by Garry Ryan
“Why would your partner do that?” Christine asked.
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Arthur looked closely at Lane’s face.
Lane’s mind ran ahead then lagged behind, trying to catch up to three conversations. “The doctor said I’d probably notice some bruising in a day or two. I can go to Dr. Keeler to have the stitches removed.”
“I don’t see any stitches,” Matt said.
“Neither do I,” Christine said.
Lane remembered thinking that what he did next seemed perfectly logical at the time. He turned around and pointed at the backside of his borrowed sweatpants before pulling down one side to expose the damaged cheek. That way everyone can have a look at the wound, or, rather, the dressing, he thought. Put all of the confusion to an end, as it were. Lane grinned at his private joke.
Christine screamed, “You’re bleeding!”
Matt said, “Uncle Lane, do you always go commando?”
The dog lay at the very back of the Jeep. “Her paws are still healing,” Wanda had said. “The poor thing needs rest and a good home.”
Christine and Matt sat as far away from each other as the back seat of the Jeep would allow.
Arthur drove while Lane watched the colours go by. When did the world get so beautiful? he thought.
“How come you didn’t call?” Arthur asked as they turned from McKnight Boulevard onto John Laurie.
“I didn’t want to upset everyone. Once you saw I was on my feet, you wouldn’t worry so much. If I called, you’d worry too much.” Lane stared at a shade of green he’d never seen before.
“So instead, with your face all scratched and bruised, you decide to arrive at the Animal Shelter and moon us!” Arthur changed into the right lane without signalling. A horn sounded from behind. Matt turned and flipped the driver a middle finger.
Lane thought, I never realized that there were so many shades of green. He felt the seat belt tighten across his chest and abdomen.
“What’s he doing?” Arthur skidded off the road and stopped with the front of the Jeep pointed uphill.
Lane looked left. A white Ford pickup had cut them off and forced them onto the grass. The passenger got out. He was holding what looked like a half metre of wooden shovel handle.
Lane opened his door.
Arthur said, “Stay inside. Lock the doors!”
Lane looked at the man with the shovel handle. He was a head shorter than Lane and wore a pair of khaki coveralls.
Lane undid his seatbelt. “I’m a police officer.”
The driver of the Ford rounded the front of the pickup. He was shorter than the man in the coveralls but looked like he worked out. “Bullshit! Let’s see your badge!”
Lane reached for his pocket and thought, What did I do with my ID?
“He is a police officer!” Arthur got out of the Jeep. His voice was pitched high with fear.
The Ford driver smiled. “Where did you learn to drive? Flamer school? This should be fun, Randy. We’ve got a couple of sweethearts here. Haven’t you heard? God doesn’t like people like you or her for that matter.” The driver pointed at Christine, who was climbing out of the Jeep.
Lane saw Randy step toward him. He heard Matt say, “Watch out, Uncle!”
Randy raised the shovel handle.
Lane moved inside the arc of the weapon. He reached out to grab Randy’s right wrist with his left hand. With his right hand, Lane grabbed Randy by the throat. Lane’s right foot hooked behind Randy’s leg. The look on Randy’s face changed from arrogance to shock as he landed flat on his back with Lane’s knee on his chest. The wooden handle rolled down the slope.
The driver of the Ford ran toward Lane. Arthur grabbed the driver from behind. The driver swung at Arthur, but Matt caught a hold of the man’s arm before it could connect with Arthur’s head.
The driver swung around and threw Matt up the embankment.
Arthur let go and faced the driver.
The driver smiled. “Wrong move, girly-boy.”
There was a hollow thud when the shovel handle caught the driver at an angle between his shoulder blades. The blow drove him to his knees.
A car horn sounded.
“I hate people like you!” Christine raised the handle to hit the man over the head.
The driver rolled onto his back and raised his arms to protect his face.
Lane released Randy and grabbed the shovel handle at the top of its arc. Christine turned on him, her face stained red with rage. “I hate assholes like him!”
Arthur said, “They’re leaving.”
