And On the Surface Die

by Lou Allin

  She sat on a sun-bleached log and collected smooth white stones, placing them artfully as beachcombers often did, watching for the true prize, a piece of time-polished glass. The rote motions helped her think. Police work wasn’t all action. What if often helped, but that’s funny was an even better phrase. Who had given Angie the drugs? Would anything turn up at her house? If they found a meth lab in the bush, would that bring any answers? She shuddered, knowing that arrests often spread like a poisonous tide, revealing the rot underneath the pleasant surface. But progress beat stasis.

  Shogun trip-tropped toward her, something odd in his mouth. His jaws were working like a baby’s with a soother. “What’s that?” Suddenly she froze. It was a splintery rib bone, probably from someone’s picnic. “Leave it!” She might be driving to the vet instead of forking down mac and cheese.

  He caught her excitement and gamboled down the beach, glancing back in an insolent dare. She followed, tripping on the cobble, angrier by the moment, mostly at herself for a lack of vigilance. Finally, a wave caught his small body, and he dropped his morsel, eyes slitted and his prick ears floppy with water. She waded in, soaking her feet, and grabbed his collar. “You’re under arrest for possession of a controlled substance.” “Biting” him with her hand as his mother would have, she gave him a gentle shake to let him know who was in charge. “And you’d better not have swallowed anything. Ve haf vays.”

  Seven

  Whitehouse called that morning. “I had to stay at the Didrickson house until after eleven. Jesus. I hate that Sooke Road. The berm is crumbling between a couple of rock cuts, and the oncoming jackasses are over the line. I deserve danger pay,” he said.

  Holly wished that she’d been invited to the search. “No surprises in her room, then?”

  “Not one secret diary.” He paused. “Ferreting around in underwear drawers like a pervert. I didn’t sign on for this.”

  Holly suppressed a smile at the more human image. “If you’re sure. I can go over it myself. Maybe a woman—”

  “What do you mean, ‘sure’? Listen here. I’ve done a hundred similar searches. There was no sign of drugs of any kind. Are you suggesting that I take the Canine Unit over there to sniff the place out?”

  Did dogs include crystal meth in their repertoire? Was this his idea of a joke? “Of course not. What about her computer?” Safe to assume every teenager had one.

  His tone was gruff. “That’s the first place I looked. Her password for booting was automatic, so no problem. Doesn’t look like she had anything to hide.”

  “Proves that she trusted her father. He seemed like a decent guy.”

  “My kids zipped their lips around me. But while they lived in my house, I gave their rooms a thorough and unannounced search every month. Kept them honest, I’ll tell you.”

  Holly couldn’t imagine her parents in this invasion of privacy. What kind of relationship did he have with his children? And where was his wife? “What about her history?”

  “Just swim stuff. Didn’t even belong to Myspace or Facebook.” He paused. “That’s unusual in itself. She was no joiner, I guess. Her word-processing program was used for school assignments.”

  “So she was serious and didn’t waste time. That fits with what we know. How about the Favourites command?”

  A deep sigh came over the lines. She could sense him drumming his knobby fingers. “Winter Olympics. Swim information. University websites like Calgary and Waterloo. Nutrition. Crystal Meth B.C.”

  “What?” Hair on the back of her neck prickled.

  “She was a contributor. Signed in to the forums, even under her own name. Her posts were extremely anti-meth. That’s what the website’s for. To help addicts and inform the public.”

  “What about the password?”

  He sniffed in disdain. “Angie had a tiny notebook with all her dedicated passwords. Good thing no one tried to clean out her bank account.”

  Holly remembered a few classes from basic training. No computer geek herself, she knew enough to protect herself from phishing. “Erased files can be retrieved.”

  “Are you telling me that? I collected the hard drive to send in to Forensics. That’ll take another week.” He let a moment pass. “A waste of time. All we’re doing is looking for a smalltime pusher or someone who passed on this crap. This case has had all the resources it deserves.”

