CHAPTER 5
Lucas Arenas is a man who turns heads. People are drawn to him. It isn’t that he’s particularly tall, or wildly handsome, although he does have large, expressive blue eyes, thick lashes, a beautiful smile. It’s the intelligence and sadness and hope that invite everyone in. The eyes are his dad’s. His smile is his mom’s, a tiny 4’ 8” Ixil-Maya woman.
He stared out on the Burrard Inlet and the Port of Vancouver, watching the rain sweep down on the business and industry that booms, 24 hours a day, oblivious to weather. Ocean going vessels, moored here and there in the deep waters, flash now and then through a rainy curtain.
When he went to search for Morgan the first time, he saw his car parked near the entrance to the trails, but no sign of her anywhere. Then he called close friends Kate Brennan and Bart Morris and the three of them went to New Brighton and searched for her again. They covered the trails by the ocean first, just as he had earlier, then made their way along the thickly wooded Canada Trail which ran beside the inlet—a last resort, just in case.
It was late when Kate and Bart went home, with a promise to return early the next morning. But he knew and they knew. She was gone. He called the VPD. The woman he spoke with was understanding but insisted he had to wait 24 hours before he could file a missing person’s report. He knew that. But he was out of his mind with worry and not thinking clearly.
It was still a while before first light. He looked down at Carey Bolton’s smiling face, her picture beside Morgan’s favorite camera on the table in front of him. He reached for the camera and cradled it to his chest. It was the Canon she took to Guatemala on their trip earlier in the year. Her amazing pictures—his Guatemala through her eyes, a filmmaker’s eyes. She’d arrived in his life, laughing and hooting at Kate’s side, instantly serious when Kate introduced them. He remembered how they took each other’s measure—her dark eyes serious, his blue eyes laughing. There should have been trumpets heralding your arrival in my life, he said. People don’t arrive in your life, she’d laughed, enjoying how he used language. You arrived in mine, he insisted, like a head of state. I could not resist your eyes, she told him. I have my father’s eyes, he said. He didn’t tell her, not right away, that he was the second child born to his parents; that his older brother had been stillborn.
In less than a month they were sleeping together every night. After a few months, they found the cottage and moved in together. There wasn’t enough room for all his pots and pans or their libraries or her precious 16 mm film stock and film drafts and shot reels which prompted many trips to Ikea and finally, when they couldn’t fit it all in, a storage locker nearby.
They’d been together seven years now. After a while, he’d given up taking pictures altogether. Why bother. Morgan was born with a photographer’s eye and a storyteller’s soul. In Nebaj, his first time back in Guatemala, he’d taken her to see the Catholic church, so imposing, right on the town square. Lucas wanted pictures and he wanted Morgan to take them. He watched her capture the towering, hand carved front door, then close-ups of the Mayan religious and cultural symbols that adorned it; carved 400 years ago but looking as though they’d been carved yesterday. Then inside the church: All the Stations of the Cross but especially a larger than life Black Christ with Anglo features—on his knees, blood dripping from his crown of thorns, threatening to move right into the room and take over the aisle. And the altar: beautiful angels and the Virgin Mary floating above them all. It wasn’t a trip for pleasure though.
Guatemala City: dry, dusty and hot, the rainy season not yet begun; the trip from the airport to Zone 10, a walled compound and the friendly armed guard; the quaint hotel behind its own stucco walls; the owner who chatted amiably with them while they registered. Lucas remembered now, when his eyes happened on the magazine for army veterans on the registration counter—his frisson of fear, a sucker punch. The owner had been in the army. Lucas had to struggle for composure and when he looked up, the owner was watching him. Over 600 unofficial massacres, over 200,000 murdered—Ríos Montt’s reign of terror—genocide, Guatemalan style with American expertise and guns and when some of their citizens started to question that involvement, US client states more than willing to supply what Montt needed. Montt on trial in Guatemala City when they arrived; the country holding its collective breath. Many of his mom’s people were in the city, some of them testifying.
