I love a good storm, particularly if I'm safe and sound in my little nest looking out at it. There is something very cozy about witnessing the power of nature, knowing you and yours are in the protective embrace of home and not in peril, privileged enough to watch it as pure entertainment. And to that end, as I pulled a crazily swinging bird feeder off its pole, placing it for safekeeping on the ground, I called out for the dogs. I was surprised they weren't underfoot as they normally would be at a time like this, not-so-subtly trying to nose me in the direction of the house where they'd rather be-but not without me. Yet they were nowhere to be seen. I called out again, thinking they must be in some bush or other, rooting around for truffles or gold bullion or enjoying some other such hopelessly futile but nose-worthy activity. No response. Thinking they couldn't hear me over the growing howls of wind, I set out in search for them.
My yard is large, a warren of charming sitting areas and little out-of-the-way hiding spots, criss-crossed by bricked pathways that lead to and fro and ultimately dead-end at the edge of my property, which is encircled by a tall fence-a handy way to keep dogs in and other things out. Many dogs have an inbred fear of storms, and whereas Barbra had only just begun to demonstrate discomfort with them in the last couple of years, Brutus has been a bona fide chicken since day one. Brutus used to belong to Errall and her ex, Kelly, but while that relationship was ending, Brutus had come to live with us and never went back. I jokingly (sort of) blame Brutus' lack of courage during storms on the lack of male role models during his formative years. Errall then shoots back with how Brutus occasionally squats to pee ever since he's come to live with me. Which is a pretty good retort since it's true. Why does he do that?
I was running out of hiding spots when I noticed with considerable chagrin that the backyard gate was wide open, swinging wildly in the wind. Oh crap, I thought to myself, they've left the yard. I gave the sky an assessing look and felt the first fat plop of rain anoint my cheek. I debated going back inside for a jacket, but was betting the dogs hadn't gone far, and if I ran after them now I'd have a better chance of catching them before they got disoriented in the storm. I quickly checked the gate's latch. It seemed fine. I wondered how it had come undone since keeping it shut is something I am very careful about, but there was no time to think about it then. I pushed the gate aside and stepped into the back alley.
Outside my property to the right is a dead end, so I headed left. I barely made it two steps when the wind, speeding down the tunnel of the alley like a five o'clock train, almost bowled me over. Suddenly, like a wet blanket being tossed over me, I felt the cover of rein, thoroughly drenching me from head to toe in less than five seconds. Bugger. Where the hell are those damn dogs? If I was wet, they'd be wet, and that meant wet dog smell. I began to yell out for the schnauzers, not knowing if my voice was loud enough to cut through the noise of the storm. I made it to the cross street at the end of the alley. No dogs. Where could they have gone? It is very unlike them to go off without me. Unless they were chasing something.
Or someone?
I loped down the cross avenue to the street my house is on and started toward my front yard, noticing an eerie lack of activity on the street. Everyone was inside-as anyone in their right mind should be-waiting for the storm to blow over. I fell into an uneasy jog, tossing my head right to left, seeking any signs of the animals, calling their names, getting a little pissed off and worried about them at the same time. When I reached my front yard, I noticed that gate too was swinging open. What the heck is going on here? I knew the fingers of wind were strong, but I didn't think they were dexterous enough to unhook gate latches.
I nearly jumped out of my skin and, I must admit, let out a little yip, when from behind me I heard the warning honk of a horn. I swung around, fists clenched. A car. Where did that come from? The rain was now alternating between brief showers of droplets sharp as pinpricks and flashes of rushing water that ran over me like a carwash, and yet I knew the storm-master was only playing with us: we'd seen nothing yet. I wiped the water from my brow and peered at the vehicle that had stopped a few metres away. The driver's side window slowly descended, but from the angle where I stood I still could not make out who was inside. I approached slowly, no doubt looking like the Creature from the Drowned Lagoon. As I came nearer a particularly sharp crack of lightning shot across the sky, throwing the car and its inhabitant into a million-watt glow. That was when I first caught sight of the driver, his face in scary-movie downlighting that made the most (or worst) of the heavy dark brow that dominated his forehead. It was Dr. Uno Dubrowski.
