Mulengro, page 21
“Remember last night?” Zach said suddenly. “When we were talking about the manitous—the voices of the wind—and how I can sometimes hear what they’re saying?” Ola nodded. “Well, right now they’re saying that I can help you.”
“Like they were singing ‘Good Vibrations’ last night?” Ola asked.
“I thought the vibes were pretty good last night.”
“Yes. Yes, they were.”
“This Mulengro, see, he’s like a walking time-bomb, Ola. You talk about vibes—well, bad vibes spread a hell of a lot quicker than good ones do. I don’t know why that is. But a guy like Mulengro— he’s after your people, right now, dig? But the vibes don’t stop there. He’s killing Gypsies now. What’s he going to kill next? The wind’s telling me he’s got to be stopped, right here and now, and it looks to me like it’s up to us to do it ‘cause no one else is stepping forward.”
“But what will we do?”
“We’ll think of something. The situation itself provides, you know?”
“This isn’t a game, Zach. We can’t go waltzing into it as if that’s all it is.”
“I know. But, like, we’ve got to go into it all the same.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Ola said. “You do.”
“I can’t walk away from it. I’m into peace and flowers, Ola, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not a pacifist. Someone’s out to knock down what I believe in—I’m not going to stand by and watch them do it.”
They said nothing for awhile then, each following a personal train of thought. The sound of scratching at the screen startled them. Ola looked over to see Boboko hanging from the screen with his claws.
“Do I have to go through this whole number,” he asked, “or will you just let me in?”
Zach looked over and smiled. “It’s hard to get used to in some ways,” he said as Ola went to let the cat in. “I always did wonder what went on in their heads. They always seem so—”
“Hungry,” Boboko interjected as he soft-stepped through the door. “Though we’re inscrutable, too. But right now I’m hungry. My stomach’s not as big as yours is, you see.” He glanced from Ola to their host. “Has anyone given any thought to having some lunch?”
Zach and Ola looked at each other with exaggerated surprise, then they both began to laugh, the seriousness of their mood broken, the fears momentarily held at bay.
Boboko stalked off into the kitchen with his fur in a huff, muttering something about if there was any sense to be found in a creature that walked on two legs, he certainly hadn’t seen any sign of it yet.
twenty-four
“Mr. Shaw? I’m Detective Sandler of the Ottawa Police Force and this is my partner, Detective-Sergeant Briggs. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind. May we come in?”
Tom regarded the two plainclothes policemen with a mixture of relief and the vague irrational fear that often touches civilians when they come into contact with an officer of the law. He knew why they were here. It was about John.
“Mr. Shaw?”
“What? Oh, yes. Please come on in. Can I get you something to drink?”
“So long as it’s not alcoholic,” Briggs said. He held up his pipe. “Do you mind if I smoke this?”
“No, no. Not at all. Coffee?”
“If it’s no trouble.”
“Not at all. Make yourselves comfortable while I put the kettle on.”
The detectives entered the living room. Will settled on a low lounge chair while Briggs prowled slowly around the room, glancing at the art on the walls. There was an orderliness about the room that bothered him. Everything was too neat. There was too much open space. But when he compared it to his own place he had to admit there was something to say for this kind of designer look. For one thing, it’d keep you cleaning up after yourself, because if you invested this much money in a room you sure as hell wouldn’t want to leave beer cans and last night’s dirty dishes hanging around. This was the kind of place Francine and her car salesman would be living in. . . . He frowned, not wanting to think about her any more than his ghosts.
When Tom returned with the coffees balanced on a tray, he was accompanied by a striking woman. Even with her hair up in a loose bun and her paint-stained jeans and shirt, she was glamourous, Briggs thought.
“This is my wife Gillian,” Tom said.
Will regarded her with interest, putting her name together with some of the art on the walls. “This is a pleasure,” he said, standing up. “You know I almost bought your ‘Traces of Spain’ that was hanging in Den Art, but by the time I got the money together, it had already been sold. Now your stuff’s right out of my price range. You do beautiful work.”
