Ally Oop Through the Ulysses Trees

by Lenny Everson

  Cope broke off a small leafy branch. “To clean the spiders out of the hole before I sit down,” he explained. Lester said nothing.

  Inside the outhouse Cope dropped his pants, palming a note that had been stuck behind his belt, pointing his rump at Lester, and swirled the branch around the hole. He dropped it into the hole and reached to the right. His fingers found a flattish spot and he stuck a note there.

  When he left the outhouse, Lester had him stand against a tree, back to him, and went in to inspect the place. Cope kept his head straight ahead, but he watched the rock where he’d seen the boot. There was nothing,

  “Would you like breakfast?” he asked, as Lester marched him back to the cabin. “I’ll cook.” He couldn't decide if they were waiting for something or someone, or just hadn't a clue what to do now that they had a captive.

  “Breakfast?” Lester asked Sammy. “He says he’ll cook.”

  “Canned stuff,” Cope noted. “Nothing with hot sauce.” Sammy didn't smile.

  “Okay,” Lester said, still sitting in the chair, but his eyes watching all the windows. “Just let us inspect the cans first. Set them on the table.”

  While Cope was getting out a few cans and a pot, Sammy disappeared outside, either to use the toilet or to inspect the area, or both. Lester stood, leaning against the wall by the window so he could see outside without being a good target.

  He took his time. The longer he avoided going anywhere, the better off he was. Jagger might drop by, as soon as he got Laura out of bed. And maybe Tom could do something, assuming that was Tom out in the woods. Cope figured Tom was by now as much a nut case as Laura figured, and was probably convinced Cope had been hunting and spying on him. What he’d make of people with the paintball guns on their hips, Cope couldn’t imagine.

  While a mixture of canned chicken and canned potatoes was frying, Cope did some thinking. He didn’t bother to look around but he could feel eyes watching the cabin.

  "Anything to tell us?" Lester said, over breakfast. Lester and Sammy took turns eating, with one of them always watching from beside the window.

  "About what?"

  "Why you're here."

  "Nope."

  "'Bout time we got you out of here, then," Lester said.

  Cope felt the sting of the paintball on his chest, then fell sideways out of the chair.

  Within ten minutes the SEALs had him tied and into the small trunk of the Cobalt. Tom watched them go, then went inside the cabin, just as the phone rang. He ignored it.

  ***

  After Lester had cleaned evidence of their stay out of both cabins (as much as he could – he didn’t trust Sammy, for whom tidiness wasn’t a virtue), and put the paintball guns into the back seat, he joined Sammy in the Cobalt. “Now what, asshole?” Lester said, as Sammy was backing the car out of the driveway in the morning light and turning it towards Brighton.

  “Me asshole; you moron. Now what the hell do we do? Somebody’s going to miss the motherfucker sooner or later.” Sammy scowled his most famous scowl.

  “Well, Sammy, you’ve got a point there. Let’s not get into what we could have done if we’d had more time. But this guy has to be got out of the way.”

  “Dump him in the woods?”

  “Killing him would be a big mistake, I think. Even if we make it look like an accident, they’d be suspicious.”

  “Not to mention against specific orders.”

  “There is that,” Lester acknowledged. “There is that. And he’s supposed to be on our side. More or less, like most Canadians.”

  “You think? This isn’t Afghanistan here.”

  “Well, yeah, that was always a bit doubtful. Wait till the U.S. needs Canadian water, then we’ll see what side they’re on. Where we going? Not back to the boat?”

  “Where else?” Sammy slowed.

  “Anyplace else. The moment they know he’s missing, where do you think they’ll look first?”

  Sammy pulled the car over to the shoulder by a picnic table. “You got any better ideas?”

  “Patricia’s place. Algonquin Island. Toronto.”

  Sammy laughed. “Dammit, that’s good. Serve her right. Toronto.” But after he was out on the 401, dodging trucks, he asked, “How long’s our cargo going to be asleep?”

  “We’ll stop just this side of Toronto and give him a green one. That’ll keep him out long enough.” Lester directed them into the take-out of a Tim Horton’s, so Sammy could get enough chocolate donuts to keep him sentient. For himself, a coffee and a bagel.

