Killers

by Laurence Gough

  Parker said, “It’s nice to see you making the best of a bad situation.” She speared a scallop, gave her fork a little shake to stop the sauce from dripping, and leaned across the table. “Open wide.”

  Willows said, “You sound just like my dentist.” But not until he’d chewed and swallowed.

  They ordered coffee to go. Parker insisted on paying for the meal, but let Willows take care of the tip. Outside, the wind had freshened and the harbour was flecked with white. Sometime during their meal, the old man had abandoned the pier. Willows had an urge to walk out there, lean into the wind and feel the pilings quiver underfoot.

  Parker said, “You want to drive?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “After two beers and three scallops? Yeah, I think I can manage.”

  Parker said, “Don’t be such a hard-ass, Jack.” She went around to the Ford’s passenger-side door, unlocked it and tossed him the keys. He unlocked, climbed behind the wheel. Shut the door and started the engine. Their fingers touched between the seats as they buckled up. As always, timing was crucial.

  Willows smiled.

  Parker said, “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Willows, but he kept on smiling as he reversed out of the parking space and headed back up the road and over the railway tracks.

  When Parker had tossed him the keys her weight had been perfect, the throw so accurate he’d hardly needed to move his hand. He found her so beguiling partly because she could do so many small things so very well, with such effortless grace.

  Plus she was the kind of woman who willingly shared her scallops. And he might have got a chunk of crab out of her too, if he’d thought to ask.

  Next time.

  They continued along Marine Drive, the narrow road rising and falling and curving endlessly through thickly treed terrain sprinkled with a few small cottages dating from the thirties and many newer, studiously lavish homes situated on huge, immaculately landscaped lots.

  Money money money.

  Eagle Island was a long way from the city. They drove past West Bay and the neighbourhoods of Altamont, Sandy Bay and Lighthouse Park. The winding streets had names like Sunset, The Dale, Water Lane and Bear Lane, The Byway and The Halt, Daffodil Road. Willows knew a cop who’d lived way out here, in an area called Lower Caulfield. The cop and his girlfriend had lived in a rented log cabin with a close-in water view. It had seemed like a great place to live, but the cop and his girl were city people and after a year of it they’d had about as much of the idyllic life as they could stand.

  Pilot House Road, that’s where they’d lived, right next door to a stone and cedar church. It had bothered the girlfriend, living in sin in such close proximity to a place of worship.

  Willows told Parker about the log cabin on Pilot House Road — but not about the girlfriend. They talked for a while about the street names — were they charming or merely pretentious? Then a discreet varnished pine signpost warned them that the West Vancouver Yacht Club was coming up on their left.

  Willows cursed softly.

  Parker said, “Something wrong?”

  He nodded. They’d overshot the mark. The road movie had gone off the reel — they were lost.

  Chapter 12

  Chris finished his popcorn and turned the bag upside-down and gave it a shake. A couple of scruffy-looking pigeons turned towards him, pecked at the ground near his feet in a desultory fashion and then ambled away, cooing softly in disappointment. Chris crumpled the bag into a compact brown ball and lobbed it overhand into a green-painted metal wastebasket fitted with a wire mesh cap to keep the crows from making a mess.

  He stood up, stamped to get his blood circulating. A grotesquely fat woman pushing a stroller overflowing with two screaming toddlers glared at him as though she could read his intention to snatch her beloved infants as clearly as if the words were tattooed across his forehead.

  But she was the sadist, thought Chris, taking her kids to the zoo in weather this bad.

  Chris waited until she’d put a reasonable amount of distance between them. Unfortunately, she had chosen the same route through the park that he intended to follow — past the monkey cages and down along the west side of the aquarium, towards the cenotaph.

  The way he saw it, he had a maximum of two choices: he could dawdle in the area of the monkey house, spin his wheels until she was out of sight, far ahead of him. Or he could accelerate past her, let her catch up with him, if she chose to take the risk. Chris sighed woefully. The simple truth was that no matter what it cost him in terms of hypothermia, he wasn’t going to risk exposing himself to another icy stare, that high-octane mother’s mix of venom and suspicion that was so unnerving.

