63.

The sound of her vacuum cleaner had masked the opening and closing of both the outside door and the entry to the main room of her boarding house, but she had caught a stray shimmer of light from that direction and that’s when she turned and saw Jacob Dawson entering.

“Where were you last night?”

Jacob looked well but sheepish, almost as if he was being reprimanded by his mother. Irene MacLeod was no mother in the real sense, but she did feel a maternal draw toward Jacob. The two other boarders in the house were older men, more independent and hardened by life. Jacob exhibited a veneer of toughness sometimes, but Irene viewed him as an innocent when it came to the real world. He was accustomed to its travails, but had enjoyed few of its joys and, having walked so often along the paths of his troubled life, he had no reliable compass to guide him toward happiness. And this worried Irene.

“I’m okay, if that’s what you mean,” he said smiling at her. “I smell soup.”

“Are you hungry?”

Jacob nodded.

“It’s in the kitchen. Wasn’t sure if you’d be here, but I made some on the chance.”

Jacob dropped his backpack near the door and headed for the kitchen. He looked hungry.

“Did you have breakfast?” she asked.

“I did. I stayed at my sponsor’s overnight.”

“Is that customary?”

“No, but I had a lot of stuff to unload. It was good to have somebody to listen…somebody who’s been there.”

Irene ladled a bowl of beef barley soup into a bowl and set it in front of Jacob. She set a ham sandwich next to it. She added half a pickle. Then she sat down and watched Jacob wolf down the food. She felt happy.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

His mouth was full, and he nodded vigorously.

“We talked half the night. Then we worked out a way to take some pressure off.”

“Good. So…what shall I do with that quart of whisky? Toss it?” Irene asked.

“Or give it to somebody who doesn’t need it.”

Ben wouldn’t have believed it if someone had told him that Anne had taken his advice, but she had. She would have vigorously denied that she frittered away an afternoon, but that was what it amounted to, at least by her standards.

Ordinarily, she would have followed her pattern of jogging from home toward Victoria Park and following the boardwalk along the water. The rhythmic padding of her feet and the ever-pleasing and ever-changing vista of Charlottetown harbour had always been refreshing, but she couldn’t follow that routine today. The car explosion had not seriously injured her, but its effects had left her worn and uninspired.

Instead, she headed for the gym. Only a few others shared the recreational equipment with her that afternoon. She had a routine there, too. Stationary bike for cardio; bench press, leg curls, and arm curls for strength; and then the speed bag.

She forced herself through her strength regimen and felt rather satisfied with herself when she matched her last weight and rep count. Then she slipped on a pair of light boxing gloves and strode over to the speed bag.

She set up a slow one-two rhythm, then picked up the speed and shifted to double hits when she felt comfortable. Then she shifted back and forth between the two, the bag thumping hypnotically all the while. Occasionally, she lost the rhythm, but brought it back again and again. The rhythms were mesmerizing and soothing, and one could almost drift into mindlessness within the pattern.

Eventually, Anne grew tired and self-aware, but she also became more agitated and angry as if something ugly were working its way up from deep inside her. She abandoned the cadenced punching. Hard jabs and crosses took its place. Her attention to the bounce and gyrations of the bag grew more intense and focussed because Anne saw something that no one else could see in the bobbing, elusive leathery bag. She saw the smug leers of Buddy and Frank—the ones who had terrorized her on that dark country road. She saw the frightening sneer of Cutter Underhay who had tried to kill her and her daughter. She even saw the duplicitous faces of MacEwen and Carmody and Peale whose political goals had obstructed her investigation.

After she had finished, her chest heaved and her arms felt like lead. Beads of sweat rolled down her face and neck. Her T-shirt was damp, but somehow she felt strangely pleased. It wasn’t until she had spent ten minutes in the sauna that she felt a wave of exhaustion sweep down upon her. She showered, changed into street clothes, pinned back her half-dried hair, and drove home.

The house was quiet with Jacqui away. Too quiet, thought Anne. She turned the TV on for company. She flicked through the channels, but nothing caught her interest. She thought about making supper, but, with Jacqui’s absence, there was no point. Besides, she felt too exhausted to eat. Perhaps later, she thought. Then she lay back on her couch, pulled a blanket over her, and descended into a deep sleep almost at once.

The sun was lowering. The TV fluttered. Commentators and show hosts jabbered away, but Anne was oblivious to it all.

“She sent me packing,” said Walter Bradley, Chief Investigator with the Department of Labour.

“What did she say?” asked MacEwen, his boss’s boss.

Walter Bradley had been around politics long enough to know that he had better choose his words carefully or his future might become suddenly very unpredictable, and he was just five years short of retirement.

“I knocked on the door, identified myself, and asked her if I could enquire about her application for exhuming the remains of Simone Villier.”

“Go on,” said MacEwen impatiently.

“‘Can’t you leave me alone?’ she says. Those were her exact words. Then she tries to shut the door. My foot was already halfway in and caught it. I say, ‘I’m conducting an official investigation for the Province and need to know if anyone pressured you to file that application. Ms. Darby, for example. Did she urge you to file the papers?’”

“And did she?” asked MacEwen.

“The woman wouldn’t give me a straight answer. She kept saying ‘What difference does it make? I don’t give a care for the paper. Do what you want with it? She wasn’t pregnant.’ I say, ‘What do you mean?’ and she says, ‘It doesn’t matter anymore. Simone wasn’t pregnant. Nothing matters now. So get your damn foot out of my door and go away before I call the police.’ So I leave. And that’s what happened,” said Bradley, and he looked closely at the Labour minister to determine if he had given the proper answer.

MacEwen said nothing. He got up and left the room, tossing back a quick “thank you” on his way out.

MacEwen returned to his office, closed the door behind him, and picked up his desk phone.

“Wendell, just wanted to get back to you on the matter we were discussing. The mother was distraught. Not much to go on yet. But it seems she’s lost interest in exhuming the body. No. She just keeps on saying that she wasn’t pregnant, and she doesn’t care anymore. So it’s good news. Pass it along to Fenton? Right.”

MacEwen hung up his phone and breathed a sigh of relief.