No Cherubs for Melanie (25 page)

Forrest Gump, eyebrows raised, loudly grunted his amusement at a foreigner crazy enough to pay for something as old and useless as a Morse key. The men around the room smirked in agreement. Men, Bliss suspected, for whom the notion of collecting
objets d'art
was irrelevant. Men for whom Toronto was as exotic as Acapulco or Bombay.

He finally got through to Samantha at seven-thirty London time.

“Dad,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “Where are you?”

He picked up the concern in her voice. “Is everything all right?”

The memory of his cat clawed at her mind, she fought it aside. “Fine. What's happening?”

“Did you pay those bills?”

“Bills?”

“Under the telly.”

The telly — blown to pieces — the bills and their memory swept away with the debris.

“Oh yes,” she lied. “Don't worry about it.”

“You can tell Peter Bryan I'll soon be home. I've got all I need.”

“When will you be back?”

He put a forlorn tone into his voice. “I'm stuck here for two weeks if I can't get some money.”

“How much?” she asked.

“Uh… ” She'd caught him off-guard. Psyched up for an argument, assuming she would refuse, he had not bothered estimating his needs. He waffled. “I mightn't be able to pay you back for a while.”

“It's a gift — early Christmas present. Just tell me where to send it and how much.”

“Are you sure everything's all right?” he queried, sensing that she had something heavy on her mind.

“Dad… ” she started hesitantly. “You should be careful. Peter says he thinks Edwards set you up.” Her voice cracked. “I just want you to come back.”

I'm not coming back, he thought, recalling Margaret's words, I'm going forward. “I should be home by the weekend with any luck, if you send the money today.”

“Today! It's nearly eight o'clock here.”

“Tomorrow then.” Thursday, he said to himself, and quickly calculated: Saturday evening in Toronto, night flight to Paris arriving Sunday morning. “I should be back late Sunday afternoon. I'll call you as soon as the money arrives and let you know definitely.”

He dictated the address off the Western Union sign and was about to end the call when he had an idea. “Could you make some enquiries for me, Sam?”

“What?”

Explaining that Margaret had not inherited her father's restaurant, he asked her to find out the identity of the silent partner.

Samantha agreed to assist if she could, then enquired. “So what's this Margaret like?”

Bliss became suddenly conscious he was being overheard by several patrons and cut his voice to a whisper. “She's very tough, but she looks after sick animals.”

She envisioned a Beatrix Potter figure in a house teeming with small creatures. “Dogs and cats, that sort of thing?” Her voice wobbled over the mention of cats but she held herself together.

“No. Wild animals. We've got a bald eagle called Eddie.”

She laughed. “It's ‘we' now, is it?”

“Nothing like that, it's just… Oh, never mind. Anyway, send the money and see what you can find out. See if there's any loophole in the ownership. I bet it's not straightforward. You're a lawyer, see if you can get Margaret some sort of compensation. She deserves it after what she's been through.”

“You sound quite chirpy.”

“I am,” he said. “Oh. One more thing.”

“What now?”

“There was a video taken by some bloke the night Gordonstone died. I left it on the side table or on the telly in my place. Didn't get a chance to watch it. It might be useful. Have a look will you. You'll have to take it back to your place, I haven't got a VCR… George has it,” he added vitriolically. “And my telly's only black and white.”

Black and black now, she thought, but kept it to herself. “OK.” she promised.

“Oh, and tell Peter Bryan I'm still on the case whether Edwards likes it or not.”

“Will do.”

“That's all,” he said, but waited on the line.

“I love you, Dad,” she said finally, knowing how much the words would mean to him.

“I love you too, Sam. See you soon.”

Bliss's luck held. Alice was in her office when he called a few minutes later. “Yes,” she would return for him the following
afternoon. By coincidence her scheduled route was a mere fifty miles away and she would detour — for a fee.

“Six o'clock precisely,” she warned. “If you're not there, tough luck, you won't see me for another two weeks.” He assured her that he'd be at the settlement.

