Unhinged Read online

  After a number of days, I don’t know how many, Paul Belliveau came in, followed closely by my bodyguard Mama E. I was sitting up in bed, waiting for my tea and pills. He was talking, asking questions. I heard their names, the names of the people who’d died.

  I’d stopped covering my ears at that point. I’d found that I could just drift, thoughtless, somewhere inside my head. I could live there for a little while.

  Belliveau talked, and I looked at Mama Estela. She had my pills in her hand and a cup of tea.

  This time she shook her head, and put the pills firmly into the pocket of the dress she wore. “No,” she said. “Talk first.” She nodded at Belliveau.

  I moved my head toward the wall, and sunk my body into the bed.

  * * *

  I didn’t leave Rosen’s room for two weeks.

  I’d been starting to see through the fog for a couple of days before. I woke up clinging to Dave, actually glad he was there. I was asking for water and cutting back on the Percocet. I could hear the boys, and I missed them. But I didn’t want them to see me like this, in this room.

  I didn’t want to talk about Helen of Troy yet, or Garrett, or Kelly. I couldn’t bear to think about them. I especially avoided thinking about Garrett’s daughter. I didn’t want anyone to ask me anything. But I wanted to see the boys, and try to walk up the stairs, have a coffee in my kitchen, a shower in my own bathroom.

  “I’m going to put clothes on today,” I said to Mama E. one morning, “not pajamas.” Mama picked up the little bell that still sat on the tray next to the bed and rang it. Dave came in within seconds.

  “Jeans,” she said. “Shirt.” She pointed at me.

  Dave smiled, and for the first time in two weeks, I smiled back. But not for long. It felt weird.

  Mama helped me get dressed, though I didn’t strictly need her to. The corticosteroid was doing its work; I was much less helpless. At least physically. But Mama made me feel calmer than anyone else did. She didn’t ask questions, and seemed to understand what I needed.

  “Skinny,” she said, frowning, once I was dressed. My jeans were too loose. I felt like a ghost of myself.

  “Ha! Skinny,” I said, pointing at her. She was smaller than Eddie.

  “Pfft,” she said. I stood in the room for a minute looking at her. It felt like a big step, opening that door. This room was safe. That world was not safe for anyone, as long as I was in it.

  Mama picked up the bell again and shoved it in her pocket. She loved that bell. I pitied Marta. Then she picked up her chair and headed to the door with it. Without a backwards glance at me, she carried her chair out of my room for the first time since I’d gone crazy.

  I felt like a kid whose mom has left her at the gates on the first day of school. But Dave was there, waiting outside the door, and we went upstairs together.

  TWENTY-THREE

  A couple of days later I had a Skype session with Dr. Singh. She explained to me that she’d been talking to Dave and Darren every day while I was in bed. She’d prescribed a couple of things for me – or had a colleague in Toronto do it for her. She said what I’d probably experienced was catatonic depression. I’d been taking benzodiazepines – I’d expected that, I’d had benzos before and knew what they felt like – and, to my surprise, I’d been taking an SSRI for nearly two weeks. An antidepressant, in other words.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” I said to her. “I’ve been given brain-altering medication without my consent? Outside of a clinical setting?”

  “First of all, Darren assured me that he’d told you.”

  He might have. I hadn’t heard a word.

  “And secondly, as you well know, it’s my medical opinion that you should have been on an SSRI long before now.” I didn’t say anything. “And I also talked to…” She checked her notes. “Estela Garcia. She’s a retired psychiatric nurse, Danny. I checked her credentials. I felt quite safe leaving you in her hands.”

  “You talked to Mama Estela?” I said. “She spoke to you in English? She was a nurse?”

  Dr. Singh laughed. “I speak Spanish. But I think she can get along in English if the situation calls for it.”

  I knew it.

  “And how are you feeling? You’re obviously up and around. Your affect isn’t flat. You seem… well, I wouldn’t quite say your fighting self, but you seem okay.” She paused. “SSRIs can take six weeks, sometimes more, to really kick in. Some people get positive effects after as little as a week. From the reports I’ve been getting, I’d say you started to come around after eleven or twelve days.”

