Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island (8 page)

“But they didn't?”

“The cars, yes.” She sounded confused. “I just said that, didn't I?”

“Yes, you did,” Kyra said softly.

“Then the man came back to the truck here and got in and made a U-turn and he was gone too. But the other truck was still up there. Willie and I waited. And then, I thought I'd figured it out—maybe the people from the truck had gotten rides in one of the other vehicles. So if nobody was up there it was safe to go for our walk. I said that to you, didn't I, Willie?” Willie thumped his tail.

Kyra nudged Sarah McDougal on. “So you headed up the road.”

“Yes. And Willie was already there and barking his head off. I was hobbling along, but Willie had found that poor boy. He just lying there, there wasn't much light but I could tell he shouldn't be lying like that. And when I got close I could see what was maybe blood, and I was scared—wanted to get away from there quick as I could.” She smiled, a sad little curve of the lips. “Which wasn't very fast.” The smile went away. “But faster than usual, and I got home and I told Marcie, that's my daughter, what I'd seen, and she grabbed her cell phone and ran up the road and she called 911. Well, the police came, sirens and all the lights flashing. Everybody on the block was there. And the police asked me questions, but I was so upset I couldn't remember very much.”

“Did they talk to you the next day?” Noel now, fearing Mrs. McDougal would tire.

“Oh yes, and once after that. I told them everything. The poor boy. How is he?”

“He's in a coma,” Kyra said. “Is there anything else you can remember?”

“I don't think I know anything else.”

Noel stood, and Kyra. She said, “Thank you, Mrs. McDougal. You've been very helpful.”

Grabbing the arms of the walker she pulled herself to her feet. “Have I? I told all this to the police. Have they found out who did it?” She led them to the door.

“They're working on it.”

She opened the door. “I can't remember . . .”

Kyra said, “What's that, Mrs. McDougal?”

“If I mentioned—the truck across the street. With a canopy on the back, or maybe it was a van. Can you ask them that? If I did?”

“We will. Thank you again. Goodbye.”

They headed back toward the Honda, the foliage along the sidewalk thick but penetrable. A man in a second truck or a van. With the group? What was that all about? They walked past Jason in the car and approached the yellow gate. Noel said, “Three groups meeting. One of them is Derek. A fourth arrives earlier. Two, then the fourth, leave. Derek, left lying on the ground. How do you see it?”

Kyra studied the path ahead, the trees along the side. She walked to the curve and followed the road. Open but overgrown—not a place for a casual stroll. No broken branches or empty matchbooks advertising a locale the mayhem provider usually frequented. No footprints on the dry ground. She needed to pee; a little privacy? She came back to the gate. “Okay. Either Derek was beaten by whoever was in the truck and the car that parked up here, and then they left. Or they left and Derek was okay and didn't leave with them. Maybe waiting for the guy in the truck across the street, or maybe not expecting him but that's who beat him up.”

“Right,” said Noel. “Does that get us anywhere?”

“We've got a couple of hypotheses.”

He grinned. “Moving forward, partner.”

“We'd better find Derek's doctor.”

In the car they told Jason what they'd learned from Sarah McDougal. He'd heard all that from the police. Including the second truck? He didn't remember. They drove down Evergreen. “Jase. Does Derek get along okay with most people?” asked Noel.

“What d'you mean?”

“Anybody who didn't like him? Enough to beat him up?” She watched as Jason's left shoulder slowly drooped. “What, do you suspect somebody?”

Jason's head shook, just a little. “No. I wish I did.”

Noel glanced at him. “You think it was gratuitous? Derek just happened to be here? It could've been anybody passing by?”

“I don't know.”

“What was Derek doing here?”

“I don't know that either.”

“Who could've known he'd be here?”

Jason whispered, “I don't know.”

Kyra said, “We'll need you to give us the names of his friends. Here in Campbell River and on Quadra.”

“Sure. But they wouldn't have anything to do with it.”

“They might guide us in valuable directions.”

“Anyway, the Mounties have already talked to them.”

Noel slowed the car and pulled into a commercial parking lot. “Look, Jase. You got us up here. We need information or we're stymied. And you've got to tell us who to talk to about Derek's life. Or we go back to Nanaimo tonight.” He opened his computer.