He remembered Morgan telling the owner they weren’t here to see the pyramids. And the owner telling her he’d never served in the highlands, his eyes on Lucas. The highlands—where most of the killing took place—far away from prying eyes. He wanted Lucas to know that his hands were clean. That he didn’t participate in the genocide. But Lucas remembered when he looked in the owner’s eyes, how quickly he lowered his gaze and he wondered how clean his hands were.
He closed his eyes and he was on a narrow, mountain path in the Guatemalan highlands, walking behind another man, a tiny procession of Ixil men and women, each of them carrying a small coffin holding the remains of a loved one killed in an army massacre almost 30 years before. His father in the little box he carried in his arms.
The first rays of dawn lit up the underbelly of rain clouds. Lucas was awake instantly. He couldn’t wait for Kate and Bart. He pulled on a jacket and left the cottage, ran the short distance downhill to New Brighton Park, allowed himself to hope. Maybe Morgan had fallen and was badly hurt. Maybe she was lying somewhere, unconscious, where they hadn’t been able to find her last night. In the rain. In the darkness.
The air was thick with cold drizzle. Oblivious, he passed his car, still sitting in the parking lot where she’d parked it last night—running at full speed now through the pedestrian underpass to the trails along the beach.
CHAPTER 6
A shaft of sunlight warms my nose and cheek. Daytime. What day? I’m under brush. It’s so thick. Can’t move around. The earth is cold under my cheek. Musty leaves. I want to sneeze. A path, just inches from my head. Must have come in that way. Feet first ... I’m hiding. Hiding. Man said ... just get rid of her. Get rid of her. Don’t care what you do. Get rid of her. Who said that? The man in the truck. Was he there? With the others? Need water. The lake ... I’m so thirsty. . . It’s hard to move around. My hands are so numb. Can’t feel them. Can’t feel my hands! Taped. Need to get the tape off. Need to get out of here. Get my head out first. Don’t see him. Maybe he’s gone. Wiggle out. Onto path. Get up. My legs. Like rubber. Oh no. Falling back. Ouch ... I’m weaving. A little dizzy. Lean against this tree. Wait till my head clears. Not too long. He must be here. Hard to keep my balance. Take it slow. Don’t fall. The lake. Already. Sunshine is too bright. Hurts my eyes. The blue truck. Still here! Shit! My heart. Pounding. Can’t breathe. I’m peeing. Shit! Get back into the trees! Stay calm. He’s not behind me. He’s not on the shore. Can’t see him at the truck. If I can’t see him, he’s looking for me. Need to do something. Don’t know what to do. What’s that? A motor. Getting louder. A motorboat! To my left, just beyond that point of land. Coming this way! I have to get down to the shore. My only chance. All downhill. Don’t fall. Can’t fall now. Take a wider stride. Angle your feet out. There’s the boat! It’s heading across the lake, right in front of me!
“Help!” I can’t hear myself. They won’t hear me! They’re not looking! I’ll wade in. The boat’s wake is strong. Hard to keep my balance. Two people. Fishing poles dangling off the back. Get their attention. Wade in further, almost to my knees now. Move sideways. Please. I’m here. Look here. Over here ... Damn ... So many rocks.
One of them is reaching for a fishing pole. Does he see me? He sees me! He sees me! He’s pointing at me! They’re turning the boat around. They’re heading toward me!
“Leave her alone, asshole!”
“Don’t you dare lay a hand on her!”
He’s here! Shit! Have to go deeper. Hard to stand. The boat is closing in fast and they’re yelling at him at the top of their lungs. He grabs for me and he
falls hard on his right arm and knee. He’s up again. Swings toward me. Boat’s so close now. It’s too late. I see the anger in his eyes. He hauls himself out of the water and sprints toward the truck.
They’ve cut the motor. He’s bringing the boat beside me and I’m crying like a baby, but I don’t care. It’s gonna be okay. They’re out of the boat. She puts her arm around me and helps me out of the water and onto the sand. My legs buckle under me and I’m down. She’s stays with me, holding on tight and helps me to sit. We all turn to watch as the blue truck spins away up the road and disappears around a bend.
