Two cars pulled onto the Powell River Queen behind Jason Cooper’s Corolla. There was still room for one more. “See?” said Jason. “We got on.”
One tall and one stocky ferry worker waited till exactly noon. Tall slid the guard across the rear of the ship while Stocky pressed the button on an electronic switch that raised the last three feet of the steel boarding ramp to create a protective barrier. Slowly the ferry pulled away from the dock. Out of Quathiaski Cove and into the burbling water of Discovery Passage.
Tim left the car and stood in the rear, in warm sun. He looked back at the island he left every day to get to his new school, Timberline High, attached to North Island College. His island was a good place to come back to, afternoons or early evenings, depending on whether there was hockey practice. Usually he rode his bike that his parents had bought after he’d grown seven inches last year. If Derek was driving to college he’d throw the bike on the truck for the trip home—sometimes Derek stayed in town with his girlfriend. Shane used to ride with Derek until he went to Vancouver to train for Juniors with the great Carl Certane, a silver and a gold at the 1988 Calgary Olympics, a bronze and a gold in Albertville in 1992. When Shane left home, the Coopers, each in their way, cheered him on while finding themselves saddened (Jason), devastated (Linda), jealous (Derek), or abandoned and relieved (Tim).
Now Tim watched Quadra Island recede, the powerful wake of the ferry cutting across the churning water of the passage at an acute angle. Tim loved living on Quadra. Walk in the woods with his family or by himself, plan with his father the future of the woodlot, read in their living room by the fire in the winter, on the deck in the summer. He’d made some good friends at Timberline, liked half the guys on the hockey team, still got along with most of the kids he’d grown up with. But a lot of the time he enjoyed hanging out at home by himself.
Except for the last three weeks. Without Derek it felt a lot less like home. Shane had come back four days after the attack on Derek. But not for his brother. It wasn’t a holiday for Shane; the technicians had re-iced the smaller rink at the Campbell River arena and he had been using it every day. Having won gold last winter at Juniors meant he got carte blanche from the rink. Quadra and Campbell River each claimed him as its own.
In the past weeks he’d been a black presence, brooding or in a constant twitch—Jason, Linda and Tim at first hoping it was on account of Derek. Wrong. It had become clear that Shane was obsessed with Shane—his status, his need to get back to training and practice. Moving up to Seniors meant he had to work even harder, as he’d explained. Not that Shane didn’t care about Derek’s condition, but they knew Derek’s coma was only a secondary cause of Shane’s agitation.
Tim loved watching Shane skate. He remembered Shane’s first double axel when he was eleven, and his first triple in the short program at the Juniors two years back—Tim felt as if the jump/spin had lasted a full minute because it seemed he’d held his breath that long. Shane in a simulated tuxedo had been a miracle of moving perfection. And he would be again. If he didn’t fall when there was no reason to. But that’d never happen again. It couldn’t.
The ferry slowed as it approached the Campbell River dock. Tim ambled back to the car and found Jason reading his paper. “Anything exciting?”
“Another land settlement up north,” said Jason.
“Zeke’s going to be pleased.”
“Or really ticked off at how slow it’s going here.” Ezekiel Pete and Jason Cooper had played and fought together all the way through elementary school, had fallen out of contact with each other when Jason’s parents divorced and his father had taken him to Vancouver, way better schooling there than he’d get in Campbell River, his father had insisted; and besides, Jason’s mother, Sue, was taking up with Richard, like her a member of the Cape Mudge Band. Zeke and Jason re-met summers when he came back to Quadra from the University of Victoria; they formed a friendship stronger than the one they’d left behind. Jason rediscovered his love of the land his mother had left him when she died of cancer, Jason only fifteen. Halfway through UVic he’d changed his major from engineering to environmental studies, and after his degree had gone to BCIT for a certificate in silviculture. With no immediate profession and little income from part-time forestry jobs, he decided to live on Quadra in the old farmhouse that he fixed up for himself. And soon after, for himself and Linda. Zeke Pete was his best man, even if, as Zeke liked to joke, half of Jason’s blood was that thin pallid stuff—“Too many white blood cells there, Jason”—one of Zeke’s beloved lines. Zeke was one of the Cape Mudge Band’s chief negotiators trying to move toward settlement, hoping to transform the reserve into the tribal land it had once been. Now Jason added, “But it’ll help Zeke put more pressure on.”
The barrier lowered. The row of cars beside theirs rolled off the ferry. A minute later car brake lights in their lane went red, Jason started the Corolla, and in five seconds they too were driving off. They took 9th Avenue up to Dogwood, turned left, and headed up the hill to the rink. Jason pulled across the oncoming lane into a parking lot. A perfect summer day, the air clean as rainwater. Tim stared at the mountains across on the mainland, crests of snow above brown and green layers, a child’s icing colors, as they rose hard-edged against any encroachment on BC’s interior.
