by Ron Chudley
“That night,” Greg asked. “How come I never saw you?”
Jay giggled, in childlike glee. “Because I didn’t want you to, of course. You don’t have to be embarrassed. Ol’ Rick didn’t see me either.”
“He didn’t know you were nearby?”
“Nah! I came with him, and I was supposed to be keeping watch outside. But I didn’t trust the mother. He said he was just checking the place out, but I knew he was going after cash. And when he found it, he was going to cut me out. So I kept an eye on him. Hey, Mr. Lothian, you were real smart. I didn’t even know you were in the house until he caught you.”
“Why didn’t you show yourself then?”
“You kidding? With Rick’s temper? I’ve seen him off guys just ’cause they looked at him funny. No offence, Mr. Lothian, but if he was gonna shoot anyone, I wanted to make sure it was you.” He smiled. “Who knew you’d waste him instead?”
“But I didn’t . . .” Greg began, but Jay carried on as if he hadn’t heard.
“What you did after that was cool, buddy. You may be a wimp accountant, but you acted like a pro. All the time I’d been keeping in the shadows and hiding, taking pictures with my cell. At first I thought, hell, if I got some shots of Rick sticking it to you, I could maybe use them to keep the guy in line. And after you told the mother you’d tricked him and there wasn’t any money, I really thought that was it. You were going to buy it. But boy, you turned the tables on that stupid guy.”
The truth, Greg painfully recalled, was that in a suicidal rage, he’d rushed Molinara, somehow miraculously causing him to shoot himself. Had Jay, watching from concealment, missed this detail? More likely he was ignoring it, though why was another matter.
For the first time since he’d sat down, Greg became fleetingly aware of his surroundings. The ancient couple had departed, replaced by a woman who was wolfing a hot dog while gazing at the video blackjack dealer. The big native man was still sitting in his corner, seemingly in another world. Jay had been correct in one respect, anyway: as a public venue for privacy, the gaming house was perfect. Greg refocused on his companion and said, “Look, never mind who killed who. With Molinara dead, and knowing there was no money in the house—if you weren’t going to show yourself, why didn’t you just leave?”
Jay chuckled. “Are you serious? And miss the best part of the show? I was gonna have to walk back to Duncan, anyway, since ol’ Rick had the car keys. But I wanted to see what you’d do. If you’d called the cops I’d have faded fast, you bet. But you didn’t. And the way you got rid of the body—dude, it was brilliant.” Impulsively, he produced his cell again. “Hey, would you like to see the rest of the pictures? The light’s not great where you’re rolling Rick into the drink, and I had to keep back because of that stupid dog, but you can still get the idea.”
Greg shook his head, feeling sick. Since it was obvious where this conversation was going, all he wanted now was for the talkative Jay to get to the point.
“Okay,” Jay said philosophically, pocketing the phone. “Anyway, like I said, the truly awesome part was the tarp. ’Course you didn’t clean it off afterwards. There’s probably DNA on it—I guess you figured who would ever think to look. But to be on the safe side, I hid it away.”
The last sentence was slipped in so casually that it was a moment before the shock registered. “Hid it? When?”
Jay feigned surprise. “After you crashed. I thought of doing it when I came back later, but I didn’t want to take the risk.”
“Risk?”
“Of the cops finding it first.”
Greg sighed. “You mean, of you not having it to hold over me. All right, Jay, that’s enough. No more chat. How much?”
“Much?”
“Money, damn it! Stop playing around.”
In the peculiar cross-currents of light spilling from the surrounding sea of slot machines, Jay’s eyes flickered and glowed. “Money?” he said. “Buddy, I don’t want your stinking money.”
“Then what on Earth do you want?”
Jay looked bewildered, convincingly hurt. “Have you been listening? I said you were clever, eh? Brilliant. I never saw a guy in such a load of trouble come out so good. You’re a survivor, friend. A brain! And you’ve got that great pad. All hidden away by the river. You could have a super grow op there, a meth lab, anything. Not only that—you’ve got the cash to finance a major operation.”
