Serpents Rising

by David A. Poulsen

“I can get you some water.”

  Cobb declined and I started to but thought better of it. In some strange way, I felt that this street girl was doing her best to be hospitable and that water was probably all she had to offer us.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’d appreciate a water.”

  She got up, reached behind her for a plastic jug of water, poured some into a glass that may or may not have been clean. She handed me the water with a flicker of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

  “I hope you like cold water.” She shook the glass and I could hear bits of ice hitting the sides.

  “Cold’s my favourite.” I said.

  Another flicker, then she sat back down and looked at Cobb. “Why should I help you guys?”

  “Because you’d be helping Jay,” Cobb said. “It’s like we said before, there are some other people who might be looking for him. If they are, it’s imperative that we find him before they do.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “Pretty vague.”

  “I wish I could give you more definitive answers but I can’t. You’re going to have to trust us.”

  “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard that in my life? From my favourite uncle who was a pedophile to my first boyfriend who turned out to be violent to the two cops who arrested me for shoplifting and offered me some interesting ways to avoid being charged to … there’s more, but I’m sure you get the picture. So, bottom line, I don’t have to trust you.”

  Cobb glanced over at me. I could see he was thinking about how much he’d tell her. He nodded. “Two drug trade guys were killed last night. A house over in Ramsay. Crack dealers … they were shot.”

  Zoe looked thoughtful, nodded slowly. “I heard something about it on the news. There was a radio playing at a shelter I stopped at to get some blankets.”

  Blankets. That explained the garbage bag.

  “It’s going to be bloody cold tonight,” I said. I shook my water glass to remind her just how cold. “Why didn’t you just stay at the shelter?”

  “I like it here.”

  When neither Cobb nor I responded she added, “I sort of wanted to be here in case … someone comes here.”

  “Jay?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer. Turned instead to Cobb. “What’s the shooting have to do with Jay?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Cobb looked down at the floor for maybe a millisecond then back up at Zoe, his decision made. “The guy who shot those two men was Jay’s father. He’s worried that the guys who are higher up the food chain might want revenge for a couple of their guys getting snuffed.”

  “So why wouldn’t they want to get their revenge on Jay’s father?”

  “They will want that. But if they’re not successful, or even if they are, Mr. Blevins is concerned that they might want to go farther. If he’s right, then Jay could become a target. Or maybe already is.”

  Zoe didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. She seemed to be digesting the information.

  Cobb let her think about it for a while. “Do you happen to know that house? It’s on Raleigh Avenue.”

  Zoe pulled a cigarette out of her jacket pocket, not a pack, one lone cigarette. She lit it from one of the candles, took a drag, blew smoke above our heads. “I know it.”

  “You a user, Zoe?”

  She shook her head. “Was. I’ve been clean for almost four months. Went through a program and got off it … for now. I guess we’ll see.”

  I appreciated her honesty. None of the “I’ve never used” or “I’ve beaten the thing for life” that you hear from a lot of users.

  “What do you know about the house?” Cobb asked her.

  “Not a lot. Jay bought there quite often. He took me with him twice. I hated the place. Real creepy guys. I remember one was called Stick. Real tall. The first time I went there with Jay, that asshole, Stick, offered to show me why he had that particular nickname. Total jerkoff.”

  Blevins had told Cobb one of the guys was very tall. Maybe Stick was one of the victims.

  “Who else was there, do you remember?”

  “The first time it was only Stick and two kids who looked junior high school age making a buy. The second time, it was like Walmart on Saturday night — people everywhere. Stick was there and another guy was doing the selling and distributing. I didn’t pay much attention to who was in there, mostly I wanted to get out and gone as fast as we could. After that time I told Jay I wouldn’t go there anymore. He said he’d buy for me — that was when I was still using.”

  “Crack … that what they sold there?”

  “Crack, ecstasy, blow, lots of other stuff. One stop shopping.”

  Cobb nodded and leaned forward. “Jay ever say anything about the people who sold out of that house? Like who they worked for?”

  “No. I even asked him once. He said he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. Just as long he could get what he needed he didn’t care if Stephen Harper owned the place.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s not him,” Cobb said, smiling.

  Zoe didn’t return the smile.

  “Listen, Zoe, we don’t know who runs that place either and we don’t know if it’s the same people Stick and his pal report to … or maybe reported to is more accurate. But we’ve talked to some guys who are in the know and they’ve told us that these aren’t people you want to mess with.”

  “So why are you messing with them?”

  “Because a scared dad hired me to protect his kid. And that’s what I’m going to do, but I could use your help.”

  “Trouble is, I don’t know where he is. Jay isn’t what you’d call reliable. He’ll tell you he’s going to be somewhere at a certain time and show up a few hours later, or the next day, or not at all.”

  There was a knock at the door. Sitting there grouped around the candles, talking in low voices, we hadn’t heard anyone approach. I have to admit I jumped. I think Zoe did too. Cobb stood up, turned to face the door.

  “Yeah?” Zoe called

  A gravel voice answered. “I got an extra heater and a cord. I’ll leave ’em right here.”

