by Thomas King
“Actually, Shakespeare didn’t do mysteries,” said Dorian, warming to the task. “A drama. That’s what’s going on. A drama. Before you know it, we’ll have twins separated at birth. Girls disguised as boys. Mistaken identities. Long-lost siblings reunited …”
Dorian caught himself. Now that had been bad. Worse than usual. What had he called her? Laertes? Not good. Not good at all.
“So what else do we have for today?”
“A mystery,” said Winter. “As you say.”
“Really?”
“The Anguis.”
Dorian pressed a key on the computer. “I need a PAM environment.” He waited until the icon on the monitor popped up.
“It was lost in a storm.”
“Yes, sir,” said Winter. “That was the assumption.”
“But?”
“We’ve just received word that the Anguis might have been spotted off the coast of Argentina. Two months ago.”
Dorian did the math in his head. “So, it didn’t go down in the storm.”
“It would appear.”
“Which means the damn thing could still be floating around. Have we been able to confirm that it was the Anguis?”
“No.”
“Then I think we should assume that the ship off the coast of Argentina was not the Anguis.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything else?”
Winter picked up the television remote. “This is footage that was shot early this morning.”
The image on the screen was of a wilderness river. Dorian knew he was supposed to recognize the area, but he couldn’t place it.
“North of Fort McMurray,” said Winter.
“Ah,” said Dorian. “The Athabasca River.”
“The tar sands,” said Winter. “As you know, Domidion has a sizable interest in Alberta’s energy sector.”
Dorian remembered arguing against tar-sands oil as an investment opportunity. The process required to extract bitumen was complicated and expensive. It used enormous amounts of fresh water and produced four times the greenhouse gases of oil extraction from wells. More troubling was the proximity of the processing plants to the river and the danger that the tailing ponds posed.
“A spill?”
“No,” said Winter. “But evidently there has been some seepage. Possibly from one of our ponds.”
“Didn’t we fund an environmental study that tied pollutants in the river to fluctuating water levels and natural erosion?”
“Do you recall the problem with the ducks?”
In 2008, more than 1,600 ducks had been killed when they landed on one of the tailing ponds. In 2010, another 350 ducks died in the same manner. These were the public figures. In actual fact, Dorian knew, the numbers were much higher.
“There’s been another waterfowl kill?”
“Fish,” said Winter. “Dead fish have started appearing along the banks of the river.”
Dorian watched the video. So that’s what those white dots were.
“But none of our dams have failed?”
“No,” said Winter. “The dams are holding.”
“Then this might not be our problem.”
“The level in one of our tailing ponds has been dropping rapidly for the past two weeks.”
“Don’t we have emergency protocols in place to handle situations such as this?”
“We do,” said Winter. “We’re pumping fresh water into the pond to keep the level where it’s supposed to be.”
“Our exposure?”
“Syncrude, Imperial, Royal Dutch Shell, Suncor all have holding ponds along the river,” said Winter. “There are over sixty companies in the immediate area.”
“So it will be difficult to determine where the problem originated.” Dorian turned away from the screen. “Do we have a Rapid Response Team on site?”
“We do,” said Winter. “They’re keeping the media away.”
“Who’s taking point?”
“Public Relations. They’re considering a press release.”
Dorian felt his face flush. He touched his cheek and discovered that he was sweating.
“Are any of the other companies issuing press releases?”
“No.”
“Then neither should we.”
It wasn’t a serious sweat. Just a thin film of moisture that lay on his face like a mist and felt cool to the touch. The condition wasn’t new. It had happened before. It would go away in a while.
“I’m going to the gym.”
“An excellent idea,” said Winter.
Dorian wondered if Winter worked out. She didn’t look as though she did free weights. Jogging perhaps, or more likely yoga. Dorian had tried yoga once but had been put off by the mystical overtones and the godawful positions that the instructor wanted everyone to assume.
Downward dog.
