A Murder of Crows (30 page)

“Who's this guy, Mr. Roberts?” He'd looked down. There were
photographs: a man outside then inside Leena's restaurant. The same man two tables away from him and Trish at Rancho Relaxo. “This is the same guy you showed me last night who was watching the house I grew up in,” he'd said.

She'd nodded.

“Who is he?”

“That's what I want you to tell me.”

“Well I can't, because I don't know who he is.”

“Think, Mr. Roberts, think.”

“I don't fucking know. I don't know him.”

“Is that the truth, Mr. Roberts? The truth?”

“Yes. Yes and yes. I don't know who that is.”

“You're a lousy liar, Decker.”

“Be that as it may, I don't know who the fuck that is. Got it?”

Yslan had nodded.

“But you know who he is, don't you?” Decker had demanded.

“No.”

Squiggly lines. Special Agent Yslan Hicks had lied to him.

That
man was
this
man—standing in front of him now.

“When did we meet?” Decker demanded.

“Long ways back.” The Scottish accent was thickening.

“When?”

“January sixteenth, thirty-four years ago, to be precise.”

More parallel lines.

“Where?”

“Two twenty-one Strathern, City of Toronto, County of York, Province of Ontario, the Dominion of Canada.”

The man's accent was now a thick brogue—old Toronto talking.

Decker felt himself somehow falling although he was still on his feet—“What!”

“January sixteenth, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and seventy-three. At your parents' house.”

The man stepped forward.

Decker felt something shift inside him.

“It was very cold.”

Another step.

Decker felt something metal in his hand.

“And there was a dead little girl.”

Another step.

Decker felt blood between his fingers, and cold—terrible cold.

“And you lied to me then, like you're lying to me now.”

Another step.

The man's grizzled face was inches from Decker's. His sour breath filled Decker's nostrils.

Fear filled his heart.

“Who are you?”

“Now? No one.”

“But then?”

“Detective Garreth—”

And Decker finally knew. Finally knew how it had all begun. Inside the igloo. He and his friend Kristen from next door. They were inside. They'd piled up the wet, heavy snow till it was taller than either of them. Then they'd taken a spade and dug a hole in the bottom. As they pulled out the snow the hole enlarged until it was big enough for both of them to slither in on their stomachs. Once inside they turned over to face the snow ceiling. Then she suggested that they carve out the thing from the inside. She had brought a metal garden trowel with her. Lying on their backs they took turns carving layers off the ceiling, then passing it over their bodies and out of the igloo. At one point he'd said to her, “There's so much snow up there. What if it fell on us?” She'd laughed and called him a baby. So he'd grabbed the trowel and said, “I'll show you who's a baby!” and he'd cut deep into the ceiling of snow. A large chunk fell down on them and they both gasped from the cold. Then they'd managed to shove it down to their feet toward the entrance. But they hadn't pushed it far enough. It covered the exit, blotting out the light.

Then the whole roof fell in.

Weight and cold.

And she had the trowel, the means to dig their way out, but she wouldn't let it go—even though he was nearest the exit.

So he'd grabbed it.

It cut her.

Blood.

So much blood.

And cold.

Then his mother screaming. And an ambulance, and a man—THIS MAN!—asking questions in his Scottish accent.

Decker allowed his eyes to meet Garreth Senior's. And he saw cold hatred there.

“I've done you no harm,” he said.

“Not true. Definitely not true.”

Decker closed his eyes—two perfect squares floated across his retinal screen. He
had
harmed this man.

He opened his eyes and stared at this man. “What do you want of me?”

Garreth thought,
What the fuck do I want?
Then he snarled, “I want my bloody life back, you filthy heathen.” Then he was on Decker, his strong hands tight around the younger man's throat.

Decker staggered under the surprise assault and felt his head smack hard against the wall.

Then he felt the wall give a bit—a faux wall, a set wall.

Then pressure on his larynx.

Blots of colour flew across his eyes, and he felt himself about to pass out. He smashed his elbow into the wall, and it gave enough to turn an inch.