“I couldn’t read the license,” she said.
“Me neither,” he said. He tied the boat up and was quickly pulling stuff out of it.
“Water please,” I managed to croak out, my voice barely a whisper. But she understood.
“Alex, she needs water.”
He’s beside us now and hands her a water bottle and places a first-aid kit on the sand beside her. She opens the bottle and holds it to my lips. One side of my mouth isn’t cooperating, but I manage to get some of the delicious, wet water into my mouth and swallow it.
“Thank you so much, for stopping, for helping me,” all of it whispers into a mouthful of cotton.
“Don’t try to talk. You’re going to be okay honey. Everything’s going be okay. My name’s Gwen. This is Alex.” She’s a youngish woman, with warm, brown eyes and her dark hair gleams auburn where it catches the sunlight. Her companion is a strongly built man with thick, black hair showing a little grey. He’s a brother and I find that very comforting. He’s holding a knife at his side.
“I’ll cut that tape around your wrists. It won’t take long, and you’ll be a lot more comfortable. Just hold as still as possible.” I nodded gratefully. He moved behind me and worked carefully, cutting the tape where it joined the back of the wrists and then the front, leaving flaps of tape attached to both my arms.
I moved my hands into my lap. It was such a relief to feel the blood surge into my arms and hands, but that was quickly followed by intense and painful pins and needles.
“We’ll leave the tape attached for now. When we get you to the hospital, they’ll have something to remove it without a lot of unnecessary pain.”
“I’m going to clean up the gash on your forehead though, right now,” said Gwen. “It’s deep and I’m worried about infection.”
“That one might need stitches,” Alex agreed. “Looks like it’s bleeding.”
“Oozing. I’ll butterfly tape it for now. They can make a decision at the hospital whether to stitch it.”
I must have blacked out. I’m on my side by the water’s edge, a bandage taped to my forehead and a blanket over me. Between them, they helped me climb into the rear of the boat. I settled in, leaning on a wooden seat for support. Gwen climbed in behind me and re-wrapped the blanket around me, then put a lifejacket under my head. Alex pushed the boat clear of the shore. Then he climbed in and he and Gwen took up the oars and started to paddle out, turning the boat around until it faced the middle of the lake. He started the motor then and steered the boat back in the direction they’d come from.
I dozed until the feel of the bottom of the boat shifting up against sand brought me around. We were disembarking on another shore, a small, snug little inlet. The sun was higher now and the air was delicious with the smell of pines. I could see a vehicle on a small access road, about six metres from the shore. It was theirs, a dark green truck with a camper trailer hitched to the back.
They helped me out of the boat. Alex tied it up to a narrow wooden dock. Then the two of them supported me for the short walk to their truck and helped me climb up and into the cab. I sat between them. Alex got behind the wheel and helped Gwen hold me steady so they could tuck a blanket around me and fasten my seatbelt. The last thing I remember was Alex talking on a radio to someone about the guy in the blue truck. When I came to, I was leaning into Gwen’s shoulder. She was doing her best to prop me up, which must have been difficult as my body felt like it was made of rubber and at five feet, ten inches, I was head and shoulders over her. It was too much of an effort to open my eyes, so I just listened to them talk.
“This road gets worse every year. Too bad we can’t go faster.”
“The cowboys don’t need roads; they’re on horseback most of the time.”
“Cowboys?” I whispered. I love cowboys.
Gwen understood me. “You’re in cattle country,” she said.
“The cut-off’s just up here on the right. We’ll be there soon,” said Alex.
When we arrived at the hospital, Alex hopped out and fetched a wheelchair and they helped me into it. Alex wheeled me into emergency, Gwen walking along beside us.
Alex turned out to be Detective Sergeant Alex Desocarras, an officer with the 100 Mile House detachment of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. As soon as we were at the front desk, he was on his cell, talking with someone about the guy at the lake.
“We rescued this woman about two hours ago at Gustafsen Lake,” Gwen told the admitting clerk. “She’s been through an ordeal. We’ve no idea how badly she’s injured.”
