Undertow

by R. M. Greenaway

  “Tompkins. I think he’s down near the Superstore. That’s about it.”

  Dion wrote it down, the name, the area. The bartender watched him with doubt. “Sure you’re not a cop?”

  “Anybody else around here might know how to get hold of him?”

  “I doubt it. Why? Is she your squeeze? Because let me tell you, if anything happens to Paulie —”

  “No. No trouble. I just need to talk to her.”

  “Good on you. Crazy about Jamie myself, but look at me. What are my chances?”

  “If you see her, or Mr. Tompkins, will you give me a call right away?”

  “Can do.”

  Dion gave the bartender his number. He drove to Deep Cove, in case she had shown up at home. Jon was back from the club by now, but had gone to bed. Melanie was in the living room with the TV on. She watched him pound downstairs to check Jamie’s room.

  The room was empty. Melanie was in the doorway behind him, her hand to her face. “What’s the problem?”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. Please don’t tell me she skipped bail.”

  Melanie left to call her husband, tell him what was happening. Dion looked around for any evidence of where Jamie might have gone. He got back on his phone and woke Leith for a second time to give him the news. “Your low flight risk’s taken off.”

  * * *

  Leith joined him in the messy room with the mauve walls and king-sized bed. Jon York was up now. Dion could hear him upstairs, fretting about his money and what he’d do to that bitch if she had taken off.

  “How many times have you been down here?” Leith asked, and since he was standing by the foot of the oversized bed, the question was loaded.

  “Several.”

  “See anything missing?”

  “About half her clothes. She took her peeler costumes. Makeup seems to be cleared out from the bathroom, mostly. And the ashtray’s gone.”

  “Ashtray?”

  “One of her first gigs was at the Cobalt,” Dion said. “It’s an East Van strip bar. She swiped the ashtray as a memento. It was glass, had some logo printed on it. She gave me its history, and seemed to care about it. It lived here, bedside. It’s gone.”

  Leith’s phone buzzed. He spoke into it for a minute, mostly saying “uh-huh.” He tucked the phone back in its pouch on his belt and said, “Paul Tompkins. He’s not home, either. I’ve got a bulletin out on his vehicle, for starters. You really think he’s in danger?”

  “I think he’s dead,” Dion snarled.

  They glared at each other. Leith said, “If she’s such a menace, why didn’t you flag her for me right off the bat?”

  “I told you I thought she killed Cheryl Liu. You need a bigger flag?”

  “You were vague as shit. If you were just a little more forthcoming, maybe I’d have told the Crown to fight the bail app.”

  “I thought she was in custody, and I thought she’d stay in custody. Since when have major suspects been set free on bail without massive hearings?”

  Leith crossed his arms. “There was a massive hearing. It was just shorter than usual. Let’s stick to the issue. Where d’you think she’s gone?”

  They had moved to the bay window to argue, a pleasant nook with a bench seat and houseplants. Neither sat down. It was almost 3:00 a.m., and the world was silent. Upstairs the Yorks had gone silent as well. “I don’t know, but I’m guessing north,” Dion said. “She told me once she’d make a ton of money if she went north.”

  He was thinking about the province, so long and wide, so many options. Even if he was correct about north, that didn’t narrow it by much. Jamie had a good head start, if she had left this morning. She had reported in to her bail supervisor at 10:30 a.m., as ordered, so he could only assume she had been tearing up the highway since then. Fourteen hours made for a wide radius.

  Beside him he heard Leith talking to his phone again. “What, already?” he was saying. “Okay. Be there soon as I can.”

  News. Dion looked at him, not sure he wanted to hear it.

  “Where the hell is Brohm Lake?” Leith asked.

  “On the Sea to Sky Highway, heading to Whistler.” Fists in his pockets, Dion calmed his voice. “Why? What about it?”

  “It’s where Paul Tompkins happens to be. Squamish found him.”

  By Squamish Leith meant the Squamish RCMP. Dion nodded, numbed. He could see it all playing out, the stark white body of an older man, looking a little like Harrison Ford, nicest guy you’d ever meet, lying face up in the rocks and weeds by Brohm Lake, belly and chest criss-crossed with ribbons of blood, eyes already clouding over, flies already feasting.

