The Brutal Heart

“That’s the spirit,” I said.

When Keith Harris came over, I introduced them. Evan was clearly overwhelmed. “I know this sounds stupid,” he said. “But even though, in my opinion, you’re on the wrong side politically, you’ve been a hero of mine since I was a kid.”

Keith shook his hand. “That means a lot,” he said. “It’s good for the process when people like you agree to run. So are you glad you’re doing it?”

Evan’s eyes were shining. “Are you kidding? Every day I learn something new and every day I meet a lot of great people. It’s a blast. Look, it really was an honour meeting you, but I’d better go shake some hands.”

After Evan was out of earshot, I turned to Keith. “Makes it harder when you like the other guy, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Keith agreed. “But never lose sight of the fact that he is the other guy.”

Evan was head and shoulders above Ginny’s other two opponents. He was smart and he’d done his homework. In truth, he’d overdone his homework. His answers would have earned him top marks in a seminar, but they were too long and too detailed for a debate, and the moderator was repeatedly forced to cut him off. As well, either out of nervousness or the belief that a debate was a discussion among four people running for the same office, Evan focused on the other candidates, and the audience repaid him by growing restive during his answers. He was a much better candidate than he appeared to be that night, and I found myself longing for the chance to sit down with him the next morning, go over the debate tapes, and talk about ways he could improve his performance.

Ginny didn’t need my help. She was thoroughly professional, and she was having the time of her life. Her answers were crisp, clever, and often funny. The audience loved her, and she loved them back.

“She’s having a good night,” I said to Keith.

Keith sighed. “It scares me when a campaign is going this well. I know it’s only a matter of time till the dragon crawls out of his lair and tears us apart.”

When I got home, Zack was already in bed with his laptop on his lap and his trial bag on the nightstand beside him.

“How did it go?” he said.

“Ginny was brilliant. I think Keith’s right. If she can win big in Palliser, there’ll be no stopping her.”

“You look excited.”

“Contact high from the crowd,” I said. “Politics can be a lot of fun.”

“There’s something we need to talk about,” Zack said.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not good.”

I sat on the bed and kicked off my shoes. “It would be nice to have one evening that didn’t end on a shitty note.”

“Your call – we can talk in the morning.”

“No. Let’s get it over with. Better to know now than be awake all night wondering.”

Zack reached into his trial bag, pulled out a journal, and handed it to me. On the cover there was a tranquil picture of a dark-haired young girl in a silk dress sitting under a tree with her dog. There was a cat on her lap, and one on the branch above her. The girl was reading.

“That belonged to Cristal,” Zack said.

“So Blake got it to you,” I said.

Zack’s forehead creased in surprise. “How did you know about that?”

“Francesca Pope was at St. Pius tonight. She told me she couldn’t keep her appointment with you today because the light in your building was too bright. She waited outside until she saw someone she recognized.” I started to undress. “Poor Blake. Of all the people Francesca could have given it to.”

Zack’s face was grim. “No doubt about it. Blake has all the luck. And of course, he read the journal before he handed it over to me. He’s devastated, but to be fair, Cristal’s account of her life is pretty devastating.”

“Let me finish getting ready for bed, and I’ll take a look,” I said. When I had my pyjamas on, I sat beside Zack on the bed and opened the journal. The handwriting was precise, but so tiny I couldn’t read it without my glasses. I hooked Zack’s off his nose. “Can I borrow these?” I said.

“Be my guest,” Zack said. “But stay close. This is ugly reading.”

Writing in fragments, connecting her thoughts with dashes, Cristal had recorded a life of sadistic abuse with breathtaking immediacy. Nothing distanced the reader from her narrative. Every sentence was raw with pain. As I read, I could hear Cristal’s small, breathy voice, and I could feel her panic.

The journal opened with the phrase bad day. It was a fitting epigraph for what was to follow.

Bad day – told 3 I can’t deal with it any more. I’ll do the rest – even the ones who want me to pretend I’m their little girls, but no more hoods and no more gags – in the night my heart pounds – I’m dying because I can’t get out – choking to death – it happens – girls die. 3 says I have to trust him – our love is about absolute trust. He knows what’s best – letting a date gag me and tie a hood over my head shows 3 that I love him – knowing I’ll do whatever he wants is the way I prove my love. 3 says he never hurts my body – sometimes I think that would be easier – the worst is when he won’t speak to me or touch me – even when I’m on my hands and knees in front of him, begging him like a dog – and he ignores me until I agree to submit.

April 7 – This is hell – 3 says I have to tell N I can’t see him any more – that he disgusts me. N doesn’t disgust me – he makes me feel valuable. He gave me a book – Portrait of a Lady – he says I’m like Isabel. To become a lady, she had to learn to live with sadness and disappointment, and N says that’s what I have to do too. He says I’ve earned the right to be happy.

This afternoon I forgot to turn off the camera when N and I were talking. When 3 was reviewing the tapes he heard N tell me I have to get out. It’s never been this bad – he spit on me and then he walked out – anything’s better than this.

I looked up. My voice was shaking “Zack, I can’t read any more of this.”

“Just read April 13,” Zack said. “That explains why Ned was the client singled out for blackmail.”

I turned the pages of tiny handwriting. There were references to encounters with other men, but always the number three was there dominating, manipulating, wounding. Finally, I came to the notation.

April 13 – 3 made me write to N – tell him I’ll put the pictures of us on the Internet unless he pays me off. 3 says N has to learn that a whore is a whore is a whore is a whore.

April 14 – N is dead – shot himself – my fault, my fault, 3 says. He’s right. Could my 3 be 666? Evil – Evil.

I handed Zack the journal. “That day you took her the cheque, Cristal asked if you believed in evil. She was starting to see the truth, wasn’t she? She was beginning to realize 3 was a monster. Ned died because 3 had to show Cristal that she was nothing – just a whore who needed to be taught a lesson.”

Zack tented his fingers. “I guess the next question is who is 3? The current wisdom seems to be that it’s Jason Brodnitz.”

“I can’t believe that,” I said. “Ginny Monaghan was married to Jason. He was a husband and a father.”

“Sociopaths don’t have horns, Jo. I’ve defended some. They blend in. That’s how they get away with the things they do.”

“But if Jason is such a ruthless manipulator, why would Ginny shield him?”

Zack shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t want her daughters to know their father was a monster. Maybe she was safeguarding her reputation. Living with a sadist isn’t exactly evidence of sound judgment.”

“Zack, none of this makes sense. Cristal wasn’t a stupid woman. Why would she let herself be abused like that?”

“According to Blake, Cristal thought that’s what she deserved.”

“No wonder Blake was devastated.”

“Devastated and furious. I’ve never known Blake to lose control. He’s always been able to keep it together – even when Lily was putting him through all that shit. But tonight if Jason Brodnitz – or whoever 3 is – had walked through that door, Blake would have ripped him apart.”

“More misery,” I said. I took my husband’s hand. “I want us out of this,” I said. “It’s like that old story of the tar baby – every time we touch this Cristal Avilia mess, we get in deeper. Let’s walk away. Tomorrow morning call