by Vicki Delany
The woman nodded, unable to smile. Her eyes and nose were red and her pale face pinched with fear. She clutched a stuffed pink elephant to her chest. “I’m Emily, and this is my daughter Poppy.” She spoke with the same accent as her husband.
The girl had a startling shock of purple hair, cut very short with one long section hanging over her right eye, but her skin was good and she’d avoided, so far, piercings any more outlandish than through her earlobes. Both arms were wrapped around her mother.
“What’s Jamie wearing?” Smith asked.
“Long brown trousers and a white jumper. A sweater,” Emily said. “It’s not a heavy jumper. He’ll be cold.”
“White’s good,” Smith said. “The color’ll stand out in the woods.”
They watched Tocek and Norman walk around the campground, Norman’s nose moving across the ground. People had gathered, attracted by the commotion and the police cars. Norman started to move into the woods.
“That’s the trail to the river,” Nigel Paulson said. “Jamie wouldn’t have gone that way. Poppy and I were getting water when he must of snuck away.”
“We checked there already,” the Mountie added.
“I’d like to see what Norman’s interested in. If you’ll stay here, sir. The less activity the better for the dog.” Tocek glanced behind him. “Constable Smith?”
Pleased to be asked, she started to walk toward him. Then she turned back to Emily and Poppy. “Would you mind?” She gestured to the elephant. “Jamie will be lost and frightened. If… I mean, when we find him, it would be nice to have something familiar.”
The woman gave her a ghost of a smile. “What a lovely idea.” She held the pink bundle close for a heartbeat and passed it over.
“He’s been taught,” Paulson called after Tocek, “over and over, if he’s lost he’s to stand still and wait for us to come for him.” His voice broke. “Please God, he hasn’t forgotten.”
A Mountie handed Smith a flashlight and, armed with a pink elephant, she followed Tocek and Norman into the woods.
Almost instantly the light and sounds from the campsite faded away. Up ahead they could hear the creek running over stones and splashing against the bank. Clouds drifted across the sky, but a thin line of white light from the waxing moon shone through the trees.
“Poor kid,” Smith said, “he must be terrified.”
“Shush,” Adam said in reply.
They soon reached the creek and Norman cast around, following who-knows-what. Tocek said nothing, and Smith stood out of the way, watching, holding the light.
Finding nothing of interest, the big dog abruptly turned and headed back to the campsite.
Smith could see the look of hope flash across the Paulson family’s faces, and then die when they saw the boy wasn’t with them. The girl, Poppy, gave a low sob and her mother gathered her close.
Again, Norman sniffed the ground. He spent a lot of time at the tent entrance. He was a German shepherd, a big one, with ears the size of satellite dishes, a long sweeping tail, and he walked with a lope, hips low to the ground. Norman was six years old and had lived and worked with Adam Tocek for five.
Molly Smith knew Adam loved her, but she sometimes thought if it came down to a choice between her and Norman, the dog would win. She smiled at the thought.
Everyone else, family, police officers, onlookers stood quietly and watched. They’d let the dog try first, and only if he didn’t come up with anything would police begin an organized search.
No one but the dog could do much until light.
Norman, Smith knew, didn’t follow a specific scent. No shirt or socks waved under the dog’s nose and a dash straight for the missing child. That was TV fantasy. He’d cast around, in larger and larger circles, seeking something that didn’t fit, following the freshest trail, a scent that broke away from all the others.
Which was why it was so important that everyone and their proverbial dog hadn’t rushed into the wilderness in search of Jamie. With numerous trials to follow, all crossing back and forth over each other, Norman wouldn’t have a chance of picking out the scent of one small boy.
“Good man, Paulson,” Tocek mumbled, in answer to her thoughts. “Kept his head and helped his wife keep hers.”
Norman plunged into the woods. Tocek and Smith followed, flicking on their flashlights. Fortunately, the Paulson family campsite was situated at the edge of the campground, the last one on this road, before the dark forest closed in. Not too much foot traffic would have come through here in the last couple of days.
“Call his name,” Tocek said. “Keep calling it. I figure a child’s more likely to find a woman’s voice unthreatening. It’s sexist, I know, but that’s why I brought you along.”
“I’m good with that,” she replied. She raised her voice. “Jamie!”
Norman had a scent now. He didn’t hesitate but moved forward at a steady loping clip. Tocek and Smith jogged behind him. She tried to keep her eyes on the ground and at the same time peer into the woods for any sign of the child. This was not a trail; the forest floor was rough, covered with broken branches and rocks, thick with undergrowth. No one needed a sprained ankle right now. Light caught the reflective strips on Norman’s vest, making him look like something otherworldly moving through the black night.
Jamie must have been lost from the moment he stepped into the woods. A couple more steps and he wouldn’t have been able to see the light from his family’s fire or the other campsites. Frightened and disoriented, he would have panicked, blundering further and further into the forest. It was getting noticeably colder. All Smith wore was a sweater; she hadn’t planned on going for a walk in the night woods. Jamie, according to his mother, wasn’t wearing much more. If Norman couldn’t find him the child would spend the night out here. A more effective search would have to wait until morning.
