by Lou Allin
“Wouldn’t that make a great story? Guy’s found dead with a million-dollar ticket?”
Snorting, he fingered his way under an interior flap. “My oh my. A hundred dollar bill? And another?” He flicked one with his nail. “Brand new, too. If he was selling, it wouldn’t be for this much at one crack. Maybe it came from Phil’s wallet.”
“I doubt he was a dealer. Usually they have a place to sleep, not to mention wheels.”
“Unless the dealer turned doper. Shot up the profits.” He held up a picture. “Who’s this angel? Too young to be his mother. An old girlfriend? Or a wife?”
“Or a sister. Let me see.” She held the small black-and-white photograph by its edges. High-school graduation package size. Judging from the hair style, it was definitely Seventies. She’d seen her mother’s yearbook from university. Bouncy hair, fluffed up, “teased” had been Bonnie’s word. Pouffy angora sweater. Ring on a chain. The woman was attractive, and her smile was full of youthful hope. Something was vaguely familiar about her. On the back was written in teenage script with a little heart over the i: Love and kisses always, Judy. “If only there were a last name on this. Judy’s probably married now, too. And anyone can get a driver’s license. It’s out of date, too. With no picture like the new ones in this province.”
“Another lost soul, I’d say. Doesn’t look like he’s had much of a life. Just an accident waiting to happen. But someone meant something to him once. Maybe she’s still thinking about him. And that cash has me scratching my head.” As Holly got up, he took her seat with a groan. “Knee’s screaming blue murder. I oughta get a replacement, ’cept I’d have to wait six months.”
“I’ll check the backpack.”
He put a warning hand on her arm. “Go slow. You don’t know what might be in there.”
She carefully looked through the pouches and zipped pockets: Soap, a ratty towel, a disposable razor, and a couple of tshirts that had seen better days. Nothing was outstanding. Two pop tarts were crumbling in their packets. The flotsam and jetsam of the bottom rung of society. “Nothing to speak of. Not even a secret hiding place.”
She gave the area a once-over. Needles were everywhere these days, even collection boxes in the ferry bathrooms, and the exchanges for addicts were attacked as “enabling” despite the fact that they minimized the HIV infection rate. Recently the fixed exchange location in downtown Victoria had drawn so much criticism that in its place, a mobile van cruised the streets. With the apparent inconvenience of finding the vehicle, many were reusing dirty needles. “Harm reduction” was a tough sell for activists battling more conservative citizens. Fortunately, in Canada health care was regarded as a right, not a privilege. Since its inception, no prime minister had dared prod the sacred cow.
To be as thorough as possible, she established a fifty-foot perimeter. The scraggly undergrowth defied combing. Sword ferns dueled with deer fern and bracken. Pick-up sticks of skinny alders blocked her progress, and the prickly weave of tiny ground blackberries threaded together the tapestry. Nothing more turned up except a beer can with fresh butts. Prints probably, DNA possibly. For good measure, she paper-bagged everything, peering at the water bottle, which seemed to have three good latents. In the distance, the wail of the ambulance could be heard. They’d probably been jammed by a fender-bender. Travel in the summer on the two-lane to Victoria was getting slower every year now that the housing developments in Sooke had ballooned the population. Hadn’t anyone thought about infrastructure when that Sun River development of five hundred people had begun? And west of Fossil Bay, the Jordan River plan, involving hundreds of hectares of former clear-cuts, now stalled in the zoning, foresaw another nine thousand people. The traffic ramifications reminded her of sand dripping in an hourglass.
“Here are the ETs,” Boone called, making final observations in a notebook. At least his purpled face had returned to a normal colour. This kind of exercise was taxing for the old man, but she liked working with him, trusted his wisdom.
They made their way back to the parking lot after the body had been removed. Boone drove off in his Jeep, the tailpipe dangling with baling wire. Surprisingly, the Jones family was still there. She walked over to thank them again. In the back seat, the kids were watching a video.
