Lost Girls

their head to hear the far-off drums of thunder over the bay.

On the corner at the end of the block the neighborhood's makeup changes with the appearance of a tallspired but narrow church. Our Lady of Perpetual Help. It must have been more or less where those junipers are now next to the front doors that old Dundurn buried himself in a snowdrift years back. What had Pittle said? Funny his choosing to impersonate an ice cube outside of a Catholic church, being a die-hard Presbyterian all his life. And he was right. It was kind of funny.

Next door a church-run thrift shop called Petticoat Lane selling donated toys, blankets, romance novels, and winter coats. Through the window I can see a couple of mothers inside with strollers parked before them, digging through the piles of kids' Tshirts and sweaters spread out over the tables. Then I think: long underwear. Now that I'm here, I might as well grab some thermals to put an end to my courtroom hypothermia once and for all.

So I'm pushing through the door and heading for the back, where a small sign marked MEN hangs from the blade of a broken ceiling fan. They've got everything in here, especially if you've got a thing for pink cotton track pants. Or baby-blue socks. Or Tshirts with airbrush paintings of kittens, fields of wildflowers, wolves howling under a full orange moon.

But they also have men's white cotton underwear collected in huge cardboard boxes at the back. And this is where I am, bent over the one stuffed with all the long johns, looking for pairs my size with the fewest visible stains. They smell clean enough, though (they have to wash all this stuff before they sell it, right?) and you can't beat the price: a quarter each or six for a dollar. I've got two pairs in hand and I'm digging deeper when I hear someone come in the front door behind me. A familiar voice, leaden and drowsy.

Without pulling my head fully out of the box I look back. A man emptying the first of two garbage bags out over the front checkout counter. Girls' clothes. Spreading them out for the woman in charge of receiving donations, each T-shirt carefully folded, each pair of jeans flat and stiff as though pressed before being brought in.

''They're not doing me any good,'' the man says, and tries to smile at the woman behind the counter. ''Maybe there's someone else who can make some use out of them.''

Brian Flynn handing over Ashley's things, all the stripes and florals and brights collected in the drawers of her well-ordered room. Watch him stroke his hand over each offering as though something in the touch of the material brought a particular recollection back to him.

I can't stay bent over the underwear forever. And seeing as there's apparently no back door, there's nothing else for it but a walk straight down the narrow aisle to the front. It's just going to be a little awkward, that's all. Moments such as these pop up now and then, and probably less for me than others. Less than for all those people with ex-wives and ex-husbands, discarded friends and one-night stands, who wait for them around every corner. The trick is to make such moments as brief as possible.

So I'm shaking my arms so that my overcoat falls square over my shoulders, weaving through the heaps of hand-me-downs. Flynn doesn't turn at the sound of my step, continues to pass his hand over each of his donations before finally placing them into the arms of the woman behind the counter, who wears a look of barely veiled distress.

I'm almost past him now and it's clear that I'm going to make it out without a word. But then I'm doing precisely what I need not do. Pausing to the side of Flynn's back beside the second garbage bag he has leaned up against the counter. Opening my mouth and saying hello, waiting for the ripple of recognition to pass over his face. Then I'm saying hello again.

''Here for the bargains?'' Flynn replies once he's returned his eyes to his hands.

''Just looking around.''

''Well, you won't find much in the way of business suits in here.''

The woman watches us from her place three feet away, her face now frozen in appalled discomfort.

''I just wanted to say again that I'm sorry, Brian. About everything.'' I nod at Ashley's folded Tshirts.

''You are? Well, that's awfully nice. Thank you so much.''

''I don't blame you for feeling how you must feel.''

''You know something? I don't believe someone like you could possibly feel anything for anyone. You're missing that part of your brain or whatever it is that makes you give a shit.''

''Just for the record, I meant what I said.''

I lower my head and start for the door. But before I can get by him Flynn's arm shoots out to block my way.

''Why'd you do that to McConnell? You tore that man apart.''

''I was trying to make a point. A legal point.''

''That he might have done it.''

''Well, with all due respect, he might have.''

''Why not me, then? Right from the very beginning I'm so sure she's never coming home, I don't even bother to go on TV with him or offer a reward. You've got to wonder. And, hey, look at me now. Getting rid of all her things. Maybe it's evidence. When you think of it, Mr. Crane, I could do you as much good as McConnell. So why not pick on me?''

''Because it wasn't you sitting in the stand.''

''That's it?''

Try to keep looking at him but it's impossible, my eyes suddenly burning and dry as though held open to a driving wind.

''You'd better get back to your work,'' Flynn says finally, pulling his arm back. I try to think of something else to say, just a couple of perfect words that must be out there somewhere, but they don't come for me.

Then I'm sliding around behind Flynn's back and stepping out onto the sidewalk outside. The drumroll of thunder again, sounding closer.

A numbness over the skin beneath my clothes, an itch from the inside out. For although I know I ditched the long underwear I'd found back in the cardboard box they came from, there's still the kind of shameful thrill that comes with all minor, unnoticed thefts.

Been a while, Mr. Crane,'' the leprechaun guard behind the desk says to me as soon as I walk in the door. ''A good while, indeed.''

''Nice of you to say. I've missed you too, Mr. . . . ?''

''Flaherty.''

''A pleasure to see you again, Flaherty.''

''Wish I could say the same.''

''I assume I'll be put in the same place as usual. You know, the room with the one-way window that allows bored public servants to enjoy the entertainment of confidential conversations? I'll expect Mr. Tripp to be brought to me there shortly.''

At this Flaherty rolls his eyes but says nothing. Instead he leads me down the hall and opens the door to Interview Room No. 1 before clipping away to bring me my man.

In the few minutes I'm left on my own I wonder what condition my client will be in this time around. Because I want something from him today: a reasonably conscious, semicoherent client capable of giving me a straight answer. But judging from the look on Tripp's face as he's brought in, it may be too much to ask.

''Good morning, Thom. How're you holding up in there, old boy?'' I start, not expecting an answer, though he surprises me by offering one.

''Not so good.''

''No?''

''They don't keep them out.''

''Who? Keep what out?''

''The walls,'' he says. ''Not even the walls in here keep the voices out.''

He shakes his head as though he hadn't really expected they would. For a time we sit staring blankly at each other, then each of us takes a turn glancing at the bare wall as though taking in the view through a window there.

''Well, I should tell you I've got some good news and some bad news,'' I force myself on. Tripp's face suggests no preference to hear one or the other first, so I choose for him.

''The good news is that I visited the Murdoch District Medical Clinic and spoke to a Dr. MacDougall who