by David Gane
Supper looks great, but I’m distracted. “Charlie, does Gekas usually pop into The Sugar Dough Stop?”
He sets his plate in the microwave, and while it spins on the platter, reheating, he ponders my question. “Not usually. She’ll sometimes come by to check on me, make sure I’m staying out of trouble, but that’s about it.”
“Was that why she was there today?’
“Didn’t seem like it. She hung out with you more than me.”
“She did ask us about whether we were staying out of her investigation—”
“Yeah, she’s probably worried about us screwing up her life.” He pulls his food out of the microwave and takes it to the island. He shovels a big forkful in, relishing the flavours, before adding, “Or maybe she just came for my tasty doughnuts!”
He’s only trying to be raunchy for a laugh, but I’m not in the mood.
I dump some food of my own on a plate and set it in the microwave.
“I think she wants our help,” I say
“For what?” he asks through another mouthful.
“Her case.”
He waves his fork at me. “Why would you even think that? Did she ask?”
“No, but—”
“But what? She wouldn’t— Hell! She can’t ask a couple of teenagers to snoop around in an ongoing investigation—!”
“But she didn’t ask!”
“Exactly!”
We’re talking in circles and Charlie’s making the obvious points. There was never a moment when Gekas actually requested our help. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking that she wanted to.
I change tactics. “She can’t, right?” I say, taking my plate of leftovers across to the island. “Like you said, it would break all sorts of rules.”
“Rules, man. That’s why I could never be a cop,” he says, slicing his meat up and smooshing it together with his potatoes. “You can’t just jump in and look for the bad guys. You’ve got to follow procedure. Document everything. Make sure everything’s backed up, quantified, and qualified.” He shakes his head in frustration.
The thought of him in law enforcement makes me want to laugh, but I stifle it. “That’s what I’m saying, Charlie. She can’t ask for our help, but when we did it our way—the Shepherd and Wolfe way—” I see Charlie’s eyes light up— “we uncovered a lot of things that might otherwise have gone unnoticed.”
“Because we say ‘screw procedure!’ ” he declares.
I nod, smiling.
Charlie cocks his head, thinking about what I’m suggesting. “Nah, she wouldn’t … Especially not us. Look at the trouble we’ve caused.” He pushes his empty plate away. Not a crumb is left. “Is there dessert?”
Having a teenage metabolism has its benefits.
I sigh, leaning back. “Probably ice cream in the freezer.”
He hops off his chair and puts his plate in the dishwasher before grabbing a bowl out of the cupboard.
“I’m honestly stuck. I just feel so certain she was asking for our help without actually asking, and I can’t help but think that we should do something.”
“No,” he says, serving up two huge bowls of double fudge ice cream.
“No?”
“Look, Shepherd, in living here I made a promise to your parents—hell, to your sisters too—not make any stupid mistakes. Chasing killers is numero uno on that list. I’m trying my damnedest to live a normal life.”
For once, Charlie’s moral compass seems to be stronger than mine. And I understand where he’s coming from, but I’m surprised by how frustrated I am at his resistance. Am I addicted to the rush of these adventures? I don’t want to be. They don’t always end well for everyone. And while we’ve gotten out alive, it’s been just barely.
Still, I can’t deny that I’m disappointed at not being able to help. And I must not be able to hide it well, either.
“Oh brother, really?” Charlie says.
“What?”
“You’re sitting there with a tasty bowl of ice cream and all you’ve got to give me are those great big brown puppy-dog eyes. It’s pitiful.” He shakes his head, shovelling a heaping spoonful into his mouth. “Tell you what,” he says, swallowing. “We can have a look around.”
The edges of my mouth twist into a grin.
“But,” he cautions, “if we find something, we tell Gekas, and then that’s it. Deal?”
When did we fall into this mirror universe where I want to chase killers and Charlie wants to talk to the cops?
“Yes. Deal,” I say.
“But do me a favour. Work on your poker face, okay? It really is freakin’ pitiful.”
part 2
chapter 35
Jack stands high above the city, watching the twinkling evidence of life below through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his condo. Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 2 plays from the sound system in the distant corner, quiet enough not to wake the neighbours but filling the space with romantic peace. The reflected light of the full moon glows through the windows.
There’d been a hitchhiker and he’d come to the condo to shower.
Killing wasn’t new. He’d been killing every full moon since that night on the beach, the night he’d met his beloved.
In the first year, he’d drawn strength from the full moon’s illumination; the moonrise initiated his monthly ritual. It didn’t matter who he killed or where. It only mattered how. By the second year, he’d fallen into a comfortable habit and had branched out, testing new tools, and new ideas. And now, in his third, his skills were taut, honed—he could deal with anyone.
The hitchhiker had yielded to the ritual. But it had slowed him down, and he was no longer on schedule. He’d had to hide the body in a field—putting it with the others would have taken even more time—then contend with the blood and muck on his shoes. His whole suit had had to be tossed. Then there was the shower, followed by the cleaning afterwards to rinse, wipe, and obscure any hint of himself that the condo might hold.
