by Vicki Delany
“The world’s moved on, Lucky. No one cares anymore about what happened back in the ’60s. No one but a bunch of aging war resisters who’ve spent the last forty years hibernating up in the mountains.”
“The people in this town care. They want the garden. I care. Barry and Michael, Jane and Norma care. And all the rest of the group.”
“I doubt if Michael even knows where Vietnam is.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that Michael is more interested in getting you into the sack than building a statue.”
“I’ll not dignify that comment with a response. But you, you of all people, how can you say you don’t care?”
“The past is past, Lucky. Times have changed. We’ve lost. The military-industrial complex is stronger than ever. The empire is on the march.”
A heavy glove closed over Lucky’s heart. “I’ll never give up,” she said.
“Hello? Anyone here?” a woman called from the store.
Andy turned.
“Let Duncan take care of it,” Lucky said. “We have to finish this. Where’s Duncan anyway?”
“Getting coffee.” He walked out of the office, a miasma of bitterness and resentment trailing behind him.
□□□
Smith reached Pine Street; he was still in sight, pedaling uphill. If he’d headed down, toward the river, she wouldn’t have a hope of catching up with him. She ran up the hill, yelling into the radio at her shoulder for assistance. Vehicular assistance, she emphasized.
He didn’t look back, just kept pedaling.
“Stop, police,” she yelled. An elderly gentleman out for his morning constitutional looked at her. A smartly dressed businesswoman walking a Pomeranian turned to stare. The Pomeranian barked and lunged toward Smith. Her gun slapped at her hip, her boots weighed her down. The uniform was hot, even in the mild morning sun.
He turned onto the street at the crest of the hill and disappeared. She heard sirens behind her. The cruiser slowed down. Smith wrenched the door open and jumped in.
Dawn Solway pressed her foot on the gas. “What’s up?”
“Next left,” Smith gasped. A stitch dug into her side. “Guy on a bike. Move it.”
They took the corner on two wheels. Nothing but morning dog walkers and people heading to work. The only cyclist was a toddler on a tricycle, colorful ribbons on the handlebars blowing in the breeze.
Smith pounded the dashboard. “He has to be around here somewhere. That alley, turn down there.”
Solway turned, but the alley was empty. She switched off the siren.
“Back up, back up.”
Solway backed up. At this end of town the roadway was a maze of twists and turns; roads went up the mountain, and down again. Or not. One-way streets turned into throughways, and major roads dwindled into nothing. There were streets that ended at sheer cliffs and others that changed name or direction without warning. And because the roads were so unpredictable, walking paths jutted off in all directions.
“Where to?” Solway asked.
“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Smith hit the dashboard again. “Keep driving.”
“What’d he do?”
“Stole a bike. Stole a goddamned bike while I stood there watching, thinking it was a nice bike. You laugh and I’ll have your guts for garters.”
“I wasn’t laughing.”
“Christ, I can’t believe the nerve of the guy. He didn’t even look around to see if anyone was watching, just snapped the chain and took off.”
“Recognize anything about him?”
“Too far away. Might not have even been a guy, now that I think about it. All baggy pants and oversized T-shirt.”
They drove around, Smith shouting at Solway to stop at every pedestrian they passed, to ask if they’d seen someone on a red bike. No one had.
“Could be anywhere by now,” Solway said. “Holed up in someone’s back yard, most likely. Watching us driving around in circles.”
“Go back to the tourist info center. See if we can find the bike owner. This’ll make the Trafalgar City Police look good—hey, I saw someone steal your bike but couldn’t catch him.”
“You tried, Molly, don’t sweat it. You were on foot, he was on a bike.”
“I just can’t get over the gall. He must have known I was chasing him, or her, but he didn’t even look back when I yelled.”
“Maybe he knew you’d recognize the face.”
“That’s a thought. Which means someone local, or who’s been brought to our attention recently.”
