They continued to skate together, a strong pair for the rest of the season: two bronzes, a gold, then a silver. Falling back to silver, Harold had fumed: The gold was at your fingertips but you weren’t concentrating! You were each distracted!
Then in Istanbul, again. A different routine, another admiring audience. Austin whirled Tilly before him, was supposed to break her spin with a strong arm to her waist. But her arm struck his hand, threw her off balance, she crashed into his side, and they both went down. As before, up instantly, but this time Tilly’s right leg wouldn’t hold her. He supported her as they skated off the ice to the admiring applause of the crowd.
Harold Arensen forbade his niece ever to skate with Austin again. You can’t do that, Austin had insisted, she’s an adult, she can skate with whomever she wants. But not you, he had smirked. If she skates with you, she loses my support, official and financial. Beyond his personal malice Harold’s maneuvers within Skate Canada brought sanctions against Austin, taking away his right to skate in pairs competitions for two years.
Austin would return to men’s singles. But it felt wrong. Without Tilly he felt clumsy, naked. He tried to remain in love with Tilly, and she with him, but without the skating they found they had little in common. They edged away from each other. When he joined the Ice Follies, their relationship ended.
“Ferry’s here,” said Austin, as he and Steve climbed back into the Porsche.
• • •
Steve was not looking forward to the weekend on Quadra. Odd: he’d enjoyed previous stays at Austin’s house. Since Shu-li was there and insisted on cooking, the food was superior. And until recently he’d been pleased with their plot to bring down Harold. But back in Toronto his work with Graham Pauley was unraveling. His protégé had great talent, could manipulate his body with ease, had won more than his share of medals. But three or so months ago something had gone out of him. To Steve it looked like he’d lost his enthusiasm, the will to win. A month ago he had accused Graham of this: You don’t seem to care anymore, young man. He should never have said it. Such balance as there’d been between Graham’s hard work and Steve’s delicate stroking came apart, to the point where Graham had now twice skipped practice. This weekend Steve would have to tell Austin and Shu-li about this turn of events.
EIGHT
Noel steered the rental Civic off South Dogwood and onto the Island Highway. Other than color, it was exactly like his own.
Kyra peeled her white knuckles off the chicken handle. Last night Shane had sat in the passenger seat, the car falling, the splat of airbags, helpless as they rolled—
Noel watched sideways as Kyra lay her hands across her stomach. Acknowledging the elephant? Breathing deeply, nearly panting. She crossed her legs, businesslike: “So this Harold guy burst in, Shane was jerked out of a trance, Austin got coldly quiet, told Shane to keep breathing deeply and stormed off.”
Alana leaned forward. “I have a friend who’s learned hypnosis and she says it’s dangerous to yank someone out of a trance. Changes the brain waves too abruptly. From alpha to beta or something. Weird Austin left like that. If he was the hypnotist, I mean.”
“He just about knocked me over.” Kyra crossed her legs the other way. “Harold nearly knocked me down too, rushing in. You want invisibility, wear a hospital gown.”
Noel speeded up by eighty kilometers per hour to pass a beater truck. Kyra reached up to the chicken bar again and held on. Noel swerved back into the driving lane. “Do we know who this Harold is?”
“I don’t think so. He said Shane was his favorite skater—” She pulled out her iPhone. Alana did too. “No reception here otherwise I’d search him,” Kyra said. They were passing an ELK CROSSING sign: antlers, arched back, four legs in simulated motion.
“Hi, Sonia,” Alana said to someone far away. “I don’t have good reception, can you look up Harold Arensen for me?” She spelled the name. “Based in Victoria, BC. Thanks.”
How does she do it? Kyra fussed.
“Oh yeah? . . . Really? . . . Thanks, that’ll get us started.” She closed the phone. “Arensen is head of the Vancouver Island Skating Union, VISU. And a director of Skate Canada.”
“Big-time guy.”
“How did you get reception when I didn’t?” Kyra asked.
“More powerful instrument? I phoned, didn’t try the internet?” Alana shrugged.
Kyra shoved her phone in her pocket. “Head of VISU shouldn’t have a favorite skater, should he? Or was that just a figure of speech?”
