Sam had no doubt Randall would be missing her by now. Two people could not touch the way they had, love the way they had, know such passion, feel such joy, and simply abandon it as if it had never happened. Okay, maybe she was addicted to those orgasms he seemed to engineer so effortlessly, but it wasn’t just sex. It was his eyes, the way he seemed to liquefy at the sight of her tawny skin, the way just seeing her seemed to take him over some threshold. No one could be that loony about just sex. He had to be missing her.
But there were lots of good reasons for him not to call. Which was why Sam was shivering in a phone booth across the street from Carnwright Real Estate, actually quaking with cold. Even with its fleecy hood, her denim coat was no match for the cold winds that blew uptown off the lake, and she couldn’t ask her mother to fix the bloodied parka.
Sam had bailed out of drawing class early to get here before five. Now it was a quarter after and it was dark and the cars were crawling up Algonquin with their headlights on and no doubt their heaters going full blast while she stood huddled in a phone booth waiting for the love of her life to appear. At least the phone booth cut the wind a little.
An old guy in a long grey coat came out and got into a flashy car parked in the small lot beside the house. Mr. Carnwright maybe? A few minutes later a woman in a black down coat that made her look like a carbonized waffle emerged, cellphone pressed to one ear. Phyllis. Randall had mentioned Phyllis a couple of times, not exactly in what you’d call positive terms.
The windows of the real estate office went dark and the porch light went on and Randall came out at last. He turned around to check that the door was locked. The traffic was moving again, and Sam had to dodge through it, causing people to honk.
She caught up to him in the parking lot.
“Sam.” He looked over her shoulder and around the lot. “Jesus Christ, Sam.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I had to. I miss you.”
“Jesus Christ.” Randall pointed his key at the car and the locks chirped open. “Get in before anyone sees you.”
Sam got in and he hit the ignition. “Heat, heat,” she said. “I’m freezing. God, I’m so happy to see you.”
She touched his arm and he shook his head. “Not good, Sam.”
“Come on-just a few minutes? I have to be at work soon. Maybe we could just drive around?”
“Uh-huh. Someone sees us and I explain it how?”
“You were showing me a house. Come on, show me a house. I’ll tell people I just won the lottery and I’m buying it for my mother. No, I’ll tell them I sold Loreena Moon for a million bucks. Take me anywhere. I just want to be with you.”
Randall waited for a gap in the traffic and pulled out onto Algonquin. He took the first right onto a quieter street. A darker street. After two blocks he pulled over in front of a building that at one time had been a bakery. Shuttered now. Weeds in the parking lot and graffiti all over the brick.
“You told the police about me, didn’t you.”
“No! I didn’t say a word, I swear.”
“They know about me, Sam. How could they know about me if you didn’t tell them?”
“They’re police. They’re not retarded-they find stuff out. I love you, Randall-why would I do anything to hurt you?”
He looked her up and down the way you might look at a defective purchase. “Maybe to stir things up with Laura. She leaves me, and then you have me all to yourself.”
“I do want you all to myself.” Sam placed a hand on the sleeve of his coat. She traced a pattern in the fabric with her index finger. “But only if you want me.”
“So why did you go to the police, Sam?”
“I didn’t. I called them.”
“I knew it. I fucking knew it.” Randall pounded the steering wheel.
“It was totally anonymous. I called at night, from a pay phone-I’ve never been in so many pay phones in my life-and I left a message on someone’s voice mail. A woman detective. I didn’t say anything about you. I just said I was in the house-actually, I said I was there to rob the place.”
“Not smart, Sam.”
“Well, how else am I going to explain what I’m doing there? I told them I heard the guy’s voice and he wasn’t Russian like the victims. They need to know or they’ll be looking in the wrong places. They have to catch him-he has my cellphone, Randall. Somebody’s been calling our house.”
“From your cell?”
“The number was blocked. But I pick up, or my mom picks up, and there’s someone there-you can tell there’s someone there-but he doesn’t say anything. He’s going to figure out where I live, Randall. He probably already knows.”
“If it wasn’t from your cell, I don’t see any reason to worry. It could be anyone. It could be a malfunction on the line, for all you know.”
“It’s him. The police have to catch him.”
“Well, this is great great, Sam. All you’ve succeeded in doing is putting them on to me. Laura is running for office. They haven’t made the announcement yet, but she’s going to be a candidate for MP. If this gets out, all that’ll be over.”
“If what gets out? That you visited a house you’re trying to sell?”
Randall grabbed her shoulder and shook her. “On the same day as a double fucking murder, Sam. With a hot little chick from the Indian reserve? How do you think that’ll play in a political campaign? How do you think that’ll play with my pillar-of-the-community father-in-law? Don’t you ever think of anyone other than yourself? Jesus Christ, Sam. How selfish can you be?”
He let go and Sam rubbed her shoulder. It was the first time Randall had ever touched her with anything other than affection.
“I thought you loved me,” he said. He was staring out the windshield at the snow that was beginning to sift down through the street light. “I really thought you did. But frankly, now I have to wonder.”
