Savior

by Caplan, Anthony

  Suspicion of subversive activities.

  What the heck is that?

  That would be anti-Canadian activities, sir. You and the young man, both of you. We don't want to make this difficult. If you could just come in with us we could get this over with and you could be on your way. We have no grounds for anything but questioning right now, sir.

  Is this an arrest?

  No, sir. You and the boy are being detained for questioning. That's all. If you'd get your hands up and stand up against the wall here, we will do a search. You and the boy.

  Anti-Canadian activities. What kind of crap is that? Do you have any idea what you're talking about?

  Sir, I don't want to make this unpleasant for you. Don't force me. Please walk over to the wall and put your hands up on it. You too.

  Both Ricky and Tony walked over and faced the wall. They allowed themselves to be patted down by the two male officers. Then they were led out to the parking lot.

  They had no coats on and the wind whipped through their shirts. Ricky was glad to get inside the shelter of the police car. Both of them rode in the back of the cruiser. Tony placed his hand on Ricky's.

  No problem. We'll be fine, buddy, he said.

  Ricky nodded.

  At the station, they were hustled inside a holding cell. They sat in the cell for several hours. There was a television in the top corner, but it was turned off. Two other men shared the cell with them. One was identifiably unbalanced, a man in his sixties with eyes that would not focus, talking about the UFOs he'd recently sighted. The other was a small, drunk Native American man who was curled up asleep in the corner. When he awoke, his face was twisted in pain. He said nothing and went back to sleep, curling back into the same position. There was no way to tell how long they would be in there. Ricky held his head in his hands down between his knees. He could think of nothing except the absolute despair of having no way to get his father out. Their failure had no redeemable angle to it. And he thought that Uncle Tony might now be tempted to tell all in a bid to win the police over to their side.

  Did you see them? It was the other man interrupting his thoughts. The UFOs.

  No, we’ve hardly been outside. Where did you see them? asked Tony.

  Over the sand dunes. Flying in formation. I'm saying let the guilty pay. That's all. Take the guilty parties and line them up on the top of a building and let them come take them away. We need to sacrifice the worst of the lot to make them believe we've changed our ways. Or else we're all going to get it. You ever see that movie with Shia Labeuf and the aliens? You know the one I'm talking about?

  Ricky was glad Tony didn't answer, but the guy went on anyway, detailing the ways the human race was destroying the earth. It all made little to no sense, and Ricky didn't want to hear anything right then that made no sense.

  Then the officer came in, the young, expressionless one who had done little talking back at the hotel. He took Uncle Tony away for questioning and left Ricky behind. Ricky sank further and further into a funk. At one point he was sitting on the ground with his knees up, and the little drunk rallied, shifting around, and laid down next to him. Ricky jumped up and moved away.

  That's right. Have nothing to do with them. They're filthy. All of us. You just can't accept your own role in the whole affair, can you?

  What are you talking about? Ricky turned, exasperated.

  You, young fellow. When the shit hits the fan, you'll be the first to squeal. No backbone any more. Loose lips are the downfall of the modern fighting force, my grandfather told me. I should have listened instead of following the trail my worser instincts led me down. You ever see that movie with the little alien fellow, ET?

  Yeah. What's that got to do with it?

  You can't phone home. Okay? Nobody's there. You're not ET. You got to get out there on your bike and pedal. Okay? No mystery at all. At all.

  I never claimed to be ET.

  Oh, but your body language gave it away. You need to get some affirmations. You're not a bad-looking kid. Okay? Not at all. You've got a major problem, but that's nothing. You'll deal with it. We all do. There is no heaven. No after life. The aliens are just here for the DNA. They're not taking anybody with them. Not at all. I've conversed with them on board, you know? Get on board. Are you on board?

  Ricky didn't answer. The man went on mumbling something about the rising oceans and the melting ice and the seventh seal. Some of his lunacy seemed to be channeling some truth as if he were drifting in and out of touch with a line of reasoning that had once provided him with some insight, but for Ricky it was like static, just noise. Eventually he had completely lost touch with the world that Ricky inhabited. Ricky’s mind wandered.

