by Vicki Delany
As if she’d conjured him up by the force of her own thoughts, he was there, standing behind a fat man in a sleeveless T-shirt. The fat man screamed at her. But Harris just stared. Through eyes as blank as the bottom of the Kootenay River.
She spoke into her radio. “I’ve got the leader in sight.”
“Describe him.”
“Blue shirt, blue ball cap. Standing no more then ten feet from me.”
“Someone’s coming your way. Point him out and then retreat, Smith. You’re not wearing control gear.”
Harris lifted his right hand and curled his index finger, moving it back and forth, beckoning her.
Screw him; she wasn’t looking for a fight. She turned. Time to retreat.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Jane Reynolds had been a pacifist and anti-war activist all her adult life. One of the first women in North America to make full professor of physics, she’d raised three children while mentoring hundreds, perhaps thousands, of young people. She’d joined the ban-the-bomb movement in the ’50s, and traveled throughout the States in the ’60s protesting the Vietnam War. In the ’80s the family lived in England for a few years while Jane was a visiting professor at Cambridge. She went to Greenham Common as much as possible, in support of the women protesting the nuclear weapons based there. She was comfortably retired now, her husband long dead, her children scattered across the continent. Her health was poor, and not getting any better. But her passion for the peace movement still ignited her life.
Someone knocked into her; she stumbled on the worse of her two bad knees and her glasses fell off. She didn’t dare try to lower herself to the ground to feel around for them. She peered myopically into a blur of sound and movement. She’d heard Lucky’s voice a few moments ago telling everyone to retreat. “Lucky?” Jane cried. “Barry, Michael, where are you?”
People were screaming in anger or yelling in fear. A steady thump, thump came from the left; a bullhorn called everyone to disperse. A body bumped into her from the right; she would have fallen had not someone been in her way and inadvertently kept her upright. She didn’t know which way led to safety, or to her side of the fracas. If there were sides any more. She was turned around, confused. People were running in all directions. She realized, to her horror, that she was crying. She cursed under her breath—but only at herself. For getting old. Feeble and helpless. This wasn’t the first demonstration she’d been in that had turned violent. She’d been in far worse situations. But back then she could see what was going on, and she could count on her strong, quick body to take her out of the way of danger. Embarrassed, humiliated, angry, in pain, she cried even harder. She fumbled in her pocket for a tissue and wiped at her face. It came away streaked with blood.
A deep voice reached her out of the wall of noise, and a large hand touched her arm, pulling her out of her circle of chaos. She blinked up at him. It was young constable Evans.
“Come with me, ma’am, please.”
“Never thought I’d have to be escorted away from a protest.” She allowed him to take her arm.
A space cleared in front of them. Lucky’s daughter, Moonlight, was only a few feet away. “Smith,” Evans called. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Moonlight turned and began to head toward them. Her face was very pale, the bones of her face almost visible through translucent skin. She looked as small and breakable as one of the antique teacups Jane collected.
Amongst the cacophony shattering the night air on this normally peaceful, tree-lined street—people yelling, a woman screaming, glass breaking, sirens, police shouting, truncheons striking shields—Jane heard a roar of rage.
The young man who’d been stirring up trouble ever since he arrived in town ran toward them. He pulled a small bottle out of his left pocket. The neck of the bottle was distorted as if something had been stuffed into it. The fingers of his other hand flicked, and a small flame illuminated the darkness. He pulled his arm back as if he were standing on the mound, ready to pitch the last inning in the final game of the World Series. He was looking directly at Dave Evans.
Jane screamed a warning. Moonlight turned.
Jane looked at Evans, still holding her by the arm. His eyes filled with fear, as he saw Harris coming toward him. He shoved Jane away from him, hard. She went down, hearing, as much as feeling, the arthritic bones in her arm snapping. She wanted to just curl up in a ball and stay there. But she forced herself to look up, and all she could see was Harris’ homemade bomb lighting up the night.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Like almost every Canadian kid, from the daughters of business tycoons to the sons of immigrant laborers, Molly Smith had played soccer. She’d been fast on her feet, and was usually the goalkeeper. She sometimes thought the position had helped to prepare her for the life of a cop: ninety percent hanging around the goalposts watching the activity at the other end of the field, ten percent the center of the action.
