Seaweed Under Water (22 page)

I backtracked through the woods to the site of the old logging-donkey. My arrival disturbed a pine siskin, perched on a stump eating a dandelion. It called out, a rough rising
Sreeeeee
note, before flying away. Things had changed there since my previous visit. People had been partying. The area was littered with broken bottles and empty junk-food packages. Slivers of burnt bone, along with strips of scorched deer hide and charred meat lay in a fire pit.

I took Bickle's photo from my pocket, smoothed it out and moved around until I was where the photographer had been when he took the shot. There I saw something that had gone unnoticed in Bickle's dimly lit room. The photograph was a time exposure, showing human or perhaps animal figures moving in circles around a campfire. That wasn't the only thing I noticed. The logging donkey had been tampered with. A flex-cable bicycle lock had replaced the weld formerly keeping the furnace door shut.

I was pondering this curious detail when the skin between my shoulder blades prickled. I felt a sudden dread. Somebody had just walked over my grave. Then chunks of bark, dust, birds' nests and small branches started to fall. Thunderous cracking noises sounded all around. I ran for my life and had travelled about 50 yards before a falling tree hit the ground behind me. Lashed by slender branches, I was shaken, but otherwise unhurt. Chunks of a great worm-eaten cottonwood lay scattered and broken across the trail.

I was dusting myself off when that sudden dread returned. Fighting panic, I followed a new path along the slope of a hill that wound down into a valley carved by water. A running stream had been dammed to make a pool, where a kneeling man was scooping water into his mouth. To reach the pool, I had to bypass an area of swampy ground, thick with bog orchids and skunk cabbages. Rotting trees lay collapsed, their damp pulpy trunks and branches a feast for putrid funguses like Dead Man's Fingers and Witches Chanterelle.

My feet made a crunching noise as I stepped across a dry twig, causing the kneeling man to look up. He was a large, barefoot, powerfully built Native wearing cutoff jeans and a straw hat. He was almost hairless, except for a mouse-like tuft in the exact centre of his very small head, and possessed the wet slack mouth, narrow eyes and the loose perpetual grin of an idiot.

“Hear that widdermaker?” he said. “Lucky you didn't get kilt.”

“I'll bring a hard hat next time,” I said, still trying to bring my panic and shaking hands under control.

“Powerful spirits guard this hill,” the halfwit informed me. “Better not come here again. Boss Rollins don't like it when folks come this way.” Round-shouldered, long arms swinging to his knees, he added, “I been pulling weeds inside the canoe.”

It was an odd remark, because I didn't see a canoe.

The pool was almost circular, about a foot deep at the most. Muddy prints left by the idiot's feet showed along the margins here and there, but no animal prints. I thought this peculiar, until I noticed the spirit canoe. Built by shamans, spirit canoes are used in Soul-Recovery ceremonies—performances in which Coast Salish shamans board a mock canoe and journey in it to the land of the dead to bring back lost souls. Carved wooden manikins, placed inside the “canoe,” act as guardian spirits for the shamans on their journey. This canoe was rudimentary. Its outline had been scratched on the earth with a stick. The manikins inside it were crude black and white figures, painted on boards and poked into the soft ground like fence posts.

The poor idiot had stepped inside the “canoe,” and now he was clearing away weeds and fallen leaves, which, instead of throwing aside, he used to increase the height of the canoe's gunwales.

I asked, “What's your name?”

“Donny,” he said, wiping sweat from his weak liquid eyes. “Do I know you, mister?”

I smiled. He didn't recognize me, but I recognized him: Donny was one of the men who had tried to kill me at the government wharf. I asked, “What are you doing, Donny?”

“Getting things ready. Boss says we're going, soon.”

“Just you and the Boss?”

“There's a few of us been picked to go with him,” he sniggered. “Boss's brother's coming with us as well.”

≈  ≈  ≈

It was after 4:30 when I arrived at the B.C. Land Registry offices on Blanshard Street in Victoria. I got inside the doors just before they closed for the day. After paying the title-search fee, I was attended by a clerk named Thurston.

I said, “I need to know who owns that Rainbow Motel property, on the Inner Harbour.”

