by William Bell
Bryan began to make breakfast for Kevin and Otto. They came upstairs when they smelled the coffee. Hoping that his suspicions did not show, he served them bacon and eggs with a platter of buttered toast, planning to make a quick exit from the kitchen.
But Kevin was in a talkative mood. He rambled on and on about the activities at the Big Bear River bridge and delivered a sermon on what a great woman Iris was. Finally, he wound himself down and asked, “So how’s that girlfriend of yours? What’s her name? Eleanor?”
“Ellen.”
Otto smiled and forked a large gob of scrambled egg into his mouth. “She’s more than okay. She’s a nice little piece, that one.”
Kevin shot his companion a hard look. “You sure are a fine cook, Bry,” he said.
“That’s Bryan to you. I’ve got some work to do.” He thumped down the hall and slammed his bedroom door. No wonder Otto doesn’t talk much, he thought. The guy’s a pig.
Soon afterwards, the scrape of chairs and the bang of the kitchen door told Bryan the two men had gone. When he heard the van roar to life, he sneaked a look out his window, making sure that both men were leaving. Then he got on the phone to Elias.
Fifteen minutes later, Bryan’s friend burst into the house, breathless from a bike ride at break-neck speed, wearing his green Pacific Sands Provincial Park shorts and shirt.
“We have to do this fast,” Elias announced excitedly. “I have to be at work at ten-thirty.”
“Do what? What’s the plan?”
“We’re going to toss their rooms.”
“No, we’re not. They lock their doors — I’ve checked before — and there are two keys to each room. They have one each and Mom has one of each on her key-chain, which is probably in a brown envelope with her name on it in a file cabinet in Nanaimo Minimum-Security Facility for Women.”
“So we break in.”
“No, we do not break in. Mom would kill me if we damaged the doors, and those two scumbags might be a little suspicious when they come home from a hard day on the protest line and find their bedroom doors splintered.”
“Hey, Bry,” Elias laughed, “I thought I was the sarcastic one. There’s hope for you yet. Go get your student I.D.”
“ ‘Break-in’ is just an expression,” Elias gloated a minute later as he ran the thin plastic card between the door jamb and the lock of Kevin’s room. The door swung open. Otto’s door proved no more of a challenge.
“Well, Mr Expert,” Bryan sneered, “do you think we might need a look-out? Or were you planning to say something really clever if the two guys come home early?”
His face flushed, Elias answered, “You’re right. Go stand by the outside door and whistle if —”
“No chance. You stand guard.”
Arguing was something Elias was good at, and he pulled out every trick he knew, but Bryan would not budge. Finally, Elias opened the basement door partway to get a good view of the driveway, then gave Bryan a dramatic nod and thumbs-up.
Bryan entered Kevin’s bedroom first. The single bed was a disaster area — blankets strewn half on, half off the bed, a pair of jeans tangled up in the mess. On the floor, socks and underwear. Two hardcore girlie mags on the bedside table. “Jeez,” Bryan said to himself as he replaced one of them on the table. On the pine dresser, a comb clutching a few long hairs, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and two glasses that hadn’t been washed lately resting in a cluster of ring marks on the wood.
Bryan pulled open the drawers one by one, searching among the jumbled clothing. Nothing. He knelt and looked under the bed. As he rose, his eye caught the white edge of an envelope just visible under the magazines. Carefully, he slipped it out. On the front was Kevin’s name. The return address read “Mackenize Forest Industries.”
Bryan drew out a single piece of paper. It was a cheque made out to Kyle Canning. And the cheque was issued by MFI.
It doesn’t take a scholar, Bryan thought, to figure that Kyle Canning and Kevin Campbell are the same guy. He slipped the envelope back into place and left the room.
If Kevin’s (or Kyle’s) room was a zoo, Otto’s was a monastery cell. A carefully made-up bed. Nothing on the night table, nothing on the dresser top. Inside the dresser, neatly folded clothes. On the floor next to the dresser, a cellular phone resting in its recharger. A camera bag, zipped shut, on the floor beside the closet. Bryan opened the closet. Half a dozen shirts hung there. Beneath them, a leather briefcase.
