Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island (2 page)

“Yeah. But for a couple of days before then? Please?”

What could he and Kyra do in a couple of days? He and Jason had been close, but way back when. Still— “Look, I'll phone Kyra, maybe we could come up for a day or two. Don't know how much use we'll be.” Noel rubbed his eyebrow. “I'll get back.”

“Thanks. Thank you. Uhmm—you've got to tell me how much you charge.”

“Let's wait till we see what the situation is.” Noel's new standard response. “Anything more you can tell me about the beating?”

“That's everything I know. Derek's a good kid, going to the college, getting good grades. The way the doctors were talking, I'm scared maybe his brain's fried.”

“Your other two boys are fine?”

“Taking it hard.” Again a catch in Jason's voice. “We all are.”

“Okay, I'll be up. Maybe both of us. Let you know when.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. Really.”

“I can't promise anything.”

“Just to know someone's trying— Thanks, Noel.”

“Yeah. See you.” He disconnected, dropped the phone back on the bed— No, put it where it belongs, base on the kitchen counter. He walked through the living room to the veranda overlooking the Gabriola ferry terminal and Nanaimo harbor. A soft summer afternoon. He watched a floatplane skid to its dock by the pub.

Jason. Best friend through grade twelve. Since then they hadn't talked until last spring's reunion. Noel had never been to a reunion but figured maybe a quarter century was a big deal. See what all those people had been up to.

At the reception he'd talked to ex-fellow students. Then, across the room, a man who had to be Jason. He'd been a scrawny kid, as had Noel, but the guy had muscled and matured. Hey, a bald spot. At his side, an attractive dark-haired woman.

Noel sipped his drink and crossed the room. “Hey, Jason.”

“Noel?”

“The same.”

“Hey!” Jason stood, reached out his hand. “Great to see you.” It hadn't been great twenty-five years ago. Just before their grad, Noel had explained to Jason that he was gay. At first Jason wouldn't believe it. Quickly he did. Until Noel went off to university in the fall, Jason had mostly avoided him. They'd not seen each other since. What to say? He took Jason's hand. “Great to see you, too.”

They stared at each other for a moment, their hands falling to their sides.

Jason said, “I wondered if you'd be here.”

Noel realized he was glad he'd come. “Yeah. Me too. About you, I mean.” Which was not a lie. He'd been badly hurt by Jason's rejection. Over the years he'd thought about Jason often, but with a lingering sadness. Seeing him now, it didn't hurt anymore.

“Introduce me,” the woman said to Jason.

Jason put his arm around her. “My wife, Linda.”

“Hello, Linda.” Noel shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He looked at Jason. Might as well put it on the table. “My partner died last summer. A year ago now.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” said Linda, and excused herself. “You two'll want to talk.”

Noel and Jason greeted ex-classmates as they glanced at their name tags, but talked mainly with each other. After three stiff drinks Jason said, his tone heavy, “Noel, I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend.”

“You were a good friend.”

“But I didn't understand.”

“It's okay now.”

Twenty-five years of catching up. Impossible in one evening. Headlines: Jason ran a couple of woodlots on Quadra Island. Linda, a nurse, worked at the hospital in Campbell River. They had three sons. The middle son was a promising figure skater. Noel told Jason he'd been a reporter for the Vancouver
Sun.
Jason said he never read it. Noel explained that he and a woman friend had started a detective agency, Islands Investigations International, concentrating on the Canadian Gulf Islands and, in the US, the Puget Sound and San Juan Islands. He lived in Nanaimo, Kyra in Bellingham. They joined forces when a case needed both of them. “Keeps the mind occupied,” Noel said. “And we like working together.”

As they all left the reception, Linda said, “You'll have to visit us on Quadra.”

Noel held the door open. “I'd like to. Meet your boys. Take in a cold ice rink.”

“That's where we mainly live,” Jason had retorted, with a wry grin.

They'd talked twice on the phone since, but hadn't seen each other.

Noel had been looking forward to spending time with his parents while his brother's family was there. They didn't get up from southern California often. His mother, in particular, was looking forward to having her two “boys” together, chatting about this, that, and other important things as they used to. Maybe, with Kyra, they could do this job quickly.

