Джордан Шор - The Search

“It burned to the ground? The house too?”

The woman nodded. “It took a long time for the firefighters to get there.”

“Julie left her jacket in the house,” Jack said. “She wanted to go back for it, but I assured her she’d get the jacket back once we contacted the police.”

“It’s just a jacket.” The woman shrugged.

“That’s what I said, but she was really upset,” Jack said. “It must have had some sentimental value to her.”

“Either way, it’s just a jacket.”

“I agree. I don’t understand why she was so upset,” Jack said. “Besides, the jacket was pretty much ruined anyway.”

Jack exhaled deeply, then he shook his head, and his face turned sad.

“Julie wasn’t the same person after we left the house. She was so different all of a sudden.”

“People react differently to…” The woman seemed to be lost for words, and she looked uncomfortable. “When people’s integrity is violated, they usually have a strong reaction.”

Jack bowed his head, but then he raised it.

“Are you certain the main house went up in flames?” he asked.

“I was told the entire estate burned to the ground.”

“And you’re sure we’re talking about the same farm?”

The woman’s expression suddenly shifted from compassionate to alarmed. Then, she turned the monitor back her way and focused on the screen.

“He said the place was called Layfair,” Jack said. “Does it sound familiar?”

The woman pouted her lower lip and shook her head.

“Perhaps it’s a landmark, or the name of a road? Julie asked him where we were, and he said something in French that sounded a lot like Layfair ,” Jack pronounced the last word in a distorted French accent.

“ L’enfer .” She pronounced the word in a perfect French accent.

“That’s it,” Jack said and smiled.

“That’s not a real place. At least not, as far as I know.” The woman turned her eyes back to the screen. “That’s the French word for Hell.” The woman clicked hard on the mouse, and then turned the monitor around. “Is this the man who attacked you?”

On the screen was a picture of a bald man with a thick beard, his face plastered with hostility. It was obvious the man didn’t appreciate being photographed.

“Yes, that’s him.” Jack nodded. “I see you met him before. I mean, the police, that is.”

“We’re familiar with all three of them. They’re always causing problems, one way or another,” the female police officer said. “I remember standing in line behind him at the pastry shop not long ago. I remember it clearly, because I noticed he bought four bear claws that day.”

The female police officer clicked the mouse once, and then looked at the computer screen, a look of regret on her face.

“I think I know what you mean,” Jack said hesitantly. “Who gets the fourth bear claw, am I right?”

“ Exact-lee ,” the female police officer said, and her French accent became quite apparent.

“He could have bought an extra for himself to eat on his way home.”

“That’s what I convinced myself.”

The female police officer turned her eyes back on the screen, and once again, she had a look of regret on her face.

“But I knew he was up to no good. I knew it.”

Jack tilted his body forward and glanced at the monitor and at the large headline across the screen.

“You can’t arrest a person for buying too much pastry, Sophia.”

They then agreed to meet first thing in the morning. Sophia gave Jack a bag of clothes, and claimed they were the largest size she could find on such short notice. On the way to the hotel, she bought him a package of cigarettes.

Monday evening

The house was located on the outskirts of Calgary. George could see the city lights on the horizon. The taxi driver appeared to be true to his word, as he’d parked the car by the curb and was now reading a newspaper. George noticed the cars passing by on the freeway, and he started to plan for a fast getaway in case things turned for the worse. The advice from his boss must have gotten to him. George felt nervous as he rang the doorbell for the third time, and as previously, he waited patiently for a response. He resisted the temptation to check his cell phone yet again to ensure the time was right. As instructed, he’d arrived precisely at 6 p.m. at the home of the co-pilot, Isaac Gregorian’s parents.

“Go away!” A female voice called out from inside the house.

George startled at the sudden noise and immediately checked the number on the house, to once again assure himself he was at the right address—in this case a rundown wooden house next to a freeway.

“Is this the Gregorian residence?”

After a short pause, a female voice yelled, “What’s it to you!”

“Is your name Magdalene Gregorian? My name is George Stanton. I believe we spoke on the phone.”

“You’re not him.”

The woman’s statement had rendered George speechless, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I can assure you I most definitely am … him.”

“Do you have any credentials?”

Credentials, that’s a good idea , he thought, and wondered why he didn’t think of it in the first place. He took out his driver’s license, held it up next to his face, and made sure not to smile. He could see a shadow moving behind the window curtain next to the front door.

“Slip it under the door.”

George then realized the front door to the house was actually an interior door, the kind of door the lock could easily be opened with a screwdriver—or if one didn’t have anything that resembled a screwdriver, one could just as easily kick the door in. The door framing had sloppy workmanship written all over it, and it was obvious the door hadn’t been installed by a professional. As George slipped his driver’s license under the door, he wondered if he ever was to see his license again.

To George’s relief, the door opened, and a woman appeared. Magdalene Gregorian was a short woman, no more than five feet tall. Her hair was also short, no more than an inch, and the little hair she had was mostly gray. She was obviously a heavy woman, and she wore a gown that resembled a sheet rather than a dress. George assumed the woman was in her sixties even though she moved like an octogenarian.

“You don’t look like a George,” Magdalene said and handed his driver’s license back to him.

“Yes, I get that a lot.”

“We’re not use to foreigners around here.” She gave him a humble look.

George was unfamiliar with the demographics of Calgary, but he assumed the city had an Asian community, and therefore, he felt a bit puzzled by her remark. But then it occurred to him that Magdalene didn’t appear to be a woman who left the house much, and probably had little, or no knowledge of the ethnicity of Calgary. He was just about to correct her on the subject, when he suddenly realized she was right all along.

I am a foreigner.

“It’s my first time visiting Canada.”

“Well, your English is very good, I must say,” Magdalene said, and then looked him up and down.

George swallowed a couple of sentences. “Thanks.”

As he entered the house, the first thing he noticed was the picture on the wall. Then he began contemplating why he was single. George had a bad habit of focusing on his physical dislikes in regard to the men he dated. At first, he thought they were attractive, but then he always managed to focus on some minor flaw in their physical appearance. However, he found absolutely nothing appealing about the man in the picture. George thought the man looked truly horrendous.