Chapter 4

 

Tony shut off the lights in his basement woodworking shop and climbed the stairs. There’d been no sounds overhead, so Ruth must have gone to her prayer meeting after all. Despite his ultimatum.

He opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. He shouldn’t have blown up like that, even if she did deserve it. Calling that butcher by name like a friend—praying for him. No god worth following would listen after what Silver had done.

Tony glanced around the room. Ruth had cleaned up the shattered bowl before she left. What had he expected, that she’d bail on her friend and quit her precious meeting? Because of him?

Yes, he had, but maybe it wasn’t realistic. He couldn’t order her to stop going to church. But this fixation with Silver had to end. It wasn’t healthy, for her or for their marriage.

He checked the time. These meetings never went late. He’d make her a pot of tea, watch the game until she came home, then talk some sense into her. If she wouldn’t listen, he’d phone her pastor tomorrow. John Linton had meant well, advising Ruth to pray, and her grief had eased. Even the suggestion to pray for Silver, though offensive, was about forgiveness.

Forgiving the offender didn’t mean endorsing the act, it meant letting go of the anger. Tony understood. He hadn’t done it himself in this case, but at least he wasn’t rehearsing the tragedy to keep the hatred alive like Ruth had been.

Still, Ruth’s pastor could never have meant for her to take it this far. Once Tony told him what was going on, he’d set Ruth straight. Tony smirked, remembering some of her pastor’s straight-shooting comments the night they met. Tony-the-husband had overruled Tony-the-agnostic and taken Ruth for counselling with John. Privately, he’d thought of it as an intervention.

Now Ruth needed another one.

Tony filled the kettle and plugged it in, rinsed the teapot, and unwrapped a couple of Earl Grey teabags—Ruth’s favourite. While he waited for the water to boil, he walked into the living room and turned on the ball game.

The Red Sox were playing in Baltimore. By the end of the third inning, they were down 6 – 2, he’d made the tea, fixed himself a snack, finished the snack, and started fuming.

What had he shouted at her before he stormed off to his workshop? “Me or him. You choose”?

A Red Sox player grounded out to first, but the runner on third got home. Score: 6 – 3. Tony tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. Ruth wouldn’t have taken him seriously—not enough to leave him. Not after all they’d been through in twenty-three years of marriage.

He would not check her closet. He shook away the crazy thought. Ruth loved him. No way did Silver mean that much to her. She probably had a right to be mad after their scene tonight, but staying out late to punish him was a cheap shot.

A commercial came on, so Tony flipped channels to see what he could find. Maybe he was overreacting. What if her friend Norma needed to pick something up? They could have stopped for an errand. Or her pastor could have called some kind of impromptu meeting after they prayed.

Really, how long did these people pray anyhow?

He could phone, but she’d think he was checking up on her. Or had given in to her little game, if she’d really gone that juvenile.

A game show distracted him for a few minutes. He flipped back to the ball game in time to see the Orioles hit into a double play to end the inning. Finally a bit of luck. The Red Sox loaded the bases, but the next two batters struck out. Their power hitter, Hugo Green, took the plate. Tony groaned. Green had been off his game so far this season. Why hadn’t they traded him yet?

Strike. Ball. Another strike. Tony slouched in his chair. Just get it over with, Green, or get in the game. At least this one wouldn’t be hard to turn off when Ruth arrived.

Outside, a car engine purred into the driveway and stopped. Tension Tony hadn’t noticed until now melted from his shoulders. At last. She’d better have a good excuse for being so late.

They still had a major issue to work through. He’d have to stay calm and explain his concern. Help Ruth see the truth. Not lose his cool this time.

With a full count on Hugo Green, this next pitch would either end the Red Sox players’ turn at bat or it would walk in a run. The pitcher wound up, released. The doorbell rang just as Green’s bat connected with a mighty crack.

Tony pushed out of his chair, one eye on the television. Grand slam—that ball was gone. The camera panned clusters of Boston fans, jumping and cheering.

Ruth had her keys. Why ring the bell? Unless her hands were full. Had she picked him up a pizza or something, to apologize? That would explain what took so long.

And here he’d been accusing her of mind games. Shaking his head, Tony hurried to the door. He pulled it open to see a uniformed police officer, hat and overcoat dripping rain, eyes serious, mouth set in a hard line.

Not Ruth’s car at all. Tony’s lungs went hollow. He sucked air. Ruth? Please, just some kind of neighbourhood issue. “What’s the trouble, officer?”

