“Twenty-five years is a long time to hold a grudge, Brian.”
“Explicable, however, if it’s become an obsession, nursed over the last quarter century into a classifiable disorder. A psychopathic obsessive-compulsive may soon be stalking Garibaldi Island while the object of his obsession relaxes by his cozy fire reading about the glory days of Rome.”
“What exactly did Skyler say to you after his sentencing?”
“While you were being hustled by Mandy Pearl in Chez Forget — don’t deny it, there were witnesses — randy Randy was ranting over how that pompous prick of a prosecutor had set a trap for him, had conned the jury, and if he ever got out you were going to buy it in a very messy way. As I say, your gizzard was mentioned.”
Coincidentally, as Arthur leafs through the biography, he finds that avian organ mentioned in a quote from For the Fun of It. “I’ll get you one day, Grodgins!” Lord Scarfe-Robbins cries. “I’ll cut out your gizzard!” Add plagiarism to Skyler’s sins. Again, Arthur wonders just how seriously he should take this. Here was a man reeling from a devastating verdict and indulging in a juvenile tantrum. In searching for someone to blame he quickly settled on the prosecutor. It was almost to be expected. But still calling for blood after twenty years? A little unusual.
“You may want to move to safer digs until things shake out. Ottawa is lovely in the fall.”
“I shall not be going to Ottawa or anywhere. I’ll not be frightened out of my home by some hobgoblin invented by an over-imaginative lawyer who trades his services for psilocybin mushrooms.”
“You ever tried them?”
“Never have, nor will.”
“Well, there’s a bag of them in your freezer.”
“I would rather not know that.”
“A friend’s coming over from Vancouver to pick them up.”
How far this once fine lawyer has fallen. Dealing magic mushrooms. Yet he seems buoyant, full of energy and humour. An exotic Haida artist awaits his return. He’s having fun writing some kind of screenplay. He is poor, but out of the rat race. Arthur is also out of the rat race but with substantial means. Why shouldn’t he be even more at peace than Brian?
“If you’re into mystic experiences, add some fungi to your tea. I might take a sample to the dance. By the way, Arthur, did you ever complete the transaction with Mandy?”
“What transaction?” He tries on an expression of bewilderment.
“Getting laid. She was going through men like a tractor mower after her divorce. A.R. Beauchamp was a real catch for her trophy case. Top shelf. Maybe you heard — she’s going to the BC Supreme Court.”
“She’ll be a fine jurist.”
“Here’s your choice, Arthur, you can come with me to the dance and perform your role as respected island elder, or I’ll take the Caddie and you can sit around with your Woofers and roast your weenies. We can get back to all the Skyler shit tomorrow. Maybe I’ll invite Tildy over. We can make some plans to keep you alive.”
“The keys are in the car.”
“Meantime, to the shower, ho!” Brian strikes a mannered, hammy pose. “And thence to arm myself with a manly scent that hopefully will twitch the nostrils of the strikeout queen.”
§
Arthur spends an hour in his club chair, reading and rereading the chapter called “Death of a Stranger.” He is distracted occasionally by a rustle outside, or a snap of twig, but sees nothing from his window except leaves stirring in the breeze. His yard lights are on, and he wonders if that is wise. Maybe he should shut off all lights — why illuminate an intruder’s way?
He has always taken pride in not locking his doors on carefree, innocent Garibaldi, and he’ll be damned if he’ll do it tonight — he’s not going to surrender to his inner worrywart, to give in to irrational fear. Besides, he has his own alarm system: Homer, his border collie, who sleeps light and awakes alert, and two tough, noisy geese, which patrol the farmyard.
But he doesn’t have the Woofers. Brian stopped at their bonfire and offered to run them up to the dance. Niko and Yoki hesitated, giggled, succumbed.
The dance will also miss another of the island’s iconic figures: Dog, who is in the Saltspring hoosegow. The little midget up against the hulking monsters of the state. Arthur refuses to entertain regrets over having rebuffed Stoney’s plea.
Maybe he ought to have gone to the dance. Surrounded himself with friends, protectors …
As he makes his evening cup of tea, he laughs at himself for being silly. Skyler was released less than a week ago, and from a prison in faraway Ontario. He will not appear on Garibaldi Island out of the blue.
