“What happened to your old house?” the girl asked.
“That's a long story.” Lane looked closer at the face. There was a hint of Africa on her skin. Then he looked at the garbage bag leaning up against her leg. There were light green marks on the bag where the dark green plastic had been stretched beyond capacity.
“The old place is a long way from here. I had to check the most recent return addresses on your letters.” She glanced at the shoe box under her left arm. “A bus driver told me how to get here. Thanks for the money, by the way. I checked. You never missed a birthday or Christmas. I would have been lost without the money.”
“Christine?” Lane's throat was so constricted he almost choked on her name.
“Uncle Lane, you remembered. I was afraid you wouldn't.” She moved closer to hug him around the chest with her free arm.
Lane wrapped his left arm around her shoulders. She smelled of the country.
The garbage bag leaned over and spilled half of its T-shirts, underpants, and a brand new sports brassiere that rolled down the steps.
“Who's there?” Arthur's voice was full of sleep.
“My friend's mom warned me I was going to be excommunicated.” Christine sat at the kitchen table, eating salad and fanning five slender fingers in front of her mouth each time she talked.
Lane and Arthur sat on either side of her.
“How come?” Arthur's eyes were drooping. He nodded before raising his head back up.
“How come she warned me?” Christine asked.
“How come you were going to be excommunicated?” Arthur leaned his chin on his fist.
Christine dropped her fork and rubbed her scalp. The hair was a uniform length of less than two centimetres. “I shaved my head.”
“That's it?” Lane asked.
“Well, the day before that I asked Mr. Whitemore if it was true he told a reporter that girls of fourteen and fifteen weren't married off to older men in Paradise.” Christine looked at one and then the other, waiting for a response.
“I'm not sure I follow,” Arthur said.
“Paradise practices plural marriage. There was a documentary on
TV
. My cousin told me about it.” Christine shovelled more salad into her mouth.
“Oh.” Arthur leaned back.
“Was it true?” Lane asked.
“About the girls?” Christine asked from behind her fingers.
Lane nodded.
“One of my friends was married off at fourteen and another at fifteen. Whitemore said on the
TV
show that girls weren't married until they were at least eighteen.”
“And?” Lane waited for more. He thought,
How did she end up in Paradise?
“He lied.” Christine shrugged. “He told us to tell the truth and he lied.”
“How, exactly did you get away?” Lane asked.
“I was packed and ready when the confusion started.” Christine looked out the window.
Lane waited.
“Well my friend's mom didn't want her fourteen-year-old daughter married off to a sixty-year-old man from Utah, so she jammed the cupboards in her house full of kindling, made sure everyone was outside, then set fire to the place. While everyone else in Paradise was trying to put out the fire, she left with her daughter. I walked in the other direction.”
MONDAY, JULY 1
Harper and Lane put equipment bags in the trunk of their unmarked Chevrolet.
“So this kid is your niece, you haven't seen her in more than ten years, and she's from Paradise?” Harper eased his football player's frame into the driver's seat.
“And, I'm her godfather.” Lane opened the passenger door.
“You know about Paradise?” Harper started the engine.
He looks a little tired this morning
, Lane thought. “Jessica okay?”
“She was up in the night. Erinn's beat. Glenn could sleep through a hurricane. So, I was up walking Jessica for a couple of hours âtil she finally nodded off. I woke up on the couch with her drooling on my chest.” Looking over at Lane, Harper said, “Don't change the subject.”
“Okay, what do
you
know about Paradise?” Lane put his seat belt on.
“Fundamentalist polygamist group near the
US
border. There are other polygamist communities in Utah, Arizona, and Texas. The communities trade young women back and forth to marry older men.” Harper backed out before shifting into drive and making for Crowchild Trail. “The older guys often kick the teenaged boys out because of the competition for females. Want to know more?”
Lane shook his head.
Too much information
, he thought. “What about the cowboy who disappeared?”
How did my sister end up in Paradise?
“The story of the missing cowboy is getting more interesting by the hour,” Harper said.
