by Garry Ryan
Within a few minutes, five of them stood on the sidewalk in front of the house.
“It’s okay if I come, right?” Arthur asked.
Lane and Matt looked at Arthur like he’d just opened his fly to pee on the front lawn.
“Of course.” Matt held out Scout’s leash.
“I’ve been feeling left out,” Arthur said.
No, you’ve been feeling sorry for yourself, Lane thought, then felt guilty.
“Get over it.” Matt smiled.
Yes, please get over it.
Roz interrupted the conversation by pulling Lane down the sidewalk.
Scout followed, belly close to the cement, four paws clawing like he was climbing a sheer rock face.
“Wait for me,” Arthur said.
They walked down the hill and past the Islamic Centre. The air was crisp and the moon full, but the roads were deserted. The lights at the intersection flashed yellow. A jackrabbit scooted across the street, and Roz hit the end of her leash. Scout sniffed the air.
“Am I going crazy?” Matt asked.
Lane answered. “No. You are, however, definitely short on sleep, and you’re probably suffering from delayed stress over the kidnapping.”
Roz zigged right. Scout followed.
“The nightmare was so real,” Matt said.
“A better name is night terrors,” Arthur said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Matt asked.
“Just that nightmares bring your worst fears right to the very edge of reality and sometimes —” Arthur said.
“Sometimes?” Matt asked.
“— they seem to cross the line into reality.”
He doesn’t know about what happened to you, Arthur. Lane said, “Tell him what happened to you when you were eighteen. Just before you left home.”
“When I was your age, I was hiding who I was. I was ashamed of who I was. I stuck a gun in my mouth,” Arthur said.
“What happened?” Matt asked.
“Your mother talked me out of killing myself.”
“She never told me that,” Matt said.
“It wasn’t the kind of thing we could talk about with anyone else. There would have been too many questions to answer. We got used to never saying anything about it, even to each other,” Arthur said.
Roz turned right along a path that ran between fenced backyards. As they passed the various houses, no lights shone. Trees lined the other side of the pathway. They relied on the soft moonlight to illuminate the tricky humps in the pavement raised by poplar roots.
They crossed a street.
On the far side, Scout sat and refused to move. Matt tugged on the leash.
“Wait.” Arthur bent to pick up the pup.
On the left side of the path was a natural area where trees and shrubs grew wild. Roz sniffed a patch of grass and squatted. They heard the gentle splatter of her urine.
×
John A. Jones sipped his coffee and stood back from the kitchen window where he could remain hidden in shadow.
He saw three silhouettes stop on the trail running along the chain-link fence that marked the eastern border of their rented backyard.
“Who goes for a walk at this hour?” He studied the silhouettes.
×
Lori tipped her straw hat with its rolled-up brim. “You look like shit.”
Lane smiled. “You always know just what to say to cheer me up. Where did you get the hat?”
“Stole it from Leslie.”
“Your daughter will miss it. It’s the perfect Stampede hat.” Lane drained the coffee he’d picked up on the way to work.
“Where’s my coffee?” Lori asked.
Lane looked at his cup and blushed.
“Thank you.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
Lori shook her head and rolled her eyes. “For being kind to Nigel! The kid is happy now. In fact, I can’t remember when he was ever this happy around here. Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Thank you for making me read the file. His behaviour makes more sense now that I know where it’s coming from.” Lane looked for a garbage can, tossed the cup, and missed.
“He told me he enjoys coming to work and you actually listen to what he has to say.”
Unaccountably, Lane felt tears in his eyes. He bent over, picked up the cup, dropped it in the can, and wiped his eyes.
“What’s going on with you?” Lori asked.
Matt has some kind of post-traumatic issue. I’m tired of Arthur playing the victim. Christine has become distant and seems to prefer Dan’s family to ours. Now we have a new dog I have to take care of. To top it off, there’s a guy who’s probably trying to set off a bomb so he can kill thousands of people during Stampede. Lane looked her in the eye and smiled. “Nothing.”
Lori barked a laugh. “Liar.”
Lane smiled back and turned toward his office. “There’s work to do.”
Lori stood up and put her hand on Lane’s shoulder. “Don’t worry so much. You’ve been here before. Things always turn to shit before you come out smelling like —”
“A portable toilet on a hot summer afternoon?” Lane asked.
“— I was going to say like fresh coffee in the morning.”
Lane laughed. His mind began to churn with new possibilities for tracking down the Joneses.
Nigel elbowed the office door open. It slapped against its stop and smacked Nigel on the left elbow.
Nigel stared the door down and rubbed his elbow with his right hand. “I think I know a way to pull this all together and track them down.”
“Can you wait? We need Keely and Harper to be here.”
Nigel said, “Of course. It’ll give me a chance to put it all down on the computer. It came to me as I walking down the Stephen Avenue Mall this morning.”
Twenty minutes later, Nigel, Lane, Keely, and Harper sat at the conference table.
Harper looked at Lane as if to say, Face it, Nigel is a fuck-up, and it’s only a matter of time before you recognize that fact.
Keely fiddled with her phone. She kept looking at it as if willing it to ring.
