Valley of the Lost

by Vicki Delany

  Smith said her thanks, with promises of a beer next time she was in the big city, and tried to cover up her disappointment. She’d hoped to dig up a rash of charges by teenagers and young mothers. Something she could use to confront Armstrong and have him confessing to an inappropriate relationship with Ashley Doe.

  Still, Armstrong had come to the attention of the police, even though charges were not laid, which might indicate that, as Sergeant Winters suspected, he’d left Vancouver under less than favorable conditions. Plus, if two women went to all the trouble of reporting his behavior to the police, odds were good there were plenty others who hadn’t complained.

  She typed up a report of the conversation for Sergeant Winters.

  Report filed, she leaned back in her chair and checked her watch. Ten o’clock. The day stretched in front of her. She could go hiking, alone. She could go home and fight with her mother. She could look for an apartment and/or a car. But it was too bloody hot to be tramping around town.

  She picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory.

  ***

  To the consternation of her cloth-coat Republican parents, Lucy Casey had been involved in progressive politics almost since she began to talk. When she and Andy came to Canada, Lucy Casey morphing into Lucky Smith, she hadn’t changed her stripes. And over the years, she had made many friends of like mind.

  A car pulled into the Smith driveway. Three women got out. They all had well-earned lines carved into tanned faces, much gray in their hair. One back was heavily stooped, and one proud woman walked on a cane, refusing any and all assistance.

  They didn’t bother to knock on the door to announce their arrival, but found comfortable seats on the wide veranda at the front of the Smith home.

  Miller was, at last, sleeping soundly.

  Lucky stood at the living room window and watched her friends take up their positions. She looked beyond them toward her garden. She kept a large vegetable patch on the south-facing slope leading down to the river. The land surrounding the house and garage was lined by overflowing perennial beds and terracotta pots of varying sizes filled with colorful annuals. Over the years, she’d constructed arrangements of stone and rock to add accent to the gardens. Lately the heat had been so intense, the rain so infrequent, and Lucky so busy with the baby, that the plants were calling out for water, dying like a remnant of the Foreign Legion, lost in the Sahara.

  She made iced tea from the pot of English Breakfast prepared earlier, and the women outside chatted amongst themselves. But before the ice cubes had melted, and the last of the grandchild photographs had been admired, a dark SUV came up the driveway. It was followed by a white truck with Trafalgar City Police painted across the sides.

  Jody Burke jumped out of the car and Constable Dave Evans emerged, without much enthusiasm, from the police car.

  They walked toward the house.

  The women on the porch rocked rocking chairs or settled back into cushions. One woman had brought her knitting—balls of white wool spread around her feet like the ground beneath a copse of cottonwood in spring.

  Jody Burke stopped about five yards before the stairs. “I’m here to see Mrs. Smith.”

  “She’s busy caring for a baby.” An elderly woman peered at the intruders through thick, black-trimmed glasses. Her gray hair was thinning on top and a network of deep lines carved through the skin of her sharp-boned face. She wore Birkenstocks with white socks pulled up to her knees, colorful shorts and a matching top. Her right arm was wrapped in a cast. Jane Reynolds, former professor of physics, was retired from active teaching and research, and these days spent her time visiting her grandchildren and traveling the world as an internationally known peace and environmental activist.

  Burke planted her feet into the ground. Dave Evans fingered his belt, adjusted his hat, and watched a large black raven cross the blue sky.

  Jane had suggested that Lucky stay out of sight and let her handle things. Lucky peeked out from behind the living room blinds. Sylvester was shut in the pantry, howling.

  Burke looked at Jane. “I’m here to speak to Mrs. Smith.”

  Moving with great care and deliberation, Jane got to her feet. She walked stiffly toward the steps, as if her old bones were hurting her. “Mrs. Smith is busy, as I may have mentioned.”

  Burke took a deep breath. She stared at the three aging women blocking her way.

  Jane held out her hand. “May I see your authorization to take the child, please?”

  Burke shifted. “I was hoping we could do this without any fuss.”

  They were so desperate for good foster families in the province, Lucky almost expected a call asking if she’d like to take another baby, or maybe two. Why Burke had it in for her, Lucky couldn’t imagine. She’d never met the woman until the other day.

  A good friend of Jane’s worked mornings at the lawyer’s office directly across the street from the police station. From her office she had an excellent view of the front door, the door that members of the public walked in and out of all day. Jane’s friend didn’t seem to get too much work done (she was the mother of the senior partner) but she was a mine of information about the comings and goings of the police and public. When Lucky told Jane about Jody Burke and her determination to take Miller, Jane said she’d ask her friend to keep an eye out for any attempts to involve the police in the custody of Miller Doe. Jody had marched into the police station this morning; the lawyer’s mother called Jane, and Jane called her supporters and ordered them into position.

  “Without any fuss,” Jane repeated, her voice pitched as if she were lecturing to a hall full of first year students. “Or legally? Dave, it’s nice to see you, dear. I hope you’re well?”

  “Yes, M’m,” Evans mumbled, looking as if he wished aliens would descend from the skies and kidnap him from this very spot.

