style="font-size:15px;"> “So close,” murmured Kala. “I wonder if I could leave my phone number with you in case you see them again. It’s really important that I find them.” It was even more important if Rosie was too sick to come for dinner.
“You been looking a long time?”
“Yeah. A long time.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.” Maya took the card Kala handed her and tucked it into her pocket. “I’ll spread the word at the Ottawa Mission and see if I can find out anything for you.”
“I’ll be forever in your debt.”
Kala walked out into the brisk winter night. She jogged back to her truck and started the engine while she scraped the snow off the windshield of her truck. Flakes sparkled like granulated sugar in the street light. She took a moment to watch their silent descent before tossing the scrapper into the passenger seat and climbing in after it. The heater was on high but cold air was blasting into the cab. It would take a few more minutes to warm up. The street was all but deserted. She liked the calm of the night and the snow drifting down. What more did one need but a truck, homemade pie in the belly, and a warm bed waiting?
A man in a dark coat and Santa hat came out of a tavern and started walking toward her. He glanced in her direction as he passed her truck and nodded his head. His footprints left a crooked path through the snow.
You might have had it tough too.
Was her life’s story written on her face or was Maya a witch who saw inside people’s souls? Kala believed in a universe bigger than herself. Not in a god, exactly, but laws of nature that had to be respected. She thought that Maya might be more in tune with the rhythms of the land and water than most. In her home town, Maya would have been one of the Elders — one of the people in the community the others would go to for guidance.
I’ve seen things that no one should have to see. I’ve done things that I’m not proud of.
Images in her mind were coming back that she’d long closed away. It was this search for Rosie awakening past terrors. She didn’t want to think about all the places she’d lived. The times she’d been scared and the reasons she lived alone. All the people she’d left behind.
You might have had it tough, too.
The snow was coming down heavier. Flakes were sliding down the defrosting windshield while a coating of snow was piling on the hood of the truck. It felt safe in this wintery cocoon where sounds were muffled and the sharp bite of the wind was kept at bay.
She leaned back until her head was on the headrest and closed her eyes. It would be just fine to fall asleep like she’d done so many summers in her truck on summer canoe trips in the far North. Alone and safe with nobody knowing where she was. All alone, with Taiku, that is, with the exception of the summer before when Jordan had come with her. Two weeks canoeing the Fraser River as if they belonged together. Forgetting for fourteen days that he belonged to somebody else. She had nobody to blame now but herself for letting it go so far. She’d known better even as she kissed him back the first night they spent together after he’d told her that his marriage was over. She’d wanted so much to believe him that she’d ignored the warning signals going off in her head. Stupid. Stupid.
She forced her eyes open and pushed herself upright. This wasn’t summer, and she wasn’t alone on a bush road with nothing but wilderness stretched out in front of her. It was the middle of a big city in the middle of winter. If she didn’t get moving soon, she’d have to get out and sweep the snow off the truck again. She checked the dark corners of the street one more time, put the truck into gear, and eased her way onto the road, thinking now only about laying her head on a pillow and closing her eyes for a night’s sleep.
15
Sunday, December 25, 11:15 a.m.
Rouleau sat across from his dad and watched him open the gifts he’d picked up the night before. The Brian McKillop biography of Pierre Burton was a stroke of genius and the book on North American birds received a fair bit of attention. His father opened the down comforter last.
“Tiens, tiens,” he said. “Now isn’t this something?”
“Do you like it, Dad?”
“It’ll keep me good and warm I should think. The apartment’s been a bit drafty this winter.”
Rouleau was pleased. It had taken him a long time to pick out the perfect duvet cover. His father never asked for anything but deserved everything. He always said the same thing before and after opening his gifts. “Je suis un homme content.” Rouleau automatically translated in his head, “I am a happy man.”
The tradition was the same. After his father opened the gifts, they’d walk the block to his dad’s favourite pub and have lunch. His dad would insist on buying both the turkey special and a bottle of burgundy. After the meal, they’d walk back to the apartment and a bottle of single malt would ceremoniously appear for a short tipple before Jacques drove back to Ottawa in the late afternoon. The remainder of the bottle was his parting gift. Rouleau always locked it in the trunk of his car in case he got pulled over.
Today, as every Christmas Day, their lunch was served by Lottie McBride, owner and barkeep of the Bide a Wee Pub.
“Ye enjoyed the turkey, I see,” she said before whisking away their empty plates. She returned with two bowls of trifle, coffee, and a plate of homemade shortbread cookies she baked for his father. Rouleau knew there’d be a full tin waiting for his dad on their way out the door.
Rouleau sat back and patted his stomach. He smiled at his dad. “You made a good choice of restaurant for once.” The same joke every year. His father never considered going anywhere else. He looked down. “Your foot’s more swollen, Dad. Are you in much pain?”
“Not really. They’ll be operating in the spring.”
“I’m glad. I’ll get some time off and come stay with you.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“No arguments, Dad.”
“How are you doing, son? Last time you were down, you said you might have made a mistake taking that job. Do you still feel that way?”
“Most days. We have a murder case that’s giving us some profile, but it’ll likely be taken away after the holidays.”
“You should find somewhere that makes you happy. Life’s too short to have regrets.”
“I wish it were that easy. How’s your book coming? Do you still have your office at the university?”
His dad nodded. “They’ve even loaned me a research assistant. I’ve nearly completed the opening chapter. It’s a fascinating subject, the making of the canal system. We’ve dug up some new material, if you excuse my pun. Even unearthed a murder to spice up the narrative.”
“Solved?”
“No, unsolved. I hope you have better luck with yours.”
“Solving this case could be the unit’s only chance.”
Lottie refilled their coffee cups, humming “Jingle Bells” under her