  “Which of us carries him onto the ferry?” Sammy raised his eyebrows.

  “That’s a problem. Maybe I’ll try one of those purple balls. Should make him woozy enough that we can pretend he’s a drunk friend.”

  “Sounds dicey.”

  “Easier than fighting Taliban.”

  “You’ve got a point there.”

  At the Courtland interchange, they stopped in the parking lot of an abandoned restaurant. Sammy opened the trunk carefully, but Cope had only got one arm free by that time, and the knife missed Sammy’s throat by a bit. “Nasty, nasty,” Sammy said, and squeezed a purple paintball under Cope’s nose. He poked Cope in the solar plexus, and after a minute Cope inhaled deeply and passed out again. Sammy took the knife.

  “All okay?” Lester asked when Sammy got in. Lester had moved to the driver’s seat.

  “No problem. Patricia’s going to like this guy.” Sammy put the knife in the glove compartment. Toronto was a sea of lights as they drove down the Don Valley Parkway, the glow brightening the sky and every lit apartment window having a story almost as unique as having an intelligence agent in one's trunk.

  They parked the car in the underground garage in the same building as the Piazza Manna. When they were sure there was no one within view, Lester opened the trunk. Cope opened his eyes, then closed them again. “Fuck,” he whispered, and threw up.

  “Think he’s faking it?” Sammy asked, ready to do whatever was necessary to keep them from being taken by surprise.

  “Watch,” Lester said, touching a corner of Cope’s eyelid. There was no movement. “An old trick. If there’s no twitch, he’s out of it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Always good to know when the bad guys are faking it. Caught out a couple of Taliban that way. Hoist him out.”

  “Why not you?”

  “I’m the old and wise one, Grasshopper. You’re the dumb muscle.”

  “Is that why you never wanted my help when you were checking out a bomb?”

  “It’s because you have a tendency to fart just when I need total silence. I’d be dead if you were around when I was defusing an IED.”

  Sammy hauled Cope out, and they got him standing enough to walk him to the elevator, across the street, and onto the ferry. The guy selling tickets seemed to take in stride two guys helping another onto the boat. Perhaps it was because Lester looked so much like a store clerk ready for retirement.

  They showed up at Patricia’s place and she let them in without comment, Sammy steered Cope downstairs, tied Cope securely, then went back to join the others in the living room. It was not a happy gathering, so Sammy and Lester caught the first ferry in the morning, and were back in Brighton, at the marina, by ten.

  ****

  Chapter 7: September 19

  There's an early morning rain, then mixed clouds and a steady west wind for the rest of the day.

  Two Days after Button Day

  Toronto

  On the Mainland and on the Islands

  Gabriel Dumont was, if anything, just a little beyond dazed. He’d left the mission alone after breakfast and followed the streets toward the tallest buildings, arriving an hour later at Dundas Square. For a while he just sat on a bench and watched people, but overload was setting in rapidly. He’d crossed the prairies and the ocean, but had no experience with this. He’d figured out traffic lights fairly quickly, and now watched people go by, hoping to make sense of the rest of the cit
y.

  A man went by carrying two new mops under one arm. Why would anybody need two mops, Gabe wondered. The question at least gave him a break from trying to make sense of it all. From the bits of conversation he picked up, it was pretty obvious that people were people, even if the topics of their conversation had changed over the years. That relieved him. He determined that if he ever saw another person carrying two brooms, he’d ask that person about it. It gave him an objective, a silly one, but one which he realized was better than having no objective at all, other than avoiding people trying to give him religious pamphlets.

  A middle-aged woman walked up to him, and said, "You know you'd look a lot better without a beard. You'd look a lot younger."

  Gabe shrugged. "God has a beard. Jesus had a beard." The woman scowled and left. A homeless man eyed Gabe, then shook his head and moved on. All this wealth, Gabe thought, and they let people live under bridges. What a place.

  That’s when he saw the young woman with red hair and bright blue dress again. She saw him, walked over, and stopped in front of him, as she’d done the day before. This time she didn’t hesitate. “You,” she said, smiling, “need shade and peace.”

  “Well, I can’t deny that.” Gabe said. “But I suspect those things are going to cost more money than I have.”

