Her unplucked brows furrowing, Janice considered this advice. “That’s true. I was going to major in history, but now I want to help people. Maybe studying psychology?”
Holly sided with her father about the social sciences, but smiled in non-committal fashion. “It’s a start.”
By eight, leaving the car behind the huge Sitka spruce and scrambling over its bulk, they had reached the main parking area and sat down to rest. Janice availed herself of the bathroom. The sun was out, blessing yesterday’s ruins. Then they heard a chug. Weaving between obstacles, Chipper was driving down the littered road on a monster quad. He hailed them with a vigorous wave. “Ann sent me. She was worried and figured you got stuck out here. How do you like this toy?” he asked. “It’s the only way to get around with the trees down.” With a cocky smile, he gunned the engine to enjoy the noise.
Chipper explained that Sooke had been cut off from Victoria until an hour ago. “That road’s finally open in one lane, but nobody’s going west. Telus has helicoptered a satellite feed for the phones in Port Renfrew. It could be weeks before they’re connected.” He gave the girl an inquiring look. “Isn’t this—”
“Not the time.” She gave her head a warning shake. “Janice, you remember Constable Singh, don’t you?”
Holly sat on the long padded seat behind Chipper and Janice perched on the carrier frame with Chucky in her backpack. As they putted down the road with Shogun at the pace of a steady ox, the devastation of the storm revealed itself with a vengeance. Power wires were down everywhere. “Look out!” she called to Chipper, who drove merrily over them.
“Everything’s off, guaranteed. 250,000 homes and businesses are out of juice on this end of the island. And Stanley Park’s a nightmare.” The legendary oceanside paradise with its fabled walkways was one of Vancouver’s feature attractions. Apparently the storm had raged along the south coast, crossed the Georgia Strait, and slammed into the Pacific Northwest.
“Where to, boss? What’s the plan?”
“God knows somebody better have one.” She laughed and squeezed his shoulder. “Janice needs to get home first. That’s a priority.”
“Where do you live?” she asked the girl.
“Dover Street.”
“Perfect. It’s on the way.”
There wasn’t a hundred feet of road without a tree across the lines. Sometimes it had snapped the pole. Other times it bounced like a trampoline. Mechanical snarls met their ears in a chorus. Everywhere they looked, men and women in gumboots were out with chainsaws and pickups, clearing the road. An army of volunteers. Many had worked in the timber industry. Others wanted the wood. The most desperate hoped to reach their homes.
Janice’s house was a white bungalow with a scenic pond and rock terraces. In front of the house, a compact car had been crushed by a fir. A tall man with a chainsaw had just finished lopping both ends off, leaving the vehicle with a six-foot log bonnet. Insurance documentation. The man wiped his brow and turned. “Janice! Sweetheart!” he called, and a smile lit his face. “Where have you been all this time? I thought we might not ever...” His voice trailed off as he struggled for control.
Janice leaped off the quad and ran to his arms. Chucky followed, yapping at the interloper taking her affections. The girl picked up the animal and hugged him until his tongue stuck out. “Is it okay if I keep him, Daddy? He was my friend...the whole time.”
“Sure, honey. If it’s all right with your mom. Get right inside now. She’s sick with worry.” Wiping a tear from his cheek, he considered the dog’s ample endowment. “Those will have to go. It’ll make him less...excitable.”
When the girl had gone inside to clean up, Holly gave Jack Mercer a quick and clean update on Janice’s situation, and explained that Janice would be required to come to the Sooke station for a statement. Since Gable was dead, the girl would be spared a trial. “No hurry on the interview. Priorities will go to this disaster. It’s going to take days to restore even minimal operations.”
“You got that right. I don’t have a car any more.” He waved his hand at the stricken Honda. “But I’m just so damn glad to get her back. You don’t suppose she...” A worried look crossed his kindly face.
“Honestly, I don’t know. I couldn’t ask her to think about that in the storm. The police will put you in touch with a good counsellor.”
Holly remembered that neither she nor her father had wheels any more. The Prelude was unharmed, but who knew how long it would take to clear the park roads? That was a low priority for now. Food, water and shelter were paramount. And she could use a long shower. Then as she hopped back on the quad behind Chipper, her cell phone rang.
