Sea to Sky (31 page)

“I can’t tell you. If he responds to the antibiotic he could be out of the woods by morning. If not…” She looked down at the floor, then back up at his face. “Okay. Look. He’s got signs of a rash. Your young friend may have meningitis or meningococcal septicemia. Mortality rates are high. If I were you, I’d tell his mother to book the first flight here.”

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    SEVENTEEN

Hunter went straight home. He eased the Pontiac down the driveway into his usual parking spot, relieved to see that his landlord’s car was in the carport. Instead of going downstairs to his own suite, he knocked at the landlord’s door.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Gord as he opened the door. The old doctor’s eyebrows wiggled above the frames of his bifocals. “You lost your key?”

“I’m here for a consultation, doctor,” said Hunter.

Gord bowed from the waist and ushered him inside. “Coffee? Or beer.”

Hunter hesitated briefly before answering. “I think I could use a drink.”

He stood at the plate glass window in the living room, looking out at the tall cedars at the foot of the yard and the stretch of steel grey ocean visible between them. The cat came and rubbed up against his shin, but he wasn’t in the mood to pet her and risk her fangs and claws.

Gord walked in a couple of minutes later with a small tray containing two mugs of beer and two shot glasses of rye whiskey. “You look like you could use more than just a beer,” he said, setting the tray on the teakwood coffee table. “Come. Sit down.”

Hunter sat on the chartreuse sofa and Gord settled into a purple chair with teakwood arms. The cat appeared from under the coffee table, threatening to jump on Hunter’s lap, but Gord intercepted her and tossed her gently out of a sliding glass door onto the sundeck before sitting back down.

“Where’s John?” asked Hunter.

“Library,” said Gord. “Now what’s this about? Have you got some symptoms you’re worried about?” He raised his shot glass. “Cheers.”

They both sipped, and Hunter felt the warmth of the whiskey slide down his throat. “CC?”

“Crown. My Christmas present to me.” He smiled at his shot glass as he set it down.

“It’s not me that’s sick,” said Hunter. “I’ve been looking for this boy, son of an old friend, who ran away from his home in Calgary. I found him this morning.” He gave Gord as many details as he could think of: how Adam had behaved, how he looked, and what the ER doctor had said. “I guess I’m looking for some good news here. I hate to think the worst.”

The old doctor looked grave. “I can’t diagnose someone I haven’t seen. Best I can do is give you a best case and worst case scenario. Okay?”

Hunter nodded.

“Best case, your young friend has the flu. Because of his living situation, the combination of vomiting, diarrhea, fever, and lack of proper care, including adequate food and fluids, has led to him becoming severely dehydrated. That can result in weakness and confusion. The rash? Maybe fleas or something he’s encountered in his travels, not related to his illness.” He paused, watching Hunter’s face. “In that case, his prognosis
could
be full recovery in a matter of days. However, severe dehydration can also lead to organ damage, especially the kidneys.”

Hunter winced. Even best case could be bad. “And worst case?”

Gord shook his head. “Like the ER doctor said, meningococcal septicemia or meningococcemia could quickly turn fatal. Meningitis is more common in youngsters like him, since adults seem to build up an immunity to the bacteria over time. The same bacteria that causes meningitis by multiplying in the spinal fluid ends up getting into the bloodstream. It’s essentially blood poisoning. If antibiotics are started soon enough and the bacteria aren’t resistant, it’s possible the boy could make a full recovery, but it’ll be touch and go for a while.”

“I have to call his mother. Do you think I should tell her to fly out from Calgary?”

Without hesitation, the old doctor said, “Absolutely, and the sooner the better.”

Hunter took a deep breath.

“Think about it. If his condition is fatal, you’ll have to live with the thought that you didn’t act in time for his mother to see her son before he died. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

Hunter snorted softly. “You got that right.”

He already had enough on his conscience when it came to Helen Marsh.

