“You are attractive.”
He ran a hand over Dan’s chest. “Then touch me.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty. Just touch me.”
Half my age, Dan thought. He tried to recall the distinction between pedophiles and pederasts. Pedophiles had unsolicited sex with minors, while pederasts shared the bodies of willing, or in this case aggressive, younger men. As a teenager, he’d often been on the other end of the equation, but now he was the older one. A thousand thoughts went through his head: his discovery of sex with grown men, his fears at not being attractive enough, his worries at being discovered to be queer. Hell, most of his sex education had occurred beneath a train trestle in the clear light of afternoon once he realized the twelve-year-old girls who pursued him at school could do nothing to satisfy his sexual urges. It was their older brothers he’d wanted.
“Be a man. Touch me!” Ziggy commanded.
Dan sensed his own adolescent bewilderment and anger in Ziggy. Like this boy, he too had known what he wanted from men as far back as he could remember.
“Not while you’re stoned,” Dan told him. And not ever, he thought to himself.
Ziggy must have sensed his reasoning. “It’s because I’m too young. Don’t worry, I’ll say I was the aggressor. I went after you. I don’t know why people always think it’s the older person.”
“It’s just the way people think.”
“Why aren’t you married? Or are you? It’s okay, you can tell me.”
“I’m not married. I told you the truth. Did you tell the truth about your age?”
“No. I’m only nineteen. So what’s wrong with you then? Why aren’t you married?”
“I’m not the marrying kind.” Better to discourage any further hopes on Ziggy’s part, Dan thought. “Some days I’d rather have a good conversation than sex.”
Ziggy smiled. “What are you anyway? A psychologist?”
“No.”
“A cop?”
“I’m not a cop either, no.” He paused. “Have you had sex with cops?”
Ziggy nodded. “One.”
Dan decided against asking if it were Trposki. “I’m just trying to help out on the murder.”
“I thought you were a cop because you were reading my diary. I thought maybe you were looking for something to say I was a psycho and that I killed Yuri.”
“Did you?”
The face that stared at him was all seriousness. “Yuri was my friend.”
“Friends kill friends. It happens all the time. Sometimes it’s just an accident.”
“I didn’t kill Yuri.” Ziggy’s eyes narrowed. “I’d be more likely to kill myself. If I did, I’d just lock the doors and unplug myself. No one could get in until it was too late.”
Dan thought of the diary entry he’d read. “I hope you won’t. It’s seldom that easy. Besides, you know what they say: it gets better. I can vouch for that. I come from a shit background, too, but life turned around for me.”
“Yeah, whatever. You probably didn’t grow up in care. I grew up in care. It doesn’t get better for someone like me.”
He looked away, as though they’d touched on something too raw to discuss.
“I’m sorry for intruding on your private space.” Dan turned to leave. “If you ever just want to talk or anything …”
Ziggy’s eyes met his. “You want to get together again? Not as a date or anything. Maybe just to meet up for a coffee? Don’t worry, I won’t stalk you.”
Dan smiled. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”
He held out a business card. Ziggy turned it over and tapped it with his index finger. “Missing persons? I could design a nice little skull for you on the back, if you want.”
“Not exactly the sort of message I’d like to deliver to clients.”
Ziggy laughed. “Yeah, right.”
Dan pushed the door open and stood in the hallway. Ziggy watched him closely.
“Will I see you again?”
“You’ve got my number,” Dan said. “Contact me and I’ll get back to you.”
“You promise?”
“You have my word.”
Seventeen
Desecration
The house was dark again when he got home. Ked was out. Ralph came to greet him briefly then returned to his bed. Dan knew he’d better get used to it.
There were no messages on his answering machine. But what he found on his laptop turned out to be far more interesting. His e-mail in-box held a response from the Sûreté du Québec. He had an inkling even before he opened it. Inside lay the answer he’d been seeking. Or, rather, the answer he’d been hoping not to have to face. Nothing one-hundred-percent conclusive, but certainly leaning in that direction. He responded as quickly as his French would allow and sent it off. If the reply came soon, it meant putting off the search for Santiago Suárez a few days. It looked as if he’d be going to Quebec.