“Do you have the legal description?”

“Afraid not. If you show me a map, I can point it out.”

He grinned and said, “Don't bother, I know where it is. Hang on while I fetch the plan.”

He went away, returned a minute or two later, and spread the plan out on a counter. Thurston fiddled with a computer and announced, “The Rainbow Motel property is registered to HANE Logging, a legal entity.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I went back to the loaner and used my cell phone to call Bernie Tapp. When he came on, I told him what I'd learned in Mowaht Bay and at the registry office. I'm not sure why, but I didn't tell Bernie about the earthquake—or spiritual manifestation, or whatever it was—that had shaken up the hill.

“I already know who owns the motel,” Bernie said.

“How did you find out?”

“Asked the construction boss.”

Bernie was a step ahead of me, something not unusual. I laughed self-consciously. “Did you get around to searching Karl Berger's house yet?”

His grunt denoted assent.

“Find anything interesting?”

“A bunch of triple-X videos and DVDs. We also found a couple of ounces of coke and a pint of Ketamine. Plus, about $10,000 cash. The money was in ice cream cartons in his fridge. We confiscated the drugs, the cash and a bunch of movies. Vice is looking the movies over now. So far, they haven't found the one allegedly showing Rollins humping his niece.”

“
Allegedly
?”

“Well, so far, all we've got is a drug addict's uncorroborated testimony.”

“Has Karl Berger been interrogated?”

“Yeah. Among other things, I asked Karl to explain why there was video surveillance equipment and one-way mirrors in the Rainbow Motel. He stonewalled, demanded a lawyer. We weren't getting anywhere, so we booked him. We're holding him overnight.”

“On what charge?”

“Trafficking. He'll appear before a judge in the morning.”

“Speaking of corroboration, what did you get out of Henry Ferman?”

“He was cagey at first. I had to lean on him a bit. Finally, he admitted selling videotape equipment to Karl Berger.”

“He told me that already.” It was nice to be a step ahead of Bernie once in a while.

“And you told
me
this?”

I smiled broadly. “I did.”

“Well, Henry confirmed it by showing us his invoice books.”

“By the way,” I said. “Where is Karl's house?”

Bernie told me. Karl Berger lived on Cook Street, in an apartment building a few blocks away from the Dallas Road waterfront.

I said, “You got my message about John Doncaster?”

“Yeah, we're looking into it.”

I put the cell phone back in my pocket. I realized I was hungry.

There are probably a thousand restaurants in Victoria, but I chose the Beagle, a busy pub in the Cook Street village. The Beagle's outdoor patio was infested with smokers. Inside, it was crowded with lapsed smokers who didn't seem to be having nearly as much fun as the patio crowd. I sat at the bar, bought a pint of draft Fosters and turned to survey the room. I was just emptying my first glass when a tall circular table the size of a serving tray became free.

I sat down on its tall accompanying stool and resumed my idle scrutiny of the couples, would-be couples, the singles who once were unhappy as half of a couple and the divorced singles like me who had been happily married once, but who hadn't known it till it was too late. And maybe I'd misjudged the whole situation and was the only guy in the place not actually enjoying himself. Something was bugging me, I just didn't know what.

A waitress brought me another Foster's and took my order for halibut and chips. I looked inward, thinking about HANE Logging and Tess Rollins. I asked myself if there could possibly be such a thing as a logging-donkey archetype. What I really needed was the works of Carl Jung—vest-pocket edition.

I suppose I must have eaten the fish and chips, and I probably drank three or four Foster's to go along with it. I ended up outside the Beagle's Cook Street entrance, surveying possibilities. It occurred to me that I was probably drunk, at least legally so. The Moka coffee shop was a couple of blocks north. I was thinking about something Donny had said to me earlier, back at Mowaht Bay, when my cell phone rang.

Somebody said, “Turn around, Silas, and look up. Look
waaaay
up.”

Denise Halvorsen was standing on the fourth-floor balcony of a six-storey condominium. She leaned over her balcony, waved down to me and said, “If you fancy a nightcap, come on over. I'm in 403.”

