by Garry Ryan
Tran set the teapot down and ran his index finger along the scar. “My village was caught in the middle of a battle between the Viet Cong and the Americans. I was a very lucky child. It was an American bullet.”
“How do you know it was an American?” Jay regretted his words as they left his mouth.
“The soldier was very close. I looked into his eyes when he fired his M-16.”
Jay sipped his tea to stop himself from asking more questions. The herbal scent was pleasantly unfamiliar. He felt irretrievably out-of-place.
Tran said, “My nephew says you have been very helpful. A true friend. You have known each other since high school. He speaks often of you and your good character. There have been many times he has been grateful for your support. Tony has been telling me about you for two years.”
Jay shrugged. He was embarrassed and curious. The kitchen door swung open. The cook backed out with a tray holding three steaming bowls of soup and a plate piled high with bean shoots and quartered limes. Beginning at Uncle Tran, he slid the bowls onto the table. The cook left the tray on the table, nodded at Tran, and went out the front door, carefully locking it behind him.
Uncle Tran used chopsticks to grip a slice of tomato. Delicately, he lifted the red circle to his lips and nibbled.
Tony used a spoon to slurp the broth.
Halfway through the meal, the spicy heat of the satay soup radiated to Jay’s extremities.
Uncle Tran used a napkin to wipe sweat from his forehead. “You’ve chosen your friend wisely, nephew.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Tony said.
Jay felt warmth and dread bubbling up from the risks of acceptance. After all, he thought, I don’t come from a healthy gene pool. He looked for an exit.
Tony laughed. “You should have seen Walter’s face when Jay asked what FOB meant. Uncle, it was a priceless moment.”
Jay laughed and listened as one story lead to another. One, in particular, stuck with him.
Tony badgered his uncle to explain how he’d come to Canada.
Tran surrendered gracefully. “I was in Saigon. The Americans were leaving. Some of us had visas for Canada, but we could not get official permission to leave Vietnam. The embassies were closed. It was chaos.” Tran hesitated.
Jay had the distinct impression Tran was about to stop, because he’d said too much.
“Please, Uncle,” Tony said.
“There was so much confusion. I went to the airport. Some of the embassy staff were loading their limousines onto transport aircraft. So many people trying to leave, and they took the cars!”
Jay noticed the tears in Uncle Tran’s eyes.
“I walked up to the aircraft. Near one of the cars was a box wrapped in black fabric. I picked it up, walked onto the aircraft, and hid. We landed at night. I carried the box off the plane.”
“Tell him what was in the box!” Tony said.
“A jade elephant.” Tran smiled as he stared into the past.
“It’s over there.” Tony pointed to a shelf behind the bar. The elephant stood with its curled trunk touching the top of its head. It looked like it was smiling.
Monday, October 12
Chapter 5
HARPER PRESSED “PLAY.”
Bobbie’s radio voice was smooth as butter on a fresh-from-the-oven muffin. “Vivaldi. Four Seasons. One of my favorites.” A three second pause. “As some of you already know, my daughter has been abducted. This morning’s show will be devoted to the topic of missing children. I’m Bobbie. Speak to me.”
Harper hit “Stop.” The scent of coffee filled the air between them. Lane leaned forward to listen more carefully to the voice. They were in a room with space for a table, four chairs, and two people. Harper pressed “Play” again.
“We’re back. This morning’s topic is missing children. My daughter disappeared a few days ago. We had her birthday party recently. My ex-husband was there. He demanded he be allowed to take the children on a camping holiday. I declined. Now, my daughter is gone. The police have yet to find my ex-husband or my Kaylie.”
Harper hit “Pause.” “Her ratings have been increasing since she started up a little over a year ago. She sounds sincere.” He sipped coffee.
“Think so?” Lane stared at the white wall.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“You may be the only person in the city who thinks that way. She’s very popular.” Harper released the pause button.
Bobbie said, “This is a direct appeal to my exhusband. Charles! Bring our daughter back. Cole misses her desperately. Bring our child home.” A three second pause. “I know I’m not the only woman who has gone through this. I want to hear from others like me. What happens to mothers who go through what I’m going through? How do I cope?”
Lane stabbed the “Pause” button. “What else do we know about her?”
“You want me to find out, right?” Harper asked.
“Yes,” Lane said.
“What about the father?”
“That’s my job.” Lane leaned back.
“What do you need to know about Bobbie?”
“Her past. People who’ve known her for a long time,” Lane said.
“Why, in particular?” Harper opened his laptop. It chimed after he pressed the power button.
“Just curious,” Lane said.
Harper looked over the laptop at his partner.
Lane asked, “How come we never see her face anywhere? The promos show her hands or the back of her head. Never a face. How come? I want to hear from the people who know her best.”
“Maybe a little mystery helps sell the show.” Harper tapped they keyboard.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Lane said.
“Why aren’t we looking for the father?”
“Every cop in Canada and the US is looking for him. His camper is missing. I don’t think we’ll find them in the city, so we have to rely on someone else,” Lane said.
“You’re assuming they’ll be found together.”
“Yes,” Lane said.