He slept uneasily, unsettled by dreams of young men with pale faces. A little before five he woke and couldn’t get back to sleep. He gave up trying and got out of bed, feeling disoriented. Middle age was turning out to be a bitch. He thought of the e-mail he’d received and went to his office, but there was no reply. The Quebec police had probably wisely stayed in bed.
Dan hadn’t seen Domingo since the previous week. She was due for another round of chemo that afternoon. There was no need to get her hopes up when he saw her, but he felt he should at least broach the subject of finding Lonnie and the probability that her son was no longer alive.
He arrived early at the hospital. The waiting room was crowded, as usual. He made off down the corridor to her room, but stopped when he heard voices coming from inside. Women’s voices. They weren’t raised, but he felt the tension. After a moment, footsteps approached and a woman emerged. She checked her watch, an unsettled look on her face, then headed to the elevator. Dan thought she looked familiar, though he couldn’t have said why. Then it clicked: she was an older, harried version of Domingo.
He heard Adele say, “Can you believe that? The fucking church! How dare she come in here and upset you on your chemo day?”
Domingo mumbled a reply Dan couldn’t make out.
“How dare they desecrate our relationship like that? A relationship of twenty-two years built on love and truth. That woman is immoral! If they want you to go to church, tell them you’ll go to the gay church, where you’re welcome. If she believes in God, then she’ll know that God doesn’t care what denomination you pray in.”
Again, Domingo spoke too softly for Dan to overhear.
“I’m sorry,” Adele said, her tone changing. “I’m sorry for getting angry.”
Dan heard the sound of a scraping chair. He stepped into a doorway, out of sight.
“I’ll be back to pick you up at four.”
He waited till Adele’s footsteps died out then went in. Domingo was sitting up in bed. She smiled wearily when she saw him.
“Hi there!” Dan tried to be as cheery and nonchalant as he could. “Are you ready for today’s adventure ride?”
She looked away.
“Everything okay?” Dan asked.
“Not really.”
“Test results not good?”
“Apparently I was fine yesterday. Blood was good. Sleep was good. Mood was great. Then this morning I got a visit from two of the Furies.”
“Oh-oh,” Dan said. “I thought I saw Adele leaving a minute ago.”
“She’s half the problem. The other half was my sister.”
Dan nodded sympathetically.
Domingo shrugged. “It’s the church. All that family and religion stuff. We West Indians are full of it. They want to drag me off to repent, while Adi’s having a fit about it.” She sighed. “My sister and I haven’t spoken six words in all the years Adi and I have been together. When I got sick, I called her. I probably shouldn’t have. They’re all praying for me — the whole nine yards.”
“So let them pray. It can’t hurt.”
>
She pushed aside a half-finished breakfast tray in front of her.
“It’s just having my sister coming in here ranting about giving up my sinful life and coming back to Jesus. I said, ‘Ranee, I have no problem with Jesus, but giving up the woman I love is not an option.’ Then she sits there and stares at me while Adele throws daggers at her with her eyes. Both of them staking out their territory and that territory is me. I know they mean well, but I really wish they wouldn’t fight over me like that.”
Dan took her hand and felt its lightness. Definitely not a day to tackle the subject he’d considered taking up with her.
“Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to talk to Adele?”
“No, that wouldn’t have any effect. Anyway, she’s right. I should forbid my sister from coming in here and talking like that, but it upsets me to have to do that. And now I’ve got three hours of sitting here while the doctors pour poison into my system. I’m fighting inside and out.”
“You can put it off for another day, if you want to.”
Domingo shook her head. “What’s the point? I still have to go through it. And psyching myself for a day beforehand is half the battle. That’s hard. I know it’s supposed to be good for me, but it seems like all I have to look forward to is thinning hair, shaky hands, and feeling chilled even in summer.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll be fine now that you’re here.”
