The Children of Eli

by Mike Cranny

  “We have to figure out how it all works together — all these folks driving in and out at Nick’s, the fact that John Robbie and his boat have disappeared but his pickup with blood inside is at the ferry terminal. Then there’s the attack on me...”

  “Do we assume that is related to the case?” Patsy asked.

  “Right now, I haven’t a clue.”

  “There’s something else, Archie,” Lee said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Jameson’s been telling everybody that’ll listen that he’ll be taking over your investigation.”

  Archie searched out the ketchup, splashed a mound of it on his potatoes.

  “I don’t give a damn what Jameson thinks?”

  “Apparently, the mayor’s putting pressure on Fricke to replace you. Jameson is the mayor’s brother-in-law so Fricke might cave.”

  “I’ve got more to worry about than Jameson.”

  Lisa materialized with a pot of coffee, poured some into Patsy’s cup, and lingered a moment, half-smiled. She ambled away when Archie made it clear that he wouldn’t talk until she was gone.

  “That’s one nosy woman,” Patsy said.

  “That isn’t the half of it. Anyway, let’s put all our efforts into finding John Robbie — or his body.”

  “Does he go out with anybody?” Patsy asked. “Does he have a girlfriend?”

  “Sometimes he sees Bonnie Tran at the Zuider Zee. I’ve talked to her but got nothing. We’ve got enough with the blood in John’s pickup to expand our investigation to include his known associates. Let’s get Bonnie in for questioning. Let’s push her more. I know she saw Robbie more recently than she’s letting on. You can do that, Patsy?”

  “I can do that,” Patsy said.

  Archie then asked Lee if there were any updates on Nick’s computer. “There’s not much,” Lee said. “They’ve got some email but nothing useful. The thing is that somebody went to a lot of trouble to try to make sure that we couldn’t get anything off that machine, but we’re still working on it.”

  “Did anybody find Nick’s charts yet?”

  “Nope. Nothing there either.”

  Archie noted that fact. He waited for more from the two of them but neither had anything to add. Both seemed preoccupied. Maybe they were thinking that he was in over his head or that Jameson should take over.

  “We’re finished here,” he said. “I want both of you to continue with your assignments, which means that Thomas will follow up with Forensics and Patsy I’d like you to talk to Bonnie Tran. Wait until her off-hours. I want to meet again at 11 a.m. tomorrow — my office.”

  Lee nodded, unfolded his scarf and put it on, methodically buttoned up his coat buttons, held his fedora by the brim in one hand, and brushed the nap with the other. Patsy stood too, her eyes on Archie.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  She and Lee looked concerned.

  “I’m absolutely fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “No, really?”

  “I’m fine I told you.”

  Their concern unsettled him. Lee leaned slightly forward and peered into Archie’s face as if he were probing for the truth. Patsy let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Are we getting anywhere?”

  “Maybe. It’s what detective work is all about.”

  “Be nice if we made some progress before my first pension cheque arrives.”

  “Funny.”

  “Is it?”

  “Maybe it is. Be at my office at eleven ready for the meeting. Talk to Bonnie — she’s key, I think. You never know — you might crack the case wide open.”

  She frowned, repeated the little mocking salute she had given him three days before and was gone before he could think of anything encouraging to say. He watched her go, watched her long enough to have it noticed. Lee shook his head, went to the register and paid his bill.

  “See you at eleven,” he said. “I’m assuming I’m supposed to have something new to talk about.”

  “I hope so.”

  Lee nodded, put on his hat and headed for the door. Archie thought of lingering in case Streya came in, but then thought better of it. He saw Lisa through the kitchen door window, talking on her cell, emphasizing some point to her caller with sharp motions of her hand. Her voice was too low for Archie to hear more than muffled sounds.

  He wished he could leave well enough alone. He dropped bills onto the table to pay his cheque. Then he crossed the floor of the restaurant. He paused for a moment at the ornate doors, knew he was dawdling in hopes of seeing Streya. Irritated with himself, he opened the door and went out into the night.

