“So you mean I don’t get to see you until they catch the guy and there’s a trial and he’s in prison? That’s years. Is that what you’re saying?”
“We’ll see each other when it’s safe. When we can relax and have a good time together. Which we can’t do now, obviously. It won’t be forever.”
A kind of nausea swirled in Sam’s chest. The word heartsick drifted into her mind. This is what they mean by heartsick. She started to cry.
Randall reached into the glove compartment and handed her a small package of Kleenex. “Come on, now. Take it easy. There’s nothing to cry about. They’ll catch the guy and it’ll all be over and things’ll be fine. You’ll see.” He kissed the top of her head through her hood. “And then I’ll get to kiss you all over your beautiful body again. Because I love you, Sam. Call me crazy, but I honestly, honestly love you. Listen, did you replace your cellphone yet?”
“I’m borrowing my mother’s on the nights I go to work. She likes to check up on me before she goes to bed.”
“Give me the number. I’ll try to find a way to call you-not from home, obviously, and not tonight. But I’ll call. I promise.”
–
The bus made a million stops, ensuring Sam was late getting to Champlain’s. Ken, the manager, gave her hell, as did Jerry, the chef, but she didn’t let it bother her for too long. She felt so much better after seeing Randall. Her fears seemed to be shrinking down to some manageable size. She focused on her work and turned the dishes out efficiently without sacrificing presentation. When there was an unexpected slack period, she cooked up a couple of days’ worth of the cranberry glaze she knew they’d be serving with practically everything now that the Christmas holidays were approaching.
She didn’t let it get to her when Ali brought back a steak saying it was overcooked.
“It’s not overcooked,” she said. “You asked for medium, that’s medium.”
“You want to go out there and argue with them?”
Sam put another steak on the grill. She kept a close eye on it, but all she could think about was that Randall still cared about her-cared so much, he was worried she didn’t love him. When Ali came back, the new steak was on the plate, practically bleeding.
“It’s medium?”
“The last one was medium. Tell Geoff to pick up his sole almondine-it’s been sitting here for five minutes.”
At ten o’clock, her mother called. “Can’t you get a ride home? I don’t like you having to take the bus late at night.”
“It’s okay. I have the timing down, so I don’t have to wait long.”
“What exactly is wrong with your car, anyway?”
“It’s got asthma or something. It won’t start. I gotta go, Mom, it’s really busy.”
“Okay, hon. Good night, then.”
Jerry Wing came over, wearing his parka. “I need you to make the cranberry glaze.”
“It’s done.” Sam pointed at the two bowls on her chopping board. “I’ll put them in the fridge before I go.”
“You already made them?” Jerry put his hood up, even though it must’ve been eighty-five degrees in the kitchen, Chinese eyes blinking out at her from the fur.
“Think you’ll be warm enough?” she said. “You’re dressed for Inuvik.”
“I evolved for a different climate.” He raised a mitten in farewell. Sam was glad he wasn’t mad at her anymore. Relieved, anyway.
The trouble with having a passionate nature, she reflected as she was shutting down her station, is that you can’t win either way. Even when you’re happy, it’s more like a kind of relief-relief that you’re not feeling the alternative. The sting of Jerry’s anger. The agony that would take over her life if Randall dumped her. It’s the happiness of not falling off a cliff. Is Loreena Moon happy? No. Because Loreena Moon doesn’t love anybody. Loreena doesn’t worry about falling off any cliffs either.
Sam looked at the kitchen clock. Eleven-fifteen. She had exactly three minutes to make the bus. She ducked into the supply closet and changed out of her cook’s outfit, threw on her coat, and ran out the door and across the parking lot, reaching the bus stop with less than a minute to spare. It was not as cold as before. The earlier snow had melted, leaving the parking lot and the highway gleaming blackly in the street lights.
The bus was overheated. Sam sat near the middle exit, sweating after the kitchen and her run. She wiped an arc of clarity on the fogged windowpane and rested her head against the cool glass. The fast-food joints and the shopping malls slid by, impossibly bright oases along the slick, dark road. There were only three other passengers and they got off one by one along the route through town, long before the bus passed the Fur Harvesters’ warehouse and approached the Nipissing reserve.
She got out at the turnoff. The intersection was brightly lit, but after that the street lights along the access road were spaced far apart until you actually got into the residential area. Sam had never in her life worried about walking along this road, even late at night, but she worried now.
She walked quickly, trying to put herself into a Loreena frame of mind. Cool. Brave. Not brave-fearless. She was managing quite well, keeping her breathing fairly normal and her heart reasonably quiet, until she went up a slight rise and rounded a curve and saw the car parked on the shoulder.
She stopped. Smells of trees and wet road. Sounds of trucks on the highway not far off.
It’s just a car, she said. The lights aren’t on. The motor isn’t running. There’s no one in it. Those are headrests.
Sam crossed the road to be on the far side from it. Courage would be a nice item to list in one’s catalogue of virtues, but if it was not available she would just have to make do with caution. She continued up the road, the lights of her street visible at the top of the rise.
She was nearly even with the car. Glancing toward it. Yes, empty. She made a pact with herself that she would not look over again as she passed by. She would keep it in her peripheral vision, but she would not actually look.
It wasn’t a vow she had to keep long. The driver’s-side door opened and a man got out-a really tall man. He had to have been hunched down for her not to see him. His face was covered in a black woollen thing with holes for mouth and eyes.
“Come here.” There was something long and metal dangling from his hand.
Sam ran.
His steps were right behind her, his stride matching hers. “You didn’t see anything,” he said. “You didn’t see anything. You don’t know anything.”
Something nicked the back of Sam’s coat. She kept running, forcing her legs to move faster. She thought about making a dash for the trees-he might have more trouble keeping up there-but she stayed right in the middle of the road, praying for headlights, a car, people.
He wasn’t behind her anymore. She heard the car start, and his headlights threw her shadow the length of the road to the top of the rise. Then her shadow began to shrink. She feinted left, ran right, the darkness of the trees.
She wasn’t going to make it. He was going to run her down. She stopped and dodged left, the car cutting her off. He was out and after her again.
Legs, lungs, heart, all straining at their physical limits. She simply could not run any faster. Her street came up and she made as if to go by it, then took a sudden right. Her house was the third on the right. She ran past it to the fourth, the fifth, dodged right again, and then she was in Cal Couchie’s backyard. Sweet old guy, but about two hundred years old and stone deaf.
Sam ran back to her own backyard. Her keys were in her hand. She couldn’t hear the man behind her anymore. She could stay in the darkness of the backyard and scream for help, but that might just bring him right to her. She pulled out her mother’s cellphone and hit 911. It rang three times before someone picked up.
“Emergency services, location please.”
“1712 Commanda Crescent. A man is after me.”
“Can you speak up? I didn’t hear you.”
