Punishment (26 page)

“Retirement is a big step, a big adjustment,” I said. “Things are kind of … busy … in my life right now. I’m not sure I’m ready.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. “Tony, this Wentworth bullshit is your ticket out. I’ve already had some feedback from above. They agree: there is a credible threat. You can get a pretty nice package. Lump sum, full pension. A nice send-off: reception, dinner, speeches. The timing is perfect.”

“I don’t really feel ready for it,” I tried again.

“Let’s talk, man to man,” he said.

But it took a long time for him to get to the point. I’ve discovered most bureaucrats are like that. Beating around the bush becomes an art and Arnold was really good at it. With each trip around the bush he got closer to the point, which was: he knew that I was going through a personal crisis and that a workplace relationship was part of it. I think I stood up then, but he waved me down. I recall he stood, walked around the desk, and put a hand on my shoulder, all sympathy and collegiality. Man to man.

“We’re all human, Tony. Who among us hasn’t made a slip one time or another? But these things don’t go down well with senior management. Bad for morale. Did you know she’s applied for a position in Ottawa?”

“Who?”

He laughed. “You know who. Sophie MacKinnon.”

“I fail to see …”

“She wants to move to Ottawa. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. She asked the warden for a letter of support.”

“So that should take care of the problem, if there is one,” I said.

“Not necessarily.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The thing is, Tony. We don’t want to lose her.”

Sophie and I had our last lunch where we had the first one, in a hotel dining room that overlooks the lake. She was hesitant when I called and asked her to meet me there.

I tried to sound casual when she joined me at the table. “I have an update.”

“Oh?” she said.

“A glass of wine?” She shook her head.

“By the way, I heard about Ottawa.”

She looked downward, face flushed. “I was going to tell you …”

“No explanation necessary.”

“It’s best, Tony. A bit of distance. Plus I need a break from this …”

“I understand completely.”

It was unusually quiet for midday on a Thursday. She reached across and squeezed my hand. It’s an instinct women have, the hand squeezing, for reassurance or breaking ground for something big.

“I think the kids need it. And Gilles.”

“Gilles.” And then I realized. A name she rarely mentioned. “I think a change of scene …”

“Please,” I said.

Briefly, we talked about the stress of work. Troubled grown-ups with the needs of children in so many cases. It was then she told me that Strickland was being considered for a halfway
house in Kingston. I said I’d heard something like that. She said he was a model inmate at Warkworth—had fabulous assessments from the team there, even a commendation from the warden, Moroz. She laughed and reddened slightly. “I believe you know the warden.”

“Anna has started divorce proceedings,” I said, watching closely for reaction.

“I heard. I’m sorry. I mean that.”

“You heard?”

“You know what the place is like. I really am sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I know,” she said. “But it’s always sad. It’s a blessing in a way you don’t have kids.”

“Yes. I’ve decided to be positive.”

She smiled, eyebrows raised. She had her hair clamped high on the back of her head, emphasizing the clean strong lines of her face and brow, small perfectly shaped ears, unadorned by jewelry.

I said, “It crossed my mind that being single will simplify my life. You must have some thoughts.”

She shook her head. “It isn’t just about you, Tony.”

“I think I’m going to have a drink,” I said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I said too sharply. “I’m fucking sick of sorry people.”

“I have a meeting.” She checked her watch. I ignored the gesture. I waved at a lurking waiter. “My other news,” I said, “is that I’ll be going away soon, too.”

She sat up straighter, tilted her head.

“So you hadn’t heard that?”

“No,” she said. “I hope …”

I waved her to silence. “I’m only telling you because you should know your transfer won’t be necessary.”

“You’re assuming a lot,” she said. “My transfer is about my kids. Okay?”

The words were like a slap. “I didn’t mean … but I wanted you to know that I’m leaving the service for reasons that are unrelated to … us.”

“I would hope that they’re unrelated …”

I struggled with a sudden billow of despair. I suppose she saw it in my face. I looked away.

“It was futile,” she said softly. “It was nice. But …” She compressed her lips and looked down at the tablecloth.