No matter what the health benefits, Dorian couldn’t see the point of lying on a mat with your butt stuck up in the air.
“Tell me,” said Dorian, “do you exercise?”
“Dance,” said Winter.
“Commendable,” said Dorian. “Olivia plays tennis.”
DORIAN was in the elevator before he realized he was humming. “Danke Schoen.”
Great. Sweating and humming.
He’d grab a couple of towels from the attendant, have a swim and do a circuit on the machines. Maybe two. Force all the tensions and toxins from his body. But it would take him the rest of the day to get that stupid song out of his head.
19
HE HAD EXPECTED TO FIND THE DOG SPLAYED OUT ON THE deck, waiting to be fed. But when Gabriel returned to the trailer, Soldier wasn’t to be found. Of course, the dog could be anywhere. He could have snuck onto the reserve to nose around the deserted houses. He could have run down to the beach to chase waves. Or he could have followed Mara home. She was certainly someone who would flatter a stray.
The dog had come with the trailer. More or less. When Gabriel opened the door that first morning, there Soldier was, his ears up, his tongue bouncing out of his mouth as if it were fastened to a spring.
“Whose doggy are you?”
He was reasonably sure that he did not want a pet. His sister would have taken Soldier, no questions asked.
“It’s my sister you want,” he had told the dog. “Don’t count on me.”
Gabriel didn’t know much about dogs. There were big dogs and small dogs. Friendly dogs and mean dogs. Dogs of many colours. What he did know about dogs was that they liked to bark. All the dogs he had ever known had barked. Barked at cars, barked at people, barked at each other, barked at shadows, barked at barking. Gabriel suspected that, aside from licking themselves, barking was what dogs did.
Soldier seldom barked. The dog moaned and groaned, growled and snorted. He spent more time than necessary farting, but he seldom barked. Gabriel wondered if it was because the dog was old.
Maybe old dogs were quiet dogs.
Instead of barking, Soldier spent a good deal of time humming to himself. Or at least that’s how it sounded. Something between a wheeze and a buzz, a rattle and an asthma attack. Still, there was a melody to the noise, a rhythmic rise and fall of sounds, and more than anything, it reminded Gabriel of the Clay Pigeons.
GABRIEL’S father had been a singer with the Clay Pigeons, and during the summer months, Joe had taken the family to the powwows around southern Alberta.
A Metis from Fort Qu’Appelle had started the drum. Jerry “Digger” Dumont had come up with the name after watching a movie in which rich white people shot at clay discs that were tossed into the air.
“Jesus, all that shooting,” Digger told everyone, “and there was nothing you could eat. I was laughing so hard, they threw me out of the theatre.”
One evening, when the men had come by the house for a meal and a practice, Digger had passed out red T-shirts with “Clay Pigeons” written on the front and a bull’s eye target printed on the back.
“Rich man’s sport,” he told
the boys. “Good enough for them, good enough for us.”
GABRIEL sat in the chair and rocked back and forth. Somehow he had annoyed Mara, had made her angry. It hadn’t been his idea to go to the reserve. From now on he would just stay put and wait for the next high tide. He’d read, watch one of the videos that had come with the trailer, wander the town, and look in the empty storefronts. He might even go to the hot springs. Crisp was a peculiar duck, but agreeable, and the man seemed willing to keep his curiosity to himself.
Or he could walk the tide line, one foot on the beach, the other in the ocean, and lose himself in the divide between land’s end and water.
If Soldier were here, Gabriel might consider sending him to Mara’s and having him explain how he had taken Gabriel’s pants as a joke, how it was Soldier’s fault that Gabriel had been at the reserve, how he was sorry he had caused a problem.
Who could resist an apology from a remorseful dog?
WHEN Gabriel was eight or nine, Joe had taken him to a drum practice, put him at his right hand, gave him a stick, and told him to pay attention. The stick was heavy and clumsy, and Gabriel had had to hold it with both hands, as he banged the drum at odd angles. It had been impossible to keep the beat, but the other men had been good-natured about it.
