by Sheena Kamal
Next to the en suite bathroom is a door that was meant to be locked but isn’t. The door has been left slightly ajar, as though the last person in here left in haste. The lock is the same on Wanda’s office, but I’m glad I don’t need to waste time with my lock-pick kit. I have the camera ready when I enter the cool, dark room.
Flicking on the lights, I stop and stare.
There is a long steel table containing lab equipment I can’t identify and several large plastic containers, lids off, where a small variety of mushrooms grow. A freezer in the corner of the room is filled with more of the same, but frozen.
I have a strong feeling these aren’t the kind of mushrooms you simply toss into your pasta.
I’m not sure what I expected, but a small-scale grow op isn’t it. I see now why it was so easy for them to slip me some hallucinogenic action, at the quantity that would be toxic enough to make me sick. Not very child friendly, is it?
It does, however, make for exciting photographic opportunities.
The memory card on the camera is full, so I make sure to take enough photos with my phone, too. Just in case. I’m about to leave the room when a call comes in from Seb. “Nora, I’ve been trying to get in touch with Leo,” he says, when I answer.
“He went to a yoga retreat. He either doesn’t have his phone with him or the battery died.” I don’t think Leo has gone without charging his phone for more than a few hours a day.
“What? Why is he at a yoga retreat?”
I sketch out the details of the case, while I turn off the lights and leave the room. “Leo hasn’t been able to find much on Vincent Sharma, but he knows he’s heard the name before.”
“He has,” Seb says. “You familiar with Hollywood House? It was a private hospital in Vancouver where, during the sixties, people with money could pay to be treated with psychedelic drugs. They’d get assessments, counseling, the works. There was a lesser-known facility in Victoria called the Wash Clinic that did the same thing, but when the Manson murders happened, that kind of research was shut down and the doctors that were interested in it were pushed to the fringes. The doctor spearheading the Wash Clinic research moved to Salt Spring Island in the late eighties to take over some property he inherited after the clinic had gone bust. His name was Clyde Washington. I interviewed him for a story on LSD a while back. I think it had something to do with Cary Grant.”
“The actor?”
“Folks were big into psychedelics back then and Hollywood was more open to it than most. But Nora, the reason I called is Leo sent a message last night asking me if I recognized the name Vincent Sharma. I only got the message this morning, but yes, yes I do know Vincent. I spoke to him once.”
“For what?”
“That interview with Washington. I’m looking through my notes right now. At the time, Vincent Sharma was his research student. He wanted to be among the new pioneers of psychedelic drug research and was about to embark on some kind of ayahuasca journey. Washington fell off my radar after the piece got killed and I never heard from Sharma again. That’s probably why Leo had trouble placing the name. I must have mentioned it in passing once or twice. Oh, one thing I do remember about Sharma was a rumor that he got into some trouble for experimenting privately, but I don’t have the details.”
“Where is Clyde Washington right now?”
“I think he died, but I’m not sure. I could look into it.”
“Yes, if you don’t mind? And could you also check to see if he has a daughter named Wanda?” My mind races. Their use of psychedelics makes sense now. And, I’m beginning to see the connection between Wanda and Vikram—or Vincent—even clearer. That their ties go deeper than young love. Vikram grew up as Vincent on Salt Spring Island and had a relationship with Wanda and, through her, to Clyde Washington.
“Sure.” Seb pauses, clears his throat. He knows better than to lie to me, but I sense he’s hiding something when he asks how Leo is doing.
“Okay, I think. I’ll ask him to give you a call when I see him.”
Now is the time to ask about what’s going on between them, but I have never pried into the particulars of their relationship before. The moment passes. Seb warns me to stay safe and says goodbye.
The thing is, he sounded as sad as Leo.
I’ve lingered here too long.
I don’t know if Leo made it into this retreat or not. I didn’t see his car outside but he could have parked elsewhere. If I knew for sure that he’s not in the building, I’d leave the way I came in, but I can’t get over the concern in Seb’s voice. Leo could be drugged. He could need my help. I can’t walk away.
There’s a door from the main apartment that leads into the building. The door has been locked from the inside so when I exit the room I make sure to leave it unlocked. I pause in the hall, hear nothing, and continue on. There are five more doors on this floor. I listen carefully at each of them, but there is no indication that anyone is here. Which leaves the staircase. I take care to walk quietly, as quick and surefooted as Trevor in the forest. At the bottom of the stairs, I follow the sound of voices. Someone is crying and though every instinct in my body tells me to get as far away from this place as possible, I move toward the voices because Leo might be in there, tripping balls.
There’s no way I’d leave him in the hands of some kind of mad scientist.
Down the hall, I come to a glassed-in studio and pull up short. The lights are dim but, from the hallway, I can still see inside. There are about eight people in the room. Leo isn’t among them. Five people, including Cheyenne, are reclining on large mediation cushions and are in the throes of their own emotions.
Vikram and Wanda are here, too, observing the others so closely they don’t even notice me. I step back into the shadows and think about what Seb has told me of the Wash Clinic and Hollywood House, with their supervised treatments that included counseling as well as dosing. The connection becomes clear now between Wanda, a trained psychologist and Vikram, said mad scientist. They may no longer be romantically involved but it’s obvious they’re still partners. They are both completely immersed in what’s happening in the room, though Vikram is paying much closer attention to Cheyenne.
