Old Flames, Burned Hands Read online

  TWO more police units joined the first at the scene, crowding onto the curb and spinning their strobing lights into the branches of the trees. The ambulance arrived shortly afterwards, the paramedics rushing a gurney into the house. The neighbours crowded around on the sidewalk and craned their necks when the paramedics wheeled Shane Coleman into the back of the ambulance.

  Tilda sat on the front stoop, pressing a towel to her bloodied knee. A third paramedic looked her over, gently prodding her and asking if this hurt, did that.

  A plainclothes officer approached the stoop and nodded a hello. “Ms. Parish. Are you all right?”

  She looked up. Detective Crippen hovered over her. Tilda looked around for his partner, the chubbier man she liked but Detective Rowe wasn’t there.

  Detective Crippen looked up at the gaping mess of the broken picture window and whistled as if impressed. “Jesus H. What happened?”

  “WHO ATTACKED YOU?”

  Tilda sat under the fluorescents of Interview Room B inside the new 14 Division building of the Toronto Metro Police. Detective Crippen sat across from her with his big hands folded neatly on the table between them. He wanted to know who had broken into the house and assaulted her and her husband.

  Tilda rubbed her eyes, trying to conjure up some answer that would satisfy the police detective. They were vampires, officer. A whole bunch of them. They live in the sewers. And they kidnapped my undead boyfriend. Did I mention he was a bloodsucker too?

  Detective Crippen sat patiently, still as granite. His much friendlier partner, Detective Rowe, was nowhere to be seen. Apparently Crippen had abandoned the whole good cop/bad cop tactic and gotten straight down to brass tacks.

  The paramedics had treated her at the house. Mostly cuts and scrapes but they were concerned about the ravaged marks on her stomach. Tilda had insisted it was fine but did ask them to bandage it up properly. When the detective returned, she told him she needed to phone her daughter.

  Molly was safe and sound at Zoe’s house. Tilda explained what had happened and that her father had been taken to hospital. Despite Tilda’s insistence that her dad was fine and it would be best if she stayed where she was for the night, Molly insisted on going to the hospital. When she hung up, she asked the detective for a police car to pick up her daughter and take her to the hospital. Crippen said he’d be happy to and, if she was feeling up to it, they would escort her over to 14 Division for a discussion about the night’s events.

  She had tried to get out of it, saying she was too exhausted and all she wanted to do was see her husband. Detective Crippen was having none of it and asked if she needed a hand walking to the car.

  Interview Room B consisted of a small table that was bolted to the floor and two moulded plastic chairs. The lighting was harsh, giving the room the claustrophobic feel of an incubator.

  Detective Crippen offered a watery smile. “Did you know these assailants?”

  “No,” Tilda said.

  “What did they look like? How many were there?”

  “Six or seven. The power was cut, so it was dark. I didn’t get a look at any of them.”

  “Of course.” Crippen varnished his tone with a thin wash of sarcasm. “So these people just came out of nowhere and broke in? Laid siege to the house like Vikings on a bender and you have no clue as to why they targeted you and your husband?”

  “It was so dark, they could have been Vikings. Or ninjas, I dunno.”

  Crippen leaned forward, as if he’d caught the scent to something juicy. “Do you want to know what I think?”

  “I’m all ears.” She couldn’t help returning the bad attitude.

  “I think those attackers were the homies of the dude you and your boyfriend killed at the bar last week.”

  “Homies?”

  “Compadres,” Crippen said. “Posse, gang, bros. Whatever culturally appropriate term you want to use to designate the associates of the deceased man.”

  Tilda studied the detectives hands splayed out on the tabletop. They were clean and void of calluses or marks, the nails neatly trimmed. She wondered if he had them manicured. “That’s quite a theory. But I already told you, I don’t know anything about that man’s death.”

  “Ahh, see…” Crippen raised a finger. “That’s where the theory finds it legs. I found a witness who not only puts you on the scene when the man was assaulted but states that you were with the assailant who shoved the victim out the window.”