  What if Tony was right and he could influence his reality just by the force of desire? Could it be possible to just will the barred door open and to walk out? To see his father standing on the street with open arms? To live a life that would make him proud? If it were possible he would wish it to be so, but he didn't think that would be enough. He was sorry, but he couldn't take that final leap and maybe end up on the far side like the old guy shaking like a leaf under the influence of some bizarre internal tremor of prayer. The drunk sleeping the night off seemed a preferable pose since he was apparently in a calmer place and his choice seemed like just a variation on what ordinary people did with their ordinary lives, wish it away in a state of slumber. He would never want to do that, but of course everyone always promised themselves that one. To be different, to escape the prison of adulthood and responsibility. There was no escape; everyone was a slave. You just had to choose your master, God or Mammon. That's what his dad said, and his mom would always rebut him with Jesus's words about rendering unto Caesar what was his anyway. So Ricky for the longest time had believed that all their talk about growing up was a ruse designed to bogart him into a manageable form of adolescent behavior, but now he saw that they were right. There were masters that needed to be served, and he would gladly choose one now if He would promise to liberate him from having to spend another minute in the same room with a drunk and an old lunatic.

  The cell door opened and Tony walked in. The officer behind him held the door open.

  Come on. We're going back, Ricky, said Tony.

  Ricky looked up slowly, unbelieving at first, still half lost in his own thoughts. But eventually he stood and then walked briskly to the door. The lunatic growled something, and the drunk formed his first words at the same time. Ricky stopped and turned around to see what the cell looked like now that he was free. It looked different from this new angle, not as threatening and stark. The two men inside had shrunk into themselves as if the pattern of their demise were unfolding in quick order.

  Where are we going? he asked Tony at the door to the station.

  Let's just walk for a couple minutes.

  It was dawn. It was very cold. The sun was just rising in a dark orange ball at the horizon. There were taxis running in the street and they got one to stop on the corner of Confederation Way and jumped in quickly. There were ads on the door for Janvier Youth Development Corp and General Delivery Services, Conklin. The driver was a woman with scraggly red hair and a trench coat over the turquoise blue, woolen turtleneck that covered the folds of her neck.

  What did they want? How come they're letting us go?

  Clueless. They didn't really know why they had us here. I suspect that Harken told them I had been in and seemed suspicious but didn’t want to tell the authorities too much, and it wasn’t enough to get the police really interested in the hacking or me.

  Did you tell them anything?

  About Harken or why we're here?

  Yeah.

  There was no need. They were fishing for something from me, but I didn't let on. Very ignorant. They wanted to know where I'd been in the previous day, something about a break-in at the company. I mean, why didn't they just confiscate the laptop?

  I don't know.

  I don't think there's anything to worry about, Ricky. W
e'll go back and have a shower to wash off the jail cell and think about our next move. We'll just assume they have us under surveillance.

  Okay, Ricky agreed, but he was not so sure. Something was warning him. Despite the apparent calm of the early morning, under the surface there lurked a camouflaged beast waiting to cut against the grain and impose its will on them. He felt it as a pressure in his head, almost a ringing in his ears. He heard the squawk of the taxi dispatch, and understood it as a signal that there was danger ahead.

  I think maybe, Uncle Tony. . .

  What?

  Do you think we should get out at the parking lot and walk to the car first?

  Why?

  I don't know.

  Okay. I'll go with your instincts. You've tied in to events before.