  “Going to be a long night,” Leith said. “For me. Not for you. Let’s go.” He ushered Dion out of the bedroom, upstairs, saying goodnight to the Yorks and refusing to answer their questions.

  Out on the silent Deep Cove road, Dion said, “At least that narrows it down. You know she took the 99, right? Up to Lillooet. From there, she’d have her options. Could cut west to Bella Coola or east for the mountains. But I’m still betting north, in which case she’d be well past Prince George by now, if she didn’t make any stops. Of course, at Prince you’ve got more junctions. She’d figure there’d be money to make in McKenzie, Dawson Creek, Fort St. John, and they’re a lot closer than the Yukon cities. For sure, if you want a focus, go north, then east from Prince to the Rockies.”

  Leith jingled his keys. He had come rousted out of bed, and stood by his vehicle in baggy cords and an old sweatshirt, looking more like a hard-working farmer than a cop. “Good, thanks,” he said. “I’ll keep all that in mind. First I’ll have a talk with this guy, though I’m not counting on much from him. Totally shitfaced, apparently, hardly knows his own name. Might have to dry him out for a few hours before he can make a statement.”

  “Shitfaced?” Dion said. “What d’you mean?”

  “It means drunk. Whacked, smashed, bombed, pickled, soused. Which sounds kind of tempting right now, frankly.”

  “I know what it means. Who are you talking about? Paul Tompkins? He’s drunk? He’s not … dead?”

  Leith burst out laughing. It wasn’t a happy laugh, but the hysterical noise of a sleep-deprived man, tired beyond care. “No, Mr. Tompkins isn’t dead. He was sitting by the lake with an empty Scotch bottle. He’s half frozen but quite alive. No keys, no car, no cash in his wallet. Fill in the blanks.”

  “Naked?” Dion asked and half hoped he’d gotten at least that part right.

  Leith stopped grinning tiredly. “Naked? Why the fuck would he be naked?”

  Dion forgot why, but it didn’t matter. The nightmare was over. He couldn’t stop from beaming. “Good. I’m glad he’s alive, that’s all.”

  “So am I,” Leith said, more kindly. “Go home, Cal. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Dion watched the Ford Taurus drive away, a rental sticker on its bumper. Gradually, like warmth creeping back into frozen veins, he began to feel the redemption. Tompkins wasn’t dead, and Jamie would be rounded up soon enough. She was dangerous, but not yet a full-fledged psychopath. Still, until she was brought back safe and sound and locked up, for good this time, he wouldn’t rest easy.

  But what were the chances of that, he wondered, as he sat in his car and turned the key. Paul Tompkins was okay, but Jamie was out there, sailing along through unknown territory. Her stolen car was packed with tearaway miniskirts and strappy spike heels. She had barely learned to drive and had canyons, oncoming traffic, freight trucks, merge lanes, hairpin turns to deal with. She had no experience with any of it. Sheer madness. And what about these chilly late-spring nights? How would she stay warm?

  He climbed the stairs to his apartment and let himself in. He was certain, as he stretched out on the bed and before he flicked on the radio, that Jamie would not make it home alive. The late night/early morning radio c
hattered about a shooting in Richmond, and a new weight-loss trend, and the forecast for today — rain. But no highway catastrophes. Yet.

  Thirty-Four

  The Lowest Tide

  Friday, late afternoon. Rain pattered on the huge awning, cooling the world after a blistering week. Dion sat alone on the patio at Diamonds, overlooking the defunct pier. He had before him a glass of water with a twist of lemon. Life seemed unutterably bleak. His severance paperwork, along with his final auto deposit, had not come in yet, and he could use the cash. He had said no to Jon’s job offer. York was probably glad. With his surety money gone, he would be seeing Dion as nothing but a jinx.

