Where the Bodies Lie

by Mark Lisac

  WHERE

  the

  BODIES

  LIE

  Copyright © Mark Lisac 2016

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication—reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system—without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of copyright law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Lisac, Mark, 1947–, author

  Where the bodies lie / Mark Lisac.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-926455-50-1 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-926455-51-8 (epub).—ISBN 978-1-926455-52-5 (mobi)

  I. Title.

  PS8623.I82W54 2016 C813’.6 C2015-906570-4

  C2015-906571-2

  Board Editor: Douglas Barbour

  Cover and interior design: Michel Vrana

  Cover images: stillfx/istockphoto, Jeff Whyte/shutterstock

  Author photo: Ellen Nygaard

  NeWest Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council for support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada.

  NeWest Press

  #201, 8540-109 Street

  Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6

  www.newestpress.com

  No bison were harmed in the making of this book.

  Printed and bound in Canada

  To Maren and Matt.

  Contents

  Winter

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  Summer

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  Acknowledgements

  1

  ASHER LOOKED DOWN AT THE BLOND OAK BENCH. IT reminded him of the church pews he had sat in as a kid during church services, and later at funerals and weddings.

  It was hard and noncommittal. The law was more alive. The law kept evolving. It was a tree of words with branches that grew, and bent in the wind. The bench sat there hard and unchanging year after year.

  He looked at the prosecutor’s black cloak. She was leafing through a binder, making sure she asked all her questions. Asher knew her to be conscientious and fun to talk to. She would be thinking of the Caribbean about this time of year but he was sure she had put the thoughts of a warm blue beach out of her mind as soon as she walked into the room with her meticulous background materials.

  He glanced to his right and saw two women and a man whose worn department-store clothes set them apart from the young political staffers, reporters, and lawyers scattered around the public gallery. These three older people would be part of the regular spectator crowd, a small group of pensioners who showed up every day. For them, there was no such thing as a boring trial. They had decided real life delivered more blood-and-guts thrills than any courtroom show on television.

  One of the women had a beehive hairdo, the first Asher had seen in years. Her hair was mostly white but there were traces of the blonde it had once been. The strong, flat structure of her face stood out with her hair pulled back. She had large, round glasses. She was smiling.

  Asher thought this was what the knitters watching the guillotines during the French Revolution must have looked like. The only difference was the women knitting at the guillotines had real grievances worming around inside them. The court spectators felt only boredom — so much boredom that they were willing to sit quietly through long stretches of meaningless, half-heard words in order to be present at the kill.

  The other woman in the group glanced at him as if she had felt his stare. The glance became a full look. Her brown eyes shone like burnished chestnuts. Asher felt an attraction. So this is what it’s come to, he thought. Now I’m interested in older women.

  He looked up at Turlock in the witness box. The spectators’ faces were still. Turlock’s was immobile. He had dark eyes and a dark shadow of beard that could never be shaved close enough to lose its colour against his skin. Asher remembered those dark eyes had never spilled much emotion other than suspicion. Now they had no suspicion because Turlock knew who was playing what role and what was coming. He didn’t need to calculate and prepare anymore. He simply needed to last out the insults.

  The judge rotated his gaze constantly from the prosecutor, to Turlock and to the surface of the desk in front of him. He had once been the subject of rumours about a teenage girl he had represented when he’d been a defence lawyer. Now he had perfected the blank judicial mask so completely that it was difficult to believe he would ever feel or risk anything again.

  Asher wondered if the judge would call a recess or if the prosecutor would ask for a break. They had heard plenty of evidence. Turlock’s lawyer had heard enough to sink into a quizzical gloom, his chin resting on his right hand. Asher had heard nothing that interested him.

  The prosecutor turned a page of her binder. Asher looked at her nondescript brown hair, cut to just above the shoulders of the cloak. He hadn’t seen her face in at least thirty minutes. He had long been intrigued by the way her cute snub nose contrasted with her coarsened cheeks, which looked perpetually windburnt.

  She began her next question and Asher felt his body suddenly hum into attention. He flicked his gaze back to Turlock.

  Turlock kept still in his seat and tried to look matter-of-fact as he explained that yes, he had killed Apson and then explained why. But the leaden shadow on Turlock’s face shifted slightly as his cheeks tightened and the dark eyes glittered and expanded just enough. Asher knew he had found what he needed.

  Turlock said, “He had the brains of a gopher. That’s what you do with gophers — run ’em over with your truck.”

  2

  THAT EVENING, ASHER PULLED INTO THE LEGISLATURE grounds. The guard at the driveway entrance remembered him and waved him through with a smile. There were even more concrete barriers set around the building than there had been six months earlier.

