Blackfly Season

39

THE CRISIS CENTRE WAS BETTER than the hospital, Terri decided. For one thing, it was a house—a grand old house—the people who had lived here long ago must have been wealthy. A railway tycoon, maybe; the place occupied a big corner lot on a street called Station, and Detective Cardinal had driven past a charred, boarded-up terminal on the way here. That tycoon must’ve had ten kids, to judge by all the rooms, and Terri felt a pang for the Victorian wife who no doubt had worked as the tycoon’s slave for her entire life before dying in childbirth bearing number eleven.

The guy who ran the place, Ned Fellowes, wasn’t that bad either—a former priest, one of the other inmates had informed her, but nothing pious about him, nothing holier-than-thou. He was just a bony, fortyish man with thinning, sandy hair and a pleasant smile. He had signed her in with a minimum of fuss, entering her information on a computer surrounded by tipsy stacks of psychology journals.

The Crisis Centre, he had told her, was originally intended solely for the protection of battered wives, but they took in people for other reasons, too, if they had room. Certainly, a bullet in the head seemed to qualify.

“We’re not a jail, and we’re not a hospital,” he had told her in his jaunty we-can-all-get-through-this-together voice. “We assume that all of our guests are adults and able to look after themselves. We have very few rules, but we expect them to be followed.”

Terri’s room was surprisingly large for an institutional place. A double bed with a scarlet coverlet proved to have an acceptable mattress, and the overstuffed armchair by the window was almost comfortable. An ancient rug, just this side of threadbare, covered the floor. The bathroom, located at the far end of the hall, was shared but clean.

A couple of her fellow “guests” seemed like decent people, though Terri didn’t for one minute consider that she had anything in common with them. One bore a cast on her arm, another had blackened eyes. Terri didn’t tell them about her bullet wound, and people in this place knew better than to ask about injuries.

So, all right, yes, it was better than the hospital. She wasn’t confined to a bed or the sunroom. There was a real kitchen instead of a candy machine. But in the end, it still felt like being under house arrest.

She was not supposed to go out, according to Detective Cardinal, and Ned Fellowes absolutely concurred.

“We’re not a jail,” he repeated. “And we’re not your parents. But clearly, until whoever did this to you is behind bars, you’re in serious danger and you should not be out on the streets.”

She spent almost an entire day in her room. She had tried the communal lounge for a while, but people wanted to talk too much—where are you from? what do you do?—and she didn’t feel like answering them. She tried to concentrate on a paperback some previous guest in crisis had left behind, but it couldn’t quiet her mind. Finally, she threw the book across the room. She got up and put on the hoodie, checking herself in the mirror. Just the thing.

Once out on the streets, she felt much better. The night air still tasted of spring: scents of new flowers, wet soil. A strong breeze was blowing and she had to hold the drawstrings of her hood.

She found Main Street easily enough. There wasn’t much traffic, but there were a lot of cars in front of a place called the Capitol Centre—a concert of some sort. After a couple of wrong turns, she found the bar Kevin had taken her to, the Goat in Boots. It was his unofficial hangout, he had said, when he wanted to get away from Red Bear and the others. Smoke assailed her nostrils the moment she entered, and she coughed. It was a typical English-style pub, and didn’t look remotely dangerous. Terri pushed her hood back and went up to the bar.

The bartender was a young blond woman, very pretty. “I’m looking for a guy named Kevin Tait,” Terri said. “He’s my brother, actually. Long dark hair, about six feet tall, always with a notebook? Comes in here quite often.”

“I think I know who you mean,” the bartender said. “Kevin, yeah. I never knew his last name. Haven’t seen him today, though. Haven’t seen him for a while, in fact.”

“Can you ask the other bartender?”

“Hey, Dora! You seen Kevin lately? Skinny guy with the long hair, always carries a notebook?”

The other bartender looked up from the draught tap and shook her head.

“He’s staying at this old wreck of a camp. Bunch of old cabins by a lake. I don’t suppose you happen to know where that would be?” Terri said. “It’s kind of urgent.”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Do you see anybody here who might know him? I’m from out of town. I don’t know who his friends are here.”

“Friends. I don’t know about friends …”

The bartender narrowed her gaze against the smoke. “There’s a guy I’ve seen him talking to a few times. But I don’t know if they’re actual friends.” She pointed to a small, bearded man at the far end of the bar. He wore wire-rim spectacles and clutched a paperback in his fist as if squeezing the juice out of it.

“Thanks.”

Terri moved to the other end of the bar.

“You always read in pubs?” she said to the guy.

He looked up from his book.

“Sometimes,” he said. “It beats small talk. Or staring at the TV screen. The only reason I come to this bar is it’s the only one that keeps the sound turned off.”

“You’re a friend of Kevin Tait’s, right?”

“Yeah. Well, I mean, I know him. I only see him when he comes in here. Which isn’t too often, lately. We talk about poetry.”

Thank God, Terri said to herself. Not a dope associate.

“Well, here’s the thing,” she said. “I’m Kevin’s sister. My name’s Terri.”

“I’m Roger.” He stuck out a damp hand to shake. “Kevin mentioned you to me.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. We were talking about Yeats. You know W.B. Yeats?”

“I’m not sure.”

“He has this great poem. Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,/ So great her portion in that peace you make/ By merely walking in a room. Do you know it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Kevin said it always reminded him of you. He also said you had the most amazing red hair. And that you were a really good actress. What happened to your head? Somebody shoot you?”

Terri was stymied for a second, until she realized he was just joking.

“I was in a car accident. A bad one. I was lucky to get off with just a concussion. The result is, I can’t remember Kevin’s address and my address book got lost in all the turmoil. I need to find him.”