Arthur still can’t accept that Skyler’s hunger for revenge has not abated. Or that he would take any risks. Skyler might be psychopathic, but he’s not stupid.
On the other hand, he might have read Thirst for Justice and remembered why he hated Arthur: for exposing the charade of the masculine heartthrob. “You are frigid!” “You sought sexual fulfilment in grisly murder!” Yes, that might have rekindled his enmity.
He decides that the negligible chance of confronting Randy Skyler tonight is taking up too much of his worry quota. He will tuck that one away until he faces present danger — for instance, if Skyler doesn’t show up for his park job. A more legitimate source of immediate concern is the presence of psilocybes in his fridge. Brian could drop a loose word at the dance, and some stoner might slip in and nick them. Yes, it is probably wise to lock the house. Just tonight.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
Arthur wakes up in a sweat to the smells of coffee and frying bacon. Nine-thirty. The nightmare that is slipping away featured him in clown gear, a bright red nose and long, floppy shoes as he was being pursued by a knife-wielding ogre. As Arthur desperately flapped his way to the Fargo, the truck kept receding into the distance …
The dream was the feature event of a fitful night, its deep silence punctuated by the wild whoops of a barred owl, driving him awake at midnight to listen a long while to the creaks and groans of this old house, trying to distinguish the sound of footfalls on the stairs.
He creaks and groans himself as he rises from his bed to look out his dormer window. The courtesy Cadillac is below, in the driveway, but he didn’t hear Brian and the girls return from the dance.
He pulls on a robe and goes downstairs to find Brian flipping pancakes. Tousled, still in yesterday’s clothes, but looking merry. “Smart move, Arturo, locking the doors, except you left a side window open. He’d have found his way in easily. Then you’re trapped upstairs, and you’d have to jump out the window and end up crashing through the veranda roof, injured and helpless as he raises the knife for the final thrust.”
Grinning. Why does he take such delight in causing Arthur the creeps? “Have you slept at all, Brian?”
“The Avenger never sleeps.” He pours Arthur a coffee. “Hell of a party. Things got kind of psychedelic.”
“I’d like you to get rid of those mushrooms in the fridge.” He is both repelled by and drawn to them. What magical, mystical experiences do they offer, how safe are they, does one throw up … ?
“Soon. Unless my guy doesn’t show. If he doesn’t, I may ask you — don’t be afraid to say no — to front me a few bills for a flight home day after tomorrow. I’ve got a brainsucker next week: aboriginal issue, fishing rights.”
“Happy to pay for your ticket.”
“Maybe you should come up there too. Hide out on Haida Gwaii. You sure you want to stick around this lonely outpost?”
Arthur picked up his tabby, who was purring at his legs. “This is our home, isn’t it, Underfoot? Our castle. We will defend it against Mr. Pomeroy’s phantasmagorical visitants.”
“Okay, it’s on to Plan B. How competent are the local police?”
“Not very.”
“Don’t suppose you have a gun.”
“Shot
gun in the basement.”
“Ever use it?”
“No.”
“Take a plate, grab some flaps. Hey, don’t you look gorgeous in the morning? Six foot two, eyes of blue.”
Arthur pauses while filling his plate, and looks oddly at Brian, then turns to see Tildy Sears yawning her way from the back bedroom, in rumpled party clothes — Arthur has never seen her in a dress before. “Morning, Mr. Beauchamp.” She touches Brian’s handsome, haggard face, kisses him lightly. “Morning, you.”
Arthur sits at the kitchen table and eats, feeling as awkward as this unlikely pair seem at ease. He wonders if Brian is aware she has a boyfriend, known as Moose, a seaman far away on the cold North Pacific. But last night the town fathers gave her the keys to Garibaldi, and she must have assumed they came with the right to mate with whomever she wished on this special night. Apparently she couldn’t resist the glib dissolute with the psilocybes.
She and Brian appear to be coming down from a psychedelic high; they’re giggling hoarsely about the night’s comic interludes. Apparently Zoller was about to drive home when he noticed someone had spray-painted “free dog!” on the Hummer’s hood. Leaving the motor running, he charged into the hall, seeking paint-stained culprits, zoning in on Stoney, who welcomed him with a grin and clean hands. When Zoller returned outside, the Hummer was gone.