“How's the bird?” she enquired as he was about to put the phone down.

“Doing well,” he replied, and laughed. “It'll soon be able to fly home by itself. It won't need you. See you tomorrow then.”

They left almost immediately, Bliss grumbling that it was a hell of a long way just to make a couple of phone calls.

“Stop moaning,” Margaret chided light-heartedly. “It was for your benefit.”

“And yours,” he replied. “I thought you wanted to get rid of me.”

“I was just getting used to you, “ she said, catching him by surprise with a sideways look that, from any other woman, he would have taken as a sexual come-on.

Darkness fell early, hastened by the storm's approach. No lights guided their path, no moon lit their way, but Margaret paddled confidently and drove the canoe forward at full speed. As the bow sliced cleanly through the darkening water the constant high-pitched swishing was the only sound, even the lightning above the horizon was silent. There was no thunder and no needle-sharp crack of a lightning strike. Just a wash of brilliance flashing through the clouds, flickering on and off like a defective florescent tube.

“Harder, Dave,” she called over her shoulder. “It's going to be a big storm. The animals will be terrified.”

What about me, he thought. “Do you think I'm not scared?” he yelled.

She half-turned and threw him a life jacket before struggling into her own. “This is your bloody fault,” she shouted above the strengthening wind.

“Sorry,” he called, with more sincerity than he intended, though less than she expected.

“You don't bloody sound it,” she retorted. He let it go.

They raced toward the storm and collided with its leading edge long before reaching the island. Under the black cumulus canopy the electrified air crackled with energy and the lightning was devilishly transformed. Jagged spears now stabbed earthward with such rapidity their eyes couldn't recover from one before being zapped by the next. One roll of thunder crashed headlong into the next. Squalls ripped up the lake's surface and sloshed it into the canoe in great bucketfuls. Bliss alternated paddling with bailing. Margaret doggedly pounded her oar into the surf. Then a beacon appeared directly ahead — a beacon of fire. She saw it first and froze. Bliss, sensing disaster, screamed at her back, “What's the matter?” Then he saw it too. A brittle-dry pine on her island had been turned into a flaming torch by a stab of lightning and the parched trees surrounding it were feeding frenziedly on the flames.

“Row,” he commanded, flinging down the bailer, grabbing the oar.

Ten frantic, adrenalin-filled minutes later Margaret, blinded by hysteria, smashed the half-submerged canoe straight onto rocks. Bliss felt the crunch as a jagged boulder chiselled a hole in the hull right under his foot.

“Fuckin' hell!” he shouted as the boat jarred to a unexpected halt, slinging him forward into her, dumping them both into the water-filled bow.

“Get off!” she yelled, almost as if he'd done it on purpose.

The canoe sank away beneath them leaving them floundering a couple of pool-lengths off the beach. Striking for the shore, on a path lit by the fire's angry glare, Bliss suddenly realized the danger. Far from being a safe haven, the beach was a fire-trap. The trees hanging picturesquely over the water's edge were next in the firing line and stray sparks were already raining down on them. Margaret, in her frantic efforts to reach the island had made a beeline for the nearest shore, but they were downwind of the fire. The wind-fanned smoke and flames were coming straight at them and they were trapped in the cove by ragged headlands. It was no longer a question of saving her precious animals. The tide had turned; they had to save themselves.

“Stop!” he yelled, she streaked away from him. “Come back!”

Head down, oblivious to his shouting, intent only on getting to the beach, she raced through the water.

“This is crazy,” he shouted. “We'll be killed.”

He took off after her with a fast crawl; he couldn't stop himself. And he couldn't stop her. Within minutes she was clawing her way up the beach under an onslaught of sparks. As he neared the shallows the absurdity of the situation struck him — What would he have said ten days earlier if a clairvoyant had told him that he was about to risk his life for a complete stranger five thousand miles away. But Margaret wasn't a stranger. She had been part of his consciousness for twenty years. She had, in some small way, influenced the investigation of every case he had handled since her sister's death. Whenever he was inclined to take the easy road, to embrace the simple explanation, to accept a witness's uncorroborated statement, the injustice he had done to Margaret and her sister spurred him on in search of more evidence, and the truth. She was no stranger, she had been with him every day.

