Anarchy (9 page)

Jonas waited a while. “And?”

“Do you know what it means?”

“Don't mean anything. It's a reminder. He does that. Helps him keep stuff together.”

“A reminder of what? Does what?”

Jonas looked longingly at the now silent game. “You sure you care about this?”

“I'm not leaving till you tell me.” She moved to stand between him and the screen. “There. Don't make me turn it off.”

“Whoa. Look, it's just a way of getting the pages together. You know, so he can find stuff.”

“You need to go back a few steps, Jonas. I'm the rookie here, remember? I don't understand what the letters mean. The numbers.”

“Oh, okay. Name and date. Sorry, man. Thought that was obvious. SF is Fitzgerald and 12/1 is the date. So there's a report from Shawn for that date, goes with whatever he'd written that on.”

She looked at her own scribble. “You sure?”

“Goose. You promised.”

She stepped away from the TV. “Sorry. So, this is like a cross-reference?”

He snapped his fingers. “That's the word.”

“And it means this goes with . . .”

“Whatever Shawn filed that day.”

“There wasn't anything in the file.”

Jonas shrugged. “Big file. I should know.”

“I read all the station reports. I went through it like ten times and read all of them first. They're short, that's why. And you can understand them.”

“Something got into you?”

“Maybe,” she said.

• • •

After her interview with the sarge that afternoon she was absolutely sure she'd never get hold of the file again, no matter whom she asked. On the other hand, she thought, sitting on her bed and staring absently at the packing boxes, she didn't need to. She remembered, quite clearly, spending extra time trying to figure out what had happened to Jennifer in those second and third weeks of January, after the girl had been charged on the basis of her mother's accusation. It was precisely the paucity of documentation that had struck her. Putting kids in jail for more than a night was a serious business that usually left a prominent paper trail. She was as sure as she could be that there'd been nothing signed by Fitzgerald with that date anywhere in the file.

And why would Cope have referred to one of his officers' reports anyway? Perhaps he hadn't been cross-referencing anything at all. Perhaps he'd got the date wrong. It was just a scribble. It was, however, unmistakably, unarguably, a response to that particular couple of sentences in the hospital report. The suggestion of Jennifer sneaking out of bed and singing and dancing around in the middle of the night must have reminded him of something.

Drop it.
She had her instructions. Let the kid go, forget about her, for your own good. That was the deal.

She kicked a space clear on the floor, lay down, and went through her stretching exercises, promising herself she'd do something to make herself sweat and breathe hard during her off hours the next morning. There was no further she could go anyway. Cope hadn't so much declared the case closed as annulled it, decided to pretend it had never happened. She obviously wasn't going to be asking him what he'd been thinking of when he saw the hospital report. Or what it had to do with whatever Constable Fitzgerald might have noted on 12 January—

She sat up abruptly, tweaking her shoulder.

Drop it.

Why couldn't she drop it?

Her apartment was very quiet. People called places like Alice “quiet”; it was supposed to mean that nothing went on there, but actually, she'd discovered, it was the literal truth. Nothing but the potty-mouth crows made any noise unless the wind was up or the rain was falling. Especially at night. For a few seconds after she went to bed, when she pulled the cover up to her chin and settled on her pillow, she'd lie there astonished by the absence of noise. Frightened by it, if she was honest with herself, just for a moment. She didn't like it. She didn't like the silence that bored out of the girl's eyes. She didn't like the thought of the girl vanishing into the fog,
tlatch tlatch tlatch tlatch,
receding, muffled by the white shroud, going somewhere and doing something no one else could understand.

It was just one phone call, she thought. Cope would never need to find out. Fitzgerald had been transferred away for good. They'd sent him home when he got sick; once that happened it was as good as being redeployed. She wouldn't have been called up in his place otherwise. Wherever he went next, it wouldn't be back to Hardy. But Janice had given Goose his home number on her first day. Her first hour, in fact. “Oh, Shawn, I'm sure he'd love to hear from you. Tell you all the little ins and outs. Tips and tricks.” Janice wanted everyone in the detachment to be best friends.

Goose checked the time. If she left it any later she might interrupt dinner or wake someone up. Those midwestern people ate and went to bed ridiculously early.

