The Vanishing Track

by Stephen Legault

  “I’ll need you with me this morning, and your partner. I want to see if we can find this guy at the Carnegie Centre. If that doesn’t work, we’ll do a sketch. Circulate it around.” Lane stood up and stretched. “It was Winters, right?” she said, looking at him.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d find a girl a cup of coffee, would you?”

  SOMETHING WASN’T RIGHT, thought Cole. He sat in the back of the cab, heading toward his downtown office, having showered and changed at his home. It was going to be a big day. Mayor Don West was making an announcement at eleven that morning about his plan for the Downtown Eastside. It was being sold to the media, and a weary public, as a celebration. Cole guessed that the End Poverty Now Coalition would be out in full force, and so would the riot police.

  And Denman had called with the news that Marcia Lane’s Task Force had found two bodies in Burrard Inlet, off the end of the Centennial Pier. He had read the piece in the paper to Cole over their cells. The victims were wrapped in tarps and folded inside shopping carts.

  Coming on the same day as news of the bodies and Nancy Webber’s front page story about the Lucky Strike Manifesto, and its signatories, the mayor’s announcement would be anything but a celebration.

  But it wasn’t these things that were vexing Cole. An image was lodged in his head that he couldn’t shake. Something he had seen—something just in passing—that was now gnawing at him. He watched the city roll past as the cab wove its way downtown. He closed his eyes to try and recall the image that was tickling the corners of his mind. It was a photograph or a still image of some sort, but he couldn’t quite see the faces.

  JULIET ATE HER breakfast in a quiet house. Denman had left early to talk with the merchants along Gore Street before their memory of any assault the night before faded. Sean was in the hospital. She toasted a bagel and poured a cup of coffee, then sat on the back steps of the home listening to the birds. She took a bite of her bagel and heard the radio announcer say that the news was up next. It was already nine. Time to get her day underway. She stood to turn the radio up to listen when the phone on the wall next to the back door jangled. She picked it up.

  “Juliet, it’s Denman.”

  “Couldn’t stand to not hear my voice for even a couple of hours? How sweet . . .”

  He cut her off. “It’s not that. Look, I’m so sorry. They’ve found two bodies. I’m on my way to the VPD right now.”

  THE MORNING WAS gray, a light rain pattering against the window of the hospital room where Sean lay. His bed was next to the window. Being able to watch as the morning dawned was a relief. He hadn’t slept at all that night. With seven others in the room, Sean was constantly being awakened as his roommates tossed and turned, coughed, moaned, talked in their sleep, or were woken by nurses making their rounds. All he wanted to do was check himself out of the hospital and get back to his routine.

  Things were working out pretty well, he mused. Though the tussle with The Indian had been unexpected, at least it was a thrill. It had given him a jolt of excitement despite the pain of his injuries. He had liked it so much that he might try to incorporate that into his arrangements from time to time. Set one of his guests free to run, or to fight back, so he could try and recreate that adrenaline rush.

  He touched the bandages on his face and forehead, and felt the stiffness in his back and shoulders. Before any new arrangements could be made, he’d have to finish up with his ongoing commitments. The shelter beneath the woman’s house was getting full, and he’d have to make some room there before he could welcome a new guest to his own special sanctuary for the homeless. If he wasn’t already dead, The Indian would have to be taken care of before Sean could bring anybody else in out of the cold.

  He sat up and rubbed his hands and arms. That lawyer would want to talk with him again. Sean didn’t really want to see him. He thought it would be best if he was gone before the lawyer returned.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and waited. The rain began to fall harder against the clear pane.

  “SAY THAT AGAIN?” asked Pesh on the phone.

  “There were two men. I only saw one of them at first. He was just standing across the street from my apartment. He wasn’t trying to hide. When Cole talked to him, he attacked Cole, and then a second man joined in.”

  “What a fucking circus this is turning into. Is Cole alright?”