A man was standing outside the tourist info center, looking at the empty bike rack, incomprehension on his face.
Smith’s cell phone rang as Solway pulled up beside him and got out of the car.
“Are you missing something, sir?” Solway said.
“Moonlight, where are you?” Lucky’s voice was tinged with panic.
“Right near you, Mom. I can see the store from here. What’s wrong?”
“Can you come by for a minute?”
“Is Dad okay? Are you okay?”
“I need you in your professional capacity, Moonlight.”
“I’m coming.” Smith jumped out of the car. Solway was making soothing gestures to the wildly gesticulating bicyclist.
“I have to go. Something’s wrong at my parents’.”
“You,” the bicyclist shouted. He was older than she’d thought at first—probably into his forties. His hair was cut short, his face clean-shaven. Sleek black and red bike shirt and shorts on a well-toned frame. He threw his red helmet to the ground. “She said you saw it happen. Was it your coffee break or something? Wrong time of the month to make an arrest?”
“Go, Smith,” Solway said, “I’ll help this gentleman make a statement.” She bent down and picked up the bike chain. “Cheap,” she said. “Easy to cut. I would’ve thought that you’d get better security for such a nice bike.”
Smith left him sputtering his indignation, and sprinted down the street.
No one was in the store. “Mom? Dad?”
“In the back,” Andy Smith called.
She went into the office. Her parents stood together, their arms wrapped around each other. Lucky’s red and grey head was tucked into her husband’s chest. For a moment Smith was happy just to see them together. Then Lucky pulled away. Her face was pale beneath her freckles and tan.
“What’s happened? Sam?”
Andy’s cheeks were red, his mouth set in a tight white line.
Lucky picked a piece of paper up off her desk, holding it by the tips of her fingers as if it were covered in dog dirt. She handed the note to Smith, her hand shaking.
Smith took it. The paper was badly crushed.
Boom, boom
Too bad this isn’t a bomb
But I don’t have enough fertilizer
Yet
Remember Oklahoma
That’s what we do to traitors and deserters
Boom, boom
Chapter Fifteen
Smith let out a long breath. “When did you get this, Mom?”
“It was pushed under the door,” her father said.
“When?”
“It was there when I opened up. I figured it was someone local paying a bill, so I tossed it on your mother’s desk. People in town sometimes don’t bother with the post office, you know that.”
“Where’s the envelope?”
Lucky nodded toward her desk.
Smith looked at the envelope but didn’t pick it up. Mrs. Smith and the name and address of the store printed in neat black letters. There was no return address and no stamp.
She punched numbers into her phone. Andy gathered his wife back into his arms and looked at his daughter over Lucky’s shoulder. His eyes were wet.
“Winters.”
“Can you meet me at my parents’ store, John? It’s important.”
“I’m just leaving the Hudson House Hotel. Be there in five.”
The bel
l over the front door jingled cheerfully. Footsteps crossed the wooden floor.
“Tell them we’re closed, Moonlight, please.”
But it was only Duncan, carrying two coffee mugs with snap-on lids. He was dressed in baggy surfer shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, with Tevas on his feet. “Sorry I took so long. You wouldn’t believe the crowd at Eddie’s.” He smiled at Smith. “Hi, Molly, you look really good today. Doesn’t she always look great in that uniform, Andy?” Finally he appeared to notice their faces. “What’s up?”
Smith held out the letter. “Don’t touch, but have you seen anything like this before?”
Duncan put the mugs down and read. His cheerful smile faded. “That’s awful. It must have been delivered here by mistake. Why would anyone want to bomb our store?”
Lucky gasped.
“Duncan, would you please make my mother a cup of tea,” Smith said.
“I don’t want tea.”
“You need one. Duncan?”
“She can have my coffee.”
“I said tea.” Lucky didn’t drink coffee, and right now she needed sugar. “Dad will have one too.”