He phoned. She sounded strange, not her usual light teasing self. Sure she'd work with him on Quadra, she didn't know that island. She needed some distracting. From what? She didn't say. His parents would be pleased by her visit too. Okay, they could all have lunch together, including his niece Alana who had come up early. Then he and Kyra could drive north to Campbell River, couple of days to ask questions about the boy in the coma. Back on the weekend when Seth and Jan arrived.

He also called an old friend, Albert Matthew, one-time member of the Nanaimo contingent of the RCMP, a bit of a gay-basher when Noel first met him. Noel had had to, well, educate him; they'd become good friends. Last year Albert was promoted to General Investigative Services, the plainclothes division, headquartered in Victoria. Noel had seen less of him since, but they kept in touch. A couple of hours after calling, Albert got back with the names of the investigating officers in Campbell River, Dorothy Bryan and Harry Latiche. Albert offered to pre-introduce Noel and Kyra. Noel declined.

Then he sat down at the computer, called up the Islands Investigations International website that he'd built, made two small adjustments on one of the hyperlinks, and felt pleased with himself. The site, plus their ads in five different phone books, had brought in a number of well-paying but dull cases. Finally he did some preliminary computer research on Campbell River and Quadra Island and went to bed early.

•  •  •

Kyra Rachel threw black jeans, brown pants, a tan skirt, four tops, some underwear, and a pair of low heels into her bag, collected toiletries and her purse, checked it—yes, the Mace was there—locked the door of her condo and took the elevator to the garage. Driving to Nanaimo was a major improvement over sitting home brooding. She could fret in the car. Or not. A plane would get her there too quickly. She had a decision to make.

Noel had heard it in her voice. “What's the matter?” he'd asked. Damn, was she so transparent? “Nothing,” and she'd tried to laugh. “Just haven't exercised my voice this morning.” Kyra did not want to tell him until she had to. And not on the phone.

Damn speed dating! If she hadn't gone to that get-together— If she'd continued seeing Jerome— If she hadn't gone on those dates— Yeah, right, if wishes were floatplanes, beggars would fly.

She pulled onto the I-5 and let the Tracker galumph over the concrete slabs that paved this part of the interstate.

All right. The speed dating reception had been fun. Twelve men, seven minutes with each. At the end of the evening she had two matches, men she wanted to see again who also wanted to see her. That part was okay.

And she couldn't blame Jerome; she'd broken it off over his goddamn dog. Nelson had bitten her ankle. Again. “It's either the dog or me!” “But Kyra,” said Jerome, “my son gave the dog to my wife before she died. I can't just give him away.” Then Jerome took up with Ann Blair who'd taught the art history course where Kyra had met Jerome. Well, she didn't really mind that either. Except he'd done it within days. And phoned her to tell her. And that damn Nelson liked Ann. And Ann liked damn Nelson.

The problem is: I am Pregnant. With a capital P. The problem is, what am I going to do? The problem is further complicated: who is this baby's father?

She reached Blaine and slowed for the border. She'd driven half an hour without once noticing the intense blue sky or the vibrant green grass, or felt the full heat of early July. Just after the national holidays in both of her countries. Kyra hadn't given any real consideration to summer border traffic; maybe she should have flown after all? But every booth was open and the traffic bumped along. Her turn.

“Nationality?”

“Canadian.” Kyra handed him the correct passport.

“Your car has a Washington license plate.”

Kyra smiled. “I'm working in Bellingham temporarily.”

The young man—did he have children?—scowled at her, but didn't pursue the point. “Purpose of your trip?”

“Family.”

“Anything to declare?”

“No—”

“Have a nice visit.”

“Thanks.”

—except that I'm Pregnant and don't know by who. Whom.

At a rest stop after the border Kyra pulled in to use the washroom. Did she need to pee more frequently already? At least with her Canadian passport there'd been no delay. As a dual citizen she carried two passports—American for getting into the US, Canadian going in the other direction.

