Garry Ryan

Chapter 1
Monday, August 1

Lane sat on a bench, inhaled fresh Rocky Mountain air and smiled at the painting of reflected peaks on the surface of Lac Beauvert. He rubbed his right hand over his short brown hair and stretched his lean six-foot frame. A goose flapped its wings, accelerated, began to step lightly on the water and then rose into the air. He watched the bird's image and its wake ripple across the mountains reflected on the water. The evening sun made the lake's surface into sparkling diamonds and emeralds.

The food, the coffee, the mountain air. I haven't felt this relaxed in a long time, he thought. He wiggled his toes in his sandals and wiped at a speck of lint on his grey slacks.

"Shit!"

Lane turned.

Christine put one hand on the back of the bench, lifted her right running shoe and looked at the sole from over her shoulder. His six-foot-tall niece was wearing a white sleeveless blouse, baggy white shorts and cream-in-your-coffee skin.

Lane looked around. Every male and every other female within shouting distance were looking their way. He could read their minds.

Christine dragged her shoe over the grass. "There's goose shit everywhere! How could geese have that much crap in them?" She looked out over the water at a Canada goose being followed by five goslings and cooed, "Awww. Do you see that? Aren't they cute?" Christine pointed at the family. She handed Lane his cell phone.

He stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

The invasive rumble of unmuffled exhaust pipes made them look left.

A pair of low-slung motorcycles approached along the road leading to the lodge entrance. Both riders wore black leather, ample bellies, sunglasses, tattoos and black helmets. The lead rider eased off on the throttle. The second rider spotted Christine.

The second rider promptly forgot about his front-running riding partner. There was a scream of metal. One engine raced, the other stalled and both bikes fell over. A second engine died.

The riders got to their feet in the sudden quiet. One looked hopefully in Christine's direction.

Christine looked at the wreckage. "What were they looking at?"

Lane smiled. "You."

"What's that supposed to mean? You think it's my fault?" Christine frowned.

Lane thought, Quick, change the subject. "Where are Matt and Dan?"

"Swimming." Christine looked over her shoulder at the pool. "You didn't answer my question."

Lane stood up. "No, I don't think it was your fault! You're drop-dead gorgeous and oblivious to the fact. Arthur's having a nap. If you get him, I'll get the other two and we'll go get something to eat."

The five of them met for dinner. The table overlooked the lake and the surrounding mountains tipped with white.

Matt had lost weight, was shaving every day and wore his black hair cut short. He said, "It would be nice to stay for a few more days."

Christine said, "You know, this is the first time I've been to Jasper. And the first time I've seen a grizzly."

Daniel, her brown-haired boyfriend, was taller than Christine, slender and introverted. He was finally beginning to feel relaxed enough around Lane to open up. "The grizzly was incredible."

Lane nodded. "It was a thing of beauty. A hunter." It's good to be talking about bears instead of cancer, surgery, scarring, fatigue and what the last doctor had to say.

"Okay, tell us what you're thinking." Arthur looked out over the water. His new exercise program was beginning to pay off. His belt had two old cinch lines in the leather to prove it. It hadn't, however, helped him grow back the hair atop his tanned head.

"I was thinking how it's good for all of us to be here. I was thinking I'm glad you don't have to have chemo. And I was thinking we should go to California next. Maybe San Diego." Lane looked around the table, gauging the reactionsof four people.

"Can Daniel come?" Christine asked.

"Can we stay close to the beach?" Matt asked.

Lane's phone began to vibrate in his shirt pocket.

Arthur smiled. "That's not what I asked you. That's not what you were thinking. You just changed the subject again."

"You really want to know what I think of grizzlies?" Lane asked.

He felt their curiosity pique and the resultant attention shift in his direction.

Lane ignored his phone. "The bear was afraid of us, yet we fear it. It's a hunter. It's very good at what it does. And it makes us feel like prey. Still, we're not the endangered species."

"Like you," Matt said. "You're a hunter."

"And people fear you," Daniel said.

Lane picked the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.

Christine grabbed it from him and put it to her ear. "Hello?" She slapped Lane's hand away as he reached to take the phone back. "Hi, Keely. How are you? Yes, we'll be back tomorrow. Probably in the afternoon." She listened for a minute, then said, "I'll pass the message along. He's right here, but we were in the middle of a good conversation, and he was using your call as an excuse to avoid answering a tough question. You know how he avoids answering the questions he doesn't want to answer? I'll get him to call you right back."

"What's up?" Lane asked.

"I'll tell you when we finish this conversation." Christine curled her fingers around the phone.

"Could I have my phone back, please?" Lane motioned with his open right hand.

"No." She put the phone on the table, covered it with a napkin and put her hands over top.

Lane looked at Arthur, who was getting his spark back after a double mastectomy. It had been a long haul. There was the shock of the diagnosis, the operation and recovery from surgery, then the chemo and all of those lovely side effects.

Arthur said, "She wants some answers. You expect the same from us. Remember your big speech about us being honest with one another?"

"Okay. What do you want to know?" Lane refilled his coffee from the carafe at the centre of the table.

"Do you admire the grizzly because it's a hunter like you?" Matt asked.

"Or because it's feared and misunderstood?" Arthur asked.

"What about the fact that it's nearly extinct?" Christine asked.

Lane joined in on the laughter.

Daniel said, "Of course it's not because male grizzlies sometimes kill male cubs."

Christine glared at Daniel. "How did you know that was what the call was about?"

Christine will forever be leaping to conclusions after the way she was mistreated in Paradise, Lane thought, then asked, "About what?"

"Keely said they found the body of a missing boy. She thinks it may be related to one of your unsolved cases." Christine lifted the napkin and handed him the phone.

Excerpt from "The Cannibals"

Click Click. That's the sound of his stick on the drum.

The show is long over. The light is gone and nobody is left on the street now. Only an occasional wretch wanders by, who, if he happens to look up into the face of the little girl, coming at him fast out of the dark, raises his arm with a "Hey you!"--freezes in the wind for a minute, then gets mauled by a passing wet newspaper. The little girl continues on, her hair flying about wet in the wind, her narrow skirt stretching taut, making the sound of a bat's wing with each step. Flap Flap.

