by L. R. Wright
It was a small, rectangular, wooden building with a sharply peaked roof. There were little windows in the gables, and underneath the one facing north another piece of roof stuck out, like an eyeshade. In the long roof that looked toward the gravel road was a dormer with two tiny side-by-side windows, and in the bottom part of the roof, where it angled and the pitch became less steep, there were three skylights, one in the middle, one at each end.
A glass wall wrapped around the building on two sides; from the road, it looked like a greenhouse with a second story.
On this sunny afternoon the traffic, vehicle by vehicle, lurched up to the turn in the highway, lumbered dutifully around it, and aimed itself west, at the Pacific Ocean.
All but the pickup truck.
When it reached the corner, the pickup continued forward onto the gravel road, crunched along until it got to the building, swerved off toward the old gas pumps and came to a halt between the pumps and the glass-walled house.
For a while it just sat there. Then the driver’s door flew open, and Herman Ferguson got out.
“Annabelle!” he hollered. He wore a white T-shirt through which a mat of dark chest hair could be seen. He wasn’t very tall. He was wiry, unshaven, and had a lot of thick black hair. Two of his teeth were missing. Sometimes, when he got excited, he made a whistling sound when he spoke.
“Come on here, you guys,” he yelled to the children who had appeared around the corner of the building. “Where’s your ma? We’ve gotta get this thing unloaded.”
Bowlegged and cocky, he strode to the end of the truck, where he hoisted himself up and started undoing the ropes that connected the tarp to the sides of the vehicle.
The oldest child, a girl, was nine. She had blond hair tied in a dispirited ponytail. Pieces of it had come loose and were hanging around her face. She was wearing baggy jeans that wouldn’t have stayed up on her skinny frame except for a cord drawn through the belt loops and tied firmly around her waist. On top, she wore a short-sleeved pink T-shirt.
The boy was eight. He was called Arnold, and he had his father’s hair, thick and black, so black that in the bright sunlight sometimes it looked dark red.
The smallest child was a girl, also blond, who was six, almost seven. Her hair was cut so short that it was hard for some people to tell she was a girl. She could run very fast and she climbed trees very nimbly and her name was Camellia.
Her sister was called Rose-Iris.
Annabelle hurried around the corner, breathless, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I was in the garden,” she said. She smiled at her children as she approached them, gathered at the rear of the truck. “What on earth have you got there?” she said to Herman.
From his position on the truck bed Herman whipped off the tarpaulin, revealing a collection of wire cages. “Take a look at that,” he said triumphantly.
“What is it?” said Camellia, standing on tiptoe, straining to see.
“Animals,” said Rose-Iris disbelievingly, peering into the truck. “It’s animals. In cages.”
“Let me see, let me see,” said Camellia, all excited. Rose-Iris lifted her up, staggering a little.
“I got ’em from Tyrone,” said Herman.
“I thought you went over there to get money,” said Annabelle, her hands on her hips. “I thought Tyrone owed you some money.”
“He did owe me, and now he’s paying me. He’s sending more next week, too.” Herman gestured impatiently to his wife. “Come on over here. When the monkeys and the skunks get here there’s gonna be enough critters for a zoo, and that’s what I’m bound to have, a zoo, a mini-zoo, two dollars for adults and a buck each for kids.” He threw back his head and laughed. “How’s that for a summer project?” he said to Arnold, with a wink.
Rose-Iris put Camellia down again. “Can we play with them?” said Camellia.
“Don’t be silly,” said Rose-Iris sharply. “They’re wild animals. You don’t play with wild animals.”
Annabelle had ventured nearer, and now she stared into the interior of the cages. She saw raccoons, and squirrels, and foxes. All of the animals were panting. Some of them were quivering. Their eyes were huge and dark; fathomless, thought Annabelle. Urine and excrement had fouled the bottoms of the cages, which were lined with newspapers.
“Well come on, don’t just stand around,” said Herman. “These critters need a drink. Climb on up here, Arnold, help me get these things off here. We’ll set ’em up out back, where there’s some shade.”
