It was a long lonely drive back to Canada.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My office appeared to have changed little in the 48 hours since I had seen it last. I used my key to let myself in and switched on the answering machine. Standing by the window while the tape rewound, I caught glimpses of the people passing to and fro outside. Nearly every-body looked pale and preoccupied and tense.
My voice-mail clicked in. Several messages were from a person named Norbert, who wanted to buy Constable Halvorsen’s dinner. I found Norbert’s unctuous tones annoying. In my imagination I saw the beautiful constable gazing adoringly at this unknown admirer across fine crystal and silver and a linen tablecloth. Who did she think she was? The upstart constable was now using my office as her personal answering service.
I thought: I better put a stop to this. Then I thought: Wait a minute. Think this over first.
Then some real messages came on. The street jiver’s messages were becoming specific. Called me a chicken-fat turkey. Warned me of the harm that would befall a man who stood between the speaker and his rightful goods. Seaweed could make amends by putting $4,000 in a bag and giving it to a certain party in Waddington Alley. Otherwise, pretty soon Seaweed was gonna get gutted alive. Maybe worse.
Somebody left a garbled message about missing lottery tickets.
A friend of mine, Pete Sharp, had mailed a postcard from Brazil, hinting at fabulous opportunities and inviting me to meet him in Manaus. To divert my mind I made junk-mail paper airplanes and sailed them across the office. My wastebasket was Puerto Barrios, Guatemala. The top of a filing cabinet was Devil’s Island. Burma, almost inaccessible these days, was my coat rack. Just for the hell of it I wondered how much a trip to Brazil would set me back. I built one more glider and launched it across the room. It climbed over the Andes, banked east, crossed the Falkland Islands and nosedived into Liverpool. I wondered how Sarah Williams was getting on without me. Shit. I was daydreaming instead of taking care of business.
I phoned Vancouver PD and got Mrs. Coulton’s telephone number. Paddy Coulton’s widow had retired to a seniors’ complex in White Rock. I phoned the complex and after some palaver was routed through to a registered nurse named Elizabeth Dickins.
I told Mrs. Dickins what I wanted. She said, “I’m sorry to tell you that Mrs. Coulton has had a little setback. She fell yesterday and we believe she’s had another mild stroke. Right now she’s in Surrey Memorial Hospital. I doubt if she’d be much use to the police at the moment.”
I went out to the washroom, poured myself a glass of water and carried it back to my desk.
I couldn’t stop agonizing about Barb. What should I do next, send her a condolence card, flowers? Maybe I should phone one of those radio advisors. Gracious dispensers of free advice to a nation’s crackpots, and worth every penny.
The phone rang. It was Charles Service, sounding affable. He was coming downtown on business. We agreed to meet at Lou’s Café in 15 minutes.
≈ ≈ ≈
Lou’s latest worry was the Saanich arsonist. He delivered coffee and said, “I know how to fix that firebug.”
“What?” I said absently. I was thinking about my trip to Point Matlock and I wanted Lou to go away.
“That arsonist, pal, the guy setting fires all over Saanich.” Lou puffed out his cheeks.
I said, “Okay, Lou. How would you handle him?”
“I’d do what we did in the old days. Put a car tire around the guy’s neck and set fire to it.”
“You kidding?”
“Hell no. I’d make a public spectacle of the bastard.”
“Jesus, Lou. Is that how they do things in Europe?”
“You bet. You want old buildings, you gotta take care of them. Why you think they still got all them ancient cathedrals? They got them because they know how to deal with punks. Try running around Europe with a can of gasoline and a box of matches, see where it gets you.” He wandered off, angrily flicking a dishrag at table crumbs before going behind his counter to brood.
I was nursing my third cup of coffee, thinking about Fred Eade, when Charles Service arrived arm-in-arm with Sarah Williams. Sarah looked very pretty in a navy-blue dress. Service was wearing another expensively cut suit from British Importers. They looked good together, although, in my opinion, Service’s attempt to bridge the generation gap was slightly absurd. Sarah was hardly 40. Service was at least 65. But I had to concede — Service was in great shape. Probably played tennis every day, eschewed cholesterol. Treated women like shit and never gave it a thought. Lived the stress-free life of an uncaring asshole.