The façade of Strathcona Gardens, the sports complex, featured two green pipes about a meter in diameter: water slides for the indoor swimming pools. The larger of the two ice rinks had once been the venue for the Junior Women’s Hockey World Finals, its ice of professional quality. When Shane had begun figure skating, he’d been one of only two boys who’d taken lessons. Of course they’d both been teased, Queers! Girly-boys! Faggots! The other boy had dropped out. One day, before that first triple axel, three guys attacked him after practice but by then Shane had grown so powerful he’d beaten their faces in. After the first triple axel the thunderous applause was a warning to anybody who’d ever think about challenging Shane again. Outside the rink, anyway.
They pushed open the big glass door, glanced through more glass at men and women swimming laps, and carried on past the information desk: “Hi Coopers!” This from Kay, the cheery large young woman. Tim reckoned she knew him and his father in their own right, but Shane’s fame reflected off anyone in his family. They pushed open the door, felt the icy blast, walked past the big rink over to the smaller one. No Shane.
The Zamboni made its cleaning rounds, growling softly as it dragged the conditioner. Driving the Zamboni was the legendary T. Shorty Barlow—as Shorty called himself. He was a tall skinny man, maybe late thirties, maybe early fifties. Standing between tank and conditioner, he called out, “Heya Timeee!” and brought the Zamboni over to the rim of the rink by Tim and Jason.
“Heya, Shorteee!” yelled Tim. The only person outside the family he accepted calling him Timmy.
“Good to see ya.” T. Shorty’s blue eyes blinked, exaggerating the crow’s feet that stretched to his ears. He might be grinning except under his walrus mustache it was hard to say. “Gonna look good on the team again, kiddo?”
Tim said, “Gonna try.”
“Hey, can you believe this new machine I’ve got? Electric, like the Montreal Canadiens have. Plug it in overnight and you’re home free.”
“Nice, Shorty” Jason said. “Glad to see you. Shane around?”
“Yeah, he was out here. He’s with Osborne. How’s Derek?”
“The same. Just going over to see him.”
“Damn effin’ dreadful thing.” Shorty pointed to the office. “Shane’s in there.”
• • •
The office door stood ajar. Tim heard heightened whispers. Jason knocked. Silence, then the door opened wide.
Shane said, “Hi Dad, hi Tim.” As tall as his father and younger brother, short brown hair, red shirt, khakis and sandals, Shane carried himself like a young man who usually owned the space he walked in but today only rented it. His face, despite its smile, looked strained. “Come on in. Austin’s here.”
Half sitting on the desk, Austin Osborne, Shane’s guide and sponsor. White-blond hair, handsome face, eyes green, tennis shirt, khakis, running shoes. Osborne stood. “Hey Jason.” They shook hands. “Hello Timmy.”
“Hello.” Damn him. Timmy was reserved for family and Shorty.
“Hello Austin,” said Jason. “Didn’t know you were in town.”
“Just arrived and headed here, see if Shane was skating. I lucked out.” A grin to Shane. “He looked great. Smo—king, that’s what he was, Jason, king of the smoke.”
Tim felt his usual relief around Austin: Shane had to deal with him, not Tim. He’d known Austin for four years, since Austin had offered to act as Shane’s sponsor, covering his training and competition expenses. Shane would never have come this far without Austin, not on what their mother made as a nurse, not on what the woodlot brought in. He’d overheard his parents: how would they repay Austin. But it was impossible because Austin had made it clear all he wanted was to support a great talent. He heard his father whisper, Twenty-five thousand a year, Linda. Costumes alone cost over four thousand.
Austin was saying, “. . . no leads, no suspects?”
Jason said, “Mounties are at it. Dorothy said she’d keep me informed.”
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“Yeah. Uh—did we interrupt you? Sounded like the middle of a conversation?”
Austin glanced at Shane. “Talking about the season.”
Shane nodded and turned to Jason. “We going, Dad?”
“Yes. See you on the island, Austin?”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Austin walked with the three Coopers to the parking lot where he’d left his rented blue Porsche.
• • •
Noel’s parents, Paul and Astrid Franklin, lived on the ground floor of a condo building near the beach in Qualicum. They’d moved there five years ago. In spite of Kyra’s promises to come up, this was her first visit. She’d known Noel’s parents since she was ten and her own parents had rented a cabin for the summer next to theirs on Bowen Island. The Franklins had taken her into their family as the daughter they never had.
Astrid opened the door. “Kyra, my dear! It’s been far too long!” Their hug was intense. Kyra blinked back tears. How come she’d gotten so damn emotional . . . His mother hugged and kissed Noel.
Alana was next. “Hi Unc.” A jocular almost-adult, not quite willing to call him Noel without uncle, not willing to call him Uncle Noel as she had since she was two. On her eight fingers and two thumbs, maybe fifteen rings.
Paul remained in his chair in the living room. He’d lost a lot of weight, Noel had told Kyra. She remembered he stood a couple of inches taller than Noel but with the same slim build. “Hello, dear! Long time no see.” His voice was still strong.
“You’re right.” Kyra grasped his hand. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “My fault.”
“You’re correct about that.” Paul smiled and squeezed.