  The wind picked up in gusts that caused Tony to double over as they walked down the line of cars in the parking lot. They looked over towards the hotel across the street at the same time as the car pulled up beside them, tires screeching. Ricky turned, saw the doors open and two men pop out from the back with shotguns held down low against their bellies, while the car sped forward. Tony pulled a non-existent coat tighter. Ricky jumped behind the car nearest to him. The men opened fire. Tony went down, and Ricky bolted, keeping his head low. He dodged the cars and looked up for daylight, running up the rows as far as he dared before cutting behind the next row. There were intermittent shotgun blasts, but they didn't seem to be gaining on him. The screech of tires told him they were back in the car and hunting him. He knelt beside a quartz-colored Audi. He thought hard, praying that he could get across the avenue. He counted to twenty. Then he bolted, sprinting between the lines of traffic. Horns blared. A car reversed direction, doing a U-turn. Ricky scrambled in the door of the hotel and ran down the hall. There was someone else at the front desk. It wasn't Briscoe. He turned and darted into the bar, where no one appeared to be working. He jumped behind the bar and went out the back door and down another hall and past the glass door of the fitness center. There was Briscoe having a conversation with a guy in a uniform, who was cleaning the swimming pool. Ricky pushed the door open and tried to collect himself.

  Hey there, kid. Find a job yet?

  They're after me. Hide me.

  Are ya in trouble?

  Big-ass. Hide me.

  Come this way.

  Briscoe led him into a utility closet full of coils of articulated plastic hosepipe, big bags of chlorine and other chemicals, and a pump.

  Here. You just hold in here while I get this wrapped.

  Briscoe surrounded him in the coils of pipe and shut off the light and closed the door. There was just the humming of the pump for the pool and darkness. It was hot in the closet and Ricky began to sweat, but he didn't dare move. Hours went by, and he slumped to the ground trying to keep himself covered with the slithering yellow pipes. He heard nothing. The pump went off and the heat dissipated. He dozed. He thought of Tony, his mother and father, Lianne and Gabe and Aunt Ginny and of all the places he could be. He couldn't think of any that made him feel any better.

  Some time later, the door opened. The light went on. Ricky tensed, expecting gunfire and the explosion of bullets inside him with the flowering of pain and death they would bring. But it was Briscoe and his buddy the bartender outside the door smoking a cigarette. The pool had a view of the parking lot, where it was night once more. The lights of the parking lot had iridescent rings of condensation around them that created a poignant atmosphere.

  You probably need a drink.

  I. . .is he dead?

  Yes. I'm sorry. Was that your uncle?

  Yeah.

  That's hard. They are sick bastards. That's for sure.

  Ricky felt a quick surge of tears in his eyes, sadness overcoming him. But then he was over it. He wiped his eyes and nose. Briscoe walked with him around the pool. The bartender left and came back with some beers. They sat on the lounge chairs and drank.

  You can't go to the Mounties. You won't last a second. You can't even go up to your room.

  They've got the tablet.

  What tablet?

  The Chocomal. The Santos have it. That's what they wanted. All the rest has been a distraction. I know they have it. I can hear her voice.

  Who's voice is this?

  My mom's voice. What am I going to tell my mom? How am I going to get my dad?

  What's this? Your mom and dad? Where are they?

  Look, you said you knew a way into the cave below the Harken oil sands facility.

  No, that's Jacob's uncle.

  My uncle, Muscowequan. Yeah. He can get you in all right, said the bartender.

  I want to meet him.

  We'll take you tonight.

  Later, Jacob and Briscoe sneaked him into Briscoe's minivan, and they drove out to the Gregoire Lake Indian Band along the river, where Briscoe lived in a house with his parents and three sisters. They parked across the street next to a meat shop. Once across the street, they walked behind the house into the alley to access the back door. Jacob’s oldest sister let them in. They stopped and stood in the doorway of the living room, where his other two sisters sat on the sofa under a blanket, watching the news. It was about the shooting outside the Best Western on Confederation Way and the dead American with suspicious terrorist links and one outstanding member of the party who'd escaped and was being sought by the RCMP for questioning in the affair.

  Briscoe found Ricky an extra camouflage winter coat with a hood and felt lining that he'd worn in high school and an extra pair of waterproof boots that his dad had last used on an elk hunt up in the Peace River region. His dad had hurt his back, couldn’t hunt any more, and now worked at the Wal-Mart in the furniture department. That's where he was, at work. After dressing Ricky in the camouflage coat and hunting boots, the three of them, Jacob, Briscoe, and Ricky, set out to look for Jacob's uncle, the old chief named Muscowequan, who was actually 43 years old and who had spent time in jail for contrabanding cigarettes across to Great Falls, Montana back in the eighties, driving an eighteen-wheeler he'd borrowed from the Japanese pulp mill in Hinton, Briscoe said.