He hung back, just off the beach, his mind a whirlpool of improbable ideas for fighting the blaze. In a normal world there would be extinguishers, hoses, pumps and ladders.

She'd reached the sand and was standing under a cascade of sparks, paralyzed by indecision. Her island, her animals, and her life were going up in flames around her, yet she couldn't move. Suddenly, from twenty feet away, Bliss caught the unmistakable stench of singed hair.

“Cover your face! Your hair!” he shouted, making a megaphone out of his hands. Rushing forward he grabbed Margaret, dragged her, protesting, back into the water and forced her head under. Then he roughly yanked up her shirt, held it over her nose and mouth, and clamped it in place with one of her hands. “It's not the fire that kills,” he yelled. “It's the smoke. Breathe through this and keep it wet. I'm going to get the bailing buckets!”

“Bo,” she cried, making to rush back ashore. “I've got to save Bo.”

“Stay here,” he commanded, his fingers biting painfully into her arms, restraining her.

“You're hurting,” she protested.

“Stop struggling then.”

Obediently she went limp and he relaxed his grip, then, slipping from his grasp, frantically took off toward the beach again. He tackled her into the surf just as a burning branch crashed onto the beach a few yards ahead of them. It shook her up and brought her to her senses. “OK. Get the buckets,” she said, subdued.

It was the rain that finally quenched the fire, though not before they'd exhausted themselves, furiously flinging bucket after bucket of lake water at the blaze. The downpour,
when it came, seemed anxious to make amends, quickly drenching the flames and cooling the embers. Then Bo bounced through the scorched bush and flung himself joyously at his mistress, flattening her into the mud, slobbering over her face. She grappled with him, laughing in relief.

Margaret easily found her way through the forest in the gloom and outside the house they stripped off their ripped and burnt clothing. Although their mutual triumph over adversity diminished personal shyness Margaret coyly kept on her white knickers and, in a way, he wished she hadn't. Dripping wet, they clung to her contours and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't avert his gaze.

“I'll get you a towel,” he said, making for the bathroom, anxious to get his eyes and his mind off her.

She followed him and within seconds an explosion that had been brewing ever since his arrival burst all over him. As he slung the towel around her shoulders she yelled, “Why didn't you leave me alone?”

“I'm going tomorrow…”

“You should never have come!”

She stripped half a dozen books off the shelf and showered them across the room in anger. Bo, thinking it was a game, barked for more.

“Just calm down,” he said, using his policeman's voice.

“Calm down? This is all your fault.”

“Sorry.”

Sorry wasn't good enough. “Sorry?” she screamed mockingly, slapped his face, and lost the towel in the process.

He tried battling back, pinioning her bare arms, shouting into her face. “It wouldn't have made any difference. It would have been worse if I hadn't been here. You would have had to fight the fire alone.”

Logic had no place in her argument. She was determined to be ungrateful. “It was your fault,” she spat, squirming against his grip.

Stupidly, he tried sticking to logic. “The lightning would have struck anyway, whether I was here or not.”

She twisted away angrily. “You never get anything right do you?”

Then it dawned on him. She wasn't attacking him for the fire, she was attacking him for what he'd done to her life.
That
was his fault, he conceded. How different her life would have been had he treated Melanie's death properly? While he had often considered the impact of his actions upon the families of criminals he'd arrested and sent to prison, he had never given thought to what happened to those he didn't catch. That's an interesting perspective, he was thinking, when a stack of cassettes whizzed across the room in his direction and crashed around him in a symphony of broken plastic. Typical of Mahler he thought: unpredictable, a volcanic eruption one minute and morbid depression the next.

Ducking, he made a grab for her arm, missed, and felt his hand brush a naked, hard nipple. “Leave me alone,” she screeched. “Leave me alone. You're pathetic. You couldn't survive ten minutes in a place like this.”