Hazardous Goods (Arcane Transport) (15 page)

“Can I even assume that the woman Jamar met cast this thing?”

“I would think not. His description of events sounded more like someone trying to rid themselves of the ring, rather than a person with a specific grudge against him.”

“So what do we do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll keep asking around.”

“OK. Thanks. What about this stone? Any suggestions?”

“The fearstone? That’s more of a prank than anything else. Much easier.”

The process for neutralizing the spell on the ‘fearstone’ involved a bucket of hot tap water, salt, and some rubbing alcohol. Sounded like something I might have drank in college. I think it worked, but neither Kara nor Jamar would agree to a test. Since it didn’t seem to affect me, I agreed to keep it on hand, so by the end of my lunch hour the egg was resting in my pocket, next to the leper coin. At this rate, I was going to need a Batman utility belt.

Still, that left the mystery of who put it there, why, and how it ended up sitting in the Lost and Found room. Problem was, I already had a mystery on my hands – what to do about Niki the Bull. My solution? I exercised my powers of delegation, and pawned the new investigation off to Kara, who seemed pleased to take on the project.

I also asked her to check in on Hidden Pleasures, to make sure everything had turned out all right with Ted’s night on the door. The big guy still hadn’t called in, so I was getting a bit queasy contemplating the possibility that things had skewed sideways at some point.

I was getting that feeling a lot recently.

It turned out my concerns about Ted were unwarranted. When I returned to the office that afternoon, Kara told me that Melodi Roberts had been delighted with the way things had gone the prior night, and was even considering taking on Ted for special events. Just goes to show you that as intelligent and level-headed as someone may seem, they can still make grievous errors in judgment.

Jamar, though, was still having a rough time. The news that Professor Irving had come up with no real suggestions for dealing with the ring had hit him hard. And now Jamar’s father had announced he had been dating a Ukrainian woman half his age. Online. Next up was a trip to Kiev to meet her face-to-face and try to convince her to return with him to Canada.

Jamar was despondent, and I felt like we had to try something. Which is why I told him I was going to spend my Saturday scouring cottage country for some crazy lady, even though
he
was going to be at an uncle’s birthday party and couldn’t make it.

As it happens, Kara noted we had a run up north that was in the neighborhood. I guess we had a two week window to make the delivery each quarter, and that window opened on Saturday. She was also able to get contact information on Crazy Lady from the Treasure Chest — the customer outside Orillia that Jamar had done the original delivery for. I had a name and address, and figured it was worth meeting with the scheming wench.

“By the way, I think I might have a lead on that fearstone thing.”

“Really?” That was quick.

“Well, it’ll sound silly, but I swear I have seen that jacket before. I checked with Clay, and he thought I might be right.”

“Okay. And...”

“Bindings. I think it belongs to the owner.”

Bindings. Interesting. Kara was going to look for some evidence to back up her suspicions. Then we would need to decide what to do about it.

The following day I picked up Arcane 1 from the office and headed out for a weekend drive. It was a beautiful sunny day, rolling emerald hills, bales of hay baking in open fields, and mile after mile of glorious quiet. That absence of sound that I love so much. No horns honking or engines revving, no voices shouting. Just quiet.

“Goddamn this is boring.”

Oh – one thing. When I told him about my trip north, Ted had insisted on riding along. I flipped on some music, in an attempt to humor him.

“C’mon. No traffic, just tunes...” Arctic Monkeys. Great band.

Ted snorted. “You can’t even understand the guy! Please tell me you’ve got some Southern Rock on that thing. Skynrd? Allmann Brothers?”

“Forget it. My van, my iPod, my tunes.”

The complaints continued for the next hour.

I spotted the sign for Anadale Corners as we swept out of a long swale in the road. Kinsmen, Shriners and Knights of Columbus seals. Pop. 2387. Est. 1833. Just ahead I could see our destination. Just this quick drop, then we were off to find Crazy Lady.

“Is that it?”

Ted tilted his head forward and opened his eyes.

“Looks like it.”

I slowed, checking my rearview mirror to make sure no one was watching. Then pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, careful not to wander too close to the ditch. The van crunched along, kicking up dust as I slowed to a stop in front of an old cemetery.