  “I’ll find you a patron. I am Olnya Light. Come with me.” She started to turn, but came back when Gabe didn't move off his bench. "Don't you trust me?"

  "I went into a Cheyenne village once. I thought I knew what they were about, but I sat and watched long enough to learn how little I knew. They call me Gabriel Dumont."

  "You learning anything?" Olnya tapped her foot.

  "They had cars before I died, so I'm not surprised they improved them. And I suspect those little things they talk into are telephones. What's that?" He pointed.

  "Guy in a Spiderman outfit."

  "Religious thing?"

  Not really." She waited. "So how much longer do you want to sit here?"

  "I guess I'm about done."

  "Don't you care where I'm taking you?"

  Gabe shrugged. "Being dead once makes one a bit more casual." He followed her as she turned and walked south, dodging among the people gracefully. Gabe looked up occasionally, but mostly watched the people.

  Five blocks later they came to a stop inside the lobby of a large building. “What kind of place is this kind of place,” Gabe asked, looking around and ignoring the people staring at a long-haired guy in fringed buckskin.

  “A hotel. For visitors to stay in.”

  “We’re… I’m supposed to stay here?”

  “Nope. We’re waiting for someone.”

  “You must know some rich people, then.” Gabe discovered his feet hurting a bit from walking on concrete, and sat down.

  A few minutes later a small, dapper man with a high forehead stepped out of a little door to one side. “Stay here,” Olnya said, and walked up to the guy. He gave her a slightly pained look, but didn't try to avoid her. "You looking for a dead guy named Dumont?" she asked.

  Darkh Blood, ghost hunter, looked around, a bit stunned to meet someone who didn't want to pour her life story out for him. He spotted Gabe sitting in a dark chair. "Got a call last night," he said. "A, uh, friend of mine, Janet, she said her ghost group conjured up Gabriel Dumont. In the flesh." He looked at Gabe again. "They think it's a hoax, but…." He looked back, but the girl was gone. After a moment, he walked over to Gabe, who stood as he approached. They were the same height, but Gabe was much stockier.

  "I suppose you have something to tell me," Darkh said, holding out his hand.

  "Not a thing." Gabe shook the stranger's hand. He saw the other guy's eyes brighten a bit.

  "That's great. That's fine. I'm Darkh Blood, hunter of ghosts."

  "Gabriel Dumont, Métis leader once. Are they still looking for me?"

  "Not that I know of. Anyway, you're not as famous as Riel."

  "Louis. Nutcase who tried to sell western Canada to the Americans. That's how they know him?"

  Darkh shook his head. "Hero of the west. Almost a father of confederation."

  Gabe looked at the ceiling. "God, I wish I'd got his press agent." He looked around again for Olnya. "Can we find someplace quieter, Mr. Blood?"

  "Ah, yes, of course, Mr. Dumont. Would you like to take the ferry to the islands with me?"

  "Sounds just fine. I owned a ferry once. I'll follow you."

  It took them twenty minutes to get to the ferry. At the ticket booth, Gabe stood waiting. When Darkh looked up, Gabe said, "I have no money, Mr. Blood."

  "That's logical, I suppose." Darkh paid for both of them. "How do you eat and where do you sleep?"

  "Spent the first night in a ravine with some guy from Newfoundland, which I gather is now part of Canada. Last night at the mission. Food's not great, but it's better than nothing.”

  They watched the city. "It's amazing," Gabriel Dumont said. "Who would have thought?"

  "You, sir, ran a ferry?"

  "For a few years Madeline and I ran a ferry across the South Saskatchewan, when it wasn't too frozen or too fast. We had a store on one side. Madeline taught school at Batoche." He looked at the city and sailboats in the bay. "Little ferry, not like this one. Lots of horses."

  "I suppose."

  "That's the strangest thing about being in this time. I never pictured a world without horses."

  "Or buffalo?"

  "The buffalo were pretty well gone before I died. The river never stopped, though. Or the prairie wind."

  "Why'd you leave it?"

  "Had a war to attend."

  "You hungry?" Darkh inspected the man next to him. "Ghosts supposed to eat?"

