The Winter Wolf (2 page)

“We take the weather for granted.” He mumbles this, revealing a set of large teeth with long, prominent canines.

A noise. I jump at the sound but it turns out to be Mousy scurrying over with my drink. She's wrapped a tea towel around the glass to keep it hot. She flashes me a quick roll of her eyes, a signal from woman to woman that says
That guy. What a loser.
I don't trade glances with her, offended she'd think we had anything in common.

I put my hands around the glass and find it blessedly hot while I try to think of some way to respond to his pronouncement. “My name's Elizabeth,” I say, without extending my hand.

“Henri,” he replies. “You must have been pretty desperate to go out in that storm alone.”

I nod. I'm not about to launch into my life story. To explain I have only Grandmother left and she's bedridden most of the time, too weak to venture outside her home. I try to think of a way to change the subject away from me and blurt out, “You don't seem to have a hat. Your ears must get awfully cold in weather like this.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth I flush red with embarrassment. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to take offence.

He tugs his earlobe. “Ah yes, my oversized ears,” he cackles. “All the better to hear you with, my dear.” Then his mood whipsaws abruptly and he slams his hand down on the table. “Never underestimate the fury of a storm like this. There is no criminal as savage as that ice.”

I'd been sipping at my drink, loving the feel of the hot liquid slipping down my throat, but I'm so shocked by his outburst I gulp the rest down, burning my mouth and tongue. I blink back the tears that pool in my eyes, and my gaze falls on the newspaper; a black-and-white photograph takes up half of the folded page. A man and a woman. I lean closer and peer at the picture.

A woman's seated in the foreground, laughing, her hair in curly tendrils framing a pretty, vibrant face. She's heavily made up with
a slice of dark lipstick and thick mascara and heavy eyeliner. A cigarette dangles from her right hand, the plume of smoke trailing offin curlicues. And beside her, a younger Henri. The headline reads
Francine and Henri Garou in happier days. Early release for beating death of wife.

I drag in a breath. I want to race out the door but I'm afraid I'll feel his teeth sink into my back after making it only a few feet. I'm afraid to look up and meet his eyes. This can't be happening. The media are full of warnings about cases like this—inmates released early only to repeat their crimes.

He reaches across the table and grips my hand. He sees me wince at his touch and just as quickly, lets go. “I'm sorry,” he says. “Your hands must still be hurting from the cold.”

I look at my hand and notice his long nails have left impressions in my kidskin gloves. I can't take my eyes offhis nails, yellowish and dark.

Spotting my empty glass, he turns his head and yells for the woman behind the counter. “Elizabeth needs another drink.”

In truth, I'm desperate for another but don't want to be obliged to him, don't want to spend another moment near him, so I reach into my handbag, pull out my Visa, and wave it at her. She takes the card and disappears into the back.

A million red-hot needles pierce my hands, a sign my circulation is returning as numbness recedes. Tears flood my eyes, whether due to anxiety or the pain, I don't know.

I peel offmy gloves and rub my hands together then sink back in my chair and grope in my bag for my medication. Call me old-fashioned but I prefer Valium to the newer designer drugs. It doesn't make me as drowsy and that's important because I seem to need it more and more often. I swallow two and top them offwith a couple of extra-strength Tylenol. I still can't look at Henri.

While he waits at the bar to get my drink I listen to the ice thrash against the window glass and the wind groan like a wounded animal. Storm or no storm, how I hate this time of year.
The wolves of winter pursue us again
, I whisper to myself.
If you listen closely, you can hear them howl. Before they are finished they will have shaken and torn this city to shreds.
I try to assess the distance between me and the door and conclude if I rushed out he could easily stop me.

The mouse finally emerges with my drink and places it on the bar along with my credit card and Visa slip. Henri sets them in front of me and resumes his seat, pushing his rubbery lips into a grin that comes out more like a leer. “There's no need to be afraid you know,” he says.