“Okay, sure. Tea all around.” The kettle was set out beside a half-sized bar fridge in one corner of the office. Duncan had to go to the washroom to fill it.
The bell over the door rang again. “Molly, where are you?”
“In the back,” she called. Duncan returned with the filled kettle. “After you’ve plugged that in, go and lock the door,” she said. “And turn the sign to closed.”
“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am.” Duncan saluted. Smith didn’t think the situation was particularly amusing. He passed Winters on his way out of the office.
Smith held the letter by the corners for the sergeant to read. Lucky would have opened the envelope, taken out the letter, read it, crushed it in her hands, and tossed it in the garbage. Then Andy would have pulled it out and uncrumpled it. Later, it had been passed to Smith, who’d accepted it without a thought. It was unlikely that the fingerprints of the author would be identifiable. But there was never any harm in being careful.
“Nasty,” Winters said.
“Gee, you think?” Andy said. “This is a direct threat to my family and our business.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Smith. Constable, find a bag for the letter and the envelope.”
The kettle switched itself off. Duncan began gathering cups and tea bags, milk and sugar.
“I’ll get a forensic examination started on this right away,” Winters said. “It’s a threat all right, but it’s unlikely that this person has either the inclination or the knowledge to carry it out.”
“You can guarantee that, can you, Sergeant?”
“Of course I can’t, Mr. Smith. But I can guarantee that the Trafalgar City Police will be keeping an eye on your property until we find this person.”
“My property, fine. What about my family? What about my wife?”
“Oh, stop, Andy,” Lucky said. She walked around her desk and sank into the chair. She adjusted the back support. A bit of color was returning to her face. “They’ll do what they can.”
“We’ll close the store for the rest of the day,” Andy said.
“We’ll do nothing of the sort. I won’t be chased out of our business by a poisoned-pen writer.” She took a deep drink of her tea. “Duncan, unlock the door.”
Winters said, “You’ll let us know if anything even the slightest out of the ordinary happens?”
“Yes.” She began rummaging through the mountain of paper on her desk.
Duncan preceded the police to unlock the door. “Do you have a moment, Mol?” he asked, flipping the sign to Open.
“My car’s right outside,” Winters said. The bell jangled as he left.
“If you know something about this letter, Duncan, you need to tell Seargant Winters, not just me.”
“It’s not about that. I’ve been wanting to ask you a question for a long time, Mol.”
She looked outside. The lights of Winters’ SUV flashed as he flicked his remote. “So ask.”
“I’m going to Vancouver on Tuesday. I’ve got tickets for the Pearl Jam concert. Do you wanna come with me?”
It took Smith a good few seconds to understand what he was saying. “You want me to go to a concert with you?”
“It’s been sold out for months. Get outa town, see Pearl Jam, eh? Sound good?”
“Duncan, I’m here, right now, as an investigating officer. I can’t make a date with you.” Winters was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. She wouldn’t put it past him to drive away without her. “I have to go.”
Duncan’s face tightened and the lines between his eyebrows came together. “It’ll be fun, Molly. You can stop being a cop for a while.”
“I don’t want to stop being a cop.”
“You’re acting as if I’ve insulted you. And I don’t want you to stop being a cop, anyway. Tell me you’ll think about it.”
“I can’t think about anything but this case. And now my family’s been threatened.” He was pretty cute, Duncan. Usually easygoing, cheerful. But right now he just looked angry. Some guys just couldn’t take rejection. “BC-DC’s playing at the Regal on Saturday. If, and it’s a big if, I’m free, I’d like to go. If I do, do you want to come?”
“Pearl Jam’s the real deal, Molly.”
“Pearl Jam isn’t going to happen.”
Winters leaned on the horn.
“I have to go,” she said. “See you, Dunc.”
“Okay. Saturday then.”
She ran into the street and jumped into Winters’ vehicle, instantly forgetting Duncan Weaver and the BC-DC concert.
