Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  Noel had never worked on a case like this, where instead of the parts moving towards a solution, the pieces were drifting apart, the situation going from poor to dreadful. Derek beaten, Shane’s leg broken, Timmy smashed up, Kyra too, and then losing the baby. If she’d decided on an abortion, at least the decision would’ve been hers. And they were no closer to figuring out who had messed Derek up.

  • • •

  They stopped at the hospital to collect Kyra, check on Derek and Shane, knowing from Linda’s phone call that nothing had changed since last night. Tim said he’d stay with them. He didn’t need Shorty’s tapes, he’d seen most of Shane’s competitions. Kyra was dressed when they got to her room. She wanted out. Now!

  Noel said. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Battered, but I’ll survive.” She smiled at Alana. Alana grabbed Kyra’s suitcase.

  Into the hall, to the elevator. Noel said, “There’s time for a proper breakfast before our skating education.”

  The passenger seat of the rental looked better. Earlier, Jason had dug a blanket out of his car, and placed it beside the spot till it dried. Kyra, though impressed by Noel’s cleaning job, chose to leave the blanket in place and opted for the rear seat beside Alana.

  • • •

  A night of bawdy games with Shu-li. In the early morning he kissed her brow, stroked her hair, apologized for leaving.

  She understood: hypnosis for Shane’s leg. “I’ll expect you for brunch.”

  Austin was at the hospital by nine-thirty. Shane lay on his bed. “How’re you doing?”

  “Ehh,” Shane said, and pulled the sheet over his midriff.

  “Eaten?”

  “Yeah, cereal and tea.”

  “Ready to work?”

  “I guess.”

  Austin shut the door, hitched the chair closer to the bed, and sat. “Close your eyes and breathe, in, out, one, two—“

  Shane had done this often. He settled quickly into a hypnotic state.

  “Look at the places that need to knit— All your attention on your leg . . .”

  A knock at the door. It opened. The doctor, Linda, and Jason entered. For god’s sake, Austin thought, how am I going to get this leg healed?

  “Oh, hello,” Linda said, “you’re here early.” She introduced Dr. Bremer to Austin.

  “Quite a skater, I hear.” He checked Shane’s cast. “How was your night, Shane?”

  “Sore, but I slept. Thanks.”

  “What are you doing?” Linda asked.

  “Talking about the breaks,” Austin replied, “in a healing way.”

  “It needs time for the swelling to abate,” said Bremer, “so we can adjust the cast.”

  Shane could hear the doubt in the doctor’s voice. Bremer didn’t have much belief in what he assumed Austin was, some faith-healer.

  “Don’t touch the leg.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.” Austin exuded world-weariness.

  “How long will you be, Austin?” Linda asked.

  “Half an hour, forty-five minutes.”

  She looked at her watch. “We’ll come back for you, Shane. We’ll go to Derek’s room for Sunday brunch.” Linda kissed his brow and left.

  The doctor listened to Shane’s heart, took his blood pressure, and left also.

  “Back to it, Shane,” Austin said, his tone trance-inducing. “The skin on your shin, it’s started to heal . . . Your bones are protected by sinews . . . The bone shards join with each other . . .”

  • • •

  “Hi, Carl? Shu-li Waterman here. How you doing?”

  He said her name, making it sound like Sheh-li, which was how she got to the anglicized Shirley for her skating name. They went a long way back.

  “Good, yeah, me too. I’m over on Quadra visiting Austin, Steve is here too— Why don’t you join us? It’s a big house— Oh yeah, you wouldn’t want to miss that . . .” She laughed. “Listen Carl, bad news. Shane was in a car accident and broke his leg . . . Right. It’s terrible . . . Three places . . . Well, he might. He’ll probably be ready for the Olympics, but not for the Fall qualifiers . . . Yes, Austin’s working with him every day— Yeah, you know Austin . . . Right . . . Carl, you ever heard of anyone skipping the qualifiers and going right to the Olympics? . . . No, I never have either . . . A damn shame, he’s so good and you and he’ve worked so hard . . . Would you ask around? Maybe Harold? . . . Okay, we’ll keep you updated . . . You have the number here? . . . Bye.”