Denise buzzed me into her building. Suddenly, I was sober. I took an elevator up to the fourth floor. I put my finger on the bell push and held it there for one second. I heard soft footsteps. Door bolts slid open and there she stood, dressed in an unbelted white terrycloth robe worn over a silky blue nightie. Denise's long blonde hair—which when on duty she wore screwed up and pinned into a bun—now fell loosely over her neck and shoulders.

She kissed my cheek, sniffed and said, “Are you drunk?”

“I should be, otherwise I've been wasting my money.”

Denise laughed and touched my arm. “Don't be shy, come on in. I was only reading.”

“Reading in the dark on a balcony?”

“Taking a breath of air before going to bed.”

“Are you on dayshift tomorrow?”

“Yes, but don't let it bother you.”

I hesitated for a moment before following her into the spare bedroom she used as a parlour. Passing the master bedroom, I noticed white French provincial furniture. A lightweight pink duvet had been turned back on one side of her queen-size bed. The bedroom was intensely feminine. Her parlour contained mismatched oddments of good, possibly antique oak tables and chairs and cabinets. Denise stood with her back to a window overlooking Beacon Hill Park. She said, “I seem to recall you like single malt Scotch, but I've only got Bell's.”

“That's okay, if you'll join me.”

“Two Bell's coming up.”

“That's one o'clock.”

“What?” she replied, mystified.

“Two bells. A ship's bell is rung every half-hour after midnight.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, really. At 12:30, a quartermaster rings a bell once. At one o'clock, he rings it twice.”

“Maybe you'd prefer navy rum instead?”

“Bell's is fine. Just a quick one and I'll be on my way.”

“Make yourself at home, there's no rush. Drag that ottoman over and put your feet up.”

She went across to the cabinet and fixed the drinks,
humming to herself. She brought them back and sat down beside me, on the arm of the sofa. “Here's looking up your old address,” she said happily, touching my glass with her own.

“What's that? An ancient Norwegian curse?”

“Dunno. It's what a guy said to me once. It seemed quite funny at the time.”

A shapely and partially undraped female leg was inches away from my face. Denise smelled warm and freshly scrubbed.

She said, “The word in the station is out that Bernie Tapp's offered you your old job back on the detective squad. You're one lucky guy, Silas.”

I looked up at her. When our eyes met, there was a gleam in Denise's eyes, and I suddenly realized something that ought to have been obvious for weeks: Denise was falling in love with me. Instantly, I became sober. Fool that I was, I'd stepped into a minefield. Somehow, the robe fell from her shoulders and landed on the floor. I stood up, but she was already reaching for me. I turned away, and a kiss intended for my lips ended on my cheek.

“Don't you know about Felicity?” I said softly.

She looked down. When her eyes met mine again, she was trembling slightly. “Did you know I was married?”

I raised my eyebrows, and she looked quickly away.

“Not
now
. I used to be. I grew up in Saskatoon, married my high-school sweetheart when I was 18. His name was Johan. I couldn't wait to show everybody my engagement ring. Johan had been a big man on a small campus, and everybody, especially my best friend, Alice, thought he was quite a catch. When we got back from our honeymoon, we rented a small apartment. Johan switched on the TV, broke out the chips and the beer, stretched out on a recliner with the remote in one hand and a bottle in the other. He suggested we start making babies right away.”

“Sounds like a real lady-killer,” I said.

“Oh yeah, a real lady-killer.” She smiled. “Johan's dad owned a corner grocery. He stood to inherit it, 20 years down the line. In the meantime, Johan was practising shelf-stacking. Suddenly, as the saying goes, the scales dropped from my eyes. I left him watching
Entertainment Tonight
and made a run for it. He and I share the record for short Saskatchewan screw-ups. Now he's married to Alice. I hear they're very happy.”

Denise's smile faded, and suddenly she was sobbing. I held her until she stopped. Then I left before something happened that we'd both regret. I took my second elevator ride, went outside and stood on Cook Street. I'd come close to making one serious error and didn't want to make another by driving under the influence. I started walking and was about half a block from the Pic-A-Flic video store when an empty taxi cruised by. I flagged it down and was getting into the back when a female voice called out, “Hello, Silas.”