It has been strange walking around town, for he has often recognized the traces of youth in a passing face. An old schoolmate, perhaps. How odd to stand on a sidewalk and look into the eyes of someone you have not seen in decades, to squint and morph away the crow’s feet and the silver hair, to erase the forty pounds, to understand the fact of your own aging set against this living measuring stick — and within it all, to also understand the shortness of time, the single breath that leaves your lips between the starting point and the finish line. There was Gerry Bines, who used to try and build stink bombs with McKelvey back in Grade 4, retired now from the accounting department at the Carver Company. And there was Clifford Martin, as skinny as ever but now bald as a polished bearing, still stuttering his Ts. And all McKelvey could think about as they stood and tried to catch up on forty years was the time they were playing hockey on the river and Clifford pissed his pants because he got hit so hard in the kidneys.
Now McKelvey watches Peggy moving behind the counter. She owns something he can’t quite put his finger on, but he believes it falls between confidence and indifference, a quiet grace here in the midst of decline.
“You weren’t born here. So tell me,” McKelvey says, “how did you end up in a place like Saint B? There must be a story there.”
Peggy leans in and sets her elbows on the counter. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she is wearing makeup around her green eyes. McKelvey has never noticed the tiny dark birthmark on the left side of her upper lip. Like the Queen of France. He can’t remember the name.
“There’s always a story,” she says. “Usually boring or cliché.”
“Jesus,” he says, and laughs. “Let me piece it together then. Let’s see.” He leans back now on the stool and surveys her as though she is a piece of abstract art that he is trying to understand. “You were born and raised in Maidstone, Saskatchewan. Your parents were missionaries for an Episcopalian church. No, wait. Baptist. And you lived in a series of small and boring prairie towns. Until you met a guy when you were seventeen at a fall fair. Guy worked a ride, probably that strawberry that turns around in circles. And then you —”
Peggy is smiling now, and McKelvey is smiling and pleased that he has made her smile — for the smile changes her whole face, as though a mask has fallen to the floor and the real Peggy is here for just a moment, a glimpse of what she looked like as a child.
“This is painful,” she says. “And you call yourself a detective?”
He shrugs, and says, “I didn’t say I was a good one.”
“You’re right about one thing. I did meet a guy when I was seventeen. He wasn’t a carnie, but it was close. He was a miner. I was born and raised in Winnipeg. My dad was a lit prof at the university and my mom was a nurse. Normal childhood, no skeletons, no trauma. I met Davey at a summer barbecue. He was nineteen and working in Sudbury. He was home to visit some friends, and he had a brand new motorcycle. This black Harley-Davidson. God, it sounded like the end of the world when he started that thing up. He always had a roll of cash. He was fun. And dangerous.”
“What is it with girls and bad boys? Do you really think you’re going to change them? And if you did, if you succeeded, they wouldn’t be dangerous anymore. It would defeat the purpose.”
“Go ask a psychiatrist that one, Charlie. All I know is that he was handsome and he was independent. We drank together, too. That was our connection, really. We partied a lot in those days. I mean a lot.”
Peggy straightens up and folds her arms across her chest. She gets lost there in memory. McKelvey knows all about that, and so he sips the coffee in silence and then pushes the mug aside. He isn’t about to ask her to finish the story. He has a pretty good idea how and where it ends. It is one of the unfortunate side effects of a lifetime of police work; his curiosity is close to non-existent, for human nature is predictable.
“And you?” she asks. “What’s your story?”
McKelvey shrugs. His story. History. Everything is now in the past tense. He was a father, a husband, a cop. Now he is simply closer to the end than the middle, perhaps even closer than he himself can appreciate. There are forces at work within his bloodstream, forces whose primary objective is to decode, dismantle, destroy.
“Born and raised here,” McKelvey says. “Left at seventeen and joined the force in Toronto when I turned eighteen. Met a girl, got married. We had a boy.”
“Where are they now, your wife and son?”
“They’re not with me. Or I’m not with them. I can never remember which.”
“Sounds like the abbreviated version.”
