Stain of the Berry (21 page)

Warren Culinare knew a minimum of what I'd been up to. I'd gotten clearance from him to make the trip to Vancouver-it was his dime after all-but when I'd reached him he was at work and seemed too preoccupied to ask many questions. His primary concern was finding out why his sister had died, the price tag was secondary. But now he wanted more. So I spent the next few minutes filling him in. At the end there was silence. "Warren, are you still there?"

"Yes, yes, I am."

"We're having a storm here. I was worried it had somehow severed our connection." At that moment the room was thrown into unnatural brightness as dancing thunderbolts lit up the sky followed by the requisite thunder. Brutus whined and shifted his position on the bed to be closer to me. Barbra snuffled at his shanks as if to comfort him.

'You've given me a lot of information, Russell. A lot to think about. I just...I just can't believe how little I knew my own sister and what she was going through. I know you say you still don't know anything for sure, but...well, in your gut, Russell, do you think my sister killed herself or did someone do this to her?"

I knew what he wanted me to say. But I couldn't. "I'm sorry, Warren. I just don't know enough yet."

We ended the conversation with my promise to keep on working on his family's behalf and his thanks.

I scrunched down into the softness of the pillows and dog fur around me and watched the wildness outside my bedroom window, contemplating Warren Culinare's question. Had Tanya really killed herself or did someone do it for her and make it look like suicide? Some time later as the power faltered and flickered, my eyes grew heavy and my head fell next to Brutus' hind leg. I fell asleep.

When I came to, it was as dark as a nightmare. I was sprawled across my bed, fully clothed, and it took me a second to remember why. The room was alive with noises, the loudest of them sounding like the clattering of a precarious stack of china about to topple. I searched for the source and found it was the windows of the bedroom being buffeted by a howling wind. A million tiny hooves clip-clopped above my 88 of 163

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head as a driving rain continued to paint the roof wet. Either the storm had raged on unabated while I'd slept or one system had passed by only to be replaced by another. According to my bedside clock-nope, the power had cut out-according to my wristwatch, which read 7:48, I'd been asleep for over two hours.

That was weird. I have been known to enjoy a good nap, but rarely at that time of day, and rarely for that long. I guessed it was the combination of storm, warm doggie fur and a long hot day of detecting that had conspired to put me out at length.

Speaking of doggies, I realized they were no longer on the bed. I slowly pulled myself up on one elbow and looked around the room. My eyes widened when I saw them.

Instead of watching the storm or cuddling on the rug, Barbra and Brutus were on their haunches, facing the closed bedroom door. And now, in addition to the yowling of the outdoor tempest, I could make out a low rumbling issuing from somewhere deep within their chests. I know these dogs well. They were on alert. They'd heard something, something other than storm noises, something that was unfamiliar to them, something unsettling and frightening to them. I sat up and called their names gently. Brutus ignored me but Barbra tilted her head in my direction, giving me a liquid look of warning, but remained at her station. I tried to concentrate my own ears. What was it they could hear?

What...? What was that? Banging? Knocking?

My heart did a backflip and my cheeks flushed with the rush you get when you're all alone and you hear something that doesn't quite fit. I hopped off the bed and approached the bedroom door. Was there someone behind it? I slowly pulled it open. The dogs rushed out and down the hallway. Oh gawd. Where were they going? Did I need a weapon? My gun was safely locked away...in a box in the garage. This wasn't due so much to thoughtlessness on my part as to a deep-rooted belief that it's best to first try to solve problems without firepower if at all possible. But I needed something. I scoured the room for a weapon and in one corner of the room I saw a collection of bamboo poles I'd artfully arranged there. Aw well, not exactly a baseball bat but better than nothing. I retrieved the sturdiest of the bunch and prepared to face whatever was out there.

As I made my way down the murky hallway, bamboo in hand, I cocked my head to listen for a repeat of the banging noise I thought I'd heard before and wondered where the heck those doggone dogs had gone.

