by Unknown
“We deserve it, Helen. You’ve always been my biggest supporter and my biggest fan. Couldn’t have accomplished all we have if we weren’t in it together.”
“Aw…that’s so nice. But, just think—that amazing sculpture of yours is going to be on display for the whole world to see. It’ll bring tears to the eyes of all the old draft-dodgers.”
Willy thrust a triumphant fist into the air. “Yes! Some accolades for standing up for peace. Finally.”
He turned and started down the stairs of the verandah.
“Oh, Willy, what happened with those two boys who came by the other day? Did you pay them to haul that stuff away?”
He stopped halfway down the stairs and turned back to face her. “Haven’t paid them yet. They’ll be back to take the stuff away, though. I already showed them what I want hauled out of there.”
Helen smiled. “Okay, make sure they don’t take away that sculpture!”
She pointed down at his hand. “What’s in that pouch you’re carrying?”
“Just some documents I need to give to the lawyer, hon—legal stuff.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, no. You stay here on the verandah and have a fresh pitcher of lemonade waiting for me when I get back. I’ll need if after a hot walk there and back.”
“Why don’t you take the car? At least you’ll have a few moments of air conditioning.”
Willy shook his head. “No, his office is just down there on Baker Street. No big deal. I can handle the heat, especially knowing I have your lemonade to look forward to.”
“Okay, I’ll have it ready. Do you feel like barbecuing steak tonight?”
“Yum—sounds good to me. Could you do me one little favor, though?”
“Anything, darling.”
“Could you leave the cinnamon out of the next batch of lemonade?”
Chapter 22
They were watching from inside an air-conditioned Jeep Cherokee. It was a 2015 model, shiny black, equipped with every possible option. The SUV’s engine was running as the three of them watched Willy Carson walk down the street.
Brody pointed. “There he go. Only a few minutes ta go now. We’ll wait till he close ta the hostel.”
Matt giggled. “This gonna be good!”
The third man, a guy named Aaron, grunted. “He doesn’t look that tough.”
“Oh, you ain’t seen nothin. He mus be able ta turn it on an off. It wuz amazin.”
Aaron grumbled. “I’ll take your word for it. But—one thing is certain, that big house of his is worth a fortune. The man is rich, you were right about that.”
Brody was sitting in the passenger seat, and Matt was bouncing up and down in the back. Brody turned to face Aaron, the owner of the shiny black Cherokee.
“You foun that news broadcast thin on yer computer—so you know how famous he is round here. He not a normal target.”
“No, Brody, you’re right. I think we have a good mark here—an opportunity we can’t miss. I’m glad you boys agreed that we needed to think a bit bigger. Opportunities like this don’t come along too often.”
Brody stared at his new friend in admiration. He loved the way Aaron talked. Very articulate—he’d clearly received the type of education that Brody could have only dreamt of. And, he didn’t come from a violent drug addicted family the way Brody had, either. He could tell that it made a big difference.
But, he was no doubt a bad dude, more because he chose to be bad instead of having it chosen for him. He’d done some time in Kingston Penitentiary for manslaughter—was released ten years ago for good behaviour. Since then, he’d been dealing in drugs and had participated in several lucrative armed robberies, home invasions, and two kidnappings.
Every one of his capers had gone well, except for the kidnappings. He hadn’t been caught, but hadn’t collected anything either. The victims were released unharmed—well, Aaron had said something about ‘unharmed’ being a relative term, but Brody didn’t know what the fuck that meant.
Everything they knew about Aaron had come from Aaron’s mouth, but Brody believed him. Didn’t think he was bullshitting. He seemed sincere and actually quite brilliant. Brody admired smart people—wished he’d had more education, because he thought of himself as smart. Just hadn’t reached his potential yet.
Brody and Matt had met Aaron at a bar in Castlegar several nights ago. Brody had lost count how many nights ago that was, as well as how many beers he’d consumed. But, what else was new?
Aaron owned an old farmhouse on twenty acres of land, off highway 3A between Castlegar and Nelson. Brody and Matt had stayed with him ever since that night at the bar. And, they’d talked. Talked a lot.
Aaron told them the history of the area he was living in. He’d bought his farmhouse from a Doukhobor couple a few years ago for half a million dollars. Brody whistled when he heard that dollar amount. He couldn’t even dream that big, let alone count that high.
Brody hadn’t wanted to sound stupid, but he forced himself anyway to ask Aaron, “What da fuck is a Doukhobor?”
Apparently, as Brody remembered it, they originated in Russia back in the 1600s. They were a kind of Christian religious sect that believed in some shit about a peaceful life, communal living, and hard work. Brody remembered that their motto was ‘Toil and a Peaceful Life.’
Aaron said that they were being persecuted in Russia for their beliefs, and for not agreeing to pledge allegiance or some shit like that. So, they got into trouble with some Tsar called Nicholas. By the late 1800s, they began moving out of Russia, and most of them migrated to the West Kootenay area of British Columbia, Canada.
They became important contributors to the B.C. economy, particularly with agriculture, and they were quiet and peaceful little nerds. Brody laughed when he heard all this—reminded him of the Jim Jones cult mass suicide down in Guyana years ago.