Harris’ attention was focused on Evans, standing over the fragile body of Jane Reynolds. When he saw Smith barreling toward him he tried to pivot, but his foot slipped and he stumbled. Smith struck Harris full on, her whole body colliding with his. He yelped and the object he’d been holding flew out of his hands. Glass broke and liquid spread across the pavement. The air filled with the smell of gasoline. It ignited with a whoosh and flame raced in a thin, deadly river across the street.
Smith’s head spun; she stared at the pavement, inches from her face. Harris lay on the ground beside her, momentarily stunned.
Feet and legs ran past. A woman screamed, the sound so fierce it might be heralding the end of the world. “No, no,” a man yelled.
Smith was jerked roughly to her feet. Her body shook as if an earthquake was ripping through the Mid-Kootenays. Dave Evans gripped her upper arms. He shook again. “Damn it, Smith, you okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Get that lady the hell out of here. I’ll handle him.”
“Okay.” Evans released her. He pulled Jane Reynolds off the pavement, and, without a backward glance, carried her away from the disturbance. She sobbed into his shoulder.
Harris struggled to get to his feet. Smith pushed him back down and dropped to her knees beside him. She slammed his face into the pavement, pulled her handcuffs off her belt, and wrenched his arms behind him. “You are so under arrest, asshole.”
He let out a scream of pain. She stood up, dragging him with her. His nose was pushed to one side, and blood flowed like a red river out of it. His blue cap lay in the road.
He kept screaming, “My arm, my arm, you’ve broken my arm.”
“If you goddamned stop pulling on it, it might not hurt so much.”
A camera was shoved into her face.
She ignored it.
“Good job, Molly. I’ll take him.” John Winters grabbed Harris’ other arm. The man screamed.
“Thought it was your left broken,” Smith said. “Guess you got them mixed up.”
□□□
Smith, Evans, Solway, and Chen pulled up chairs in the constables’ office. Tocek leaned against a wall. They held hot drinks in hands only just beginning to stop shaking.
“Hope there isn’t any trouble in town tonight,” Solway said. “With no one on the beat.”
“We’ve had enough trouble for one night,” Tocek said, giving Smith a soft smile. He was well over six feet, with the bulk to match. His black hair was shaved almost to his scalp, not much longer than the thick stubble across his chin. He had, Smith thought, nice eyes, as warm and brown as Sylvester’s. And a smile that he kept sending her way. Chen wore a gold band on the third finger of his left hand. Tocek, she hadn’t failed to notice, did not.
John Winters and the Chief Constable came in. “Good job, all of you,” Keller said, radiating stale cigar smoke and looking pleased with the world.
“Is it over?” Chen asked.
“Everyone who isn’t spending the night courtesy of the citizens of Trafalgar’s gone home. Sleeping the sl
eep of the innocent, most of them, I’m sure.”
“We’ll be on our way, then.” Tocek tossed his cup into the trash. Chen stood up.
“Appreciate your help,” Keller said, shaking the Mounties by the hand.
Solway, Evans, and Smith mumbled thanks.
Tocek looked at Smith. “See you around.” His brown eyes shone, and he winked.
“Go home,” Keller said. “We’ll debrief in the morning.”
Evans and Solway left.
“Molly?”
“In a minute, sir. What about Harris?”
“He’s resting in one of our finest cells. The doctor’s seen to him. Just a broken nose. He’s threatening to sue you for police brutality, but I wouldn’t lose any sleep over that if I were you. Good night, Molly.”
“Night, sir.” She got to her feet.
“Do you need a ride home?” Winters asked.
“No thanks, I’ve got my mom’s car.”
“I saw what happened, Molly. You did good.”
