Woman Chased by Crows (22 page)

Bastard, she thought. Thanks a heap. Get a lawyer, work out some trust or something but make sure “ol' itchy-pants” can't touch it. Get rid of all his stuff. Fuck! That damn apartment of his is an antique shop. Crammed. All his crap and treasures and who knows what? Sort it, pack it, move it, store it, sell it. Thanks a fucking heap. You're damn lucky you're dead asshole or I'd fucking kill you! And then she started to weep, slumped on her kitchen floor, hiding her face in her hands and sobbing, deep uncontrollable waves of pain and grief.

A strong west wind was in her face. She stayed on the south side of the Danforth, walking the seven blocks from Main to Woodbine. Grova's shop was on the north side, and she wanted to see it first from a distance, make certain of the street number, check the lane for fire stairs, back doors, hiding places, escape routes. The subway station was close. If she had to run, she wanted to know which way and how far.

“Grova's Pawn, Jewellery and collectibles, bought and sold.” Peeling paint, sputtering neon, a gigantic dusty rubber tree that hadn't moved since the last time she saw it, and a well-used “Closed” sign taped to the inside of the door pane. She crossed at the Woodbine intersection, counted the store fronts to his entrance — bank, thrift shop, smoke shop, pub and . . . five.

Grova would salivate the minute he heard the word ruby. He wanted the Ember more than anything he'd ever lusted after, and he'd lusted after
everything
, all his life. Greed. That's all he was. Need. Getting, holding, owning. Through his scummy window she could see what he valued most in the world.
Things
. The narrow store was crammed from floor to ceiling with
things
. They were all alike to him. Worth everything and worth nothing — guitars and socket wrenches, cameras and ski poles, pornographic video tapes and mismatched silver servers, some with bigger price tags — Grova knew the difference between a Rolex and a Timex — but the need to have them was just the same. And, as with all those who hungered and grabbed and hoarded, he never found the thing that would fill the hole in him. Until the Ember. It was the ultimate prize. The one thing truly worth having. But he only believed that because he didn't have it.

The upper floor lights were on where the troll lived, sometimes with his wastrel stepson when the degenerate wasn't in jail or on the run from people trying to collect money. Was there a wife these days? She left him years ago, but she could be back, or there could be a new one. Not likely. Likely he was up there all alone, sitting in his crowded room, counting his things.

It now cost fifty cents to make a call from a public telephone, if you could find a phone booth. And of course the Yellow Pages were missing. Grova's phone number was on his window. She retraced her steps and then read it aloud a few times to memorize it.

In the smoke shop next door she bought a package of Players. The price had gone up again, overnight. Someone really wanted her to quit. At the rear of the store a fat man was methodically tearing open a wad of tiny pull-tab lottery tickets, one after the other, dropping them into the trash bin. Grova's stepson. What was his name? David? Darryl. That was it. Almost didn't recognize him; he had become a middle-aged, balding fat man, even less appealing than when he was in his twenties. Time continues to fly, she thought, and is not always kind. He was absorbed in losing his money and didn't look up as she slipped out to the street.

The phone booth was on the opposite side of Danforth, with a view of the store and the second-floor windows. She whispered the numbers as she pressed the buttons. It rang five times before he answered.

“Yeah, what?” Familiar voice, thick-tongued, guttural, unfriendly.

“Charming as always, Louie.”

“Who is this?”

“Oh please, Louie, you know who it is. Have you heard from Viktor?”

“Viktor who?”

“Good boy. That is right. Viktor
who
. Your old business partner is not with us any longer, is he, Louie? He has gone the way of all the rest. Except you and me. And Sergei, of course. Sergei is still around, is he not? Perhaps he is upstairs with you as we speak.”

“What do you want?”

“The question is, what do
you
want, Louie? What is the one thing you
really
want.”

There was silence on his end except for audible breathing. She imagined him trying not to dribble. “You still have it?”

“Of course I have it. I have always had it.”

More silence. She smiled to herself. His mind is racing, he is assessing his position, counting his options, trying to figure out how to turn things to his advantage. “And what?” he said. “You want to sell it?”

“That is the trouble is it not, Louie? Who could afford it?”

“There are people.”

“I suppose there are, but I do not know any of them. Do you?”

