Noel steered the rental Civic off South Dogwood and onto the Island Highway. Other than color, it was exactly like his own.
Kyra peeled her white knuckles off the chicken handle. Last night Shane had sat in the passenger seat, the car falling, the splat of airbags, helpless as they rolled—
Noel watched sideways as Kyra lay her hands across her stomach. Acknowledging the elephant? Breathing deeply, nearly panting. She crossed her legs, businesslike: “So this Harold guy burst in, Shane was jerked out of a trance, Austin got coldly quiet, told Shane to keep breathing deeply and stormed off.”
Alana leaned forward. “I have a friend who’s learned hypnosis and she says it’s dangerous to yank someone out of a trance. Changes the brain waves too abruptly. From alpha to beta or something. Weird Austin left like that. If he was the hypnotist, I mean.”
“He just about knocked me over.” Kyra crossed her legs the other way. “Harold nearly knocked me down too, rushing in. You want invisibility, wear a hospital gown.”
Noel speeded up by eighty kilometers per hour to pass a beater truck. Kyra reached up to the chicken bar again and held on. Noel swerved back into the driving lane. “Do we know who this Harold is?”
“I don’t think so. He said Shane was his favorite skater—” She pulled out her iPhone. Alana did too. “No reception here otherwise I’d search him,” Kyra said. They were passing an ELK CROSSING sign: antlers, arched back, four legs in simulated motion.
“Hi, Sonia,” Alana said to someone far away. “I don’t have good reception, can you look up Harold Arensen for me?” She spelled the name. “Based in Victoria, BC. Thanks.”
How does she do it? Kyra fussed.
“Oh yeah? . . . Really? . . . Thanks, that’ll get us started.” She closed the phone. “Arensen is head of the Vancouver Island Skating Union, VISU. And a director of Skate Canada.”
“Big-time guy.”
“How did you get reception when I didn’t?” Kyra asked.
“More powerful instrument? I phoned, didn’t try the internet?” Alana shrugged.
Kyra shoved her phone in her pocket. “Head of VISU shouldn’t have a favorite skater, should he? Or was that just a figure of speech?”
• • •
Ten minutes and they were across to Quadra. Austin, calmer, kept to the sixty kilometers per hour limit. Soon they were back at the house, the three on the deck, late afternoon Pimms in hand.
“So,” Steve began, “a setback.” He templed his fingertips and rubbed them together.
“A ridiculous one, but monumental,” said Shu-li. She’d forgotten how irritating she found Steve’s habitual gesture.
“The accident, it’s unexplained?” Rub, rub. “Out of nowhere? Hit and run?”
Austin glanced from Steve to Shu-li and back. “You suggesting something else?”
“Someone trying to hurt Shane?”
“But why?”
“I have no idea.”
Shu-li said, “Someone trying to hurt the detective?”
“What precisely was she here to inquire into?”
Austin stared at Steve. “The beating of Shane’s brother. Who did it, and why.”
“Well then.” Steve folded his arms above his spreading paunch.
“No, must be someone who wants to harm the whole family.”
“The sons, at least. From what you said.”
Shu-li shook her head. “We won’t get anywhere speculating on who did what. We need to talk about what we’re going to do. About Shane. And soon, about Harold.”
Austin nodded. “You’re right. I’ll spend three hours with Shane every day. His mind will help him heal his bones.”
“Good,” said Steve. “How quickly can it happen?”
“I’ll try for speed. The mind is tricky, but Shane’ll work hard.”
“When can he be ready? In time for the Olympics?”
“In time to qualify, you mean?”
Steve tented his fingertips together. “Can we cut corners, do you suppose?”
Shu-li raised her eyebrows. “What do you suggest?”
“Something perhaps—painful. Harold Arensen is a first-rate corner cutter.”
She squinted at him. “Are you out of your mind?”
“It’s Harold’s obsession with the boy that we can turn to our advantage.” Steve smiled ironically. “Shane’s advantage, I mean.”
