Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island (25 page)

“Big conspiracy?” Charlie clamped on his hat. “We gonna take over the world?”

“Kinda. Let's go.”

They left their cars at the Center and walked in silence past the red-roofed open shed that protected the war canoe. An old green van passed them from behind and headed down toward the southern end of Cape Mudge Village. Zeke glanced at the totem pole flat on its back next to the museum parking sign. Such a shame. After another hundred and thirty feet they reached Dano's house, a low clapboard rancher. Dano turned on the living room lights even though it wasn't dark yet, and headed for the kitchen. Charlie sat in the middle of the couch. Zeke dropped onto the old La-Z-Boy to glance out the window towards the Passage. Water always eased him, no matter the situation.

“Here you go, guys.” Dano handed them cans of Molson's, opened his, turned a straight-backed kitchen chair and leaned forward on the backrest. “Okay, Zeke, what's up?”

Zeke let out a small sigh. “Matthew's boy Amos didn't get the scholarship.”

“Shit,” said Charlie.

Dano added, “Yeah.”

“I don't get it. He had the grades.”

“Yeah. He was good in high school. Matt shoulda made him go right to the U after that.”

“Whatever,” said Zeke. “He worked hard at school. He stayed out of trouble till he had nothing to do. Now he's signed up for that joinery course, it's part of the parole agreement. But he's got no money. And Matt's already paid the tuition deposit.”

“So what's your idea, Zeke?”

“We've got to raise the cash.”

“Amos isn't going to take our money. Anyway, Matthew wouldn't let him.”

“No gift. A loan.”

Charlie thought about that, then nodded. “Maybe.”

“Definitely. At low interest rates. And he'll work harder, to get it paid back.”

“How much?”

“A thousand'll cover the courses.”

Dano said, “I can do a hundred.”

And Charlie, “Me too.”

“Then we're nearly a third of the way there. If we each talk to four elders we should have the cash for him by the end of the week.”

“That kid's gotta go to school,” Dano said.

“He'll pay us back.” Zeke hoped he wasn't just dreaming. “Joiners make good money.”

They came up with a dozen names and divided them among themselves. They finished their beers. Charlie walked south to his place, Zeke headed back to the Center. It was deep dusk. He noted the green van, parked on the west side of road. Zeke knew most of the vehicles on the south end of the island. This one he didn't recognize.

•  •  •

Great. The guy was leaving alone. He didn't want to tackle two of them. He slipped on the rubber mask, a death's-head that covered him from scalp to under his chin. He glanced inside the cab, key in the ignition ready to go. He grasped the golf clubs, a five- and a six-iron, with gloved hands, hefted them and waited for the Indian to pass the van. The guy'd be able to describe it later, maybe even remember the plate, but he'd been wearing gloves each time he borrowed it from old Marlton, off in Mexico. First those damn clammy medical things all the way over on the ferry, now these green gardening ones. Well, they both did the job. Guy was walking right toward the van, no way could he see, too many shadows. Wait till he's gone by. Rubber-soled shoes, never hear anything.

He watched as Zeke approached. Couldn't see his face clearly. Short-sleeve shirt, no protection from that, skinny arms. Light-weight pants too. He'll be hurting for a while.

He squatted beside the van, passenger side. There the guy went, on the other side. The fuckin' ess-oh-bee, what he'd done, wasn't gonna get away with it. Past the tail, couple more steps. Now! He stepped out of the shadows, six-iron high, lunged angling it onto the guy's neck right by the ear. Yeah! A whump, and he went down on his knees, hands catching him, all fours. Step up, swing, and that was his nose, good squish— Yeah, way to go! Another bash, right across his chest, but the guy must've sensed something coming, he slipped to the right and the club slid off his hip. Another whack caught him in the lower leg. The guy rolled again and came around standing facing—bet the death's-head got him scared now, Indians're all scared of spirits and this face was back from the dead. He pulled the club around and came about but the guy had shifted positions again, he was out of reach but lots of blood coming out of his nose. Have to charge him hard, come in swinging, club back and over and down— Damn if the guy didn't catch the thing as it came down and wrench it away, goddamn! He pulled back and shifted the five-iron to his right hand, up around and down but the guy caught the shaft with the six he'd just stolen and something in his other hand glinted—fuck, he had a knife, where the hell—? How could he still be on his feet? He pulled back on the five, swung it at the knife and caught him on the wrist and the knife skittered away on the dirt. Hah, even again. He swung hard, got the Indian in the ribs just as the guy landed one with the six, shit! just above the hip, damn— But the guy was flat while he was still standing.