  He remembered reading somewhere that even the most harmless snakes were potentially lethal for a short time after birth. Maybe nature had blessed new mothers in a similar fashion.

  Loitering in the passive madness of the monkey house, he thought about a recent television program on cryogenics that he’d watched but hadn’t paid sufficient attention to. By the time a quarter of an hour had crawled past he felt he could allow his body temperature to plummet no further. Abandoning the monkey house’s dark and gloomy charms, he marched briskly along the path that led in the general direction of the aquarium.

  He’d had some dope on him then — he had some dope on him now. He glanced around. He was alone except for a couple of hard-eyed, hunchbacked crows perched on the iron rail of the fence the Parks Board had built to keep people out of the moat that surrounded this side of the aquarium. The crows had the casually ruthless posture of professional gangsters. But the pair of them together weighed less than a pound, and they were smart enough to know it. Chris veered abruptly towards them and they spread their black wings and flew blackly away, fouling the air with their tongues.

  He took another quick look around, fished in his leather jacket for a joint, moistened the paper with his tongue to slow the burning, lit up.

  He pulled the smoke deep into his lungs, squeezed tight.

  A picture came into his mind of Robyn at work. She was busy but he couldn’t quite see what she was up to. He took another hit. She had not encouraged him to visit her when she was on the job. If they had lunch, she met him at a restaurant. So was it his fault if things were a tad out of focus when he tried to picture her at work? Was it his fault if he had very little idea what Robyn actually did for a living?

  Chris walked quickly along the path parallel to the moat. A fat, mottled brown duck kept pace with him for a while, quacking softly as it swam effortlessly through the muddy water. Eventually it became discouraged by its inability to make eye contact, lost momentum and dropped away.

  Chris walked through a green-painted iron gate, made his way down two levels of wide concrete stairs. Now he was at the point where he and Robyn had jumped up on the wall. He took another powerful hit on the joint, flicked away the burning end and ate the roach.

  He scrambled up on the wall. Now he had a much clearer view of the aquarium complex, and anyone looking in his direction would have a much clearer view of him. But the aquarium was deserted. He was alone. He spread his arms for balance and walked rapidly along the top of the wall until he reached the scrim of evergreens and shrubbery growing on the berm behind the pool.

  Fallen leaves lay hidden beneath the crust of snow; the ground was slippery and treacherous. Chris stepped carefully — if he lost his footing, he’d end up in the moat or in the whale pool. He shivered, remembering how careless he and Robyn had been the previous night. He imagined what might have happened if she’d fallen into the pool. He’d have tried to save her. Gone in after her, right? Yeah, sure. Of course. Naturally.

  They’d have drowned, both of them.

  Chris wiped the thought from his head. Crouching low, he made his way through a patch of bushes thick with hard, shiny green leaves. Without the aquarium lights to guide him, it was impossible to tell exactly where he and Robyn had been the previou
s night. He moved closer to the lip of the sand-coloured rock overhanging the killer whale pool.

  He saw the small cedar tree and remembered holding Robyn tightly, enjoying the warmth of her body as they sheltered beneath the tree’s branches.

  Crouched under the tree in almost exactly the same position he’d occupied the previous night, he stared across the dark, calm surface of the water. Over there where the wide concrete steps came down to the edge of the pool, that’s where he’d seen the pale figure moving through the snow. He shut his eyes and tried to conjure up the memory of something it was possible he had never seen in the first place.

  He saw, or imagined he saw, a body slip into the water, silently vanish. He saw a naked figure turn and start up the steps. The figure paused. It looked right at him.

  Chris squinted into the swirling snow, harsh glare of the lights.

  Directly in front of him, no more than fifteen feet away, one of the whales breached. He held his breath as the huge black and white creature rose high into the air and then fell back into the pool with an enormous splash.

