Seaweed in the Soup (30 page)

I was standing across from Swans, waiting for the light to change, when I heard footsteps behind. I turned and from the corner of an eye saw a masked man turn the gun in his hands and swing it down by the barrel. Shock and surprise slowed my reflexes. My head broke the gun's fall. I dropped away into an abyss of scattered blinding light.

≈  ≈  ≈

Several heavy blows to the head in quick succession were more than even my thick head could tolerate. I was kept in an induced coma for over a week. I have no memories of the immediate aftermath except for a jumble of vague impressions that may owe more to imagination than memory. I know that Little Sam the medicine man came into my hospital room with Chief Alphonse to burn sweetgrass and throw bones in the air. Felicity Exeter made a single visit, although I remember nothing about it. I've been told since that in a delirious state I came clean about my brief sexual dalliance with P.G. Mainwaring. I had a guilty conscience, I'm a jackass to boot, and the truth was out. Felicity went away and she didn't come back.

My first lucid memory involved Old Mary Cooke. She was sitting at my bedside talking about cedar.

In olden days, cedar bark was highly prized. In late April or early May, when the tree sap was rising, young Coast Salish women would find a good cedar tree, stretch as high as they could reach, cut through the bark to the sapwood with a sharp knife, and then pull the bark down. Cedar bark comes off in long strips that can be rolled up in bundles and carried home. The bark is split, pounded between stones, and immersed in hot water. After days of tedious work the cedar fibres separate and can be woven into cloaks, hats and other garments.

Old Mary Cooke told me that a long, long time ago, the daughter of a chief was looking for cedars in the forested slopes above Echo Bay when she came across a house built of wooden planks. Nearby, four wolf cubs were hiding among the exposed roots of a big old cedar tree where a wolf had made her den.

Now, it is well known amongst the Coast Salish that if a whaler skins a young wolf cub alive and rubs it against his canoe, good hunting will follow. The young woman seized the four cubs and put them into her basket, intending to take them home to her brother.

She started towards home and immediately heard a strange sound, as if a great crowd was singing and drumming. When she stopped walking, the noise ceased. Looking around, she saw an old woman, beckoning her from the doorway of the plank house. As the young woman approached the plank house, she looked ahead and noticed that the floor inside the house was littered with the skeletons of small birds. From within the plank house she heard the sound of many voices. She stepped inside and fell down and went into a dream. While dreaming, the young woman saw a series of Bird Dancers who appeared from behind a screen to dance while the old woman sang. The young woman learned all of the old woman's songs. When the young woman woke from her dream, she saw that the old woman had turned into a mother wolf. The mother wolf released her cubs from the basket, fled with them from the plank house, and gave a ritual howl. The plank house turned into a boulder. The young woman was forever entombed in stone.

≈  ≈  ≈

I was in the Jubilee Hospital, where an overtaxed doctor was soaking poultice off my face with an evil-smelling chemical solution.

“What is this stuff?” the doctor asked, her nose wrinkling at the smell.

“It's an old Indian remedy,” I replied listlessly. “Lily-of-the-valley leaves and cascara bark. A woman that I know keeps putting it on every night.”

“Cascara bark? The stuff ancient Egyptians used for unplugging their bowels?”

“The very same.”

“Holy God, this is one for the books! Feel that, Mr. Seaweed? Skin is peeling off your face in strips, although I must say that your wounds look clean enough underneath this crap. I don't think there'll be much scarring, if any, but you've been damned lucky. What happened to you?”

“I went up to Desolation Sound and fell into a cement mixer.”

“Very careless. Now, open your mouth.”

I opened it. She put a spatula on my tongue and looked at my gums.

“This must be rather painful,” she said a few moments later. “You'll probably lose a couple of teeth, and maybe their roots. I'll arrange for an oral surgeon to look at you when I'm finished.”

Candace wandered into the room. Looking sexy in a miniskirt, she said, “My, my, Silas. Don't you look nice?”

“Goddammit, Hilda!” the doctor said angrily. “This is a sterile area.”

Candace bridled. “Nothing to worry about, Doctor. I've just had my monthly checkup.”

“I know you have, and I don't want you spreading it around in my emergency room,” the doctor replied heatedly.

“I have something to tell Silas.”

