Glycerine

by Garry Ryan

  He logged in and checked his police service e-mail, then switched to his personal account. Spotting Keely Saliba’s name, Lane opened a message.

  From: Keely Saliba (janebond@cmail.com)

  Sent: July 08, 9:28:40 AM

  To: Lane (PLane@cmail.com)

  CC: Cam Harper (cam.harper@cmail.com)

  Re: UPDATE

  Lane,

  Sorry it took so long to get back to you.

  I like my new job, and I’m one of the lucky ones who gets to work with some really talented individuals. And, as usual, they know how to get the job done despite the way the system works. The problem is that they all work hard, and I have to work harder to catch up.

  Dylan loves law school here. I think it’s not that he loves the school so much; it’s more likely the result of us moving three thousand kilometres from my father. The problem is we miss so many other people who are still in Calgary.

  You must be wondering if I’ll ever get to the point. I have a favour to ask. There have been some unusual incidents in your city. When the government isn’t threatening us with being thrown out of the intelligence business, it’s ordering us to actively share information with CSIS and other agencies. I got this tip because I have Calgary connections. Apparently sales of glycerine are up in Cowtown, especially in the northwest. Also, fifty litres of sulphuric acid were stolen from a chrome-plating business in the southeast. Nothing else was touched including some cash in the secretary’s desk. If there is a similar theft of nitric acid, you may have trouble headed your way. Of course you know that glycerine, sulphuric acid, and nitric acid are used to produce nitroglycerine.

  It appears that you and I are destined to deal with explosives. Just keep me in the loop if any news about these ingredients comes your way.

  Oh, and I’ve used your personal e-mail addresses just in case there are any Scotch drinkers hacking into your work accounts. I guess old habits really do die hard.

  Keely

  “You’re not going to leave him back there in those cubicles, are you?” Lori stood in the doorway with the index finger of her right hand pointed at him. She tipped her Stetson back with a thumb. She looked from left to right at the expanse of his office. “There’s room for two desks in here.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lane looked around his new office. Oh shit. I just got comfortable here. What is she planning?

  Lori stepped inside the office and closed the door behind her. “Nigel doesn’t fit back there with the good ol’ boys and girls. Most of them still think Smoke was a great chief. You and I both know it was because he promised each of them some kind of promotion down the road. He made those promises with no intention of ever following through with them.” She frowned at Lane and crossed her arms.

  Lane recognized the significance of her crossed arms. Uh-oh. When she does that, either I’m about to hear bad news or she already has her mind made up about something. “And?”

  “I think Nigel should move in here with you.”

  “Ohh.” Lane took a long breath.

  “So, it’s okay with you if I get another desk moved in here today?” Lori crossed her right boot over her left and leaned her back up against the door. The implication was clear: she wasn’t leaving until Lane went along with her plan.

  “Do I have any choice?” Lane asked.

  “Of course not.” Lori opened the door, then turned to face him. “There’s a red file folder on my desk. It contains articles and court documents. You need to read them. Just to make your job a little easier.” The heels of Lori’s boots announced her departure.

  ×

  Donna Laughton stood on an upturned plastic milk crate as she tightened up the last of eight spark plugs. She grabbed a loose wire, then snapped the wire onto the top of the plug. “Now you’d better run, you son of a bitch.” Her garage smelled of grease, gasoline, and decomposing automobile.

  Donna backed out from under the white hood of her panel van and stepped down from the crate. Leaning back, she put her fists against the small of her spine. She closed her eyes and turned her neck to work out the inevitable kinks resulting from contorting herself to operate within the van’s cramped engine compartment. She gathered her tools to return them to their various drawers in her red Snap-on toolbox. Donna checked the knuckles of her right hand, saw a flap of skin, and sucked at the blood of a skinned knuckle. She grimaced at the taste of blood mixed with motor oil.