Randy climbed into the passenger seat of the pickup. The driver slammed his door. The diesel engine wheezed and clattered as the driver reversed onto the boulevard. Brakes squealed as another driver avoided the Ford. The truck shifted into first. The diesel belched black smoke. The pickup sped away.
Lane looked around him. Matt brushed dirt and grass from his pants. Arthur looked at Christine as if seeing her in a very different way. She looked at each one of them in turn before she said, “I hate bullies.”
“Uncles?” Matt said to Lane and Arthur. “You okay?”
“They’re my uncles too, you know!” Christine moved toward Matt. Lane stepped in between.
“I don’t have anybody else,” Matt said.
“Neither do I.” Christine began to cry. “What makes you think they’re yours and not mine?”
“So, why didn’t you call?” Erinn held a sleeping Jessica against her breast.
This entire argument is going to take place at a whisper, Harper thought. “Lane was wounded. We had to get him to the hospital, then I had to drive him to the Animal Shelter. It’s way down south.”
“How is he?” Erinn asked.
“On his feet. In as much trouble with Arthur as I am with you.”
Jessica began to suck air in her sleep. Erinn adjusted her breast. Jessica sucked hungrily. “Still doesn’t explain why you couldn’t call me. I don’t like getting the call from somebody else. I need to hear your voice and know you’re okay.”
“There wasn’t one moment after the shooting started. Lane was wounded, I called it in, cruisers and an ambulance showed up. Everybody had a million questions.” Harper touched his daughter’s hair and wondered how she could be so beautiful and so soft.
“Call me next time. Call me right away.” Erinn looked at the baby, then at her husband.
Harper saw the tears in her eyes. “I’m hoping there won’t be a next time.”
THURSDAY, JULY 4
Shootings Shatter Calm
Two separate shooting incidents have resulted in one detective being wounded.
Detectives investigated reports of a shooting at an acreage owned by Blake Rogers on the western edge of the city limits.
When the detectives visited a second acreage, they were fired upon. One of the detectives was wounded and released late yesterday.
Blake Rogers said, “Things are getting out of control here. One of my friends is dead. Two others have disappeared. The police better get this thing under control before people start protecting themselves.”
The name of the wounded detective has yet to be released.
FRIDAY, JULY 5
chapter 8
“So the bullets from the weapon that wounded me don’t match the ones from Blake Rogers’ house?” Lane sat leaning on an elbow, keeping his weight on his left cheek while perched on the couch in his front room.
“The bullets from Blake’s house were 7.62 by 39 millimetres. Fibre thinks they’re from an AK-47. The bullet taken from …”
“My rear end?” Lane closed his eyes to feel the afternoon sun on his face. He’d finished the painkillers and was discovering a heightened appreciation for simple pleasures, especially ones that didn’t involve pain.
“And the tire. It was a .22 calibre.” Harper scrolled down the page of his laptop.
Christine and Matt were out walking the dog. Arthur was out getting last-minute groceries. Lisa, Loraine, Jessica,
Erinn, and Glenn were on their way over for dinner.
“I’m just glad I was hit with the .22.” Lane opened his eyes to see Harper smiling.
“I’m just glad we can joke about this.” Harper turned back to the laptop. “Fibre found where both shooters fired from. He just measured the angles and walked in a straight line back along the trajectories. Both shooters wore cowboy boots. Neither left any shell casings. They had different shoe sizes. Eva’s shooter had size twelves and Blake’s wore tens.”
“What about the broken glass at Blake’s?” Lane looked out the window to see if the kids and dog were on their way home.
“That’s where it gets interesting. Fibre thinks the shooter was standing with his feet together while aiming at a glass jar on top of the hay bale. Fibre thinks the recoil of the AK got away on the shooter. That would explain the climbing angle of the bullet holes and relatively equal spacing.” Harper took a sip of water.
“Target practice?” Lane struggled to keep his mind clear of the aftereffects of pain killers.
“Looks like one possibility.”