Annabelle stood back and watched as the cages were unloaded. Her heart was hammering in her chest. It’s the heat, she thought. Really, it was uncommonly warm, for June.
She smoothed her dress with her hands, tilted her head, and managed to clear herself a passageway through the threat of turmoil.
“I’m having nothing to do with this,” she said, her tone flat and implacable. “I’m going back to my garden.”
The rest of the family watched, silent, as she walked quickly toward the house.
“I think she’s scared of those animals,” said Camellia finally.
Rose-Iris gave her a push. “Ma’s not scared of anything,” she said, glancing up at her father.
“She’ll get used to them,” said Herman, staring at the corner around which Annabelle had disappeared. “She’ll damn quick get used to them.”
iii
“Wanda, it’s five to four.”
“I know it’s five to four.”
“Well come on.”
“It’s five to four, Warren. Not four. We’re leaving at four o’clock, that’s what you said.”
“Yeah, well, it’s that now.”
“It’s not four, it’s five to four. I’ll be ready at four. I told you I’d be ready at four, and I’ll be ready at four.”
Warren Kettleman let the screen door bang shut behind him and went down the walk to the street, where his van was parked in front of the house. He unlocked it and opened the windows, and left the passenger door open, too. It was like an oven in there.
The clock on the dashboard said 3:57. He knew it would read exactly four o’clock when the screen door slapped open and Wanda came out.
And it did, too. Warren shook his head wearily. She was so damn stubborn. She’d never give him the satisfaction of coming out early, even when she was all ready to go early, even though she knew how much he hated being late.
But he didn’t say anything. He just started the motor and waited patiently while Wanda flounced down the walk, hipped herself into her seat and slammed the door. He continued to wait, gazing out through the windshield, and finally Wanda made a sound of exasperation and put on her seat belt.
And Warren felt inexplicably lighthearted, all of a sudden. He didn’t know why, but he felt very good. He leaned swiftly toward Wanda and planted a kiss on her ear. She gave a little screech, then grabbed his head and kissed him hard on the mouth. Warren growled in his throat, which he knew she loved, and Wanda’s eyes got darker, and she said, “Let’s go back inside,” and Warren damn near said, “Yeah.”
As soon as they arrived, Wanda smacked a kiss onto her mother’s cheek. Wanda’s dad tossed Warren a can of beer and her mom poured Wanda a big glass of iced tea made from a mix.
“What are we having?” said Wanda, peering into a pot on the stove.
Her mom gave Wanda’s hand a little slap. “Get outta there. ‘Portuguese Fish Soup.’ ”
“Geez, Ma,” said Wanda, dismayed.
Warren felt dismayed, too. In five years he’d never had the same thing twice, at the Prestons’ house. He’d given up telling Mrs. Preston when he especially liked something because he knew he’d never get it again anyway. But maybe he ought to start letting her know when he didn’t like something. For instance, he didn’t like fish. He couldn’t stand fish. He was pretty sure he was almost allergic to fish. Maybe if Wanda’s mom had known that, she wouldn’t have made Portuguese Fish Soup.
“What else?” said Wanda, which Warren wanted
to know, too.
“Buns and a salad,” said Mrs. Preston, pouring herself some iced tea. “And blueberry crumble for dessert, made with blueberries outta my freezer.”
He could fill up on buns and salad, thought Warren. And although he didn’t know what the crumble part would turn out to be, he liked blueberries.
“Come on outside,” said Wanda’s dad. “I want you to take a look at my exhaust.”
Warren took a big swig of beer. Yeah, he thought, buns, salad, blueberries, that’d be okay. He threw Wanda a wink and followed Mr. Preston outside.
He was lying on a creeper under Mr. Preston’s Ford when gleeful shrieks started coming from the house, female shrieks interspersed with male laughter. He froze, under there, because as soon as he heard the guy laugh he knew who it was.
“Warren! Warren!”
Wanda was outside before she called his name for the third time. He could see her feet dancing up and down on the concrete of the driveway.
“Guess who’s here!”