“Listen, Hilda! Just clear off before I call security.”

“Hey, Candace,” I said, rousing my head from the pillows. “How did you know I was here?”

“Lightning told me . . . ” Candace's hands flew to her mouth. “Oh God! I wasn't supposed to tell you that!”

Candace fled.

“Why do you call her Candace?” the doctor asked.

“That's her name.”

“Your thought processes may be affected, post traumatic stress probably,” the doctor mused. “Her name is Hilda Mullins, she's a hooker.”

“Candace is her boudoir name.”

“Really? And as for what Hilda might have for you, Mr. Seaweed, how about a dose of the clap?”

Days passed before I went home.

≈  ≈  ≈

I drank milk through a straw, slurped up some runny scrambled eggs and went outside to my private garden. Existence was bearable, I decided, lying like a log in my hammock. The pine siskin had flown away; my thoughts kept flying away. There was something important that I needed to remember but, lulled by the pleasant chatter of late-summer birds, I found it hard to concentrate. Words buzzed through my head like bees: mulligatawny, lightning, candy striper, tooth implants. I slept for an hour. A car came downhill past the longhouse and pulled to a stop outside my garden gate. The pine siskin returned and made himself comfortable on my stomach. Bernie Tapp, coming into the garden through the gate, scared the little bird into the escallonia bush.

It was the tenth time Bernie had checked in after bringing me home from hospital. He sat down on one of my garden chairs and brought a bottle from his pocket.

“How come you're not resting up at Felicity Exeter's?” he said gruffly.

“I haven't seen her lately. I believe she's in Seattle, attending a Spirit Bear conference.”

“You're banged up in Victoria and she's in Seattle, worrying about bears?”

“She's a free spirit.”

“I know, it's one of the things I like about her. It's also one of the things that I dislike about her. Does Felicity know how sick you still are?”

Bernie's innocent question made me feel worse. I said, “Wait a minute.”

My sense of balance had improved; getting out of the hammock and going to my outdoor privy was easier now. After relieving my bladder, I went back to the hammock.

“Your cheeks are a bit swollen on the left side of your face. Otherwise, apart from those staples, and the bald spots where your head was shaved, you look pretty good,” Bernie remarked. “Is it okay for you to have a drink?”

“I'm weaning myself off sobriety slowly. A wee dram would help the process.”

“Where are your drinking glasses?”

“You know where they are, Bernie. Help yourself.”

Bernie went into the cabin, returned with two moulded glass tumblers, and filled them with Chivas Regal.

“It's time we talked business. Twinner Scudd has made a long statement,” Bernie said. “He's still locked up, but we don't know how much longer we can hold him because his lawyers want him out. According to Twinner's counsel, he made a deal with you. A plea bargain.”

“That's right.”

“That's bullshit. Twinner spilled his guts. He told us that Larry Cooley set fire to Nanaimo's. In retaliation, Twinner Scudd told Eddie Cliffs to shove Cooley around a little. But Cliffs is nuts and things spun out of control. Cooley ended up in Sumatch Creek the way you ended up in Desolation Sound, except Cooley drowned. That's good in a way, because if Cooley had survived, we would have nailed him instead. He's an arsonist, and people died in the flames. He would have been a burden on the state for the rest of his life. It all adds up. We've charged Eddie Cliffs with first-degree murder. The Crown is sure it'll stick. Twinner Scudd thinks he's in the clear and will walk. But he won't walk. Twinner will get five years and he will serve at least three years behind bars before he gets parole . . . ”

“Wait a minute. I didn't promise Twinner anything, but . . . ”

“Listen carefully, pal,” Bernie said slowly and deliberately. “You are not a cop. Not any more. Your deal-making days ended when you rolled over in Mallory's office . . . ”

“Rolled over? I told Mallory the truth . . . ”

“Dumb, dumb, dumb and bloody dumber! Instead of sticking up for yourself when you had the chance, you played the big hero. You stuck your chin out and invited Mallory to take a sock at it. You left Mallory with no choice but to suspend you. Now it's too late. You've lost your badge. It's all over, pal. Twinner Scudd has thumbed his nose at the law long enough. Crown is rubbing its hands, because for them it's payback time. Twinner Scudd will go down for five years.”

“Is this a joke?”

