by Ingrid Betz
Along the way they’d been joined by four or five other staff members, men and women who wore spotless white lab coats over blue jeans. The women were small-boned and neat. Trudging beside them, Marigold felt big and untidy and she could only imagine how unnatural her curling mane of red hair must appear to them, next to their straight black bobs. One of the younger women addressed her in rudimentary English. Marigold smiled and nodded although she understood only one word in three.
“Now we go for demonstration,” announced Mr. Hsi, and the group wheeled obediently to return to the main building. All except Marigold, who remained standing.
She drew a breath. “What about the mine?” she said, in a clear high voice that made everyone’s head swivel in her direction.
“The mine?”
“The place where you keep the bears.”
“Back in forest.” Hsi waved at the track slithering off amid the trees.
“We’d like to inspect that too, please.”
“Mar!” Peter, face like a thundercloud, reached her side.
“Is not safe. Bears wild. Only special people trained for work allowed inside. For safety reason, you understand.”
“What you mean is, you don’t want us to see them. You’re worried…”
“For God’s sake shut up,” hissed Peter. He’d grabbed her arm and was pulling her aside.
“I apologize,” he said loudly, glancing around him. “My assistant doesn’t understand what’s involved. Please, pay no attention.”
Marigold shrugged off his hold. She’d spoken up, in spite of her fear. It was a small test but if she’d passed that, there was no reason why she couldn’t pass the larger test that had been taking shape in her mind ever since yesterday. All she needed was the opportunity, and if she stayed alert and determined, it would present itself. She had faith because her cause was just.
Mr. Hsi, who’d stopped smiling, chivied his flock through the rear door. Marigold was aware of the curious looks aimed her way, but when she returned them, none of the staff would make eye contact with her.
They trooped down the corridor and back into the processing room.
A hitch of some kind appeared to have developed at one of the work stations. Two of the men started arguing vigorously in Mandarin with Hsi, while the others stood around, their faces uneasy. Marigold sidled closer to the exit. But Peter had his eye on her and blocked her path. Quite possibly he’d read her mind; he was capable of it, she knew from experience. She forced herself to think of other things: of Red Tom, who’d actually purred after his supper last night. As though he knew she might not be back.
The argument appeared to end in a trade-off. The two men retreated, bowing, and Mr. Hsi, with his smile back in place, announced in English that the demonstration was being postponed till after lunch, and would the honourable guests now please join the staff in the canteen.
“I’d give a lot to know what that was about,” murmured Peter. “Could be some of them don’t trust us?”
“Do we have to join them? I don’t think I could eat.”
“Be rude not to, Mar. These people are doing us an honour.”
“I didn’t ask them to.”
“Now you’re being childish.” His hand on her elbow urged her forward into the canteen. “At least pretend. And for crying out loud, show a little enthusiasm while you’re at it.”
Peter was showing enough for both of them, observed Marigold sourly. He made a great to-do of settling her in the chair next to his. On his other side was Mei Ling, the young technician who spoke a few words of English. She was a pretty girl, and Peter soon found things to say to her that made her giggle. This was the head table, Marigold realized, as Hsi took a seat opposite her. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d chosen to sit there so he could keep an eye on the west’s crazy, rude, red-haired fat woman. More men filed in and took their places at other tables; the entire workforce, it looked like. The sing-song sound of Chinese voices was giving her a headache. Pots of tea were handed around. The kitchen staff brought in steaming bowls of soup, a vinegary sweetness hung in the air. Any minute now, Marigold thought, she was going to throw up. She nudged Peter.
“Could you ask if I might use the washroom?”
“Oh, Mar. Trust you,” he said, trying not to show his annoyance.
It was Mei who escorted her into the corridor and pointed out the appropriate door.
“Thank you. I can manage,” said Marigold, praying the woman wouldn’t accompany her inside. She hesitated, then with a shy parting smile, left her on her own.
Marigold waited a few seconds, and continued on to the door that led outside. She let herself out and headed for the back of the clearing, past the dormitories and the chicken pen, walking at top speed. Half expecting to hear a yell and furious footsteps behind her, but none came. She reached the gravel track and ducked into the shade of the trees. The forest, which had seemed so threatening, took on a sheltering quality, and her sense of dread diminished with every step. She knew that Lynn was with her, and that made all the difference.
Within minutes, the track curved and widened. Ahead, gaping like an open mouth from the side of a forested incline, was the entrance to the mine.
Railroad ties framed the opening. Stones had been pushed in place between them as reinforcement. Thickets of wild raspberry clung to the bank above, waving thorny fronds. Signs in English read Danger and Entry by Authorized Personnel Only, and other signs in Chinese lettering doubtless said the same thing. Tire ruts testified to heavy traffic in and out of the mine.
Marigold stepped forward into the gloom.
Inside the entrance, the ground sloped downhill. The air was cool and smelled of earth and mould. Dim circles of light emanated from standards fixed at intervals to the wall. She moved cautiously at first, allowing her eyes to adjust and peer into the shadows. A smell she identified with uncleaned cages at the Humane Society crept into her nostrils. She began to hear sounds from deeper inside the mine, although they were difficult to identify.