  Muscowequan also answered to Jimmy. Jimmy was watching America's Got Talent and drinking Wild Turkey 101, when his wife answered the door and informed them of such.

  Jimmy's got to rest. He’s got a party coming up in the next week. He's working on the snowmobiles.

  This is special, Aunt Willy. This is important. Let us talk to him, said Jacob.

  She let them in the door and they introduced Ricky to her, and Aunt Willy let them in, past some kind of plastic curtain that served as a partition hung from the ceiling.

  Uncle Muscowequan, we have a friend who needs your help.

  What is it that's so special?

  His father is in that place underground.

  Ah, I've been waiting for him. What's this friend’s name?

  Ricky Lyons, said Ricky stepping forward.

  Muscowequan took the remote and pointed it at the television, changing it to a movie. Then he slowly stood. He was a little shorter than Ricky, but stretched to his full height and standing on his toes, with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he looked massive, like a bear. His face had none of the craggy Western look, not at all windswept. Instead he looked a little like Jimmy Kimmel, only hungrier.

  Ricky. It's about time. This is a great pleasure. Do you like Michael Douglas? I think this is The Streets of San Francisco with Douglas and Karl Malden. You ever see that? You guys want to sit and watch? You're welcome.

  They all looked at Ricky to see how he would react. Ricky didn't know what to say. He was genuinely tongue-tied. If he sat and watched the movie, it might make a difference somehow, but he didn't know in what way. The idea of sitting down on the sofa in the dark with some whiskey seemed foreign, but good.

  Uncle, Ricky's in a bad place. He needs to go now, said Jacob, almost in a whisper.

  Muscowequan took a long slug from his glass and rattled the ice cubes around a
t the bottom.

  Now is relative, youngster. I was really enjoying this, right? But let me see what we can do. We’re going to need gas.

  I've got some gas, said Briscoe.

  Is it fresh?

  Yeah, it's fresh. Two days. I filled up the containers with Citgo Supreme.

  Oh, that's good stuff. That's good. Sometimes I wish we still had the dogs, but Citgo Supreme's not bad. Doesn't have much ethanol. That stuff is shit.

  So much shit nowadays, Uncle.

  Yeah, yeah. I'll ask Willy to get out some of the jerky we made from the elk last fall.

  That was good, said Briscoe.

  Did you get some of that?

  Yes, I did. Excellent stuff.

  Okay. Let's get to work, said Muscowequan.

  The Pocket Rocket was a mini cooking stove. Muscowequan said he'd bought it at Wal-Mart.

  It's cheap, and it can get you out of a pinch fast.

  They each got a plastic insulated cup. Willy had a whole shelf of them that they picked up at the Wood Buffalo recycling centre.

  Jimmy likes to keep track of the recycling stats year to year, said Willy, watching and making conversation with them. Inside the insulated cups they packed plastic spoons, plastic forks, long candles, tampons, and a roll of aluminum foil each.

  In the cold you stay away from metal cutlery, said Muscowequan. You can freeze a lip to it.

  What are the tampons for, Muscowequan? asked Briscoe. He thought it was funny.

  Packing a wound. Also, you can start a fire easy with them, youngster.

  Then Muscowequan got down some sleeping bags good for up to minus forty degrees, it said on the tags, some extra pairs of wool socks, a thermal blanket, polar-weight long johns, extra woolen mittens, and a couple of small tarps. They unzipped the sleeping bags, split everything up between the four of them, laid everything they weren't going to wear flat on the floor of the room, and rolled the bags back up with the stuff inside. Then they rolled the two tarps around a couple of the bags and put all four bags inside four Hefty garbage bags.

  Briscoe had a pair of rain pants that fit Ricky. He ran back and got them and some beers. They watched the end of the movie, and Willy laughed at something Karl Malden said to Michael Douglas.