by Jon Redfern
THE BOY MUST DIE
THE BOY MUST DIE
JON REDFERN
Copyright © Jon Redfern, 2001
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW PRESS.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Although the settings are real, names have been added or changed for the sake of the story. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, dead or living, is purely coincidental.
CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Redfern, Jon, 1946
The boy must die
“A misfit book.”
ISBN 1-55022-453-0
I. Title.
PS8585.E34218B69 2001 C8131.6 C00-933251-0
PR9199.3.R43B69 2001
Edited by Michael Holmes / a misFit book
Cover and text design by Tania Craan
Cover image by Tony Stone Images
Author photo by Heidi Meek
Layout by Mary Bowness
Printed by Transcontinental
Distributed in Canada by
General Distribution Services,
325 Humber College Blvd.,
Etobicoke, ON, M9W 7c3
Published by ECW PRESS
2120 Queen Street East, Suite 200
Toronto, Ontario, M4E 1E2
ecwpress.com
This book is set in ATSackers and Minion.
PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA
The publication of The Boy Must Die has been generously supported by the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.
FOR CY, GLADY, CATHY,
JOAN, JOANNA, AND SUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many friends and first readers contributed to the making of this novel: Geri Dasgupta, Kathy Eberle, Nicole Gnutzman, Allan Hepburn, Toni Laidlaw, Sue and Jennifer Neimann, and Margaret van Dijk. I owe its genesis to Jack David, who always said I should write about that place in Alberta. I cannot say thank you enough to Lyn Hamilton — novelist and fellow music lover — for her sound pointers and encouragement. Many thanks are also due to Tania Craan for her striking cover design, and to Michael Holmes, sensitive, supportive editor extraordinaire. Dean Cooke was generous with his professional knowledge about contracts, and it was much appreciated. The Sharpe siblings, Ann and Kathleen, never hesitated to praise my strengths. My own sisters, Cathy and Joan, were guiding lights: Cathy, you’re the best plot carpenter; Joan, I’d be nowhere without your keen eye — you can spot a phony character a mile away! Catherine Gildiner made me laugh, but also taught me about getting a book from computer to bookseller.
Penultimately, I owe much to three fellow writers who inspired me to finish the manuscript: Brian Stein, old pal, and avid reader; Bruce Hunter, spirit-guide, and the best damn poet I know; Andrew Podnieks, title composer, the Dominion’s finest sports scribe, and mentor.
Finally, I am grateful to Cecil for telling good stories all those years, and to Gladys for loving mystery and crime (and her first born).
FRIDAY, JUNE 28
The boy was running. On the deserted moonlit sidewalk, he was a dashing shadow, small even for fourteen years. His appearance might have frightened a younger child: the shaved head, the skinny back, the black denim legs ending in scuffed army boots. His bony hands were full. The right clutched a book with a pentacle on its cover, the left a cloth bag and a portable tape player.
Stopping, Darren Riegert pressed against a stucco wall and checked that no one was following him. He knew he could not rest. Don’t stay more than a second. Then he began running again. He had been planning this ever since Cody had gone. For the last three days, he’d prayed and chanted to work up his courage. He knew how far he had to go. The smell of freshly cooked bread from McGavin’s Bakery ten blocks away reminded him of his last bite of food. A Mars bar at lunchtime. But it don’t matter now. It was late Friday. The quiet streets of the small city lay spread out along the edges of a vast cut of coulees by the Oldman River. To Darren, Lethbridge was a place of malls, a junior high school, and a broken-down bungalow where he lived with his mom and where her boyfriend Woody came over to drink away welfare cheques. Tonight, at least, Darren had escaped Woody’s mean temper.
Never again. He was glad to be out in the dark. Nobody cared if he went missing. A car passed. His breath tightened, as if he were in school again, in the hall with Mr. Barnes yelling at him for breaking a window. The same cold fear. The same sadness because Cody was gone. Darren’s closest friend had taught him to steal, given him the sacred text, Thanatopsis, brought him to Satan House. Only three blocks away now, the old mansion made Darren feel wanted. He liked the room he crashed in. He liked Sheree, too. She always left the back door open because, she said, “You kids are welcome here.” One time she’d helped Cody come down from a bad acid trip, though she didn’t allow drugs in the house. “This is a clean place,” she’d said. “A place to rest your spirits.”