  His preoccupation was such that he had almost forgotten that somebody had tried to kill him earlier in the day. His first instinct was, in any case, to carry on as if he didn’t care about anything — if he was going to get shot, he’d get shot. But it’d be embarrassing to die in the old Dodge he had drawn from the pool. So he kept, more or less, to the shadows. Before he got in, he bent down and shone his flashlight under the car to make sure nobody had taped a bomb there. Then he flipped the hood and checked the engine compartment. He looked up as a patrol car pulled into the lot. It stopped close enough so that he could see the driver. The window came down with a whine and the same young rookie grinned at him.

  “I watched it the whole time you were in there.”

  Archie lifted his hands in mock surrender.

  “Thanks.”

  Gillot grinned.

  “By the way, are you making a move on Detective Kydd, or is she up for grabs?”

  “She’s your superior in every way, constable. You got high hopes.”

  “You never know if you don’t try. By the way, Fricke’s pulling me off watching you. I guess you’re not worth department resources after all.”

  The window hummed back up and the cruiser pulled away. As Archie slid into his car, the radio squawked and he answered it. Delia John asked him how he was. He told her he was fine, fine, and she told him not to get irritated when people show their concern for him. He asked her what she wanted. She told him that the all-points bulletin he asked for earlier had produced a result. Someone thought they had seen John Robbie in Empire City. She told Archie that if he wanted to be civil she’d give him the details. He said he’d try his best to do what she asked.

  He had just started the Dodge when Streya Wainright drove up in her Volkswagen. She saw him, waved, got out and walked towards him. The old feelings bubbled up inside him. He wanted to leave, knew he should — politeness demanded that he at least talk to her.

  CHAPTER 14

  He sat in a bar on the Rochville waterfront and waited, his back to the wall. He rubbed a big hand through his hair, and stared at the waitress who was on the verge of walking away with his ten dollars in change. He grunted, “My change.”

  “See this T-shirt,” she said.

  Her T-shirt, cheap cotton stretched thin over enhanced breasts, read SAVE ENERGY: DON’T TALK TO ME. She started to walk away, tray balanced on her left hand.

  “Back here,” he growled.

  “Look.” She turned towards him.

  “Be polite. Be respectful.”

  She hesitated.

  “Screw you.”

  “Later. First, give me my change.”

  She hesitated, said “Fuck.” Then she reached into her belt pouch and took out a ten-dollar bill. She flipped it onto the table to make him reach for it. He flicked the money off onto the floor and then pointed at it with the toe of his boot.

  “Pick up my money.”

  She stood hipshot, her eyes fierce on him, ribcage raised, breasts high, drawing attention to the slogan on her shirt.

  “Why should I?”

  “Pick up my money.”

  “What’ll you do for me?”

  He said nothing, kept his eyes on hers. Finally, she said, “asshole,” dropped down on one knee and picked up the bill. She let her tight skirt ride up high on her thighs, eased back a bit so that the skirt rode even h
igher. She picked up the bill, slapped it into his open hand.

  “Satisfied?” she asked.

  He smiled, laid his hand on the tabletop and displayed heavy arm muscles, corded and ridged, for her. She lifted her chin, tossed frazzled, bleached hair, turned away. But she went slowly, back straight, ass out. He watched her over the rim of his drink, making his plans.

  The sun was setting over the warehouses across the estuary. Its glow through the grimy windows of the bar lit the dirty air, highlighting the beer stains on the floor. He hated the sour, sulphured-mash smell of the pulp mill, hated the grime, hated the people who lived in the town. He finished his drink, caught her eye, held his empty glass up. She sashayed over with a fresh drink.

  “It’s on me.” She leaned in as she set the glass down. “My name’s Rochelle. Sorry if I was rude.”

  He laughed without mirth.

  “Thanks, Rochelle. You weren’t rude — really.”