Austin said, “You’re suggesting that one of us goes to Harold and says, dear Harold, could you cut a corner or two?”
“I would be unable to do that. Could you, Austin? Shu-li?”
Shu-li shook her head. Austin exploded a breath.
Steve set his fingers and palms together, as if in prayer. “Perhaps someone else . . .”
Austin grinned widely. “Carl.”
“Carl Certane, Shane’s very own coach, admired by Arensen.”
“Think he’d be willing? He’s pretty straight arrow.”
“Carl believes in Shane. For Carl it won’t be cutting corners, it’ll be a matter of righting wrongs. Very honorable.”
“Okay,” said Steve, “who’s going to talk to him? I barely know him.”
Shu-li shook her head in mock-weariness. “You make great tactical suggestions, Steve. But when it comes to carrying them out . . .”
“He wouldn’t take suggestions from me. But he admires you.”
“He admires my body.”
“We all do. Which doesn’t mean we can’t restrain ourselves.” He stared over the water. The ferry from Cortes was approaching. “Some of us, anyway,” he muttered.
“Okay. I’ll see him on my way back.” She held Carl in high esteem; he’d been one of the greats. And was a remarkable coach. Carl could admire her body. She thought highly of his talents. “If the cut corners and the hypnotherapy work, Shane can still do it. Right?”
Steve said, “Maybe.”
“Definitely,” Austin said. “Refreshers on Pimms?” He took their glasses and went to the kitchen. Yes, he enjoyed Shu-li’s body, looking at it, loving it. And the woman herself. What a shame that she had such a hard time staying with him for longer than three days. Always in a rush to go somewhere. Or hurrying to get home to Calgary. Calgary! Poor Shu-li. He would have loved her to stay on Quadra a few more days. If she ever really committed herself to him, that’d be the moment he’d leave Ottawa forever.
• • •
The band meeting ended at 9:00 PM. Three years ago when Ezekiel Pete became the convener of the Negotiations Team he insisted their gatherings begin punctually and finish two hours later—most people’s brains weren’t up to concentrating in meetings longer than that. At first the other team members mocked him: you got loose brains, Zeke? Won’t hold together more than a couple of hours? Put more meat on your bum, Zeke, so you can sit longer. But they soon discovered that a concentrated meeting produced clearer results than when consultations dragged on. Now he was known around the island for this tactic, and other groups used the pattern as a model. He also ran an organized meeting, which helped.
Before the evening’s session he’d signaled to Dano and Charlie, stick around after the meeting. When the others left, he said, “Lisa and Jake at home tonight, Dano?”
“Lisa’s on the last ferry and Jake’s shacking up with his girlfriend these days.”
“Let’s go to your place.”
Charlie said, “Why, Zeke? We can just stay here.”
“Yeah, but Dano’s close, he’ll give us a beer.” Zeke grinned at Dano. “Right?”
“No problem.”
“Besides, I don’t want the others to see us talking.”
“Big conspiracy?” Charlie clamped on his hat. “We gonna take over the world?”
“Kinda. Let’s go.”
They left their cars at the Center and walked in silence past the red-roofed open shed that protected the war canoe. An old green van passed them from behind and headed down toward the southern end of Cape Mudge Village. Zeke glanced at the totem pole flat on its back next to the museum parking sign. Such a shame. After another hundred and thirty feet they reached Dano’s house, a low clapboard rancher. Dano turned on the living room lights even though it wasn’t dark yet, and headed for the kitchen. Charlie sat in the middle of the couch. Zeke dropped onto the old La-Z-Boy to glance out the window towards the Passage. Water always eased him, no matter the situation.
“Here you go, guys.” Dano handed them cans of Molson’s, opened his, turned a straight-backed kitchen chair and leaned forward on the backrest. “Okay, Zeke, what’s up?”
Zeke let out a small sigh. “Matthew’s boy Amos didn’t get the scholarship.”