“It’s about fuckin’ time,” Elspeth roared into the telephone receiver. Maybe she could deflect any criticism Hunter might have for her handling of Sorry’s trip to California by going on the offensive. “You were supposed to be back at work on Sunday night. It is now fuckin’ Thursday. You threw my road schedule for you totally out of whack.”

“Good morning to you, too, El. Where’s my truck?”

“I’m expecting Sorenson to pull into the yard any minute now. When’ll you be ready to head out? I’ve got a couple of loads coming up this afternoon.” She was surprised at his hesitation. “You’re not ready to go?”

She heard him suck in his breath. “There’s been a… an unfortunate development. You know that kid I was looking for?”

“You found him?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Right now he’s in an isolation ward at Lions Gate Hospital with possible blood poisoning. I just called, but the hospital won’t tell me anything. Evidently his mother’s there now. She must’ve flown in last night but I haven’t heard from her since I broke the news to her yesterday.”

“Jeez, Hunter. You bust your ass trying to find the kid for her and she can’t even call you to tell you how he is?”

It took him a few seconds to respond, and when he did his words were clipped. “Her son might be dying, El. She’s got more important things than me on her mind.”

“You coming back to work or not? Have the cops still got you in a bubble?”

Again, a pause. “I’ll be there within the hour.”

Hunter struck out for Watson Transportation’s warehouse on Annacis Island before the end of rush hour. Sitting in the traffic bottlenecked at the Second Narrows bridge was better than sitting around the house, waiting to hear from Helen. She had no cell phone, but he would have expected her to use a payphone from the hospital. He could only assume that Adam’s condition hadn’t improved and that she was totally consumed by concern for her son. He hoped it wasn’t worse.

After his conversation with Gord the previous afternoon, he had immediately called Helen and told her about Adam. He didn’t sugar-coat the news. He was a parent himself, and knew she would want the truth. She had thanked him, but was in a hurry to end their conversation so she could book a flight. He had asked her if she would need a ride from the airport, and her answer was, “If I do, I’ll call you.”  Keeping his cell phone handy so he wouldn’t miss her call, Hunter caught up on his errands. He did laundry, brought his bookkeeping up to date, paid bills, picked up some groceries, and ate some store-bought lasagna. He fell asleep watching Jay Leno. Helen never called. He only knew of her arrival from what the hospital told him over the phone in the morning. He’d asked if he could visit the ward, but the answer was a definite ‘no’.

When he pulled into the yard, he saw The Blue Knight had already arrived and its trailer had been unhooked. He parked his car and climbed the steps to El’s office. She was on the phone, as usual, and Sorry was leaning on the counter leafing through a newspaper.

“Hey, bro,” he said. “For what it’s worth, at least I brought your truck back safe and sound.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Sorry rolled his eyes. “Looks like you and her,” he nodded in El’s direction, “barely broke even on the deal. And I’m going home with less than I figured on.”

El gave him the finger without even looking up at either of them.

Hunter rubbed his forehead and recited an old mantra inside his head:
tomorrow will be a better day, tomorrow will be a better day
. But tomorrow he would still be a murder suspect, and tomorrow Adam Marsh could be dead. No.
Tomorrow will be a better day
.

“I can send you back to California this afternoon,” said El as she hung up the phone. “I’ve got a load for Downey. You gonna take it or should I call one of my teams?”

Hunter held up his hand, signalling her to wait while he thought it over. Blackwell hadn’t told him to stay in the country this time. He could stay here and stew about his situation, or be on the road earning some much needed cash to cover his expenses. It didn’t take him long to decide. “I’ll take it.”

“You got it. A loaded trailer will be ready to pick up in Port Kells by two o’clock.” El reached for another ringing phone. “Have your truck ready to pull outa here at one. Watson!” He’d been dismissed.

“Gimme a lift home?” said Sorry, closing the newspaper. It was the morning’s Vancouver Province. He slapped the closed newspaper with his hand. “I see they’ve got a warrant out for your arrest.”

Hunter was heading for the door but stopped in his tracks. “Let me see that.”

