The River Killers (28 page)

“Yes, I'm having a party. If I'm forever locking and unlocking the door, people will feel inhibited.”

He was mumbling about security procedures when Mark walked in bearing smoked salmon. More introductions. I felt like a first-year textbook:
Introduction to Danny's Friends.
Maybe I should write
Danny's Friends for Dummies
. Maybe not.

I'd asked all three of my shipmates to come early so we could talk about what I was starting to think of, for lack of a better word, as The Case. When we were all comfortably settled on the deck, with beer in hand and food close by and I'd changed the tape to
Let It Bleed
, I inaugurated the discussion.

“Jerome, you probably don't know much of the background to this, or why I need protection.” I brought everyone up to date, including the setting of the trap and the composition of the bait, and then threw open the floor. One of the Jeromes went and stood by the door so our chat wouldn't be interrupted by unauthorized ears, and the discussion began.

“What I don't understand,” Mark said, “and what I've never understood, is why Billy was killed. He showed up on
DFO
's doorstep with a mutant fish. So what? All they had to do was say Igor was a new species,
Pacificus uglicus
. Something happened that afternoon at the lab, Billy found out something that made it necessary to kill him. Everything else is sort of a logical progression from that, and until we know why he was killed, we won't solve the case.”

I had to force my shipmates to dredge through some painful memories. “We were all in a haze when Billy disappeared. We never really talked it through. We need to try to remember all the little details about when he left.”

Christine spoke sadly. “The thing that sticks in my mind is that Billy's cat died the same day he disappeared.”

“Christ! I'd forgotten that.”

Christine continued. “It was so weird, like there was a connection somehow, although obviously there wasn't. And I felt guilty because I was minding the cat and grossed out about how it died. It was like it had an epileptic seizure.”

“And you tried to phone Billy, right? I asked.

“Yeah, but all I got was his voicemail.”

“And what time did you leave the message?”

She thought for a minute. “I don't know, early afternoon. It was just after lunch when I went to check on the cat.”

“So Billy would have been between Sayward and Campbell River, out of cell range and gumbooting it for the ferry in Nanaimo,” I said. “He gets on the ferry, runs into Smug and Snuffy, and settles in for some beer and bullshit. I wonder what time he checked his messages. It might have put him in a bad mood when he got to the lab.”

“Except
DFO
says he never showed up at the lab,” Mark pointed out.

“And we never would have known otherwise if I hadn't stumbled across the picture of Igor in the
DFO
database,” I said.

We all contemplated this reconstructed timeline. Something, some little detail, niggled at me. I almost had it and then it escaped.

“The big question,” Mark pointed out, “is how Griffith is connected to all of this. He was in charge of the lab back then, but that doesn't mean anything; Crowley could have been running his own show.”

“Griffith had to be involved,” I argued. “He's too much of a blackheart not to have been. The problem is he's a delegator. His hands will be relatively clean and we'll have a hard time pinning anything on him.”

“Unless we get a confession.” Fergie gestured with a beer bottle. “If we find the bad guy, I could get a full confession out of him.”

Christine leapt in hurriedly. “Jerome, you understand that some of this is off the record.” They nodded. “Fergie, you're not wearing a parrot so keelhauling is out, verboten, forbidden, not allowed, severely discouraged.”

“Let's not limit our options,” Mark chimed in. “The
Coastal Provider
has a lot of barnacles and I can't afford a bottom scraping.”

I intervened. “You can't afford a bottom scraping like Christine can't afford a manicure.”

There was a minute of silence before High-Top Jerome asked hesitantly, “Why does Mark need his bottom scraped and how does that help us get a confession? The force won't go for any kinky stuff. That all got delegated to
CSIS
.”

Before we had a chance to make him feel really stupid, Jerome Number Four hissed, “Incoming.”

All eyes turned to the doorway and I was immensely pleased to see Pete Van Allen. “Look who I brought with me.” Behind him appeared George Kelly, the skipper of the
James Sinclair
. He presented a bottle of rum like a Marine presenting arms. It is from that moment that I date the beginning of the party.