“Everyone’s getting hungry, and we’re due in Port Renfrew, where we’ve reserved a campsite,” Chrissy said. “I don’t think they got that close a look at the poor man. Frank saw him in time. Let’s hope it’s not quite real, only a bad memory. I told them that he had a heart attack. It seemed easiest.”
Nothing wrong with a white lie now and then. “One last question. Did you find that cache?” Holly took off her cap to wipe her brow.
“Are you kidding? We got out as fast as we could.”
For safety, Holly waved them back across traffic onto the busy road. Geocaching sounded like fun for kids. A real game in the real world…except that in this case a corpse had joined the party. As a first step, she’d run his name through CPIC. In all likelihood he had a record, perhaps even outstanding warrants. She respected the humanity, the mother who had borne him. But he had committed himself to a maverick lifestyle and removed himself from a world of cares.
Under the bridge, Bill’s old lawn chair still stood, nearby a coffee pot and enamel cup beside a careful fire pit with a metal screen on top. She tested the ashes and found them cold. His meager belongings, consisting of a wheeled dolly with a shock-corded milk crate, sat beside his backpack. This way, hitchhikers could carry more, and the dolly could go into a trunk or truck bed. Odd that he’d left it so trustingly, but probably it held nothing of value. She’d lived light too, possessing no furniture that couldn’t be left behind in the places she’d rented. But didn’t everyone want a room of his own? Her mother would have expected her to reach out a hand, not be judgmental about those who lived on the street…or in the forest.
Chipper capped a bottle of spring water and wiped his mouth with a snow-white handkerchief. Other than her father in courtly mode, he was the only man she’d ever seen use one. “Everything go okay?” he asked.
Holly cocked her thumb. “That old guy I met the other day, Bill. Did you see him when you got here?” She explained in brief what Boone had found.
“No one was around but the family. Is that his stuff? We should be talking to him.” Chipper looked disturbed, as if he had failed to secure the scene. “We definitely should be talking to him.”
Holly checked her watch. With all his gear here, he wasn’t going anywhere. Or had he been involved in the death in some way she wasn’t discerning? Was this all that they might see of Bill Gorse? If they couldn’t find him again, his estranged family might have some answers.
FOUR
The next morning, moans filled the house as dawn blushed over the hills and set the water shimmering in tiny wavelets. Shogun began howling, an eerie sound. Holly rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clock. Five a.m? “Coming,” she called, grabbing a robe. How did mothers deal with children?
“Are you all right? Do you need anything?” she asked, pushing open the door to her father’s room. Stupid question. Getting him to the bathroom at midnight had been a nightmare which challenged his dignity and her lumbar region.
“It’s been nearly a whole day, and I can hardly move. I refuse to submit to being an invalid. Think about it. In…valid. That sums it up.” He tried to sit up and yelled, his fist pounding the mattress. “Get me more of that ibuprofen…please. Make it a handful. My liver will have to fend for itself.”
After giving him the medication and refreshing his water, Holly poured some orange juice to wake up. Then she brought his coffee. “Your usual oatmeal with extra bran?” Since they were in the Seventies, no need for that steel-cut stuff that took half an hour. If he could eat, she’d feel better. Why was she so worried? It was only a strain. The Mayo Clinic website said that ninety per cent of back pain disappeared within a month. It might seem like a year.
“The pain is making me nause
ous, but I have to keep up my strength. Maybe a banana. A small one…diced…with cream… but in a few minutes.”
As he sipped the brew and the pills kicked in, his face eased for a moment. He hadn’t even been able to clean up yet, and she realized that people took their abilities to care for themselves for granted. Suddenly those TV ads for walk-in bathtubs were beginning to make sense. “Would you feel better with a shave? I can bring your electric razor. How about a hot towel?”
“That’s the least of my worries. Your mother always told me I looked better with a beard. I had one for my first job interview. It added gravitas.” He scratched his chin and tried for an ironic laugh but merely coughed.
She stood with her hands on her hips, aware that she needed to take a stand as a parent to a parent. Someone had to act in his interests. The world’s most rational man, even in pain likely bearable to women, he was incapable of coherent thought. “I’m making a call. There’s a good masseuse in town. We met the other day.”
