Sundowner Ubunta (35 page)

He must have been reading my mind because he yelled at me: “My car’s right there!”

Parked on the street in front of PWC was a shiny, new, red Sonata with a Hertz sticker on the rear bumper.

“Keys!” I bellowed as I pushed him ahead of me toward the car, keeping myself between him and the house. He tossed me a set of keys, and I pushed a button and heard the comforting sound of doors unlocking just as we reached for them, me at the driver’s side and Matthew the passenger side: all very Sonny-Crockett-Rico-Tubbs-from-
Miami-Vice
-like.

When the motor roared to life, I slammed into Drive and pulled away faster than a hot wax strip from a hairy back. I would have loved nothing better than to march back into PWC and confront (and identify) the intruder, but I knew my first priority was to get the real Matthew Ridge out of the danger he’d unwittingly stepped into. As I roared down peaceful Spadina, careful not to ram the back ends of Sunday drivers looking to park near one of the cathedrals in the neighbourhood, I checked the rear-view mirror. I could see no unusual or furtive activity in or around PWC. We’d made it! So far.

“What is going on?” Matthew asked once he sensed my stress level had lowered enough for an impromptu Q&A. “Why am I in danger? Who is chasing us? Where is my mother? You said something about a
pretend
Clara Ridge? Is my mother okay? Is she in danger too? Please, you have to tell me something,” he pleaded.

He was right, but I waited until we were safely over the Broadway Bridge-alone-and heading for home before I began the convoluted story. I gave him the high points (or low points depending on how you look at it, I suppose) and then waited for his reaction as we pulled up to the garage at the back of my yard.

Without the garage door opener (which was in my car), we couldn’t get in, but, although I’d seen no evidence of being tailed, I thought it was safer to park in the back alley than on the street.

“So my mother isn’t looking for me after all?” Matthew said in a subdued, melancholy voice, his already tired-looking face slipping into haggardness.

My eyes caught his, and I wished I could somehow ease the pain I saw there. But the facts of what had transpired to bring him here were what they were; I could not change that. He’d come all this way solely because he believed that his mother, whom he hadn’t seen in twenty years, wanted to reunite with him.

He’d felt abandoned, unwanted, unloved, and now, even after all those years, he had hope that all of those feelings could be, if not erased, at least eased. I felt awful. I couldn’t begin to understand what he was 157 of 170

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going through.

I reached over and placed my hand on his forearm. “Matthew, I talked to your real mother yesterday.

She
does
want to see you. Badly.” I wasn’t sure if I was telling the big blond man the complete truth, but I had to give him some hope. Without it he’d be lost. He’d return to Africa and bury himself so deep that he’d never be found again.

“Really?” I loved the look on his face. In many ways he still
was
that little boy who landed in trouble, was sent away, and never got to go home again.

“Matthew, we can’t waste any more time right now.” I didn’t want to give him a chance to ask too many more questions about his real mother’s intentions. “Someone is after you, and I have to find a way to protect you until I find out who they are and what they want with you.”

He was still understandably perplexed. “This doesn’t make any sense. Who could be doing this?”

I kept mum. The silence sat between us like a bubble full of words about to burst.

He studied my face and said, “You know who it is, don’t you?”

“Come on,” was my only answer, reaching for the door handle.

“Where are we going now?” he asked, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. “What is this place?” All he could see from where we were parked were the big blank doors of my garage and the high fence that surrounds my yard.

“This is my house,” I told him. “I need to make some quick phone calls.” Rough translation: I don’t know if it’s safe for you here either, so I gotta find someplace to stash you. What I did know was that if they’d found my office, they’d find my home. We were not out of the woods yet, but I hoped, at least for the next little while, we’d be okay here.

I looked at Matthew and wordlessly asked him to trust me.

“Okay,” he whispered.

We got out of the car. I led Matthew around the garage and through the gate that leads into the back yard, warning him to be careful on a couple of icy spots that had yet to melt away. We had just passed the twiggy bare branches of a trio of Miss Kim lilacs when I saw the body.

I gagged.

It was Barbra.