Aaron had patiently corrected him on that—saying that it wasn’t that kind of cult. They were good people who believed in peace and living a simple life. The food in their restaurants was to die for, and they protected each other to their deaths. Aaron liked that.
Brody was surprised that a tough dude like Aaron seemed to appreciate these kinds of people. So, Brody decided he could appreciate them, too.
He remembered that Aaron’s farmhouse was in an area called Shoreacres, and the dirt road to his house was off a drag called Doukhobor Road. So, the area was obviously affected in a big way by their influence if they could have a major road named after them.
Brody was jarred out of his little daydream by Matt pounding on the back of his seat. “Is worked, is worked! He headin fer the yout hostel!”
Aaron turned to Brody. “Tell your friend in the back to shut the fuck up. He’s getting on my nerves.”
Brody swiveled his head to the rear and held up a fist. “Matt, you heard him. Shut up. If you don calm down, you gonna blow this fer us all.”
Matt pouted and lowered his head. Brody turned back and stared out through the front windshield, and watched Willy Carson make his way up Baker Street.
In a soft, calm voice, Aaron said, “Okay, it’s working to plan. He’s well away from the house. Time for you and Matt to do your thing. I’ll pull around into the back alley.”
* * * * *
Willy wished he’d accepted Helen’s advice and taken the car.
God, it was hot.
It felt as if someone was pointing a hairdryer at his face. A sweaty breeze that did nothing at all to relieve the swelter—in fact, it made it worse.
As he walked along Baker Street, he was barraged with greetings. People were coming up and shaking his hand, clapping him on the back, shouting their congratulations. He knew he was a popular figure in town, but that TV news broadcast had propelled him to new heights.
Willy figured that, at this point of his fame, he could probably easily run for mayor and win the damn job. Beat that sleazy little wimp, Murray Hinton, hands down. He smiled to himself.
The farther he walked up Baker Street, the fewer people he knew. By the time he reached the youth hostel, he was in foreign territory. The street was practically empty, except for a few grungy-looking characters hanging around the front of the hostel.
Transients just passing through—looking for some peace and inspiration in the mountains for a few nights. Not really troublemakers; just kids that probably looked dirtier than they really were.
Most of the teens and young adults who passed through Nelson in the summer were from the big cities—and they hitchhiked and backpacked their way from town to town. Smoked a few joints along the way, drank a few beers, and partied with some of the locals in each town they visited. All frivolous, harmless fun.
Willy looked inside the garbage can, then took a seat on the bench in front of the hostel. The two scum had told him to put the five thousand dollars in a bag, but Willy decided to use a pouch instead. Figured he would have looked kind of strange walking up Baker Street with a brown paper bag. Also, Helen would never have believed he was taking documents to the lawyer in a bag.
He looked at his watch. It was already five minutes after four o’clock. The boys were late. He got up, walked over to the garbage can, and stole another glance inside—hoping no one he knew noticed him doing that. He felt like a homeless bum.
Nope—definitely no envelope in there.
Maybe the boys got scared and abandoned the extortion? He hoped.
Willy decided he’d give it fifteen more minutes, then just head home for a nice glass of lemonade; hopefully without the cinnamon.
* * * * *
Helen was busy stirring a fresh pitcher of lemonade when she heard the doorbell. She ran from the kitchen, thinking that her dear forgetful husband had left his keys behind as he usually did.
She opened the door and was shocked to see the two disheveled figures standing on the porch. Not as shocked as she was the first time she saw them, but shocked instead because she wasn’t expecting them.
“Oh, hello, boys. I thought you were my husband. Are you looking for Willy? He’s out right now.”
The taller boy smiled. “No, Miz Carson. We jus here ta haul way sum stuff your husban show us in the grage.”
Helen smiled back. He seemed pleasant enough, despite looking rough. She felt kind of sorry for the poor lad. He obviously couldn’t speak very well, but he was trying. His friend standing behind him looked a bit frantic—bouncing from one foot to the other. He couldn’t seem to stand still. Helen had seen this before—drugs. She shrugged.
“Okay, I didn’t know you were coming by. But, if Willy has shown you what he wants you to take, then it’s fine with me. You’ll have to come back again for payment though. I don’t have any money in the house.”
The tall boy nodded. “Thas no problum, Miz Carson. We cum back.”
“Come on in, then. I’ll get the keys to the studio and we’ll go out through the back.”
“Studio?”
“Oh, that’s what Willy calls it. He’s an artist. It’s never been used as a garage.”
“I see.”
Helen led the boys to the back of the house and pulled the keys off the hanger. She opened the back door and headed out to the studio. She could hear the footsteps of the boys behind her.
She opened the door and ushered them inside.
“Okay, there you have it. You know which stuff he wants you to take, so go ahead and do your work. Do you have a truck?”
“Yeah, Miz Carson. In the back alley.”
Helen felt a bit uncomfortable with all of this, but she trusted her husband. If he had hired these boys for this job, then he must know what he’s doing.