“Thank you, Mr. . . . ?”
Tom made the introductions as he laid the coffee tray on the table before the couch. Gillian served them with a simple grace that raised more maudlin thoughts in Briggs. This must be what getting old meant, he thought. You just kept living with regrets and what-might-have-beens until . . . what? Where did it take you in the end?
“So, ah . . . how can I help you?” Tom asked.
Briggs put away his pipe and nodded to his partner. Will took out his notebook, opening it on his knee. “You’ve been working with John Owczarek recently, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Yes. But I didn’t just work with him—he was my friend as well. Look, can you tell me what this is all about? I haven’t seen John since he lost his house—since it burned down. No one’s seen him and I’m worried. Is he in some sort of trouble?”
“We were hoping that perhaps you could tell us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Evidence points strongly to arson—your friend’s house didn’t burn down by itself. Now, normally our line of investigation is pretty clear-cut. We talk to the owner, look into the possibility of insurance fraud, potential enemies, that sort of thing, but since Mr. Owczarek wasn’t even carrying any insurance on the place and—”
“It wasn’t insured?”
“No.”
“Oh, Jesus. He must’ve lost a bundle.” Tom frowned and thought a moment. “Wait a second. If you’re thinking that he’s responsible, you’re dead wrong. I was with him that whole evening. We were rehearsing at Doug’s, then John and I walked back to his place together. We saw it burning and then . . .” His voice trailed off.
“And then, Mr. Shaw?”
A strange look touched Tom’s features. “He looked at me and said, ‘There is no John Owczarek,’ and then he walked off.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Briggs leaned forward. “Can you think of any reason why he wouldn’t step forward, Mr. Shaw? You’ll have to admit that in normal circumstances the owner would make some attempt to contact us.”
Tom nodded. He felt in a somewhat compromising situation. He’d considered John to be his friend and didn’t want to get him into any more trouble than he obviously already was in—plainclothes policemen didn’t come visiting your friends and acquaintances unless the problem was serious—but on the other hand he wanted to help John. If he was in some kind of trouble. . . . But what did he really know about John in the first place? He glanced at Gillian and read the same look in her eyes that had been there last night when she told him that he had to do what he thought best when they’d talked about Tom’s confusion. He could always count on her support, which was great, except that he didn’t know what to do. There were levels of complexity rising out of John’s disappearance that were totally beyond Tom’s range of knowledge. Gypsies. Policemen. Arson. God knows what else.
“It’s funny,” he said finally. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about these things since John vanished as he did—about the way things are and what you really know about a person—and, well, I suppose it’s my own naiveté that’s been bothering me the most. I knew John for three years, and then suddenly I discovered I didn’t know him at all.” He told them about the woman he’d met on John’s street and what she’d told him about the Gypsies, about how no one he’d contacted knew anything about John’s whereabouts and, when questioned, had to admit that they didn’t know all that much about him either. “The crazy thing is, he just didn’t strike me as a secretive person. That’s what’s hardest to take. If you’d asked me about him two weeks ago, I would have told you that he’s one of the most open people you could meet. But all the time there were all these secret layers . . . I suppose I feel a little . . . I’m not sure. Betrayed.”
Will nodded sympathetically as he took notes. “Do you know this woman’s name?” he asked. “The neighbor?”
“No. But she lived right across the street from him. It was a red brick house with a white porch and wicker furniture. I don’t know the number offhand, but . . .”
“That’s okay. We can find it.” Will glanced at Briggs who shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s about it,” he added, rising. “I’d like to thank you for your help, Mr. Shaw.”
Tom nodded and stood as well. “Can you . . . can you tell me why you’re looking for John? It’s more than just the house, isn’t it? But if he’s in trouble and I could help ...?”
