“You just trying to put this off?”
“Did you really have a call from Dorstel?”
“I made it up as I went along. Let’s walk around the drive.” He explained the agreement he’d suggested to Kyra, the threat if she didn’t accept.
“Empty threats. Let’s hope she’s good and scared.”
• • •
A half hour, and she rolled her way to the cabin, Tam beside her. Up the ramp to the deck, into the front room, the bedroom— “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
Tam pointed to the floor. “No purse, no boots.”
“Open it. Quick.”
To the breaker box, lights on. Unlock. He climbed down. One blanket, one half-eaten sandwich, no Kyra. She found the key in his overalls! He ran to check the pockets. The key was there. How— He climbed up. “Gone.”
“How?”
“Beats me.” Tam, trying to sound casual.
“This is crazy. She couldn’t just disappear.”
“Nope.”
“Someone had to release her. Somebody broke into your studio.”
“Yeah. Who. Her partner?”
“Tam, she’s out there. How badly did you scare her?”
“A lot.”
“But you don’t know so. Would she go to the Mounties?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know much, do you? Are you this stupid about all your girlies?”
“Hey.”
“Come on.” She rolled to the door so fast her foot rest bumped it.
“Where?”
“To the house.”
“Why?”
“To greet the police when they arrive.” Each word clipped. She backed up. Tam opened the door. She rolled through. “Or whoever arrives.”
“You think the police?”
“Depends on how well you scared her.”
He locked the door and jogged after his sister. “You think Rab might come back?”
“If she tells him about your forgeries to save herself, damn right he will.”
“She doesn’t know anything about Rab.”
“She will.”
“Rab wouldn’t kill you.” He strode beside her.
“He’d send a Herm.” She approached the drive, Tam barely keeping up. “No, likely Rab himself. He’d want to watch you, at that moment.” She slowed. “And me, too. A last time.”
• • •
The rented Taurus was first on, center lane, fine view, Nanaimo ahead, the mountains beyond. The Quinsam chugged across the water. In front of them a young couple, arms about each other. An elderly man, his dog straining its leash as if wanting to swim ahead and tug the ferry on. A man with a motorcycle grooming his machine. A tall man, totally bald, his head glowing, wearing a leather jacket and expensive flannel slacks, walked to the front. He faced forward, in control of all that lay before him.
Noel gestured with his chin. “Uh, see him? Baldy?”
She giggled. “Basket-bald.”
“That’s Rabinovich.”
She slouched low in her seat. “Oh god.”
“You hiding from him?”
“Seems like a great idea.”
“He doesn’t know you. He’s never seen you.”
“You’re right.” She pulled up to half-sitting.
He grinned. “Maybe I should go make casual conversation with him.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Ask him how he liked Gabriola.”
“You are crazy.” She grabbed his arm. “Maybe he saw your picture when he broke into your condo.”
“He wouldn’t. He sent someone.”
Question: What’s worse than being locked in a concrete basement with no light and decreasing air and a lamb sandwich that could be poisoned?
Answer: Easy. Escaping, and knowing there’s no escape.
• • •
“Climb into the tub. I’ll see what’s to eat.” Noel pushed down the plug, turned on the water, threw in a handful of special bath salts that bubbled—he never used the stuff—and adjusted the temperature. “Go.” He tugged her up from the sofa. She staggered off.
He checked his answering machine. Albert. “I’m in the office all day. Call.”
Damn. He’d completely forgotten Albert. Albert answered on the second ring. Noel reported his conversation with Lucille—Jerry Bannister, the binoculars in Danny’s shed.
For a moment the line stayed silent. Then: “Thank you. And what about Kyra?”
“Oh, she’s okay.” Not a story for Albert. “But she was gone all night. I was worried.”
“She’s a big girl, right? And remember, Noel, not everyone’s gonna leave you.”
“I know.” Albert was Cop again, with his Pop-Cop Psychology. “Thanks.” Noel set the phone down and got two snifters from the cabinet. He checked his watch. Not too early, not on a day like today. He poured two fingers of brandy into each. He sorted through the freezer: turkey soup, July 27; boeuf bourguignon, no date; pasta w/ Eng. Chesh. & cream, August 15. Perfect, closest thing to comfort food, macaroni and cheese. Into the microwave. All the while the brunt of Tam Gill’s threat hovered. Noel figured they weren’t done with Eaglenest.