She smiles at him with eyes of compassion or shared understanding. It reminds him of the way the schoolteacher, Tim Fielding, used to look at him all the time, after they met at the men’s grief group at the hospital. This look that said, I know how you’re feeling, I really do, even if there are no words that we can use to spell this out.
“Top-up?” She reaches for a pot of coffee.
He shakes his head. “I have a confession to make.”
“I know,” she says, and smiles. “The coffee tastes like crap.”
The wail of a siren makes Peggy jump, and she almost spills some coffee. McKelvey swivels and looks out the window. A police cruiser races past, lights flashing, strobing bands of blue and white bounce across the walls inside the Coffee Time.
“Must be an accident out on the highway,” she says.
Peggy bites her bottom lip, staring out the window as though the darkness out there holds some answer. “I wonder,” she says. “I should call Shirley.”
“Who’s Shirley?”
“Shirley Murdoch. She does dispatch for the cops and the ambulance. Fire, too.”
McKelvey shakes his head, marvelling at the simplicity of life in a small town. There is something both refreshing and dangerous about having everything out in the open, about knowing who everybody is, what they do, and how they do it. He listens as Peggy says a few words into the telephone, nods. She hangs up and turns to McKelvey, shaking her head.
“Saint B is going to hell. Some kid just got stabbed in the washroom at the arcade. Pete Younger just called for backup. Drugs, I bet you any money.”
Sure enough, in a moment another cruiser drives past the coffee shop, lights flashing, snow flying in its wake.
“That’ll be Ed Nolan rushing over even though he should be in bed,” Peggy says. “At this rate they’re going to need to hire another cop around here.”
“I miss the peace and quiet of Toronto,” McKelvey says.
Eleven
On the fringe of the town proper, straddling the township limits, there is a mobile home nestled in thick woods set about half a kilometre in from the road. The laneway is gravel and grass, and in winter it is hardly ever ploughed to a flat plain. There are deep tire ruts produced from a three-quarter-ton pickup truck with illegal chains on the tires, the drift between the ruts so high it scrapes the undercarriage of the police cruiser as Nolan negotiates his way. At one point he is forced to stop and alternate between forward and reverse, rocking back and forth in order to clear the hard-packed ridge. It sounds as though the ragged snow and ice could rip the muffler and exhaust system clear off the vehicle.
“I’ll just wait in the truck while you go on about your business,” McKelvey says. He is turned to the window, trying to fathom this sea of whiteness that threatens to swallow them. “Seeing as how you lied to me and all. ‘Just a quick stop on the way to this emergency meeting with the Chief and the mayor.’ I have to admit, that was slick, Constable. Mailbox back there said ‘Garson.’ I know about this family.”
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” Nolan says. He turns to McKelvey and tries to smile. His face appears boyishly uncertain; his eyebrows seem always to be in the midst of elevation. “I figured it was the only way to get you out with me on this. First Travis Lacey and now this Mark Watson kid stabbed in the washroom at the arcade. Over drugs. I need your help. And it’s not really a lie. It is just a quic
k stop on the way to the meeting at the mayor’s office.”
“Like I said, I’ll just stay nice and warm in here. You do what you’ve got to do. Just be sure to leave the keys with me in case this guy gets a crazy idea and blows you away. I don’t feel like walking back to town.”
McKelvey winks at the young officer, and Nolan’s face visibly blanches. The cruiser clears a curve and the mobile home and its overflowing yard is upon them. It is a spectacle to behold. McKelvey whistles. He counts four, five, six junked vehicles of assorted make and model, scattered and snow-covered, a few of them half covered with blue tarps that flutter in the breeze like so many flags. There are stacks of tires eight and nine high, chains hanging from tree branches as rudimentary hoists, old gallon drums upright and on their sides. The trailer itself is missing four sheets of tin from its siding. The roof sags where it meets the porch, which was an obvious afterthought, thrown together with plywood and steadied on cinder blocks without the benefit of a level. Nolan cuts the engine and the cab falls silent. The engine of the cruiser ticks a few times as the heat burns off. Outside the wind howls and the skeleton branches of the trees seem to undulate, sway as though in time with some unheard beat. This is a lonesome place where anything seems possible.