Of course it would—it's a film set wall, made to pivot to allow a camera a better shot.

Another shove and the cheap thing turned.

Without the wall as a support, Garreth lost his balance and staggered back a step.

Decker forced his eyes open and over the drunk's shoulder he saw a blur of motion accompanied by an odd clacking. Then Eddie was there, his arm around Garreth Senior's throat, yanking him off Decker and slowly squeezing the air from him.

The man's knees went weak and his eyes rolled up in his head.

“Eddie, you're killing him.”

Eddie stared straight at Decker and said with a remarkable calm, “No, I'm not. I'm just going to put him under for a while.” He released his arm and the man slowly slid down. Eddie's injured foot cradled his head so that it didn't bang on the cement.

“Where did you learn—”

“Four years on the streets teaches you a few interesting things.” He tapped Garreth Senior's body with his foot, then turned away, evidently satisfied that the man was under.

Decker stared at Eddie, not knowing what to say. Eddie saw it and smiled. “Nice to see you speechless. A rare treat. Let me help you. Perhaps you'd like to know how I found you.”

“Okay.”

“So ask.”

“So how did you find me?”

“You told me that you never throw away a script once you've directed it.”

“So?”

“So check your bag.”

Decker did and pulled out
Love and Pain and the Dwarf in the Garden
. Holding it out to Eddie, still confused, he asked, “So?”

Eddie pulled out his pocket GPS and turned it to Decker.

Decker saw the map and the flashing figure.

“You put a transponder in the script?”

“A few pages after my suggestion that you look at that YouTube site. Never say I don't give you anything.”

“Okay. I promise never to say that.” There was a moment of silence between the two, then Decker asked, “Can I say thanks?”

“Sure, gratitude is an undervalued commodity in the world.” Eddie reached down and picked up Garreth Senior's digital camera. The long lens fell off and what was left of it made a crackling sound when it hit the ground.

“Why—”

Eddie held up a hand to silence Decker. He turned the camera in his palm, then hit a toggle switch. “Ah,” he said. He clicked his way through picture after picture and his face grew very dark.

“What?”

“Prepare yourself, my friend. Come take a look; you need to see these.” Decker stood over Eddie's shoulder as photo after photo of the warehouse came up. Then, of a tall grey-haired man, then that man talking to Seth. Then shot after shot of Seth—Seth at a barred window, Seth sleeping with his eyes open, Seth, Seth, Seth. The final one of Seth clearly drugged and manacled to a gurney being shoved into a moving van with the grey-haired man standing there watching.

“Oh, God,” Decker said, and he felt his legs go to jelly. Eddie caught him before he fell. But then something even darker crossed Eddie's face. “What?”

Eddie turned the camera so Decker could see the image: the dead boy from Stanstead, locked in ice, and Seth's damning scribble at the bottom:
This is what happens when you get close to people, Dad. Stay away from me.”

“Daddy!”

A girl's cry!

From the darkness a very thin girl with straggly hair that was probably blond if it were washed stepped slowly forward and held out her arms.

“Don't be frightened, Marina,” Eddie said. “Come say hello to my friend Decker Roberts.”

The girl stood at Eddie's side—the likeness unmistakable—and said in a tiny voice, “Decker is a funny name.”

Decker replied gently, “Yes, it is. But Marina is a very beautiful name.” He turned to Eddie. “How did—”

“That unscheduled stop in Nebraska?”

“What about—you did that, didn't you?”

“Yeah, well my timing was a little off—forgot the time zones—so you and your fellow passengers had a slight five-hour layover in the heart of the nation while I went up to Portland. Such is life in the early twenty-first century.”

Then there was more movement in the darkness and Eddie pulled Marina behind him to protect her.

It was Mr. T and Ted Knight. “Well, this is a fine mess you've gotten us into, Mr. Roberts,” the large black man said, clearly not knowing he came close to quoting Oliver Hardy. He pointed at Garreth Senior on the ground. Mr. T knelt down and put a huge index finger to the man's jugular. Nodded. “I think it's time for you to disappear again, Mr. Roberts. This man was a cop. He's not dead, but he won't be out for much longer.”