Darren hurried on, his thighs aching. The sharp corner of the book dug into his wrist. Crossing Baroness, Darren didn’t notice the verandas and the trimmed lawns. Instead, he thought about his mom, her stomach hanging over the tops of her jeans. “Once,” Sharon Riegert bragged, “I was good lookin’.” Darren wondered when that was. He also thought about his Gran, about the time he spit on her grave. Now, more than ever, he wanted to tell her he was sorry.
The glaring moon brightened the gnarled cottonwoods along Ashmead as Darren paused to take a breath. A cat leapt into a hedge. A city bus turned the corner, headlights forcing Darren to squint. He was in full stride again when a siren whined in the distance. They’ll be comin’ for me like that. Darren glanced at his beloved army boots. Cody took his off. He wanted to hold onto his, to have them with him. Panting, he told himself it was okay. Remember, you promised Cody. Memories of that night still made him want to cry. Don’t lose it! He clenched his teeth and blinked his eyes hard.
Get ready now.
Satan House rose out of the shadows, pointed dormers like two giant witches’ hats. Come, come to me. All its windows were dark. Cody had named it, that night on acid, as he lay on its warped floor and cried “Satan, our master, is among us!” The back door was always open to them; the large rooms and thick walls reminded Darren of the haunted castle ride at the summer fair. Careful, go easy. He stopped at the edge of the dirt yard. The old tree stump was weathered as white as bone. He knew now he must go ahead. He did not hesitate though his heart raced. Up the rough gravel of the driveway, he passed the garage’s caved-in door, its bank of broken windows like jagged teeth. He scurried through the yard, the elms and weeping willows hiding the door at the top of three wooden steps. There he stood and calmed himself. He looked at the fence hemming in the overgrown garden and laughed.
Is that a voice calling out? There was movement in the garden. A black shape like a cat slouched, then wove its way through the brown grasses. A sign. Darren grabbed the doorknob, and like always the old door slid open, welcoming him. Quiet, quiet. Cody had always said to sneak in. “They can’t hear ya,” he’d said, “they’re sound asleep upstairs.” But Darren wanted to be sure, especially tonight. He found his way to the top of the basement stairwell. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. He waited and listened. If Sheree’s upstairs in her bedroom, I’ll make sure she won’t hear me. He liked Sheree’s room, its dark curtains and its candle guarded by a chimney of red glass. Maybe she’s at her boyfriend’s place. The professor. It doesn’t matter. Following the rai
l, Darren soon found himself in the shadowy black of the musty-smelling basement. He set down his book, his boom box, and the cloth bag. He pulled a pack of matches from his pocket. The flare created instant shapes — a broom, a bicycle. Holding up the flame, he gathered his things and walked around the corner.
The tiny room he entered smelled of piss. A rustling noise made him jump back so fast the flame blew out. Someone there? He tore off another match. His hand shook, and he had to strike it a second time. Tiny eyes caught the fire and flashed like red pinpoints as grey bodies fled into corners. Dried mouse turds crunched on the pebbled concrete floor. “Something’s wrong.” The rasp of his own voice alarmed him. Don’t fuck it! “Cody, help me,” he whispered. But then Darren remembered. Cody had always said to trust the power of the sacred text. Sweaty-palmed, he lifted the thick book towards his chest and embraced it. You’ve got to believe. Ahead of him, in the corner stood another small doorway. Moonlight seeped through to make a square on the floor. Another match flared. Darren crept into the second room and saw the dryer, the sink, and the window. For the first time this evening in the silence, he felt truly alone. A shape passed in the garden outside, throwing its shadow into the blue dimness.
“What?”
The shape stopped, turned part of itself towards Darren.
Darren puffed up his chest. In words set far back in his mouth, he quietly uttered “Mene Mene Tekel.”