Lived very much like me, in fact.
Sarah Williams held out her hand. I touched her cool fingers. She gave me a full-eye-contact smile that made me wonder what was going on inside that pretty head. It occurred to me that she might refer to our recent encounter. I was somehow relieved that she didn’t.
I signalled Lou and ordered more coffee. Sarah surveyed the diner and said, “So this is Lou’s? Isn’t it just too cute.”
Was I being patronized? Before I could decide one way or the other, Service said, “Didn’t you know? This is one of Piggy’s buildings.”
Sarah gave the lawyer a long look. “Oh, really?” she said, “Chalk up another triumph for the Piggy-wig.”
I was seeing another round in an endless, secret game. The lawyer turned to look at me but didn’t say anything. I said, “Have you given any more thought to the matter we spoke about last time?”
“You’re referring to the reward money?”
I nodded.
He said, “Yes, I’ve thought it over. Go ahead, pay whatever it takes. We’ve got to follow every lead.” He reached into his breast pocket and brought out a chequebook. “Five thousand, was it?”
I nodded.
“To whom should I make it payable?”
“To me,” I said. “If it’s made out to me personally, I might be able to save you a few bucks, negotiate a better deal.”
The lawyer gave me a long stare.
Sarah leaned toward me and said, teasingly, “Charles doesn’t trust you, Silas. He’s afraid you’ll take the money and spend it in Hawaii.”
Service was annoyed. He said abruptly, “You’re talking nonsense. I prefer to keep things businesslike. It’s not a matter of trust.”
“Actually,” I said, kidding, “that kind of money is very tempting. A guy I know has a business proposition in Brazil. It would be fun to go down there and check it out. A few thousand would just about do it.”
“Five thousand wouldn’t go very far, would it?” asked Sarah, round-eyed. “Friends of mine did one of those Amazon adventure tours. Visited that opera house in Manaus and so on. They were only gone a couple of weeks and I’m sure it cost them $20,000 apiece.”
Service, whose frown indicated that he didn’t approve of this banter, slid a blank cheque across the table. It was made out to me.
Service said, “All right. Now, Silas. How about a progress report?”
“I’ve learned a few things, we’re making headway,” I said.
I had their full attention. Service didn’t shift his eyes from my face. I looked right back at him and said, “When Frank Harkness married Marcia Hunt, he was a U.S. citizen. A fugitive from American justice.”
Service said, guardedly, “That’s certainly news to me.”
I said, “After that showdown at the mental hospital, Marcia moved to Seattle. Harkness either accompanied Marcia or followed her soon afterward. They lived as a couple in Point Matlock.”
“Yes?” said the lawyer, leaning forward. “Go on.”
“Marcia and Frank weren’t together long. It must have been a very rough time for her. Harkness was arrested by Washington State police in 1983. After formalities he was returned to California to face a homicide rap.”
Sarah gave a sharp intake of breath. Service reached out to give her hand a squeeze.
I said, “Harkness was tried, convicted and sentenced to life. We’re mak
ing inquiries. When we find out where he’s incarcerated, somebody will have to go and interview him.”
Service nibbled his lip abstractedly. “Well, that will make things a lot easier. You should be able to wrap this mystery up now.”
“Life in a prison!” Sarah said mournfully. “How sad. What a waste.”
“Right,” said Service. “But Harkness wasted other lives besides his own, including your cousin’s.”
Sarah said, “But how can you know that? She loved him well enough to chuck away a fortune. Marcia must have had some happiness from the relationship.”
“Tell you what she did get from Harkness,” I said. “She got a baby.”
That remark struck the lawyer like a thunderbolt. He jerked bolt upright in his seat.
I waited a moment. Service was twisting his gold signet ring around on his finger. He snapped impatiently, “Come on, Seaweed. What else do you know?”
I said, “Marcia gave birth to a daughter on December 28, 1982.”
Service had been listening with a rapt expression, his eyes narrowed. “Are you certain of these facts, or making educated guesses?”
“I’m practically certain of my facts. The information is from reliable sources.”