“I hope I will eventually be forgiven.” How quickly she’d adopted the patter she usually brought out for Noel’s father.
“You could get on your knees for a thousand obeisances.”
“Oh creak, creak.” Kyra half squatted.
“Now, dears,” Astrid said, “brunch is ready and Alana’s starved, aren’t you?”
Alana rolled her eyes. Everyone filed to the table.
“You can tell us all the news,” Astrid said.
Kyra followed Astrid to the kitchen. She had produced artichoke frittata, a small ham covered with chunks of pineapple, cinnamon buns, fruit salad. Kyra ferried them to the table.
They sat. Kyra studied Astrid’s face. How has Paul’s cancer played on her? Suddenly thinking, How had she managed motherhood? She pushed that thought aside.
Astrid’s skin had gone grey too; normal for people in their seventies? Slim like Paul, a narrow attractive face, her thin lips enlivened by an occasional wry smile. A couple of times while serving she sent a worried glance down the table toward her husband. Kyra noted Noel tracking them. Now he stood, pulled out a cell phone and took pictures of them all. Kyra had made him upgrade. A picture was more powerful than any verbal description, she’d insisted.
“Smile,” he said again.
They did, a variety of grimaces.
As he sat down again, Alana asked, “Are you two working on a case now, Unc?”
She was a pretty young thing, Kyra decided, bottle-blonde hair, even features. Though the plucked eyebrows, dramatic black eye shadow, and pierced nose didn’t do it. And all those rings. I am getting old, Kyra thought.
“Yeah,” said Noel. “We are.”
“What’s it about?”
Should he be telling a seventeen-year-old kid about this? Well, seventeen seemed older these days than back in Noel’s own dark ages. “Kind of messy. A young guy, beaten badly, he’s in a coma. Dad, Mum? You remember Jason Cooper when I was in high school?”
Paul said, “Sure we remember Jase.”
Noel turned to Alana. “We were close from grade six on. Now he’s got three sons. The eldest, Derek, he’s the one who’s unconscious. Has been for three weeks.”
“How dreadful.” Astrid’s hand covered her mouth.
“Jase asked if Kyra and I could help. They live on Quadra but he was beaten in Campbell River.” He cut a small piece of frittata. “The middle son’s supposedly an impressive figure skater.” To Alana he added, “You still skate, Alana?”
“Yep, but just for the fun of it. What’s the skater brother’s name?”
“Shane Cooper.”
“No—” her eyes bugged at Noel “—way! You know Shane Cooper? He’s Worlds! He’s maybe Olympics! He’s great!”
“No,” Noel said testily, “I don’t know Shane. It’s their oldest son who concerns us. We don’t know a thing.”
“Oh Uncle Noel, Kyra, may I come with you, please, please, please? I really really want to meet Shane Cooper!”
“Alana. We’re dealing with the brother in a coma.” Uncle Noel gave her a severe frown. “Not the skater.”
“Gran! Can I go with them. Please please?”
“Noel?”
“Please, Unc?”
Paul said, “Alana, I don’t want you near a case where a man’s been beaten up.”
“I’ll be with Uncle Noel, it’ll all be completely safe.” And to Noel, then Kyra, “Right? Can I come with you? Please?”
Noel stood. “A word, Kyra.” He led her to his parents’ bedroom. “I’m not hot on having her along. We need to investigate, not babysit.”
“She’s hardly a baby anymore.” Kyra mused. “Maybe with a family of teenagers she’d sense things we didn’t.”
“Hmm.” Noel mulled. “We’re too aged to understand the young?” He shrugged. “Maybe.” Back at the table he said, “It’s up to your grandparents, Alana.”
Astrid folded her hands. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.” To Noel she said, “Can you deal with her for a couple of days?”
Okay, just maybe this tough-looking young woman would note things he and Kyra didn’t. “I guess so.”
“Back by Friday, Alana.” said Astrid. “I don’t need your parents angry with me.”
Now Kyra was thinking, what have we let ourselves in for. And Derek wasn’t technically in his teens anymore. Alana Franklin, teenage detective.
• • •
“Jim! You in there?” The voice came muffled through the thick plastic wall.
“Yeah! Be right out!” Jim Bristol wiped smudges of soil from his hands and glanced across the four-hundred-plus heritage tomato plants in the shed. Still small but the second crop of the season; he rubbed his chin through his thin beard and headed down the narrow aisle, stepped over a pan of shoe disinfecting liquid, and opened the door. “Hey, Dad. What’s happening?”
“The bank’s what’s happening.” Brant Bristol, late fifties, once a tall athletic man, stood stooped forward with osteoporosis. He wore a dress shirt tucked into his jeans. “Got to go over to Campbell River and have another argument.”
“Hey, I thought we were golden.”
“I think they want us to refinance.”
“They don’t trust us?”
“That’s what I’ll find out. Sheds thirteen and fourteen may need less water. Plants seem to be growing too fast. Can you check it while I’m gone?”
“Sure, Dad. Shit. Damn bankers.”