  The square between the building and the reflecting pool was blessedly empty. Only a few leaves rustling along the artificially pebbled walking surface broke the quiet. The precise ranks of petunia and coleus in the flower gardens along the building’s front wall were gone. Dark clumps of dirt formed a repetitive geometric pattern in their place. The earth had been turned for the winter. Asher could smell the earth in the cool air. It reminded him of when he had lived in a house with a yard, and a wife who liked gardening.

  He strode up the steps two at a time, picked up a visitor’s pass at the security desk, and walked past
the indoor fountain toward the stairs to the executive office. He wondered again why water was used here as the standard symbol for dignity and authority. Maybe because the shadow of the Dust Bowl still hung over people, even if they were no longer directly aware of those times. It was hard hanging onto dignity and authority when your topsoil and your money were racing to see which would blow away faster.

  Inside the executive suite, he headed for the premier’s office. He opened the door and saw Ryan leaning back against a desk, scanning sheets of paper. That was a surprise. Asher stopped halfway across the room and put on his cordial smile: “Hello, Gerald.”

  Ryan had been expecting him, but that didn’t matter. He never looked surprised at anything. He looked up from under his bristle of thick red hair and said, “Hello, Harry. Good to see you again. He’s waiting.”

  They walked into the inner office, an expansive space with vintage oil paintings on every wall and well-stuffed chairs covered in pastel fabrics.

  Asher thought once again that Jimmy Karamanlis would never look like he belonged in this setting. He knew that Karamanlis did not care and would never bother changing the room’s style. Turning the corner hutch into a hidden bar had been the only renovation necessary when the government changed.

  Karamanlis glanced up from the telephone and motioned Asher to a chair as he finished: “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Mrs. Mallard. I’m sure the pension folks just made a mistake. We’ll get it straightened out. … All right. Thank you. And be sure to say hi at the convention next month. That’s fine. Bye.”

  He broke into a grin as he stood up and walked around his desk to grasp Asher’s hand in one of his meaty paws. The light nearly glinted in his eyes but their deep brown colour absorbed too much of it. His body always seemed to absorb everything in its gravitational field — food, drink, sounds of conversation, expressions on faces, ripples of emotion, people.

  “It’s been too long, Harry. You’re looking good. I’m glad you could make time for this. Drink?” He walked over to the hutch. Asher turned to watch him, feeling the nagging stiffness spreading from his left arm to his shoulder and neck.

  “No, thanks. Still working hours.”

  “And I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re driving. Gerald tells me you drove up in a green Jaguar.”

  “That’s right,” Asher said, not looking at Ryan. “I wouldn’t want to jeopardize my driver’s licence, or my licence to practise. You just have voters to answer to. I have the Law Society. But that aside, it’s still working hours.”

  Asher wondered why he had agreed to take a look at the trial, wondered again why he had ever agreed to do anything for Karamanlis. But he knew why. Wherever Karamanlis was, there was human warmth. There was also the possibility of an interesting job or, with luck, a job dangerous enough to be exciting.

  Karamanlis came back with a glass of ouzo. He considered the way Asher had turned to watch him go across the room and back. He knew Asher’s left arm was a little arthritic and suspected that on bad days the stiffness might spread toward the shoulder and neck. He never felt sorry for him. A lot of people lived with a lot worse, and he knew Asher disliked sympathy.

  He settled into the chair opposite Asher. “But you’d have a brandy if it was just the risk of scratching the car. You’d keep me company.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “That’s what I like. A sense of companionship. A sense of priorities. You see, Gerald? That’s why I wanted Harry for this. He has the proper mix of humanity and business.” His smile dimmed. “Did you learn anything in court today?”

  “It was a crime of passion,” Asher began. “He wasn’t settling an old score. He didn’t lose control out of years of frustration or hatred. It was hatred of a different sort. It was a clear day when he smacked that half-ton into Apson. The collision would have made a loud thunk like hitting a deer. But a deer would have been in mid-stride, running off toward the bush. This was a human being. The forensic evidence said Apson had stopped running. He was standing stock-still when Turlock slammed the truck into him. He would have been looking right through the windshield, right at Turlock. Think about that.”

  Karamanlis took another taste of his drink and swallowed. “All right. Where do we go from here?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “I need to know why it happened. Turlock was always half-crazy. I only put him in cabinet to keep the old section of the party happy. And to keep an eye on him, and keep him busy.”

  More than one reason for anything you do, Asher thought.

  “It’s bad enough when a cabinet minister ends up on trial for second-degree murder. Worse coming so soon after the other business. He isn’t going to talk. I have to know what happened.”

  “Have to, or want to?”