“Shit,” said Charlie.
Dano added, “Yeah.”
“I don’t get it. He had the grades.”
“Yeah. He was good in high school. Matt shoulda made him go right to the U after that.”
“Whatever,” said Zeke. “He worked hard at school. He stayed out of trouble till he had nothing to do. Now he’s signed up for that joinery course, it’s part of the parole agreement. But he’s got no money. And Matt’s already paid the tuition deposit.”
“So what’s your idea, Zeke?”
“We’ve got to raise the cash.”
“Amos isn’t going to take our money. Anyway, Matthew wouldn’t let him.”
“No gift. A loan.”
Charlie thought about that, then nodded. “Maybe.”
“Definitely. At low interest rates. And he’ll work harder, to get it paid back.”
“How much?”
“A thousand’ll cover the courses.”
Dano said, “I can do a hundred.”
And Charlie, “Me too.”
“Then we’re nearly a third of the way there. If we each talk to four elders we should have the cash for him by the end of the week.”
“That kid’s gotta go to school,” Dano said.
“He’ll pay us back.” Zeke hoped he wasn’t just dreaming. “Joiners make good money.”
They came up with a dozen names and divided them among themselves. They finished their beers. Charlie walked south to his place, Zeke headed back to the Center. It was deep dusk. He noted the green van, parked on the west side of road. Zeke knew most of the vehicles on the south end of the island. This one he didn’t recognize.
• • •
Great. The guy was leaving alone. He didn’t want to tackle two of them. He slipped on the rubber mask, a death’s-head that covered him from scalp to under his chin. He glanced inside the cab, key in the ignition ready to go. He grasped the golf clubs, a five- and a six-iron, with gloved hands, hefted them and waited for the Indian to pass the van. The guy’d be able to describe it later, maybe even remember the plate, but he’d been wearing gloves each time he borrowed it from old Marlton, off in Mexico. First those damn clammy medical things all the way over on the ferry, now these green gardening ones. Well, they both did the job. Guy was walking right toward the van, no way could he see, too many shadows. Wait till he’s gone by. Rubber-soled shoes, never hear anything.
He watched as Zeke approached. Couldn’t see his face clearly. Short-sleeve shirt, no protection from that, skinny arms. Light-weight pants too. He’ll be hurting for a while.
He squatted beside the van, passenger side. There the guy went, on the other side. The fuckin’ ess-oh-bee, what he’d done, wasn’t gonna get away with it. Past the tail, couple more steps. Now! He stepped out of the shadows, six-iron high, lunged angling it onto the guy’s neck right by the ear. Yeah! A whump, and he went down on his knees, hands catching him, all fours. Step up, swing, and that was his nose, good squish— Yeah, way to go! Another bash, right across his chest, but the guy must’ve sensed something coming, he slipped to the right and the club slid off his hip. Another whack caught him in the lower leg. The guy rolled again and came around standing facing—bet the death’s-head got him scared now, Indians’re all scared of spirits and this face was back from the dead. He pulled the club around and came about but the guy had shifted positions again, he was out of reach but lots of blood coming out of his nose. Have to charge him hard, come in swinging, club back and over and down— Damn if the guy didn’t catch the thing as it came down and wrench it away, goddamn! He pulled back and shifted the five-iron to his right hand, up around and down but the guy caught the shaft with the six he’d just stolen and something in his other hand glinted—fuck, he had a knife, where the hell—? How could he still be on his feet? He pulled back on the five, swung it at the knife and caught him on the wrist and the knife skittered away on the dirt. Hah, even again. He swung hard, got the Indian in the ribs just as the guy landed one with the six, shit! just above the hip, damn— But the guy was flat while he was still standing.