The despair then turned to anger but the anger was locked in a deep safe place, next to the reservoir of tears. “I actually hoped for a while that it was more than nice.”

“Me too,” she said. “But after Newfoundland …”

The drink arrived and I realized that I no longer wanted it. I sipped, poked at ice cubes with my fingertip. A small airplane circled low over the lake under puffy woolly clouds that only seemed to make the sky more painfully blue. “That was awful last week, in the States,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You think there’ll be a war?”

I gulped my drink, ignored her attempt to change the subject. “The timing is right for me,” I said. “And I’m sure you know this already, but you’re considered to be quite a valuable asset here. They
will
try to block your move to Ottawa. Now that I’m out of the picture.”

She formed a modestly dubious expression. “I wouldn’t …”

“They know about us.”

“They brought that up?”

“Yes.”

“So the day Steele saw us …”

“Yes. And he’s been broadcasting it around Warkworth.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Speaking for myself,” I said, “I was glad. No more deception.”

She stared at me for what I later realized was a long moment of disbelief.

Then: “I’m glad for you, Tony. Now I have to go.”

“I might stay here for a while.” I had a headache. I waved at the waiter, pointed at my glass. I couldn’t bring myself to stand. She came around and lingered at my side for a long moment, placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Goodbye, Tony,” she said softly. And like a ghost she disappeared.

That evening, alone and mildly shit-faced in the silent house—Anna, I had learned, was staying with her lawyer-buddy, Rita—my future appeared to me as a landscape suddenly revealed by the cresting of a hill. It wasn’t grim but it was barren and it sprawled endlessly beyond the curve of the horizon. It was a scalding moment, delusions scoured from the surface of reality. Solitude and celibacy, I thought. And, I had to admit, under the alcoholic anesthetic, it didn’t feel all that bad.

Even if I reframed the words—made them, say, abandonment and isolation—they still described a kind of freedom. I remember stumbling to bed that night in that paradoxical state of peace that comes with knowing you have nothing left to lose.

A
fter the first full day of Strickland’s hearing I watched the early evening news for any mention of the case. There was none. It was all Powell at the United Nations with his slide show, proof that the Iraqis really did have the potential to destroy the planet hidden in their desert wastes. Jesus Christ, I thought, will you give it a rest. I thought you were the honest exception in that cabal.

That night I dreamed there was a woman in the bed beside me. I knew it was a woman by the rich thick hair that fell over an exposed shoulder. I desperately wanted to touch the shoulder, gently stroke the hair, but I was afraid of waking her because I was unsure of who she was, afraid, I suppose, of who she might be.

I woke at dawn and sat up, looked around the barren room. The dog was curled up against my thigh, sound asleep. I asked him, “What do you do when you feel the urge for female company?” He looked up at me and yawned, then jumped off the bed and trotted down the stairs, claws urgent on the wooden floor. Barked once.

I got up, went to let him out. “Good luck!” I shouted after him. He galloped off into the field, squatted. The eastern sky was scarlet. A mild spell that week had reduced the snow to crusty patches in the field, dirty snowbanks on the roadside. I squinted at the white-capped sea, concentrating on its majesty to dispel the hatred that I felt for Strickland.

Pity him, I told myself. He spoke out of fear, made brazen by his poverty of options. Pity is worse than hatred. The injury to him from being pitied would be far greater than anything that I can achieve through hatred. I should have said it when I had the chance, when the time was right:
I pity you
. So I could feel the healing that would begin at watching his hateful arrogance diminishing. Instead I reacted as he would, or any other lousy con.

Birch was back. “Let’s hit the trail,” I said.

The frosty air was pleasant, refreshing. The trail had been well packed by snowmobiles and reminded me of the mountain road in the days when people still used horses and heavy sleds to get around in the wintertime. Where the trail crossed the road the dog galloped off along the pavement and disappeared.

I shouted, “You get back here,” but I was in no doubt about his destination. Mary’s place. I smiled at the thought: We have this in common, Birch, that rare feeling of gratification that comes from little acts of human kindness. I jogged after him and eventually caught up to him halfway up her lane, urgently sniffing at footprints and a yellowed hole in the snow where a man had urinated powerfully. It was like a drill-hole and I could see the frozen earth at the bottom of it. The wind was rising, dark trees now sighing and I became intensely conscious of the day’s grim purpose.

