Now You See Her

TWENTY-EIGHT


IT WAS ALMOST NOON when Marcy left Hayfield Manor and headed toward the grounds of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral, located in the city’s South Bank. She’d spent the morning in a state of restless anticipation, unable to eat or sleep, pacing back and forth for a full half hour only to sit resolutely still for the next, afraid to leave her room until the appointed hour, jumping each time the phone rang, going over the conversation with her daughter again and again and again, hanging on her every word.

“These instructions must be followed to the letter,” Devon had told her in an angry whisper. “One slip, one misstep, and I swear you’ll never see me again.”

“There won’t be any missteps. I promise,” Marcy had said.

Devon continued. “You don’t go anywhere; you don’t talk to anyone; you don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t even think of calling the police.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t—”

“And not a word to that sexy young boyfriend of yours.”

“What? No. He’s not my … Devon, please …”

“Be in front of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral at one o’clock.”

“St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral,” Marcy repeated, trying to place its exact location in her mind. “One o’clock.”

“And remember—we’re watching you.”

And then nothing.

“Devon? Devon, hello? Are you still there? Wait. Don’t go. Devon? Devon?” Marcy sat on her bed, staring blankly out the window toward the garden, knowing their connection had been severed but waiting nonetheless, the phone poised at her ear for the next twenty minutes on the off chance there was something wrong with the line and her daughter was also waiting patiently on the other end. She’d remained in this posture—waiting, hoping, praying for the sound of her daughter’s voice.

We’re watching you, Devon had told her.

Who was watching her? Were they out there even now?

In response to this disturbing thought, Marcy dropped the phone into its carriage and jumped from her bed, pulling the curtains closed, then returning to the bed, then quickly returning to the window and reopening the curtains, staring into the shifting gray mist.

Was anyone out there?

“Who’s watching me?”

She’d showered and dressed in her new black pants and crisp, blue-and-white-striped cotton blouse, taking extra time and care with her hair and makeup, wanting to look beautiful for Devon. She’d even ordered room service so that she wouldn’t run the risk of fainting again when she saw her, but when breakfast arrived, she’d been unable to swallow anything but the coffee.

Liam had called her cell phone several times to tell her he’d yet to hear from Shannon and to ask how she was holding up. Did she want company? He had a few hours before he had to be at work, he’d suggested hopefully. Desperate as Marcy was to tell him about her daughter’s phone call, she’d said nothing.

And not a word to that sexy young boyfriend of yours.

“I was up most of the night,” she’d told him instead. “I should probably try to get a little sleep. In case Shannon calls later.”

“Good. Now you’re starting to take care of yourself,” he’d said enthusiastically. “I’ll phone you as soon as I hear anything.”

“Liam …”

“Yes?”

I spoke to Devon. She called. We’re meeting at one o’clock. “I hope you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“I know,” he’d said, a smile in his voice. “Now get some rest. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hate lying to him, but what other choice did I have? she wondered now, walking purposefully toward the South Bank, pushing her way through the still-dense fog that draped the sides of College Road like dusty old curtains. Located south of the river Lee, the South Bank encompassed not only St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral but also the city’s seventeenth-century city walls, the remains of Elizabeth Fort, and the relatively new city hall, built in 1936. Despite the distance from her hotel to the magnificent church, she’d decided to walk rather than take a cab and risk getting stuck in traffic. She’d been hoping some fresh air would clear her head and calm her nerves, but the air was heavy and stale, and she jumped each time she heard a car horn, making her more nervous than ever.

Marcy continued along College Street, feeling the damp air seep underneath her new navy peacoat and trying to ignore the dull ache spreading through her fingers. She should have bought gloves, she was thinking, burying her cold hands inside her pockets. Although who thinks of buying gloves in July?

“For God’s sake, what were you thinking?” Peter had shouted in her ear less than an hour ago.

Marcy had been just about to leave her room when the hotel phone rang. Thinking it might be Devon, she’d flung herself toward it, answering it before it completed its first ring.

“Peter,” she’d sputtered when she could find her voice. It was barely seven o’clock in the morning, Toronto time. “How did you find me?”

“Your sister phoned. As did our son. You scared him half to death, you know. How could you call him like that, in the middle of the night? For God’s sake, what were you thinking?” His fury had grown stronger, louder, with each word. “And how could you leave that ridiculous message on my answering machine? Have you completely lost your mind?”

“I can’t talk to you now,” she’d said in response, dropping the receiver back into its carriage as if it had suddenly burst into flames. She’d glanced out the hotel window, searching for faceless shadows in the fog as, seconds later, the phone began ringing again.

“Did you just hang up on me?” Peter demanded as Marcy lifted the phone to her ear.

