Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (52 page)

“Good boy, Ralph.”

Ralph moved on, squeezing through into another passageway Dan hadn't noticed on that other night. He followed cautiously. It took him to a small cubby space with a hole in the roof directly overhead. It was brighter here. He flicked on his Maglight. The floor held the remnants of a fire, its ashes piled in a heap, empty food tins dropped onto the fire pit.

Dan squatted and stared into the ash, glimpsing a teenaged boy huddled over an open flame trying to make sense of his existence. An existence that no longer mattered in the everyday world.

Gaetan Bélanger ate a meal here,
he thought.
Maybe he slept here, possibly more than once
.

Bélanger was an orphan who had legally become his own person on his sixteenth birthday. Dan had left home at seventeen, though he'd felt orphaned long before. Six years later, he had his own son.
Our kids make us vulnerable
, Domingo had said.

Dan lay on the floor and hugged Ralph when the dog came over to him. He felt vulnerable all over again.

He thought of Ked. His son was tall and broad-
shouldered for a fourteen-year-old. Did grown men and
women find him sexually appealing? Maybe mistake him for an adult? Some must, he knew. Ked was good-looking, his features sharper and more refined than Dan's. Thanks to Kendra. Her genes had mellowed Dan's harsher aspects. Ked might even grow to be bigger than Dan one day, though he'd be softer, less muscular unless he trained for long hours in a gym.

Would someone try to steal the last of his childhood from him before his time? Child abuse. It was the most heinous of sexual crimes, the compulsion to tangle the hidden mysteries of innocence and desire. To take from a child what it didn't even know it had. Because you can never know you are innocent. You only realize it once you've lost it. And once lost, you can never get it back.

Gasper

The plane was late. Dan fidgeted. Read the newspaper. Fidgeted some more. Hung out at Starbucks till he couldn't force himself to ingest any more caffeine. Every few minutes, he glanced at the arrivals board.
DELAYED
. No change.
DELAYED
. No change.
DELAYED
. No change. He felt his anxiety growing. Plane crashes happened all the time.

He checked his messages. Three calls registered Jags' cell number. The first was a hang-up. The second was a drunken Jags trying to sound coherent. He made what barely passed for an apology, as far as Dan was concerned, and pleaded with Dan to call him. There was a long pause then Jags said he'd been getting weird hang-up calls again.
No one has this number, so how the fuck could...?
The call ended mid-sentence.

The final call came an hour later. Jags sounded agitated and even less coherent. He mumbled something about feeling claustrophobic in the condo, declared he was going out to the island. His words trailed off.
I don't even have a fucking friend to talk to
.

Pay somebody
, Dan thought.

Last on the caller's list was Donny. He said he had something important to discuss and suggested a get-together later in the day. Dan left a message agreeing to meet him at the suggested time and place.

Finally, the flight board registered the arrival of Trevor's plane, the status giving way from
DELAYED
to
ARRIVED
. He was on the ground. Safe.

Dan's anxiety turned to relief. He knew the fear he endured when someone he loved went away was nothing rational. It was a holdover dating back to his mother's early death from pneumonia one Christmas after being locked out in the snow by his father. The experience had scarred him. Rationality didn't enter the picture. Fear was primal and irrational, but you couldn't stop living because you were afraid. Bad things happened to people all the time.

Dan's heart swelled as he caught sight of Trevor emerging from the crowd.
You are beautiful
, Dan thought.
So heart-achingly beautiful
. The feelings came at him in a rush and nearly knocked him off his feet.
It was the sort of impossible beauty you glimpsed passing a store window, like catching sight of a stranger in a line-up, before vanishing again. Only with Trevor it didn't vanish. It stayed and stayed, replenishing every time Dan looked at him. Impossible to touch or hold, but knowing it was there and that it was his to bask in. Being loved by someone beautiful had to be better than being beautiful yourself.

To find the mortal world enough
, Dan thought.
Please let me
.

Then Trevor was beside him, reaching out to him. “How's it going? Enjoying the bodyguard work?”

Eyes flickered over the two men hugging and kissing. But this was Toronto in the twenty-first century. Despite what anybody might think, nobody dared speak a word against them.

“I quit,” Dan said, when Trevor released his grip on Dan's shoulder.

“What? Already?” Trevor laughed. “Jags too much for you?”

Dan grabbed Trevor's bag and they headed for the parking lot.

Dan told him about the photograph of the severed ear and how Pfeiffer had advised Jags not to tell Dan about it.