Lately, all the women around Anna K. had been going down, one by one, done in by love. She frowns and tries to commit to memory the defining characteristics of the drummer who'd been playing at the new club, The Starlite, that night. As it turned out,there was nothing starry about The Starlite; it was little more than a hole in the wall--literally, just a small, cavelike room painted red. No place for a boy like him, she thinks, in a noir-ish voice.

Click Click. The drumstick taps nervously in her head. Like a code. The latest assignment, she imagines, planted there by her nameless, faceless boss. Somewhere out in the night, The Drummer's living room window is aglow. Anna thinks of him and his bandmates: happy and easy, moving about in there with their clinking drinks and artsy things, the ironic music they'll put on, can afford after a night of playing their own songs to applause. Their normal, successful, non-assassin-like lives.

Anna woke, turned over, and picked up The Book. It opened in her hands to BAT: the bat is restless compared to the blue bird, creature of heaven. Its fluttering is uncertain. Unable to glide, it is doomed forever to beat its wings to stay in flight. Because of this, it is considered the symbol of the one bogged down in an intermediate phase of development, no longer on a lower plane, and yet unable to reach a higher. Dark flight. Ground-clinging flight. Nature had tried and failed, produced a hairy membrane. This must be part of the code, thought Anna.

A failed word, a monstrous wing to music.

Anna closed the book. Before her life as an assassin, she'd lived with "The One True Love," who had led her to believe he was a musician, a saxophone player. This explained why they were always on the move--his saxophone case carried from place to place, but kept in the closet. She kept her singing voice low, so he wouldn't get angry. When they went out, her hand rested lightly on his folded arms. She didn't ask questions when he left in the middle of the night. When he returned, he would unfold one arm towards Anna, who lay curled at the foot of the bed; he'd wrap his long, webbed fingers around her skull, which made her head feel like a ball of white electricity. All the while, he'd talk of a great leap she must make, across a void. Not to worry, The One would say: true love is always best expressed by silence; silence is the best thing you can say; everything exists, finally, in its greatest form, in silence. Etc. And then he'd put her back to sleep as though she were a princess--fanning her slowly with his great wings, or sometimes with the blank, yellow leaves of a crumbling book.

Anna K.'s father, who was a poet, was always telling people that Anna's mother had read The Odyssey by the age of five. When her mother was pregnant, another poet laughed and said she would give birth to a book. These remarks pissed the mother off to no end and she gave birth, instead, to Anna--who stayed purple on the operating table for a long time, gasping, chin quivering. When the poet-friend saw her, he called her "The Baby That Ate The World."

Anna's mother and father lived in a big house fortified with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with the most important (though generally unread) books in the world--the kind that needed to be decoded: for example, Georges Perec's novel written without using the letter e. Her father loved these kinds of writing games, said they involved constraint that gave birth to interesting accidents. But both parents were almost speechless at Anna's birth. "Oh wow," said the father. "Hello, baby," said the mother. The parents held their future-assassin baby tight to their breasts. Their wordless baby held on.

Chapter 2
Thursday, July 8

"We want you to work with Nigel Li," Harper said.

Lane studied Deputy Chief Cameron Harper before answering. Cam's height and athletic physique filled the office. Behind his black moustache, now sprinkled with grey, his round face was a mask.

Chief Jim Simpson's more delicate features were similarly blank.

Lane looked down at the round table in Harper's office and then at the triangle formed by the chairs they sat in. His eyes focused on the mochaccino in the white paper cup. He could smell the chocolate. Now it all makes sense. He looked at Harper and Simpson again and sensed their discomfort.

"Think about it." Simpson wore his uniform jacket with all of the necessary braid. His blond hair was trimmed short.

"For a day." Harper lifted his coffee with hands that made the cup look like a child's.

"We were hoping to hang on to Detective Saliba." Simpson studied Lane's face. "The RCMP wouldn't listen to us. They said that her particular skill set was required elsewhere."

"But we understand why she moved down east to get a fresh start." Harper put his cup down, sat back, and squirmed in his dress uniform.

"And it's important that we continue the process of passing on your skills, your techniques, to a younger detective." Simpson looked sideways at Lane.

Lane was surprised at his annoyance with their use of the word we and thought, Get to the point. Both of you are so worried about following the rules that you've handcuffed yourselves. "Who is Nigel Li, and what are you holding back?" He raised the mochaccino, took a sip, and smiled. "Don't think you can buy me with one good cup of coffee."

Simpson blinked and smiled. He stood up, loosened his tie, took off his uniform jacket, and hung it on the back of his chair.

Lane spotted the darker blue patches under Chief Simpson's arms.

Harper stood up, took off his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. "Li is a colossal pain in the ass."

"And a brilliant one. He speaks English, Spanish, and Mandarin." Simpson sat down again and reached for his coffee. He used his left hand to hold back his tie as he sipped.

"So, which is it? Is he brilliant or a pain in the ass?" Lane looked at the liver spots on the backs of his hands.

"Actually, he's both." Simpson smiled as he gauged Lane's reaction.

Before Lane could ask his next question, his phone rang. He raised his hand, pulled the phone from his jacket pocket, and read the name on the display. He looked at the men in front of him. "It's Lori. I have to take this." He pressed a button. "Hello?"

"Tell those two bigwigs that we need you," she said.

Twenty minutes later Lane pulled up behind the Forensic Crime Scene Unit on a residential street. The unit was a white box with ribbon-like blue stripes and a blue-and-white cab up front; its nickname was Big Mac. It was parked out front of a new home being built on an old lot in Hillhurst, one of the more established districts near the river and on the edge of downtown Calgary.

Lane got out of his Chev and walked toward the house. Stepping over a chunk of two-by-six with nails sticking up out of its splintered end, he looked up at the house with its fresh grey coat of stucco. It was two storeys high with a two-car garage around back. A man in a white crime-scene bunny suit stepped out the front door. "You're okay to enter the main level. And the steps into the basement are okay. I'm working on the top level next." He moved aside so the detective could enter.

Lane climbed the front stairs and walked inside where his footsteps echoed on the unfinished floors and uninsulated walls. He followed the familiar stink of rotting meat to the basement door and started downstairs. The steps swayed. They were suspended about a foot from the gravel floor. The wood creaked as he stopped on the bottom step. The concrete walls glowed from the hurricane lamps focused on a spot near the centre of the floor.

A woman in a bunny suit knelt, clearing away gravel with a brush. An ever-expanding section of blue tarp was visible. A man in a matching bunny suit stood behind the woman, videotaping the process.