When Ken Barnes came into our office to talk about the case, he’d said that Cheyenne had struggled with depression during their marriage. Depression came up again in my earlier conversation with Gary’s sister, who was concerned that he’d forgotten his medication.
I make another startling connection.
The doctor at the island hospital said a man was found to have taken ayahuasca—a potent hallucinogenic. Back when he’d been Vincent, Vikram Sharma had gone on some kind of ayahuasca journey.
What Cheyenne has found here is not only a lover, but also an unsanctioned, possibly illegal, treatment for her depression. Treatment through hallucinogenic experimentation. Possibly ayahuasca, but based on what was in the grow room, most likely psilocybin. The compound found in magic mushrooms.
This group of people came here for more than just yoga. They came here to be treated. Dosed under supervision. This is an underground iteration of the Wash Clinic and what Spring Love has been hiding from the world. They are something of a cult, but one that even I hadn’t expected. This is what they didn’t want those workers to know anything about. What they couldn’t risk any outsider seeing. But they couldn’t keep this secret from Trevor.
Standing just off the studio, in the hallway, I take a quick succession of photos of the room and am about to back away when I nudge something on the wall, a small incense holder.
It crashes to the ground. Vikram looks up.
I don’t know where Leo is, but it’s a good thing he’s not here because I’ve just run out of time. I head for the exit sign at the end of the hall, knowing that I’ve been seen by everyone in the studio, everyone in their right mind, at least, and maybe a few others who are not.
When I get outside, Trevor is nowhere to be found.
I call to him softly, but there’s n
o response. Not even near the back stairs, where I saw him last. Now I know what put that look in his eye, and what makes him so angry at Vikram’s presence in Cheyenne’s life. He must have once crept through the apartment with the scarves and the hallucinogenic mushrooms, down the stairs, into the hallway, and seen the same thing that I did in the studio. His mother’s depression treatment at work. And had no desire to see it again.
I don’t blame him. It must have been an unsettling thing for a child to see, and I’m sure the courts would agree with me.
The lodge throws dim light into the darkness and, in this, I spot the point in the trees we’d emerged from. But when I go there, still no Trevor. I hear noises behind me, voices raised.
I dial Trevor’s number. He doesn’t answer. The voices get closer. Tucked just enough inside the woods to obscure the light from my phone, I hesitate briefly, then plunge in deeper. “Trevor,” I call out. The crescent moon in the sky still sheds enough light for me to be seen if I’m not careful.
Trevor steps from the shadows, but won’t meet my eyes. “Hey.”
I go to him, but don’t dare touch him. “You alright?”
“Yeah. Is my mom okay in there?”
“She is,” I say. “Can you help me get out of here, Trevor?”
He frowns. “The quickest way is over here.” He leads me deeper into the woods for a few minutes, then we emerge further down on that private road.
An engine revs somewhere back at the retreat. I motion for Trevor to follow me, then step into the tree line and go still.
The Spring Love pickup truck peels past us, sending a spray of gravel and dust up into my eyes, but not before I catch a glimpse of Vikram in the driver’s seat. Doesn’t matter. I’m not afraid of Vikram. He can’t poison me out here. He’d have to catch me first.
What I’m not prepared for is rustling behind us. Vikram has underestimated me, yes, but in turn I have underestimated Wanda, who is standing there with a double-barreled shotgun in her hands.
Chapter 11
My hands go up. I step in front of Trevor, partially shielding him with my body. He’s gone silent, watchful. He could also be frozen at the sight of a weapon in front of him.
Wanda nods at Trevor, but addresses me. “His father sent you here?” I don’t respond, which Wanda seems to take as an affirmative, because she continues. “You know, Cheyenne suspected it, but Vik and I told her she was imagining things. We thought you were a drifter, but that woman. I swear. Sometimes she has a sixth sense.”
“Or maybe she’s concerned about her kid. Maybe some part of her realizes what you all are doing in there isn’t good for him.”
Look at me, talking about motherhood like I know all about it.
Wanda doesn’t buy my sudden expertise on the subject, either. “What we’re doing is good for Trev because it’s helping Cheyenne. She wants to get better for him. Do you know what it’s like to go your whole life with people thinking your family is crazy?”
Yeah, actually. I know what it’s like going my whole life thinking my own family is crazy. Based on what little I know of them. A mother who abandoned my sister and me, a father who died by suicide, a sister who pretends I don’t exist and a daughter . . . well, I don’t know her well enough to assess her mental health, but I’m not exactly hopeful at this point.
“I’ve heard of your dad,” I say. “I don’t think he was crazy.”
This throws off her calm some. “He wasn’t. Look, you might think you know what you saw in there, but you have no clue. My mom struggled with severe anxiety, even when she was working with my dad. She was his nurse, you know. They worked together to treat her, and others, too. People thinking their work was illegal, thinking it was wrong, it almost killed him. It did in the end, you know? After she died he experimented on himself because nobody would take a chance on his research anymore. He became . . . obsessed. His heart was bad and he still pushed himself. Vikram was there with him at the end. He was the only one who believed that what my dad was doing would help people.”