“I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to tell you very much,” Will said, “but if it’ll set your mind at ease, it’s mostly in connection with another case we’re working on. And so far the evidence points more to Mr. Owczarek being a victim himself, rather than the perpetrator.”
“I see. But if you do find him, could you . . . you know, tell him I’m here. That I’d like to help if I could.”
“We can do that, Mr. Shaw. With pleasure. I hope he knows what a good friend you are.”
Tom nodded. “Maybe. But maybe if I was such a good friend, I’d’ve known more about him. Been able to help him if he was in trouble. Maybe I wasn’t there to talk to him when he needed someone.”
“I’ll tell you something, Mr. Shaw,” Briggs said. “Gypsies aren’t the same as you or me. They live in a very close-knit society and anyone who isn’t a Gypsy doesn’t rank very high in their estimation.”
“I . . . I see.”
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Shaw,” Will said. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Shaw. I’ll be looking forward to your next showing.”
Gillian smiled and showed them the way to the door, leaving Tom standing in the living room, staring blankly at the mantel, his thoughts turned inward. Briggs paused at the front door and looked back at Tom.
“I guess maybe I shouldn’t have said that,” he said to Gillian. “That thing about Gypsies. I wasn’t trying to upset him. I just thought it was something he should know. The way he’s tearing himself up . . . There’s nothing he could’ve done—not with a Gypsy. Believe me.”
Gillian nodded. “He’s upset,” she said, “but I think it’s always better to know the truth, don’t you?”
“That’s what our job is, ma’am. Trying to find the truth.” Briggs hesitated a moment longer, but there was nothing more to say. He’d already said more than enough. “Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Shaw.”
When Gillian returned to the living room, Tom was sitting down, still pensive. She slipped onto the couch beside him and took his arm.
“I’m all right,” Tom said. “I guess I had to hear that. It . . . explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
Gillian nodded. “In a way. But even if that’s how it is, it doesn’t mean that John didn’t care for you still in his own way.”
“It’s not the caring, or lack of it. It’s just the . . . I don’t know.All the secrecy. Never having known.”
He leaned his head against hers, folding his arm around her shoulders. She snuggled close, offering him what comfort she could.
“Nice going, Mr. Sensitive,” Will said as they got into the car.
“I just thought that he should know—that’s all,” Briggs replied, settling in his seat. “If you want to go around pointing fingers, save one for Sam. That was one hell of a job of investigating the neighbors he did. He’s got an old gossip on the street who’ll talk to anyone who stops long enough to pick their nose and what does he get out of her?”
“Maybe she doesn’t like to talk to cops,” Will said. “But at least we know now we can be pretty sure that Owczarek’s a Gypsy—that makes the connection clearer.”
“I know what his connection is,” Briggs said. Before Will could reply, the radio squawked. Briggs took the call.
“No shit,” Will said thoughtfully when the call was completed. “So he abandoned his car in Perth. What the hell is there in Perth?”
Briggs stared out the windshield. “Gypsies,” he said softly. “What say we put our neigborhood gossip on a back burner and call that constable from headquarters, see what they’ve got in the way of Gypsies down around Perth?”
Will turned to Briggs. “Paddy, we don’t know Owczarek’s our man. He could be just a victim.”
“He’s not dead, Will.”
“Not yet.” Will turned the ignition and the car started with a cough of exhaust. “But maybe he’s next.”
Briggs shook his head. “I’ve got a gut feeling on this, Will.”
“I’m the one that has gut feelings, Paddy. You never get ‘em.”
“So that’s why I’m listening to this one. Owczarek’s in this shit so deep it’s coming out of his ears. He’s not next. The only way he’s connected to ‘next’ is that he’s going to be wielding this shuko or leopard’s paw club or whatever the hell it is that he’s using to kill people.”
Will put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “You’re pushing,” he said. “I’ll admit he looks good. He’s got the mobility . . . he’s a Gypsy . . . but we need something more than what we’ve got right now to convince the Inspector.”
“We’ll get it.”
