by Garry Ryan
The heads inside the truck turned to look past him.
The farting rumble of an exhaust spoiled the quiet. Lane looked left. A low-slung vehicle hid behind its headlights and eased over a speed bump.
The engine revved. The body scraped over the bump. The car moved closer.
Lane saw the windows on the passenger side open up. A barrel stuck out the front window. Another poked out of the window behind. Lane looked for cover and saw there was none. He leaned forward onto his feet, crouched, and heard his knees pop.
Lane heard the whine of an engine’s starter.
The low-slung car pulled in front of the Islamic Centre and the barrels of the guns began to spit. Paintballs slapped against the glass of the Islamic Center.
The car’s engine screamed and so did its tires.
The truck to Lane’s right pulled ahead to block the exit.
The car squealed to a stop. Its horn blared.
The SUV pulled up behind the car, filled its cabin with light, and tapped its rear bumper. Then the parking lot and shop glass flashed with reflected rotating white, red, and blue light.
Lane heard doors opening.
“On the ground!” The order came from behind the wall of lights from the SUV.
The passenger door of the car flew open. The face of a sixteen-year-old boy was illuminated, his eyes wide and white. He ran to the sidewalk and sprinted toward Lane. Lane stood up, leaned left, stuck out an elbow, and the boy careened into the glass of the International Kickboxing School. He skidded face first onto the sidewalk. Lane sat on his back.
“Asshole!” the boy said.
Roz barked and growled. Lane held her by the collar.
“Fucking asshole!” the boy shouted.
Lane watched as the driver and the other passenger of the car got out to lay face down on the pavement in the glare of their headlights.
“Get the fuck off me!” the boy screamed.
A voice from behind the headlights of the pickup said, “You!”
Lane blinked at the glare and pointed at his chest. “Me?”
“Yes, you!” the officer said.
“Get him the fuck off of me!” the boy whined.
“What?” Lane put his hands in the air. I’m trying to help you out here. Now I understand why Nigel enjoys being such a pain.
“Who the hell are you?” the officer asked.
“Who the hell are you?” Lane asked.
“My mom’s a fuckin’ MLA. She’s Laura Poulin! So you’d better get off of me!” the boy said.
Lane laughed. “Of course she is.”
The officer said, “I’m Corporal Lesley.”
Lane heard the arrogance behind the voice. “I’m Detective Lane.”
There was quiet for a moment. Then the officers moved out from behind the headlights.
Lane looked to his left and saw the officers placing handcuffs on the wrists of the boys, who lay on their bellies in front of their car.
Unnecessarily, Lesley shone a flashlight in Lane’s eyes, then in Mr. Poulin’s face.
Lesley looked over his shoulder at the officers cuffing the other two suspects. “It is Lane.” He tapped Lane on the shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ve got this son of an MLA.”
Lesley’s voice has lost its edge.
Lesley said, “Thanks for the help, Lane.”
Lane heard his name used in a different tone now, a respectful tone. It happened more often since Chief Smoke resigned. Lane had even heard the words smoke and joke in the same sentence. “It might be best to have this scene taped off and ask forensics to gather evidence.”
Lesley lifted Poulin to his feet, nodded at Lane, and turned to the other officers. “Tape it off!”
SUNDAY, JULY 11
chapter 5
Record Crowds
Attend Stampede
If you think it’s crowded at the fairground this weekend, you’re right, and Tourism Calgary is smiling.
Rene Amour, spokesperson for Tourism Calgary, says, “Hotels and motels are filled to capacity. Restaurants and bars are experiencing lineups.”
Record numbers of visitors have been arriving at the gates of the Stampede Grounds in the early days of this year’s crowd-pleasing events.
Rob Spence, a member of the Stampede board, smiles from under his black Stetson. “If the weather holds, we’re hoping to break a few attendance records this year.”
×
“Do you do shit like this just to aggravate me?” Harper asked.