Jason sighed. “It's just, it feels like—like I don't have much of a brain left.”

“So let's take it one bit at a time, okay? Now. His friends.”

Jason rubbed his chin. “On the island he used to hang out with a couple of guys, Nigel Meredith, and Sam Bristol, friends since grade one. And sometimes with The Demon—that's what they called him, Demosthenes Catokis—except he's the gentlest guy you can imagine. I'll give you addresses and phone numbers at the house.”

Noel typed. “Any girls?”

“He dated Bertina the last year before he went to the college and until this spring. But then he met Cindy and Bertina was history. We all liked her. Bertina Anderson.”

“Pretty name,” said Kyra. “We'll talk to her. What about Campbell River. Friends at the college?”

“I don't know them but Derek used to mention a couple of guys. Mike Campbell, he's in the heavy machinery department too. They're close. Hockey buddies too. And Joe Daimley, another hockey buddy. Derek'd hang out with Joe and a friend of Joe's, Gaston something—Gaston, French last name, Robitaille, that's it. Gast Robitaille.” A rueful smile from Jason. “They drank a lot of beer together.”

Noel typed. “Anybody else?”

Jason thought. “They were the closest.” He thought some more. “Linda might know. Timmy too. Probably not Shane, he's away a lot.”

Noel closed the computer lid and started up the engine again. “Thanks. That'll be a start.”

Kyra said, “Who're the Mounties who've been working on the case?”

“Huh? Oh, Dorothy Bryan. She's good. And Harry Latiche. Hard man. Professional, I guess. But I've seen him off duty and he's way more relaxed. Hell, long as he does his job.”

The names Albert had given Noel. “We'll talk with them after the doctor.”

•  •  •

Linda unlocked Jason's Corolla and got into the driver's seat. Alana tried to sit in back with Shane but Tim opened the other door and slid in. Alana sat up front.

Linda drove onto 2nd Avenue. To the back seat she said, “I hear Austin's back.”

“Yeah,” said Shane.

“They were in the office when Dad and I got there,” Tim volunteered.

“Oh? What'd he say?”

“Not much.”

A mystery conversation to Alana. Why didn't Shane want to participate?

Tim said, “T. Shorty asked if I was playing hockey this year.”

“He pick you up at the ferry this morning, Shane?”

“Yep.”

“T. Shorty Barlow runs the Zamboni at the rink,” Linda informed Alana.

“Wow. I'd love to drive a Zamboni.” Alana laughed.

“Sometimes Shorty gives rides,” said Tim. “Or I could. I know how to drive it.”

“How do you know that?” his mother asked.

Alana turned around. Tim had his cap on backwards. He shoved at it. “Oh, Shorty showed me.” His voice rose on
me.
He took off his cap, turned it around and pulled it over his face. Alana grinned.

In the ferry lot Linda passed a plastic card to the ticket-taker and got it back with their fares subtracted. She drove into the line-up. The BC ferry, with its blue and red stripes over white, glided into its berth.

“What did Austin say?”

“That he'd come to see me skate.”

“Well, duh.” To Alana, Linda explained, “Osborne has been sponsoring Shane.”

“Do I recognize his name? Wasn't he an Olympic champion?” She'd look him up as soon as it was polite.

“Yeah. Late nineties,” Shane said, as if it didn't matter much.

“Wow!” Definitely check him out.

“He usually drops over.” Linda started the engine and put it in gear.

Amazing, thought Alana. All these famous skaters.

Parked on board, Tim got out and slammed his door. Wow, is she ever pretty. Shane sat silent, staring out the window. Tim walked up to the front. Not the prow, he knew—the ferry ran forwards and backwards. He stared for a few minutes at the Quadra shore approaching.

“Hey Tim.”

He turned. Randy, the guy who sometimes helped his dad. “Hi Randy.”

“How's it going, fella?”

“Pretty good.” The ferry approached the dock's guide rails.

“How's your brother doin'?”

“Not so great.” What the heck was Randy on about? He had a sense Randy didn't much like Derek—cool vibes between them when Randy had helped out on the woodlot the last couple of autumns. “Still unconscious.”

“Damn shame,” said Randy. “Sad.”