“Did Yslan—”

“You're a valued asset, Mr. Roberts; I believe she mentioned that.” He waited for Decker to nod an acknowledgement. He finally did and Mr. T continued, “And we keep our valued assets safe.”

* * *

Eddie held Marina's hand as they left the warehouse and shivered in the night fog. Decker could see the girl's eyes wandering, unable to find purchase. He looked at his friend.

“She's just on a different path, Decker—a different path.”

Decker didn't say anything.

“Decker.” He'd never heard Eddie's voice so centred, so strong—so angry.

“Okay. I buy that.”

“Good. Now it's time for you to disappear as your rather large African-American friend suggested,” Eddie said.

“I will. But one question?”

“Shoot.”

“How'd you—”

“Get Marina back? Once I told my ex that Charendoff was soon going to be out of the picture she had no reason to resist.”

“Why's that?”

“Charendoff was paying her to keep Marina. Without the assurance of his money . . . well, it was easy from there.”

Eddie stepped out into the street and flagged down a cab. Holding open the back door, he motioned to Decker to climb in. Eddie slammed the door.

“Aren't you coming?”

“No. Decker—as I said, time for you to disappear, remember? So give it to me.”

“What?”

“Love and Pain and the Dwarf in the Garden.”

Decker took the script from his bag and handed it over to Eddie, who tore out a page and then handed it back to Decker, saying, “Time for you to be truly on your own, Decker. Remember, change cabs at least three times before you go wherever you're going.” A moment, then, “Travel safe.” Then he turned and Marina ran into his waiting arms.

* * *

In the back of the cab, Decker looked down at the camera in his hands and at the image of Seth asleep with his eyes open, then told the cab to drive to the famous skateboard spot by the water—Pier 7, where he had taken Seth when he was a boy, when the boy still loved skateboarding, when the boy still called him Daddy.

A LAWYER IS PARTICULARLY SURPRISED WHEN COPS BREAK INTO
his home at five in the morning. Yslan thought it best to embarrass him in front of his wife, so she led a team of six NSA officers who demanded and got access to Ira Charendoff's $2 million plus home in Westchester County—on a formerly peaceful Sunday morning.

The man was so flabbergasted that it took him a full twenty minutes before he demanded a lawyer.

“For what?” his wife whispered.

“Shut up, Lissa,” he barked.

“Do you use the PROMPTOR protocol?”

“I don't need to answer that question.”

“Are you the programmer of the PROMPTOR protocol?”

He turned to his wife and said, “Don't say a word to these people.”

“A word about what?” she whimpered.

But before Charendoff could say “a word about
anything
” Yslan held up the photo of the dead Stanstead boy encased in the icy river and said, “We have PROMPTOR anonymity protocols taken from your office computer that may contravene the Patriot Act and also imply that the protocol was used to cover up your involvement in the murder of Robert Irwin of Stanstead, Quebec.”

Her eyes wide, his plump wife finally found her voice. “Who the fuck's Robert Irwin and what the fuck's the PROMPTOR protocol?”

* * *

Yslan held up her part of the bargain. Ira Charendoff was frog-marched to the police car in handcuffs and shackles. The car just
happened to have left its siren blaring—just so the neighbours got to know that they had a felon in their midst.

Shortly thereafter, Yslan leaked details to Fox News, and Ira Charendoff's name and image quickly became synonymous with the word “traitor.”

And then there were the indictments and Mr. Charendoff's being turfed from his Patchin Place law firm, then disbarred, then the mortgaging of his house to pay for his defence team. All the while dealing with his wife's divorce suit, which her lawyer informed her she should get on with “while there was still something to get” from the hide of one Ira Charendoff, late of Patchin Place, New York City, late of the legal profession—and still years away from a trial for conspiracy in the death of a seventeen-year-old boy in Stanstead, Quebec, and his involvement with the PROMPTOR protocol.