  She told him about the memorial service. “Fine, fine,” he said before hanging up. At least he hadn’t asked her again about whether she’d contacted the staff. Clearly he was moving on.

  The secretary at Notre Dame said that Kim’s free period was at ten, same as Terry Grove’s. That gelled with the memorial service at eleven. Taking her car, Holly reached the Sooke limits, turned up busy Grant Rd, then over to Church past one of the few surviving farms in the core. A small herd of beef cattle grazed the stony ground, oblivious to the rampant development around them. A familiar old black bull with a broken horn raised his head and lowed. That’s when she realized that she was driving the same route that had taken her to high school for three years. An assembly line for the petty kingdom of girls.

  Notre Dame Academy on Warren Street had capitalized on a strong Roman Catholic presence in the post-war period. It had been well supported by the timber and fishing barons who wanted their daughters safe nearby. When enrollment gradually dropped, not long after Holly had left, it went coed. Now the ballooning population of the Sooke area, with its cookie-cutter developments for younger people and their children, might inject new blood.

  The Romanesque red brick building with white trim had two stories, a gymnasium at one end, and a fenced athletic field out back with a baseball diamond and soccer goal posts. In Holly’s day, the Saints soccer team had excelled. She remembered watching some of their games at Fred Milne Field. Opponents came from all over the province. Today a homemade sign read: “Game of the Year. Comox. Meet at the Log. Bring your helmut.”

  She entered the building as a bell rang, signaling a period change. The students paid her no notice, probably imagining that she was here for the service. The uniform was short kilts on the girls and dress pants for the boys. Both wore white shirts and dark ties, though a cardigan was allowed. Only on weekends did Notre Dame students experiment with Goth or gangsta couture. She’d seen them gathered around food joints at the Evergreen Mall, talking on cell phones and passing around cigarettes.

  Notre Dame hadn’t been Holly’s choice. Her family had been free-thinking agnostics, but her father had perceived that a better education might be hers, religious instruction aside. Sending her all the way to Victoria to historic St. Margaret’s was too expensive. “It’s time you had a fresh perspective,” he would say. “The island is a small place, and you don’t want a mind to match.”

  “What about the heaven, hell, and sin stuff?” she asked, sprawled on the sofa and leafing through the school brochure.

  “This says we have to go to mass every Friday. Even confession?”

  He chuckled. “Fairy tales, my dear. But mind your manners and don’t make fun of them. Catholics don’t like that. You’re there for the small classes. And the Latin. A good basis for any discipline. What’s the name for skunk cab—”

  Holly didn’t need to open her threadbare Plants of Coastal British Columbia. “Lysichiton americanum.”

  Her mother flipped a rolled-up Mother Jones magazine onto the table. “Say what you will about public school, “she told Norman, “it’s moving forward instead of being rooted in the past. A live culture. Not like dead languages and the frivolous things you teach.” Her voice rose, and she paced the room, gesturing passionately.

  “Snobs are better than thugs, Bonnie.” Sitting in his recliner in the solarium, her father rattled the Sooke News Mirror. “Look at this police-beat report. Drinking and vandalism at the old graveyard again. Tombstones broken and defaced. No pride in their pioneer heritage. If they had more homework, they wouldn’t have the time to get into trouble. And at least Notre Dame keeps
a sharp lookout on absenteeism.” He shot a smile at Holly. “Not that we need to worry about that.”

  On the way to the main office, she passed a familiar mural depicting the timber industry, in this community everyone’s “friend”. The long panel in Grandma Moses style showed a stream full of shimmering, leaping fish. On one side, trees were being cut, logged and hauled as neatly as a pack of yellow pencils. On the other, an army of jolly planters was investing in silviculture futures. A picnic with happy children was arranged in the final corner. No clear-cutting, no run-off, no burning and no diesel fumes. Did anyone really believe it, or were they glad to keep their jobs in the faltering industry? The alarming fact was that the companies owned over eleven per cent of the island, and eighty per cent of the old growth had been logged in the last forty years. Other than inaccessible mountain passes and a few protected areas like Cathedral Grove, little of the original beauty was left.