She re-entered the traffic flow. Two choices: have an abortion or have a baby. How do you explain to a child you don't know who its father is? Kyra remembered a friend telling her about a friend of a friend who had a baby by a sperm donor and said she'd tell it,
Into
every life some trauma falls and not knowing who your father is, that's yours
. Could Kyra do that? Would she want to?

Abortion. Of course every woman must have control over her body. Of course in this imperfect world, women have the right to terminate pregnancies. Of course in her perfect world no woman would conceive an unwanted child. Could Kyra have an abortion? Did she want to?

Turn it off, dearie. Think about something else. She'd purposely left her juggling balls at home. They often relaxed her when she had a knotty problem to deal with: juggle the issue into clarity. But two balls were too easy, and in this case the only possibilities were in the air at the same time: baby or abortion. Damn!

Kyra took the overpass and drove on to the Tsawwassen ferry terminal. The parking lot looked crowded. July. Of course. “Will I get on the next ferry?” Kyra asked.

The woman at the fare booth gazed around the lot, back to her computer. “Probably.” She smiled. Kyra smiled back. Her first smile of the day.

She drew up behind the car in the appointed lane, turned off the engine. Silence, of a sort. Screams of seagulls, music from cars, laughter, demands of children, admonishments of parents. Nothing she had to deal with. Yet.

Damn. She'd forgotten her book. She turned the key. The radio came on. A discussion: reduced fertility in women since the turn of the century. Damn. Kyra wrenched out the key, got out, slammed the door and crossed the parking lot to the ostentatious new building that contained coffee and restrooms. She used the latter—again—and bought a skim latte. The interminable wait for the coffee turned her mind off. Temporarily.

Back in the car, sipping, she forced herself to bring up the two men's—now putative fathers'—names: Mark and Brian.

Mark: about six feet, styled collar-length brown hair shiny from shampoo, pleasant face with regular features. His dark blue eyes leapt out with singular immediacy; that's what had grabbed Kyra. He worked from home as an accountant for a Seattle firm. He hated dogs, yay. He made her laugh. Kyra had a drink with Mark. Two days later, Kyra had dinner with Mark. Three day later, Kyra had sex with Mark. The condom slipped off as he shriveled. Too bad. Kyra had had a nice time until then. Then in the morning he was gone. A note said,
Thanks.

Brian: tall too. Thick curly hair, quirky grin, strong chin. A paralegal. He'd been to Reed College, Kyra's alma mater, graduated a couple of years before her. They had dinner at an upscale restaurant. They had dinner again. Back in his vintage Ford convertible, Brian put his arm around her, kissed her. She kissed back. But Mark's note still flamed in her brain. But Brian was awfully nice. The next day she invited him up for a glass of wine. He didn't have a condom and he wanted sex. He had it. Kyra couldn't call it rape, exactly. How much had she led him on? He was polite, and he told her he thought she was lovely. Although he refused her condom. In spite of that she did have an orgasm, which was very nice.

Which was the father? She'd gone off the pill seven months ago and her cycles had become irregular. She checked her calendar and her memory. As far as she could think, sex with Slipped Condom had happened two days before the peak of her cycle, Naked Sex two days after. As far as she could think.

So here she was, alone with Pregnant. The drugstore test had confirmed it. And her breasts were extremely tender and if the ferry didn't dock soon she'd head to the restroom again. What the fuck to do? She'd pick a delicate time to tell Noel.

She parked in a guest slot in Noel's parking garage, used her key to get to his condo.

“Hi,” Noel said, leaping up from his sofa. “You made good time.”

“I'm pregnant, I'm keeping the baby, I don't want to damn talk about it.” Kyra's eyes filled with tears, from joy or desperation. Her head fell onto Noel's shoulder.

“Oh.” He hugged her. Oh dear.

•  •  •

One of the advantages of traveling first class, you were off the plane quickly. Austin Osborne hated sitting in back rows, standing sardined in the aisle as the plane slowly emptied. First class, few passengers, he could stretch. The hatch opened and he moved.

He punched in his cell phone as he strode past boutiques and coffee outlets to the stairs to the luggage carousels. Ringing, click. “Hi Austin. You on the island already?”

Osborne disliked call display. He tched. “Hello Steve.”