Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island (24 page)

“It's coming in now.” Austin and Shu-li leaned against the hood of the Porsche and watched the plane taxi toward the terminal. They went inside and greeted him, Austin with a handshake and an arm around Steve's back, Shu-li with a hug and a kiss. Steve, carrying his camera case, was tall with a longish nose and a blond crew cut. Shu-li noticed his abdomen newly bulging over his belt. Small talk while they waited for his luggage. Steve dragged a large suitcase off the carousel. How much does he need for three days, Shu-li wondered.

To the Porsche, the two men in front, Shu-li squeezed behind the seats. Hard to talk with the wind blowing by the speeding open car, though Austin and Steve shouted at each other. She heard only an occasional word. Austin seemed in greater control now, the car tracking a straight line as it hurtled forward.

Harold Arensen and Austin Osborne: a long bitter story. Mid-nineties, Austin a teenager in Kanata near Ottawa, Harold head of the Ottawa Skating Association. Harold had heard talk about the young skater, had driven to watch him, was impressed. The next week he returned to offer Austin membership in the OSA. This would give Austin desirable ice time—mid-afternoons and weekends—and coaching time with Ralphie Belliveau who had trained half a dozen medalists. Within a year the lithe fifteen-year-old Austin had become a smooth and muscled skater. A body with enough power to support a partner. Harold and Ralphie would transform Austin into half of a pairs champion.

The Porsche turned onto Jubilee Parkway, a wooded stretch of road. Austin, Shu-li had heard, tried to resist—he'd been trained to work routines himself since he was eleven, had earned a reputation. No, they had argued, nothing on ice lovelier than a striking young man and a stunning young woman. Still Austin resisted; anyway, who would want to skate with him? Harold's instant response: Tilly Danforth, his niece. Austin had met Tilly, had watched her skate. She was self-possessed and pretty.

Onto South Dogwood, past the Beaver Lodge Forest Lands, North Island College on the right.

Tilly Danforth and Austin Osborne, Austin had told Shu-li, not only skated well together, they dated. They “lost” their virginity with each other.

Harold Arensen worried: dangerous if young skaters who on the ice depend on each other one hundred percent get involved emotionally. Emotion distracts. This thing between them had to end. But Tilly and Austin, now eighteen and legal, refused. The only distraction was Harold's ravings. They worried Harold, a powerful figure in Skate Canada, might do them harm. But why would he? They were good. They would be great.

Under Ralphie Belliveau they rose in the pairs rankings. Bronze in the Nationals, silver at Lake Placid. On their way to the top, anyone could see it. Spectators adored the striking duo as Austin and Tilly swept down the arena, loved their pleasure as they met the other's eyes, radiated joy, a glorious young couple utterly in love.

The Porsche slowed as they entered urban Campbell River. Shu-li hoped Shane's fate would not parallel Austin's. In Nagano in the final round he'd raised Tilly high, threw her higher, she fell back into his arms—and he dropped her. A gasp from the overflow crowd. Nothing broken, he swung about, helped her up, and they completed their routine. They lost points for the fall, gained points for the recovery. Not enough. Didn't get to the podium. Fourth.

The Porsche entered the ferry parking. Steve and Austin discussed lunch. “No no,” said Steve, “let's get to Quadra. I'm tired of traveling.”

Shu-li agreed. Austin parked. Next ferry in twenty minutes. Time to stretch their legs. Shu-li said she'd walk on to the ferry. Austin and Steve walked toward the terminal building.

With Tilly's fall the last hint of respect between Harold and Austin ended, he had told Shu-li. Emotion! Harold had thundered. You weren't concentrating, you were dreaming! Austin owned it was his mistake—Tilly's extra lift had been marginally off. No, the fault was hers, Tilly insisted—she knew her balance was off and she hadn't compensated. Whichever! was Harold's relentless response. Whichever is true, you were both in error!

They continued to skate together, a strong pair for the rest of the season: two bronzes, a gold, then a silver. Falling back to silver, Harold had fumed: The gold was at your fingertips but you weren't concentrating! You were each distracted!

