Fanatics

by William Bell

  A motor hummed, then the nurse bashed enthusiastically at the pillows behind my head for a few seconds. “Comfy?” Without waiting for an answer she headed out the door.

  “You have visitors,” she called over her shoulder.

  I had been in Soldiers’ Memorial Hospital for two nights, and this morning I was beginning to feel almost normal, although the mirror had hinted otherwise. My head, still aching a little, had cleared. I was hungry. I guessed that was a good sign.

  Raphaella came through the door first, a vision more healing than any medicine, wearing a fire engine red T-shirt and black jeans. My parents trailed behind her, smiling, wearing that parental expression that said “We’re not worried about you; we just look like we are.”

  Raphaella leaned over me. I could smell her hair and her skin, and I felt tears gathering at the corners of my eyes.

  “I want to kiss you,” she said. “Where’s your mouth?”

  AS THE MORNING PASSED and we waited for the hospital’s grinding bureaucracy to release me officially, Mom, Dad, and Raphaella brought me up to date.

  “They got the guy,” Mom began. She related that in response to her call the cops had employed a silent approach-meaning no sirens-as they descended on Geneva Park. The Rama First Nation officers got there first, finding two unconscious men lying in the dirt. They had cuffed both of us before more cops charged onto the scene in a cloud of dust. The bag holding the gun and ammo was discovered minutes later. By the time the ambulances arrived police had sorted out the good guy from the bad guy and I was on my way to the hospital. Where they took the terrorist, no one knew.

  “You have a concussion,” Mom went on, “and a bad cut on your head. Twenty-one stitches. You’ll have headaches for a few days, but the doctor assured us you’re all right.”

  “That shiner is a doozy, but all in all, no worries,” Dad added. But his expression said “We were scared to death.”

  “None of us in the auditorium had a clue what was going on outside,” Raphaella told me. “The show was a huge hit-the kids loved it-and with the music and the roars of laughter and the applause, it was mayhem in the auditorium. After the final curtain calls I went outside looking for you, and there was no hint that something serious had happened, that we had all been within an inch of our lives. Then I noticed a lot of cops moving around, a few hanging yellow DO NOT CROSS tape across the pathway to the cabins, and I realized something was going on. I still can’t get my head around it. We could all be dead right now.”

  “We tried to call Raphaella to warn her,” Mom went on. “But you had her phone, remember? I sent you the photo?”

  “There’s a publication ban on the details connected with the incident, ordered by a judge,” Dad said. “The official story is that a man with a history of mental illness was arrested at Geneva Park. That’s it. Your mom has been helping the police a little, and you’ll have to give a statement in a few days, when you’re feeling up to it.”

  “And after you’ve talked things over with our lawyer,” Mom added. “We can discuss all that when you’re home. I just hope the police don’t find the cellphone with the terrorist’s picture in it. That could cause us problems.”

  “The phone’s safe,” I said. “During the fight, it fell between the boards of the deck at the cottage door. I erased the image.”

  “And now, Annie,” Dad said, “I think you and I should go to the cafeteria and have a cup of their horrible tea.”

  After the door had hissed shut behind my parents, Raphaella sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand.

  “Your dad says you should get a medal. You’re a hero.”

  “I’m no such thing.”

  I told her everything that had taken place after I left her in the auditorium.

  “When I finally worked out who he was and what he intended to do, I was petrified. All I could think about was that huge room full of kids-and you-and pictures I’ve seen on the TV news when somebody goes into a school or someplace with a gun. I didn’t know what to do. I said something stupid to him, and he turned around and hurled the shovel and hell broke loose. It was a fluke, the way it turned out. It could just as easily have gone the other way.”

  “Maybe your dad thinks you’re brave because of what you didn’t do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Run away.”

  II

  I HAD BEEN HOME a couple of days when the cops telephoned and asked me to come in to make a statement and answer some questions. By then my constant headache, the jungle drum beating in the background, had faded, although my face still looked as if I’d stayed in the boxing ring one round too many.

