When the Flood Falls

by J. E. Barnard

  “Rob, you’re a very perceptive man.”

  He blushed. “What I am is an old gossip. I shouldn’t talk about my dearest friends’ innermost concerns. I’m just worried. This year has been hard on Jan, with the museum opening and all. It should have been her job, you know. Mine, I mean.”

  “Terry told me. He said it’s killing her trying to pretend it doesn’t matter, or words to that effect.”

  “He did? I wasn’t sure he really got that. It was one thing for her to lie there looking out her window all day when all the arts jobs were far away in Calgary. Now there’s a whole gallery and museum and weekly arts events right under her windows. It’s like looking through the glass at a world you’re no longer allowed to enter and yet can’t avoid seeing.”

  “I know what that feels like,” said Lacey. “From the moment of Dee’s accident, I’ve been outside the glass myself, watching the RCMP work the hit and run and the vault. A month ago I was handling those kinds of incidents. I dealt with road rage results between lunch and coffee. If I chased down a subject, I had an army at my back. Now I’m on the outside, working alone, can’t even get a fingerprint checked on my own. My only friend here is thirty miles away in a hospital bed while her damned dogs won’t give me the time of day. I can’t find out who hurt her, or keep my former co-workers from harassing her in her hospital bed. I’m useless when she needs me most.” Sobs welled in her throat. She forced them down. She couldn’t cry in front of someone for the second time in two days. That was just weak. “I’ll manage. It’s just a lot of adjustment.”

  Rob looked at her with sympathy. “Sure it is. You and Jan have that in common; you’re both good at adjusting. You want a pot of tea, or bags in mugs?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  On Sunday morning, Lacey cleared away their teacups, reflecting on her unusual moment of weakness with Rob. He was easy to talk to, utterly non-judgmental. Except about Camille Hardy, but then, denigrating Camille was a communal pastime. Anyway, he was right that she and Jan both had glass-wall syndrome in common. Lacey stared at the cops the way Jan hungrily watched the museum. She must find out who had placed that bug, though. Dee’s safety was her responsibility, and this house was, too — not just for this crisis, but until Dee could manage alone. So she might as well start looking after things around here, starting with clearing Dee’s postbox, which was probably overflowing by now. Where was the key?

  Dee’s purse still sat on the counter by the sink. Lacey opened it, feeling as guilty as if she were invading a private domain. There’d been no need before; the spare car keys lived on a hook by the back door. Like many private spaces, Dee’s purse was a mess. She pawed through it and finally shook the shambles out onto the counter. No keys. She scanned tables and shelves near all the doors, ransacked the pockets of any coats or sweaters Dee might have worn lately, and still no keys. A shiver ran over her scalp. Somebody could have lifted the keys. It would explain the lack of forced entry when the laptop was stolen, and maybe the clothing littering Dee’s bedroom. Someone could have entered the house while she was sleeping.

  Nonsense. Dee had probably had the keys with her last weekend when she was hit. They’d be at the hospital, or the police had them. No need to panic.

  The phone rang, sending her hot-wired nerves through the roof. A month off the job and she was freaking out like a civilian. She picked up the handset, recognized Tom’s home number.

  “Morning, McCrae. You sound buzzed. Skip your run this morning?”

  “Haven’t got out the door yet. How was the lake?”

  Tom summarized his day with the boys before asking, “What’s up with this recorder? More prints to check against?”

  “Nope. Dee says there won’t be a criminal case. I can listen to the recorded notes any time and then the matter is closed.”

  “Sheesh. After all that. She could have left you a note last week and saved us the trouble. She say who put it there? Someone should throw some payback at that guy.”

  “She won’t confirm, but I think it’s Jake Wyman, who got the recorder from Wayne. I haven’t the slightest idea why he would do this, but a neighbour warned me he’s ruthless beneath that good-ole-boy folksiness. And hockey rumour has it that he could kill a player’s career if he got pissed off. I wish I knew if either of the investigations — into Dee or into Jarrad — looked at Wyman.”

  “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Will you also let me know if Dee’s a suspect in Jarrad’s death? The cops leaned on her until she lawyered up on them.”

  “I’ll check. You keep your hair on.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Yeah, but I know you.”

  “What do you know about the vault death?”

  “Crushed chest. He didn’t live long. Is that the same spot you went in last week?”

  “Nearly.”

  “Could have been you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Tom paused. “Then you won’t want to know what could have happened to you.”

  “I have a fair idea already. Go ahead.”

  “Okay, you asked. He knew it was coming, tried to push back. Ripped ligaments, arms cracked, and the back end of that rack mashed his wrist bones into his chest wall. Dead in seconds.”

  “God.” Lacey shuddered. Not a thing anyone could have done, either, once the rack started rolling. “Still could be an accident,” she said, “unless someone out in the main vault knew how to cut the power rather than mess around with the control pad and was as fast as Wayne doing it.”

  “You think accident, not homicide?” Tom asked.

  “Dunno. Every trail leads somewhere that doesn’t make sense. You hear anything else, I want it, okay?”

