Valley of the Lost

by Vicki Delany

  She heard the siren of the ambulance and jumped to her feet to guide them down the alley.

  Then she saw it. A needle, lying in the gravel beside his arm.

  Chapter Eight

  John Winters heard it over the chatter of the busy restaurant, the clink of good stemware, the pouring of wine, loud laughter, and the meaningless conversation of his dinner companions.

  As planned, he’d joined Eliza and her group around nine, full of apologies for his tardiness. They’d been there an hour, but the appetizers were only just arriving. Wine glasses, he suspected, had been refilled more than once. Eliza smiled her secret sexy smile as she caught sight of him making his way across the crowded dining room.

  Frank Clemmins nodded, barely suppressing a glower, as Eliza introduced her husband to the table. Clemmins looked like a tough guy, with hair shaved right down to the scalp, black bristles making a crescent pattern around the naked dome of his head. Winters knew that under the man’s summer dress shirt, his arms bulged with muscle and a rattlesnake was tattooed around his upper arm. They’d met not long ago when Clemmins’ partner, Reginald Montgomery, had been murdered. Clemmins had been a suspect, although not for long.

  José, the model, was a darkly tanned, pouting man looking to be in his well-preserved fifties, with cheekbones so sharp you could cut meat with them and lips like a pampered woman. A lock of thick black hair, highlighted by a single silver strand, fell over his forehead. He wore a tight white T-shirt and a small gold earring in his left ear. A denim jacket was tossed over the back of his chair. He was sitting down, too close to Eliza, so Winters couldn’t see too much of him, but José’s chest was broad under the T-shirt and his arms were muscled.

  Winters was introduced to the people he didn’t know. José, the model, who, unfortunately, was not with a date. And the new partner, Steve Blacklock. In this casual town, in high summer, Blacklock was the best dressed of them all. He wore a gray business suit with a starched white shirt and a gray tie shot with thin pink threads. His face was well worn with tired brown eyes sunk into bags you could carry to the Laundromat. A woman with badly dyed blond hair, small eyes outlined in thick black eyeliner, and sagging breasts revealed by a deeply scooped blouse, sat beside him. She was Blacklock’s age at least, maybe a bit older. Clemmins introduced her as Nancy Blacklock.

  Winters ordered a draft, and, without looking at the menu, said he’d have whatever Eliza was having for her main course.

  She lifted her wine glass and smiled at him over the rim. He was about to settle into his chair, ready to relax and try to enjoy himself when he saw her give José the same salute.

  Conversation swirled around him. Mostly about the problems of building a resort in this environmentally correct age. Frank Clemmins babbled on about the importance of his project in maintaining the viability of the Grizzly bear habitat. He was mainly directing his arguments to Eliza: clearly he was aware that she wasn’t entirely convinced of the virtues of the project. José sighed heavily and announced that people rarely appreciated true beauty. He was looking into Eliza’s cleavage as he said it.

  Winters leaned back to allow the waiter to place his meal in front of him. Oops, he’d ordered a spinach salad. Clemmins and Blacklock were being served with steak and ribs respectively. Both had Caesar salad on the side and baked potatoes piled high with sour cream and crumbled bacon.

  “Where are you from, Mr. Blacklock?” he asked. Merely for something to say.

  “Call me Steve, please. My family’s from Washington State, but I’ve been living in Vancouver for five years or so. Not much on earth outside of Dubai hotter than Vancouver real estate these days, John. Now it’s the Interior’s time. I hope you own property, John.”

  “A small place outside of town.”

  “Expand, if you can,” Blacklock said.

  His wife giggled, and finished her glass of wine. Without waiting for the waiter to assist, she reached across the table and grabbed the bottle by the neck and poured herself another. The glass was large, and she filled it almost to the rim.

  “Buy, before it’s too late and the boom’s passed,” Blacklock continued. “Isn’t that right, Nancy? Take the plunge, now, when you have the equipment.”

  Mrs. Blacklock laughed out loud. Winters got a better view of her poached salmon than he wanted.

  He looked at own his wife. Eliza stuffed a spinach leaf into her mouth, trying to avoid his eye.