They were in the car, driving down the ramp inside the parking garage. Dan put a credit card in the machine and waited as the arm rose like a starting gate at a horse race. The car shot ahead. Dan's anger had passed since his confrontation with Jags. If Jags was telling the truth, he hadn't known the full implications of his decision to conceal the truth. On the other hand, the police had been correct in assuming Dan wouldn't have taken on the job if he'd known the facts. Dan was beginning to think Danes and Pfeiffer were really to blame.
Jags wasn't such a bad guy
, Dan thought. His pathetic admission that he had no one to talk to was getting to him.

He was still grim by the time they returned home. He'd hoped Trevor would have greeted him on his return with an exultant declaration that he was there to stay, but so far he'd said nothing about his decision. He pulled Trevor's bag from the trunk.

“I think you're being too hard on yourself about this,” Trevor told him.

Dan turned to him. “Three men have already been killed. It won't help if someone else dies.”

“Do you honestly think someone is going to kill Jags Rohmer?”

Dan shrugged. “I don't know. It's possible. He practically begged me not to leave him.”

Trevor shook his head. “You don't owe him anything.”

“I realize that, but I can't help feeling I've abandoned him.”

“Dan, everyone has problems. You can't rescue everybody.”

“Is that what you think I'm doing with you?”

The words were out before he could think what he was saying or try to stop himself. All the pleasure and anticipation of Trevor's return were suddenly stripped away.

“I'm sorry,” Dan said quietly. “I didn't mean that.”

They were standing on the front step. Dan reached for Trevor's hand and was glad he felt no resistance when he took it.

“I'm really sorry.”

“I understand your frustration. I wasn't suggesting you should leave him hanging, but there are limits to what you can do.”

“I don't abandon people, Trevor. I don't drop cases because they're difficult. And I always finish what I start.” He shrugged. “There's an old Jewish saying: ‘In a place where there are no good men, be a good man.'”

Trevor said, “You are a good man. You don't have to prove it. But you do have to live with your conscience, so you need to do what you think is right.”

The front door swung open. Dan placed Trevor's bag on the inside step.

“My conscience is not always the easiest thing to live with.”

Trevor laughed. “Don't I know it!”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Why not swing around and talk to him? See how you feel then. Maybe you're right — maybe he needs you. On the other hand, he may have found someone else to hold his hand already.”

Dan phoned Jags' cell. There was no answer. Jags had said he was going to his island hideaway. Dan waited till Trevor was settled then headed for the waterfront, trying Jags' number every ten minutes. His anxiety began to mount, though he reminded himself there was nothing ominous in not getting an answer.

The terminal was crowded. He eyed the Centre Island ferry as it filled with families and screaming kids. The hot weather always brought them out. He gave it a pass. Though it was smaller and slower, Dan waited for the Ward's Island ferry. He'd have an easier trip and it would get him to Jags' house almost as fast. He could see it heading in now, a tortoise crawling across desert sands, avoiding the fleet, impatient sailboats that zigzagged around it. Once the boat docked, Dan waited impatiently for it to unload. Finally, the operator swung the gate open to the waiting crowd. The ride over seemed interminable.

Algonquin is one of several small islands that comprises North America's largest car-free urban centre. The five-hundred-and-seventy acre alluvial deposit had slowly formed from eroding sand bluffs farther to the east. The isolation was nearly complete. To be in the city, yet cut off from it at the same time was an almost magical illusion. Yet it wasn't an illusion. All in all, this was as remote as Toronto could get.

Dan disembarked and followed the trail to Algonquin. A wide wooden bridge spanned the estuary dividing the islands. Dan crossed over and vanished beneath an overhang of trees. Little more than an overgrown footpath, Dacotah Avenue cut the island in half. Dan's unease grew as he counted down the numbers, the feeling of remoteness increasing the farther he went. The island had always seemed a haven,
made idyllic by soft evergreens and marshland backing onto the canals lined with boats. Now it felt ominous and threatening.

The houses were separated from one another by forest. Jags' was near the middle, a deep blue chalet engulfed in lush garden beds. Dreamy and distant, it was another world entirely.

Wind blew through the branches high overhead. All was silent, not a soul in sight. Dan recalled the second rule of horror film survival:
When you arrive at a deserted town, don't stick around to find out why it's empty
.

The upstairs curtains were drawn. At the far end of the path, under an overhang of trees, a sailboat scudded by, sudden and unexpected, like a deer leaping across a road.