The first time she tried the number it didn't work. Or rather she heard a kind of ghostly ringing, very faint, as if the connection was only a quarter complete. She strolled around the apartment looking for a better signal and tried again from the miniature kitchen. This time there wasn't even a dial tone, just a kind of whispery silence. The screen was showing three bars, which should have been plenty. She put on her coat and shoes and went outside, heading up the slope of the road. It was almost dark. She'd reached the corner of the block when the phone buzzed in her hand.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” A woman's voice, nervous.

“Hello?”

“Who is this?”

Goose cupped her free hand around the phone. The woman sounded frail, or elderly, or both. “I think you have a wrong number, madam. Séverine Maculloch?”

“What?”

“I said I think you have a wrong number. Sorry.”

“I just picked up the phone.”

“Excuse me?”

“You called me. Is this the hospital?”

Goose put on her official voice, with its hint of abrasive impatience. “Who am I speaking to, please?”

“Marnie Fitzgerald. Are you the doctor?”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald?” The official voice deserted her.

“Hello?”

“Mrs.—” She struggled briefly to recover herself. “I'm sorry. Can I confirm that I'm speaking to Mrs. Fitzgerald?”

“Yes. Is it bad news? Oh God.”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald, I'm sorry to bother you. My name's Séverine Macul­loch. I'm the officer who replaced Shawn in the Hardy detachment.” There was a pause. “Hardy, B.C. How's Shawn doing? I was sorry to hear he was sick.”

After another shaky pause, the woman said, “You're the police?”

“This isn't an official matter, Mrs. Fitzgerald. I just wanted to check how Shawn was doing and maybe see if there was a chance I could talk with him for a moment. If he's there. Or if you have a better number for him. Hello?” She thought she'd lost the connection, but the button on the phone's screen was still green. “Hello?”

A man's voice appeared. “Shawn's not here.”

“Is that Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“He had to go to hospital. Monday morning.”

“Oh. I'm very sorry to hear that.”

“You don't sound like the sergeant. Marn said it was the sergeant.”

“No, sir. I'm Constable Maculloch. I'm Shawn's replacement.”

“You're a Mountie?”

“I'm an officer of the Mounted Police, yes, sir.”

“In that place?”

“My assignment is the Hardy detachment, yes, sir. Just the same as your son. Am I speaking to Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“They're gonna eat you alive up there.”

“I appreciate the advice, sir. Would you mind telling me the name of the hospital where Shawn was admitted?”

“They won't let you talk to him.”

“I certainly won't bother your son while he's sick. I have a couple of questions for him but they're not urgent. I can try another time. Sorry to disturb your family, Mr. Fitzgerald. My best wishes for Shawn's recovery.”

“He got a lot worse.”

Goose looked across over the town and the still black stripe of the inlet to the mountain ridge on the western horizon. Even the crows had gone temporarily quiet.

“He couldn't even stay in bed. Sores got so bad, he can't lie on them.”

This wasn't the first time someone had mistaken Goose for a good listener. She'd always blamed her looks before. She was blond and appley. By a mean-spirited genetic joke she'd inherited her dad's improbably wholesome face unmitigated by any of her mom's spiky glamour, which would have suited her much better, as well as being much more popular with the kind of boys she'd liked in high school. On this occasion, obviously, her face couldn't be held responsible.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” she said, briskly. “I'm sure he'll do better now he's in hospital.” Her next word would have been “good-bye” but she wasn't quick enough.

“None of them know what it is.”

They had lectures at the Depot about being a good listener. “Active Listening” it was called, which was about as much as she remembered. She knew she'd most likely have to work twice as hard as the guys to get the same evaluations, so she gave it her best shot, but she'd never really grasped what it was about, beyond biting your tongue so you didn't tell losers to quit whining.

“It'll be all right, sir. They'll look after him good.”

“We wanted him to stay here. But the smell—”

He's going to cry, Goose thought, as the man cut himself off with a kind of fumbling choke.

“Please don't distress yourself. Thank you for your time. My best wishes to your family.”

“You seen that girl?”

Goose flushed and went very still. “Sir?”

Bubbling sniffly noises. “You know what Shawn says?”

She looked around. No one else was outside. People didn't go outside unless they were in a car. “I've never had the opportunity to meet your son.”