“Like what?” Lane sat in a chair on his deck with an empty cup of coffee, the Sunday paper, and his cell phone. Roz was next to him, her chin resting on her paws.
“Like arresting MLA Laura Poulin’s son. The same Laura Poulin who’s always so happy to tell us she’s a third-generation Albertan who stands up for the values that make this province prosperous. The same Laura Poulin who says she’s proud to back the blue,” Harper said.
“Oh, baaaby, I’m prairie doggin’ it for you!”
“What the hell is that?” Harper asked.
“There’s a Stampede breakfast down at the community centre. A country and western band is playing —” Lane glanced at a newspaper headline predicting record crowds at the grandstand “— badly. They’ve got speakers pounding out this stuff.”
“Baaaby, I’m turtle headin’ it for you!”
“My gawd that’s awful,” Harper said.
“Tell me about it. Reminds me of Ms. Poulin: no tact, no rhythm, no brain, and lots of noise.” Lane plugged his left ear with his index finger, muffling the words to the music.
“I phoned to thank you for suggesting that Officer Lesley request forensics at the scene. Young Poulin’s prints were all over one of the paintball guns. He tried to deny that he was in the car. Then he blamed the two other boys. Now we have three sets of parents all blaming one another and, you understand, no direct calls from Ms. Poulin’s office but quite a few calls from concerned citizens voicing their displeasure with the police service. And they are all very aware of even the most inconsequential details of the arrest. Then there are those who support what the boys did. One caller said, ‘The boys were just acting on what everyone is saying about those people and their religion anyway.’ I’m hoping this mess will all die down soon.”
“Last night, the officers were waiting to block off both exits. How did you know the drive-by was going to happen?” Lane asked.
“Keely,” Harper said.
“How?”
“Communications.”
Lane waited.
“That’s all she would say when I asked. Now you know as much as I do,” Harper said.
“You mean it’s all very hush-hush RCMP Official Secrets Act?”
“Very. Any more progress with Jones?” Harper asked.
“Nigel identified Chris Jones as one of the Foothills employees who worked Thursday night. Indications are that it was John A. Jones’s son who took the nitric acid.”
“Shit. That’s all we need with everything else that’s going on, a religious zealot with a bomb.”
Lane waited.
“I’ll pass it on to Keely. You keep at it.”
Lane took his phone away from one ear and his finger from the other.
“Baby, I’m overloaded with love for you!” The rest of the song was cut mercifully short when Lane followed Roz inside and shut the door behind them.
×
Chris Jones wore desert camouflage pants and a long-sleeved khaki shirt. He stepped into the garage where his nose caught a hint of the chemicals he’d mixed the day before.
He opened his laptop and tapped the EXTRACTION PLANT file. He looked at his watch and entered the time.
Then he moved to the first fridge and used his left hand to steady it while he eased the door open with his right. The light inside blinked on.
The thermometer set on the shelf inside the door read eight degrees Celsius. Chris eased the door closed until he could feel the magnetic seal engage across the tips of his f
ingers. He moved to the next fridge and repeated the process.
Then he went to the laptop and entered the temperatures.
×
Arthur and Matt stared blankly at the TV mounted on the wall of the downstairs family room. Light shone in through the south-facing doors. The shadow of the neighbours’ evergreen was creeping in from the right side of the glass. The rerun reality show pitted a group of young men and women against one another on a set that reminded Lane of a prison, because the people couldn’t leave until someone else told them to. He looked at Matt, whose eyes were half closed as he reclined in the armchair. Across from him, Arthur lay on the couch with his head propped up by an oversized pillow. The two of you are beginning to look and act like zombies. Lane got up and went upstairs, filled the kettle, turned it on, and ground up some coffee beans.
The phone rang. He reached for it and recognized the number. “Good morning, Keely.”
“Have you had your coffee yet?”
“Just in the process of making a second cup.”
“I’ve got some news on Jones.”
“Which one?” He tapped the ground beans into the Bodum.