But the hitchhiker is of no consequence.
Storms are forecast for later in the week. This is a good sign. The thaw is almost over. There’s barely any ice on the creek, its water levels are high from the melt, and all the ugliness of this place will soon be washed away.
More importantly, his work from November has been revealed. Soon his beloved will appreciate his third and final gift. Not that lowly hitchhiker. Something more. Something special.
And he only needed three. Omne trium perfectum: Everything that comes in threes is perfect.
And as he was once transformed by the moon, so will she be. His soul is as deep and true as the blood that flows through her body. His purpose is her purpose. His life is her life. And as she was part of his transformation, he must be part of hers. His work is an offering to her, a conveyance of his strength, to lead her back to herself. To realize the power she has.
And soon, because of him, she will be strong again.
He’s aware of the subtle lies he’s telling himself—this is not all for her. He knows that he covets. He knows that he feels jealousy. He knows that he hates the impostor in disguise amongst the sheep.
The music ends, and in the silence of the night he hears a siren in the distance. It’s not for the hitchhiking man or the countless bodies of the rituals to come.
It has nothing to do with him. But it will soon.
It’s time to return to the streets and to her. And to the work he has ahead in the world below.
chapter 36
Charlie and I drive to school the next day with a plan to check out the three murder sites later on—because, of course, that’s what a couple of ordinary teenagers do.
We get to school with fifteen minutes to spare, and Charlie and I part ways. I run into Mike on my way to Statten’s class. His backpack looks like it’s full of books, which I doubt—h
e’s not much of a reader.
“Hey,” he says, happy and out of breath.
“Looks like someone’s ready to learn.” I indicate the load he’s carrying. “What you got there?”
“Stuff,” Mike says defensively. “Mind if we take a detour?”
I walk with him to the library where he dumps his bag on the counter, unloading colourful picture books and early readers with large print. He ignores my stunned look and says, “Did you know our library has a whole children’s section, even though it’s a high school? Crazy, huh?”
As the library assistant starts processing the huge stack of books he’s returning, I casually pick up The Adventures of Captain Underpants from the pile.
“Now that,” he points, “is an awesome book!”
“Geez, Mike, Catcher in the Rye too wordy for you?” I kid.
“Holden Caulfield? Actually, yes. Who wants to read them that boring shit.”
“Wait? Them? Who’re you talking about?”
He leans in. “Hey, while you’ve been playing crimefighter, I stepped up and became a Big Brother. My little dude is in a reading group with, like, twelve kids and we take turns reading to them. They’re good kids and it’s fun … and I like it, so shut up.”
I wrap an arm around him, trying to get him in a headlock. “Aww, Mike, you friggin’ softie.”
The librarian shushes us out of the library.
I laugh as he wrestles out of my hold. “This is why I don’t tell you things.”
I can’t stop and as we step into the hall on our way to class, I yell out, “Yo, Mikey! Can you be my Big Brother? Hey, how about reading me a bedtime story?”
He responds promptly with a solid, aching punch to my arm.
chapter 37
Psychology crawls by at a snail’s pace. Statten’s saying something about nature and nurture, and how socio-something-something influences human development, and that’s about all that sticks. I know I took notes, but I’m going to have to reread them to process any of it.
English isn’t much better—King Lear has now torn off all his clothes and things are looking bleak for a guy named Gloucester—and I stumble out of class thinking Shakespeare was really good at capturing the level of batshit crazy that people can achieve.
Charlie’s already in homeroom by the time I get there—talking with Charity in the corner. I grab a desk and wait, and am surprised to find her eyes on me when he comes over.
She actually looks a little humbled.
“What was that about?” I ask as he sits down.
“Turns out her university boyfriend might be cheating on her.”
“And she wants you to look into it?” I say, maybe a little too snarkily.
“Geez, Shepherd, we all have crap to deal with,” he responds sharply.
Now I feel bad for the attitude. No surprise that Charlie occasionally has to remind me of people’s complexities, especially since he’s one of the most convoluted people I know.
I try to move the conversation along. “So, you’re back in business solving mysteries?”
“Well, I figure if we’re going to start chasing serial killers again, what’s it hurt digging up a little dirt on a cheating boyfriend?”
Man, when he puts it that way, my decision to help Gekas seems pretty stupid.
He must read it in my face. “Oh, relax, Shepherd. I’m only doing it to gain a little bargaining power in the future. You never know when you’ll need a little help from someone like Charity.” Then slyly, punching the same arm that took Mike’s fist, he adds, “Besides, odds are I won’t get stabbed again if all I’m doing is keeping tabs on her boyfriend, right?”
“Dammit, why do you say these things?” I ask guiltily.
chapter 38
At lunch, Charlie convinces Mike and me to go to a diner he knows about. As I should expect of any of his choices, the place is way off the beaten path and looks like it’s fifty years past its prime. Behind the counter there’s a gruff, super-
intense server with thick dark hair, long nails, way too many silver rings, ink from neck to toes, and fishnets under her shorts.
