The Arx Read online

  The theme from ‘Dragnet’ blasted from somewhere on the kitchen table. He dropped the package and rummaged through the debris, finally emerging with a cell phone in his hand. Janet was at the other end.

  “Frank,” she said. “You’re not answering your home phone. Is it off the hook or something?” There was a quiver in her voice.

  “I don’t know – maybe they disconnected it again. Something wrong?”

  “It’s Gloria. It’s terrible.”

  “What?”

  “Her baby – Ralphie’s been kidnapped.”

  “What!”

  “They took him from right under her nose. Ralphie sleeps in a crib in her bedroom. Two days ago she was in the bathroom taking a shower. When she came out she looked in on the baby and the crib was empty. Whoever it was stole her car, too.”

  Frank scratched his stubbled chin. “I take it the cops are involved.”

  “Your old buddy Grant Stocker’s leading the investigation.”

  “Great,” he said sarcastically.

  “I don’t think he believes her story. It sounds like he suspects her of doing something to the baby.”

  “Is it possible he’s right? No offense, but she did seem a bit off…”

  “Gloria would never hurt Ralphie! She adored him.” Janet’s voice started to break. “Why? Why would anyone do such a thing? It’s enough to make you lose faith in humanity.”

  “Don’t get upset. The baby might still be alright. So where’s Gloria now?”

  “She’s at home. She’s devastated. They made her promise not to go anywhere. I’m worried about her. If anything’s happened to Ralphie…”

  Frank held the cell phone with his chin and picked up the package of plates.

  Janet spoke. “Frank?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think you could go and talk to her? I don’t think she trusts the police.”

  He groaned. Once again he tugged, frustrated, at the seam. The whole package slipped out of his hands and landed on the floor.

  “Frank?”

  He bent down and picked it up.

  “Frank?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Busy? Busy doing what? Sleeping?”

  “I’m not a cop anymore, Janet. Let them handle it. That’s their job.”

  “Who? Grant Stocker? You’ve told me how you feel about him. What kind of investigation is it going to be with him leading it?”

  “It’s going to be the official investigation conducted by the guy they chose to do the job.”

  “You could talk to him,” she said. “He might listen to you.”

  Frank closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “I know you don’t really know Gloria,” Janet continued, “and you don’t owe her anything…”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Well, don’t think too long. If Ralphie doesn’t turn up soon, she may be in jail charged with murder.”

  Janet hung up. Again the package slipped out of Frank’s hands.

  “Shit!” he said, kicking it across the room.

  Frank, Gloria, and Consequences

  Early in the afternoon the next day, Frank stood on the fifteenth floor of an aging West End high-rise, outside the door of Gloria Hanon’s apartment.

  He fought to stamp down the rising terror that threatened to paralyze him. For fifteen years he had dedicated his life to seeing justice done; he couldn’t turn his back now on a woman who might be innocent. He was still one of the good guys, even if he no longer wore a badge.

  He stared back down the hall at the elevator door sliding shut, pumping the air pressure in the building up a notch. The closing door flung a shadow across the hallway. He shuddered, fighting to hold it together. Shaking out his arms and shoulders, he relaxed a little.

  According to her story, he thought, somebody snuck up fifteen floors, broke in, stole her baby, and left again without making a sound and without being seen? All in the time it takes to have a shower?

  No wonder they don’t believe her.

  He knocked on the door and heard shuffling footsteps on the other side. Finally it opened, and Gloria appeared.

  “Sorry about the way I look,” she said.

  She was no longer the perfect Barbie doll he’d met at his sister’s house. Her eyes were red and puffy, supported underneath by large bags. Tufts of hair pitched wildly from her head. She wore an old sweat shirt and sweat pants. She was a mess, he thought. But at least now she looked human.

  “You look fine,” he said. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  “Thank you,” she said, running her sleeve under her nose. “Would you like to come in?”

  The apartment mirrored her appearance. Dishes and clothes were scattered everywhere. She flopped down on the couch and he sat in an armchair across from her.

  “Are they still out there?” she said.

  “What? Oh – the reporters? Yeah, I had to push through them to get in.”

  She ran her shaking fingers through her hair.

  “Do you feel up to talking about it?” Frank said.

  “I guess.”

  He pulled a small notebook from his jacket.

  Just like the old days, he thought. Why don’t you just describe to me what happened, ma’am. When did you last see your husband? Is this door usually locked? Who was the last person that talked to your sister?

  “Why don’t you just describe to me what happened,” he finally said out loud.

  "Janet probably told you. I went for a shower. Ralphie was in his crib. I wasn't out of the room for more than ten minutes. When I got back he was gone." She hunched forward with her face in her hands. "It's like some horrible nightmare…"

  "Did you notice anything out of place when you first got home?"

  She stared up at him. "What?"

  "Whoever did this must have been in the apartment already."

  "You mean – they were here all night?" She scanned around them.

  "Probably – how else would they know when you were going to be out of the room?"

  A wave of horror passed over her face. "No – I didn't see anything."

  “Was there a note? Anyone call demanding ransom?”