People arrived in a steady stream, mostly young field types, but older age classes were also well represented. A bunch of Prince Rupert assessment staff were down for a conference and they added a decidedly looser tone. People were hanging out in the kitchen and on the deck and a small contingent was wandering around the backyard. The conversation was getting louder so I was forced to turn up the music, which made people talk even louder.

The lights were on in the kitchen and reflected off a variety of foreheads. It was a warm evening and the room would have been stuffy were it not for the open door to the deck. Outside, the light was fading and the figures on the lawn appeared slightly undefined and unreal. I pined briefly for Louise but I knew she wouldn't be coming.

The party was, I reckoned, in phase two. The transition to phase three could be tricky. The choice of music was critical. A bronzed and blond young woman approached me and handed me a
CD
. “Happy housewarming. I think you'll like this.”

I looked at the cover. Buddy Holly had been cloned twice. The album title proclaimed
The Proclaimers
. I put it on, turned up the outside speakers and soon everyone was bouncing in place to “Five Hundred Miles.” I grabbed another beer. By the time “Saturday Night” came on, sporadic dancing had broken out. “Oh Jean” precipitated full-scale gyrating and I congratulated myself. We had achieved phase three.

Provisioning myself with a fresh beer, I stepped off the deck onto the back lawn. The Prince Rupert contingent had abandoned themselves to the music. They were rocking and rolling like six-beer sex, and I had no choice but to leap into the fray. I attained proximity to someone I could reasonably be seen to be dancing with and commenced to trip the light fantastic. I had progressed to my James Brown spinarama move when Jerome Number Four approached me. He looked serious and I hoped he wasn't carrying the cape. I wasn't ready for the cape. “Danny, your next-door neighbor is at the door. He's complaining about the noise.”

This triggered an internal chorus of complaint.
Christ, it's nine-thirty on a Friday night. What the hell's the problem? We're not even at phase four yet. I knew I should have invited them over.
I followed Jerome onto the porch, through the kitchen, into the living room full of people I hadn't met yet, to the open front door.

An unknown figure awaited me. The porch light shone from above, but his baseball hat kept his face in shadow. As I approached him, the pleasant euphoria of the party dissipated like evening warmth when the sun goes down. When he raised his right hand, and I saw the gun, I thought, “He's taking this way too seriously.”

Later, I'd be very thankful to Louise and Tommy for saddling me with Jerome. It's doubtful if I reacted at all to the sight of the gun, but Jerome Number Four did. He pushed me sideways just enough so that the first bullet hit the outer ring rather than the bull's-eye. I prefer that metaphor rather than the literal truth: that the bullet smashed into the left side of my ribcage and came close to exploding my heart into so much tomato paste.

With his other hand, Jerome grabbed the gun and pushed it down so that the second shot caught him in the thigh. This didn't impede his forward motion, and he and the shooter tumbled down the front steps in a tangle of limbs. By the time they sprawled onto the lawn, Jerome had both hands on the gun and the shooter had no choice but to run. High-Top Jerome had reacted quickly to the sound of the shots, but he chose first aid over pursuit. That may have saved my life for the second time as I was bleeding badly. And as my body did not consider my brain a vital organ, it shut it down.

I drifted through the kelp
fronds. It was silent and peaceful under the water. Sunlight filtered down in shifting patterns of light and shade. Brightly colored rockfish scooted and paused, scooted and paused, regarding me with warily surprised eyes. But I wasn't a threat, I wanted to tell them, I wasn't the threat, the threat was . . . behind me!

I drifted again, effortlessly and aimlessly over bright sand. Crabs scuttled from my shadow. Everything was below me, everything available to me. The flat white bottom fell away to an abyss. There was no bottom, just greenness fading to black. I started down, falling slowly toward nothingness. It grew cold. I felt uneasy. There was something wrong. I could feel something behind me, something large and dangerous. I tried to turn my head. I couldn't move. I struggled against paralysis. I tried to scream.