Okay, enough punishment. He ran for the van, door open— He glanced back. The Indian was up, running, more like reeling toward the van. In, turn the key, gas, outa here— In the mirror he saw the guy grabbing for the rear door handle, holding on, but the van sped up and if the guy didn’t let go he was gonna get dragged— Yeah, he could see the guy sprawled on the dirt road. Now get off the island, dump the club overboard. He checked the clock. Just make the last ferry off. He lifted the mask over his head. Better. Mask’ll go in the drink too. His brain felt lots better now, job that needed to get done. Nobody to answer to but himself, no taking orders, nobody else unhappy. Not this time. Over to the other side, into the woods, onto that side road in the park, get some sleep. In the morning dump the van near the ferry, wouldn’t use it again—the cops’ll get it back to Marlton if he ever got back from Mexico. Then get on the 7:30, pick up his car from the lot and be home for breakfast. That bash the guy landed right above the hip felt sore, prickly. Couldn’t be blood, skin didn’t break. In the ferry washroom he’d see what it looked like.
• • •
Shane had never felt such pain. Not from the leg; they’d set the broken bones, treated the outer wounds and locked it in a cast-like apparatus that could be removed to check the healing. The painkillers they’d given him had sent him away from the small world of the hospital room to deep inside his head where his memories crept along the valleys of his brain. He lay on his back trying to drive flaming lances of thought from his mind by staring at the dim ceiling. He saw only flat space. No relief, because the pain came from so deep inside. Alone tonight. His mother had gone back to Quadra. She hadn’t slept much the night before. Alone, except for the wheezing guy in the next bed.
He should never have decided to become a figure skater, let alone try for greatness. What hubris. A kid from a nowhere small island should be playing hockey like everybody else. A kid who didn’t know anything about the demands made on the narrow elite superhighway. In Vancouver he had not only Carl his superb coach, but also James his physical trainer, Mel his dance instructor, Larry his psychologist, Liane his chiropractor, Trent the costume designer, and any number of other people— No one should be coddled like this. Not even thinking about how much it cost. Austin paid for it all, and that wasn’t right either. Increasingly Shane felt he had been bought and now belonged to Austin. Austin had said, No Shane, you belong to the world of beautiful motion.
Right now Shane felt all the pain of what he’d done. To his parents, what they’d given him—their unquestioning love, their unending time, what little money they could invest in his career. To his brothers, standing aloof from them, his career more important than coming home the moment Derek was attacked, than spending time with Timmy who loved and respected Shane and what did Shane give Timmy, locking himself in his room when Timmy needed him. He felt too the pain of what he’d done for Austin. Pieces in his brain were locked in a terrible agonized battle. No correct position to take, not any more. Had there been an acceptable way of handling himself, earlier? He hadn’t found it. Now he wondered, if he’d dealt with it right away might there have been a better choice?
He tried to roll onto his right side but before he got there his encased foot jammed a line of coal-hot pain from toes to hip. Despite the painkillers. He stared again at the ceiling.
Maybe he could talk to Harold, Harold had always been kind to him. No, that was a betrayal of Austin. Maybe if he pleaded with Austin, I can’t go on, please don’t make me . . . But he’d tried that, three times. Each time Austin said, consolingly, Of course you can, Shane. It’s essential. Consider the consequences if you don’t.
He’d acceded to Austin once. He wouldn’t again. And what consequences then?
He twisted to his left. Some pain, but less than the other way. Possibly by staring at the curtain that hung between him and the old guy in the next bed, sleep would come. He lay still. He took deep breaths trying to breathe the pain away. But it was Austin who had first taught him about breathing, and now the exercise was contaminated with Austin. Maybe Carl’s exercise: stretch the muscles, then relax them. Head muscles, neck, shoulders, arms, fingers. Chest. Stomach— He gave up. Because somewhere in his brain, Austin was grinning, whispering, Shane, it’s not going to help, you will of course acquiesce.
In the past Shane might have shouted, No! But right now he didn’t know what to do, or even think. His leg throbbed. He shifted again to his back. Small tears slid down his cheeks. He felt his chest begin to shake, realized he was panting. Not good, stop! But he couldn’t. Derek, he thought, Derek!