  The bar was almost empty — the afternoon shift from the mill gone home for supper, the evening drinkers not yet arrived. She lingered, smiled at him, showed the pink lipstick on her teeth. He knew her type.

  “It’s quiet tonight,” she said.

  “I see that.”

  “You look so serious.”

  She came behind him, reached around him for his empty glass; her breasts just brushed his shoulder. The tidal flats, invisible in the dark reeked, and the stink of decay rose through the floor boards and mingled with smell of stale beer and smoke.

  “Smells in here tonight don’t it,” she said.

  “Enough to make me not want to sit here all evening.”

  “I get off soon.”

  “Cool.”

  The barman called her. She went away, smiled at him over her shoulder. He smiled back, wrote a note for her on a coaster, left it along with a big tip, and then he went outside to wait.

  The thick night reeked of hydrogen-sulphide and the sodium lights cast horrific shadows, black on sickly yellow. He saw his own, turned lean and spectral, arms and hands long like Mr. Hyde. He liked the image. He lit a cigar to cut the smell of the mill and the tide, and walked to the truck he’d stolen earlier. He would dump it later, after he wiped it down for prints. The old woman had demanded a sacrifice and he would give her one.

  Rochelle came out of the side door, her T-shirt exchanged with a low-cut, tight camisole. She picked her way across the gravel, professionally high on stiletto heels and he smelled her perfume even over the rotten-egg stink of the mill and the reek of his cigar. He opened the passenger door for her and watched as she climbed in, tight denim skirt sliding up her thighs.

  “You didn’t tell me your name,” she said.

  “Call me Chad. Anybody know you’re out with me?”

  She pretended to think.

  “Not a soul. What do you want to do, Chad?”

  He put a hand on her thigh, stroked it. She leaned back and lit a cigarette, blew the smoke out the window.

  “Fun and games.”

  “That’s what I like best.”

  Rochelle blew smoke towards the roof of the cab and leaned into him. She put a high heel up on the dash. Her skirt slid back to non-existence, displayed the pink lace of her panties. He checked once more to make sure no one was watching. Then he started the truck, put it into gear and took her away from the lights.

  CHAPTER 1 5

  Archie wasn’t a hundred percent sure why he’d accepted Streya Wainright’s invitation to visit her at her apartment; maybe it was more masochism than politeness. He still had a hard time resisting her, but it was more than that too. Mostly, he just needed to find out something about himself that he couldn’t otherwise.

  She answered the door almost before the bell finished its ring. Excitement, his or hers, made her eyes seem very big and bright. She had dressed up for him, subtly seductive — a semi-sheer blouse with long sleeves that half covered her slender hands and pale silk trousers that looked expensive. She looked like a delicate doll with sex on her mind. She wore subtle but effective makeup and just the right amount of perfume. He breathed deeply and stepped inside.

  She’d redecorated since he’d been there. He liked the changes and he told her so. It gave him something to say to help cover up his awkwardness, and she seemed genuinely pleased at the compliment. She kissed him, helped take off his jacket, led him into the living area, and sat him down on the sofa. She told him that she had food to get ready, turned up the new age music that she favoured and then excused herself to the kitchen.

  It seemed, to him, like old times and yet not so, but then he had a ‘what the hell’ moment and resigned himself to his fate. He was spending the evening with a beautiful and sexy woman and the risks suddenly seemed inconsequential. He relaxed, stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes, letting the music carry him away. When she returned, he had to pull himself out of reverie and he realized that he must have dozed off. She brought the food to him.

  “You were tired,” she said. “How’s work going?”

  He nodded. She watched, waiting for his answer as he put crackers and smoked salmon on his plate. He was hungry too.

  “I’ve been busier than hell.”

  “I guess it’s all to do with that Donaldson murder?”

  “It’s my baby.”

  “Who did it?”

  “I couldn’t say just yet. It’s a work in progress.”

  “You must have some idea?”

  “Not really. Not yet.”

