In the middle of
a three-foghorn Wagnerian chorus, a discordant ringing drilled Holly Martin’s dream of a sun-drenched Kauai beach. “What the….” She sat up and rubbed her gritty eyes as she groped for the bedside lamp. The phone was several feet away, and the clock read 11:59 p.m. Through the picture windows in her tower room, the dark and palpable Strait of Juan de Fuca hung suspended between dusk and dawn. Pillows of grey had swallowed up a highway of cargo-ship lights on the Pacific trade route.
Damn wrong numbers. She grunted a hello, prepared to read the hapless caller the riot act, then smash down the receiver.
“It’s Sooke detachment, corporal. Two people on our night shift are out sick with flu, and we’ve had an emergency call from a Seaside Road resident near French Beach Provincial Park. Can you get down there and secure the scene? We’ve radioed for the ambulance, but they’re tied up at an accident with the night paving crew. West Shore says they’ll send someone, but it’s going to take an hour and a half with all the traffic snarls.” With the burgeoning population in the Western Communities, the only artery along the ocean had become an impossible bottleneck.
“No problem. Is it an accident? Please don’t tell me it’s a heart attack. And did it happen at French Beach or on Seaside?” This was a first. Her Fossil Bay detachment was a three-officer outlier, operating regular hours dawn to dinner Monday to Friday. The fifteen-officer Sooke post nearer to Victoria handled 24-7 emergencies.
Sitting at her desk still in her bare feet, she came awake faster as the facts emerged. A young woman in the campground had been assaulted nearly an hour ago. Except for a very sore neck and a chin bump, the girl seemed okay. No park rangers were on duty in the off-season, but someone from an adjoining residential street who took late walks had heard the scuffle and come to the rescue.
Hitting the ensuite bathroom to splash her face, Holly heard muffled barks from the room across the hall where her father Norman slept with their rescue border collie Shogun. Trying to be quiet, she dressed in her uniform. Finally she added the Kevlar vest and duty belt with her Glock, and went into the second-floor rotunda. Light from her room spilled into the hall.
“Those damn cats fighting out back again? Somebody ought to get that old tom snipped,” her sixty-plus father said, at his door in a paisley robe. His sleek grey-blond hair was mussed into a bed head. Beside him stood Shogun, shaking himself awake and bowing in a nervous stretch, plumed white tail waving as if he knew he was gorgeous.
She spread her hands in apology. “There’s been an assault at French Beach. Sooke’s shorthanded. I have to go.”
“In the middle of the night? A constabulary’s work is never done.” He yawned and turned sleepily. “Take the mutt with you for company.” Shogun was half Karelian bear dog, Norman claimed. That accounted for his unusual gay tail, longer nose, and forty-four pounds.
“Oh, really, Dad. I’m on duty, for God’s sake. Next thing, you’ll be coming, too.”
“No arguments. This is a first, your being out on the job at night. Make your old man feel better. Your mother would have….” He paused and cleared his throat. “And give him a walk later, can you? I’m meeting a colleague for lunch to discuss my next sabbatical.” Norman was a professor of popular culture at the University of Victoria. In his ivory tower, a standard work week meant nine or ten hours of classes. The rest of the time was for research, preparation, or marking what some people would call Trivial Pursuit. He wouldn’t retire until they wrenched the chalk from his cold hands.
“You win. I’m in too much of a hurry to argue.” She gave him a mock salute and dodged Shogun as the dog barrelled down the circular stairs.
Putting on her short boots from the downstairs hall closet, she exited, Stetson in hand. After Shogun decorated the rhodo bush, she boosted him into the back seat of her ’85 Prelude and fastened the doggie seat belt Norman had installed in both their vehicles. Headquarters frowned on ferrying a dog in a cruiser, but the sole detachment car lived in Fossil Bay.
Otter Point Place, high on a hill overlooking the Olympic Mountains of Washington State fifteen kilometres across the strait, was deadly quiet. From the copse of trees in the vacant side lot, a barred owl called to its mate, then swooped to the grassy ditch to select a fast-food snack. In the driveway lights that blinked on, a garter snake writhed in its talons, a rare and privileged sight for her, not the serpent. She backed onto the street as the dashboard clock ticked 12:10. With no traffic, fifteen minutes to the beach.
Passing properties with acreage sliced from former farms, overseen by a curious llama with its head over the fence, she turned right onto West Coast Road, skirting Gordon’s Beach, a toenail of land bearing run-down shacks from the fifties next to Hobbity half-million dollar homes on postage-stamp lots.