  After she walked around the side of the van, Donna undid the front of her blue coveralls, wiggled them down over her shoulders, and let them fall around her knees. The hinges on the van’s door complained as she opened it and sat down on the floor. She worked her feet out of the coveralls and hung them over the top of the door.

  She hauled her compact frame into the seat. The seat back was angled at about fifty degrees. Donna turned the key. The engine coughed, then caught.

  She let the engine idle while she climbed out and walked alongside the van, careful not to rub her grey T-shirt against the rust that was working its way along the side panel. Donna reached for the garage door opener and tapped the button.

  When the door opened, she looked at the second panel van. It was grey and ready for its trip up the hill into the district across John Laurie Boulevard. She looked over the roof of the van. The cream stuccoed walls and red-tiled roof of the Eagle’s Nest Christian Church looked down on the houses of Donna’s neighbourhood. The church’s sign proclaimed:

  GOD THE SON

  GOD THE FATHER

  GOD THE HOLY SPIRIT

  THE ONE TRUE GOD

  You bastards don’t understand that this is how wars start! Donna thought. She looked to her right and down the street. A ten-minute walk from her house was the Ranchlands Islamic Centre, located in a strip mall across from the Catholic school. “Maybe we can put a stop to this war of words.”

  “Sorry?” a man said.

  Again she looked to her right. The man stood on the sidewalk. Donna recognized him immediately. Standing six foot one and weighing about one hundred and eighty pounds, the man wore a neatly trimmed black beard with a hint of grey and had handsome yet nondescript features — except of course for the missing chunk of earlobe. His companion, an Australian cattle dog mixed with border collie, was predominantly black with some tan on its belly and a white patch at its throat. Donna smiled. “Just talking to myself. How’s Roz this evening?”

  Lane smiled back. “Raring to go.”

  She watched Roz drag him past the grey panel van, down the sidewalk, and across the street. What is that guy’s name?

  Donna went back inside the garage to shut off the van. As she closed the door, she looked at the cases of glycerine stacked against the wall. Above the cases was a picture of her sister Lisa wearing a beret, a camouflage jacket, and a smile.

  ×

  Lane opened the front door, bent to unclip Roz’s leash, wiped her paws, and slipped out of his shoes. Roz scampered for a drink of water.

  Lane looked into the living room. Arthur sat with his feet tucked up on the couch. His generous belly curved above the elastic waist of his black yoga pants.

  “Hello, Lane.” Next-door neighbour Maria sat dwarfed by the chair-and-a-half that lounged in front of the windows. Her strawberry-blonde hair was cut short, and she held her right hand atop a five-month baby bump.

  “How are you feeling?” Lane asked.

  “The baby kicked today.” Maria smiled.

  Lane sat down in the easy chair. When we first met you were wearing something from Victoria’s Secret, locked out of the house with lasagna in the oven. “That’s exciting.”

  Arthur put his feet on the floor. “She’s worried about what happened at the Islamic Centre.”

  Lane turned to Maria. “What happened?”

  “Somebody fired paintballs at the windows.”

  “So things aren’t cooling off,” Lane said.

  “Not since the murder in Hawkwood.” Arthur pointed with his finger in the general direction
of the neighbourhood to the north.

  “The father and brother have been charged,” Lane said.

  “I know,” Maria said. “Apparently, the minister at the Eagle’s Nest Christian Church has been stirring up the congregation.”

  “And the family of the murdered girl are members of the Islamic Centre?” Lane asked.

  Maria nodded.

  “I wasn’t involved in that investigation or the arrest. I do know that the father and brother confessed at the scene.” Lane heard a key in the front-door lock.

  Roz barked, the front door opened, and Christine stepped inside, followed by Daniel. She was six foot two; he, six five. They were the tallest people in the house.

  “How was the movie?” Arthur asked.

  Christine rolled her eyes, kicked off her pumps, and bent to greet Roz. “How’s my baby?”

  “She didn’t like the movie,” Dan said.