The kneeling investigator pulled at the tarp to lift away more of the gravel. A bloody hand and forearm came into view, and the stink of rotting meat intensified.

The investigator with the camera stopped, turned, and looked at Lane. The detective met the eyes of the camera operator and recognized him. Lane nodded. "Colin."

Dr. Colin Weaver, the head of the Forensic Crime Scene Unit, was nicknamed Fibre, despite that he was completely unaware of the moniker and equally unaware of the effecthis Hollywood face had on women who met him for the first time. "We're just getting started. You're welcome to watch or wait upstairs."

Lane turned and went back to the main floor. He turned left into the kitchen and saw two men sitting on the back step. One had his head shaved so it shone. He wore a red-and-black-checked work shirt and khaki bib overalls. He stared into the backyard and sipped from a stainless-steel thermos. The other, his back to Lane, had short black hair and wore a blue sportcoat. He talked with his hands, each of which held a paper coffee cup.

Lane turned the doorknob. Do it quietly and listen, he thought as he opened the back door.

"So you're saying that the body had to have been buried last night, because you just finished levelling the gravel yesterday afternoon?" the young man with the coffee cups asked.

The man in the work clothes turned to look at Lane. There were lines across his forehead and his brown eyes were weary despite the fact that he looked about eighteen.

"Detective Lane?" The other man turned, stood, and offered a cup to Lane.

Lane asked, "Who are you?"

"Nigel Li." He continued to hold the cup in front of Lane. "Are you going to take it or not? Lori told me what you liked. Don't worry, it's still hot."

Lane took the cup, held it close to his nose, smelled the chocolate, and took a sip. "Perfect." Does everyone think they get on my good side by buying me a mochaccino? He took another sip. They're probably right.

"She said it would be a good icebreaker," Nigel said.

Lane took a close look at Nigel's freckled round face, unruly black hair, and brown eyes. He stood easily six foot two. Lane offered his hand, and Nigel took it with a smile. He looks relieved, Lane thought.

Nigel glanced at the man in the work clothes. "This is Jim. He discovered the body."

Lane looked at Jim, who stood up and offered his hand. Lane felt the calluses on Jim's hand as their palms and fingers gripped.

Nigel continued. "He says he finished up work at about six o'clock last night, then came to check on the job this morning before the concrete was poured. He noticed that . . ."

Lane thought, However you react, it will probably make or break your relationship with Nigel. He put his hand on Nigel's shoulder. The young officer gave Lane a puzzled look. Lane smiled at Nigel, then turned his attention to Jim.

Jim stared into the backyard.

Lane sat down on the step and waited for Jim to do the same.

Nigel stepped down onto the dirt. He watched the older detective and the witness.

Lane glanced up at Nigel, then looked to see what Jim was staring at. He saw that the garage door was open. There was darkness behind the open door.

"Do you know who it is?" Jim's eyes turned away from the garage.

"Not yet," Lane said.

Jim nodded, looked at Lane, and sat down next him. "I finished up levelling off the basement last night. This morning I could tell someone had been there afterward. I went to level the floor again. That's when my rake hooked on an eye at the corner of the tarp. There was that smell. It's been so hot lately, and it was hot in there yesterday."

Nigel opened his mouth.

Lane silenced him with a glance, a slight shake of the head, and a smile.

"I saw his face. His eyes were wide open." Jim focused on Lane. "He's from Mexico, right?"

"At this moment, you know more than I do," Lane said.

Jim nodded and turned back to staring at the shadow behind the open garage door. "Mexican. Some of the Latino guys come up here to work construction."

Lane glanced at Nigel, who appeared to be intently studying the conversation.

"When I lifted the tarp, I caught a glimpse of his face. His mouth was open. So were his eyes. I dropped the tarp and went back upstairs. Called 911 from my cell phone." Jim turned to Lane. "From the look on his face, he died in agony."

Fibre pulled back his hood and said, "It's going to be hot today. I'll get the results of the autopsy and our other findings to you as soon as they come to me." He turned his back on the detectives and walked toward the cab of the FCSU vehicle.

Lane got into the Chev, waited for Nigel to do the same, and watched the van pull away.

"How come you did that?" Nigel asked.

"Did what?" He heard a measure of defensiveness in Nigel's tone, but it was overshadowed by curiosity.

"You put your hand on my shoulder to stop me talking." Nigel looked forward.

He's asking you a direct question. Give him a direct answer."I got the feeling he was ready to talk, so I put my hand on your shoulder to give him that opportunity."

Nigel nodded. "I do have a bad habit of saying too much."

Now see what he thinks. "I have a habit of saying too little. What impressions did you get from the scene and from Jim?"

Nigel regarded Lane with a hint of disbelief. "You want my opinion?"

Lane waited.

"The victim was killed elsewhere and wrapped in the tarp. The killer -- I'm assuming it was a he because of the size of the body and the strength required to carry it into the basement -- looked for a place to dump the body where it wouldn't be found. The location was probably picked at random. It's close to a major traffic artery so it's a reasonable assumption that he turned off of Crowchild Trail and found a house with a basement floor waiting to be poured. If Fibre's initial finding is correct, then the victim was probably shot in the back with a hunting rifle. The enlarged exit wound is consistent with that." Nigel crossed his arms as if he were preparing for Lane to lecture him.

You sound very sure of yourself, but your body language contradicts that, Lane thought.

The street was heavily treed, and they moved in and out of shade as they headed for Crowchild Trail. Nigel watched the bicycle traffic rolling along between the Chev and the sidewalk. A young woman rode a neon-green bike with wide handle bars. Her skirt was tucked between her knees. She wore a neon-green helmet and sunglasses. "Do you ride a bike?"

Lane shook his head. "I walk a dog."

"What kind of dog?" They slowed and stopped for a red light. The woman on the bike passed them on the right.

"She's a mutt," Lane said.

"Like me," Nigel said.

"Me too."

"No, not like me. Look at that!" Nigel pointed at a black pickup truck travelling north on Crowchild Trail. The truck had a semi's cab, a pickup's box, and tires that would fit a tractor. The vehicle stood at least three metres high. "Now there's dumbspicuous consumption."

"What?" Lane asked.

"You know, conspicuous consumption that's dumb." Nigel turned and held his earlobe, then pointed at Lane. "What happened to yours?"

"Violent spouse in a domestic dispute," Lane said.