“I do, Randall. I do love you. You really don’t believe me?”
He gave a snort. “You’ve got some way of showing it.”
“Do you really hate it that I’m First Nations? I’m just asking-I won’t be mad, if it’s true. I just-does it bug you that much?”
“Oh, Sam…” He turned to her again, his expression softer. He took her hand and rubbed the woollen mitten with his thumb. “I actually love that about you. It makes you interesting-exotic, kind of. Sexy. Unfortunately, a lot of other people don’t think that way. They just think-well, you know how they think. And that makes me very sad.”
Sam buried her face in his shoulder. “Let’s go to a house. You must have another empty house somewhere. Please. I want you so bad.”
“I told Laura I was on my way home.”
“So you’ll be late. And I’ll be late for work.”
“Sam, we can’t do this anymore.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Sam, we can’t.”
“Ever?”
“Not until this is over, that’s for sure. I’m not going to ruin Laura’s career. I may not be the world’s best husband, but I’m not going to do that to her.”
“So you mean I don’t get to see you until they catch the guy and there’s a trial and he’s in prison? That’s years. Is that what you’re saying?”
“We’ll see each other when it’s safe. When we can relax and have a good time together. Which we can’t do now, obviously. It won’t be forever.”
A kind of nausea swirled in Sam’s chest. The word heartsick drifted into her mind. This is what they mean by heartsick. She started to cry.
Randall reached into the glove compartment and handed her a small package of Kleenex. “Come on, now. Take it easy. There’s nothing to cry about. They’ll catch the guy and it’ll all be over and things’ll be fine. You’ll see.” He kissed the top of her head through her hood. “And then I’ll get to kiss you all over your beautiful body again. Because I love you, Sam. Call me crazy, but I honestly, honestly love you. Listen, did you replace your cellphone yet?”
“I’m borrowing my mother’s on the nights I go to work. She likes to check up on me before she goes to bed.”
“Give me the number. I’ll try to find a way to call you-not from home, obviously, and not tonight. But I’ll call. I promise.”
–
The bus made a million stops, ensuring Sam was late getting to Champlain’s. Ken, the manager, gave her hell, as did Jerry, the chef, but she didn’t let it bother her for too long. She felt so much better after seeing Randall. Her fears seemed to be shrinking down to some manageable size. She focused on her work and turned the dishes out efficiently without sacrificing presentation. When there was an unexpected slack period, she cooked up a couple of days’ worth of the cranberry glaze she knew they’d be serving with practically everything now that the Christmas holidays were approaching.
She didn’t let it get to her when Ali brought back a steak saying it was overcooked.
“It’s not overcooked,” she said. “You asked for medium, that’s medium.”
“You want to go out there and argue with them?”
Sam put another steak on the grill. She kept a close eye on it, but all she could think about was that Randall still cared about her-cared so much, he was worried she didn’t love him. When Ali came back, the new steak was on the plate, practically bleeding.
“It’s medium?”
“The last one was medium. Tell Geoff to pick up his sole almondine-it’s been sitting here for five minutes.”
At ten o’clock, her mother called. “Can’t you get a ride home? I don’t like you having to take the bus late at night.”
“It’s okay. I have the timing down, so I don’t have to wait long.”
“What exactly is wrong with your car, anyway?”
“It’s got asthma or something. It won’t start. I gotta go, Mom, it’s really busy.”
“Okay, hon. Good night, then.”
Jerry Wing came over, wearing his parka. “I need you to make the cranberry glaze.”
“It’s done.” Sam pointed at the two bowls on her chopping board. “I’ll put them in the fridge before I go.”
“You already made them?” Jerry put his hood up, even though it must’ve been eighty-five degrees in the kitchen, Chinese eyes blinking out at her from the fur.
“Think you’ll be warm enough?” she said. “You’re dressed for Inuvik.”
“I evolved for a different climate.” He raised a mitten in farewell. Sam was glad he wasn’t mad at her anymore. Relieved, anyway.
The trouble with having a passionate nature, she reflected as she was shutting down her station, is that you can’t win either way. Even when you’re happy, it’s more like a kind of relief-relief that you’re not feeling the alternative. The sting of Jerry’s anger. The agony that would take over her life if Randall dumped her. It’s the happiness of not falling off a cliff. Is Loreena Moon happy? No. Because Loreena Moon doesn’t love anybody. Loreena doesn’t worry about falling off any cliffs either.
Sam looked at the kitchen clock. Eleven-fifteen. She had exactly three minutes to make the bus. She ducked into the supply closet and changed out of her cook’s outfit, threw on her coat, and ran out the door and across the parking lot, reaching the bus stop with less than a minute to spare. It was not as cold as before. The earlier snow had melted, leaving the parking lot and the highway gleaming blackly in the street lights.
The bus was overheated. Sam sat near the middle exit, sweating after the kitchen and her run. She wiped an arc of clarity on the fogged windowpane and rested her head against the cool glass. The fast-food joints and the shopping malls slid by, impossibly bright oases along the slick, dark road. There were only three other passengers and they got off one by one along the route through town, long before the bus passed the Fur Harvesters’ warehouse and approached the Nipissing reserve.