Okay, enough punishment. He ran for the van, door open— He glanced back. The Indian was up, running, more like reeling toward the van. In, turn the key, gas, outa here— In the mirror he saw the guy grabbing for the rear door handle, holding on, but the van sped up and if the guy didn't let go he was gonna get dragged— Yeah, he could see the guy sprawled on the dirt road. Now get off the island, dump the club overboard. He checked the clock. Just make the last ferry off. He lifted the mask over his head. Better. Mask'll go in the drink too. His brain felt lots better now, job that needed to get done. Nobody to answer to but himself, no taking orders, nobody else unhappy. Not this time. Over to the other side, into the woods, onto that side road in the park, get some sleep. In the morning dump the van near the ferry, wouldn't use it again—the cops'll get it back to Marlton if he ever got back from Mexico. Then get on the 7:30, pick up his car from the lot and be home for breakfast. That bash the guy landed right above the hip felt sore, prickly. Couldn't be blood, skin didn't break. In the ferry washroom he'd see what it looked like.

•  •  •

Shane had never felt such pain. Not from the leg; they'd set the broken bones, treated the outer wounds and locked it in a cast-like apparatus that could be removed to check the healing. The painkillers they'd given him had sent him away from the small world of the hospital room to deep inside his head where his memories crept along the valleys of his brain. He lay on his back trying to drive flaming lances of thought from his mind by staring at the dim ceiling. He saw only flat space. No relief, because the pain came from so deep inside. Alone tonight. His mother had gone back to Quadra. She hadn't slept much the night before. Alone, except for the wheezing guy in the next bed.

He should never have decided to become a figure skater, let alone try for greatness. What hubris. A kid from a nowhere small island should be playing hockey like everybody else. A kid who didn't know anything about the demands made on the narrow elite superhighway. In Vancouver he had not only Carl his superb coach, but also James his physical trainer, Mel his dance instructor, Larry his psychologist, Liane his chiropractor, Trent the costume designer, and any number of other people— No one should be coddled like this. Not even thinking about how much it cost. Austin paid for it all, and that wasn't right either. Increasingly Shane felt he had been bought and now belonged to Austin. Austin had said, No Shane, you belong to the world of beautiful motion.

Right now Shane felt all the pain of what he'd done. To his parents, what they'd given him—their unquestioning love, their unending time, what little money they could invest in his career. To his brothers, standing aloof from them, his career more important than coming home the moment Derek was attacked, than spending time with Timmy who loved and respected Shane and what did Shane give Timmy, locking himself in his room when Timmy needed him. He felt too the pain of what he'd done for Austin. Pieces in his brain were locked in a terrible agonized battle. No correct position to take, not any more. Had there been an acceptable way of handling himself, earlier? He hadn't found it. Now he wondered, if he'd dealt with it right away might there have been a better choice?

He tried to roll onto his right side but before he got there his encased foot jammed a line of coal-hot pain from toes to hip. Despite the painkillers. He stared again at the ceiling.

Maybe he could talk to Harold, Harold had always been kind to him. No, that was a betrayal of Austin. Maybe if he pleaded with Austin, I can't go on, please don't make me . . . But he'd tried that, three times. Each time Austin said, consolingly, Of course you can, Shane. It's essential. Consider the consequences if you don't.

He'd acceded to Austin once. He wouldn't again. And what consequences then?

He twisted to his left. Some pain, but less than the other way. Possibly by staring at the curtain that hung between him and the old guy in the next bed, sleep would come. He lay still. He took deep breaths trying to breathe the pain away. But it was Austin who had first taught him about breathing, and now the exercise was contaminated with Austin. Maybe Carl's exercise: stretch the muscles, then relax them. Head muscles, neck, shoulders, arms, fingers. Chest. Stomach— He gave up. Because somewhere in his brain, Austin was grinning, whispering, Shane, it's not going to help, you will of course acquiesce.