I was startled to see him, of all people, driving down my street in the middle of a summer howler, his jagged eyebrow riding low on his face, looking not entirely unlike a geeky Frankenstein.
"Are you alright?" he called out to me, no doubt wondering what I was doing taking a shower outdoors while fully dressed.
"I'm fine," I called back, collecting my wits enough to approach the car and lean down to speak to him. "It's just my dogs. They've run off in the storm and I can't find them."
He nodded but said nothing.
"What are you doing here?" I bluntly asked.
He looked down and away then produced a plastic Sears shopping bag. "I brought you this."
Fortunately the wind and rain were taking a momentary breather, making it easier for me to continue with this...whatever it was. I accepted the bag and looked inside. Frowning, I pulled out a three-pack of Calvin Klein underwear. What in the name of Helen Keller was this about? Was Dr. D giving me a gift? Was this some kind of sexual offering...game...perversion? Did he want me to model these for him? I decided to respond with a blank look (which wasn't difficult).
"Y-y-y-you left them," he explained, seeing my confusion. "In my w-w-w-waiting room? When you came to see me the other day? I thought...I thought you'd want...I didn't want to...well, here they are." I think he followed that up with a little gas, but with all the other competing wind it was hard to tell for sure.
"These aren't mine."
"Oh." His pale face grew a rosy shade of pink. "Oh d-d-dear, d-d-dear me, that is...I'm so sorry. I apologize. You were the only man who'd been in that day. What a dilemma; I assumed they were yours."
I shook my head and handed the package back through the window. Finding a three-pack of skivvies is a dilemma? I regarded Dr. D's odd-looking face, fogged up spectacles and curling lips and concluded that, maybe, for him, it was. This was a man who didn't live easily in the real world beyond his safe, warm office. Or was there something more to all this? Had he really come all this way in a thunder storm to deliver a pair of underwear?
"Was there something you needed to tell me, Dr. Dubrowski?"
His pupils lolled around in the pool of his eyeglasses and for a moment I thought he was about to say something, trying to form words but couldn't quite do it. Instead he just shrugged his shoulders and let out a wheeze.
I felt a fresh assault of rain droplets against my back and pulled myself away from the car. "I'm sorry you had to come all this way for nothing." Behind my back I could hear a high-pitched bark. An unhappy Barbra. "I really must go, Dr. Dubrowski."
"Of course. Thank y-y-you for everything." He burped.
Uh, okay. "Perhaps you'd like to come in?" I said, giving him one more chance should he have something salient to get off his chest: something about Tanya Culinare or Vicky Madison or Calvin Klein.
"No. That won't be necessary."
The car pulled away just as another flash of lightning darted across the heavens, quickly followed by a bang of thunder. I darted into my front yard. Barbra and Brutus were on their hind legs, up against the front door of the house, pawing at it furiously, demanding to be let in. Barbra was yipping her "I'm not happy, how can you leave me out here?" bark. Now I could imagine that something, perhaps a neighbourhood cat, might have lured them from the backyard and eventually they found their way to the street and recognized the front yard from our many walks, but when had they lea
rned to work gate latches? When they saw me coming, they hightailed it over to me, their back ends wagging with such enthusiasm they might have fallen off if they weren't connected so well. En masse, we rushed for the front door in search of safety from the building storm. Locked, of course.
I led the pack down the side of the house, through a connecting gate (this one unopened) and into the backyard. We entered the house through the deck doors into our wonderfully warm and dry kitchen. When we were all inside, I fell to my knees and we played nuzzle the snouts for a few seconds as I asked them where they'd been and why they'd taken off like that. After that, I instructed them to stay on the welcome mat while I found a towel to dry them off. Once that was done, I handed them each a bacon-flavoured, low-fat treat (if I was on a diet, they were on a diet), and together we retreated to the master bedroom and a comfy seat (the bed) from which to observe the storm.