  Christine stood, pushed back her black hair, spotted Maria, and stepped closer to give her a hug. “How are you feeling?’

  “Finished with the nausea. Finally.” Maria stood up. Her head didn’t quite reach Christine’s chin.

  Turning back to Arthur and Lane, Maria continued, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m just worried about what’s happening in this neighbourhood. Feelings are running high, and I think paintball guns are an escalation.”

  “Paintball guns?” Christine asked.

  “Someone shot paintballs at the Islamic Centre,” Arthur said.

  Lane looked at Arthur. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Where’s Matt?” Dan asked.

  “Asleep,” Arthur said.

  “He’s turning into a hermit,” Christine said.

  Dan tried to smile, looked at Lane, and frowned. “He really is, you know.”

  ×

  Chris Jones pushed the vacuum back and forth on the carpet. As the machine heated up, it smelled of burnt rubber and singed dust.

  He was working in the corner of the president’s office, which was situated at the front end of the eight-thousand-square-foot building that housed Foothills Fertilizers. Chris smiled at the way the plush pale carpet revealed his work with subtly different shades of blue where the vacuum left its mark.

  Chris looked at his watch, shut off the vacuum, listened for the sounds of other human activity, and undid the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt.

  He watched his watch work its way to exactly ten o’clock. The desk phone rang.

  Chris waited for three rings before he picked up the receiver with his right hand, which he’d covered with the fabric of his cuff. “Christopher.” If he had said, “Chris Jones,” it meant they were not free to talk.

  “How are things?” John A. Jones asked.

  An insight struck Chris like a camera’s flash in total darkness. His voice. It’s God’s voice, he thought. “I’m good.”

  “The inventory is complete?” his father asked.

  “Almost.” Chris felt himself begin to shrink inside his two-hundred-twenty-pound frame.

  “Almost?”

  Chris reacted to the disappointment, the note of accusation in the one-word question. “One more litre, and the inventory will be complete.”

  “Good. The deadline is approaching. The only way to win this war is to bring the battle to the city that creates the filth,” John A. intoned.

  “I understand.” Chris patted the muffin top over his belt.

  “God will protect us.”

  “He will.”

  “Your mother sends her love,” John A. said.

  Chris frowned and thought, My mother is dead. “I know.”

  “I will call again tomorrow night.”

  Chris hung up, did up his sleeves, and restarted the vacuum.

  ×

  Matt blinked in the darkness and stared at the luminous dial of the alarm clock.

  He kept his eyes open as he swung his legs off the bed and walked to the light switch. He looked at his toes when he turned on the light.

  With the palm of his hand, he touched the sheen of sweat on his chest. He closed his eyes and again saw the man in the devil mask, felt the cold of devil’s handgun against his forehead.

  He opened his eyes and headed for the bathroom and a shower. It’s ninety minutes before I have to be at the golf course, he thought as he opened the bathroom cupboard and looked for a fresh towel.

  FRIDAY, JULY 9

  chapter 3

  Christian Woman Sentenced

  to Death for Blasphemy

  Rassima Abdula is set to die after being found guilty of blaspheming the Prophet Mohammed. She was accused of insulting the prophet while arguing with a neighbour.

  The forty-year-old mother of five was convicted in a Pakistan court after spending two years in jail awaiting a court date.

  Rahim Abdula, her eldest son, who is a Canadian citizen living in Calgary, told reporters, “My mother was unjustly accused. Now she has been unjustly sentenced.”

  Amnesty International has called for Rassima’s sentence to be overturned on the basis that there was only one witness to the crime. The unnamed accuser has been in a long-standing dispute with Abdula over a parcel of land.

  Rassima has become a cause célèbre for North American evangelical Christian groups, who say her conviction is an attack on fundamental religious freedoms.

  Professor Richard Finn of the University of Calgary’s Religious Studies Department says, “The Rassima Abdula case has increased fears in some of the faithful. Unfortunately, extremists on both sides are quick to exploit these fears.”