Randy didn't sound sad. “Yeah.” Tim started back to the car. “See you, Randy.”

“Right. September in the woodlot, right?” The ferry scraped against the barrier. A crewman reached for the attaching cable.

Wrong. “I don't think so.”

“No?” Randy's brow furrowed.

“No. Dad's got his friend Zeke to come in.”

“Oh,” said Randy. “How about that.”

“See you.”

A minute after Tim had left the car Linda pulled out her cell phone. “Hi Barb, I've got Jason's friends, the detectives I mentioned . . . Oh the same. Vital signs stable . . . Thanks, we do too . . . On the next ferry, I think. Your rooms still open, I hope? . . . No, I didn't ask.” She looked at Alana. “Would they share a room—?”

Alana quickly shook her head.

“No, two . . . Don't worry about the breakfast part, they'll eat with us . . . Thanks, Barb. Oops, we're unloading.”

Linda pocketed her phone just as Tim slammed back into his seat. She looked back at Shane. “Did Austin say when he might come by?”

“No.”

She turned around. Shane was sitting with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. She had never seen him sit so still for so long. Linda started the engine.

•  •  •

Dr. Pierce was running late. Would they be able to come back at five?

Noel turned to Jason. “How's that for the ferry to Quadra?”

“If we have a short chat with the doctor, and if the ferry's running a little late we can maybe get the 5:25. If there's no overload. Otherwise it's the 6:15.”

“We'll be back at five,” said Noel to the receptionist.

Kyra saw a sign: Washroom. “Catch up with you.” Pregnant, demanding again.

“We'll wait,” said Noel.

She reappeared shortly. They walked out to the car.

Jason said, “I'm betting on the 6:15. Pierce is often late.”

“What's his specialty?” asked Kyra.

“Internist. Good guy, by and large. Not nearly as bad as McPherson, Derek's surgeon.”

“Fits all the clichés about the surgeon-god?”

“More like surgeon-king. Campbell River's not big enough for a god.”

Noel said, “Time to see the Mounties.”

“I'll call, see if either is in.” Jason found his cell phone and pressed in a pre-set number. Constable Bryan could see them.

•  •  •

Linda drove through an evergreen forest, trees speckled with slanting sun. Alana was not used to trees this towering, and this green. San Diego was more brown, and pastel-colored houses and palm trees. This road was narrow; at home there'd be an eight lane freeway cutting through the trees.

After many curves Linda turned onto a narrow graveled driveway and pulled up in a carport beside a two-storey log house. They all got out. Shane stalked to the door, opened it and disappeared. Linda, watching, frowned.

Alana set her purse-strap over her shoulder. A large vegetable garden lay to the right of the house. Clematis entwined a trellis to the roof. “What a pretty place!”

“Thanks,” said Tim. “It's okay.” His hat was on backwards again.

“Come in, Alana.” Linda led the few steps to the door. The back door, Alana realized.

Linda and Tim kicked off their shoes onto a pile of others. So Alana did too.

Another door opened into the kitchen, a large room with an ell-shaped counter, stools at one side, walls with pictures and posters tacked up. There were dishes in the sink, on the drainboard, stuff on the counters haphazardly tidied into piles. A comfy house, Alana felt.

Linda shucked her knapsack onto a chair by a TV and rummaged out two food containers. “Tim, take off your hat and show Alana the house.”

Tim whizzed his hat at the rack and it caught. “Hat trick! Come on,” he said to Alana.

He whirled her through the living room—another comfortable mess—a den with another TV and a computer, bookshelves, out the window a slanting sun, trees, vines, upstairs to bathroom, “Shane's room,” the door tightly closed, “Derek's room,” door also closed. Tim put his hand on the knob, breathed in and bit his lip. He turned away. “My room.” The door was open and Alana saw a jumble of bedclothes. “Parents' room,” he pointed. A stained glass window at the end of the hall refracted the sun's rays.

“Is Shane in a bad mood? Or is he always so silent?”

“Just another grumpy teen.” Tim smirked. So Alana did too. A conspiracy.

Back in the kitchen, Linda was poking about in the freezer. “Would you like a pop or something?” he asked Alana. “Or a beer?” He raised his eyebrows.