Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island (7 page)

He held out a great deal of promise for several of them, Miranda Steele and Tak Lee in Calgary, Dan MacAdoo and Graham Pauley in Toronto, Danielle Dubois on Montreal's West Island, and especially Shane Cooper from Vancouver, an extraordinary performer. As well he might be, considering Carl Certane had selected the boy, as much for his natural abilities as for his imagination. That faun sequence he'd performed had been remarkable. And with each competition his routines became increasingly polished—in fact, they sparkled.

Today Arensen would watch Shane skate. His preferred manner of observing was from a distance, without announcing his presence. So this morning found Harold driving his vintage Lincoln Continental onto the ferry from the Swartz Bay terminal at the tip of the Saanich Peninsula, heading across Georgia Strait. Ferry time was, he had discovered, a good time to be out of time. An hour and a half of giving himself, like his couple of thousand fellow passengers, over to the good guidance of the ship's captain. He always tried to get a place at the very front of the boat. There he could look up from his book to follow the ship's passage. Now they were passing between Portland Island and Salt Spring, the so-called Satellite Channel. Massive dark-green Douglas firs rose on the Salt Spring side. A sunny summer day and the sea sparkling brilliant blue, wind-blown breakers snow-white as they smashed against the shore on both sides.

Excitement took him as he wondered how much Shane had progressed since his last competition—a fine performance until his dreadful fall. What could have distracted him? Shane had no answer. A bad placement? Possibly, but why? His mind wandering? Shane hadn't thought so. A bad night's sleep? Shane thought he'd slept okay. “Well, don't worry about it,” Harold had told him. And added with a smile, “Just make sure it doesn't happen again.”

Approaching Harold Arensen's favorite part of the trip across, a narrow boomerang-shaped passage between the southern tip of Galiano and northwest Mayne Islands, called Active Pass. Active it was as the sea roiled between the land masses, smashing against shale shoreline. Past Bellhouse Park, and the ferry was in the open Strait, the last leg before the flat drive from the terminal into the city.

He and four-hundred and fifty other cars and trucks drove off, along a reinforced spit of land, past the Tsawwassen Band reserve, under the Fraser River, through Richmond and into the city. Along to Kerrisdale, home of the Cyclone Taylor Arena. Arensen had pushed Certane hard—get Shane ice time at one of the Olympic venues. But Certane had rejected the suggestion: Stop breaking your head over it, Harold. Wasn't breaking his head, just making a logical suggestion. It took a couple of months arguing with Carl that Harold had learned Carl really was doing the best for Shane—ice time at an Olympic site, when it could be had, was strictly limited from 11:00
PM
to 7:00
AM
—the rest of day needed to prepare the rink for the Olympic events. Instead, Carl, who was a consultant to Cyclone Taylor Figure Skating Inc., purveyors of skates and costumes to champions, requested and was given prime time daily at the Kerrisdale Arena.

Well, why the hell didn't Carl say so in the first place? Dumb ass.

But that was in the past. Long forgiven. Today Arensen pulled into a space reserved for the arena's brass and parked. He strode through a side doorway. At the information desk he noted a woman in her forties with a strong chin and a mass of blonde hair. “Tell me when Shane Cooper is skating.”

The woman checked her schedule. “Don't see his name on for today.”

She glanced backward in her schedule. “Don't see his name for anywhere the last couple of days.” And forward. “Or later this week.”

“That's ridiculous. He has to be training.”

“Maybe. But not here.”

Arensen exploded a puff of irritated air, started to stride away, turned quickly. “Carl Certane in?”

“Should be. Down the hall to—”

“I know, I know.”

To Carl's office, then. Even had Carl's name on it, black lettering. He grabbed the knob, turned it, pushed. A large cluttered desk, computer and papers. A tall man, broad in his hunched shoulders, sitting with his back to the desk, walls covered with photos and posters of skaters. One paper-filing cabinet. Couple of chairs. “Carl, where the hell is Shane?”

The man turned—a frowning face, narrow nose, thick shock of white hair. “That's a door there, Harold. They're made to knock on.”

“Sorry, sorry. But why don't you have Shane in training?”

“He is training.”

“Where? I want to see what he's doing.”

“Well, head up to Campbell River.”