Lane thought, Nigel, if you can pull it all together, now would be a good time.
Nigel tapped a button on his computer to project on the screen at one end of the table. An image of John A. Jones and his long white hair appeared. He held the end of a water hose and flicked a lighter. Flame shot from the end of the hose. Jones turned to the camera and said, “This is what the oil industry has done to our well water.”
Nigel stopped the image and clicked on another site. This time Jones faced a camera. “Yes, a girl was shot on our land. I don’t know who shot her, and I don’t want to know.”
Li clicked a third image. Jones wore a black suit and tie. He stared at the camera. “My wife died of cancer. As we put her body in the ground, I place the blame for her death at the feet of the oil industry. An industry based in a city filled with people who seem unaware of what oil and gas exploration does to those whose land is corrupted and whose loved ones are made sick.”
Nigel let the screen go black. “Over the last ten years, there has been a series of explosions at oil and gas installations.” Nigel tapped a key and a map appeared on the screen. “Each explosion occurred within a day’s drive of Jones’s home.”
Harper took a long breath.
Nigel frowned.
Keely’s eyebrows were cocked at odd angles.
Lane said, “Go on, please.”
Nigel tapped another key. Another map appeared. This one was a map of Calgary’s northwest quadrant. Purple dots formed a compact cluster near the intersection of Nose Hill Drive and Crowchild Trail. “These dots represent purchases of glycerine, sightings of John A. and Chris Jones, and the recent defacing of the Islamic Centre.”
Another tap revealed green dots. Nigel said, “These are the locations of the receipts found on the body of Oscar Mendes.” Again the dots were clustered near the same intersection.
Harper leaned forward, studying the map intently.
“The yellow Xs represent the roadblocks set up to stop a fleeing Jones, assuming that he and his son were responsible for the words written on the Islamic Centre.” Nigel tapped a final key and a yellow box appeared. Three sides of the box ran through the yellow Xs. The fourth side ran along Crow-child Trail. “It appears that we are likely to find John A. Jones within this area.”
“My neighbourhood,” Lane said.
“He would probably need a house with a double garage to mix the chemicals,” Keely said.
“And hide his truck,” Harper said.
“And they have to eat. I know that Co-Op delivers groceries to your door.” Lane looked at the map and checked the location of the screws he’d found on the ground in the park. Then he looked at the path he’d taken this morning walking the dogs with Matt and Arthur.
“I’m going to check with Co-Op and Safeway to see who has had food delivered to their door over the past five days,” Nigel said.
“I’ll work with Lori and see what we can find out about houses — at least those with garages — for rent in the neighbourhood,” Lane said.
“I’ll keep track of glycerine purchases and any of the hardware needed for storage and handling of the chemicals. Along with components for detonators,” Keely said.
Harper said, “Lane will be the primary contact, and he’ll keep me up to speed.” He stood up and looked at Lane, then at Nigel.
Cam, you look puzzled, Lane thought.
“Nigel?” Harper asked.
Nigel looked up at the deputy chief.
“Good work,” Harper said.
Nigel blinked and turned to Lane, who smiled back at the rookie.
Lane looked at Harper. “Nigel says thank you.”
×
Matt sat next to Arthur in Dr. Alexandre’s waiting room.
Arthur looked at one painting on the wall. Shades of blue behind the grey-silver of birch trees in winter.
Matt’s thumbs flew over his phone as he texted then shifted back to playing a game.
“Why are you here?” Arthur asked.
Matt looked up. His eyes were red, and his hair was uncombed and unwashed. “I’m goin’ crazy.”
“But why?” Arthur asked.
“I can’t sleep because of the nightmares. I have no appetite. It’s like I’m digging a hole. It just gets deeper and darker.” Matt pressed a button on his phone, then tucked it in his shirt pocket.
Arthur stared at the birch trees. “I’m tired all of the time. All I want to do is sleep. And I don’t think —”
“Go on.”
“— I don’t think Paul loves me anymore,” Arthur said.
“I’ve never heard you call Uncle Lane by that name.”
“He doesn’t like it.”
“Besides that, you’re being stupid,” Matt said.
“How so?”
“He loves you. He’s just mad at you.”
“For what?”
“You really don’t know?” There was a look of pure amazement on Matt’s face when he turned to look at his uncle’s round face.
“No, I don’t know.” Arthur faced his nephew. “Tell me.”
“You’ve gone from being a cancer survivor to being a cancer victim,” Matt said.
“No, I haven’t!” Arthur looked away.
“Whatever.”
The door to the waiting room opened. Alexandre’s secretary poked his head in. “Matthew Mereli?”
Matt stood up. “I’m Matt.”
“This way.” The secretary smiled and held the door for him.
“No, I haven’t.” Arthur watched the door close.
×
“I brought this for you.” Stacie carried a case of glycerine in her hands and a new black ten-litre purse over her shoulder. “Wanna grab it?” She wore a pink top and lime-green gauchos. She crossed into the shadow inside of the garage.
Donna looked over her shoulder, spotted her mother, stepped out of the cab of the van, and hefted the case of glycerine. “Why’d you buy this?” Donna put the case atop the others against the garage wall. “Did you pay cash?”