Dan knocked; there was no answer. Maybe Jags was passed out in an alcoholic stupor. If he'd even made it over here. Dan took out the key ring — there was no sense turning back now. He let himself in, looking warily around. Music was playing softly, nothing he recognized, certainly nothing of Jags'. He heard a
clunk
. Someone was in the house.

“Jags? It's Dan. Are you here?”

No answer. He walked cautiously around the main floor. Empty. Island homes had no basements, being barely above sea level. He headed upstairs, looking first into one room then another. Two doors stood open; the last was closed. He was aware of his heart's erratic rhythm as he approached and pushed open the final door.

The room was dim, the blinds turned down. Dan's eyes took a second to adjust. When they did, he felt the bone-white shock of fear, the mind's artful reluctance as it tried to sidestep what it was seeing. A shadowy figure lay prone on the carpet, a coil of rope twined around the neck like an oversized necklace.

Before Dan could react, Jags stirred. His eyes opened. He sat up and looked around groggily.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked hoarsely.

He loosened the rope, pulling the ligature over his head, and took a few deep breaths.

“Satisfied?” Jags asked, rubbing his throat.

Dan knelt and yanked the rope from his hands. “What is this?” he demanded.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like some kind of pathetic suicide attempt. Are you that desperate for publicity? You want me to tell everyone I saved your life so your book will sell even more copies?”

Jags actually laughed. “Is that what you think?”

Dan wanted to slap him, but he resisted. Was there a law against beating celebrities for doing the same stupid things that other people did?

“I may have gone a little too far this time,” Jags said.

“A little too far at pretending to kill yourself?”

“Stop saying that,” Jags growled, waving him off. “Get out of here.”

Dan stood and took a step back.

“And shut the door behind you. I'd like a little privacy. I'll be out in a minute.”

“All right, but I'm taking this with me.”

Dan brandished the rope as though it were some kind of prize. He went back downstairs and sat on the couch in the main room, wondering what kind of stupidity he'd got himself into this time and how long before he could get out of it. He looked at the rope, the bristling fibres. He laid it lengthwise on the coffee table as if it were an ornament.

After a few minutes, Jags came down. He went over to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“I thought I fired you,” he said.

“No, I fired you.”

“You want some coffee?”

Dan shook his head. “No.”

Jags watched him for a moment then laughed. “You still don't know, do you?”

Dan gave him a sharp look, but said nothing.

“Auto-erotic asphyxiation,” Jags said at last. “I just need to be careful not to take it too far.”

Dan felt his anger quickly replaced with bewilderment. “You what?”

Jags scowled. “No judgements, please. I'm not interested in hearing from the self-righteously inexperienced.”

Dan said nothing. He felt like an exasperated parent on hearing the latest admission of reckless stupidity from his most inconsiderate child.

“Anyway, thanks for …” Jags shrugged. “For saving me. Or whatever.”

“You're welcome. Maybe.”

Jags laughed again. “You look pathetic.”

“
I
look pathetic? Really?”

Jags scowled. “Look, if you haven't tried it, don't knock it. I've used a lot of drugs in my time and I can say without doubt that this is the best high you'll ever have. Clean, too. Better than coke by a long shot.”

“Weren't you better off making records? How the hell did you get into this?”

Jags sipped his coffee. “I got into it when life took a dark turn, for want of a better phrase. And I'm known as a phrasemaker, so believe me when I say I have no words to describe what I went through. I spent an entire decade where I started my day with Prozac and ended it with bourbon, in case you missed the gossip rags. I'm mostly down to bourbon and a twisted rope.”

“Well, thank God for small mercies.”

Jags looked at him with amusement. “Aren't you a lyrics reader?”

Dan stared dumbly at him.

“I thought you said you knew my work.”

“Somewhat.”

“So the album titled
Gasper
. What do you think that's about?”

“I haven't a fucking clue.”

“Think about it. First song:
Oxygen Free
. Did you think that was about clean air?”

“Well, yes, frankly.”

“Third song,
Rope
?” Jags began singing in that clear, famous voice of his Dan had heard on the radio so many times: “
So glad to be alive, my friend; just keep me dangling from your end …
”

Dan shook his head. “I never really thought about it.”

“Well, think about it. That's what guys like me are for. To open your mind and drag you kicking and screaming to places you've never been before.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “You fucking, fucking twat.”

“I never claimed to be the boy next door, Danny. Get over yourself.” He shrugged. “Auto-erotic asphyxiation. Breath control play. It's nothing new. We're
talking about restricting the flow of oxygen to the brain for sexual arousal, to put it bluntly.”