Greg just stared. “So what are you saying?”
“Mr. Lothian!” Jay replied, shaking his head. “Have I got to spell it out? What I’m saying is that we’re going to be partners.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Greg was out the doors and across the patio before he was aware that he was walking through a near-solid sheet of rain. Unnoticed in the electronic cocoon of the casino, the weather disturbance, threatening earlier, had blossomed into a massive summer storm. Before he was halfway down the steps, Greg was soaked, but he paid no attention. With the dazed aspect of a gambler who’d just lost his last dime, he found his way to his car, got in and just sat, motionless and steaming, oblivious to discomfort and the pounding of the rain, everything but the nightmare of his meeting with Jay.
Some time later, automatic reflexes came into play and he started the car. As he headed out of the lot, the rain still so thick that the car’s wipers could barely cope, one practical fact did penetrate: there was no way in this tempest he was going to drive over the Malahat to Victoria. Instead of turning right onto the highway, he went left and crawled through Duncan, climbing the Trunk Road hill and heading west out of town. What would normally have been a twenty-minute drive to the house on Riverbottom Road took longer than the journey to the city on a good day. On the last part, the winding, tree-shrouded road was nearly invisible, due to the water sheeting across the headlights. Following it would have been hopeless had he not known every twist and turn, in a mental map etched from childhood. As it was, at a recently created junction where the old road had been washed away by some previous storm, he almost missed the turn and barely avoided ending up in the river. By the time he arrived at the house, the concentration he needed for survival had carried him past his first shock into a clearer state of mind. Unfortunately, this only emphasized the dire reality of his situation.
Over the months, coming out to the house on weekends, he’d done much of the work to prepare it for sale, finding it therapeutic and a change from his usual sedentary routine. The garden was neat, and most of the small junky stuff removed from the premises, though he had yet to start on the furniture. But the upheaval caused by his original encounter with Jay had left him stunned, unable to think straight, and his efforts had sputtered to a halt. Now, not only was the place not ready, but a dangerous and probably crazy man was planning that it not be sold at all.
In the kitchen, Greg stripped off every stitch of sodden clothing, including a business suit that even a trip to the cleaners might not save, and went to the whisky cupboard. Of the stash of Glenfiddich he’d originally discovered, one full bottle was left, plus about a quarter of another. He poured a glass of neat Scotch and had a couple of solid gulps. Fire erupted in his belly, a welcome antidote to the hard lump of anxiety that had been growing there. He took the glass and the rest of the bottle into the bathroom, got the shower running as hot as he could stand it and went in, taking his drink along. The shower had a little shelf where he could place the glass. Slowly, he turned his body round and round under the steaming jet, pausing at each completed 360 degrees to take a gulp of liquor. By the time he had made ten revolutions, the glass was empty and—suitably cooked inside and out—he was feeling a little less anxious.
Which left just the disgust.
Greg got out of the shower and toweled off. He poured some more Scotch and moved through the house to his sister’s old room, where he’d been sleeping and keeping the clothes he used for working around the place. But the garments looked unwelcoming, a physical embodiment of the trap that seemed to be closing in. And though th
e storm had cooled the air, he was still feeling pickled from his shower. He slipped on an old pair of thong sandals and, naked, drifted back to the kitchen. Decanting the last of the whisky bottle, he opened the kitchen door and stood sipping and staring out at the rain. It was still sluicing down, and now there came the close rumble of thunder, preceded by jagged bursts of lightning, which rent the sky and were reflected in the turbulent river.
Wryly, Greg thought that this ungovernable stew of electricity, wind and water, which was turning the laboriously tidied property into a sopping, branch-strewn mess, was a perfect metaphor for his own situation. Like the storied butterfly that, flapping its wings on one side of the world, causes a tempest on the other, a single decision on his part had led, by inexorable degrees, to disaster. He was a mild guy, a quiet guy, and all he’d ever wanted from life was to be left in peace. But now, because he’d tried to use a little ingenuity to bring justice, he was shackled to the villains he’d desired to punish. Through ill luck—as well as his own hubris and stupidity—he’d put himself into their power. Simple blackmail would have been bad enough, but that at least was finite; when the cow was milked dry, presumably it would have been discarded. But this demand, that he use his resources to promote the worst sort of crimes, as an alternative to being charged with murder, was just too dreadful to think about.