  I nodded. “So am I supposed to keep taking them?” I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I didn’t want to depend on a drug for my mental state. But I couldn’t go back to what I’d just been through.

  “Yes,” she said. “I would like it if you did. You’re on a very low dose, Danny. At some point we may need to raise it, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But please remember, if you really make the decision for yourself that you don’t want to take them anymore, wean yourself off them slowly. There can be some very unpleasant side effects if you don’t.” We talked some more, and I agreed to Skype sessions three times a week for a while.

  I wasn’t sure what to feel. On the one hand, I was grateful that I was being cared for. On the other hand, I felt like I had moved from being a fucked-up addict to being a fucked-up crazy person.

  Fred had missed the whole thing. He was on what he called a “fishing trip”. He and Cliff were in California meeting with venture capitalists. He’d called the boys a few times, and Darren had talked to him once, but Fred had cut the call short, saying he was going to be late for a meeting.

  I knew that Darren, Dave, and Jonas were working up plans and strategies involving the boys and custodial rights, but they had wisely left me out of it.

  I was learning to let other people fly the plane. At that moment, it was what I had to do.

  It was Labor Day, and the boys were starting their new school in a few days. I was spending as much time as possible with them. I couldn’t work out with them, or take them anywhere yet – I was doing much better physically, but I was still under advice to rest in the times between exercises supervised by my physio that Rosen and Dr. Janovic had encouraged me to see. But we watched movies and played trivia games, and once a day I let them see the progression of the bruising and wounds on my lower back. Luke’s girlfriend had gone up north with her parents for the week before school started, so we had him to ourselves. Rosen came up and we watched Say Anything… – Luke cried – and I actually sat through The Breakfast Club. It was just as bad as I remembered, but I kept my mouth shut about it. Well, as much as possible.

  I concentrated on them, on the domestic, and on being healthy. I didn’t watch the news or read it online. I kept a loaded gun next to my bed, and Dave slept beside me.

  It was the first time since my sister’s death, since I’d met Michael Vernon Smith and experienced true evil, that I didn’t let worry about my loved ones’ safety consume me, didn’t let it be the first and last thing I thought about every day. I’d done my job. I’d set this place up. Everyone knew their roles.

  I took my pills, but took the benzos – the sedatives – only at night, for sleep. The corticosteroid injection I’d been given – only one a year of this kind of steroid allowed, I’d been told, and it would take a while to really kick in – was doing its magic. I did my stretches, and I went on short walks with Dave, Rosen, or Darren.

  And when I was ready, Paul Belliveau came to take my statement about the events at Helen of Troy.

  * * *

  He brought video recording equipment. I’d been expecting that. I’d been given a pass from going into the station, due to my injuries and mental state. I could have gone in, but I was grateful that I didn’t have to.

  Before we began recording, Belliveau and I sat in my living room with Dave and Darren.

  “Ann Saulnier is still missing,” Belliveau told us. “The home address
on record for her at the club doesn’t exist, and the cell phone number they had for her was a pre-paid mobile that hasn’t been turned on since that night.”

  “So you don’t even know if that’s her real name,” I said. “So she’s not missing, per se.”

  Belliveau shook his head. “Yours wasn’t the only hire that was done without following even the most basic legal guidelines. They didn’t seem to have anybody’s social insurance numbers recorded. Staff said they were paid by a check from the Kinder Group, but that Jones cut the checks himself, in his office at the club, and there were no taxes withheld. They were told they were all independent contractors, responsible for declaring and paying their own taxes.” He took a sip of water. “The club is shut down, of course. The company is claiming that Garrett Jones was responsible for all of these things, and advised us that he had a meeting upcoming with the company’s lawyers to hand over the first quarter’s payroll and so forth. It’s their first venture in Canada, and their spokesperson said that Jones was a long-term valued employee; they trusted him to follow all proper protocols. They assume he was either overwhelmed by the job, had gone off the rails somehow, or was simply stealing from them.”