Okay, Bryan whispered to himself, now we’re getting someplace. After noting carefully the exact location of the briefcase in the closet, he lifted it to the bed. He pushed the catches. They flipped open with a satisfying click.
Inside was a roll of fax paper, dense with names and numbers. Again noting how it was situated in the briefcase — I could teach Elias a few things about burglary, Bryan thought — he placed it on the carpet beside him. Next came half a dozen file folders, which Bryan scanned quickly, learning nothing. He put them aside. Last, an envelope exactly like the one he had found in Kevin’s room. It, toocontained a cheque, made out to Oliver McCann, for a much higher amount.
Bryan replaced the envelope, then the file folders, and carefully unrolled the fax paper. When he began to read the names and telephone numbers his stomach lurched.
Startled by a whistle, Bryan jumped. The fax paper sprang back into a tight roll.
“Bryan!” Elias hissed. “They’re back!”
Bryan slammed the briefcase shut and carefully put it back in exactly the same place. In half a second he was out of the bedroom, checking the doorknob to be sure it was locked. As he slipped past Kevin’s door he depressed the inside knob and turned it, then closed the door.
Elias pushed the basement door shut. “They’re just outside! Quick!”
“No! Here,” Bryan said, shoving his friend bodily into the laundry room. “We don’t have time to go up. They’ll hear us on the stairs!”
Bryan had just plunged them into darkness by closing the door to the laundry room when he heard the outside door open.
TWELVE
The rain pelted against Bryan’s face, driven by gusts of wind as he pedalled along the two-lane blacktop into the centre of town. The noon-hour shoppers and tourists leaned into the rainy wind, shoulders hunched, scurrying to get out of the downpour. Bryan skidded to a stop outside the cop shop, leaned his bike against a railing and dashed inside.
Elias had rushed off to work as soon as Bryan and he had emerged from the laundry room, blinking and momentarily blinded by the basement lights the two activists had, as usual, left burning. Otto and Kevin — or whatever their names were — had retrieved the cellular phone they had forgotten and had left, arguing about something.
Bryan had sat at his desk with a can of cola, shaking, mulling over the significance of his discoveries and attempting to control his fear and apprehension. So, Kevin and Otto were really Kyle and Oliver. That much was clear. Just as obvious was that, although Kevin/Kyle did most of the talking, Otto/Oliver was the pair’s leader.
It was harder for Bryan to figure why MFI was writing cheques to them. Blackmail? Extortion — “Pay us or we’ll blow up more trucks”? Would MFI buy off two jerks like them not to set fire to useless trucks or dilapidated trailers? Come on, Bryan, he had said to himself, you’ve been watching too many late-night movies.
No, he concluded, the two guests at Norm’s B&B worked for Mackenzie Forest Industries. And if that was true, then his theory that they were the saboteurs seemed dead wrong. To think that Otto and Kevin would sabotage the property of the company they worked for seemed impossible.
Impossible until he thought about the most important piece of evidence, the one that had jolted him with fear and surprise as he was on his knees in Otto/Oliver’s room: the roll of fax paper. Bryan had seen enough of the names and numbers listed in densely packed small print to realize that what he held in his hand was a print-out from the activity log — the stored list of all names and numbers of people who had sent or received
a message — from the fax machine in his own family room.
Why would Otto/Oliver want that list? Bryan racked his brain, sipping his cola. Maybe Otto, personally, didn’t. Maybe MFI did.
If Otto worked for MFI, he wasn’t a tree-hugger. And if he wasn’t a tree-hugger, he had to be a spy, a plant, an agent. A spy who took pictures of activists at the peace camp. A spy who was at the camp every day and would know every move the tree-huggers were making. And worst of all, a spy who set things on fire to make the SOS committee and its supporters look like a bunch of violent crazies — especially the chairperson, my mother.
Those bastards, he thought. They live in our house, pretend to be friends. Here, let me help you paint that fence, Bry. We really admire your mother. What crap. No wonder Mom doesn’t trust the company. If they do this to people, what do they care about trees?