“I’ll be back before dinner. Defrost a couple of steaks, would you?”
“Sure.” Jim watched his father walk over to the car beside the house, a simple double-wide they’d trucked in three years ago and put together on a concrete slab. Funny and sad the way his father moved, like a man who was forever falling forward as he strode on to catch up with his shoulders. Firkin’ bank.
He didn’t know where Ben was, hadn’t seen him come in this morning. Didn’t matter, Ben put in his time. Which was important, because Bristol Greens needed at least three full-time people—good thing his father could still keep up his load. He walked away from shed seven, one of three tomato sheds along with eight and nine. They also grew bell peppers, five kinds of lettuce, spinach, kale and chard. And in thirteen and fourteen, the cannabis. Two years ago they’d received their federal license to grow medical marijuana, last spring shipped out their first crop.
Jim had convinced his father three years back that they should apply. With the greenhouse just barely breaking even, they needed a crop to jump them far enough into the black so that they could breathe more easily. The marijuana project was Jim’s primary concern.
But the bankers didn’t like holding a mortgage on what was in their petty minds little more than a grow-op. That twelve of the sheds produced plain honest organic market vegetables made only a small impression. Legally the bank couldn’t call in the mortgage but they might try to shift the terms. Jim’s greatest wish: Get rid of the mortgage quickly and pay no more damn interest.
He opened the plastic door to shed thirteen, stepped into the disinfecting pan, drew the soles of his running shoes back and forth twice, and walked over to the nearest row of plants. They looked tall and healthy. Maybe, as his father suggested, growing too fast for the water/nutrient mix they were getting? Speed was good, but height wasn’t the only criterion. They needed strength as well—in both senses: sufficient fiber manufacture to maintain good leaf production, and a high level of potency. The Compassion Club, of which Bristol Greens was a member, had produced a study making it clear that AIDS, glaucoma, and cancer patients much preferred high quality cannabis. Who wouldn’t, Sam had thought. On reading the details of the report he learned that patients preferred to take fewer puffs, smoking it for its pain-relieving effect rather than for pleasure. Bristol Greens would put only the best product possible on the market.
He checked out the gauges on the vats providing water and nutrients to the plants through an irrigation system of bleeding pipes he, Ben and his father had put in the year before. He had researched the Federal Medical Cannabis Program handbook, a loose-leaf collection of studies and reports that were constantly being updated, for suggested ratios of nourishment and liquid. The Program recommended a small but allowable range of possibilities. He increased the nutrient side by point-four. In shed fourteen he found precisely the same conditions but here he left the balance as it was. He’d check again tomorrow, see what happened.
Goddamn firkin’ bank. And goddamn Derek, too. Sam had gone to see him in the hospital, found him looking more like a mummy than a human. Poor guy. A close friend since grade one. Sam’d trust Derek with just about anything, including a few kilos of marijuana. And Sam would’ve trusted him a lot more times with weed skimmed off the crop. What the hell had happened, Sam thought for the thousandth time. He’d heard from Gast that the deal had been made, Gast had gotten his cut. So whoever worked Derek over did it for Sam Bristol’s four thousand dollars. The government paid okay for marijuana, but from private buyers you got much more. Money to give to his father to reduce the firkin’ mortgage. And now, shit. He closed up shed fourteen and headed to the house.
That was another thing, their house. Until five years ago, before his mother died, they’d lived in a big house down on Discovery Passage, a perfect Quadra house. He’d grown up in it. Then his father had sold it, paid off his mortgage there, started the nursery here. They trucked in, and moved into, the double-wide to be close to the sheds. But then bringing the nursery up to an ever-changing code first cut into the profits then threw them into debt. Which meant the new mortgage.
Yeah, it’d take a few years, but they’d make this place profitable. If he could find somebody to replace Derek, that’d happen faster. Going to be hard. He’d trusted Derek absolutely. Maybe Derek would pull through. And if he did? Sam figured Derek wouldn’t ever deal dope again. Not for any money.
• • •
Noel and Kyra, with Alana, set off up-island after brunch. They drove up the Qualicum connecter to the new Island Highway. A well-engineered road, speed limit 110 kilometers per hour. Noel’s Honda wanted to go 130, not much traffic so why not. Except he’d heard from friends that the Mounties were fierce with tickets on this stretch. Didn’t make sense: build a beautiful road, put a fast car on it, then penalize the collusion in speed between road and car. But an accepted way to finance municipalities and regional districts.
Alana sat beside Noel, earplugs in residence. In the back, Kyra had a hard time looking out the front window between the two headrests. She leaned forward. “Alana, how do you know about Shane?” She spoke in a voice loud enough to carry over road noise and earplugs.
Alana turned her head, fiddled with something, probably the volume control. “A friend met him at Juniors, last year. Lucy. She told me about him and I’ve followed him ever since. He’s cool, Kyra, just so cool. He’s going to be champion. Worlds. Even Olympics!”
“What makes that apparent?”
“Oh, he’s just awesome! Wait till you see him. He’s a bundle of talent.”
