Glycerine

by Garry Ryan

Ramona nodded. “She was three months pregnant. Her father killed her because of it.”

  “Honour killing,” Nigel said.

  “What’s honourable about killing your child and grandchild?” Ramona asked.

  “Not much. Can you tell us anything else about Jones and his son? How did they pay for the paint? What colour did they buy?” Lane asked.

  “The son is afraid of the father. They paid cash for two litres of red paint and a brush.”

  “Anything else?” Lane asked.

  “He came in here, you know,” Ramona said.

  “Who do you mean?” Lane asked.

  “Shafina’s father came to this store two months ago. He said that my daughter and I had no morals, that we were a bad influence on his daughter. That we were to stay away from her. Dealing with Jones today was much the same as dealing with Shefic Abdula. Same misogyny. Same arrogance. John A. Jones and Shefic Abdula have the same personalities.” Ramona stood up and shook her head. “It infuriates me that so many people suffer because of zealots like those two.”

  When they got inside the Chev, Nigel put his hands on the wheel and turned to Lane. “How come I shut her down but you were able to get her to talk?”

  Lane thought for a minute. “You come on like an alpha male. Ramona is the type of person who automatically gets her back up with that kind of approach. Me, well, women usually sense that I’m less of a threat. I showed her we had a reason for being there that had very little to do with her and made her understand we needed her help.”

  “Oh.” Nigel started the engine.

  ×

  Donna was on her knees fitting a twenty-seven-millimetre piece of oak trim into place on the floor next to the pantry door of the kitchen. She eased her air nailer into position and pressed the trigger. A single nail sucked the oak into position. The dab of silicon on the back of the oak held it snug to the wall.

  “We were just in the neighbourhood,” Del said.

  Without turning around Donna replied, “I hope you brought a coffee with you.”

  “Actually we brought something better than coffee,” a woman’s voice said.

  Donna leaned back, felt her butt touch her heels, and stood up. “Hello, Sue.”

  Susan stood next to Del. She was as tall as he was but with a dancer’s physique, black hair, and a baby on her hip. Fran was round faced and mostly bald, with the first hint of black hair at the sides of her head. She held a bottle in her hands and studied Donna with her large brown eyes.

  Del handed Donna a blended yogurt and strawberry drink. “Thanks.”

  “Looks perfect as always.” Del surveyed the custom kitchen.

  “It’s seven on a Sunday. Do you ever take a day off?” Sue asked.

  Fran took the bottle from her mouth, pointed, and said something unintelligibly intelligent.

  Donna looked at Sue and then at Del. Ask them, she thought. She felt like a pair of hummingbirds was fighting in her belly. Ask them now or you never will.

  “What is it?” Sue asked.

  So Donna asked them.

  MONDAY, JULY 12

  chapter 6

  Vigil Marks Anniversary of

  Sanjiv Mohammed’s Death

  Demonstrators carried placards in front of the houses of parliament in Ottawa on Saturday to mark the death of the woman called Sanjiv with two minutes of silence.

  Ten years ago today, Sanjiv Mohammed was stoned to death in Qatar after being convicted of adultery. Sanjiv was forty at the time of her death.

  Numerous appeals from the Canadian federal government and Amnesty International failed to save Sanjiv from the executioners, who insisted it was their right under Sharia law to stone the woman.

  A non-denominational gathering of human rights groups came together to raise awareness of the plight of women in developing countries. Fatima Shakir, spokesperson for Amnesty International, opened the ceremony, saying, “We remember Sanjiv in the hope that girls and women will have a future free of ignorance and oppression.”

  To this day, Sanjiv’s son, Abraham Mohammed of Ottawa, insists that his mother was murdered because she wanted to divorce her husband. He says, “My mother’s confession was the result of a week of torture and threats to her children.” Abraham has no contact with his father.

  ×

  Lori stood in the middle of Lane and Nigel’s open door. “Mornin’, boys.”

  They looked up in time to see a metre-long sausage-shaped bubble floating over their heads.