Outside light began to brighten the room. Safer out of the dark, he slept.
• • •
After lunch Noel and his brother walked down to the beach. Despite Seth’s declaration that he and Jan would get to his parents’ place by mid-afternoon yesterday, they hadn’t arrived until after dinner—a two-ferry wait in Tsawwassen. Why, on just an average summer day? Paul Franklin explained: in July and August, Friday afternoon is, by definition, not average; there’s always an overload on the ferries between the mainland and Vancouver Island. People don’t like whichever side of the Strait they’re on so they have to cross to the other side. Seth and Jan got to the house exhausted. They’d spent breakfast, the morning and a superior two-quiche lunch with salad and wine catching up, family stories that Kyra participated in too; she’d gotten to know the Franklins well during summers on Bowen Island. Now, while the Four Superwomen, as Paul called them, Astrid, Jan, Kyra and Alana, cleaned up and gossiped, and Paul took his nap, Noel and Seth walked.
The beach, today pocked with seaweed debris tossed ashore from what may have been a storm somewhere north of Seymour Narrows, stretched for miles. The water lay flat, broken by splashing children and the occasional whisper of incoming tide. Only strong winds could create breakers; this afternoon the air hung still. When Seth and Noel spoke, their words were quiet. They talked about Seth’s work with NASA, he’d been seconded to an Astrophysics lab at UCSD. And what was he doing there? His specific role was classified, national security kept him from saying more. But life was good. And Jan’s work with autistic kids? At the start wonderful to do so much for these children, after a year depressing as she watched them make so little progress, then satisfying when she realized she was helping. Their son Keith, at Stanford, had spent two weeks with them earlier this month.
“And you?” Seth asked. “The work’s good?”
“Yes. Interesting. A pleasure working with Kyra.”
“How about personally? Anyone new there?”
Seth had of course known Brendan, and had liked him. Now Noel said, “No, and I don’t think there will be.”
Seth said, “You’re not looking?”
“No.” Noel shrugged. “If someone appears, who knows.”
Seth carried on, “Kyra’s okay?”
“Sure. Why?”
“She seemed a little tuckered over lunch.”
“She has a right to be.” Noel told Seth about the car accident. “Not two days ago.”
“On Quadra, right? Alana was real excited to go with you. She didn’t get in your way, I hope.”
“No, she was helpful, and a delight. She’s got a good inquiring mind.”
“What’s the case? Can you talk about?”
“Sure. It’s not covered by national security.”
“Okay, okay.”
Noel repeated what they had so far discovered, ending with the green van that had sideswiped Kyra and Shane, and forced Tim and his bike into the ditch. “Both kids are more or less okay. Shane’s broken leg may keep him from the Olympics. That must hurt a whole lot more than the wounds.”
“Tough on both of them.”
“Kyra and I’ve been trying to figure if somebody’s after the three sons, or if it’s a coincidence.”
“Similar green van doesn’t sound like coincidence.”
“And the three of them being harmed within three weeks doesn’t either.”
“You’ve told the RCMP?”
“Yeah. They’re checking out all vans registered on Quadra.”
“The lady with the walker saw a bunch of vehicles?”
“Right. And— Hey, she called one of them a truck, then said it was a van.”
“Maybe less and less of a coincidence.”
“We’ll have to get back to Mrs. McDougal. Maybe she had a better look at the guy who got out of the truck, or van, than she thought.”
“Worth asking.”
“But why? Why try to kill the Cooper sons?” Noel chucked a rock in the water.
“They hurt someone and the guy wants revenge?”
Noel nodded. “Could be.”
“Or maybe the Coopers have something this guy wants? Money? Property?”
“Not money. Jason gets by, but without Linda’s salary it’d be harder times.”
“Their land?”
“They’ve got their woodlot and licenses on two others.”
“I don’t know anything about woodlots. Any money there?”
“I wouldn’t have thought much.”