  My parents were having their five o’clock glass of wine together on the patio when I got off the phone, and when I told them about the upcoming interview they exchanged glances. My dad was up to speed on everything by that point. Mom had been in a bad mood lately. I didn’t blame her. A judge had clapped a total ban on publication of any aspect of the story. Mom’s exclusive-at least for the time being-had gone out the window. So much for freedom of the press.

  “We’d better go over this together,” Mom cautioned. “When are you due at the cop shop?”

  “Day after tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.”

  “I’ll call Mabel Ayers and see if you can get in to see her tomorrow,” Dad said, getting up and going into the kitchen.

  “Do I really need to talk to a lawyer?” I asked my mother.

  “I can’t believe you asked that,” Mom replied.

  Long experience as an investigative reporter had left her with a schizophrenic attitude toward police forces in general. She respected cops, knew their jobs were difficult in ways the public did not understand, agreed we needed them. “They’re unappreciated,” she would say. But she had also seen cops fudge evidence to get a conviction and even lie in court, under oath. She had, within the walls of our house, renamed the RCMP the RCLC-Royal Canadian Lies and Coverups.

  “You have to be prepared for what they’re going to ask you, that’s all,” she said, putting down her wine glass. “They may try to trick you. And Mabel will be helpful.”

  THE NEXT MORNING she and I drove to the city and met with Mabel Ayers, a chubby middle-aged woman with a small, messy office and a phone that rang constantly. The morning after that, I drove over to the OPP headquarters and met with three inspectors who represented, together, eleven letters of the alphabet-CSIS, RCMP, and OPP. The Rama First Nation cops who had arrested the paintball terrorist weren’t represented.

  I was nervous. The two males wore dark blue suits, one with a red tie and one with a red-and-blue tie. They were clean-shaven, their hair clipped short. The woman-OPP-had on a dark grey pantsuit and wore her sand-coloured hair short. They sat across a big table from me, each with a newish file folder and a pad and ballpoint pen. It seemed more like a business meeting than an interrogation. Mom had warned me to keep my wits sharp. I jumped right in with the question Mabel had told me to ask first.

  “Are you recording this interview on audio or video?”

  RCMP frowned, then exchanged glances with the others. “This isn’t a formal interview, Garnet. And no, we’re not recording you.”

  “On video or audio,” CSIS added. “Now, Garnet-”

  “So I’m not under investigation?”

  A look of irritation crossed CSIS’s face.

  Mom had warned me that they’d call me by my first name, and she had been right. It was a technique to make me feel at ease so I’d trust them, and at the same time it emphasized that they were in control. They had introduced themselves using surnames only, but I was Garnet.

  OPP tried her luck. “Garnet, this is just a chat. A conversation. We think you can help us fill in a few blanks, that’s all. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  Under questioning, I related that I had taken a walk around the grounds of Geneva Park, waiting for the show to start, when I noticed a man in a groundskeeper’s uniform emerging from the woods with a shovel in one hand and
a duffle bag in the other. When I asked him what he had been doing in the woods he attacked me.

  “I was just being nosy, I guess. I didn’t expect him to clobber me.”

  From the time he bonked me with the shovel I didn’t remember much, I told them, except that I was mad and wanted to hit him back. I answered their questions truthfully but volunteered nothing. They didn’t ask me if I’d ever seen the guy before. Why would they?

  “Is he hurt bad?” I asked.

  “He’ll live. Do you remember opening the duffle bag?” the woman enquired.

  “No.”

  “Or putting it behind a tree?” one of the men-CSIS-asked.

  “No.”

  “So,” RCMP summed up, “you had no idea that you had saved the lives of a couple of hundred people?”

  “No.”

  I had been afraid they’d grill me about Mom’s phone call to the cops, the one weak spot in my story. But she had said in her formal statement that she deduced the youth summit had been the terrorists’ target all along, and with the show opening that evening-which she knew about because her son’s girlfriend was stage manager-she alerted police out of caution. Her version of events sounded pretty thin to me, but she emphasized that we had to stick with it. I guessed it had satisfied them because my interview came to an end with no hint that they were sceptical of Mom’s version. In unison the three inspectors got to their feet, and when I followed suit they thanked me for coming and wished me a speedy recovery from my injuries.