The power was still out, immersing my surroundings in the colour of dim. Every room I passed had the distinct possibility of being a Fun House of Horror and I tiptoed by each with escalating trepidation.

Bark! Bark!

Brutus. Another bad sign. Schnauzers aren't given to barking unless they have a very logical reason.

Where was he? Front door? Back? At a window? What was he seeing? Sensing? Was someone in the house! A momentous crack of thunder sounded overhead with such force that I felt the floorboards rumble. The lights flickered on-yay-faded up-hooray-then blackened out again-crapola. A fresh deluge of rain backed by gale-force winds slammed against the house. And then came the banging.

Forsaking fear, I rushed to the front door and threw it open. I was hit with a punch of weather, wet and sticky and stinging and hot all at the same time. That was it. Nobody there. I took a step outside onto the front landing and searched the expanse of the front yard, relentlessly dark under the cover of a turbulent night. As best I could make out, there was no one there. I debated rushing out to the street. It was invisible from my front door because of a thick growth of poplar and pine trees I encourage for the sake of privacy-something I wasn't quite so interested in at a time like this. I desperately wished I could see a neighbour, any neighbour, the comforting view of another person, a friendly face, I wished...I wished Sereena was back, next door, thirty seconds away, I slammed the door closed and marched determinedly toward the kitchen. When I got there I stopped on a dime. Why was I being such a scaredy-cat, I remonstrated with myself, it wasn't like me. Maybe it was from being awakened too quickly from my nap. Maybe it was because I'd slept too long. Maybe it was all the weird electricity in the air from the storm. Or maybe it was because when I entered the kitchen I found the dogs growling
at
the back doors.

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I stared through the windows of the doors. Even though it was still early on a July evening that would, under regular weather conditions, remain light until well after 9 p.m., outside was every shade of black and grey and I could barely discern a mock orange bush from a clay pot in the unnatural dusk. I tried to settle the dogs-and myself-with a calming voice, but it did little good. There was something or someone out there that shouldn't be.

The banging again.

What the...! I could see nothing. I reached for the handle and slowly slid the door open. The dogs hesitated, upped their growling, then took tentative steps onto the back deck, suspicious noses sniffing at the air, as did I (growling and sniffing included).

"Who's out there?" I called.

More banging. Another step. Nothing. No one. I shuffled across the deck, my eyes dancing wildly over the little I could make out of the yard. Nada. Down the steps I went, onto the lawn, the wind and rain having their way with me. I noticed the dogs were not at my side. I looked back. They had decided to remain near the door, their eyes looking worried. Afraid to get wet or just a couple of mewling kitty-cats?

Banging.

I moved forward, tightening my grip on the bamboo.

And there it was. The door to my garage, at the back end of the lot, wide open, the wind having a heyday tossing it back and forth like some kind of toy.

"It's just the door," I yelled back at the pooches, but mostly for my own reassurance.

I dropped the bamboo and galloped down the length of the yard toward the garage. I reached for the door to rescue it from the violent embrace of the wind. A hand shot out from the darkness, grasped my arm and pulled me in.

I responded with force. As did Barbra and Brutus. Within seconds they were at my side, lunging at the dark figure that had grabbed hold of me from the unseeable depths of the garage. He had me by the left forearm, so with my right hand I reached blindly into the darkness from whence the offending hand came.

I felt flesh, took hold of it and pulled with all my might. The intruder tumbled out of his hiding place and slammed into me hard, throwing us both down onto the soggy ground. The dogs were on top of us, snapping and growling, but thankfully refraining from actual biting. I rolled atop the attacker and landed a punch squarely on his jaw. He pushed up with his hips and threw me off balance, at the same time reaching up to throttle me around the throat. He was yelling. It sounded like, "Bus stop hustle!" but I wasn't in the mood to ask him to repeat the message.

Somehow we struggled to our feet, each of us trying to get good purchase on the other guy, upset schnauzers nipping at our calves.

"Stop it, Russell, stop it!"

This time I heard him, the familiarity of my name echoing in my ears. This guy knew me. Bunching up my arm muscles, I heaved against him and shoved him against the side of the garage. As he fell back he voluntarily let go of my neck.