  Lori’s face was distorted behind a second soap bubble. She blew gently until the second bubble grew to the size of a basketball. It hung in the air between her and the detectives.

  The sausage bubble burst. Lane flinched at the soap and water splattered across his desk.

  Lori reached a long yellow wand into a crystal vase and pulled out another film-coated window that she swept into a perfect ball. “Happy birthday to you!”

  “Who?’ Lane asked.

  Nigel blushed. “How did you know?”

  The basketball bubble floated up against their window.

  “I have my sources.” Lori dipped her wand into the vase. “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

  “How do you make that stuff?” Nigel asked.

  Lori made a sweeping motion and five bubbles of diminishing size glistened about two metres above the floor. “Secret recipe.”

  Lane looked at Lori as a memory knocked at a closed door. There’s that huge gas plant on the west side of town.

  “Come on, tell me. It’s my birthday,” Nigel said.

  Lori’s phone rang. She set the vase and wand on Nigel’s desk. “Here, play with this, birthday boy. The secret ingredient is glycerine.”

  Nigel looked at Lane. “No one’s remembered my birthday like that since my mom died.”

  Six hours later, Lane looked up from his computer screen and had nine probable targets for the Joneses’ bomb.

  Nigel stood up. “I’m going for a run. My brain is turning into froth.”

  Lane looked at the picture of an extraction plant outside the western border of the city. It fits the geography of where Jones appears to be located. An explosion could create a toxic cloud, but the winds would have to be from the west.

  An e-mail message from Keely popped onto his screen. “Thought you might want to see this video.” Lane opened the attachment, waited for it to load, then adjusted the volume.

  John A. Jones crouched, resting on his heels, and held a garden hose in his right hand. Behind him were several rows of knee-high potato plants. Jones lifted the hose and looked into the camera. Water appeared to be running from the end of the hose.

  Jones said, “An oil and gas exploration company has been fracking near my land. The fracking process has created cracks in the rock under my property.” He took a lighter in his right hand, flicked the wheel with his thumb, and touched the flame near the end of the hose. The lighter ignited a metre-long tongue of flame.

  The camera zoomed in to a close-up on Jones’s face. “Would you drink this?” The camera closed in on Jones’s eyes. “The oil companies poisoned my land and gave my wife cancer. When will they be brought to justice?”

  The video ended.

  Lane typed in the address for the Environment Canada weather forecast.

  Forty minutes later he opened the front door of his house. Roz did not scamper up to greet him. Instead, there was quiet. There were no shoes on the throw rug. He slipped off his shoes and went upstairs. The door to his bedroom was open and the bed was made.

  He went downstairs. Matt’s door was open. His bed was unmade and empty.

  The phone rang. Lane walked into the family room and picked it up.

  Arthur asked, “Can you come to the vet’s?”

  “Why?” Lane asked.

  “Just come.” Arthur hung up.

  There’s hope in his voice, Lane thought and felt unusually optimistic as he put on his shoes, opened the front door, and locked it behind him.

  The vet’
s clinic was next to a walk-in medical clinic and along the north side of a strip mall. Lane opened the door and was greeted by an antiseptic smell and the smile of Jessica, the receptionist. She pointed to her left.

  Lane saw Arthur and Matt holding a black, gold, and white puppy. Dan and Christine were on their knees with Roz sitting between them.

  An exceptionally fit and trim woman said, “This must be him.”

  Matt looked in Lane’s direction. “This lady is giving away puppies. This one is named Scout.”

  Scout! The name froze Lane in a no-man’s land at the centre of the waiting area.

  “Cool coincidence, don’t you think?” Matt asked.

  Lane had a flashback of their golden retriever with its coat burned off, its skin black against the snow. His nose filled with the stink of burnt hair and flesh.

  The lady said, “I wanted to meet the whole family before I give him away. I promised my daughter I’d find a good home for this one. The father was a border collie and the mother was a German shepherd. She ended up having the pups in our Quonset. The kids wanted to keep them, but we already have three dogs.”

