Stung

by William Deverell

  Such prospects cause Arthur icy shivers. He must keep his temper. “I have farm animals. They’re his pals. He lets the goats climb all over him.”

  “You been warned. Keep him fenced.”

  Ulysses picks up the harshness of tone, backs away, confused. Dugald stalks off. Arthur bends to give Ulysses a scratch behind the ears. “Don’t worry about him, boy — he’s a bonehead.” Ulysses likes the sound of that word, and charges ahead, up the hill to the parking lot.

  * * *

  Arthur doesn’t dare put his errant pup into the back of his truck, and squeezes him into the cab, his upper body resting on his lap as he enjoys the passing views. On arrival at Blunder Bay, Arthur finds the driveway gate latched shut. “So how did you get out, buddy?”

  Scanning the fence line, he finds the answer. Once again, two top rails have been knocked askew near the apple orchard. Ulysses stays in the truck, whining, as Arthur doffs his suit jacket and heads to the orchard to lift the heavy cedar rails back into place.

  Solara sprints down the hill from the goat pen, looking both relieved and guilty as she finds Arthur struggling with the fence. “Oh, my Lord, I reckon he gone and did it again. He is super strong. We been looking all over. Let me help.” She hoists one end of the top rail, still babbling nervously. “Stefan has been traipsing all over the island. Where did you find him? Is he okay?”

  “He’s in the truck. Please fetch some spikes.” Snake fences are not to be hammered together — that’s one of the rules of rustic architecture — but emergencies call for exceptions.

  Ulysses appears behind them, looking triumphant. Either cleverly or accidentally, he must have pressed against the handle to push open the driver’s door.

  “You bloody rascal,” Arthur says, roughing his fur, looking for ticks, and finding none gives his muzzle a playful shake. “Give me a chance to change, Ulysses.” What a character. So different from Homer. But equally loved.

  “How did the court action go?” Solara asks.

  “Court action?” It comes back, as if from a century ago. “Yes, of course. The enemy was routed.”

  Chapter 10: Maguire

  1

  Thursday, September 20

  Maguire awakes with a banging head, and is disoriented by sunlight pouring through a window. If the bedside clock isn’t malfunctioning, it’s almost noon. He’s under clean sheets, in his skivvies. He sits up, looks around — he’s in his goddamn hotel room, and can’t remember getting here. His last memory is riding shotgun with Gaylene as they followed the Panic Disorder van from Rockin’ Ray Wozniak’s squat.

  He scrambles up, finds his phone. Gaylene answers cheerily. “All woke up? You were sleeping like a baby when I left you.”

  “Goddamn hell!”

  “You’re welcome. You could barely stand, Jake. You’ve had at least twelve hours, I’ve had maybe three.”

  “The perps!”

  “Relax. All bases are covered. Wiggens is still on the stake at Wozniak’s squat.”

  “Who’s Wiggens?” Maguire’s short-term memory is still clouded.

  “Sean. Tall, skinny, dumb? He works with us? Operation Vigorish?”

  “Oh, Wiggie, right.”

  “He spotted Wozniak once at a second-floor window, bare-assed. Maybe got up to pee. Meanwhile, Lucy got dropped off at a converted warehouse on Sorauren Avenue in Roncesvalles — she has a loft there, a house-sit. I dug out the name of the owner, Dr. Wenz, a professor on sabbatical in Europe. I sent Long Ling to cover her, got you back to our hotel, and parked you in your room — you were like the walking dead.”

  “Jeez, Gaylene, I hope that’s not going in your report.”

  “That you were in the coop? Hey, I got your back, but roses would be nice.”

  “You’re an angel. What else?”

  “Eight twelve a.m., Lucy, full name Lucy Wales, leaves her digs, dressed for work. Long Ling follows on foot, subway, bus, and at eight fifty-eight he’s standing in a mall in North York watching her enter the Rexall where she works. Where Becky McLean claimed she works. Long Ling got a little conspicuous during his follow, so I traded places with him. When Wales was on break I sneaked in for a quiet talk with the manager. Wales works part-time, off at three, not due back for two days. She’s taking some courses in chemical science at Ryerson, so I suspect she concocted the Mickey Finn that put Howie Griffin out.”