“How's that?”
“I think I've found a pattern. Wanna check it out?” Harper accelerated.
Aidan put on a black ball cap. The fingers of her right hand tucked a wayward strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She carefully packed away the four heads of cowboy marionettes sitting in pairs in the crew cab of a pickup she'd built. Its front license plate was stamped with
Republic of Alberta
. She placed the cowboys in a metre-long case designed to fold out into one section of the set. In each of the other felt-lined maple
cases, the marionettes hung by hooks so their strings wouldn't become tangled.
One male and one female marionette sat nearby. The female had blonde hair and blue eyes. Her face was large, out of proportion to her body. She wore black. The male's face was as large, with dark hair and large brown eyes. He wore a fluorescent pink shirt, pride-orange pants, royal-blue socks, and jacaranda-purple shoes.
Aidan picked up the marionettes by the strings so they faced one another. She began to speak in two voices. The first was decidedly sarcastic and male. The second was hers.
“You know this isn't my real voice. I won't speak. Lots of hearing people wanted me to speak, then tried to correct me when it came out different from what they expected. Some even laughed at me.” Alex, the male, placed his hands on his hips.
“I know, I know. But this is a show. Most of the audience is hearing. They need to listen to your story. Don't worry, if anyone in the audience is deaf, I'll have an interpreter to sign,” Aidan, the female marionette, said.
“You're really going to do this?” Alex held out his right hand.
“Yes.” She dropped her gaze.
“You know what will happen, don't you?” He shook his head. “I mean, I can't stop you, you're the puppeteer. But this will probably get messy. And you're a woman. Things always get messier for women. I tried to tell you what it was like before I died.”
“That's why we're opening at the rodeo. I need to see the faces of that audience, how they react to what we have to say about what happened. Then I'll know.”
“What? What will you know?” he asked.
“If they understand what it is we're trying to say about what happened to you. How those four guys got away with what they did to you. How the Premier talked about you as if your life didn't count for much.”
Alex shook his head. “And don't forget what this has done to you.”
Harper aimed the Chev down a straight section of the two-lane highway on the west side of the city. “Two years ago, a seventeen-year-old named Alexander Starchild was killed along this road.”
Lane looked left and right, where a mix of evergreen and poplar trees grew behind a barbed-wire fence. To the west the mountains were white-tipped and seemed magnified, closer somehow.
“He was hit while trying to hitchhike into the city. He and a friend were going to a movie. The friend saw the hit and run pickup truck. She didn't get the rear license plate. Apparently the front plate had
Republic of Alberta
on it. The witness said there were four cowboys inside. One opened the passenger door and the driver steered right over onto the shoulder. Alexander was hit by the door and killed instantly. The mirror hit him in the back of the head. It happened on June thirtieth, two years ago,” Harper said.
“No leads on the truck?” Lane asked.
“None. Then these two guys disappear a year apart. They lived on an acreage only a few kilometres from where Alex Starchild lived.” Harper eased his foot off the accelerator. “That's way too many coincidences.”
“I'll have to check with Lisa and find out what the
RCMP
have on the case.” Lane looked at the map on his knees. “Should be the next left.”
Harper flicked the left turn signal, braked, and turned on to the side road. Gravel spattered and rattled against the underside of the car. Lane noticed that the bottom of the ditch was still shiny with water from the last rain.
They travelled five more kilometres south. A cloud of dust rolled out in a horizontal column, following them even after they hit the paved driveway. The ranch-style house was roofed with red tiles, sided in brick, and attached to a four-car garage. Behind the house was a pasture of hay. Lane could see it was waiting for its first cut. To the south, a silver Quonset hut sat at one end of a corral.
Harper parked next to a black 4Ã4 pickup truck. Lane got out of the car and adjusted his Glock pistol in its hip holster. There was barking around the back of the house. Lane looked across the roof of the car at Harper. They stepped back into the car as a German shepherd rounded the corner. It was all teeth and rage. The dog put its paws on Lane's door and growled.