“Hah ha!” roared Sorry. “Just kidding. Whoa! If looks could kill…”

Hunter shook his head and turned around again.

“Wait, Hunter.” Hunter heard footsteps thudding down the steps behind him. “Hey! How about we go get some breakfast on the way?”

They didn’t have to wait for a clean table at the Denny’s on Scott Road. They took a booth against the wall, and the waitress brought over a pot of hot coffee before they’d even settled in. Sorry ordered bacon and eggs with pancakes and a side of sausages, and Hunter ordered a Denver omelette. It actually felt good to be with someone who would carry the conversation and take his mind off the past few days.

“So tell me about the trip,” he said, as if Sorry needed prompting.

“Just peachy,” said Sorry, pouring sugar into his coffee. “Hey, it was fuckin’ weird, you know? Remember we were talking about my dad? I hardly think about him for months — maybe years — then you and me talk about him, and the same night I come across these two runaway kids from Minnesota and it makes me think about him, and then my driving time is up and where do you think I am? Fuckin’ Yreka, my home town.”

“You saw him, your dad? El said he was sick.”

“Fuckin’ El. She was thinking with her big mouth. Turns out it was his seventieth birthday and here I was, pedal to the metal on the way back, thinkin’ my old man was dying and when I get there he’s half wasted drinking beers with his friends. And this is where it gets really weird.” Sorry hunched forward over his coffee as if he were about to share a secret.

“We’re sittin’ outside having a smoke late at night and he starts talkin’ about this woman named Belle Sorenson. She was some kind of a serial killer and they called her the Black Widow. She kept inviting unsuspecting dudes out to her place to marry her and then she’d drug them and butcher them and feed them to the pigs.” He shuddered. “You ever hear of her?”

Hunter frowned, trying to place the name.

“It was in Minnesota, I think,” Sorry continued. “My old man kept saying, ‘no blood relation’, but I think it freaked him out that she had the same name as us, and he was talkin’ about seeing a movie about a bad seed or something that had to do with this Black Widow, and then he brings up Marlon Brando, that fat actor from the Godfather who bought the island, and the biker gangs. Somehow he connected that to me when I was a kid and he asked me if I’d ever killed anybody. He says, ‘I’m sorry, Daniel’ — my dad calls me Daniel. He thought I was a bad seed, but now he’s changed his mind, and all of a sudden it’s like we’re bosom buddies.”

Hunter had to wait for Sorry to take a sip of coffee before he could get a word in edgewise. “Hell’s Belle?”

“What?”

“Belle Gunness. Hell’s Belle. If I remember right, she was thought to have killed over twenty five people. I think she lived in Chicago. That’s probably who your dad was referring to.”

“She killed her husbands, right?”

“Husbands, or would-be husbands, I think. Your dad thought you were a serial killer?”

“My guess is he thought all bikers were bad dudes who raped innocent women and tortured puppies and kittens. But after all these years of acting like he hated me and wished I was dead, now he’s made me promise to bring Mo and the kids down for Easter. What do you think of that?”

Hunter leaned back to let the waitress set down his breakfast. “I’m happy to hear it. That’s how it should be.”

“Yeah.” That was all Sorry said until he’d cleaned half his plate. When he came up for air, he said, “And I haven’t told you about my adventures in Sylmar and Pomona yet.”

“Sylmar and Pomona? That’s close to L.A. What were you doing there?” A light went on. El had said ‘farther south’. Sylmar was where Mike Irwin used to work. He sighed and leaned his forehead on his hand, his elbow propped on the table. “El sent you to do some detective work, didn’t she?”

Sorry nodded, and mumbled a ‘yeah’. His mouth was full again.

Hunter went back to his omelette and the waitress breezed by the table to top up their coffees.

A few minutes later Sorry’s plate was finally empty and he pushed it to the end of the table. He doctored his fresh coffee and took another sip, then leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Like I was sayin’,” he said, raising his eyebrows as if to ask Hunter if he wanted to hear more.

Hunter nodded, finishing off his last piece of toast.