  The water slowly settled. Chris waited a moment and then crawled on his hands and knees to the edge of mock-sandstone, peered straight down into the water.

  It was impossible to see past the surface glare; it was like looking into a mirror. He cupped his hands funnel-like around his eyes. There was something down there, that vanished and then reappeared as the water glittered and heaved and the light came and went.

  He leaned out a little further. The thing was lying on the bottom of the pool, wavering and insubstantial. No, wait. It was a small metal dolly — the kind you’d use to move a stove or refrigerator. Or maybe a corpse.

  A hoarse shout carried across the water, hit him like a slap in the face. He looked up. A guy in a suit was yelling at him, waving his arms.

  Chris jumped to his feet. Crows shrieked at him. He turned and ran.

  Chapter 13

  Willows braked hard and swerved into the left turn lane. The road was clear. He turned into the yacht club’s grounds past the pair of slightly neglected totem poles that flanked the entrance.

  Off to the right, a smaller pole with widespread wings and a made-in-Taiwan look about it towered over several neatly ordered rows of trailered boats of various size, all of them protected from the weather by bright orange and blue tarpaulins.

  There was parking for two or three hundred cars, but there were only a couple of dozen vehicles in the lot and they were all huddled together down by the water, next to what had to be the clubhouse — a sharp-angled, steep-roofed building faced with reddish-brown rock.

  It was drinking rather than sailing weather, Willows supposed.

  Parker said, “Somebody in there ought to be able to give us directions.”

  Willows nodded. He rummaged in his jacket pocket for a breath mint.

  As he drove across the empty parking lot towards the building he saw that only part of it was used by the yacht club. There was also a chandlery, its big plate-glass windows bright with the gaudy foam and plastic products that seemed so much a part of modern boating. He braked, put the transmission in ‘park’, got out of the car and walked up the wide, heavily salted steps and pushed open the door. The shop was even larger than it had looked from outside, and was well-stocked with a mix of basic necessities and problematical luxuries. To Willows it looked like the kind of place where the staff knew everyone by name, and the customers kept a running account or paid with gold cards.

  A woman wearing faded jeans and a striped blue and white polo shirt appeared from behind a circular rack of mournful black rubber wetsuits that made Willows think of a scarecrow’s funeral. He asked her if she could give him directions to Eagle Island.

  Her smile was more amused than sympathetic. “You’ve gone right past it. Go back towards the city and make a right at the second intersection. There’s a sign — if you look for it. Got a boat?”

  “No.”

  “Care to buy one?”

  “Thanks anyway.” Salt crunched underfoot as he navigated his way down the icy steps to the car.

  Parker gave him an enquiring look. He said, “We have to go back. We missed the turnoff. Apparently there’s a sign — if you look for it.”

  Parker said, “I had a feeling we should’ve looked for a sign.”

  “Rules to live by,” said Willows. “Always look for a sign.” He started the engine and they drove down the length of the parking lot, past the gaily shrouded boats and snow-drifted totem poles and back on to Marine Drive.

  At the second intersection on their left a white-painted wooden signpost with black letters about an inch high directed them towards Eagle Island. Willows drove down a narrow, winding asphalt road past a mix of older cottages and huge, architecturally aggressive houses that seemed determined at all costs not to blend in with the rainforest landscape.

  A minute or two later an expanse of flat, greyish-green water came into view. As they drew closer, Willows saw that there was a small beach at the end of the road, and a parking lot to the right. He started to turn in and then spotted a sign warning that the lot was the property of Eagle Island Yacht Club members and that all other vehicles would be towed away at the owners’ expense. He continued to drive slowly down the narrow road. There was parking on both sides, but every space was reserved for a named resident of Eagle Island. In the space marked ‘Sinclair’ was an old split windshield Studebaker that had been kept in showroom condition. He slowed to admire the car.

  Parker said, “Organized, aren’t they?”

  Willows nodded, backed the Ford into a driveway paved with interlocking blocks of pink cement, and then drove down the road and parked illegally.

