Strangers Among Us Read online

  He climbed down to a rocky beach and dropped a cushion on the ground. He tried to remember how long he’d been doing that—providing himself with padding, protecting himself against what had become inhospitable surfaces. He settled himself upon the cushion, with his hands clasped between bent knees, his back supported by an enormous boulder, and he gazed out at the water.

  It was high tide now and the ocean was washing languidly at the stones not far from his shoes. Alberg made himself concentrate on sounds: the gentle susurration of the sea, the piercing, haunting cries of seagulls, the whisper of a breeze in the underbrush that crowded through the forest and tumbled toward the ocean. He heard a cracking noise as something or someone trod among the trees, a sound that was repeated farther away, and still farther, until he finally could hear it no longer. Alberg shifted on the cushion.

  Ralph Gardener had been almost decapitated. The blade of the machete had struck him in the left side of the neck. Blood had gushed across the sand, engulfing his denim hat, which had been lying several feet away.

  Alberg, looking skyward, couldn’t see individual clouds, just a monotone grayness brightened here and there with streaks of pewter. In the woods yellow leaves clung precariously to tree branches, trembling.

  Verna had been struck in the back, probably while trying to run away. Her left hand lying curled upon the sand had looked like a child’s hand.

  It was a mild day, almost springlike. Before he’d left for work that morning Cassandra had taken him into the backyard and shown him a glorious russet blaze of chrysanthemums. He remembered gazing upon this sight in something approaching wonder, amazed that he hadn’t noticed it before. Would the flowers have bloomed and died without his ever having seen them, if Cassandra hadn’t dragged him out there? How had he ever gotten the idea that he was an observant man, discerning and perceptive? How had he ever gotten the idea that he was a good cop?

  And Rosie. The child…

  That blood-soaked beach would be gone now, devoured by the incoming tide. And in the morning the sand would reappear, and it would be clean. Unblemished.

  Alberg got up and went home, taking his cushion with him.

  “I don’t feel like talking, Cassandra,” he said later that day. “I don’t feel like it and I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, looking down at the rug. Cassandra Mitchell wanted to sit next to him and take him in her arms but she knew he would have pulled away.

  “I don’t have anything to say,” he told her. Lamplight glinted on his hair, which was so fair that she couldn’t easily see the gray in it. “I really don’t.”

  They sat there for a long time. Outside, the cloud cover stirred and weakened and there was a brightening of the day; not enough sun to cast shadows, but enough to draw attention to itself. This lasted only a few minutes. Then the afternoon light began rapidly to fade, while Cassandra sat in Alberg’s wingback chair, watching him, a tall, broad man, smooth-faced, with cool blue eyes he liked to hide behind. She sometimes found him every bit as enigmatic as when they first had met. When it was almost dark, he spoke.

  “Have you ever been clamming?”

  “Sure,” said Cassandra.

  “They spout, like whales. From under the sand. The mud. A couple of feet in the air. You hear this sound—‘psst.’ ‘Psst.’ And you look, and there’s a jet of water, coming from a clam you can’t see. ‘Psst,’ it goes.”

  He stood up and went to the window. Cassandra thought he was going to close the curtains and turn on the lights but he just stood there with his hands in his pockets, looking out.

  “They had shovels,” he said. “And a big pail. There were quite a few clams in the pail.”

  The cats were curled up on the sofa, and the light was now so dim that Cassandra couldn’t distinguish them one from the other. She tried to focus on them, though, and think about them, so that not all of her would hear whatever Alberg was going to tell her.

  “There was a great jeezly rock there,” said Alberg. “A big flat rock. It was maybe four feet high, eight feet across. Covered with bird shit and clam shells. The seagulls drop clams on it, to break the shells.”

  Cassandra knew the place he was describing. She could have climbed into her car and driven directly there.