  In his mind, Dion was halfway to Alberta, this time for sure. He would know nobody there, and he could stop pretending to be something he wasn’t. In the flatlands, far from this city and the sea, he would build up a new social life, limited but solid. Find a girlfriend of sorts, get work, carve out a living. His plan paralleled Jamie’s in a way. Just the more realistic, less extreme version of escape.

  Which brought him back to Jamie. Why didn’t she stick through it? If she went through trial and closed off this chapter of her life — at least as she perceived it — she could start clean. Maybe the interrogators had frightened her. They had hinted they suspected her of far worse than collusion just to rattle her, see if she’d fess up to anything further. Which would have been fine if they hadn’t then gone ahead and released her so she could put Plan B into motion.

  He didn’t want to think of the mistakes he had made with her himself, but listed them anyway. He should have kept himself together better, insisted he stay by her side throughout. Go into the station with her, reassure her after the interviews. Maybe she wouldn’t have run.

  Nothing startling came at him in the morning news. No wreckage in the canyons or capture of a fugitive. His phone didn’t light up, but he didn’t expect it to. Leith might get back to him as promised, but not this quick. Even if the case had closed. He wasn’t in that brightly lit GIS office anymore, central and relevant, the first to know what was happening in this city of his.

  His throat felt constricted and the corners of his mouth weighted by stones. Only his ability to hear the world seemed more acute this morning. The banging trains, the tapping water and dashing traffic. Gulls screamed, pigeons flapped. Striptease music issued from the club, and rap music came and went from a passing car. He heard every noise, separated out and supernaturally loud.

  A shadow fell over him, and he looked up as Jon pulled a chair close, saying, “Hey. Did they get her yet?”

  “Don’t know, sorry.”

  Jon sighed. “Trust me to put my faith in that lying little … well, whatever.” He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms tight, and looked worried.

  “Why did you?”

  Jon grimaced. “I can’t live without her, is why. I mean, I can, but …” He shrugged.

  “How long have you been seeing her?”

  “Seeing her? What d’you mean, seeing her? We have sex. From time to time. In lieu of rent. I’m not seeing her.”

  “Rent?”

  “Grow up. I’m kidding. She likes it as much as I do.”

  “Yeah? Were you having sex with her when Oscar was alive? Did he know? Does Melanie know?”

  Jon stared at him. “It really disgusts you, doesn’t it?”

  Dion shrugged.

  “I never had sex with her when Oz was alive. I wouldn’t do that to him. And Mel knows. We have an understanding, me and Mel. She knows she’s my best girl. She knows I’ve got appetites she can’t keep up with. For her, it’s a break.”

  Dion looked down.

  “Do me a favour and bless me with your ever-so-precious forgiveness,” Jon said.

  “It’s really none of my business.”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “I’m not.”

  They both sulked quietly, until the full force of Jon’s troubles hit him again. “Damn,” he cried, sitting back, looking at the sky. “I never for a moment thought she’d blow the scene.”

  Dion ignored him.

  York became practical again, almost businesslike. “So am I in any kind of trouble over this?”

  “For what? Posting bail? No. You’re not expected to read the future.”

  “If they catch her, do I still pay the penalty?”

  “Depends, I think.”

  York was looking into the club through floor-to-ceiling glass. Reflections confused the image, but just visible was a girl on stage, her pale body flashing in the laser beam, rotating languidly down the brass pole. He looked irritably at Dion, who was feeling gloomier than ever. “What’s up, Cal? Sitting out here alone in the rain. You look like the poster child for dejection. You’re bad for the image. We’re all about fun here. I could sue you, if you don’t watch out.”

  Dion shrugged. “It’s nice out here.”

  “It’s not nice out here. You’re hurting. I hope you’re mourning my blown cash.”

  Dion searched his mind for a good excuse for his mood, and found one that might do the trick. “Racquetball, that’s what troubles me. Who invented that dumb sport?”

  He had chosen his excuse well, and York was back in a place he understood. “I told you,” he said. “The first game’s always a fail. Takes tons of practice to get the hang of it. Actually, you did good, for a newbie.”

  “I could spend the rest of my life practicing, and I’ll never get the hang of it.”

