A woman in a fur coat walked past on the sidewalk, her shaggy black Maltese tugging on its leash. They started up the walkway to the apartment building. A man in a black ski jacket and white toque appeared from the other direction and started up the walkway after her. Kala took a step forward. The woman turned as he reached her and called him by name. Kala settled back into her hiding spot, her heart beat gradually returning to normal.
The next half hour passed slowly. Kala was warm in her winter clothing but her face was raw from the wind. She’d give it another half hour and then take a drive around the ByWard Market to look for Dawn and Rosie. She might even stop in at the Ottawa Mission to visit Maya. She wished she could take a leave of absence and spend her days searching. Once they found Underwood’s murderer, she’d do just that. This job meant nothing to her, even though she felt a growing attachment to Rouleau. He was like the father she wished she’d had. Her real father had been nineteen when she was born. He’d be in his forties now, younger even than Rouleau, if he were still alive.
An unusual noise carried by the wind from the direction of the woods and field made her stand again and cock her head to listen. It sounded like branches breaking, likely a fox or other city wildlife. She relaxed and took one final look around. It was time to pack it in. The groper had taken another night off.
She stepped from her hiding place. She almost reached the sidewalk when a muffled scream came from the direction of the wood. Her body froze as she turned her head toward the noise, listening intently. At first she thought she was hearing things, but knew this might be all she got. She knew to trust her instincts.
She ran across the plowed sidewalk into the line of trees a couple of meters back. The snow there was soft and deep, but years in the bush made her sure-footed and quicker than most in the shadowy darkness. It took but a few minutes to break into the clearing. She scanned the field, trying to make out shapes. If only she’d brought her flashlight from the truck, but she’d never thought he would attack someone away from the lighted apartment building.
The moon slipped from behind the clouds and the field was suddenly bathed in soft light. A movement caught her attention near the bushes directly across from where she was standing, the width of a soccer field away. She lurched forward, her eyes on the dark shape in the snow. Several steps closer and she recognized a man’s back and his raised arm, striking down at something lying at his feet. Adrenaline propelled her forward. His arm raised again.
“Stop! Police!” she called. “Stop what you’re doing and put your hands where I can see them.”
He half-turned, his back humped like the Hunchback of Notre Dame — a Quasimodo shape to awaken night terrors. She was close enough to see the dark, lifeless form at his feet, to glimpse the flash of his white teeth in what might pass for a smile. He turned his face away from her. His hand dropped to his side and he took off through the bushes toward the far road.
She chased after him, making the split decision to leave the person in the snow a moment longer. He was trying to run, but the snow was deeper, a drift caught in the line of bushes. She gained precious steps and flung herself across the remaining distance to tackle his legs at thigh level. The impact knocked him to the ground. She kept her arms squeezed around kicking legs. He rolled under her, twisting his body so that he was sitting up. His arms came down around her head, a bare hand grabbing onto her neck. She released his legs and squirmed away, dodging kicks and somehow managing to get her hands free to push herself to her feet. One blow landed on her back before she steadied herself. She felt searing pain across her shoulder but managed to push herself back from his boots. He was standing now, kicking wildly in her direction. One kick landed on her collarbone but she pulled back in time to deflect the full impact.
“Cunt,” he said. “Stupid bitch.”
She scrambled to her feet and faced him, panting. “Police. Get down on the ground.”
“Not on your life, bitch. Come closer so I can teach you a lesson.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She jumped back from another kick and then leapt forward, catching him off balance. She had her feet spread in a wide stance, bent at the knees. She pushed off with her feet and lunged, slugging him in the stomach with her fist. He doubled over and gasped for air as if he’d just finished running a marathon. She raised both hands and chopped him across the back until he dropped onto his knees in the snow. She knelt on one knee in the snow next to him and wrenched his arm back, twisting it with enough force to hear a snap. He screeched in pain. Her knee came up and dug into his back as she used her body weight to force him face down onto the ground. In one quick movement, she had her handcuffs out of her jacket pocket and cuffed both hands behind his back. She clicked them shut.
He writhed in the snow, but all resistance was gone. A stream of profanity spewed from his mouth. She leaned close to his ear, exposed where his hat had twisted nearly off. The rank smell of greasy hair filled her nose. His hair was white, just as Glenda Martin had reported. His face was clean shaven and barely lined. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five years old.
“Whoever you were hitting back there better be alive,” she said, “or I might just forget to come back for you.”
She took off her rope belt and wrapped it around his legs below the knees. She pulled it tight and tied a knot. Even if he managed to crawl somewhere, he wouldn’t get far.
His eyes were feverish with rage and pain in the moonlight. “You broke my arm, you fucking bitch. I’m going to have you put away.” He rocked back and forth on his stomach, moaning and trying to flip onto his side without success.
“No point struggling,” she said. “You’ll just make it worse.”
He howled as she stepped away from him. “Undo me! I said undo me! I’ll make you pay if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I very much doubt that.”
She pulled out her cellphone to call 911 as she started running back through the snow to find the victim, his screams and curses following her through the darkness.
27
Friday, December 30, 11:45 a.m.
Rouleau replayed the interview from earlier that morning on the flat screen television on his office wall. His head was weary but he forced himself to focus. Kala Stonechild stood at attention next to Vermette while he congratulated her for getting a dangerous offender off the street. Her hair was tied back and she wore a navy jacket over a black turtleneck sweater. She’d borrowed the jacket and it fit loosely, a few sizes too large. Her face was unreadable, her eyes staring straight ahead, and her bandaged shoulder hidden by the over-sized coat.
What were you thinking? he wondered as the camera zoomed in on her. What the hell were you doing out there?
He turned at a knock on the door.
“Stonechild just came in,” said Grayson. “Thought you’d want to know.”
He withdrew and Rouleau crossed to the door. His team had surrounded her like she was a homecoming queen. Malik was hugging her and Bennett was waiting his turn. She had her back to Rouleau but appeared to be willingly accepting the attention. He heard her laugh at something Malik said. He waited a few minutes before calling for her to come into his office.
She turned to look at him and the smile left her face. She broke away from the group and walked toward him, her back as straight as an army cadet’s. They entered his office.
“Sir,” she said as he motioned for her to sit.
He settled into his desk chair