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  Maddy wore a black blouse and pants, black eyeshadow, and black nail polish. She looked at her water glass. It was sweating tears.

  “I’ve ordered all our favourite foods,” her stepfather said.

  “What’s our name again? Or should I say, what is it today?” Maddy asked.

  Dr. Jones smiled a knowing smile. He looked at Maddy. “No need to deny it. You both understand. This is something special between the three of us.”

  Maddy’s attention shifted to her sister.

  Andrea moved a centimetre away from him. He put his arm around her shoulder to pull her closer. Andrea sat back and frowned at her sister.

  The waiter arrived with a tray and three plates. “Steak and lobster?”

  Dr. Jones pointed at the empty space in front of him.

  “Yes, sir.” The waiter put the plate in front of Jones.

  “Chicken Caesar salad?”

  Jones pointed at Andrea and smiled.

  “Then you must be the Greek salad?” The waiter set the plate in front of Maddy.

  She thought, I can’t eat this. All I want to do is sleep, but I can’t.

  “Here’s your cutlery.” The waiter handed Jones a steak knife and a fork, then said, “Will that be all?”

  Jones nodded. He handed Andrea her knife and fork. “There you go, my darling.”

  Maddy felt a rush of memory that brought bile to the back of her throat. She swallowed and focused on her stepfather’s steak knife.

  “Here, let me do that for you.” Jones leaned his chin on Andrea’s head and placed the napkin in her lap.

  Maddy saw the back of her stepfather’s hand brush across Andrea’s breast.

  Jones reached for his napkin. “Do the same for me?” he said to Andrea.

  Andrea looked at Maddy. There was confusion and fear in Andrea’s eyes.

  Maddy reached for the steak knife.

  Jones continued to smile at Andrea, waiting for the correct response from her.

  Andrea’s mouth began to form a question.

  Jones put his right hand on the table.

  Maddy took the knife. In one movement, she lifted the knife and slammed the blade through his hand and into the table. Maddy released the handle.

  Jones’ looked at his hand. It was pinned to the table by the blade.

  Maddy saw the puzzlement in his eyes when he focused on her. He took the knife and pulled it out.

  Andrea’s eyes went wide with shock. A nameless sound started somewhere at the back of her throat.

  Maddy thought, I made a sound exactly like that when I was your age.

  Jones focused on wrapping the napkin around his hand.

  The maître d’ arrived in black, white, and faux concern. “Is there a problem?”

  “I seem to have cut myself.” Jones smiled at the man.

  The maître d’ smiled. “Might I suggest you get the wound attended to right away? And if you do, we won’t charge for the meal.” He looked at Maddy. His smile died.

  Andrea began to cry. She looked away from her sister.

  I was trying to protect you, Maddy thought.

  ×

  “Arthur phoned. He left a message.” Harper handed Lane a cup of coffee.

  Lane took the coffee and thought, Matt’s play. It’s opening night! “What time is it?”

  “Six-thirty,” Harper said.

  “But…” Lane was torn between finding Madeline and Andrea and being at opening night.

  “There’s nothing you can do here. We’re tracking Jones down with the identities Sammy gave you. You need a change of pace anyway. Get your mind off the case.” Harper pointed his index finger and his coffee cup at Lane.

  “We need all the bodies we can get. If we don’t find them tonight or tomorrow, we won’t get another chance!” Lane felt caught between two choices. Tomorrow wasn’t an option for either one.

  “Look at me,” Harper pointed a finger at his chest.

  Lane shook his head.

  Harper waited. “You’re no good right now. Do us all a favour, and get away for an hour or two. This is how you work best. You get your mind away, even for a few minutes, then the answers start to come to you.”

  He’s got a point.

  “You want an escort?” Harper asked.

  If I don’t make it on time, Arthur’s going to kill me. “If I leave right now, I should make it.”

  “Well?” The look on Harper’s face said the rest.

  Lane was on the road within four minutes.

  ×

  Maddy looked out the window of their new hotel room. Her stepfather was in the adjoining room disinfecting the wound, patching up his hand, and taking painkillers. He’d insisted on stopping at a large drugstore in between switching hotels. He’s always moving toward the south end of the city, she thought.

  One more night. I need to stay awake for one more night. Below her, the traffic moved in intermittent waves.

  Andrea handed her an open bottle of water. “For you.”

  Maddy hugged her sister and took a sip. Cold, delicious, and sweet.

  ×

  Lane walked two blocks from where he was forced to park. Someone in a ladybug costume juggled practice knives near the access to the school parking lot.

  “Fergus,” Lane said to the ladybug as he passed.

  “Mr. Lane,” the ladybug said.

  “Thanks for helping Matt out.”

  The ladybug curtsied and juggled. “My pleasure.”

  Lane eased his way up the stairs and through the doorway, where signs printed on coloured paper led him along hallways and up stairs until he found the theatre.

  A young woman looked up from a table just outside the door. “Are you Lane?”

  He smiled.

  “Hurry!” She stood, opened the door, and he stepped into darkness.