He glances down at the newspaper and then back to me. “Let me tell you about that couple.” He points to the newspaper photo. “Those two were sleepwalkers moving through each day in a daze. They were wrong to take life for granted. Dead wrong. Everybody adored Francine. Sure, she liked a drink a little too often and it was rumoured she played the field. But she was forgiven for this. Living with Henri, they said, would drive anyone to it. Henri rose at the same time every morning, ate the same breakfast. Day in and day out, he left the house at precisely eight. At noon he would walk over to the mall across the street from his office, pull out his
La Presse
, read and eat lunch for exactly one hour, then go home at six.”

Why is he telling me all this? And in the third person, as if I don't yet know who
he
is. I am growing more and more uncomfortable, but I will myself to remain calm. I steal a glance at him, but he's looking down at the paper wistfully. Has he noticed my watch? I slide my hand onto my lap, undo the strap of my Cartier, and drop the watch into the side pocket of my purse. Henri drones on.

“Henri despised winter. All he needed to hear was a weather report predicting snow and he'd be out with his bag of chunky rock
salt, dumping the stuffeverywhere. As soon as the first flakes began to fall, he'd work hard, removing every square inch offthe drive, the walk, even the siding of the house.”

He clears his throat and reaches for his glass. This temporary break is my chance. I'll make some excuse, pretend to go to the washroom, and leave quietly out the back way. I've warmed up and the prospect of facing the storm again is almost welcome compared to spending another minute here.

He sees me begin to get up and shifts his chair to block my way. “I'm not used to having anyone to talk to. Please wait. It won't take much longer.”

What won't take much longer? His excuses for his awful crime or something … worse?
I'm not taken in by his words or the new gentler tone in his voice but, again, think it might be an error to test his patience. Give him a bit more rope. Then I'll make my move. I sit down again and tear strips offthe Christmas napkin the mouse-woman provided, a tawdry-looking thing with a design of red poinsettias on a white background. I shred the strips as he talks; they float onto the tabletop like tiny flakes of blood-tipped snow.

“One morning after a wicked storm, Henri had risen at five to begin the work of clearing the snow and ice. He left as usual at eight. Later that afternoon a neighbour woman noticed Henri's car parked in the laneway behind his house and a broken window on the second floor. She found the back door open, a small drift of snow on the kitchen floor. She climbed the stairs, passed the open bathroom door, and stopped, hardly able to believe her eyes. Francine's nude body lay submerged in the tub.”

I've heard enough. I throw my bag into my hamper, grab my parka, and bolt out of the chair. I push past him and fly out the door without even zipping up my coat. As I rush down the street, I hear him calling me yet dare not look back.

A block or two away I fall on black ice and turn to get up. Is that a shadow slipping in between two buildings? Once I think I hear his footsteps scrape on the icy sidewalk behind me. Despite the danger of falling again I start to run and manage to keep up my pace for the couple of blocks I have left to go. I arrive at the corner of Grandmother's street puffing hard and out of breath. When I spot the three tall oaks on the front lawn of Grandmother's house I gasp in relief. The plastic wreath in the front window, with its three yellow candles and tapered light bulbs for flames, feels like a beacon of hope.

I reach for the latch on the front door and draw back in surprise. The door is open—just a crack. I step into the house, and the familiar scent of the lavender Grandmother keeps in her potpourri jar overwhelms me. I have to blink back tears. The stillness of the living room is punctuated by the steady
tick tock
of the antique mantel clock—the stillness is
insistent
. There's no welcoming fire in the grate as I'd expected, just cold, dead ashes. Normally, Grandmother's upstairs neighbour would come in to help her light the fire if I was expected. Would Mrs. Corrigan have invited her upstairs, thinking the storm had prevented me from coming? Yes, that must be it. I'll have to remind Mrs. Corrigan to make sure the front door is latched and locked from now on.
No.
I remember now, dread curdling my stomach. Mrs. Corrigan went to her son's house in Gaspé for the holiday season.