  “Thanks, Jackie,” Zoe called again, then looked at us. “Jackie Morris. My neighbor. Good guy. One person I can trust.”

  “We met him.” Cobb sat back down.

  We waited and no one spoke until we heard shuffling footsteps moving away from Zoe’s door.

  Cobb said, “You were saying that Jay isn’t reliable.”

  Zoe looked at each of us in turn. It looked like she was deciding whether she ought to be critical of Jay in front of strangers.

  “Sometimes he’s great. When he’s sort of in control of his life, everybody loves him — he’s funny, smart, creative, considerate … just a good guy. I know that sounds, I don’t know —”

  “We’ve heard that same description of him from other people,” I said.

  She nodded. “Anyway, Jay is pretty heavily addicted. He’s tried, really tried, but he can’t seem to stay clean, at least not for any length of time.”

  I sipped my water. “Back to my earlier question: is Jay the reason you’re here tonight instead of somewhere warm? You’re expecting him?”

  She hesitated then smiled a little. Shy. “Not expecting, exactly. More hoping.”

  “If he doesn’t show up here, is there anywhere you could suggest we look?”

  “If I knew, I’d look there myself.”

  Cobb said. “So you haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “A week, maybe more. Like I said, he tends to disappear from the radar sometimes. Real hard to find then. I’ve given up looking. I just live my life and if he comes around, great, if not …” She shrugged.

  Cobb stood up. “Thanks Zoe. We do appreciate the help. If you hear from him or of him, I’d appreciate a call.” He handed her one of his cards.

  “Likewise.”

  “Fair enough. You have a cell phone?”

  “Uh-uh. The thing with
having a cell phone is they expect you to pay the bill now and again.”

  Cobb nodded. “If we find out anything, I’ll get word to you.” He turned toward the door.

  I finished my water, set the glass down, and stood up. “Zoe, just wondering, I know it’s none of my business, but have you answered that note from your parents?”

  She looked over at the note, then back at me.

  “Sorry, we weren’t really snooping, just trying to find out if Jay —”

  She waved an arm. “It’s okay, and no I haven’t. My bad, huh?”

  “I don’t know anything about your relationship with your parents. It just sounded like they’re worried, that’s all.”

  “That’s another story for another time. I’ll think about letting them know I’m okay.”

  I nodded, turned, and followed Cobb to the door. As we stepped into the hall, the space heater and neatly coiled extension cord were sitting next to the doorway. The heater didn’t look like it would generate a lot of warmth but maybe it would help if it was right next to you. Maybe.

  Cobb didn’t say anything until we were back on the street. The temperature had dropped a few more degrees but the wind had let up. A few flakes of snow drifted down. It wasn’t a bad night, especially if you were going home to a house with a furnace and a warm bed.

  “The offer still stand? We have another go at this tomorrow?”

  I nodded. “The offer still stands.”

  It was a quiet ride back to my place. I thought we might stop for a drink, do a little recap of the day and what we’d learned. But I was relieved when Cobb seemed intent on taking a straight line back to Drury Avenue. I was too tired to make much sense and mostly wanted a hot shower to get the smell and feel of the places we’d been off me. And sleep, I wanted that most of all.

  As we turned the corner that led to my apartment building, Cobb took a breath, exhaled, and said, “Interesting day.”

  “It was,” I agreed.

  “Listen … thanks.”

  “I hope we get a little closer to the kid tomorrow.”

  Cobb pulled to a stop in front of my building. Reached across, shook my hand. “See you in the morning. How about eight?”

  “I’ll try to be a little more ready for action then I was this morning.”

  Cobb smiled and I stepped out into the street. The Jeep had turned the corner and disappeared before I had the front door of my building open.

  Five

  The shower felt as good as I thought it would and I stayed in it until the hot water heater’s supply was exhausted and the stream turned cool, then cold. My body was exhausted but my mind was on full alert. Thinking the whole time I was in the shower.

  But I hadn’t been thinking about Jay Blevins and the race to find him. Instead my mind was occupied with the conversation Cobb and I had had over lunch, when he’d suggested that maybe there was something in Donna’s past that had led to the setting of the fire that killed her. That maybe she had been the target.

  I stepped out of the shower, towelled off, and climbed into sweats and a University of Calgary Dinosaurs hoodie. I poured myself a stout portion of Crown Royal mixed with a lesser portion of Diet Coke, put Del Barber’s Love Songs for the Last 20 and The Tragically Hip’s We Are the Same on the CD player and sat down to think about what Cobb had said.

  What about before she knew you? Something or someone in her past?

  I had thought and rethought about that possibility in the weeks and months after the fire, trying to make sense of the senseless. And I’d rejected the notion every time.

  It simply made sense to me that someone in my line of work — work that involved offending, sometimes attacking people in print that thousands of other people might read — was the target.

  Me. It had to be me.

  The note had confirmed that, hadn’t it? Why would someone send that note to me if Donna had been the target? The arsonist would have already accomplished his goal — Donna was dead. That certainty coupled with my absolute belief that no one could possibly have hated Donna enough to want her dead had been the basis for my rejecting the idea that she was the killer’s target that night. And I was just as sure now, all these years after her death.