  “You did good.” Maguire wants to kick himself. This was supposed to be his catch, it was slipping away. “I’m going to see if we can borrow a SWAT team.”

  “Um, maybe hold off on that? Wait till we get them all together? They’re still posting from somewhere.”

  “Okay, but I’ll get the ball rolling, then call you from head office.”

  He rehydrates his dry throat and mouth by draining half of a bottled water. But that doesn’t resolve a different, more nagging need. He can’t figure out why or for what. Not food, though he’s hungry. Coffee maybe, but not the shit the hotel offers in its ridiculous pods.

  Finally, he gets it. He retrieves the pack of Dunhills from a jacket pocket. He stares at it longingly but also with dread. “Fuck you!” he cries, and crumples the pack, tossing it, a three-pointer into the wastebasket.

  He pops a couple of Advils and heads for the shower.

  * * *

  Chief Superintendent Lafriere has a long afternoon budget meeting with a junta of Queen’s Park bureaucrats, so Maguire is forced to fiddle about in the Operation Vig room, chewing on mint Nicorettes, kicking himself for getting snockered last night, acting the fool and passing out.

  He contemplates using the dead time to haul in Gully, the band manager. But he decides against — the furball can’t be trusted to check his busy tongue. Operation Vig may be leaking like a sieve already, thanks mostly to Wiggie’s poor interview techniques with the Bee-In volunteers — the giraffe got nothing, they were skeptical, asking too many questions. A bad idea, Maguire has put a hold on it.

  He uses his lag time to catch up on his reports. The Super will be grumpy when he reads them, after his session with the cost-cutters. Grumpier if he learns Maguire was plastered last night, so he minimizes his alcohol intake to a couple of beer and a shot of bourbon, praying no one checks with Baldy the bartender.

  His boss will not be enthusiastic about his pitch for search warrants and a flying squad, so he embroiders his case, inflates it with a sense of urgency — the perps may have got alerts from the Bee-In volunteers and must be nailed before they head for the hills. Maguire will be in doo-doo if he loses this collar.

  At three fifteen Gaylene calls in, sounding weary — she’s at the Finch subway station, eyes on Lucy Wales as they wait for the train. “She just gave a sharp elbow to a drip who crowded her. Feisty gal.”

  Wiggie reports in too. There’ve been casual comings and goings at the hippie squat, none by Wozniak, though someone unseen picked up a delivery pizza at the smashed-in front door. Meanwhile, Long Ling is still on lookout outside Lucy’s loft. But where is her buddy, the conniving cutie known as Becky McLean? He adds another Nicorette to the one in his mouth.

  * * *

  Chief Super Lafriere spends ten minutes frowning over Maguire’s report, then removes his reading glasses, gives him a sour look. “You couldn’t convict a dog with what you got. Not even enough ammo for a search warrant.”

  “We’re zoning in on them, Chief. Getting close to their operations centre. Either Lucy Wales or her boyfriend is going to take us there. We’re going to need manpower to roust them. A SWAT team, Ident members to frisk the joint.”

  “Good undercover work, Jake, I’ll give you that. But by your own admission your eager beavers may have set off alarms by interrogating an assortment of unreliables and sympathizers. You’re running out of time. Maybe you need to bring Lucy Wales in. Sweat her.”

  “I can’t see her giving her pals up, sir. I don’t think she swea
ts much.”

  “Well, you better locate their safe place before they run like rabbits. You do that and you’ll have your warrant and a full crew. I’m guessing you’ve got maybe one more day before your leaks turn into a flood. Pull it off, and you can retire happy and proud. That’s coming up, isn’t it?”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  Back in the Operation Vig room, Maguire gets his updates. Wozniak finally showed, and was picked up by the band van. Wiggie followed it to Squirrelly Moe’s and is keeping watch outside. Gaylene tailed Lucy on the Bloor line to Dundas West Station, then on foot, the target stopping at the Loblaws for a bag of groceries before heading to her loft.

  Gaylene sounds totally bagged. He tells her to hang on until he joins her.

