by Garry Ryan
“I thought so.” Randy picked up the weed trimmer and moved back to the roadway. “Time to get back to work.” He put ear plugs in. Then, with one pull, the trimmer’s gas engine started.
“Never ignore the obvious,” Lane said and made for the Chev. He had another stop to make.
Lane parallel parked across the street from a brown five storey office building. This side of the street was lined with mature trees and two storey homes. It was just off 4th street where trendy coffee shops and restaurants had revitalized the neighbourhood. He realized Randy hadn’t given him any specifics but he’d given him the answer. Lane had to admit the jock was a couple of steps ahead of him. And Randy knew Lane was close to the truth. He sized me up and went straight to the heart of it all, Lane thought. This case is all about heart.
He walked into the five storey building, past the main floor pharmacy, right past the lab and up the stairway to the third floor. Halfway down the carpeted hallway, he pushed open a beige metal door with the sign Dr. Wallace and Dr. Keeler Family Practice.
The receptionist was on his left, behind a meter high wall of plastic and glass. She lifted her head, frowned and said, “Oh, it’s you.”
The tone of her voice told him he’d come at a bad time. Lane looked right to see at least ten people sitting in the waiting room.
“To see Dr. Keeler?” The receptionist tapped the side of her glasses with a pencil. Not one hair dared moved out of its appointed place.
“Please,” Lane said.
“Take a seat.” She let out a long, exasperated sigh.
Lane found a seat near the window and looked out at the trees and rooftops across the street.
“Read to me.” A big little voice said. A bright yellow book dropped into his lap.
The child standing in front of him was between three and four years of age. Her black hair was cut short. It framed brown eyes and a round face. She wore blue Oshkosh coveralls and a red T-shirt. Slapping the book with her right hand, she climbed onto the seat beside him.
Lane looked across at a woman who smiled wearily. An infant slept in her arms.
He smiled, lifted the book and began to read. After the third book, the little girl announced, “I’m Dayna.”
“I’m Lane.”
“Read another story.” Dayna scampered to a pile of books in the corner, picked three and brought them back.
“Millicent and the Wind,” he said, as she put both hands on his wrist and leaned in to study the pictures. Lane ached for the children he would never have.
“Mr. Lane?” Lane lifted his head to see, Mavis, Dr. Keeler’s nurse. Shrinking violet had never been a phrase used to describe Mavis. She was taller than he was, broader in the shoulders and as tough as any person made out of marshmallow could be. “Hurry it up detective.”
“Bye Dayna,” Lane stood, looked down.
The child looked up with a frown. “Bye.” She waved by closing and opening her fist.
“Say thank you,” Dayna’s mother said.
“But he didn’t finish all my stories!” Dayna said.
Lane followed Mavis. He felt like a car being pulled along by the draft of a semi.
“He’s not too busy just yet, so you’re lucky.” Mavis led him to the doctor’s office and swept Lane inside with the folder in her hand. “Another case?”
“That’s right.” This was a familiar routine for Mavis and Lane. He’d first seen Keeler because he was a top notch family doctor and later on to ask medial questions related to his cases. All he had to do was phone ahead and Keeler would work him in. Amateur sleuths were everywhere and this one happened to offer invaluable medical insights. “Mavis, you’re a life saver.”
“Yah right, save your charm for Arthur.” Her voice softened. “The doctor’ll be here in a minute.”
Lane sat in one of the chairs in front of the doctor’s desk. He studied the photographs on top of the pine bookshelf behind the desk. An 8 X 10 was a family shot of the doctor, his daughter, son and wife. All were taller than the doctor.
“Detective?” Keeler always used the title when it involved a case. He stood in the doorway dressed in a white smock and red golf shirt.
Lane was reminded of the face of a writer who loved ghosts and gore.
Keeler shook Lane’s hand and said, “I’ve got maybe three minutes.” He shut the door behind him before sitting down across from Lane. Keeler kept his hands on the arms of the chair while studying the detective.
