by Chris Angus
Garrett carried the pack with lunch as they hiked the length of the island and then waded across a pebbled spit that separated the island from a tiny islet at one end. As they came around the islet and faced the open sea, the wind picked up and breakers crashed against the rocks.
“Let’s go up there,” said Sarah, pointing to a bluff covered with vibrant green moss and sporting a single weathered and barren spruce, dripping with storm-blown seaweed. Garrett climbed up first, then reached back and gave her a hand.
The view of the outer islands was spectacular and the warm summer wind blew the smell of salt air over them.
“What a spot. I bet you bring all your boyfriends here.”
She was quiet for a moment. “My husband and I came here a few times.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Stupid thing to say.”
“It’s all right.” She turned to him, raised her head and gave him a quick kiss. Her breath was sweet and Garrett wanted to linger, but she broke away and said, “Let’s eat. I’m starved.”
While Sarah dug out the sandwiches, Garrett opened one of the bottles of wine and filled two plastic cups. The moss was as comfortable as a feather bed. They could put their drinks down by burrowing them deep into the thick ground cover. Garrett wore shorts and Sarah looked at his foot with fascination.
“You don’t seem to have any trouble with it at all,” she said. “Was it very hard at first?”
Normally he hated talking about his injury, but Sarah made it easy to discuss for perhaps the first time in his life.
“It was hard to accept for a long time. Silly, in a way. Other guys lost much more. Multiple limbs, legs right up to the hip. Mine seemed too insignificant to justify a lot of sturm und drang about it. So I kind of bottled it up and just … dealt with it. But I went through a period of depression. Almost all the guys who went to Afghanistan suffered depression, PTSD. Some of the most screwed up had no physical disabilities at all. Everything was in their heads.”
“Your cousin was with you when it happened?”
He nodded, took a sip of wine. “Saved my life. Everyone else was injured or shell-shocked. I would have bled to death if he hadn’t been there.”
She rolled over onto her stomach and stared out at the ocean. “Sounds like you two have been close all your lives. It’s good to have that, Gar. A lot of only children have no one once their parents die.”
“You?”
“Uh-huh. I was an only child of only children. I have no siblings, cousins, aunts, or uncles. My grandparents are long gone. There’s no one but me. I have friends, of course, who mean a lot to me, but I think it’s why my husband’s death affected me so strongly. He was my future in a way, you know? We hoped to have lots of kids.”
“Hard to be alone,” Garrett said. “Lonnie could identify with that. He’s got lots of siblings and cousins. But he’s never been successful in finding a woman to love him and start a family with. You haven’t met him yet or you’d see why. He’s huge. A bull in any china shop. I think he’s not bad-looking myself, but women are just scared of him. And I’ll tell you, despite what he does for a living, he’s got a real heart of gold. If he likes you, he’d do anything for you. If he doesn’t … best to get out of town in a hurry.”
She considered him mischievously. “What about you? Any ex-wives or children kicking around?”
“Nope.” Garrett adjusted his wine in the moss. “After I lost my foot, I kind of went through a period where I didn’t want to be close to anyone. A depressed, one-legged ex-grunt is a lot to foist on a companion.”
“You’re not one-legged, only one-footed.”
He shrugged, conceding the point.
She wanted to ask him more but felt his reticence. “I talked with Ayesha the other day,” she said.
“Who?”
“Ali Marshed’s fifteen-year-old daughter, the man who runs the grocery. The ladies living next to Roland thought she was depressed and invited her to come work on their garden. It’s been very therapeutic for her, I think.”
“That was good of them. I imagine being fifteen and having to work all day long in that dreary little building would depress anyone.”
“She hadn’t come by to work in the garden for a week, so I went to see her. When Ali’s there, you can never talk to her because he forbids it. He’s very strict, and I think she’s scared of him.”
“Really?” He leaned back in the moss on one elbow. “It’s not good for a girl to be afraid of her father. You don’t think there’s anything else going on, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Abuse of some kind.”
Her forehead furrowed. “I hadn’t considered that. We thought she was depressed about working at the store, but I suppose there could be more to it than that.”
“She’s said nothing to you, though?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Well, perhaps we shouldn’t make too much of it. Understanding what goes on inside families is tough. I’ve seen the dynamics in a lot of families whose daughters went into prostitution, and it’s not pretty. But it’s also usually not abuse—at least not the official sort. There’s plenty of misunderstanding, lack of communication, coldness, withholding of love—all the bad stuff that tears families apart. But that’s not abuse, at least in a legal sense. Just stupidity.” He took another sip of wine and bit into a sandwich. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye out for her if you’re concerned.”
“I guess you’re right. I don’t know enough about it. You’ve been around this sort of thing a lot more, Garrett. Maybe you should come talk to her with me. You might pick up something I’ve missed.”
“I can do that.” He tossed the dregs of his drink over the rocks and stared at her until she blushed.
“And I can do this,” he said. He put one hand gently on her shoulder and turned her over. He kissed her deeply and felt the passion rise quickly in both of them.