Nigel nodded. "A lot of that going around."

"You'd better be nice to him." Lori sat behind her computer monitor and shook her finger at Lane. She was the detectives' blonde receptionist and something of a mother to them all. "Some of those so-called tough guys gave him a rough ride. Just between you and me, I think they thought Nigel should shut up and do as he was told. The problem is, he has a mind of his own." She leaned closer. "And he's quicker than all of them."

Lane opened his mouth, closed it, and indicated that he had surrendered by turning his palms up.

"Nigel is smart. I know he talks a lot, but he has a lot to say if you take the time to listen." Lori stood up, continued to wag her finger, and smiled. She wore a black dress, red cowboy boots, a black Stetson, glasses with rainbow frames, and real freshwater pearls. "So you'll have to tangle with me if I hear that you're giving Nigel a rough time. The kid hasn't had it easy, you know."

"What do you mean?" What's the story here?Lori cocked her head to the right. "Not my place to say."

"So I'm supposed to fly blind on this one?" Lane took a long breath and shook his head.

"You're the detective. Do a little digging. I can't do all of the work around here." She winked at Lane and raised a pink bottle of bubble solution. "If you're nice, I might even blow a few bubbles your way." The phone rang. She smiled, winking at him, and turned to answer it.

Lane walked to his office. He had an office of his own since being promoted and put in charge of major crimes. He soon found the promotion meant more headaches to go along with a wee bit more money after taxes.

He sat down behind his computer and looked at the family photograph of his partner Arthur, nephew Matt, niece Christine, her boyfriend Daniel, and Roz the dog.

He logged in and checked his police service e-mail, then switched to his personal account. Spotting Keely Saliba's name, Lane opened a message.
From: Keely Saliba (janebond@cmail.com)
Sent: July 08, 9:28:40 AM
To: Lane (PLane@cmail.com)
CC: Cam Harper (cam.harper@cmail.com)
Re: UPDATE
Lane,
Sorry it took so long to get back to you.
I like my new job, and I'm one of the lucky ones who gets to work with some really talented individuals. And, as usual, they know how to get the job done despite the way the system works. The problem is that they all work hard, and I have to work harder to catch up.
Dylan loves law school here. I think it's not that he loves the school so much; it's more likely the result of us moving three thousand kilometres from my father. The problem is we miss so many other people who are still in Calgary.
You must be wondering if I'll ever get to the point. I have a favour to ask. There have been some unusual incidents in your city. When the government isn't threatening us with being thrown out of the intelligence business, it's ordering us to actively share information with CSIS and other agencies. I got this tip because I have Calgary connections. Apparently sales of glycerine are up in Cowtown, especially in the northwest. Also, fifty litres of sulphuric acid were stolen from a chrome-plating business in the southeast. Nothing else was touched including some cash in the secretary's desk. If there is a similar theft of nitric acid, you may have trouble headed your way. Of course you know that glycerine, sulphuric acid, and nitric acid are used to produce nitroglycerine.
It appears that you and I are destined to deal with explosives. Just keep me in the loop if any news about these ingredients comes your way.
Oh, and I've used your personal e-mail addresses just in case there are any Scotch drinkers hacking into your work accounts. I guess old habits really do die hard.
Keely

"You're not going to leave him back there in those cubicles, are you?" Lori stood in the doorway with the index finger of her right hand pointed at him. She tipped her Stetson back with a thumb. She looked from left to right at the expanse of his office. "There's room for two desks in here."

"What are you talking about?" Lane looked around his new office. Oh shit. I just got comfortable here. What is she planning?

Lori stepped inside the office and closed the door behind her. "Nigel doesn't fit back there with the good ol' boys and girls. Most of them still think Smoke was a great chief. You and I both know it was because he promised each of them some kind of promotion down the road. He made those promises with no intention of ever following through with them." She frowned at Lane and crossed her arms.

Lane recognized the significance of her crossed arms.Uh-oh. When she does that, either I'm about to hear bad news or she already has her mind made up about something."And?"

"I think Nigel should move in here with you."

"Ohh." Lane took a long breath.

"So, it's okay with you if I get another desk moved in here today?" Lori crossed her right boot over her left and leaned her back up against the door. The implication was clear: she wasn't leaving until Lane went along with her plan.

"Do I have any choice?" Lane asked.

"Of course not." Lori opened the door, then turned to face him. "There's a red file folder on my desk. It contains articles and court documents. You need to read them. Just to make your job a little easier." The heels of Lori's boots announced her departure.

Donna Laughton stood on an upturned plastic milk crate as she tightened up the last of eight spark plugs. She grabbed a loose wire, then snapped the wire onto the top of the plug. "Now you'd better run, you son of a bitch." Her garage smelled of grease, gasoline, and decomposing automobile.

Donna backed out from under the white hood of her panel van and stepped down from the crate. Leaning back, she put her fists against the small of her spine. She closed her eyes and turned her neck to work out the inevitable kinks resulting from contorting herself to operate within the van's cramped engine compartment. She gathered her tools to return them to their various drawers in her red Snap-on toolbox. Donna checked the knuckles of her right hand, saw a flap of skin, and sucked at the blood of a skinned knuckle. She grimaced at the taste of blood mixed with motor oil.

After she walked around the side of the van, Donna undid the front of her blue coveralls, wiggled them down over her shoulders, and let them fall around her knees. The hinges on the van's door complained as she opened it and sat down on the floor. She worked her feet out of the coveralls and hung them over the top of the door.

She hauled her compact frame into the seat. The seat back was angled at about fifty degrees. Donna turned the key. The engine coughed, then caught.

She let the engine idle while she climbed out and walked alongside the van, careful not to rub her grey T-shirt against the rust that was working its way along the side panel. Donna reached for the garage door opener and tapped the button.

When the door opened, she looked at the second panel van. It was grey and ready for its trip up the hill into the district across John Laurie Boulevard. She looked over the roof of the van. The cream stuccoed walls and red-tiled roof of the Eagle's Nest Christian Church looked down on the houses of Donna's neighbourhood. The church's sign proclaimed:
GOD THE SON
GOD THE FATHER
GOD THE HOLY SPIRIT
THE ONE TRUE GOD
You bastards don't understand that this is how wars start!Donna thought. She looked to her right and down the street. A ten-minute walk from her house was the Ranchlands Islamic Centre, located in a strip mall across from the Catholic school. "Maybe we can put a stop to this war of words."

