Malabarista

by Garry Ryan

Dr. Alexandre sat with her hands in her lap. She crossed her left leg over her right and smoothed the crease in her red slacks. “Who was the person who told you that you don’t deserve to live?”

  The doctor’s question hit Lane with a combination of surprise and shock. Delay! Lane thought. “Do you mean who said those exact words?”

  Alexandre waited for an answer.

  “My mother.”

  “How old were you?” The doctor picked up her coffee and drank.

  Lane was struck by the casual tension. “Thirteen, I think.” How did Alexandre suspect?

  The doctor’s tone remained relentlessly calm. “And since then?”

  “As recently as a week or two. My sister-in-law alluded to it.” Lane set his cup down, put his feet flat on the floor, and measured the distance to the door. He put his hands on the arm of the chair.

  “When was your first suicide attempt?”

  Lane glared at the doctor. What the hell? “I was nineteen.”

  “Describe the circumstances, please.” Alexandre leaned a centimetre or two to her left and placed her elbow on the arm of the chair.

  “I was driving down a hill. There was a bridge at the bottom. I accelerated and aimed the car at one of the bridge supports. Then I turned away.”

  “And after that?”

  “I planned it out once or twice but never got that close again.”

  The doctor shook her head. “I think you’re not being totally honest with me.”

  “Who gives a shit what you think?” Lane stood up, half out of surprise at his reaction and half out of a desire to flee.

  “Sit down.”

  Lane sat.

  “Your job involves observing human behaviour and drawing conclusions. Now your behaviours are being observed.” The doctor uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “When you saved Cameron Harper’s life, there was a man behind the door who was threatening you with a hunting rifle.”

  “That’s correct.” Lane heard his voice as if someone else was doing the talking. She can’t be right!

  “And after that, you were wounded once.”

  “Yes, but that was completely accidental.”

  The doctor shook her head. “And you went back on the job even though you were told to take time off. Then you put yourself in harm’s way again.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did it feel when you found the child in the garbage can?”

  You brutal bitch! He wiped the sweat away from his forehead and felt a cold trickle of perspiration rolling along his ribs. “Shocked. Guilty.”

  “Guilty?”

  Lane smiled. “I was still alive. She was dead. She was a child — an innocent.”

  “Are you beginning to get the picture?” Alexandre’s eyes continued to stare at Lane, analyzing his reactions.

  Lane felt his throat constrict. His eyes filled with tears. The other part of his mind remained detached, as if observing his own reactions. Then emotion took hold and savagely shook him. He began to sob.

  Dr. Alexandre spoke in a voice that was resigned and firm. “You couldn’t kill yourself, so you took risks. You tried to run down a suspect, and a truck hit you. Then you were punished for rescuing a girl of kindergarten age. Maybe it’s time you began to listen to the people who wish you well.”

  Lane looked out the window. Like Arthur, Matt, Christine, Keely, Harper, and Lori?

  “It may be time to make some changes.”

  “Run with the geese.” Lane spoke without thinking. It felt like someone else was saying the words.

  “Explain.” Dr. Alexandre sat back in her chair.

  Lane told her about Matt’s prescription for depression.

  “I think we need to book a family session,” she said.

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 31

  chapter 17

  They watched Arthur follow the operating nurse down a polished floor. He wore a blue housecoat and slippers. They waited until the automatic doors closed behind him.

  Lane turned.

  “Where are you going?” Christine asked.

  “We,” Lane said.

  “We?” Matt asked.

  Lane pulled his cellphone out of his pocket. “The surgeon will call after the operation. We’re going to get something to eat. It will be a long day.”

  Matt and Christine caught up to him and walked on either side. They stayed in that formation to the elevator, down to the main floor, and outside to the car.

  Matt drove while Lane studied the neighbourhood of Parkdale as they passed the open schoolyard, the new houses being built, old ones being renovated, and cyclists funneling onto the river pathways. He reached into his pocket several times to ensure his phone was on.

  Matt pulled in front of the café. “They open?” he asked.