A gallery leading off to one side showed wire bins filled with bags of dry dog food. Piled one inside another were buckets and bowls, and coils of narrow white plastic tubing hung from hooks. Water dripped from a faucet attached to an iron pipe running along the wall. Stacked in heaps inside a second gallery was a jumble of metal she didn’t at first recognize, until she remembered the harnesses and shackles she’d seen displayed on the computer screen. Quickly she moved on, not allowing herself to look more closely.
The smell became a stench that grew stronger the deeper she descended. Like rotting meat, overlaid with a musky odour. She could make out the sounds now: the clank of iron and an intermittent low moaning. Heart beating in her throat, Marigold stumbled around a bend and stood arrested.
An enormous gallery lay spread out before her. Thirty cages at least stood in rows on wooden stands. What light there was shone from low-watt bulbs strung on wires under the dirt ceiling. It glinted from iron bars and lay smeared across puddles on the concrete floor. Hoses snaked everywhere: along the aisles, underneath the stands, and up into the cages themselves.
Pupils gleamed in the semi-dark. The bears, thought Marigold. Straining her eyes, she made out the shape of furry black bodies. Many of them were in cages so small they could neither lie comfortably nor stand upright; none had room in which to turn around. The larger bears were trussed in harnesses.
She became aware of small movements inside the cages. Bears shifting their weight, some gnawing at paws, others banging their heads against the bars. A constant low keening filled the air, and she heard the drag of chains and the scrape of iron. Another, lighter, sound caught her ear—the drip and trickle of liquid into metal pans.
Saliva pooled in her mouth. Now she really did want to vomit. No time, she told herself, swallowing hard. She reached into the pocket of her cargo pants for the leather work gloves she’d
brought from the Animal Shelter. Drawing them on, she started down the nearest aisle. A heavy warm fug in the air made breathing difficult and her knees felt like sponge rubber. Lynn’s voice spoke in her ear, efficient and calming. Think of it as triage. Pretend you’re at the shelter.
She stopped in front of a bear propped on its haunches and rocking from side to side. Pinkish-yellow skin showed where its belly had been shaved. White plastic tubing attached to a metal sleeve protruded from the bear’s abdomen; the open end dangled over a pan set under the cage.
‘I can’t do this,’ thought Marigold, beginning to tremble. She must have been out of her mind.
“Yes, you can,” said Lynn sternly. “You’ve reached into the cages of animals at the Shelter dozens of times.”
Marigold took a breath and stretched a hand through the bars. Murmuring the soothing words she’d learned to use on domestic cats and dogs, she grasped the tube, jerked it free and tossed it aside. Quickly, while her nerve held, she headed for the next cage and repeated the manoeuver. Soon she was moving fast from cage to cage, yanking out tubes wherever she could reach them. It wasn’t always possible; some bears were facing in the wrong direction. A few squealed in pain, others were deathly silent. Some flinched and searched her face with dulled eyes, but none attempted to bite her. The larger males wore iron muzzles, others wore leg shackles. At the end of the second row, a smaller bear reached out to her between the bars and she stood frozen in horrified pity. The paw had been severed, leaving only a bloody stump.
Bear paw stew, she thought dumbly. She jerked out the tube and moved on.
A number of the animals looked ill; they hung their heads and panted. The incisions in their abdomens were infected; she recognized the signs of angry red flesh. When she pulled out their tubes they screamed in human voices. Marigold groaned and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her glove. One tube was caught under the iron girth of the harness encircling the animal’s belly. The wound was rubbed raw and the bear whimpered and growled as she tried unsuccessfully to twist it free. Panic rose in her. It was all taking too long. Soon the workers would be returning from lunch.
“Leave it!” Lynn was still with her. “There isn’t time. Look for the cubs they captured at the portage that day.”
According to what she’d read on the internet, they weren’t old enough yet to produce sufficient bile for milking, but the company would keep them to build up their stock. Bears accustomed from a young age to humans were easier to handle than their wild cousins when the time came.
She found two of the cubs behind the last row of cages, in a wooden pen encrusted with excrement. As she leaned over, they cowered in a corner. They’d grown since she’d seen them disappear under the nets, but they were very thin. Scooping them up in her gloved hands, she hugged them to her chest. They struggled only feebly as she hurried up the central aisle and out of the gallery.
Lurching around the bend and up the incline with her burden, she was gripped by an awful certainty that she’d be too late. Her jacket flapped open and the smaller cub pushed his head in against the sweater she wore underneath. She passed the side galleries and caught the first currents of fresh air and the glimmer of green ahead. If she could just make it into the brush at the side of the entrance, she thought, emerging into the daylight….
A couple of workers were sauntering down the track. Tightening her grip on the cubs, she broke into a shambling run.
The men shouted and plunged forward to intercept her. Others appeared behind them.
Marigold staggered and nearly fell. The men were young and fast and unencumbered. Lynn screamed a final time in her ear: “Throw them! Far as you can!” With the last of her strength, she heaved the cubs away from her into a springy tangle of underbrush.
A hand came down on her shoulder. She felt herself spun around and sent sprawling onto the gravel. Bodies piled on top of her. A needle of excruciating pain shot through her spine, while her head hit something hard and unyielding and a shower of stars exploded into black.