Yup. He knew me. I knew him.

Even in the dark with rivulets of rain threatening to wash away his chiselled features, I could tell it was Doug Poitras. Or rather, the fake Doug Poitras.

"Who the hell are you?" I screamed at him, not bothering to restrain Barbra and Brutus who, along with 90 of 163

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me, had formed a menacing semi-circle around the man. "And don't bother lying. I know you're not Doug Poitras."

"Russell, my name is Alex Canyon," he said, careful to make no move indicating a planned getaway attempt. He'd obviously dealt with pissed-off schnauzers before.

I shook my head with disgust. "What do you want with me?"

"I can't answer that in a sentence," he told me after allowing another roll of thunder to die away. "But if you give me a chance...Russell, you have to trust me."

I guffawed at that one. "Oh yeah, sure, I'm a real sucker for trusting guys who lie to me, pretend to be someone they're not, break into my garage, and who knows what else."

"I didn't break in, I just...well, I was just trying to keep out of the storm until...well... Can we go inside?"

We stared at each other for several seconds. Me because I was trying to see something in his face, something to allow me to accurately assess the level of danger he represented, and he because it was either look at me or down the snouts of two rather unhappy schnauzers who were anxious to protect their master.

"Only if you promise to tell the truth. No song and dance." It was a stupid request, I suppose. If he was a liar there was nothing I could do about it. But, it couldn't hurt to ask and really, what else was I suppose to do with him? Leave him in my garage?

Alex Canyon trotted after me and the dogs into the house.

"Hold on," I said once we were inside and out of the inclement weather conditions. "Power's out and we're soaking. I'll get some candles and towels."

When I returned to the kitchen, Alex had doffed his shirt and was using a tea towel to dry his hair. The dogs were at his feet, guarding (or maybe ogling) the grade A slab of beefcake. With opposable thumbs, they'd have taken photos.

He looked up at me and held forth the now sodden tea towel. "Sorry," he said. "I was dripping on the floor and..."

I nodded and wordlessly tossed him a bath towel. I lit a trio of tapers I'd found under the bar in the living room and, after setting them into holders, took off my own shirt. Sure, he was Adonis material, and maybe I wasn't thrilled about being in my mid-thirties, but I'm still no Peewee Herman. Besides, this wasn't a competition. We were wet and getting chilled. Right?

I left one of the candles on the kitchen island, kept one for myself and handed the last one to Alex Canyon. "Why'n't you take that and follow me."

If this were a tale of gothic romance I'd have led him directly into my boudoir, loosened his flowing hair from its ponytail bondage and pulled off his pantaloons with my bare teeth. But this was current day Saskatchewan and, as far as I knew, neither of us was named Fabio, so instead I took him into the living room and proceeded to set up logs in the fireplace. I offered him a seat, but no drink, and, once the fire was blazing, faced him squarely in the eye.

"So?" I said. "Spill it, Alex Canyon."

"First I want to apologize for impersonating Doug Poitras the other night, for lying to you."

"Why did you?"

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"I wasn't expecting to speak with you that soon. I wasn't ready."

Ready? "Ready for what? Who are you? And why have you been following me? Why did you set those goons on me at the Ex?" I was going for broke and planned to blame him for everything I could think of that had gone wrong in the last few days, including the fact that my wonderpants were tight at the waist.

"I have been following you," he admitted with a straight face. "I followed you to Moose Jaw. I've been watching your office and home. But I had nothing to do with any goons at...what did you call it...the Ex?"

I gave him a doubting look. "You promised you wouldn't lie. Are you telling me you weren't watching me at the fairgrounds? You weren't the one who ordered those assholes to attack me?"

He shook his head. "Russell, I did not order anyone to beat you up." He said it in a way that made me think I could either choose to believe him or not, it was no hair off his chest. There was something about his manner, the tone of his voice, which told me he wasn't lying. But if it wasn't Alex Canyon behind the attack, then who?