  “This is our production of The Birthday of the Infanta based on an Oscar Wilde short story.” The woman in the spotlight had long blonde hair and a voice twice as big as she was. “We ask that you respect the actors; they’ve put a great deal of preparation into this piece.”

  Lane’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness. A seat along the back wall was available. He sat down.

  After ten minutes of listening to a king, queen, and self-indulgent princess, he glanced at his watch. Am I in the right theatre? he thought, Where’s Matt?

  He looked into the crowd. Here and there luminous watch dials and cell phones appeared as members of the audience checked the time. Lane looked at the ten foot high windows along the east wall. It does feel like a castle in here, he thought. A general mood of restlessness settled over the audience.

  A figure half-walked, half-crawled up the stairs, past Lane and down the aisle. Soon, the audience in the aisle seats began to take notice. The actor was dressed in tan-coloured sackcloth. He reached the stage. A spotlight illuminated him.

  It’s Matt!

  Matt looked up at the princess. His face was a portrait of childlike innocence. With a deformed body and a perfect soul, Matt’s character worshipped the princess. Lane felt himself being drawn into the performance. For the rest of the play, Lane could not take his eyes off of Matt. Around him, Lane sensed that others in the audience were also becoming a part of the imaginary reality created by Matt and the other actors. How can a person become older, yet remain so innocent, so isolated? Lane thought. Madeline! He watched as Matt’s character died. Lane thought of other children he’d been too late to save. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the memories so he could concentrate on the play.

  Arthur, Lane, Alex, and Christine waited for Matt after the performance. As he walked toward them, they saw the residue of makeup, and the exhaustion in his eyes. The performance had taken all of his energy.

  Christine hugged him.

  Arthur was next.

  Lane found himself weeping.

  Matt looked at him, “Uncle? What’s the matter?”

  I almost missed this, Lane thought. “You were amazing,” he said.<
br />
  Arthur drove the Jeep home. Lane followed. His mind spun with images of the play and the case. By the time they arrived home, he knew he needed to call Loraine.

  FRIDAY, MAY 16

  chapter 18

  “Who did you call last night?” Christine poured herself a cup of coffee and mixed in milk and brown sugar. She looked out the kitchen window. The sky was brightening in the west. A robin began to sing.

  “Remember Loraine?” Lane turned toward his niece and winced. Every limb had its own bruise and every muscle had its own complaint.

  Christine nodded. “She and Lisa just had the baby?”

  “Yes. I had a question I needed to ask her about trauma and emotional development.” Lane sat next to the phone and looked into his half-full coffee cup.

  “I don’t get it.” She sat down across from him.

  “When I was watching the play, it made me think about what trauma does to children, how it affects them later on. I needed an explanation for a young woman’s behaviour. Loraine is trained as a psychologist, so she knows what happens to people who have been traumatized.”

  “Like me?” Christine seemed to be studying her cup.

  “You, Matt, Arthur, the two girls we’re searching for, me. Loraine says the child usually learns to deal with the trauma, but there are often scars. Apparently, emotional development can be retarded by the experience. I was looking for answers to inconsistencies in her behaviour.”

  “Mine too?” Christine asked. “Alexandra said that I act strange sometimes; it’s like having a five-year-old’s mind in my body.”

  “Something like that. But the young woman I’m thinking about appears to be attempting to protect her younger sister. All she has to do is tell us what she knows, then we can help her and her sister. Instead, she tags dumpsters with messages about a murder and an upcoming crime.”

  “You’ve never been controlled by a twisted adult, then.”Christine sipped her coffee.

  Oh, yes I have. “You mean a twisted male adult?”

  “Yes. Whitemore was sick. He played with my mind. Made me want to please him, feel worthy of him. I despised him at the same time. It messed me up. After a while, I had to believe in him, let him control me, or leave. My mother believed him. He had such power over her. If I hadn’t left Paradise when I did…”

  “You didn’t exactly just leave,” Lane said.

  “How did you know?” Christine’s eyes were suddenly wary.

  “That you helped burn the house down? I’ve known that for some time.”

  “How? How did you know?” Christine asked.

  “I know you.” He pointed his coffee cup at her. “You fight back. You’re not the kind of person who will just take it and take it.”

  “I thought if you found out, you’d kick me out. I mean your house had just burned down too. Why would you keep someone around who helped burn down a house?”

  Lane saw the tears and the fear in his niece’s eyes.

  The sobs and words burst from her. “I helped her fill the cupboards and closets with kindling. She was frantic. If we were caught, then Whitemore would have us excommunicated or worse. Then her daughter would be shipped off to Utah to be married to some fifty-year-old man. We planned the fire for a specific night after a big celebration. At two in the morning we figured everyone would be asleep. The house we were in was a bit apart from all the others. Still, we made sure there was no one inside, and her daughter was asleep in the truck.”

  “I thought you walked away,” Lane said.

  “She drove. I walked. We decided we’d have a better chance if we went in different directions. There’s a highway within two kilometres of Paradise, so I walked there. A retired couple in a motorhome picked me up and drove me to the city. They were heading back to the city because their daughter was sick and needed someone to take care of her kids.” Christine looked down at her hands.

