And On the Surface Die

by Lou Allin

  Her foot trembled on the gas pedal, and the car shuddered to a stop as she pulled over. Hadn’t her father’s friend Madeleine mentioned a VW camper hidden in the woods near this spot? Holly examined her options, drumming her fingers on the wheel. The CD player thumped out k.d. lang’s “High Time for a Detour”. Then she made her only choice. She called Ann on her cell and described her suspicions. “Remember how Gable’s wife said that he went camping? I’m going up to the Potholes to check for the van. Twenty minutes max.”

  “Bad idea. It’s solid trees up there. Big mothers. What if you get trapped? If he’s around, he’s not getting out of the area. But chances are, if he saw the weather coming, he left a long time ago.”

  “What about Janice? I have to satisfy myself. Remember the school body shop and that missing paint.”

  “At least let me check to see if there’s an update. Maybe the kid’s home. Damn it, Holly, don’t you realize—”

  Holly clapped the phone shut. It was five o’clock. Some feeble light remained amid the dark torrents of water and raging sky. As she turned up the road, she passed Wink’s restaurant and convenience store. Beyond was the soccer field, the safest place in town. Broad and open with an osprey nest at the top of one tall floodlight. There was one windy perch to wait out a storm, she thought with a grim laugh. Then the trees got larger. Some were three hundred years old, up to five feet at the base, nothing like the first-growth eight-foot-wide round at the Sooke Museum, but jaw-dropping all the same. Douglas firs were the tallest on the island. They could live for thirteen-hundred years and reach one hundred metres. With even greater lifespans, some cedars were twenty feet at the butt. Wonderful to behold, but an entire forest when they fell, bringing tons of debris. What had her father said when he had hired a service to cut the last two killer firs on their property? “I want to go to the trees, not see the trees come to my living room.”

  On one side of the road, the sagging hydro wires tossed like spaghetti. By now, either the power was off or every street should have an officer posted. At a corner near a trailer park, a loose tin roof on a shed clattered. Shingles from some hapless property fluttered across the road like a deck of cards. She felt Shogun’s warm velvet muzzle creep over the side of the seat, nudge the belt aside, and rest on her shoulder, an oddly endearing and self-taught gesture.

  She passed Charters Creek, then Todd Creek, with their legendary trestles upstream, prized by photographers. These tributaries were prime salmon territory, and the fish were finishing their runs. Water was flooding over the bridge boards, and one plank seemed dislodged. Maintenance had been minimal lately with budget cuts at the Capital Regional District, which managed the park. As she got out of the car to gauge the stability, she gagged at the smell of rotting salmon carcasses. Come back to spawn, the female laid her eggs and the male covered them with milt. The nest, or “redd”, was hidden under gravel. Exhausted and mere shadows of their rainbow selves, the faded fish waited in the quiet shallows to die. From her peripheral vision, she spotted movement in the bush. A juvenile black bear was feasting on the remains, eating only the heads. Seeing her, it rose to its feet and chick-chick-chickered. Nearly soundless through the din, the bear’s message was clear in its body language. Mine. Keep away. Shogun was pawing at the window, frantic to come to her “rescue”.

  She got back in, trying to shake the stink off her clothes. At least the road was deserted. Everyone was wise enough to hunker down in their homes, praying that the trees they should have cut wouldn’t crush them.

  At last she reached the main parking entrance, including a cement-block bathroom, an information kiosk, and a collection box for fees. The mountainous and rocky terrain belied the fact that in the Thirties and Forties the area had been a farm where turkey and prize-winning Jersey cattle had been raised. Deertrails, the home of the Weilers, had passed into the hands of a developer in the Eighties and had attracted interest from architects and investors worldwide. What a challenge to incorporate a massive stone lodge and recreational complex on top of this steep cliff. Wealthy tourists would have paid hundreds a night to stay here. Though built in her lifetime and a source of wonder every time she passed, this Camelot’s builder had the vision of Arthur but not the resources, and a fire had ravaged the initial efforts. Its timbers burned, and only the rusted beams of its steel structure intact, two massive chimneys lifted into the air, fireplaces large enough to roast oxen. To the right, the river danced and broiled in steep cataracts. Stairways led to scenic views. To prevent vandalism and injuries, the place was fenced with chainlink. One pet owner had fallen to his death when his dog ventured too close.