Darryl was coming out of the smoke shop. “Your son is coming up,” she said. “Tell him to go out for a while. Give him some money for lottery tickets and beer. I will wait until I see him leaving.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm close by, but I will not be if I start feeling uncomfortable.”

“I'll get rid of him.”

“You do that.”

People were exiting the thrift shop with huge plastic bags filled with things. She ducked around the corner and opened her package of very expensive cigarettes, lit one and inhaled deeply. From her vantage point she could keep an eye on Grova's place. There was a dark shadow filling the upstairs window. He was trying to see where she was. Good luck. In her brown coat and brown wig she looked like any other bargain hunter.

Two cigarettes later, Darryl came outside. She was expecting him to duck into the pub next door, but he set off toward the subway station with his hands jammed deep in his pockets. She shadowed him from the opposite sidewalk until she saw him pay his fare and push his bulk through the turnstiles. Definitely going somewhere. Maybe Louie told him to get out of the neighbourhood for a while. Maybe he told him to go for help. If he was making a subway trip, he would be gone at least thirty minutes. Enough time. One way or another.

Into the lane, counting — bank, dollar store, smoke shop, pub . . . five. Grova's shaky back stairway was an obstacle course flouting any known fire code. Descending in a hurry would demand fancy footwork. As she climbed she visualized the choreography, instinctively setting it to music. It's
Giselle
, she thought, going mad and dashing through the square, only this time I'll have to avoid the boxes, plastic cartons, machine parts, cans of paint and motor oil. She smiled, a piece of cake.

The landing at the top was impregnable; a troop of Cossacks couldn't breach it, two mattresses, a wall of beer cases, a year of newspapers. The kitchen window was open. She pushed on the railing, testing it, straddling it, leaning across open space to reach the window sill. It could be done, which was good because she had reached the point where it
must
be done, there was no way back.
Flucht nach vorn.
No doubt about it, this was a day for leaping.

“Detective Crean? This is Anya Zubrovskaya. I'm letting you know that I'm going to go away for a little. I'm not sure how long.”

“Doesn't say where, Chief.”

“Any ideas?” She had caught him with his mouth full.

“I'm not rolling in them. Hospital says I can talk to Lorna Ruth now. That's top of my list.”

There were shortbread crumbs on his desk blotter. “Okay, Detective. You go talk to the good doctor, see if she has anything useful.” He shifted a piece of paper to hide them. “I don't think we need to scour the town, she's obviously not here. Sure would like to know where she went, though. Wouldn't you?”

“Has she got a passport, Chief?”

“I don't know. Possibly — she's a citizen, as far as I know. It would be in her real name, Zubrovskaya.” He was surprised at how quickly her name came to his lips. “Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya. She made me practice it.” There were a few stray crumbs clinging to his blue tie. Sure to be noticed. Oh what the hell, he was a grown man, if he wanted a cookie with his afternoon coffee, he was entitled. “She's travelling light?”

“Yes sir, I think so. Didn't take much.”

“Well I'm not calling out the fire department. She hasn't done anything, she's not a material witness, far as we know.”

“But maybe scared. Maybe running for her life.”

“See, Detective? That's the part that's worrying the heck out of me. There's a lot of death and destruction connected with this thing. I'm going to have to tell someone. We could be sitting on a . . . an international
incident
, for all I know.”

“Or a steaming pile, sir. Not to put too fine a point on it.”

“Or, yes, Stacy, point taken, a big bunch of lies from a woman with a dubious record of sanity.” He held his tie away from his shirt front and brushed it. “You've still got the weekend. Might as well stay on it. If you're so inclined.”

Stay on it. Stay
on
it? Stay on
what
? What's left to stay
on
?

Lorna Ruth had a bandage on one side of her head. The right side. Hit from behind by a right-handed man, taller than her and not too particular about how badly he'd hurt her. Or if he'd killed her.

“Feeling better, Doctor?”

“Yes, somewhat.”

“Do you feel up to answering a few questions? I won't stay long.”

“I don't know how much I can tell you. I didn't see who did it, he hit me from behind. I
think
he hit me from behind. There could have been two of them, someone in my office and another one behind me. But I can't be sure.” She touched the side of her head with her fingertips. “There was one. I know that much.”

“Do you have any idea what he was after?”

“There's nothing valuable in there. Everything is in boxes, anyway. How would they even know where to . . . ?”