  He looked at her. He didn’t want to talk about work and told her so.

  “Okay, no work tonight. I want to enjoy your company.”

  She moved around him, sat down, put her slender body next to his and pressed against him. She asked him if he had liked what she was wearing. He said she was very sexy and that she turned him on and that she knew it. She moved her hand down to his crotch to learn how much.

  “It’s good to be with you again,” she said. “What happened before shouldn’t have happened.”

  He hesitated, as if he were weighing his options. He turned to her, put his hand to her hair, and brushed it back from her ear. She put her hand over his heart; his hand almost automatically moved to her left breast. She breathed deeply, tilted forward and let her forehead rest on his chest.

  “I mean it Archie. It’s good to have you here and I’m sorry for what happened in the past.”

  “Let’s forget it. I wanted to see you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Your family and friends didn’t like me around before. That hasn’t changed. Your sister, Lisa, hardly gives me the time of day.”

  “It’s the way we are — clannish. We stick together, don’t have much to do with people outside the group, often just socialize with people descended from the original Finnish settlers. I don’t always like it but it’s just how it is.”

  “What about the Brother Eli part?”

  “Oh, that. No. That’s ancient history. Some families that have always stuck together, that’s all.”

  She got up and turned up the music, a kind of a slow rhumba. Then she pulled him to his feet, danced him away from the couch, her sensuous body swaying with the music. She circled him, dipped in a dance move so that her hair fell coquettishly over her face, and then she slid behind him and drew a long fingernail across his shoulders. He reached after her, found her hand, led her around to him, studied her as she danced. She moved into him, ran her hands down his stomach and into the front of his jeans. She grabbed his belt, guided him to the sofa and pushed him down on it.

  When she had him positioned the way she wanted, she straddled him, leaned over him so that her red hair cascaded around her face and tumbled over his hands. He toyed with it, gathered it up, turned her head with it and kissed the bare nape of her neck. She tossed her head so that her hair lashed his face. Then she eased herself upright and rolled her shoulders back so that her breasts pushed against the sheer fabric of her blouse — glimpses of pink aureole for him. She purred deep in her t
hroat. When she kissed him, her tongue probed deep, and her breath came hot from the center of her. Then she laughed, pulled away and stood up. He reached for her, but she stepped away, still laughing.

  “I’ve got some good wine. I’ll get us some. It’s too early for the evening to end. If I let you go on, we’ll be in bed and you’ll be asleep before I know it.”

  “I won’t fall asleep. Come back.”

  “The wine first.”

  “Diet cola for me, with lots of ice.”

  “Really? Are you sure? It’s very good wine.”

  “I’m sure.”

  She went to the credenza and filled one of the goblets she had placed there earlier, got his Cola from the refrigerator, poured it over ice. He was half out of the trance she’d created in him. He looked around the room, told her again that he admired her paintings and sculptures; some of them he hadn’t seen before. She pointed out her latest and told him she called them her “Anthropologicals.” The style was familiar but he couldn’t remember where he had seen it before.

  She said that red was her favourite colour and that she had used the most violent reds to express her innermost feelings and her passion. That bothered him a little, which she seemed to sense because she laughed a little as if she’d been only half-serious. She sat down close to him and looked him in the face. Her expression changed suddenly.

  “It must be nice having Patsy Kydd working with you?” she said.

  That surprised him.

  “She’s part of the team.”

  “She’s attractive, so — you must be tempted.”

  He saw the jealousy in her eye, the green monster she’d called it before. But she had put the image of Patsy Kydd into his mind and it wouldn’t leave. The spell really was broken now. He told Streya that he thought he should go.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I’ve got a lot to do. Lots of work.”

  She looked hurt, contrite.

  “I was out of line. I’m just a bit jealous that’s all. Is that so bad?”

  She cuddled in closer, the warmth and softness of her body began to arouse him again. He put his arm around her and she stroked his cheek with her fingertips. He made to kiss her but she spoke before he could.