"Sorry?" a man said.

Again she looked to her right. The man stood on the sidewalk. Donna recognized him immediately. Standing six foot one and weighing about one hundred and eighty pounds, the man wore a neatly trimmed black beard with a hint of grey and had handsome yet nondescript features -- except of course for the missing chunk of earlobe. His companion, an Australian cattle dog mixed with border collie, was predominantly black with some tan on its belly and a white patch at its throat. Donna smiled. "Just talking to myself. How's Roz this evening?"

Lane smiled back. "Raring to go."

She watched Roz drag him past the grey panel van, down the sidewalk, and across the street. What is that guy's name?

Donna went back inside the garage to shut off the van. As she closed the door, she looked at the cases of glycerine stacked against the wall. Above the cases was a picture of her sister Lisa wearing a beret, a camouflage jacket, and a smile.

Lane opened the front door, bent to unclip Roz's leash, wiped her paws, and slipped out of his shoes. Roz scampered for a drink of water.

Lane looked into the living room. Arthur sat with his feet tucked up on the couch. His generous belly curved above the elastic waist of his black yoga pants.

"Hello, Lane." Next-door neighbour Maria sat dwarfed by the chair-and-a-half that lounged in front of the windows. Her strawberry-blonde hair was cut short, and she held her right hand atop a five-month baby bump.

"How are you feeling?" Lane asked.

"The baby kicked today." Maria smiled.

Lane sat down in the easy chair. When we first met you were wearing something from Victoria's Secret, locked out of the house with lasagna in the oven. "That's exciting."

Arthur put his feet on the floor. "She's worried about what happened at the Islamic Centre."

Lane turned to Maria. "What happened?"

"Somebody fired paintballs at the windows."

"So things aren't cooling off," Lane said.

"Not since the murder in Hawkwood." Arthur pointed with his finger in the general direction of the neighbourhood to the north.

"The father and brother have been charged," Lane said.

"I know," Maria said. "Apparently, the minister at the Eagle's Nest Christian Church has been stirring up the congregation."

"And the family of the murdered girl are members of the Islamic Centre?" Lane asked.

Maria nodded.

"I wasn't involved in that investigation or the arrest. I do know that the father and brother confessed at the scene." Lane heard a key in the front-door lock.

Roz barked, the front door opened, and Christine stepped inside, followed by Daniel. She was six foot two; he, six five. They were the tallest people in the house.

"How was the movie?" Arthur asked.

Christine rolled her eyes, kicked off her pumps, and bent to greet Roz. "How's my baby?"

"She didn't like the movie," Dan said.

Christine stood, pushed back her black hair, spotted Maria, and stepped closer to give her a hug. "How are you feeling?'

"Finished with the nausea. Finally." Maria stood up. Her head didn't quite reach Christine's chin.

Turning back to Arthur and Lane, Maria continued, shrugging her shoulders. "I'm just worried about what's happening in this neighbourhood. Feelings are running high, and I think paintball guns are an escalation."

"Paintball guns?" Christine asked.

"Someone shot paintballs at the Islamic Centre," Arthur said.

Lane looked at Arthur. "I'll see what I can find out."

"Where's Matt?" Dan asked.

"Asleep," Arthur said.

"He's turning into a hermit," Christine said.

Dan tried to smile, looked at Lane, and frowned. "He really is, you know."

Chris Jones pushed the vacuum back and forth on the carpet. As the machine heated up, it smelled of burnt rubber and singed dust.

He was working in the corner of the president's office, which was situated at the front end of the eight-thousand-square-foot building that housed Foothills Fertilizers. Chris smiled at the way the plush pale carpet revealed his work with subtly different shades of blue where the vacuum left its mark.

Chris looked at his watch, shut off the vacuum, listened for the sounds of other human activity, and undid the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt.

He watched his watch work its way to exactly ten o'clock. The desk phone rang.

Chris waited for three rings before he picked up the receiver with his right hand, which he'd covered with the fabric of his cuff. "Christopher." If he had said, "Chris Jones," it meant they were not free to talk.

"How are things?" John A. Jones asked.

An insight struck Chris like a camera's flash in total darkness. His voice. It's God's voice, he thought. "I'm good."

"The inventory is complete?" his father asked.

"Almost." Chris felt himself begin to shrink inside his two-hundred-twenty-pound frame.

"Almost?"

Chris reacted to the disappointment, the note of accusation in the one-word question. "One more litre, and the inventory will be complete."

"Good. The deadline is approaching. The only way to win this war is to bring the battle to the city that creates the filth," John A. intoned.

"I understand." Chris patted the muffin top over his belt.

"God will protect us."

"He will."

"Your mother sends her love," John A. said.

Chris frowned and thought, My mother is dead. "I know."

"I will call again tomorrow night."

Chris hung up, did up his sleeves, and restarted the vacuum.

Matt blinked in the darkness and stared at the luminous dial of the alarm clock.

He kept his eyes open as he swung his legs off the bed and walked to the light switch. He looked at his toes when he turned on the light.

With the palm of his hand, he touched the sheen of sweat on his chest. He closed his eyes and again saw the man in the devil mask, felt the cold of devil's handgun against his forehead.

He opened his eyes and headed for the bathroom and a shower. It's ninety minutes before I have to be at the golf course, he thought as he opened the bathroom cupboard and looked for a fresh towel.

Looking for a Place to Happen

I don't pick up the phone, even though at this time of night it's probably for me. This'll make my parents crazy, but I figure it's their name in the phone book. Until they get me my own line, they can answer it.

A few seconds later, there's a knock on the door. My mom swings it open before I can say anything. Part of me wishes I was doing something really messed up, like performing Satanic rituals, or jerking off to The Golden Girls--something that would really burn her retinas.

"Peter?"

I turn down the chipmunky sound of high-speed dubbing.

"Jesse's on the phone for you."

"Okay. Thanks."

After she shuts the door, I pick up the receiver from the nightstand. "Got it," I say into the mouthpiece. A moment passes and I can still hear the ambient laughter of a live studio audience from the living room. "I've got it!" I shout. There's a rattle and click as someone finally hangs up.

"Hello?"

"You coming out tonight?"

Soda's not the most talkative guy to begin with, but when he calls, you'd think he was getting charged for long distance or something.

"Uh, sure. Where do you want to meet?"

"Up top. Twenty minutes."