The policeman’s lips compressed, then parted. “Are you Tony Warner?”

“Yes. What’s this about?”

“Mr. Warner, I’m Constable Charlton Emery. May I step in, please?”

“Is my wife all right?”

The wind howled around the corner of the house and snatched at the officer’s hat. He jammed it back onto his head. “Mr. Warner, let’s talk about this inside.”

Tony stepped back and Const. Emery followed him into the house. The officer stepped out of his rubber overshoes and draped his coat over the doorknob. Water drops splashed to the floor beneath the coat. Tony led him into the living room and muted the ball game. The storm swelled to fill the silence.

Why had he let Ruth go out in this? He remembered their argument. As if he could have stopped her.

The officer gestured to the couch. “May I sit down?”

Tony nodded, throat dry, and edged into his recliner. “My wife should have been home over an hour ago. The weather—has she been in an accident?”

Const. Emery took off his hat and rotated it in his hands, staring at the brim. The hat stilled, and he looked up at Tony. “Mr. Warner, we have reason to believe that your wife has been abducted by Harry Silver.”

Tony shot from his chair. “Is this some kind of sick stunt? A hidden camera in your hat or something, and she’s parked around the corner waiting for the signal to come home and yell ‘surprise’?”

Tremors rocked him. It couldn’t be true—never. Everyone knew the manhunt was tracking Silver west across the country. No way could the killer be here on the east coast. Tony fought to slow his breathing, get control. This was not happening. He was making an idiot of himself in front of whatever twisted audience followed acts like this.

Const. Emery watched him as if Tony were the performer, and as if the next act might go too far. Finally the officer held out his hat. “Genuine police issue. Would you like to see my badge?”

Tony studied the crest on the hat. Halifax Regional Police. He eyed the details of the man’s uniform, remembered the battle-ready way he’d walked into the house, arms wide of his gun-belts despite the lack of an obvious threat.

This was a real cop. Tony deflated into his chair. But what Emery had said—“I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Warner, I’m sorry. We responded to a 9-1-1 call at an area convenience store. According to the cashier and a woman named—” he pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and consulted it “—Norma Martell, who says she was travelling with your wife, Harry Silver was present at the store with the intent to commit robbery and to abduct the cashier, who matches his victim profile. There was a power failure and Silver fled—with your wife.”

Tony dropped his head in his hands and muttered every curse he knew. Without looking up, he said, “But the power hasn’t even flickered in hours.”

“Your street is on a different grid, Mr. Warner. The winds have caused outages in half a dozen spots across the city. Her car is still at the scene. If you have a spare set of keys, one of us will bring it home.”

Tony stared at the floor. He had to think, make sense of this horror, but his brain—and his heart—had shut down.

The doorbell rang again. Tony didn’t move.

“Would you like me to get the door, Mr. Warner?” When Tony didn’t answer, the officer stood. “I’ll see who it is.” His polished black boots rapped the floor as they crossed the edge of Tony’s field of vision.

Tony couldn’t see the door from his seat, but he knew when the officer opened it. The wind shrieked and a damp draft swooped past his ankles. Footsteps. The door banged shut. Constable Emery spoke. “Please step inside and identify yourself.”

“Thank you, Officer.” Tony recognized the Australian accent as John Linton introduced himself. “I’m a friend of the family, and Ruth’s pastor. Norma Martell phoned me as soon as the officer dropped her at home. I thought Tony might want some support.”

Tony’s fingers dug into his scalp. Support. What good could that do? But the familiar voice drew him from his chair to join Const. Emery at the door. The officer retreated to the living room, leaving Tony and John to stare at one another.

John looked like he’d run out of his house the minute he heard the news. His wet coat flapped open and rain plastered his hair to his scalp. His eyes looked huge, as if his face had tightened and shrunk. Even the acne scars had paled and flattened. Harsh lines bracketed his mouth. “Tony, I can’t believe this.”

Tony didn’t bother trying to find words. Didn’t invite John in or ask him to go. Didn’t care.

John spread his hands. “Can I do anything for you, mate? Phone calls? Listen while you vent? Pray with you?”

“Pray? That’s what got Ruth into this mess!” Tony stepped toward the pastor. His voice dropped to a hiss. “You’ve caused enough trouble already. Get out—just go.”

A sad smile twisted John’s lips and he gave a slow nod. “Call someone else, then, Tony. Don’t face this alone. And... for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Tony watched the door close. Face this alone? How could he face it at all?