“I hear you’re a good skater too.” Kyra knew nothing about Alana’s skating.
“I can stay on my feet, sure, but he’s awesome.” Alana pulled her earplug out and turned off the machine. “He’s just miles better than anyone else. I can’t describe it, you’ll have to see him.” She half turned toward both of them. “Remember Toller Cranston?”
“Not really,” said Kyra, thinking: how old does this kid think I am?
“Yes.” Noel flicked a glance to his right. “Your grandmother watched him every time she got a chance. Your gramps grumbled, but Mom and I found Toller gorgeous.” Noel raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Fluid, artistic, a whole new style.”
“You think Shane could be another Cranston?” Kyra asked.
Alana fiddled with her earplug. “I don’t know. Shane’s his own skater. But he could set a new style like Toller.” She stuck her earplug back in, fiddled with the gadget, then leaned back. Kyra caught Noel’s half smile in the rearview mirror. His niece, back in teenland.
This new inland highway was zippy but boring. Kyra watched trees, fields, fences, an occasional mountain whiz by. The peaks of Mount Arrowsmith on the way from Nanaimo to Qualicum; now it was more trees, hydro tresses and No Hitchhiking signs. New-growth Douglas fir clad the sides of the highway. Beyond them, clearcuts.
Jason, thought Noel. Jason’s son in a coma. What had happened to him? And to Jason over all those years? The pain of Jason walking away when they were eighteen was long gone. But now Noel didn’t know what Triple I, what he could do for a kid in a coma. For an ex best friend.
When they were fourteen, fifteen, pimples covered Jason’s face. Noel, six months younger, still had a clear complexion but worried about acne lying in wait. There’d been a burly, tall guy with a little moustache and acne scars, he was sixteen, in their grade ten English class, who picked on Jason: “Hey, Pimple Face! Hey, Jerkoff!” One day toward the end of term he strong-armed Jason against the lockers. A teacher came by, frowned and the confrontation ended. Next day, outside the corner store that sold candy and newspapers, where Jason and Noel had agreed to meet, there he was again—Matt, that was his name—and he had another go at Jason: “Yo, Pimple Fuck! Zit Heaven!” He poked Jason in the chest with his fist.
Noel appeared, saw them, let loose at Matt: “Hey, leave him alone or—!”
“Yeah? Or what?”
“You get those scars from picking at your zits?”
Matt went for Noel’s throat. But his hands didn’t make it that far. Jason pulled at him from behind, Noel backed away. So did Jason. So did Matt, saying, “Two against one in’t fair!” His shoulders slumped and he turned and kicked the shit out of a bench. Noel and Jason walked away fast. They glanced at each other, a silent thanks. That was the look Noel now remembered, driving up the Island Highway.
At the best of times, Kyra couldn’t read in a moving car. She didn’t have morning sickness, she refused to have morning sickness, besides, it was afternoon. She crossed her arms beneath her tender breasts and stared out the side window. The highway crossed a bridge, abutments on each side and a sign: Nile Creek. She couldn’t see any creek. Immediately another bridge, another sign: Crocker Creek. Again, no visible water. Kyra had always thought of creeks as little trickles, yet these were long bridges. Enough to span the Mississippi—or at least an arm of the Fraser. Another sign: McLaughlin Creek. Soon Rosewall Creek, then Waterloo Creek. Noel zipped along. Furry Creek, Buckley Bay—not a creek, an exit—Hart Creek, Bloedel Creek, Trent River. Ah, a river! That deserved a bridge but it didn’t look any different from the creek bridges. Damn engineers built this new highway to get from point A to point B fast and safely, so no quaint wooden bridges a meter above sparkling creeks. Nope, stay up on the ridge, cruise along, pretend you’re in a plane.
“How you doing back there?” Noel called.
“Creeks! Hell of a lot of creeks. Makes me need to pee.”
“Half an hour till we’re there. Can you hang on?”
“I’ll try.” She was going to say, you’ve never been pregnant. But she knew Alana’s earplug wouldn’t block conversation. She wanted to say: When you have to pee, it seems you have to pee. “Oh now they’re promising us elk!” She crossed her legs. “Look, they’ve built a fence”—she looked out the other window—“on both sides. No worry about elk on the highway.” She leaned forward and said around Noel’s seat back, “Tell me more about our client.”
Noel thought. “Can’t tell you much. Derek’s got broken ribs, a smashed tibia, a shattered cheekbone, possible brain damage, internal injuries. Linda, she’s a nurse, got him medevacked down to Victoria. After ten days they brought him back. Middle son’s the figure skater. Youngest son I don’t know anything about.”
Kyra’s bladder made her cross her legs the other way and tighten her pelvic muscles. “Would you speed up a bit, please.”
Noel looked ahead, behind, and obediently did.
Kyra, to keep the demands of her body at bay, went back to reading creek and elk signs.
They turned off the brilliantly engineered boring highway—stunning mountains around them now—onto a narrower new road leading down into Campbell River.
