Rhona allowed the doctor’s lame explanation to resonate for several seconds. “Assuming you really were confused and your reason for meeting Robertson was to plan a party, I’d like to hear what you decided to do.”
“I’ve told you. We were throwing a surprise party at the golf club.”
“You did tell me. I don’t believe it this time any more than I did the last time. How about cutting the crap—why did you see Robertson?”
An artist might have cast the doctor’s face in bronze. She said nothing.
“I should also tell you I’ve checked out the fanciful tale you told me to explain why you’ve been preoccupied. Statistically, the unexplained deaths have been no different this year. In fact, there have been fewer deaths this year than last. I can’t imagine why you told me such a cock and bull story, but I intend to learn the truth about whatever it is you’re hiding.”
Dr. Uiska straightened in her chair. Her face no longer resembled a mask. Instead, fury tightened her sharp features and narrowed her eyes. “You may think you can threaten me, but I had nothing to do with the murder. Dig away. I’m not concealing anything.”
“We’ll see. It would save time and money if you’d tell me why you were there. If it has nothing to do with the murder, that’s great. If it’s some sordid little tale, and they usually are, I’ve heard them all. I don’t care what it is if it has nothing to do with the murder. I’m here to identify Robertson’s killer.”
“I didn’t kill him, and I have nothing more to say. And if you plan another session like this, I’ll bring my lawyer. You’re harassing me. I’m a law-abiding citizen, and I don’t have to tolerate this treatment.”
“I think you’re deliberately lying. I will discover what you’re hiding. Call me when you decide to tell the truth.”
Eleven
Following the Wednesday evening visition, Hollis recognized how exhausted she was and, after walking MacTee, fell into bed hoping a good sleep would restore her. But sleep eluded her. Instead, Sally’s scene at the funeral home looped endlessly. Bitterly, she thought of Paul and his love for drama. She wondered how he would have felt about Sally’s public confession. Now she, not Paul, would have to live with people looking at her and wondering how she was taking it. How would she cope? The way she always did: she’d keep “a stiff upper lip” and rely on good old British reserve to get her through. She’d never refer to what had happened and hope everyone else got her message. The loop repeated again and again, but finally she fell asleep.
The next morning as she lay in bed listening to rain pinging on the metal porch roof under her bedroom window, Hollis decided that the best way to push thoughts of Paul and Sally out of her mind was to run. It didn’t matter that it was raining. Running in the rain was like meditation. The repetitive motions, the focus on breathing, the duality of a world above and a world reflected in the puddles.
Navy waterproof jogging clothes took seconds to pull on. She reminded herself to remember when she returned from her run to tell Detective Simpson about the discovery she’d made the previous evening.
Her thoughts turned to Mary Beth Cardwell, and she tried to imagine what Paul had read in the woman’s files. In the middle of tying a shoelace, Hollis stopped as if a giant had clamped his hand on hers.
Blackmail.
The killer knew Paul held incriminating evidence about his past, because Paul had used the information to gain leverage over him—leverage for blackmail. Far-fetched, but, after the things she’d found out about Paul, nothing would surprise her. Enough. For the next hour, she’d try to forget about the murder and focus on emptying her mind and achieving a zen state of oneness with nature.
In the kitchen, she enjoyed the silence. Elsie had apologized for leaving her alone, explaining she’d committed Thursdays to caring for her grandson. It seemed ungrateful for Hollis to confess that she relished the idea of having the empty house to herself. Instead, she assured Elsie she’d miss her cheery presence but would be fine.
She set the alarm system, locked the door and paused on the porch to inhale the intoxicating smells of spring. MacTee’s steady pull on his leash reminded her to move, to load him in the truck and drive to the Experimental Farm. There, she parked in her usual spot and considered what a creature of habit she was. Most mornings, give or take a few minutes, she stopped here and ran the same course. She remembered reading that if each person was forced to contemplate every one of the thousands of daily decisions making life work, the everyday world would grind to a halt.
Enough.
She shifted her mind into neutral and her feet into gear.
Her steady pace carried her along the track, and the repetitive action lulled her into a near hypnotic state. Two miles into the run, she reached a small green garage nestled beside a large yellow barn.
Just after she passed these landmarks, she heard a sharp report and sensed more than felt something whistle past her ear. Jarred out of her trance, she searched for a rational explanation.
Birds? In the spring, red-winged black birds dive-bombed runners who infringed on their territory. But those birds lived in the swamp at the other end of the farm. And it wasn’t meadowlarks, they flew erratically trying to draw you away from their nests.
Searing pain in her right thigh followed a second crack. Her body, on automatic, continued to move but, glancing down, she registered a jagged rip in her track pants.
A bullet hole!
Not possible. Her legs continued to pump.
A third crack.
The puddle ahead of her fractured and erupted upward.
She whirled. A black slicker-clad figure, arms raised and sighting along what must be a rifle, stood silhouetted against the yellow barn.
MacTee, ambling along far behind her, was a perfect target.
“Come! MacTee, come!” she shrieked.
Alerted by the urgency of her screams, MacTee raced to catch up with her. Together, they galloped away from the terrifying figure.
Oh, God. Could they run fast enough?
Lead weighted her legs. Ignore the heaviness. Faster. Run for her life.
Another shot. Was it louder? Closer?
Run faster. Don’t stumble. Don’t fall. Racking sobs. Other people—the safety of numbers.
Carleton University. There it was. A safe refuge. Across two fields, a busy highway and the Rideau Canal.
Her leg throbbed.
Ignore it. Get away.
The highway loomed.
No time to stop. A space between a red and white city bus and an eighteen wheeler.
They threw themselves forward.
The world filled with noise.
A heart stopping blast from an air horn, the screaming protest of brakes and the hiss of huge tires on wet pavement wrapped her in terror before the impact lifted and flung her over the road.
Ice cold water splashed in her face, her mouth, her nose.
“Jesus Christ, is she dead?”
Hollis tried to lift her head.
A hand gripped her left arm. “Well, we better drag her out of the goddam ditch or she’ll drown, if she ain’t dead already.”
Her eyes opened. A pair of work boots planted in the muck above her hand shifted and mud squished around them.
She whispered, “I’m not dead.”
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