  There was a moment’s quiet. Or not quiet, with the banging of the trains and the strip-bar tunes pulsing through. When York spoke, he sounded sad and genuinely sympathetic. “Not a natural-born jock, are you?”

  “Not these days.”

  “Funny. Every cop I’ve ever known has coached little-league something or other. But you don’t even know which end of the hockey stick hits the puck.”

  Dion knew very well which end hit the puck. But it was true: when it came to sports, he had a one-track mind. The job had provided all the challenge, excitement, and satisfaction he could ask for. The losses were devastating and the wins glorious. Who needed floor hockey with a career like the one he had just given up?

  York slammed the table and said, “Fuck it, let’s go boating.”

  “I’m really not up for it.”

  “Not now. I’m talking tomorrow. Supposed to be a nice sunny day, not too hot, not too cold. Take the day off. We’ll pack some beer and sandwiches and hit the waves. In honour of Oz. I’m thinking we’ll take the ass out of thalassophobia, teach you to love the water. You’re living in North Vancouver, water all around you. It’s falling on you. You’re drinking it. You depend on water. You really should accept it in your heart. Like Christ.”

  “Some other day, maybe.”

  Another stretch of silence told Dion that he had successfully severed his ties with the King of Diamonds. “Some other day, sure,” York said, glum again. “Maybe. Catch you later, then.”

  “Right. See you.”

  With a final searching stare, York got up and returned to the club. The crowds were just flooding in, and he liked to be there to watch. Or trickle, lately, Dion had noticed. However cocky York was, business was slow. Two of the bouncers had been let go, and the next ladies’ night was cancelled. He thought about York’s emphasis on maybe just now. The threat of a cut-off, as he had been cut from the force.

  Odd to think that no matter what he did, the city he loved would carry on. It carried on now, booming and droning, amplified like a monster machine in his ears, and the rain continued to fall slantwise, drizzling off the awning into the ocean at his back, water joining water.

  Nguyen, he thought. A name as common as Smith. He had been looking at the name from all angles, some time ago, but like Smith, it came up a lot.

  Still. He said the name aloud, pronounced correctly and incorrectly. Nothing clicked.
He was here to drop into Diamonds and socialize a bit, one last time. Now he felt torn between doing that or heading out and not looking back. He took a final sip of lemon water, bitter now with rind, checked his watch, and headed inside.

  * * *

  From what Leith heard through the grapevine, Mike Bosko was inviting everyone at the detachment over to his place for tomorrow’s Victoria Day, a bit of a do. The weather was supposed to clear by then. He would have the barbecue going all day, an open buffet, beer and wine. As people were on different shifts, it would be casual, just drop by if and when you can, no RSVP required. Families and friends welcome. Leith had not personally received an invite yet, but suspected it was coming. He didn’t care. His heart wasn’t into parties of any kind, not with Jamie Paquette on the run.

  “I’m starting to like this Bosko guy,” Doug Paley was saying, also awaiting the invitation. He and Leith and Jimmy Torr stood on the main-floor corridor between the General Duties pit and the elevator, eavesdropping on a group of female civilian staffers talking about the party, and whether they were going, and what they should wear.

  “He gives me the creeps,” Torr said, when the staffers had moved out of earshot. “And what’s he thinking? Nobody will show up except a few hot-crotch secretaries.”

  “Not true,” Paley said. “I’m not a hot-crotch anything, and I’m showing up. I want to see how he lives. I want to see if he really has a wife, and what she’s like.”

  Torr said, “If she’s as weird as he is, I ain’t going near the place.”

  Paley said, “What about you, Dave? Going to drop in, scope him out?”

  Leith worked up the enthusiasm to say his bit. “I’m wondering what he’s putting on the barbecue. Isn’t he some kind of vegetarian?”

  “Tofu burgers and kelp chips.” Torr placed a finger in his mouth and pretended to barf.

  Paley said, “I hear he’s renting a real shack bungalow on Heywood.”

  “He’s renting?” Leith was interested. “How come? He could afford to buy something pretty decent, surely?”