  “What he used was a machete,” said Alberg. Cassandra thought this must be the voice he used when he had to testify in court. “The blade is almost a foot long, and it’s four inches across at the end, where it’s curved, and widest. It’s an old one,” he said, as if in response to a question. “The handle’s wrapped in electrician’s tape and on the blade you can make out ‘CF 8’ something and then ‘1942.’ It’s a World War II weapon.” He turned from the window to face her. “No. Not a weapon. A tool. Used to clear brush. That’s what Eliot was using it for, too. Clearing blackberries.” He reached up with one hand, and then didn’t seem to know why he’d done this. “It’s like a slide show. I didn’t manage to get my guard up in time. Things have stuck in my head that wouldn’t, usually.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Damn.”

  Cassandra got up and went to him, and put her arms around him. “How’s the child?” she said.

  “I’ve been afraid to call the hospital.” He rested his chin on the top of her head, and linked his hands behind her back.

  “Karl,” she said. “Do you know why he did it?”

  “I don’t even know if he knows why he did it.”

  Chapter 3

  Saturday, November 12

  CASSANDRA MITCHELL WAS IN charge of Sechelt’s library. She had recently begun to find her office claustrophobic, and had decided this was yet another symptom of middle age, another of the many little things associated with growing older that nobody bothered to warn you about.

  It occurred to her that she could go on calling herself middle-aged only if she intended to live to be a hundred.

  She glanced uneasily at the skylight, then at her watch. She was actually looking forward to lunch with her mother, because it would get her out of there.

  Cassandra got up from her desk to open the top of the Dutch door that led into the area behind the checkout counter. She could see beyond it into the stacks, where Paula was reshelving a cartful of books. She sat down again and opened a file folder marked BOARD MEETINGS. Sighed. Looked again at her watch. And began making a list of the items that would comprise her report to the board.

  “I don’t understand why you haven’t set the date yet,” said Helen Mitchell two hours later, breaking a half-slice of toast into quarters. She looked with distaste around Earl’s Café & Catering. “For some reason I never think this place is quite clean.”

  “For god’s sake, Mother,” Cassandra hissed. “Keep your voice down.”

  Helen ate some of her clam chowder, and then a piece of toast. “And when are we going into town to get your dress?”

  Cassandra, inspecting Helen gloomily, acknowledged that her impending wedding had given her mother a new reason to live. “I don’t know, Mother,” she said, picking at her salad. “Soon, I guess.”

  “There are legions of things to be done, you know. Have you at least begun to make lists?”

  “Lists? Lists of what?”

  “People to invite. Gifts you want.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake.”

  “Things to do. Decisions to be made. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.” Helen’s hair was just long enough to cover her ears. It cupped her face like an elegant silver frame. Her eyes were brighter and more alert than they’d been in months.

  “Okay, okay,” said Cassandra. “How about if I come over tomorrow.”

  “Bring a notebook.” Helen Mitchell waved an imperious hand until she had Earl’s attention, and asked for more hot water for her tea.

  “Did you hear?” said Earl to Cassandra when he brought the hot water. “About my busboy?”

  “I heard. It’s terrible.”

  “It’s terrible,” said Earl, nodding. “Aw
ful.” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb, toward the lunchtime crowd. “What if he’d gone nuts in here? Grabbed a butcher knife or something. People dead. People dying. Blood all over the place.”

  “Please,” said Helen, pained. “Please.”

  It had been raining when Cassandra dropped her mother off at Shady Acres but now the rain had stopped and the sky was brightening. Rain clung to the world, though, in crystal drops, gleaming. The branches of the forsythia bush in Sid Sokolowski’s front yard were swollen with raindrops. Cassandra, anticipating spring by several months, thought they looked like leafbuds.

  She went up the steps to the front door, her big leather bag slung over her shoulder, and Sid opened it before she had a chance to knock.

  “I saw you coming,” he said. The aroma of coffee wafted toward them down the hall from the kitchen.

  They sat at Sid’s dining room table, which Cassandra remembered as being much bigger. She asked if it was new and he explained that he had taken out the leaves. “Not much need for a long table now,” he said unhappily.