“You’re experimenting with people in there.” And the reason Vikram might have gotten in trouble for his self-experiments as a young man is because he might have learned it from his mentor.
“No! You don’t understand! This treatment works. It helps people. I won’t let anyone take that away from us again.” She glances from the camera around my neck to the space just behind me. “Come here, Trevor.”
“Put the gun down first,” I say. A shotgun is the kind of weapon with a big intimidation factor, that little old ladies use to scare away intruders and wildlife. It’s not something that should be allowed near children and I sense that Trevor is as uncomfortable with Wanda as I am. Maybe it’s the gun, or maybe it’s her. Either way, it’s not good. He hasn’t said a word since Wanda showed up.
She doesn’t listen. She opens her mouth and is about to speak when we are caught in the headlights of an approaching car. It’s the Spring Love pickup, which has turned around. Wanda freezes. I stay where I am, too, because even though she doesn’t seem particularly trigger happy, you never really know. The pickup stops in front of us. Vikram and Cheyenne approach, both shocked to see Trevor behind me.
“Trevor,” says Cheyenne, a little unsteady. “Come here.” Her pupils are dilated and her breathing is uneven. She’s sweating, even though the night air is cool. Trevor stays put. “Trevor!”
Vikram steps in. “Wanda, put the gun down.”
“Can people stop saying that? And I don’t take orders from you, Vik,” Wanda says, offended. She nods to me. “I just want to stop her. To make her listen so she won’t ruin everything. We’re helping people here and she doesn’t understand. People don’t understand! The patients that come to us, they’re desperate.”
“I know,” says Cheyenne. “That was me, remember? Nobody can take away what you and Vik have done for people like me, but you know how I feel about violence. Please, you’re scaring me.”
Oh, I see. They don’t like violence but poisoning someone is A-OK?
“You know who’s desperate?” I ask, because I’ve recently been poisoned and can’t stop myself. The teenage girl who shoved me comes to mind once more. I decide to forgive her. These people would drive anyone to violence. “Those workers you forced out because you were too scared of someone finding your little secret.” I look at Cheyenne. “I thought Salt Spring Island had a history of being a place of refuge. But not for them, right?”
Cheyenne goes quiet.
“We paid them,” Vikram says. “They were safe here.”
“Please. You all had some romantic idea that you were helping these people but you sent them packing at the first sign of trouble. They don’t matter.”
This has clearly never occurred to them. There’s a shocked silence that’s broken by the sound of an engine, signaling the approach of another car. Still a ways off in the distance, but I can see it turn onto the gravel road we’re on from the main road.
“Put the gun away before anyone sees,” Vikram says. Sensible man. Or maybe he’s the only one who’s had a real run-in with the law, according to Seb, and is necessarily cautious.
Wanda nods at me. “We have to do something about her.”
There’s a tense moment. If they’re going to do anything to me, they’re going to do it now.
Vikram looks at Wanda and a silent message passes between them. She shifts her body weight, as if she’s about to move.
“No!” Cheyenne cries, running to Trevor. She grabs him and pulls him away from me.
Vikram moves faster than I’ve ever seen him, away from me, though. He slides into the driver’s seat of the pickup, reaches over and opens the passenger door. Then he motions to me. “Get in. Now.” This time Wanda does point the gun at me, and keeps it trained until I’m inside. Then she gets into the backseat, scooting over to Vikram’s side so she can keep watch on me through the gap between between the two front seats.
By the road, Cheyenne has her arms around Trevor. S
he is whispering to him, smoothing a hand over his cheek. He looks at me over her shoulder. I nod to him, to show him that I’m calm and that it’s okay. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as the pickup turns around and heads away from the retreat. When we pass the other car, Vikram flashes his high beams. There’s a moment of extreme brightness and I see the other driver throw up an arm to shield his face. Vikram doesn’t slow. Doesn’t honk in apology. The peace-loving act he put on the first time we met has completely disappeared.
Now that Trevor isn’t around, I’m thinking about that shotgun again. But we’re in such close quarters that I can’t afford to make any sudden movements, and I’m not sure that would be the best move in any case. I feel the tension rile up inside me, know this isn’t a good thing. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?” I say to Wanda, reminding her of our trip to the hospital.
“Shut up and keep looking forward,” Vikram says. Then: “So Ken sent you, eh? That bastard won’t let Cheyenne be. Their marriage was the reason her depression got worse in the first place. Can’t believe he’s pulling shit like this.”
I keep my mouth shut. I have no idea where we’re going in the dark. There are no streetlights here, just the illumination thrown from the headlights showing a road hedged in by trees and blackberry bushes. We turn onto a dirt road. Vikram’s pouty mouth is set in a thin line. Wanda’s is, too, when I sneak a glance back at her. The road ends and just ahead of us is a great swath of moon-drenched sea. My guts clench in a moment of almost overpowering fear. The gun nudges into my right shoulder, sending a stab of pain through me. “Get out,” says Wanda.