  * * *

  Armed with a double grande latte, Maguire finds Gaylene slouched in the Buick a few car lengths north of Lucy’s loft building.

  “You’re a real trooper,” he says.

  “I’m about to conk off.”

  “Sure, grab some sack duty.”

  She eases over to the passenger seat and kicks off her shoes. He climbs in beside her, checks the view from the windshield — there’s a clear channel between the trees to the target building’s front door.

  Gaylene quickly falls asleep, still sitting up. It’s a roomy car, and with the middle armrest pulled up he reaches around her to tilt back her seat. But she slides toward him, her head resting on his shoulder. As he tries to brace her with his right arm, her head slips, descends, coming to rest on his lap, her face hidden by her mussed hair. Not daring to wake her, Maguire sips his double latte, feeling unwanted twinges in his groin.

  * * *

  For an agonizing three hours, Maguire stays frozen, Gaylene snoozing on his lap, one leg tucked in, the other foot braced against the dashboard, her left ear pressed to his crotch. He’d had to undertake a delicate manoeuvre, undoing his belt so he could relocate his penis from under the area of her nose. He has no place to put his hands, so keeps them folded, not daring to touch her body. So far, thank God, no one strolling by has taken notice.

  He’s praying Gaylene will not suddenly awake — he’d have a tough time assuring her the bulge in his trousers is his service weapon. Just as he’s wondering if he can take it any longer, Lucy Wales appears at her door, hauling out a bicycle.

  He does a quick calculation. Arousing Gaylene could cause her to startle and give them away. Wales is approaching, wheeling her bike, her phone to her ear. Windbreaker, a pack on her back, no helmet. It’s eight thirty and the sun has set but there’s far too much street light.

  Suddenly she halts, still on the sidewalk, just beside the passenger door. He’s staring straight ahead, but senses her glancing at his loose belt and the thatch of blond hair hiding his groin. “Enjoying a little street penilingus? Yolo.”

  She jumps on her bike, but before pedalling off turns and aims the cell phone lens at him, through the windshield. A camera flash. She accelerates away, her legs pumping.

  If there was a hole nearby, Maguire would crawl into it. “Sweet fucking Jesus,” he sputters.

  That arouses Gaylene, who propels up suddenly. “Oh, God, sorry. Did I just collapse on you?”

  Crimson with embarrassment, he can’t find words, dares not mention Lucy Wales’s passing encounter. Enjoying a little street penilingus? He hides his loose belt under his jacket, grips the wheel, starts the engine.

  “Oh, shit,” Gaylene says, watching Wales pedal away, north on Sorauren. A bike light and reflectors. No rear-view mirror.

  He waits until she’s half a block away, then pulls out, still shaking from that mortifying interlude at the curb. Driving at half the speed limit, he allows vehicles to pass him, occasionally pulls over to let her stay well ahead. She turns left on Dundas, then up to St. Clair, along a stretch of small retail shops, then zips into a darkened alley. Maguire rolls past it, then parks in front of a shop. Ivor Antiques, its sign says.

  Gaylene bolts from the car, disappears down the lane. Maguire huffs after her, hitching up his pants, fastening his belt, stumbling in the dark before getting a glimpse of light from the rear open door of Ivor Antiques, Lucy hauling her bike in, the door clicking shut.

  Maguire works his way around a trash bin, finds Gaylene with her ear pressed to that door. “Voices,” she whispers. “Jackpot.”

  2

  Friday, September 21

  It’s a quarter to three in the morning, and Maguire has his search warrant and a crew of six, armed and in full gear. He has posted three at the alley door to await a radio command to ram it open. He and three others are inside the antique store — the front door easily jimmied, your basic Yale lock.

  Maguire is focussing hard on the tasks at hand as he struggles to achieve a state of denial over his awkward encounter with Lucy Wales. Her attempt to photograph him from a moving bike — surely that was a flubbed shot. He is frazzled nonetheless, was bumping into things in this crowded space, with all its furniture and bric-a-brac and art. But he made minimal noise and now keeps out of the way as his team quietly frisks the place, treading carefully, using pen flashlights.