He couldn’t have gone far, she told herself, not in the dark, with no path to follow, on short five-year-old legs.
Norman moved quickly, not having to cast about for traces of the scent. That was good. Wasn’t it?
She could only hope he was following Jamie Paulson, not a hiker who’d been out this afternoon and was now resting at home, feet up, beer in hand, watching cop shows on T.V.
As a police dog, Norman took the same approach when following a suspect, but the communication between Adam and Norman was such the man would have let the dog know that when they found the little boy he was not to be treated as if he were an armed criminal.
Norman stopped so suddenly Smith almost crashed into Adam. The dog barked, just once, and turned his head to look at his handler. Smith might have seen a satisfied smile cross the animal’s face. “Jamie,” she called. “Jamie, where are you? Your mom and dad sent us to look for you. The dog’s very friendly, he won’t hurt you.”
Tocek patted Norman’s flank and whispered something. Norman walked around a large Western Red Cedar and barked once more.
Smith heard a sob and saw a flash of white.
A little boy was crouched at the base of the old cedar, his arms wrapped around the dog’s head and his face buried in the soft fur.
Smith squatted in front of him. “Hi, Jamie. I’m Molly and this is Norman. Look what I brought you.”
He lifted his head. A scratch on his cheek leaked blood. Tracks of tears flowed through the dirt, blood, and snot covering his face. The right knee of his pants was torn, the cloth streaked with blood. He’d lost one shoe and had holes in his sock. She held out the pink elephant and he grabbed it, the other hand still clutching Norman’s fur.
“I wanted to see a bear,” he said, in a very soft voice and a cute English accent. “I’m sorry I ran away.”
“You’re lucky Norman found you and not a bear,” Adam said. “Can you carry him, Molly?”
“Sure I can. Come on, little buddy
, let’s get you up and back to your mom and dad.”
The tree’s huge roots had carved a depression in the forest floor and time had filled it with leaves, needles, branches, and small stones. The ground was muddy from the earlier rain. As Smith shifted her weight to stand and pick up the child, her foot, clad only in running shoes, slipped. She fell backwards, crashing hard to the ground, giving a startled cry.
Tocek dropped the dog’s leash and ran to her. “You okay, Mol?”
“Just startled. Help me up, will you?” She held out her hand and he hauled her to her feet. They smiled at each other.
“We done good,” she said.
“Let’s get this guy back to his family.”
She bent over the child. “Up you get, Jamie. You look like a big boy, but I think I can manage you.” He clambered to his feet and raised his arms, clutching the pink elephant. She lifted him up, marveling at how small and fragile he was.
“What the hell?” Tocek said.
Norman scratched at the patch of ground where Smith had fallen. The earth had been disturbed by her scrambling feet, uncovering the round end of a smooth beige log. The dog gave his boss a glance and began scratching again.
“What’s he doing?” she asked.
“That’s his signal when he’s found someone de…,” Tocek glanced at the child, “…among the departed. Shine that light over here.”
Chapter Three
Eliza Winters pulled off her boots with a contented sigh. The scent of dinner being prepared wafted out of the kitchen. “Good heavens,” she said, “is my man actually cooking?”
He was in the kitchen, peering into a pot when she came in. Tangy spices and warm food filled the air. “Someone has to.”
“Ha, ha. What are you making?”
“Chicken curry.” He pointed to a colorful book, open on the counter. “Supposedly a simple recipe that anyone can make.”
“Smells good. Sorry I’m so late.”
“Payback time, I guess,” he said, “Fortunately this keeps fine on the stove.”
“I want to get out of these clothes. Be right back.” She went upstairs, pulling off her blouse and unzipping her skirt. It was nine-thirty and she didn’t want to eat; she wanted to read for a while and go to bed. But he was making an effort, trying, and so she would try in return.
The chicken was excellent, although the rice overcooked. Not that Eliza had grounds to complain. Her husband was a better cook than she was. Anyone was a better cook than she was.
“What’s the verdict?” he asked, after they’d taken a few mouthfuls.
“The food is good. The art even better.”
“You think so?”
“I do. His talent is indisputable. His subject matter is not necessarily to my taste, but I’m not looking for something to buy for myself. For us, I mean.”
“What don’t you like about it?”
She chewed and thought. “The colors are brash, harsh. Angry almost. I sense an underlying trace of violence.”
“Do you think he’s violent?”
“You’re thinking like a cop.” There was a spurt of anger behind the words and she saw him react. She didn’t apologize. “He’s no more likely to be violent than a middle-aged woman with three kids living in the suburbs who writes novels about serial killers and dismembered hookers. I only mean that I see violence in his work and it isn’t aesthetically pleasing to my eye. But, as I said, I don’t have to like it. I just have to think other people will like it.”
Last year Eliza had taken an extended trip to Vancouver. She owned a condo in order to have someplace to stay when both work and the need to be in a busy city took her there. She was a model, had been internationally known at one time, and although she still got work, age was catching up to her, fast. Approaching fifty, she found there were far more women of her age, every bit as good as she, than there were jobs. She’d spent some long, boozy nights with her agent and good friend, Bernadette, reassessing her life, her work, her marriage. She came to the conclusion that what she wanted most of all was what she had: her home in the mountains outside Trafalgar, her twenty-six year marriage to John Winters.