  “No. I don’t know what they’d get from me anyway.”

  Frank got up and studied the door lock. Gloria followed him.

  “They kept asking how I thought anybody could get in here without me knowing,” she said to his back, “and harping at me about what happened even though I told them already. It’s like they’re trying to catch me in a lie.”

  Frank turned to face her. “They are trying to catch you in a lie.”

  He turned back to the lock. “No sign of tampering,” he said. They returned and sat in their original positions.

  “What about the father?” Frank said. “Were you in some kind of custody battle?”

  “He died in a construction accident eight months ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Frank flipped through the pages of his notebook without really seeing them. Her story was weak. So far the only person in a position to harm Ralphie was his own mother.

  “Are you sure you’re telling me everything?” he said, searching for the truth in her eyes.

  “You don’t believe me either.”

  “I want to believe you. It’s hard to explain all the facts. There’s no sign of forced entry, no sign that anyone else has been in the apartment. No ransom note. What about outside? Have you noticed anybody suspicious hanging around the entrance – or driving by?”

  “No,” Gloria whispered.

  “Can you think of any reason why anybody would want to take Ralphie? Has anyone shown interest in him? Anyone been acting in an unusual way toward him?”

  Gloria shook her head. Her trembling hands rubbed together between her knees like they were consoling one another. Her eyes drifted over Frank’s shoulder and stopped. Suddenly they sparkled with light, as if the morning sun had risen behind them. Frank turned his hea
d. On a bookcase behind him stood a picture of Gloria holding Ralphie in her arms. He turned back. Just as quickly the light died and her eyes were dark and hollow.

  “Look, I believe you,” he said. “You understand that I’m not a cop anymore – there’s not much I can do.”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll call you in the next day or so and give you a status report.”

  He stood up and headed for the door. Gloria tugged at his sleeve. He turned back to face her.

  “It’s kind of you to help me,” she said. She held out a business card. “I hope you’re not offended, but Janet told me what happened to you. My sister Rebecca is a counselor with Community Development Services. She might be able to help…”

  “Thanks,” he said as he took the card without reading it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll think about it.”

  He opened the door, then turned to face her and awkwardly put a hand on her shoulder. “Keep your chin up.”

  Shit, I’m bad at this, he thought.

  The panic attack started as Gloria’s apartment door thudded shut. The walls and ceiling were already pressing in as he rushed along the hallway. Unable to face the elevator, he flew down fifteen flights of stairs, his anxiety ratcheting up with every step. The knot of reporters on the sidewalk outside her building stared as he doubled over and hyperventilated for several minutes.

  Help Gloria? Who was he kidding?

  On the way home, he stopped at the liquor store and bought a case of Lucky Lager and a bottle of Alberta rye. After the fourth beer the hollow stare in Gloria’s eyes as she turned away from Ralphie’s photograph had started to fade. After a few more, chased by shots of rye, it was almost gone, and his crushing sense of inadequacy and helplessness had been replaced by a familiar and comforting numbness.

  He woke the next morning lying on the kitchen floor, his shirt soaked with spilled beer, the overturned rye bottle lying beside him. He staggered upstairs to the bedroom. As he peeled off the filthy shirt he felt something solid in the pocket. He reached in, pulled out a business card, and stared at it blearily:

  Rebecca Hanon, M.Sw.

  Community Development Services BC

  Community Support Officer

  Underneath was an address and phone number.

  He tossed the card on the dresser beside him, set the alarm – two hours in the future, and collapsed on the bed.

  It was the same dream. He stood in the vacant lot near the street lamp. Again a figure stepped out from behind a dumpster, holding something in its right hand. Again Frank reached for his gun, but was paralyzed. Again the figure approached and again Frank knew who it was. The face pushed out of the shadows, which stretched over its contours like black shrink-wrap. The blackened lips twisted into an insane leer.

  “We’re going to play the crazy game. I’ve got a present for you…” the lips sang.

  Before Frank could respond the figure flung something large and round at his chest. Instinctively he reached out and caught it with both hands. It was slimy, hairy and warm. His hands were still masked in shadow. He dropped it to the ground and it landed with a wet thud. His breath accelerated as the object rolled slowly toward the light.

  A clattering bell demolished the scene. He swatted at the alarm clock and it was silent. He sat shaking for several minutes, then swiveled around, put his feet on the floor, and tried to stand. His legs gave out. He lost his balance, staggered sideways, and bashed his knee against the dresser.

  “Shit!” he yelled, rubbing his kneecap. Suddenly he felt sick. He stumbled toward the bathroom, again lost his balance and fell to the floor. It was too late – he threw up on the bedroom carpet. Rising shakily to his knees, he put his head in his hands. His mouth tasted of acid and metal; a throbbing ache jackhammered the inside of his skull.

  He turned and peered into the mirror over the dresser. Only his head and shoulders were visible. Squirming floaters swam across his line of sight as he blinked at his reflection: his hair caked with dried beer, his face lined, drawn, and clouded with stubble, the corners of his mouth specked with vomit.