  Dave Evans had broken Jane Reynolds’ arm when he’d shoved her to the ground to protect her from a fire bomb. Small towns, Lucky thought, feeling a small knot of pleasure in her chest. There was no way Dave would ever arrest, or even speak firmly to, Jane.

  “Ms Burke?” Jane said, her hand still outstretched. “May I see your legal papers ordering the surrender of the child in question?”

  Burke stood her ground. “As you may not be aware, I am authorized by the province of British Columbia to act on its behalf. I don’t need a court order.”

  “You mean you couldn’t get one,” Jane said. “Dave, why are you here?”

  Evans shrugged. “Ms. Burke came into the station and asked for a police escort. She, ahem, said the baby might be in danger if Mrs. Smith wouldn’t hand him over. Sorry, Mrs. Reynolds, but the Sarge told me to come. I don’t know anything more about it. But, well, if you don’t have a court order, Ms. Burke, you can’t go into Mrs. Smith’s house, and I can’t ask her to bring out the child.”

  A light breeze rustled the tops of the cottonwood trees by the river, and a hummingbird hovered in the air, its wings moving to a beat faster than the eye could follow, searching for nectar in the feeders Lucky had hung on either end of the porch. They were empty, and the tiny bird darted away.

  The door opened and Lucky stepped outside. The heat enveloped her like a burka. No one said a word. The windows of the police truck were down and they could hear the radio crackle to life as Evans called in, asking—begging—for instructions.

  Burke stared at Lucky. Her eyes were cold and hard.

  She turned and walked back to her car.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Hey Chris, It’s me.”

  “Oh. Hi.” Not the warmest of greetings.

  “I’m in town, not working today, and thought it would be fun to have breakfast and catch up,” Molly said into the phone.

  “I’ve eaten.”

  “Okay, it’s late for breakfast. How about meeting me at Eddie’s for a coffee?”

  Christa hesitated. “I don’t know. Today’s the day I planned to get started reading for my courses. Class starts next
week.”

  “That’s great, Chris, I was… well, after what happened I was afraid you’d drop out of school.”

  “You mean after Charlie beat the shit out of me because you wouldn’t help me?”

  Smith closed her eyes and saw her friend’s body after John Winters had found Christa lying in the stairwell of her apartment: face like the butcher’s best steak, hair thick with drying blood, broken teeth. Paramedics loading her into the ambulance.

  “I’m sorry, Chris. I’m so sorry,” Smith said, so softly that Christa might not have heard. “I tried.”

  “Not hard enough.”

  Smith hat begun to say goodbye when she heard Christa whisper “wait”. The phone didn’t disconnect and after a long pause Christa said, “Dad’s agreed to pay whatever the dentist charges, so I might end up better looking after this.” She had a minor overbite; lots of guys thought it cute, but Christa figured it made her look like Bugs Bunny. “Have you heard anything about Charlie?”

  “Nothing new. He was refused bail because John, Sergeant Winters, said he was a danger to you. You’ll be notified of what happens.”

  “Will I have to testify? Will I have to see him?” Her voice sounded small, and very frail.

  Smith hesitated. If Bassing decided to fight the charges, Christa would have to go to court. But Christa didn’t need to worry about that now. Wait and see how it turned out. If she did have to testify, Smith would accompany her friend. And sit in the front row, in uniform, all body armor and attitude. “Probably not. It could be six months or more before the trial. And it might not even come to that. You just worry about getting those courses under your belt.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sure you don’t want a coffee?”

  “I have one here. Eddie’s been sending Jolene around every morning with coffee, size gigantico, and two bagels with cream cheese.”

  “That’s nice of him.”

  “Yeah, it is. People are nice, aren’t they Molly?”

  People in Trafalgar were nice. Winters had told Smith that Eddie was upset because Christa’d been attacked on her way home from his shop. Her breakfast bagel, tossed onto the lawn, had alerted Winters and Smith that something was wrong.

  “But I can’t be relying on Eddie and Jolene forever, can I?” Christa said.

  “No.” Smith cleared her throat.

  “Maybe we could have coffee tomorrow? Or another day this week?”

  “Tomorrow would be good. How about I call you in the morning?”

  “Okay, Molly. Bye.”

  “Bye, Chris.”

  Smith hung up the phone as Brad Noseworthy came into the constables’ office, laughing at something that had been said out in the hallway.

  Tears were gathering behind her eyes and she blinked rapidly, wishing them away.

  “You okay, Molly?”

  “Yeah, Brad. Couldn’t be better.” She turned to him with a big smile. “Except that I’m starving.”

  ***

  “Speaking of methadone,” Ray Lopez said. “I heard you talking about Julian Armstrong earlier, before we were interrupted. He’s new to town and is helping Amin out at the clinic. What’s your interest?”

  “Just interest. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  “Never would have thought of that, Boss. Glad you reminded me.”

  “You don’t have work to do, Ray? Keeping trouble from the streets of our town?”