“I finally reached you. The phone kept saying that you were out of the area. The land lines were down to Fossil Bay and the Sooke detachment.”
“I’m merely starving. Where are you? I hope you didn’t try to get back in the storm.”
“I stayed last night in a great little hotel near Beacon Hill Park. Emily Carr died there.”
“That’s some recommendation. But you did pick the right time to leave Dodge.”
A pause, as if he were reluctant to ask more. “And Shogun, is he—”
She condensed their adventure. “So he is a hero of sorts. Small but mighty.”
After taking his hotel number, she accompanied Chipper to the Sooke detachment on Church St. Cruisers were coming and going in a warren of activity. The hum of monster generators kept the lights and computers operative. Using polypropylene rope from the quad’s kit, she tied Shogun to a tree on a grassy stretch in a far corner of the parking area. A passing officer offered him several chunks of jerky, which the dog wolfed. In the aftermath of the storm, the sun had never shone as brightly. Temperatures were heading for twelve Celsius, a “ding spray” as her father would say. Then she went inside to write a preliminary report to the Staff Sergeant on Gable’s fall and Janice’s rescue. Given a desk, pen and papers, she gathered her thoughts about the details, despite a growling stomach begging for something to digest.
A few hours later she joined Chipper, who offered her a bag of popcorn and a soda. “I’d treat you to lunch, but there’s nowhere to eat. Power won’t be on until the afternoon. I got this at the gas station. Only place with hot coffee is the Otter Point Bakery. They use propane as backup for their ovens. You should see the lineup.”
Holly was so hungry, she would have munched dried seaweed. She’d been ordered home for the evening, and Chipper was on rotation. Until the worst was sorted out, all out-of-town staff was billeted at the only motel, the Manuel Quimper, named for the Spanish explorer. “Tri-City’s going to get my car when the park road re-opens.”
Chipper finished his soda and three-pointed it into a waste can. “I know you couldn’t talk in front of the girl, but isn’t my bribe working? What the hell happened back there at the Potholes?”
She gave him more details. “And Angie?” he asked.
“Whatever occurred between Gable and Angie is pure speculation. Her body had very few marks. But think about this. If he’d followed her, and there had been an accident, a rogue wave perhaps, why the cover-up? I’m thinking he laid his hands on her. Perhaps he saw her with Billy.” They heard a cheer erupt inside and learned that West Coast Road had been temporarily opened to one lane. Holly was given a ride to Fossil Bay by Barb Cottingham, a Sooke corporal en route to check out looting at the Kemp Lake Store. Shogun had the backseat to himself.
Things looked normal most of the way through town until they reached a turn just past Whiffen Spit Road. Within a span of a hundred feet, five huge trees had fallen. One still hung in the wires, which made her nervous. A B.C. Hydro boom truck was at work, while a single lane of traffic took turns passing under the hanging wires. Then the flagman moved them on. Another five kilometres without major damage, then they came to a place straight out of a green hell. To the left was the ocean, down a steep hill that had contained several properties. Most couldn’t be seen at all. They had been covered by giants.
“Some weird microburst,” Barb said. “It bounced along the coast, dipping and diving, then hit here like a tornado.”
“A typhoon
and
a tornado. Add a tsumani and we’d have had a hat trick,” Holly said, picking up the
Times Colonist
on the seat. It had a front-page spread on the storm’s wake.
“One For The History Books,” the headline read. Freda’s 1962 record had not only been broken but shattered. Her top speed of 143 kmph measured off Victoria was blasted by the 157 kmph recorded at Race Rocks, a lighthouse in the middle of the Juan de Fuca. The old storm’s 750 million in damage (five billion in today’s dollars) was sure to be surpassed.
“No one killed here, though,” Holly said. “Unreal.”
“Four people died in Washington State. One woman drowned when her basement flooded. Guess we got off easy.” They eased past the turn for the store. “I’ll take you to the detachment first, then come back.”
Holly sat in astonishment as the miles increased. Just before the turn to Otter Point Road, they pulled over at another place of such monumental devastation that her jaw dropped. Betty Tully’s pristine Seaward estate looked like an atom bomb had fallen. Her house had escaped damage, but the three other buildings on the property lay under tons of debris from the fall of massive Sitka spruces well-established at the time of Confederation. Betty, a retired professor with a mane of classy white hair, walked up in the traditional red coat which she wore on her daily constitutionals.
