“Sarah wasn’t home?”
“She flaked.”
“You don’t have a key?”
Frieda shook her head as she sipped on her coffee.
“You could have picked the lock.”
“I forgot.”
They stared at each other in a stalemate.
“Where did you—”
“In the bedroom. You were out when I got back. I figured you were getting dinner, so I finished the pizza and went to the bedroom. I texted Sarah already, too.”
“You were here all night?”
She pursed her lips matter-of-factly and nodded. “Are you mad?”
What had she heard last night? He thought about Tess’s comments about his being so serious. He had to admit he was glad to see Frieda.
“No,” he said. “I just want you to be safe.”
Frieda was clearly happy to change the subject. “Is Tess staying for breakfast?”
“She’s more than welcome to.”
“Did you have sex?”
Henry choked on his coffee in mid-swallow. He coughed in loud barks into his elbow. Unable to speak, he shook his head.
No.
From the couch, Tess asked in a sleepy voice, “Is everything okay?”
“Hen’s choking, but he’ll be fine. Are you having breakfast here before we go downtown?”
“Well, good to see you Fred. I’d love a bite.” She was suspiciously unfazed by the young girl’s unanticipated appearance. “You’re joining us?” The question was directed as much to Henry as Frieda.
Frieda nodded. Henry didn’t disagree, adding, “We’re a team.”
“Like a crime-fighting family,” Frieda said.
“Alright then,” Tess said with raised eyebrows. “Let me just go freshen up. I’ll be back down in a sec.” With that, she sat up, pulled on her pants and headed upstairs, carrying her socks and shoes.
Henry blinked as he processed that she had undressed at some point. Had she known Fred was here?
As soon as he heard the click of the door latch, Henry took the seat across from Frieda.
“Things don’t move that fast.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “They do in movies.”
“Well, I don’t move that fast. We must watch different movies.”
“No. Kyle Reese and Sarah Connor fall in love and they have sex right away. And I saw that movie with you.”
Henry managed to down this mouthful of coffee without gagging.
“Terminator? That’s what you took away? Adults hook up quickly? That’s not the message I got.”
I’m going to have to re-watch that and be more careful with future movie choices.
“How about: ‘Don’t make robots smarter than humans?’” Henry said. “That’s a good message. Besides, Sarah had a son who would save humanity. Real life doesn’t need another hero because it already has you.”
“It’s true.” Frieda puffed out her chest. “I made coffee this morning.”
“Well said.”
Henry’s phone hummed to life on the table. The caller was from Toronto, Ontario. He picked it up and hesitated before answering. Frieda sipped her coffee across from him. What did she know?
He shooed her to the bedroom with his free hand, messing her hair as she passed. “Get dressed, hero. It’s a quick breakfast then straight downtown.” The phone continued to buzz.
“It’s going to be an interesting day.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Downtown, Frieda slid the seat forward so that Henry could get out of the blue two-door Tercel. Practical and compact, Henry couldn’t imagine a more appropriate car for Tess. Frieda had been on the ball and called shotgun. Last night, driving to Sarah’s, there had been no such fun.
It was a one-block walk to the East Hastings pawnshop.
As they approached the building, the economy of the population changed around them. People huddled in groups on the sidewalk, next to shopping carts heaped with everything from sleeping bags to guitars covered in stickers, and well-worn suitcases.
Henry and Tess cleared the sidewalk, stepping into the street for a young, shirtless man on a bicycle. In one hand, the cyclist carried a massive clear plastic bag full of bottles and cans over his shoulder. With his other hand, he navigated the bike while holding onto a second, equally full bag.
They spotted the pawnshop on the opposite corner and crossed the street.
Bars covered the windows and the lights inside were off. The internet listing had said that the shop opened at 9am. Henry looked at his watch. Just about eleven-thirty.
He rattled the gate over the front door. Locked shut.
“Well, that’s not right,” he said.
“What do we do now?” Frieda asked.
They took turns peering in the windows. Only Frieda could get her face between the bars, close enough to press to the dirty glass, between the bars.
“Do you see anything?” he asked.
“Nothing. It looks closed.”
“Google says they should be open.”
Inside, Henry spotted an accumulation of flyers, mail, and several copies of the free Vancouver Metro newspaper. “No one’s been here all week.”
Frieda rubbed dirt from her nose. “Why do they call it a pawnshop? Why don’t they just call it an antique shop?”
“They don’t just have antiques,” Henry said. “They’ll take anything that has value. The big difference – what makes a pawnshop a pawnshop – is that they can loan you money. You bring something in, say, a diamond ring, and they give you cash now. When you pay them back, you get your ring back.”
Frieda looked doubtful. “So, how do they make money?”
“They charge interest. Maybe there’s a fee, like if they loan you a hundred bucks and you pay back a hundred and twenty. Or, if you don’t pay them back after a certain time, they get to keep whatever you’ve left them. If they’re smart, they’ve loaned you less money than they can get for selling your stuff.”
Frieda spoke more quietly. “Why wouldn’t someone just get a loan from the bank? Or get a job?” Her eyes darted for a fraction of a second to the young woman lying in front of the shop.
