Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island (15 page)

Austin turned to him. “You're worried.”

What was he leading to? Which of the thousands of things Shane might be worried about was he talking about? “Yeah.”

“That's okay. Worry can be good.”

“Then I should be in great shape.”

“And you don't think you are.”

“Do you? You saw me yesterday. I looked like shit. I sure felt like shit.”

“Everyone can have an off day.”

“And I feel way worse today.”

“Oh? Something new has happened, has it?”

“You might say that.”

“Whatever it is, it's solvable.”

“Yeah?”

“Everything is solvable, Shane. You need to put your trust in me. As always.”

“Maybe.” Not true. Austin knew this. Shane hated it when Austin lied to himself.

“Listen to me. My words, but more than my words. My voice. Close your eyes and listen to me. Relax your head. Relax your shoulders. Relax your spine.”

But Shane sat stiffly upright. Usually Austin's voice did its job. Not today.

“My oh my, you really are tight. Will you tell me?”

Shane knew he would. He didn't want to. “Something my father's done.”

“What's that, then?”

“He's really pissed off at whoever beat up Derek.”

“Can't say I blame him. But—?”

“So he's hired a couple of detectives. The two you met at the house.”

“The man and the woman are detectives?”

“And they're poking around.”

“So? Isn't that their job?”

“Except they're saying all kinds of things about Derek. That maybe he ran with gangs. That maybe he's a dope dealer, a meth dealer.”

“Is he?”

“Come on, Austin, Derek's no dealer. Or part of any gang.”

“How do you know? Have you talked to him? Before the beating, I mean?”

Shane had. Couple of times on the phone. Derek was his brother and he was going to take care of Shane. Said it twice. Loud and clear. “No.”

“If the Mounties haven't built any leads, what can a couple of outsiders find?”

“I don't know. I just know that the kinds of questions they're asking, the kinds of insinuations they're making, the Mounties didn't do any of that.”

“Not with you, perhaps. Possibly with your parents.”

“They'd have told me.”

“Oh?”

Shane closed his eyes. His head ached.

“I suspect they wouldn't have imposed another worry on you. And if the Mounties had learned something negative about Derek, they'd have followed such a lead, and maybe by now found out who did this to him.”

Maybe Austin was right. Maybe this was one item he didn't need to worry about. Except he was worried. And he feared he knew why. He could feel the worry, right under the skin of his arms, and his legs. It was a worry that could fuck up his technique, he knew this. Because he knew Derek did sell pot. Just in little amounts. To his friends. And why was he telling all this to Austin anyway? Wrong question. There was no way not to tell things to Austin. He had looked up to Austin for so many years. And Austin did relax him, soothe him. In little psychological ways, in his muscles and his stamina. When he was fifteen and broke his elbow in three places, hitting the ice wrong, Dr. Bremer the surgeon said it'd take the best part of a year before the elbow would mend enough to allow Shane to skate with his previous balance. Austin had suggested that his own body held the power to heal the elbow, fully. That he needed to bring every aspect of his conscious and unconscious body to bear on that elbow. Austin had taken leave from the Ice Follies. Every day for seven weeks he had spent an hour with him in the morning, an hour in the afternoon, speaking softly, suggesting what he needed to do, bringing Shane to visualize the cracks in the bones of his elbow, look below the skin, with his imagination bring the small and larger bone fragments together, keep them warm, let them melt into each other, make them whole again. The hypnosis focused the healing power of Shane's body onto one small space in that body.

In the eighth week Shane and Austin told Dr. Bremer that Shane was going to compete in three weeks. Dr. Bremer exclaimed Shane would do no such thing—no skating till he was completely mended. But he was, Shane insisted. Impossible, the doctor declared. Austin told Bremer to test the articulation of Shane's elbow. Bremer was surprised. He ordered X-rays. The X-rays corroborated what Shane claimed—he was one hundred percent fine. Dr. Bremer announced he didn't believe in miracles, that the break couldn't have been as substantial as he'd assumed, that perhaps his previous diagnosis was exaggerated. Austin suggested Bremer look at the earlier X-rays. Later that day Dr. Bremer pronounced Shane ready to skate again. That's what Austin had done for him. And the same thing with a smaller break two years ago. Austin had that gift. And Austin controlled Shane with the gift, Shane knew this. So Shane's worry deepened.