  “Good advice, I’m sure,” he said.

  A siren. Getting closer. Ambulance, not police.

  Blacklock also heard the siren. “I’ve been told you’re a police officer, Mr. Winters.” He cut into his blood-red steak.

  Winters shrugged, spearing a mushroom. He’d just about kill for a piece of that meat. “Desk job mostly. Filling in time ‘till retirement. You know how it is.”

  “Tell you the truth, John, I don’t. I wake up every day, pumped, can’t wait start making things happen. Right, honey?”

  His wife rolled her eyes and drank more wine.

  There it was—the police siren. It was coming from the alley, getting closer, and, instead of passing, stopped right behind them.

  “Sounds like business. Gotta go. Sorry folks.”

  ***

  “What have you got, Smith?” Sergeant Winters said, emerging from the single light at the back of Feuilles de Menthe.

  The paramedics had gone, the patient loaded into the back of the ambulance, heading for Emergency. At the sight of the abandoned needle, she’d called for police backup. “Heroin, at a guess. Look at that,” She pointed to the ground.

  A man broke out of the shadows. “Heroin. Are you sure?”

  Winters stepped in front of him. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a drug counselor. I heard the ambulance, overheard what the officer said, and thought I’d offer my help. Moonlight, great to see you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Julian Armstrong. Remember me?”

  She didn’t.

  “I used to help your mom out, down at the homeless shelter. Left eight years ago to set up a counseling practice in Victoria and then Vancouver.”

  She vaguely remembered. She’d also volunteered at the homeless shelter when she was in school. Part of her mother’s attempts to get her doing good works.

  Armstrong held out his hand. Smith shook it. She felt his eyes on her bruised mouth. Someone else who’d assume her boyfriend knocked her around. “Yes, I remember. Welcome back.”

  “Thanks.”

  He offered his hand to Winters and the men shook as Smith made the introductions.

  Armstrong was in his late forties, although he tried to look younger, with brown and gray hair tied into a short ponytail, a small black goatee, and a tie-dyed T-Shirt stuffed into loose camouflage pants with plenty of pockets. Smith thought the kids would respect him more if he didn’t try to look their age, but what did she know?

  Constables Evans and Solway got out of the car. They stood in a small circle, looking at the needle on the ground, as if it were a cobra curling and ready to strike.

  “Did you recognize him, Moonlight?” Armstrong asked.

  “Seen him around. But I don’t know his name and I’ve never had reason to stop him.”

  “Can you describe him? It might be one of my clients, and if so I’d better follow that ambulance. If not, I might be able to convince him to seek help. I work at the Mid-Kootenay Methadone Clinic.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card.

  “Right now, I’d rather you left, Mr. Armstrong.” Winters ignored the card. “This is a crime scene.”

  “I’m only trying to help.”

  “I’m sure you are. Constable Smith, can you escort Mr. Armstrong to the street. You can answer his questions there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Smith said.

  As she walked away, Winters began issuing orders. “Get that thing into an evidence bag. And be goddamned careful. Dave, take it to the Mounties fast. Tell them I want an analysis and I want it ye
sterday.”

  “Just a kid, Julian,” Smith said. “Like any other. A boy, small, thin. A white guy. Longish brown hair. I wasn’t concentrating on his face.”

  “You think it was heroin?”

  “It could of been soda pop in that needle for all I know. Maybe he’s allergic to it.”

  “Your mom’s got me helping out down at the women’s support center. She looks good.”

  “She’s got a new project to keep her out of trouble.” A baby. If they didn’t find Miller’s family soon, Lucky’d be wanting to adopt the kid. Molly Smith did not want a brand new baby brother, thank you very much.

  It was time, she reminded herself, once again, to find a place of her own. It was just that she never had the time, and rents were ridiculous for what you could get in the Kootenays these days.

  She and Graham had planned to buy a condo in Victoria, once Smith had graduated, and Graham finished the job in Vancouver that had killed him. He’d had a small inheritance from a grandmother, and was keeping it for their home. He didn’t have a will and when he died, Smith had no idea what happened to the money. His parents got it, probably.