  “Jesus,” Darren said.

  “I wondered about the social insurance number thing. I mean, the fact that I didn’t have to fill out any but the most basic paperwork. But Garrett said that as soon as I’d done a few trial shifts we’d sit down and go through all that.” And I’m not exactly knowledgeable about these things, I didn’t add, but everyone in the room knew that well enough.

  “Originally the working theory was that Garrett Jones killed Kelly Pankhurst, and then himself,” he said. “Lover’s quarrel type of thing.”

  I stared at him. “Impossible,” I said. I told him about Garrett, about his aw-shucks personality, about his careful awareness of boundaries.

  I caught Darren and Dave looking at each other. “Danny, you have a history of not seeing what’s right in front of you when it comes to the dark side of people,” Darren said. “You only met the man a handful of times. And every day you hear about these kinds of crimes, men killing the women they supposedly love.”

  I nodded. “I know. But they were not an item. I mean, I would be truly shocked.” I told them about Kelly writing me the note, and trying to keep it hidden from Garrett.

  “Well, that would actually fit into this theory,” Dave said. “A woman who was afraid of her lover, reaching out for help.” I could see him wince. He didn’t want to remind me that if Kelly was reaching out for help, she certainly didn’t get any from me.

  I opened my mouth to argue, but then shut it. They were right. Women in abusive relationships could be skittish and easily startled, and perhaps Kelly was reaching out to me in friendship because she really didn’t have anyone to talk to. If she was afraid and needed protection – well, she had just seen me make short work of a crowd of young guys in the bar. And really, what did I know about Garrett? Other than the man had genuinely loved his daughter? That wasn’t faked. But lots of very bad men loved their wives and children.

  “I can’t disprove that theory,” Belliveau was saying. “Nobody can, at least not yet. But we can’t prove it, either.”

  “I take everyone’s point about my occasional bad judgment about people,” I said. “But I cannot see that man committing suicide at a time and place when he knew his daughter would find him. I just can’t.”

  Belliveau nodded. “The condo they were renting certainly doesn’t show anything other than a father and daughter who were very close. There was no sign that an adult female spent any time there; no toiletries or clothing, nothing of that sort. They had one of those dry-erase schedules on their fridge, and it was all carefully filled in with his work schedule and his daughter’s day camp and their planned outings. It had three names on it: his, the girl’s, and the nanny.” Belliveau saw the look Darren and I gave each other – our nephews had been abducted by their nanny, back in California – and shook his head. “She’s clean. She’s been thoroughly checked.”

  “Does she have the girl?” I asked. “Who’s taking care of his daughter?”

  Belliveau looked at the floor and shook his head. “Children’s Aid have custody. She’s a ward of the Crown now. There’s no family anywhere. The girl says her mother died a few years ago, and both of her parents were only children. There’s a grandmother surviving, but she’s got Alzheimer’s.”

  “We can take her,” I said. I blurted it out without thinking. “We’ve got room. We’ve got other kids here.” I looked at Darren, who was shaking his head, but half grinning.

  “Danny, it doesn’t work like that,” Belliveau said. “You’re not a relative, and you’re not a foster parent in the system already. You don’t even know the girl, and she doesn’t know you.”

  “And please don’t forget our mutual friend, who may or may not be lurking somewhere in the city as we speak,” Dave said. “Fuckface Smith,” he said to Belliveau.

  Belliveau nodded. “He’s right. I understand how you feel. I do. But for the time being, let’s just concentrate on what’s in front of us, shall we?”

  Darren and Dave cleared out, and when Belliveau switched the recording on, I answered all his questions. I told him how I got hired at Helen of Troy, and everything I could remember about Kelly Pankhurst and Garrett Jones. I told him about the man who had been molesting Ann, and about her abduction in the alley. I told him that while most of the dancers I’d met and seen seemed on the up-and-up and certainly experienced, Ann had looked like a kid. Although when I’d talked to her backstage, she’d seemed well-spoken and mature.