I floated in a vast mothering ocean. Warm water caressed my skin. There was nothing I wanted or needed. All was as it should be. A gentle pleasure suffused my body and brain. Something tickled at the base of my spine. I smiled. The tickle grew stronger, persistent and aggressive. I wished it to stop. It began to hurt. Something was hurting me. I tried to twist away. It was trying to penetrate my skin, to enter me, to harm me. Black malignance. I couldn't breath.

The pain was bad. It wasn't fair. Louise was looking at me. I tried to tell her I didn't deserve this. Someone was moaning. She leaned forward and touched my face, then went away. A nurse came and then I felt better.

Louise was talking to someone. They didn't know I was there. I tried to tell them, but they ignored me. I was irritated. I tried to touch her shoulder. The pain punished me and I cried out. Louise and Christine looked at me, worry and concern written on their faces. A nurse came again and easeful warmth blanketed the pain. Nurse come. Pain go. I felt as though I should remember that.

When I first awoke to full consciousness, it was dark and I was alone. I had no idea where I was, and only a rudimentary sense of
who
I was. The pain was my starting point and I worked backwards from that. Gunshot, man at door, party. Jerome.

After an undefined period of mental fetching and carrying, I had most of the pieces in place. I sighed loudly, and a dark blob materialized by my side. A lamp was turned on and I recognized Rugby Pants Jerome. He peered down at me. “Danny, you awake?” Evidently I gave some kind of affirmative response. “How're you feeling? You've been out for almost twenty-four hours. Hang on, I'll call the nurse.”

He must have buzzed because soon a nurse was bending over me. I waited for the euphoric rush, but this time it didn't come. After shining a light in my eyes, she pinched me. Damn, a perfectly good Pavlovian response, one of my best, down the drain.

“Mr. Swanson, if you can hear me, nod your head.”

Not wanting to be pinched again, I nodded eagerly.

“Do you know where you are?”

I rasped out a grunt, moistened my mouth, and tried again. I managed a hoarse whisper. “Please don't pinch me.”

She looked pleased. “Conscious and aware. Some signs of intelligence. The doctors will be pleased.” She patted my arm and left.

I looked at Jerome and grunted. “Time?”

“It's 8:00
AM
, Saturday.”

I'd had a tough five minutes and fatigue washed over me. Back to sleep.

The next time I woke up, it was light in the room and Mark was in the chair beside my bed, leafing through a magazine. I tried to say “Good morning,” but someone's parrot squawked instead.

Mark smiled at me. “Welcome back, Danny Swanson. How was your little sojourn?”

I needed moisture and cast my eyes around until Mark guessed what I needed and held a glass of water to my mouth. I slurped and dribbled until my mouth and throat felt less like sandpaper. Mark wiped my chin and chest.

“They said you'd be dehydrated. But dehydrated is way better than dead. You remember what happened?”

I think I nodded.

“The guy used a .38 Special, not exactly a peashooter. Bullet entered two inches to the left of your heart, smashed a rib and did a lot of tissue damage. You'll hurt for a while.”

“Jerome?”

“Took one in the upper thigh. Bled like hell but, like they say, it was only a flesh wound. He's home now, getting ready to receive his medal.”

“Deserves it.”

“Yeah, but you gave him his big chance. I'd say he owes you.”

“Big time.”

The aching in my chest had subsided to a dull throb. If I moved carefully, even the sharp jolts of pain were bearable. I made vague sitting-up motions. Mark gestured to hold still, and pressed a button on the side of the bed. There was a comfortable whir and the bed sat me up. I had a better view of the room and nodded to High-Top Jerome in a chair by the door.

“I didn't realize I was so popular. Is it my personality or my quintessentially Canadian good looks?”

“You're my best chance of getting a medal. The shooter probably wants a mulligan, and if I can limit the damage to one slug in you, non-vital location, I'll be tied with Jerome.”

“Any chance of getting Louise, Staff Sergeant Karavchuk, over here? We need to figure out what went wrong.”

“Something went wrong? Jerome got a medal, I'm getting overtime, there's lots of beer leftover at the house. Life is good.”

Louise swept into the room and Jerome pulled off a credible sitting salute that Louise didn't see.