She Felt No Pain

by Lou Allin

  SHE

  FELT

  NO

  PAIN

  LOU ALLIN

  Text © 2010 Lou Allin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

  Cover design by Emma Dolan

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

  RendezVous Crime

  an imprint of Napoleon & Company

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  www.napoleonandcompany.com

  Printed in Canada

  14 13 12 11 10 5 4 3 2 1

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Allin, Lou, date—

  She felt no pain / Lou Allin.

  (A Holly Martin mystery)

  ISBN 978-1-926607-07-8

  I. Title. II. Series: Allin, Lou, date- . A Holly Martin mystery.

  PS8551.L5564S54 2010 C813’.6 C2010-904969-1

  To the Crime Writers of Canada,

  forever fighting to keep their country’s

  best and brightest in the forefront.

  And above all, to the Executive Board from 2009-2010.

  United we stood.

  PORPHYRIA’S LOVER

  The rain set early in tonight,

  The sullen wind was soon awake,

  It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

  And did its worst to vex the lake:

  I listened with heart fit to break.

  When glided in Porphyria; straight

  She shut the cold out and the storm,

  And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

  Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

  Which done, she rose, and from her form

  Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

  And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

  Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

  And, last, she sat down by my side

  And called me. When no voice replied,

  She put my arm about her waist,

  And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

  And all her yellow hair displaced,

  And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

  And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,

  Murmuring how she loved me—she

  Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour,

  To set its struggling passion free

  From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

  And give herself to me forever.

  But passion sometimes would prevail,

  Nor could tonight’s gay feast restrain

  A sudden thought of one so pale

  For love of her, and all in vain:

  So, she was come through wind and rain.

  Be sure I looked up at her eyes

  Happy and proud; at last I knew

  Porphyria worshiped me: surprise

  Made my heart swell, and still it grew

  While I debated what to do.

  That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

  Perfectly pure and good: I found

  A thing to do, and all her hair

  In one long yellow string I wound

  Three times her little throat around,

  And strangled her. No pain felt she;

  I am quite sure she felt no pain.

  As a shut bud that holds a bee,

  I warily oped her lids: again

  Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

  And I untightened next the tress

  About her neck; her cheek once more

  Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

  I propped her head up as before,

  Only, this time my shoulder bore

  Her head, which droops upon it still:

  The smiling rosy little head,

  So glad it has its utmost will,

  That all it scorned at once is fled,

  And I, its love, am gained instead!

  Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how

  Her darling one wish would be heard.

  And thus we sit together now,

  And all night long we have not stirred,

  And yet God has not said a word!

  Robert Browning

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  He relaxed on the soft green bed of bracken and shaded his eyes against the sun dappling through the cedar and fir canopy. After all these years, it was sweet to be back on the shore without city stink and noise. Tonight was hot for the island, nearly 25°C and humid for a change, so he’d left his shelter under the bridge for the freedom of the open air. Old Bill was tightassed about his friggin’ rules, strong for his age, too. He rubbed his bristly jaw, still sore from exchanging blows. Why not take another shot before he left, cold-cock the bastard from behind? He laughed deep in his throat, then coughed up mucus. Damn allergies. If butts weren’t free, he’d have trashed the fucking coffin nails. Time in the can had probably prolonged his life by twenty years. Now that was funny.

  Low tide during the day again, common in summer. He had nearly forgotten how briny the ocean smelled, its seaweed heaped in snakelike coils along the beaches. Sand stretches to the horizon were his preference, not these rock shelves and cobble which twisted the foot. The wild coasts of British Columbia weren’t the gleaming white strands of Malibu.

  He took a last drag from his rollie and dropped it with a hiss into a beer can. The rainforest was sere, the moss beginning to fade and curl in the short dry season, but bug free, thanks to the salt air. If there was one place the homeless could survive the winters, it was here. Never too hot, never too cold. The perfect porridge. Wasn’t that what dear old Mom always said? He took a swig from a mickey of cheap Alberta rye, chased it with water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Tasted like turpentine, but it got the blood moving. The sandwiches the Holy Joe guy brought from down the road and the bottled juice had filled him up. Breakfast in bed in Canada’s Caribbean. Come the rainy season, buy a snorkel.

  Urban life offered opportunities for gain but too many hassles. Here you were golden if you knew the angles. A whispered question and a wink to the teens lounging at the logger’s pole in Sooke, a trip behind some bushes, and a tiny bag of wonders. A bald eagle screed in the blue sky, circling for a tasty rodent gobbling its last seed. Try a poodle, he thought, recalling that stupid animal that had snapped at him down at the Inner Harbour. Home sweet home, though, thanks to the wallet he lifted from that idiot in the crush getting off the ferry. Three hundred in fifties. A cash advance at the first bank machine. With his shabby clothes and grizzled chin, too risky to use the credit cards at a store. He had sold the Visa card to a kid at Cormorant and Blanchard for forty dollars. Got clean clothes at the Salvation Army store and a backpack and camping gear. The Canadian Tire card he’d keep for a week or so. The guy might not cancel it right away.

