. Whatever they might be feeling, it sounded accusatory, they were marking her as the villain.

The tiara had drops of blood on it. Her grandfather wiped it clean, but she never wore it again.

She made a single cup of tea. Irish Breakfast, with three sugar cubes, no milk, carried it to the front window and looked down at Vankleek Street, smoking, sipping, watching the normal people hurrying by in the rain. Lucky people.

Dr. Lorna Ruth was a pretty woman, or would have been if not for the numb expression, and the distracted way she was going about her work — shifting piles of papers, opening and closing drawers without looking inside. Cardboard boxes, empty and filled, were cluttering the outer office. She stared at the crammed bookcases and her shoulders slumped. “Have they brought my husband back yet?” Her voice was frayed, her attitude distant.

Stacy said, “He's supposed to be on his way.”

“Will he get bail?”

“Probably. He doesn't have prior convictions, does he?”

“For killing people?”

“For anything violent.”

“No. He's a gentle person.” She turned slowly to survey the disarray. “I have to move.” She sounded annoyed at the inconvenience. She kicked an empty box out of her way and went into her private office.

Stacy watched her from the open doorway. “Leave this building, or leave town?”

“I gave my receptionist two weeks' severance pay. That's the best I could do. She's been with me four years. I hated to let her go.” She sat heavily at her desk, almost hidden behind the stacks. “My husband is probably going to jail for a very long long time. How can I stay here? My . . . lapse of moral judgement cost a man his life.”

“They'll want you here for the trial.”

“Oh yes. I'll be stuck here for a while. Removing myself from this town, from this life, won't happen overnight. I have patients. Some of them have cancelled, but some rely on me.”

“What about Anya Daniel? Does she rely on you?”

“I don't know. Yes. Certainly.”

“She is why Detective Delisle came to see you. Can you tell me what he was asking? That wouldn't violate anything, would it?”

“We talked about jazz. He told me he played piano. I told him I once met Oscar Peterson. That was about it. We arranged to meet. After that we didn't talk all that much.”

“Did he mention a Russian man who was found dead in Toronto last week?”

“No, I'm sorry. We didn't talk about his cases. Except for questions about my patient, which I couldn't answer.”

“And the questions about your patient? What did he want to know?”

“He wanted to know if she was delusional.”

“Why didn't you stay at the restaurant? Was there someone you knew?”

“There's always someone. I was an idiot to think we'd be invisible.” She wiped her hand across her mouth as if to remove a lingering taste of something bitter. “I just wanted a little romantic interlude. The first time I'd ever done anything remotely like that.”

“I was just wondering if it was someone who might have told your husband.”

“No. Just some people who could have recognized me.” She opened another drawer. Closed it sharply. “I was very stupid. Very stupid.”

“Can you tell me anything about Mr. Delisle's weapon? Did he take it off at any point?”

“I told him I hated guns. He put it in his suitcase. Is it important?”

“Probably not.” Stacy made a note. “Your patient, Anya Daniel, I know you can't tell me anything about your private communication, and I wouldn't want you to, but I'm trying to determine if there is any connection between Ms. Daniel and the dead Russian. I don't suppose there's anything you could help me with there, without breaking the doctor/patient restriction?”

“Not really. She talks about Russia in very general terms. Her years with the ballet. Evidently she was destined to be a big star back there, but for some reason she had to defect. She won't go into that.”

“What year are we talking about? That she had to defect?”

“In 1981. She was touring in the United States and Canada.”

“Did something bad happen at home?”

“As far as I can make out, there was some political upheaval going on. New people coming into power. I'm afraid I don't know much about Russian political history.”

“That makes two of us.”

“She does say that they were all thieves back there. The big shots. She seems to have a special hate for someone named Chernenko. Do you know who that is?”

“I think he's dead,” Stacy said.

“Not to hear her talk about him.”

“I see. I'll let you get back to your packing then.”

“I feel a deep sense of responsibility for what happened. If I hadn't been so stupid that man would be alive.”

Stacy couldn't argue that point. “Try not to beat yourself up too much, Doctor,” she said.

No, she wouldn't be beating herself up. Not over something so completely preposterous. Harold in the role of killer, of jealous vengeful murderer, was beyond preposterous — it was inconceivable, it went against anything rational. What happened to the red-haired detective was a horrible mistake, a grotesque aberration. She had other things to beat herself up over, sloppy session work, taking too long to do what she should have done a long time ago. But not this. This was not her fault. But it was a catastrophe. This could ruin all her good work.

There was the knocking again. That woman was back.

“Ms. Daniel? Dockerty Police. I'm Detective Crean. Like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

She'll go away after a while. Just sit still. There's no need to open the door. If she wants in badly enough she can kick it down the way they like to do.

“Ms. Daniel. I know you're in there, I can smell the cigarette smoke. I'm not here to arrest you. I just have a few questions. Please open the door.”

“What do you think?” she asked the cat. “Should we talk to her?” She raised her voice. “What questions?”

“Please open the door.”

“Why do you not kick it down?”

“I don't think that's necessary, do you?”

“Do police need a reason?” Anya found herself crossing the room to the door. “Are you alone, or do you have an armed escort?”

“It's just me.”

“Because I am a dangerous fugitive, you know? Were you aware of that?”

“No, ma'am. I wasn't aware.”

“Oh yes,” Anya said. “Most dangerous.” She opened the door. The woman in the hall looked the way she sounded, strong, self-assured, intelligent. “You do not look like the police.” She left the door open and went back to the settee where her cigarette waited in an ashtray. A big orange tomcat looked up briefly. Stacy closed the door.

“How do police look?”

“Ha!” Anya's laugh was harsh. “Ugly men with ugly ties and bad breath from too many hamburgers.”