A particularly vivid lightning bolt crackled across the river, seeming to head straight in his direction. Instinctively he ducked, smiling grimly as he realized that if the bolt had indeed had him in its sights, he’d already be fried. That got him thinking along another tack: if he were to stand in the open, in the rain, out in the middle of the lawn, when the next lightning struck, his troubles might be over.
He shook his head sadly. Whatever else, an end like that would be just too embarrassingly messy. The idea of his naked carcass lying like a hunk of over-barbecued beef, to be discovered, perhaps by Lucy Lynley, was not to be contemplated.
Anyway, despite everything, he didn’t want to kill himself.
He closed the door and fetched the last of the whisky from the cupboard. This time he didn’t bother with a glass but took a swig straight from the new bottle. Carrying it absently by the neck, he wandered through the house, putting on lights as he went. He began to envisage the place as it might well be in the near future, crammed with marijuana plants under the harsh glare of grow lights or filled with the stink of some frightful and vastly illegal chemical brew. The idea was so nauseating that he tried to stop the thoughts, but could not. He pictured the kind of people who—if the dreadful Jay had his way—would soon be frequenting this place: criminals, thugs, burly bikers and hollow-eyed dealers, the scum of the Cowichan Valley. Then other scenarios began to unfold, prompted by the fact that, in his tortured wanderings, he’d reached his father’s studio.
It was empty of Walter’s paintings, but a few unfinished sketches remained, along with several bright oils by Lucy, one still in progress. That got him imagining her reaction upon discovering the shameful thing that had happened to the property of her old neighbours. Naked as he was, he grew hot all over, just picturing her face. But if things worked out as planned, dared he even let her find out? His new associates no doubt had ways of dealing with people they imagined to be a threat. What had Jay said of Rick Molinara? That he offed people “just ’cause they looked at him funny.”
The thought of Lucy, cold and dead, floating down the river with her throat cut, was momentarily so vivid that Greg physically recoiled, taking an extra-large drink. Some of the stuff went down the wrong way, causing him to cough violently and almost drop the whisky. This made him pay attention to the bottle, and he realized that a third of it was empty. He paused, shaking his head. He didn’t feel drunk. In fact, the way the evil imaginings were crowding in, he wished he were drunker. Yet, since arriving at the house, he must have consumed half a bottle of single malt Scotch.
He shrugged and went to drink again, then stopped. Yet another image had arisen, a memory this time: the night—what seemed like years ago—when he’d discovered his dad’s stash and taken a shot to settle his nerves. Compared to his usual occasional glass of wine, that first drink had produced a buzz that was pure bliss. Since then, the whisky had helped him through many an anxious moment. He’d even started buying it himself, with the assumption that when this frightening time was over, he’d return to his old ways. The trouble was, he liked it. Needed it. And tonight proved that he could now go through a great deal without much benefit at all.
He was becoming addicted.
At that realization, the last and worst image exploded: himself, an end-of-the-line alcoholic, staggering about the property while the odious commerce raged all around, cut off from the straight world, scorned by the hoods he’d brought into his own, waiting only for some brute to show enough mercy to put him out of his misery.
That last picture galvanized him. If only to banish it, he dashed out of the studio, running as fast as the awkward sandals would allow. He didn’t stop till he was in the open, in the full force of the driving rain. He threw his head back and screamed. When a lightning flash glowed red on his closed eyelids, he didn’t move a muscle, thinking—half hoping—that this might be his last moment. But it wasn’t. Instead of a jolt of killing current, all he felt was the pounding of water and the buffeting of wind against his skin.
He opened his eyes, perversely relieved and disgusted. Then he was running again, sloshing his way down the grassy slope toward the river. Another lightning flash showed him the edge, and the water boiling by. A single thought was in his head: to get rid of the whisky bottle, to toss the foul thing into the torrent so that some small part of this nightmare might be over. This—this at least—would stop!