  Then he had hitched a ride west on Highway 14 with a Sleep Country trucker going to Port Renfrew, the end of the road. First stop, Sooke. The sleepy fishing village had changed in ov
er thirty years, now had a McDonalds and an A&W. Funny seeing Judy there when he bought a burger. An ugly scene about the boy, too. A man now. Making big bucks in the diamond mines near Yellowknife. Maybe they’d have had a chance if… Screw it. She’d gained thirty pounds. Looked like a grandmother. Probably fucked like one, too. He’d thumbed on down to Fossil Bay.

  When he’d seen that story in the Toronto Sun, he knew the man upstairs was looking out for him. Then the visit and some ready cash, but he couldn’t stay at the house. The grief wasn’t worth it. Until the big score in a week or two, for now he had the perfect hiding place for a piece of insurance. A tight and dry coffee can in a black garbage bag. He couldn’t read it so well without reading glasses, which were for wimps, but he suspected its importance. He’d moved it under a nearby rotting log. What kind of weird game was this anyway? Kiddie junk and a dumbass list of names and dates. His grimy hands were starting to shake. Unable to prolong the moment, he took out his joy kit. Mixed the happy dust with water on the spoon. Held the lighter beneath until the crystals disappeared. No boiling. Don’t want to lose any part of the pretty little ticket to heaven. Across the bay, from a cabin cruiser came the sonar beat of a boombox: “I feel the earth move.” Whatever happened to the Seventies? Everyone was bald, fat, both or dead, including Elvis.

  He snugged the rubber tubing around his arm, laughing as his body cooperated with a bulging vein. Born to shoot. A crust from a sore on one elbow was still pink, but he read no warning of infection. Soft beds and softer women on the way. The skags he’d met on the road were all bones and dry. Then he filled the syringe, tipped up and tapped to get the air out, plunged into the vein and pulled back with blood. Then back again until gone. Warm fire, like being in a hot tub. Cold water the first time taught a rough lesson. He breathed deeply. As he closed his eyes, he could still hear that other stupid song: “Stronger than Spain and France.” Talk about a brain fart. What did it all mean, anyways, and who the hell gave a shit? He gasped, dimly aware that he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. His nostrils were stuffed from the humidity. He tried short, shallow breaths. But everything was slowing down, like a wind-up clock. He dropped the syringe and clutched at his throat. Before he could telegraph his brain one last time, the bellows in his skinny chest hung limp, and his head lolled. An adventurous ant climbed aboard his hand and headed for a tasty piece of dried skin.

  ONE

  At six thirty, the morning sky was bleached-denim blue as wisps of fog circulated like cobwebs. RCMP Corporal Holly Martin headed down West Coast Road. After the wicked curves of the Shirley hill, pulled over at a small picnic park by the fire hall was an older Audi with B.C. plates. A tall woman bent over the motor, shook her head, and slammed the creaky hood. Then she pounded it with a fist and wiped her eyes with her sleeve, shoulders sagging.

  Holly made a u-turn and stopped to help. Engine trouble en route to an important appointment? She got out of her cherryred vintage Prelude as the woman looked up with a tear-streaked face. No one else was in the car.

  “You all right, ma’am?” Holly asked, tipping back her billed cap. She wore a light blue shirt under her jacket, duty belt, and dark blue slacks with the traditional yellow stripe. Despite Hollywood films, the famous Mountie red-serge suit was for formal occasions only. No love lost on the stiff, short boots with a spit shine that had taken years, but they held up better than the running shoes she wore off duty.

  The woman was dressed in beige slacks and a light sweater with a striped silk scarf. Summer was cool on the Vancouver Island coast overlooking the windy Strait of Juan de Fuca. “Officer?” she said and swallowed, looking at the sports car with a quizzical expression. “I—”

  “Just on my way to work. Got car trouble?” Holly considered the Audi. Given the faded paint, it could have been ten years old, it could have been twenty. With the soft winters and salt-free roads, vehicles ran forever. “I’m afraid I’m no auto wizard. How about we call a tow? Shouldn’t take long to get you to a mechanic. Do you use Dumont? TriCity? Or maybe you’re visiting.”

  The woman pressed her full lips together in frustration. “I think I’m out of gas. With all that’s been happening, I forgot to fill up.”

  Holly nodded. It was among the most expensive spots in Canada, especially during tourist season, and gas had hit $1.55 a litre this week. The woman didn’t look like the type to cadge a free gallon by playing the helpless female. “Easy enough, then. I keep a jerry can in the trunk. We’ll head for a station in Sooke and have you on your way pronto. Are you in a hurry?”

  The woman gave a grateful smile, faintly familiar with its honest expression on a heart-shaped face. Holly might have seen her buying groceries or banking. Context was key. The woman looked the same age as Holly’s mother had the last time she’d seen her. Late forties plus, but very fit. Her gold Nike tennis shoes had well-earned scuffs. “My partner Shannon is at the Sooke Hospice. I hoped to get there before…I mean…oh God…” Her voice dwindled to a small sob.

