Part 2 (1/2)

”I didn't reverse the charges,” he said, ”and it was worth every penny. Taylor has a nice narrative style a very thorough. It was almost like being there.”

”I'll bet it was,” I said, as I watched her disappear into the living room with her candy apple.

When Keith spoke again, his voice was serious. ”Jo, one of the Canadian press guys just told me about Kevin Tarpley. He didn't know much. Just that Tarpley was shot, and the police were investigating.”

”That's all I know too, except ... Keith, I got a letter from Kevin Tarpley last night.”

Keith swore softly.

”Apparently,” I said, ”when he was in prison, he was born again. Just as well, considering the events of the past twenty-four hours. Anyway, he wrote me a letter full of scriptural warnings and advice about how I should live my life.”

”Is there anything I can do?”

”There's nothing anybody can do.” I could hear the petulance in my voice. It was as unappealing as petulance usually is. I took a deep breath and started again. ”Keith, I'm sorry. It's just that that whole time was so terrible, not just Ian dying, but the trial and our lives splashed all over the papers. I didn't want to think about any of it ever again. And now ...”

”And now you have a chance to put an end to it once and for all.” Keith's voice was strong and certain. ”Jo, has it occurred to you that maybe that poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d Tarpley has done you a favour? Maybe now that he's dead, you really can close the door. You've got a lot to look forward to, you know: the kids, your job, the show.”

”But not you, anymore,” I said. ”How's the lady lobbyist?”

”She's fine. Jo, I thought we'd agreed to keep her out of it.”

”Sorry,” I said. ”Being dumped isn't any easier at forty-nine than it was at fourteen.”

”You weren't dumped,” he said. ”It was a joint decision.”

”Yes, but you made the joint decision first. Look, let's change the subject. What's happening in Was.h.i.+ngton today?”

”I'm having lunch with some Texas bankers.”

”Three fingers of Jack Daniel's and a platter of ribs. You lucky duck.”

”Actually, we're eating at a place in Georgetown that specializes in braised zucchini.”

”Good,” I said. ”Being dumped is one thing. But knowing you're having great barbecue while I'm eating Spaghetti-O's would just be too much.”

He laughed. ”The day you eat Spaghetti-O's ...”

”Listen, I'd better let you get rolling,” I said. ”The cost for this phone call must be into four digits.”

”Money well spent,” he said. ”Take care of yourself, Jo.”

”You too,” I said.

The next phone call wasn't as heartening. It was a reporter from one of our local radio stations. He told me his name was Troy Smith-Windsor, and he asked me how I felt about Kevin Tarpley's death.

”Relieved,” I said, and hung up.

He must have speed-dialled me back. This time his voice was low and confiding. ”I know this is hard for you,” he murmured. ”Believe it or not, it's hard for me, too. Sometimes I hate my job, Mrs. Kilbourn, but as much as you and I value your privacy, people have a right to know. You're a well-known member of this community. People want to hear about how you're dealing with this tragic reminder of your husband's murder. Give me something to share with them.”

When I answered, I tried to match Troy Smith-Windsor's tone. Unction has never been my strong suit, but I did my earnest best. ”I guess I hadn't thought of it that way, Troy,” I said. ”But now that I have, could you tell your listeners that I appreciate their concern. And Troy, could you please tell them that, while I regret Kevin Tarpley's death as I would regret the death of any human being, I welcome the chance to put this tragedy behind me and get on with my life. Have you got that?”

”I've got it, Mrs. Kilbourn,” Troy Smith-Windsor said huskily. ”And thank you.”

”Thank you, Troy,” I said, and I hung up, proud of myself.

My self-esteem was short-lived. When I turned, Angus was standing in the kitchen doorway. He was still wearing his pig shorts; his eyes were puffy and his dark hair was tangled from sleep.

”Someone shot the man who killed Dad,” he said. ”The woman on the radio said it happened yesterday. You knew.” A statement, not a question.

I nodded. ”Angus, you've been through so much already. Last night you were excited about your party. I thought the news about Kevin Tarpley would keep till morning.”

”You should have told me,” he said.

I reached my arms out to embrace him. He twisted away from me.

”I'm not a kid, Mum. Last summer I went down to the library and looked up the stories about Dad. They have them on microfiche.”

I closed my eyes and the scene was there: my son in the dimly lit microfiche room, surrounded by strangers as he watched the images of his father's death flicker on a screen.

”Angus, if you wanted to hear about what happened, you should have come to me.”

His voice was exasperated. ”Mum, don't you remember what you were like then? You weren't like you. You were like a zombie or something. I didn't want that to happen again.”

”It's not going to,” I said. I put my hands on his shoulders. ”Now, what do you want to know?”

”Everything,” he said.

He was six-foot-one, but his body was still lithe with a child's vulnerability.

”You're sure about this, Angus.”

He looked at me steadily. ”I'm sure, Mum.”

”Okay,” I said, ”I'll call Jill and get her to dig out the files.”

Five minutes later, it was all arranged. After church, Angus and I would go to Nationtv and look at everything the network had on the Ian Kilbourn case. Hilda had already planned to take Taylor to the art gallery, so the afternoon was free. There were no obstacles. As I poured the eggs into the frying pan, I wavered between dread and antic.i.p.ation. Pandora must have been unsure, too, in that split second when her hand lingered at the edge of the box.

Few places are deader than a television station on a Sunday afternoon. A security guard watching a Mr. Fix-it show on TV waved us past the front desk. We met Jill in the corridor outside her office. She was wearing jeans and an Amnesty International sweats.h.i.+rt, and she was pulling a little red wagon full of Beta tapes.

”I hope you two know you're taking a chance with these,” she said. ”I just brought them up from the library, and I haven't screened any of them. There may be things you'd rather not see.”

”I'll be okay,” Angus said. ”Mum ...?”

”Let's go,” I said.

Jill started towards the elevator. ”The boardroom upstairs is free. We can screen the tapes there. It's got a fridge, Angus. They usually keep it pretty well stocked.”

As the elevator doors closed, I turned to Jill. ”Have you heard anything more about what happened at the penitentiary?”

”Not much,” she said. ”The prison officials are mortified, of course. It doesn't do to have a prisoner killed inside a federal penitentiary, but the warden says their job is to make sure their inmates don't get a shot at John Q. Public; they're not set up to keep John Q. Public from getting a shot at one of their inmates. And, you know, the man has a point. Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, isn't Detroit. No one could have predicted a drive-by shooting.”