• • •
Ten minutes and they were across to Quadra. Austin, calmer, kept to the sixty kilometers per hour limit. Soon they were back at the house, the three on the deck, late afternoon Pimms in hand.
“So,” Steve began, “a setback.” He templed his fingertips and rubbed them together.
“A ridiculous one, but monumental,” said Shu-li. She’d forgotten how irritating she found Steve’s habitual gesture.
“The accident, it’s unexplained?” Rub, rub. “Out of nowhere? Hit and run?”
Austin glanced from Steve to Shu-li and back. “You suggesting something else?”
“Someone trying to hurt Shane?”
“But why?”
“I have no idea.”
Shu-li said, “Someone trying to hurt the detective?”
“What precisely was she here to inquire into?”
Austin stared at Steve. “The beating of Shane’s brother. Who did it, and why.”
“Well then.” Steve folded his arms above his spreading paunch.
“No, must be someone who wants to harm the whole family.”
“The sons, at least. From what you said.”
Shu-li shook her head. “We won’t get anywhere speculating on who did what. We need to talk about what we’re going to do. About Shane. And soon, about Harold.”
Austin nodded. “You’re right. I’ll spend three hours with Shane every day. His mind will help him heal his bones.”
“Good,” said Steve. “How quickly can it happen?”
“I’ll try for speed. The mind is tricky, but Shane’ll work hard.”
“When can he be ready? In time for the Olympics?”
“In time to qualify, you mean?”
Steve tented his fingertips together. “Can we cut corners, do you suppose?”
Shu-li raised her eyebrows. “What do you suggest?”
“Something perhaps—painful. Harold Arensen is a first-rate corner cutter.”
She squinted at him. “Are you out of your mind?”
“It’s Harold’s obsession with the boy that we can turn to our advantage.” Steve smiled ironically. “Shane’s advantage, I mean.”
Austin said, “You’re suggesting that one of us goes to Harold and says, dear Harold, could you cut a corner or two?”
“I would be unable to do that. Could you, Austin? Shu-li?”
Shu-li shook her head. Austin exploded a breath.
Steve set his fingers and palms together, as if in prayer. “Perhaps someone else . . .”
Austin grinned widely. “Carl.”
“Carl Certane, Shane’s very own coach, admired by Arensen.”
“Think he’d be willing? He’s pretty straight arrow.”
“Carl believes in Shane. For Carl it won’t be cutting corners, it’ll be a matter of righting wrongs. Very honorable.”
“Okay,” said Steve, “who’s going to talk to him? I barely know him.”
Shu-li shook her head in mock-weariness. “You make great tactical suggestions, Steve. But when it comes to carrying them out . . .”
“He wouldn’t take suggestions from me. But he admires you.”
“He admires my body.”
“We all do. Which doesn’t mean we can’t restrain ourselves.” He stared over the water. The ferry from Cortes was approaching. “Some of us, anyway,” he muttered.
“Okay. I’ll see him on my way back.” She held Carl in high esteem; he’d been one of the greats. And was a
remarkable coach. Carl could admire her body. She thought highly of his talents. “If the cut corners and the hypnotherapy work, Shane can still do it. Right?”
Steve said, “Maybe.”
“Definitely,” Austin said. “Refreshers on Pimms?” He took their glasses and went to the kitchen. Yes, he enjoyed Shu-li’s body, looking at it, loving it. And the woman herself. What a shame that she had such a hard time staying with him for longer than three days. Always in a rush to go somewhere. Or hurrying to get home to Calgary. Calgary! Poor Shu-li. He would have loved her to stay on Quadra a few more days. If she ever really committed herself to him, that’d be the moment he’d leave Ottawa forever.
• • •
The band meeting ended at 9:00 PM. Three years ago when Ezekiel Pete became the convener of the Negotiations Team he insisted their gatherings begin punctually and finish two hours later—most people’s brains weren’t up to concentrating in meetings longer than that. At first the other team members mocked him: you got loose brains, Zeke? Won’t hold together more than a couple of hours? Put more meat on your bum, Zeke, so you can sit longer. But they soon discovered that a concentrated meeting produced clearer results than when consultations dragged on. Now he was known around the island for this tactic, and other groups used the pattern as a model. He also ran an organized meeting, which helped.
