Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island (19 page)

“Betting. It's how I live, and don't call me asshole.”

“I can't believe you'd do that. You are totally stupid.”

“Don't call me stupid.” An offended voice.

“Randy—”

“Look, Austin, you've done a lot for me, setting me up and all. If betting on skating messes you up, I won't. Hell, I never even placed the bet, they wouldn't let me.”

Austin had calmed. Randy occasionally acted foolishly, but his promises were honest. “Okay, Randy. Stick to horses and poker. I'll be out in a month.”

“See you then.” Randy's tone was icy, but Austin felt reassured.

How had Harold learned about this event that hadn't happened? Because he snuck around everybody's blog and tweet and Facebook?

Now Austin was at home on Quadra Island. With Shu-li. He didn't want to think about Harold. Tomorrow they would talk about Harold. Soon Harold would fall.

•  •  •

Shu-li unpacked her suitcase. This weekend she'd have to tell Austin her part of the plan was maybe unraveling. Her skater, Miranda Steele, would take two years easily before she was ready. Miranda at thirteen had shown such promise—grace, strength, stamina. Last year something in her shifted, more attitudinal than physical but visible to anyone who'd watched her before. Her glides were looking labored; her axels ended as they should, but it looked like the girl was working hard. Judges had begun to notice and she lost points. In the last months Shu-li had spent extra time with Miranda; perhaps she'd grow beyond this strange technique block. Telling Austin would not be easy.

She changed. When she met Austin in the kitchen, she saw they matched each other in shorts, T-shirt and Dockers. She'd cook dinner, their ritual. He told her what the fridge held, thanks to Randy. Soon she placed before them scampi and mussel linguini, steamed asparagus, baked stuffed tomatoes. Also sliced filone from the Lovin' Oven. For dessert, a quarter honeydew melon each. And a three-year-old Rosewood Pinot Gris, a fine Okanagan wine.

They sat on the deck, a pitcher of Pimms as
digestif
on the table between them, sipping from long-stemmed glasses. He watched as her tongue flicked up the mint, her teeth brought in the cucumber, her throat opened for the liquid. He did love her, even if they were together only five or six times a year, and then for only a few days. Three years ago they'd spent a week on the Mayan Riviera, but after four days she'd somehow withdrawn. Someone as lovely and gentle as Shu-li. He didn't understand. Three days seemed to be her comfort time with him. He'd often asked why. She would reply that she didn't know; the timing was something her body felt.

They sat in silence watching the flow and ebb of the ocean. Shu-li asked, “Have you had any more dealings with Harold?”

He'd enjoyed her voice from the moment she arrived. Her words seemed washed with melody. After a few weeks apart the sweetness of her speech would fade so that when they were together again her words and her voice sounded new. But now he turned to face her. “Let's not ruin this evening.”

“Of course not. It's just, I despise him so.”

“That's why we're here, why Steve is coming. For now, let's talk of other things.”

She nodded, and sipped her drink.

She often repeated, like a mantra, her loathing of Harold Arensen. She had every right to hate him; he'd ruined her skating career. When the rumors finally stopped, it was too late. Austin had been able to trace them back to Arensen, a memo from him to several coaches in the Toronto-Ottawa-Montreal sweep. No evidence, just innuendo: from Shirley (her ice name) Waterman taking male hormones, to her being born with abnormally male characteristics, to her having had a sex-change operation, to her actually being a boy. Anyone who saw her in dance costumes would recognize these insinuations as lies: flawless skin, small but obviously feminine breasts, no bulge between the legs. True, she was five ten; hardly unusual for a young well-nourished North American woman. Strong, yes, but the strength of any serious female athlete. The rumors flourished for months, Skate Canada made its inquiries, the insinuations proved to be lies, but the harm was done. Austin, for all his detective work, could not convince the powers that controlled the figure-skating industry that Harold Arensen should bear the blame. The man had too many allies—then as now.

He also had enemies, chief among them Shu-li, Steve and Austin. Each had good reason for regarding Arensen a nefarious adversary, still perilous after these many years.

“Shall we cool our feet in the water?” That lovely mellow lilt.

“Great idea. A refresher of Pimms?”

“Please.”