“And Eva’s?”
Harper watched pain cross Lane’s face. “You sure you want to do this today?”
“After fourteen hours of sleep, my mind’s been racing, going over and over the events. Yes, I need to do this today.”
“Sure it isn’t the drugs?”
Lane smiled. “So, you heard about my mooning. I’d never taken that drug before. How was I to know I’d react like that? It was an unusual experience.” He felt his face turning red.
“I see! The drugs made me do it!” Harper smiled. “The shooter at Eva’s place was in a prone position. Fibre believes he was six feet tall. He was approximately one hundred and seven metres away at the edge of a clump of trees. The shooter took three shots and walked away. The foot trail ended at a gravel road.” Harper hesitated for a moment. “I got the impression that the shooter made every shot he wanted to make.”
“You mean he was aiming at me?”
“No, the damage to the bullet taken from you indicates it was a ricochet. Also, it was pretty nearly spent when it hit you. That’s why the penetration was relatively shallow. What I’m talking about is the fact that he hit the gas tank twice and the rear tire once. You and I were at the front of the car behind the engine. It looks to me like he was trying to miss us.”
Lane shifted his weight. “Somehow, that’s not very comforting.”
“This theory does explain the location of the initial impact point of all three bullets,” Harper said.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking of something else.”
“What’s that?”
“The guy who came after us with the shovel handle. I’ve been thinking about that.” Lane looked directly at Harper.
“But no one got a license plate number.” Harper shook his head as if that would help him follow Lane’s line of thinking.
“It’s not that. It’s the mark on Lombardi’s back and the angle of the blow to the back of his head.” Lane closed his eyes as he replayed the scene. “If the first blow caught him on the back and he fell to his knees, then the second blow would strike him exactly where it did on the back of the skull.” Lane shuddered when he thought about what would have happened if he hadn’t taken the handle away from Christine.
“You think that’s how Lombardi died? Two blows like that?”
“It fits the evidence.” Lane thought, What do I do about Christine? She could have killed that guy.
“There’s one thing that doesn’t fit.” Harper said.
“What’s that?”
Harper hesitated for a minute. “You said those two guys in the Ford knew you were gay almost right away.”
“That’s right.”
Harper closed his laptop. “How did they know?”
The answer caught Lane by surprise. It can’t be that obvious.
Harper read Lane’s expression, “What?”
Lane scratched the stubble on his chin. “I don’t know. Arthur’s voice, I guess. Or …”
“Or?”
Lane took a breath and exhaled. “It’s so damned obvious. Two guys in a pickup truck. Four city boys living in a ranch house. Big trucks. Macho lifestyles. Maybe we’re missing what’s right in front of our eyes. They’re all trying to pass themselves off as straight men.”
“How come you’ve already dismissed Eva as a suspect?” Harper asked.
“Lane?” Glenn sat with everyone else at the table on the deck at Arthur and Lane’s house. “How’s your wound healing up?”
Once again, Christine looked confused when she looked at Glenn. She’d met Harper’s nephew for the first time. He had his hair tinged with red and wore matching white-gold earrings.
“It’s one big bruise,” Arthur said.
“Like your face.” Matt pointed at Lane with a fork.
Lane looked at Lisa and smiled. She was watching the conversation with more than her usual interest. The six foot tall rcmp officer sat beside a petite blonde, her partner. Loraine studied Christine and her reactions to all that was happening around her. Lane thought, That’s just like Loraine. She’s always the psychologist; right now she’s analyzing Christine, the newest member of the group.
“So,” Glenn smiled at Lane, “do we have to go to the Animal Shelter to get a look at your scar?”
Erinn almost choked on a sip of cranberry juice. “Glenn!” Then she laughed despite her disapproval.
Arthur held the baby. Jessica sat in the crook of his arm with her eyes watching the people at the table. She developed a gradual, then total interest in her thumb.
“That’s not something I want to see again!” Matt was in a mood not to be outdone by Glenn, who was at least as quick-witted.
