Salt Spring Island
december 12, 1972
before taras can open his car door, Pat charges toward him like a killer who had once tried to shank him in the mess hall at Black Eagle.
“I told you I’d call the police if you stepped foot on this property—”
Taras gets out of the car and stares her down. “Go and call them. I will wait.” He glances toward the guest cabin porch, where Jeanie stands, Nurse Kay clutching her arm. A bitter wind has come up, bringing with it a sharp, briny smell of sea. Taras’s leather coat flaps around him, lashing his body like a whip. “You have not hurt her,” he warns. He’s sure that the nurses have his father’s gun, but hopefully they would never use it. His shiv is in the breast pocket of his coat, in case they try.
Jeanie attempts a desperate lunge forward. “Taras, they’re taking Gladsheim from me…,” then she squeals in pain when Kay yanks her back.
Taras takes a few steps toward them, gravel crunching beneath his boots. “This is Jeanie’s house. I leave when she tells me I leave.” The nurses exchange a look. Taras fears what he might do to Pat and Kay, these women who possibly saw the assassin kill his father and have lied about it for years. “I lift a rock and maggots run, afraid of the light.” His gaze lingers on Kay, certain that she’s the ringleader of this nasty business. But her face reveals nothing.
Taras shouts, “Where did you find my father’s gun?”
Kay smiles, and Taras must strain his ears to hear her over the wind. “It was the Russian who killed him. Not us.”
The Russian.
Taras remembers driving to the Tsawwassen ferry terminal earlier, distracted with worry over Jeanie, going over every reason he could think of, wondering why the nurses weren’t answering the phone, and fearing the worst. The wind had picked up, and he remained in his vehicle during the rough crossing, obsessing over what he might find at Gladsheim. At one point, he’d glanced up at his rearview mirror and glimpsed a black town car parked farther back on the ferry. Paranoid, he’d studied the car in his rearview mirror, finally determining, with relief, that it was an older model than the one that had followed him last week. There was no need for concern.
Taras turns to face Pat. “You did something that night,” he says. “You know something. Only the police know he is dead.”
“If you knew the truth you would hate Jeanie,” Kay yells across to him, “not arrive here to save her.”
Taras pauses. Does Kay mean to accuse his lover of killing Tato? Jeanie also seems stunned at this pronouncement, as she should be. “You will blame a woman confined to a hospital bed for your crimes?” he shouts.
“Confined to bed?” Pat steps toward him, stopping near the fender of his car. “Jeanie had relearned to walk, and her arms were like steel from hauling herself up with that blasted trapeze bar. Listen, if you go now, we won’t press charges.”
Taras backs away from her. “I’m staying here, with Jeanie.”
“We found your father’s gun on the floor of Jeanie’s hospital room,” Kay calls to him.
Taras finally strides toward the guesthouse, charges up the steps and pulls Jeanie from Kay’s grasp. He wraps his arm around her thin shoulders and hurries her to the passenger door of his car. Jeanie stumbles and he pulls her close enough to feel her heart beating against his chest. He pushes Pat aside and bundles Jeanie in, quickly rounding the front of the car, his hand on the hood.
Jeanie locks the passenger door and looks up at him with frightened eyes. He doesn’t notice that Kay has come up to him from behind. He turns, too late, to find her hand held high—a knife, he thinks—as she brings it down like a cobra’s strike. There’s a sting at the back of his neck and he collapses against the hood of the car, dragging himself toward the driver’s door.
But the already dim light grows grayer, and he feels himself slump, sliding down the fender to the ground. Kay stands over him like a terrible statue, clutching an empty hypodermic needle, eyes glittering.
He can hear Pat banging on the passenger door, growling at Jeanie through the window. “Unlock it!”
Jeanie’s voice comes muffled from within the car. “How dare you drug him!”
He can feel Pat rummage through his coat pockets. Taras watches numbly as she jumps up with a triumphant cry. She’s found the car keys, he thinks, slipping into a dream haze. He raises a hand, and before losing consciousness, feels the hard outline in his breast pocket, where the shiv lies, waiting.