Tildy sits by Arthur, whispers, “Moose doesn’t have to know about this, eh?”
“No, he surely doesn’t.” Tildy has been known to play about when Moose is at sea. He, however, does not believe in open relationships. Noses have been broken, and eyes blackened, of those who have dared to sample her charms.
She nudges Arthur playfully, attacks her pancakes, talking between mouthfuls. “Brian told me all about it, Mr. Beauchamp. About the killer who’s coming to get you. Too weird. I mean, totally.”
“Yes, totally.” So much for the hallowed solicitor-client privilege.
“So the first thing we’re gonna do is rig up an alarm system, with, like, whatever — sensors, motion detectors, cameras, battery backup. I got just the setup, scored it from Mookie Schloss. Remember, her old man kept trying to sneak back into the house? Now that they’re reconciled, I got it cheap. It’s like beyond cool, the kind movie stars use for their mansions.”
“Good, we don’t want something hokey.” Brian has joined them. “I explained to Tildy you’re prepared to shell out for this job. We worked out a security plan with the Woofers. Niko will do the day shift, Yoki will do nights. One of them accompanies you wherever you go.”
Arthur stifles his complaints — Pomeroy is fixated on his dubious scenario, a drugaholic’s delusion. Installing alarms is overkill. Arthur is not going to be put in quarantine. He has a farm to run, a life to lead. But somehow he can’t bring himself to disappoint Tildy, whose typical work, checking absent owners’ houses, lacks the excitement offered by a lurking, cold-blooded murderer with revenge on his mind.
Breakfast over, Tildy and Brian do a reconnaissance of the house. Let them have their fun, no harm is being done. And given that the leader of a national party lives here (occasionally) it’s quite reasonable that they add some security. Ought to have done it long ago.
Margaret will be home for Thanksgiving. How will he explain having Blunder Bay wired up like the Royal Mint? She abhors the very notion of a security state. Under cross-examination, will he be cornered into telling her about Randy Skyler, about his long-ago threats? Massively exaggerated by Brian, he would say. No, he will not disturb her over something so fanciful. She has more important things to worry about. The future of the planet.
He phoned Margaret yesterday to regale her about the showdown at the old quarry, his abortive arrest as Mr. Big, his groin search by a judo adept — all of which she met not with laughter but anxiety, as if she suspected his mind was starting to falter. She would be convinced of that were he to confide that a convicted thrill killer proposes to carve out his gizzard.
Arthur will tread water until Skyler’s parole officer calls on Monday with the full report. Until then, he is not going to worry.
§
On his return from Sunday service, Arthur changes into rough wear to tackle a job over which he’s been procrastinating: the reconstruction of one of the split-cedar snake fences that flank his driveway. It has been in disarray since Dog backed into it, a miscalculated U-turn. Stoney had called out from the sidelines, “You got another few inches,” and the fence went down like dominoes.
Arthur never uses nails when he builds a snake fence. It’s a form of country art, laying those long, zigzagged cedar rails over uneven ground, using only God-given tools, his hands gloved against slivers. He surveys the task — a giant game of pick-up sticks. But it’s a pleasant day: a sky of scattered cloud, and the country air is sweet, and the barn swallows are on the wing, fattening themselves on flies for the winter, and the tree frogs are merrily croaking. He bends to his work, hefting a bottom rail onto a rock base.
Stoney and Dog’s failure to honour their pledge to repair the fence has not encouraged Arthur to aid in Dog’s defence. But he feels pressure from the community. There were rumblings after the service, on the lawns on St. Mary’s, about how poor Dog was being treated, how he wasn’t getting any help. He’d done free chores for a lot of those folks, especially the elderly. Stoney spoke the truth: Dog is loved by all.
Relax, Arthur had told the congregants. Our beloved Dog will get bail on Monday. Any half-competent counsel will get him acquitted, given Kurt Zoller’s clownish undercover skit as a Devil’s High-Rider.