“When he’s done hacking at that skin,” Narcisse Blood told Joe, “I got a pile of wood needs cutting.”
It had been slow, but by the time he was twelve, Gabriel could sing most of the songs, and he could hold the beat as well as the next man.
“Boy sings better than you do,” Narcisse would tease Joe. “Hear he’s a better lover, too.”
“This from a man with a fondness for sheep.”
“Just a rumour started by the goats.”
The family had gone to Indian Days each year, and there was always room for them in Narcisse’s lodge during Sun Dance. Wilton Goodstriker had let Gabriel and Lilly ride his horses, whenever Joe had time to bring them out to Wilton’s camp. And they had spent evenings at Leroy Littlebear’s house, listening to Leroy’s endless supply of stories and bad jokes, while Amethyst First Rider rolled her eyes and made disparaging noises in her throat.
Those were the good times.
NOT that Soldier was particularly remorseful.
The dog was more contrary. Obstinate even. Gabriel had never heard of a dog who would not fetch. Gabriel had tried several times to interest Soldier in the game.
“Here we go,” he’d say, waving a stick over his head. “Here we go.”
And he’d throw it out in a long, floating arc.
“Fetch the stick!”
Gabriel had seen dogs so fast that they would catch the stick before it landed, dogs so fixated on getting to the stick that they would crash through any obstacle that was in their way, dogs so happy to have found the stick that they would chew it into pieces before they remembered to bring it back.
Soldier simply sat down and waited for the stick to land, and then he would wait for Gabriel to pick it up.
“How about we try this again.”
But Soldier had no interest in chasing a stick. It was almost as though he had more important things to do and wasn’t about to waste his time with such a silly activity.
“Come on, this is a fun game.”
What the dog did do was follow Gabriel around. Gabriel didn’t know why the dog found him so interesting, but everywhere he went, Soldier would go as well. Each day, when Gabriel came out of the trailer, the dog would be waiting for him, and every night when he went to bed, Soldier would prowl the edges of the deck, as though he were guarding the perimeter from a surprise assault.
GABRIEL had liked singing at the powwows, had liked being with his father. But he was never comfortable. He knew that, when other people saw him at the drum, they didn’t see an Indian. His skin was pale. His hair was brown. His features were soft and delicate. He didn’t look like his father. Or his mother. Or his sister for that matter. And he had gotten tired of having to explain.
Once, in the middle of an intertribal, Digger had motioned for Gabriel to take the lead, and Gabriel had shook him off. He wasn’t ready, he told the other men afterwards. He didn’t want to mess up the song.
“Hell,” Digger had laughed, “I mess up songs all the time. You don’t have to be perfect, you just have to try.”
Joe didn’t say anything, but Gabriel knew his father was disappointed.
That summer he went to all the powwows, and when the singing was strong, there would be a moment when Gabriel was tempted to lean forward and catch Digger’s eye, raise a finger to signal that he wanted to take the lead.
And each time he had let the moment pass.
SO where was he? Soldier hadn’t disappeared like this before. Not that it was a big deal. Gabriel was just curious. The dog could have injured himself dragging Gabriel’s pants up the trail, or he could have wandered off into difficulty. Soldier was ancient, and there was something about the way the soft coastal light played on the dog’s body that made Gabriel wonder if Soldier wasn’t already dead, if what was following him around this dreary landscape of water and wind was a ghost.
IT was a clear evening, and from his chair, Gabriel could see the deserted streets of the town and the shifting shoreline all the way to the river. He settled back and waited for the sun to set.
And when the light disappeared and the stars showed themselves overhead and the dog had not returned, Gabriel retreated to the trailer and went to bed.
20
SONNY OPENS THE EVERFRESH VENDING MACHINE, EMPTIES the cash box, and puts the money in his pocket. Then he wipes the green plastic front with the soft towel, so the machine is shiny and clean. The EverFresh vending machine, with its blinking lights, tinkling sounds, cheery colours, and the tempting products that wave at you through the glass doors.