  "There were always stories about windigos. Supposed to eat people who didn’t watch themselves. Werewolves. But ghosts – real ghosts don't eat. Everybody knows that. I must be in the zombie category." Gabe watched as another ferry passed them, going back to Toronto. "I don't know what I am or why. You called yourself a hunter of ghosts. I doubt that they're edible, at least from my experience. Sorry I'm not the right kind of ghost, but easier to hunt, I guess. And yes, I could use a good meal."

  When they got to the Rectory Café, Olnya was there at a table on the deck, wearing a purple dress with a wide green belt. The two men sat at her table and ignored her. Gabe puzzled over the menu, so Darkh ordered Ontario Bacon Cheddar Burgers for both of them. Olnya ordered an Organic Baby Leaf Salad for herself.

  Gabe inspected the burger, and tasted it. He smiled his thanks. Then he nodded at Olnya. "This your woman?" he asked Darkh.

  "Never saw her before today."

  "Not your wife, then?"

  Darkh shook his head. "Divorced for ten years now. You Métis do much divorcing?"

  "Not officially."

  "My wife made lists for me. I'd lost my job, so I stayed home with the kids while she worked. She used to draw up lists so I wouldn't forget what to do."

  "Sounds organized."

  "Lots of lists."

  "Did you need them?" Dumont inspected the Potato Scallion Bun.

  "No doubt about that. Each morning she'd show me the list and go over the items one by one, to encourage me. She'd phone me later to make sure I'd picked up the kids or cleaned the taps."

  "Mmm."

  "I never got things done. I guess I should have paid closer attention to the lists…" Darkh looked away. "I needed the lists, but they unmanned me."

  "I hid Madeline on an island after the battle at Batoche," Gabe said. "We went to Montana because there was a bounty on my head."

  Darkh watched him, without saying anything.

  "When the winter came, Madeline would read poetry in English, by the fire. She had the cough then. We both knew what that meant." Gabe tilted his head. "You still have the consumption here?"

  "A bit. Mostly cured."

  "She read some Shelley, and Wordsworth, trying to translate it into Cree and French for me. It didn't make much sense. I sang her Bla
ckfoot songs sometimes. Our last winter."

  "Did you see her in the afterlife?"

  Gabriel Dumont shrugged. "One moment I was trying to get my old guy lungs to take another breath; the next I was sitting in a chair in Toronto. Sorry I don't know more." Both men looked at Olnya, but she said nothing.

  "That's okay. I finally saw a ghost, a real ghost, last night," Darkh Blood said suddenly. The other two looked at him in silence. "Rademuller," the ghost hunter said. "He's supposed to be the most famous ghost on the islands. A German guy, the first keeper of the lighthouse on Gibraltar Point. Moonshiner; lost his head in 1812."

  "And you saw him?" Olnya spoke up at last.

  "Well," said Darkh, "I was going to contact my friends at the Toronto Parapsychological Society, but instead I ran into some people from the Halton Paranormal Group. I guess someone told them there were ghosts on the island.' He looked around. "They had video cameras and K2 meters – the works."

  "Then?"

  "We got to the lighthouse at 11:30," Darkh said. "He was on his hands and knees, moving around the grass."

  "And it was a ghost for sure?" Gabe asked.

  "You believe in ghosts?" Darkh squinted at the Métis.

  Gabe shrugged. "Never saw one definitely, but there were a lot of guys I'd trust my life with that told me they did."

  "Well, this was a ghost. For one thing, you could see through him if you looked hard enough. And it was missing a head."

  The others nodded.

  "His head," Darkh said, "was a stone's throw away, moving its mouth but making no noise."

  "You couldn't get them together?" Olnya asked.

  "Tried. None of us figured out how to do it." The Halton people were really starting to freak out, especially when the meter didn't show a thing and they could see the ghost crawling around. One guy stuck his hand into the ghost's leg. It went right through."

  There was a long silence, broken when Darkh's phone rang. It was a woman he didn't know, named Laura Singer, calling from Brighton. "I was researching a UFO story," she began.

  "I think you want my friend Clyde Books," Darkh said. "He's supposed to be in Brighton. I do ghosts; he does space aliens."

  "He is here. He gave me your name."

  "And you want to tell me your life story."

  There was a pause. "Actually, not today. I wonder if you'd do a favor for me."