Then in Istanbul, again. A different routine, another admiring audience. Austin whirled Tilly before him, was supposed to break her spin with a strong arm to her waist. But her arm struck his hand, threw her off balance, she crashed into his side, and they both went down. As before, up instantly, but this time Tilly's right leg wouldn't hold her. He supported her as they skated off the ice to the admiring applause of the crowd.

Harold Arensen forbade his niece ever to skate with Austin again. You can't do that, Austin had insisted, she's an adult, she can skate with whomever she wants. But not you, he had smirked. If she skates with you, she loses my support, official and financial. Beyond his personal malice Harold's maneuvers within Skate Canada brought sanctions against Austin, taking away his right to skate in pairs competitions for two years.

Austin would return to men's singles. But it felt wrong. Without Tilly he felt clumsy, naked. He tried to remain in love with Tilly, and she with him, but without the skating they found they had little in common. They edged away from each other. When he joined the Ice Follies, their relationship ended.

“Ferry's here,” said Austin, as he and Steve climbed back into the Porsche.

•  •  •

Steve was not looking forward to the weekend on Quadra. Odd: he'd enjoyed previous stays at Austin's house. Since Shu-li was there and insisted on cooking, the food was superior. And until recently he'd been pleased with their plot to bring down Harold. But back in Toronto his work with Graham Pauley was unraveling. His protégé had great talent, could manipulate his body with ease, had won more than his share of medals. But three or so months ago something had gone out of him. To Steve it looked like he'd lost his enthusiasm, the will to win. A month ago he had accused Graham of this: You don't seem to care anymore, young man. He should never have said it. Such balance as there'd been between Graham's hard work and Steve's delicate stroking came apart, to the point where Graham had now twice skipped practice. This weekend Steve would have to tell Austin and Shu-li about this turn of events.

Noel steered the rental Civic off South Dogwood and onto the Island Highway. Other than color, it was exactly like his own.

Kyra peeled her white knuckles off the chicken handle. Last night Shane had sat in the passenger seat, the car falling, the splat of airbags, helpless as they rolled—

Noel watched sideways as Kyra lay her hands across her stomach. Acknowledging the elephant? Breathing deeply, nearly panting. She crossed her legs, businesslike: “So this Harold guy burst in, Shane was jerked out of a trance, Austin got coldly quiet, told Shane to keep breathing deeply and stormed off.”

Alana leaned forward. “I have a friend who's learned hypnosis and she says it's dangerous to yank someone out of a trance. Changes the brain waves too abruptly. From alpha to beta or something. Weird Austin left like that. If he was the hypnotist, I mean.”

“He just about knocked me over.” Kyra crossed her legs the other way. “Harold nearly knocked me down too, rushing in. You want invisibility, wear a hospital gown.”

Noel speeded up by eighty kilometers per hour to pass a beater truck. Kyra reached up to the chicken bar again and held on. Noel swerved back into the driving lane. “Do we know who this Harold is?”

“I don't think so. He said Shane was his favorite skater—” She pulled out her iPhone. Alana did too. “No reception here otherwise I'd search him,” Kyra said. They were passing an
ELK CROSSING
sign: antlers, arched back, four legs in simulated motion.

“Hi, Sonia,” Alana said to someone far away. “I don't have good reception, can you look up Harold Arensen for me?” She spelled the name. “Based in Victoria, BC. Thanks.”

How does she do it? Kyra fussed.

“Oh yeah? . . . Really? . . . Thanks, that'll get us started.” She closed the phone. “Arensen is head of the Vancouver Island Skating Union, VISU. And a director of Skate Canada.”

“Big-time guy.”

“How did you get reception when I didn't?” Kyra asked.

“More powerful instrument? I phoned, didn't try the internet?” Alana shrugged.

Kyra shoved her phone in her pocket. “Head of VISU shouldn't have a favorite skater, should he? Or was that just a figure of speech?”

•  •  •

Ten minutes and they were across to Quadra. Austin, calmer, kept to the sixty kilometers per hour limit. Soon they were back at the house, the three on the deck, late afternoon Pimms in hand.

“So,” Steve began, “a setback.” He templed his fingertips and rubbed them together.

“A ridiculous one, but monumental,” said Shu-li. She'd forgotten how irritating she found Steve's habitual gesture.

“The accident, it's unexplained?” Rub, rub. “Out of nowhere? Hit and run?”