“The older one has been visiting cash machines in Fort McMurray and Edmonton. By the latest tally he has twenty-five hundred cash in his pocket. It’s a smart move, I think. He’s getting ready to hit the road and doesn’t want us tracking him with his plastic.”
Another indication he may be heading our way. “When did he make his last withdrawal?” He poured boiling water into the Bodum.
“About nine o’clock last night in Edmonton.” Keely took a breath, then asked, “Any luck tracking down the son?”
“Not yet. Fake address, phone not in service. We have to assume he’s somewhere in the northwest because of the glycerine purchases, but that’s all we’ve got besides the picture.” Lane set the timer on the microwave for four minutes.
“It’s Sunday.”
“What? Oh, he might go to church, but which one?”
“Can’t help you there. Keep in touch. Say hello to Arthur and the kids.” Keely hung up.
Lane watched the timer, then turned to pour milk into his coffee cup. I wonder what it will take to get Arthur and Matt back to some kind of normal.
×
Chris’s character fired from the hip. There was a satisfying spray of blood as the target screamed and fell behind a hump of rubble.
There was fire from his right. His character grunted when he took a hit in his Kevlar vest.
The pounding on the back door sounded familiar.
Chris’s character was hit again. A veil of blood covered the soldier’s goggles. “Shit!” Chris blinked, pressed the pause button on the remote, and left his perch on the footstool.
As he walked into the kitchen, his feet skidded on the lime-green linoleum. He stepped down onto the landing and opened the door. A man stood on the other side of the screen door. He was at least six foot four, weighed more than two hundred pounds, and gave the impression of someone who worked outside with his hands. Chris studied the tanned face and the white scalp of a recently shaved head. “Yes?”
“Good to see you, son. Open the door.”
Chris recognized the voice, locked onto the blue eyes, and reached for the catch on the screen door. “Dad?”
John A. Jones opened the screen door and pointed at Chris’s ear. “What’s that?”
Chris reached for his right ear and felt the stud on his right earlobe. “I . . .”
“Take it out and grab a tea towel!” John A. pushed his way inside, forced Chris to back up the stairs, and clomped into the kitchen without removing his cowboy boots.
Chris pulled out a kitchen chair and sat.
John A. asked, “Where do you keep the clippers?”
Chris kept his voice intentionally toneless. “Under the sink.”
John A. moved to the sink, opened the door, and pulled out the black plastic case holding the hair clippers. He opened the box on the solid pine kitchen table Chris had bought at a garage sale.
“There are one hundred and fifty litres of nitro,” Chris said.
“Where is it?” John A. plugged the clippers in.
“In fridges in the garage.” Chris had a flashback. He was four years old with a red-and-white–checked tea towel around his neck. He sat in a kitchen chair as his father put one hand on the top of Chris’s head and flicked on the hair clippers.
“Why fridges?” John A. flicked a switch and the clippers hummed.
“Nitro is more stable at eight degrees Celsius.” Chris blinked back tears.
“Take the earring out.”
Chris thought, You take it out. Then he reached up and pulled the earring out. He set it on the table.
“I cut my hair off as an act of humility. Losing my hair liberated me from my old life. Now I can be closer to God and further from the vanity of men. You need to lose your hair too. Then you will understand what I’m saying to you.” John A. began at the top of his son’s head.
Chris saw a clump of hair fall to the floor and felt the tears running down his cheeks.
“I listened to talk radio on the drive down to Calgary. Apparently a Muslim father killed his sixteen-year-old daughter not very far from here. It was a so-called honour killing,” John A. said.
“Yes.” She was almost the same age as the girl you killed in our yard.
“Then after the haircut you must take me to a paint store. A message will have to be sent that honour killings will not be tolerated by good Christians.” John A. put the palm of his left hand on a patch of scalp he’d just trimmed.
Chris knew better than to ask why. “What colour?”
“Red. The colour of blood. Where do they pray? We will pay them a nocturnal visit.” John A. sniffed. “After this you will take a bath. You need to get back to having a bath every day.”