He knew he must hurry, do it right or start again. His pants came off over his boots. His black T-shirt was next and dropped on top of his pants. Naked, he turned three times to his right, three times to his left, chanting the words, sure of the power of the song. When he stopped, he brushed cold sweat from his forehead. Keep your mind pure, like Cody said. Out of the cloth bag he slid a long glimmering knife and laid it beside the sacred text, its pages open to the picture of the tongue and the star. He’d memorized the words and repeated them now: “Naked come I, pure and ready for thee.” Stroking his bare chest and thighs, he let the sacred words swirl in his mind. Then he stopped. A few feet from where he stood, a noise. Then he heard another. And one more again.
Darren slowly raised his head. His mind warned him: Hide the knife! The book! It came closer. Reached the doorway. Darren stepped back, his boot scraping the knife over the concrete. The creak came again and sounded like screaming in Darren’s ears. A heavy footstep, a whiff of body odour. A click, then a whirring sound. Darren stumbled. His eyes darted frantically. He cupped his hands over his penis. Find a corner, grab the knife! As he opened his lips, panic froze his vocal cords. His knees began to shake as a flash of light exploded into the room.
“Who the fuck’s there?” he whispered, the floating red from the flash blinding him to the huge shape lumbering towards him from the dark doorway.
SATURDAY, JUNE 29
Billy Yamamoto shivered in his thin cotton pyjamas though the June air was warm. He was sitting on the steps of his wind-worn back porch waiting for the dawn to brighten the distant butte of Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump. Before him stretched open ground covered with wild bergamot and gently waving spear grass. The line of barbed-wire fence to his right ran west into foothills and stone outcroppings. What always came to him at this dark hour of sleeplessness were childhood memories. This morning he was recalling winters in the 1950s skating at the Kinsmen’s rink. No wonder you’re cold, he thought.
Billy turned east to ponder the gold band along the horizon. The light stirred other memories. Three weeks earlier. His father in the white room, yellow edging the lowered blind. Arthur’s cold face a shrunken version of its former self. And then the vista of the Coaldale cemetery surrounded by a green haze of barley standing like blades in the nearby prairie. Billy heard again the Anglican minister intone the final prayer. He stared again at his older half-brother. Toshiro held his arms tightly at his sides, his face bent in solemn obeisance towards Arthur Yamamoto’s pine coffin.
The first shafts of daylight were streaking the plain as Billy got up and walked back into the house. Saturday was shaping up to be another long, lonely day. He was tired of reminding himself why he’d taken early retirement, leaving his job of twenty-five years as a detective inspector with the Vancouver city police force. Seven months now since he’d last picked up a day roster for his team and assigned squad duties. He headed into the bedroom, knowing his pounding mind would not let him off easily. He climbed into bed. Should he take Ativan and grab a few hours? For Christ’s sake. Pull yourself together.
After a while, he flicked open his eyes. He had fallen into a dreamless sleep. The throaty, desperate howling outside the window sounded like a cougar. He sat up. The red letters on the digital clock glowed: 5:47. So it was only for a moment or two. It was like suffering a persistent back ache, this bloody insomnia. He cautioned himself not to blame Arthur’s illness for finally prompting him to move back to the Prairies. True, a respectable pension and full medical benefits were nothing to scoff at. Even so, Billy couldn’t help conjuring up the face of Harry, his former homicide partner. Billy and Harry Stone had worked side by side for eleven years until the cold, wet April night one year ago when the salt breezes off Juan de Fuca shook the cherry blossoms in backyards from English Bay to Shaughnessy.
