Up in Smoke

by Ross Pennie

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “A set-up for microbiological high drama?” he said. “Highly improbable, but . . .”

  She pictured orf virus from Dr. Eddy Pakozdi’s goats colliding with tobacco mosaic virus escaped from Dr. Tammy Holt’s experimentally infected tobacco plants. Something similar had happened in Mongolia. Why not in Ontario? “Do you suppose an orf-infected goat handler did some moonlighting on a TMV-infected tobacco farm at harvest time?”

  “And transferred orf virus from the blisters on his hands to the tobacco he was picking? It’s a long shot.”

  “The literature says that orf virus is very hardy. Remains alive and infectious in the environment for prolonged periods.”

  “True enough,” he admitted. “And of course that does increase the likelihood that the two viruses could combine to form the matchstick hybrid Wilf Dickinson’s electron microscope keeps turning up.”

  Hamish stared at the map again. He shook his head, his face full of disappointment. “But we’re still a long way from explaining the liver failures. Blisters, maybe, but liver failures, no.”

  He was right, of course. There was no indication that the matchstick hybrid virus caused anything more serious than blisters on the lips and skin of people who smoked the tobacco it contaminated. Her clever bit of epidemiological sleuthing had revealed something academically fascinating, but not the breakthrough the case demanded. “So it’s back to the drawing board?” she said.

  “Forget the goats, it’s the demographics of the liver cases that’s bothering me.”

  The geographic distribution of the people suffering liver failure had been puzzling her too, especially after the fax from Winnipeg had reported matchstick-positive blister cases from three cities in Saskatchewan. It was now obvious that all across the country people were smoking Dennis Badger’s contaminated cigarettes and contracting Hamish’s lip and finger eruption. But, as Dr. Zol said this morning, no one outside Norfolk County had been stricken with liver failure. There had to be a rational explanation of why Dennis Badger’s tobacco was poisoning the livers of local students and firefighters and leaving everyone else’s liver untouched.

  Hamish removed the lime wedge, which Marcus had balanced on the rim of his club soda, and made a face as he discarded the thing on a napkin as if it were a cockroach. He wiped his fingers thoroughly, his way of saying he knew all about the bacterial contamination of limes in bars and restaurants. Then he ventured a sip. Thirst clearly trumped OCD. “Something in addition to rez tobacco is linking Erie Collegiate with Norfolk Fire and Rescue,” he told her. “There’s a cofactor out there somewhere in Norfolk County, and it’s activating Tammy’s tobacco toxin. Once we find that cofactor, we can take the pressure off Dennis Badger.”

  “He’s a creature and a half. Why would we want to ease the pressure off him?”

  “So he’ll leave Zol alone.”

  “Sorry?” she said.

  “Look, if we find the cofactor that’s making Erie Collegiate students and Norfolk first responders susceptible to the toxic effects of Tammy Holt’s drug, Zol can put out a health-unit alert warning the public to avoid the cofactor.”

  “We’re not positive Tammy’s 5-FNN is actually in Dennis’s tobacco,” she reminded him.

  He made that dismissive flick with his hand again. “We will be soon.”

  “But why would we want to help Dennis Badger stay in business?”

  “We can’t stop him. He’s going to carry on, regardless of what anyone says or does. There’s no way he can be prevented from selling his cigarettes across the country and around the world.”

  “Is there not something we can do?”

  “Take control of the cofactor. Whatever it is, it’s bound to be easier to contain than Dennis Badger and his Native tobacco racket.”

  “Surely the lip and finger lesions are bad for his business. I can’t imagine that his biggest customer, the German Army, would find it acceptable to have its soldiers infected with some sort of mutant virus.”

  “Come on, Natasha. Everyone knows cigarettes cause emphysema, heart disease, impotence, lung cancer, and other bad things. What’s a few blisters that look like cold sores taking longer than usual to heal?”

  “Okay then, how do we find your cofactor?”

  “Those students were a bust. You found that out the hard way.” His face softened. “They wouldn’t tell the truth if their lives depended on it. No matter how professional your questionnaire.”

  Was that a back-handed compliment? She’d take it as such.

  “What about the first responders?” she said.

  “They’re almost all men.”

  “So?”

  “Most men are terrible historians. It’s women who spot the details that produce a comprehensive medical history. And of course,” he said, “many gay men.”

  She’d never thought about it that way. “Is that why you’re so good —”

  “At clinical diagnosis? ” A smile crossed his lips. “Maybe.”

  Al had the same gift. She’d watched him notice the freshly restored bargeboarding on the Vanderhoef’s Gothic revival house and use that detail to charm an entire family into spilling crucial information. But what about Dr. Zol? He was pretty good at detail. Though now that she thought about it, he was better at synthesis — making sense of the bits of information other people collected.

  “What about their wives?” she said. “I bet if we gathered them in one room, got them racking their brains, we might come up with something.”

  “A room full of anxious women, one of them a very recent widow? All talking at the same time? Better you than me.”

  “But you’ll come? And bring Al?”