He scooted out from under the Ford and stood up, dusting off his hands, but there was grease all over them and just as he realized he was glad of that, at least he wouldn’t have to shake hands, Bobby came outside, a grin on his face, with Mrs. Preston right behind him.
“Hiya,” said Bobby. He looked just like he’d looked in high school, even though that had been ten years ago. Except his hair was a lot shorter, of course. Big, tough, and easy moving, Bobby was, and his hands were shoved into the back pockets of his jeans.
“Hi,” said Warren. “Long time no see.”
“You got that right,” said Bobby, nodding. A hunk of hair fell down over his forehead and Warren watched him toss it back with a shake of his head, just like in high school. He wondered what Bobby had been up to in the last year and a half, since he’d gotten out of the slammer.
“Came back to Sechelt to see your stepdad, did you, Bobby?” said Mr. Preston sympathetically, resting his foot on the front bumper of the Ford. “I heard he was pretty sick.”
Warren couldn’t believe this, how friendly they were all being.
“Yeah,” said Bobby to Mr. Preston. “My mom called me. So I’m gonna stay a while, I guess. Maybe take a few days, go camping.”
Warren had known he was back in town, of course. Wanda had heard, and Wanda had told Warren. But he hadn’t expected to see him. Except maybe on the street, by accident.
“So,” said Bobby, “you’re still into cars, are you, War?”
“Yeah,” said Warren. “Still into cars.”
Everybody had felt real bad when Bobby got sent to jail. And Warren could understand that. But the fact of the matter was, when all was said and done, Bobby was guilty. He never even tried to pretend he wasn’t. And so he’d deserved to go to jail, hadn’t he? Warren couldn’t understand why Wanda got so mad whenever he pointed this out.
“You got some grease on your new shirt,” said Wanda reproachfully, and he looked down and saw that she was right. But she came over to him and took his arm and hugged it to her breast, and Warren felt good about that.
“You make a cute couple,” said Bobby, with another grin.
Into Warren’s head came a picture from high school, of Bobby and Wanda necking in the hallway. He’d felt disgusted to see this, because he didn’t like public displays of affection, but it had made him hard, too. Everything made him hard then, he reminded himself, staring at Bobby. He wondered what it was like to be in jail.
“You want to stay for supper, Bobby?” said Mrs. Preston.
Warren couldn’t believe his ears.
Bobby looked at Wanda. “Does my ex have any objection?”
Wanda shrugged, and let go of Warren’s arm. “I don’t care one way or the other,” she said.
“What are you having?” said Bobby to Mrs. Preston.
“ ‘Portuguese Fish Soup,’ ” Warren blurted.
“Can’t pass that up,” said Bobby. “Whatever the hell it is.” He grinned again, but his eyes were funny, and Warren saw with a little shock that he really didn’t look at all like he’d looked in high school. There was this layer of watchfulness over him; and he kind of glowed empty, even with the sun shining right on him.
“Good,” said Mrs. Preston, beaming at her former son-in-law.
Nothing good, thought Warren, staring down at Wanda’s shiny brown hair, can possibly come from this.
He looked at Bobby, who was leaning against the side of the garage with his arms crossed, looking back at him, and he had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling, right in the middle of his gut. He gazed searchingly at Bobby, trying to see him clear, becoming more and more apprehensive without having any idea why; wanting to protect himself, and Wanda—and Bobby, too, for that matter—from whatever stupid mess Bobby might be heading into.
Warren was always having bad feelings. It was in his nature. But even at his gloomiest, his most pessimistic, the thought of Bobby killing somebody would never have entered Warren’s worried mind.
Chapter 1
ON THE SUNSHINE Coast that year, summertime was long and hot and dusty, and the world smelled of raspberries and roses.
For weeks the sky remained utterly clear, and the air was hot and still.
The waters that lapped at the western shoreline were such a deep blue they looked as if they might stain the skin. The nearer islands in the Strait of Georgia were etched fine and clear, every tree and every rock sharp-edged; the islands somewhat farther away were soft dark shapes against the sky; the most distant islands were purple shadows in the far-reaching sea.