  “Office”, the sign on the smoked-glass door read: “Visitors please register.” Holly had gone there every day as a student. Finished her work in half the time, she had made an ideal messenger and often carried supplies around the school. The secretary, an older red-headed woman with buck teeth but a welcoming smile, told her that the principal, Dave Mack, was at a conference in Burnaby. Brightening as he saw her face, Paul Gable came from an adjoining office. “Corporal Martin. Good to see you again. I’m so glad you could make it.” He gave her tailored suit and low pumps an approving glance. “You didn’t wear your uniform. That’s probably better. In this age, the days of Officer Friendly are over, sadly enough. Much too adversarial now.”

  “I’d be glad to give a talk on Career Day or whatever it’s called.”

  He beamed then pulled out a pocket planner and made a note. “What a super idea. I’ll give you a call in April. And I’ll have our counsellor reel in the girls. We need more female officers.”

  “I’m afraid I’m here on business, too.” She sighed. “We have an inspector in from West Shore and some new developments.”

  “I heard about the interviews and hoped that they were just a final formality.” He straightened his striped tie and adjusted the folded handkerchief in the pocket of his sportcoat. Then he pulled out a pack of gum and pushed out a square, popping it in his mouth. Nico-Ban. “This isn’t going to be good for the students. What a nightmare.”

  Holly nodded in sympathy and tried for a confident smile. “I need to talk to Ms Bass and the coach again.”

  Gable looked around as the secretary bundled papers together and went into the hall, leaving them alone. His voice lowered, and he leaned forward, checking that the door was shut. “Is it true that crystal meth was involved? Lindsey Benish spread the word, not that I trust that little...girl. Meth here, for god’s sake. And brought on the class trip? I blame myself.” He twisted his face in embarrassment. She imagined that he must have faced serious criticism with the drowning happening on his watch.

  “How could you have prevented it? Strip-search the students?”

  He shook his head in concern. “We try to keep current, but even our drug awareness programs can’t offer total protection, not when a new chemical thrill lurks around every corner. Our nurse is only part-time, but she monitors the drug scene. Listen to this.”

  He told her about “cheese”, the latest high. A combination of black heroin and cold medication, one snort for a couple of dollars. Problem was, the unreliable nature of the purity of the heroin had killed several youths in Vancouver.

  “Alcohol is still the main problem, though. Teenagers are picked up every weekend, usually remanded to their parents. How would you say Notre Dame stacks up?” Holly was making the logical connection between any kind of mood-altering substance.

  He gave a furtive look around the office and into the hall. “I’m going to level with you, but I’d rather you didn’t spread the word around, because who needs that publicity? Sure, we have a few bad apples. Bring beer to school, take off on their lunch hours. For a second offense, they’re expelled. Three so far this year, no matter how their parents bitched. And we’re working with the liquor stores this spring for a Dry Grad. The system’s far from perfect, but we’re as proactive as we can be.”

  It had been the same when Holly had been a student. With all the aging hippies in Sooke, getting marijuana was as easy as buying a pop. Beer was also in quick supply. She remembered tasting her first after a soccer game at sixteen. She’d kept herself clean after changing majors, knowing that a career in law enforcement had no room for substance abuse. They’d been warned that even a misdemeanor could prevent them from entering the RCMP.

  “People blame the school, they blame the parents, but everyone’s in charge of himself. We tell the students about these critical choices.” A worm of a question crossed his large brow. “Do you know any more about how she got it? Do you suppose she came in contact with someone in Port Renfrew? It’s a tough place. The students mentioned seeing a few local boys the first day at the beach.”

  “I have a couple of names to follow up on.” She wondered if he knew about Billy and Mike and guessed that he was grasping at any opportunity to pass the blame away from his own students. “We have doubts that she took the drug on her own.”

  He gave a sharp intake of breath, then exhaled slowly. “My thoughts exactly. Certainly not Angie.” A frown passed across his features like a dark cloud. “But who would do such a thing? I see now why you need to re-interview people. How can I help? Can I show you around?”