  “He’s fine. He cleaned their clocks.”

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “For all I know, these two guys were the cops. That’s what Cole said. The VPD is mixed up in this. We’ve exposed a senior member of the force in a conspiracy theory so big that I’d be surprised if half of City Hall and VPD still have jobs by the end of the day.”

  “Okay, well, what’s next?”

  “Tell Murray to keep on the bodies story. I’m going to brace the mayor at his little pep rally today. Have you been in touch with his office? Is he still going ahead with it?”

  “I called but couldn’t get through. I haven’t seen anything that says otherwise.”

  “Fucking ballsy.”

  “Or stupid.”

  “Either way, I’m going to be there.”

  COLE HUNG UP his office phone. He and Denman had just spoken for the fourth time that morning. Everybody was in a panic about the mayor’s planned announcement. Cole sat back in his chair, stretched his arms above his head and groaned. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something important had been right in front of him and he just couldn’t see it. He closed his eyes to try and conjure the image. Other images came into his head. The empty room on Pender, the sweet aroma of Korean food clinging to the air, the sense that people had only just been there moments before. The smell of perfume: of Beatta Nowak’s perfume. Those people now had names and faces. And now there were two bodies. While they hadn’t been identified yet, Cole couldn’t help but connect the dots.

  Cole pressed his knuckles into his eyes and blew out a breath. The stream of air rustled the papers on his desk and a few pages fluttered to the floor. He reached for them and instead knocked a small pile of files over, sending them cascading into the blue recycling bin on the floor. Maybe that was just as well. Why did he still have so much paper now that everything was electronic? He reached for the tottering remains of the stack of papers, his eyes lingering on the framed picture of Sarah behind them.

  Wow, Cole thought, that photo is really old. Need to get a new one. He reached for it, intending to wipe off the layer of dust, when his hand stopped in mid-air. His fingers began to tremble as a number of missing pieces suddenly fell together.

  BEFORE HEADING FOR the Carnegie Centre, Marcia Lane stopped at the pier. She stepped from the unmarked patrol car and stood in the pouring rain, watching two separate VPD dive teams descend into the gunmetal waters of Burrard Inlet. The pier had been cordoned off with sawhorses and yellow police tape. A bank of television cameras was contained behind a chain-link fence fifty feet from where Lane stood. She felt the ache settle into her body.

  A plainclothes detective approached. “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  “Detective, anything this morning?”

  “Nothing yet. The boys are only on their second tank and there’s a kilometer of docks and piers to search.”

  “Can we get another crew in?”

  “We’re trying to get North Vancouver to lend us some of their SAR team. I’ll have something by noon.”

  “I’d like to have another body by noon,” said Lane, turning to look at the cameras. “This thing has been fucked up right from the start. If I had another body to announce right before His Worship goes on TV to say that he’s going to solve homelessness, I wouldn’t be too disappointed.”

  The detective nodded, rain dripping from his nose.

  A cell phone chimed and both Lane and the detective reached into their coat pockets.

  “It’s me,” smiled Lane. She flipped her phone open. “Lane here.”

  “Sergeant, I’ve go
t something for you.”

  “Related?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m a little busy with this—”

  “Sergeant, it’s a missing person report that just came in.”

  “. . . Homeless?”

  “The office manager at the Downtown Eastside Community Advocacy Society just called. Beatta Nowak didn’t show up for an eight o’clock meeting. Someone went by her house and she’s not there. Her car was found by the mounted patrol in Stanley Park, near Lion’s Gate Bridge.”

  “I’m heading over to the Carnegie Centre shortly to talk with one of their volunteers. Keep me informed.” She snapped the cell phone shut. It was time to find out who exactly the two patrol officers had handed George Oliver over to.