Without modeling, what could she do? What was she?
She was an amateur financial whiz; almost everything she touched in the way of investments turned out well. But finance was work and she found no passion in it. She managed her money with care because she trusted no one else to do it for her. Not something she had an interest in doing as a business, certainly not for other people.
One night she’d gone with Bernadette, whom everyone in the fashion business called Barney, to an industry party. She’d sat with Tony and Herb, a couple in their early nineties who owned art galleries in Vancouver, Victoria, Whistler, and Seattle. They’d worked hard most of their life building Herb’s father’s local newspaper into a multi-million dollar corporation. When they turned seventy, they sold the business and, with no family to make provision for, began seriously investing in art.
Art had become their hobby, then their obsession, and finally their business as well as their life. Their wrinkled and liver-spotted faces lit up with joy at discussing their passion. They invited Eliza to lunch the next day and for a visit to their gallery in Kitsilano.
She knew she’d never reach the excesses of obsession the two old men had, but as she walked through their gallery, enjoying the major exhibit, stunning watercolors of the derelict Downtown Eastside, and listening to them talk, finishing each other’s sentences like the married couple they were, she started thinking.
She stayed in Vancouver for another month, and by the time she went back to Trafalgar, to her home, her husband, her marriage, she had signed her name on the lease of a small storefront space in Kitsilano, near Tony and Herb’s.
A year later, after rent and staff wages, the gallery was bleeding money, but she could afford it and could make use of the tax loss.
Three months ago she opened a gallery in Trafalgar. A lot of artists lived in the area and the nearby town of Nelson was home to the Kootenay School of the Arts, bursting with talent. Her current show featured paintings of the area, beautiful art of the sort tourists buy. For November, she was preparing a selection of small-piece artists, in paint, fabric, and metal work, for the pre-Christmas period.
Last week she was told about an artist who lived in Upper Town. Only in his thirties, he had a reputation as a recluse and eccentric. Far from being eager to meet her and show her his art when she phoned to ask for a meeting, he said he only allotted one hour a day to interacting with people from the art world. He would see her on Monday evening. Take it or leave it.
She’d loved his work and they’d spent another hour talking about the direction he wanted his art to take.
John scooped up curry sauce with a hunk of naan. “Are you going to take him on?”
“I’m not sure. I love his talent, yes, but I’m looking for someone to exhibit next summer and I can’t see his stuff being popular with tourists. And, well, to be honest, I don’t know if I like him.”
“Does that matter?”
“The galleries are a business, John, but nevertheless I am in it because I love it. The art, the artists, their world. He’s just… odd.”
“Aren’t all great artists odd?”
“Not at all. Many are quite mundane, they only express themselves on canvas. This fellow, his name is Kyle Nowak…”
“Nowak, I’ve heard that name.”
“Where?”
“On the job.” She could see him sorting through his memory banks. “Don’t remember. Probably nothing. Might not even be him. Does he have family in the area?”
“I don’t know anything about him. He barely talks. Perhaps that’s why I don’t like him. He didn’t say much, just sort of stared at me.”
“You’re always worth sta
ring at.”
She smiled and dug into her meal, pleased at the small compliment.
***
Molly Smith balanced the child on her hip and turned the beam of her flashlight onto the ground in front of the dog. Adam Tocek crouched down and used both hands to pull away the loosened dirt. Norman settled back on his haunches, job done.
Tocek held up the small light brown object they’d first taken to be wood. “Wow! This is a bone.”
She peered over his shoulder. “Human?”
“Could be a bear. They can be hard to tell apart. But this looks like part of a hand to me.”
Jamie squirmed in Smith’s grip. “Let me see.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. He seemed to have recovered from his ordeal in the woods mighty fast.
Carefully, Adam placed the object back where he’d found it. He got to his feet and began unfastening Norman’s vest.
“What are you doing?”
“First we have to get Jamie back. I’ll call this in and suggest someone come out and have a look in the morning. We’ll have to find this spot again. If it’s a bear, we’ll leave it alone. If not…” He tossed the orange vest over the branches of the cedar. “Get ready to leave markers all along the trail.”
Norman and Adam led the way and Smith followed. She peeled off the child’s remaining shoe and socks, and Adam pulled gloves out of his uniform jacket. He even left his handcuffs, dangling from a brown, broken tree, one of many killed by mountain pine beetles.
The child had almost immediately snuggled his head into Smith’s shoulder and fallen asleep. He smelled nice, of shampoo and warm breath. She looked at his face. His eyes were closed, the long thick black lashes resting on his cheek. He had a trace of freckles scattered across his nose and a lock of blond hair fell over his forehead. She was only twenty-eight years old and hadn’t given any thought to having children. Was it time? She looked at Adam, walking ahead of her, his six-foot four bulk outlined in the beam of his flashlight. She cleared her throat. “Anyone wandering in the woods tonight will think we’ve had quite the wild romp.”