Her response was to hang up again. She had neither the time nor the energy for his outrage. Nor could she tell him the truth—that Devon had contacted her, that she was an hour away from meeting up with their daughter. Not that he’d believe her in any event. But you will, she thought as the phone began ringing again. Then she’d grabbed her purse and her new jacket and fled the room, the phone’s persistent ring following her out the door and down the stairs into the lobby.

It was half an hour later when Marcy finally turned onto Bishop Street, the three giant spires of the French Gothic cathedral rising out of the fog to impose themselves on the skyline. Four large tour buses were parked across the street. “The current building, which sits on the exact spot St. Fin Barre selected for his church and school in 600 AD, dates from 1870 and is especially noteworthy for the highly ornamental mosaic of its interior,” Marcy heard one tour guide expound as he tried to herd those in his charge toward the main entrance.

Marcy’s eyes shot through the crowds jostling for priority position, searching for any sign of Devon. She saw lots of young women, many with long brown hair, a few with sad eyes and prominent cheekbones, but none with the specific combination of features and attitude that defined her daughter. She checked her watch. It was still early. Devon had told her to be here at one o’clock—“Be in front of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral at one o’clock,” had been her precise words—and one o’clock was still twenty minutes from now. Which meant Devon probably wasn’t here yet, Marcy decided, her eyes continuing to flit from face to face as she pushed her way through the throng of tourists toward the massive front doors of the church. Devon was rarely on time for anything. How many times had she kept Marcy waiting to drive her to school while she dawdled in the bathroom? How many dinner reservations had they forfeited because Devon couldn’t decide what to wear? What about the time they’d missed the entire opening act of Swan Lake because Devon had decided to take a shower at the last minute?

Marcy understood that Devon’s almost pathological tardiness had been due to her insecurity and was part and parcel of her illness. When Marcy and her daughter were finally reunited—not long, not long!—she’d make sure Devon got the help she needed. They’d find a doctor her daughter liked and trusted, one who would see to it she received the proper dosage of her medication. It was just a chemical imbalance after all, and once that balance had been corrected …

“Mother!” someone called, and Marcy spun around to see a young woman with long brown hair running toward her. “For heaven’s sake, Ma, how many times have I told you not to go wanderin’ off?” the young woman asked breathlessly, grabbing the elbow of an elderly woman to Marcy’s right.

Marcy saw that the woman wasn’t so young after all, that she was, in fact, probably closer to Marcy’s age than to Devon’s and that her mother looked frightened and confused, as if she wasn’t at all sure who this angry woman was.

“She’s not all there, I’m afraid,” the woman explained sheepishly in answer to Marcy’s stare. “Alzheimer’s.” She sighed. “The doctors keep encouragin’ us to take her to her favorite places, but every time we do, she just goes wanderin’ off. You’ve gotta watch her every damn second. She’s worse than my twelve-year-old.”

“Are we goin’ to meet your father now?” the older woman asked.

“No, Ma. Da’s been gone for more than ten years. You know that.”

“Gone for ten years? Where’d he go?”

“Don’t worry, Ma. I’m sure he’ll be home for supper.” She leaned toward Marcy. “He’s dead,” she whispered.

“He’ll be home for supper?” the woman’s mother asked hopefully.

“Yes, Ma. He’ll be home at six o’clock sharp.” The woman confided to Marcy in her next breath. “It’s weird lyin’ to your ma about stuff like this, but what the hell? It makes her feel good, and she won’t remember any of it later anyway.” She shrugged, leading her mother back into the crowd.

Marcy followed after them with her eyes until they were no longer visible. She checked her watch again. Still ten minutes to go, she thought, wondering if she was waiting in the right spot.

Be in front of St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral at one o’clock, Devon had told her.

But the church was enormous and “in front” could mean just about anywhere. Was she supposed to stand by the entrance or to either side of the imposing wooden doors? Should she stand close to the building or a comfortable distance away? Had Devon taken into account the sheer volume of visitors? Would she be able to spot her in the middle of all these people? What if Devon didn’t see her? What if she got tired trying to fight her way through the crowds? Devon had never been very good with crowds. What if she panicked and took off without making contact? Or what if she failed to recognize her mother? It had been almost two years since they’d last seen each other after all. I should have worn something brighter, Marcy thought, something that would make me stand out. She quickly removed her jacket, hoping the blue and white stripes of her shirt would be sufficient to capture her daughter’s attention. “I’m freezing,” she muttered into her collar moments later, putting her jacket back on. Again her eyes searched through the dense pockets of tourists that were almost as thick as the fog.

She was checking her watch again when her phone rang. Marcy reached inside her purse, retrieved her cell, brought it to her ear. “Hello?” she asked warily.

“Marcy?” Liam’s voice sliced through the dull mist like a warm knife through butter.

“Did you hear from Shannon?” Marcy asked, sneaking a worried glance over her shoulder. What if Devon saw her talking on her phone? What if she assumed Marcy was talking to the police?

“Not a word. I was thinking maybe I should give her a call—”

“No. Please don’t do that.”