She tucked a loose strand of hair back into its braid. “I don’t even remember. It’s all a blur.”
“We’ll get Harris for inciting a riot and for an attempted assault on a police officer,” Winters said.
“Doesn’t seem like much.”
“As the lad seems to have a fondness for fire, we’ve taken his truck to the lab and tomorrow Ron Gavin’ll be going over it with a fine-toothed comb.”
□□□
Lucky and Andy were in the kitchen when Smith got home, but only Sylvester greeted her with any enthusiasm. The bags under Andy’s eyes were heavier than ever, and Lucky’s hair fell around her shoulders in lifeless strands. “Tea?” she said.
Smith ignored the offer. “What were you playing at tonight, Mom? Do you know that Jane Reynolds almost got hurt, badly?”
“I helped her into the ambulance. She broke her arm, but she’ll be okay. She’s a tough old bird.”
“Tough? Tough! Are you crazy?” Rage stoked by the fear that had been building up inside her ever since she arrived at the park boiled over, like a pot of rice left on high heat too long. “What the hell were you playing at? You’ve seen Ashcroft on TV. You’ve seen the sort of blowhards—on both sides—that are invading our town over this. And you and your so called committee, every one of you middle-aged, or older, put yourselves right in the middle of it.”
“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” Andy said. “Apologize right now.” As if Molly were fourteen and fighting with Lucky over the clothes she wanted to wear to school.
Smith smashed her fist on the table. The salt shaker fell over. No one bothered to pick it up.
“Stay out of it, Dad. You weren’t there.” But childhood habits took over and she lowered her voice. “Come on, Mom. It was midnight. You didn’t just happen to gather your friends and go down to the park to enjoy the night air. You knew something was up.”
“That Harris character told me to stay away because they were planning a demonstration.” Lucky blew her nose. “I won’t let his type intimidate me.”
“Planning a demonstration.” Smith’s voice dropped even further. “Oh, yeah, he told you to stay away like I’d toss a steak to Sylvester and tell him to stay away. But never mind the fact that it was a trap so obvious that they’d be embarrassed to write it into a movie, you knew they were planning a demonstration but didn’t call the police. You didn’t even tell me. If those two Mounties hadn’t been passing when they got the call, things could have been worse, a lot worse. Dawn Solway was there all by herself.” Behind her eyes Smith saw Solway standing in the road, trying to be strong, and so relieved to see reinforcements arrive.
“Lucky,” Andy said. “Why didn’t you tell Molly what you knew?”
“Because I didn’t think. I made an error of judgment, okay?” Sylvester whined and put his paws up on her knees. She shoved him away.
“You’d better not make any more errors of judgment. This thing isn’t over yet, not by a long shot, and I don’t need my own mother making my job any more difficult than it is.”
“Your job,” Lucky said. “How do you think I felt, knowing that my own daughter was the ‘cop bitch’ they were screaming at?” Her voice broke, and Andy reached out and took her hand. She burst into tears. He jerked his head toward the door, telling Smith to leave them.
She ignored him. “Is that what this is about? Is it, Mom? You didn’t tell the police you knew trouble was brewing because you don’t want to admit that I’m a cop? Well, tough. My life is not about you.”
□□□
The wide patio doors at Eddie’s were open to the morning breeze, but a chair with a Closed sign propped on it blocked the entrance. Winters could see Eddie and Jolene moving about inside. He knocked on the glass. “It’s going to be one heck of a busy day, and I need a fix fast.”
“I bet you do,” Eddie said. “Big trouble last night, I hear.”
“And today’s the official announcement.” Winters climbed over the chair.
Eddie poured coffee. “It might be a mite strong yet.”
“Strong is good. I had two hours’ sleep last night.”
“No charge, Detective.”
Winters smiled, for the first time in what felt like days. “Thanks, but no thanks.” He put a toonie, a two-dollar coin, on the counter.
Eliza was due back from Toronto this afternoon. Come hell or high water, he’d pick her up at the airport. Hopefully hell wouldn’t be the right word.