I get a cold flash of adrenalin.

"Sounds good," I lie. "See you there."

"Oh, hey," Soda says, "one more thing."

"What's that?"

Click.

Fucker. I hate it when he does that. I grin in spite of myself, but then I hear the mechanical kachunk of my stereo amputating a song halfway through, and I realize I've got a situation on my hands.

When faced with this kind of mixed tape timing crisis, most people opt for one of two strategies. The first is to let the song die when the tape runs out. It's the simplest solution, but I get kind of anxious waiting for that shitty, abrupt ending to come down like an axe. Alternatively, some people go back and record over the half-finished song with a blanket of magnetic silence. I'm not really into that either. As far as I'm concerned, two minutes of tape hiss can feel like an eternity in limbo.

Thankfully, there's a third option: you bring in a closer. Love Tara, the first full length from Eric's Trip, has no fewer than four songs that clock in under two minutes, not including 'Allergic to Love,' which is pretty much two minutes on the dot. So, to finish out the side, I pick 'June,' this weird, menacing little number that basically sounds like your stereo is going to come to life and murder you. It's perfect.

I rewind the tape a bit, then cue up my closer with a screechy fast-forward. I listen as the previous song dies out, wait a second or two for that crucial dead air, then start pushing buttons. Pause. Play. Play and Record. A minute and a half later, the song ends just before the reels groan and stop. In tiny black letters, I make a few final notes on the sleeve, then slide the paper back into the plastic case. I pop the tape out of the stereo and snug it into the sleeve. I can always finish the flip side later.

I grab my jacket and then walk through the house toward the cackling of Roseanne. My dad is stretched out on the couch, and my mom has her feet up in the recliner. There's a bowl of Bugles on a TV table between them.

"I'm going to stay at Soda's tonight," I tell them.

They look up at me then at each other, their faces changing shape in the television light.

"I don't remember you asking us," Dad says.

"Okay," I sigh. Sometimes you've got to play ball. "Can I stay at Soda's tonight?"

My dad looks at my mom, eyebrows raised. My mom nods in the affirmative. "Just call us if you go somewhere else."

"I wi-ill," I sing as I walk away. But I won't.

My parents aren't bad people as far as parents go, but I wish they'd had another kid after me. At least that way they would've spread their parenting a little thinner. People think I've got it made because I'm an only child, but the truth is, it sucks being constantly outnumbered by adults. I don't have older siblings to pave the way, or any younger ones to take the blame. Plus, I'm always outvoted. If I want to go Harvey's, we inevitably go to Swiss Chalet. If I want to watch The X-Files, I have to settle for Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. As a result, I've been suspicious of democracy since I was six and lying my ass off since I was seven.

By the time I get up on the roof, Soda's already polished off two bottles of Crystal and he's working on his third. I don't actually need to see him to know this. While I worked my way from the dumpster lid to the first floor addition to the terrifying second-floor lintel, I could hear the empties completing their journey to the teachers' parking lot. Mortality Reminders, Soda calls them.

He doesn't turn around when I find him. Instead, he slides another bottle out of the case, twists off the cap, and sets it beside him. It stands at attention while Soda dangles his feet over the edge and tries to light a smoke behind the shield of his jeans jacket. I get a wave of vertigo just watching. I keep a safe distance and reach down for the beer.

"Sodapop," I say.

"Ponyboy," he mumbles, cigarette bouncing up and down.

Up this high, there's a sting in the air and it doesn't feel like summer anymore. I guess in about a week it won't be. I tuck my hair behind my ears but a few mutinous strands escape and flap in my face. For a minute or so, we drink in silence and survey the view. Down and to the east I can make out the aging chain-link fence that circles the student parking lot across the street. It's empty except for Trevor Shewchuck's Fiesta, which rotted there all summer because he's too cheap to have it towed, and because there's no one left at school to care. Beyond that, the city becomes a dotting of streetlights, the red-brown roofs of bungalows and wartime houses, and the unfathomable blackness of the lake.

You know that song Neil Young sings about a town in North Ontario and how all his changes happened there? I always wanted that song to be about Thunder Bay, but it's not. Thunder Bay isn't the kind of place you write a song about.

"I can't wait to get out of here," I say.

I know it sounds a little rehearsed, like the kind of thing people say standing on rooftops in movies, but it's the truth. Soda nods. He doesn't say anything.

Sometimes, when he gets all stoic like this, I think he's trying to remind everyone that he's an Indian. His mom was part Ojibwe, and she was only nineteen or twenty when she hooked up with Mauri. He was this older guy, straight out of Finland. They had Soda about a year later, and sometime after that, she died of ovarian cancer.

"So that makes me a Findian," he said when we met in grade four. It was my second week at Balsam Street Elementary, and in some spirit of new-kid hazing, Brad McLaren had just spontaneously announced to the class that I'd tried to "bum him" in the cloakroom. I had trouble finding friends for a while after that.

Soda and I worked together for a group science project. We made one of those papier-mâché volcanoes that you fill with red dye, vinegar, and baking soda. He was just Jesse back then. He had failed a grade and the other kids were leery of him, partly because he was older and partly because of the whole Indian thing. In the beginning, we were just kind of friends by default.

That first day, when we walked home from school, I realized we didn't even live that far apart--just on either side of Hillcrest Park. His eyes got all saucered when my mom invited him in for some ants on a log. He told me my house was "really nice." Later, I'd learn that Soda's house wasn't really nice. On the other side of the park there were broken fences, uncut lawns, and dogs chained up in backyards.

"How's Mauri doing tonight?" I ask.

He raises his elbow in the air and flicks a beer cap into outer space. "He's fine."

Soda's dad is kind of an asshole when he drinks, which is pretty much always. On the upside, Mauri has been buying our beer since I was thir-teen. Not that he knows or anything. He just assumes he drank any beer that disappears. I scratch at the gummy Crystal label with my fingernail, then brace myself for the bitter bottom. How does Soda scramble up here with a six pack in one hand, anyhow? I read that Mohawk Indians aren't afraid of heights. It's genetic, or something. Maybe it's true for the Ojibwe too.

