The Winter Wolf Read online

  I’ve heard enough. I throw my bag into my hamper, grab my parka, and bolt out of the chair. I push past him and fly out the door without even zipping up my coat. As I rush down the street, I hear him calling me yet dare not look back.

  A block or two away I fall on black ice and turn to get up. Is that a shadow slipping in between two buildings? Once I think I hear his footsteps scrape on the icy sidewalk behind me. Despite the danger of falling again I start to run and manage to keep up my pace for the couple of blocks I have left to go. I arrive at the corner of Grandmother’s street puffing hard and out of breath. When I spot the three tall oaks on the front lawn of Grandmother’s house I gasp in relief. The plastic wreath in the front window, with its three yellow candles and tapered light bulbs for flames, feels like a beacon of hope.

  I reach for the latch on the front door and draw back in surprise. The door is open—just a crack. I step into the house, and the familiar scent of the lavender Grandmother keeps in her potpourri jar overwhelms me. I have to blink back tears. The stillness of the living room is punctuated by the steady tick tock of the antique mantel clock—the stillness is insistent. There’s no welcoming fire in the grate as I’d expected, just cold, dead ashes. Normally, Grandmother’s upstairs neighbour would come in to help her light the fire if I was expected. Would Mrs. Corrigan have invited her upstairs, thinking the storm had prevented me from coming? Yes, that must be it. I’ll have to remind Mrs. Corrigan to make sure the front door is latched and locked from now on. No. I remember now, dread curdling my stomach. Mrs. Corrigan went to her son’s house in Gaspé for the holiday season.

  I rush into the bedroom. The sheets have been stripped down to the mattress; the bathroom is empty. What has happened here? Panic lodges in my throat. I go back to the bedroom and pull out the dresser drawers. Each one has been emptied of Grandmother’s clothes. No carefully folded piles. Even the little talcum powder sachets are gone. And now I realize if she’s fallen ill and been taken to the hospital in the last few days, no one could have contacted me. I go to the little kitchen alcove, hoping she may have left me a note, and find nothing. No food in the refrigerator, no supplies in the pantry. My stomach clenches in fear.

  That’s when I hear a slow creak from the living room. I hadn’t bothered to lock the front door when I came in. It’s opening. I move quietly out of the kitchen alcove and peer around the mantle.

  Henri Garou stands framed in the doorway. The ice from his boots melting in a pool on the hardwood. Staring at me with those yellowish eyes, his spiky hair wet from the storm.

  And now I understand. This is not the first time he’s been here.

  “What have you done to my grandmother?” I cry hoarsely.

  He takes a step forward and holds up my watch. “You dropped this at the bar. I found it on your chair and wanted to give it back to you.”

  He approaches me with his hand held out, the watch dangling. His fingernails lengthen and curve into claws, his teeth glisten with saliva. He says something else but it sounds no more than a deep growl emerging from his throat. My head spins.

  Blood sings in my ears. I grasp behind me for one of the knives on the kitchen counter. Despite my fear a tiny corner of my brain is still capable of operating rationally. I refuse to become another one of his victims.

  I rush toward him, holding the knife in front of me, and strike at him with all my strength. A scream forms on my lips, my vision fades, and everything turns black.

  I WAKE UP PRONE ON THE FLOOR. My cheek aches where it’s pressed into the hardwood. How long have I been unconscious? My right leg is throbbing and my pants are torn. A splatter of blood leads to Grandmother’s front door. The evidence of violence seems so foreign, so wrong here. She’ll be horrified to see this mess, frightened, shocked. Like I am. Using a hand towel, rinsing it in the bathroom sink and wringing it out over and over, I manage to wipe all the blood offthe floor. Soon the hardwood is shining again. I toss the towel into the garbage pail under the kitchen sink.

  Now the danger is over and Henri is nowhere to be found, I take pride in the fact that I didn’t stand here passively or wait for someone to come to my rescue. I found the courage to deal with him on my own. Grandmother, so mindful of my safety, will be proud of me for standing up to fear. No, I think. I’ll worry her if I tell her. She need never know. Henri won’t be back and it will be my secret. A woman can never be too careful.

  I cut the fruitcake into precise little squares and set them upon tiny dessert plates. I get two cut-glass tumblers from the cupboard for the sherry. I put these on a tray along with folded cloth napkins, so much nicer than the paper serviettes Grandmother always says look so cheap. A sprig of cedar from the shrubs outside the door adds a festive air. I fold a comforter around me and sit in the armchair to wait for Grandmother’s return. She won’t be long, I’m sure. Not in this weather.

  * * *

  Montreal Daily Record, January 10, 1997

  BODY IDENTIFIED

  The body of a man identified as Henri Charles Garou was found last night in the backyard of a house on Rue Dorien. The coroner has determined Garou died from a knife wound to the abdomen. Garou had recently been released from prison after a new forensic investigation cleared him of any responsibility in the death of his wife, Francine.

  Elizabeth Anne Hill has been charged with second-degree murder and destruction of evidence in the course of committing a crime.

  Ms. Hill has a history of psychotic episodes dating back to the death of her parents on New Year’s Day, 1979, while skating on Lac des Îles. The couple was separated from their daughter by a pack of wolf–dog hybrids abandoned by hunters. The pack forced the couple onto thin ice, where they drowned in front of their young daughter. Authorities later rounded up and shot the animals for fear of other attacks on humans.

  Ms. Hill’s most recent psychotic break was brought on by the death of her grandmother in November.