“You better go on up to the door,” McKelvey says. “Whoever is in there knows you’re out here. I saw the curtain in the window move as we pulled in.”
“I’ll buy you a case of beer if you come up with me. You know, give me some tips on how best to turn this guy over.”
“Don’t drink,” McKelvey says. “Besides, we all learn by making mistakes.”
Nolan unbuckles his seatbelt and sighs heavily. A dog barks. It barks again and then howls, the sound more wolf than dog.
“Ah, Jesus. I forgot about the pit bull. They had two, but one got shot when the provincial police tactical response unit came in here to arrest Wade’s brother, Hank. Sounds like they’ve still got one, which runs against the court order at least.”
“Canine possession as probable cause for entry,” McKelvey suggests.
Nolan gives McKelvey one last look. He opens the door and the cold air rushes in. He reaches behind the seat and pulls out a Maglite, long and heavy as a baton. Nolan holds the light and taps the torch end against his palm, testing its weight.
“Shotgun is locked in the back safety box,” he tells McKelvey. “Just in case. And here’s the keys.”
He hands them to McKelvey. The utterance of that single word — shotgun — sends a chill through McKelvey. His mind flashes with scenes of the abandoned factory where Tim Fielding was held hostage, where the shootings took place, where Leyden got killed; the place where McKelvey picked up Leyden’s police-issue shotgun and made his way through the darkness.
Nolan is at the door, knocking, when a dog springs from around the trailer, all snarling yaps and howls. Nolan swivels and sets the flashlight in his grip. Damned kid needs all the backup he can get, McKelvey thinks. Can’t just sit here and watch this. He gets out of the truck. He takes a few steps and spots something sticking from the snow in the ground, kicks at it and reaches to pick it up. The dog is at Nolan’s boots when McKelvey lets out a sharp whistle. The dog’s ears rotate like a satellite receiver, and the animal pulls up, turns, and then bounds toward this new target. The dog is pure muscle, underfed mean machinery. McKelvey gets a look at its dead eyes, red as hell itself, just as the beast springs from the ground in its rush for his throat. He sets his feet and waits within the calm centre of this calamity for the perfect moment to thrust his hand forward, to jam the palm-sized rock he has found straight into the jaws of the devil. The dog yelps, confused, and drops sideways to the snow, its yap completely occupied by the stone.
“Holy shit,” Nolan says from the front step. “Did he get you?”
McKelvey is breathing hard and fast despite his demeanour of calm. He is terrified, for he has never really understood the domain of the animal world, and yet at the same time he is exhilarated. It is that same feeling he gets any time he has gambled and come out on the winning side, this rush of momentary invincibility. Fuck, it feels great. The dog is thrashing its head from side to side, digging its snout into the snow. McKelvey raises his gloved hands and sees that, yes, the dog managed to make contact.
“Just a nip.”
Nolan knocks loudly on the door with the butt of the flashlight. McKelvey joins him on the stairs. There is movement from within, the sound of drawers or cupboards closing. A grungy curtain tacked to the door parts to reveal the ugly face that must belong to Wade Garson. His brown hair is stringy and hangs to the shoulder. The curtain falls back into place and the door opens a foot, held there by Wade Garson’s left knee. Garson stands there in his jeans and bare feet, his skinny torso naked and plastered with homemade tattoos, crosses and skulls, words which are too faded and poorly inked to decipher. The man is tall, about six foot three, but insufficiently nourished to the point that his ribs can be counted. A cigarette burns between the fingers of his left hand, which hangs at his side. The smoke rises and swirls to his thickly stubbled, wind-chafed face. In his right hand, McKelvey notices, the man grips a rather large crescent wrench.
“Nolan, you dipshit, you better not’ve hurt my fucking dog,” Garson yells.
“I’ve got a few questions there, Wade—”
But Garson steps forward, a king in his own domain, and he raises the wrench. “I got a few questions of my own,” he says, with righteous indignation.
McKelvey does not hesitate. He reaches out, grabs the hand with the wrench and pulls, while at the same time slamming the door shut with a hard push. Garson yells in pain as the wrench hits the step. McKelvey pushes the door all the way open as Garson stumbles back, rubbing his wrist.
