In the Shadow of the Glacier (37 page)

Two young women, pushing strollers and carrying coffee cups, approached. Rich glared at them. They looked at Rich. Once they’d passed they turned to each other and laughed. He wanted to strangle the both of them. His interview with Lucky Smith’s daughter had been an abject failure. It had been a mistake, a big mistake, to air even part of it. He’d hoped to get her in a mellow mood, a nice lunch with an old friend, so she’d confide on camera that her mother’s group was a major headache for the forces of law and order. Then he could play up the idea that the police and people of Trafalgar needed help with these troublemakers. Instead the cop bolted and he’d insulted her mother. Irene, his assistant, called him the moment the segment finished to tell him he’d come across not only as a bully, but, worse, a bad interviewer.

“What do you suggest we do now?” Greg’s tone indicated that he didn’t much care one way or the other. He had nothing to worry about. All he had to do was take the pictures.

Rich said nothing. There was nothing he could do. Except go back to California with his tail between his legs.

“Take us back to the hotel, Meredith, then book us on the first flight out.”

“You know what, Rich? I’m not your secretary. Make your own bookings. I’ll drop you back in town. If you need a ride to the airport, the hotel runs a shuttle.” She turned to Greg. “I have enough problems of my own, if I’m gonna make my boss forget that I almost sold out this town for that jackass.”

Rich Ashcroft could have said a lot of things. He could make a big fuss, throw his weight around, and crush the girl reporter from the
Daily Gazette
under his heel. Instead he got back into the car. He’d screwed up here; he had bigger battles to face back at the network. Irene had told him that the young hotdog the network brought in to cover the rest of the program while Rich was away was proving to be very popular with women aged thirty to forty-five, Rich’s prime demographic.

Chapter Thirty

Lucky Smith sat in the comfy armchair in the living room. Her book lay open on her lap, but she hadn’t read a word for at least fifteen minutes. She could hear Moonlight moving about overhead, getting ready to go out. They’d scarcely spoken the last couple of days, and this morning, when Lucky used the family computer, she’d seen that Moonlight had been looking up apartments for rent.

She buried her nose into the book as she heard the
tap, tap
of heels coming down the stairs.

“Whatcha reading, Mom?”

Lucky looked up, as if surprised to hear a voice. “
Collapse
. It’s a warning about what happens to civilizations that exceed their limits.”

“Sounds like a barrel of laughs. Duncan should be here any minute.” Moonlight looked stunning in low-rise jeans with a wide belt and a deeply cut, spaghetti-strapped, purple satin shirt. Her shoes were sandals with straps as thin as dental floss and skyscraper heels. A small black bag was tossed over her shoulder. Light from the reading lamp threw golden sparks into her hair, falling loose around her shoulders.

Lucky swallowed a lump in her throat, put the book down, and stood up. She walked toward her daughter and wrapped her arms around her. Moonlight smelled of vanilla hand cream and the locally made soap she loved. She rested her chin on the top of her mother’s head.

“I hate it when you do that,” Lucky said. “It makes me feel small and insignificant.”

“Like anyone you’ve ever met has found you insignificant,” Moonlight said.

The headlights of a car flooded the room. Sylvester ran to the door, barking. Lucky stepped back. “I can’t imagine why Duncan drives that monster of a truck.”

“Maybe he has a very small penis,” Moonlight said with a wicked grin. It had been a long time since Lucky had seen light sparkle in her daughter’s eyes.

“Ew. I do not want to know. And if you ever find out—don’t tell me.”

“Don’t wait up.”

“Moonlight. Molly. Before you go.” Lucky struggled to find the words. “I haven’t told you how proud I was of you the other night. You were so strong, so brave, so powerful out there. You saved us all from a disastrous situation.”

Water gathered behind Moonlight’s wide blue eyes. “Thanks, Mom. But as for being strong and brave—well, I wasn’t.”

Duncan leaned on the horn.

Lucky swiped her hand across her eyes. “In my day, a gentleman caller was expected to come to the front door. Spend fifteen minutes or so in the den with the girl’s father while the girl and her mother peeked from behind the kitchen door. Only then would they be allowed to go to the boy’s car. In which they would later screw their brains out.”