Dr. Keeler always seems to enjoy this so much, Lane thought, then said, “I’m working on a case.”
“We’ve done this at least 50 times before and you always start the same way.” Keeler tapped his wristwatch with an index finger.
“How much damage can a blow to the throat cause?”
“Depends on where the blow lands, the power of it and the size of the person or persons involved.” Keeler leaned forward.
“Apparently, the attacker had a knife to the nose of an adolescent male. The attacker,” Lane deliberately used the present tense even though he was almost certain that past would have been more accurate, “weighs about 140 kilos. His age is 53. The victim is close to the same height and weighs about 85 kilos. The victim says he,” Lane curled the forefinger of his right hand over top of his index finger and jabbed both in Keeler’s direction, “struck the attacker in the throat. Apparently, the attacker fell forward on top of the victim.”
“The Swatsky Case?” Keeler said.
“You understand this is entirely confidential?”
“Of course. Go on.”
“The victim has studied karate and I suspect he’s having flashbacks about the attack. There is also evidence suggesting the attack was sexually motivated. There are indications the attacker may have committed at least one prior assault similar to this one.”
Keeler opened the collar of his golf shirt to expose his throat. He pressed his finger on the ‘V’ at the base of his neck. “Feel that?”
Lane reached under his tie, eased his fingers between two buttons and felt a soft valley of flesh in between bones.
“If the blow landed there with sufficient force, then the attacker is a dead man. Fractured trachea. About ten years ago I was working at Emergency. A car accident happened right outside the door. A passenger fractured his trachea. We were there within 30 seconds. The guy never had a chance.”
“A kid could do that?” Lane needed to be certain.
“If the blow lands in the right spot and with enough force, it’s all over,” Keeler said.
“And it’s quick?”
“Very. Is the kid strong?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s distinctly possible that the attacker is dead.”
“Thank you,” Lane reached across to shake hands. “And you understand . . . ”
“Very confidential, as always. One of my male patients was sexually abused by an uncle. He’s been in therapy for five years. The emotional damage can be irreparable.”
“It’s my job to find out what happened.”
“What happens to the kid?” Keeler said.
“That’s up to the courts to decide.”
“You think so? This is the kind of case people can’t get enough of.” Keeler said as he shook Lane’s hand.
“V-Channel news and weather update.” The woman with the black hair, white blouse and microphone stood on the bank of the Bow River. The white stone of the Louise Bridge was in the background. “It may be sunny in Calgary but it’s raining in the mountains.”
A closer shot of the bridge with water churning around the supports. Debris carried by the silty water was only a meter or two away from rubbing against the underbelly of the bridge.
Cut to the reporter. “Conditions on the Bow River are exceptionally dangerous. The fire department is warning boaters to stay off the river until conditions improve. So, you can’t cool off on the river for the next few days. If that makes you hot under the collar what’s next will really steam you. Here’s Ralph Devine with a story ab
out a major crime.”
Cut to a head and shoulders shot of a man with black hair and salt and pepper beard. “The Swatsky disappearance may cost Red Deer taxpayers more than they thought. Investigators now believe the missing mayor may have gotten away with as much as 13 million dollars. More at six.”
CHAPTER 22
Lester sat on The Racquet Club steps close to the front entrance. The sun shone on the bricks, the bricks radiated heat and barbecued him like a bratwurst. He read yesterday’s newspaper. It had been on the table at Tim Horton’s when they went for breakfast. That was over four hours ago.
They chose The Racquet Club because it was in one of the wealthier districts. Marv had been sure it gave them a better chance of stealing a Mercedes. God my brother is a pain in the ass, Les thought. “It’s gotta be a Mercedes, or it’ll all go wrong,” Marvin had said. Les was beginning to think jail would be better than another day with his brother.
The newspaper front page had HEAT WAVE written across the top. He looked over the paper as a green mini van made a U-turn in front of him. The side door slid open. Four kids in bathing suits and sandals poured out. A woman’s voice hollered, “I’ll pick you up in two hours!” The last kid slammed the door.