  They waited for the light to change, watching as a man, blond-streaked dreadlocks tied into a series of knots at the top of his head, beard half-way down his chest, strolled across the street, against the light. Winters considered giving the guy a warning, but he let it pass. He’d taken his detective out for a coffee, although Lopez was trying to reduce his intake and had instead ordered a carrot juice. His doctor had told him to cut down on caffeine, sugar, and fat. Lopez had managed to get down to one cup of coffee a day, surviving for the rest of the day on what he hoped were healthy enough drinks to compensate for the fact that he had no intention of giving up his daily lunch of Chinese take-out, or a hearty dinner followed by something from Madeline’s repertoire of desserts. Lopez filled Winters in on the state of his investigation into the hard drugs dripping—slowly, but still coming—into town. Not much, was the essence of the Detective’s report. The undercover officer had been shown the morgue photo of Ashley, but didn’t recognize her. Which meant nothing except that they couldn’t prove she’d been hanging around the heroin dealer they were after. It had been a long shot anyway.

  Molly Smith walked by on the other side of the road, fair hair standing on end, long, muscular brown legs topped with khaki shorts, feet wrapped in sturdy sports sandals. She caught sight of the detectives and lifted her hand in greeting before continuing on her way.

  “Now she,” Winters said, “would be a great plant.”

  “If everyone between here and Vancouver didn’t know who she is,” Lopez said with a grin. “Can you imagine Molly trying to work undercover, while her mother and her pals burst into the deal, telling everyone to just get along.”

  Winters exhaled. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

  The light changed and Winters crossed the street, back to the station.

  A welcome blast of frosty air hit him as he opened the door. Dave Evans was leaning on the counter by the dispatch desk, Kevlar vest undone, rolling a can of Coke back and forth across his red cheeks. His underarms and the front of his uniform shirt were so wet, he might have put them on directly out of the washing machine. “Waste of time,” he said to Denton as Winters came in. “Should have known that woman wouldn’t have a chance in hell against Lucky and her bunch.”

  “What’s Lucky Smith up to now?” Winters asked.

  “Stupid social worker tried to take that baby found at the Ashley Doe scene away from her. She came in here and led the Sarge to believe that Mrs. Smith was in contempt of court so she needed a police escort in case Lucky resisted.”

  “She didn’t have an order?”

  “She had absolutely nothing. Not even any moral authority. No reason Mrs. Smith can’t take care of a homeless baby as well as a foster family. Made me look like a damned fool.”

  “Not that that’s a first, Dave,” Denton said.

  “Ha, ha,” the constable replied. He popped the tab on his can of pop. “You try taking on Molly Smith’s mother. I’d rather go up against Tony Soprano. Tell Molly that and you’re a dead man.”

  Denton laughed. “I had a few run-ins with Lucky Smith in my early days in Trafalgar. I’d show you my scars but the Sergeant’s watching.”

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” Winters said. He walked down the corridor to his office.

  After taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair, he sat down and started up his computer. The phone rang, routed from the central number by Denton.

  “John Winters.”

  “Yeah, hi.” It was a male, probably young, the voice tending toward the higher end of the register.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Are you the guy in charge of the investigation I read about in the paper?”

  Winters restrained a sigh. “Can you tell me what investigation you’re referring to, sir?”

  “The girl, Ashley, found dead behind the women’s support center?”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Kinda. We weren’t friends, you understand. I mean I’ve seen her around town, her and her baby. In the coffee shops, on the streets. You know.”

  Of course Winters knew. A lot of people had seen Ashley walking around town, but no one could tell the police anything worthwhile about her. The girl might as well have been a ghost. But there must be some reason Denton put this call through to Winters, rather than just taking down the caller’s information.

  “Do you know something about her?” Sometimes he thought he might as well have made his mother proud and become a dentist. This job could be like pulling teeth.

  “About how she died, no. I was
sure sorry to hear about it.”

  “Then why are you calling?”

  “Uh, well. It’s like this. I saw her arguing with a man a day or so before her death. I thought maybe you’d like to know.”

  Winters stopped drawing circles on his notepad. “Arguing?”

  “Like really intense, you know.”

  “Can I ask your name?”

  The man hesitated.

  “I like to know who I’m talking to, that’s all. I’m John Winters.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m Mike. Mike Jergens.”

  “I’d like to hear about this argument you overheard, Mike. But first of all, can you be more specific about the date? Did you notice the time?”

  “Tuesday or Wednesday, maybe? It wasn’t Monday, cause I’m closed on Monday. Most days, I go for coffee around five, when Debbie, my assistant, comes in. They were standing outside Big Eddie’s, the coffee place?”

  “I know it.”

  “I saw Ashley arguing with a man. It was, like I said, real intense. She was shouting. I particularly remember because the baby was crying. That was pretty unusual. Ashley’s baby’s always so good.”

  Not, Winters thought, according to Molly Smith. “Do you know what they were arguing about?”

  “Only what Ashley told me.”

  Winters wanted to reach down the phone line and wrap the other end around Mike Jergen’s neck. “You spoke to her about this?”

  “For a couple of minutes. She was upset, so I bought her a coffee.”

  Winters looked at the ceiling. There was nothing of interest there so he looked at his computer. The logo of the Trafalgar City Police skipped around the screen. He took a breath. “I’d like to talk to you in person, Mike. Where can I find you?”