The camera cut back to a close-up of the reporter. “RCMP spokesperson Constable Annie Lamarre has confirmed that the brand of shoe is a ROOAirPocket, girls’ size nine, left foot, and yes, it does contain what appears to be the remains of a child’s foot. Lamarre said the discovery was sent to the BC Coroner’s Service for further examination. The Coroner’s Service has declined comment, saying only that the case is under investigation. CBC has learned, however, that this particular ROOAirPocket high-top model was manufactured only between the years 1984 and 1986, after which it was discontinued and replaced with the ROOAir-Lift.”
The image of the shoe once more filled the screen. An inexplicable nausea rose in Angie’s belly. The reporter’s voice spoke over the image. “In BC several of the dismembered feet found to date have been identified as having belonged to people with mental illness who likely jumped off one of the many bridges in the area. Three of the feet were linked to individuals who probably died of natural causes. Other theories have also been suggested—some think the shoes floated across the Pacific from the Asian tsunami or that they drifted from one of several small plane crashes up the Inside Passage. Others have suggested something more nefarious—a serial killer. What is unusual, whatever the theories, is that no other body parts have ever surfaced to match the feet.” She paused. The camera zoomed suddenly back to her face. “And this recent ghoulish gift from the sea—the discovery of this little girl’s shoe manufactured more than thirty years ago—is not quite like the others.”
Angie glanced around the pub. The interior seemed to have grown darker. Colder. She felt as though she was being watched, but no one was looking at her. Yet the sense of things closing in that had besieged her in the ferry lineup was tightening its grip. Outside, the wind gusted, lashing rain against the mullioned windows.
CHAPTER 11
He sits at his metal desk writing a letter. On a shelf to his left is a small television set. It’s tuned to the local CBC channel, which is airing a Canucks–Oilers hockey game. He’s waiting for the news. Earlier he ate a decent-enough dinner in the cafeteria. Now is the customary hour during which he likes to conduct his correspondence, old style, with pen and paper while listening to—and occasionally glancing up at—the day’s news on television. Routine. He’s come to like it. Routine is life. Habits are what make a man. If he masters his habits, he masters control. It gives him power. People misunderstand power. Real power is being at peace with oneself and living in the moment—not being affected by the currents and actions of others. Once his correspondence is complete, he will do his pull-ups.
My dearest Mila,
he writes.
Did my gift arrive in time for Olivia’s birthday? I asked your mother to ensure that she ordered it with plenty of time to spare and to surprise you both on the day. Let me know as soon as you can whether Olivia likes it. Perhaps you could send me a photo of Livvy with her gift?
He pauses, looks up at his small window. It’s dark outside. Raining. He wonders if the air is cold.
I hope to make it in person to Livvy’s birthday party next year. It might be possible. I want to believe it shall be possible. My next hearing is in five days. Tuesday. It’s scheduled before lunch, which means statistically I might stand a better chance this time. Think of me then, please. Wish me luck. I am a changed man, Mila, and I will show them that. And when—
“Another dismembered foot has washed up in Salish Sea . . .”
His gaze shoots to the TV at the sound of the news anchor’s voice. He stares as an image of a dirty high-top sneaker fills the screen. Pale lilac. Small. Something waxy and gray-yellow inside the running shoe. Ice filters into his chest. He drops his pen, snatches up the remote, increases the volume. He listens to the reporter on the beach recount how the girls’ size-nine shoe came to be found on the causeway beach at the Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal. His mouth turns sawdust dry.
“CBC has learned, however, that this particular ROOAirPocket high-top model was manufactured only between the years 1984 and 1986 . . .” The images, the sounds, begin to blur. He blinks hard as the camera cuts back to the reporter, and he struggles to swallow as a memory torques through him.
Little feet running. Flashes of pink, purple . . . on deep-green grass. Puddles of light, rare ripples of laughter . . . a singsong nursery rhyme.
Screams. Blood everywhere. The crab pots.
The fish eating flesh . . .
Time stretches like elastic. He can no longer hear the sound of the television. All he can see in his mind—as if burned in negative upon his retinas—are the child’s eyes, clear and gray, round and bright with utter delight as she opens the box and discovers the shoes—a new pair of pale-purple ROOAirPockets, nestled in the box with soft tissue paper.
No, this cannot be. Not possible. Not after all those years. Not right before my parole hearing. It’s a coincidence. Has to be . . .
The newscast segues to a piece on a tent city protest in downtown Vancouver. He gets up, goes to the basin, turns on the tap. He runs the hot water until it is scalding. He washes his face, scrubbing his hands brutally over his skin, the harsh prison soap burning his eyes. He turns off the water and braces his hands on either side of the sink. Slowly he looks up into the shatterproof mirror bolted to the wall. A face looks back at him. It’s not his. Not the face he knows when he thinks of himself. This man in the mirror has a complexion that is sallow and sick against his prison shirt. The eyes are lined, and the lids droop at the edges with flaccid skin. But those eyes still see things from a time long ago. And right now they see the dark shadow lurking behind the man who stands in front of the mirror. A shadow, it appears, that he cannot outrun or outlast. No matter how hard he tries.
It’s nothing. Calm down. It means nothing to me. It’s just a coincidence.
CHAPTER 12
Angie made several trips up from her car in the underground parkade, carrying her file boxes and the supplies she’d bought on her way home to her apartment on the top floor. Once inside with her last load, she kicked her door closed behind her and set the second case file box on the floor beside the first, wincing as the muscles in her injured arm protested. She rubbed her arm as she stared down at the boxes.
BOX 01 JANE DOE SAINT PETERS #930155697–2
BOX 02 JANE DOE SAINT PETERS #930155697–2
She allowed herself to feel excited as she locked her door and shucked off her rain jacket. She’d rather focus on her cold case than on making decisions about whether or not she was going to dig out her uniform and report to the MVPD’s social media desk tomorrow. It also kept her thoughts from straying to Antonio behind the bar or from hitting the club. Or dwelling morosely over her failed birthday date with Maddocks and what that meant to her, and whether she wanted to fight to make a relationship work with him.