The ferry from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo weaves through fog-shrouded islands, crosses a gray body of water that bleeds into an equally gray horizon. We stood on the deck of the ship, forgoing the lounge and the crowded cafeteria. Above us, the charcoal-colored clouds parted in a long straight slice that exposed a seam of blue-black atmosphere. Gulls pumped their wings, arcing back toward shore.
“My friends and I used to take the ferry all the time,” Sonia said. “First trip away from my foster folks, Nanaimo’s where we went.”
“To do what?”
“Drink and get laid, smoke dope, smash things on the beach.”
“Bet you left that off your police application.”
She turned to watch the western edge of Bowen Island diminish and slide into the gray. “I know so many people who see whales on this trip. Orcas. They come right up to the boat, they say. I’ve never seen shit.”
In Nanaimo we got back in my Cadillac and headed to Ladysmith. I’d taken a pamphlet from the tourism rack on the ferry, and as Sonia drove, I read out the local sites. “An award-winning meadery and a glass-blowing workshop. We could move here, you know. You could request a transfer.”
“Just try and hold me back,” she said.
The drive took forty minutes, through the sleepy downtown core of Nanaimo, down the Island Highway that ran along the east coast of Vancouver Island. Petrie’s house was built sideways to the winding street. Three stories and bracket-shaped, the back yard concealed behind high hedges. Windows closed and curtains drawn, what looked like tinfoil peeking out from the other side of the glass. From the curb, we could hear cursing coming from around back.
Petrie sat on a chaise longue beside an outdoor pool, lit by floodlights. He was reading a paper. His Hawaiian shirt was unbuttoned, tanned belly hanging out like a half-inflated beach ball. The red coils of a portable heater wafted warmth toward his face.
He noticed us and put the paper down. Heaved himself out of his chair, staggered, steadied himself by grabbing the back of the chaise.
“This is private property, fuckwad.” He walked over to us.
I leaned over the gate. “I’m looking for a friend.”
“Bet you are.” Up close I could smell beer breath. He was missing one and a half fingers on his right hand. Something in the palm of his left, black and metallic.
“Can I ask if you’ve seen him?” I said.
“You can take your faggot ass back where you came from, the bitch too, before I get really pissed and decide—”
I grabbed a hank of Petrie’s hair and pulled him over the gate. The top hinge snapped. Petrie somersaulted, his face introducing itself to the gravel bed that was his lawn.
I planted a knee on his back and shook the weapon out of his hand. A fold-out knife, wood-handled and dull.
Petrie sputtered and cursed. He looked up at Sonia, who stomped on his hand with the heel of her boot.
“Answer his question, shit-turd,” she said.
“I haven’t seen anyone. You two know the people you’re fucking with?”
“Mmm-hmmm. Can we check out your place?” As he formed his reply I added, “Thank you so much, won’t take a minute.”
I pulled him to his feet and Sonia cuffed him. We marched him through the broken gate, shoving him back onto the chaise.
“You talked to my friend on the phone,” I said.
“Did not.”
“You didn’t tell him that fuck off meant fuck off?”
“That guy?” His mouth pursed in distaste. “So what if I told him to fuck himself? Shouldna fucking phoned me in the first place.”
Up close, his pool was a floating collection of leaves, feathers, garbage bags, and beer cans. “You didn’t see him?” I asked.
“No.” He looked between us. “Swear to fucking god.”
The sliding door opened onto an apartment, hot and humid like the Amazon Room at the Vancouver Aquarium. Petrie’s apartment décor: ashtrays and ancient stroke magazines, empty cardboard flats of Old Stock and the odd two-six of Stoli. A big chrome .45 on top of the fridge.
“I’ll watch him,” Sonia said. She had her own pistol concealed beneath her coat, but I handed her Petrie’s. I went back inside.
Up the stairs, into the foyer. I saw why the heat. Every other room in the house had been gutted, plank shelving installed, hydroponics and tin foil for wallpaper. Rows of pot plants, hundreds to a room. Water jugs and pails of nutrients everywhere.
A pro operation, the Exiles or one of their rival gangs. And Petrie tending things for them.
No Blatchford, no Essex, nothing on Tabitha Sorenson.
I heard a groan and a scream from outside. Rushing down the stairs and out onto the lawn, I saw Petrie fetal-positioned next to the chaise, his forehead sporting a spiderweb of blood.
“Bitch,” Petrie said.
Sonia had the gun pointed at him, breathing heavy. “He’s lucky he’s not in the fucking pool right now.”
I checked his storage shed, which held bags of chicken manure, a few gallon jugs of Dyna-Gro, and little else.
“Are those department-issue cuffs?” I asked.
“They’re a spare pair. I’ve got others.” She blushed slightly.
“Nothing linking us to him, then.”
“We’re clear.” She handed me the pistol. Petrie seemed very interested in it.
I shot the glass of the sliding door and ventilated the siding. When the gun was empty I tossed it in the pool. We walked out to a refrain of Petrie’s curses.
In the car, speeding back to the ferry, I said to Sonia: “Shit-turd?”
“Like you could’ve come up with better.”