“Maybe someone who wants the woodlots. Another tree farmer. Or a developer.”
“No idea. I’ll ask Jason.”
“Or maybe there’s a creep out there who just likes hurting people. Which doesn’t explain why he wants to hurt these three brothers.”
“If it’s the same van, then one time he came from the van and attacked with a blunt instrument, and twice he attacked with the van itself.” Noel stopped walking and stared out at the smooth sea. He mused out loud: “Timing of the attacks. First, after dark. Second, at dusk. Third in the dark.”
“One three weeks ago, the other two the same evening. Is he getting desperate?”
“And— Damn.”
“What?”
Noel kept his eye on the sea, as if an answer could be found just under the surface. “There’s something but I can’t grasp it.”
“Maybe not desperate but scared. Something the Coopers are doing that—”
“No. Wait. Let me think.” Noel closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Derek in the dark, Tim at dusk, Shane in the dark—
“How could the Coopers harm—”
Seth went on. Noel didn’t hear him. A shudder took him. Zeke Pete saying, maybe a curse on the Cooper family? Hadn’t felt right. Why not? Derek in the dark but out of his truck, recognizable in the moonlight, Mrs. McDougal had said. Tim in the twilight, identifiable. Shane in the car, invisible. How did the van guy know Shane was in the Honda? Night, and the windows were tinted. Which meant—Another shudder. He was after the car. He’d tried to kill Kyra and himself. Not Shane.
Take it easy. Just a hypothesis. Try it on Kyra.
• • •
“Isn’t it nice, the boys out for a walk,” Astrid observed. “They so rarely see each other.”
“Uncle Noel comes down to San Diego at least once a year,” Alana pointed out.
“I meant a walk from home, from this house, on the beach right here—” Astrid, flustered, looked out the screened sliding door, past the patio, north along the beach.
“It is lovely,” Jan soothed, “for them to have a good natter. Let’s get these dishes under control and go for a walk too.” She was an inch taller than Kyra, nearly Seth’s height. A handsome woman radiating calmness and good will, she frequently touched another’s shoulders, arms, cheeks. More than Kyra liked, but her touch was soothing. Now Jan stood by her mother-in-law at the door, her arm across Astrid’s shoulder, while Kyra and Alana cleared the table.
On a trip to the kitchen Kyra looked at the tableau of the women’s backs, their heads tilted toward each other, and felt a pang of desire for her own mother, Trudy. She was back now from Turkey—she’d been teaching Canadian Literature, seconded from Simon Fraser University. On her way off Vancouver Island, Kyra would phone her.
My god, this embryo will turn me into a mother! Kyra nearly dropped seven plates onto the tile floor. Of course she’d known that fact, but it was emotional reality hitting her now. A mother. Forever and ever. Here she was, thirty-six, wanting her own mother. Did you ever stop being a mother? A child? That marriage commandment, till death do us part—the parent-child commandment never said it as such, but it was much more of an absolute.
Dishes stored in the chugging dishwasher, Alana scrubbing quiche pans in the sink, Kyra wiped down the counters and wrung out the dishcloth. Jan and Astrid entered the kitchen, offering to help. Offer rejected.
“To the beach then. Meet the boys.” Astrid said. “Paul won’t be up for an hour.”
“Men,” Alana mouthed. Kyra caught it, and smiled.
They collected hats and rubbed on sunscreen. The condo owners were expected to go out the communal front door to the paved path to the beach. But Paul, since their unit was the farthest corner one, had built stairs down from their patio. His unapproved action had brought on some raucous strata meetings, until common sense prevailed: nothing really wrong, and they were handsome stairs. The women walked down the path.
“Where are your parents, Jan?” Kyra asked, as they attained the beach.
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Kyra meant sorry about both—dead parents, and that she’d asked.
“They were daredevil skiers and got caught in an avalanche. I was twelve.”
“How did you manage?”
“Boarding school, an aunt in the holidays.” Jan’s tone was even. She smiled and squeezed Kyra’s forearm. “Sounds worse than it was.”