She turned and started to head back to the house. “Once you finish, you’ll probably be thirsty. Come up to the verandah and you can have some lemonade. I’ve just made a fresh…”
Helen was cut off mid-sentence by an arm that wrapped roughly around her throat. She tried to muster a scream, but that was smothered by some kind of material that was shoved into her mouth. Then, a gunny sack went over her head and she could sense them tying it tight with drawstrings.
Next, her hands were pulled behind her back and bound together with something. It was tight. Too tight.
Suddenly, Helen was spun around and shoved roughly toward the back of the studio. Then, out the door and onto the gravel alleyway. She could feel the stones kicking up underneath her feet.
She heard a car door open and another voice, a more articulate one.
“Throw her in the back. We have to get out of here fast.”
They dragged her along the gravel. The sound of a tailgate opening. Then, she was lifted into the air and tossed inside the vehicle like a sack of garbage, her head banging against the roofline as she went flying in.
Suddenly, Helen heard something else. A gate squeaking open and a dog barking.
Then a young woman’s voice, one she recognized. “Hey, what’s going on there?”
The tall one’s voice. “Aaron!”
Then, another voice she recognized. A man’s. “Sharon! What’s wrong?”
Helen now heard two sets of footsteps along the gravel, along with the distinctive sound of a dog straining and panting against a leash.
The man she presumed was Aaron yelled out. “Forget them! Let’s get out of here! Get in the car, both of you!”
“But…”
“No buts! Get the fuck in the car!”
The last sounds Helen heard were the tailgate slamming shut, two of the car doors opening and closing, then the wheels of the vehicle spinning on the loose gravel as it began its escape down the alley.
Chapter 23
It made him want to cry. But, he couldn’t—he had to be strong for his dad right now.
Willy was doing enough crying for the both of them, anyway.
To Wyatt, it felt as if someone had reached inside his chest and ripped out his heart.
He watched silently as his father sat sobbing on the sofa in the living room, a room that seemed emptier now than it ever had before.
Wyatt’s eyes wandered around the room, taking in all of the little treasures that his mother loved. The ornamental book-ends, the dried flower arrangements that she’d made herself, the Tiffany lamps sitting on each of the end tables, and the old phonograph cabinet standing on display in a corner of the room as a remembrance of simpler days past.
He glanced up at their wedding photo on the mantle—the handsome couple who looked happier than any two people could ever hope to be. Happy and confident, ready to take on the world, looking forward to their new peaceful life in Canada. Embracing a life that didn’t involve non-stop news headlines of the war in Vietnam. A life that didn’t threaten that young men and women could once again be drafted into sacrificing their lives for the pursuit of geo-political chess moves in a faraway land. A land that no one understood, or even gave a shit about.
They didn’t want a life like that for their child, for anyone’s child. They’d participated in protests at home to no avail. Had attended rallies to no avail. No one in government listened, no one cared—all they wanted was that the protestors don uniforms, pick up rifles, and get over to the humid jungles of the Far East and kill people for reasons they didn’t understand. There was no need to understand, no need to ask questions; the only need was that they obey. And, be prepared to die for whatever cause they were told was honorable.
Wyatt admired his parents for what they did—and for what all the draft-dodgers did. They were braver than the ones who stayed behind and accepted the indignity of being told their lives weren’t important; in actual fact, not much more important than the Asians they were being told they had to kill.
Wyatt knew his parents had to endure being ostracized by friends and family back in the States. They were branded as cowards, un-Christian, and unpatriotic. It was as if they weren’t even entitled to have a say in how they lived the only life that God ha
d given them.
Eventually, people came around to their way of thinking, but that didn’t happen until many years after the war; when everyone realized that they’d been lied to on so many fronts, that elaborate deceptions had been engineered to garner support for an unpopular war.
And, the final nail in the coffin came when the “peace” that was negotiated wasn’t really a peace after all. It was just a ruse so America could leave Vietnam and save face. Peace with honor.
Right after they left, the Communists from the north overran the south, and all the American lives that had been sacrificed for years to prevent exactly that from happening were deemed in vain. It was a war that, sadly, was never intended to be won.
Eventually, after having to endure years of shame and virtual banishment from their own country, they were invited home again. A nation in pain had forgiven and forgotten. Wyatt’s parents, all the protesters, and all the draft-dodgers, were exonerated. And forgiven—sort of.
Until the next war. Luckily, the draft had never been reconstituted again since the Vietnam war. Maybe that was one lesson a nation had finally learned, and the American ex-pats living in Nelson were proud that they might have had something to do with that.
But, very few wanted to go home again. The definition of “home” had changed for them. Home for them was the refuge that had supported them, the refuge that had given them a feeling of safety and security.
Wyatt glanced down at his dad. Right now, he knew that he wasn’t feeling too safe and secure. He was worried sick, and with good reason.
Willy was slumped over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Sobbing, and moving his head slowly from side to side.
It was 6:00 in the evening, and Willy had been too distraught so far to answer many questions. He’d been vague about why he was out at the time. All indications were that the kidnapping had occurred between 3:45 and 4:30. The times when Willy had left the house and arrived back.
The living room was full of officers, all looking for evidence of someone having been in the house. So far, they’d found nothing. Wyatt had assigned several others to scour the studio and the alleyway, and knock on the doors of neighbors.