  He brought them coffee in large white cups. “I’ve got some muffins, too,” he said, but Cassandra declined.

  “I’m here about Karl,” she said, stirring cream into her coffee.

  Sunlight spilled suddenly through the dining room window—and just as suddenly departed. Cassandra felt bereft.

  She also felt as if she oughtn’t to be there, as if confiding in Sid would grant him some kind of advantage over Karl. But then that’s what a person always feels when asking for help, she told herself. Asking for help was an admission of need, sure, of course it was. You had to accept that and get on with it. People who never sought help from one another, who struggled on alone, didn’t learn nearly as much in a lifetime as those who allowed others to teach them some of what they knew.

  “I thought it might help if he talked about it, about these murders,” she said. “But he didn’t really talk about it. He just described things. It was like he was showing me pictures.”

  “He seems fine to me,” said Sid. “Maybe a little preoccupied. That’s all.”

  His eyes were gray, the same color as his hair, which he kept very short. He had lost weight since Elsie left, but was still an unusually large person. His size made Cassandra think of the huge men who played professional football, the ones who seemed seldom to catch or throw the ball, men whose sole job, apparently, was to try to knock down equally large men on the other team. She wondered how he kept in shape.

  “He can usually separate work from the rest of his life,” she said. “But he’s thinking about this all the time. Literally. And it’s not as if there’s anything to solve, right?”

  Sid nodded.

  “I mean, there’s no detecting to do, right?”

  He nodded again.

  Cassandra was aware of her growing agitation. She forced herself to pick up the coffee cup and drink, and replace the cup in its saucer. “He didn’t sleep last night, either.”

  “He knew the kid,” said Sokolowski. “Met him soon after they got here. The kid was unhappy, for some reason.” He rolled his eyes. “Unhappy. Huh.” He shifted position, causing his oversized captain’s chair to creak. “Anyway. I think Karl thought he could help in some way.”

  “So—”

  Sid shook his head. “Nobody could’ve done anything. Who’s to know what’s going on in somebody else’s head? A thing like this—it’s not predictable.”

  “But he feels some responsibility anyway. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Oh hell, we’re all responsible. Everybody’s responsible. You learn to live with that.” He had been looking out the window, frowning. Now he clapped his hands on his thighs and pushed himself out of his chair. “I’ll be right back.”

  Cassandra ran her hand along the grain of wood in the tabletop, which was highly polished. She glanced into the adjoining living room and saw no clutter there. Elsie had liked a little clutter. Cassandra wondered where she was living, on her own again, for the first time in years. Did she have a tiny apartment? A duplex? A whole entire house, all to herself? Whatever Elsie had, Cassandra was pretty sure it would be cluttered.

  When Sid came back he had a thick scrapbook in his hand. He put it down in front of Cassandra. “I’ve got a whole pile of these,” he said. “Go on. Have a look.” On the front cover was printed “1980-84.”

  The scrapbook was full of newspaper clippings that had been taped in place. CARNAGE ON THE NUMBER ONE, read the first headline.

  Sid went around the table to sit down again in the captain’s chair.

  CYCLISTS MAKE GRISLY FIND, Cassandra read.

  “Elsie didn’t like me doing this,” said the sergeant. “She said it was gruesome.”

  KNIFE-WIELDING THIEF TRAPPED IN ELEVATOR.

  “But it’s not gruesome,” he went on. “I’m filing it away, see?” Cassandra looked up at him. “Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes the papers lose interest in a case and they don’t bother to do a story that wraps it up.”

  MOTHER KILLS BABY, SELF.

  “I don’t clip anything I didn’t work on. And I don’t clip what they call feature stories.”

  RCMP ALARMED ABOUT POLICE SUICIDE RATE.

  “What about that one?” said Cassandra.

