Somehow, when I got back to the Tim Hortons, Mrs. Parnell had managed to get behind the wheel again. This was good, because all I could do was fight the rush of images. I saw Greg Hornyk crumpled by the hit and run driver, dying in his wife’s arms. Sometimes Greg had his own face, and sometimes he had Paul’s. I saw a terrified Jimmy Ferguson watching this senseless crime with horror, running. The images whirled through my brain.
“Ms. MacPhee,” Mrs. Parnell said, some hours later. “Whatever is bothering you after that visit, perhaps you should talk about it.”
“I don’t know where to start. Why would a woman mow down a total stranger in daylight?”
“Early evening, Ms. MacPhee.”
“Dusk,” Alvin said.
“But bright enough to see, not pitch dark. Think about it. The place was full of witnesses.”
“Do we know for sure this is what happened?”
“No. I bet the police think she’s hysterical.”
“Did the police discuss it with you?”
“No. Deveau told me not to bother her.”
“But you believe her?”
“Oh, yes. I believe her.”
Alvin spoke up from the back seat. “So the cops missed the boat. That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Looks like it. Although, in fairness, who would imagine such a thing? Greg and Lianne didn’t know anyone. They were travelling alone. So it would have been a random attack. The drunk driver theory has appeal in comparison.”
“Maybe they wanted to take the easy way out.”
“I am no fan of the police, but if you remember, they put plenty of muscle into trying to find Jimmy.”
“Not enough,” Alvin said.
“But they did get results. That’s why we’re on the road.”
“That wasn’t the police.” Alvin wasn’t ready to believe the police would do anything right.
Mrs. Parnell said, “Their forces were spread thin, and Ms. Hornyk’s belief the attack was deliberate would strike them as the emotional reaction of a bereaved woman. I assume they checked out the witnesses. Then the sensible thing would be to seek a drunk driver.”
Alvin said. “Bunch of frigging dolts.”
“It won’t turn out to have been sensible if the killer strikes again,” I said. “I think it’s all connected. We should try to figure out how.”
“Careful, Ms. MacPhee.”
I knew she didn’t want me to set Alvin off again. I avoided eye contact with her. “Even since talking to Lianne, I keep having flashes of the accident, even though I didn’t witness it. The images keep getting mixed up. My husband Paul and this Greg. But also Greg and Jimmy. It’s really disturbing.”
“Ms. MacPhee,” she said warningly.
“Maybe it would be a good idea to pull over at the next rest stop and have this talk,” I said.
“I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry,” Alvin said. “I’m not going to lose it. I’ve got a grip on myself, for Jimmy’s sake.”
“Okay, I think we have been looking at this whole sequence the wrong way. We concluded that Jimmy witnessed the hit and run, and that’s why he thinks he has to hide.”
I looked at Mrs. P. She shrugged, but I knew I was in for an especially smoky ride. I went on, “I think we got that wrong.”
“What drew you to that conclusion?” Mrs. Parnell said.
“Do you mind keeping your eyes on the road?”
Alvin leaned forward from the back seat.
I said, “Lianne showed me some photos. Greg Hornyk was the same physical type as Jimmy. Short, dark hair. Slim. Older, but still young-looking. Walking in the same part of town. At the same time.”
Mrs. P. said, “From a moving car, it could be easy to mistake him.”
Alvin grabbed the seat back. “You mean the killer believed he was running down Jimmy?”
“But it’s she, Alvin. The hit and run driver was a woman, remember?”
“Lord thundering Jesus.”
“Exactly.”
“Were they wearing the same kind of clothes?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It didn’t dawn on me that the killer might have thought Greg Hornyk was Jimmy until after I left Lianne’s place.”
“Perhaps you should confirm that, Ms. MacPhee, before we get too carried away with this idea.”
“Right,” I said, reaching for my cellphone and digging Lianne’s telephone number out of my purse. I could feel their eyes on me. “Damn,” I said.
“What is it, Ms. MacPhee?”
“No service. Ninety per cent of this country seems to be a goddam dead zone.”
“We’ll find a place to phone. Roll on, troops.”
Mrs. Parnell pulled in at yet another Tim Hortons not too far from Edmunston. It had everything we needed: coffee, food, bathrooms and a telephone booth.
It was well after midnight, and Lianne didn’t bother to keep the surprise out of her voice when she answered.
“Please don’t think I’m crazy,” I said, “but I need to know what Greg was wearing when he was killed.”
“What difference does it make?”
“It’s important.”
“Okay. He had on jeans, Guess jeans to be exact, and a whiteT-shirt.”