  “Sure. Can I drop this recorder with Dee? We’re off to a ball game soon, but Marie is feeling responsible for her only patient, so we have to stop in there.”

  “Thanks, Tom. I don’t know how I’ll ever return all these favours.”

  “You’ve had my back before, and you will again. Be safe, McCrae.”

  Lacey changed her Tweety Bird pants for jogging shorts, stretched out her legs, and set off uphill along the trail. It all came back to Jake: the recorder, the visit to the theatre basement at the time Jarrad died, the argument with Dee on Saturday, maybe the hit and run on Sunday. Mick had said he’d seen Jake leaving Dee’s drive as he came up. Jake might have taken the house keys while Lacey was snoozing out back. He had opportunities for all the crimes, as far as she knew. He wasn’t even half a head taller than Camille, about right for the hatted man on those security stills. But although he seemed vigorous for his age, was he strong enough to push that car into the river? How could she go about investigating a man as powerful as Jake Wyman?

  When she reached the back road, she paused a moment by Duke’s memorial. Beside Eddie’s photo, someone had tacked up a baggie with a bone-shaped dog biscuit. A nice thought, but it wouldn’t survive the first passing squirrel. She jogged on, keeping an eye out for cars and for Dee’s missing bike, although it, too, had likely been tossed into the river.

  When she reached the highway, the brown, swirling water was several feet farther down the bank. Some gravel bars were almost breaking the surface midstream. The bike might be cast up far along the rocky riverbed, mangled beyond recognition, and never be linked to a hit and run way out here. But the lower water level eased her mind. Although she left the riverside trail to less traumatized people, she was able to jog along the road shoulder all the way to the museum without allowing the mental loop of Dan’s body slam to take hold. Then it was a fast uphill to Dee’s, a quick shower made tense by those missing keys, and a bagel to eat in the car. Hospital visiting hours would begin in half an hour and she really, really wanted to hear that recording.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Dee jogged in place on a patch of ice-free gravel, her breath misting th
e blue evening air. Duke lumbered along, far behind as usual, while Beau and Boney romped ahead, leaping over the snowbanks on either side of the trail with effortless glee. She wasn’t running fast enough to keep warm in her thin jogging clothes because she kept pausing to let Duke catch up. Maybe it hadn’t been a great idea to take all three dogs out tonight.

  Still, it felt good to be out among the trees for the first time in a week, surrounded by sleeping winter woodland instead of office walls and laptop screens. Now that the East Village development was nailed down, she could truly take a weekend off. Maybe by Monday the staff would have forgotten about Neil’s latest incursion into the office. Trust him to pick the day of her biggest victory to be smarming through the secretaries while her back was turned. She’d walked in from a billion-dollar lunch, on the pinnacle of professional success, to be greeted by sideways glances, dropped conversations, and that damned single rose on her own assistant’s desk. All unmistakable signs of Neil, all reminders — in the midst of triumph — of her biggest error in judgment. She picked up the pace, running herself clear of the miasma that was Neil’s legacy.

  When they could see the open ground by the road, the younger dogs happily yipped and slithered down the trail. Dee jogged on the spot, waiting for Duke, watching Boney and Beau romp along the road allowance below, their gangly legs easily leaping the drifts and the smallest spruces, their rusty setter’s tails flying. The last late rays of sunlight blipped behind the peaks and were gone, leaving the vale in blue winter shadow.

  She turned at a yelp from behind. Duke, his shaggy golden head hanging, was slumped with one front paw sticking out at an awkward angle. “Oh, poor old boy. Did you slip?” She crouched beside him and ran cold fingers over his foreleg. Beyond a ball of ice in the pad, there seemed nothing wrong. She helped him to his feet and held his collar as they navigated the rest of the slope together.

  On the road below, a black Escalade kicked up gravel in passing. Some NHL hotshot extending his All-Star break, no doubt. After hockey season the peaceful foothills around Bragg Creek would be overrun with them, all driving too fast between the golf course and the beds of their latest conquests. Best to enjoy the peace while she had it.

  As she left the woodland trail for the gravel shoulder of the road, a chill breeze gnawed through her lightweight clothes. The first stars appeared in the dark-blue eastern sky. Yesterday’s chinook had melted the road clear, but up against the trees, the snow lay deep, dirty, and uneven, its purity long since lost to jagged chunks cast up by passing plows. Leftover Christmas lights flickered to life in glades where houses interrupted the forest. Somewhere a car door slammed, the sound alien in the still wilderness.

  Under the spruces, the shadows were deep enough to hide anything. No bears in January, but elk or the bigger wildcats were common out here year round, and neither appreciated her dogs. With all three dogs trotting to heel, she hoped she looked big enough to avoid a confrontation. She sped up, anxious to get down to the highway with its lights and traffic. So much for enjoying the peace.

  A motor raced. She glanced back. The beams burst onto her face as the vehicle slewed out from a side road. The back end swung wide. Gravel sprayed. The driver overcorrected into a skid the other way. Her way.