He picked up her glass, and knocked. No answer. He opened the bathroom door a crack. “Here. A drink in the tub.” No answer. “Kyra?” He peeked in. Shampoo a froth in her hair. Damn it, she was asleep under bubbles. Feet propped on the tap end. “Wake up, Kyra.” She opened her eyes. “Rinse your hair.” In the kitchen lunch had defrosted. He tore lettuce into the salad bowl. He was hungry.
Kyra lying in the tub, Kyra here safe. Noel knocked firmly on the door. “You out yet? Or I’m coming in!”
A loud splash. “Hmmm?”
“Sleeping in the tub is unsafe. Get out and I’ll feed you.”
“Ummh, coming—” She felt weepy, sleepy, sudsy. She sat up, pulled herself to the tap, turned it on, rinsed her hair. Legs, arms, gone limp. She pulled the plug, knelt, held on to the faucet, stood sort of, dried sort of, pulled on Noel’s dressing gown, picked up the film cartridge that had clunked from her bra to the floor when she’d gotten undressed, staggered out. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“Photos of what I saw. Another roll still in my camera.”
He stuck it into his pocket. “I’ll take them in. Eat this.”
“What.”
“Macaroni and cheese.”
She ate half the macaroni, not really macaroni, way more subtle, but okay macaroni. Even the word comforted her. Three mouthfuls of salad and her eyes were closing. Noel’s hands pulled her up, steered her, his voice far away, Sleep. She did as she hit the bed.
Noel finished her macaroni, and the salad. Dirty dishes to the dishwasher. The snifters on the counter? He combined their contents, carried one glass to the living room and lay on the couch, feet on one arm, head on the other. To you, Kyra. On being alive. He sipped. He felt a slowly increasing glow of elation: someone to worry about again. And after worry comes relief. It felt good.
He took the film in, ordered triplicates. He spent part of the afternoon watering and deadheading Brendan’s flowers. He needed to talk with Kyra, get Lyle and Jerry straight in his head. And Jerry and Roy. At suppertime he ordered Indian food for two. But Kyra slept on.
• • •
“Never say my name. Not to me or anyone. Call me Partner.”
That’s what he’d said to Jerry. What a weirdo, Jerry had figured. But if that’s the way he wanted it, well what the hell, eh? Nobody, but nobody, had seeds as good as, uh, Partner.
“Never say my name.” He’d said that at the faggy restaurant where Roy saw them talking and eating together. Then a couple days later Roy comes up to him saying, I’m here to save you, Jerry, save you from being a homo, the man was a homo and Jerry’d get infected. Funniest thing Jerry ever heard. Only Roy wasn’t laughing. Jerry wondered if Roy’d gone bonkers.
Jerry had said to the man, “And what if I say it? Your name?”
/> Then electricity shot out of the man’s eyes as if he were being electrocuted. The man whispered, “Late at night, on the street or in your bed, I’ll get you.” And a smile that said, Partner does not lie.
Nope, no reason to mention the guy’s name to anyone. Finish the harvesting, give him his half, never see the guy again. Jerry whistled while he worked. The tune had been haunting him. He smoked, too. The male plants were great this year, already a couple of weeks ago when dumb Roy had picked those two. Wrong. Roy’d torn them out by the roots. The asshole. Pulled out a couple females too, getting bushy on top, not yet bushy enough. Dumb fuck Roy. Back in the old days, you could talk to Roy. Should never have talked about using the land in the clearcut. But hell, he’d only wanted real bad to remember the old days with Roy, go back to before the religious stuff fucked up Roy’s head. Maybe if he hadn’t been stoned he mightn’t have told Roy. Roy’d been so pissed off about Jerry being stoned, what a goddamn asshole. But not so assholish as Roy pulling the plants out, for pissake.