“Says she put a curse on him. That's what he says. Says she gave him the evil eye. None of the doctors got an explanation.”

“I understand your son must be very distressed—”

“What'd you say your name was, missy?”

Missy?
“Constable Maculloch.”

“You got that girl still? The native girl? You still got her in jail?”

Goose took a long moment to answer. “I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to reveal custody arrangements.”

“You go see her, okay? You go see her. Please.” The voice had gone hoarse. “I'm asking you as a father.”

“Mr. Fitzgerald, I'm afraid I can't—”

“Please. You go tell her Shawn's sorry for what he done. Real sorry. You ask her to stop what she's doing. Tell her we're begging her. If she wants money, we'll give her money.”

A boy freewheeled down the slope on his bike. She turned her face away from the road and let him pass out of sight.

“May I ask,” she said, carefully, “what it is Shawn thinks he did?”

“He didn't mean no harm. He's a good kid.”

“I'm sure.”

“Please,” the voice said, shrunk to a whisper so bereft Goose could barely hear it even on that deserted street. “Just tell her.”

8

N
ot sleeping too good, huh.”

“Is it that obvious?”

Jonas drew crescents under his own eyes with his fingers.

“I was unpacking,” she said. “I've been putting it off.”

They were in the window booth at Traders, simultaneously having breakfast and being visible. Cope, who perhaps knew enough about Jonas to figure that he'd sit in the station watching TV if he could, was big on being visible.

“Boxes fought back?”

“Yeah. It was, like, ten against one.”

He chuckled, opening his third sugar packet and stirring.

She'd hadn't plugged in the laptop. The mere thought of doing so had made her sweat. Her phone had gone off three times, unknown callers. She'd desperately wanted to talk to Annie but something about the way the phone sat there buzzing at her made it impossible for her to touch it. She'd tried to tire/bore herself to sleep by unpacking. Hours later, as it turned midnight, she'd been standing in the kitchen, holding her cheap wok in one hand and crying into the other because she couldn't remember where she'd put the matching lid she'd unwrapped two minutes earlier, or at least that was the only obvious reason.

“You wanna go home and catch some zees? I can watch the shop.”

Jonas was so absurdly even-tempered that it hadn't quite occurred to Goose to think of him as kind. She smiled, embarrassed.

“Nah. I'll be okay. I'm off later this morning anyway, right?”

“Yep. I'm thinking you could break early.”

“I'm fine. I need stuff to do anyway. Think I'm getting cabin fever.”

“Ahh, we can keep you busy if we try, can't we, Courtnee?” The waitress had brought his eggs. She was a hefty teenager who went speechless in the face of Jonas's easy charm, like every other female in the town. “Gonna rustle up some malfeasance for Goose here, huh? Hey, is that French? Thanks, hun.” Courtnee retreated to her greasy sanctuary behind the kitchen door, blushing helplessly.

“You're great with the kids.” Goose watched him eat. “You should have your own.”

“No way.” Even for him the negative was emphatically protracted. “Different kettle o' fish.”

“They should have let you sit down with Jennifer Knox right at the start. I bet you'd have had the whole story out of her in ten minutes.”

He glanced at her, suddenly wary, and went on eating.

“What?”

He finished chewing, very deliberately. He dabbed at his mouth. He'd have driven her mother crazy. You could see he had something to say, but it was like he needed to warm up.
Alors, accouche!
(waving the lit cigarette in her hand in her impatience, scattering tiny flakes of ash: who's going to clean them up? Goose would be thinking angrily).

“Girl's still bugging you, huh.”

“Aren't you even curious, Jonas? Of course you aren't. What am I saying.”

“I'm curious about whether there's a God too. Don't let it keep me awake, though. You know the sarge don't want us going looking for her again?”

“Oh yeah. I got the message.”

“Hey. Take it easy.”

“Are you guys up here always like this about missing kids? Like, oh well, never mind, plenty more where they came from?”

He put down his fork and leaned back. “It's not like that. The thing you got to understand, Goose, is we did all this before. The guys tried their best, you know?”

She cradled her mug in her hands, swirling the dregs of her coffee into a miniature whirlpool. Its steam clung to the chilly window, fogging her view.

“What about Fitzgerald?” she said.

“Shawn? What about him?”