  The storm howled on, venting its rage down the narrowing canyon. It was verging on dark, the purpling shadows making inspection difficult. Madeleine had been walking farther up, where the Goose intersects before kilometre 49. Holly made her way through more deserted parking lots and reached the empty camping area. Down she drove through the hills, squinting against the pouring rain that blurred the windshield, despite the manic blades. More than once, she stopped to let the windows clear with the defroster. Shogun was fogging the cab with his breath. She imagined he was hungry, missing his lunch. Her stomach growled with companionable protest, and she felt lightheaded as she gripped the wheel. This was no time to think of food, yet the body needed fuel. She rummaged in her glove compartment for a stale granola bar. Shogun licked the shards, nabbing a raisin, which she’d heard were toxic to dogs. About to turn back, she thought she saw something far off, white against the muted green and browns of the landscape.

  “Jesus. I wonder,” she muttered to herself, feeling the sugar surge kick in. Was it a mirage? Were her eyes too tired to focus? One side of the road was eroding with flood water, and she drove at a banana slug’s pace. Finally she stopped at a cement barrier, picked up a hefty Maglite, and opened the car door. A solid wall of water, SWOW as her father called it, poured in and soaked her from hat to boots. Shogun whined at her departure, and stuck his head over the headrest. She recalled that he hadn’t been let out for a pee. Moving the seat forward, she said, “Get out. Quick one only. No fooling around.”

  Instantly he lifted his leg to decorate her tire. She walked a few paces toward the white object as her focus sharpened. The hat brim couldn’t protect her from horizontal rain, and she wiped her eyes. Suddenly the dog’s ruff hairs went up. Before she could grab him, he rushed forward. “Shogun, no!” She stumbled after him, falling and thumping her knee.

  Nose to the ground like a bloodhound, the dog moved around bushes and charged toward the river, its torrents raging over the crash of the storm. Then she saw the dark green van emerge from the background like Arnold in Predator. Other than the white curtains, the van was perfectly camouflaged amid the trees.

  Head dipped in the classic herding pose, shepherd’s lantern tail flipping from side to side, Shogun began circling the van. Holly moved to the rear door. Pepper spray? In this holocaust, she might as well aim at herself. But overkill was dangerous. She flipped open her holster and drew her Taser, feeling its smooth power ease into her hand, a true equalizer, but not to be used lightly. She flashed her light at the paint. It looked fresh. There was always the chance this wasn’t Gable, but the percentages were moving in her favour. A bumper sticker read “Free Tibet”, along with a bright blue and yellow national flag. “Hello,” she yelled, rapping at the rear door. “Police. Are you all right?” Whoever was in there, even Gable, must be frightened to death. But did he have a weapon? She could see nothing through the curtain, only a vague bluish light. As seconds ticked by and her heartbeat tripled, a fierce barking arose. Tiny paws scuffled on the back windows. Chucky?

  Then the door flew open, flinging the Taser to god knows where. With a roar, Gable leaped out, hatchet in hand, a deadly caricature. He struck at her, but she parried with the Maglite and fell back, bruising her hip on a picnic bench. When the Yorkie rushed out like a rabid squirrel, Shogun gave a mortal howl that began with a roo and proceeded to a guttur
al barking that matched his name. Chucky laid back his ears and squealed under attack as they whirled circles around each other. In the melee, Gable moved toward her, menacing the hatchet. His face, rough with days of beard, looked pale green in the light. “Bitch,” he growled. “Why didn’t you just leave me alone? I didn’t do anything. I didn’t.”

  Staggering to her feet, her hip and knee throbbing, Holly fingered open her holster and pointed the gun at Gable. “Stop, Paul. Everything’s over. I don’t want anyone hurt.” When he swung the axe toward her, she gave a warning shot in the air. “Don’t make me do this.”

