Devil's Pass (3 page)

He had never been to Norman Wells before, but he knew as much about it as a person could learn through Wikipedia. Webb disliked going anywhere without knowing what to expect. He knew every free Wi-Fi spot in a twenty-block radius of his territory in Toronto, and Google and his iPod were his best friends. Much as it had hurt to draw from his tiny savings, he had even invested in a solar-powered battery charger so he wouldn't have to depend on coffee shops and the library for power.

Webb knew a lot about Norman Wells, but he hadn't known that the cops drove police trucks, not police cars. White with horizontal stripes like a regular police car. Same Plexiglas and bars between the front seat and the back, but in a 4x4. Made sense, given the climate.

The cop pulled up to a building on a corner across a gravel parking lot from a fenced playground. Symbolic, Webb thought. Ironic, even. A playground for those who still had lots of opportunity to make good choices; police station for those who hadn't. Probably lost on people who spent time in the police station, but not lost on him. Maybe a song was in there somewhere, he thought, losing himself in that instead of worrying about what lay ahead. That's what he always did—escaped into the music. Most of the time it worked. Now his anger and the broken tooth were distractions.

The cop hit a button on a remote on the visor, and the door to a huge garage bay opened. The cop slowly drove the truck into the garage and shut the door with the remote before opening the rear passenger door of the police truck.

“I'm going to escort you up the steps and inside to your holding cell,” the cop said. “And by escort, that means you'll walk in front of me and I'll be watching to make sure you keep walking and don't try anything stupid.”

Webb poked at the new hole in his mouth, where a healthy tooth had been less than a half hour earlier. Good that he'd had lots of experience dealing with pain, he thought.

“Did you hear that?” the cop said. “Do me a favor and don't try anything stupid.”

Webb's hands were cuffed behind his back, so trying anything at all would by definition be trying something stupid. Must have been plenty before him who had been stupid, if it needed saying.

“Come on,” the cop grunted. “Let's get this done.”

Webb swung his legs out of the truck, then paused.

“My guitar,” Webb said. The cop had thrown the case in the back of the truck. Thrown. That was the real crime here. “Can you put it somewhere safe?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the cop said. “Somewhere safe.”

No way Webb would have been able to afford the guitar on his own. His grandfather had co-signed a loan for it. It was the only time Webb had asked anyone for help since he left home. He was making weekly payments, but it was worth the cost, both in money and in asking for a favor. The J-45 was legendary. Its rosette—the circle around the sound hole—was three-ply binding, something that probably only someone like Webb could love and appreciate. The teardrop-shaped pick guard was polished tortoise. A top of Sitka spruce and sides of Honduras mahogany gave it the warm bass sound and amazing projection that plucked at your soul.

Webb wanted to ask the cop not to toss it around while he was finding somewhere safe, but he didn't want to annoy the cop and have him do the opposite.

On his feet, Webb found his balance, and the cop used a hand on the small of Webb's back to push him forward, up a set of steps, through a security door and into the police station.

Not much to see. Three numbered doors, all of them open. Webb glanced inside as the cop pushed him past the doors toward a counter. The interiors of the rooms were bare, with bench seats around all the walls. Toilet in the corners. Cells. The rooms were cells.

One of them, Webb guessed, would be his new home.

At the counter, the space opened up into a public lobby. There were a couple of desks with computers. Not much else.

Webb had no idea whether this was a typical police station. This was a first for him.

“Want to know what happens next?” the cop asked. Like he had read Webb's mind. Or like he was curious about why Webb looked as if he didn't care. Webb had a lot of practice looking like he didn't care.

“Can I do anything about it if there's something I don't like?”

“Nope.”

“Any chance I can have my guitar back while I wait for whatever happens next?”

“Nope.”

“Then go ahead with whatever happens next. I don't see much point in getting it explained to me.”

