“It’s coming with me,” Webb said. “I’ve got it wrapped in plastic inside the case. It won’t get wet if it rains.”
George nodded.
Webb liked the fact that George didn’t say something like “Are you sure?” Webb hated being treated like a child.
“Maybe then,” George said, “you could find room in your case for some extra rope. Never hurts, you know, to have extra rope.”
It was Webb’s turn to nod, and George grunted with satisfaction.
Webb also liked that George spoke quietly, like a man who didn’t have anything to prove to anybody. Webb liked that George’s hands were scarred and leathery and that a couple of his fingers were bent and twisted. Hands that had been outdoors a lot, which probably meant that George had learned to survive in the wilderness. That was a good quality in a man who was going to guide Webb through desolate mountain ranges.
George followed Webb to the luggage area where Webb caught sight of Stephanie and Brent. The peace that Webb felt from being in the serenity of the Northwest Territories dropped away as surely as the plane had dropped to earth. When Webb saw that Stephanie had a new welt across her face, it hit him like the sudden jarring of wheels on a scorching runway.
Webb saw Brent duck into the washroom, leaving his girlfriend standing alone as the luggage belt lurched into motion.
It was a small airport with big windows that let in a lot of light. That should have made Webb feel cheerful, but it didn’t. Because it was a small airport, he’d only have a minute with her, if he was lucky.
“George,” Webb said, “can you excuse me for a minute?”
George nodded.
Webb moved to stand beside her, pretending he was just another passenger, staring at the luggage belt as if concentrating would bring the suitcases out quicker.
“It won’t get better,” Webb said to her. “No matter what you think.”
Stephanie glanced at him like she was surprised to see him, although he was sure she knew he had been on the same plane. She had done a good job of ignoring him at the Yellowknife airport after all the passengers had cleared security, and before they’d left the terminal for the airplane.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. But he knew it was a lie as soon as she lifted her hand to her face.
“People don’t change,” Webb said. “If you stay, he’ll keep hitting you. You don’t deserve it. Nobody deserves it. He’s not going to stop. Trust me. I know about these things.”
“You can’t talk to me like that,” Stephanie said. “You don’t know me. Or my life.”
“I know all about getting pushed around though. So, yes, I can talk to you like that.”
“No,” she said. She gave the word a lot of emphasis.
It took Webb a fraction of second to realize she wasn’t talking to him but past him. Over his shoulder. Her eyes were widening, and Webb figured out what was happening just as a huge hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning Webb away from her and toward the person she was speaking to.
Brent.
Brent’s fist was already in motion. A big, big fist, filling Webb’s vision as it accelerated toward his face.
No way did Webb have time to lift his arms in defense. Instead, he let himself fall backward, going with the motion of that big, big fist. He didn’t even try to stay on his feet.
Going with the punch took away some of the impact but not close to enough. There was a flash-bang as the fist hit his face, and Webb flailed with his arms to break his fall. He also allowed his body to turn naturally with the force of the blow. Landing on his back would have been disastrous. People died that way, when their bodies hit the ground and their skulls whiplashed into the floor a fraction of a second later.
He fell onto the luggage belt, but that didn’t give him any safety.
A second later, Brent hauled him up again, like Webb was a runaway suitcase.
Brent was a fast learner.
This time, as he raised his elbow to throw an overhead punch, he kept a grip on Webb’s shoulder with his other hand, so that Webb wouldn’t bounce away from him again.
What he didn’t know was that Webb was a fast learner too. Or that Webb had done some intense martial-arts training and had lived on the streets. This wasn’t Webb’s first fight.
Brent had landed the first punch because Webb had had his back to him, too worried about Stephanie to focus on anything else. This time Webb saw the punch coming, telegraphed by the way Brent had drawn back his right elbow.
Again Webb went with the natural flow and didn’t give Brent any resistance. Webb let Brent’s left hand draw him in, and then he ducked the punch by slamming the top of his forehead into Brent’s nose.
Not painful, if you do a headbutt right. The skull is an amazingly solid object.
But painful to your opponent. Because the skull is an amazingly solid object.
There was a crunch of cartilage, and Webb knew instantly he’d shattered Brent’s nose. As Brent brought his hands up to the mess Webb had just made of his face, it left his lower body open.
The knee is an amazingly solid object too.
Much more solid than the part of Brent’s body that Webb slammed his knee into.
Brent fell to his knees, clutching his crotch, and barfed. Then he toppled into his own barf.
That’s when the cop stepped into the luggage area and saw Webb standing above Brent, ready to kick him if he tried something else.
The cop barked at Webb to step away, like Webb had started the fight.
Webb looked around, hoping Stephanie would say something. Something like Brent threw the first punch.
But she was gone.
Webb looked at George. “Tell him,” Webb said. “The guy threw the first punch.”
“What I saw,” George said, “was you walking up to the guy and hitting him without warning.”
Then George folded his arms across his body.
That’s why, on a sunny June afternoon three days after the reading of his grandfather’s will, Webb found himself in handcuffs in the back of a cop truck outside Norman Wells airport, ninety miles south of the Arctic Circle.