  Sid looked at the story, then at Cassandra. “I knew one of the guys it talks about.” He rubbed one enormous hand across his face. “Had to take him home. To his folks in Peterborough.” He reached over and closed the scrapbook. “The point is, here—this is how I put things out of my mind.” He tapped the cover with his fingertips. “As soon as it’s in here—it’s outa my head. Karl doesn’t keep a scrapbook. He’s got other ways. Now sometimes there’s no story for me to tape in here, and then I feel yantzy for a while. But it goes away eventually.”

  Cassandra looked at the scrapbook. How many of them did he have? She imagined him sitting here at his dining room table, evening after evening, poring over newspapers, clipping, taping.

  “He’ll brood for a while,” said Sokolowski. “But it’ll go away eventually,” he said. “It always goes away. Eventually.”

  Alberg was standing in his Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment office, looking out through its only window, which was small and square. The filing cabinet stood in front of the window, whose venetian blinds were pulled all the way up to the top.

  He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. He felt as if he might be waiting for something. For the phone to ring, perhaps. And whoever was on the other end of the line would be calling with stupendous news. He couldn’t imagine what this news might be, or how it could make any difference in his life.

  On his desk were several stacks of paperwork. Every survey Alberg had ever read about the stress of police work had named paperwork as the biggest single cause. It ought to have been relatively easy for somebody to have done something about this, but so far nobody had. So far it had, in fact, only gotten worse. If he were to retire early, as he had lately sometimes thought he might, he wouldn’t have to deal with paperwork. He could set himself up as an investigator, maybe, and hire somebody else to do it. This was tremendously appealing. He tried to think where the idea had come from—Cassandra. Of course. And he had resisted it almost contemptuously, he remembered. He’d have to apologize for that. But not yet. Better wait and see if this was a real idea in his head, or just a temporary distraction.

  Alberg turned from the window and looked at his office. He should move stuff around in here, he decided. Get the filing cabinet out of the way, and position his desk so that he could see out the window when he was sitting there, dealing with the goddamn paperwork.

  He put the black leather chair out in the hall and yarded the filing cabinet over against the wall next to the doorway. Then he took hold of the edge of his desk, a gray metal object whose panels were badly dented, and began hauling it around so that it faced the window instead of the door. The black chair went under the window. Then he wheeled his desk chair int
o place and sat down.

  Through the window he saw a chunk of gray sky.

  There, he said to himself.

  The photograph of his daughters that hung on the wall was now inconveniently behind him, of course. But he needed to get a new photo anyway. He would have it put into a frame that he could put on his desk. He’d get one of Cassandra, too. He sat back in his chair, his hands on its arms, and told himself to keep on struggling.

  There was a knock on the door and Norah Gibbons looked in. “They’ve come for the kid,” she said.

  He looked out the window again. The gray sky was still there. “I want to see him first.”

  In the interview room, Eliot Gardener was slumped in a wooden chair that Alberg didn’t remember ever having seen before. Henry Loewen had picked up some clothes for him, to replace the bloody ones he had been wearing, which were now evidence. Jeans, a long-sleeved gray sweatshirt, sneakers. That was what he had on now. And he’d had a shower. You’d never believe, looking at him, what he’d done.

  Alberg straddled a chair on the opposite side of the table. Norah remained standing, next to the closed door. “What happened?” he said. There was a slight echo in the room, which contained nothing but the rectangular table, the wooden chair, and two metal ones.

  “Rosie,” said the kid, in a monotone. His voice had only recently changed. “Is she—” He was trying to keep his chest from heaving.

  “She’s in shock,” said Alberg. “But she’s not badly hurt.” The kid’s hands were shaking. He trapped them between his knees. “What happened, Eliot?”

  “I don’t know what happened,” said Eliot. “Nothing happened. I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “No, you don’t. This isn’t official, anyway.”

  Eliot didn’t respond. Alberg couldn’t get a good look at his face because Eliot was looking at the floor. Alberg heard phones ringing, and voices, and footsteps; but all that was happening in another universe.