“But this is remarkable, Silas,” Sarah said, shaking her head in wonder. “It’s amazing. You must be a very clever detective.” She sighed and looked wistful. “God, when I think of Marcia, finding out that the man she loved was a murderer.”
“Apparently she had a baby to contend with as well,” said Service. “That must have made things even worse.”
Sarah was aghast. “Charles! What a thing to say!” she said. “Only a man would think that. Can’t you understand? That little baby gave Marcia strength, it made her strong!”
Service was dubious. “If you say so,” he remarked grudgingly.
I said, “Marcia and the baby left Point Matlock for parts unknown. That’s all I have to report for the moment.”
Sarah Williams let out a long sigh. “Congratulations, Silas. You’ve performed a miracle.” She appealed to the lawyer. “Hasn’t he, Charles?”
He tipped his head. “Good work, Seaweed.”
She said, “That other detective, the one you hired before. What was his name?”
“Patrick Coulton.”
“Exactly, Coulton. Why didn’t he dig all this up years ago?”
Service pushed his chair back and stood up. “I don’t know.” His voice had changed. Service was either lying or withholding the truth. He touched Sarah’s shoulder and said, “Sarah, it’s time. We have another appointment, remember?”
“Damn the appointment. Must we go so soon?” Sarah said, pouting. “I haven’t finished my coffee, and I want to ask Silas about Brazil.”
Impatience rose in Service’s voice. “You know we’re in a hurry, Sarah.”
Sarah wrinkled her nose to signify disappointment but stood up dutifully, saying, “Well, keep up the good work, Silas. I’m looking forward to seeing Marcia again, and meeting my little niece.”
The lawyer snapped, “If she exists, she isn’t your niece. And she won’t be little, either. She’ll be in her 20s.”
Sarah gave a mocking laugh. “Men! You’re all so practical!” She turned her smile on me. One amused eye closed in a tiny wink. She said, “Mr. Seaweed’s different from you, Charles. He’s a dreamer, a romantic.”
I looked from one to the other and said, “How do you think Mr. Hunt will react to news that he’s a grandfather?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” said the lawyer. “Right now it’s all hypothetical, so I prefer we keep this stuff to ourselves. We don’t want to raise false hopes. Dr. Cunliffe is concerned about Mr. Hunt’s heart. The whole thing’s going to be … ” He broke off, then added, “Better we wait a while and see where things go from here.” Service’s tone showed that he would not brook further discussion on this point.
Sarah looked at me. “Call me anytime. We’ll have a private talk.” Our eyes locked.
Service’s stony frown deepened. He coughed unnecessarily and she turned away. Lou opened the door and bowed them out.
That Lou, I thought. Bloodthirsty, but polite.
≈ ≈ ≈
Captain Bloggs was in his tiny office, staring out across Fisherman’s Wharf. Nothing seemed changed. The big Atlantic fishing trawler was in its usual berth on the outside float. Bloggs gave me a friendly grin. I pointed to the rusty ship and said, “That trawler’s still here, I notice.”
“Be here forever,” he snorted. “There’s problems with the engine and I doubt if they’ve got a proper engineer in the crew. They’re nuts if they think they’ll sail that thing past Cape Beale, never mind Guatemala.” He sighed and changed the subject. “What brings you down here?”
“I’m looking for Fred Eade. He told me he lived on one of these houseboats.”
“Fred ain’t got a houseboat. What he’s got is a worn-out fishboat with the guts torn out of it. Lives like an animal, him and his woman. I had all kinds of complaints about them two this morning. Seems that Fred had a drinking party. The ruckus kept his neighbours awake all night.” Sighing, Bloggs pointed me toward the Ocean Reaper, a big, black-hulled craft that had once been a west-coast seiner.
I meandered across the floats to find Fred Eade, but my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about Effie Yokwats and wolves when a white Mark v Jaguar cruised slowly past the parking lot, did a California stop and turned right onto Superior Street. It was too distant for me to see who the driver was.
I boarded the Ocean Reaper and banged on the pilothouse door. Somewhere within the boat a radio was playing soft rock — electronic guitars and drumbeats were barely audible above the sound of lapping water and creaking timbers.