Seventeen headstones of various sizes and shapes, all arranged in a semicircle facing a wooden arch which bore the legend Founders’ Resting Place. A path lined with woodchips ran from the road through a wooden lych gate to a point in front of the centre headstone, which was also the tallest of the group – a speckled granite cross that stood three feet high. Interspersed among the headstones were a number of shrubs, as though nature felt it necessary to bring life to this testament of death.

The nearest building was a home a half mile back, and there wasn’t a person in sight. I stepped out of the van, and Ted joined me.

It was quiet. Peaceful. When they laid me down to rest, this would be a good choice. A red-winged blackbird hopped on the branches of a birch ten yards behind the graves, its scarlet red epaulets vivid against the white and grey background.

A sneeze shattered the stillness, thundering across the landscape.

“Gesundheit.” Ted had been sneezing in the van for the whole drive, no doubt infecting me with some lethal virus.

He sniffed, a Kleenex in his hand. His eyes were watering.

“Must be my allergies.”

I stared around the cemetery. Wild flowers, grass, ragweed. A witch’s brew of allergens. Ted was your classic outdoor allergy sufferer, so late Spring and late Summer were the worst for him. Still, he didn’t usually get much more than a runny nose. Must be a bad year.

“Got your Claritin?”

“Nah, forgot it at home. I’ll be alright, just the sniffles.”

The two of us walked in silence to the headstones, then drifted in either direction along the line of them, taking in the names and dates.

In Memory of Benjamin Pollock, died 12
^th
August 1841, aged 30 years.

James Bain, son of Archibald and Ellen Bain, died 19
^th
July 1841, aged 6 years.

Two stones side by side – In Memory of Archibald Bain, died 31
^st
July 1841, aged 28 years; In Memory of Ellen Bain, died 28
^th
August 1841, aged 23 years.

“Christ, are they all the same on your side?”

“July and August 1841?”

“I have one in June.”

Seventeen tombstones, five families, all dead in less than three months during the summer of 1841. Pollock. Bain. Davies. Bryson. Turnbull. Six children ranging in age from three months and four days to ten years. Nine adults. Four couples and Josiah Davies, husband of Charlotte, father to John and Alexander.

“Anything for Charlotte Davies or the kids?”

“No.”

“No one else made it?”

Presuming they were the only families in town at the time, it appeared so. Life had been tough for the early settlers.

As instructed, I left the package behind the smallest headstone – Josiah Davies.

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“Kind of bizarre, huh?”

“Yeah.” It was bizarre. And sad. For some reason, I found this place incredibly sad.

We strode back to the van in silence.

We had traveled no more than a mile when Ted called out, just as he had when we were kids.

“I need a washroom.”

I slowed the van and began rolling to the shoulder.

“Not a piss. I have to take a squat.”

Great.

As it turned out, Anadale Corners was not far, just on the other side of an apple orchard that spanned both sides of the road. A four corners collection of buildings, the first few abandoned, then a general store with a somewhat bizarre list of offerings posted on a shingle by the front door - “Key Cutting, DVD Rentals, Spring Seeds, Ice Cream”. Gas station with adjoining diner, a church, and Anadale Depot – the local farm equipment sales office.

Pump and a dump would have been logical, but there was no one home at the station. A letter posted in the window said the owner was traveling for three weeks. Back in June! We opted for the general store, where Ted was able to pick up some Benadryl and a box of Kleenex. Plus, the owner was kind enough to allow Ted the use of the facilities. He may not have been feeling so kindly after we departed. Seemed Ted was having some intestinal issues.

By the time we arrived at Crazy Lady’s place, Ted’s mood had improved, in part thanks to the Benadryl. Didn’t hurt that he had taken three times the recommended dosage.

The neighborhood seemed to be mostly Victory Homes, 1940s bungalows built as low cost housing for returning war veterans. If this neighborhood had been closer to the Big Smoke we might have seen the occasional monster home where a buyer had torn down the original home and used the lot to build a three story behemoth. Instead, all of the original homes remained – simple one story homes, no basements, decent-sized lots. Well taken care of, with green lawns and lush flowerbeds benefiting from the humid spring.