Henry looked at the figure stretched out on the ground, her head using a blue hiking pack for a pillow. He dropped his volume down a little. “Banks won’t loan to just anyone. Sometimes it’s hard, like if you don’t have a job. Pawn shops can make smaller loans, like a hundred bucks. And the owners can make their own deals based on whether they want to take a chance on a particular person. They get to know the value of stuff better than most people, and that’s how they end up with some unusual things as security sometimes.” He pointed at the mounted buffalo head in the window.
“Banks are more… mercenary.”
Frieda thought about this and studied the motley collection of items in the window. “Maybe they’re out to lunch?” Frieda smiled at her own use of the double entendre.
“Well, now what?” Tess asked, looking up and down the street.
“Maybe they have gone for lunch,” Henry agreed. He stepped backward away from the doorway and looked up and where the sign had been. “Maybe they’d gone out of business?” Fluorescent bulbs sat bare and unlit in its place.
“Why don’t we . . .”
The business next to the pawnshop was much narrower. A brief sign spanned the width of its door and single window. Welcome Pharmacy.
Henry slipped his hand into his pocket and removed the small, orange plastic bottle.
“That’s from Mr. Benham’s place,” Tess said.
“I never looked at this closely,” Henry said, “because I thought it was his.”
He raised his glasses from his nose to read.
“It’s for something called Xypresta. The name’s gone, but I can just make out the prescription number, and the pharmacy address. It’s in Everett, Washington.”
“Keller’s from Washington,” Frieda said.
“If these are his, then
maybe we can find out his name.”
“What is it for?”
“I don’t know,” Henry said, pulling out his phone.
“Are you googling it?” Frieda asked.
He shook his head.
“What, Hen?”
“Better.” Henry smiled and lifted the phone to his ear. “I know who we talk to next.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Commercial Drive was a humble antidote to the downtown core. Small cafés, patios, and a thriving arts community gave the lengthy neighborhood a distinct feel. The pharmacy on Commercial was no bigger than the one next to the pawnshop. But the absence of layers of street grime on the window and door illustrated the difference that a seven-minute drive could make.
“Why didn’t we just take it to the pharmacy back at the pawnshop?” Frieda asked.
“This sort of information might be confidential,” Henry said. “So, we have to take it to someone we know, if they’re going to tell us anything.”
Past the cashier, in the very back of the store, a pharmacist dressed all in white spoke to a young woman over the counter. His salt-and-pepper hair looked too old for his stylish glasses and smooth bare face.
“Is that his real name?” Frieda asked, pointing at a large, framed certificate, hanging squarely on the wall behind the counter. “Dr. Well?”
“Peter Well, yes.”
“Cool.”
At the sound of his name, the pharmacist glanced up. Recognition flowed into his face, and he gestured them over, with a wave.
They wandered through the aisles, waiting for the young woman to leave. Dr. Well found them arguing over licorice. Sweet? Or salty?
“Henry,” Peter said, holding his arms out and getting a hug. “Jen told me you’d called. It is good to see you. Have those bastards left you alone yet?” He checked himself and looked at Frieda. “Sorry.”
Frieda shrugged.
“Ongoing,” Henry said. “They’re tenacious.”
“They are buggers. Greedy buggers. Come on back to the coffee room and I’ll make us some tea.”
Peter led them behind the counter. Two chairs and a small corner table were somehow enough for this large closet to earn the title of “coffee room”. A small mirror leaned over the sink from which Peter filled an electric kettle, and there was just enough room to stack boxes as stools for the rest of the guests. “Don’t worry, it’ll hold,” he said as he indicated Henry should sit.
After introductions, chit-chat, and once everyone held a mug of Earl Grey (“Sorry, no milk”) Peter explained to Frieda how his business had been saved by Henry from foreclosure.
“Six months ago, I didn’t even know your uncle. He just called me out of the blue and warned me that the bank was going to exercise its right to call my loan. I couldn’t believe my ears. It’s not like I wasn’t good for it. I’d just fallen behind. The pharmacy didn’t have that kind of money all at once. I would have had to fire everybody and shut my doors.”
Frieda drank with both hands on her mug and listened intently.
He continued. “Henry read to me some fine print in the terms of the loan agreement. All it would take to hold the bank off was a small payment. Any payment. I had no idea why a guy from the bank was telling me all this, but what could I do? I had to believe him. Sure enough, it held off any collections and we negotiated something new that this little pharmacy can manage.”
“Six jobs, Henry saved. Good-paying jobs. Not even including me.” His eyes watered as he remembered his close call.
“So your uncle’s a hero,” he said.
“It was nothing, Peter,” Henry said, rubbing the back of his neck and happy to change the subject. “I wish I could say that we dropped in just for a visit. But in fact, we have a bit of a puzzle I’m hoping you can help us solve.”
Henry pulled the orange pill bottle from his pocket.
Peter put his mug on the sink behind him. The direct steam condensed a small patch on the mirror in the already muggy room. He pulled his glasses down a little further on his nose, took the bottle from Henry, and squinted at it.