I'm not so great with heights, so I get on my stomach and crawl toward the edge, the way you'd crawl over thin ice to pull someone out of the water. I learned how to do that in First Aid, along with performing CPR and treating minor burns. I did not learn how to treat falling two storeys down onto concrete steps. Still, I poke my head over so that my chin rests on the cold metal trim of the roof. I can feel the wind on my face, and my arms seem heavy. I reach back for the beer bottle and hold it in front of my face before I let it go. For about a second, it looks like it's just hanging in the air between the roof and the ground. Then the neck breaks on the concrete below and whatever's left inside spills out white and foamy. Watching it gives me this electric feeling between my shoulder blades, like I'm somehow going to follow the bottle down. I shimmy backward and push myself up into a sitting position.

"Catching up?" Soda offers me another beer.

I put the bottle to my lips and start to make a pretty impressive show of chugging it back, when I hear the voice from behind us.

"Hey!"

It's more like a dog bark than a word.

"What are you kids doing up here?"

I start coughing and sputtering and spilling down my front. Suds ejaculate from the neck, so I stand up and hold the bottle away from me at an arm's length. I wipe my hand on my jeans and listen to half my beer splatter on the ground. Soda shakes his head at me.

"Fucking amateur." Deacon laughs and slaps me on the back. He collapses in a heap on the other side of Soda and grabs a beer.

The first time we really noticed Deacon, Soda and I were forced to sit through this excruciating school concert assembly, featuring such teen favourites as 'The Girl from Ipanema' and 'In The Mood.' As we watched the grade nine band wobble though a fairly soulless rendition of 'I Want To Hold Your Hand,' it became immediately clear that--regardless of the music teacher's enthusiastic baton waving--it was really the short kid on bass that was keeping it all from falling apart.

"Nice haircut," I say, still coughing a little.

"Thanks. Just set the ol' razor on Number Two."

"Your mom's Number Two," I mutter. He ignores me and twists the cap off his beer. The front of my jacket is damp.

"So," Deacon says after he winces down a mouthful, "I finally figured out how to do Johnny Cage's finishing move. He rips people right in half. It's pretty crazy."

Soda gives me a look.

"Sub-Zero still has the best Fatalities, though. Like in the first one? Where he pulls the guy's head off and you can see the spine? So awesome."

"Hey, did your mom let you have the Sabre tonight?" Soda asks, changing the subject.

"Yep."

"Are people still going to Wild Goose?"

"Think so."

"Well then?"

I finish what's left of my second beer. This time, I throw a hook shot over the road. It falls short of Shewchuck's hatchback and bounces off the chain-link fence.

"Shit. That sucked," I say.

"Your mom sucks," Deacon says.

"Jesus Christ, let's go!" Soda shouts. Somehow he's already waiting for us down in the parking lot. Indian blood. Has to be.

The Sabre is Deacon's mom's 1989 Buick LeSabre station wagon, a wood-paneled beast that is both hideous and frequently available. By the time I get down off the roof, Soda's already called shotgun, so I'm stuck in the back. I don't mind so much. There's something comforting about the back seat of that car. It's all beige and plushy and I can put my legs up across the bench. It's only after we've eased onto Van Norman Street and we're driving away that I look back to see all the dark windows of Mackenzie King staring at me like empty eye sockets. One more year of high school, I tell myself. One more year of the Pussies, of Fat Fuck, and one more year of Thunder Bay. Then I'm out for good.

"Anybody bring anything to listen to?" Deacon polls the car.

I can see Soda's arm reach into the front of his jacket, and at first I think he's fishing for smokes but instead he pulls out a tape. He pushes it into the player and hits rewind. The dashboard hums.

I'm barely buzzed and feel unprepared for what is supposed to be the last bush party of the season. Maybe I'll be able to swipe a few beers once I get there.

"I put something in the back for us," Soda says, his head half-turned toward me.

On the floor behind the passenger seat there's something covered with an old grey-and-red blanket. When I lift up a corner, twelve beer cans gleam like a miracle in the passing streetlight.

"Road pops!"

I dig one out of the carton and pass it to Soda over his shoulder. I hand the next one to Deacon, then get one for myself. Hollow cracks and wet slurps echo in the car. In the satisfied quiet that follows, the tape deck whines and the cassette crashes into the beginning. As Deacon turns onto Lakeshore Drive, Soda presses play and the first hopeful notes fill up the night.

Lane sat back after finishing his second plate of ribs. He reached out and held his water glass with sticky fingers. Arthur's head was turned sideways; he watched Lane out of one eye with a smile on his lips. The boy at the next table studied the detective and frowned. "Daddy, he ate two plates!"

Lane looked at the boy. He felt the sauce drying on his lips and cheeks. There was laughter from another table. Then Arthur began to roar and most of the people in the restaurant joined in. Except, of course, for the little boy, whose eyes filled with tears. He leaned into his father, who put an arm around the child.

The waitress hustled over, looked down at Lane and lifted his plate. It was piled with napkins and bones. "Want some more ribs?"

Lane smiled and shook his head. "No, thanks, but I would like to buy ice cream for the little guys." He nodded his head toward the next table.

The waitress smiled. "Want me to ask?"

"Please."

A few moments passed in relative silence. Lane reached over and grabbed the wipes inside the plastic wrappers. His hands slipped over the shiny surface. He gripped the top of the black packet, but his fingers couldn't tear the packet open. "These things are impossible."

"What did the text say?" Arthur deftly tore open a pack and handed it to Lane.

Lane wiped his face and fingers. "That Sean Pike is dead from gunshot wounds in Playa del Carmen."

"Mexico?" Arthur leaned forward, picked up another packet, tore it open and handed the wipe across the table.

"Yes." Lane felt refreshing wetness on his face.

Arthur leaned back and laughed.

"What?"

"How much do you want to bet the body is already cremated?"

Lane shrugged. "We'll see."

CHAPTER 1
Tuesday, June 13, 1944

"What's that noise?" Sharon stepped out of the hangar and away from the mélange of oil, grease, petrol, and paint. She inhaled the fresh air, felt the sun on her face, shaded her eyes, and looked east. It sounds like an airplane, but different, she thought as she used her free hand to pull her non-regulation ponytail out over the collar of her blue battledress jacket.

Edgar Washington joined her. He was a bronze mountain of a man. The shovel looked like a child's beach toy in his hands. He leaned it against the wall of the hangar and looked in the direction of the noise.

They stood in the mouth of the White Waltham hangar to get a better look.

About ten feet in front of her, a wrench skidded along the concrete. "Goddamned British spanners are as useless as tits on a boar!"