Old-timers said they’d never seen a summer like it. The trees by the roadside were heavy with dust thrown up from the gravel shoulders. Garden-watering was limited to every second day, and people weren’t wasting it on their lawns, which were rapidly becoming brown.
Roses thrived in the heat. So did marigolds. All sorts of flowers thrived in it. Some people did, too.
That summer was an aberration. Impatiens, fuchsia, begonias both fibrous and tuberous—all were wilted, weakened, disabled by the relentless heat of the astonishingly tropical sun.
Some people were, too.
On a Monday in early July, Staff Sergeant Karl Alberg pulled his white Oldsmobile into the fenced lot behind the Sechelt Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment. He left the windows open when he climbed out of the car. He moved slowly and cautiously, but the heat pounced on him anyway, and swept over his body in a suffocating wave. As he plodded across the gravel and around to the front of the building he felt like he was wearing entirely too many clothes. A pair of pants, a shirt, underwear, socks and shoes: it didn’t sound like much. The pants were made of cotton. The saleswoman had told him they’d be cool because cotton was a fabric that breathed. Alberg had never conceived of clothes as breathing.
The pants might be cool but they wrinkled awfully fast. The shirt was cotton, too; everything he had on today was breathing. If he listened carefully he could probably hear it. The shirt he wore had long sleeves. Alberg hated short-sleeved shirts, except for T-shirts. There was something unseemly about the way the sleeves flapped around. He didn’t mind T-shirts because their sleeves gripped his biceps firmly. But T-shirts weren’t appropriate for work, he felt. So he wore long-sleeved shirts to work, and rolled up the cuffs a couple of times, casually.
Isabella had found a fan somewhere, the kind that rotates, and Alberg got a whoosh of cool air in his face as he opened the door. The fan sat on the counter in front of Isabella’s desk.
“Good morning to you,” she sang.
Isabella Harbud, the detachment’s middle-aged receptionist and secretary, was the only person Alberg knew who was actually relishing the weather. For once she was coming to work wearing only one layer of clothing. Her mane of graying auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face glowed with goodwill.
“Lookee here,” she said, pointing to a bunch of flowers on the end of the counter.
“Very nice,” said Alberg. “Are they from yo
ur garden?” He hoped it wasn’t her intention to try to put them in his office. Isabella frequently thought of things to do for him that he didn’t want done.
“They’re from Mavis Furley,” said Isabella.
Alberg looked at the flowers for edification.
“She got her car stolen,” said Isabella. “Remember? We found it for her. Corporal Sanducci found it. Abandoned on a logging road. None the worse for wear. Remember?”
“I remember,” said Alberg.
“This bouquet,” said Isabella, “is an expression of her gratitude.” She waited. “My lord,” she cried, exasperated, “hasn’t anybody ever given you flowers before?”
Alberg stared at the flowers. He noticed a card, and took his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. He put on the glasses and read the message on the card. Nodding to himself, he put the card back. “Very nice,” he said, and leaned close to the flowers so he could sniff their fragrance. “Very nice.” He put his glasses away, gave the counter a brisk slap, and ambled down the hall, smiling at nothing.
The smile faded when he opened the door to his office. It was stifling in there, and upon his desk sat a pile of personnel forms that he’d managed to put out of his mind overnight.
He pulled up the venetian blinds and shoved the window open as wide as it would go. He left his office door open and sat behind his desk, staring gloomily at the paperwork that awaited him.
After a while he called Cassandra Mitchell and they arranged to meet later that day. When he hung up Alberg thought about Cassandra, about him and Cassandra, and wondered what that was, anyway—him-and-Cassandra.
His ex-wife was getting married, on the long weekend in August. In Calgary. To an accountant.
Alberg pulled out a desk drawer, rested his feet on it, put his hands behind his head and studied the photograph of his daughters that hung on the wall. It was time to take a new one. This one had to be at least six, seven years old. Diana was staying with him for the summer and in a couple of weeks her older sister, Janey, would be joining them for a few days. He could take their picture on a boat, maybe. But he didn’t have a boat. He could rent one. Except they didn’t like boats. They’d grown up in inland places and were distrustful of the ocean.