  Shu-li closed the phone and looked at Steve sitting on the sofa in Austin’s office. “That’s the most I can do. Let him think for a few days.”

  “Stroke of genius, inviting him over,” Steve said.

  “A safe stroke. He hates ‘the wilderness’.”

  “And you left it open for more calls.” Steve’s tone was overly admiring.

  “He cares for his star pupil, and Shane is pretty crocked.” She stood up. “Would you like a hearty walk before I concoct something for brunch?”

  • • •

  Austin had just wrapped up when Jason appeared with a wheelchair. “Going to scoop the kid up,” he said. “Feed him a good breakfast.”

  “Right,” said Austin. “See you tomorrow, Shane.”

  “Yep.”

  His father wheeled the chair close to the bed so Shane could clamber onto it. It felt good to be upright. Semi-upright. “We’re trying smell therapy. All Derek’s favorite foods, and he’s wired to an EEG and an ECG. We’ve discussed this with the doctors. For the rest of us,” Jason put his hand on Shane’s shoulder, “it’s a normal Sunday brunch.”

  To Derek’s room, Tim sitting on the bed. “Where’s Mom?” Shane asked.

  “Hey Derek,” Tim said, “Shane and Dad are here. Mom’s coming with the food.”

  “Think he hears you?”

  “Who knows? He might. He might smell the food.”

  Shane looked at his brother, inert, head bandaged, tubes going in under the sheet. “Hey Derek, it’s Shane. I have a broken leg and you have a broken head, but we’ll make it, dude.” He wheeled closer and grabbed Derek’s hand.

  Linda appeared loaded with takeout cartons, followed by a candy-striper volunteer who wheeled in two bed-trays, piled with dishes and cutlery. The smells helped Shane forget the earlier lukewarm oatmeal.

  “Not hospital food, is it?”

  “It’s from The Comfort Zone. Let’s eat while it’s hot.”

  Waffles, bacon, scrambled eggs, perfecto hash browns, and local strawberries for the waffles, juice, milk, and rich-smelling coffee. Like coming downstairs on birthday mornings of Shane’s childhood.

  They all ate, watching Derek. “Hey Derek, it’s really good, want some?” Tim touched his strawberry-laden spoon to Derek’s nose. To his lips.

  “It’ll take time,” Linda said. “Let’s just enjoy a breakfast picnic together.”

  • • •

  Back in the car, Noel handed Kyra the map, said the address, and guided them to Shorty’s house, a one-storey bungalow. “What a gardener,” he exclaimed. In front and at the sides, thriving green—lush vegetables, fruit, flowers. “Shorty Barlow believes in self-sufficiency.”

  A black and white cat on the deck meowed as they walked up the steps.

  Barlow opened the door. “How do, how do.” He checked Noel’s and Kyra’s hands. He shook his head, said, “No brandy, eh?” sounding disappointed.

  Noel hadn’t taken the hint seriously. “Sorry.”

  “Ah well, dry movies. Come in.”

  “My business partner, Kyra Rachel. And my niece, Alana Franklin.”

  Shorty ran a ship-shape house, Noel noted. Another cat on the sofa, a mottled one. Noel didn’t hate cats the way Kyra hated dogs. He figured they couldn’t help being cats, any more than he could help being human.

  “Coffee? Juice?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” they chorused.

  “Let’s get on with it then,” said Shorty. “I have carrots to thin.”

  “This is
generous of you.” Noel, making socially appropriate noises.

  “Think nothing of it,” Shorty replied. “The carrots can wait an hour or so. I’m trying to train the cats to weed, but it’s like herding grasshoppers.”

  Alana laughed and sat on the brown leather sofa. Kyra looked at the cat, which yawned, stretched, curled around again. Kyra sat between it and Alana. Noel, thinking Shorty probably occupied the lazy-rocker, took an overstuffed floral armchair.

  “We’ll start at the beginning.” Shorty shoved in a video and turned on the TV. “And proceed to the end. An hour or so.” He backed up to his chair.

  Their attention refocused from the sun-filled living room to the artificial lighting of an arena. Shane appeared, skated to the center of the ice, stopped, raised his arms, and smiled, waiting for his music.

  “He’s fourteen here,” Shorty said. “First Junior Grand Prix.”