FOUR
As the cop drove Webb through Norman Wells, Webb saw streets with names like Raven and Lynx. He knew from Internet research that there was also one named Honeybucket, because, in the past, that’s what they called the pails they used on long frozen nights when a person didn’t want to go to the outhouse.
He wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing though. He was mad at himself for not paying attention in the airport. On the streets, that kind of carelessness could get a person killed.
He was also mad at George, who lived in this small town. George knew the cop who had arrested Webb. Webb wouldn’t be sitting in the cop truck if George had told the truth. No, Brent would be in it instead. But George had lied.
It didn’t help Webb’s mood that his lower jaw hurt. A lot. There was a tooth loose. It felt like it was sticking through his skin. He used his tongue to push his lower lip forward and touch the tooth. It was leaning forward at more than forty-five degrees. The pain felt like lightning going through his veins. But that slight touch was enough to pop the tooth loose.
With his hands cuffed behind him, there wasn’t much else to do with the tooth except spit it out, swallow it or roll it under his tongue. He decided not to give the cop the satisfaction of seeing a tooth come out like a Chiclet, and he sure didn’t want that small, hard chunk of enamel going through his digestive system. So he kept it under his tongue and watched the streets of Norman Wells go by.
He had never been to Norman Wells before, but he knew as much about it as a person could learn through Wikipedia. Webb disliked going anywhere without knowing what to expect. He knew every free Wi-Fi spot in a twenty-block radius of his territory in Toronto, and Google and his iPod were his best friends. Much as it had hurt to draw from his tiny savings, he had even invested in a solar-powered battery charger so he wouldn’t have to depend on cof
fee shops and the library for power.
Webb knew a lot about Norman Wells, but he hadn’t known that the cops drove police trucks, not police cars. White with horizontal stripes like a regular police car. Same Plexiglas and bars between the front seat and the back, but in a 4x4. Made sense, given the climate.
The cop pulled up to a building on a corner across a gravel parking lot from a fenced playground. Symbolic, Webb thought. Ironic, even. A playground for those who still had lots of opportunity to make good choices; police station for those who hadn’t. Probably lost on people who spent time in the police station, but not lost on him. Maybe a song was in there somewhere, he thought, losing himself in that instead of worrying about what lay ahead. That’s what he always did—escaped into the music. Most of the time it worked. Now his anger and the broken tooth were distractions.
The cop hit a button on a remote on the visor, and the door to a huge garage bay opened. The cop slowly drove the truck into the garage and shut the door with the remote before opening the rear passenger door of the police truck.
“I’m going to escort you up the steps and inside to your holding cell,” the cop said. “And by escort, that means you’ll walk in front of me and I’ll be watching to make sure you keep walking and don’t try anything stupid.”
Webb poked at the new hole in his mouth, where a healthy tooth had been less than a half hour earlier. Good that he’d had lots of experience dealing with pain, he thought.
“Did you hear that?” the cop said. “Do me a favor and don’t try anything stupid.”
Webb’s hands were cuffed behind his back, so trying anything at all would by definition be trying something stupid. Must have been plenty before him who had been stupid, if it needed saying.
“Come on,” the cop grunted. “Let’s get this done.”
Webb swung his legs out of the truck, then paused.
“My guitar,” Webb said. The cop had thrown the case in the back of the truck. Thrown. That was the real crime here. “Can you put it somewhere safe?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the cop said. “Somewhere safe.”
No way Webb would have been able to afford the guitar on his own. His grandfather had co-signed a loan for it. It was the only time Webb had asked anyone for help since he left home. He was making weekly payments, but it was worth the cost, both in money and in asking for a favor. The J-45 was legendary. Its rosette—the circle around the sound hole—was three-ply binding, something that probably only someone like Webb could love and appreciate. The teardrop-shaped pick guard was polished tortoise. A top of Sitka spruce and sides of Honduras mahogany gave it the warm bass sound and amazing projection that plucked at your soul.
Webb wanted to ask the cop not to toss it around while he was finding somewhere safe, but he didn’t want to annoy the cop and have him do the opposite.
On his feet, Webb found his balance, and the cop used a hand on the small of Webb’s back to push him forward, up a set of steps, through a security door and into the police station.
Not much to see. Three numbered doors, all of them open. Webb glanced inside as the cop pushed him past the doors toward a counter. The interiors of the rooms were bare, with bench seats around all the walls. Toilet in the corners. Cells. The rooms were cells.
One of them, Webb guessed, would be his new home.
At the counter, the space opened up into a public lobby. There were a couple of desks with computers. Not much else.
Webb had no idea whether this was a typical police station. This was a first for him.
“Want to know what happens next?” the cop asked. Like he had read Webb’s mind. Or like he was curious about why Webb looked as if he didn’t care. Webb had a lot of practice looking like he didn’t care.
“Can I do anything about it if there’s something I don’t like?”
“Nope.”
“Any chance I can have my guitar back while I wait for whatever happens next?”
“Nope.”
