Part 19 (1/2)

The rain was cool on my face, and the air was fresh. I took some deep breaths. ”I'm coming, Jenny,” I said, and I felt strong and clear-headed. I stood for a moment, getting my bearings. The cabin was set back about a hundred metres from the road. It was isolated. The last lights I'd seen had been fifteen kilometres back. This was short-gra.s.s country, and there weren't many trees around, but there was a windbreak of what looked like caraganas on the north side of the cabin. It would be a place to run if I needed one.

I could feel the adrenalin rush as I started for the cabin. The curtains were pulled tight, but as I moved closer I could hear music inside; it sounded like a radio or a TV. I told myself it was Lolita Temple's choir and that, if they were singing, nothing bad could happen to me.

I went to the front door and knocked. For a moment, the only sound was the music, then I heard someone coming towards me. When the door opened, I was facing Tess Malone.

”I knew you'd come for Jenny,” she said.

”Where is she?” I asked.

”Dead,” Tess said, and she turned away from me.

”But the phone call ...”

Tess looked ghastly. Her hair, always so carefully sprayed in place, had come loose. In fact, it seemed as if everything about her had come loose. Behind the thick lenses of her gla.s.ses, Tess's blue eyes always seemed perceptive, but this night she wasn't wearing her gla.s.ses, and her eyes looked unfocussed. Even her body looked slack and shapeless.

”What happened to Jenny?” I said.

”She changed her mind,” Tess said.

On the television, a child began to sing ”The Little Drummer Boy.” I glanced towards the set, hoping to see the familiar images of the Nationtv Christmas party, but the picture on the screen of the old black and white TV was so fuzzy, all I could make out was the shape of the singing child. It was a slender reed to cling to.

Tess went over and turned the sound down, then she started back towards the couch. She moved slowly. There was an open fireplace, with a roaring fire, and the room was stiflingly hot, but she pulled an afghan around herself.

”Tess, you've got to tell me what's going on here.”

She lowered herself onto the couch. Beside it, there was a metal TV table. On it were the leftovers from a frozen dinner, an overflowing ashtray, and two packs of du Mauriers. Tess reached for a cigarette and lit it. I took the ashtray to the fireplace and dumped it, and came back to her.

”There's a bottle of rye over there,” Tess said.

”Forget the rye,” I said. ”We have to get out of here.”

She dragged deeply on her cigarette. ”I'm in more danger out there than I am here. Get the rye, Jo. I'm tired of secrets. I want to talk.”

”Tess, we have to go to the police. I don't think you understand everything that's happened.”

When I told her about Julie's dark reference to a skeleton and the initials opposite the sixth Commandment on Kevin's list, Tess sagged, and when she spoke, her voice was small. ”It isn't the way you think it is,” she murmured.

”Then it's true.”

”Yes, but ... Jo, please let me tell you what happened.”

”Tess, are we safe here?”

She laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. ”As safe as anyone is anywhere.” She gestured towards the whisky. ”Please, Jo.”

I picked up the rye. There were no clean gla.s.ses. I took a dipper of water from the corner, rinsed two of the cleaner gla.s.ses, and poured rye into them.

I took a sip of my whisky. The warmth helped. ”Okay,” I said, ”start talking.”

Tess pulled her afghan tight around her. ”How does Julie find out these things?”

I shook my head. ”It doesn't matter. All that matters is that Julie's information was right. What happened to Jenny Rybchuk, Tess?”

”She died. It was six years ago, Jo, and it wasn't a murder a at least not the part we were involved in. It was an accident. A terrible, terrible accident.”

”What are you talking about, 'the part we were involved in'?”

Tess went on as if she hadn't heard me. ”It should never have happened,” she said. ”Everything was going so well. Jess was a perfect baby. Gary and Sylvie were there when he was born, did you know that?”

I shook my head.

”They were the most beautiful family. Jane and I went out to the airport when they brought the baby home. They were so happy. We thought Jenny was happy, too. It seemed as if everything had just fallen into place. Jenny had been writing to her father all summer. He hated having her away from him, but the plant had laid him off because of his drinking. He was having serious money problems, and he was relieved Jenny was paying her own way. Jess was born the first week in September, so Jenny was able to visit her father in Chaplin before she started University in Saskatoon. Everything went off like clockwork ...” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes were remote.

”Except ...,” I prompted.

Tess's voice was filled with pain. ”Except Jenny couldn't forget her son. She started phoning Sylvie and Gary. At first, they didn't mind; in fact, I think they were pleased that she cared so deeply about his welfare. They told her about how much weight Jess was gaining and what he was doing, but no matter how much they told her, it was never enough. She hungered for her child, Joanne. It was that simple. Nothing could satisfy her but having him back. When the calls got truly desperate, Sylvie asked me to go to Saskatoon and talk to Jenny.”

”And you went?” I asked.

”Of course I went, Jo. I was responsible.” She spit out the last word with loathing.

”You tried to do the right thing,” I said weakly.

”That doesn't exempt me from responsibility,” she said, and, for the first time that evening, there was something of the old Tess in her voice. ”Intention doesn't count, Jo. Just results. And the results of what I had done to Jenny Rybchuk were devastating. She wasn't the same girl I'd seen in Regina. She was thin and ill and driven. She said she had made a terrible mistake, and I had to help her get Jess back.”

Tess lit a fresh cigarette off the stub of her first one. She dragged deeply and coughed till the tears came.

”Jo, I was so cruel to her. I told her she'd made an agreement, that life was about choices, and that Sylvie and Gary could give Jess a far better life than she could dream of. I said it was time for her to face facts, and walk away from the past.

”Until I die, I'll never forget the look of betrayal in that girl's eyes. Do you know what she said to me?” Tess's voice broke. ”She said, 'You're the one who told me a baby isn't just a collection of cells a woman can walk away from.' After that, there was nothing more I could say except goodbye. I turned my back on her, Jo. It was a terrible abnegation of responsibility, and a fatal one.”

I could hardly bring myself to say the words. ”Tess, Jenny didn't commit suicide, did she?”

Tess's laugh was bitter. ”No, she didn't commit suicide. G.o.d forgive me, maybe it would have been better if she had.”

”What happened?”

”She went to the baby's father, and asked him to help her.” Tess looked toward the fire. Finally, she said, ”The father was Kevin Tarpley.”

”Kevin Tarpley,” I repeated stupidly. ”I don't understand.”

”There's nothing to understand. It was just one of those sad, stupid things. Maureen and her mother were visiting relatives for Christmas. Kevin was supposed to keep an eye on their house. You know, make sure the furnace was on and the pipes didn't burst. Apparently, one night during the holidays, Henry Rybchuk got drunk and started in on Jenny. She ran next door, and Kevin just happened to be there.”

”But when Jenny found out she was pregnant, she didn't tell Kevin.”

”No. She didn't tell him until I turned her away. That was at the end of November. A week later, Gary called. Someone had taken Jess from his carriage on the porch of their house. Sylvie was in Toronto making arrangements for a show. Gary said they put Jess in the same spot every afternoon because it was protected, and he thrived on all the fresh air and suns.h.i.+ne. That day he'd only been out for a few minutes. Gary was pretty sure Jenny must have been watching the house. She'd left a note, saying she knew that legally she still had time to change her mind, and she had. She wrote that she was sorry and she would be in touch.