  Just as I turned toward the interview room door the CSIS inspector said, “It’s quite a coincidence, though, isn’t it?”

  I almost laughed. How often had I seen this same ploy in detective movies? The bad guy thinks he’s fooled the detective with his lies. The polite cop thanks him and is about to leave when he stops, as if a stray thought has struck him. He turns and says to the suspect, “Oh, one more thing. It’s not important, but…” Then the bad guy, his guard down, spills the beans.

  But I hadn’t told any lies. I turned back toward the three suits, stood silent and waited.

  “Your mother is an investigative reporter,” CSIS went on. “She’s the one who broke the story about the Severn Ten. She appears to have a lot of information about them.”

  “And here’s you,” RCMP continued, “the son, who just happened to be on hand to prevent the massacre.”

  “Yeah, well, Orillia’s a small town,” I said, and walked out the door.

  Two

  I

  MOST OF THE KIDS I had gone to school with saw graduation as an escape hatch. They couldn’t wait to leave Orillia in their dust. For them it was a small town, practically a village, narrow and unexciting, with nothing new to offer. They had explored all its possibilities long ago, and living here was like being condemned everlastingly to read and re-read a dull book. As graduation neared they became restless, eager for a future that would be rosy only if it was lived somewhere else. I had been just as fidgety-not to get out of town but to get on with my plans for the future.

  I liked the familiarity of Orillia’s streets and parks and lakes, the sense of being on well-known ground, a part of things. And on days like today, when the sunshine poured like honey out of a clear blue sky and the breeze from the lake carried the scent of vegetation, hinting of adventure, I only had to imagine myself slogging through the traffic-racket of Bay Street in Toronto, the skyscrapers forming a shadowy canyon where the funnelled wind flung grit and bits of fast-food wrappers into my face, to know I was where I wanted to be.

  It was funny, in a way, the notion that drama and excitement only occur somewhere else. Raphaella and I had had our share of adventure and mystery-and fear-without leaving town, when we were caught in the fallout from events that happened near the African Methodist Church more than 150 years before. My scrape with the paintball terrorist was more proof-as if we needed it-that being a sleepy little town didn’t make Orillia immune from the wider world. And our unanticipated crash course in the Italian Renaissance fanatic, Savonarola, made the prospect of a one-day whirlwind bus tour of Florence, Italy, seem dull in comparison.

  I thought those thoughts as I drove the van toward Wicklow Point to begin my first day back at work since Geneva Park. I hadn’t been able to ride the Hawk lately. My face was still too swollen and tender to fit inside my helmet, with its tight safety padding. I was glad to get back to my normal routine, and I was looking forward to making a start on the designs for the pieces commissioned by Derek and Liz. My unfinished task-the inventory-hung over my head like a cloud of mosquitoes, but I had to see it through, and I would, with Raphaella’s help and, I hoped, without the interference of the spectre.

  Getting rid of him permanently was another problem altogether.

  I drove through the gate and down the shady lane to the shop and parked in the usual spot under the birches, then went to the back door and knocked.

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Stoppini, wide-eyed and frozen in the doorway like a black mannequin, her bony hand on her cheek. For a split second she seemed unable to move, then she exploded into action, grabbing my arm and hauling me into the kitchen and bundling me into a chair. She slammed the door and alighted on the edge of a seat, staring at my face.

  “I scarcely recognized you! What on earth-? Don’t tell me you have had an altercation!”

  “An accident,” I fibbed. It was half true, I supposed. “I’m fine. I know I look awful, but-”

  “Indeed!”

  “I’m okay. Ready to get back to work.”

  Over the inevitable cup of tea and brioche or two, and amid Mrs. Stoppini’s clucking and fussing and peering at my banged-up face, I told her about my new commission. I said I planned to spend the mornings working in the shop and would continue the inventory during the afternoons when, on most days, Raphaella would join me. Now that MOO was history, she had more time. She’d arranged to run the Demeter in the mornings and then come to the estate.