The ghosts roiled in Briggs’ mind, pushing, always pushing now. Somehow this case had set them all loose inside him, and he knew he’d get no peace until they brought the killer in—in pieces if they had to. Briggs didn’t care. He just wanted this to be over.
twenty-five
Bob Gourlay was dreaming. He turned restlessly on the mattress, his hand between his legs, his mouth half-open, face nuzzled against the soiled pillow. He was dreaming about the big breasted girl who worked in the Becker’s on Gore Street, that she was doing things to him that he’d only seen in the picture books that he and Stan bought over in Smiths Falls. The real hot books. He groaned, his hand moving faster. Her tongue was as long as a snake’s in his dream and she could do tricks with it that made his testicles ache for release.
Outside the farmhouse, the traffic was light on Highway 2. It was just going on ten past twelve and the thing that had once been Stan Gourlay sat in the cab of the pickup, grinning with what was left of its mouth. It stared up at the farmhouse and hummed wetly through the flaps of skin.
“A-huntin’ we will go,
a-huntin’ we will go,
hi-ho the fuckin’ derry-o,
a-huntin’ we will go . . . .”
By twelve-thirty, the cab was empty. All that remained of its noontime visitor was a rotting smell that hung heavily in the air. In the farmhouse, Bob lay on his back, hand still, the pressure eased. He was still dreaming, but now he saw himself and his brother moving quietly—real quietly—through the woods and he had the .12-gauge in his hands, both hammers cocked. He smiled when he heard a cat meow.
twenty-six
Jeff remembered reading about the murders. Like most people, he was becoming inured to the endless parade of violence that touched the front pages of newspapers and videoed its way across the television screen at six and eleven o’clock each night. He’d been shocked—for about all of a minute or so—until he turned the page and read about something else. But now . . . When Janfri told him about the mulo of the first victim that had been seen walking down Scott Street in the company of a stranger in black, the thing he’d seen in Ola’s cottage reared up in his mind’s eye. He pushed it away, suppressing a shiver, and tried to concentrate on what Janfri was saying. But when the talk came to Old Lyuba and her name for the stranger, the image arose again.
What if there really were things that . . . didn’t quite die? If, instead of hallucinating a few frames from a Roger Corman flick, he’d actually seen some half-dead creature lying there, reaching for him. . . .
What kept him from dismissing Janfri’s story out of hand was the Gypsy’s own obvious discomfort at accepting any of it as real. All it was was a collection of hints and macabre promises, fanned to a higher flame by the superstitious nature of the other Gypsies. And yet, even in the middle of the day, it was somehow easier to accept than to deny. When his own turn came, he told everything, from the beating the Gourlays had given him, to what he’d seen on Ola’s porch, to the weird thoughts that had been filling his own head this morning. Ola as witch. Spirits that refused to die. Nonsense. Dreams. Unfortunately, Janfri didn’t even smile.
“Is she a Gypsy?” Janfri asked when he was done.
“Ola? I didn’t think so. But she knows a lot about your people— their remedies and lore—and she looks a lot like you—the same coloring, same kind of facial features. I never really thought about it before. I mean, she said she’s an African and, while she doesn’t really have African features, I never had any reason to question it. Why do you ask?”
“Because of the drabarni I’m looking for. She fits Lyuba’s description better than anyone else I’ve run into so far.”
Jeff shook his head. “I don’t know.” He got up from the kitchen table and filled the kettle again. “Where does all this leave us?” he asked as he set it on the stove.
Janfri looked thoughtful. “The only place we can begin,” he said finally, “is with these Gourlays of yours.”
Just mentioning their name made Jeff’s bruises ache. “They’re not going to tell us anything they don’t want to,” he said, “and I kind of doubt that we’ll be able to beat it out of them.”
Janfri shrugged. He was playing with a thin strip of cloth that was comprised of a number of short lengths knotted together. He ran his fingers over the knots, back and forth—like a nun with her rosary, Jeff thought.