She rolled on top of him, her body pressing against him urgently, as Garrett sank into the moss under their combined weight. He ran his hands under her blouse and felt the firm, slim muscles of her back. She moaned slightly, arching her back upwards, her face toward the sea, and then he felt her freeze.
He stopped. “What’s the matter?”
“Garrett,” she whispered. “There’s something out there—in the sea.”
Reluctantly, he rolled her off and turned to look. Floating twenty yards away, washing with the waves against the rocks, was what looked like a piece of seaweed. Except it was black and wispy instead of green and floated heavily in the sea. He knew what it was instantly.
“It’s a girl,” he said.
15
KITTY WELLS PARKED HER VERY tiny rear end very firmly on the porch steps of Garrett’s house. The news of another young girl discovered in the ocean had galvanized the press. This was turning into the type of story that could move an ambitious reporter onto the national scene. She wasn’t going anywhere until she got an interview with the man who’d been responsible for finding all of the bodies in question.
Truth be told, she was quite pleased with herself. It hadn’t been easy to find the Mountie’s out-of-the-way shack. She still smarted from the crack he’d made about her voice during the open briefing with the press. But Kitty Wells prided herself on being a professional. First things first. Get the story. She could always shred the son of a bitch later.
Garrett had no idea how long she’d been waiting for him. The day had been sunny early on, but now a heavy fog blew across the meadow, and though the woman sitting on his steps wore a jacket, he could tell she was cold. Not much insulation on those bones. Well, it would be a cold day all right before he’d help promote her career. He had half a mind to take his handicap and kick her off his property. She was so tiny, one good boot would probably do the job. But he chose instead to play the good cop.
“Can I help you?” he asked, pretending not to know who she was. “Are you lost?”
Wells smiled, sh
owing her perfect, little white teeth. Everything about her was perfect, slim, trim, impeccably dressed. Not a man alive could resist her. She oozed sexuality and had used it to advance her career from the very first day on the job.
“Kitty Wells, Mr. Barkhouse. I’m reporting on those poor murdered girls.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding sadly. “I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here for that, Ms. Wells. I know nothing that hasn’t already been reported in the papers.”
“Well, you know, a good reporter needs background and context, as well as basic information. It all goes into the hopper.” She looked around as though seeing the dilapidated little house for the first time. “Do you actually live … in this … ?”
“Home sweet home,” he said, regarding her without enthusiasm. Much as he disliked this woman, press coverage might be helpful in the case. The more people knew about things, up to a point, the more likely someone might remember seeing something—and that just might present a thread he could begin to unravel. He’d solved more than one case in such a manner.
“Well, you might as well come in.” He opened the door and stood to one side.
“You don’t lock the place?” she asked with surprise.
“As you can see,” he said, stepping past her and turning the lights on in the living room with the sloping floor, “There’s not much worth stealing. I’ve only been here a few days and the place has been closed up for years.”
He swept a pile of newspapers off the sagging gray Victorian couch. “Have a seat,” he said grandly.
Kitty contemplated the moldy piece of furniture the way she probably looked at a bag lady on the streets of Halifax. She sat primly on the very edge of the object, her knees pressed close together.
“What I wanted to know,” she began, “is why you think you’ve been the only one so far to discover any of these girls?”
He shrugged. “Had to be someone. I get around. It’s part of the job, you know.”
“Yes, that brings me to my next question. What exactly is your job title here?”
“Not sure they ever gave me one. I was asked by the department to investigate the smuggling on the Eastern shore.”
“Found anything?”
“A few threads. It’s early, and frankly, dead Chinese girls were not what I expected to find.”
She gave her sympathetic look, furrowing the tiny, but very cute, wrinkles on her forehead. No Botox honey, she. “It must have been a shock,” she said. “Well, what I’d really like to ask of you, Mr. Barkhouse, is the chance to follow you around while you do your investigation. Kind of an exclusive, you know? In exchange, I’ll see that you figure prominently in the coverage. Might get you a promotion.”
“Sorry, I’m not interested in a promotion. Fact is, I’ll be retiring after this case, so you see you’re not offering me anything except another person’s safety I’d have to worry about if I got into a tight situation. Not good for you or me.”
She nodded and immediately went to her second plan of attack. She stretched and took off her jacket, placing it, somewhat reluctantly, on the tired sofa. Underneath she wore a skintight sort of leotard. Though she was not well endowed, what she had was displayed to maximum effect. The outfit was sheer and tight. It showed every curve and outline of her body. Her nipples stuck out quite proudly and she proudly noted that he was looking at them.
“I really wouldn’t get in your way, Garrett.” She said his name in a sort of breathy whisper, and he could almost hear her pheromones kick in. “Maybe I could stay here. You have an extra room don’t you? Would we have to share a bathroom?” Titillating a man was Kitty Wells’s most highly developed skill.
He gave his sophisticated, man-of-the-world smile. “Well … yes. It’s an outhouse. Only about thirty yards away, though, at the edge of the meadow. It’s a two-seater,” he added helpfully. “The floor was partially busted a while back by a neighbor who fell through, but I’ve put some plywood down and it’s good as new. Very little possibility of falling through again … I think.”