  “Most satisfactory,” Mrs. Stoppini pronounced.

  Before I went out to the shop I walked down the hall to the library, eager to see if there had been any changes over the past couple of weeks. The corridor was quiet, and for the first time in what seemed like ages, it smelled of floor wax rather than smoke. I took a quick peek inside the library doors. Everything seemed as we had left it, undisturbed. The room was quiet and almost, if I hadn’t known better, inviting.

  I left the room and headed for the shop and my drawing board.

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS passed without a ripple. The late-summer weather was hot and dry. The breeze off the lake flowed into the library as Raphaella and I toiled away, making good progress in the boring notation of book titles and authors’ names into the database. Once we had reached the alcove our progress had slowed to a crawl as we unshelved, examined, and noted the details Mrs. Stoppini required from every volume. We worked together, one dictating, the other typing.

  At times we could barely detect the uniquely unpleasant smoky odour we had grown used to. On other days it was strong enough to be an almost physical presence. What all that signified, we didn’t know. The spectre never appeared and we didn’t complain.

  Hanging over us was the unasked, unacknowledged question: What should we do when this assignment was complete? Walk away and say nothing about Savonarola? Casually tell Mrs. Stoppini, “We’re done. It was fun, and by the way, there’s a vicious ghost in your secret cupboard”? And speaking of the spectre, where was he, anyway? Why was he being so quiet these days?

  Without having to give voice to our thoughts, we were certain that we were on track for a showdown.

  And we were right.

  II

  AS IF IT WAS IN SYMPATHY with the mood inside the Corbizzi mansion, the weather turned unseasonably nasty. A cold front lumbered down from the north and soggy grey clouds rolled in over the lake and settled down for a long stay. Rain came and went on gusty winds, ticking drearily against the window glass. Raphaella and I talked about lighting a sma
ll fire to chase out the damp air and cheer up the place, and I had got as far as carting an armload of scrap wood in from the shop. But we decided the room was the wrong place for flames.

  I was thinking about taking a break when my cell rang. I listened, then closed the phone.

  “What’s zuccotto?” I asked Raphaella.

  “An Italian scooter?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “An Italian painter?”

  I shook my head. “Mrs. Stoppini just invited us to share a piece with her in the kitchen.”

  “I HAVE ALWAYS BELIEVED,” Mrs. Stoppini said as she poured strong tea into china cups, “that a generous helping of zuccotto brightens up even the dullest day.”

  It turned out to be sponge cake filled with hazelnuts, almonds, cream, and chocolate. Raphaella tried a bit, chewing with an angelic look on her face.

  “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” she rhapsodized dramatically. “Mrs. Stoppini, this is divine.”

  Mrs. Stoppini smiled her thin-lipped smile. “One tries.” She glanced at me. “And your verdict, Mr. Havelock?”

  I chewed slowly, swallowed, pressed my lips together, and tried to look pensive.

  “Well…”

  Mrs. Stoppini’s brows dipped in toward the bridge of her nose.

  “Come on, Garnet,” Raphaella urged. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  “It’s so delicious,” I intoned, “it ought to be illegal.”

  Mrs. Stoppini tried not to look pleased. “Indeed.”

  We all had a second piece.

  Raphaella patted her tummy and said, “Bad idea to feed us, Mrs. Stoppini. Now I feel too lazy to work.”

  “More tea,” our hostess stated, filling Raphaella’s cup. The teapot thumped as she set it down. “Mr. Havelock, if you will permit me, I have a request.”

  Raphaella and I settled back in our chairs. “Fire away, Mrs. Stoppini,” I said.

  Mrs. Stoppini folded her hands in her lap, drew in a long breath, and began. “I have been in contact with Ponte Santa Trinita University in Florence with respect to the late professor’s will. As executrix of his estate, I have decided to act upon a certain part of the bequest as soon as possible. To that end I enquired of the university, and the relevant persons there were kind enough to send details by mail.”