SATURDAY, AUGUST 6
“Now keep your jaw loose. Remember to breathe and hold the pose,” said Tonya the yoga instructor. She was about thirtyfive and had more curves than a foothills highway, with a voice brimming with compassion.
Lane’s legs began to quiver. He could hear Arthur’s laboured breathing. They were supposed to be doing a pose called cowboy surrender. Their legs were spread, their upper arms parallel to the floor and their forearms at right angles. He looked around the room in the basement of Karma House. Eight other cancer survivors created their own versions of cowboy. Arthur was one of two survivors who had managed to coax a partner to the yoga classes. He, Lane and one other man were outnumbered by six females.
“Okay, you’ve all worked hard enough, it’s time to get ready for Shavasana,” the instructor said and watched as her students lay down and tucked bolsters under their knees and blankets under their heads.
They all lay on their backs, eyes closed and hands limply at their sides. We must look like we’re dead, Lane thought.
Tonya turned on gentle flute music, saying, “Remember the breath. Start the inhalation down by your pubic bone and bring it up all the way to your collarbone before exhaling.”
Lane concentrated on his breathing. The heat of the room and the gentleness of the music nearly emptied his mind before haunting memories arrived on tiptoes. For a moment he saw himself buried in a shallow grave. His nose, eyes, lips and chin were just above the earth. He began to wonder if anyone would ever find him. Next, Lane thought of the body of an infant buried in a backyard garden. I wonder whether it’s still there?
Russell Lowell watched the customers at Kev’s. The southfacing window was open to the terrace and then to the noises of the street. He could see people staring through the glass as they walked by, hoping for a glimpse of celebrity.
With two movies being shot in the city, it’s the best place in town to spot an international or local celebrity, he thought.
He watched six people at a round table next to the waterfall where the spotlights and the copper-coated wall turned a sheet of water into a dance as it rippled its way over the ridges and dimples in the metal. The water disappeared into a blown glass base set up off of the floor. The light from the water reflected on the guests whose eyes widened as the food arrived. Conversation died. Knives and forks were raised. Morsels greeted lips and tongues. Eyes closed with pleasure.
Russell smiled. Mary’s right. I live for moments like this. When people’s faces are transformed by the food I’ve prepared.
He sniffed at the sleeve of his shirt, wondering what spice Mary would find on his clothes and what part of the fabric Joshua — their ten-month-old son — would moisten with his milky drool.
Time to go home, he thought as he looked up at the wide-screen television. Immediately, he recognized the face of the eleven-year-old boy smiling optimistically from the past.
Guilt drove a locomotive through Russell’s chest. Zander.
On the way home along the freeway, he accelerated to a hundred forty kilometres per hour. Flashing yellow lights warned of an obstruction at the side of the road. The lights reflected off the yellow skin of a lowboy trailer carrying an oversized Caterpillar on its back. The tracks of the Cat hung over the sides of the trailer.
Russell’s right foot shoved the accelerator to the floor.
He turned the wheel and aimed for the rear of the trailer.
Mary brushed at the long strands of blond hair at the top of Joshua’s head. She stuck one stubborn tuft down with a lick of spit. He momentarily opened his green eyes — eyes the colour of his father’s — gave his thumb a quick suck and closed his eyes again.
The hair popped up again like a palm frond.
Her ears picked up the sound of a car door closing. She heard footsteps and waited in the shadows created by the outside light shining through the front window.
A key entered the lock. The door opened. The foyer light made her blink. She heard his footsteps on marble.
She watched Russell’s grinning face appear around the corner. He said, “Sorry I’m late. Has he been asleep for long?”
Mary smiled and stood while holding their baby close. She walked closer to Russell, hugged him with Joshua in between and said, “You smell of coriander tonight.”
Russell smiled and reached for the baby. He brushed his hand across his wife’s breast as he took hold of his son.
She brushed back her red hair and smiled. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing. Busy day at work is all,” Russell said.
“Really?”
Lane leaned against the railing at the top of the Ranchlands Arena seating. The Zamboni driver was making his final pass. The ice was perfect — a light shade of blue. The Zamboni braked and eased through the gate. The driver appeared seconds later to scoop away a miniature mountain range of slush. The gate doors closed.