It was a bad place to be without coffee. Urban conveniences hadn’t found this part of Vancouver Island. Fifty minutes to the east was the corner that enveloped Victoria, the provincial capital of 335,000 people. Not all the armies in the world could stop retirees from selling their snow blowers and converging on Canada’s Caribbean, despite the sky-high real estate prices and costly ferries.
She drove past Tugwell Creek, then Muir, each one with a Protect-our-Resource sign, flagging the tributaries of salmon spawning which, along with timber, anchored the economy. A dark and ugly area of clearcuts flashed by, devastation visible only from the air. Even in this recession, the Chinese dragon had a huge appetite for wood. Enya’s
In Memory of Trees
was playing “Pax Deorum.” The drumbeats and chorus made her feel like marching into battle instead of enjoying the Peace of the Gods. Slowly her sleepiness turned to energy.
Ten minutes later she arrived at French Beach, easing down a gradual hill into the empty day-parking lot. Campground reservations operated on the honour system, using envelopes and a slotted metal kiosk. Off season, maintenance was sporadic. A heavy gate barred entry into the campground after hours. So whatever happened, no one had driven into the discrete camping area.
After freeing Shogun from the belt so that he could lie down, she left the car, notebook in her pocket and a hefty Maglite in hand. In the pitch darkness, someone waving a beam was hailing her. Paul Reid, a strange old codger who had reported the incident, met her at the main gate. They shook hands.
“I wanted to take another walk around just in case. The girl’s at my house. Through the campground, then five more minutes to the end of Seaside Drive.”
Holly gave a quick scan. It was still dark as the inside of a closet. Not a creature was stirring, except those nocturnal. “Thanks for taking her in. You might have stopped something very bad from happening.”
Paul straightened up, basking in the official attention. He wore a dark knit toque and a heavy woollen shirt smelling vaguely of mothballs. “She’s safe now. Do you want to talk to her first or see the site where she was … I mean, where the guy pushed her into a yurt?”
“A yurt?” She was familiar with botanical and zoological terms from university. This brought a mental head scratch.
“A round prefab structure. People who don’t want to rough it prefer them. And let’s face it, sometimes it rains.” He gave a trollish bray that seemed to go on and on. He was probably nervous at being the centre of attention. People living out here didn’t have much excitement in their lives, and they liked it that way.
“Right,” Holly answered to be companionable. Everyone reacted differently to stress. She’d seen parents turn into robots on hearing of their child’s injuries. Others had meltdowns over a lost wallet.
In all their time in the velvet darkness, they had heard nothing. As she suspected, few were camping here tonight. “You’ve already made the rounds, you —”
“Nothing there to see now. No sir. The joker who did this is long gone, ask me.” His long arms were swinging at his side, and he had a rolling gait like an old sailor.
“There’s no sense flashing our lights and panicking campers. I need to talk to the girl first. Her name?” She agreed about the assailant being gone. You’d need a massive ego or a perverted sense of satisfaction to hang around, even though arsonists liked to return to observe their handiwork.
“Maddie Mattoon. Short for Madeleine, I guess, but I didn’t ask.” He shook his head. “A girl going camping alone … I mean I don’t have a sister, but if I had….” His voice trailed off.
They walked around the gate on the asphalt road and started through the complex campground. “How many sites?” Holly asked. When she had left the area nearly fifteen years ago to go to university, the parks were a dream under construction.
“About seventy. Full up in summer. Hardly anyone’s out this time of year, though. Now’s when we locals reclaim the territory.”
“How so?”
“Once the place is closed to camping, I get out my wheelbarrow and chainsaw. The parks people let me cart off the down-and-dead firewood. Saves them the trouble and I get free fuel. I’m usually first of my neighbours on the sand at dawn. See the sun come up with a cup of coffee. Watch the seals waddle up on the rocks. Imagine what a private beach like this is worth.” His tone was reverent.
Holly agreed about the perks of living by a beautiful shoreline. People who appreciated that proximity didn’t care if they lived half an hour from a place to buy coffee cream. The ambience was compensation enough. “We’re all lucky to be islanders. Have you lived here long?”
“All my life on the south island, but right here for ten years. Prices weren’t nothing back then. I got the place cheap from an old logger whose granddaddy built it at the turn of the century. That’s 1900 I’m talking. Just a cowpath from Victoria. Telegraph to Port Renfew was all. So many shipwrecks. The old strait put a lotta bones in Davey Jones’s locker.”