The house at 441 Bristol Crescent was an unfortunate exception to the rule. Instead of a well-manicured lawn extending to the ditch at the road, the home bore a front yard of dirt, the occasional flowering weed adding a bit of color to the fallow brown stretch. A pseudo-walkway of stones split the dirt in two, and a plain wire fence shut off access to the yard from the road or the walkway.

Beside the front door, and thankfully on the other side of that fence, stood a dog house that must have been five feet tall.

“Nice.”

“Beauty. You think she lives in the big house, or the little one?”

At least he had kept his sense of humor.

We approached the front door cautiously, expecting to see a vicious attack dog emerge from the dog house in a rage of spit and teeth. Seemed Fido was asleep, though, and our approach went unnoticed. Spotting no doorbell, I banged on the rotten door frame.

The girl who came to the door was tiny. Maybe four and a half feet tall at most. Jet black hair, light skin but Asian features. And scary skinny, like a skeleton wrapped in skin-colored Saran Wrap. In her frilly black microskirt, beaded crop top and strappy leather sandals she seemed to be striving for a Jarvis Street hooker look. Her eyes betrayed her, though. Wide, fearful eyes that spoke of mistrust.

“Yes?”

“We’re here to see Mrs. Lucas.”

“Mrs. Lucas?” That seemed to startle her. “Moment—.”

She bustled to the back, glancing back over her shoulder as though not trusting us to stay where we were. From the door we could hear her footsteps carry down the main hall to a room out of our sight, then a knock and voices. One voice gradually rose in volume. I was able to hear just a few words – “who”, “interrupted” and “sister.”

Moments later, an elderly woman worked her way down the hall towards us.

“Come in. C’mon, don’t stand out there like a pair of idiots. People are watching.” Her voice was like sandpaper on glass. I glanced at Ted and shrugged. In we went.

The girl who had met us at the door squeezed by me as I entered the front hall, and closed the main door behind us.

The home before us was as impressive as the exterior. Having no doubt consulted with an interior designer, the old lady had left the ceiling exposed, further emphasizing the decrepit institutional feel of the place. The result was an enticing combination of exposed beams, pipes and fiberglass wool insulation. The walls were in place, though several stretches of dry wall were unpainted. The floor was a patch-work of mismatched linoleum strips. Furniture was second hand, to put it politely.

She stepped aside, waving for the two of us to move further into the home. We followed her to a space that might have been called a common room, had this been a frat house. There we came upon another girl, this one stretched out on a garish plaid sofa bed, watching a TV with rabbit ear antennas. I hadn’t seen those things since I was in pre-school. She glanced at us with the mildest curiosity, then turned back to her show.

Lucretia Lucas was Crazy Lady’s name, and she was five five, maybe five six. Short grey hair, tousled and greasy from not being combed or washed. Oversized round tortoise-shell eyeglasses, a blue cardigan top with a dark stain in the shape of the state of Maine, and black slacks. The lines on her face were etched from frowns, not from smiles, and her direct stare and thin lips convinced me this was one tough broad. I was guessing eighty plus years of age.

She matched Jamar’s description so well I felt like I had seen her before.

“You want one of ‘em, or both of ‘em?”

“What?” That eloquent statement came from Ted, though I’m not sure I could have done any better.

“One or both? You stupid? They’ve had their shots.” She turned the first girl by the shoulder and clutched the cheek of her buttock. “They don’t leave the house. You can use any room except the bathroom and my room. That’s the one at the end of the hall.”

I looked at the first girl, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. As I stared, a tear welled in her eye then trickled down her cheek.

Wow. Was she—? Were they—? Was this—?

“Hang on a second, lady. We’re not here for the girls.”

“What? The
what
?” Ted was taking a second to catch up, which was a good thing. It scared me that I had caught on so quickly.

“Then who the hell are ya?” She shoved the first girl aside, and stepped forward. Both Ted and I took a half step back, as though a Rottweiler had bared his teeth at us. I was starting to wonder whether the old lady
did
sleep in that dog house by the front door.