A player stepped out of the dressing room, into the players’ box and onto the ice. His skates cut fresh lines in the ice.
Lane felt he’d like to put on his skates and take a few turns around the rink. Instead, he watched and waited while more players made their way onto the ice.
Matt was one of the last. He wore his new red, white and sage goalie mask. Howling foxes ran around the top and back of the mask. The chin, face and sides were painted with the jaw, nose and ears of a fox.
So that’s what your new mask looks like. Lane tucked his hands under his arms and waited for the game of shinny to begin.
He watched Matt move to the blue line and begin his stretches. Lane shivered as he thought of the eleven-year-old Zander feeling the cold metal gun barrel against his forehead. At least he wouldn’t feel the cold of the hole he was put in. Lane zipped up his jacket and tucked his hands into his pockets.
His mind turned to the case. He rummaged through the details, the interviews, the memories being unearthed while thinking over the files he’d written more than a decade ago.
Lane shifted his focus when he heard a puck ping off a post. He saw Matt looking over his shoulder as the puck went into the mesh above the glass. The puck dropped back onto the ice.
The unearthing of Zander’s body stirred more images from the silt of memory. Tight-lipped school children and the parents who had taught them not to talk to the cops. A mother and father in grief. Zander’s brother, Robert Rowe, staring blankly back at Lane as he interviewed him in prison, saying, “You don’t understand. Our neighbourhood was fuckin’ written off by the rest of the city. Parents from up the hill didn’t send their kids into the valley to go to our schools. The police patrolled the streets. It seemed to us they wanted to keep the fuckin’ child molesters and drug dealers in our neighbourhood. You think I’m talking to you about what happened to Zander? No way. We deal with our own shit.”
Lane heard someone yell. He looked to the ice where an opposing player broke clear of Matt’s defencemen. The shooter wore a white jersey and black pants. He shifted the puck from one side of his stick to the other. Then he snapped a shot. There was a thump when the puck hit Matt’s blocker and the puck ricocheted into the corner.
After the game, Lane helped Matt lift his equipment bag into the back of the Jeep. Matt held a black bag under his arm. The helmet bag protected the finish of Matt’s prized possession.
“How did the new helmet work?” Lane asked.
“Great. It fits better than any mask I’ve had before.” Matt smiled despite allowing ten goals.
“How come you kept the mask a secret?” Lane walked to the passenger door and opened it.
Matt opened the driver’s door. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Lane climbed in and put on his seat belt.
“I’ve had the idea for the mask for a long time. It took even longer to save up the money. And I’ve been away from the game for a while.” Matt turned his intense expression on his uncle. “I can’t explain it. I saw this guy’s internet site, sent him some ideas and this is what he came up with.” He reached back and set the mask on the back seat.
Lane closed his door. “How come a fox?”
Matt put the key in the ignition. “I don’t know if I can explain that either. It’s just —”
Lane waited.
“— that foxes are survivors.”
Lane said, “Fergus’s dad, Hamish, phoned me while I was waiting for you to come out of the locker room.”
“And?”
“He said he’s not going to charge you or Fergus with theft. Hamish has been trying to get Fergus to think before he does something stupid. This is Hamish’s chance to force Fergus to think about what he’d done and the mess he got himself into.” Lane studied Matt’s reaction.
Matt took a long breath. “I embarrassed you in front of those other cops.” He stared through the windshield.
“I wasn’t embarrassed. I was just glad no one was hurt.”
“I know. But a couple of officers were laughing and they said . . .”
“They said what?” Lane asked.
“They said you were the guy who took the bomber down and that you were the guy who stood up to Chief Smoke. They even thought you got rid of Smoke somehow. Then they said it was funny the way you could handle those two but you couldn’t handle your own kids.”
Lane smiled.
“Why are you smiling?” Matt asked.
“My own kids. I like the sound of that.” Matt’s already feeling bad enough about what happened. He doesn’t need me to add to the load of guilt.
“I didn’t like the way they said it,” Matt said. “I’m gonna make it up to you.”
“I was thinking about what you’ll do to make it up to yourself. Besides, once I learned to accept who I was, I found it mattered less and less what others said about me.” Lane waited for Matt to start the Jeep.