  He hesitated, as if more from surprise than uncertainty. “I don’t know. I should leave you to it. Couldn’t take that much concentrated estrogen.”

  “Come on — the existence of a cofactor was your idea in the first place.”

  He grinned, rolled his eyes and cocked his head to the side, like Oscar Wilde basking in the attention. Hamish did love to be complimented. But it took a fair chunk of chutzpah to get close enough to peer through his shell and glimpse the man inside.

  “Well,” he said. “Okay, sure. But only if Al can come too. Bosniaks are used to taking it from all sides.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Zol shook the mouse on the desk in Hamish’s ultra-tidy den and watched the monitor spring to life. At least something was working. He pulled the new 7-Eleven phone from his shirt pocket and stared the damn thing down. When he’d tried it five minutes ago, a recorded voice had thanked him for his patience and said his service on their crystal-clear network would be operational in a few minutes. A few minutes? What the hell did that mean? What a stupid idea to get a phone from a convenience store. What was Colleen thinking? And where was she? His knees trembled as he thought of Max — frightened, tired, and mixed up in something no kid should have ever to go through.

  He called up Simcoe Health Unit’s email program and waited for it to load. Until the phone started working, he might as well check his email. He had to do something useful. He’d called Rosalind Wakefield’s house from Hamish’s landline a couple of minutes ago, but again Colleen hadn’t answered. He’d got her recorded greeting, which by now he’d heard five times. Natasha was pretty certain no one would’ve fiddled with the home phones of the health-unit team, but he’d decided if Colleen answered he’d make sure neither of them said anything the Badger could make use of.

  Why hadn’t she picked up? She and Max must have reached the house. Or had she manipulated Rosalind Wakefield’s answering machine from another location? If so, where were they now? Not in a suite at the Royal York, that was for sure. Tied up in a closet? Cowering in the dark in a soundproof warehouse? Or had she understood his coded Lemony Snicket message, was keeping her eye on the incoming call dis
play, and was going to answer calls only from a 7-Eleven phone? God, please make it that last option. Please.

  He typed in his username and password. Thirty new emails since yesterday. Once Simcoe got to know him better, it would be more like two hundred. He scanned the list for anything that might not take much effort or brain power.

  There was a message from Allison Sparling. The name didn’t mean anything at first, but the subject line certainly did: “Francine arriving today YYZ.” He opened the message and read it quickly. It was from Allie, Francine’s BFF since elementary school. As far as he knew, Allie was still single and working as an intensive-care nurse at Sick Kids in Toronto. How she’d hung in through Francine’s multiple breakdowns and hysterics, he never knew. Allie was hardwired that way, he guessed, just as Francine had been hay-wired. When he allowed himself to think about it, the two of them were like Yin and Yang. And the fact that Francine was actually following through with a promise and arriving from Cambodia tonight, at 6:25, Cathay Pacific, into Toronto Pearson via Hong Kong . . . ? Well, he was reserving judgment. He’d have to see it to believe it.

  He was about to type a brief reply to Allie’s message, but remembered the “Escarpment Cable” guy screwing with the computer in his Simcoe office. The health-unit email service couldn’t be trusted. He scribbled Allie’s email address on a Post-it note — Hamish didn’t tolerate stray bits of scrap paper — and logged out. He logged back in, this time to Google Mail, and scanned his inbox for a new message from Max or Colleen — nothing — then composed a brief note to Allie. He requested that she reply only to this Google address and included his new cellphone number — was the damn thing ever going to work? — and asked her to get in touch as soon as Francine landed. Before hitting Send he read the message twice to be sure it sounded cordial enough. Of course, he didn’t mention he had no idea where Max was at this particular moment. The tables had turned — who was the flaky parent now?

  He logged out, patted the phone in his pocket, and heaved himself out of the chair. He was desperate for a caffeine hit. He should have had the taxi driver take him to a Tim’s on the way back from Natasha’s office. What a hassle not being able to drive his own vehicle.

  He went through four cupboards before he found the jar of instant. He tossed a mug of water in the microwave, set it for a couple of minutes, and rustled up some milk and sugar. The only way to get that stuff down would be with a couple of heaping teaspoons of sucrose. When the water boiled, he threw the concoction together — there was no way you could call it a coffee — and took it to the living room.

  When was this damn flip phone going to work? He forced himself to drink half the coffee before he tried it again.

  He flicked to the contact list, found Rosalind Wakefield’s number he’d entered earlier, and pressed Call.

  Four rings, five . . . “Good morning. Beaudelaire residence.”

  It was her. She’d picked up. He could hardly believe it.

  “Yes?” she said when he didn’t reply. “May I help you?”

  “You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. And so is Mr. Snicket.”

  Why was she speaking so formally? Was she using a code? Was there someone with her, threatening with a knife or a gun? Maybe she suspected the line was being tapped?

  He had to be certain she was speaking freely.

  “This is the LCBO calling,” he said. “We have a case of your favourite nightcap ready for you.”

  “Good. A shot of Amarula and the world feels perfect.” He adored the way she always said it: purrhfect.