“It’s most likely an empty threat, you know that, don’t you?”
“Oh yeah. Fuckin’ coward’s threatened my mom, my dad, their livelihood. And I’ve got to pretend it doesn’t really matter.”
“I’m not asking you to pretend anything.” Winters pulled into the parking lot at the police station. He switched the car off, but didn’t move to get out. “But I have to ask you if you can be a professional about this. And give me the help I need.”
“No one’s ever challenged my professionalism before, John.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“But no one’s ever threatened my mom before!” The red and white maple leaf flag above the police station snapped in the warm breeze.
“Anyone dropped a poisoned-pen letter addressed to Eliza, my wife, through my mail box, I’d be out for blood too, Molly.”
The leather headrest felt cool against the back of her head. Smith closed her eyes and remembered that she hadn’t had much sleep last night. “You think this had something to do with that goddamned CNC TV program. What’s it called, Filthy Column?”
“Fifth Column. Strange name for a program that follows the governing party’s line so closely. Anyone threatened your family before?”
Smith’s eyes flew open. “Of course not. You think I’d keep that a secret?”
“Just asking, Molly. Just asking. I’m just a dumb cop, but even I have to wonder. An incendiary TV program mentions both the Commemorative Peace Garden and your mother. Remind me, did the show say anything about your parents’ business?”
“There was a shot of the sign and the front windows. It might as well have been captioned, ‘Aim your rocks here.’ Bastards.”
“And within hours of the program airing we have arson at the project site and a threatening letter to one of the sponsors. Coincidence? Unlikely. Let’s get this letter to forensics, perhaps they’ll find something. You’d be surprised at how stupid most criminals can be. We wouldn’t catch many of them if they had half a brain cell to rub together.”
“Half of anything can’t rub against nothing.”
□□□
Talk at the coffee shop was all about the CNC program. It had been rebroadcast across the United States that morning on the network’s breakfast show.
“I wouldn’t of thought m
any people in town watched CNC.” Christa joined the conversation in the bagel line.
A young woman with hair cropped to her scalp, a short T-shirt, and low-slung cut-off jeans shrugged. “Word got around that there was going to be a piece on Trafalgar, so people tuned in. Hoping to see themselves in the background.”
“Fellow came in already,” Jolene, behind the sandwich bar, said, as she sliced a pumpernickel bagel, popped it into the toaster oven, slipped an onion one out, and slathered it with cream cheese. “Told me he’d driven up from Oregon and wanted to know where he could go to protest the peace garden.”
“What’d you say?” the short-haired girl asked.
“Sent him to Nelson.”
Everyone laughed.
“Dill and garlic on whole wheat, please.” Christa shuffled down the line. She’d been up all night, working on her paper. As the sun touched the top of the mountains, she’d pressed the Outlook Express send/receive button and sent it on its way. She’d done a good job and deserved a treat. On a nice morning like this sometimes it seemed as if everyone in Trafalgar passed through Big Eddie’s.
“Excuse me,” a middle-aged woman said from the back of the line, “but are you people talking about the Commemorative Peace Garden?”
The line ground to a halt as the locals turned and looked at her. Even Jolene stopped in the midst of slicing a bagel.
“My friends and I flew in from Vancouver. We heard about the program and wanted to let you know that you have our support.”
Like an assembly line that had been re-started after an accident, the bagel line shifted into motion again. “That’s nice of you,” a tall young man said. “But the show was only on last night.”
“We can move quickly when we have to. I’m with the Vancouver Women’s Peace Alliance.”
“Not everyone’s going to be happy to see you.” A man walked past, balancing coffee and bagel bag. He was dressed in a suit and tie. You didn’t see that much in Trafalgar, and certainly not in high summer. “O’Reilly donated the land and asked for a park to be dedicated to him and his buddies, so I figure they should respect his wishes. But we don’t need strangers stirring up trouble.” He glared at the woman from Vancouver.