"Can you hear that?" Sharon looked inside at Ernie.

"What the hell is it?" Ernie Shane stepped out of the hangar. He wore the sleeves of his dusty coveralls rolled up to reveal his Popeye arms. Ernie had a long, powerful body, short legs, and brown eyes that faced Edgar's chest whenever he looked straight ahead.

"There!" Sharon pointed south and east. The aircraft was grey, flying at a bit over two thousand feet.

"It's fast." Edgar looked over his shoulder toward London.

"Sounds like someone with the green apple quick step shitting into a forty-five-gallon drum," Ernie said.

Edgar frowned.

"It's got an odd silhouette. It looks like the engine is mounted near the tail." Sharon shaded her blue eyes with her right hand.

"It looks awfully small for an airplane," Ernie said.

"It must be some kind of jet propulsion engine," Edgar said.

Ernie nodded. "I've heard of that. Never seen one, though."

They walked around the other side of the hangar to keep their eyes on the aircraft. Sharon stood in between Edgar and Ernie. She was shorter than either of the men, but their posture revealed that they deferred to her.

The aircraft's engine stopped and it nosed down.

"Get down!" Edgar grabbed them both, pushed them to the ground, then covered their bodies with his.

"What in Christ's name are you doing?" Ernie huffed.

The answer was an explosion. The ground heaved. There was a whistling sound. When they got up and brushed themselves off, there was a piece of shrapnel the size of a dinner plate stuck in the hangar wall. It sizzled in the wood about four feet from ground level.

Ernie looked at the ragged chunk of metal, then at Edgar. "How did you know?"

Edgar shrugged. "It was coming from the direction of France, headed toward London, and it wasn't one of ours. A reasonable conclusion."

Sharon looked at the piece of shrapnel and checked to see if any of them had been wounded. "Thank you very much, Edgar." She picked dry grass from her disheveled brown hair.

Ernie slapped Edgar on the back. "I owe you one."

Edgar blushed.

"Let me buy you boys some lunch." This is the perfect opportunity to ask Ernie for the favour, Sharon thought.

Lunch today was courtesy of the grey NAAFI wagon, which supplied them with coffee, thick ham and cheese sandwiches, and tweed squares. They sat together at a table under a tree.

Ernie wolfed down the first half of the sandwich. "This is a nice change. It actually tastes like meat."

Edgar tucked the napkin that he kept in his back pocket into the collar of his shirt and bit into the sandwich. "The U-boats aren't sinking as many supply ships anymore, so the food's getting better."

"How come you know so much about everything?" Ernie looked sideways at Edgar.

"I read, then I look for evidence to support what I read. Last month, I read an article that said the Allies have turned the tide in the Atlantic. That u-boats were being sunk in large numbers." Edgar held up his sandwich. "You may be holding the proof in your hand."

Sharon smiled as she bit into the sandwich. I've come to enjoy the company of men. Some of the women I work with are members of a superior class. They look down on the bastard Canadian who gives them orders. These two men don't see me that way at all.

"I hope you're right." Ernie took a sip of coffee. "If I never taste mutton or bully beef again, it'll be too soon."

"Now we have to wait and see if the invasion is going as well as Stars and Stripes says it is." Edgar took a delicate bite of sandwich.

"Then the explosion this morning could be proof things are going well, or it could mean the opposite," Sharon said.

Edgar nodded. "Exactly." He glanced at Sharon with his brown eyes, then looked away. "How is Michael?"

Sharon shrugged. "I don't know. Haven't seen him for three months. After the invasion began, I finally understood why he's been so busy. He must have been working with the French Underground to prepare for the invasion. I suppose they'll be doing what they can to disrupt the Nazi supply lines."

Ernie stuffed the last of his sandwich into his mouth. He looked at Edgar before he covered his mouth with his hand and turned to Sharon. "Why not get to the point?"

Sharon smiled and set her sandwich down on the wax paper it came wrapped in. "Edgar would like to join the 332nd in Italy. He thinks that if he could be trained as an aircraft mechanic, the transfer would happen."

"332nd?" Ernie looked for a patch of clean sleeve before he wiped his mouth.

"Tuskegee Air Group. The Red Tails in Italy. It's made up of people like me."

A thoughtful frown formed on Ernie's face. He turned to Sharon. "You want me to train him?"

Sharon nodded. "That's right. You need the help. Edgar needs the training."

Ernie looked at the hangar, then at Edgar. "When do you start?"

Wrinkles appeared on Edgar's forehead when he looked at Sharon.

"I have to clear it with Edgar's CO." Sharon picked up her sandwich. "I'll phone him right after I finish this."

"Maybe not," announced a voice from behind her.

She turned.

Michael stood a head taller than her. He studied her with striking blue eyes framed by strawberry blond hair. "I hear you've had a surprise attack this morning. Thought I'd come and investigate. Apparently you've seen one of Hitler's so-called vengeance weapons."

"I wonder who his target was?" Edgar said. "His vengeance weapon crashed in an empty field. Apparently they have some problems to solve if they want to hit military targets."

"Or maybe he's declared war on cows. The only casualty was an unlucky black Angus," Ernie said.

Sharon stood and embraced her husband. She inhaled the scent of cigarettes and chocolate.

"Is the coffee any good?" Michael asked.

"Not bad." Ernie lifted his cup. "Sharon will get you a cup."

Sharon's face turned red. "He can get his own damned coffee!" She turned to her husband. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Planning an invasion," Michael said.

"I've been so worried. I thought you might have gone back into France." Sharon looked him over, checking for evidence of wounds.

"You told me not to lie to you. I couldn't very well call you up and tell you what I was up to, now could I?" Michael chuckled.

"Don't laugh at me!" Sharon said.

"It's just that you're an ace. It's not as if you haven't taken a risk or two in this war." Michael winked.

Ernie lifted his chin and looked at Edgar.

Edgar said, "So, the rumours are facts. Exactly how many aircraft have you downed?"

"Nine. I saw one crash with my own eyes." Michael looked at Edgar.

"I don't believe we've been introduced." Michael offered his hand. It was dwarfed by Edgar's.

"An ace." Ernie stood up and looked at Sharon. "You never talk about it." He offered his hand to Michael. "I'm Ernie."

"Michael. Glad to meet you. You must know by now. The people who do the actual fighting in a war are often the least willing to talk about it." Michael put his arm around his wife's shoulder and pulled her closer.