Before I Wake (25 page)

“That's good.”

I was stunned. “Do you really mean that?” I asked.

“When we were up in Tofino, and he saw the newspaper story”—she shook her head—“It was pretty clear that this is still his home. This is where he needed to be.”

Her eyes were bright. “I know what you must think of me, but I never wanted to be the kind of person who—if Simon was going to be with me, I wanted him to want to be with me, not—”

“Not just running from something else.”

Our eyes met, and she nodded.

She leaned back into the couch, spent.

I wished I could hate her.

The doorbell rang.

SIMON

The bank machine spat out several hundred dollars in twenties, which I scooped out of the basin and tucked into my wallet, keenly aware of the small group of youths hanging around the vestibule. I studied the balance. There was enough. And soon my severance would kick in.

“Spare some change?” one of the girls asked as I came out.

I shook my head. “No, not tonight.” I tensed, aware of the other kids around me, half-expecting to be jumped from behind.

“Have a good night anyway,” the girl said, smiling. An angel of the concrete.

“Thanks,” I stammered. “You too.”

It was dark and colder than it had been through the afternoon—it was hard to stop shivering. My jacket was too thin
and the wind cut through it. The prostitutes were huddled in doorways, out of the wind, any exposed skin raising in chicken flesh. None of them spoke to me in the three blocks between the bank and the hotel.

The lobby of the Balmoral was almost too warm, thick with voices and cigarette smoke from the adjoining pub, one of the roughest in Victoria.

The desk was staffed by someone who appeared to be in his late teens, face pocked with acne scars, hair dyed blond and cut close to his skull. As I approached he barely looked up.

“I'd like to rent a room,” I said, attempting to be casual.

“For the night?” he asked, pulling a pink registration slip from under the counter.

“Do you have weekly rates?”

He nodded, bored. “Hourly. Daily. Weekly. Monthly.”

“What's the weekly rate?”

“Private or shared?”

I must have looked confused.

“Bathroom,” he snapped. “Private or shared?”

“Private.”

He named the price and I nodded.

“In advance.”

“Sure.” I filled out the registration form with the chewed ballpoint.

“You have to fill in your vehicle registration,” he interjected, pointing at the appropriate line, which I had left blank. His fingernail was chewed down to the quick.

“I don't have a car.”

“Hmm,” he said, as if lacking a car had lowered me in his estimation.

He separated the copies of my registration form, handing me the illegible yellow copy, trading the pink copy for the key in the slot marked 316.

“Elevator's over there.” He gestured vaguely toward an area behind the entrance to the pub.

My room was on the third floor around the corner from the ice machine and overlooked the street. I was surprised to find it mostly clean—it smelled of stale cigarette smoke and fresh cleanser—and mostly quiet, street noise blocked by the triple-paned glass. There were burn marks on the windowsill, and a small cigarette hole in the bedspread. When I pulled back the sheets they were worn but clean. On the wall above the head of the bed was an atrocious painting of a ship on a dark sea; facing the bed was a small television, a remote control resting atop the cable box. In the bathroom there was a single glass on the shelf, wrapped in white paper. When I unwrapped it to get a drink of water, it was so badly scratched it was textured.

I went back to the door, shot the bolt and hooked the chain.

Then I sat at the end of the bed, facing the television, my hands on my knees. My reflection was stretched and distorted, a rumpled caricature of someone I could barely recognize.

KAREN

There was a stranger at the door, squinting under the porch light.

I stepped back, bumping into Mary.

“Good evening,” he said. He fumbled in his pocket for his identification. “I'm Sergeant Richards, with the Victoria Police.” He was a large man, solid but starting to go soft. The sort of man who would always seem rumpled, whose suits would never fit quite right.

“You're Karen Barrett?” he asked, folding his wallet back into his pocket.

“Yes.”

“I'd like to have a word, if you've got a minute.”

“Come in. It's easier to talk inside.”

“I waited until the reporters left,” he said as I led him toward the family room. “I didn't think there was any need for anyone to read about this in the morning paper.”

“Read about what?” Mary asked.

“And you are?”

Mary glanced at me, then back at the policeman. “Mary Edwards,” she said, extending her hand.

He shook it firmly. “You're an attorney, right? You work with Mr. Barrett.”

She nodded, then corrected both herself and him. “Until this morning.”

He seemed surprised. “This morning?”

“Simon was terminated by the firm this morning,” I explained.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Barrett. I know your husband.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “He did some work for me a couple of years ago. Really helped me out. Did his dismissal have anything to do with the story in the paper?”

“What do you think?”

We all sat down. “Yeah. Well, unfortunately, that's why I'm here.” He took a small notebook and pen from inside his jacket and opened to a fresh page.

“Mrs. Barrett,” he started, “we've received some reports that are somewhat alarming, so we wanted to talk—”

“Sergeant, is there a police investigation concerning Mr. and Mrs. Barrett?” Mary interrupted, her voice calm.

He shook his head. “No, there isn't an active investigation. We've received some reports and we wanted to look into them.”

Mary nodded. “That's fine, then. But if it turns out there is a criminal investigation, I think you'll find this interview of little evidentiary value.”

“And why is that?”

“Because Mrs. Barrett doesn't have an attorney present.”

“You mean you don't represent Mrs. Barrett?” It was hard to tell, but it seemed like the Sergeant might be making a joke.

“Sergeant Richards, I don't represent Mrs. Barrett in any way whatsoever.”

“Well, I can assure you, Miss Edwards, that there is no active criminal investigation. I've just got a few questions, starting with Donna and Jeffrey Kelly.”

“That's fine,” I said, leaning back into the cushions.

“Do you believe that your daughter can heal the sick?”

