with the Missing Persons unit of the Halifax police.
February 23, 1993. Fort Ord, California.
Dear Kit . . . Man, I’m not very good at this diary business. The padre said we should try it, to record one of the greatest experiences of our lives and maybe help us keep perspective if things get tough. But it feels dumb, so I’ve decided to write it as a letter to you, even though I can’t actually mail it. It feels good talking to you instead of just myself.
It’s been go-go-go since we got down here to do our combat training. Section attacks, platoon attacks, fighting in built-up areas. It freaked out some of the guys because they thought our mission was just going to be keeping the peace, but we’re training on all these guns and practising live-fire simulations. It’s kind of scary because you wonder what you got yourself in for, but, boy—does it ever get the adrenaline going. I’m getting pretty good with my C-7, and even the general purpose machine gun.
The great news is that Danny’s been made 2IC of my section because the Princess Pats regular master corporal got moved out to man one of the TOWs. These are really cool anti-tank missile systems that can take out a tank at almost 4000 metres, even in the dark. The CO says we we’re not supposed to have them, but we’re taking them anyway. The UN doesn’t really understand what’s happening on the ground, he said, and he wasn’t going to make Canadian Forces into sitting ducks. I’m glad he’ll be in charge when we go over.
It was ten o’clock that evening before Green’s thoughts returned to the case. His wife Sharon was working the evening shift at Rideau Psychiatric Hospital, so the challenge of feeding, bathing, and putting their rambunctious, two and a half year-old son to bed had fallen solely to him. Green spent nearly half an hour snuggled up in bed with him, reading the antics of Robert Munsch and Dr. Seuss, which had Tony bouncing all over the bed, a million miles from sleep. Green tried the warm milk and lullaby routine that Sharon used, but it still took his entire repertoire of lullabies and a back rub before the little boy finally crashed into sleep from pure exhaustion. Green brushed a kiss to his tousled head and slipped off the bed.
No sooner had Green tiptoed out of his room when the bedroom door opposite cracked open and an elfin face peered out. The pulse of rock music escaped the room.
“Shh-h!” Green whispered urgently.
“What’s for dinner?”
“And hello to you too.”
Hannah rolled her eyes. She was barely five feet tall and had a delicate, heart-shaped face that radiated innocence. That illusion had allowed her to get away with everything short of murder in the first sixteen years of her life, after which her mother, Green’s first wife, had thrown up her hands and shipped her across the country to live with her father. In the beginning, Green and Hannah had been complete strangers, but Hannah had been living with them for over nine months now, and at least now she occasionally spoke to him of her own free will. Even if it was only when she wanted something.
“I picked up cheese blintzes from the Bagelshop,” he added.
She sighed. “Figures.”
He’d learned the hard way to ignore the bait. The reality was, she had her father’s unerring instinct for hidden truths, and it had taken her no time to notice that, in his forty-plus years, he had learned very little about the workings of a kitchen. Deli take-outs had served him well in his ten years between wives, and at the end of a long day he rarely had the desire or energy for culinary creativity.
Feigning nonchalance, he headed downstairs. “They’re in a bag on the counter. How about heating them up while I walk the dog.”
Modo, their massive Humane Society refugee, was sprawled the length of the living room with her head by Sharon’s chair, snoring blissfully and showing no inclination for a walk. After repeated calling, she hauled herself up and lumbered over to the door.
Modo was Sharon’s dog, and like Tony, she only accepted Green’s clumsy care-giving when Sharon was not around. Even so, she left the house reluctantly and paused often to look anxiously back towards the house while they made their tour around the block. Green returned home feeling thoroughly inadequate. The fragrance of cheese blintzes and butter cheered him considerably. He found Hannah in the kitchen, chatting on her cellphone and brandishing a spatula over a frying pan.
“I suppose you want salad too,” she said.
“That would be nice.”
“Honestly, Mike,” she muttered, and returned her attention to her cellphone.
He walked up to her and planted a kiss on her blue, curly-topped head. Quickly, before she could duck away. A murmured thanks was as mushy as he dared.
He set the kitchen table for two, but once Hannah had spooned the food onto two plates, she picked up hers and headed into the living room to turn on the TV. Green opened his mouth to protest, but when the sounds of yet another Simpsons rerun filled the room, he gave up in defeat. She would only have sat opposite him in silence anyway, oozing resentment.
Instead he read the paper while he ate, then fed the dog and cleaned up the kitchen. Weariness began to steal into his bones. What was he coming to, when by ten in the evening he was ready to crawl into bed? He stuck his head into the living room.
“Want some tea?”
Hannah glanced at him, and he could see the ambivalence play across her face. Why was every single move between them like an elaborate dance, with him bumbling around to learn the steps?
She shrugged. “As long as you don’t make it too strong, like Sharon’s.”
Under Sharon’s exacting tutelage, Green had learned to make her version of a perfect cup of tea. He diluted it by half and carried two cups into the living room. The TV was on, but to his surprise Hannah was sitting on the floor surrounded by schoolwork. She didn’t move when he placed her cup at her side. She was actually on track to pass all her courses this semester, a feat she’d never accomplished in the years of living with her mother. He stood over her, wondering if it was safe to comment. Finally, she looked up at him and, to his amazement, flashed a mischievous smile.
“Thanks, Mike,” she said, then picked up her cup and book, and disappeared upstairs.
He sank onto the sofa, propped his feet on the coffee table, and closed his eyes, too tired to figure her out. Brian Sullivan’s advice rang in his ears. “If you love the kid, that’s going to show.” Sullivan was raising three teenagers and had been giving Green a crash course in raising his own these past few months.
God, he missed Sullivan. He could barely remember a time when the big Irish lunk hadn’t been right at his side, trading theories, sharing rants and dishing out his home-spun wisdom. Full of disillusionment and self-doubt, Sullivan had gone off to another department in search of that elusive promotion. Major Crimes was mostly newcomers now, none of whom remembered the old days on the streets. Or remembered Twiggy as anyone more than a fat old lady who stuck her cup in your face. And who was on a slow, deliberate march towards death.
He sat on the sofa, letting the chatter of the CBC National News wash over him. Campaign trail rhetoric, media overkill, yet another poll showing the Liberals trailing the Conservatives by a slim margin. Panic had not yet taken over the Liberal camp, but the mudslinging and cheap promises had ratcheted up a notch. Green tuned it out in disgust. He felt lonely, lost in recollections about Twiggy, and hoping Sharon would be home soon. But long before she arrived, he was fast asleep.
FIVE
With three murders on the go, an inexperienced staff sergeant in Major Crimes, and a superintendent snapping at his heels, Green was anxious to get an early start the next morning. He left Sharon to contend with the household and picked up a bagel and coffee from Vince’s Bagelshop on