“With a design on it?”
“Plain. He didn’t like designs.”
“And on his feet? Sandals?”
“Running shoes. Nike with the swoosh. And, of course, he was wearing that stupid baseball cap.”
“Colour?”
“Dark green.”
“Did he have a backpack?”
“Yes.”
“What colour was that?”
“Dark green too.”
“He wasn’t carrying anything else?”
“The bag from the video store.”
“The video store?”
“Is that important? We bought a couple of videos to take home. Souvenirs. Big whoop.”
“Right.”
“Greg said it would be the most excitement we’d get. Guess he was wrong.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
I heard the snuffle on the other end. “I would like to know why you are asking.”
“You remember I told you about the missing boy, how I thought he’d been a witness.”
“The boy in the poster. Jimmy.”
“Now I believe the real target could have been Jimmy.”
“But I saw that boy’s face. He didn’t look anything like Greg. No one could mix them up.”
“Jimmy was last seen wearing jeans, his white T-shirt, no logo, a navy baseball cap. He had on new running shoes, not Nike but never mind, and he had a backpack. And he had been to the video store. I think the killer saw Greg from the back and figured she was getting Jimmy.”
“You said that boy was like a child. That’s monstrous. How could anyone run him down?”
“I don’t know. But you’ve helped us get closer to finding out.”
“Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For letting me help. I feel so useless.”
“Been there,” I said. “Felt that.”
“Let me know if I can do anything else.”
“You bet,” I said.
I rejoined the other two musketeers and their stinky dog in the Buick. Now we had something to keep our minds occupied for the rest of the long trip home. Why would anyone want to kill Jimmy?
Except for our regular stops for gas and Tim Hortons for coffee and Timbits, I didn’t notice a damn thing through the last of New Brunswick and Quebec, not even the grinding crawl across the top of Montreal. Mrs. P. used her time at the wheel to relive her adventures as a transport driver during WWII, while Alvin seized the opportunity to bond with Gussie. I tried to sort out the junk in my head.
I found myself wondering who Jimmy really was. Was he an innocent, almost saintly child as his mother believed? Was he the loveable kid brother Alvin feared for? Was he the confused, desperately ill burden the rest of the family chewed their nails over? Maybe he was the thoughtless, untrustworthy liar that Brandon’s mother thought she knew. Or the former young offender that Ray Deveau refused to discuss. Had he really stalked and attacked Honey Redmore? Was the truck driver who picked Jimmy up in Sydney and then dropped him in Moncton right when he said Jimmy knew exactly where he was going and why?
I never thought I’d be excited to see Hull, but eighteen hours is a long time to spend in an enclosed space with Gussie. Especially when Timbits are involved. All four windows were down by the time we hit Alvin’s neighbourhood. We’d been pretty lucky with Stan’s Buick, and except for random Benson and Hedges ash, a collection of empty takeout containers, a few chips ground into the carpet, and a residual Gussie aroma that a good deodorizer should take care of, it was like new. I planned to leave the windows open in my garage until Stan got back from Scotland. Two weeks should do the trick. I hadn’t yet worked out how to handle the mega-kilometres racked up on the odometer without contravening the Criminal Code.
We pulled onto Alvin’s street. Mrs. Parnell and I planned to join Alvin when he went into his apartment. Jimmy or not, we figured Alvin needed someone. And a dog, of course.
One is always prepared for a shock entering Alvin’s home, but this was different. Even as the Buick purred towards Alvin’s building, it took us a minute to understand the scene.
The building was gone. Nothing remained but a few blackened supports. We slid slowly by with our jaws hanging. The second floor where Alvin’s apartment had been had vanished. Maybe I only imagined the few sinister wisps of smoke.
Mrs. P. turned the car around and inched back. Gussie whined to be let out. Mrs. Parnell and Alvin stared across at the smouldering building still surrounded by fluttering yellow tape, indicating a police line.
No more toilet in the living room, no more fridge, no more grandmother’s tea set, no more talking art works. Nothing.
“Eight families lived here,” Alvin whispered. “Eight families.”
“Horrific,” Mrs. Parnell said. “And the smell.”
“Yuck. That dog is going to blow,” I said, opening the door of the Buick. Gussie leaped out, gratefully.
Alvin yelled, “Do you want my dog to get killed too?”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, as Gussie raced off. Alvin and I were out of the Buick in a second, chasing him or her down the middle of the road. Unsuccessfully. What a great game. Gussie turned around and headed back towards the car with the two of us in hot pursuit. Which is when we ran into the not-sonice policeman.