“I don't know. There have been a few people—Sherry's nurse, her sister—but we've never claimed that Sherry can…can do any of those things.”

“Did you ever ask Donna Kelly for money, in exchange for using your daughter's powers to heal her son?”

“No.”

“Yet Ms. Kelly claims you told her that unless she paid, you wouldn't let Jeffrey see Sherry.”

“Did she tell you that herself?”

He looked up from his notebook.

“Because we've tried calling her—”

“That's probably not the best idea.”

“—and we haven't been able to get in touch.”

“Yeah. We're responding to published reports.”

“So you haven't spoken to her either.”

Richards shook his head. “So no money changed hands.”

“No.”

“Have you asked for money from any of the other people who have come to see your daughter?”

“No. I wouldn't have taken any if they had offered.”

“And how many people would you say came through here today?”

“I'd have to check. Between thirty and forty, I think. I've got a list of their names, addresses and everything if you need it.”

He wrote the figure down in his notebook. “That would be handy.”

I was about to stand up, to look for Jamie's clipboard, when Mary cleared her throat.

“Have you got a fax number where we can send the list, Sergeant? We'd like to keep our files complete.”

“Sure.” Reaching into his pocket, he passed me a business card. “All my numbers are on there.”

He closed his notebook and tucked it back into his pocket. “I think that's everything,” he said. “I can't…” He shook his head. “You might be hearing from someone else in the department in the next few days. Depending on if there are complaints or reports.” He seemed uncomfortable, shifting slightly from foot to foot.

“Mrs. Barrett. Will you be talking to Simon?”

I nodded.

“Could you get him to give me a call the next time you're talking to him?”

“Sure. I'll tell him.”

“Thanks. And thanks for taking the time.” He extended his hand.

After I saw him out I came back to the family room where Mary was still sitting on the couch.

“That was strange,” I said.

She nodded. “Yes, it was.”

For some reason, I found Mary's uncertainty disturbing.

HENRY

I was walking along the narrow corridor behind the children's section, almost ready to give up my search for Tim, when I smelled a trace of cigar smoke. I pushed open the door to the women's washroom.

Tim was sitting on the counter, leaning against the tiled wall, watching the smoke from his cigar curl up toward the exhaust fan in the ceiling.

“Someone told me to say hello to you,” I said.

He looked almost unconcerned. “And?”

“A priest. He said his name was Peter.”

His eyebrows rose a little. “Really? Interesting.” He took another pull from his cigar and rolled it between his thumb
and forefinger. “Where did you meet this man?”

I felt almost embarrassed to tell him. “I was at the Barretts' house this afternoon. I wanted to see what was going on.”

“He was there?”

I nodded. “When I got there everyone was leaving, except him. He was just standing there.”

“Alone?”

“I think so,” I answered guardedly. “I didn't see anyone else.”

He rolled the cigar thoughtfully. “That's unusual,” he said quietly, more to himself than to me. “He's rarely alone.”

“So you know him?”

He nodded. “What did the two of you talk about?”

Isolated images, of his cold eyes, his uneven teeth behind his thin lips. “Well, he, he knew who I was. Then he asked—Tim, how did he know who I was?”

“Your picture has been in the paper—”

“No, how did he see me?”

Sighing, Tim shifted his weight around so he was looking at me full on. “His name's not actually Peter.”

“I didn't think so. And your name's not really Tim.”

He shrugged. “He's a very old man who made a bad choice a long time ago and has been trying to make amends ever since.”

“And you?”

“The same could be said about me. Just another old man who made a bad choice.”

“There's more to it than that,” I said, my voice loud in the tiled room. “There has to be.”

“You'll find, Henry, that there's always more to it—”

“Oh, cut the old sage stuff, man. Who is he and what does he want?”

Tim shook his head at my anger. “I don't know what he wants, or what he has planned. I will say this, though.” He leaned forward, dangling the hand holding his cigar between his knees. “He's done terrible things in the past. Or convinced others to do them.”

“And what have you done?”

“Many things, Henry,” he said. “Time is long. And old men forget…”

“That's not an answer.”

“No, it's Shakespeare.”

Raising the cigar to his lips, he took a gentle tug. Then another, longer. Finally, he took the cigar from his mouth and studied the cold, gray-black tip.

He was trying to relight it as I left the ladies' room.

MARY

I looked down at my plate: potatoes, grilled chicken, carrots and garlic almond beans, with a bowl of lettuce and endive salad on one side. “This all looks so good,” I said.

Karen smiled a little at the compliment, but I could feel a bit of the chill returning. “Thank you for your help with it,” she said politely. “Do you cook much yourself?”

“No, not too much. I've usually got so much going on, with work, and…” I realized suddenly how all of this might be taken by Karen, forced to stay at home with Sherry. I trailed off.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy what?” I took a sip of my wine.

“Being a lawyer. I know that Simon loves it, but I've never really understood why.” She seemed to be trying to minimize any offense I might take.

I nodded. “I love it,” I said. “It's all I ever wanted to do.”

“Really? It wasn't something your parents pushed you into?”

“God, no,” I said. “I was born in a VW microbus in North Africa somewhere. My parents have never even been sure what country they were in when it happened. They were in one of those mobile communes, going wherever the wind took them.” I shrugged. “We lived in Ireland for a few years when I was little, then came back to Canada. They opened up an organic foods store up-island. They flipped when I told them I
wanted to be a lawyer. God, I might as well have told them that I wanted to be an air force pilot dropping napalm on some village somewhere.”

Karen laughed. “So I guess you could say they discouraged you?”

“You could say that. They thought that I should be an artist—maybe write poetry, edit a little magazine, do raku. But I liked the stability of the law, the order.” I chuckled, taking another sip of my wine, risked a joke. “I was rebellious. Started shaving my legs and everything.”