“These aren’t yours,” he said.
“Right. And I get it if you can’t tell us anything. I’m not trying to ask you to do anything unethical.”
“Well,” Peter said, suddenly professional. “I’m relieved these aren’t yours. Whose are they?”
“We aren’t sure. We think their name is Keller. That’s part of what we’re trying to find out, hoping something you can see might help.”
“Okay. This is Xypresta. It’s the brand name for a drug called thorpazoline. We don’t see it much in Canada, but in the States, it was licensed to treat schizophrenia and psychotic disorders. Specifically: productive symptoms such as automatism, hallucinations, and delusions.”
“What was that first one?” Tess asked.
“Automatism? Think of it as unconscious action. When someone doesn’t know what they’re doing. You’ve seen in movies where someone says, ‘I just blacked out and such-and-such happened’? That’s a kind of automatism.”
The looks on the faces of his audience spurred Peter into continuing.
“It’s okay,” he said. “That’s what this is for. It’s manageable once it’s diagnosed.”
“But we have their pills,” Henry said. “Whoever this belongs to is off their meds.”
“We don’t use that expression,” Peter said, scrunching his nose.
“Does that mean they’re crazy now?” Frieda asked.
“No,” Peter said. “That’s one reason it’s an awful term. Maybe this patient has other medications. Or maybe they’re getting another form of treatment or support, like cognitive-behavioral therapy.”
“Can you tell us anything about this person, Peter? I know it’s a US prescription, and there’s a question of confidentiality. But I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
Peter thought for a moment before rising. “Give me a minute.”
Cool air poured into the small room as he left, and Tess kept the door ajar with her foot.
Long minutes later, Peter returned and closed the door behind him. He pulled up his box, sat.
“Much of what I can say, you already know. It’s from the US, and it’s an anti-psychotic.”
He turned the bottle over in his hands and showed them the worn-away label.
“A bit of the prescription ID is gone, but I tried a few until I found the match.”
Numbers had been added, in pen, on the label.
“You’re right about the name. It belongs to a Jack Keller. But no one has filled this prescription in at least a year.”
“A year?” Henry asked. “Did they just get a new prescription?”
“No. There were still three more refills for this one. But it looks like the patient lost their insurance.”
“What?” Tess asked. “So, this Keller just stopped taking his drugs?”
“It happens,” Peter said, shrugging. “Without insurance, each refill of this is fifteen hundred dollars. That would last a month.”
“Holy crap,” Henry said. “But whoever’s this is . . . They’re fine, right? I mean, there’s still one pill in there, so they’ve been on top of it. Right?”
Peter shook his head. He opened the bottle and brought it to his nose. He leaned back, reaching for his mug on the sink, dumped out the tea, and shook the pill onto the table.
The pill with its squared-off but rounded edges rolled to a stop in front of Frieda. It was a soft, familiar off-white.
“I know what that is,” Frieda exclaimed.
“Clever girl,” Peter said, impressed.
Everybody jumped as Peter smashed his mug down onto the pill like a hammer.
Only a splash of white powder remained, looking as though a tiny white meteor had crashed onto the table from space.
Frieda rubbed her finger through the damage, rolled it with her thumb, and held it to her nose. She sniffed.
Even from where Henry sat, the familiar smell of
mint and vanilla was unmistakable.
“It’s a Tic Tac,” she said.
Peter nodded grimly. “Someone’s only pretending to take their medication.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Over lunch, they debated whether to return to the pawnshop at all. Tess and Frieda finally won, mollifying Henry with the argument that it would probably be closed anyhow.
Sure enough, as they stood outside, nothing had changed since this morning. Their handprints on the glass door were perfect and undisturbed. Even the young woman with the blue backpack seemed an exception to the passing of time.
Henry blew into his hands as he looked at her and worried whether she was alive.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes?” She appeared surprised to be seen, let alone addressed. She looked at the three people standing around her. Her eyes stopped on Frieda, and she nodded and sat up.
“I don’t know how to put this,” Henry said. “Have you been here for a while? That is, what I’m trying to ask is, have you seen anyone coming or going from here in the last week?”
From her seat on the ground, the young woman turned to look over her shoulder into the shop. She answered in a thick French-Canadian accent. “This place, it has been closed all week. Usually, Jules, he is good for a coffee or something. But this week, he stays in there.”
“How do you know he’s in there?” Tess asked.
“The lights, they are on at night. It’s kind of nice. It means I can read.”
Henry pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket and placed it in the cup next to the backpack.
“Maybe we should check around back?” suggested Tess.
“What if Keller is there?” Frieda asked.
Henry scanned the cars on the street. “Let’s keep an eye out for your K-car, Fred. If we see any sign that Keller is here, then perfect, we call the police.”
The young girl blew up her already round cheeks and blinked in thought.
“We’ll just knock and see if Julian is there,” he added.
Frieda made a little groan.
Tess stepped in. “If you want to go back to the car, Fred, I understand,” she said. “Me, I need to talk to this Julian guy, though, so we can get the police on the right track.”
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