Until a few decades ago, farm and bush, it probably hadn’t changed much since the Gold Rush that exploded Victoria as a jumping off spot for the Fraser River and the mainland interior.
Past the last site, they flicked on their lights, crossed a small creek bridge, and came to a dark little path. It occurred to Holly that someone could have parked on Seaside and entered the campsite on foot. “How’s Maddie doing? Was anyone there to stay with her? Your wife?” Holly asked.
“My wife? What do you mean?” His words stumbled from his mouth, and he turned to look at her, his mouth agape.
“Sorry. Just an assumption. No offence.” Strike one. He was a loner after all.
“None taken then. I’m on my own. She’s holding up well, poor kid. Seems the serious type, not one of your foolish ones. Otherwise, she’d be out drinking, dancing, or taking drugs. Maybe all three at once. Young people today. I don’t know.” He gave his head a mournful shake.
She nosed a hint of woodsmoke, which they followed like cartoon characters drifting horizontally. After another few hundred feet in the quiet rainforest, passing under dark, banyonlike cedars on the springy peat path, they came to Paul’s simple log cabin. A pile of split wood and a block and maul sat by a wooden lean-to covering his supply. The annual drought was coming to an end, and the weather that made it a rainforest would soon be serving up a winter of solid water.
The street was barren of cars. No other houses were visible. Long driveways took care of that.
They climbed the steps to the porch. It looked cheery inside; a beacon of refuge in the night. Around them, tree frogs, sensing a false dawn, put up a mating chorus. Colder temperatures would silence them, but in this climate the geese didn’t leave and hummingbirds buzzed for sweet red nectar even at Christmastime.
“I kept the fire going for her. Make her feel at home,” Paul said, thumping the back of an old hound who padded up. “That’s Bucky,” he said. “A big suck fleabag. He’s my bud, ain’tcha, boy?”
The furniture was minimal on the bare, varnished plywood floors. An older television. Table and chairs. A woodstove with a glowing fire and a kindling box. On a windowsill Paul had a collection of white and brown ceramic resistors from the old telegraph poles. Privacy curtains made of sheets were crudely basted at the top. Luckily for the girl, the room was like an oven. A galley kitchen with a hand pump showed through the doorway of one back room, the other probably a bedroom. No doubt he had a class five sanitary system, a.k.a. an outhouse. City water and sewer had not made it out here yet; a blessing and a curse.
On an overstuffed but threadbare sofa, wrapped in blankets, was a girl about nineteen. A mop of strawberry-blond hair exaggerated her innocence, along with soft brown eyes inflamed with weeping. Her pale complexion was scarred with the aftermath of teenaged acne. Holly walked over and gave her a reassuring look and a handshake. Any tears were dry now. “I’m glad you’re all right, Miss Mattoon. Sorry it took so long for me to get here.”
“I feel stupid. Like it was my fault. My roomie told me not to come out alone.” She gave a small cough and massaged her neck. The angry line of a ligature showed up. At least the skin wasn’t broken.
“May I see? Don’t worry. I won’t touch.” Holding her breath, Holly took a closer look as Maddie lowered the neck of her T-shirt. Too smooth for a rope. That would leave an abrasive appearance, like a burn. No cutting, like piano, guitar wire, or even fishing line. Another minute and she might have been unconscious. “That looks very sore. It’s going to take a while to fade. How’s your swallowing?” The girl cradled a chipped mug of what looked like tea.
Maddie shrugged and pulled the blanket closer. Were fresh tears welling in her eyes? “I just never expected … I mean it’s so beautiful out here and I….” Her voice had an overlaid hoarseness — small wonder under the circumstances.
“You have every right to be safe in one of our parks. Don’t beat yourself up. I was born and raised in the area. This has to be a first. Drunken teenagers acting up are usually our worst scenario.”
There was a wicked bruise on her chin, too. Holly glanced at Paul, rocking ten feet away in a shabby recliner and staring at the girl. In the light, he appeared to be perhaps sixty or a hard-living fifty with a short military haircut greying at the sides. Worrying themselves like puppies on his lap, his hands and nails showed a history of rough work. He was rake thin, probably from minimal bachelor meals and plenty of outdoor activity. What was his history, the old hermit? He wore paint-stained workpants, along with a pair of construction boots. Kind though he’d been to offer his house, his hovering presence was disturbing Holly. She arched one eyebrow, and cut her gaze to the kitchen, which brought him to his feet.