Just as we were settled, the phone rang. I debated picking it up, trying to recall whether the danger of talking on the phone during an electrical storm was true or just an old wives' tale.
"Hello?" I answered regardless.
"Mr. Quant?"
"Yes."
"It's Warren Culinare. From Seattle." Tanya's brother. "I hope you don't mind my calling you at home. I was just wondering if you'd made any progress on my sister's death?"
"Of course I don't mind, Mr. Culinare. Call me Russell."
"Warren."
"As I told you, you or your parents should feel free to call me any time. I know you must be anxious to hear any news about Tanya." I wasn't expecting the call and had yet to think through what I should or shouldn't tell Tanya's family. For instance, do I out her to them? They certainly hadn't told me she was a lesbian, which I knew didn't necessarily mean they didn't know. And what about her relationship with Moxie Banyon and Moxie's death? Her visits with a psychotherapist? The harassment she'd been suffering? The possible tie to her involvement with the Pink Gophers? Some of the people I'd talked to thought Tanya Culinare was unstable. Her doctor thought it likely that she had ended her own life. None of this was what her family wanted to hear. But who was I to decide what they should or shouldn't hear? They were my clients; they'd asked me to dig up any information about their sister and daughter that might have contributed to her death, accidental, contemplated or otherwise. The problem was that all I had thus far were theories, nothing concrete. I didn't want to raise or dash their hopes either way.
Warren Culinare knew a minimum of what I'd been up to. I'd gotten clearance from him to make the trip to Vancouver-it was his dime after all-but when I'd reached him he was at work and seemed too preoccupied to ask many questions. His primary concern was finding out why his sister had died, the price tag was secondary. But now he wanted more. So I spent the next few minutes filling him in. At the end there was silence. "Warren, are you still there?"
"Yes, yes, I am."
"We're having a storm here. I was worried it had somehow severed our connection." At that moment the room was thrown into unnatural brightness as dancing thunderbolts lit up the sky followed by the requisite thunder. Brutus whined and shifted his position on the bed to be closer to me. Barbra snuffled at his shanks as if to comfort him.
'You've given me a lot of information, Russell. A lot to think about. I just...I just can't believe how little I knew my own sister and what she was going through. I know you say you still don't know anything for sure, but...well, in your gut, Russell, do you think my sister killed herself or did someone do this to her?"
I knew what he wanted me to say. But I couldn't. "I'm sorry, Warren. I just don't know enough yet."
We ended the conversation with my promise to keep on working on his family's behalf and his thanks.
I scrunched down into the softness of the pillows and dog fur around me and watched the wildness outside my bedroom window, contemplating Warren Culinare's question. Had Tanya really killed herself or did someone do it for her and make it look like suicide? Some time later as the power faltered and flickered, my eyes grew heavy and my head fell next to Brutus' hind leg. I fell asleep.
When I came to, it was as dark as a nightmare. I was sprawled across my bed, fully clothed, and it took me a second to remember why. The room was alive with noises, the loudest of them sounding like the clattering of a precarious stack of china about to topple. I searched for the source and found it was the windows of the bedroom being buffeted by a howling wind. A million tiny hooves clip-clopped above my head as a driving rain continued to paint the roof wet. Either the storm had raged on unabated while I'd slept or one system had passed by only to be replaced by another. According to my bedside clock-nope, the power had cut out-according to my wristwatch, which read 7:48, I'd been asleep for over two hours. That was weird. I have been known to enjoy a good nap, but rarely at that time of day, and rarely for that long. I guessed it was the combination of storm, warm doggie fur and a long hot day of detecting that had conspired to put me out at length.