  “Oh, my Sweets. You really are fine? And Max? I’ve been so worried. Why didn’t you pick up?”

  “Until a few minutes ago, I wasn’t sure the line was safe.”

  “But you are now?”

  “Yes,” she said, then told him a complicated story — to which he was able to only half listen, he was so frazzled — about a catering van following them last night from the Spadina exit off the Gardiner Expressway to the house in Forest Hill. The van had parked all night on the street, between the Wakefield’s house and the neighbour’s. A few minutes ago, a woman dressed like a chef (minus the tall hat) had left the house by the front door, kissed goodbye to a well-dressed elderly woman on the doorstep, and driven off in the van.

  “Zol? You still there?”

  “Yes,” he said, pawing away the tears on his cheeks. “Still here.”

  “How are you, my love?”

  “A lot better now.”

  “Did you get any sleep? That sofa of Hamish’s didn’t look too promising as a bed.”

  It wasn’t the uncomfortable chesterfield that had kept him from sleeping. “It was okay.”

  “Have you called your mum today?”

  “Not yet. But I will. This new phone started working only a few minutes ago.”

  “Anything new on the investigation?”

  How much should he say? How secure were these phones? “Hamish has a guy who’s going to run some tests. I think you know what I mean.”

  “And get results soon?”

  “I’m hoping for today.”

  “And then what?”

  That was the million-dollar question. Did he go to the Badger first, give him a chance to shut down his entire operation until the contaminated tobacco was out of circulation? The Badger would refuse, of course.

  Zol did have something that might sweeten the deal. He pictured the second loon’s bright, onyx eyes staring at him, pleading for his loyalty. Could he give her up? Could he surrender the second loon to Dennis Badger and risk emboldening the Badger to try making a giant land grab?

  Or did he go straight to the authorities and let them deal with the mess? But which authorities would that be? The cops were so reluctant to go onto First Nations territories that he’d have to drag them onto Grand Basin, kicking and screaming. Could he even do that? And what did cops know or care about obscure poisons in tobacco? Health Canada was supposed to regulate the tobacco industry, but what did office jockeys know about reining in criminal gangs?

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I haven’t been able to think straight since you and Max drove off in that rented car.”

  “I’m so sorry, my love. I was terrified that the Badger’s men had followed us, and —”

  “I know, I know. You did the right thing.” He paused, wondering whether to even bring it up. “Um . . . our little friend. Is she under lock and key?”

  “If you mean the dear little creature with the shiny black eyes, the answer is . . . not exactly.”

  The tension gripped his neck again. “But she is safe, eh?”

  “Certainly. No worries there.”

  “And . . . where is she, exactly?”

  “What are you going to do with her?”

  He wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t going to brainstorm about it over the phone. “Probably nothing. But I’d feel better knowing where she was.”

  “Mary Poppins has her. I gave her to Mary for safe keeping. It seemed appropriate.”

  “Mary Poppins? What the heck — ?”

  “Long story. But I think you know what I mean.”

  “Max’s friend?”

  “Exactly. But do be careful. No rash decisions. Promise?”

  She was right. Involving the black-eyed loon in any negotiations with Dennis Badger could be a huge mistake. It would be best to let nesting birds lie. Trouble was, that might be impossible.

  “Look,” he said, glad to change the subject, “I heard from Allie today. You know, Francine’s friend?”

  “Is she all set for her arrival?”

  He told her the details.

  “Tonight? That’s wonderful,” she said. “Max will be pleased.”

  “Can I speak to him?”

  “If I can tear him away from the television. There’s a home theatre in t
he basement that’s fully loaded. Sixty-inch flat screen, movie channels galore, and an entire library filled with video games. Rosalind’s grandchildren must love it here. How many does she have?”

  “None,” he told her. “Hamish is an only child.” And he’d never heard him mention the words video and game in the same sentence.

  But really, who cared? Max was safe. Nothing else mattered.

  Unless . . .

  Was Francine going to insist on traipsing all over Toronto with Max in tow, while the Badger’s men were on the prowl?

  Hell.

  CHAPTER 37

  At one-thirty, Zol couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He needed a nap. He’d spent most of the morning glued to Hamish’s desk, running through his To Do list from Simcoe. He’d opened a new Google Mail account just for work, forwarded the most pressing messages to it from his health-unit email account, and got back to work, hoping the new set-up was secure.

  Now, as he studied the chesterfield in the living room, he was amazed how short it was and surprised that he’d attempted to sleep on it last night. His neck wouldn’t take it again. Would Hamish mind, or even notice, if he stole forty winks in his bed? As he stood at the bedroom doorway, something kept him from entering. It was Al’s bed now too. Something stronger prevented him from taking off his clothes and slipping under the duvet. Was he afraid it would seem like a threesome? Or did it run deeper than that? Was he afraid he might get a buzz out of sharing their sheets?

  He decided he’d better go home to his own bed. If the Badger’s team was listening on the landline, or trolling with their scanners near his house, it didn’t matter: Max and Colleen were safe.