  “We’ve already been through this. Your witness is wrong.”

  Crippen grinned, flashing pristine white teeth. “No, I think he’s dead on. You know why I think that? Because he liked your music. He said you sounded like… Damn, who is that singer?” Here Crippen snapped his fingers, trying to recall a name. “That skinny English woman from years back. Lanky, real weirdo… Ugh.”

  Tilda watched the detective rack his brains but didn’t offer any suggestions. Finally, another fingersnap. “P.J. Harvey! That’s it!”

  She reared back. “Harvey?”

  “Yes!”

  “And that makes him right?”

  “Sure. That, and the fact that he thought you were hot.”

  “Golly. Great witness, detective.”

  “But he is, Ms. Parish. You know why? Because no guy who liked your music and thought you were hot would finger you on the scene.” Crippen’s face fell by a degree. “Poor choice of words, but you know what I mean.”

  “Maybe he had too much to drink.”

  “That’s always a possibility. But he was sober enough to remember your date that night. The witness even helped our sketch artist draft up a likeness.” The detective plucked a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. He flattened it on the table and slid it across. “Pretty good, huh?”

  It was. The sketch artist had captured the angular frame of Gil’s face and the unruly fall of hair over the eyes. The mouth and nose were off, generic and unremarkable in their rendering. Tilda flattened the paper against the tabletop. “So this is my boyfriend, huh?”

  “This is the man you were with that night. So, who is he?”

  “Is this a joke? Because if it is, it’s a cruel one.”

  “No jokes here, Miss Parish. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this.”

  Tilda tapped a finger on the sketch. “You’re right. I do know this man. His name is Gil Dorsey. And he was my boyfriend. For a time.”

  Detective Crippen leaned forward, eager to kill this case and drag it home. “I see. And where would I find Mr. Dorsey now?”

  Tilda slid the picture back. “Bottom of Lake Ontario.”

  The detective’s mouth went oval in surprise but no sound came out.

  “Gil died seventeen years ago,” Tilda continued. “In a car accident that took his life and left me in the hospital for a month.”

  Tilda had been allowed to keep her bag with her in the interview room and it sat on the floor under the table. As Crippen’s face darkened, she plucked the bag into her lap and found her wallet. She dug through its flattened bills and creased receipts until she found a small photograph. Old, its edges frayed. She snapped it onto the table like a playing card. “Here,” she said, squaring the photo alongside the sketch. “That’s him.”

  Crippen scrutinized the face in the photograph and then studied the sketch and went back to the photo. The smug vestige of triumph drained from his eyes.

  “Whoever your witness is, he has a nasty sense of humour.” She nodded at the photo. “You can keep that picture if you want. Now, I need to go to the hospital and see my husband.”

  THE night sky clouded over, hiding the few visible stars, and after a while, it began to rain. Tilda watched the raindrops collect on the windows of the police cruiser as it prowled along College Street. Detective Crippen had arranged for a uniformed officer to escort her to the hospital and Tilda experienced her second ride in a police unit in the same night.

  “You okay back there?” The officer turned her head towards the backseat but k
ept her eyes on the road. Officer Whittaker had introduced herself with an easy smile and completely non-judgemental demeanour, for which Tilda was grateful.

  “I’m fine, officer,” Tilda said. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “I hear that,” the uniform replied. “Sometimes you want to switch your brain off but it just races on, worrying about everything. Call me Jenny, by the way.”

  “Thanks, Jenny. I’m Tilda.”

  “Pleasure.” Officer Whittaker bopped her horn to alert the driver in front that the light had turned green. “How do you like our Detective Crippen?”

  Tilda shrugged, unsure of how to respond. ‘Utter asshole’ was probably not the best description to employ given the company. “He seems tough. Kinda snarky too.”

  “He is that. Freaky-smart, you know. But he’s fair.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  Rain patted the roof with a light drum and Whittaker turned her attention to a call coming over the squawk box. Tilda settled back and wondered if Gil was dead.