“Gas station,” said Kyra. “Quickly, please.”
“First one,” Noel replied, semi-sympathetic. Bloody hell, is pregnancy nine months of demands? What if we’re doing surveillance?
A gas station at last. They all used the restrooms. Noel filled up with gas, couple of cents a liter cheaper than in Nanaimo. In the store Alana, still plugged in, picked up a small bottle of unsweetened fruit juice. Kyra, who’d been thinking about pop, thought, oh shit, and grabbed the same. Uncle Noel smiled at both of them and paid.
Jason had said the hospital was on 2nd Street. Back in the car Noel appointed Alana official navigator and gave her the map. She took it, releasing neither music or juice. Noel turned left, as he knew he had to.
Here you go, baby, Kyra thought. Drinking juice for nine months. Already you’re changing my life.
A couple of blocks off Dogwood they located the hospital and a parking space. Lots of green space. Splendid setting for the sick. They entered the hospital, a three-storey building of far greater antiquity than the highway. At Emergency they asked for directions to Intensive Care. Elevator to the third floor. At a nurses’ station Kyra said, “We’re here to see Derek Cooper.”
A plump middle-aged nurse asked, “Are you relatives?”
“Yes,” lied Kyra without hesitation.
“He’s in 311.”
“Not ICU?” Noel asked. He hated hospitals. He knew them too well.
“Telemetry. Just outside ICU.”
The three headed down the hall and into a room. In the bed a bundle of body lay under a sheet. Wires and tubes stuck out of it, connecting to bags and monitors. The scalp was bandaged. The skin of the face was deeply bruised, some of it still purple, much of it gone yellow. No one else there, but seconds later three men entered the room, one after the other. Jason and the two brothers, Kyra figured.
Noel confirmed it by grabbing the older one’s upper arms and holding them tight. “Jason, I’m so sorry.” He glanced toward the lump.
One son had gone around the foot of the bed to the other side. He picked up Derek’s hand. “Hi Dee, it’s Tim here. Your favorite pest.” His voice choked, he cleared his throat, he blinked hard. “You’re gonna come out okay.”
The other boy must be Shane, confirmed for Kyra first from Alana’s intense gaze, then immediately by Jason’s introduction. Noel introduced her and Alana to the men.
“I’ve been following all your successes,” Alana said to Shane.
“Right.” He sounded deeply uninterested. He stared down at Derek.
The family resemblance was strong. The three were about the same height. The two sons had dark brown straight hair, one day likely morphing to Jason’s brown-grey. The three faces were long, with firm chins and narrow noses; pleasant faces. Kyra glanced at Derek. His nose was blunter and his lips fuller. No way to tell anything about his hair with his head bandaged.
Many bodies in the room. Then another body arrived, in a nurse’s uniform.
“Hi Hon,” Jason said. Linda, the boys’ mother, Kyra realized.
“Hi.” Linda smiled at them all quickly, then looked to Derek.
“The doctor saying anything new?” asked Shane.
“Nothing different.”
Jason asked, “They should do another brain scan.”
Linda shrugged. “They’re waiting for an indication of some change.”
“People come out of comas even after years,” said Tim. “We’ve got to keep him in touch with us. He’s got to hear family voices.”
Noel introduced Kyra and Alana to Linda, whose smile was tight.
Another person entered the room, a young pretty auburn-haired woman carrying a big purse. “Oh, hi, guys. I just went for coffee.”
“Good to take some time away,” said Linda evenly.
“Yeah, I’ve been here since ten. Talking to Derek. Playing his music.” She put down her purse and pushed to the bed. “Hi Derek, I’m back.”
“This is Cindy,” Jason said. “Derek’s girlfriend.”
Kyra noted the irritation on Tim’s face. Shane remained expressionless.
Linda said, “People in comas don’t need to be stimulated all the time.” Her tone was mildly admonitory.
“Derek likes his music,” Cindy defended.
“You checking in with the nurses’ station?” Linda’s tone was still mild but Kyra caught a fleeting sense of glee from Tim.
“Sure,” Cindy mumbled.
Linda pushed by Jason and stroked Derek’s forehead. “Too many people in this room. It’s just after staff change. There’ll be rounds.”
“We’ll be in the waiting area until you’re free,” Kyra announced as she motioned Noel and Alana out. Shane came too. After a minute, so did Tim.
“I’m really sorry about your brother,” Alana said to Shane.
“Thanks.”
Tim slumped on the orange plastic sofa. He took off his cap, put it on backwards.
“How long’s he been in a coma?” Alana asked Shane.
Shane sat too. “A few weeks.”
“Twenty-three days.” Tim pulled the bill of his cap around again, and down so his eyes were shaded. Alana’s concern was only for Shane. Kyra, coming to stand beside Noel, said quietly, “What now?”
“We need to see where Derek was attacked.”
“And talk to his doctor.”
“And go to Quadra?”
“We’ll find a motel or a B&B for the night.” Kyra looked at Alana, still trying to talk to Shane. He’d crossed his legs and was flipping his foot up and down. Tim’s cap sat halfway down his face.
