I was driving Marilyn back to my childhood street—the same street that figured in her flashbacks. As we drove, I told Marilyn about Abe personally going and retrieving my car from Cam’s parking lot.
“That figures,” she said. “Last night at the party, Mitzy let a secret drop—and then made me promise not to tell Abe.”
“What kind of secret?”
“It seems Abe has been working a double shift—he stays up all night watching out for me.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not—and as a matter of fact, he persuaded two female police officers to alternate taking turns watching out for you.”
I was flabbergasted. It explained why there had been no more attacks, even when the precinct Sergeant wouldn’t authorize surveillance. Abe took it upon himself to protect us.
“So, I guess last night’s attempt on our lives means the surveillance will be reinstated and Abe can get some much-needed rest.”
She nodded. “I hope so—at least it means he won’t have to work a double shift.”
Now, I felt even more beholding to Abe—and to Cindy and Erin. It made me realize there were still good cops—self-sacrificing men and women who would put their own lives in jeopardy to save and protect others.
It also made me feel special in a way—that someone actually cared enough to go out of their way.
I’d never bash police again.
Havelock Street was exactly as I remembered it—still narrow and tree-lined, with one portion taken up by the park.
I proceeded slowly down the street, partly for Marilyn’s benefit, and partly for mine. The street was lined with brick Victorian homes—the eastern half, all semi-detached and the western side, all detached.
“Stop!” she cried, a few houses before the park.
“What is it?”
“It’s here. I need to get out.”
I parked the car and we both got out. We stood on the sidewalk, peering up and down the street.
“It’s all so familiar—the park there—the driveways, with the garages at the back.”
She stopped talking. Her eyes started to glaze.
“Are you all right?” I asked, alarmed at the dazed look on her face.
She ignored me, and started across the road, as if in a trance. I decided to let her have her head, and was content to follow closely behind her.
“It was here,” she said, “down there.” She was pointing to a laneway leading back to a backyard.
“What was here?” I prompted, but she seemed oblivious, and just continued to stare.
A middle-aged woman came out of a nearby house and watched in fascination—staring at us. Then, she started down the wooden verandah stairs and approached hesitantly.
“Catherine—is it really you?” She asked in a shaky voice. Marilyn turned toward the woman and stared blankly.
“Oh my God!” the woman cried, placing a fist to her mouth.
“What’s the matter?” I demanded.
The woman stared in disbelief at Marilyn—not taking her eyes off her. “We thought you were dead—the flames were so intense.”
“There was a fire?” I asked, trying to get the woman’s attention.
“It was horrible—red flames as high as the houses and black smoke billowing—filling the street.”
Marilyn was locked in a trance—fixated on the laneway and the yard beyond.
“All the fire trucks—they kept trying to knock the flames down and couldn’t—the heat so intense, you couldn’t get near.”
“Did Marilyn live here?”
“Who’s Marilyn? I’m talking about Catherine here—she and her mother lived in that house.”
“Don’t you remember me Catherine?” the woman wailed.
Marilyn didn’t hear—didn’t see the woman. She was seeing something else.