  Lane glanced at his phone to check the time. He looked at the café. An OPEN sign was in the window. He opened his door. “Wait here.” Lane walked up the steps to the café and went inside. The tables were empty. No one was behind the counter. He heard the door open behind him. He turned. Christine waved.

  Matt looked around at the oak tables, the desserts behind glass, and the cash register. Christine moved to the left and looked through a half-open door into the kitchen. Lane followed and looked over her shoulder.

  A waiter sat in an office chair, straddled by the cook, still wearing her hairnet. They were both blonde and in their mid-twenties. The cook had a butterfly tattoo on her ankle.

  The wheels on the chair began to squeak.

  “Oh!” Christine backed away. Lane did the same.

  “Oh my God,” said the cook.

  “I love you, baby,” said the waiter.

  Lane and Christine retreated to a booth around the corner, where Matt sat with a newspaper, open to the comics page.

  “What’s going on?” Matt asked.

  “A little nooky in the kitchen,” Christine said.

  “I hope they wash their hands before they prepare our food,” Lane said. Matt appeared not to be listening.

  The waiter arrived behind the counter two minutes later. He was a little short of breath. “Sorry, folks, I’m Jim. Didn’t see you come in. Come on up and I’ll take your orders.” The group stood and approached the counter.

  Matt said, “Come on baby, light my fire!”

  “Sorry?” asked the waiter.

  Christine elbowed Matt in the ribs. “Mochaccino for me,” Matt said, rubbing his side. Christine ordered the same.

  “Make it three, please,” said Lane, “and we’d like some sandwiches.”

  “A threesome?” Matt asked. Christine punched his shoulder.

  The waiter blushed as he pointed at the order forms and multicoloured highlighters for ordering sandwiches. Lane picked up three forms and passed them out.

  “Would you like a side order of nooky with your pickle?” Matt asked Christine. She glared at him while standing on his foot.

  The waiter brought them their coffees and they sat back down. Matt sipped his mug quietly. Christine sat next to him, careful to keep him within elbow range.

  Soon after their soup and sandwiches arrived, an older man with an enormous mustache entered the café and strode over to their table. “How’s the service?” he asked.

  “Very good, thank you,” Lane said.

  Christine tried to kick Matt under the table.

  “Ouch!” Lane exclaimed, rubbing his shin.

  Matt laughed. The waiter chuckled. Soon, Christine joined in as well.

  Lane’s laughter started slowly, but he was roaring by the time a group of joggers arrived at the café, dressed in their sweats and skin-tight shirts and drenched in perspiration. They glared in the direction of the laughter.

  The waiter turned to the mustached man. “Sorry, Fred,” he said. Fred shook his head and moved behind the till, then into the kitchen.

  Matt laughed louder.

  The waiter caught his breath. “Thanks for not squealing on me to my boss.”

  “You knew?” Christine said. />
  “It’s hard to miss clues like ‘Come on baby, light my fire.’” The waiter’s face turned red.

  “What fire?” Lane asked.

  “Exactly,” the waiter said. “Dessert’s on me.”

  Two hours later, Lane was sitting on a bench with Christine while Matt skipped rocks across the Bow River. His phone rang. He flipped it open. “Hello?”

  “Dr. Dugay here. The operation went well. We got the tumour. There was no evidence that the cancer spread into the sentinel node. Of course, the node and tumour will be sent to the lab for a biopsy. The results normally take a week. Arthur will come out of the anesthetic within the next hour and will be assigned a room from there.”

  “How soon can we see him?” Lane asked.

  Christine faced her uncle. Matt looked up from the edge of the water.

  “Phone this number in an hour,” the surgeon said.

  Lane checked his sticky note and compared it to the number on his phone’s call display. “Thank you.” He closed the phone and looked at Matt and Christine. “He came through the operation just fine. We call back in an hour.”

  “Let’s go,” Christine said.

  “Where?” Lane asked.

  Christine rolled her eyes.

  “To get him some flowers,” Matt said.

  Arthur was asleep and propped up in bed when they saw him an hour later. A pair of plastic tubes on either side of his chest drained fluid into plastic bottles. There were bandages where his breasts used to be.