Before the evening’s session he’d signaled to Dano and Charlie, stick around after the meeting. When the others left, he said, “Lisa and Jake at home tonight, Dano?”
“Lisa’s on the last ferry and Jake’s shacking up with his girlfriend these days.”
“Let’s go to your place.”
Charlie said, “Why, Zeke? We can just stay here.”
“Yeah, but Dano’s close, he’ll give us a beer.” Zeke grinned at Dano. “Right?”
“No problem.”
“Besides, I don’t want the others to see us talking.”
“Big conspiracy?” Charlie clamped on his hat. “We gonna take over the world?”
“Kinda. Let’s go.”
They left their cars at the Center and walked in silence past the red-roofed open shed that protected the war canoe. An old green van passed them from behind and headed down toward the southern end of Cape Mudge Village. Zeke glanced at the totem pole flat on its back next to the museum parking sign. Such a shame. After another hundred and thirty feet they reached Dano’s house, a low clapboard rancher. Dano turned on the living room lights even though it wasn’t dark yet, and headed for the kitchen. Charlie sat in the middle of the couch. Zeke dropped onto the old La-Z-Boy to glance out the window towards the Passage. Water always eased him, no matter the situation.
“Here you go, guys.” Dano handed them cans of Molson’s, opened his, turned a straight-backed kitchen chair and leaned forward on the backrest. “Okay, Zeke, what’s up?”
Zeke let out a small sigh. “Matthew’s boy Amos didn’t get the scholarship.”
“Shit,” said Charlie.
Dano added, “Yeah.”
“I don’t get it. He had the grades.”
“Yeah. He was good in high school. Matt shoulda made him go right to the U after that.”
“Whatever,” said Zeke. “He worked hard at school. He stayed out of trouble till he had nothing to do. Now he’s signed up for that joinery course, it’s part of the parole agreement. But he’s got no money. And Matt’s already paid the tuition deposit.”
“So what’s your idea, Zeke?”
“We’ve got to raise the cash.”
“Amos isn’t going to take our money. Anyway, Matthew wouldn’t let him.”
“No gift. A loan.”
Charlie thought about that, then nodded. “Maybe.”
“Definitely. At low interest rates. And he’ll work harder, to get it paid back.”
“How much?”
“A thousand’ll cover the courses.”
Dano said, “I can do a hundred.”
And Charlie, “Me too.”
“Then we’re nearly a third of the way there. If we each talk to four elders we should have the cash for him by the end of the week.”
“That kid’s gotta go to school,” Dano said.
“He’ll pay us back.” Zeke hoped he wasn’t just dreaming. “Joiners make good money.”
They came up with a dozen names and divided them among themselves. They finished their beers. Charlie walked south to his place, Zeke headed back to the Center. It was deep dusk. He noted the green van, parked on the west side of road. Zeke knew most of the vehicles on the south end of the island. This one he didn’t recognize.
• • •
Great. The guy was leaving alone. He didn’t want to tackle two of them. He slipped on the rubber mask, a death’s-head that covered him from scalp to under his chin. He glanced inside the cab, key in the ignition ready to go. He grasped the golf clubs, a five- and a six-iron, with gloved hands, hefted them and waited for the Indian to pass the van. The guy’d be able to describe it later, maybe even remember the plate, but he’d been wearing gloves each time he borrowed it from old Marlton, off in Mexico. First those damn clammy medical things all the way over on the ferry, now these green gardening ones. Well, they both did the job. Guy was walking right toward the van, no way could he see, too many shadows. Wait till he’s gone by. Rubber-soled shoes, never hear anything.
He watched as Zeke approached. Couldn’t see his face clearly. Short-sleeve shirt, no protection from that, skinny arms. Light-weight pants too. He’ll be hurting for a while.