“Massage. Used to be a code word for something else. Now it’s sissy spa stuff. Oils and stones and seaweed. No, no and no.” He stuck out his jaw defiantly.
“Yes, yes and yes. Mother always said that you were stubborn.” Bonnie would have trumped his self-pity ace with a withering word. She’d once let her appendix suppurate for hours down the Transcanada from Campbell River to the General so that she could drive a woman in need to a safe house. Norman roared at a hangnail.
He winced as he shifted. “Maddie did suggest a treatment. Can’t hurt. Just once, mind you. It’s not going to become a regular thing. Imagine the cost. Rich I am not.”
“You told me that your university plan covered eighty-five per cent. Why are you quibbling about a few bucks? Sheesh, Father. In the words of your favourite show, Get Smart.” Oops. Maxwell and crew had aired in the Sixties for the most part but ended in mid-1970. That Norman didn’t catch her on that showed his distress.
Holly went back downstairs to find Marilyn’s number in the phone book. Under “Massage”, she saw several entries, all in Sooke except for Serenity Cottage in Fossil Bay. Marilyn offered a plain deep-tissue Swedish massage along with rebalancing, whatever that was. No exotic extras like heated rocks, ocean water droplets or detoxification via the feet. Norman would accept a therapeutic service without the pampering frills women enjoyed. He could think of it as a sports thing.
“Of course I can take your father, “ Marilyn said. “I have two clients this afternoon, but I always leave room for emergencies. It’s hard to turn away a soul in pain. Is an hour from now too soon?”
Holly sighed with relief. “It’ll probably take us that long to get downstairs to the car, but we’ll make it.”
“Sounds like a muscle strain. They’re severe, but they usually respond to heat and cold and go away in a few days. And watch yourself moving him. Even a young person can lift the wrong way.”
“You’re an angel. You can’t imagine. My dad is beside himself.”
“Oh my dear, but I can imagine. I see it every day. That’s why I’m in this profession.”
Holly returned upstairs. “Want me to help you dress?” She thought again of his bell bottoms and Nehru jackets. How far was he going to take this? She sympathized with her mother about the banalities of his career.
“Just my bathrobe will do over the pajamas. I’m not standing on ceremony in this crisis.” She helped him into the paisley robe and left him sockless in his shearling slippers as requested.
Having forded the stairs on his hands and knees, Norman allowed himself to be loaded into his toy car, which was higher and more open to entry than the low-profile Prelude. The short kilometres in silence to Fossil Bay felt like eternity. Holly was beginning to experience the stress of living with someone unwell. She couldn’t imagine what Marilyn had been through.
On the corner of Sea Breeze Avenue stood the quaint ivy-covered brick cottage that Holly had passed many times without note. Across the street, oceanside with an acre or two, it might have commanded a million, but its modest lot was shielded from the noisy road by a neatly trimmed cedar hedge. Holly pulled into the driveway beside the carved wooden sign reading “Serenity”. She admired the giant red and yellow rhodos and inhaled the sweet perfume of matching white and purple lilacs. A perennial garden with ivied arches and pergola surrounded the house English style, delphs nodding acquaintance with daisies and wild pink foxgloves. As Holly turned off the motor, Marilyn came from the house, arms spread wide in welcome, a fat cream cat swirling at her feet like an angora fog. Its luminous golden eyes surveyed the inferior species. “Come, come, you poor man. Relief is on the way. You have my solemn word.” Introductions were unnecessary. The place felt like home.
“Prince Chunk, clear the path.” Marilyn swept the cat aside with a gentle foot movement, and the animal disappeared under a hydrangea bush, flashing its tail in haughty challenge.
The women guided Norman up a wheelchair-accessible ramp into the front room, which appeared to be the treatment area. Certificates lined the walls, and Holly gave them a quick scan. British, Canadian, even Californian. A bookcase held a collection of medical texts, including cranial facial neurology and spinal therapies. The typical depiction of a human muscle system stood beside a skeletal diagram of stress points. The air currents traced the healing scent of lavender from a fresh bouquet in a simple Japanese vase.