  Holly put a light hand of reassurance on her shoulder. “Ten minutes then. But lock your car.” The coast had its share of opportunistic petty thieves who broke into vehicles left by trusting hikers on the famous Juan De Fuca trail, or even in town. It was nearly impossible to stop them, especially at night with few streetlights. A video camera left in sight could lead to a broken window and a thousand-dollar repair bill.

  As they settled into the Prelude, the woman extended a slender hand, deceptively strong. “I’m Marilyn Clavir. Thank you for your help.” She touched a tissue to her soft grey eyes and cleared her throat.

  “I’m always passing by the hospice. It’s small, but we’re lucky to have it, so far from the city.” Why did Holly feel that she had to make conversation? Becoming a better listener was on her planning board. Right after doing one hundred crunches a day and training for a marathon.

  “They do limited respite care now. A dedicated room was funded this year. Before that they merely coordinated efforts to help people stay at home as long as possible. Usually I ask a neighbour to stay at the house with her, but she was away, and yesterday I had to go to the mainland on urgent business. Then the nine p.m. ferry was cancelled due to engine trouble, so I got home around midnight.” A groan of a sigh expressed Marilyn’s frustration.

  People loved to complain about the rising costs of the ferries along with the shrinking service, but an island with a bridge wasn’t a real island. Holly nodded as she drove swiftly but prudently on the winding road, knowing that a logging truck was around every corner. Becoming another statistic wouldn’t help. “I’m sorry to hear about your partner. What…happened?”

  Marilyn leaned back in the seat, taking deep breaths to calm herself, one hand on her breastbone as she loosened the scarf. A small blue vein pulsed at the fragile skin of her throat. “Nothing that we haven’t been expecting. She’s had multiple sclerosis for a few years. It came on late, and it came on fast.”

  “Isn’t that unusual? I thought it struck people by their twenties.” Holly recalled a girl in her zoology class who had managed with arm crutches, a real hero who didn’t suffer fools gladly.

  “Canada has one of the highest rates in the world, and British Columbia leads the provinces. It may have something to do with lack of sunshine and Vitamin D. Women are twice as likely to contract it, so are people with northern European backgrounds. As for age, most cases begin between twenty and forty. And some have a more benign condition with little progress in symptoms.” She spoke with a resigned authority.

  “Haven’t there been any medical advances in recent years?” Holly slowed to let the car ahead pull into the post office.

  “It’s ironic, but that discovery about a vascular connection may have some merit. Even so, the provincial government won’t pay for some of the latest drugs. Nothing helped Shannon, not even a treatment we got in Seattle. She was in acute pain from the spasticity. It was heart-breaking.” Marilyn pinched the bridge of her aquiline nose until the skin was white. “Listen
to me going on, but it was all so crazy. You get desperate.”

  “The island is famous for alternative therapies. You must have tried them all,” Holly said sympathetically. Canada’s pot laws didn’t punish discreet personal use, and the boost to the provincial economy from B.C. bud was legendary. But many saw cannabis as a gateway drug.

  “Bee venom. Medical marijuana. Replacing mercury fillings. Each time the disappointment increased. Then a heart condition developed as one of the side effects. To think that I was so naïve as a child that I believed people could have only one health problem at a time.” Marilyn shook her head in self-rebuke.

  “That must have been hard for you. Could she walk?”

  Marilyn’s hands clasped each other in her lap, taut with tension. “That was the worst part. Shannon was a great hiker. We did all the island trails, from Tofino, throughout Strathcona, even up north and across in the Olympics. Then five years ago the unsteadiness started. Bothersome vision problems. She bluffed for awhile, tried to pretend that nothing was wrong. But the myelin connections weren’t working. Then her job…” She paused for a moment as if to muster the will to continue. From a pocket she pulled a tissue and dabbed at her nose.

  “What did she do?” There Holly was using the past tense. Dehumanizing the sick.

  “She worked as a nurse in the O.R. at the General. That requires not only consummate training and skill but considerable stamina. Those who can do it are worth platinum for the profession. Every surgeon asked for her. Double shifts were common, and not for the money. But it was no use, not even a desk job was feasible. The Valium for seizures made her so groggy, too.”

  “Medical personnel are godlike to me. I can’t imagine the stress. The highs must be wonderful, but the lows…you can’t save everyone.” Neither can the police, she thought, but we try, one little corner of the world at a time.

  They slowed for the first traffic light as West Coast Road became Sooke Road at the town limits. At the hub of the small village of six thousand were Wiskers and Waggs Pet Store, the Stone Pipe Restaurant, a Petro-Canada and a convenience store. They passed competing strip malls before turning right heading for a small building shared by a pizza business and the hospice, an odd couple made odder by the bloom-filled boat advertising a florist. From east down the highway, flanked by evergreen hills on one side and the sweeping harbour on the other, shrieked the Doppler sound of an ambulance. Marilyn was twisting her scarf into a rag. Holly could hear it ripping like the tears in the woman’s heart.