Gail Bowen - The Endless Knot

“Zack, I’m sorry to drag you out of your meeting,” I said.

The man on the other end of the line cut me off. “Is this Joanne Kilbourn?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Douglas Thorpe. I’m calling about my son.”

When I didn’t respond immediately, Douglas Thorpe felt the need to explain. “My son is Ethan Thorpe. He’s a friend of your daughter Taylor.” He enunciated each syllable with exaggerated slowness and clarity. A phrase my grandmother used in her old age flashed through my mind. “He spoke to me as if he were attempting to teach a cow to talk.”

“Ethan’s at school in Winnipeg,” I said.

“But he’s not at school. That’s why I’m calling.” Frustrated, Douglas Thorpe’s enunciation became even more precise. “Ms. Kilbourn, the headmaster of Ethan’s school just phoned me. My son is missing. The headmaster talked to Ethan’s roommate. The boy found your daughter’s name and telephone number in Ethan’s desk. That’s how I was able to call you. The roommate says Ethan wanted to be with your daughter on her birthday. Today is Chloe’s birthday, isn’t it?”

“My daughter’s name is Taylor,” I said, but my knees had begun to tremble.

“Then the roommate must have been in error,” Douglas Thorpe said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Don’t hang up,” I said. “Mr. Thorpe, Ethan drew comics. There was a character named Chloe in them. She was modelled on Taylor. Today is Taylor’s birthday. She’s only eleven. She’s too young for this.”

“I agree,” he said. “Nonetheless, the headmaster believes Ethan is on his way to Regina. There are buses he could have taken or he might have hitchhiked. But the headmaster is certain he was heading for your house.”

The kaleidoscope had shifted. The new images were unsettling, but not terrifying. A boy, intoxicated by the heady cocktail of hormones and loneliness, had run away from his school to see a girl who had been kind to him. As a mother of four, I was only too familiar with the wild excesses of adolescent emotion and behaviour, and I cobbled together a sequence of events that seemed plausible.

Ethan had arrived when Willie and I were off on our run. He had rung the doorbell and Taylor, half awake, clutching the joy of a day when possibilities rose like pink balloons, ran downstairs expecting a surprise. When she opened the front door, Ethan was there. She would have been taken aback, but it was her birthday. Ethan, a romantic who had somehow navigated the 550 kilometres between Winnipeg and Regina, was standing there with a gift – probably a new comic featuring the adventures of Chloe. He had suggested a walk along the creek, and that’s where they were – walking.

But the fabric of this bright scenario unravelled as quickly as I wove. Taylor was frightened of Ethan’s intensity. She would never have gone off alone with him.

On the other end of the line, Douglas Thorpe had raised the volume. Apparently, he thought I’d stopped listening. “Ms. Kilbourn, I asked if I could speak to your daughter.”

“She’s not here,” I said. “Mr. Thorpe, the truth is I don’t know where she is. I took our dog for a walk, and when I came back, Taylor was gone.”

“Ms. Kilbourn, you should make every effort to find your daughter.”

His sense of urgency was contagious. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” I said.

“If Ethan arrives there, call me immediately.” Douglas Thorpe gave me his number, and I thought our business with each other was finished. I was wrong. “One other thing,” he said. “Don’t leave Ethan alone with your daughter.”

My heart was pounding. “Mr. Thorpe, why did you and your new wife send Ethan out here to live with his mother?”

“My wife has other children,” Douglas Thorpe said.

“And so you just shipped Ethan out here because he was in the way?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” he said, and his tone was grudging.

“Complicated how?”

“My wife didn’t want Ethan around her children.”

I didn’t want to hear what came next, but Douglas Thorpe had decided to share. “Ethan has problems.”

“Sexual problems?”

“No. Problems with his temper. He loses control.”

“So you made sure your wife’s children were safe and let Ethan roam around.”

“Ethan’s difficulties are a great concern for my wife and me,” he said primly.

The call-waiting notification beeped on my telephone. I was certain it was Zack, but I had to press ahead with Douglas Thorpe. “Call the police,” I said in a voice that shocked me by its chilly authority. “Tell them what you just told me. Tell them to find Taylor and your son.”

“I don’t believe there’s any reason to involve the authorities at this point,” he said. “Just find the children and call me.”

“And exactly what will you do?”

“Make certain my son gets back to school. They’ll be watching him closely now.”

“Because he might harm somebody.”

“I think we have to face that possibility. That’s why I called. Whatever you may think, I’m a responsible parent.”

“Mr. Thorpe, for the record, I don’t consider you a rational parent. I think you’re a scumbag, and I’m not going to waste any more time talking to you. I’m going to get help.”

I hung up and tried Zack’s cell. He picked up on the first ring.

After the windy self-justifications of Douglas Thorpe, Zack was a relief. He heard me out and moved into gear. “I’ll call the police and give them Taylor’s description. Do you have any idea what she was wearing?”

“No – her pyjamas, probably her ski-jacket. It’s green.”

“You said you saw her what – less than three hours ago? Ethan and Taylor are kids without a car. They can’t have got too far.”

“If anything’s happened to her …”

“Taylor’s fine,” Zack said flatly. “And so are you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I went back to Taylor’s room and began hunting for something – anything – that would tell me where my daughter was. I had never once searched my children’s rooms. When other parents talked about rummaging through drawers, reading diaries, unearthing secrets, I was appalled, but that morning I was a madwoman. When I was through I was sick at heart. My daughter’s secret life was touchingly innocent – a beginner’s bra hidden in her sock drawer, a boy’s name written many times in many colours on a page of her journal, a paperback copy of a steamy chick-lit novel with several pages dog-eared. Blameless.

There was one last place to check. The box that Ethan had delivered the morning he left was still on the top shelf in my bedroom closet. I returned to my room, took the box from my cupboard, picked up the scissors from my desk, and slit the mailing tape. A stench – sweet and animal – assailed me. Ethan’s newest comic was wrapped in heavy clear plastic. I lifted it out of the box and then I began to retch. At the bottom of the box on a piece of velvet was the pentangle. It was covered with dried and clotted blood. I ran into my bathroom and vomited. Then I splashed my face with water and went back to the horror. I picked up the comic and unwrapped the plastic. There was a note inside. Five words: I did it for you .

Downstairs, Willie was barking. Reflexively, I went to my window to see what had got him going. When I looked down into our backyard, I saw my daughter. She was walking towards her studio, head bowed. As I had imagined, she had put her new green ski jacket over her pyjamas. She was wearing my favourite of her winter hats: a black angora toque with little cat ears on top. Ethan was behind her, very close, with one arm draped awkwardly around her shoulder. He was wearing a winter jacket too. His was black – as were his jeans and boots.