And of course, it’s clear Mike’s caveman instincts have noticed.
“Mike, she’ll make mincemeat out of you,” Charlie warns when Mike gives a low whistle.
“Okay. Okay. A bad girl. That’s cool.”
“Dude, that’s not at all what he’s saying,” I caution.
Mike waves me off.
Charlie reiterates, “I’m saying she’s a girl who won’t put up with bullshit.”
But it’s no surprise that Mike ignores Charlie’s warning and asks for her number when he pays his bill.
She crushes him. “No, thanks. I’m not into babysitting.”
He’s quiet as we go out to his truck, and Charlie pipes up, “Don’t feel too bad. You got off easy. One time, I saw her just laugh and point at a guy until he left.”
This seems to perk Mike up a bit, and as he climbs back into the truck, he says, “Bet he had to ice his balls after that burn,” which keeps us laughing all the way back to school.
chapter 39
It’s biology, the last class of the day, and Mr. Hall is talking protists and fungi.
I’m ready to fall asleep when the intercom crackles. “Can the following students come down to see Mrs. Blacker—”
Mrs. Blacker is our guidance counsellor and, sure enough, my name is called. Mr. Hall tells me to take my stuff with me—I likely won’t be back before the final bell—and I head down to her office. I’m not sure what this is about, but I’m guessing it has something to do with my scholastic future.
When I arrive at her room, I find nine others sitting in a line—all Grade 12—and my suspicion is confirmed: Mrs. Blacker wants to know what we plan on doing after school. Her job is to help contact universities, gather transcripts, and make sure we’ve filled out all the forms correctly. And, well, I’ve been slacking.
Or, in truth, avoiding it altogether.
She calls us into her office one at a time in alphabetical order, so I have to wait around for a while. I rarely spend time in Mrs. Blacker’s office. Even after everything that happened last year, I never felt the need to sit down and talk things through with her. She’s a kind enough woman from what I’ve seen, but she also expects you to be open and share your thoughts and feelings, and I do enough of that at home.
When my name is called, I take a seat across from her.
She’s middle-aged, with a short, bleached, trying-too-hard hairdo and glasses, and although she has a kind smile, she seems like one of those people who worries 24/7.
Behind her is a corkboard, a crowded patchwork of printed memes. Dead centre is the grouchy old guy from the movie Up—the caption reads: “This is my caring face.”
“Anthony, you haven’t requested any college applications yet.”
I drag my answer out, knowing she won’t like it. “Well, I’m still trying to decide—”
“We’re into April. It’s time to make some sort of decision.” Then, realizing her tone, she consciously takes a breath before going on. “What fields are you looking at?”
“Maybe medicine or public policy?” I’m not really sure of either, but she takes it at face value.
She flips through my transcript, nodding, “Okay, okay. That’s good. Of course, you’ve missed most of the deadlines, but I could give you some pamphlets, choices for schools? Do you know where you’d like to go?”
Since I’m only trying to appease her, I haven’t really considered any place except here. I have plenty of options—Vancouver, Calgary, Winnipeg, Toronto—cities where I could stay with family members until I found a place of my own.
I’ve always known that one day I’ll leave my parents’ house, but it hadn’t occurred to me how close that day was. Now that I’m thinking of it—really
thinking—I realize I could go almost anywhere.
Of course, I don’t say any of this to Mrs. Blacker, and she doesn’t care what my answer is. She’s scooping up applications, program brochures, and academic calendars out of her files and stacking them in a pile in front of me. I feel a little guilty that I’ll probably just toss them all into the recycling.
I’m not sure what I want. And everyone wants an answer: Mrs. Blacker, Mom, Dad—I’m pretty sure even my sisters are getting impatient with me. I don’t know why I’m being so indecisive. In fact, I had things figured out perfectly until a year and a half ago, and then my life capsized and I never quite recovered.
But this isn’t just about Sheri. After meeting Charlie, I’ve started doing things I’d never have imagined I was capable of, and despite worrying how often our actions cause more problems, I think I’ve done good in this world—maybe even saved lives.
It’s given me a feeling, a sense of purpose, that I haven’t been able to shake. Of what, I’m not sure, but once I figure it out, I know it’s going to tell me what I’m supposed to do.
Until then, I’ll continue to listen to everyone’s advice, take all the applications and brochures they hand me, and wait patiently for my answer to come.
chapter 40
I step out of Mrs. Blacker’s office. With only a few minutes left before the bell rings, I leave early and find Charlie waiting at the car.
“You ready to investigate some murder sites?” Charlie asks, all nonchalant.
It bothers me that the horrible act of murder has become so casual and commonplace for the two of us.
Charlie notices. “C’mon, Shepherd, don’t get all mopey about it. We’re not being disrespectful, so get that out of your head right now. We’re doing a job and when we’re done, we’re handing it over to Gekas. Then our hands are clean.”