Glasses refilled, they walked down the trail, fingers intertwined. When they reached the gentle stroking water they slipped off their footwear. She led him to a flat stone bar at the left of the rocky beach. When the tide was up and at the right height, as now, they could sit on the bar and let the water lap their feet. They sipped their drinks. He put his arm about her shoulder. She let her head rest against his. An evening of peace.

He rarely felt such moments of tranquil excitement. It started seven years ago, she then nineteen, he thirty. He'd seen her skate and was enraptured. Her short program was grace in motion, the revelation of sudden loveliness enhanced by a red silk scarf about her neck flowing behind her to contrast her long raven hair. He had to meet her, and he did. She, flattered that the great Austin Osborne had taken an interest in her, agreed to have dinner with him. And each was quickly in thrall to the other. She spoke of their living together; he was uncertain. They spent time with each other when she was free, a day here, two days there. He had never been married, never lived with a woman—or even had a housemate. Despite how much he cared for Shu-li—which he called her from the moment she told him her Chinese name—he had to be mostly alone. She found this strange and told him so. He agreed, but couldn't change himself.

Then, one day, out of nowhere, the rumors about Shirley Waterman had begun. At first her skating was thrown off stride. Soon she was hospitalized for psychic exhaustion. She returned to the ice, the rumors quelled, but she could practically hear whispers from those who had believed the lies. She had increasing difficulty with her routine. She did not get the points. One day she decided it was useless and gave up her career as a competitive skater. She moved to Calgary where she easily found work as a coach.

Austin would visit, two days, sometimes three. They did try the Mexican holiday. Not the cure she needed. She turned to face him and kissed his lips, gentle as the setting sun. She drew back lightly and whispered, “Shall we go in?”

•  •  •

Shane came into the kitchen. “His bike's not there.”

“Where'd he go?”

Shane shrugged. “He didn't tell me.”

Linda hovered about the stove stirring a chicken casserole, wooden spoon in her left hand, half-empty beer stein in her right. The potatoes and carrots were ready. Alana had made a salad. Noel and Jason sipped red wine, Kyra and Alana cranberry spritzers.

“He knows better,” said Jason. “He's a responsible kid.”

Noel glanced at Jason. “Visiting a friend?”

“He'd be home by now.”

“Worth a call to wherever his friends live?”

“I don't think—”

Linda said, “I'll call Robbie and Turk and Leo, they'd be the most likely.” Avoiding the phone on the kitchen wall, she went into the den.

“Does he have a girlfriend?” Alana asked.

“No!” Jason knew he'd spoken too loudly. He looked away. “No.”

Noel crossed to the stove, took up the spoon and stirred. He didn't want this great-smelling casserole to burn. He glanced at his watch, quarter after seven, still more than two hours till dark. “When we drove off to meet Bertina, I saw someone on a bicycle heading up Heriot Bay Road.”

Jason turned to face Noel. “Was it Tim?”

“Could have been. I only saw him from the back.”

“What kind of bike?”

Noel shrugged. “I don't know bike brands.”

“Dirt bike? Mountain bike? Color?”

Noel closed his eyes. “Thick tires.”

“Timmy's is a mountain bike. We got it for him last Christmas.”

Kyra excused herself, lay on the living room couch, closed her eyes. She set one hand on her belly, which felt comforting. Except Pregnant didn't go away. What to do about little Pregnant? And when was her empty stomach going to receive some of that delicious casserole? Had she ever considered abortion seriously? Not that she believed abortion was wrong, just if someone had to be blamed and punished it was her. What kind of a mother would she be if she treated the fetus as if it really were a problem? Kids.

Like Jason and Linda's kids; each was more of a pain than the next. The first a dope dealer, the next completely self-engrossed, and the youngest can't even get home in time for dinner. What if the baby turned out like one of them? Or all three? Or worse? Come on, your baby could turn out a lot better. Yeah? Why? Because I'd be raising it. What makes you think you could be a good mother? Better than Jason as a parent? Better than Linda? She closed her eyes and saw a baby all wrapped up, just its face visible. Would a boy or a girl be better?

She heard voices in the kitchen. Then Linda's return and report that none of Timmy's friends had seen him, and that they'd now eat with or without Timmy. Kyra stood and ambled to the table. She was truly weary.