“So, why am I looking into Bobbie’s past?” Harper asked.
“I’ve lost objectivity when it comes to Ms. Reddie. We’ve got to have as much information as possible about her when dad and daughter are found.”
“What happens if they’re never found?”
“We have to work on the assumption that they will be,” Lane said.
Harper shook his head. “I still think we should check into the father’s background.”
“That’s my job,” Lane said before leaving the room.
Tuesday, October 13
Chapter 6
SUNRISE TAKES TOO long this time of year, Lane thought. I’ve become used to summer days when the sun is up by five-thirty and doesn’t set till ten o’clock.
Now, at eight o’clock, the sun was warming the kitchen. He stood, stretched, and soaked up the rays. The coffee maker spluttered its last drops over the freshly-ground Arabica beans. He rubbed at the ache in his left hip, leftover from sleeping on the couch.
Riley’s toenails pattered along the floor. The retriever grazed Lane’s leg to say good morning, then moved to the dining room where he settled down for a nap under the table.
Lane heard the toilet flush. The water rushed through the pipes under the kitchen floor. I wonder if sleep has softened Arthur’s mood, Lane thought. He poured a coffee for himself and another for Arthur—a peace offering. Arthur’s slippers scuffed down the hall and into the kitchen.
Lane thought, If he’s slept more than an hour, it doesn’t show in his eyes. They were red-rimmed with dark half-circles underneath. A tuft of hair stuck out at right angles above his left ear. Arthur reached for the cup of coffee, then added sugar and milk. A spoon clinked against the cup. He took a sip, closed his eyes, sighed, took a longer sip, then said, “Thanks.”
They sat in silence through a cup and one-half.
Arthur said, “I’ve got to get Matt into school and hockey.”
Lane was on the edge of saying, “Shouldn’t we talk about this?” Instead, he said, “How’s Martha doing?”
Arthur looked out the window, closed his eyes and said, “She’s in the Tom Baker Cancer Centre.”
Lane thought of at least ten questions. Instead, he decided on a sip of coffee.
“It’s breast cancer. They’re operating this morning. She made me promise not to tell Matt. She says he’s lost his home, his friends, and his father. Finding this out about her will be too much for him. She says, ‘He’s not as tough as he lets on.’ I always hoped I’d get a second chance to know my sister. I never imagined it would be like this, but. . . . ”
“You’re going to have to tell Matt,” Lane said.
“I promised.”
“He’s probably already figured it out. He’s a smart kid. Takes after his uncle. Besides, how is she going to explain away the hair loss from the chemo?” Lane asked.
Arthur wiped a sleeve across his eyes.
Lane said, “Matt’s father is big on family values. He wouldn’t allow Martha to have anything to do with you or me. Last we heard, he was a big wheel in his church. How will he react when he finds out Matt is living with us?”
“How will he find out?” Arthur asked.
The phone rang.
“It’s not a matter of how. It’s a matter of when. We have to be prepared for that eventuality.” Lane picked up the phone. “Hello?”
Arthur stared at the coffee grounds at the bottom of his cup.
Lane said, “We’ll need a map. As usual, you’re way ahead of me. See you in a half-hour.”
Arthur looked up when he heard the ice-cold tone of Lane’s voice. “What’s happened?”
Lane held up his hand to get Arthur to wait. “As long as it’s cleared with the Mounties.” He hung up the phone.
“The girl?” Arthur asked.
“And the father.” Lane looked out the window and into the back alley. “A forensic team is on the scene. Initial indications are murder/suicide.”
By ten o’clock the road west of Calgary was free of commuters. The foothills rose up on the north side of the two-lane highway. On the south, the Bow River gathered breadth as it ran away from the mountains. Oranges, yellows, and reds were falling from the trees. Pastures on either side of the road were still green. More and more pine trees were in evidence as they approached the Rockies. Lane read the map. Harper drove in silence.
“It’s the next right,” Lane said.
Harper coasted, then braked before turning north onto a paved and frequently-patched road. It was just wide enough for two vehicles. They climbed a hill. Snow crept down the shoulders of the peaks on their left.
Lane paid close attention to the map and directions. They took a series of turns onto progressively narrower gravel roads. He wondered how the Mounties had been able to find the camper. “There.” Lane spotted an RCMP cruiser blocking the road.
Harper pulled up to the cruiser. He parked and turned off the engine.
Pine branches brushed Lane’s door as he got out. He felt the promise of winter in the breeze coming from the north.
The RCMP officer approached them. A single braid of black hair brushed her gun belt. She asked, “You are?”
“Detectives Lane and Harper,” Harper said.
“Been expecting you. The camper’s over there.” She pointed to a trail turning left off the main road.
“Couple of guys on dirt bikes found it.”
“Thanks,” Lane said. He and Harper followed the trail for about thirty metres. Grass grew knee-high between parallel tracks of compacted earth. Above them, the trees on either side of the trail reached out to touch limbs. A squirrel chattered a warning.
They found the forensic van parked in front of a blue truck with a white camper perched on its back. Investigators looked like they were part of a Michelin Man convention, in their crime scene bunny suits and masks. One stood next to the open door of the truck. Charles’ corpse sat in the front seat. The investigator’s camera flashed, freezing the scene in Lane’s mind.