“Then you got married and had children.”
“Well, I did a few other things, but essentially, yes.”
“How did you find motherhood?” She shouldn’t be a bulldog. But intensity of the moment made her hold and drag and shake the subject.
“Fine. I love it.” Jan smiled at Alana, and Astrid smiled at both, at all.
“No, I mean really.”
“Are you thinking of having a baby, Kyra?” Astrid asked.
Kyra looked out at the Strait. Two fishing boats. An enormous cruise ship in the hazy distance on its way to Alaska. She pressed on. “A friend cites biorhythms, she’s older than I am, if she wants a baby she’d better get on with it. I don’t feel that way”—didn’t she?—“but she keeps talking about it.” She paused to excavate a pebble from her sandal. The other three waited. The sun was hot on their backs and heads and the saltchuck glistened too brightly to look at. Its salt and pepper smell stung their nostrils. Adjusting her hat, Kyra persisted, “What’s it really like, being a mother?”
Jan said, with asperity and another arm-squeeze, “First you’re pregnant and then you don’t sleep for a number of years and then you have a person you keep coping with.”
“Sounds awful!” said Alana. “Why would anyone?”
Astrid laughed. “That’s a truncated version. There are things they don’t tell you in the pre-natal classes, but the rewards are greater than the drawbacks.”
“Mom, you didn’t find Keith or me that bad, did you?”
“No, dear, not at all.” Jan drew Alana into a hug. “Just a bit frantic at first.”
“Is your friend married?” Astrid asked.
“Well, sort of,” Kyra hedged. “How about you, Alana? Do you want children?”
“Sure. But not alone. I don’t want to be a single parent. I know a girl who got pregnant last year and the guy ditched her and she dropped out once the baby was born even though the school tried to keep her in. Too difficult to do both, she said.”
“My friend’s worried about labor.”
Jan cast Kyra a hard look. “Most women survive. At least in the US and Canada.”
“You tell your friend,” Astrid contributed, “once through labor, you forget it.”
“How were your labors?”
“Seth had a shoulder in the way so he took hours, and that was a bit of work. Noel was a breeze. Look, sweetie,” Astrid smiled at Kyra in a way that made Kyra think Astrid didn’t believe in the friend, “You tell your friend that women are built to give birth. Muscles adjust over pregnancy and the pelvic structure loosens up. After nine months the only thing you want is to have the inside lump outside.”
“She’ll be pleased to hear that, maybe,” Kyra said. She didn’t feel very pregnant. She wasn’t tired and right now she didn’t have to pee urgently. Her breasts were tender, but so what. She felt the sun and prickles of perspiration in her armpits and a discomfort in her gut. Maybe she shouldn’t have had the second helping of quiche.
“Look, there are my boys!” Astrid waved at distant figures who waved back.
Alana rolled her eyes.
• • •
Noel sidled in beside Kyra and, sotto voce, asked her to stop on the patio for a brief confab. There he suggested the guy in the van had been out for detective blood, no way of suspecting Noel was not inside. He mentioned the woodlots—enough value for someone to commit personal attacks?
“If somebody was after us, then the woodlot isn’t the issue,” Kyra said. “Conversely . . .”
“Yeah, that’s right. At least maybe, from what we know.”
“We’ve got to talk to Jason. And Mrs. McDougal.” Kyra winced.
“What? You okay?”
She shrugged. “Guess so.”
“Maybe you walked too far?”
“Hardly. It was okay. Who knows?” She looked strained.
“Kyra, you really want to keep it? Raise it by yourself?”
She took a breath, exhaled. “Right now I think, absolutely. Earlier, in the kitchen, I knew I had to get rid of it. Back and forth like that, three times this afternoon. Schizzy.”
“How’re you going to decide?”
“Toss a coin?”
“Be serious.”
“I don’t know how I’m going to decide. And I don’t know if I will decide.”
