Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(33)
Sorry, Ms. Blake, I wish I could have been of more help in exposing that bad, bad boy. Have a good trip, Svetlana. Live large in Mexico or Greece or wherever you’re going. Robert O’Brien is hitting the road too.
Once again, he added up his resources. Celeste had cleaned out the joint account, but the severance pay, thirty-two K, was in his chequing account, untouched, accessible online. A similar amount due again in six months, if his boss didn’t welsh. He’d paid his internet fees six months in advance, was still below his Amex limit, and he had half a grand in his wallet, enough for essentials, including the bus to Rouyn-Noranda.
He’d already loaded up a suitcase and a pack. After dark, he’d creep down the back fire escape.
He dumped the last of his Cheerios into a bowl and ate them dry.
§
Two days later, Sunday, Lou was in a stuffy, forty-buck hotel room in the gut end of Rouyn-Noranda. This hardrock mining town was looking a little scruffy, maybe copper prices were down, but it was living up to its reputation for weekend barroom brawls. The rumpus last night in the tavern below had been punctuated with shouted obscenities — “Viande à chien! Maudite marde!” — and when it spilled onto the street, the cops broke it up, hauling off the instigators.
None of which was conducive to sleep, despite his exhausting journey here: all day Saturday on a bus that stopped at every jerkwater filling station on the long, lonely highway north, finally pulling in at midnight. Now it was after ten as he dragged himself off a lumpy mattress, the street outside his window looking empty, dead, hungover. A bright, harsh sun.
Hunger was gnawing at him — he’d hardly eaten yesterday — and he felt grimy. He braved the shower, whose lukewarm water smelled of leached minerals, probably cancer-causing. A shampoo, a shave, a swipe of Mennen, a clean shirt and jeans. The tweed cap that Celeste had bought for him because it was so cute, back in the days when she loved him.
He powered up his phone, checked it for missed texts and calls. Nothing recent, just a couple of saved ones, urgent pleas from Margaret Blake and Pierette Litvak. Lou felt bad about not going through with the deal, but they’d get over it, life goes on. Lou’s life, in particular. Hard to swim in cement shoes.
He thought of calling Celeste, wondering if she might accidentally pick up this time. Hi, honey, I’m here in Rouyn-Noranda. It was twenty minutes by foot to her folks’ big lakeside split-level, where he and Celeste had taken family holidays. Where she was surely hiding out with the kids.
Better to catch her off guard. Maybe find Lisa and Logan romping on the front lawn, playing with their grandparents’ puppy, Gruffy. They would run into his arms, a joyous, huggy reunion. Celeste, witnessing this adorable scene, would melt, and run tearfully into his arms.
§
But his fantasy of finding the kids in the front yard was not fulfilled. He’d convinced himself that Celeste’s Ford Caravan would be there, but there was no sign of it. He found a path to the lakeshore, hoping to find Lisa and Logan there, maybe skipping stones, but his reconnaissance revealed only one life form: Gruffy, no longer a playful puppy but a brute, who raced toward him, barking loudly, summoning his equally bad-tempered owner, Simon, out onto his back deck.
By which time Lou was standing hip-deep in the water, fending off Gruffy, splashing him, calling, “Good dog, good dog.” Then “bon chien,” in case he wasn’t as bilingual as his owners.
Simon called Gruffy off and put him on a leash while Lou limped red-faced and soaked onto the stony beach. Janine appeared too, holding a dishcloth, looking puzzled. A petite and pleasant woman married to a bear.
“She ain’t here,” Simon called. “You want me to write that in blood on my forehead? She ain’t coming back, you twerp. Get a life. Go back to your safe house.”
“Simon! Manners!” Janine threatened to slap him with the dishcloth. “Oh, Lou, you poor creature. You come in and we’ll get you dried off and into a change of clothes.”
Lou slogged forlornly up to the deck, fishing out his wet wallet, shaking drops from his iPhone. He didn’t try to make friends with Gruffy, who was stiff-tailed, looking confused: why hadn’t his master given orders to kill?
“I’ll bet you haven’t eaten,” said Janine.
“Not much,” Lou said woefully.
Simon groaned. “Yeah, stalking is hard work, I guess. Fires up the appetite.”
Lou mumbled, “Can’t stalk a missing family, Simon.” He kicked off his shoes. A towel appeared. “She just blithely kidnapped those kids. My kids.” Flaring a little. “I could get a court order. She’s with her sister, isn’t she?” Lucille, in Calgary, she’d married a consulting engineer, geophysics or something.
“Just give her some time, Lou,” Janine said. “I’m sure everything will be all right. We’ll throw those in the dryer.” She passed him a robe, turned away as he stripped.
Simon wouldn’t let up. “We’re going to entertain a guy who’s got an X on his forehead? Wasn’t it your brother-in-law got bumped off by the mob? A scumbag lawyer — you got an upstanding family. The Mafia better not know you’re here, Lou.”
“Robert. Robert O’Brien. I even have a passport.”
On his way to the bathroom he overheard Simon in French, saying, “Now you know why I never gave my blessing. She was too far ahead of him in the brain department.”