Billy grinned at the memory of him and Harry sitting in the unmarked cruiser on East Hastings. They’d been keeping tabs on a Triad that peddled twelve-year-old girls out of the Stanton Hotel. Most of east-end Vancouver was a warren of sad avenues lined with dollar stores, crack houses, and hookers. Harry suggested getting coffee at an all-night greasy spoon; he climbed from the cruiser, and four Triad goons jumped him. In the ensuing scuffle, Harry got shot in the stomach; Billy’s left knee took a second bullet, but he was still conscious when the goons tied him with a red bungee cord and shoved him blindfolded into the back seat of a Mercedes. Later, weak with blood loss, he met kingpin Robert Lau, who greeted him like a lost twin, held him for a moment in mock embrace, and then watched as the goons rammed their fists into his stomach and kidneys. “That’s only a warning, brother,” Lau said. The next day Harry died. In court, Billy testified and sent two of the goons to the pen for killing an officer. But Billy read the signs. Soon after, his apartment windows were regularly smashed. His car was ditched and set ablaze. Doors all over Chinatown were slammed in his face. Lau was into contraband as well as heroin, and he wasn’t about to turn friendly with cops he couldn’t bribe.
Billy took in a breath. Was memory the only exciting thing he had left? He rubbed the scar on his left knee and was thankful it hadn’t pained him lately. He carefully lifted the top sheet, trying not to yank it. Amazing how old habits persist. Cynthia hadn’t lain beside him for years, sleeping like a baby, her arm thrown over her eyes. As if the night were not dark enough, he thought. The old pine floor creaked. Billy pulled on a robe and padded quietly around the foot of the four-poster. Sun cut through the space between the curtains and began to outline the shapes of the meagre furniture. Billy made two fists, lay facedown on the dusty floor, and started his push-up routine — one hundred with fists closed, one hundred with splayed palms turned inward. Counting, he held his breath for every five and let his mind feel the burn, then exhaled.
His spirits felt better after his workout. From the bedroom, Billy walked barefoot down the narrow hall into the kitchen. How regular these early mornings had become. Not like Vancouver days, sleeping until eight-thirty, taking a quick coffee before leaving for the office at nine. Billy filled the percolator and made his first pot. He drank a cup, sitting with his legs crossed at the small metal table he used for meals. Around the kitchen were the tools of his early retirement: garden shovel, hoes, drill kit for roof and porch repairs. On every side-table in the front parlour lay the mysteries and biographies he’d started and then sworn to pick up again. Be proud of one project, at least, he thought. The honour garden in memory of Arthur. He’d drawn a good design; he’d researched traditional Japanese dry gardens. The turned sod and pressed sand foundation were only the
beginning.
Billy listened to the old wood cracking in the rising warmth. He poured a second cup and thought about the time he first described his grandfather Naughton’s ranch to Harry Stone. “A small spread,” he said to him, “by Alberta standards. No more’n five hundred and twenty acres of grazing pasture and hayfields.” The day he drove east from Vancouver into the Rockies, Billy swore to himself: “I have no intention of raising horses on granpa’s ranch. I intend to stay calm in my retirement.”
Billy was now pacing the kitchen linoleum. He clicked on the radio. Nothing but classical music and weather at this early hour.
A male coyote was standing five feet from the back steps as Billy opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch.
“You old rascal,” Billy whispered. “You keep early hours. What was it you were howling over? Some hawk steal your breakfast?”
The coyote turned its head away. Along its spine and haunches, its coat still carried the thick hair of winter. A skinny male, not young, but not sickly. Granpa Naughton had taught Billy how to tell a mangy rabid specimen from a healthy one.
“Go on, you.”
The coyote loped away towards the concession road, a long winding cut of gravel bordered by more barbed wire.
The coffee needed reheating when Billy sauntered back into the kitchen. Crows were cawing on the rooftop of the house. A flock of angry sparrows flew up from a willow outside the sink window and startled him. Billy sighed and looked up. The ceiling plaster sagged near the light. The tin mouldings and borders cried out for fresh paint. To hell with them, he thought. Back in the bedroom, he changed into his gardening sweats. He stared at his five-foot-six frame in the mirror. It was his mother’s Scottish ancestry that had shaped his square forehead. He was still holding fast to one hundred and sixty pounds. At fifty-four, his thighs were hard and his stomach flat. When he and Cynthia were married, she always said she loved the hazel of his eyes and the deep rich black of his hair, as thick on his head now as it was the day they divorced.
