Gail Bowen - The Nesting Dolls

“How do you do that?”

“By sitting him down and making him listen while one of our students or admin assistants reads the victim impact statements until Jeremy learns to react appropriately.”

“With contrition and remorse.”

“And without disintegrating.”

“Granted everything I know about the case comes from the media,” I said, “but the consensus seems to be that Jeremy Sawchuk is responsible for the death of another eighteen-year-old boy. Maybe a little suffering is in order.”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “Lucky for me you’re not the judge. You’re the gentlest person I know – if you think Jeremy should get the thumbscrews for what he did, I’m in more trouble than I realized. All I have is the fact that the boy Jeremy killed was his best friend and that he’s suffering.”

“I guess the counter-argument would be that at least Jeremy is alive to suffer,” I said.

“And I’ve got nothing to throw at that one,” Zack said. “All I can do is hope that the judge handing down the sentence sees the whole picture. Jeremy has had a rough life but he’s done his best to stay afloat. He attends school regularly, maintains a B-minus average – which for a kid like Jeremy is the equivalent of being in Phi Beta Kappa. He’s worked his entire life to keep himself fed and clothed because his parents’ interests run more to drugs than child care. Before the night of the accident, Jeremy had never been involved in anything that could be construed as risky behaviour. He made a mistake. My job is to see that one mistake doesn’t ruin the rest of his life.”

“Are you going to use that line from your speech at the wheelchair athletes’ barbecue last fall?”

Zack moved his chair in front of the mirror and began knotting his tie. “There were a lot of lines in that speech – too many if I remember correctly. I cut it short when I noticed my audience’s attention had drifted from me to the unopened cases of Molson’s.”

“The line I’m thinking of came before the attention drifted. It was something about all of us having to live larger than the pain that’s been done to us or the pain that we’ve caused others.”

Zack tightened the knot on his tie and caught my eye in the mirror. “Do you think that would work?”

“I think it’s worth a shot,” I said. “I also think it’s true.”

Usually, Taylor, Gracie, and Isobel met at the bus stop and travelled to school together, but when I called Blake Falconer and the Wainbergs, we agreed that this might not be the morning to rely on public transit. Taylor and I set out in the car, grateful that the wind had finally stopped howling. Shrouded in fresh snow, the city had the silence that comes after a winter storm. Our house was close to Albert Street, one of the city’s main arteries, but the Falconers lived several blocks in, and Gracie, with the athlete’s passion for challenge, had volunteered to hike down to Albert Street to meet us. While we waited, Taylor filled me in on the salient events of her life that morning. Declan had texted twice and phoned once. He’d had a great time last night and he’d invited Taylor to a party New Year’s Eve. She’d also had a call from the Animal Friends Group she belonged to, asking if Taylor could feed the colonies of feral cats in the warehouse district and behind Scarth Street Mall, because the flu had knocked out the scheduled volunteers.

We’d just agreed that I’d buy some bags of cat food and pick her up after school when Gracie arrived, pink-cheeked and breathless. She jumped in, I pulled back into traffic, and my BlackBerry rang. Taylor answered. “It’s Isobel’s mum. She’d like to talk to you. She says it’s important.”

“Tell her I’m driving, but I’ll run in when we stop by her house to pick up Isobel.”

Taylor relayed the message and Isobel was waiting when we arrived. She and I waved at one another as we passed on the front walk. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I just have to talk to your mum for a minute.”

Delia had been watching from the window, and she met me at the door and motioned me inside. She was on edge, but Delia was always on edge.

“I know you haven’t got much time, but you and Zack need to know the latest. The police have traced the licence plate of the car Abby Michaels was driving. The licence was issued to Hugh Fraser Michaels of Port Hope, Ontario. Mr. Michaels is deceased. The police have also discovered that Abby has been staying in a suite she rented at the Chelton Inn. She checked in last Tuesday. She and the baby seemed to have a routine. She took him out in the stroller in the morning and then, in mid-afternoon, she took him out in the baby carrier.”

“And stayed at UpSlideDown till closing time,” I said.

Delia nodded. “Abby and the baby always returned around six, but Saturday night they didn’t come back.”

“And there’s no indication where Abby is?”

Delia half-turned from me. “None. According to Inspector Haczkewicz, the bed in the suite hadn’t been slept in, and the bathroom was pristine.”

“So, Abby left town?”

Delia slumped. “If she did, she travelled light. Her toiletry bag was in the bathroom, and her clothes were in the closet.”

My stomach clenched. “What about the baby’s things?”

“There was nothing to indicate that a baby had ever been in the room.”

Noah came downstairs carrying Jacob wrapped in a thick white bath towel. “Dee, there’s a phone call for you. It’s a client, and he says it’s important.”

Delia was already moving down the hall. “I’ll talk to you later, Joanne. Thanks for coming in.”

I smiled at Noah and the baby. “The kids are waiting in the car,” I said. “But I have to say hi to Jacob. Can you bring him over here? My boots are wet.”

Noah came close enough for me to smell the sweet smell of a baby just out of the bath. He pushed the towel back, so I could see Jacob’s face. The little boy’s hair curled wetly – the way Isobel’s did after she’d been swimming at the lake. As he took my measure, Jacob’s dark eyes were solemn. “Do you ever smile?” I whispered, and he rewarded me with a gummy grin. “Now that was worth tromping through the snow for,” I said.

Noah capped the baby’s head with his palm as if to protect him. “I guess Dee told you about the room at the Chelton.”

“She did.”

“Do you think Abby Michaels is dead?”

“I hope not,” I said.

Noah’s face was troubled. “You want to hear something lousy?” he asked. “I don’t know what I hope.”

When I opened the car door, the girls were laughing and whispering, deeply engaged in exchanging the secrets of girl-land. I snapped on my seat belt. “With luck, we’ll make it, just before the bell,” I said. My announcement was greeted with a trio of groans.

“Look at that,” Isobel said.

I did a shoulder check. “I don’t see anything,” I said.

Isobel leaned forward, tapped my shoulder, and pointed. “Not on the road. At my house,” she said. I glanced towards the Wainbergs. Delia had joined her husband. She was holding Jacob, and Noah’s powerful arm encircled them, drawing them close. Framed in the rectangle of light from the living room, they were a Norman Rockwell image of family.

After the last day of lectures, a university is a silent place. The students who come to campus are there to write exams or study for them. Most faculty members take advantage of their open calendars to work at home. Corridors and classrooms and coffee shops are virtually empty. It’s my favourite time in the semester.

I walked into the political science office at the university and found Sheila Acoose-Gould, our administrative assistant, at her desk reading an old issue of Maclean’s . Twinkling silently behind her was a musical Christmas tree that had played twelve seasonal tunes until, by one of our few unanimous decisions, our department voted to rip out its musical heart.