LITMIR.BIZ

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about increasing the monitoring of psychiatric outpatients and improving emergency response protocols to 911 calls—they had written her a very short note. So sorry, dear. He was our son. May God forgive him, and I hope you can. Then they had dropped out of her life.

      The only blood relatives she still had were her sister and her family, but Linda kept her children under lock and key, as far as possible from their derelict aunt and the unspeakable memories she evoked. As if Twiggy herself were a symbol of all that could go wrong in their neatly ordered, middle-class world, and just seeing her, like Medusa, could bring her cursed life down upon them.

      Still, maybe twice a year Linda or her husband Norm would track her down and pay her a visit. Give her some money and some clothes, bring her news of the children. Sometimes they’d pack her into the car—always with a beach towel spread over the seat, Twiggy noticed—and take her to the doctor or the dentist. Never home for dinner. You never know with curses, after all. So they would buy her a burger at Wendy’s with all the trimmings and a healthy salad to match, before dropping her off at the “Y” shelter and driving back to the tree-lined crescents of Kanata, where the noise and mess of the world were carefully kept at bay.

      It might have been Norm who was looking for her. “What name did he call me? Twiggy?” Or Jean, she added silently. No one on the street knew that name. Jean had died in that frenzy of madness and blood on May 10th, 2000. Welcome to the new millennium.

      “He didn’t give a name, Just asked about the bag lady who hung out by the aqueduct.”

      Alarm bells rang, ever so softly. It could have been one of her street friends, or someone she’d met in a shelter. She’d deliberately left her old self behind when she changed her life, but sometimes old habits die hard. She’d been helping a few of them learn to read, just in passing, whenever the mood struck. But they didn’t always bother with niceties like names.

      “Was it a street person?”

      “No. He was nicely dressed, looked like he might work for government or social services. Maybe they’re trying to find you to give you some money.”

      Twiggy snorted. Do-gooders did sometimes try to track her down, under the delusion that after what the poor soul had endured, all she really needed was a little TLC . As if the love and platitudes of a stranger could hold a candle to the love she’d lost.

      She was entitled to money. Even Mr. G had tried to tell her that, although he more than anyone knew how meaningless that compensation was. Not only would she qualify for a government disability pension, but there was probably money for long-term disability through the teachers’ union. But she doubted very much any of them would waste any effort trying to give that money away. Besides, they would have called her Jean. Jean Calderone. A name she barely remembered.

      Twiggy drained the last dregs of coffee and as a joke, rolled up the rim. Not expecting to win a prize. What would she do with a plasma TV or a big-ass SUV ? But just making sure her luck hadn’t changed. Please play again, she read from the inside of the rim. She chuckled. Play again. Isn’t that a metaphor for life, as it keeps kicking you in the teeth?

      She remembered her resolve of that morning. She was going to play one more time, make one more big score, so that she and her friends could buy themselves one last wild fling at life. Not on the terms of the mission do-gooders or even the outreach nurses, not on the terms her sister Linda would dictate, but on their own terms. No moral obligations attached.

      “Well,” she said, grabbing the manager’s hand to haul herself to her feet, “it’s probably nobody. Maybe a reporter still looking for a story. But if he asks again, don’t tell him anything. Now I’ll be back, Moe, so save my spot.” She chuckled as she picked up her bag and handed him her empty cup. She patted his cheek. “Got a call to make.”

      She turned and tromped off toward Wellington Street before he could see the slight frown that puckered her doughy face. She didn’t really believe it was a government worker or a reporter. The newshounds had given up milking her tragedy years ago, and certainly there were juicier stories around now, what with terrorists and election scandals. Not to mention the three murders still hogging the headlines after nearly a week

      Could someone have seen her that night outside the hotel? Could they have put two and two together and figured out she was the person putting on the squeeze? Her footsteps faltered. She glanced around and caught the eye of a businessman waiting at the Wellington Street light. Twiggy shivered. It was definitely time to get this game over with. There was no time to mess with the people from Petawawa. Those people had been known to kill someone who got in their way. At least the reporter from the Sun would just try to stiff her out of fair payment.

      The phone on Bank Street was occupied, so she sat on a bench in a little square and watched the business world hustle back and forth around her. People who thought they had a place to go, a job to do, and a family to support. People who thought they had the game beat. Hah.

      The person on the phone hung up, and Twiggy heaved herself to her swollen feet. So many of them looked like the man Moe had described. Maybe she should use another phone. But she was here, and it was too damn hard to walk another block.

      * * *

      June 3 1993. Sector West, Croatia.

      Dear Kit... Man, it’s been nuts around here, weapons coming in as fast as we can get them out, and mines showing up all over the fields around town. It’s a game of oneupmanship, and we’re caught in the middle. Last night even oursoccer field got mined, but Fundy barked to warn us. I think Ican even train her to detect mines. She seems to have anamazing nose. Worth a try, better than being fish in a barrel.

      June 15 1993. Sector West, Croatia.

      It was Sarge’s birthday yesterday, so after patrol the Captain came over to our section house with a two-four of Labatts and a forty ouncer of genuine Canadian Club. First time I ever saw the Sarge get loaded and he was funny as hell. Danny and I taught the good prairie boy “Farewell to Nova Scotia”, and he started tuning up all the beer bottles. He got the whole village into the act playing whatever they could lay their hands on. One of the locals plays a mean pair of spoons and another had a mouth organ. Mahir used a stool for drums.

      Even the Hammer was laughing by the end and when we all played a soccer game on the field we’d built, he didn’t say a word about it being a waste of time. I think maybe he just takes his responsibilities very seriously. He doesn’t want us to get too friendly with the locals because there are thousands of them and only a few dozen of us scattered along the ceasefire line, and if they ever decided to take us on, we couldn’t stop them. Respect and fear, the Hammer says. That’s how we maintain our advantage. We’re the UN . Take us on, you take on the whole world.

      ELEVEN

      Midweek traffic was light on the four-lane Trans-Canada highway from Halifax across central Nova Scotia to the north shore, and Kate McGrath made excellent time. She guided the unmarked Malibu with a calm, deft hand, and pointed out the scenery as she drove. Green was surprised, and a little embarrassed, to learn that Nova Scotia had been homesteaded since the 1630s and had already fought several wars with the French and the Americans when his own Ottawa Valley had been nothing but a wilderness of lumberjacks and fur traders.

      “Some pockets were first farmed by the French in the 1600s,” she said, waving at the rolling hills dotted with pastures and forest. “And when the British conquered the land, the local French settlers who wouldn’t swear allegiance to the King were booted out. Then masses of New England loyalists moved onto the land they left behind. There are still Acadian enclaves interspersed with the Scots. The roots of family go very deep around here.”

      He heard the pride in her tone. “Did you grow up around here? I thought you were a Newfoundlander.”

      “I am. But I started my police career up here in Truro.”

      “What made you move to Halifax?”

      She hesitated, and a faint frown narrowed her eyes. “I wanted a change of scene. And I also wanted a city big enough for good policing opportunities.

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