“Then go ahead with whatever happens next. I don’t see much point in getting it explained to me.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” the cop said. “I’m going to need your belt and everything in your pockets. Once you’re in the cell, I’ll see if I can get a nurse to come in and look at your lip. The doctor’s not scheduled to be here until next week.”
“How about you let me out of here,” Webb said.
“I didn’t do anything wrong except defend myself.”
“Your tooth went right through your lip,” the cop said. “Someone should look at it.”
“I’d rather see a lawyer. I need to get out of here.”
“Lawyer?” The cop laughed. “Here in Norman Wells? You did notice how isolated we are, right?”
“I’ve noticed you have telephones,” Webb said. “Let me call a lawyer.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Yes.” But that’s all Webb said.
“That would be?”
That would be something that his grandfather had asked Webb to do, but it would also be something that was none of the cop’s business.
Webb said nothing. He’d learned silence was a powerful way to communicate.
The cop let out a long sigh. Webb could tell he was puzzled. But Webb didn’t owe him any explanations.
“What brings you to Norman Wells?” the cop asked.
“Airplane,” Webb said.
“From anyone else,” the cop said, “that would be a smart-ass answer. You, I think, are telling me to mind my own business. But after what you did at the airport, your business is my business.”
Webb took off his belt and emptied out his pockets. Some change. His wallet. A few guitar picks. His iPod and the solar-powered charger.
“You’re forgetting something.”
Webb shook his head.
“That tooth. If it’s not attached to you, it goes in the bag too.”
“Swallowed it,” Webb said. He felt the tooth roll under his tongue as he spoke.
After he filled in a form listing all Webb’s belongings, the cop chucked all Webb’s stuff in a bag and uncuffed Webb so that he could sign the form. Webb could see the cop watching him, as if he expected Webb to swing at him and wanted to be ready for it.
No chance of that. The cop had control of the guitar. Webb didn’t want the cop to have a personal grudge against him. Webb could fight back. His guitar couldn’t.
“Give me your parents’ phone number,” the cop said as he flipped through Webb’s passport. “You’re not eighteen.”
Webb couldn’t imagine anything worse—after ignoring his mother at the funeral and the reading of the will, his first contact with her in months shouldn’t be a call from a police cell in the Northwest Territories. She didn’t deserve that.
“I have to be out by tomorrow,” Webb said. “Don’t I get a phone call or something?”
“I want to talk to your parents.”
“And I want to talk to a lawyer.”
“Tomorrow,” the cop said. He led Webb to cell number two. “And if you don’t give me a number for your parents, I’ll get it another way. Trust me.”
The benches along the walls were green. There were two large windows made of some kind of material that let in light but wasn’t transparent.
Someone else might have made a joke about going number two, just to break the silence. Not Webb.
He was fine with silence.
Good thing.
When the cop shut the door on Webb, that’s all he had for company.
Silence.
FIVE
THEN
A little over a week earlier, Webb had not sat with his mother at his grandfather’s funeral. Instead, he’d waited until the service began before he slipped into the back row, noting where she sat with his stepfather, and he had been ready to escape as soon as the service ended.
At the reading of the will in the lawyer’s office, three days before his arrival in Norman Wells, Webb didn’t have much choice except to
sit in clear view of her. She’d given him an imploring look, like she wanted a hug or at least a word from him.
He’d crossed his arms and given a firm shake of his head. It had been months since he had been in the same room as his mother. The death of his grandfather was about the only reason in the world he’d consent to it, but that didn’t mean he had to talk to her.
The look on her face when he’d shaken his head broke his heart. It was almost enough to make him run across this room with its dark overstuffed leather chairs and couches, run past all his relatives and their solemn looks. Almost enough to put him on his knees in front of her, clutching her legs and bawling about how much he missed her and how much he wished he could live at home with her like any normal teenager.
That wasn’t possible.
Instead, he’d let a couple of tears run down his face without wiping them away. If anyone noticed, they’d think he was grieving for his dead grandfather. Nobody in the room suspected that Webb had left home when he’d been busted with drugs in his locker at school. No, to the rest of the clan, Webb’s family was as close-knit as the others, although sometimes he wondered if his grandfather had suspected something was wrong. But there was nothing anyone could have done without making it worse. So the secret remained.
There were twelve people in the lawyer’s office—Webb and his mother, his mother’s three sisters, two of their husbands, and his five cousins. There was DJ and his twin brother Steve, and Adam and Spencer and Bernard, who insisted on being called Bunny. Webb was pretty sure the only person they all wished could be there was their grandfather.
Webb had learned to be very watchful, and he saw his cousin DJ shudder. He saw DJ’s mother reach out and place her hand on DJ’s hand.
“It’s all right, DJ,” she whispered. That’s how quiet the office was; even a whisper carried.
Webb sensed his mother was watching him just as closely as Webb was watching his cousins, so he leaned forward, knowing his long hair would cover his face. Webb’s hair hung below his shoulders. His stepfather hated that, which was a good enough reason to keep growing it.
Devil's Pass Page 2