  He glanced at the dresser. The business card Gloria had given him lay there upside down. He staggered to his feet and stuffed the card in his wallet.

  Rebecca Hanon

  After two aborted attempts and two panicked retreats back outside for a smoke, Frank dragged himself for a third time down the brightly lit hallway of an aging brick building in Yaletown. The hard polished floor reminded him of a hospital corridor. The meshed glass in the windows reminded him of a prison.

  His stomach churned as he opened a door marked Community Development Services BC and stepped inside. The reception area was furnished with institutional-looking couches and a metal and glass coffee table strewn with aging psychology magazines. To his relief, nobody was waiting.

  Behind the receptionist’s desk sat a cute blonde with glasses, studded nails, and lots of rings on her fingers.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, smiling.

  “I want to speak to Rebecca Hanon.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  He felt himself blush. He wanted a cigarette. “The name’s Langer,” he said. “I’m sort of a friend of her sister Gloria.”

  The receptionist pressed a button on the intercom and talked to somebody at the other end.

  “You can go in,” she said. “First door on your left.”

  He headed down a short hallway lined with office doors. Muffled voices droned behind a couple of them as he passed by. The target door had a frosted glass insert on which was stenciled:

  Rebecca Hanon M.S.W.

  Community Support Officer

  He scoured his memory for the number of instances that, with the exception of his sister Janet, he’d spent time alone with a woman in the past six months.

  Zero, he concluded as a willowy form appeared behind the glass.

  The door opened and the rope around his gut tightened a notch. The face of the woman in the doorway was cute rather than stunning, with a turned-up nose, a smattering of freckles, a small mouth with full lips, and framed by wavy brown hair that tumbled over her shoulders. Her gray eyes hunted constantly, boring into him with questions before they had even spoken.

  She smiled, and her face glowed with a warmth and charm that paralyzed him. He wanted to run, but it was too late now.

  “Hi, Frank,” the woman said. She reached out her hand, which he shook limply. “Gloria mentioned you. I’m Rebecca.”

  “Yeah,” he said. She looked at him expectantly. He stood there like a moron as several uncomfortable seconds ticked by.

  “Gloria said…” he stammered, “y-you might be able to help me…you know, with…”

  She smiled again. “Gloria’s got an outdated impression of what I do. I haven’t done counseling for several years now.”

  Shit, he thought. This was a mistake.

  “Come in,” she said.

  “No, that’s okay,” he said. He turned to leave. “I shouldn’t have bothered you…”

  “It’s okay, come on in. We can talk.”

  She put a hand on his elbow. He followed, at a loss what else to do.

  The window behind her antique wooden desk offered a pleasant view of downtown and, in the far right corner, a tiny glimpse of False Creek. The two closest walls sported posters from opera performances: La Boheme, Aida, The Magic Flute, Lohengrin.

  On the far wall were Rebecca’s credentials: her framed degrees and society memberships. His level of anxiety jumped. She sat down behind the desk and motioned for him to sit in a chair facing her.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to Gloria,” he said, reluctantly taking a seat. “I don’t know her very well, but she seems like a nice lady.”

  “She told me you’re looking into her case.”

  He tensed, remembering the interview with Gloria and its aftermath. “I think she’s a little confused there,” he said. “I’m on stress leave from the for
ce. She probably told you. I said I’d do a little digging, that’s all. There’s not much I can do. In fact, officially, there’s nothing I can do.”

  “I’m sure it’ll boost her morale just knowing someone with your credentials is on her side.”

  Frank laughed nervously. “Hey, it’s not like I’ve got a lot else to do.” He picked up a paper clip from the desk and twirled it between two fingers.

  “Anyway,” Rebecca said. “We’re here to talk about you. You understand that I’m not a therapist anymore. I don’t mind talking to you as a friend, in return for your helping Gloria, but all I can really do is refer you to someone. From what Gloria told me, you should be getting in touch with a professional.”

  “I’ve had it with shrinks,” Frank said, his hands moving nervously on the table. “They’ve never done anything for me. They’ve just made things worse.”

  She gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “I doubt if I can do any better, but if you like we can just talk. Then maybe I can recommend a course of action, or suggest someone who would be compatible.”

  Frank nodded.

  “What is it that’s bothering you?”

  He wanted to get up and walk out, but he felt trapped.

  “I can’t sleep,” he finally said.

  He unfolded the paper clip, straightening the outer wire into an ‘L’ shape, then folded it back up, then unfolded it again.

  “So what is it that’s keeping you awake?”

  “Well, I guess technically it’s the alarm.”

  “The alarm?”

  “Yeah,” he said, concentrating on his paper clip sculpture, “I set it to go off every two hours.”

  “You’re having recurring nightmares.”

  He looked up, surprised at her perceptiveness. “Y…Yeah. It usually wakes me up before they get too bad.”

  “Any other problems?”

  He went back to work on the paper clip. “Headaches – but that could be from not sleeping, I guess it could also be from the drinking. And I think I zone out sometimes. Time passes and I don’t know what happened in the interval. But that hasn’t happened for ages.”