She got out at the turnoff. The intersection was brightly lit, but after that the street lights along the access road were spaced far apart until you actually got into the residential area. Sam had never in her life worried about walking along this road, even late at night, but she worried now.
She walked quickly, trying to put herself into a Loreena frame of mind. Cool. Brave. Not brave-fearless. She was managing quite well, keeping her breathing fairly normal and her heart reasonably quiet, until she went up a slight rise and rounded a curve and saw the car parked on the shoulder.
She stopped. Smells of trees and wet road. Sounds of trucks on the highway not far off.
It’s just a car, she said. The lights aren’t on. The motor isn’t running. There’s no one in it. Those are headrests.
Sam crossed the road to be on the far side from it. Courage would be a nice item to list in one’s catalogue of virtues, but if it was not available she would just have to make do with caution. She continued up the road, the lights of her street visible at the top of the rise.
She was nearly even with the car. Glancing toward it. Yes, empty. She made a pact with herself that she would not look over again as she passed by. She would keep it in her peripheral vision, but she would not actually look.
It wasn’t a vow she had to keep long. The driver’s-side door opened and a man got out-a really tall man. He had to have been hunched down for her not to see him. His face was covered in a black woollen thing with holes for mouth and eyes.
“Come here.” There was something long and metal dangling from his hand.
Sam ran.
His steps were right behind her, his stride matching hers. “You didn’t see anything,” he said. “You didn’t see anything. You don’t know anything.”
Something nicked the back of Sam’s coat. She kept running, forcing her legs to move faster. She thought about making a dash for the trees-he might have more trouble keeping up there-but she stayed right in the middle of the road, praying for headlights, a car, people.
He wasn’t behind her anymore. She heard the car start, and his headlights threw her shadow the length of the road to the top of the rise. Then her shadow began to shrink. She feinted left, ran right, the darkness of the trees.
She wasn’t going to make it. He was going to run her down. She stopped and dodged left, the car cutting her off. He was out and after her again.
Legs, lungs, heart, all straining at their physical limits. She simply could not run any faster. Her street came up and she made as if to go by it, then took a sudden right. Her house was the third on the right. She ran past it to the fourth, the fifth, dodged right again, and then she was in Cal Couchie’s backyard. Sweet old guy, but about two hundred years old and stone deaf.
Sam ran back to her own backyard. Her keys were in her hand. She couldn’t hear the man behind her anymore. She could stay in the darkness of the backyard and scream for help, but that might just bring him right to her. She pulled out her mother’s cellphone and hit 911. It rang three times before someone picked up.
“Emergency services, location please.”
“1712 Commanda Crescent. A man is after me.”
“Can you speak up? I didn’t hear you.”
“Oh, God. 1712 Commanda Crescent. Send someone now. He’s going to kill me.”
She shoved the phone back into her pocket and peered around the corner of the garage. No one.
She made for the side door and he came from around the front, black and featureless. She wouldn’t make it to the house. She veered back to the garage and got her key into the lock and got the door open and inside and turned the lock again as he slammed into it with a noise like thunder that made her scream. It didn’t come out as a scream but like a noise her cat might have made. He wouldn’t be able to bust through that door-that was only in the movies, right? Doors don’t break that easily.
There was a splintering sound, and she remembered that long thing he’d been carrying. A crowbar.
It was dark in the garage, but she was afraid to turn on the light. She felt her way around to the far side of the car. Not locked, thank God. She opened the passenger door and the dome light came on, just enough of a glow to make out her father’s workbench, the shapes of hammers and saws and wrenches.
That splintering sound again.
She shut the car door and moved through the dark to the workbench and got up on it, damaged knee screaming. She felt on the wall and pulled down the crossbow, felt to her right for the leather quiver. She got behind the car and fitted an arrow into the groove, and wound it back until the loud click told her it was cocked. The Vixen had an automatic safety that she now pressed into the Off position.
Sam saw it in her head before it happened. She knew how it would look-dark silhouette against the glow from the moon and the street lights. After that he would find the light and he would kill her.
The door crashed open. The dark shape. Sam stood up and released the arrow. The man doubled over and made a sound like he was puking. He fell back, got up, staggered, fell against the garage. Then his footsteps-uneven, dragging-moving away.
She waited behind the car. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. She’d seen squirrels breathing like that when Pootkin stalked them.
After a time she heard a distant siren, and closer, the sound of voices and car doors slamming. The squawk of a radio.
Flashlight beams playing over the surfaces outside, and then a man’s voice, cautious, saying, “Police. Police. Hello?”
A cop’s face and hat flashed in the doorway and disappeared again.
“I’m going to have to ask you to put down that weapon, miss. Now.”
“Did you catch him?”
“We have an individual in custody.”
“Tall bastard with a mask on?”
“He also has an arrow sticking out of his liver. Now put down the weapon and step to the front of that car and place your hands on the hood. I’m not asking.”
Sam looked at the bow. She didn’t even remember doing it, but there was another arrow in the bow and it was cranked all the way back.