“Campbell—? What the hell's all this about?”

“Sit down, Harold, before you explode.”

Yeah, Harold could feel his face had gone red. Damn blood pressure. But not something to worry about now. He sat. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Okay. Campbell River. Why Campbell River?”

“Because that's where he's from. Quadra Island.”

“So what, is he on vacation or something? There's not much training time left and—”

“He does have a bit of a personal life, Harold.”

“Hey, what's this? Some girl?”

“He doesn't know what a girl is, so just relax. He's got a brother who's in a coma. Shane's spending some time there.”

“Yeah, but what about his work?”

“There's a pretty good rink there. I got him excellent ice time.”

“Pretty good rink? Gimme a break, Carl.”

Carl shrugged. “It was used a couple of decades ago for a world's finals—junior women's hockey. He gets whatever time he needs, whenever. And he's not far from his brother. Close by he worries less about what's going on.”

“Women's hockey, for pissake! That's no figure skating rink.” He got up, stared down at Carl. “You trying to ruin him?” He stormed out of the office.

“Where you going?” called Carl.

“Home. Where I should never have left.” Back to the Lincoln. Back to the ferry. The return trip began to soothe him. Then, in Active Pass, he thought: Shit on it! Campbell River, that's right next to Quadra Island. Which, if he remembered right, was where Austin Osborne had a home. Osborne had been supporting Shane, Harold knew this. Goddamn Osborne! Always dangerous.

Jason and Kyra, Cindy trailing, walked downstairs. Jason pushed open a side door. “Car's parked in the next lot,” said Kyra.

“We can cut through the garden.”

The garden, a quiet green space that featured mown grass, scattered trees and benches, also held a number of sculpted pieces—a figure of a despairing woman in chiseled wood; a ten-foot metallic serpent rising from its coiled tail, called River Spirit; a hand rising from the ground that stood taller than Kyra, holding an enormous egg. Noel snapped pictures with his cell. “What's with all these?”

“No idea,” Jason said, and led the way.

Kyra felt unclear regarding Jason Cooper. She granted him his distress—son in a coma with no end in sight would be upsetting. But if she and Noel were to learn anything about the comatose kid, Jason would have to be more forthcoming. “Noel said Derek was found by an old lady with a dog.”

“She's known up there, walks the dog at night, says she hardly ever sleeps,” said Jason, without turning around. “Got home and called 911.”

They arrived at the car. Kyra told Noel about the B&B reservation. “Oh,” he said. After finger-dashing around a Campbell River lodging site he'd found them two possible B&Bs. Now Kyra—or Linda—had one-upped him. He closed his laptop.

Jason got into the front seat, Kyra in back. Cindy slumped down beside her. Can't be twenty yet, Kyra thought, but what a drawn, weary face. “He's a strong young man, Cindy. Give him time to pull through.”

Cindy nodded. “I hope.”

The tension between Cindy and Linda still echoed in Kyra's memory. “Being with him lends him your strength. But he needs time to find his own strength too.”

“I know.” She sniffed. “I do know.”

Jason turned to the back seat. “Which way, Cindy?”

Cindy gave directions—back out to Dogwood, a left, pretty soon a right on Merecroft. Just before the end of the road Cindy said, “Over there.” They pulled up in front of a cedar-shingled house set back from the road. To one side stood a small cabin.

“Nice place,” said Kyra.

“Thanks,” said Cindy. She got out. “Thank you.” She started from the car, turned, said to Jason through the open window, “He's going to be fine.” She nodded to herself. “Just fine.” Quickly she headed toward the house.

“Make a U-turn,” Jason said. Noel did. After a couple of minutes he pointed his thumb over his shoulder “That's the Beaver Lodge Forest Lands beyond there. Lots of trails and deer. A few bears, occasional cougar.” A couple of silent minutes later he added, “We're close. Take the next left.”

Noel turned on a road called McPhedran. Another turn, Evergreen. The homes looked middle class, some upper middle. He wondered about the economy up here now that the Elk Falls Pulp Mill had shut down, any logs left shipped out raw, no value-added wages here. Most of the fish canneries had closed, too few salmon to keep the locals employed. The Honda reached the end of the road, cement blocks blocking auto entrance.