  She hadn’t bothered to find out. It was intended for them to build their life together. If there was to be no life, then she didn’t want the money either. Let Mr. and Mrs. Buckingham spend it.

  Armstrong’s eyes were on her face.

  “Sorry, just thinking about my mom.”

  He held out his card. “I’d better be going. See you, Moonlight.”

  She took it. “See you.”

  “Constable Smith,” Winters called.

  She stuffed the card into her pocket and turned. Winters walked toward her. Evans was holding an evidence bag as if it were full of dog poo, and Solway was doing her best to keep out of his way.

  “You’re with me,” Winters said. “Let’s get to the station and pick up the van. I want to go to the hospital and find out what that kid’s been up to. If he’s lucky he’ll live, and if I’m lucky, he’ll be ready to give me his source. Dave, get that thing to Ray Gavin, and Dawn, take the streets while Molly and Dave are occupied.”

  If they’d been in the army they would all have leapt to attention, saluted, and cried, “Yes, sir!”

  ***

  Lucky was feeding the baby when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. “You’re up early, dear.”

  “Like I can sleep through that racket. Geeze, Mom, I had a hard shift, I got home late, and here it is,” Moonlight looked at the clock over the stove. “All of eight, and he’s screaming the house down.”

  “You should’ve heard him at two,” Lucky said. “I thought he was a good little boy to sleep this long.”

  “Oh, God, shoot me now. Where’s Dad?”

  “Went to the store early.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “Miller’s quiet now,” Lucky said. “Go back to bed.”

  Moonlight filled the kettle. “You know me, Mom. If I’m up, I’m up. I’ll try and have a bit more sleep later. I’ve got the three-to-three shift again today.” She cut two slices off a loaf of whole wheat bread and tossed them into the toaster.

  “As long as you’re up… Dad brought in the paper when he left.”

  “So?” The Gazette was delivered to a red newspaper box at the bottom of the driveway six mornings a week.

  Lucky turned the paper over. A nice picture of the organizing ladies taken at the Catholic Church’s annual August tea and rummage sale, graced the front page.

  “Charmed, I’m sure.” Moonlight barely glanced at it.

  Lucky stabbed a forefinger at the story below the one about the church tea. “It says that you, it mentions you by name, arrested a tourist for smoking a single marijuana cigarette. Really, dear.”

  “Let me see that,” Moonlight snatched the paper and read quickly. “Oh, look. Meredith Morgenstern reporting. Quelle surprise.” She tossed the offending object into the recycling box by the back door. “I saw Meredith there, digging through garbage like a rat looking for a rotting tomato.”

  “I’m no fan of our local Brenda Starr…”

  “Who?”

  “Before your time. I don’t like Meredith any more than you do, but let’s forget about her and look at the content of the story.”

  “Let’s not.”

  “It sounds as if you reacted with, shall we say, a bit too much enthusiasm.”

  “Please, Mom,” Moonlight said. “Let’s not go there.”

  Miller stopped feeding, and Lucky lifted the baby to her shoulder, upon which she’d already placed a small towel. She patted his back. Eat and sleep, burp and poop. That was all a baby required out of life. Why did children have to grow up and become so difficult?

  “You arrested a man for smoking marijuana.”

  “I am not going to have this conversation, Mom.” Moonlight stood over the kettle, encouraging it to boil.

  “He’s from the States. A promising athlete at a good university. You know what they’re like in the States. A conviction for something as harmless as pot could destroy his entire life. Marijuana is no more harmful than tobacco, or alcohol. Less harmful, in fact. I thought the police here had more sense than to ruin a young man’s life for something so trivial.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Mom. The jackass practically begged me to arrest him. I bet Meredith doesn’t mention that.” The kettle switched off and Moonlight poured hot water into her cup with such force that it splashed onto the countertop. “Whether you like it or not, marijuana is illegal. That means not allowed. Some indulged frat boy on summer vacation gets the wrong impression of what we’re like here in B.C. and puffs smoke into my face, I’m not gonna turn my back and walk away.