She'd said nothing about calling the man's home. Something about it lay slightly outside the range of conversation. There was a tincture of the unspeakable. Goose felt it by some secret instinct, like a taboo.

“What'd he think about her?” She heard her voice waver fractionally.

“Shawn's not too much of a thinker.”

“He was the duty cop one night while she was in jail.” She stared out at the row of houses opposite, the ones overlooking the inlet. “He wrote some kind of report that wasn't in the file.”

Jonas sighed and shifted in his seat. “Oh, man.”

“Right?”

“You're gonna sleep better if you stop thinking about paperwork.”

“Did he ever say anything to you, Jonas? About Jennifer? He was the officer called to the scene that night. He must have been involved a lot.”

“A lot of people said a lot of stuff.”

The tone of his voice said
it was nothing, forget it, don't worry
. She turned to him sharply and saw discomfort in his eyes.

“What do you mean? What'd he say?”

“Ah. Shawn. You know.”

Her mother would have waited no more than a few seconds before getting up and standing over his shoulder, snapping. Recognizing where the impulse came from, Goose resisted it and waited. Jonas had his own rhythms. Part of his heritage, she thought to herself, plucking the buzzword from that internal glossary of Canadianness she'd worked so hard to acquire.

“Shawn's good people.”

Goose had learned how to interpret this phrase. Jonas used it so often that at first she'd thought it represented his universal view of humanity. Then she'd noticed it was often followed by a
but
. It was his way of compensating for something he didn't really want to talk about, so as to keep things in his preferred state of equilibrium. If they were talking about a wife beater with a homegrown supply of weed and a habit of posting racist conspiracy rants on YouTube, he'd get to the qualifier more or less straightaway: “He's good people, but . . .” For less heinous individuals it might take him a bit longer.

“Hard worker. Tries his best, you know? Nothing too much trouble.”

Goose had to wait while the waitress came in and refilled their coffees.

“But, you know. Thought he was gonna sort it out.”

She waited a while longer to be certain that was as much as he had to say.

“Sort out what? The case?”

“Ah, I dunno.”

“You mean he thought he knew what had happened?”

“Who knows. Ancient history.”

“I was talking with Jennifer the day before yesterday. Or trying.” They both kept their voices low, though they could hear the owner yakking on the phone in the kitchen, and Courtnee had left the room again. “Two days ago. It's not ancient history. She walked right out of that cell all by herself, Jonas. I swear she did. You want to know why I can't sleep?”

“See.” Her colleague looked pained. “This is the thing. It gets to you unless you take it easy. Got to Shawn.”

“Got to him how?”

“I guess . . . He used to say how hard could it be to get a kid to talk.” Jonas looked at his plate. She felt like she was bullying a puppy.

“He said that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You think he tried something?”

“Oh, man. Come on. Shawn's a good cop.”

“So what was he talking about?”

“I dunno. Said he knew she could open her mouth if she wanted to, so—”

“What?”

“Goose, what's with you? I'm gonna take you home myself.”

“Nothing's with me. There was stuff in the file. About Jennifer getting up in the night and singing or something like that.”

“Yeah.” Jonas nodded.

“What do you mean, ‘yeah'?”

“Whoa. You joined the wrong service. Should have made you an interrogator.”

“It's true. Don't make me get the electrodes out.”

It was the right approach. Persuade him that it wasn't serious and Jonas didn't care what he told you. He grinned and held up his hands. “Mercy. Yeah. Shawn had some story about how he'd heard something like that one night in the cells. Guess he read the rumors. He's a good guy, but, you know. He always liked to be where the important stuff was. Man, he loved it when that TV crew showed up. I think he had a crush on the reporter.”

“So he said he heard her singing?”

“Singing, whatever.”

And now he was dying. Rotting.
But the smell
—

“Ohh-kaay.” Jonas took advantage of Goose's silence to push his chair back. The waitress must have been attuned to the scrape. Courtnee came racing out to take his plate and fuss around the table, transparently hoping and fearing that he'd speak to her. “We better get to work.”

They strolled up to the station together. The day felt as if it might turn out a little warmer. A different wind, maybe, more southerly. She thought how strange it would be to know that you might not see the change in the season. How could spring and summer come and a person not be there to see them? Fitzgerald was twenty-six, exactly the same as she.