Once everything had fallen into place, he had hopped on his bike and set out in the rain.
The cop at the counter looked up Zeke’s name in a roster. “He’s on patrol out near the peace camp today,” she told Bryan.
“Thanks. Can I use your phone?”
He placed a call and, when he got no answer, said “Thanks” once more, already in motion. Back into the rain. Back on the bike, aiming it toward the hotel.
The Rainbow Room was anything but a bright bow of colour. It was dark, smoky, furnished with small round tables and cheap hard-backed chairs. Cowboy music played in the background. In one comer, some guys were playing shuffleboard and hiking beer. At a large round table, others sat smoking and hiking beer. Jimmy stood to the side, one arm in a sling, aiming a dart while his opponent watched.
Bryan knew that, although Jimmy spent a lot of time in bars, he was not a heavy drinker. He had learned long ago that when alcohol took control of his brain it tapped into a dark pool of anger that propelled him into fights with men he did not know, over issues he could not remember the next day. Now he was a master at pacing himself, and could make a single draft last for an hour or more. He liked the stale smoky atmosphere of a drinking room, and he liked many of the men who came there. When Bryan could not reach his uncle at his new apartment, he had naturally tried the Rainbow Room.
“Jimmy, we’ve got to talk,” Bryan said when he had zigged and zagged his way past empty tables.
“Hey, son, hang on a sec,” the other dart player said. “Big point comin’ here.”
Jimmy took one look at his nephew, fired his dart and said, “See you, Mike. Your game. I’ll settle with you tomorrow.
“What’s wrong?” he asked Bryan. “You’re soaked to the skin. Something happen with Iris?”
“No, not that. I’ve got to explain something, and it might take a while.”
A few minutes later they were sitting at a quiet table. Bryan sipped the hot chocolate Jimmy had insisted on ordering for him and tried to put together all that had happened with the two so-called activist tree-hugger guests, then laid out his theory for Jimmy When Bryan was finished, his uncle shook a cigarette from a crumpled pack. He blew the smoke toward the dark ceiling.
“You’re right,” he said at last. “It’s the only explanation.” He mashed his cigarette into the ashtray and stood up. “Let’s go. We can put your bike in the back of the truck. I want to be there when they get home.”
Bryan’s uncle had a temper that was well known, although it hardly ever showed itself. Bryan had an uneasy feeling it was about to show itself that afternoon. “Shouldn’t we tell Zeke?” he said.
“Sure, we’ll tell Zeke. Right after I throw those two sonsabitches out of our house.”
The longer they waited, the more Bryan began to question his wisdom in telling his uncle before he was able to contact Zeke. What if things get ugly? he thought, fidgeting. What can me and my one-armed uncle do against two big strong men who think nothing about lying and pretending, not to mention setting things on fire? What if they beat us both up? What if they come back some time and try to burn down the house?
He and Jimmy had come straight to their empty home. They prepared supper — which Bryan couldn’t eat — and watched TV until after dark. As soon as he heard the basement door open and close, Jimmy hauled himself from the couch and headed for the stairs. Bryan followed, at a distance.
Through Otto’s open door they could see both men, still in their rain jackets, talking. Jimmy didn’t waste any time.
“You two fellas come out here. I want to talk to you.”
Kevin/Kyle and Otto/Oliver slouched out of the bedroom, their faces curious. Otto stood more than a head taller than Jimmy. Kevin was bigger, too, and outweighed Jimmy by at least twenty kilos.
Kevin turned on his smile and the syrupy charm. “Hi, Bryan. What’s up?”
“You boys have fifteen minutes to get your gear together and clear out,” Jimmy answered for his nephew.
Otto ran his fingers through black hair slicked down by the rain. “What the hell are you talking about? We’ve booked these rooms for another week, with an option to extend.”
“Is there some sort of problem?” Kevin put in, his voice a lot less congenial.
“You might say that.”
“Bryan,” Kevin appealed again, his smile again. “Would you mind telling us what this is all about?”