Linda served. They ate. Good casserole, great carrots; that from Alana. Linda noted they'd come out of the garden this afternoon. Nearly 8:00
PM
.

Noel felt the press of silent fear at the table. The parents weren't about to admit to it. Shane was unlikely to show concern about his brothers. Alana surely knew it was there, she was good at picking up nuances and states of mind. Kyra? The poor woman just looked wiped. He had to break into the mood. But that wasn't what they'd been hired for. Oh, do it for Jason as friend, forget job. “There's still a couple of hours of daylight left. Let's go look for Tim.”

Linda closed her eyelids before she looked up. “We could. Let's finish here and head out.” A sudden energy took the table as they all, Shane included, scraped the last of the casserole off plates and cutlery and drained their drinks.

Kyra felt the energy too. Fed, so anything was possible. Alana stood and began to clear the plates but Kyra said, “I can do that.” Dishes and cutlery in the washer, pans in the sink. She said to Jason, “Where should Noel and I be looking?”

Jason thought for a couple of seconds. “He liked to bike down to April Point. Sometimes he sat up there and read. You could try in that area. Linda and I could start at the village and—”

“Mom? Dad?” Shane was at the door. “I think I should go. Noel could go with you, Dad, and I'll go with Kyra. They don't know the island, there ought to be someone from here in each car. You better stay, Mom, for when Tim calls or gets back. Alana, you okay about staying with Mom?” Alana, alone allowing her surprise to show, nodded. Shane turned to Kyra and Noel. “You guys have cell phones?”

They both did, and left their numbers with Linda. Kyra's glance caught Noel's and watched his eyebrows shrug. “Okay if I take your Honda?”

He handed her the keys. “Don't get any scratches on it.”

She tchhed at him and turned to Shane. “Let's go.”

•  •  •

Noel followed Kyra and Shane out the door, watched them get into the Honda and head out the drive. Jason searched for keys. Shane's notion, that Kyra and he should split up—and where had that ping of intelligent analysis come from in surly Shane?—made good sense. Still, Noel didn't like her going off by herself. Well, with Shane. Likely Shane could handle most island situations. But in her condition, she needed to be—what? Protected? By him? Too often she protected him.

“Found them,” said Jason. They got into his Corolla. Shane had said he and Kyra would check out the area between here and April Point. That left Quathiaski Cove, both harbor and village, or up toward Heriot Bay.

At the end of the driveway Jason turned left. Noel said, “What's to the right?”

“Road dead-ends at Gowlland Harbour. A couple of lodges—Seascape Waterfront Resort and the Gowlland Harbour Resort. They're both nice without being too fancy. Timmy's had a summer job at each and doesn't much care for the guests they get.”

“Fishing, whale and bear-watching, that sort of thing?”

“Yeah. Big on kayaking. All guests get their own kayak.”

“Tim's not big on kayaking?”

“Looking at water's what he's best at. And running.”

They drove in silence for a minute. Noel said, “How are we going to do this?”

“Depends on why he didn't come for supper.”

“Yeah.” Noel nodded. “He didn't head off to see his usual friends. His less usual friends maybe?”

“No idea who they might be.”

“You reacted pretty abruptly about a possible girlfriend. What was that about?”

“I just couldn't see Timmy with a girlfriend already.”

“He's a big kid. Kind of private.”

When Jason didn't respond, Noel went on, “Okay, Derek whom he admires is messed up around drugs. That hurts. So Timmy's gone somewhere to lick his wounds.”

“I think that's what it is.” Silence. “Hope that's what it is.”

“Or he's gotten into a fix, maybe hurt, somewhere he can't help himself.”

Jason sighed. “God, I hope not.”

“So? You want to go to Quathiaski Cove Village and ask around? You know some of the merchants?”

“Yeah. Most of them.”

They reached West Road. Jason pulled off. “Got your cell phone?”

“Yeah, 'course.”

“Get Linda. She can call around over there. We'll head the other way, toward Heriot Bay. Check the sides of the road. Keep your eye on the right, I'll look left. And we head down side roads. There aren't a lot, though. Pretty heavily wooded through there.”