Page 60 of Not a Word

“I had a very serious conversation with him. I believed that, as a doctor, he would understand the negative health effects of having Drāno poured down one’s throat.”

Catherine felt a chill.

“I thought that prospect would prove persuasive, but our good doctor found making money on the side as addictive as some allege our Oxy-Mirac to be. The police, I became more convinced, were getting ready to pounce. The publicity from an arrest would have reinforced negative perceptions that our groundbreaking medication was attracting the attention of the illegal drug trade.”

“You paid him another visit.”

He weighed how much more to say. “Our doctor was an avid fisherman. Liked to get away on weekends, by himself. Had a small aluminum boat he would take out. In a little boat like that, a person can lose their balance fairly easily. And you’d be surprised how few people like to wear a lifejacket.” He paused, then added. “A real tragedy. Very sad.”

Catherine had a question she could not bear to utter.

He flashed a smile. “Anyway, I enjoy what I do.”

For the first time, she felt frightened of this man named Crane. And something else. What was it? Enamored. That was it. Just the kind of word he might use.

Tamp those feelings down, she told herself. She had the gun. He’d taught her how to use it. There was no reason to see him again.

“Another lesson next week?” he asked as he pulled up in front of her house.

“Okay,” she said.

That was the one she should have taken a pass on.

After, he invited her back to his place. He lived in a sprawling waterfront, tenth-floor Toronto condo. A stunning view of Lake Ontario and the airport on a cluster of small islands just off the city’s shoreline.

A celebration, he said, of her progress.

“Wow,” Catherine said upon entering his place. Exposed beams and ductwork, brick walls adorned with massive abstract paintings. It was basically one huge room, except for an enclosed bathroom. Kitchen area flowing into the living space, which in turn expanded into the bedroom area.

She wandered the apartment, spotted a framed photo of a girl, probably about eight or nine years old. Catherine held it up.

“Your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“She’s beautiful.”

Crane smiled, but it struck Catherine as sad. Wandering farther, she ran her finger along the spines of some shelved books. Multiple encyclopedia sets. Brittanica, Funk & Wagnalls, World Book. Sets by publishers Catherine had never heard of. Some in foreign languages. All neatly arranged and in alphabetical order.

“It’s like a college library,” she said. “I’ve never seen so many reference books.”

“I like to know things,” Crane said, opening the stainless steel door to one of two large refrigerators. He brought out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and went to work twisting out the cork.

“You don’t have any fiction,” she said, still checking out the shelves. “No novels. Not one.”

He filled two champagne flutes and approached. “I don’t care about things that are made up,” he said.

She took her flute by the stem as he handed it to her. Tapped his glass to hers. “To my star pupil.”

She took no time emptying her glass and allowed him to refill it. Crane suggested a softer seat and steered her to an L-shaped sectional. They went into the corner, Crane at one angle, Catherine at the other, their knees touching, within sight of the king-size bed not twenty feet away.

Wordlessly, Crane put his flute on the coffee table, pried Catherine’s gently from her fingers and placed it next to his, then leaned in and put his mouth on hers. She responded tentatively at first, unsure how enthusiastic to seem. She had to know this was coming, and if she didn’t want it to happen, why had she accepted the invitation to come up here?

Because, she told herself, some part of her wanted to step outside her life, to walk that emotional tightrope, but now that the moment had arrived, now that he was pushing her down onto the couch, she wasn’t sure.

But could you say no to a man like Dalton Crane? He hadn’t fully revealed himself to her, but there were plenty of hints. He was more than a fixer.

He was a killer.