“Why?” Stacie asked.
“Because a card can be traced.”
“You never answered my question. What are you doing?” Stacie poked around the inside of her bag. She pulled out a pair of black coveralls. “Try these on. Your other ones have a hole in them. Besides, black looks better on you.”
“Mom, it’s only two o’clock. When did you have time to do so much shopping?” Donna reached for the black coveralls. She grabbed the shoulders, let the coveralls unfold, and was careful to hold the cuffs off the floor. “These are nice.”
“Don’t sound so shocked. I do know how to shop. And to answer your question, I know where to find good stuff.”
Change the topic. “Can you find what’s wrong under the hood of this thing? I can’t get it started.”
Stacie set her purse atop the cases of glycerine, followed Donna around to the front of the van, and peered at the collection of parts under the hood.
Donna went to the opposite front fender. “It should start.”
Stacie grabbed a blue towel, reached over the grille, and lifted a battery cable that hung like the neck of a dead chicken. “Where does this go?”
Donna rolled her eyes, moved beside her mother, took the cable, and attached it to the battery. She eased around behind her mother, got into the cab of the van, and turned the key. The engine coughed, fired up, then purred. Donna leaned out of the cab. “Thanks, Mom!”
“Now will you tell me what you’re up to?”
Donna shut off the engine. “Mom, we both know you can keep a secret for about as long as it takes to get to the nearest phone. And you spend your days with people who love to gossip.”
Stacie opened her mouth to protest.
Donna held up her hand. “You’re the one who told me about the way people gossip at your school, remember? Your exact words were, ‘It’s really quite amazing how fast a juicy bit of gossip makes it from one end of the building to the other.’”
Stacie shrugged her shoulders. “I know that what you’re doing has something to do with Lisa. I want to be a part of it. I miss her too.”
Donna looked at the wall and her mother’s oversized purse. “To tell the truth, I could use some help. I can’t drive two vans at once.”
“What are you planning?”
“Will you meet me here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning?” Donna asked.
“What do I need to wear?”
“We need to go shopping for that right now.” Donna unzipped the front of her coveralls.
“Shopping? Where?”
Donna smiled. “This may be the one place in this city where you’ve yet to shop.”
“Why?”
“Do you want back in with me? Do you want us to be closer?” Donna asked.
Stacie nodded. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Then it’s time to make a choice. Either you trust me or you don’t.” Donna shimmied her way out of the coveralls. “If you trust me, then stop asking questions and get into my truck.”
×
“Where’s the milk?” There was bristle on John A. Jones’s face and head. He held a cup of coffee in his right hand and held the fridge door open with his left.
“We’re out,” Chris said.
“What’ve we got?” John A. closed the fridge door.
“Not much. You told me we’re leaving tomorrow and to forget about ordering more groceries.”
“We need a few things now, and I’m tired of pizza.”
“You want me to go to the grocery store?” Chris began to feel nervous as he recognized the signs of anxiety in his father’s voice.
“No, they’re watching. I can feel it. I
saw one of those cops this morning.” John A. opened a cupboard door and put his now empty coffee cup on the shelf.
“Where?” Chris shoved his hands into the pockets of his combat pants.
John A. cocked his head to the left. “Out there on that pathway.”
“Did he see you?”
“No.” John A. opened another cupboard door. He pulled out a tumbler, ran the water in the kitchen sink, and filled the glass.
“I can phone Co-Op, and they’ll deliver the groceries.”
“Can they trace us?” John A. asked.
“We’ll pay with cash.”
“But they’ll know our address,” John A. said.
“We’ve been ordering takeout pizza, and no one’s come knocking.” Chris felt sweat gathering along the edge of what used to be his hairline.
“Got some paper? We need to make a list of food we can travel with so we only have to stop for gas on the way back home.” John A. opened one drawer and then another.
×
Stacie looked around the showroom floor. A row of motorcycles gleamed under the spotlights. “Is this where you bought your bike?”
Donna said, “Yep.”
“Hey, Donna,” a woman called. She had shoulder-length black hair and wore a black T-shirt and black jeans. She walked closer.
“Carly!” Donna hugged the woman. “This is Stacie, my mom.”
Carly turned to Stacie. “Good to meet you.”
“My mom needs a helmet,” Donna said.
“Full face?” Carly asked.
“Is there a helmet that won’t mess up my hair?” Stacie asked.
“Afraid not.” Carly smiled.
Stacie turned to Donna. “Why do I need a helmet?”
“It’s part of the plan,” Donna said.
They followed Carly toward the stairs leading to the basement. She began to hop down the stairs with one hand on the railing.
“What happened to your leg?” Stacie asked.
“Mom!” Donna said.
Carly reached the basement floor and turned to face Stacie. “I was in a motorcycle accident when I was eighteen. Lost my leg from the knee down.” She lifted her right pant leg to reveal the shiny metal limb reaching out of her shoe.
“Sorry,” Stacie said.
“No worries. Usually the kids ask. It’s an honest question. The helmets are over here.” Carly pointed at a display on her left.