  For a second time in her life, he had been snatched away by monsters and her heart stung at the thought of what might happen to him. According to Gil, the most sacred law of this hellish coven was secrecy and Gil had broken it. For her. Would the coven destroy him or just punish him? Either thought clenched her heart like a coronary.

  Constricting her heart even tighter was the cold realization that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. The coven could be hidden anywhere. She was outnumbered. They were fiendish, inhuman monsters. And now that they knew about her, they would be return to kill her too.

  And then there was her daughter and husband. If what Gil had told her about the ruthlessness of the coven was true, they would also be targeted. Simply by association.

  Shane would be safe for the moment inside a hospital. Of that she was sure. A hospital was too busy and too bright for them to risk any assault on the place. Molly had been driven to the hospital in another prowl car and most likely escorted straight to Shane’s hospital bed. She was safe for now but what about after? What happens after the uniformed officers like Whittaker say goodnight and leave them on their own?

  Molly couldn’t stay at the house, that much was certain. Sending her back to her friend’s house wasn’t an option either. Zoe lived eight blocks away and Tilda was certain that those degenerate wraiths would sniff her out. She needed to get Molly out of the city. But to where?

  Tilda rooted around in her bag for her phone. She scrolled down the list of contacts for a number that, under normal circumstances, she was reluctant to dial.

  “You making a call?” Officer Whittaker snagged her reflection in the rearview mirror.

  “Is that okay?”

  “Sure.” Whittaker reached for the console. “Let me just turn down the squawk-box so you can hear.”

  Whittaker toggled back the volume of the police radio to a civilized decibel of squelch. Tilda thanked her and thumbed down the list and hit a number. Listening to it ring, she steeled her nerves against the prospect of asking her mother-in-law for a favour.

  OFFICER Whittaker sensed Tilda’s rising tension as they pulled up to the hospital and offered to go with her inside. Tilda was grateful. Hospitals were unpleasant under the best of circumstances and having spent a month in one at the age of twenty-four, Tilda hated being within spitting distance of one. The officer’s calm presence helped her keep it together. At least until they located the room Shane was in. The sight of their daughter sitting alone by her father’s bedside struck Tilda as the saddest thing she had ever seen. She would have collapsed had Whittaker not taken her arm.

  “Okay, catch your breath.” Whittaker led her to a chair in the hallway and made her sit. “You might want to take a minute before you go in.”

  “I’m okay. Just took me by surprise, seeing that.”

  “Course. But they’re both okay.” Whittaker nodded then stole a glance inside the room. “How old’s your daughter?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “She looks like a strong kid. Watching over her dad like that.”

  “She is.” Another wave threatened to choke Tilda into tears but she breathed through it and then got to her feet. She reached out and touched the officer’s arm. “Thank you, Jenny. You’ve been very kind.”

  “I’ll be out here if you need anything.”

  Tilda thanked her again and went into the room.

  MOLLY turned at the sound of the door clicking open, saw her mother and then slumped back down in the chair. Tilda tiptoed inside and placed her hand on her daughter’s head. She felt Molly’s hair and the shape of her skull and fought down the urge to squeeze the girl in a bear hug. “You all right?”

  Molly shrugged. “I’m not the one in a hospital bed.”

  Shane looked remarkably peaceful under the thin hospital sheet. His eyes were closed, his hands folded neatly over his stomach. A split on his cheek had been closed with two stitches but other than that, he appeared unmarked.

  “How is he?”

  “He says he’s fine,” Molly said. “Dad, you awake?”

  Shane opened his eyes, registered Tilda standing there and then closed his eyes again. “I’m awake.”

  Molly stood and shuffled to the door. “I’m going to find a Coke machine.”

  The door clicked shut. The girl’s absence left a vacuum in the room. Tilda didn’t move. “How do you feel?”

  “Like shit,” he said without opening his eyes.

  Tilda took the chair. “I’m sorry, Shane. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

  “I don’t care anymore.”