In a couple of minutes those kids would be screaming and splashing in the pool. He could hear children in the water just on the other side of the entrance way.
Someone had to pull up, leave the car running and go inside. He’d done it lots of times. Just one person needed to do the same for him. Lester had only seen six Mercedes so far. Lots of mini vans, though. Hate those mini vans! Give me a Cadillac anytime. Big engine, leather seats, cruise, air conditioning, he thought.
A motorcycle climbed the parking lot hill and eased into a spot only a few meters from Les. The rider kicked out the stand, leaned the bike over and killed the engine. The guy was wearing a short sleeved shirt, shorts, runners and helmet. He pulled the helmet off and walked past Les. Cool as a cucumber.
Man, Les thought, that’s the way to travel. A Honda Gold Wing with the highway stretching out ahead of him. A friend of his traveled down to the States every summer. Packed his pistol on his hip and road his bike from coast to coast. It would be cool on a bike. Get a Gold Wing and ride down to the States. A man could still be a man down there and ride with a 9 mm on his hip.
He heard the howl of an engine. It was the green mini van. The driver braked, leaned into a U-turn so tight the tires rubbed themselves bald. The van rocked back and forth when the driver dropped it into park before stopping. A woman hopped out with a plastic shopping bag with a towel trailing from the top. She ran into the club.
Les folded his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. Looking in the rear windows to make sure there was no one inside, he moved closer to the front of the vehicle. Empty. He opened the driver’s door. Cool air enveloped him. Les smiled as he leaned to slide the seat back. He closed the door, shifted into drive and eased his way down the hill. “After we get the money, I may just get me one of these.”
The only kind of sandwich Nanny would eat was made of white bread and ham. And a cup of coffee. “Make sure you don’t put nothin’ in my coffee but coffee,” she’d said. It was early afternoon and the kitchen was cool. He’d kept the blinds and curtains closed like she’d told him. Ernie wondered why she hadn’t made him feel guilty about going away with his father. She’d be alone during the day and she hated being alone. Last night she’d insisted he drive home. She was definitely getting weirder.
“Just keep busy, try to think about something else,” Ernie said.
Scout lay under the kitchen table with her nose on her paws and belly on linoleum. Her eyes followed Ernie.
“Cooler, isn’t it girl?”
Scout wagged her tail once in reply.
Ernie turned to butter the bread. Carefully, he spread yellow to the edges of the crust, just the way his grandmother liked it. “She’s really acting strange. Well, she always acts strange.” Talking to Scout was easy. She listened and he couldn’t say the wrong thing. If he talked to her, maybe he wouldn’t have time to think about other things. He peeled off two slices of honey ham and centered them on the bread. “When Nanny’s this nice, it’s really strange.”
Ernie looked over his shoulder at the dog. She lifted one eyebrow.
“You’re right. People are crazy. Dogs aren’t.”
Scout yawned.
“Humans think they’re the smart ones. How come we’re so screwed up if we’re so smart?” He squirted a bead of mustard over the ham and slapped the sandwich together.
Reaching into the opaque plastic pouch, he pulled out a slice of ham and jammed it into his mouth. It tasted like paste. He poured the coffee and wondered how something that smelled so good just a few days ago could taste like nothing today. Why does everything taste the same? He headed for his grandmother’s bedroom. When his feet touched the family room carpet, he heard the rattle of toe nails on a hard surface. “Oh no.”
Scout had her front paws on the edge of the counter. Her tongue reached out and licked the ham out of the package.
“Scout!” The ham slapped the floor. Scout picked it up and scampered into the front room. “What if I want to make another sandwich?”
Ernie turned and walked upstairs to Nanny’s room. Fatigue scratched at the insides of his eyelids.
Nanny was exactly where she’d been since morning.
“Here’s your lunch,” Ernie said.
“Thanks,” she said without looking at him.
Fear and lack of sleep forced the words out before he had time to think. “What do I do if he comes back?”
“Who?” Nanny said.