“Jesus Christ, that’s police brutality,” Garson says, bent at the waist, still rubbing his hand as though it has just been freed from a set of too-tight handcuffs. “I’m gonna sue the ass off you dipshits. I’ll sue the whole fucking town.”
“Not so much, dickhead. See, Constable Nolan here is the police.” McKelvey wags a thumb toward Nolan. “And he hasn’t touched you. Yet.”
Nolan follows McKelvey inside the porch. The small room is cluttered with rubber boots, fishing rods and scattered tackle, piles of yellowing newspapers, a ringed stack of assorted hubcaps in a corner. There is a black silk flag tacked to a far wall, a gold cannon with AC*DC silkscreened above it. There is a lingering stink of stale marijuana smoke, and the whole floor of the porch tilts about a dozen degrees southwest.
“Well, who the fuck are you, then?” Garson says, glaring.
“Maybe I’m from some charity coming out to see if you need a food basket or a haircut … maybe a de-lousing,” McKelvey says. “And then your dog out there attacked us. Unprovoked.”
“Charity? Well you can’t just come in here, you know. This is, like, my private property.” Garson looks at Nolan. “You got a warrant there, Officer Dipshit?”
“That’s just in the movies,” McKelvey says. “Look, we’re here. You invited us in. Remember?”
“All right, all right, settle down, the two of you,” Nolan says, regaining his footing here, likely remembering that he is, after all, the only legal authority in the room. “Listen, I just want to ask you a few questions, Wade. And then we’ll get out of your life.”
Nolan tucks the flashlight in his armpit and fishes out a notepad. McKelvey and Garson stare at each other. Garson draws from his cigarette and blows a funnel toward McKelvey’s face. But McKelvey doesn’t take the bait. He simply smiles and lets Nolan run through his questions.
“You still hanging and drying weed out in your back forty, I imagine,” Nolan says.
“No, Officer.” Garson smiles, revealing a set of dirty, crooked teeth.
“You’re still selling it by the gram down at the Station and the arcade, I know that much. But I’m not interested in pot today, Wade. I want to talk about crystal meth.”
Garson’s eyes narrow. He waits, in th
e practised way an ex-con learns to pause before speaking. He wants to understand the context, the potential implications, before he offers up some nugget that will be polished off and used to hang him.
“I have good intelligence on this. There’s meth moving in Saint B. I can’t imagine someone coming in here without you knowing it. You’d never accept that sort of disrespect, would you, Wade?”
McKelvey nods. He likes what he hears coming from the young cop. His natural instinct has told him to focus on pride. For a bottom feeder like Wade Garson, it’s about all he has.
“Bullshit. I don’t know nothin’ about cooking no meth,” Garson says.
“Who said anything about cooking? I’m talking about moving the stuff. Someone is selling it to these kids. Mark Watson got stabbed last night up at the arcade. He’s in the hospital in Timmins, and Scotty Cooper is sitting in the holding cells waiting for the Crown attorney to make her way up here. I imagine you heard all about that.”
“I heard about it,” Garson says. “But what the hell’s it got to do with me?”
“Both Mark and Scotty were higher than kites when we got there. Clear out of their heads. Mark didn’t even know he had been stabbed, the blood pumping out of his stomach between his fingers. I suggest you think long and hard now, Wade. You know or you’ve heard through the grapevine. I know you do. Who’s bringing meth into Saint B?”
Garson takes a last drag of the cigarette, pinches the ash end, and tosses the butt into an old paint can to join a hundred other dead smokes. He blows the smoke above his head and scratches his scrawny belly. He goes to say something but stops himself and shakes his head.
“I’m not sayin’ another word to you two jackoffs until you charge me and get me one of those legal aid lawyers. Are you gonna charge me, Nolan?”
“I told you, Wade, I just wanted to ask you a few questions. Give you a chance to help us and help yourself.” Nolan closes the notebook and pockets it. “But I guess the Chief was right. He said you were a lost cause. Just like all the Garsons.”
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