  Moving his hand to the edge of the axe head, Gable took off on a path toward the river, Chucky at his heels, a dust mop with fangs. The man wore a leaf-coloured camo outfit but only socks, as his hesitant steps and the occasional yelp proved. He wouldn’t get far dressed like that, Holly reasoned, so she stopped to think out the situation that the storm had complicated. She needed to call for backup, but cell phones didn’t work in these hills. She had no choice but to capture and handcuff him, then get out while they could. Or wasn’t that an option any more? In his state of mind, he had nothing to lose. She didn’t even have the police car to contain him.

  She gripped Shogun by his collar. Then a whimper made her turn to the van. In the cramped space, Janice Mercer shivered, her pudding face wide with terror. She wore no glasses, and her skin was sallow, her hair greasy hanks. Holly reached in and tossed her a blanket from the floor. “Stay here! I’ll be back,” she called, shutting the door. On second thought, how could the girl go anywhere?

  Time was a whisper before the accompanying terrors of complete darkness where the worst would be imagined. The wind howled, and trees creaked in all directions like an arthritic symphony. One by one as the gusts attacked, their heavy branches surrendered and fell to the sodden ground. Where would Gable go? It was hours back to town, and he was on foot. With luck, he could travel a few kilometres to the houses on Sooke River Road, menace the inhabitants, even steal a car. Was the road east to Victoria closed by now? Then she froze, her “what if ” reasoning kicking in. Suppose he doubled back and grabbed the Prelude? She’d left the keys inside.

  Holly followed Shogun, who had found a job and was on the trail of the two, his ears pricked, flicking from time to time in the rain. Though he wasn’t by nature a tracking dog and was often fooled by the twists and turns of the circuitous paths, he kept ahead of Holly. Her hair was plastered to her head, and her clothes soaked, but she was boiling from exertion. Salty sweat seeping into her eyes made them sting. She searched the area for signs of Gable, losing sight of Shogun in the distance. Ahead she could see the towers of Camelot. They were back at the ruins, beside the cliff at its steepest, most dangerous point.

  Then she heard a dogfight, as feral and primitive as in prehistoric times when all canines were wolves. Shogun was a friend to all the world, but this ankle biter he didn’t care for. It had attacked his mistress. Suppose Gable hit him with the axe, a natural reaction when he was running for his life? She struggled on and at last came to the fenced edge of the site, her breath coming in short puffs, her lungs aching. She wiped rain from her face and followed the sounds to her absolute horror. On one precarious ledge beyond a gap in two posts, nearly inaccessible to humans, Chucky and Shogun were battling it out, spitting and raging at each other, their fangs white and sharp. Gable was hauling huge gulps of air. His shoulders drooped as he turned an odd stare at her, dead inside but one small spark ignited by his devotion to the animal. “Call off your dog! That’s not a fair fight.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Her heart raced to see Shogun scrabbling for purchase on the edge, a volley of small stones scattering over the cliff. With space at a premium, the tiny terrier had a size advantage. “Shogun, here!” Gesturing with her left hand, she clutched her gun and kept it aimed as she balanced at the precipice. Gable might be playing for a break or revealing a weak underbelly as he watched his dog’s perilous last stand. Mesmerized by the spectacle, she shook herself back to reality. People, not dogs must be the priority. They were close enough that she could hit him in an arm or leg. Still, they were hours from medical help. He might die from blood loss. The possibilities made her sick with indecision. He was a monster. Guilty of kidnapping, possible molestation, not to forget attempted murder in Billy’s case and, she was sure, the death of Angie. The list went on, folding back into itself. This was not a deal-making television show. Why hadn’t she figured it out before? Too hesitant to stand up to Whitehouse? Thank god Ann had made the breakthrough. And Chipper, too, finding out about the van. They were a team, but would they ever work together again?

  Miraculously skirting Gable with the delicate taps of a ballerina as he made his nimble way along the cliff, Shogun returned to her. Tail up in aggression, he kept glancing around at Gable and that “stick” in his hand as if wondering if he should forgive all sins if the man tossed his favourite toy. Groaning in despair, Gable put down the axe, crouched onto the ledge and began inching toward Chucky. The dog was shivering, his tiny body tensed in the cold. Drenched, he looked no more than a pound of Big Mac makings. His marble eyes rolled in his head, and his tiny black nostrils ran with foam. “Good boy. Come to Daddy.” Gable seemed poised for a desperate lunge.

