The Taken

“Thanks for coming in,” she said. “Have a seat. There’s something I want to show you.”

He sat in the chair opposite her, looking around the office. Another phantasm of the past settled on them both, him in that chair, having brought her lunch. The comfortable silence of ritual. Would there come a time when she wouldn’t be stumbling into these hollows, shaped like her, that belonged to another time?

She opened the wax paper that wrapped the sandwich and passed him a small sheaf of papers. “I’m wondering if you can look at this for me. We think it’s written in a kind of code you might be familiar with.”

“Really.”

“It’s the fourth and fifth chapters of the short story in the Record. We’re not sure it’s still the same writer, and we think he might be leading us to something. Only we’re not sure what and we’re not sure where he’s telling us to look.”

His eyebrows went up. “Interesting.” He accepted the papers as she took her first bite of the thick, fatty sandwich. It was gorgeous. She let him read the papers in silence. When he’d finished them, he went back to the first page and read them through again. By the time she was done her sandwich, he’d finished as well. “Pretty sick stuff.”

“It’s not the plot that’s got us confused. It’s the sense that there’s something buried in it. Did you notice how many times he used the word damage?”

“I did.”

“So?”

“Well, he is better than the first writer -”

“So you agree it’s not the same person.”

“Absolutely.”

For some reason, his confirmation of what they believed weighed on her. “That’s what we thought, too.”

“The guy who wrote the first two chapters is incapable of something like…” He shuffled the pages. “‘Her bright, brown eyes came through the dark of her sockets like headlights coming out of a tunnel.’ That’s almost good.”

“Fine. So someone’s taken over the story.”

“That doesn’t bode too well for the first writer.”

“No. It doesn’t,” she said, and she decided not to say anything else. “Go back to ‘damage.’ Does it point to anything for you?”

Andrew looked down at the pages in his lap. “Well, there’s some pretty graphic ‘damage’ in the story, don’t you think? Maybe the writer’s just pointing you to its importance. Telling you it’s meaningful.”

“And nothing else? I’m of the mind that these two chapters are telling us what to do. The Wise character talks to this dead woman. Tries to destroy her again by burning something he’s written. This story. Then he finds himself trapped. I shouldn’t tell you this, but the man who wrote the first two chapters of this story seems to be missing. This isn’t a yarn anymore.”

He flipped through the story again. On the last page, he began to nod.

“What is it?”

“You might be on to something.” He got up and came behind the desk. “Look at these three lines at the end.” “Someone’s speaking to him.”

“No. Someone’s speaking to you.” He reached for a pen. “A good cryptic clue gives you a definition, an action, and something to perform the action on. Listen again…” He read the lines:

A voice said, “You’re inside it now, aren’t you, Wise?”

Nick looked around. “Who… me?”

“Draw closer.”

“Repunctuate that first line – You’re inside it now. Aren’t you wise? Maybe that’s a challenge. ‘Aren’t you wise?’”

“Wise to what?”

“The first part is the action.” He nodded at the paper. “This is actually kind of smart. You’re inside it – that’s a container clue. It means that what you’re looking for here is hidden inside other words. The next two lines are ‘Who… me?’ and ‘Draw closer.’ Do you see it now?”

“Andrew, I don’t! That’s why you’re here.”

“What does ‘draw closer’ mean?”

“Um, to approach… to look into…”

“To home in on?”

“Okay.”

“The container is ‘Who… me?’ The word is home. It’s inside in the line. Wise ends up in a box, something he’s inside, but the writer wants you to draw closer. To what?”

She became very still and touched the lines on the page as if they were embossed there and she could feel their contours. “Home. He wants us to go to the house.”

“ Cherry Tree Lane.”

She pressed the intercom. “Melanie, get me Wingate.”

Her Detective Constable was in the office within seconds. Andrew showed him what he’d found. “Are you sure that’s what it means?”

“Once it’s unravelled, it doesn’t seem at all accidental,” said Andrew.

Hazel pointed to the words Cherry Tree Lane in the story. “Where is this?” she asked.

“Umm… There’s a Cherry Street, but I’ve never heard of a Cherry Tree Lane. At least not downtown.” He thought for a second. “Yeah, I don’t know what street he’s referring to. Maybe something out of downtown.”

“But he describes a drive to the city centre, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

She looked at her watch. “It’s too late to go now.” She looked up at him. “I need you to start on something else, James.” “You don’t want me downtown?”

“No. I want you to get some legal advice for me concerning a company that operates on the internet.”

He squinted at her, a bit confused, but he could wait for the details.

She continued, now talking to Andrew. “Anyway, I think I need someone who knows downtown and cryptic crosswords about equally.” He was looking at her suspiciously. “What? Were you planning on having a quiet Saturday?”

“No. But I wasn’t planning on being seconded by my ex either.”

“Would a decent sushi lunch make it worth your while?”

“Define ‘decent,’” he said.

“Set your alarm for eight.”

20

Saturday, May 28

It was a drive like any they’d taken to visit one or the other daughter at school in Toronto, drives to campuses, the back seat loaded with Chelsea buns from the bakery, a box of Tide, a crate of apples, perhaps a couple new shirts or a case of local beer, and a suitcase packed for one night. Often these trips down to the city were precipitated by some crisis, usually minor, in one of the girls’ lives, and yes, if Hazel were honest with herself, it was usually Martha who spurred them to action. So often these drives were punctuated by feelings of anxiety and anticipation: what untoward shock had the girl prepared for them this time? And they’d arrive at her downtown sorority and try to ignore the accusing or worried looks of the sisters as they went up the stairs to Martha’s room to see what needed putting back together again.

They drove out of town and stopped at Tim’s, him ordering her what she’d always order: a large double-