In the days before the turtles and the Indians went away, Magic Mel, the vending-machine man, would come by every other week to fill the machine’s compartments. Magic Mel had been a magician when he was younger, and, if he had time, he would show Sonny a magic trick.
“People are easy to fool,” Magic Mel would say. “People like to be tricked.”
Sonny has practised several of the tricks that Magic Mel taught him, but now there are no people to mislead.
The sun has disappeared into the ocean. Sonny likes this time of the evening, when all the colours are soft and there are no hard edges to bump against. The cash boxes of the Scrub-A-Dub vending machine and Lava Java hot drink machine are empty, as is the box of the Toy Chest vending machine. The Toy Chest vending machine is Sonny’s favourite, because you can keep grabbing at prizes with the metal claw until you get one.
As he checks the vending machines, Sonny wonders if the Indian woman liked the drum. He had considered leaving a note, “Salvage from Sonny,” so she would know whom to thank. Sonny had also considered waiting in the trees, so he could see the expression on her face when she found the drum on the chair. And if the gift pleased her, if she held the drum up to the sky and cried out joyfully, then Sonny would burst from his hiding place and run across the field to the house, shouting, It was me! It was me!
Of course Dad has warned him about taking credit for good deeds. Be patient, Dad has told Sonny any number of times. Patience is better than pride.
Still, Sonny would like to see the woman smile. He would like to hear her laugh.
Off in the distance, he can see the steam from the hot springs rising into the night sky, and he imagines how lovely it would be to sit in water as warm as you please and never have to come out.
Sonny tries not to think about the hot springs, for Dad has decreed that thinking is the handmaiden to doing. And while there are many prohibitions in Dad’s inventory of edicts, the ban on the hot springs is near the top of forbidden activities.
Thou shalt not go to the hot springs.
Sonny likes that Dad has set these rules down in a clear and organized fashion, because it makes it easier to avoid indiscretions an
d mistakes. But sometimes Sonny wishes that Dad didn’t have so many.
Sonny reaches down and touches the water. Cold. No floating in the pool tonight, but he could sit in one of the lounge chairs. That would be pleasant. Sonny cannot recall any prohibitions against this, so he drags the chair with comfortable cushions to the centre of the patio.
And as he sinks into the cushions, as he settles back to enjoy the stars in all their glory, he sees the dog.
21
CRISP’S VISIT HAD RAISED MARA’S SPIRITS, AND SHE FELT more energetic than she had in ages. She stood in front of the easel and considered the sketch she had begun. Then she uncovered her palette and began to paint.
Nothing dramatic. The light was too weak for any major adventures. She fixed small areas of Lilly’s face and roughed in the background with the larger brushes. She had originally planned to keep the portrait simple, but now she knew she would incorporate parts of the reserve into the painting.
A building or two. Perhaps a section of the water tower.
Mara stepped back from the easel. She and Lilly had been teenagers together, young girls on the threshold of a new frontier. To boldly go where no man has gone before is how Lilly had described puberty.
Hormones, failed relationships, betrayals, reconciliations.
More hormones.
They had run wild on the reserve, especially on weekends when they weren’t hobbled by school and homework. They’d take off in the morning with a sandwich stuffed in a jacket and stay away until hunger drove them home.
Mostly they’d go down to the tidal pools and chase small fish and crabs. Other times they’d hide out in the caves that the waves had carved out of the rocks and plot revenge on the town girls, who liked to strut about in their new clothes every year on the first day of school.
What Mara had liked best about Lilly was that she was always there. Good times and bad, she had always been there. Someone you could count on. Someone you could find at all times simply by reaching out.
And now she wasn’t.
MARA had been in Toronto, getting ready for a major show at the Roberts Gallery when the letter arrived. Inside was a photograph of Lilly and her newborn son.