  The man in the next bed looked to be over eighty. He was trying to pull his iv out.

  Arthur continued to snore.

  Lane checked the time. “I’ll stay if you want to go home,” he told Christine and Matt.

  “I want to be here when he wakes,” Matt said. Christine nodded in agreement.

  “He’s sleeping,” Lane said. “I’ll stay with him. You two take a break and get a coffee.” He handed them a couple of bills. “Bring me back a coffee too, please.”

  Arthur woke up ten minutes later, recognized Lane, and asked for some ice. Lane fed him a couple of cubes. Arthur chewed the ice while he tried to focus his eyes.

  “Dugay thinks he got it all,” Lane said. “He thinks it didn’t spread.”

  Arthur tried to smile, but pain forced his mouth into a grimace instead.

  “What do you need?” Lane asked.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “I asked them to go get coffee. I wanted to ask you something.” “Well?” Arthur looked at the ceiling.

  “Do you still love me?”

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1

  chapter 18

  “Dr. Weaver asked you to call.” Lori sipped her morning tea.

  Lane pulled his cell out of his pocket and flipped it open. It was dead. “I need to put this on the charger,” he muttered. He walked to his office and plugged his phone in. He reached for the phone by the computer and dialed Fibre’s number.

  “Hello?” Fibre was eating some kind of root vegetable. His voice was barely audible over the sound of chewing.

  Lane held the phone away from his ear. “It’s Lane returning your call.”

  “I tried to phone your office number, as requested.”

  Lane heard the annoyance in Fibre’s voice and ignored it. “You have the results for Branimir?”

  “Not yet.” Fibre swallowed.

  “How long will it take?”

  “It may take longer than a month to determine if Andelko Branimir is the father of Zarafeta Branimir. My initial estimate was incorrect.”

  “That complicates things,” Lane said.

  “Unavoidable.” Fibre hung up.

  Lane got up, walked out of his office, and found Keely talking with Lori. “Morning.”

  “What’s new?” Keely asked.

  Lane waited by the fax machine. It began to whir. “We’ll have to wait for DNA results.”

  “How long?”

  “Up to a month,” Lane said.

  “So what do we have to talk with Jelena about?” Keely asked.

  “We’ll have to think of a new approach.”

  “What about Stockwell? He still wants to talk about making a deal to keep his ass out of jail.” Keely read the fax over Lane’s shoulder.

  “Stockwell will have to wait.”

  “He could testify on your behalf. He could prove that Smoke abused his position to smear you.” Keely put her fists on her hips.

  “It has to wait. The Branimir case is at a critical stage.”

  “And there has been an organized attempt to ruin your career.” Keely stood between Lori’s desk and the wall, effectively blocking his escape.

  What has got you so riled up? “And we have a fourteen-year-old in the middle of a situation that is extremely dangerous. Which one of these situations deserves priority?”

  Keely leaned against the wall. “We deal with Jelena first.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Arthur?” Lori asked. Her phone rang. She picked it up. “He’s right here.” Lori covered the mouthpiece. “It’s one of the guys keeping an eye on the Branimir home.”

  Lane reached for the phone. “Lane here.” He listened. “And the daughter hasn’t returned?” Lane nodded and looked at Keely. “The mother is inside?” He nodded. “All right, call me on my cell if there’s a change. We’re on our way.” He hung up and looked at Lori. “Thanks.”

  He turned to relay the message to Keely. “Jelena took Zacki out early this morning. Zacki carried a gym bag. About an hour later, Jelena returned without her daughter. There haven’t been any signs of movement from Jelena since.” It was Lane’s turn to put his fists on his hips.

  Keely waved the fax. “We’re going to have a heart-to-heart with Jelena?”

  Lane nodded. “I need to get my phone.”

  In ten minutes they were exiting downtown in a nondescript Chevrolet. Lane looked out over the river as Keely drove west. Three inflatable rafts floated by. The people inside leaned back and chatted. One rafter reached into a cooler and passed around cans of beer.

  “What do we say to her?” Keely asked.