  “Well?” Christine asked.

  Lane thought about double the dog shit in the backyard, walking two dogs, and training this puppy. Then he looked at the faces watching him. He saw the hopeful smile on Arthur’s face. “Can I see him?”

  Matt stood up and set Scout on the chair. The pup had one ear up and the other down. His chest was white and his back was black. Lane picked up one of the pup’s paws. He pressed in between Scout’s toes — a trick he remembered from his grandfather, who showed him that he could test a dog’s temperament by the way it reacted to having its feet handled. Scout licked Lane’s hand. Maybe a puppy will cheer things up around the house. Lane looked at the woman and asked, “Can we have a minute, please?”

  Lane looked at Matt and Arthur. “I’m saying yes. Will you do something for me?”

  “What?” Matt asked and crossed his arms as his defences went up.

  He knows what I’m going to ask. Don’t mess this up, Lane looked at Matt, then at Arthur. “I want the two of you to see Dr. Alexandre.”

  Matt frowned.

  Arthur rubbed the puppy behind the ears.

  “Which two do you mean?” Christine asked.

  “Matt and Arthur,” Lane said.

  “Okay,” Arthur said.

  “And I want all of you to walk Scout at least once a day,” Lane said.

  “Is this blackmail?” Matt asked.

  “I’ve already said yes,” Lane said.

  “Will you clean up the shit?” Matt asked.

  “If Dan and Christine help,” Lane said.

  “He’s already house trained,” Arthur said.

  “Matt?” Lane asked.

  “Okay,” Matt said.

  “Christine? Dan?” Lane asked.

  “As long as we get to walk Roz too,” Dan said.

  “It’s a deal, then?” Lane asked.

  TUESDAY, JULY 13

  chapter 7

  Record Day for

  Stampede Attendance

  Clear skies and 30-degree temperatures have resulted in a record day for Stampede attendance.

  The Stampede grounds are overflowing with visitors. Vendors are smiling, and suppliers are scrambling to keep up with demands for all manner of food and refreshments.

  Local restaurant managers have never seen anything like it. Maddy Preston of the Avenue Diner says, “We usually slow down between ten in the morning and noon and for an hour or two after the lunch crowd leaves. It’s not happening this week. We go steady until closing time.”

  Hotels are filled to capacity. Bars are the same. “We’re having a tough time keeping up with the demand for beer and spirits,” says Raoul Mendez, manager of Cowboys, one of Calgary’s most popular bars.

  The forecast calls for blue skies and warm temperatures until at least Friday.

  ×

  “Is it straight?” John A. Jones finished the last letter of the first word on the cedar siding above the windows at the Ranchlands Islamic Centre.

  Chris stepped back from holding the bottom of the ladder. He looked up at the first word. It was difficult to read because the single lamp illuminating the strip mall’s parking lot was about forty metres away. The streetlamp was a little closer, but its light was aimed away from the Centre. “It looks good.”

  John A. leaned right and began to paint the letter B.

  Chris looked over his shoulder as a car drove past. The street was a good three metres lower than the parking lot, so there was little chance of them being spotted at three thirty in the morning. He went back to steadying the ladder.

  “It finally cooled off a bit. God is making it easier for us to do His work.” John A. looked down at his son. “My namesake believed in the supremacy of the white race. Sir John A. was a wise man.”

  Chris looked at the vehicles left overnight by people who’d decided not to drive after drinking.

  Paint splattered on the sidewalk. “Take the screwdriver and get a new licence plate for my truck,” John A. said.

  Chris reached into the side pocket of his jeans and walked toward a white Escalade.

  ×

  There was dew on the windshield when Lane climbed into the passenger seat of the Jeep. It was five o’clock, the sun was beginning to rise in a clear sky, and the air held the promise of a hot, dry day.

  Matt got in behind the wheel, put the key in the ignition, and started the engine. When he reached the T intersection at the bottom of the hill, he put on his right signal, then looked right and left.

  Lane put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Turn left, please.”

  “I thought you wanted a ride to the LRT station. I don’t want to be late for work,” Matt said.