×
Donna rolled out from under the van, sat up, and looked at the cases of glycerine stacked against the wall. She reached for a roll of paper towels and wiped the oil from her hands. As she stood up, she heard the sound of a car door slamming. Shit, Donna thought.
“Donna? Where are you?”
“In here, Mom,” Donna said.
A pair of purple shoes appeared at the open door of the garage. The shoes were set off by a pair of red gaucho pants and a green-and-white horizontally striped top to accessorize Stacie’s five-foot-four-inch, two-hundred-pound frame. “Why are you working on that van? I thought you were a carpenter?” Stacie pushed back a wayward strand of platinum blonde hair.
Donna took a deep breath.
“How do you like my new shoes?” Stacie turned around and kicked up her right heel to reveal a white musical note inlaid in the black sole of her shoe.
Donna leaned back and put her fists against the small of her spine. “Nice, Mom, real nice.”
Stacie stomped her foot on the concrete. “You could use a new pair of shoes.”
“I hate shopping. You know that.” Then Donna thought, Mom, you must be the most fucking annoying person on the planet.
Stacie sniffed. “I’ve called you every day this week, and you never returned my calls.”
Donna felt the required guilt and realized what her mother was doing. “Stop with the guilt trip, Mom.”
“What do you mean?” Stacie reached for a tissue tucked in the pocket of her gauchos.
“You know exactly what I mean.” Donna leaned against the van.
“Why did you paint that?” Stacie pointed at the slogan written in reds, blues, and oranges on the side of the van.
“It’s a quote.” Donna walked along the side of the van and stood next to her mother on the driveway. The shade drew a sharp line across the concrete.
“Beauty could use a little help to save the world?” Stacie asked.
“It’s originally from Dostoyevsky, then Solzhenitsyn wrote about it. I added my own touch.”
“Who?” Stacie asked in her little-girl voice.
“A coup
le of Russians.”
“What’s it mean?” Stacie asked.
Donna shook her head. “It’s about the way you feel when you buy new shoes.”
“You want to go shopping, then?” Stacie asked.
“No, Mom.”
“Can I take you for lunch?” Stacie asked.
Donna looked at the van. I’ve got a shitload of work to do before this is ready, and Friday is almost here. Just don’t let her inside. If she sees those pamphlets on the kitchen table, I’ll never hear the end of it. Donna reached for the zipper on her coveralls. “Actually, I could use a cup of coffee and one of those sandwiches from this new place in Cochrane.”
“I’ll drive,” Stacie said.
This was a big mistake, Donna thought fifteen minutes later as they approached Cochrane from the east along the four-lane section of the highway. She looked over her shoulder at the front bumper of the red pickup trailing them. Donna could see the truck’s chrome grille, its bush guard, the winch, and the front plate that said MOVE OVER. Stacie was driving in the left lane alongside a minivan doing the speed limit.
“I don’t know why he’s following so close.” Stacie looked at her speedometer. “I’m doing the speed limit.”
Donna leaned forward to look in the side mirror. The truck was so close that she couldn’t see the line of Sunday drivers following her mother’s car, but Donna knew they were there.
“Motherfucker!” Stacie lifted her left hand out the window and gave the trucker a one-finger salute as he passed on the left-hand shoulder. His far wheels kicked up a cloud of pea-sized gravel and dirt that spattered Stacie’s vehicle.
“No one would believe you teach kindergarten. Besides, the driver can’t see you. His truck is too tall.”
The truck cut in front of them and farted a black cloud of diesel smoke.
“I don’t like that over there.” Stacie pointed at the extraction plant with its smoke stacks and flashing lights. “It’s too close to the city.”
Twenty minutes later they sat at a table near the window at Guy’s in Cochrane. The inside was a colour somewhere between yellow and orange — fall’s deepest shade. The ceiling was curved around the counter and over the glass display where desserts and bread were lit up like precious metals in a jewellery store.