“The Band in Rupert . . . I can't say the name properly.”

“Kwakiutl.”

“Quaggoolth?”

“No worse than my French.”

“That's Jennifer's . . . what do you call it? Nation?”

“Hey, Goose. I got an idea. I call it”—he placed the words one by one in the air in front of him, left to right—“Changing the Subject.”

She ignored him. “Are you . . . that too?”

“My nation? Nah. Nuu-cha-nulth.”

“Nootchn . . .”

“Nuu-cha-nulth. West side of the island. We're the good-looking ones.”

“Of course you are. So do you, like, know about the . . . the people here?”

“The Kwakiutl?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “They drink too much?”

“Their culture. Like religions, ceremonies, whatever.”

He blew out a long breath. “Ahh. Man. To be honest. Everyone likes to talk about that kind of stuff. But it's all gone, you know? We do our best, but, you know. Kind of making it up as we go along. Don't quote me, now. Maybe I wouldn't say it like that if someone else was asking.”

She walked on quietly, thinking. Or not exactly thinking: ideas and images were happening to her, insistently, as if they were stuck in her brain and blocking everything else, but they didn't come together like thoughts. Fitzgerald's parents, broken by worry. The silent scream on the face of the unknown girl who called herself Daisy. The sound of the foghorn in the greyed-out nothingness. Jennifer in her cell, staring, staring, not answering. The cell, empty.

“Jonas?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“What do you think about all that stuff in England?”

He looked pained. “Now you've gone the other side of the world. I can't think that far.”

“You watch the news, right?”

“I keep up.”

“So what do you think?”

He made a face like someone pretending to think, then shrugged.

“You think they all just went crazy, or you think there's something going on there?”

“Goose, man. There's people over there marching up and down singing songs and setting fire to stuff just 'cause it's snowing. Come on. They should see Canada, we could show them snow.”

“You ever heard that woman talking? With the glasses? The one they're getting so worked up about?”

“I don't listen to women talking. Too complicated.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, you know what I mean. That stuff she says about how everything's changed. Like how we don't know what we know anymore or whatever.”

“Huh. Kind of proves my point.”

“Jonas.”

He looked at her carefully, perhaps deciding how likely she was to let it drop, and then sighed. “What?”

“What if she's right?”

Jones stopped outside the door of the station. “Now, this is exactamundo the kind of thing that happens when you don't get enough sleep.”

“Probably.” She tried to catch some of the peaceful unconcern that radiated from him. Go inside, sit at the desk, answer calls, wait till eleven when she was off shift and then get in the kayak and pound the water till her arms felt about ready to fall off; wasn't that a good enough plan for the morning?

“We all got better things to do than worry about some Brit chick.”

“So what would you do? If, like, something happened right in front of your eyes that, you know. Wasn't. Couldn't have . . . Something you couldn't explain.”

“Hey.” He smiled. “I get that every time I watch the Canucks.”

“I just thought . . .” She didn't know what she was thinking. She was groping after something too weird to qualify as a concept. “You know. With your heritage. Like, sacred spirits and stuff. Before the Europeans came and screwed it all up.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow, so slowly it was like he was onstage. “My heritage?”

“Those people in England, they're talking about supernatural stuff coming back, right? Isn't that the kind of thing the First Nations say? And having a different way of life?”

“The First Nations spent every summer beating the crap out of each other.”

She didn't embarrass easily, but she looked away. “Sorry.”

“Hey, no worries.” He unlocked the door and flicked the light switches. “I know what you mean. Some of what she talks about . . . Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea for everyone if they unplugged for a while. Slowed down. I can dig all that.”

“If you slowed down any more they'd paint lines over you and call you a speed bump.”

“Funny lady.”

“It'd be weird, though. If . . .”

“If what?” He leaned over the desk and tapped at the computer.

“If it was true. Like, things that couldn't be, happening.”

“Uh-huh.” He wasn't listening. He tapped again, eyes scanning the screen. The phone rang by his hand. “RCMP Alice, this is Officer Paul.” His look of patient exasperation appeared as he listened, the look that signified his frustration at the rest of the world's inability to just get on without bothering anyone else. “Okay. Be right down.” He hung up. “Some guy kicking down the bank door,” he said, reaching for his cap. “Saying he wants his money.”