  “You go ahead.” Lane undid his seat belt and opened the door.

  “What are you doing?” Matt looked at Lane, then looked left.

  Lane pointed at the front wall of the Islamic Centre. A message was painted in red. The letters were a metre high: YOUR BLOOD: AN UNQUENCHABLE THIRST.

  “Your bloob?” Matt asked.

  “I think that he put a colon inside of the D,” Lane said.

  “He? You know who did this?” Matt asked.

  Lane pulled his phone out and nodded. “I’ve got a pretty good idea. You go ahead. I need to call this in. I’ll catch a ride downtown with a uniform.” He stepped out of the Jeep, closed the door, and began to dial as Matt drove west to work.

  Within thirty minutes the Forensic Crime Scene Unit had arrived. Black-and-white police cars blocked both ends of the lot.

  Colin Weaver climbed out of the passenger seat of the unit’s cab. He maneuvered himself into his white bunny suit, boots, and hood and then asked, “What am I doing here? I don’t usually get called to investigate graffiti.”

  Lane thought, Remember, it’s Fibre who’s asking. “There is evidence to suggest that the pair with the nitroglycerine has done this. So far, we haven’t been able to track them. One is a suspect in a series of oil and gas sabotages. We need anything you can find at the scene that might help us track him.”

  Fibre thought for a moment, then stood next to Lane and looked at the scene. He pointed at the words written above the windows of the Islamic Centre. “He used a ladder. There will be spatter. Perhaps there will be some footprints or hand-prints.” Fibre moved to the back of the unit, opened the door, and pulled out his kit.

  Lane turned around and watched the traffic rolling by. The volume was picking up as people headed to work. Jones is the kind of man who would like to see how his work has been received. He watched for a red pickup truck and kept his ears tuned for a diesel engine.

  Fifteen minutes later, a pickup approached from the west. It slowed. Lane recognized Donna at the wheel. He waved. She waved back and continued toward the traffic lights.

  Lane looked at the open-air rink across the street and then at the tree-covered hill behind it. A good place to w
atch what’s going on.

  He stepped carefully down a sloped retaining wall of river rock and crossed the street.

  A grey Chev pulled up and parked on the wrong side of the street. Nigel opened his window. “What’s up?”

  Lane turned, crouched on the grass, and put his hands on the sill of the open car window. “I want you to look directly at me.”

  Nigel blinked and kept his eyes focused on Lane.

  “I’d like you to drive up into the lot on your right. Park near the pub. Then I want you to walk through that narrow passageway next to the pub like you’re going to the convenience store for a couple of coffees. Instead walk south, cross the street, and come around the school to the field at its south end. I’m going up the hill to the south to see whether anyone is in the trees watching what’s going on at the Islamic Centre.”

  “Want me to alert the uniforms?” Nigel asked.

  “No. That would be too obvious, and it could scare these guys off. I want to keep them in place for as long as possible.” Lane stood up, turned, and walked through an opening in the fence. He walked along the west end of the paved outdoor rink. Then he turned right along the edge of the trees until he reached a pathway that went straight up the north face of the hill.

  He kept his eyes on the trail and forced himself to look neither right nor left. He reached the top and a plateau. He worked his way to the crest of the next hill and looked down on the school field.

  Nigel waved at him from the east side of the school where he was out of sight.

  Lane’s phone vibrated. “Yes?”

  “Three guys crossed the field and went into those condos behind the other strip mall,” Nigel said.

  Lane looked at the condos. A church steeple was visible behind the condos. “Call the uniforms to watch the four exits from Ranchlands. They’re looking for a late-model red Chrysler pickup. It may have another plate by now.” Lane hung up and scanned the neighbourhood from his vantage point. To the east and across the street from the schoolyard was another treed park left to grow wild. If he’s watching me, he’s watching from there. He stepped back from the crest of the hill and moved behind the trees. He walked down a slope that was used for tobogganing in the winter. Trees lined either side and would provide cover until he reached the school.