  Or was I?

  Weirder shit than that — a lot weirder — has happened.

  I sipped on my drink, stared at a couple of flecks on the ceiling. Something or someone in her past.

  A nut job from when she was a teenager, some guy who felt slighted because she wouldn’t go to the prom with him or got the scholarship he thought he should have got or …

  But would a nut job wait years to exact his revenge? That’s why the whole thing seemed so far-fetched, so impossible. Because it was impossible.

  Weirder shit than that …

  I glanced at the clock. 12:42 a.m. I set the drink down and walked to the main closet near the door. In it, below the clothes, footwear, and Christmas decorations I’d need in just a few weeks were some boxes. Including a couple containing Donna’s stuff, things that had previously been in the garage and in a storage locker downtown — stuff that neither of us had done anything with in all the time we were married. Most of it I’d never even looked at.

  I wanted to look at it now. Between the shower and the drink and the thinking, I was wide awake.

  I set the boxes, there were three, in the centre of the room, sat cross-legged on a scatter rug at the end of the bed, and went through Donna’s stuff for two and a half hours, feeling like a voyeur, like I was invading her privacy, the only thing that was left of her.

  Two and a half hours of fifteen-year-old bank statements, Day-Timers loaded with to-do lists and appointment times, a couple of English essays from what looked like a first-year university lit survey course. I read one, Donna’s take on choosing Marlow rather than Kurtz as the hero of Heart of Darkness. I read the essay and cried, not for the content but for the creator of the content. I set the second essay aside unread — it was something about Polonius’s role in Hamlet.

  Tax receipts, a phone directory, travel brochures, four letters from me during our courting days … I didn’t read them but I did notice that she had written notes in the margins. “Sweet!!” and “I love that man” were a couple that caught my attention.

  I tried not to let the time deteriorate into a nostalgia session and concentrated on finding some tiny hint, some clue that might provide a reason for someone to hate the woman I loved.

  Two and a half hours of nothing. I was closing in on comatose. I picked up one more piece of paper. One yellowed piece of three-hole-punched paper like something torn from a school Duo-Tang or notebook. A neatly written note in what I was fairly certain was Donna’s handwriting.

  Kelly — The bastard did it again. D

  And under that, what I guessed was the reply.

  Pig.K

  It had been stuck between the pages of a battered paperback copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. Hundred to one odds it was meaningless — there were a hundred innocuous explanations for the note. And I might have forgotten the whole thing except that it was out of character for the Donna I knew to vent her anger in that way, which wasn’t to say she didn’t get angry at times, but mostly she dealt with it internally or in some totally civilized and controlled way that didn’t involve name calling or writing angry notes.

  Still, this was likely high school or even junior high. What kid didn’t vent occasionally as part of the growing up/going to school/rebelling against parents and the world phase?

  And that was it. Close to three hours of searching had resulted in one hand-written note to someone named Kelly — a note containing six words. Seven if you counted Kelly’s one word reply. Not much there to make me change my belief that the arsonist had been targeting me and had messed up.

  I left the stuff spread over the bedroom floor and stumbled into bed. Now I was tired. Del Barber was singing “62 Richmond” for the third time. I didn’t bother to shut off the stereo. I was asleep before the end of the song.


  But not for long. I dreamt. Something about a fire and a fire alarm. At least it started as a fire alarm then morphed into a phone ringing. It took me a while to figure that out. The fog in my brain finally cleared enough that I realized the phone wasn’t in my dream. I was actually awake and the reason was that the phone on the end table next to my bed wouldn’t shut up.

  After maybe the tenth ring, I got it picked up and juggled over to where I was. I rested it more or less against my ear.

  “Hello.”

  Cobb’s voice. “Sorry to call at this hour.”

  “You’re hard on rest, my friend.”

  “Yeah. I called to tell you you’re out.”

  “What? Out what?”

  “I won’t be picking you up in the morning. You’re out of the search for Jay Blevins.”

  I rubbed my face with my left hand. “You find a better journalist or what?”

  “Blevins is dead.”

  I sat up.

  “Jay?”

  “Larry. The old man. They got to him before he could turn himself in. Shot in the back of the head but that was after someone did a lot of nasty stuff to him … something like forty broken bones. The cops couldn’t recognize him from his face.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I was a cop, Adam, I know some people.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “He was found beside a Dumpster a few blocks from his house. Time of death about midnight.”

  About the time we were getting back to my apartment.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “These are bad bastards, Adam. I can’t run the risk of having them come after you.”

  “Isn’t that my risk and my decision?”

  “No, it isn’t. I asked you to help me, you did, and I appreciate it, but things have changed and I’ll need to do this without having to … on my own.”

  “You were going to say without having to look out for me.”

  No answer.

  “Back to my earlier point, I can decide for myself what risks I’m prepared to take. And besides, you can’t fire a volunteer.”

  “I’m not firing you. Look, I’m sorry, but I need to be on my own and I haven’t got time to argue with you about it. Thanks for what you did on this.”