Charles’ eyes and mouth were open. His head was cocked to one side, posed in that position. Duct tape sealed the partly-open window on the passenger side. A length of flexible black plastic pipe led from the window. It wound around the side of the truck to the exhaust.
The photographer said, “Stay about five metres out when you walk around the campsite. The father’s here,” he nodded at the body, “and the daughter’s in the back.”
Harper and Lane moved around the front of the pickup. Lane noted that the windshield was starred on the passenger side. Eight cracks traveled away in different directions from the centre of the star. The detectives stayed clear of the truck and moved to the back where a single lawn chair sat facing a campfire ringed with stones. Between the fire and the camper, a picnic table sat under a blue tarp attached to the back of the camper. The stench of decomposition blended with the scent of leaves rotting on the ground. Lane concentrated on the scene and not the emotions evoked by memories of death and rot.
He saw that a recent rain had erased most of the footprints. The only fresh tracks had been made by the tires of a motorcycle. Today’s footprints were indistinct hollows left by the forensic team’s overboots. All of them wore fibre masks over their mouths and noses. One walked slowly along the edge of the clearing, studying the ground. Another walked farther out and disappeared behind a ten-metre pine tree.
Lane and Harper stood near the campfire. They turned to look in the back door of the camper. The smell of death seemed strongest here. There was an investigator inside the camper. Beside her, on the bench, was the body of the child. Blond hair, blue jeans, and sneakers. The soles of her shoes were white and the treads free of dirt. The investigator backed up, nudged one of the child’s shoes, and its heel flashed red.
The investigator turned toward them. Her eyes focused on Lane. She nodded. He returned the gesture. She extended the pinkie and thumb on her right hand, and held it to her ear to indicate she would phone him.
Lane nodded.
She turned back to the child.
Lane walked away from the scene and back down the trail to their car. He thought, This isn’t the first time you’ve seen a dead child. You survived the last one. At least this time, you’re not alone.
Harper followed in silence till they were seated inside the Chev. He started the engine. Both reached to open their windows.
Harper said, “The woman in the camper. What was that all about?”
“It’s Lisa. An old friend. We’ve worked together before. She’s going to give me a call later. I’m not sure what it’s about.” Lane could smell death on his clothing and wondered if it would wash out this time.
Five minutes later, in the university parkade, Jay’s watch beeped. He pulled his right arm from inside the
confines of his Mountain Equipment Co-Op sleeping bag and checked the time.
A car door slammed nearby and an alarm chirped. The rumble of a broken muffler echoed inside the parkade.
Jay stretched so his feet pushed against one door and nudged his head up against the other. He thought, Man, whoever designed this bench seat knew about comfort.
His work and class schedules were taped to the back of the front seat. He stuck a finger on the timetable and said, “Psychology 2:00 PM.” He thought, If I get up now, there’ll be time for a workout, shower, and lunch. He lifted his head, took a look around, then began to pull on a pair of sweatpants.
“We’ve got news about your daughter,” Lane said. He and Harper stood just inside Bobbie’s front door.
Bobbie’s face was perfectly made up; black eyeliner and eye shadow, rouge on the cheeks, and glossy-red lipstick. “My daughter? You found her! Where is my Kaylie?”
“We found her and your ex-husband in his camper.
It was west of Cochrane and near the mountains,” Lane said. Harper stood behind him.
Bobbie stood in the hallway. Her voice rose as she asked, �
�My daughter is okay?”
“No, she’s not,” Lane said.
“My baby’s dead?” The volume of Bobbie’s voice rose even higher.
“That’s correct,” Lane said.
Bobbie turned away, then turned back to look at Lane. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. “My baby! My God! My baby!”
Lane looked into the room where Cole stood in the hallway. Tears ran down his cheeks. He cried silently, never taking his eyes away from Lane.
“My baby! My God! My Kaylie!” Bobbie cried.
Lane and Harper had to carry her between them to get her to the couch.
Cole stood at least three metres away, crying and watching Lane. Tears dripped from the boy’s cheeks, forming two circles of translucent white on the front of his T-shirt.
Chapter 7
LANE WIPED A towel across his face. He inhaled the scents of soap, shampoo, and death. The light on the phone blinked red, indicating a message was waiting. He pressed the button on the left side and heard Lisa’s voice. She had two voices. He’d known both of them for more than a decade. One was a friendly, happy-golucky voice she always used around her partner, Loraine. The other was a controlled, police voice she used right now. “I’ve got preliminary information and some anomalies. Call me at home.”
Lane hung up. In the quiet, he heard the washing machine shift into spin cycle. His clothes had gone into the wash before he stepped into the shower. I’ll have to throw them away if the smell doesn’t come out, he thought. He remembered that after leaving Bobbie, he’d removed his jacket. There had been no moisture mixed in with the makeup residue on the shoulder of his jacket. Lane dialed Lisa’s number.
She answered after the third ring. “Lane?”
“How are you?” he asked.
“Not one of my better days.” She took a breath.