He squatted beside the van, passenger side. There the guy went, on the other side. The fuckin’ ess-oh-bee, what he’d done, wasn’t gonna get away with it. Past the tail, couple more steps. Now! He stepped out of the shadows, six-iron high, lunged angling it onto the guy’s neck right by the ear. Yeah! A whump, and he went down on his knees, hands catching him, all fours. Step up, swing, and that was his nose, good squish— Yeah, way to go! Another bash, right across his chest, but the guy must’ve sensed something coming, he slipped to the right and the club slid off his hip. Another whack caught him in the lower leg. The guy rolled again and came around standing facing—bet the death’s-head got him scared now, Indians’re all scared of spirits and this face was back from the dead. He pulled the club around and came about but the guy had shifted positions again, he was out of reach but lots of blood coming out of his nose. Have to charge him hard, come in swinging, club back and over and down— Damn if the guy didn’t catch the thing as it came down and wrench it away, goddamn! He pulled back and shifted the five-iron to his right hand, up around and down but the guy caught the shaft with the six he’d just stolen and something in his other hand glinted—fuck, he had a knife, where the hell—? How could he still be on his feet? He pulled back on the five, swung it at the knife and caught him on the wrist and the knife skittered away on the dirt. Hah, even again. He swung hard, got the Indian in the ribs just as the guy landed one with the six, shit! just above the hip, damn— But the guy was flat while he was still standing.
Okay, enough punishment. He ran for the van, door open— He glanced back. The Indian was up, running, more like reeling toward the van. In, turn the key, gas, outa here— In the mirror he saw the guy grabbing for the rear door handle, holding on, but the van sped up and if the guy didn’t let go he was gonna get dragged— Yeah, he could see the guy sprawled on the dirt road. Now get off the island, dump the club overboard. He checked the clock. Just make the last ferry off. He lifted the mask over his head. Better. Mask’ll go in the drink too. His brain felt lots better now, job that needed to get done. Nobody to answer to but himself, no taking orders, nobody else unhappy. Not this time. Over to the other side, into the woods, onto that side road in the park, get some sleep. In the morning dump the van near the ferry, wouldn’t use it again—the cops’ll get it back to Marlton if he ever got back from Mexico. Then get on the 7:30, pick up his car from the lot and be home for breakfast. That bash the guy landed right above the hip felt sore, prickly. C
ouldn’t be blood, skin didn’t break. In the ferry washroom he’d see what it looked like.
• • •
Shane had never felt such pain. Not from the leg; they’d set the broken bones, treated the outer wounds and locked it in a cast-like apparatus that could be removed to check the healing. The painkillers they’d given him had sent him away from the small world of the hospital room to deep inside his head where his memories crept along the valleys of his brain. He lay on his back trying to drive flaming lances of thought from his mind by staring at the dim ceiling. He saw only flat space. No relief, because the pain came from so deep inside. Alone tonight. His mother had gone back to Quadra. She hadn’t slept much the night before. Alone, except for the wheezing guy in the next bed.
He should never have decided to become a figure skater, let alone try for greatness. What hubris. A kid from a nowhere small island should be playing hockey like everybody else. A kid who didn’t know anything about the demands made on the narrow elite superhighway. In Vancouver he had not only Carl his superb coach, but also James his physical trainer, Mel his dance instructor, Larry his psychologist, Liane his chiropractor, Trent the costume designer, and any number of other people— No one should be coddled like this. Not even thinking about how much it cost. Austin paid for it all, and that wasn’t right either. Increasingly Shane felt he had been bought and now belonged to Austin. Austin had said, No Shane, you belong to the world of beautiful motion.
Right now Shane felt all the pain of what he’d done. To his parents, what they’d given him—their unquestioning love, their unending time, what little money they could invest in his career. To his brothers, standing aloof from them, his career more important than coming home the moment Derek was attacked, than spending time with Timmy who loved and respected Shane and what did Shane give Timmy, locking himself in his room when Timmy needed him. He felt too the pain of what he’d done for Austin. Pieces in his brain were locked in a terrible agonized battle. No correct position to take, not any more. Had there been an acceptable way of handling himself, earlier? He hadn’t found it. Now he wondered, if he’d dealt with it right away might there have been a better choice?
Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island Page 19