  JULIET PUT THE phone back in its cradle. Two bodies. There would be more. Juliet felt numb. Her intent had been to go into the office, but now she just wandered around the house. Finally, she took a shower and got dressed and returned to her breakfast. She cut a fresh bagel and put it in the toaster and waited for it to pop. She stood by the back door, looking at the yard as the rain began to pound harder. She felt tears track across her face once more as she absent-mindedly stepped into the yard and felt the cool drumming of the rain. She walked into the center of the yard, her clothes becoming soaked through, the rain tickling her neck and back.

  She nearly tripped over the backpack. She looked down at it, immediately recognizing it as Sean’s. Juliet bent to pick it up and then saw the torn sleeve of a shirt on the lawn ten feet away.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  BY ELEVEN, THE RAIN DROVE sideways into the placards and banners strung between the Gore-Tex-clad arms of protesters. Their heads were bent against the wet, faces mistily reflected in the steadily growing pool covering the paving stones. Seventy-five souls stood in the courtyard of Vancouver City Hall, held back by wooden sawhorses and police officers in riot gear and black helmets that glistened in the rain, masks of implacability.

  The crowd, which had started to assemble shortly after nine, was growing agitated, anxious for anything to provide relief from the chill of the rain and the boredom. Mayor West wasn’t scheduled to make his announcement until noon. A man in a hooded black sweatshirt and dark sunglasses despite the driving rain elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. Five or six others dressed in similar fashion soon found their way alongside him. They clenched their fists and shouted at the police, taunting then, challenging them. The police maintained their implacable front.

  Behind them half a dozen members of the End Poverty Now Coalition sang an appropriated union song, making it clear to everybody that they were there to stay.

  TRISH PERRY SAT in her office overlooking the courtyard of City Hall. The mayor’s office had instructed the switchboard to redirect all media calls to the communications department. She had spoken to her mother, who lived in West Van, and to her lawyer. Now she sat and waited. She knew two calls would be coming. She just didn’t know which would be first.

  She started at the sound of a crack from the courtyard. She half stood to look down on the spectacle of protestors and police and saw a pale plume of blue smoke—someone had let off a firecracker. The police line shuffled. She gave West five minutes, if that. The weather meant the announcement would be moved inside, but some of the protesters would infiltrate. She figured he’d last five minutes, maybe less, before all hell broke loose. She was settling herself back into her chair when her phone rang and she jumped again. She looked at it, trying to see, through the beige plastic handle, which of the two calls she expected had come first.

  On the third ring she took up the receiver. “Planning, Perry.”

  “Trish, it’s Henry calling from the mayor’s office.” Henry Hogan was Chief of Staff. She felt almost relieved.

  “Don can’t make this call himself, Henry?”

  “He’s a little tied up today, Trish. I guess you understand.”

  “Hummm . . .” she said, distracted by more jostling in the courtyard below.

  “Listen, Trish, can you come and see me in the mayor’s office, please?”

  “I’ll have to check my schedule, Henry. I’ve got a pretty tight afternoon.”

  “Trish, let’s not play coy.”

  “Henry, just cut the crap. I know I’m fired.”

  SEAN LIVINGSTONE COULD hear the pop of fireworks. Somewhere someone was having a party, he thought. He stood at the corner and waited for the light, his hair matted against his forehead in the driving rain. He wore only a sweatshirt and jeans, which were now soaked through. The bandages on his face pressed tightly against his pale skin, the dark sutures beneath them showing through the fabric of the dressings. When the light changed, Sean walked purposefully toward the bus stop across the street from City Hall.

  He stood waiting for the bus that would take him back to Juliet’s place, absorbed in his own thoughts. He didn’t notice the young man across the street reach into his backpack and take out a paint-filled balloon and lob it at the line of riot police. He did look up when the crowd roared as the balloon burst against the helmet of an officer, the red paint spraying across his armor, obscuring his vision. The officer buckled from the blow and grabbed at his helmet, trying to clear his visor. The officer next to him watched the spray of red paint drip from his mask and mistook it for blood. He raised his whistle to his lips and blew. The police drew their batons and began to close the gap between them and the youths at the front of the crowd.