  The scene mimicked an absurdist play. Spume lashed the air as a log jam burst free and tumbled down the waterfall. Holly cupped her free hand and yelled over the noise. “Paul. Leave him. You’re going to...”

  Then the wee dog seemed to blow over into the torrent and Gable lurched forward in a last effort to grab him. His legs twisted, and he fell. Rushing to the edge, she watched his body bump and bang like a rag doll on its way down to the flooded river. The way he landed on his back on a giant tooth of rock, she knew he was dead. Salvation or suicide? But where was Chucky? Only a dog lover would ask.

  After shaking himself from head to tail, Shogun whined and led her downhill and downstream several hundred feet, where at a bend and an eddy, the tiny dog had pulled itself free of the water and crawled onto the gravel shore. Shogun ran forward and nosed him as if they’d formed an instant entente cordiale. His spirit fled with his master, Chucky allowed himself to be lifted and carried. Tucking him into her jacket, Holly gave one last look towards the river and saw Gable’s body bobbing in the wild currents, face down as it headed for the ocean...or toward whatever tree snags would entangle it. Despite the miraculous back-to-life scenarios of horror films, he would not drag himself from the water for a final round. She walked the hundred feet to the road, where progress back to the car would be faster. The heat of battle over, she began to shake with the chill.

  Light was gone except for what ambience and odd reflection remained. Without the flashlight, she’d be as helpless as a blind mole. A crash stopped her in her tracks. With a torturous groan of apology, a huge Sitka spruce fell across the road, pulling a massive cedar in its wake and leaving a rootball over twelve feet high. The pavement crumbled away under the load. Holly swore to herself. No going back to town now. With the dark and deep nature of the area, a thousand such accidents waiting to happen, that was probably the most dangerous choice.

  She didn’t like the location of the van, hidden under too many trees. She would fetch Janice and move the car into a more barren spot.

  When she reached the old VW, Janice was cowering in the back, wrapped in the blanket. Holly crawled in with the dogs, now licking each other, with a common sense of reality and alliances far wiser than man’s. Twin silver rods of a feeble electric lantern provided the only light. The van’s batteries had probably drained long ago. “How are you doing, Janice?” she asked.

  “Is he gone? Is he really gone?” the girl said. She pulled Chucky to her and stroked his tiny head as he nuzzled her face.

  “He’s not coming back. The river has him.”

  Janice broke into sobs, tears streaking her filthy cheeks. Holly reached forward to pat her shoulder. She wore a dirty sweater, ripped jeans, and pink plastic c
logs. Holly gave the girl time to regain her fragile composure.

  The van had a small bed that held barely two, a mini-fridge and stove. The rest of the space was taken up by boxes of canned goods and dried foods as well as a five-gallon container of water. The smell of damp wool and unwashed bodies filled the air.

  “Did you go with him freely, Janice? Or did he make you?” Holly asked.

  The girl nodded as another crash and thump outside reminded Holly of the danger of staying dry and warm in the vehicle. The van bounced as some great fir fist pounded the ground. The girl’s answer had been frustratingly ambiguous, but now was not the time for an improvised interview. “Don’t worry. You can tell me about it later. I know it wasn’t your fault. We have to move now, get to a safer place.” She had no idea if she could start the van, whether it had gas, or how it handled. The car was better.

  Janice’s lower lip twitched, and she shrank back against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut. “No, I’m staying. Why do we have to leave? I don’t want to get wet and cold again.”

  Holly gripped her by the arms, tight enough to mean business. “Wet and cold’s better than dead. Do you want to be crushed by a ten-ton tree? Now get out!”

  A strange procession carrying blankets and sleeping bags and bottles of water hunched its way through the blackness to Holly’s car. She folded down the seat so that the girl and dogs could stretch into the trunk. “It’s crowded but the best we can do.”

  Shogun gave a low growl as he settled. Janice mewled in alarm. “Is he going to bite me?”

  “Just border collie mumbles. Means nothing except that he thinks he’s a superior species. You’re in more danger from Chucky. Settle down. We have to find another parking spot.”