Moonlight laughed. “I love you, Mom, do you know that?”

“I do, dear, I do.”

□□□

It felt good to be out on the street, one of the crowd, a person with nothing to do but have fun. Smith threw her head back and let the music wash over her. The concert was held in a typical small-town venue, used for bingo one night, metal bands another. Tonight the place was packed for a concert by BC-DC, the hugely popular AC-DC tribute band from Nelson.

She saw a few people who might have been on one side of the street or another at the trouble on Tuesday. But no one looked at her maliciously and no one confronted her. And so she enjoyed herself enormously.

The crowd was slamming their bodies together, dancing or just hopping up and down with arms moving in the air. The hall smelled of beer and sweat, clothes pungent with smoke, tobacco and pot, and cheap perfume liberally applied. The audience cheered as the singer howled and the band broke into “Highway to Hell.” Smith looked at Duncan. He was smiling at her. “This is such fun,” she said. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Thanks for inviting me.” She couldn’t hear what he said, but she could read the words on his mouth.

She turned back toward the stage, lifted her arms high, and moved them to the beat of the music. She could feel as much as see Duncan eying the curves under her purple shirt and smiled to herself. It felt good. Both to be admired and to smile.

By the time the concert ended her heart was racing and her feet ached. The crowd spilled out into the night, laughing and telling each other how great the show had been. Duncan took her hand, and she didn’t pull it away. A police cruiser was parked in the alley beside the hall, lights off. Dave Evans stood beside it, watching the place empty. He didn’t see her. He’d called her at home on Wednesday and stammered out thanks for saving him and Mrs. Reynolds. As thanks went, it sounded as if someone were holding a gun to his head, but she appreciated the call nonetheless. Maybe he’d no longer be so quick to dismiss her as a product of token hiring.
Nah
.

“You bought the tickets,” Duncan said. “How about something to eat?”

“I’m famished.”

He pulled her hand. “We’d better hurry, the Mess Hall’ll be packed.” She tottered after him on her high heels. Fortunately the town’s favorite wings joint was only a block from the hall. She wouldn’t be able to walk much further than that. These shoes cost her three hundred bucks, and they’d sat in the closet since Graham’s death.

They squeezed into a table for two in a dark corner. They ordered a large pizza and a platter of hot wings and pints of beer. Duncan told funny stories and Smith laughed. He tried to get her to talk about her job, but tonight she didn’t want to go anywhere near work.

He got up to go to the washroom and she watched him push his way across the floor, where people were packed together like penguins on a shrinking ice floe. If she’d been on duty, she might have done a count of heads, to check if the place was in excess of the numbers allowed. But she wasn’t on duty, and so she nibbled on the last wing. Duncan stopped to talk to someone sitting at the counter. She thought about her first date with Graham. They’d climbed the two hundred steps down to Wreck Beach in Vancouver. It had been late in November. The beach was empty, the fabled nudists all gone home, no one camping out waiting for the next big political protest. They’d held hands as they jumped over the corpses of giant trees—refugees from logging camps, scattered on the beach—and splashed barefoot in the icy surf.

The happiest day of her life.
Come back to the moment.
Duncan wasn’t Graham, and she wasn’t looking to hook up with anyone. Not now. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

An obese man was sitting on a bar stool beside the person Duncan was talking to, blocking her view. He climbed down from his seat and lumbered away, and Smith had a clear look at the man talking to Duncan.

Claude Derochiers. Well known troublemaker, small time thief, all-around pest. What would a minor criminal like Derochiers have to talk about with Duncan?

Stop right there, Smith. You are not working and even if you were, who Duncan talks to in a crowded bar is not grounds for suspicion.
Even a scumbag like Derochiers might have friends, family.

Duncan shoved Derochiers in the chest, hard, and walked away. Okay, maybe not friends.

Derochiers tossed a bill on the counter and left. He didn’t look toward Smith, sitting quietly in the corner.

“Ready to go?” Duncan smiled down at her.

“I am. It’s been a long week.” She unhooked her bag from the back of the chair.