Noel said. “Kyra, find out who Derek’s doctor is and when we can see him. I’ll go to the car and look up bed and breakfasts. I bet there’s a wireless leak around here.”
Kyra crinkled one side of her mouth. “I’m your social secretary?”
“Please.” He’d learned to despise hospitals when Brendan was dying. “If you don’t mind?” He had to get out of here. Her face appeared resigned. He left.
She sat down in a hard lumpy chair and picked up a magazine. Over it, she studied the three teens. Alana, limpid eyes still on Shane. Had she been wrong casting Alana their teen detective? Tim, under his ball cap, aware of anything in the room? Shane, all but immobile.
Linda came in, followed by Cindy with her large purse. Linda looked tired—and though a generation younger than Noel’s parents, nearly as grey. Cindy looked what? defiant? sulky? chastised? What had Linda said to her?
Jason arrived last. Kyra said quietly, “Noel and I would like to talk to Derek’s doctor.”
Jason glanced at Linda. “Doctor Pierce.”
“He’ll have the reports from Victoria?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Where could we find him?”
“Do you have a—?” Linda made scribbling motions.
Kyra pulled out her iPhone. Linda gave her the number. Kyra punched it in. “Thanks.” In the hall she pressed Talk. The receptionist said, “The doctor could see you for a few minutes—” she stressed few—“in about an hour.”
Back in the waiting area she said, “We’d like to see where Derek was attacked.”
“A dead-end road.” Jason pursed his lips. “I better come with you. Linda,” he put his arm around his wife’s shoulder, “why don’t you take the kids and go home. I’ll show them the attack site. We’ll come over later.”
“We’re to talk with Dr. Pierce in about an hour,” Kyra reminded him.
“Oh. Okay.”
To Alana, Linda said, “You can come to Quadra with us if you’d rather.” And to Kyra, “I’ve got a place for you on Quadra. A friend with a B&B had cancellations. Won’t you have to be on the island too?”
Yes, they needed to interview whatever friends and maybe enemies Derek had on Quadra. In the morning. “That’s very nice. Thank you.”
On Alana’s lips, a confused scowl. She glanced over at Shane; he stared beyond her. To Kyra she said, “If Noel doesn’t mind, I’ll go over with Linda.” Linda nodded. “You’ll tell me what you find out?”
“That’s okay?” Kyra said to Linda, who nodded. Then to Alana, “Sure.”
“Come on, everyone. Cindy, take some time for yourself, dear.” Linda’s tone just wanted to go home. “Derek’s getting the best care he can have.”
Cindy played with her purse strap. Fear, grief, anxiety, confusion flitted across her face.
“If you do something for yourself this evening, you’ll have more to report to Derek tomorrow,” Linda stated.
Cindy’s eyes teared. “I just want him back again.”
“We all do, Hon.” Linda patted Cindy’s shoulder. “Do you have your car?”
“No, I walked.”
Linda smiled. “Jason and the others can give you a ride home.”
In the elevator Linda told Kyra that her friend, Barb, had cancellations because she’d informed her bookings that the attic had been invaded by carpenter ants. She only needed the people away for a few hours but they spooked and cancelled. “City people don’t know, in the bush you live with lots of critters. If you want I’ll confirm the rooms from the ferry. The ants are gone.”
“Great.” Ants?
• • •
A couple of years ago Harold Arensen decided the weather in Victoria far outranked humid Ottawa summers and ice-laced winter streets, so decided to move his base. In Victoria, too, the skating community treated him with appropriate respect. Not that he’d lacked respect in the east, simply that the natural rivalry between the BC skating world and that in the Hamilton-Toronto-Ottawa-Montreal stretch had the west believing they’d brilliantly won Harold away from his haunts for the last thirty-plus years.
Though he preferred Victoria to Vancouver, sometimes it was necessary to spend time on the mainland, especially this year leading up to the Olympics. He’d been a proud supporter of the Canadian faction that had won the 2010 Olympics for Vancouver; if he’d been living on the west coast then he would’ve been a leading partner in the effort. Now, since many of Canada’s superior young skaters trained in and around Vancouver, he’d been following a select few through their coaches, offering advice, sometimes even wisdom, as best he could. To the very best he would offer his unique expertise. They would profit from it, and their success would reflect with burnished grandeur Harold’s own place in Skate Canada.
He held out a great deal of promise for several of them, Miranda Steele and Tak Lee in Calgary, Dan MacAdoo and Graham Pauley in Toronto, Danielle Dubois on Montreal’s West Island, and especially Shane Cooper from Vancouver, an extraordinary performer. As well he might be, considering Carl Certane had selected the boy, as much for his natural abilities as for his imagination. That faun sequence he’d performed had been remarkable. And with each competition his routines became increasingly polished—in fact, they sparkled.