The dark scowl that had flashed across Otto’s face, and the physical threat that seeped from three angry men in a small space, intimidated Bryan and tangled up the words inside his head. He looked at his uncle. Jimmy’s face was a rigid mask, made more threatening by the bruises, the livid scrape and the stitches.
“Leave him out of this,” he snarled.
“We don’t go without an explanation,” Otto said through clenched teeth. “We’ve paid in advance. We—”
“We haven’t been any trouble,” Kevin said. “Have we, Bryan? No loud music, no parties, no women. Just like your mom asked. So, you have to understand, Mr. Lormer, we don’t see —”
“We don’t see,” Otto cut in, “what this has to do with you, anyway. We have an understanding with Iris, not you.”
Bryan could feel the energy pulsing in waves from his uncle’s body. Jimmy’s chest heaved under his sling. “We don’t need scum like you around here. I’m not gonna tell you again. Pack up and get out.”
“Don’t threaten me, you little —” Otto hissed, straight-arming Jimmy as he lunged forward.
As Otto’s arm shot out Jimmy stepped quickly to the side, blocked the arm and, with the back of his fist, snapped a punch that made a sickening crack as it brought blood flowing from Otto’s nose. Otto cursed, hand to his face. His eyes watered, and blood streamed between his fingers.
Kevin grimaced in anger. He swung, his round-house punch missing Jimmy’s head and glancing off his shoulder as Jimmy twisted out of the way. He shoved Kevin back. Kevin let out a roar and wrapped his thick arms around Jimmy, trapping him in a bear hug. A snarl of pain crossed Jimmy’s face as his broken arm was pressed between his own chest and the larger, heavier man. Jimmy drew back his head and butted. Thunk
! Kevin swore and fell back, an ugly red welt on his forehead. He gathered himself and attacked.
“Stop! I said stop, Kyle!” Otto shouted. Kevin stepped away, red faced, chest heaving. “Forget it,” Otto said. “We’ll go. There’s lots of other places to stay in this ratty little town.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Jimmy said.
“Oh, yeah —”
“Let it go, man,” Otto ordered.
Jimmy stood his ground as they rapidly packed.
“The keys” was all he said as they were struggling out the door with their gear. Otto tossed two keys to the floor and slammed the door shut behind him. A moment later, their van roared to life and took them away.
Bryan’s entire body shook as unused adrenalin surged through his muscles. He had not spoken or moved throughout the entire exchange. I was about as useful to my uncle as his maimed arm, he thought.
“So your uncle threw them out?”
“Did he ever!
He stood right up —”
“Was there a fight?”
“Almost. One of them — Otto —”
“Almost? How can there be an almost fight?”
“Well, let me talk and I’ll—”
“So talk.”
When Bryan had finished the story, Ellen said, “So, can I say something now?”
“Sure.”
“Somebody ought to put those two creeps in jail.”
“Jimmy’s going to call Zeke and tell him all about it.”
“Good. Hey, I’ve got some almost good news.”
“How can there be almost good news?”
“Very funny.”
“Well?”
“My aunt might take me to visit your mom.”
“Might?”
“Well, if it’s okay with you.”
“Sure it is. She’d be glad of the company.”
“Great, Bry. My aunt wants to use the phone. Miss you. Bye.”
While Jimmy talked to Zeke on the phone, Bryan ripped the linen from the beds and jammed it into the washing machine. After opening the windows wide, letting in the fresh damp night air, he vacuumed their rooms furiously. He wanted every trace of the two trouble-makers gone.
Jimmy was sipping a beer when Bryan finally went upstairs to the kitchen. “What did Zeke say?” he asked.
“You’ve been quite the detective, eh, Bry? Zeke told me you talked to him about those two donkeys before.”
“Yeah. You know, when I think back on it, I felt kind of funny about those guys from the start.”
“They were a little too good to be true, as far as I’m concerned,” Jimmy agreed. “Anyway, they’re gone.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Zeke told me he’s going to pick them up tomorrow, at the peace camp. We agreed that’s likely where they’ll be.”
“I’d like to be there when he does,” Bryan said, “and see somebody get arrested who deserves it, for once.”