What was Austin saying? The Mounties? Why did he keep going on about the Mounties? “Austin. It's not the Mounties I'm worried about. It's the detectives.”

“I don't think you need to worry.” His voice, never harsh, softened as he said, “We've got another few minutes. Push the seat back. Lean back.”

Shane did. Now he'll say,
Close your eyes . . .

“Close your eyes. Good. Let your shoulders relax. Good. Let your jaw relax. Good. Now take a deep breath. A deeper breath. Breathe in so deeply you can feel the air going right down to your stomach . . .”

Shane knew it all, the flow of the words, the way his body responded, most of the time completely, but always with increasing ease. It felt good to relax his responsibility and allow his body to ease away the sharp edges, the painful corners, the jagging heat. Austin had taught him how to do this. And when Austin wasn't around Shane could bring these states onto himself. Except he'd not done so in the last two weeks, not since he'd come home after Derek's beating. Why not? Part of him said he'd been too distracted. But more that—it was as if it'd be, somehow, something sacrilegious about using Austin's method for changing his body's state of being. Except when, like now, Austin spoke in that gentle fashion, it seemed almost okay.

Austin's voice came almost as a whisper: “. . . and you will, Shane, you will. With your discipline, you can, you will. You'll see, it'll be easy, you'll see . . .”

Would he? Maybe. He should know. He didn't know and it scared him. Maybe he had to. If he didn't? That scared him more. And he didn't even know if he had any reason to be scared. Which made it all worse.

Shane felt the ferry slowing. They'd be closing in on the Campbell River dock.

T. Shorty Barlow stood on the porch of his 1950s mill-worker's house and surveyed the garden. It occupied most of his half-acre on a Campbell River hillside facing southeast, with a view of the Cape Mudge reserve end of Quadra Island across the water. And how were land claims going, how was Zeke managing the politicos?

The broad beans were nearly over. Tomatoes needed re-staking. Green beans looked okay, so did the lettuces and arugula. Might be a good crop of apples this year, but he needed to thin. He would come home early.

He cast a glance at the espaliered peach. Little tiny green balls, how did they grow such a big hard stone in so few months? The peach fruit around the stone didn't amaze him, the seeds of raspberries, strawberries, even apples weren't as startling as peach stones.

He set his empty coffee cup on the railing and clumped down the stairs, opened the deer-proof gate and surveyed the garden from there. The smell of it all made his heart smile—the moist earth warming, the radicchio and lettuce unfurling, the various squash extending tendrils. Hell, he could practically see it happening.

Loathsome weeds sprouted every day, shoots flourishing in the loose soil as if they didn't care. He squatted and pulled, the sun already hot on his neck. Slugs of course, thanks to the rain. The little ones, the most destructive, left brown holes in the lettuce. Shorty examined each leaf in the row and picked the white buggers off. These guys had emigrated from England or somewhere, not like the indigenous banana slugs that knew to stay in the bush and eat there. Shorty squished the little bastards between his fingers; he hated the slimy feel, then wiped the slime off in the dirt. The dirt clung to his fingers. “I know,” he said to Perky, who'd stalked up. “I should have put gloves on. Why in bloody hell can't you look after the slugs?”

Perky rubbed against his side, said, “Miaow,” and rolled over on the warming soil between the vegetables, inviting Shorty to rub his belly.

“Bloody hell,” said Shorty. “I'm busy.”

“Miaow.” Perky was black with a white shirt-front.

“Fuck off.” But Shorty knew this routine could go on for a while.

Perky licked his paw.

Shorty gave in and, with the back of his hand, rubbed his stomach. Perky arched, and purred. “Okay, cat, you look after the veg, I have to get to the rink.” He stood, locking his creaking knee. On the porch he scooped up the coffee cup between his palms. No way not to get dirt on the door handle, damn. Cup on kitchen counter, on to the bathroom. He scrubbed his hands, took a cloth from under the sink, wet it, went back and cleaned the door handle. Perky still lay between the lettuce and beans, rubbing his back in the soil. Cats should weed, or at least learn to make the bed. A good life. Long as you're not a cat in a research lab.