“Thanks for stopping,” she told the women. “Everyone’s been so kind. Food has been coming in by the carload, and I have several offers of places to stay until this gets cleaned up.”
“It seems ridiculous to ask if you’re all right,” Holly said. Betty’s head was high, and though her eyes were tired, her cheeks were dry of tears.
“You have to stop crying sometime,” she said. “It was a tough way to make the front page of the
Globe.”
Carrying a chainsaw with a twenty-inch blade, a workman in worn overalls came over. “That spruce that took your beach house, we’re bucking it up now, and the wood will build you another one.”
Betty pointed towards the ocean, calming at last after the storm. “Seaward will rise again.”
Barb and Holly pulled back into traffic. “The spirit of Sooke. Pioneer traditions live on.”
When they reached the detachment, Holly was glad to see the Impala and Suburban safe to the side. Errant shingles had blown off the roof, and a blue tarp had been outfitted for the moment. Roofers would be busy for months, booking trips to Hawaii on their profits.
Inside, Ann was dozing, head down on the desk. She looked up as the door closed. “Did you get any sleep?” Holly asked.
“About as much as usual.” She yawned then did a double take at Shogun. “Handsome man.”
Holly brought her up to speed. Ann’s face couldn’t hide her approval at Paul Gable’s fate. “Good news arrived just after you left,” she said. “Billy regained consciousness and identified Gable as the man who hired him for that phony fishing trip. Came up behind him in the boathouse and strangled him to make it look like he’d committed suicide after Angie’s death.”
“And he’s going to recover?”
“All systems go. He’s lucky that his friend found him.”
“Barb Cottingham’s out front. She’ll take you home. I’ll catch a few winks on the couch, take a shower, and stay here tonight. It’ll be no fun at home with the power off.”
Ann grinned. “Mrs. Nordman came through. There’s a pie, fresh rolls, their own goat cheese, and...half a bottle of blackberry wine. Enjoy.”
I
n the glowing twilight, Holly and her father gazed from their dining table across the strait to where skitters of snow dusted the high peaks of the Olympic Mountains. Their quiet street concealed the fact that they’d been out of power for five days. No damage was apparent, but only a few hundred feet at the turnaround, a huge tree had sliced the lines. The logs had been reduced to four-foot lengths. Every day after, pieces had been cut into rounds to fill a pickup. Now only a pile of sawdust remained, and neighbours had refilled their wood bins.
“What’s for dinner?” she asked, dodging the lantern which hung from the chandelier. Another glowed on the counter. Beeswax candles would take them to bed hours earlier than usual. Without the water or septic pumps, they were also without flush toilets or baths. But the inconvenience of finding a place which took dogs was more formidable.
“Emergency rations, but still consistent for my Fifties theme. Instant mashies, package of gravy, cans of turkey and green beans. Cheap and cheerful.” The bruise on his chin was turning yellow-green, and his lip sported a scab, no stitches required. It gave him “character”, he said.
“At least it’s hot,” she said, readying the paper plates while he stirred pots on the two-burner camp stove. “What I hate is that it gets dark so soon. And powdered milk in my coffee. Yuck.” On her forehead she wore a headlamp Norman had brought from the Victoria Mountain Equipment Co-op. It was more convenient than carrying a flashlight.
“Imagine how your ancestors lived. This is pure luxury.” Her father left to toss another chunk of wood into the stove, then returned to pour them both a glass of his latest vintage. “And I have Joan Crawford lined up on the portable DVD player.
The Damned Don’t Cry.”
“Perfect title.” Every Christmas she gave him another collection from the Golden Age.
“And one good thing’s for sure,” he said, rubbing Shogun’s silky head.
“What’s that?” Her father was becoming an optimist?
“Firewood is going to be very very cheap. For the next
ten
years. I’ll need the savings to pay off the car.” In the drive sat a new Smart For Two.
She laughed. “Leave it to you to find the financial silver lining.”
Phone lines had been restored. He dialed B.C. Hydro again and keyed in their number at the prompt, listening carefully and wiggling a hopeful eyebrow. “Any time now.” The taped message carried a “Power will be restored in your area in...” It had started as a week. “Hours, they say,” he assured her.