Part 49 (1/2)

”What is that, a two?” Stacy asked.

”Definitely a two,” said Maitland.

”I'm with Charlie,” Adele said. ”That's a two.”

Stacy asked, ”You want to stay with it, or are you clocking off?”

”I'd like to track it down, if you don't mind.”

”Go get 'em, cowboy,” Adele said. ”We'll be right here scratching our heads and looking stupid.”

She was sitting in the near dark, it was after sundown, her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom and she could just make out the post beside the door. There was something jutting out of the post that she wanted to get closer to. s.h.i.+fting the chair was a slow process, side to side, a centimetre at a time, and how much time did she have to work with? Someone would be back before long, and perhaps not the silky-voiced doctor this time, maybe now they would try harsher persuasion. She had a high tolerance for pain, but there were different sorts of pain and she did not want to be around when they decided that they could not waste any more time.

The chair was old and the glue in the cross members was dry and cracked and whoever tied her up did not know how strong her legs were. By working her knees side to side, back and forth, she was loosening the joints and the front chair legs were splayed, on the point of pulling apart. Not just yet, she cautioned herself - if it collapses now I will be tangled in the middle of the floor far away from where I want to be. Where she wanted to be was closer to the post. In the darkness she could just make it out, a big rusty nail holding an ancient license plate, someone's first car probably.

A centimetre at a time and try not to break the chair before you get there. Now, this part will be critical: tilt back until the front legs are off the floor and your back reaches the post, now pull your legs apart, hard. The snap of splintering wood was louder than she thought it would be, but there was no stopping now. First the cross brace popped loose, and then the front legs fell out. She rocked forward, her ankles were still bound, but the chair legs were lying on the floor and she was standing. She bent her knees and slid the back of the chair up the post until it caught under the nail, then she pushed as hard as she could, thighs burning, shoulders twisting, back and forth, working her hands up the splines until, finally, it slipped out from between her arms. She was free of the chair. Her hands were still tied behind her back, but that was no trick. Lie on her back, roll onto her shoulders, arms under her b.u.t.tocks and feet. Still a mess with the broken chair legs and ropes around her ankles and her fingers swollen and numb. But those were just details, just a matter of working the knots, one at a time, until her legs were completely free and her hands were in front now where she could work on the knot with the nail head, pus.h.i.+ng and pulling. She knew her wrists were bleeding, she could feel the blood running down her forearms inside her sleeves. Not too much of that please, she was weak enough. But the knot finally gave up its last secret and she was free.

Now for a weapon. One of the chair legs, rock hard maple, a hundred years seasoning in a farm kitchen, a good weight, still with a jagged piece of the cross member sticking out of the middle. They would feel it.

She edged out of the small room and into a much larger s.p.a.ce. There were soft echoes all around, birds fretting and settling high above, her feet sliding across the rough wood planks. Through a high window in the hayloft above her she could see a star.

”Can't be a two,” said Constable Maitland. He looked worried and baffled. ”I've tried everything else, but nothing pops up with that make and model Chevy.”

”What did you get if it is a two?” Adele asked.

”A '98 Honda Civic.”

”Where?”

”RR2 Janetville.”

”That's just down the road,” Stacy said. ”Maybe somebody's missing a license plate.”

”Worth a shot.” Adele turned to Maitland. ”You wanna come with, cowboy? Or you gotta get home for supper?”

”I'm in.”

”Good man,” she said. ”I knew you were a go-getter. Let's go get 'em.”

The Honda was owned by a Mrs. Brewster who told them her car had been in Crater's Body Shop on Highway 35 for two weeks after some idiot had rear-ended her at a stoplight in Port Perry. The body shop claimed they were waiting on a rear b.u.mper and trunk lid and she was getting fed up with the delay. She didn't think Crater was taking the job seriously.

Crater's Body Shop was three klicks north of Highway 7A on 35. The place was definitely not a hive of activity. Three men were sitting around a hoist discussing the hockey playoffs and how much the Leafs sucked. The man in charge, Les Crater, was slow to heave his bulk vertical. It probably had to do with the extra forty kilos he was packing, mostly around his middle. When he saw Maitland's uniform he tried to suck in his gut.

”What's up?”

Stacy took the lead. ”You've got a Honda Civic here belonging to a Mrs. Brewster of Janetville, is that right?”

”Look, if she's got any more complaints you can tell her to take 'em up with her insurance company. They're the ones sitting on their a.s.ses.”

”That's not our concern, sir. Is the blue Honda outside, the vehicle in question?”

”Yeah, that's it. What about it?”

”Were you aware that it's missing its license plates?”

”Well yeah, so? I had to take the plates off, didn't I? Thing's got crumpled b.u.mpers back and front.”

”And do you know where those plates are now?”

”Oh h.e.l.l, over on the workbench.”

”I don't think that's where they are,” Stacy said. ”Would you mind having a look?”

While Crater checked the workbench and the other two men kept their voices low and their eyes averted, Maitland and Moen took slow strolls around the shop.

”Well, I don't know where the h.e.l.l they are,” Crater said. ”They're supposed to be in this drawer.”

”Who would have access to the drawer, sir?”

”It isn't locked. h.e.l.l, anybody. I don't know.”

”Hey, Stace?” Adele was waving at her from the far side of the shop. She was standing near a plate gla.s.s window looking in at a dust-free room where a Ford pickup was getting a new paint job.

Stacy opened the door and stepped inside.

”Hey, that's dust-free in there,” Crater yelled. ”Don't go tracking s.h.i.+t in.”

”Relax,” said Adele. ”My partner's been sterilized.” She followed Stacy into the room. ”I'm a bit of a slob though.”

The two women walked around the truck. Maitland stayed in the doorway, watching closely. ”What are you seeing?” he wanted to know.

”s.h.i.+tty paintjob, for one thing. I can still make out the letters on the door panel.”

”H&R,” said Stacy. ”That mess on the bottom could say 'Construction.'”

Adele looked toward the door where Crater was trying to see past Constable Maitland. ”How much you charge for a s.h.i.+tty paint job these days?” she asked.

”Rush job,” Crater said. ”Guy's business went t.i.ts-up.”

”You got the guy's address handy?”

Orwell liked seeing his wife in a dress, not least because she had quite nice legs, but also because she didn't wear a pretty frock that often. (Sundays didn't count; the outfits she wore to her obligatory Lutheran church service might as well have been G.o.d's righteous armour.) Being a practical woman who spent a great deal of her time digging holes and repotting seedlings, Erika was most often found in wellingtons and garden gloves. Likewise his daughter Patty, who spent most of her free time mucking out stalls and exercising horses. It was therefore a treat for him to see them both wearing heels and earrings and makeup.

”Lovely, lovely, the pair of you,” he said.

”What am I, chopped liver?” Diana wanted to know.

”Forgive me, my dear, I meant the three of you.”

Diana was leaving earlier than the others to deliver Leda to the theatre. She was standing at the front door, waiting for the star of the evening to make her descent. ”Let's move it along, Ms. Bernhardt,” she called, ”the curtain's going up.”