His other cat, Tabitha, a tortoise shell, looked up from the sofa, her usual place. She rarely went outside. Maybe fifteen minutes at dusk.

“You could do the dishes,” Shorty told her.

She rolled over and purred.

He rinsed the cloth, came back and punched the answering machine replay button. “Hi, Shorty, it's Shane. Austin's driving me over. See you at the rink.”

The ice was good. He'd had the icing team check it yesterday, right temperature for figure skating, slightly warmer than for hockey. Not many players practicing now, July. Just Shane on the small rink—and that little girl, Emily, only eight, so keen. Sometimes Shane gave her pointers. But he, T. Shorty Barlow the Great, was the Ice Meister of Campbell River.

Shorty got into his Toyota pickup, shoved in the key, backed out of his driveway. That Shane, close to Olympic material. He'd read a book,
Outliers
, which stressed the route to success was made up of luck and work. Being born in the right time and place, then ten thousand hours of practice. And have someone like Shorty around: keep the ice the right thickness and temperature, pick Shane up at the ferry when he didn't have a ride, be nice to Austin when he was around, he was bloody paying for that super coach in Vancouver. Ten thousand hours of practice. Hell of a number, but it was spread over years. Shane did it, just like Yo Yo Ma probably had with his cello.
Outliers
talked about hockey players, how most top players had been born in the first few months of the year. Like race horses the cut-off date was January 1, so children born early in the year had a physical advantage. They got picked for rep teams, had more practice time, and so on. Shorty knew Derek's birthday was early spring because one year his friends had surprised him with a cake at the rink. Didn't know when Shane's was. Maybe it wasn't so important in figure skating.

Shane. His attitude had changed. His skating was very good, but increasingly mechanical. Last year's sparkle had faded. Too much pressure now in Seniors?

T. Shorty Barlow the Great had watched Shane for thirteen years. At four and five he'd wobbled around the rink after his older brother, as Timmy had later behind both of them. The little kids, their desire, innocence, will to learn, always brought a lump to Shorty's throat. “Way to go, guys!” he'd yell, year after year, from a low bleacher seat close to his Zamboni garage.

Ten thousand hours of practice and every advantage. Shane had that, a loving family, not too much hassle for switching from hockey to figure skating, and Shorty to keep the ice in perfect condition. Yeah, and Austin to pay the bills. Shorty therefore should be in cahoots with Austin, right? Yeah, right.

•  •  •

Noel, not having Cindy's last name nor knowing where and if she worked, drove first to the hospital. Maybe she'd be back with Derek. But in Derek's room, no visitors. Derek lay as still and silent as yesterday. At the nurses' station he asked for Linda, she might have a sense of Cindy's whereabouts. But Linda was in the OR today, wouldn't be available for hours. So back to the car, Alana waiting, Noel and Kyra disagreeing whether Cindy had told them to turn right or left after leaving the parking lot. “Left, I think,” Noel said, “because we got back on that main road—Dogwood, right?” He turned left, Kyra insisting he'd gone wrong. After only two wrong turns he managed to wind his way to Cindy's home. His mind kept coming back to the list of dates and the $3000 notations. They arrived at Cindy's home as she was opening the door to a tan Tercel. Kyra and Noel got out of the Honda. Alana stayed: more than two interviewers could intimidate the subject. Alana had sulked, then acceded.

Kyra waved. “Hello, Cindy!”

Cindy, tight jeans and a red T-shirt, whirled. “Oh. Hello.”

“We'd like to talk to you about Derek.”

“I'm just on my way to sit with him.”

“We'll only take a few minutes.”

“Well, okay.” She closed the car door and leaned against it.

Noel propped his elbow on the car roof. Kyra faced them both. Not maximal interrogation circumstances, Noel thought. “How long have you known Derek?”

“Oh, five months?”

“And you've been dating since then?”

“Oh no, only since maybe March?”

“You know him pretty well, then?”

She looked down. “We were getting to know each other more.”

“He's a good guy, is he?”