  Lane reached over and touched them. “No one was hurt.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I did some checking. There were no injuries, no complaints filed. In fact, very few questions were asked.” Lane felt one of her tears fall on the back of his hand.

  “Nobody asks too many questions; even the people in the surrounding communities keep their mouths shut. Whitemore does business with all of them. Towns are afraid that they’ll lose money if Whitemore shifts his business to someplace else. He’s got them all under his thumb.”

  “Two women fought back.” Lane kept his tone matter of fact.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do when you think the law can’t protect you, and you think you’re on your own?” Lane asked.

  “I don’t know.” Christine looked up at him.

  “Tag a few dumpsters?” Lane smiled.

  By the time the call came, Christine was asleep on the couch. Her hair and skin were tinged with the reds and yellows of the morning sun.

  Lane caught the phone right after the first ring, “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” Harper said. “I think we may have something. It’s a hotel on the south side. I’ll fill you in when I get to your place. Ten minutes, okay?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  ×

  At 5:45 am they were just ahead of the morning rush hour. With lights and siren going, Harper had them there in under twenty-five minutes. Lane saw that blue and white patrol cars had the entrances and exits covered. Harper pulled up to the front doors of the hotel and followed Lane inside.

  “Third floor?” Harper asked the round-faced manager standing behind the counter.

  “Here you go,” he said and handed over a key. “Rooms three-twenty-six and three-twenty-eight. I need the key back when you’re finished.” He looked at his computer monitor, dismissing the detectives.

  Lane and Harper took the stairs to the third floor, where they met two other officers. “Any signs of movement?” Lane asked.

  The officers shook their heads.

  “We need one of you to cover the elevators. How many at the other stairwell?” Lane asked.

  “Two.”

  “We need one at the door to the adjoining room.” Harper pointed further down the hall.

  One officer met them halfway down the hall.

  Lane inserted the key. He looked to his right to the officer at the next door.

  Harper nodded at Lane.

  Lane listened for any sound of a reaction from within. There was a gentle rumbling.

  He stood to one side and eased the door open. It smelled of disinfectant.

  What is that noise? he wondered.

  He peeked around the corner and took a quick look inside. “City police!”

  The noise continued.

  Snoring! Lane pushed the door open and went inside. Harper checked the bathroom after Lane passed the closed washroom door.

  They checked the door connecting the next room to this one. It was locked.

  Madeline Jones lay on her back on the bed. It looked to Lane like someone had thrown a blanket over her. Sweat stuck her black hair to one side of her face. One arm was outside of the blanket.

  Harper pulled the blanket back. She wore a black shirt, slacks, and boots.

  “Madeline?” Lane touched her shoulder.

  She mumbled.

  Lane tapped her shoulder, “Madeline?”

  Madeline’s eyes opened and closed again. “Andrea?” she asked.

  She’s slurring her words, and her pupils are dilated, Lane thought. He looked over his shoulder at Harper. “We need an ambulance. She’s been drugged. Check next door. It’s my bet Dr. Jones and Andrea are gone.” Lane handed the key to Harper.

  Lane spotted a glass on the dresser. He took it to the washroom. As he filled the glass, he looked around. No towels, no soap, no shampoo.

  He found Madeline sitting on the edge of the bed, her arms propping her up on either side. She threw up on the carpet. The stench of vomit permeated the room. She gasped. “The bastard lied to me.”

  Lane put the
water on the night table. Harper put a garbage can at her feet.

  She lifted her head, looked at the water. “What is it?”

  “Water from the tap.”

  Madeline took the glass and gulped it down, studying Lane all the while. “How did you find me?” She swallowed, looked at the garbage can, and vomited again.

  Lane shrugged and sat down on the bed across from her. The mattress sagged. He felt his back aching from just below his belt to just above his collar.

  “What time is it?” She raised her head, looking around the room.

  “About seven o’clock.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes,” Lane said.

  “Friday?” Madeline asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “No time. He’s going across the border at six tonight. No time!” Madeline looked over Lane’s shoulder at the door.

  He saw Madeline’s eyes widen with terror.

  She tried to stand, then sat back down. “Andrea!” She put her head in her hands and began to weep. In between fits of sobbing, she bent over the garbage can and threw up several more times.

  “I need your help.” Lane worked at keeping his voice low, calm.

  “You don’t understand! You don’t know what he’s planning to do to my sister! Andrea!”

  Lane heard the voice of a child in the pain behind each of her words. “If you and I can keep thinking, we have a better chance of finding her,” he said.

  Madeline looked at him. She used the back of her hand to wipe away vomit and mucous. “It’s too late!”

  “We don’t know that.” Lane crossed his legs. He heard others come into the room, but did not look around. Instead, he motioned with his hand that Harper should keep them back.

  “I do!” Madeline said. “I know it’s too late!”

  Lane felt hope dying in him, but forced it out of his voice. He thought, Change direction. “You found Jennifer’s body?”

  She focused on him. “How do you know?”

  “It had to be you. You painted the message on the dumpster.” She turned her head to one side to look at him. “Yes.”

  “How did you know where to look?” Lane felt an excitement he couldn’t explain or communicate. She’s backing away from the panic.