  “We tell her we have evidence that proves her husband was Borislav Goran, a war criminal. Then we show her the picture of the Tarantulas and comment on how much the woman looks like Zacki. We’ll see where the conversation goes from there.” Lane looked ahead as Keely took the ramp onto Crowchild Trail.

  “What about the bomb-making ingredients?” Keely eased into traffic.

  Lane looked down onto the river and at the city centre beyond. “I’d like to work that in with our talk about Zacki. The last time I mentioned Zacki, Jelena got angry. We’ll see if she gets angry, then I’ll slip in the question about the explosives.”

  Ten minutes later, Lane’s phone rang. “Lane.”

  Keely could hear the voice of the officer but not the message.

  Lane flipped his phone closed. “Jelena just drove away from her home. The car is loaded down, and she’s wearing fatigues. One of the officers is staying behind to keep an eye on her condo. The other is following her.” Lane flipped his phone open and checked the battery. “How’s your phone?”

  Keely pulled her phone out and handed it to Lane. He checked the battery. “Yours is good. Mine’s low.”

  Three minutes later, Lane’s phone rang. He listened, looked at Keely, and pointed straight ahead. “Speed it up. She’s headed toward us from the opposite direction.”

  Keely accelerated. “Lights and siren?”

  “Not yet.” Lane closed his phone.

  Keely stopped at a set of lights near the western edge of the city. Earthmovers were creating a mound of dirt in preparation for bridge construction.

  “There.” Lane pointed at a white car turning south. The words JELENA'S ALTERATIONS were painted on the driver-side door. Lane saw Jelena’s face and was sure she had spotted them.

  Keely turned the lights on, pulled out, and waited for traffic to stop. She turned left. The engine roared as sh
e turned off the lights and raced to catch up.

  “Leave the lights on,” Lane said. “She’s already spotted us.”

  Lane listened to the radio as the officer in the other car called for assistance. He picked up the radio. “The suspect may be armed and is wanted for questioning in a roadside bombing. Approach with extreme caution. Alert the bomb unit.”

  “Shit!” Keely said. They were stuck behind a pair of minivans driving side by side, ignoring the siren and the lights flashing in their mirrors. Ahead of them, Jelena drove across the bridge spanning the railway tracks and river, flanked by a stand of towering Douglas firs. When Jelena passed the concrete barrier on the other end of the bridge, her car skidded as she braked. She turned right off the pavement, bounced over the curb, and onto the grass.

  Lane spoke into the radio. “The suspect has left the road on the southwest side of the Stoney Trail Bridge. We need to block access on the north and south ends of the bridge. Do you have confirmation that the bomb unit is on its way?”

  Keely braked. The bruises on Lane’s chest muscles screamed as the seat belt tightened against his body. Keely inhaled sharply as the belt gripped her ribs. She left the pavement and aimed the Chev down into the ditch.

  Lane saw Jelena’s car nose into the trees. Both front doors were open. “Stay back from her car!”

  Keely stopped. Dust boiled up around the Chev. Lane saw Jelena at the edge of the Douglas firs. The trees stepped down to the river two hundred metres below. Jelena carried a duffel bag over her shoulder. She reached inside her fatigues as she stood behind the trunk of a tree.

  Lane undid his seat belt. “Down!” he shouted, grabbing Keely by the shoulder, pulling her toward him. Her head banged against his shoulder. Lane caught a glimpse of Jelena’s hand coming out and around the trunk of the tree, holding a black object. He ducked behind the dashboard. He felt Keely brace herself and did the same.

  The concussion from the explosion hit them a millisecond before the blast of heat.

  Tricked by the proximity of the explosive concussion, the airbags deployed, shoving the detectives against their seat backs.

  The airbags deflated. Debris rained down: smaller projectiles at first, then larger chunks of metal and plastic.

  Lane peered over the dash. Nothing remained of Jelena’s car but four wheel rims and an engine. The rest was blackened bits of wreckage. A door lay between the wreck and the Chev. The roof was lodged near the top of one of the trees. Flames licked up a Douglas fir on the left.