Jerry glanced about. Three black garbage sacks full, maybe a quarter of the crop. Jerry stood, stretched, breathed deep. Great air, yessir. He lit up again and toked. Goddamn stupid Roy, fuckin’ idiot. Jerry whipped another bag open, knelt beside a row of fine little girlies, a few buds still clearish whitish but maybe two-three times that many going nice and brown. He should’ve waited another coupla days. But the cops, had to be the cops, who else uses equipment like that? they found the patch. Except they didn’t know whose patch it was. That’s why they needed him on camera when he harvested. So he had to jump the gun. Stupid cops.
Half and half, sure, but not till Jerry took out a quarter of the crop first. Gotta even things up. Give the guy a full half when Jerry did all the work? Shit, no way. Jerry giggled. Guy didn’t even have a place to plant, all he had was the seeds. And his drying shed. Thanks, Partner.
As if Jerry couldn’t read the terrain. You don’t spend your life on an island and not know the terrain, ground trampled under those videocams gave them right away. Easy, easiest thing in the world, deactivate the cams each time he came up, do the weeding and watering, reactivate and, yeah! home free. Tomorrow he’d tell the man how astute he’d been. Astute, yeah, damn astute. He’d found all four of the videocams, one for each point of the compass. Mounties thinking they were smart. So dumb.
Jerry whistled the tune again. In his head he’d changed the words. So he hummed, to the tune of “American Pie”— Buy, buy, the best dope you can buy. Then he went back to whistling it. Faith Bearing makes you stupid. Fart Bearing was more like it. Jesus says you shouldn’t smoke dope, says Roy. Well imagine that. So, says Roy, I can’t let you harvest those plants. But Jerry managed to cool Roy out—okay, Roy, okay, we’ll let it go to seed. Off they went, both of them. Except, a few minutes later, Jerry knew Roy hadn’t cooled out. So Jerry jumped in his truck, up here to the plot, and in the middle of the blackberries, there was Roy. Half a dozen uprooted plants. Some gorgeous females. Enough destruction to make you go blind mad. Jerry didn’t even know where the rock in his hand had come from. Or how it made contact with Roy’s head. Or why Roy fell so hard. And didn’t move. Jerry knew Roy’d wake up soon, right then Jerry had to save those plants, get them in the ground. He got them back. Roy was still asleep. Jerry shook Roy. He didn’t wake up. Jerry took his pulse. Other hand maybe. No pulse. Oh shit.
Buy, buy, the best dope you can buy. Buy, buy—
• • •
Albert let the phone ring three times before he picked it up. “Matthew.”
“Corporal Yardley here.”
“Yes, Jim?”
“The pot perp, Gerald Arnold Bannister—”
Yardley the stickler. Oh well, good to have some of that on the Force.
“—he located the usual four videocams again, deactivated them, 19 to 2300 hours—”
Albert hated the international clock. Getting old, guy.
“—but again he didn’t find the fifth. We got some first-rate shots.”
Yardley sounded chuffed, and well he should. “Good work, Corporal. Got his record?”
“Four priors, sir. One conviction, assault. Suspended sentence, 1997. Delivery boy, low level enforcer. He’ll go in this time.”
“I want him, and I want his contact. But mainly I want to lean on him for the Dempster murder.”
“You got real evidence?”
“Yep.” He shut his eyes. “First for trafficking. And some new links.”
“Yes, sir.”
Albert recalled a beautiful barred owl that had decided to investigate camera one a few days ago, activating the cam. A shame to end the stakeout. “What are the shots on video five?”
“Great, sir! Bannister lugging reams of heavy bulgy plastic bags out of the blackberries.” Yardley was in full chuff. A little chuff was fine but keep it in control, man. “Go on.”
“Hot work lugging them out all the way.”
“Hot the first of October? At night?”
“Well—”
“Surveillance?”
“Sir. All bases covered.” A pause, a breath, still excitement. “You want to arrest him soon as he tries to leave?”
“No, Corporal. I’ve got things organized this end. Don’t lose him, but don’t spook him either. Once we’ve got him, go back to the blackberry patch and secure it.”
“Sir.”
Albert hung up. He sort of liked the sirs.