  Clearly, it’s a front for a secret society of eco-activists. A member found paperwork and photos in the sales desk that revealed the owners to be Ivor Trebiloff and Amy Snider, husband and wife, white guy, black woman, big smiles. A quick pedigree check has them both with a few summary convictions, plus a felony in the States, while demonstrating for various noble causes. In case they’re not in the backroom with the others, Maguire has sent Long Ling and Wiggie to their address in Islington to pick them up.

  They’ve already got Wozniak, found him at the illegal squat at midnight, drinking beer, smoking weed, and plucking on an acoustic guitar. Gaylene is at HQ, cutting his papers, sitting him down for a little workout. Two other officers are in Lucy Wales’s loft in Roncesvalles, shaking it.

  Lucy Wales. Who led them here. After making a hideously wrong assumption with possibly mortifying consequences.

  Yolo. You only live once. How can he possibly face that young snip? What could her shot through his windshield show? Probably just his head and shoulders, a guy behind a steering wheel. From the angle she took it, Gaylene’s head and body would — hopefully — be hidden by the dashboard. But his insides are roiling with anxiety. That takeout slice the guys brought him doesn’t help. Spicy salami with anchovies. Nor does the chocolate bar he ordered. He would kill for a cigarette.

  The door to the backroom is not fastened by much more than an eye hook, and there’s a gap atop it, emitting a bar of light. An electronic tech has stuck a miniature camera up there and set up a wireless monitor. Sound is off but you can see three individuals close together. One is Dr. Helmut Knutsen, likely the ringmaster, scrolling through a long document. Another is a tall, skinny, sharp-featured guy, about thirty, working the keyboard of a second computer. They are fuelling on coffee.

  Lucy Wales is running both a printer and a copier, chatting, laughing. Is she regaling them about the old dude she saw getting head in the front seat of an old Buick? Maguire actually considers borrowing a helmet and visor to go in there. But how odd would that look? — he’s still in his civvies. All he can do is pray to the Lord Almighty she will not recognize him.

  Several minutes pass without much happening. It doesn’t look like anyone else in the gang is dropping in. “Okay, stow the camera,” Maguire says. A tech reaches up and puts it carefully in a pouch.

  Maguire radios the team in the alley. “One, two, three, open sesame.”

  He puts his boot to the door, which crashes open. The lock on the back door splinters simultaneously, as cops pour in from both sides. A coffee pot spills, mugs clatter to the floor.

  “Freeze! Nobody move!” Maguire’s bellow is ignored by the tall, skinny dude, who is banging something out on his keyboard, maybe a self-destruct code. A SWAT guy tackles him roughly, and spins him t
o the floor.

  Lucy Wales is on her feet, wide-eyed with shock, but capturing the action on her phone camera.

  Knutsen has swivelled in his chair, is looking sadly at the helmeted men, the Smith and Wessons pointed at him. “Take it easy, officers,” he says. “We’re not armed.”

  “Get that tall fellow on his feet,” Maguire says. “Cuff them.”

  Lucy Wales, prayers answered, shows no recognition of Maguire as a female officer clicks the mitts on her — she looks dazed, unfocussed. The officer pats her down, takes her phone. Maguire wants that phone, but right now it’s going into an exhibit bag.

  He clears his throat, introduces himself as Inspector Maguire, OPP, and announces they are under arrest for possession of stolen documents and conspiracy to break and enter. He narrates the standard police caution, then asks, “Anything you wish to say?”

  No responses.

  “All right, let’s holster the arms. We’re going to be friendly here. Professor Knutsen, we’ve had eyes on you folks for some time, so let’s do this the easy way. You can help yourselves by telling us where you got these documents. We know you’ve been putting them online.”

  “I have nothing to say, Inspector.”

  Maguire ups the ante. “One of the security people at the plant was under attack and now he’s in a state of suspended animation. If he doesn’t make it we’re looking at a homicide here. We can nip that in the bud if you tell me right now none of you meant to hurt anyone.”

  Maguire gets nothing. The average dumb-ass perp might go, “Honest, sir, I never meant to,” but these guys are prepared, lawyered up.

  Lucy is now staring at Maguire, and her eyes widen. “You followed me, didn’t you?”

  “Lucy,” Knutsen says, a cautioning tone.