20.
“YOU’VE GOT THE PHOTOGRAPH?”
“Yes.”
Verena patted the pocket of her windbreaker to make sure. She was in the departure lounge of the Pearson Airport, waiting to board the afternoon flight to Bracebridge. Through the window she could see the Dash 8 being readied. A man in white coveralls wearing headphones and carrying a clipboard climbed down from the cockpit. Overhead, a wide sky promised clearing weather.
“Round face,” she said. “Like a peasant’s, but shrewd. Wire-rim spectacles.”
Typical Borrowman, fussing. Worrying she’d get it wrong, that she’d target the wrong man. It was the printout of a photograph taken with a mobile device. He’d called her yesterday the minute it came through on his computer.
“Meet me at the library? Urgent.”
She’d been in the studio, preparing for evening classes. She lied and told Francine that she had a headache. Francine was her usual sympathetic self.
“Go home, chérie. I’ll take your shift.” she said.
Borrowman had found a secluded table at the library and was waiting with his topography maps spread out and the screen of his laptop lit up. He half rose to greet her, his thin features flushed with excitement.
“Verena, you won’t believe this. I’ve got a picture of Li Chen. The man they picked to run the mine? I recognize him from Chengdu.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“From St. Denis. The realtor who sold them the mine had it on his cellphone. Landesberg didn’t want to pass it on at first —customer confidentiality and all that. But St. Denis knows he has a weakness for cash. Look.” He turned the computer around. “That’s him. God! I never thought I’d have to see that face again.”
Verena studied the expression of cunning in the small eyes. Behind him she could make out the struts of an airplane wing. “Where is he now?”
“In Toronto, looking to hire more security. Apparently he’s booked to fly back to the mine the day after tomorrow. The local float plane operator is another friend of St. Denis’s, that’s how come he knows all this.” Borrowman indicated a chair. “Sit down, sit down. You have time?” he asked as an afterthought.
“Of course,” she said. Her heart started to beat against her ribs. This could lead to only one thing.
“Verena? I’ve decided. I’m sending you up north.”
“With the Henry?”
“With the Henry.”
“You’re sure? You don’t want to wait for Asher?”
“I can’t take the chance. I saw Dr. Wong this week and…” Borrowman looked away, in the grip of a nameless emotion, and stopped to compose himself. “But it’s not only that. There’s been a development at the mine. Somebody broke into the gallery where they house the bears. A woman was injured and had to be medivac’d out. The rumour is that the guards caught her trying to rescue a couple of cubs.”
“Rescue!”
“I know. Sounds improbable. But if the Cell is going to act, now would be the time.” Nervously he fingered his moustache. “So far the company has managed to keep out of the news. But if there’s a shooting, on top of the break-in, it will almost guarantee a police investigation. Plus, the media will be all over it. It’s the kind of story the public loves.” He gave her a rueful look. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d have preferred a protest rally. It goes without saying. But the logistics of organizing a group of protesters—the effort, the cost to get people up there—I just can’t do it anymore. Not on my own.”
Verena nodded. Borrowman reminded her of the beaten-looking men who used to turn up late at night at the house in Belgrade. Ordinary, decent family men, whispering about home-made bombs and suicide missions. Desperate, her father had called them, men with nothing left to lose.
“St. Denis worked out a canoe route to the mine site, you said?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward. “Here. Let me show you.”
Borrowman had called up the Google map to augment the information sent to him by St. Denis. His brown-stained forefinger followed a river flowing along the southern edge of Algonquin Park.
“See where it narrows? What looks like an old wharf? According to Landesberg, that’s where the float plane delivers passengers bound for the mine. Directly opposite,” his finger tapped the spot, “there’s a bluff overlooking the river. With plenty of cover, according to St. Denis, and close enough for anyone proficient with a .22 calibre hunting rifle to get an accurate shot away. What do you think?”
Verena nodded, excitement stirring. Oh yes, she could manage very well from there. She bent over the screen and studied the terrain. Winding along one end of the bluff was a watery inlet where she could leave the canoe. Out of sight of the wharf, from this angle.
“The plan’s not foolproof, of course,” said Borrowman. “They could decide at the last minute to bring him in by road instead.”
Verena raised her eyebrows and quoted the German aphorism she’d taught him. “No sense painting the devil on the wall, John. I’ll find a way.”
He’d packed up his maps and the laptop and offered to drive her home. She wasn’t stupid. She knew he was still worried she wouldn’t be up to the job and would have preferred Asher. He’d been shamed into sending her by the reckless behaviour of a strange woman, and because he’d run out of options. Options like time, and health. It didn’t matter. His permission was a gift that he’d granted her. It made the adrenaline flow in her veins. Verena had turned down the lift and run most of the way home.
Behind the airline departure desk, the attendant picked up a microphone.
“They’re getting ready to call boarding,” Verena told Borrowman over the phone.
He seemed reluctant to let her go. “By the way. I received an email from Asher last night.”
Her attention sharpened. “Yes?”
“He’s decided to ask Elaine for a divorce.”