Dan settled beside her in the visitor’s chair, feeling as resigned as she sounded. After the first bag of chemicals emptied, a nurse arrived wearing a full-body gown, then proceeded to put on gloves before hanging up the second bag. Dan averted his eyes while she changed Domingo’s dressing and reinserted the PICC line. Done, she put everything in a hazardous waste container and left.
Dan struggled again with telling Domingo what he’d heard from the Quebec police, that finding her son alive was as unlikely as winning the lottery at this point, but today it wouldn’t help her. He suspected it was just one of many things she’d reconciled herself to already.
Eighteen
Where the River Narrows
The reply from the Quebec police was there when he woke. Dan thought it over and decided a quick resolution was best. He called Ked and Kendra to say he’d be gone for a couple of days. Afterwards, he contacted Donny and Lionel. That covered his Need to Know list. For good measure, he left a message for Inspector Johnston. She called back to ask a few details about the trip, wishing him luck in finding Lonnie. Then he left the city and headed east.
His car burned up the Highway of Heroes, that stretch of the Macdonald-Cartier Freeway where the bodies of fallen soldiers made their final journey between the armed forces base at Trenton and the forensics centre in Toronto. It had earned its nickname from the crowds gathering on overpasses to salute the convoys moving beneath, during what Dan thought of as a misguided war on Iraq as American indignation mollified its wounded pride over being attacked on its own soil. Not our war, he thought. Easy to say, of course, but Dan wasn’t sentimental about such things: when you go to war, you put your life on the line. It was a given. There were plenty of ways to die, few of them pretty. Dying wasn’t always the worst option, what with the burgeoning cases of post-traumatic stress disorder making the lives of returned soldiers even more of a nightmare than what they’d endured in the desert. Dan knew about living with nightmares. Now that was brave, he’d have said, if anyone asked.
His favourite time on the road was early morning, before the other drivers came out to ruin things for him. He liked the feel of being the only person alive for miles around. No one to talk to, no one to bother him. An eight-hour solo drive to Quebec City was just the thing to quell his burgeoning misanthropy.
Quebec had long held a fascination for Ontarians — Torontonians in particular. It was the “forbidden” land. Montreal had a rep for being Canada’s party destination, compared to staid Toronto the Good. When Dan thought of Quebec, however, it wasn’t Montreal that came to mind first. But then he’d never really been a party boy. A friend once said of him, Dan’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t know how to party. Dan’s response had been pointed: “Party” isn’t a verb. Not entirely accurate, given the evolution of language, but his friend had been too intimidated to argue. Which seemed to settle the matter.
For Dan, Vieux-Québec was the province’s real destination, taking its name from the Algonquin Kébec, meaning “where the river narrows.” He loved to approach by car and sit gazing up at the promontory. Cap-Diamant. Cape Diamond. There, above the narrowing banks of the St. Lawrence, stood one of North America’s oldest and most elegant cities. Explorer Jacques Cartier built a fort there in 1535, but decided it was less impressive than the site that would later become Montreal, and so sailed on. It remained French territory until being ceded to England at the end of the Seven Years’ War, igniting a cultural feud that continues to this day.
Dan understood the resentment Quebeckers felt toward the rest of Canada. They had every right to feel slighted by how their causes and beliefs were overlooked and trampled on by the largely unfeeling English majority. In fact, he had every sympathy for the Quebec cause. Except one: the French weren’t there first. To his mind, the issue of Aboriginal sovereignty had never been properly accredited. After five hundred years of neglect, the land’s original owners deserved better.
He pulled into town and quickly found his hotel. The room was comfortable and, to his regret, thoroughly modern. There was nothing of old Quebec here, nothing linking it with its history and heritage. Still, it would afford a peaceful sleep when the time came. He unpacked, hung up his clothes, then went out and found a crêperie with a low ceiling and stone walls. A fireplace crackled quietly in the corner. Real wood. Quebeckers went in for veracity. No fake fireplaces or gas lines for them.
