The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn Read Online Free PDF Page A

answered, I tried to match Troy Smith-Windsor’s tone. Unction has never been my strong suit, but I did my earnest best. “I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way, Troy,” I said. “But now that I have, could you tell your listeners that I appreciate their concern. And Troy, could you please tell them that, while I regret Kevin Tarpley’s death as I would regret the death of any human being, I welcome the chance to put this tragedy behind me and get on with my life. Have you got that?”
    “I’ve got it, Mrs. Kilbourn,” Troy Smith-Windsor said huskily. “And thank you.”
    “Thank you, Troy,” I said, and I hung up, proud of myself.
    My self-esteem was short-lived. When I turned, Angus was standing in the kitchen doorway. He was still wearing his pig shorts; his eyes were puffy and his dark hair was tangled from sleep.
    “Someone shot the man who killed Dad,” he said. “The woman on the radio said it happened yesterday. You knew.” A statement, not a question.
    I nodded. “Angus, you’ve been through so much already. Last night you were excited about your party. I thought the news about Kevin Tarpley would keep till morning.”
    “You should have told me,” he said.
    I reached my arms out to embrace him. He twisted away from me.
    “I’m not a kid, Mum. Last summer I went down to the library and looked up the stories about Dad. They have them on microfiche.”
    I closed my eyes and the scene was there: my son in the dimly lit microfiche room, surrounded by strangers as he watched the images of his father’s death flicker on a screen.
    “Angus, if you wanted to hear about what happened, you should have come to me.”
    His voice was exasperated. “Mum, don’t you remember what you were like then? You weren’t like you. You were like a zombie or something. I didn’t want that to happen again.”
    “It’s not going to,” I said. I put my hands on his shoulders. “Now, what do you want to know?”
    “Everything,” he said.
    He was six-foot-one, but his body was still lithe with a child’s vulnerability.
    “You’re sure about this, Angus.”
    He looked at me steadily. “I’m sure, Mum.”
    “Okay,” I said, “I’ll call Jill and get her to dig out the files.”
    Five minutes later, it was all arranged. After church, Angus and I would go to Nationtv and look at everything the network had on the Ian Kilbourn case. Hilda had already planned to take Taylor to the art gallery, so the afternoon was free. There were no obstacles. As I poured the eggs into the frying pan, I wavered between dread and anticipation. Pandora must have been unsure, too, in that split second when her hand lingered at the edge of the box.
    Few places are deader than a television station on a Sunday afternoon. A security guard watching a Mr. Fix-it show on TV waved us past the front desk. We met Jill in the corridor outside her office. She was wearing jeans and an Amnesty International sweatshirt, and she was pulling a little red wagon full of Beta tapes.
    “I hope you two know you’re taking a chance with these,” she said. “I just brought them up from the library, and Ihaven’t screened any of them. There may be things you’d rather not see.”
    “I’ll be okay,” Angus said. “Mum …?”
    “Let’s go,” I said.
    Jill started towards the elevator. “The boardroom upstairs is free. We can screen the tapes there. It’s got a fridge, Angus. They usually keep it pretty well stocked.”
    As the elevator doors closed, I turned to Jill. “Have you heard anything more about what happened at the penitentiary?”
    “Not much,” she said. “The prison officials are mortified, of course. It doesn’t do to have a prisoner killed inside a federal penitentiary, but the warden says their job is to make sure their inmates don’t get a shot at John Q. Public; they’re not set up to keep John Q. Public from getting a shot at one of their inmates. And, you know, the man has a point. Prince Albert, Saskatchewan,