  Tilda leaned back and the weight of exhaustion smothered her like quicksand. Everything around her lay in tatters and she hadn’t a clue as to how to fit the pieces back together again. Maybe they never would.

  Shane opened his eyes and stared up at the tiles on the ceiling. “Those things that attacked us. Gil’s one of them, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did they attack us?”

  “Because of me. Because I know they exist.”

  He didn’t react to this news. “And now I do. Will they come back?”

  “You’re safe in here. There’s too many people in here for them to try anything.”

  Shane tried to sit up but winced at the pain and settled back down. He waited for the dizziness to pass. “We gotta get Molly somewhere safe.”

  “Lie still.” Tilda rose and straightened the sheet over him. “I got it figured out.”

  “How?”

  “Your mom’s on her way. She’s gonna take Molly back with her until it’s safe.”

  Surprise lifted his eyes. “That must have been an awkward call. What did you tell her?”

  Sylvia, Shane’s mother, had never warmed to Tilda. Even after the birth of her only grandchild, Sylvia regarded Tilda with cool suspicion. “I told her that you and I were having problems and we needed time to sort it out.”

  “Okay. Good. Molly will be safe out in Wasaga.” Sweat beaded up over his face and he seemed spent.

  Tilda smoothed the hair from his brow. “What did you tell Molly?”

  “That a bunch of crackheads busted in,” he gasped. “The rest of it, I pretty much told her the truth.”

  Tilda looked at the door. “I have to talk to her.”

  “You’re gonna get a blast of it. Don’t lose your temper on her.”

  “Okay,” she said, and went to find her daughter.

  MOLLY WAS IN THE LOBBY, curled up in one of the stiff-backed chairs while the injured and the disturbed shuffled around her like phantoms. Tilda slowed her pace as she came up behind the girl, a lump of ice forming inside her heart.

  While she screwed up her courage for what was coming, she saw Molly turn to the dishevelled woman next to her and whisper something. The woman was older, her hair a frayed tangle of grey and she was overdressed for the season. Possibly homeless. The old woman reached out and pressed something into her daughter’s hand. T
ilda’s dander shot up, scolding herself for leaving Molly alone in a busy hospital waiting room.

  “Honey?” Tilda came around the bench and stopped short when she laid eyes on the old woman.

  The same old woman who rambled around the market with her home-made cross, admonishing sinners to come to Jesus. The same voodoo woman who had tried to burn her with the same wooden cross that rested in the old woman’s lap.

  “Molly, what are you doing?” Tilda put a protective hand over Molly’s shoulder, claiming territory. She turned a cold eye on the old woman. “Is this woman bothering you?”

  “It’s okay, mom” Molly said. “We were just talking.”

  The old woman looked up but her eyes held none of the scorn she had flung at Tilda earlier. If anything, the woman looked sad. She stood and took up her flimsy cross, muttering something Tilda couldn’t decipher, and ambled off to find another seat.

  Tilda looked her daughter over, as if searching for an injury or mark. “What did she say to you?”

  “The usual stuff. About Jesus and being saved,” Molly replied. “How’s dad?”

  “Angry.”

  Molly brushed lint from her knee. “He has reason to be.”

  “He told you.”

  “Yes,” Molly said in a cold tone. “How could you do that to him?”

  Tilda closed her eyes. “Honey, what I did was wrong but sometimes… sometimes things happen and you have little control over them.”

  “That sounds like an excuse. Did somebody put a gun to your head? You didn’t have a choice?”

  Tilda tensed her jaw muscle. Steeling herself for this conversation, she’d anticipated a lot crying on her part. What she hadn’t foreseen was the seething she could barely restrain at being called out by a child.

  “If you love someone, you don’t cheat on them.” Molly folded her arms, indignantly righteous in her moral stance. “Simple as that. And if you do cheat, you don’t get to whitewash it with excuses and justifications. Don’t you love dad anymore?”

  “Molly, what I did was wrong. Without a doubt. I own that. But not everything is black and white. It isn’t always love or hate or right versus wrong.”