He indulged with a single glass of cider, remembering his promise to his son. You were honest only if you kept the faith when no one was watching. His crêpes arrived on a long plate that neatly accommodated the crisp rolls bursting with melted cheese and ham slices wrapped around asparagus spears. Screw the partying, Dan thought. This is really living.
Twilight came on as he finished his coffee. Out on the street again, he glanced up at the Château Frontenac, that stone emissary from another century, massive and upright. Light illuminated its spires like a great cathedral left over from the French Revolution. None of that chrome-and-green-glass condo crap going up everywhere like a creeping mould that’s only going to get worse over time, Dan thought. Maybe he’d been born a few centuries too late. Perhaps all his malaise and discontent in life amounted to that.
The cobblestones felt at once familiar and strange as he made his way up and down hills, marvelling at the buildings set aglow in the fading light, their colourful interiors at odds with the stern grey exteriors.
In the Faubourg Saint-Jean, he found the sign: Club Le Drague, its exterior adorned with a Quebec flag. He bypassed the outdoor terrasse and stepped inside. He could have been standing in any bar in Toronto, with a basement disco and a glittery stage pour le travesti. No matter the language, gay bars were the same the world over.
Dan ordered a soda water with his minimal French — just enough for obtaining food, drink, lodgings, and getting the boys to show an interest. Even the smallest effort helped keep things on the friendly side here. Where Montreal was largely a French-English compote, Quebec City was the bastion of separatist thinking. No surprise in a province where English was not even acknowledged as an official language. Better to supplicate than butt heads unnecessarily.
The bar smelled of beer and cigarettes. Donny would be proud to know there was one last bastion of the Empire that hadn’t succumbed to a cowardly intolerance for the weed. Dan took his drink to one corner and sat watching the crowds come and go.
The men were particularly striking, he noted. Many had beautiful eyes. A few of the twinks looked him over. Then, deciding he was either too dangerous or too anglo, they passed him by. A leather man glanced his way as well
, but there was no mutual spark compelling either party to cross the national divide. Such were the mysterious ways of cruise bar protocol.
He trailed downstairs to le disco. It was too early for dancing, apart from a few introverts who preferred their own company, twirling in self-absorbed ecstasy. The DJ warmed up his skills as the lights spun, but the room was largely empty. Neverland had never looked so lonely.
Dan felt a buzzing in his pocket. He pulled out his cell and saw Ziggy’s name: I know I promised not to stalk you, but I just wanted to say you’re a nice guy and I’m thinking of you. Maybe we can meet up later this week? Now that the Saddle’s closed, I hang at the Beaver Club. It would be a nice surprise if you showed up.
Dan texted back: I’m out of town right now. When I get back, I’ll look you up at that club! He thought it best to leave things vague. He knew the obsessive tendencies of teenage boys to form crushes on anyone who paid them attention. Even with a promise not to stalk him, Ziggy could turn out to be a problem.
He was making his way back to the bar when a good-looking guy caught his attention: dark and steamy. Just his type. Dan watched for a moment, trying to read his body language, till the man turned away. No use chasing him. He was just another pretty face in the second of Canada’s two solitudes.
He was getting ready to call it a night when a burly bear in leather chaps and harness passed, a pitcher of beer in either hand. In his haste, he bumped Dan with his elbow, spilling his drinks. Dan reached out to steady him.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Calice! Maudit anglais,” the man growled.
Dan caught the expletive, but he wasn’t taking the bait. “Pardonnez-moi,” he said to mollify the man, though he wanted to say it wasn’t his drunken clumsiness that had caused the accident.
The man stopped. “Why do you fucking English have to come here? Don’t you have enough places to go? This is not your province.”
Dan stared him down. “Plains of Abraham. We won, you lost. As for land claims, the Natives were here long before the French or the English.”
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