“If you just let it go—”
“I know, I know.”
“I wish I could help, Kyra.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“What?”
“Try to convince me one way or the other.”
“You don’t have to tell me not to dare. This one’s all yours.”
“Thank you.”
“But if you want to do any out-loud thinking, I can react or not, your choice.”
Her eyes misted up. He put his arms around her. “Whatever you decide, it’ll be the right thing.” Her head nodded against his shoulder. “Ready to join the others?”
She found a tissue in a pocket, dabbed her eyes. “Let’s be sociable.”
Inside, the kitchen smelled of the large forty-cloves-of-garlic stuffed chicken that was roasting. Paul offered drinks. Noel and Seth allowed how vodka-tonics would be just right. Kyra, with a wry smile, asked for juice.
Alana said, “Vodka-tonic for me too.”
Seth mock-glowered at her. “We let you go away for a week, and what?”
Paul interrupted. “She can have a thin one.”
“Thanks, Grandad.” She turned to her father, wrinkled her nose at him, grinned as well.
Kyra thought, Family is good. She had that kind of relation with her own father, teasing and joking. With her mother, starting with returning home for vacations from Reed College in Oregon, she’d been a bit more formal. Why? Was she to blame? Or was her mother blaming her for something and she was withdrawing? She’d wondered if her mother had disapproved of her serial husbands, Vance whom she’d left after a few months when she discovered he enjoyed slapping her around, Simon the depressive who’d killed himself, most recently Sam who’d told her that to be happy she needed to live her own life and when she did, as a detective, he’d turned so jealous of her work he’d become impossible. But then her mother had taken up with a millionaire car salesman. Maybe she’d never figure it out. And what would her mother think of this pregnancy?
“. . . to being all together,” Astrid was saying, raising her glass of red wine, followed by a chorus of “Yes!” and “Cheers!”
Kyra watched Noel. He looked happy, but was part of him feeling, like her, that there was work to be done on Quadra and Campbell River? The idea, that the green van man was trying to stop Noel and her from investigating Derek’s beating, gave her pause. No fear, not yet, just desire to get at the real situation. She sipped cranberry and soda water. It softened the squirmy feeling in her stomach.
They moved to the table where they found chicken, vegetables, potato casserole, salad. Noel said, raising his glass. “Another first-rate meal, thanks to all of you.” Astrid smiled, gratified, and said it was easy, she’d done most of it before they got here. More glasses on high. They ate. Desert appeared, crème caramel. Noel’s phone rang. He got up.
Paul dipped into his crème. “Excellent!”
Noel stepped out of the room and raised the phone to his ear. “Yes? . . . Yes? . . . You mean now? . . . Sure, of course.” He waited, listening. “Okay. See you there.” Back to the table. The others, except for Kyra who was watching him, were deep in conversation. He squatted by her chair. “Jason says Derek is coming out of the coma.”
“Whoo. Let’s go.” She stood.
Noel stood too. “Sorry, everyone. Major doings. We have to go back. Now.”
Seth: “What’s happened?”
“Derek, the man in the coma. He’s coming out. He might remember things.”
Astrid said, “His parents must be so relieved.”
Alana too got up. “May I come with you again? Please?”
Noel thought, if the van guy is after Kyra and me, it’ll be dangerous for you. He didn’t say this aloud. No one should know there might be a risk. For anyone. “You haven’t seen your parents for a long time, Alana. Let alone your grandparents.”
“I really want to come with you.”
“We don’t know if Derek is really coming around. Could be a wild goose chase.”
“I’ve started on this case. I want to see what develops.”
“We’ll report everything—”
Seth said, “How long will you be gone?”
“It could take a while.”
“Alana, you can go with Noel and Kyra for two days. Noel says you’re helpful. If they’re not finished with the case then, you get on the bus and come back by yourself.”
“Daddy—”
“Two days. Your grandparents see little enough of you.”
She tucked her lip behind her teeth. And conceded.