  “Don’t split hairs with me, Harry. If I thought it was a job for any lawyer there were others around. Besides, you still owe me for the oil museum. Maybe you owe me more than I thought. A vintage Jaguar XKE, Gerald says.”

  “In racing green. Did Gerald tell you I also run a successful legal practice and you’re not my only client? Some of the others even listen to my advice.”

  “It was a risk. But it was worth it. To get hold of the biggest and most important collection of historic oil and gas equipment in the world? Full of one-of-a-kind original artifacts from around the world? We would have had education, and then for entertainment we would have added a casino and horse racing track. The field would have been remade to look like the prehistoric swamps that turned into oil pools. That would have been worth the price of admission by itself. Now it’s threatening to become a failure, with a lot of investors holding the bag. Maybe we can still find a way to salvage most of it. The tourist payoff would have been fantastic and the displays would have put us on the culture map. World-class.”

  “Yeah, and maybe you could talk the Disney organization into building one of their parks right beside Oil Country someday. I wonder what Snow White would look like with grease stains on her blouse and cheeks. She’d look like a mechanic. ‘Bout time she got a job, I guess.”

  Karamanlis studied Asher. The price of hiring a quality mind was that it tended to be independent.

  “Maybe someday. What would have been wrong with that? We could make the business more respectable. Half the museums in the world have collections of guns. They’re all about remembering how people killed one another. Why wouldn’t it be better to show how people make a living and provide the energy they need for a better life?”

  “Sure,” Asher said. “And after they’ve learned a little about geology they can be herded over to the stage shows and the gambling. They could be pumped for money just like they saw the ground being pumped for oil. Another natural resource. It would be as good as owning them.”

  “You can’t own human beings. Not in any sense. You should know that now.”

  I know it now, Asher thought, envisaging his former wife. But I never wanted to own her.

  “What I know,” Asher said, “is that anyone who believes stories about a secret stash of relics from John D. Rockefeller and the early days in places like Texas and Arabia is a mug. Especially when it comes from a big-hatted Texan who keeps warehouses in the desert and makes his money off tax dodges and deals with foreign dictators. It’s bad enough trying to find authentic material here. You know that derrick out at the edge of town? The one that’s supposed to have brought in the well that started the modern oil and gas business here? It’s old equipment, all right. But I once talked to one of the old guys who’d worked on it. He said the one they put on display could have been the discovery rig, but as far as that went, there was a lot of old iron lying around in the yards.”

 
“That’s your distrust showing, Harry.” Karamanlis smiled now, trying to steer to smoother ground. “About what I’d expect from someone who’s seen how the law works from inside.”

  “What about distrust, Jimmy? That’s an interesting subject. Why would Gerald be mentioning my car? What else has he been mentioning? You got some furniture and machinery and paper. I told you not to believe they were real. Or does Gerald still think there are real undiscovered relics somewhere? Maybe they’ve even been sold to someone else. Where would I find a collector willing to bid? Besides which, the investment consortium would probably have gotten cold feet anyway.”

  He looked at Ryan leaning against the false fireplace. Ryan said, “Hiring you to negotiate cost the party a lot of money. Our administrative expenses will bulge this year. It’s a real pisser.”

  “So is a broken nose.”

  Karamanlis moved his glass from his generous but not flabby mound of stomach and put it firmly on the table beside him. He let the glass be loud but kept his voice quiet.

  “Harry, you have certain skills.”

  “Enough to know never to let a story leak about getting taken in an antiques fraud. No one has found out.”

  Karamanlis paused, letting the goodwill leak out of his eyes while the humour still played around his mouth. He was edging toward meanness.

  “We were counting on someone who knows where things are buried. That’s what we need now. What I need. Someone who can dig through the weeds and beer cans on top of what used to pass for Turlock’s brain and figure out what was going on inside. Something has to be there. If it wasn’t money, it was politics. If it wasn’t politics, it was a woman. Whatever got his head even more twisted around than it already was is still out there. Chances are it’s a person. A real live body. Unpredictable. Wanting who knows what. I don’t know if the idea scares you. It scares me.”

  “You don’t want to admit being scared, Jimmy. Someone might say being scared is what turns people into bullies.”

  “I don’t admit it in public, any more than I admit anything else. As for being a bully, the amateur shrinks don’t know everything. Being scared doesn’t just make you want to make other people scared. My father succeeded in the restaurant business because he never forgot to be scared — of McDonald’s, of health inspectors, of customers who wouldn’t say boo to a waiter but couldn’t wait to mouth off to all their friends about a dirty spoon. I succeeded in politics because I never forgot to be scared of everyone who could hurt me — just never scared enough to be afraid to get things done. I intend to keep succeeding.”