“Let’s see.” Glenn rolled his eyes. “How does one explain away a wound like that? A macho man would say it was a war wound. Mild-mannered would call it a bummer. An obscene person would call it being rearended. I would call it a blast in the —”
“Glenn!” Erinn tried to be stern while giggling.
“Ass far as that goes, we could say, in the end it was just a slap on the backside!” Matt sat back with a self-satisfied grin.
“It’s not funny.” Christine got up from the table and started to pick up dishes. “He could have been killed! It was just lucky that the bullet hit him there instead of somewhere else.”
Matt laughed. “Yes, a few centimetres one way or the other and he could have been —”
“Shut up! Can’t you see how serious this is?” Christine glared at Matt. “You’re such a jerk.”
Matt went to reply and closed his mouth. His face turned red.
Erinn caught Lane’s eye and mouthed the words, “Talk to her.”
Loraine watched Christine’s reaction with clinical interest.
Lisa seemed unable to keep her eyes off Jessica. “Come on Arthur, it’s my turn to hold her.”
“It’s time to retire to the living room. Christine and I will take care of the dishes.” Lane got up slowly. He was aching in places he hadn’t expected to ache: his back, shoulders, arms, and neck.
“I’ll help.” Harper stood with his plate. Erinn grabbed his arm and shook her head.
Lane ran the water in the sink and worked next to Christine as they loaded the dishwasher. Lane looked out the window. The dog scratched at the back door.
Christine went to open it.
“Wait a minute, please,” Lane said.
“When are we gonna name the dog?” Christine asked.
“As soon as we agree on a name.” Lane wiped the inside of the sink with a soapy washcloth.
“I don’t like the way they joke about you getting shot.” Christine closed the dishwasher and grabbed a tea towel.
“Nobody noticed.” Lane smiled at his niece. “It’s just their way of saying they’re glad I’m okay. You know, sometimes you can’t make up your mind whether to laugh or cry. So, you laugh.”
“Oh.” Christine leaned against
the counter. “I just thought they were making fun of you.”
“What else are you worried about?” Lane began to fill the sink with water and gave it a squirt of dish soap.
“I … well … How do I ask?” Christine’s face turned red.
Lane began to scrub the inside of the pot. “Just say it.”
“Loraine and Lisa, are they gay?”
“That’s right.” I think I know where this is going, Lane thought.
“Well, Loraine keeps looking at me.” Christine took the pot from Lane and began to dry.
“She’s a psychologist. You’re the new person at the table, and she’s figuring you out. She’s very good at what she does.” Lane realized his mistake too late.
“She thinks I’m crazy?”
“No. Loraine is a people watcher. That’s what she does.” Think fast, he thought. “And no, Loraine’s not trying to pick you up.”
Christine’s ears turned red. “This is all so different.”
Lane put a salad bowl in the sink. “I wanted to talk with you about the other day.”
“What do you mean?” Christine’s defenses went up all over again.
“The guy you hit. It scared me. When I think back on it, the whole thing scares me.” Lane wiped the inside of the bowl.
“If Matt hadn’t flipped him the bird, none of it would have happened. He’s such a hothead!” She crossed her arms.
“If I had to do it over again, there are a few things I would change. The thing that’s worrying me now is the wooden handle.” Lane rinsed the bowl and handed it to Christine.
“What about it?” She wiped the bowl with her towel.
“What set you off?” Lane looked at his niece.
“It was what the driver said.”
“Well?” Lane pulled a platter from the counter and started to wash it.
“He told you, ‘God doesn’t like people like you or her for that matter.’ That’s the kind of thing Whitemore said in church every week for six months before I left. He’d stand up there, look down on me and say, ‘God spoke to me. I had a vision. He said that we must be vigilant. He told us that homosexuality and sexual intercourse with the negro is against God’s law. God knows those who break this law will have no place in Paradise.’ He said ‘God knows’ so often, I can hear him saying it now. He wanted me to leave. And when he started saying I should leave, that’s when it got nasty.”