  Parker said, “It’s a long walk home, Jack.”

  “We’ll steal a yacht.” He pulled down the sun visor so the Ford’s POLICE VEHICLE placard showed clearly, and then grabbed the gumball and wedged it on the dashboard. “That ought to do it.”

  The two detectives got out of the Ford and walked back down the road. Iris Roth’s space was fifth from the end on the right, and was occupied by a shiny white BMW cabriolet.

  The road climbed gently through evergreens and thick undergrowth. The surface hadn’t been salted or ploughed, so Willows and Parker went slowly. In a few minutes the island, located at the head of a smallish harbour crammed with moored sail boats, came gradually into view. Then the road abruptly disintegrated into an unpaved footpath. Willows and Parker followed it down to a narrow pier jutting out into the water. Thick planks echoed hollowly underfoot as they walked the length of the pier and then down a steeply pitched ramp to a floating dock.

  The island was no more than a hundred and fifty feet away, but the water, a lovely clear green, was too cold to swim and too deep to wade.

  A dozen small boats were moored at the dock, held in place by chains draped casually over galvanized iron posts. There were several variations on the basic design but the boats were all about twelve feet in length, with a six foot beam, sheet metal aluminium decks and waist-high pipe rails. Willows noticed that they were all powered by 9.9 horsepower outboard motors, the majority electric start models equipped with remote controls.

  An equal number of similar vessels were moored at a small dock on the island.

  Willows stepped cautiously on to one of the boats. It wobbled slightly under his weight. He grabbed the rail and made his way to the controls.

  Parker said, “What are you doing, Jack?”

  “The key’s in the ignition.”

  “Are you familiar with the word piracy?”

  “How about I take us over and then you come back and wait for me here?”

  Parker waved her arm at the island, taking in the homes lined up along the shore and high up on the hill above the water. “Look at all those windows. You think we aren’t being watched? Somebody’s watching us. What if they call the cops? And please don’t tell me we’re the cops, because we won’t be much longer, with your attitude.”

&nbs
p; Willows said, “If we don’t take a boat, we’ll have to call Mrs Roth and ask for a ride.”

  Parker nodded. “That’s right, Jack.”

  Willows stepped hack on to the dock. The miniature ferry, relieved of his weight, moved restlessly in the water. The chains binding it to the dock chimed softly. He said, “There’s a phone booth back at the parking lot.”

  “You want me to walk hack there and call her, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Or we can take a boat.”

  Parker gave Willows a look perfectly suited to the cold weather. She started up the ramp, then paused and turned hack to him. “Gimme a quarter.”

  Willows thrust his hand into his overcoat pocket, came up with some loose change. He segregated a quarter and walked up the ramp and laid it gently in Parker’s open palm.

  “Got her number?”

  Parker smiled sweetly. “I’ve got everybody’s number, Jack. Even yours.”

  The ramp trembled slightly as Parker continued back towards the pier. But Willows had to admit it, she was extremely light on her feet. He turned and rested his elbows on the frosty wooden railing and studied the island. It was very small, about ten acres or so. At the near end, the moss-covered roof of a small white house looked as if it was about to cave in. Directly across from him there was a large, obviously expensive home with a detached guest cottage and private dock with about forty feet of sail boat moored to it. A nice lifestyle, very attractive. But there wasn’t much open ground on the island, and very little flat area that he could see. Except for a few of the waterfront lots, the houses all seemed to have been built on about a thirty-degree slope. It was no place for small children; one misplaced step and you were in the salt-chuck.

  A woman in a shiny red jacket and bright yellow boots suddenly appeared between a stand of evergreens. He wondered where she’d come from and then saw the narrow path that ran between the trees and down to the dock. He wondered if the woman was Iris Roth and then decided it was unlikely because she was making her way down the path with a quick, fluid agility far beyond a woman Mrs Roth’s age. He felt a vibration in the pier, and turned to look behind him. Parker had made her call. She didn’t look very happy.