For the briefest of seconds I almost allowed choking grief to overwhelm me. I felt the wells of my eyes fill with burning tears; my knees began to buckle; my insides became a quaking mass that seemed to want to expel itself from my body.

I never want to feel what I felt then ever again, or see what I saw ever again.

Suddenly, that mildly cool, Sunday morning in March had grown unbearably cold.

“Stop!” I hissed at Matthew, using the flat of my left hand to press him back behind the questionable protection of the lilac bushes, while at the same time pulling the gun I’d held on him earlier that morning from the waistband of my pants. I forced him down into a crouching position, with me next to him, and snuck glances around the bushes in an effort to assess the situation.

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“What? What is it?” He hadn’t seen my dog’s still body, he didn’t know how grave the situation had abruptly become, and I didn’t have the time to explain. I needed to go to the side of my beloved pet, to be with her, regardless of the potential danger.

From my position I could see Barbra lying motionless on the ground, next to a metalwork bird bath, and near her mouth, burning bright red against the whiteness of the snow, were spittles of blood. I looked up at the sky, blotchy with sun dogs, and gulped at the fresh air. My girl. My best friend. I wanted to scream my outrage, my fury at whatever or whoever was responsible for this. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would surely burst. I moved a little further forward and craned my neck, hoping to catch sight of the back of the house; but it was impossible, blocked by ornamental trees, shrubs, garden benches and statuary.

To hell with it, I thought to myself. “You stay here!” I ordered Matthew. “Do not move until I come back for you. Do you understand? Do Not Move!”

He nodded his compliance and was smart enough to keep quiet as I scuttled towards Barbra’s body.

Almost there, almost there, almost there, then…

Not ten metres away from where Barbra lay was a second body. I was felled by the immensity of the tragedy that had visited my home in the short hours since I’d left it that morning. It was Brutus. Brother and sister had been taken down together in an act of unfathomable brutality.

I literally dropped to my knees, halfway between the two, as if shot through the heart with an arrow.

And then, more horror as I looked up and saw yet another sign of treachery. About midway between the back of the house and the spot where I was near-immobilized with grief, I could see where fresh snow had been disturbed, mushed about as if there’d been some kind of tussle, and in the centre of the rough circle of trampled snow was a darkness that I knew…even without seeing it up close, without smelling it, without touching its stickiness, I knew…it was more blood.

Alex.

In the time it took me to get up and run to the back door of the house, I managed to convince myself that although I was too late to help my dear, sweet dogs, there was still a chance I could save Alex. Whoever did this, and I was certain I knew who it was, could still be in there. I hoped he was.

Because I wanted to kill him.

I had to be smart about this. As long as the asshole hadn’t seen me arrive or my discovery of Barbra and Brutus, I might have a chance-however small-to take him by surprise. I snuck up to the rear of the house and plastered myself against it, counted to ten, then dared a look through the glass of the kitchen sliding door. Nothing.

The door was unlocked. Centimetre by centimetre I eased it open until I’d created a space wide enough to get me and my gun through.

I stepped inside, anxious to help Alex, yet scared of what I might find. It was mid-morning, the room was cast in shadows, and the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator. I inched forward, pistol at the ready.

I made a dash for the kitchen island and fell into a low crouch behind it.

The room was empty. My body was reverberating with adrenaline. My right hand was clasping the handle of the gun so hard I could feel my knuckles scream with the pain of it. I had to lessen the pressure.

But no, I realized, I couldn’t. If I did, my hand would begin to tremble.

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I considered my next move. I had one thing going for me: I knew this territory better than anyone else.

To the left of the kitchen was the dining room, and off of it a hallway that led to the guest bedroom and bath; to the right was the living room, and another hallway to the den and master bedroom; either direction would eventually take me to the foyer and front door.

Which way? I had to focus my mind; I had to eradicate the refrain that echoed through it like a mantra: Alex. Where is Alex? Is Alex okay? I searched the floor for a telltale trail of blood, but saw none. I hoped that was a good sign.

Make a move, Quant, and make it a good one.

