Free Tell Anna She's Safe by Brenda Missen

silent, too.
    Finally I trusted my voice. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got the dogs.”
    â€œOh yes, our big brave dogs.”
    The sarcasm was so unlike him it caught me off guard. “I’ve got the police.”
    â€œYou think they are going to give you twenty-four-hour protection?”
    â€œNo, but maybe they could talk me out of my fears.”
    Marc snorted.
    This also uncharacteristic response fired me up. “Right,” I said. “You could give me much better protection than the police.”
    â€œ Oui .”
    The quietness of his tone threatened to spill the tears in earnest.
    â€œHow is your leg?” Marc asked.
    â€œMy leg?” The pain, I realized, had dissipated. Just since Tim’s call. “The chiropractor’s helping,” I said, to say something.
    â€œDid she say anything about running?”
    â€œYeah, she said probably in a few weeks. I’m skeptical but I’ll see how I feel.”
    â€œWhy don’t you go to stay with Mary Frances?”
    â€œI’m fine ,” I said. “He has no reason to—”
    â€œBut if you are scared—”
    â€œI’m not scared.” I was defensive. And also lying.
    â€œMarc,” I said. “I’ll be fine.” I was talking very fast. “I’m going to phone the Sûreté and find out what’s going on. Tim says Lucy’s family is coming up from Toronto tonight. They want to go to the site. We’re meeting at the station in Hull tomorrow to demand action. I’ll call you tomorrow night.” The urge to hang up was so strong I made sure we actually said good-bye before I gave in to it.
    On Wednesday morning I made the brief walk from the market to the Château Laurier. Ottawa’s fairy-castle hotel, with its copper-topped roof and turrets, was home to the local CBC radio station. I let a liveried doorman hold a heavy glass door for me and made my way across the marble-floored lobby. An elegant elevator carried me up to the seventh floor, where I told my story, the bare bones version, to a reporter and her tape recorder.
    Afterwards, I bought some food in the market and headed back to the office. I sat at my computer and pretended to work. Every fifteen minutes I checked my answering machine at home for a message from Tim.
    At noon I drove back across the interprovincial bridge to the police station in Hull. There was no sign of Detective Godbout or Tim or Lucy’s family. I continued on up the highway to Chelsea. No traffic to contend with now.
    River Road finally looked like the scene of an investigation. Several dark blue sedans and a police van were parked on the shoulder. A German shepherd was being put into the back of the van. There was a police boat out on the river. The activity both relieved me and worried me.
    Two big men in tweed sports jackets were standing with Detective Godbout. They extended their hands to me in turn: Sergeant Howard Roach and his partner, Sergeant Alan Lundy.
    â€œEllen McGinn,” said Sergeant Roach. “Or should I pronounce that ‘Mc-Gin’?” He pronounced it with a soft ‘g’. “Then you could call me McScotch.” He winked. He was a tall man with a shock of white hair and a ruddy complexion. A pronounced widow’s peak disguised an otherwise receding hairline.
    â€œThat would be my preference, too,” I said. I was used to the jokes on my name. “Did they—did they find anything?” I didn’t think they would have been standing around like this if they had, but I needed to ask.
    Lundy shook his head. He was the bulkier of the two. He looked like he had been squeezed into his clothes. Under his tie, the top button of his shirt was undone, and only one of his jacket buttons was done up. He didn’t smile, but there was a kind of grim sympathy in his expression.
    â€œThe dogs have just finished a search,” said Roach. He nodded over at the van.