  “Come on Sylvester, let’s go for a walk.” She made clucking noises with her tongue. The dog ran out from under the table, ears up, tail waving, tongue lolling.

  “If they asked me to arrest every black person in town I might object. But the law is the law and there are a lot of reasons for keeping marijuana illegal. I’m not going to stand here arguing about them with you.” She took her tea cup and headed for the back door. “Particularly not this morning. I spent a good part of last night in the hospital watching the doctors saving a kid from a heroin overdose. Sadly, he wouldn’t tell us a thing about where he got the stuff.”

  “Marijuana isn’t a gateway drug to heroin. The situations aren’t related.”

  Moonlight threw open the back door. “Ask Miller what happened to his mommy.”

  “Are you saying Ashley died of a drug overdose? I don’t believe it. I never saw any signs of her taking hard drugs. Or even soft drugs for that matter.”

  Color drained from Moonlight’s face. “Forget I said that, Mom. Just forget it, please.”

  Confidential police information, Lucky suspected. “Forgotten. However, as we all know, marijuana, regardless of whether Ashley used it or not, isn’t a killer drug.”

  “I’m going for a walk.”

  “You’re still in your pajamas.”

  “Call 911 and have me arrested for public indecency.” The door slammed behind her. Sylvester barely escaped with his tail intact.

  Lucky looked at Miller. The baby stared back, his face twisted in disapproval at all the noise. So Ashley’s death had something to do with drugs. The poor thing. Lucky hadn’t known the girl, not well. She’d only had contact with her a few times, down at the center, but surely she would have noticed if Ashley had a drug addiction. The police got things wrong all the time.

  “Repeat after me,” Lucky said to Miller. “The patriarchal, military-industrial-corporate establishment is to be resisted at every turn.”

  Miller’s eyelids flicked twice, and then they closed and he drifted off to sleep. Lucky lifted the baby to her shoulder.

  ***

  Early Sunday morning, John Winters drove to the Trafalgar Women’s Support Center to meet the morning class on infant and child hygiene. He parked the van beside the only other car in the parking lot, thinking that th
is was going to be a big waste of his time. He’d gone to the hospital last night and waited to question the boy found in the alley. That had certainly been a waste of time. He should have stayed in bed, with Eliza, watching the hot, yellow sun play with the curtains, eating pancakes running with butter and maple syrup, and doing whatever else seemed like a good thing to do in bed on a lazy summer morning. Instead he’d stopped at Big Eddie’s for a large coffee to go and driven to the center.

  But the house wasn’t empty, and he remembered that in Trafalgar, people, particularly young people, generally walked rather than drove. They were gathered in the kitchen. Six young women sat at the table, watching a middle-aged woman holding up a jar of baby food. A pot boiled on the stove behind her. She stopped talking when Winters came in. “Can I help you?”

  He held up his badge. “I’m Sergeant Winters, Trafalgar City Police.”

  “I know who you are.” Her voice wasn’t hostile, but neither was it welcoming.

  “Please, finish your class. I’d like to talk to your clients, just some general questions. I’ll wait until you’re finished.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t object. The students had turned to stare at the intruder. Some of them were visibly pregnant, one held a sleeping baby to her chest. Strollers lined the walls.

  He leaned against the back wall of the kitchen and watched while the instructor showed the class how to heat pre-prepared baby food. She was hugely overweight, dressed in a shapeless flowered dress reaching almost to her ankles, which were two or three times normal size. Her gray hair was tied in a long braid that touched the small of her back. Steam rose from the pot on the stove. A fan on the kitchen counter did nothing to cut the heat. Old buildings such as this had been built to keep warm in winter, not cool in summer. The instructor stopped for a moment and wiped the back of her neck with a dish towel. Not, Winters thought, a lesson in sanitation.

  The students didn’t pay him much attention. No doubt they knew who he was, and also why he’d come.

  The baby in the young woman’s arms grizzled, and she, very casually, opened her blouse, pulled out her right breast and stuck the nipple in the child’s gaping mouth. It settled immediately and began to feed. Winters looked away. He was just too old to take a woman’s naked breast in stride.