Austin glanced from Steve to Shu-li and back. “You suggesting something else?”

“Someone trying to hurt Shane?”

“But why?”

“I have no idea.”

Shu-li said, “Someone trying to hurt the detective?”

“What precisely was she here to inquire into?”

Austin stared at Steve. “The beating of Shane's brother. Who did it, and why.”

“Well then.” Steve folded his arms above his spreading paunch.

“No, must be someone who wants to harm the whole family.”

“The sons, at least. From what you said.”

Shu-li shook her head. “We won't get anywhere speculating on who did what. We need to talk about what we're going to do. About Shane. And soon, about Harold.”

Austin nodded. “You're right. I'll spend three hours with Shane every day. His mind will help him heal his bones.”

“Good,” said Steve. “How quickly can it happen?”

“I'll try for speed. The mind is tricky, but Shane'll work hard.”

“When can he be ready? In time for the Olympics?”

“In time to qualify, you mean?”

Steve tented his fingertips together. “Can we cut corners, do you suppose?”

Shu-li raised her eyebrows. “What do you suggest?”

“Something perhaps—painful. Harold Arensen is a first-rate corner cutter.”

She squinted at him. “Are you out of your mind?”

“It's Harold's obsession with the boy that we can turn to our advantage.” Steve smiled ironically. “Shane's advantage, I mean.”

Austin said, “You're suggesting that one of us goes to Harold and says, dear Harold, could you cut a corner or two?”

“I would be unable to do that. Could you, Austin? Shu-li?”

Shu-li shook her head. Austin exploded a breath.

Steve set his fingers and palms together, as if in prayer. “Perhaps someone else . . .”

Austin grinned widely. “Carl.”

“Carl Certane, Shane's very own coach, admired by Arensen.”

“Think he'd be willing? He's pretty straight arrow.”

“Carl believes in Shane. For Carl it won't be cutting corners, it'll be a matter of righting wrongs. Very honorable.”

“Okay,” said Steve, “who's going to talk to him? I barely know him.”

Shu-li shook her head in mock-weariness. “You make great tactical suggestions, Steve. But when it comes to carrying them out . . .”

“He wouldn't take suggestions from me. But he admires you.”

“He admires my body.”

“We all do. Which doesn't mean we can't restrain ourselves.” He stared over the water. The ferry from Cortes was approaching. “Some of us, anyway,” he muttered.

“Okay. I'll see him on my way back.” She held Carl in high esteem; he'd been one of the greats. And was a remarkable coach. Carl could admire her body. She thought highly of his talents. “If the cut corners and the hypnotherapy work, Shane can still do it. Right?”

Steve said, “Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Austin said. “Refreshers on Pimms?” He took their glasses and went to the kitchen. Yes, he enjoyed Shu-li's body, looking at it, loving it. And the woman herself. What a shame that she had such a hard time staying with him for longer than three days. Always in a rush to go somewhere. Or hurrying to get home to Calgary. Calgary! Poor Shu-li. He would have loved her to stay on Quadra a few more days. If she ever really committed herself to him, that'd be the moment he'd leave Ottawa forever.

•  •  •

The band meeting ended at 9:00
PM
. Three years ago when Ezekiel Pete became the convener of the Negotiations Team he insisted their gatherings begin punctually and finish two hours later—most people's brains weren't up to concentrating in meetings longer than that. At first the other team members mocked him: you got loose brains, Zeke? Won't hold together more than a couple of hours? Put more meat on your bum, Zeke, so you can sit longer. But they soon discovered that a concentrated meeting produced clearer results than when consultations dragged on. Now he was known around the island for this tactic, and other groups used the pattern as a model. He also ran an organized meeting, which helped.

Before the evening's session he'd signaled to Dano and Charlie, stick around after the meeting. When the others left, he said, “Lisa and Jake at home tonight, Dano?”

“Lisa's on the last ferry and Jake's shacking up with his girlfriend these days.”

“Let's go to your place.”

Charlie said, “Why, Zeke? We can just stay here.”

“Yeah, but Dano's close, he'll give us a beer.” Zeke grinned at Dano. “Right?”

“No problem.”

“Besides, I don't want the others to see us talking.”