The issue has been further complicated by the kidnapping of Zoller’s vehicle. It’s either a prank or a futile hostage-taking. “Nigh impossible to hide a Day-Glo orange Hummer on this wee island,” said Reverend Al.
For a while, Arthur becomes lost in the tasks of resurrecting his rustic fence, but he starts on hearing an engine coughing down Potters Road toward the driveway. A motorcycle appears. The spare, young driver pulls in by the house, removing his helmet, freeing a long ponytail. Brian comes out to greet him.
Arthur returns to his project, but sneaks looks, sees Brian go into the house and return with his bag of mushrooms. It is opened and inspected. Brian pulls out several, eats them, extends the bag to the buyer, who also samples a few. They sit on the steps for half an hour, and Brian extends his headphones. The buyer listens through them, smiling, a foot tapping to the beat as he scans the island-dotted sea. A few minutes later the ceremony is completed by the passing of a wad of bills.
After the stoned biker finally chugs back up the road, Brian strolls over, grinning. “I’m still in Zone One, seeking entry, knocking on the doors of perception. Meanwhile, if I can lend a hand …”
“It will be a particularly finicky task for one enduring mystic experiences.”
Brian produces a small Ziploc bag. “I kept just enough for us. Teonanacatl, the divine mushroom of the Aztecs, whose horny artisans sculpted shrooms rising like erect schlongs from gods’ heads. Our own Northwest golden top, Psilocybe cubensis, is also known to be holy, despite its excremental origins: the sacred mushroom of cow dung. Certifiably organic, by the way.”
Arthur ignores the offered bag and listens mutely to Brian’s chatter, his vaguely coherent assurances that Zone Two would bring novel perceptions of space, motion, time, colour, while Zone Three offers a “deep sense of oneness,” whatever that might mean. As Brian rhapsodizes, Arthur restores the fence to its former handsomeness, five split cedars tall; it needs only to be braced at a tricky corner over a rainy-season rivulet.
Brian continues to ramble on, in his bemushroomed state, between draws from a cigarette: Arthur risks missing out on a chance to time-travel to the palaces and theatres of the Rome of Virgil and Cicero.
Finally, Brian wanders off to enjoy his deep sense of oneness on a bench overlooking the bay. He applauds as if at a performance as a pair of sandpip
ers whirrs by and violet-green swallows chitter and dive and soar. The blue sea, the forested islands, the distant, vast Olympic Range: how could perception of such beauty possibly be enhanced by a fungus that sprouts from cow dung? Or, for that matter, bull shit.
Arthur has to use a posthole digger for his brace pole, and works up a sweat excavating the baked soil of early autumn until Brian returns. Arthur assumes he has graduated to Zone Two or Three by now, but he looks bothered and glum.
“You went too far, old buddy, and you know it.”
That seemed bitter, not to mention incomprehensible. “Too far?”
“Firing that shot at Skyler in your jury speech.”
No one’s buying it, Skyler. Arthur remembers saying something like that.
“You took your job too personally, bub. You violated the prosecutorial code of honour. You were wetting your pants to nail my guy, setting traps, hiding evidence, hiding your Michigan law student. Wyacki. I kept the transcripts. Read through them a few days ago and had a revelation. The bulls did an illegal sweep of Skyler’s flat, didn’t they? The late, great Honcho Harrison, who broke more laws than he ever enforced.”
Arthur recalls the guilt he’d felt just knowing about it. An illegal trespass that, if disclosed, could have caused a mistrial. The shrooms may have altered Brian’s mind in some way, but they hadn’t dulled it. The jig was up.
“The only useful thing Honcho saw was a book about acting. I didn’t use it. And a computer. He didn’t even know how to turn it on.”
“But you didn’t disclose! You withheld material information! I’d have got the case thrown out!” He is shouting, but now he slumps, and his eyes dampen. “Sorry, Arthur, this trial’s been with me for the last twenty-five years, I obsess over things like how you used a fucking English parlour mystery — a piece of fiction! — against him.” Shouting again, mimicking Arthur: “‘You were impotent!’ It was all smoke and bluster, an accusation made of cotton candy, and the jury devoured it.”
“The jury quickly and unanimously agreed Skyler was a liar. There is nothing you could have done about that.”
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