“Uncle Bob. What if he comes after me again?” Ernie slumped onto the edge of the bed.
“Oh, him.” She reached for her cigarettes.
Ernie looked at the pile of butts and ash.
She stuck a fresh smoke in her mouth and spoke through partially closed lips. “He’s not coming back. Don’t worry about him.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.” Nanny blew smoke through her words, “He’s not coming back.”
“Then why am I having these nightmares? I can’t sleep.” He crossed his arms and rubbed goose bumps.
“Come here.” She waved him closer. “Bob isn’t coming back. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
“Sometimes, even when I’m awake, I see that knife in front of my eyes and I can smell him, hear his voice.” He tasted ham and stomach acid at the back of his throat.
“I had those too.”
Ernie waited. She never took her eyes off the road. A white pickup truck breezed by. “That guy lives down the street,” she said.
“Who are you watching for?”
Nanny ignored the question and told him something he hadn’t heard before. “Getting the news about my brother dying in Italy wasn’t when the nightmares started.”
Ernie opened his mouth to ask what this had to do with anything, hesitated, then decided to wait.
“It was later, when the boys came back after the war. I kept looking for him. Then one of the guys came to the house and told us how my brother died.”
Ernie looked at the head and shoulders portrait of Nanny’s uniformed brother.
“Had nightmares after that. You know he was burned alive?” A blue car approached and she lifted the binoculars.
She set the binoculars in her lap. “The nightmares lasted at least a year. I swore no one would ever take family away from me again.” She crushed the cigarette butt on the edge of the ashtray. “Then Bob took my Judy away.”
Her anger was as familiar to him as her menopausal mustache.
“Couldn’t do a damned thing about it. Judy wouldn’t listen when I told her he was no good for her. Now his tough friends are back. They won’t leave until they find Bob. No way they’re gonna take anyone else away from me.” She turned to look at him. “Don’t worry about Bob or his tough friends. Take the dog and go into the basement. Have a sl
eep on the couch. It’s cooler down there. Nightmares don’t like the cold.”
Ernesto knelt at the edge of his garden. “All done. No more weeds.” Nasturtiums, gladiolas, tiger lilies and wild flowers accented tomatoes, onions and lettuce. The soles of his feet were black like his fingers.
His knees crackled when he leaned up against the garage to stand up. He looked at Nonna sitting at the table. “You want me to move you under the umbrella?” He bent to brush the soil off the knees of his jeans. “The sun does feel good this time of day.” Ernesto shaded his eyes and looked up. The sun was nearly half way along on its glide into sunset. “Must be close to five o’clock.” He lifted his white ball cap. “Got fresh tomatoes, lettuce, onions and some olives for a salad.” He felt newly cut grass between his toes. Stepping lightly, he went up the stairs and disappeared into the doorway’s shadow. “Just a quick stop in the bathroom to clean up.”
Ernesto didn’t hear the gate latch open.
Nanny spotted Lester and Marvin sitting side by side in a green van.
The van turned right. The brake lights told her what she needed to know. “Ernesto’s,” she said while flipping open her cigarette package to check for the lighter. She dropped the pack into her purse and pulled out a white envelope to set on the bed. “I knew the sneaky bastards would be back.” Glancing once at the portrait of her brother, she picked up her purse, shuffled across the carpet and went downstairs. “God damn war killed my brother. God damned Bob. God damn his tough friends. God damn.” She switched over to the portable oxygen tank. “God damn cigarettes! So damn short of breath.” She wished she could go into the basement and touch Ernie’s cheek one more time while he slept.
Nanny stepped outside and into the shadow of the house. Ever since she started to take those blood thinners, she couldn’t stand the heat. “Damn!” The sun was a hand smacking her face. It was hard to breathe so she cursed to herself, God damn heat. Why couldn’t those assholes park closer to the house? Took away my Judy. All I had was my family and you bastards took that away! Her rage pushed her till she stood beside the van and heaved the oxygen tank inside the open side door.