On the way to Caddy’s I stopped at the store for the papers. I was surprised to see Neil there.

“I figured you’d be at the prelim,” I said.

He told me he took the morning off to watch live coverage of Powell’s presentation to the UN Security Council.

“You should have been watching,” he said to me indignantly, when I told him I had better things to do than watch television in the morning. “You wanted proof? It was there in spades. The truth, right out of Powell’s mouth.”

“Spades?” John Robert chortled. “Didn’t realize you were such a fan of spades, Neil.”

“It’s no fuckin laughing matter,” Neil said, face flushed. “He showed the satellite pictures, he’s got the intelligence interceptions. I’m just waiting to hear the chicken-shit response from Ottawa.”

“It’s all bullshit, Neil,” I said. “The Bush crowd cooking up an excuse …”

“There it is,” he shouted, waving his hand at me. “The sun shines out of Powell’s arse for you liberals until he says something you don’t want to hear. I’m disappointed in you, Tony. I thought you had more brains than that. I thought there was more man in you.”

Something about the hand, the menace in his tone triggered an old response, cold and cautious, almost angry. I said, “Back off … don’t wave your hand in my face.” He stepped back but I could tell it wasn’t a retreat, it was positioning. You could see it in his face, his eyes opaque.

I turned away, but couldn’t control the shaking as I dropped the money for the newspapers on the counter.
You’re a coward
, I thought, sitting in the truck.
You might as well face up to it. Something’s happened to you
.

Then Neil was at the truck window, rapping with a knuckle. I lowered the window, just looked at him.

“Hey man,” he said, stooping to bring his face level with mine. “I’m sorry about in there. I get a little riled sometimes. Let’s just agree to disagree. Life’s too short.” He stuck his hand through the window and I grasped it, felt its meaty power. “We shouldn’t be letting all this shit get to us. Too much to be worried about closer to home.”

I nodded.

“Will I be seeing you at the courthouse?”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

“I was surprised you weren’t there yesterday.”

“Did I miss anything?” I asked.

“Ah well, it’s all interesting. The prosecution theory—him starting a little sex-and-drugs franchise down there. Plus a lot
of technical stuff in the morning. Police investigation stuff and toxicology. Seems she had enough dope in her to kill a horse. There were a couple of teenagers who were supposed to have bought stuff from Strickland but they got all wishy-washy on the stand.”

“I see.”

“That sleazebag lawyer of Strickland’s pretty well took them apart. But everybody’s waiting for Caddy this afternoon. She’ll have a big impact. And I have a sneaky feeling the Crown has got some surprises up his sleeve. You wait.”

“I’ll see you there, then,” I said.

He stood, rapped the roof of the truck with his oversized knuckles and I drove away.

Caddy was sitting at her kitchen table sipping at a cup of tea. She had her coat on. She’d heard the crunch of my footsteps on the deck and stared at me thoughtfully over the rim of her cup. I waved.

When I came in, she said, “I’d offer tea but I don’t think there’s time.” She stood and kissed my cheek. Then placed the teacup on the table. “I guess there’s no putting it off.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said. But she sighed and gave me a look that made me wish that I had simply shrugged agreement. “You’re doing it for Maymie,” I said. “Keep that in the forefront.”

“No,” she said. “
You
remember that. No matter what.”

In the truck she asked, “Do you think he ever feels anything? Like remorse? Does he ever think of her?”

“I’m sure he has his moments,” I said.

“Well you know him better than I do.”

“I don’t know him all that well.”

But there was a time when I cared about him because of the risk he took to prevent what turned into a bloody fiasco. There was a time when I stood up for him, disputed the cynical opinion that he became an informer only to hasten his release from prison. The answer I got from both sides, officer and con: a rat is a rat. Solidarity is key to survival.

The name the court clerk called was unfamiliar, “Mrs. Catherine Stewart,” but then she looked at us. We were seated on a bench in the corridor outside the courtroom. “They mean you, Caddy.”