“Somehow, I'm not surprised,” the cop said. “I'm going to need your belt and everything in your pockets. Once you're in the cell, I'll see if I can get a nurse to come in and look at your lip. The doctor's not scheduled to be here until next week.”

“How about you let me out of here,” Webb said.

“I didn't do anything wrong except defend myself.”

“Your tooth went right through your lip,” the cop said. “Someone should look at it.”

“I'd rather see a lawyer. I need to get out of here.”

“Lawyer?” The cop laughed. “Here in Norman Wells? You did notice how isolated we are, right?”

“I've noticed you have telephones,” Webb said. “Let me call a lawyer.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Yes.” But that's all Webb said.

“That would be?”

That would be something that his grandfather had asked Webb to do, but it would also be something that was none of the cop's business.

Webb said nothing. He'd learned silence was a powerful way to communicate.

The cop let out a long sigh. Webb could tell he was puzzled. But Webb didn't owe him any explanations.

“What brings you to Norman Wells?” the cop asked.

“Airplane,” Webb said.

“From anyone else,” the cop said, “that would be a smart-ass answer. You, I think, are telling me to mind my own business. But after what you did at the airport, your business is my business.”

Webb took off his belt and emptied out his pockets. Some change. His wallet. A few guitar picks. His iPod and the solar-powered charger.

“You're forgetting something.”

Webb shook his head.

“That tooth. If it's not attached to you, it goes in the bag too.”

“Swallowed it,” Webb said. He felt the tooth roll under his tongue as he spoke.

After he filled in a form listing all Webb's belongings, the cop chucked all Webb's stuff in a bag and uncuffed Webb so that he could sign the form. Webb could see the cop watching him, as if he expected Webb to swing at him and wanted to be ready for it.

No chance of that. The cop had control of the guitar. Webb didn't want the cop to have a personal grudge against him. Webb could fight back. His guitar couldn't.

“Give me your parents' phone number,” the cop said as he flipped through Webb's passport. “You're not eighteen.”

Webb couldn't imagine anything worse—after ignoring his mother at the funeral and the reading of the will, his first contact with her in months shouldn't be a call from a police cell in the Northwest Territories. She didn't deserve that.

“I have to be out by tomorrow,” Webb said. “Don't I get a phone call or something?”

“I want to talk to your parents.”

“And I want to talk to a lawyer.”

“Tomorrow,” the cop said. He led Webb to cell number two. “And if you don't give me a number for your parents, I'll get it another way. Trust me.”

The benches along the walls were green. There were two large windows made of some kind of material that let in light but wasn't transparent.

Someone else might have made a joke about going number two, just to break the silence. Not Webb.

He was fine with silence.

Good thing.

When the cop shut the door on Webb, that's all he had for company.

Silence.

FIVE

THEN

A little over a week earlier, Webb had not sat with his mother at his grandfather's funeral. Instead, he'd waited until the service began before he slipped into the back row, noting where she sat with his stepfather, and he had been ready to escape as soon as the service ended.

At the reading of the will in the lawyer's office, three days before his arrival in Norman Wells, Webb didn't have much choice except to sit in clear view of her. She'd given him an imploring look, like she wanted a hug or at least a word from him.

He'd crossed his arms and given a firm shake of his head. It had been months since he had been in the same room as his mother. The death of his grandfather was about the only reason in the world he'd consent to it, but that didn't mean he had to talk to her.

The look on her face when he'd shaken his head broke his heart. It was almost enough to make him run across this room with its dark overstuffed leather chairs and couches, run past all his relatives and their solemn looks. Almost enough to put him on his knees in front of her, clutching her legs and bawling about how much he missed her and how much he wished he could live at home with her like any normal teenager.

That wasn't possible.

Instead, he'd let a couple of tears run down his face without wiping them away. If anyone noticed, they'd think he was grieving for his dead grandfather. Nobody in the room suspected that Webb had left home when he'd been busted with drugs in his locker at school. No, to the rest of the clan, Webb's family was as close-knit as the others, although sometimes he wondered if his grandfather had suspected something was wrong. But there was nothing anyone could have done without making it worse. So the secret remained.