A voice from behind me said, “You’ll need to bang louder’n that to wake Fred. The bastard was hooting and hollering and carrying on like a maniac all night. Kept the whole dock awake. Now I reckon he’s sleeping it off.”
The speaker was a wharf rat — an ancient, weathered, bearded man about five feet tall who resembled an angry gnome. He was standing on the deck of his floating hovel, moored immediately astern. It was in fact a junk Airstream trailer, perched atop a raft of waterlogged timbers. Without another word the man vanished inside his Airstream and slammed the door.
I rattled the Ocean Reaper’s pilothouse door again. It was locked. I walked the decks, looking for a way inside, stepping over piles of carelessly coiled rope, rusty buckets, bits of used construction lumber full of projecting nails. I found an unlocked deckhouse and went inside. It was dark, airless. Curtains covered all the portholes; the smell of rotten fish was strong. There was a rusty old drill press mounted on a workbench, rusting tools scattered everywhere. A ladder poked up through an open hatch. I peered below, into blackness, and called Eade’s name. Nobody answered. I swung my legs over the hatch coaming and started down the ladder.
At the bottom I waited until my eyes became accustomed to the dark. Vague shapes materialized. Iron stanchions supported the deck. Between the stanchions the hold was partitioned into cargo spaces with lengths of two-by-eight timbers. Forward, a deeper blackness marked the presence of a watertight door set in a bulkhead. The floor was wet and slippery, oily water slapped beneath deck plates. Cautiously, groping like a blind man, I went through the door and moved forward. When I paused to listen and heard faint scraping noises, my nape hairs stiffened. Something or somebody had moved down there. I said, “Fred! Fred Eade?”
My words sounded unnaturally loud in that confined space. Nobody answered. I moved forward gingerly and felt one foot losing purchase as it reached a hole in the floor. I withdrew my foot and stooped down, feeling with my fingers. I had located the cavity where the engine had once been housed.
The place stank. It was hot and humid. Sweat ran down my cheeks. I heard that scraping sound again. This time I had no doubt — somebody was in the dark there with me. I froze. Less than 10 feet away, something was alive, breathing. I gro
ped on the floor until my hand encountered a short piece of two-by-four. I advanced again, feeling with my feet to skirt that hole. I was flailing with the lumber, swinging it in an arc. Whoosh. Whoosh.
The timber struck a solid object and sent a bone-jarring shock up my arms. The lumber fell with a clatter. The darkness was broken when another door opened. A grey-brown shape passed through it. The door banged shut and left me in total darkness again. From beyond the door, above the muffled sound of footsteps, came another sound — somebody was muttering indistinctly. I heard an animal noise. My heart skipped. Something was moaning, pleading. It was a high whining, like a dog in pain. Or a wolf. Hairs stiffened on the back of my neck. I crawled now, fearing the unknown horrors that pressed all around and half afraid of plunging down a hole in that dark menacing space. The floorboards were wet, greasy. Oily water splashed my hands and soaked my pants, but at last I reached the next bulkhead and dragged its door open.
Filtered light streamed down a stairwell. A shadowy figure stood 10 feet away. Something heavy smashed into my shoulder. The shock drove me backward and the thing that had struck me clattered to the floor. There came that same moaning cry and the sounds of heavy feet, running. As I floundered through a cabin between a pair of bunk beds, my hand brushed against something soft and warm and wet. Feet raced across the deck above as I climbed stairs to reach the pilothouse. The pilothouse door was now wide open. Fifty yards away, a fat man was fleeing across the floats, so I reached toward the ship’s rail unthinkingly, intending to vault ashore. Pain radiated from my injured shoulder.
I clambered over the rail and ran in pursuit, but my quarry had disappeared. Ashore, in the parking lot outside Mom’s Café, a car engine started. Then a green Toyota Corolla sped out of the lot and raced away.
I was watching the Toyota disappear along Superior Street when a woman came around the corner of the float, leading a small child by the hand. When she saw me she stiffened and swept the child into her arms. I looked down at myself. My left hand and the sleeve of my jacket were red with blood; my pants were soaked with oily water.
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