  Sean saw more protestors hurl paint balloons and then watched the riot police rush into the group of young men, swinging their truncheons. Several protestors fell to the ground, covering their heads, being trampled as their mates rushed to escape the black-clad riot police.

  The bus arrived and Sean stepped through the open doors.

  MARCIA LANE STEPPED through the double doors of the Carnegie Centre for the second time in two days. The presence of the two uniformed police officers accompanying her, their visors dripping with rain, their heavy coats sodden, turned a few heads. Lane stepped to the information counter just inside the doors and cleared her throat.

  “Good morning,” she said, trying not to drip on the desk. The volunteer looked up at her. “I’m Marcia Lane, VPD.” She reached into her coat pocket for her identification card. “I’d like to speak with whoever manages your volunteers.”

  “That would be Ted. He’s on the third floor,” said the volunteer. “Want me to give him a call?”

  “No,” said Lane. “We’ll just drop by.”

  She climbed the aging circular steps to the third floor, Winters and his young partner Jason French following behind. Lane inquired after Ted, and when he appeared she was pleased to see that he was a clean-cut, middle-aged man wearing a pressed button-down shirt and clean, tan docker pants. She introduced herself.

  “Sorry to trouble you like this, but it’s important. Do you know if this man is a volunteer for you here?” she asked, showing Ted the sketch of the man who had approached George Oliver.

  Ted took a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and hung them on his nose. “He looks familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen this face. But that doesn’t mean anything.” He took his glasses off. “I see so many faces. Can I show this around the office?”

  “Sure,” said Lane, handing him the sketch. She turned to the young constable. “Go and canvass the cafeteria downstairs.”

  Ted returned a few moments later. “I still think he’s familiar, but I don’t remember him volunteering here. Without a name it’s hard to say. Sometimes folks just come for a few shifts, or a week, and I forget them as soon as they’re gone. I do keep all their names, just as I would a personnel file, you know?”

  “This would have been recently. Within the last month,” said Lane.

  Ted was shaking his head. “I don’t remember this person volunteering here,” he said.

  “Would it be possible for a volunteer from the Centre to intercept a homeless man somewhere in the area and escort him back here for a meal? Is
that likely?”

  “Someone might. It’s not a normal thing our volunteers do, but I suppose if one of them came across someone in need, they might bring them here for a meal.”

  “Hold onto the sketch,” she said. “If anything comes to mind, give me a call, would you?” Lane handed him her card. He nodded, and Lane and the older constable turned back to the door and then started down the stairs. They met French coming up.

  “Anything?” she said.

  He nodded, a smile on his face. “The guy eats here nearly every day. He’s not a volunteer,” he said, a little out of breath with excitement. “He’s a . . . well, a client, I guess they call them.”

  DENMAN HAD BEEN waiting for nearly two hours when the staff sergeant finally called him over. “Listen, Mr. Scott, I really am sorry to keep you waiting this morning. It’s been nutty around here today.” The staff sergeant was a squat, powerfully built man in his mid-fifties. “Now, you’re asking about an arrest on Gore Street last evening?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a client who says that he was shopping in one of the Chinese grocery stores when two uniforms busted him up.”

  “I don’t like the sounds of that.”

  “The kid is pretty messed up. Bunch of stitches in the forehead. Black and blue. Broken nose. A real mess.”

  “Let’s see if we have any arrests on Gore last night,” said the staff sergeant as he punched in some keys on his computer screen. “I don’t have even a complaint filed on Gore last night. Are you sure it wasn’t Main Street, or Pender?”

  “No, the kid said Gore.”

  “What was his name? Let me run it that way.”

  “Livingstone, first name Sean.”

  More keys. “Well, I have this fellow in our files alright,” said the staff sergeant, looking up. “There’s nothing yesterday. Last time we saw young Mr. Livingstone was a couple of weeks ago.”