I tried to give the clerk my name, but in the end, I made the universal writing movement and was given paper and pen. Once she knew I was Morgan O’Meara and she had my address in Vancouver, she found me in the health care database. The clerk’s face was positively alarmed at the sight of me.
“Morgan, is there someone I can call for you?”
I nodded, took up pen again and wrote Lucas Arenas, partner, our address on Trinity Street in Vancouver, and phone numbers where he could be reached. Alex watched as I wrote and took note of the information.
“Vancouver is about 450 km away, so about five hours by car,” said Gwen.
He looked at his notes. “Does Lucas have a car?”
I nodded yes.
Two nurses moved me to a stretcher and wheeled me to an examination cubicle. One of them prepared a site on my forearm for an IV and quickly hooked me up. The other one tucked me in with warm blankets. Then the two of them cleaned up the scratches and abrasions and one of them cleaned my forehead, prepping me, she said, for stitches. I had no idea when the damage to my forehead was done, but the staff were sure it had been less than 12 hours. The cut was deep and still oozing, so they stitched it up. One of the nurses used a solution to ease the flaps of tape from my wrists.
The next few hours went by in a blur of x-rays, doctors and emergency room nurses. I heard one of the orderlies tell another that he was starting his holidays tomorrow, which was Friday.
I beckoned him closer. “What day?” I whispered.
“It’s Thursday, October 9th.”
Thursday. I shook my head in disbelief. Tuesday, I led a film lab at SFU. then I drove to New Brighton Park for a run. It’s just 10 minutes from our cottage on Trinity Street. That was two days ago.
“Good news Morgan,” said Sandra, one of the nurses. “The clerk reached your partner. He’s on his way.”
I could feel the tears sliding down my cheeks.
“It’s gonna be okay Morgan,” said Gwen, touching my arm gently, then getting up to fetch me some tissues.
Sandra had given me something for pain earlier. The attending ER doctor had requested full x-rays which revealed no broken bones. They’d also done a thorough head to toe exam, which I mostly dozed through. After that, they wanted to do a rape kit. I said yes. My hips, my thighs, my vagina, my pelvis were all hurting bad. I couldn’t remember what happened, or when, or where, but I knew I’d been raped. After the rape kit, a lab tech took some blood for a toxicology screen. The ER doctor wanted to keep me overnight for observation.
“No,” I whispered, and shook my head as vehemently as I could. I was going home as soon as Lucas got here.
The doctor reluctantly agreed to let me travel but cautioned me to continue with the medication he’d prescribed and watch for any discharge from my right ear, ringing sounds
, or uneven pupil size. If any of those symptoms. surfaced, I was to consider myself in very big trouble and get myself to a hospital immediately. I nodded my understanding. For good measure, he wrote all of that down and listed the hospitals between 100 Mile House and Vancouver.
Once the hospital staff were done, I went to sleep for real. When I woke up it was nearly 11:00 am according to the wall clock just outside my cubicle and Gwen was with me. She’d made a trip home to fetch me some clothes to wear: a pair of faded jeans and a plaid shirt, warm wool socks, and she’d nabbed one of her husband’s old jackets as well. She helped me get dressed. Never had well worn, comfy clothes felt so heavenly.
Gwen told me Alex had asked a nurse to bundle my filthy and torn running gear into a clean, plastic bag. He’d already taken it to the 100 Mile House Detachment office for delivery to the RCMP forensics lab in Vancouver.
Then Alex poked his head in and told me that someone named Corporal James was waiting at the detachment to take a statement from me. He’d been to the hospital earlier and asked Alex to bring me over when I was ready. Gwen intervened.
“Let’s get her something to eat first, Alex. I’ll bet she’s hungry.”
“Good idea Gwen. We all need to eat.” They hadn’t eaten since 5:00 am, just before they headed out fishing.
We picked up takeout from Barney’s, a restaurant in town that specialized in all-day breakfast and took ours to the detachment. I didn’t have to sit in public and have people stare at me which was a relief. I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t want to refuse their kindness.
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