• • •
Jerry Bannister exhaled. He lay, alone, on his bed. All done, all of it out of the ground, all safe and hidden. And four days ahead of schedule. Tomorrow he’d drive it over to Nanaimo, deliver it to the man four days early. Well, not all, a quarter for himself, he’d dry that here. The rest they’d dry in the man’s shed. Then Jerry would take his half. Or let the man sell some of it for him, nobody could smoke all that not even giving it away. Surprise time tomorrow. Jerry hadn’t talked to the man more than a couple of times since the night he’d called him, saying Roy was lying up there by the clearcut dead and all. The man was pissed, shit was he pissed. Ditch the body the man had screamed, get it away from the clearcut! Where? Anywhere, just away from there! Suddenly Jerry knew exactly where. Down where Roy worked! That was funny. He figured the man would find it funny too. Tomorrow he’d ask him if he’d thought it was funny. “Hey Lyle, was that funny or what, Roy down there dead at your favorite gallery?” Except he wouldn’t call him anything except Partner: “Hey Partner, was that ever funny.” The last thing the man had asked Jerry was, How long till you harvest? And Jerry had told him. Except now the harvest was four days early. Gonna be a big surprise.
TWENTY-THREE
NOEL, AT 6:50 in the morning, heard Kyra making noises. He dressed and headed for the kitchen. Awake at last, was she? He had to talk. Out loud, not in his head. The parade had gone on for hours: Lyle and Jerry, Jerry and Roy. Lyle and Roy? All three together? Sleep had brought little clarity.
Ah, Kyra was busy with eggs, milk, bowl, bread in the frying pan—French toast, her specialty. A bowl of fruit salad on the counter next to butter, sugar-cinnamon mix, plates, cutlery.
She gave him a brilliant smile. “Good morning. Coffee?” Without waiting, she poured.
“Thanks. Feel okay?”
“Yep. And ready to eat.”
“Right.” He looked out the window at a thin grey sky and back to Kyra flipping toast over, checking the underside. “Nice and golden.”
“Of course. I had three husbands.”
“Look. We have to talk.”
“About my three husbands?”
“About this whole case.”
“Yep.” She plopped a slice of toast on his plate. “Here, eat.”
He took a forkful. “Great.” Another. “This is about Jerry, Lyle, Roy. I’m betting they’re all three connected.” As he ate he tried to clarify a hypothesis: Lyle contracts Jerry to set up a grow operation. Jerry plants on some land at the edge of the clearcut, Roy finds out about it, something goes
wrong, Roy gets killed. A yardman who’s born again, a slob of a doper, a high-style painter. The first, dead. One or both of the others, murderers?
“Maybe,” said Kyra.
“Just trying to make sense of things. Don’t dismiss it out of hand.”
“Okay.”
“You sure you’re feeling okay?” He stared at her face.
“Yep. Mostly.” She thought for a moment. “Rabinovich is scary. His power. But that’s kind of abstract. It’s Tam who’s really got to me.”
Noel set his hand on hers.
“Feeling way better today than last night.” She squeezed his hand. “Maybe Lyle really did contract Jerry for some clearing.”
Noel told her about Lyle’s place. Nothing to be cleared. Just a large shed. No windows.
“Yeah. Like Tam’s basement.”
“So what’s the shed for? A studio? Something more covert?” Noel took his plate and cutlery to the sink. “Maybe I should just ask him.”
“Ask what? Lyle, did you and Jerry set up a grow-op? Lyle, did you and Jerry kill Roy?”
Silence for a moment. “Yeah.”
Kyra rinsed dishes and set them in the washer. Noel made fresh coffee. Cup at his side, at his laptop, he typed: Wednesday, October 3. “Back to Eaglenest.”
“Tam says we remain silent about everything at Eaglenest, what we know about them and The Hermitage. Or some accident happens to someone we love, you, my father, whoever.”
Noel typed.
“Tam voiced the threat but they’re all in it. Rabinovich works at a level I’ve never run into.” She squeezed her eyes closed then opened them.
“How about a walk? I need to be outside.”
She’s better, Noel thought, but nowhere near a 100 percent. “Let’s go.”
The phone rang. Noel answered. “Okay, thanks.” He disconnected. “The locksmith. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”
Shit. Kyra didn’t know if she wanted to be by herself or not, but she wanted to be outside. But a locksmith— She put on her shoes and jacket and walked up and down the sidewalk in front of Noel’s condo until a van pulled up. A man got out with a tool case. Kyra scurried upstairs after him.
Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island Page 30
