was concerned, it was time for avoidance and denial. She knelt down and opened the hutch, grabbing the disc she had left in the far back of the cabinet. It was the video from Christmas three years ago. The last one Mom was here for. And even though it hurt like hell to watch it, Courtney always did. Too many times to count. She was like a drug addict, always needing more.
The disc tray was already open. Courtney put in the disc, closed it, hit play, and the TV screen came to life, showing the Christmas tree all lit up with red and blue lights, and Mom sitting in the La-Z-Boy between the window and the crackling fire. Toby, their calico kitty, was in the picture too, jumping up on the chair and nestling in Mom’s lap. He had disappeared a week after Mom had died, as if he’d known his favourite person was never coming back. Courtney often wondered where he’d gone.
The thought saddened her, but she watched on, like she always did. She felt she had to. Like it was her duty as a daughter. To let go of the pain was to let go of Mom.
In the video, the camera bobbled slightly as Dad moved around the room, panning down on the presents, then finding her with the camera and zooming in.
‘Merry Christmas, Pumpkin,’ he said.
‘Merry Christmas, Dad.’
‘Go stand with your mother so I can get a shot.’
Mom waved her hand at Dad, almost spilling her glass of rum and eggnog. ‘Oh Jacob, put that thing away for once.’
There was a pause.
‘Come on, Amanda, just one shot.’
In the feed, Mom sighed and Dad chuckled, and then Courtney crossed the room and sat beside Mom, giving her a kiss on the cheek. She gestured to the rum and eggnog, gave a pleading look, and asked, ‘Can I have one of those?’
Her mother just gave her the look, and Courtney laughed. Then her mother frowned at the camera.
‘You got your shot, Jacob, now put it away. You’re always such a nuisance.’
‘Fine. Merry Killjoy,’ Dad said.
And the camera shut off.
Courtney grabbed the remote, hit stop, and closed her eyes. She could still feel the moment like it was yesterday. The fire’s warmth soothing her skin. The spicy smell of the rum in Mom’s drink. The eggnog of her own drink. And the pine-scented smoke that seeped out of the fireplace and hazed the room just a little bit.
It was all so wonderful. It made her cry.
And she hated Dad for that.
She hit play and watched the feed again. The shot was a bit dark, and there was a low humming noise in the audio. The video was anything but high-def, but it was the best movie she’d ever seen in her life.
Oh, Mom.
It wasn’t fair.
She missed her so much her stomach hurt and she wanted to keep crying forever. And the more she missed her, the more it bugged her how Dad just plain didn’t. Oh, he said he did. He said all the right things, especially when he caught her watching the videos which he never watched.
‘She loved you so much,’ he would say.
‘You made her life wonderful,’ he would say.
‘I miss her too, Pumpkin,’ he would say.
But that didn’t stop him from fucking that Spanish whore.
Courtney thought of Felicia, and Dad, and how Mom was no longer around, and it made her feel small. Alone. No one cared. No one knew how she felt. No one understood her.
Except Raine.
Raine knew because Raine had also gone through some horrible things. Like all the fights and the divorce and her dad leaving town.
With that in mind, Courtney picked up the phone and called Raine, but again, all she got was the message service. She thought about leaving another message — still wasn’t sure about using The Court for her tag — then just hung up. She watched the video two more times, and soon her grief mutated into anger.
Mom should never have died that night, she thought. Dad should have done something. Something, for Christ’s sake! He was the goddam cop, he should have acted. He should have damn well cared.
But he didn’t, did he?
And even though he said he missed Mom, and even though he’d said he was sorry a million times, it didn’t mean shit. Because Mom was gone. Forever. All because of what he didn’t do. Of what he chose not to do. In the end, there was only one way to view things.
It was Dad’s fault Mom had died.
Thirty-Seven
They were in the car, driving east, when Noodles finally called Striker back at quarter to twelve. His words were quick and direct, and they made Striker’s nerves fire. ‘The blood types of Raymond Leung and the blood in the car don’t match.’
Striker closed his eyes for a second. ‘I fuckin’ knew it.’
‘Raymond Leung is A-positive. The blood in the Civic is type O-negative.’
The information should have made Striker feel better, since it had proven him right, but it didn’t. It only brought him fear and dark premonitions.
Red Mask was still out there somewhere.
‘You tell Laroche?’ he asked Noodles.
‘He’s arguing it. Says we can’t prove that the blood in the car was actually Red Mask’s blood.’
‘I shot him myself.’
‘Hey, you’re preachin’ to the choir, Shipwreck. Either way, it’s what we’re dealing with.’
They talked a bit more before Noodles promised to relay anything else he heard, then Striker hung up and told Felicia the news.
‘Well, you were right,’ she finally conceded. ‘Congratulations, Jacob. Great news. The maniac’s still out there somewhere.’
He blinked. ‘I’m not gloating. All I’m saying is, we got to keep our feet to the fire. This thing isn’t done. Not by a long shot.’
He waited for a response from Felicia, but got none. So they drove in silence. Destination: East Vancouver. Franklin Street.
The industrial section of the city.
Almost fifteen minutes later, when the silence became burdensome, Striker turned the talk back to the investigation.
The meeting with the two mothers, Doris Chow and Margaret MacMillan, had turned up some interesting information. The Debate Club, the trip to Hong Kong, Free Tibet speeches, and a cancelled tournament — the timing seemed more than coincidental, but Striker could see no involvement. It was just one more piece for a jigsaw puzzle that already had too many.
His stomach rumbled, part from lunchtime hunger, part from emotional distress. It was going on twelve noon, and Courtney had yet to return his calls. No doubt she was up, and simply choosing to ignore him. In some ways she was just like her mother.
He drove east on Forty-First Avenue, past Arbutus, and cut into the McDonald’s drive-thru. There was nothing he could do about Courtney’s attitude, but his hunger was another matter. The breakfast menu had ended, so he ordered a Big Mac and a Filet-O-Fish, and two more coffees — his black, Felicia’s loaded with cream and sugar. The smell seemed to wake Felicia up a bit. She popped off the lid of her coffee, then looked towards the bag.
‘If I eat that, I’ll balloon.’