  Shane was wearing a powder blue, skin-tight one-piece costume, and blue skate covers. The music swelled, Shane waited three beats, swooped to the side of the rink and around the end, rotated and skated backwards, fast. Forwards, backwards, forwards, so fast it looked like he was twisting, then into a camel spin, down the side, and the turn for an axel, a double. The music soared, he was down the other side, a double axel, another.

  “Wow!” Alana said. “He’s so good. Even then.”

  More twisting bits, a lengthy spin, arms upheld, the music stopped, he bowed to the judges and skated off. The crowd applauded enthusiastically.

  His marks afforded him third place, a bronze. Shorty fast-forwarded through the winners on the podium and the medal ceremony.

  “That was his first major competition,” said Shorty. “Now the next year—”

  Shane, fifteen, a gold skintight costume with russet trim, an autumnal look. He’d gained in confidence and strength. He performed to “The Sting,” quite a different program, but still containing spins and axels and other jumps Noel couldn’t name. Shane won gold.

  Third Junior Grand Prix. Shane in a tuxedo like Fred Astaire, his hair in longer coif. Even as he stood, waiting, it was apparent his confidence generated charisma. The crowd cheered even before he started to skate. Again a stellar performance, more and higher leaps to “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” Now he owned the rink.

  “See what I mean?” Alana repeated.

  Noel and Kyra nodded, not taking their eyes off the video. Shorty beamed like a proud parent.

  In the next segment it was apparent Shane was the audience’s darling. He appeared in rib-high brown tights, bare-chested with a slinky vest that showed his chest hair. He had on a brown skullcap with two little points above his ears.

  “That’s a radical costume,” Kyra stated.

  “I saw this on TV,” Alana breathed. “Just wait.”

  “L’ Apres-midi d’un faune” swelled forth and Shane skated, leaps, splits, twists, stunning smoothness. Taking lessons from old Nureyev films? Noel realized he’d been holding his breath.

  “That blows me away,” Alana crooned.

  The gold again, to a standing ovation.

  “Told you he was good,” said Shorty. “Okay, last spring. Just turned eighteen.”

  Shane, as he looked now, skated to center ice, held his start position. He wore a space explorer costume, blue one-piece with red tabs on the shoulders. Zipper down nearly to his navel, curly hair peeking out. He smiled, waited, arms straight down. The first bars of something spacey. On the second beat he shoved into a glide, ran on his picks, pushed into a double axel then, at the other end of the rink, a triple.

  “Just wow!” Alana couldn’t help herself.

  Up the far side, an extended spin—Shane fell.

  The crowd gasped. So did Alana. Shane caught the ice on his hip, then elbow and back. Instantly he was up, not appearing hurt. The crowd sighed in relief. He smiled, carried on, catching up to his music, leaps and spins backwards and forwards, ice dust on his hip and back. He scored just out of contention, fourth. Off the podium, first time in five years.

  “Every skater falls,” said Shorty, “but a damn shame he did it in this competition.”

  Alana said to Shorty, “Would you run that again, please?”

  “What? The whole tape? I got to get to my carrots.”

  “No, just the fall, please.”

  Shorty rewound. Shane finished the double, the triple, went into the spin—

  “Stop! There!”

  “What?”

  “Can you do slow motion? Frame by frame?”

  Uncle Noel kicked in. “What’s up, Alana? We’ve taken a lot of Shorty’s time.”

  Alana ignored him, continued to Shorty. “Have you watched the fall real close?”

  “Just when it happened.”

  “Please, let’s watch again, then in slow motion. It’s so weird for him to fall.”

  Shorty raised his eyebrows, rewound again, Shane fell again, got up—

  Frame by frame, spin, fall—

  “See there on that toe loop? Looks like Shane’s pick did something, or he dug it in and changed edges . . .”

  “Where?” said Shorty.

  “Run it again. Look hard.”

  Shorty rewound, then frame by frame played Shane’s skate from the triple. Noel couldn’t figure out what Alana was on about.

  “There!” The cat bolted from the sofa. Alana stood, walked up to the TV, pointed. Shorty stopped the frame. “He’s dug his pick in. And look!” She made a clicking motion with her thumb. Shorty obliged. “See? He should be on his back outside edge. But he’s picked with his left toe and come down on his inside right edge. Then he falls. Weird.”