In the past Shane might have shouted, No! But right now he didn't know what to do, or even think. His leg throbbed. He shifted again to his back. Small tears slid down his cheeks. He felt his chest begin to shake, realized he was panting. Not good, stop! But he couldn't. Derek, he thought, Derek!

Outside light began to brighten the room. Safer out of the dark, he slept.

•  •  •

After lunch Noel and his brother walked down to the beach. Despite Seth's declaration that he and Jan would get to his parents' place by mid-afternoon yesterday, they hadn't arrived until after dinner—a two-ferry wait in Tsawwassen. Why, on just an average summer day? Paul Franklin explained: in July and August, Friday afternoon is, by definition, not average; there's always an overload on the ferries between the mainland and Vancouver Island. People don't like whichever side of the Strait they're on so they have to cross to the other side. Seth and Jan got to the house exhausted. They'd spent breakfast, the morning and a superior two-quiche lunch with salad and wine catching up, family stories that Kyra participated in too; she'd gotten to know the Franklins well during summers on Bowen Island. Now, while the Four Superwomen, as Paul called them, Astrid, Jan, Kyra and Alana, cleaned up and gossiped, and Paul took his nap, Noel and Seth walked.

The beach, today pocked with seaweed debris tossed ashore from what may have been a storm somewhere north of Seymour Narrows, stretched for miles. The water lay flat, broken by splashing children and the occasional whisper of incoming tide. Only strong winds could create breakers; this afternoon the air hung still. When Seth and Noel spoke, their words were quiet. They talked about Seth's work with NASA, he'd been seconded to an Astrophysics lab at UCSD. And what was he doing there? His specific role was classified, national security kept him from saying more. But life was good. And Jan's work with autistic kids? At the start wonderful to do so much for these children, after a year depressing as she watched them make so little progress, then satisfying when she realized she was helping. Their son Keith, at Stanford, had spent two weeks with them earlier this month.

“And you?” Seth asked. “The work's good?”

“Yes. Interesting. A pleasure working with Kyra.”

“How about personally? Anyone new there?”

Seth had of course known Brendan, and had liked him. Now Noel said, “No, and I don't think there will be.”

Seth said, “You're not looking?”

“No.” Noel shrugged. “If someone appears, who knows.”

Seth carried on, “Kyra's okay?”

“Sure. Why?”

“She seemed a little tuckered over lunch.”

“She has a right to be.” Noel told Seth about the car accident. “Not two days ago.”

“On Quadra, right? Alana was real excited to go with you. She didn't get in your way, I hope.”

“No, she was helpful, and a delight. She's got a good inquiring mind.”

“What's the case? Can you talk about?”

“Sure. It's not covered by national security.”

“Okay, okay.”

Noel repeated what they had so far discovered, ending with the green van that had sideswiped Kyra and Shane, and forced Tim and his bike into the ditch. “Both kids are more or less okay. Shane's broken leg may keep him from the Olympics. That must hurt a whole lot more than the wounds.”

“Tough on both of them.”

“Kyra and I've been trying to figure if somebody's after the three sons, or if it's a coincidence.”

“Similar green van doesn't sound like coincidence.”

“And the three of them being harmed within three weeks doesn't either.”

“You've told the RCMP?”

“Yeah. They're checking out all vans registered on Quadra.”

“The lady with the walker saw a bunch of vehicles?”

“Right. And— Hey, she called one of them a truck, then said it was a van.”

“Maybe less and less of a coincidence.”

“We'll have to get back to Mrs. McDougal. Maybe she had a better look at the guy who got out of the truck, or van, than she thought.”

“Worth asking.”

“But why? Why try to kill the Cooper sons?” Noel chucked a rock in the water.

“They hurt someone and the guy wants revenge?”

Noel nodded. “Could be.”

“Or maybe the Coopers have something this guy wants? Money? Property?”