“Just to see if she’s managed to contact Audrey.”

“I don’t think we should pressure her.”

“I wasn’t going to pressure her. I was just going to … Where are you?”

“What?” Marcy pressed the phone tightly against her ear in an effort to keep the persistent buzz of tourists at bay.

“Have you gone out somewhere?”

“No. I’m just in the lobby. There was another mix-up with my credit card,” she lied.

“Sounds like there’s quite the crowd there.”

“A bus full of tourists just arrived,” Marcy said, watching as a tour bus pulled into a parking spot across the street. Not quite a lie, she thought.

“So, the Hayfield Manor’s takin’ in tour groups now, is it?” Liam asked incredulously. “Guess the economy’s affectin’ everyone.”

“I have to go,” Marcy told him. “They’re waiting to talk to me.”

“You sure you don’t want me to come over, give you a hand?”

“Positive. Everything’s under control, and I don’t want to be responsible for you getting fired.”

“Thinkin’ of me then, are you?”

“I have to go,” she said again, trying not to sound too impatient.

“Okay, but if I don’t hear from Shannon in the next hour, I’m gonna call her,” he said.

“Fine.”

“Maybe even pay her a visit.”

“I really don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Yeah? You know somethin’ I don’t?”

“No, of course not. I’m just trying to think positively.”

“Okay, then. Positive thoughts it is.”

“Positive thoughts,” she repeated.

“I’ll call you later.”

“Okay.” She quickly returned the phone to her purse, slowly executing a 360-degree turn. “Positive thoughts,” she whispered.

No sign of her daughter.

And remember—we’re watching you, Devon had warned.

Was someone watching her now? Reporting on her every move? Had that someone seen her on the phone, warned Devon to stay away?

“Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts.”

And not a word to that sexy young boyfriend of yours.

Had whoever was watching her been close enough to overhear her conversation? Did they know she’d told Liam nothing?

Maybe I should have, Marcy thought. Maybe I should have told him everything. Then he wouldn’t be sweating out the fact that Shannon still hasn’t phoned. He wouldn’t be thinking of calling me again, possibly even paying me an unnecessary visit. Oh, God. If I’m not careful, he’s liable to screw everything up.

Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts.

“Excuse me,” a woman said from somewhere beside her. The accent was distinctly North American.

“Devon?” Marcy said as she turned toward the voice.

“Excuse me,” the woman repeated with a flip of her shoulder-length blond hair, “but we’re trying to get through.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.…”

“Some people are just oblivious,” Marcy heard the woman’s male companion mutter as they pushed past.

Marcy felt tears forming behind her eyes. “Not yet,” she whispered. There was still more than enough time for tears. Always plenty of time for tears, she thought, hearing the distant bells of St. Anne’s Shandon Church strike one.

“Don’t turn around,” a familiar male voice suddenly whispered in her ear.

Marcy’s breath caught instantly in her lungs.

“Start walking,” the voice instructed.

“Where’s Devon?”

“Keep walking. Straight ahead. Don’t look back.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see your daughter.”

“Why isn’t she here?”

“Keep walking.” A strong hand on the back of her elbow guided her through the crowd.

“Where is she?”

“Not far. You tell anyone where you were going?”

“No. No one.”

“Good. Keep walking. Head toward Sullivan’s Quay.”

“Will Devon be there?”

“Don’t ask so many questions.”

“I just want to see my daughter.”

“You will.”

They walked for several minutes in silence, a thousand thoughts swirling inside Marcy’s brain, like clothes in a dryer. Where was he taking her? Were they really going to see Devon, or was this some sort of trap?

A sudden pressure on Marcy’s elbow directed her to stop.

“Let me have your phone,” her escort directed.

“My phone? Why?”

“Just give it here.”

Marcy reached inside her purse and took out her cell phone. It was pulled from her hand before she had a chance to object.

“Don’t think you’ll be needing this anymore,” he said, tossing the phone into the nearest trash bin.

“But—”

“Keep walking.”

“Is all this intrigue really necessary?” Marcy asked as they approached Sullivan’s Quay.

“Probably not. But it’s kind of fun, don’t you think? Turn left at this next street.”

“And then what?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“Are you really taking me to Devon?”

“What else would I be doin’?” he asked.

“I don’t know. What were you doing that afternoon you ran me down with your bicycle?” Marcy spun around on her heel to look the young man directly in the eye.

“Tryin’ to get you to mind your own business,” Jax said with a sneer. “Obviously it didn’t work.”

“Devon is my business.”

The boy shrugged, causing audible crinkles in his bomber-style black leather jacket. They continued walking for several more blocks. “Get in the car,” he said, stopping suddenly.

“What?”

He reached for the door handle of a small black car parked along the side of the street. “You want to see your daughter, don’t you?”

“Yes. Of course I do.”

He pulled open the door. “Then get inside. She’s waitin’ for you.”