I decided on right and, rising slowly, moved in the direction of the living room, using whatever furniture was available along the way for cover and stealth.

He wasn’t on the couches, by the fireplace, or near the grand piano. I crept toward the bar and peeked over the edge to see behind it.

Nothing.

Where was he? Where was he?

Maybe…maybe he wasn’t here at all?

But I knew I wasn’t wrong about what was going on here. Not only did I have the bodies of my two pups lying outside in the snow to prove it, but I could smell it. Evil had been here, and it reeked, like caustic poison, cooking oil gone bad, days-old garbage, death. Yes, evil had definitely been here.

A noise.

I fell back behind a bar stool, poor cover, but all I had, and listened.

Nothing. I waited. Nothing. Make another move, Quant.

I was about to slither down the length of the bar and make my way into the hallway to the rest of that side of the house, to my bedroom and den, when from the corner of my eye I saw it, through the living room’s arched passageway into the foyer, a sight I’d been dreading.

A foot.

I had to remember to breathe.

It was the foot of someone who wasn’t standing up.

I recognized the shoe immediately.

It belonged to Alex Canyon. Was he alone? Was he…hurt? Worse? I swallowed everything horrible that was boiling up inside me like water in an unwatched kettle and, using the piano for cover, slid closer for a look.

Closer.

Closer.

I still couldn’t see anything but the foot and the lower half of a jeans-clad leg. Alex’s leg.

Was it a trap? Was someone luring me into position? Time was wasting. Alex might be hurt and in need of immediate attention. I could stand it no longer. I rose to my full height and brandished my weapon 160 of 170

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ahead of me like a sword of honour (and hopefully, protection). I stepped toward the foyer, each centimetre bringing the body lying in the foyer more fully into view; Alex’s foot, his legs, his waist, torso, shoulders…face.

I felt my temperature spike with a temper and rage I’d not known before.

Alex had been propped against the front door. His hands were tied behind his back, and his head had fallen to the side. His mouth was gagged, and I could see two wounds on his body from which blood had oozed, staining his clothing to saturation-one at his chest and one at his left knee. Like Barbra and Brutus, he wasn’t moving. The mighty Alex Canyon, my glorious gladiator, my Goliath, had fallen.

I could hold it back no longer, and an unimaginable grief consumed me like a black plague. My whole world had collapsed that morning. Three of the best things in my life were taken from me, taken and systematically destroyed.

I felt as though I was going to pass out.

And then Alex’s eyes opened.

With his mouth gagged, he could not speak, but in his eyes I saw a riotous collection of competing emotions: pain, guilt, fear, anger and finally…warning!

It was too late.

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“Put the gun on the floor, kick it away, and turn around very slowly,” the voice told me.

I did as ordered.

It was Matthew Moxley I saw when I turned around.

He was standing in front of the business end of a gun being held by a man I’d never seen before. He was smaller than Matthew, compact and sturdy, with tousled dark hair and vaguely Mediterranean features. Written across his face, like an advertisement of his guilt, were two angry scratches running from the corner of his left eye to the edge of his thin-lipped mouth. Courtesy of Thandile Chikosi.

I knew who he was. The man with the limp. The man who’d followed me to Ethan Ash’s house and later assaulted him. The man who’d followed me to Africa and attacked the couple in Khayelitsha. The man behind the mask of the fake Clara Ridge. The man who’d
really
hired me to find Matthew Ridge.

He was Robin Haywood, the boy Matthew Ridge had bashed, nearly to death, twenty years ago, now grown up. The “…Robin with the broken wing…” as Errall had recalled him being labelled by a
StarPhoenix
article, an article I had subsequently dug up from the library archives. According to the newspaper report I’d found, Robin Haywood had survived his beating, barely, and spent months in the hospital recuperating from his wounds. The doctor’s prognosis was that in time he would fully recover-physical-ly-except for his right leg-the broken wing-which would leave him with a permanent limp. It seemed a small price, given the severity of the beating, but the bigger damage done to Robin Haywood-the wound that was never treated and never healed- was psychological. It was only after reading this article that I knew for sure that my theory was correct: the limping man was Robin Haywood.