Today Arensen would watch Shane skate. His preferred manner of observing was from a distance, without announcing his presence. So this morning found Harold driving his vintage Lincoln Continental onto the ferry from the Swartz Bay terminal at the tip of the Saanich Peninsula, heading across Georgia Strait. Ferry time was, he had discovered, a good time to be out of time. An hour and a half of giving himself, like his couple of thousand fellow passengers, over to the good guidance of the ship’s captain. He always tried to get a place at the very front of the boat. There he could look up from his book to follow the ship’s passage. Now they were passing between Portland Island and Salt Spring, the so-called Satellite Channel. Massive dark-green Douglas firs rose on the Salt Spring side. A sunny summer day and the sea sparkling brilliant blue, wind-blown breakers snow-white as they smashed against the shore on both sides.
Excitement took him as he wondered how much Shane had progressed since his last competition—a fine performance until his dreadful fall. What could have distracted him? Shane had no answer. A bad placement? Possibly, but why? His mind wandering? Shane hadn’t thought so. A bad night’s sleep? Shane thought he’d slept okay. “Well, don’t worry about it,” Harold had told him. And added with a smile, “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Approaching Harold Arensen’s favorite part of the trip across, a narrow boomerang-shaped passage between the southern tip of Galiano and northwest Mayne Islands, called Active Pass. Active it was as the sea roiled between the land masses, smashing against shale shoreline. Past Bellhouse Park, and the ferry was in the open Strait, the last leg before the flat drive from the terminal into the city.
He and four-hundred and fifty other cars and trucks drove off, along a reinforced spit of land, past the Tsawwassen Band reserve, under the Fraser River, through Richmond and into the city. Along to Kerrisdale, home of the Cyclone Taylor Arena. Arensen had pushed Certane hard—get Shane ice time at one of the Olympic venues. But Certane had rejected the suggestion: Stop breaking your head over it, Harold. Wasn’t breaking his head, just making a logical suggestion. It took a couple of months arguing with Carl that Harold had learned Carl really was doing the best for Shane—ice time at an Olympic site, when it could be had, was strictly limited from 11:00 PM to 7:00 AM—the rest of day needed to prepare the rink for the Olympic events. Instead, Carl, who was a consultant to Cyclone Taylor Figure Skating Inc., purveyors of skates and costumes to champions, requested and was given prime time daily at the Kerrisdale Arena.
Well, why the hell didn’t Carl say so in the first place? Dumb ass.
But that was in the past. Long forgiven. Today Arensen pulled into a space reserved for the arena’s brass and parked. He strode through a side doorway. At the information desk he noted a woman in her forties with a strong chin and a mass of blonde hair. “Tell me when Shane Cooper is skating.”
The woman checked her schedule. “Don’t see his name on for today.”
She glanced backward in her schedule. “Don’t see his name for anywhere the last couple of days.” And forward. “Or later this week.”
“That’s ridiculous. He has to be training.”
“Maybe. But not here.”
Arensen exploded a puff of irritated air, started to stride away, turned quickly. “Carl Certane in?”
“Should be. Down the hall to—”
“I know, I know.”
To Carl’s office, then. Even had Carl’s name on it, black lettering. He grabbed the knob, turned it, pushed. A large cluttered desk, computer and papers. A tall man, broad in his hunched shoulders, sitting with his back to the desk, walls covered with photos and posters of skaters. One paper-filing cabinet. Couple of chairs. “Carl, where the hell is Shane?”
The man turned—a frowning face, narrow nose, thick shock of white hair. “That’s a door there, Harold. They’re made to knock on.”
“Sorry, sorry. But why don’t you have Shane in training?”
“He is training.”
“Where? I want to see what he’s doing.”
“Well, head up to Campbell River.”
“Campbell—? What the hell’s all this about?”
“Sit down, Harold, before you explode.”
Yeah, Harold could feel his face had gone red. Damn blood pressure. But not something to worry about now. He sat. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Okay. Campbell River. Why Campbell River?”
“Because that’s where he’s from. Quadra Island.”
“So what, is he on vacation or something? There’s not much training time left and—”
“He does have a bit of a personal life, Harold.”
“Hey, what’s this? Some girl?”
“He doesn’t know what a girl is, so just relax. He’s got a brother who’s in a coma. Shane’s spending some time there.”
“Yeah, but what about his work?”
“There’s a pretty good rink there. I got him excellent ice time.”
“Pretty good rink? Gimme a break, Carl.”
Carl shrugged. “It was used a couple of decades ago for a world’s finals—junior women’s hockey. He gets whatever time he needs, whenever. And he’s not far from his brother. Close by he worries less about what’s going on.”
“Women’s hockey, for pissake! That’s no figure skating rink.” He got up, stared down at Carl. “You trying to ruin him?” He stormed out of the office.
“Where you going?” called Carl.
“Home. Where I should never have left.” Back to the Lincoln. Back to the ferry. The return trip began to soothe him. Then, in Active Pass, he thought: Shit on it! Campbell River, that’s right next to Quadra Island. Which, if he remembered right, was where Austin Osborne had a home. Osborne had been supporting Shane, Harold knew this. Goddamn Osborne! Always dangerous.