The street was quiet as they walked toward the truck. “What’s happening with the peace garden business?” Duncan asked, slipping his hand into hers and giving it a squeeze.

“Once the American TV guy left town, and Brian Harris and Robyn Goodhaugh were tucked away in custody, the fuss died down. With no one to stoke them up, and the town keeping mum on their decision, a lot of the outsiders left.”

“So, it’s over.”

“Not at all. The council delayed announcing their decision, but they have to do so someday. We’re hoping they can spit it out without making too much of a fuss. If we’re lucky there’ll be a major news story breaking at the same time. Maybe Brad Pitt’ll come after Angelina Jolie with a hatchet, and our town’s troubles won’t get much coverage.”

“I’m sorry I missed the demonstration. I saw you on TV. You looked wonderful.”

“You couldn’t even tell it was me.”

“I knew it was you, Molly.”

She pulled her hand out of his on the pretext of straightening her hair. “Isn’t it a lovely night?”

And it was. The sky was clear, but there was no moon. Stars danced on the river like diamonds tossed onto a black velvet cape. From somewhere up in the mountains a wolf howled. It might have been a dog, but she preferred to think of it as a wolf. A pinprick of white light moved across the sky, a small plane, alone in the darkness.

Duncan flicked the remote to open the doors of the truck, and Smith got in. He put the key into the ignition but didn’t turn it. Silence enveloped them.

“Wanna come back to my place,” he said at last, watching the slow-moving river, “for coffee or something?”

She’d been debating all night what to do if the question were asked. Should she? He seemed like a nice guy; he obviously liked her very much. He wasn’t Graham. But Graham, she reminded herself, was dead. Graham would want her to be happy.

“Coffee’d be nice.” She ran a finger across the mound of her left breast.

“Great.” He threw the truck into gear and backed out of the parking bay with unseemly haste. Good thing a car wasn’t coming.

“Can we stop off at your place first?”

“Why?”

He pushed the truck up to the speed limit and kept his foot on the gas. They hurtled toward the bridge leading out of town. A black shape against the black sky.

“I’d like you to get your gun.”

“What?”

“Maybe not the gun. I bet the department frowns on that sort of thing. But if you could put on the belt, it would look super with that blouse. And the handcuffs, bring the handcuffs.”

Chapter Thirty-one

A small blue Japanese compact leaned on its horn as Duncan left the bridge and turned far too widely into the turn.

“Sounds like a plan.” A bucket of cold water dumped on Smith’s early, hesitant stirrings of ardor. She tried to throw her voice low, sexy, interested in his suggestion. At least he was taking her home. Whereupon she’d run into the house and lock the doors and set Sylvester on him.

They drove down the dark highway, river on the right, mountain on the left. Smith looked in the passenger side mirror to see the lights of town fading into the distance.

“Get the truncheon, and the boots,” Duncan was saying. “Those boots really do it for me.”

And she’d thought her three-hundred-dollar heels were sexy.

The truck jerked. They flew forward and fell back. It jerked again. Duncan struggled with the steering wheel as if he were taming a stallion at the Calgary Stampede. He pulled off the highway and coasted to a stop. The engine died.

“This isn’t a trick, Molly, really. I know it’s like a joke or something to have the car break down on a dark road on a first date, but I didn’t do anything.”

Smith believed him. They hadn’t got to her gun belt and boots yet. She pointed to the control panel. “See that ‘E’ there, Duncan, and the needle pointing below it. You’re out of gas.”

He hit the steering wheel.

“Go get some. I’ll wait here.” Her cell phone was in her bag. By the time Duncan walked to town and back, she’d have called her dad and be safely home. Like the time she’d left a high school party because they were drinking and a boy had tried to grab her breast. She’d called her dad to come and get her. Her parents had been so proud that she’d done the right thing.

“I don’t have anything to carry gas in,” Duncan whined.

“I bet you do. Something’s rattling around in the back. Let’s check.” She jumped out of the truck. Damned thing was so high she almost needed a parachute.

He was there before her. “No need to look,” he said. “There’s nothing in there. You go get the gas. They’ll have containers at the station. I’ll stay here and guard the truck.”