  ×

  Lane cracked two eggs on the edge of the sink and dropped them into the frying pan. A pair of orangey-yellow yolks stared back at him.

  “What are you doing up this early?” Matt stepped into the kitchen. His face, neck, and arms were tanned from working six days out of seven on the golf course.

  “Want some breakfast?” Lane asked. Matt, you’re losing weight.

  “Sure.” Matt shrugged.

  “Scrambled?”

  “Please.” Matt poured two cups of coffee. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Lane struggled to grab hold of a nagging image in a shadowy corner of his mind. “It’s parade day. I like to get downtown before the Stampede crowd. It gives me time for a cup of coffee and a look around.”

  Matt sat down at the table, sipped his coffee, and rubbed his right palm across his eyes.

  “Nightmare?” Lane grabbed the flipper and turned the eggs.

  The toast popped out of the toaster. Matt hopped up on one leg to butter it. “Can we talk about something else?”

  Let it go or face the problem head on? “No. You’ve lost weight, there are dark circles under your eyes, and you’re not yourself.”

  “Shit! I don’t have time for this. I’m going to work.” Matt dropped the knife, walked to the front door, shoved his feet into his shoes, grabbed his jacket, and went outside.

  Lane lifted the eggs, turned them, and arranged them on the toast. The yolky yellow eyes accused him of being a failure as a parent. He sat down to eat. This isn’t entirely unexpected. He survived the kidnapping, and the scars are showing. I need to call Dr. Alexandre on the way to work this morning.

  Fifty minutes later he had a mochaccino in his hand and was sitting on a bench next to the bronze statues of the Famous Five: five memorable women who’d fought for women to be recognized as persons and — as a result — able to vote in Canada. On parade mornings Lane often sat across from the Five and watched the performers on their way to the parade. It’s better than the actual Stampede Parade.I never know what to expect. And there is an unrehearsed quality to it.

  Across from him, the Centre for the Performing Arts looked down on Stephen Avenue.

  The clop of hooves made Lane look east. Two police officers wearing blue uniforms and black Stetsons rode up the Avenue on a pair of black geldings. Behind them, two First Nations women rode a pair of palominos whose coats looked like gold in the mornin
g light. Their graceful passing was made more fluid by the reflected images of the women in the windows of the Centre. The women had their hair braided at the back and wore handmade costumes beaded with red and turquoise. Both horses stopped as the nearest one lifted its tail and dropped a bushel of road apples. The stink rose up from the steaming pile and wafted its way downwind.

  Next came kilted men holding bagpipes. The heels of their boots made a unified crunch as the pipers marched as one entity. Even their kilts swayed in unison. The red Glengarry caps had red pompoms on top that bobbed each time their heels contacted the pavement.

  A jogger followed the pipers. The man wore sweatpants and a grey T-shirt and had green fabric wrapped around his hands. He stopped in front of one of the performing arts centre windows and began to shadow box.

  Lane studied the boxer, who turned and again began to follow the pipers.

  “Nigel?” Lane asked.

  Nigel looked in Lane’s direction, smiled, and waved. He crossed the avenue, all the while wrapping and unwrapping the tape on his left hand. “You’re here early.”

  “We both are.”

  “I like to take a run on the days I fight.” Nigel sat down next to Lane.

  “Fight?” Lane nodded at Nigel’s hands.

  “I box every other Friday night.”

  “Boxing? Isn’t that a little tough on the brain?” Lane asked.

  “We wear head gear.”

  “I don’t get it. It doesn’t seem like something I’d imagine you doing.”

  “It’s hard to explain,” Nigel said.

  Lane waited.

  “I’ve got a busy mind.” Nigel tapped the side of his head with his taped right hand. “Boxing gives me a rest from all of those thoughts running around inside. I have to concentrate on other things. Elemental things.”

  “Oh.” It still doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.

  “Don’t worry, my friends don’t understand it either.”