  “I graduated from here...more than a few years ago.” She pointed at the old regulator clock, out of place in a digital world. “Several times I sat out a detention in this office. Skipping religion class.”

  He assessed her with a smile. “From your age, no disrespect meant, you must have been here in the glory days. Five hundred students. They came in from Victoria, even Duncan. We offered more electives then, the drama club, band and choir. Fewer sports, of course. All girls. I can’t imagine that. Half of the teachers were nuns, I hear.”

  She made a brandishing gesture. “Let me tell you, they wielded a mean pointer and weren’t afraid to break it over your head. How about you? When did you arrive?”

  “This is my second year. The wife was sick of winter and wanted to move to the island, and they had an opening, so I transferred from a diocese on the mainland. Pulled a few connections, and the timing was good. We hit here just before the housing market went bananas. Forty per cent assessment increase in one year.” He mimicked a rocket. “But I didn’t know about the enrollment crisis. We’re scraping by with only two hundred and twenty-five. If we don’t see a substantial jump in numbers...let’s just saying I’m praying as hard as I can.”

  “The new housing developments might save the day. Who says sewers aren’t a blessing in disguise?” Many plots in the core which had no percolation for septic systems could now be parcelled out and sold. Money in the bank for retirees.

  “Let’s hope so. I like it here. So does Elanie.”

  The clock ticked on, prodding her. “Is Coach Grove in his office?” She remembered the layout of the school. Holly had played intramural baseball. Right field. She always cringed when the ball came her way. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Imagine you’ll drop it, and you will. Still, her hitting and base running had compensated for that embarrassing weakness. Was that choking mechanism waiting for another opportunity?

  Gable’s stomach rumbled, and he gave it a rueful pat. “Oops. Shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. Terry should be there. With a small staff, we know where everyone is at any time. I’ll give him a buzz to stay put.

  “I guess you know your way to the gym, Officer,” Gable said, giving a slight scowl to a student with a mohawk, who entered and thumped onto a bench. He looked as if he had been sent there as punishment. “Not you again, Len. Same old story?”

  “It’s a bunch of bull, Mr. Gable. I was only...”

  His words stuttered out in the changing voice of a young man as she went off do
wn the hall. A bell rang, and students poured from the classrooms in a noisy but vibrant flow. Some went to the water fountains, others jostled each other. They all carried spine-challenging backpacks. A couple of whoops echoed, and a male teacher with a trim moustache emerged from a door. “Settle down. This isn’t the circus. I have a nice fat pack of detention slips,” he said, patting his pocket in a mock threat.

  She could smell the gym before she got there. Cold, sweaty, with the silent cheers of thousands over the years and testosterone embedded in the walls, the varnished wooden bleachers that pulled out from the wall, the caged clock for basketball. Opponents. Saints. Banners on the wall from tournaments when the school was larger. Dingy grey padded mats and weight equipment. A thick rope snaking from the ceiling. The locker rooms hid at the far end. In the back corner was the coach’s lair. “Terry Grove”, a paper nametag said on a door. Not Mr. This man wanted to be a friend as well as a mentor. She knocked smartly.

  At the request to come in, she found Grove with a Dagwood sandwich, as her father would say. No doubt it beat the dismal cafeteria fare. Mayonnaise dripped down his chin.

  “Paul gave me a call,” he said, reaching for a pile of serviettes. “You have more questions about Angie. I’ve already heard the rumours. News travels. Small community, smaller school.”

  The layers of meat and cheese made her stomach churn with hunger. “I’ll be fast. Don’t want to keep you from your lunch.”

  Once again she’d forgotten to make herself something to eat.

  She took the institutional wooden chair that he offered. He put down his sandwich and pointed to the coffee machine on a side table. When she nodded, he filled a cup for her. “Decaf okay? Fair trade. Got it at Serious Coffee.”

  “Perfect.” She sipped the brew, making a mental note to pick up some for her father. At her mother’s request and his own thrift, he’d always boycotted Starbucks.