Bernie shook his head. “This is the joke: you are a walking dead man. When Twinner Scudd finally realizes that his plea bargain is an absolute non-starter, your days will be numbered. You will be dead, buried and forgotten by the time Twinner Scudd comes out of jail.” Bernie kept talking, but I'd stopped listening.

I tuned in again when Bernie said, “Your disciplinary hearing is on hold as regards the cocaine rap. Oh, and by the way, Lightning Bradley is still AWOL. He's done a runner, and we still can't find him.”

I was still absorbing these priceless nuggets of information when Bernie went on, “Ruth Claypole made a statement. It matches the statement that Maria Alfred made weeks ago. It seems that you were right about those girls all along. They met Ronnie/Raymond when they were out on the town having a little fun. They didn't kill Raymond Cho, we've had to turn 'em loose. We'll be lucky if they don't run to a lawyer and sue us. The problem is, if those girls didn't kill Raymond Cho, who did? Who killed Maggie Bradley? Who killed Tubby Gonzales?”

“Who shoved a brick of coke up my chimney?”

Bernie shrugged. “That's not all. We need to do something about P.G. Mainwaring. Nobody knows what. She doesn't deny that Larry Cooley burned Nanaimo's down, but she insists that he was acting independently. Nobody believes her, but that doesn't bother her because her lawyers have told her we have no case. They've told her that she has nothing to fear from police as long as she keeps her trap shut and lets counsel do all the talking. Her lawyers are right. The VPD is left with egg on its face. What do you think we should do about this mess?”

“Ask a policeman.”

“You're a policeman.”

Instinctively, I shook my head, which turned out to be a very bad idea. My whole world began to spin. Bernie saw my eyes lose focus; he grabbed me before I fell.

I was trying to remember something. Something important about storms and candy stripers and mulligatawny soup, when Bernie took me into my cabin, lowered my spinning head to the pillows, and tucked me into bed.

“You're not mad at me, are you, pal?” Bernie asked, his eyes troubled.

“Jeez, Bernie,” I said, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Heavy black clouds blew in from the north, skewered themselves atop Victoria's telephone poles and wet us with their weeping. The air turned cold. Winter's ruins were upon us, white horses galloped across the waves and dashed themselves to foam on the beaches. Canada geese flew in and circled above Warrior Bay, where they joined dozens of high-flying mallards. Turning slowly, the birds drifted lower and lower before alighting en masse upon the water, where they disturbed drifting trumpeter swans. I could still hear the birds at night, a dark raft of voices.

Red-breasted nuthatches had been yank-yanking for days. I stocked wire bird feeders with suet. My back garden became full of birds: northern flickers with copper-red underwings; black-capped chickadees; downy woodpeckers. I kept my wood stove alight, listened to KPLU, and read
The New Yorker
. A district health nurse popped in occasionally to change my dressings, pull staples out of my aching head, and warn me against lifting anything heavier than plates of food.

Bernie Tapp phoned. He said, “What size boots do you wear?”

“Blimey, guv,” I said in a fake cockney accent. “You've got me banged to rights. Them was me size twelve prints in the vicar's rose garden.”

With a hollow laugh, Bernie hung up.

Felicity never called me. As far as I knew Felicity, was still conferencing in Seattle; I was sleepless in the Warrior Indian Reserve. Suddenly, I got crazy from sitting around. It was probably a bad idea, but I put a black toque on my aching head, a black raincoat over my out-of-shape body, and did an old man's stiff-legged shuffle to my MG, parked twenty yards away under my carport. After getting my breath back, I sat behind the steering wheel and started the engine. Somebody banged on the roof. It was Chief Alphonse.

“You're not fit to drive, Silas!” he said, wagging a cautionary finger.

He was right; he's always right. I took my lock-picking kit from the MG's toolbox, and stored it in my several pockets. Chief Alphonse helped me back to the cabin. When he left, I phoned for a taxi. A noiseless yellow Toyota hybrid glided in several minutes later. I was easing myself into the taxi when Bernie drove up in his Interceptor. I had to tell the cabbie that I didn't need him after all, and gave him twenty bucks for his trouble. He took the money, called me a useless cocksucker, swore that that was the last goddamn trip he'd make to a goddamn Indian reserve and raced off. His cab number was 1623.