At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(6)

The award had been bestowed on them for their efforts in crisis intervention—official-speak for talking suicidal people down off bridges and ledges. The article also mentioned that Maclean volunteered her time to work with youth at risk as well as with an organization called IslandWood, which was dedicated to connecting urban dwellers with the natural environment.

He looked more closely at Maclean’s business card and noticed now that she had an “MSW” after her name for a master’s degree in social work. So she’s a saint, he thought. Snatching the suicidal from the jaws of death and taking underprivileged children off the streets and on canoe trips, keeping them safe from both pimps and grizzlies while exploring the forests and streams so they would love nature and not want to strip-mine it, clear-cut it, or turn it into condos when they grew up. What the hell is she doing working as a cop?

Verraday felt guilty about declining the case for a moment, but a saint could get you in just as much trouble as a sinner could. Maybe more. And cops had never been anything but trouble for him.

He took a last glance at the photo that Maclean had left on his desk, then turned it upside down and slid it back into the manila envelope. Sorry, Rachel Friesen, he thought. If you knew me, knew my story, you’d understand.





CHAPTER 3


That night, Verraday had The Dream. He hated having The Dream. It was a recurring dream that he’d been having in various iterations ever since he was a kid, ever since the accident. He hadn’t had it in almost a year now, had told himself that maybe he was over it. But now here it was again.

In it, he gradually came out of a fog, regaining consciousness in dim light, his movement restricted as though someone was holding him down. Then he became aware that he was strapped into the back seat of his family’s sedan. It was night. The interior of the car was dark except for headlights from a second vehicle shining across the beige headliner above him. He could smell gasoline vapors wafting up from wet asphalt and became aware that he was in the middle of an intersection.

Then an acrid chemical smell began to overpower all the others: coolant from a smashed radiator leaking onto a hot engine block and evaporating off it in white stinking plumes. But there was an even more disturbing smell. Something metallic, coppery. Blood, he realized. He could see it splattered on the upholstery, the twisted roof pillars, and the shattered windshield in front of his mother, who was slumped forward in her seat. Barely able to mouth the words, he called to her, but she didn’t answer. Behind his mother, on the bench seat to the left of Verraday, his sister Penny lay motionless, moaning, her legs contorted at sickeningly impossible angles under the front seat, forced backward halfway over her.

He heard a door open. Through the tendrils of evaporating antifreeze, he saw the silhouette of someone getting out of the other car and approaching their vehicle. It was a tall, beefy man in a patrolman’s uniform. As he approached and leaned in, the headlights of the man’s car illuminated him just enough on one side that Verraday could see his watery blue eyes and the gin blossoms on his meaty cheeks. The man seemed uncertain, confused, like he didn’t quite know what to do. There was no one else around. The intersection was deserted. This man, Verraday desperately realized, might be their only lifeline. Struggling to make his mouth move, Verraday tried to form the word “help,” but was only able to emit a feeble croak. The man came around to Verraday’s side of the car. Verraday tried to shout. His tongue felt thick and paralyzed, like it was glued to his palate.

He was barely able to whisper a muted, “Help us, please!”

The man didn’t answer. Had he even heard his plea? The stranger scanned the scene inside the sedan, taking it all in. Then he backed away from the car. The last thing Verraday saw was the jowly man in uniform turning on his heels and walking away into the night.

*

Verraday awoke with a start, embarrassed to realize he had actually been bellowing the words “help me” aloud into the darkness of his bedroom. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and his heart pounded like a jackhammer, so hard he could feel it in his ears. He tried to get up but realized he had rolled over onto his left arm in his sleep, cutting off the circulation. He reached over with his right hand and began massaging it, coaxing the feeling back into it. He turned his head and saw from his alarm clock that it was just before three thirty in the morning. There’s a reason the secret police come to arrest people at this time, thought Verraday. Your body, your spirit, it’s all at its lowest ebb.

While he waited to regain the feeling in his arm, he took several deep breaths to the count of five, the way his older sister Penny had taught him. Finally his arm recovered, the numbness replaced by an uncomfortable prickling sensation. His heart had slowed down and the pounding in his ears had subsided to a manageable roar. He threw back the covers, put his feet on the floor, and turned on the bedside lamp.

He realized now that the booze he had smelled in his dream was from a glass of brandy that he’d poured for himself and left unfinished before he’d fallen asleep.

He didn’t know what it was about him that made him crave alcohol in the evening. He had absolutely zero interest in drinking during the daytime. It was at night, when he was tired, that the urge crept in. He picked up the glass, walked to the bathroom and poured the dregs down the sink. He rinsed the glass twice before filling it with water. He took a deep sip, then another. He set the glass down on the counter and walked down the hall to his den.