Her face registered something between dismay and disgust. “Well … uh … well, maybe there’s a hotel I could stay in?”
“Yes, there’s a good hotel down the coast a ways, called Liscomb Lodge. Maybe that would be best. Honestly, I’d be glad to tell you what I can. It might be helpful to have some of the information out there.”
“Oh, wonderful!” she said, immediately standing. “You won’t be disappointed.” She put one hand on his arm. “I just know we’re going to work well together on this.”
She slipped her tiny jacket back onto her tiny body. He couldn’t believe how much wriggling was involved to achieve this.
“I’ll just get settled and then report in to you,” she said, making a beeline to get out of the pesthole Garrett lived in.
He stared after her, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
16
THE DEPARTMENT OF PROTECTIVE SERVICES was on the fourth floor of the provincial government building in downtown Halifax. Garrett knew it well. His grandmother had been a do-gooder of the old school. She’d taken him along with her many times on one errand of mercy or another. “Take care of others and they will take care of you,” she’d say, in her own personal version of the Golden Rule.
Of course, the first thing he learned was that the building contained a host of strange people. He could barely distinguish between those giving the services and those receiving them. But his grandmother had been one of the good people. She’d sung Rock of Ages, totally out of key, at the funerals of scores if not hundreds of people at Anglican church services. You hadn’t been properly buried on the Eastern shore if you weren’t laid down with an inspiring, if glass-shattering, rendition by Grandma Barkhouse.
Sheila Vogler had run the bureau for thirty years. Garrett had done business with her many times during his work against prostitution. She was no-nonsense but had a soft spot for children of any stripe or condition. No one was beyond saving in Sheila’s book, except possibly the politicians who regularly tried to cut her budget. She was often willing to stretch the rules if it meant helping a child.
He found her in her usual spot, sitting at a desk piled high with folders, each one representing some painful story. When she saw him, she sat back.
“As I live and breathe. Garrett Barkhouse. Thought I’d seen the last of you. Heard you were retiring at the grand old age of—what?—forty-two? Waste of good manpower, if you ask me.”
“Well, then, remind me not to,” he said, placing himself firmly in the wooden chair facing her. “You sound like Deputy Commissioner Tuttle. You two been dating? Believe it or not, Sheila, there’s more to life than saving mankind.”
“Like what?”
“Like sex, making money, travel, good food, bungee jumping …”
“My bungee jumping days are over.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wonder if anyone’s ever had sex while bungee jumping. Now that might get you in the Guinness Book of Records.”
“More likely get you a hernia … or a Darwin Award,” Garrett replied caustically.
“What’s that?”
“Special recognition for people who kill themselves via some utterly inane and stupid activity. Ergo the name, Darwin Award, for improving the human gene pool by eliminating oneself from it.”
She smiled. “What’s on your mind?”
“Girl named Lila Weaver. Must have come across your desk. Used to work for Sweet Angels Escort Service.”
She sighed and spun her chair so she could access a file cabinet. “I’ll never understand where they come up with those names. Sarcasm is a skill beyond most of the dirtbags in the profession.”
In a moment she came up with the file. Rather than hand it to him, which would have been illegal without a formal hearing, she paged through it.
“Yes, I remember her now. Two years plus with Sweet Angels. Began when she was just thirteen. Most girls who go through at such a young age are messed up for life.” She l
ooked up at Garrett. “What’s she done now?”
“Actually, she’s going through Lloyd’s Haven for Troubled Youth down in Ecum Secum. You know anything about his operation?”
She sniffed. “I know he’s close to being a pervert himself. Never been charged for anything, but I hear things. He bought the place and converted it about five years ago. Spent a lot of money. Who knows where he got it, but the provincial government wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, budgetary concerns what they are. He doesn’t have a record, though. I can assure you of that, or he wouldn’t have been able to do it.”
“So you’re saying he’s not making a fortune running the place?”
“Not from the government, he’s not.”
“Well, that’s one interesting bit of information. How have the kids going through been doing, by and large?”
She shrugged. “Some have stayed out of trouble. Some have gone back to the business soon as they were able. Like I said, it’s hard to break the pattern. They’re just kids, virtually all of them without resources, skills, or a family that gives a shit about them. Once Lloyd—or we, to be honest—spit them out of the system, they’ve got nowhere to go except back to their pimps.”
Garrett stared at the wall. “I know you don’t approve of personal tinkering with the system, Sheila. But I’m trying to help another girl and just maybe it will do Lila some good, too.”
She said nothing. She’d known Garrett a long time and generally considered him competent. But he had also proven his ability, on occasion, to come up with incredibly stupid ideas. This just might be one of those times.
“There’s a girl in Misery Bay named Ayesha. Fifteen. Iranian family, probably clinically depressed. Works in her father’s grocery store a whole lot of hours every day.”
“That may be illegal right there,” Sheila said.