  Shorty backed the film up, ran the few frames.

  “What are you saying, Alana?” Kyra asked.

  Alana kept her eyes on Shorty. He re-ran the frames.

  “What?” Kyra repeated.

  The tension in the room sparked.

  “You think he tossed it?” Shorty asked Alana.

  “Strange mistake for someone that good.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes.” Shorty ran the piece again. Shane came out of the spin, started his toe loop, raised his other leg as if to push off, shifted to his back outside edge, landed on the right, fell—

  Noel was grasping for a sense of the sequence. “Did he just lose his balance?”

  “Why would he do that?” Shorty asked, of no one. “It was a simple accident. Damn bad timing, that’s all.” He ran the frames once more.

  Kyra shifted on the sofa. “Why would he do it? What does it mean?”

  Shorty put the remote down. The screen blanked. He stood up, paced around. “It’s a hard charge,” he said to Alana. “Let’s look at the beginning again.” She perched on the sofa arm.

  Shane in his space suit, arms raised, smile. Shorty rewound until Shane skated out to begin, slowed this to watch each frame. He wound back to the beginning of the faun-suit program. “He looks more present there,” Kyra observed.

  Back to the space suit. “Tense,” Noel said. “Maybe.”

  Shorty shut off the TV and re-wound the tape. “Only thing to do is ask Shane. I won’t believe he did that on purpose unless I hear it from him.”

  Noel stood. So did Kyra and Alana. “Are you certain, Alana?”

  “Uh—,” she shrugged. “He probably has an explanation.” She bit her lip. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “We gotta ask him,” Shorty repeated.

  “We’ll do that now. Shane’s still in the hospital.” Noel led the parade to the door. “Thanks, Shorty. Get to your carrots.”

  “I’m coming too. He’s one of mine. Cats can do the carrots.”

  Kyra and Noel exchanged a glance. Kyra said, “The hospital allows two people in at a time. Noel and I’ll talk to Shane. We’ll let you know.”

  “Kyra’s right.”

  Shorty frowned. He looked at Alana before he conceded. “You phone me immediately. I can be over in minutes.”

  Noel and Kyra
nodded.

  “You want to stay here?” Shorty asked Alana. “Do some weeding?”

  Was he asking not to be left alone? He looked very worried.

  “I’ll go to the hospital, Shorty,” Alana said. “I’ll phone the minute I know anything.”

  “Shorty,” Noel sounded tense, “what’s your best analysis?”

  The tall, thin, mustachioed man looked from Noel, to the girl, to the woman. “Suspicious.” He turned to his garden. “Be easy with Shane.”

  • • •

  Steve and Shu-li strolled from the house along one of the paths through the woods to the top of the southern cliff overlooking Austin’s beach. Below to the right gentle surf broke against a line of craggy rocks. They stood a couple of feet apart, Steve steepling his fingers. “Think Carl will find a way for Shane?”

  “I felt good about it when we were talking.”

  “Now?”

  She shrugged. “Now I can’t say.”

  “Not feeling optimistic?”

  She stared out to sea. “I’d like to talk to you about something else.” She turned to face him. Now he was splaying his fingers. Should she get into this?

  “Aren’t we talking now?”

  “We’ve known each other for a long while, right? And I trust you.”

  “Well, that’s good. Because I certainly trust you.”

  “Can I trust you not to talk to Austin about what I’m going to say?”

  He tilted his head to look at her face. “If it’s important to you, I will discuss nothing you tell me with Austin.”

  She believed him. She cared for Austin a great deal, but she had to sound Steve out. “How important is our project to you?”

  “Taking down Arensen, making him bleed? Very.”

  She nodded. “Do you think it will happen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m worried. I think things are falling apart.”

  “Because of Shane’s injury?”

  “All of it. Shane, my Miranda—she’s so young still. Your guy, Graham. You’ve haven’t praised him since you’ve been here. Is he going to become one of our tools, Steve? Good enough for Arensen to want to take him under his wing?”

  Steve remained silent. He interlocked his fingers and tensed them from nearly horizontal to right angles.