Jason pointed to a closed yellow gate. “Back in there.”

Noel read,
ACCESS TO TWINNED HOLDINGS PIT
. “What's that mean?”

“No idea. But this is where the old lady found him. Her dog, really.”

“Any way of talking with her?”

“Don't know where she lives.”

Noel and Kyra got out, stepped around the gate, and studied the area. They saw trampled ground desiccated from lack of rain. Tacked to a scrawny maple, a piece of yellow crime-scene tape. They walked to a point where the old road curved. Only the privacy of the area spoke to Noel. He took pictures, to keep the crime scene in their minds.

As if reading his thoughts, Kyra said, “Out of sight from any houses.”

“Yeah.” Noel started back. “I'd like to ring some doorbells.”

At the third house a woman in shorts and an oversized shirt opened the door. No, she hadn't seen anything the night of the attack, just the Mounties' flashing lights. The woman with the walker? Sure, Sarah McDougal, lives three houses down with her daughter. They thanked her.

Jason said, “I'll wait in the car.”

“Jason.” It was almost as if Jason was undermining them. “We have to ask you some questions. Stuff we need to know.”

Jason shrugged. “Ask away.”

“How well do you know Derek?”

“What're you talking about?” His voice held tight.

“Does he share things with you? His plans? His feelings?”

“We talk about what he wants to do.” He laughed, grimly. “Sometimes about what he doesn't. About what he's done that he's glad he's done. That the sort of thing you mean?”

It's going to take a while, thought Kyra. “What about Cindy, for example. How he feels about her.”

“Mmm.” Jason considered the question. “Don't really know. He likes her, you can see that. Doesn't tell me much. If he talked about her more, it'd be with Linda.”

Like son, like father, Kyra thought. “I had a sense Linda doesn't find Cindy a total charmer.”

“It's not so much she doesn't like her, it's—I don't know, kind of—see, they're both so young, Linda thinks Derek's got to finish his schooling, find a profession—he's good with big machines, but he needs to get work. Cindy's okay, but—you know what I mean?”

Could mean lots of things, Jason, but I don't know which ones
you
mean.

“Let's find Sarah McDougal,” said Noel.

Jason returned to the car. Kyra and Noel went up the walk to a white-shingled house. Kyra rang the bell. From behind the door the sharp yips of a dog. Then a voice said, “My daughter's not here.”

Kyra said, “It's you we want to talk to, Mrs. McDougal.”

“What do you want?”

“We're investigating the beating of the young man. We hear you found him.”

The door opened a crack, a chain across the space. White curly hair, thick glasses covering brown eyes above a red nose. The dog yipped harder. “Go lie down!” The dog shrank away. “You're not the police.”

Kyra said, “No, we're friends of the young man's father, we're trying to help him.”

“Well, come in.” The door closed, re-opened wider without the chain. “This was once a peaceful neighbourhood.” Noel closed the front door. Using a walker, she led the way into a living room to the right. She sat on a straight-backed red-upholstered chair. “Have a seat.”

Noel and Kyra sat on a white couch. “Can you tell us about that evening?”

“Too many cars, too many.”

“Cars?”

“Willie and I were going to take a walk—” she pointed to the dog, now lying on a blanket—“that's Willie. All these cars kept roaring by, right up to the cement blocks. And one across the street. And they parked there for a while.”

“How long?”

“Ten minutes? Fifteen? I don't know, I didn't have a watch.”

“Do you know what kind of cars?”

“And trucks. I told all this to the police.”

Noel asked, “How many trucks?”

“That I know. One up there. And two cars.”

“Old? New?”

“I don't know those things. I don't follow vehicle styles.”

“And where were you?”

“Just outside the door. Willie didn't want to go for his walk with all those people there. Did you, Willie?” Willie looked up for a moment. “We waited till they left and—oh, we waited after that too. I think.”

“And why was that?” Kyra spoke as gently as she could.

Mrs. McDougal squeezed her eyes tight. “I'm trying to remember . . .” Her eyes opened wide. “The other truck. Across the street. Somebody had got out. He was the second. He walked toward the first truck, I remember that. Then I didn't see him anymore. Then the other cars came, and finally they drove away. Roaring down the road. I just wanted them gone so we could go for our walk.”