  She scrambled up the snowbank, yelling for the dogs. Her foot came down on an ice chunk and she fell hard, rolling down the far side into the ditch. Boney and Beau landed beside her in a shower of snow. The car slung more gravel, its reflected headlights vanishing along the ranked trees. Then it was gone, chased by her yell of “Asshole!”

  Beau whimpered, licking her face. She tugged his ear reassuringly and pushed up to her knees. “All right, I’m getting up.”

  The moment of pain. The wind rose, drawing an icy tang down from the high country. The chinook was passing. The temperature could plunge as fast as it had risen. She shivered. Boney pressed against her, blocking some of the breeze. From the road, Beau whined, his shoulders dark above the snowbank. But of Duke there was no sign.

  “Duke? Where are you, boy?” The crawl across the snow, following Boney’s agitated cries. Duke lay on his side across a tire rut. His fur was coated with dust and gravel, but there was no visible blood. He raised his head a tiny bit and tried to lick her hand.

  She was cold, so cold, huddled in the velvet-grey dusk with the soft fur of dogs pressed against her arms. The wind whined down the road from the high peaks. The darkness deepened and the silence spread around them. She wavered between an invading fear of freezing to death and a creeping, uncaring drowsiness.

  Someone called her name. A familiar voice. The snow was gone. Not cold. Had she gone beyond feeling at last? Her legs wouldn’t move, nor her left arm, either. Dogs lying on her. But the dogs didn’t sleep in the house. She tried her right hand and felt her fingers flex. Her wrist moved. A hand touched hers.

  “Dee-Dee? Can you hear me?”

  A strange echo. No more forest sounds. The smell was wrong, too. Chemical. She was lying on her back, on something soft. Lying tight over her body were the dogs or … blankets?

  “Dee? Dee-Dee?”

  The voice. The hospital. The bug. That voice.

  Outraged, she opened her eyes. A familiar face loomed over her, too close. A pillow was clutched in his raised hand. She screamed.

  Chapter Forty

  Highway 8 was down to one lane where the concrete water-diversion barriers in the right-hand ditch were being removed. Thanks to the heavy weekend traffic, Lacey sat unmoving in the hot car for twenty minutes. Visiting hours were well underway before she reached the hospital. On the top floor, she was surprised to see the security guard missing from his chair. She hurried toward Dee’s room. A nurse was coming out. Beyond her, Dee lay in the bed, eyes closed.

  “Where’s the guard? What’s going on?”

  “Shh,” said the nurse. “She woke up screaming. Trauma patients often have nightmares. I just got her settled down.”

  Dee’s right hand waved. “I’m awake,” she croaked.

  “All right. Go in. But don’t upset her.”

  Lacey pulled a chair up to the bedside and took Dee’s hand. “Bad day?”

  “Did you find me a lawyer? The police may be back any time.”

  “I’m not as concerned about that as I was. Camille Hardy has been asked the same questions. She was rather thrilled about it, actually.”

  “She’s not smart enough to be scared,” said Dee weakly. “Or maybe it was my imagination. Now I’ve made myself look suspicious by refusing to answer.”

  “You did what I told you to,” Lacey assured her. “Without a cast-iron alibi for those five minutes, you’re better off shutting up. Anyway, we’re trying to find anyone else who was down there when you were. There might be someone visible on the gala video footage who can clear you. Or who saw Jarrad after he went downstairs.”

  “I only saw Jake.” A tear rolled from the corner of Dee’s eye and trailed down to her ear. “He’s here somewhere. You can ask him yourself.”

  “Here? When? Why?”

  “He woke me up.”

  “You woke up screaming. Are you afraid of him? Where is he now?”

  “He’s gone somewhere with the guard. He’ll be back.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “It’s over now,” Dee said. Afraid of disturbing her by pressing that question, Lacey asked about the house keys instead. Dee turned her head on the pillow. “They should be in my purse. I take a bracelet for jogging with just the kitchen door key.”

  That key was in the bedside drawer two feet away. The main key ring, however, was not in the purse. It was gone. It would not do to tell Dee that today, though.

  “I probably just missed them. I was in a hurry. Is there another postbox key, just in case?”

  “Main drawer in my office decan—” An odd look crossed Dee’s face. “Dog … the table thing in my
office. Now, are you ready to hear this recording? I can’t comment on anything that might lead to a client being identified, so you’ll have to draw your own conclusions.”

  “Sounds like you want me to know who set this up, but your legalistic scruples won’t let you tell me. Okay, I’ll listen.”

  Hearing Jake’s voice was anticlimactic. “Testing. Testing.” The date and time followed: ten after six on gala night. The dogs began barking at a slight distance, then abruptly quieted.

  “How’d he make them shut up?” Lacey asked.

  “Ultrasonic whistle,” Dee whispered. “I should have realized. He trained them with it for running with the horse. Horses can’t hear it, or don’t care.”

  Hands fumbled with the recorder. The dogs started up again. Boot heels thumped. A car motor started, then faded. Mere minutes later, Jake had walked into the museum gala to greet Dee with that folksy cowboy charm. Lacey unclenched her jaw with an effort. The two-faced skunk. Did he have the faintest idea how much terror Dee had been through because of him?