“Get down Rosco! Down!” A man walked around the side of the house and grabbed the dog by its collar. The man was dressed in new, skin-tight blue jeans, a black shirt open at the collar, and a black felt hat pulled low so his eyes were hidden in shade. The toes of his his boots were tipped with silver. A belt buckle the size of a dessert plate polished off the look.
“Who are you guys?”
Lane thought,
This one would be wearing jackboots and a brown shirt given the right political climate
.
Harper and Lane held up their ids.
“Oh.” The man frowned. “It's okay, come out. It's safe.” He backed away, dragging the dog with him. “You here about Duds?”
Harper got out. “Ryan Dudley?”
Lane got out, but left his door open. “You called him Duds?”
“That's right.”
Lane decided that a change in approach was required. “I'm Detective Lane.”
“You?” The man looked at Harper.
“Detective Harper. You?”
“Blake. Blake Rogers.” He tipped his hat back.
“We're here to discuss Mr. Dudley's disappearance,” Lane said.
“He left around eight in the morning, yesterday. His horse came back about four hours later. He liked to ride along the river. We looked for him there, but found nothing.” Blake lifted his hat, revealing close-cut black hair.
“Who's we?” Lane asked.
“Me and Skip.” Blake glanced at the pickup.
“Skip?” Lane kept his eyes on Blake, observing his reactions.
Harper looked over his shoulder at the truck.
Blake smiled. “Skip Lombardi. He went into the city. Works there. He'll be back around six.”
“May we see Mr. Dudley's horse and saddle?” Lane asked.
“He kept it at a stable down the road. They phoned when the horse came back without him.” Blake kept a smile ready, like the round tin of chewing tobacco in his back pocket.
Lane pulled out a card. “When Mr. Lombardi gets back, give me a call. We need to meet with him as well.” He handed the card to Blake.
“Sure thing.” Blake put the card in his shirt pocket.
“How would you describe Mr. Dudley's behaviour in the last few days? Anything unusual?” Harper asked.
It's interesting that Blake's smile gets wider when he looks at Harper
, Lane thought.
“Same old Duds. Ornery one minute, laughin' the next. Nothin' unusual at all.” Blake rubbed his free hand across the stubble on his chin.
“Which way is the stable?” Lane watched Blake carefully.
Blake said, “Back to the highway, then five klicks west. It's called Glencoe Stables. Just follow the signs.” He continued to smile at Harper.
“Thank you.” Lane climbed back into the Chev.
Blake shook Harper's hand. It took Harper a few seconds to free himself from the grip.
Rosco ran after them âtil their car passed the gate at the end of the driveway.
Three kilometres down the road, Lane said, “Did you notice?”
Harper looked at his partner. “Notice what?”
“He was coming on to you. Blake Rogers is gay,” Lane said.
“You're jokin'.” Harper looked sideways at Lane.
Lane smiled. “It's simply an observation.”
Harper's face reddened. “What say we visit the Starchild place? It's on the way.”
“Think we'll get more information there than at the
stables?” Lane asked. He thought about adding, “big boy,” but decided against it.
“The dates are bothering me. It can't be a coincidence that all three occurred on June thirtieth.” Harper pulled a map out and handed it to Lane. “The route is highlighted in blue.”
They found the Starchild home in twenty minutes. It was about one hundred metres off the main gravel road running east and west alongside the T'suu Tina Nation. Trees lined the north and south sides of the house. The fifteen-metre evergreens provided a break from winter winds. A column of grey smoke climbed straight up into the windless sky. Harper maneuvered the Chev along the ridges of a mud-rutted dirt road running between the house and the evergreens. They moved around the back of the faded blue bungalow.
“What's that?” Harper asked.
“Not sure.” Lane looked at a domed, tent-like structure set up in front of a Quonset hut. A man dressed in khaki bib overalls, green shirt, khaki-coloured cowboy hat, and six-gun holster tended a fire burned down to embers. Heat shimmered and distorted the structures behind it. The man turned to watch the detectives as they stopped and got out of the car.