Speaking of doggies, I realized they were no longer on the bed. I slowly pulled myself up on one elbow and looked around the room. My eyes widened when I saw them.
Instead of watching the storm or cuddling on the rug, Barbra and Brutus were on their haunches, facing the closed bedroom door. And now, in addition to the yowling of the outdoor tempest, I could make out a low rumbling issuing from somewhere deep within their chests. I know these dogs well. They were on alert. They'd heard something, something other than storm noises, something that was unfamiliar to them, something unsettling and frightening to them. I sat up and called their names gently. Brutus ignored me but Barbra tilted her head in my direction, giving me a liquid look of warning, but remained at her station. I tried to concentrate my own ears. What was it they could hear?
What...? What was that? Banging? Knocking?
My heart did a backflip and my cheeks flushed with the rush you get when you're all alone and you hear something that doesn't quite fit. I hopped off the bed and approached the bedroom door. Was there someone behind it? I slowly pulled it open. The dogs rushed out and down the hallway. Oh gawd. Where were they going? Did I need a weapon? My gun was safely locked away...in a box in the garage. This wasn't due so much to thoughtlessness on my part as to a deep-rooted belief that it's best to first try to solve problems without firepower if at all possible. But I needed something. I scoured the room for a weapon and in one corner of the room I saw a collection of bamboo poles I'd artfully arranged there. Aw well, not exactly a baseball bat but better than nothing. I retrieved the sturdiest of the bunch and prepared to face whatever was out there.
As I made my way down the murky hallway, bamboo in hand, I cocked my head to listen for a repeat of the banging noise I thought I'd heard before and wondered where the heck those doggone dogs had gone. The power was still out, immersing my surroundings in the colour of dim. Every room I passed had the distinct possibility of being a Fun House of Horror and I tiptoed by each with escalating trepidation.
Bark! Bark!
Brutus. Another bad sign. Schnauzers aren't given to barking unless they have a very logical reason. Where was he? Front door? Back? At a window? What was he seeing? Sensing? Was someone in the house! A momentous crack of thunder sounded overhead with such force that I felt the floorboards rumble. The lights flickered on-yay-faded up-hooray-then blackened out again- crapola. A fresh deluge of rain backed by gale-force winds slammed against the house. And then came the banging.
Forsaking fear, I rushed to the front door and threw it open. I was hit with a punch of weather, wet and sticky and stinging and hot all at the same time. That was it. Nobody there. I took a step outside onto the front landing and searched the expanse of the front yard, relentlessly dark under the cover of a turbulent night. As best I could make out, there was no one there. I debated rushing out to the street. It was invisible from my front door because of a thick growth of poplar and pine trees I encourage for the sake of privacy-something I wasn't quite so interested in at a time like this. I d
esperately wished I could see a neighbour, any neighbour, the comforting view of another person, a friendly face, I wished...I wished Sereena was back, next door, thirty seconds away, I slammed the door closed and marched determinedly toward the kitchen. When I got there I stopped on a dime. Why was I being such a scaredy-cat, I remonstrated with myself, it wasn't like me. Maybe it was from being awakened too quickly from my nap. Maybe it was because I'd slept too long. Maybe it was all the weird electricity in the air from the storm. Or maybe it was because when I entered the kitchen I found the dogs growling at the back doors.
I stared through the windows of the doors. Even though it was still early on a July evening that would, under regular weather conditions, remain light until well after 9 p.m., outside was every shade of black and grey and I could barely discern a mock orange bush from a clay pot in the unnatural dusk. I tried to settle the dogs-and myself-with a calming voice, but it did little good. There was something or someone out there that shouldn't be.
The banging again.
What the...! I could see nothing. I reached for the handle and slowly slid the door open. The dogs hesitated, upped their growling, then took tentative steps onto the back deck, suspicious noses sniffing at the air, as did I (growling and sniffing included).
Anthony Bidulka Page 16