  I was reminded, after I finished my statement, that I’d only been in the place three times. And on two of those occasions, I’d been injured.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been involved in a case where we knew so little,” Belliveau told me after we were finished. He was putting the camera away.

  “Wait!” I said. “What about her car? Ann’s car? She asked me to walk her to her car, and she took the alley exit. Her car must have been in the parking lot. It was free to park there. Surely you could get her name that way.”

  “There were no cars in the parking lot that weren’t spoken for by staff or the patrons who were still there that night when the police went in, when they found you in the alley,” he said. “Either one of the men who took her also took her car…”

  “Or she never had one in the first place,” I finished. “Maybe she just wanted to get me alone, to talk to me.”

  “We may never know, Danny. And you’re going to have to let it go. There really isn’t anything else you can do.” He sat down and leaned across the coffee table and grabbed my hand. “I mean it, Danny. I know that my saying that is like a red flag to a bull where you’re concerned. But you have to leave it. You’re not the police. You’re not even a private investigator. And you’re not physically or – and I’m sorry for saying this, but – mentally strong enough to take a run at this thing.”

  “I know,” I said. “But, Paul, I just feel so powerless. I can’t stand it.” I was trying not to cry, and I could tell my face was getting all red. And I knew that he knew I wasn’t just feeling powerless about Kelly and Garrett and Ann. I was feeling powerless about Michael Vernon Smith, and Fred’s disappearing act, and the possibility of him moving the boys away.

  Paul moved over and sat next to me and pulled me into him. He took his flask from his pocket and told me to take a swig. “For luck,” he said. “Remember the hospital?”

  The night we’d met, the night my husband Jack had been killed, he’d sat and listened to me and to Matty. He’d fought to let us stay together in the hospital, and he’d slipped his flask under my pillow. He’d said it was a good luck charm.

  I took a swig and coughed, which made me laugh. And then I wasn’t about to cry anymore.

  “See?” he said. “That’s the lucky flask for you.” He put it back in his jacket pocket and patted it, satisfied.

 
I had a smile on my face. It felt good but weird, like using a muscle I hadn’t for a while. “Stay for dinner,” I said. “Call the ball and chain – get her down here too. I want as much company as possible while we wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Wait for evil to show up at the door,” I said lightly. “Wait for something I can do something about.”

  He had his cell phone out to call his wife. “She’ll come, if only to make sure the Garcias know that I’m taken,” he said. “But, Danny?”

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “You need to start thinking about how to have a life if evil never does show up at your door.”

  I smiled, and left him to talk to his wife while I went to tell everybody to expect two more for dinner. But I knew he was wrong.

  Evil would show up at my door again. I was a magnet for it.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  September went by in a whirlwind of happy chaos.

  All three of the boys were starting school in Toronto for the first time, after being homeschooled while getting used to all the changes in their lives. I barely slept the night before class started, and wound up on the floor outside the twins’ room again. I hadn’t done that since what had happened outside of Helen of Troy, what with going crazy, and then Dave being an inducement to stay in my own bed. Besides, despite the pain of my damaged sciatic nerve getting steadily better, I wasn’t as keen on running up and down the stairs, not to mention parking myself on the floor for hours at a time.

  I was starting to see what old age might feel like, and I wasn’t liking it.

  Rosen was taking them to school and picking them up for the time being. Most kids their age seemed to make their own way to school, from what I could gather, but I wasn’t ready for that. With Fuckface Smith at large, not to mention my sinking suspicion that the events that had taken place at Helen of Troy might not be over – Ann was still missing, and according to Belliveau, the consensus now was that Garrett Jones’s suicide was faked – I hated letting them out of my sight. Darren felt the same, and nearly every day when the boys had their lunch period, Darren would take a long walk, claiming to be exploring the city. I was sure, however, that he was going by the school to check in on the boys, walk around the block the school was on and make sure there were no suspicious people lurking in vehicles. All of us – Fred, Darren, Rosen, Marta, and I – had met with the principal and her deputy months earlier and advised them of the security concerns we had, and why. We made sure the staff knew that only one of the five of us could sign any of the boys out of school, for any reason.