Probably promoted to Oberscharführer then. It must’ve been later in the war.”
She examined the picture of the man. It had been taken from far away, all the faces blurred with time and distance. It could’ve been Feldberg. But then it could’ve been anyone.
All of a sudden Nesha came awake. “Where is he?”
She was startled by his newfound energy. “You don’t know it’s him.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“Then what?”
He rubbed both eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “That has nothing to do with you.”
“Let the police deal with him. If he’s a killer.”
He leaned his head forward toward her, his jaw set beneath the stubble starting to shade his skin. “Do you have the death penalty in this country?”
She looked away, understanding his drift and uneasy with it.
“Is it enough for him to go to jail?” he said. “You didn’t know my family. But you knew Goldie. You know how if feels when someone you care about meets a violent end. Is it enough for that monster to go to jail and sit comfortably watching TV for the rest of his obscene life?”
“I’m only concerned for your safety,” she said, impressed with the emotions he was raising in her. No, it wasn’t enough.
He sat up stiffly. “I’m sure your concern is admirable, Doctor, but I neither need nor want it.”
His attention turned to the letters in her lap. All at once he reached across the space between their chairs and lifted one of the empty envelopes from the top of the pile. His dark eyes travelled from the address on the envelope to her face.
“He didn’t have far to go,” said Nesha.
He rose abruptly, pulling the towel from around his shoulders, and headed for the examining room.
She stood in the hallway, watching him shuffle something from under the heap of his sweatshirt. Facing her, he took pains to manoeuvre it into his waistband out of her sight. Who did he think he was fooling? He pulled the still damp shirt over top.
“I can’t let you go like this,” she said alarmed. “Don’t you care what happens to you? You could spend the rest of your life in prison.”
“It means nothing to me. I’ve been in one kind of jail or another since I was ten years old.”
“You must’ve had moments of happiness since then.”
His full lips curled up in an ironic smile. “I know what you’re trying to do, and I almost appreciate it. But it’s too late to save me, Doctor. I have nothing to lose.”
She stood in the doorway, blocking it. “I can’t begin to understand what you’ve been through. To be honest, I don’t want to understand. It’s too painful. But that’s why I can see the whole picture. You’re too close. You can’t see that you’re about to ruin any chance for peace you may have.”
“You’re right — you can’t begin to understand. It’s my fault Goldie’s dead. If I hadn’t sent her the picture —”
“Don’t fall into that trap. Let me help you.”
“There’s nothing you can do.” He hovered near her impatiently. “Let me by.”
“Let’s sit down and talk.”
“It’s too late for that.”
The quietness of his voice belied the turmoil underneath, the rage that fed the fire in his eyes. She was not going to convince him of anything.
She stepped backwards into the hall. He barely glanced at her, then squeezed past her out the door and downstairs. She couldn’t call Wanless, there was no time. Besides, what would she say? Someone else believes in the murderer and plans to kill him? That sounded ludicrous, even to her.
She closed up her office and sailed down the stairs. From the front door she could see him getting into a blue car parked on Beverley Street. She lost sight of him for a minute while running to the back lot to get her car. It couldn’t have been more than a minute, but by the time she turned north up Beverley, he was gone. That was all right. She knew where he was going. She just had to get there in time.
chapter twenty-eight
Rebecca raced her Jaguar up Beverley Street through the blue twilight. The rain had darkened the sky early as she turned left along College Street. The evening traffic rolled along here too slowly, people relaxed after a day’s work with nowhere important to go. Exasperated, she cut into the right lane and turned north on Spadina. It would be faster this way.
She veered in and out of slower traffic, then was caught at a red light. It gave her a minute to think. Why was she in such a hurry? To stop Nesha from what? Killing someone who had been stalking her for two days? Killing Goldie’s murderer? From her own personal viewpoint, it wouldn’t be such a loss. She might be safe again. Why was she in such a goddam hurry? It couldn’t be the democratic process she was rushing to save. Maybe it was Nesha’s prospects once he had reduced himself to the level of everything he despised. She couldn’t stop him if he had a gun. She was sure it was a gun. Probably the gun. She couldn’t just watch him throw his life away. He’d been through so much already. It was probably arrogance to think she knew what was best for him. The weight of that possibility, that perhaps justice was not always straightforward or even easy, held her back for a moment. Feldberg, if he was Steiner, deserved whatever Nesha gave him. But what did Nesha deserve? Better.
She sped the rest of the way, finally climbed the rolling hill of Bathurst Street till the familiar line of duplexes was in sight. She slowed down on approach, keeping an eye out for a blue car in vain. There were other streets he could park on. She passed Feldberg’s building, Goldie’s empty duplex, then made a right turn into the first side street off Bathurst. She parked, then hurried from her car.
In the dimming light, she sprinted down the block till she reached the front door of Feldberg’s duplex. Opening it, she found herself in the entranceway before two apartments, the same layout as Goldie’s. The door to Feldberg’s apartment was closed. She hadn’t noticed it being such a solid door when Feldberg had opened it for her. It had no window like Goldie’s, but was made entirely of panelled wood with only a peephole. Better to keep people out.
She listened for shouts, two men arguing. There had been no gunshot; she would’ve heard that. Something was wrong though; it was too quiet. But she recalled Nesha’s low still voice and imagined it recounting its horrors to an unrepentant Feldberg.
She did the ordinary thing. She knocked. Nothing. She knocked again. Not a sound, not a movement. She wasn’t leaving without an answer.
“Mr. Feldberg!” she cried through the door. “Mr. Feldberg, it’s Dr. Temple. Could I have a word with you?”
Without warning the door flashed part way open and a leather-clad arm reached out. A strong hand grabbed her by the forearm, pulling her inside. A gasp issued from her throat.
The hall was dark but the reflected light from the living-room showed her