He carried his coffee into the station. No one was at the front desk. He put his head into the dispatch office. “Morning, Ingrid.”
The night dispatcher rubbed her eyes. “Morning already? Wow, you got coffee from Eddie’s before opening. You must be special.”
“That’s what my wife tells me.”
Ingrid grinned. “First coffee and then my news to make your day.”
“What news?”
“Vancouver called. Charles Bassing was arrested in a punch-up outside a Gastown pub.”
“Sweet.” Both Ellie Montgomery and Frank Clemmins claimed to have never met Bassing, nor to have heard Montgomery talk about him. Unless something else came to light, which Winters didn’t expect, Bassing had nothing to do with the Montgomery killing. But it would be nice to see him put away for what he did to Molly’s friend.
“And Ron Gavin has something for you,” Ingrid said.
“Even sweeter.”
He went to his office and called Gavin. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he said when the forensic investigator answered.
“Not when duty calls. Actually, I haven’t started to examine Harris’ truck yet. But the officer who brought it over found something interesting. A Rolex Oyster watch in the glove compartment. Inscribed ‘To Reginald on his birthday. Love, Mother.’”
Montgomery.
“It was such an anomaly my guy called me about it right away. The back of the truck that picks the garbage up from the front of my house Monday mornings is cleaner than Harris’ truck. He seems to have been living in it. It’s a forensic investigator’s wet dream. We’ve been waiting for something to compare with the hairs found on Montgomery. This guy’s truck is so full of DNA we could clone him.”
“Not that I’d want you to. I’ll send someone round to get that watch. We need to ask the wife to identify it. Let me know what else you find, eh?”
“Will do.”
Winters leaned back in his chair. If he could tie Harris to the Montgomery murder…. Early days yet, better not to get too excited. Anyone could pick a dropped watch up off the street, which is no doubt what Harris’d claim had happened. What motive could Harris have for killing Montgomery, anyway? They were, theoretically, on the same side. No point in speculating.
He picked up the phone and called the cells. “I hope Mr. Harris had a restful night.”
“Slept like a baby,” the custody officer said. “Better than you can say for me.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“He’s called
his lawyer. Guy’ll be here at ten.”
“He arranged a lawyer himself?”
“Yup.”
The legal aid lawyer usually came from the coast. It could be days before he, or she, got here. Harris was from out of town, yet he already had a lawyer on tap? He must have known he’d be running into trouble.
“See you at ten.”
□□□
Harris was a sullen, arrogant bastard. He sneered at Winters through his battered face and rubbed his tongue across his cracked upper lip at Smith, while his lawyer was getting paper and pen out of his shiny new briefcase. Winters informed them that the interview was being videotaped as well as recorded.
Smith hadn’t slept a wink. The riot kept repeating itself in her mind, over and over: a bad movie locked into eternal repeat. Her terror at realizing that she was all that stood between groups of potentially violent demonstrators. Harris aiming a Molotov cocktail at Dave Evans and Jane Reynolds. And on top of the fear still churning in her stomach there was a layer of fury. Her own mother could have warned them. Yet chose not to. Out of nowhere she thought of Christa. Guilt joined the toxic brew of emotions.
She’d watched sunbeams caress the white wooden slats on her bedroom window, and wondered, not for the first time, if she were cut out to be a cop. She didn’t ever want to be so frightened again. If she quit the department now, she could go back to Victoria. Get a job for the fall while waiting for the winter term to start. She couldn’t stay in Trafalgar, not having failed at being a police officer. They’d whisper behind her back, say she was too weak, too female, to cut it.
The phone rang and she grabbed it before the first ring died away.
“We’ve a break in the Montgomery case. You want to be in on the interview?”
“You bet I do.”
“Can you be ready in twenty minutes?”
“Count on it.”
She flew into the shower. No time to braid her hair, so she fastened it with a butterfly clip. She put on jeans and a T-shirt and was running downstairs when she heard Sylvester barking at a car coming up the driveway.