At the river’s edge, another flash revealed that the water was even higher than he had thought. This seemed prophetic, cleansing. Swaying inches from where the flood was racing by, Greg drew back his arm and flung the bottle wildly. He didn’t see it go, since at that moment the dark was total, but seconds later, despite the howl of the elements, he was sure he heard a splash.
“Yeah!” he yelled to the sky, and all the evil legions who were coming to ruin his life. “How’s that, you rotten bastards?”
For a glorious moment, the feeling of triumph was so intense that Greg bellowed a huge laugh and clapped his hands together. That caused his balance to shift just enough that his left sandal lost its grip. Teetering, he instinctively threw his weight onto the other foot, which held for a heart-stopping second and catastrophically let go. Then, in a natural outcome of physics, gravity and alcohol, Greg’s body flew out from under him with such speed that he was hardly aware when the water on his skin ceased to be rain and became the deadly embrace of the river.
TWENTY-FIVE
After a desperate time of sinking, writhing confusion, there was a sensation of rising, then of released pressure on his head. Unable to wait to make sure he’d broken the surface, he gasped, rewarded by a rush of mostly air down his tortured gullet. He coughed and sucked in again, paddling wildly to keep above water. The current was moving fast, pulling him along in what, for all that his eyes could register, might have been an underground storm drain. This river, which he’d enjoyed during many a carefree summer, had gulped him down, flushing him away in a most unseasonable passion.
Despite the turmoil, he had stark images of other bodies taken by the torrent: his mother, who had chosen it, and Molinara, who had not. Through no will of his own, it seemed Greg might soon be joining them—and maybe that was only fitting.
The darkness was broken as a great sheet of lightning seared the sky, and Greg finally got a glimpse of his position. He was in the middle of the river with twenty feet of swirling hell on either side. He turned his body to face the direction of the current, and immediately something came from behind and bashed him on the head. It was a huge, uprooted tree. Had it not been travelling only slightly faster than himself, it would have killed him. He was thrust beneath the surface, g
ulping in liquid before he knew what was happening. The resulting distress in his chest compounded the pain caused by the tree. Consciousness began to recede. In slow motion, he twisted around, somehow managing to break the surface, choking and flailing as other roots and branches attempted to pull him down again. Instinct made him grab a handhold, but only after he’d spluttered himself into some semblance of relief did he realize he was firmly attached to the tree, riding with it down the river.
Was this good or bad? If the trunk rode up on rocks with him underneath, crushing or drowning would finish him quickly. But the risk was worth it, if the tree bore him to where he could reach the bank. If only he could see the bank. But never mind: now that he had hold of this solid thing, he wasn’t going to let go.
Several more flickers of lightning, in quick succession, enabled Greg to see where he was more accurately. The ordeal must have been briefer than it seemed, because he hadn’t been carried very far. Peering back, over the swell of the bank and through the driving rain, he could just make out the glow from his own place. He strained upward in the water, waiting for the next flash to show him how far he was from shore. The lightning came, but at the same time as the very thing Greg had feared: with a crack and a shudder, the tree hit something large and unyielding, irresistible force striking immovable object. As the tree slewed and jerked, the branch that Greg held whipped skyward, snatching him bodily from the water. Rather than being trapped, he was flung right over the trunk and plunged into the dark depths on the far side.
He had time to suck in a breath before he went under, but now he was being rolled and tumbled, aware only of his shock and fast-fading strength. He tried to right himself with feeble arm strokes, but that got him nowhere, and soon he was in desperate need of oxygen. Need expanded to discomfort, then to agony in his mid-regions. He had to use every ounce of will to prevent his lungs from going into spasm and forcing him to fatally suck in water. He was almost out of time. Defeat and doom were the price demanded by this monster river. The sooner he capitulated, the better. But he couldn’t. Not just yet. In a last frantic effort to delay the inevitable, his legs flexed and thrust down.