I rush into the bedroom. The sheets have been stripped down to the mattress; the bathroom is empty. What has happened here? Panic lodges in my throat. I go back to the bedroom and pull out the dresser drawers. Each one has been emptied of Grandmother's clothes. No carefully folded piles. Even the little talcum powder sachets are gone. And now I realize if she's fallen ill and been taken to the hospital in the last few days, no one could have contacted me. I go to the little kitchen alcove, hoping she may have left me a
note, and find nothing. No food in the refrigerator, no supplies in the pantry. My stomach clenches in fear.

That's when I hear a slow creak from the living room. I hadn't bothered to lock the front door when I came in. It's opening. I move quietly out of the kitchen alcove and peer around the mantle.

Henri Garou stands framed in the doorway. The ice from his boots melting in a pool on the hardwood. Staring at me with those yellowish eyes, his spiky hair wet from the storm.

And now I understand. This is not the first time he's been here.

“What have you done to my grandmother?” I cry hoarsely.

He takes a step forward and holds up my watch. “You dropped this at the bar. I found it on your chair and wanted to give it back to you.”

He approaches me with his hand held out, the watch dangling. His fingernails lengthen and curve into claws, his teeth glisten with saliva. He says something else but it sounds no more than a deep growl emerging from his throat. My head spins.

Blood sings in my ears. I grasp behind me for one of the knives on the kitchen counter. Despite my fear a tiny corner of my brain is still capable of operating rationally. I refuse to become another one of his victims.

I rush toward him, holding the knife in front of me, and strike at him with all my strength. A scream forms on my lips, my vision fades, and everything turns black.

I WAKE UP PRONE ON THE FLOOR
. My cheek aches where it's pressed into the hardwood. How long have I been unconscious? My right leg is throbbing and my pants are torn. A splatter of blood leads to Grandmother's front door. The evidence of violence seems so foreign, so wrong here. She'll be horrified to see this mess, frightened, shocked. Like I am. Using a hand towel,
rinsing it in the bathroom sink and wringing it out over and over, I manage to wipe all the blood offthe floor. Soon the hardwood is shining again. I toss the towel into the garbage pail under the kitchen sink.

Now the danger is over and Henri is nowhere to be found, I take pride in the fact that I didn't stand here passively or wait for someone to come to my rescue. I found the courage to deal with him on my own. Grandmother, so mindful of my safety, will be proud of me for standing up to fear. No, I think. I'll worry her if I tell her. She need never know. Henri won't be back and it will be my secret.
A woman can never be too careful.

I cut the fruitcake into precise little squares and set them upon tiny dessert plates. I get two cut-glass tumblers from the cupboard for the sherry. I put these on a tray along with folded cloth napkins, so much nicer than the paper serviettes Grandmother always says look so cheap. A sprig of cedar from the shrubs outside the door adds a festive air. I fold a comforter around me and sit in the armchair to wait for Grandmother's return. She won't be long, I'm sure. Not in this weather.

* * *

Montreal Daily Record
, January 10, 1997

BODY IDENTIFIED

The body of a man identified as Henri Charles Garou was found last night in the backyard of a house on Rue Dorien. The coroner has determined Garou died from a knife wound to the abdomen. Garou had recently been released from prison after a new forensic investigation cleared him of any responsibility in the death of his wife, Francine.

Elizabeth Anne Hill has been charged with second-degree murder and destruction of evidence in the course of committing a crime.

Ms. Hill has a history of psychotic episodes dating back to the death of her parents on New Year's Day, 1979, while skating on Lac des Îles. The couple was separated from their daughter by a pack of wolf–dog hybrids abandoned by hunters. The pack forced the couple onto thin ice, where they drowned in front of their young daughter. Authorities later rounded up and shot the animals for fear of other attacks on humans.

Ms. Hill's most recent psychotic break was brought on by the death of her grandmother in November.