“Would you like music? It relaxes some people and helps with the drone of traffic,” Marilyn said as Norman disrobed behind a lacquered ornamental screen. She and Holly exchanged womanly glances at his continued groans. “Do you have…anything from the Seventies?” Holly asked with an eye roll indicating that it wasn’t her choice.
A CD collection in front of her, Marilyn turned slowly. “Wouldn’t he prefer classical music? A bit of Mozart?”
Holly shook her head. “It’s a long story which involves his job. I’ll explain later if he doesn’t.”
Marilyn folded back the flannel sheets on the treatment table and adjusted the headrest. “My repertoire is somewhat limited. Sounds of the sea all right? Gentle lapping waves?”
“Uhhhhhh” was his noncommittal response.
Marilyn set the music, chose a few oils like a chemist and turned to Holly with a confident smile. “We’ll be finished in an hour.”
“All yours.” She felt as if she’d dropped off a whiny child at a very reliable daycare. Men were such sissies. Nature knew best where strength was needed. Back at the detachment minutes later, before she could get into her office, Ann pointed to the phone. “For you. It’s Boone. Test results no doubt. That unfortunate homeless man. Word’s already out in the community.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had coffee at Nan’s and heard the craziest rumours about drugs and gangs. People were comparing it with Vancouver. Next we’ll get suggestions about pulling up the drawbridge or signing up vigilantes.”
Holly huffed out a breath. “Our crime stats are still minimal. It’s not like we have a serial killer on our hands. Or a mass murderer.”
When she answered, Boone got quickly to the point. “I called in a few markers to get the tests run fast. It’s an overdose, like we thought. On city streets, common enough. Guess it’s more unusual out here.”
“So what’s the product? High-grade heroin? Too much of a good thing?” Addicts were always chasing a greater rush. That was the insidious part of the drug scene. Holly had enjoyed the odd clandestine beer as a teenager and drunk wine, even her father’s wretched homemade efforts, but she had never tried marijuana. Now that she was a law officer, even that popular herb was no longer an option. On the other hand, if any place in North America was going to legalize pot, B.C. was in the forefront.
“It’s a mixture we see now and then, but rather puzzling. Seems that the heroin was mixed with Fentanyl, a synthetic morphine used to treat extreme pain. It’s eight hundred times stronger.”
“Wow. Hard to imagine. The wonders of modern medicine.” Holly rubbed
the back of her neck. “That cocktail must cost. I thought dealers used sugar, flour, quinine, starch, other cheap fillers.”
“True. But a kilo of heroin is cut a bunch of times as it makes its way to the streets. Not enough to dilute it too much, though, or bye-bye sales. Junkies are very discriminating. Word gets around.”
“So choose something more expensive for street people? That makes no sense.” Her brow furrowed in question.
“Could be a marketing strategy.”
“What? Are you serious?” She didn’t think of the common drug trade as Madison Avenue thinkers, but if competition was tough…
“Basic economics. Law of supply and demand. When too much junk hits the streets, and prices drop, the competition gets hot, and dealers wise up. A batch of super-strong stuff might tip the balance. Problem is, having people die from your product isn’t very good advertising.”
She couldn’t stifle an ironic laugh. “Damn straight. Should we be worried?”
“I called an ME buddy in New York City for the big picture and the trends. A few years ago, across the States, addicts were dropping like proverbial flies. Hot spots were Camden, Harrisburg, Philly. Officers even tried giving out leaflets in Chicago to warn addicts.”
“How did that work out?” Would they have to do the same? Conservative Canada lagged behind the cutting edge of bad things.
“More people than ever turned out to try the big bang. If it doesn’t kill you, you get a monster high.”
She slapped at her forehead. “That’s crazy. And in the province?”
He paused for a moment. “Big, bad Vancouver had a few deaths last year. Nothing on a large scale.”