There were twelve people in the lawyer's office—Webb and his mother, his mother's three sisters, two of their husbands, and his five cousins. There was DJ and his twin brother Steve, and Adam and Spencer and Bernard, who insisted on being called Bunny. Webb was pretty sure the only person they all wished could be there was their grandfather.

Webb had learned to be very watchful, and he saw his cousin DJ shudder. He saw DJ's mother reach out and place her hand on DJ's hand.

“It's all right, DJ,” she whispered. That's how quiet the office was; even a whisper carried.

Webb sensed his mother was watching him just as closely as Webb was watching his cousins, so he leaned forward, knowing his long hair would cover his face. Webb's hair hung below his shoulders. His stepfather hated that, which was a good enough reason to keep growing it.

After DJ's mother whispered to DJ, all of them sat in silence, waiting for the lawyer to arrive. It had been a term of David McLean's will that all of the grandsons assemble. Webb had left a voice mail for his mother on her cell phone, saying that he would only go to the lawyer's office if his stepfather wasn't there.

Webb thought this was ironic, the silence. His grandfather would never have allowed it. Silence wasn't an option around David McLean. Laughter, yes. Shouting, yes. Arguing and jokes, yes. Silence, no.

A man in a suit pushed through the doorway, shutting the door behind him and going to the big mahogany desk in the center of the room.

“Good afternoon” he said. “Thank you for coming. My name is John Devine, and I've been David's lawyer for twenty years. This is a very sad day, and I must admit that this was a day I didn't expect to be part of. I'm much younger than David, but even so I expected him to outlive me. He was a man of so much passion. It was a true joy to have known him.”

Webb sensed that Devine meant it. And it was totally correct. Grandpa David had been an amazing man, a joy to everyone who met him.

“The terms of the will are both straightforward and, shall we say, most interesting,” Mr. Devine said.

“And with a most interesting twist. Let's begin with the more conventional parts. All of David's assets—his home, investments and cottage—are to be divided equally among his daughters. All of these assets, with the exception of the cottage, are to be liquidated and dispersed to the four heirs. The cottage's ownership will be transferred to list his daughters as co-owners. It says, and I quote, ‘This was a place of so many great memories shared with my family that I wish it to be used in perpetuity by my grandchildren and their children and their children.'”

Devine paused. “Is that all clear?”

Webb felt more tears on his face. He had great memories of the cottage—weekends and summers spent with his cousins and their parents and Grandpa. All of those memories, though, existed in a different life, the life before Webb's father died of cancer, before his mother married Elliott Skinner.

“Excellent,” Mr. Devine said at the murmurs of agreement. “Now I need to set out the next part—the interesting part—of the will. A sum of money—a rather substantial sum—has been put aside to fund an undertaking…or I should say,
seven
undertakings.” He paused. “This is without a doubt one of the most unusual clauses that I have ever been asked to put in a will.”

He looked slowly from person to person. “I know you are all are anxious to hear about these undertakings. However, I cannot share them with all of you at this moment.”

It seemed like everybody began shouting at once. Except for Webb. He just watched.

“Please, please!” Mr. Devine said, cutting through the noise. “You will all be fully informed, but not all of you will be informed at the same time. Some people will have to leave the room prior to the undertakings being read. Therefore, as per the terms of the will, I request that the grandsons—”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Steve said. “I don't want to be kicked out of the room.”

“You'll go if you're told to go,” his twin brother DJ said.

Some things, Webb thought, never change.

“You don't understand,” the lawyer said. “He can stay.”

“If he's staying, then I'm staying as well,” DJ said.

“And me too,” Webb said, speaking for the first time. He didn't like attention, but there had been a time when he felt like he and his five cousins were a tribe. He would stand with them here too, if only for all the memories of how great life had been before his stepfather.