“Gee, I don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t got a clue where he lives. All we ever talk about is poetry. Did you try the police?”

“Yeah. They can’t help me. It’s not like he’s a missing person.”

“Well, I don’t know. He sure reads a lot. You might try the library or the bookstores.”

Terri wanted to hug him for saying that. Here was someone who knew only Kevin’s good side.

“Thanks, maybe I’ll do that.”

He showed her the cover of the book he was reading. “Baudelaire. You ever read him?”

Terri shook her head.

“He’s nifty. They’ve got the French on one side and the English on the other. I know enough French to know it sounds really good. Makes me want to learn it for real, though. Listen, why don’t you sit down and wait for him? He comes in quite late sometimes.”

“No, thank you. I’ve got to find him. It’s urgent. If he comes in, would you give him this?”

She copied down the number of the Crisis Centre on a cocktail napkin.

“Tell him I need to speak to him right away.”

“I will. Sure.”

“One last question.”

“Okay.”

“Where would I go if I wanted to buy some dope?”

Roger’s smile disappeared into his beard. Disapproval rode his brows. “I’m not into drugs,” he said.

“Me either. But if you were …”

“Try Oak Street. The World Tavern. Not in the tavern itself. There’s a parking lot across the street. Here, I’ll draw you a map.”

Outside, the breeze had picked up. It started to rain as Terri crossed the street. Okay, so I’m not a detective and I’m not a spy. I don’t know how to get information without just coming out and asking for it. Let me just do it fast, find Kevin, and haul him back to Vancouver and the rehab centre. I don’t care if I have to drag him by the hair.

Oak Street was uncomfortably dark. And the entire block on the far side seemed to be a vast parking lot. Terri found herself looking over her shoulder. The World Tavern wasn’t far. Had Kevin taken her there, too? It didn’t look familiar. She saw a group of shadows in the parking lot across the street, and the smell of marijuana reached her, mixed with the smells of the lake and wet pavement.

She crossed the street toward the shadows. There were two young men—boys, really—in nylon jackets, and a girl whose low-rise jeans exposed a good two inches of butt cleavage. They were standing in the lee of a billboard. Their laughter died down, and they eyed Terri silently. One of them stomped out a smoke, but it did nothing to disperse the rich cloud of grass and rain.

“Excuse me,” Terri said. “I wonder if you can help me.”

“Depends what you want,” the larger boy said. His jacket hung down to his knees. Trying to look cool, giving her the narrowed eyes.

“I’m looking for a friend of mine named Kevin Tait. You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”

The trio looked at each other, then back at Terri.

“Nope,” the one in the knee-length jacket said. “Guess not.”

“Well, maybe you’ve seen him. Dark curly hair? Carries a notebook?”

The smaller kid and the girl shook their heads. The oldest one shrugged. “Sounds familiar. But I couldn’t say for sure.”

“I’m not a cop. I’m his sister.”

“Still can’t help you.”

“Well, let me ask you this. Where would you go if you wanted to score some heroin?”

“Whoa, dude. You wanna know where you can score smack?” He took a step back, all but vanishing into his jacket.

“Not for me. It’s just a way to find Kevin.”

“I wouldn’t know where to look for smack. Not my kind of thing.” The kid had adopted a superior look, no longer interested in her. Snobbery runs rife even in drug circles.

Terri looked at the girl. “Help me. He’s in trouble.”

“Sorry. I don’t know anything.”

She looked at the smaller guy.

“Hell, no. Me either. Smack, man. Not for me.”

“All right. Thanks, anyway.”

She started to walk away.

The big one called after her. “Now, if you wanted something to smoke, that might be a different story.”

Terri gathered her hood against the wind and kept walking.

Cars were starting up all along Main Street; the theatre was letting out. Terri walked down Worth Street, heading back toward the Crisis Centre. She cut through a park where a bronze soldier glistened in the rain.

When she emerged on the far side of the park, she had to wait for the light. The line of gleaming cars stretched back to Main Street, wipers flapping. The wind tore at her hood and she gave up trying to hold it; it was soaked through, anyhow.

Leon was already through the light by the time he registered who it was he had just seen. The red hair, the turned-up nose, it had to be her. Not possible. Maybe she’s got a cousin or there’s someone else who just looks an awful lot like her. But what clinched it was the bandage on the side of her head.

The scene came back to him: the falls, the flies, the trembling girl. He had urged her forward through the woods, the gun at her back, taking her to the same place he and Red Bear had slaughtered the biker. It had to be done at the same place; he had never killed a woman before, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it anywhere else. But when they got to the falls, she made a break for it. Leon’s hiking boot slipped on a rock, and she just took off. He had to run behind the falls and out the other side to cut her off. Man, the smell.

On the corner, the wind blew her hood back and she clutched at it. It was the sudden motion that had caught his eye, stuck in this bloody traffic. Then she let go of the hood and folded her arms across her chest, and there it was on the right side of her head: a small white patch.

Leon hit the brakes on the far side of the intersection and the cars behind him leaned on their horns. Worth Street was one-way; he couldn’t turn around. He rolled down his window and jerked the side mirror so he could see her. Yeah, she was still on the corner. The light was about to change, damn it.

At the next corner he swung a right and zoomed up the block, scaring the hell out of a couple of pedestrians. Then another right at the first stop sign and back down to Macintosh. The traffic wasn’t so bad here, though he could still see the line of wet lights stretching back to Main. Right again and then he was back to Worth Street.

No sign of her.

Leon crossed the intersection and drove slowly for half a block. She’d been heading this way. She must have gone into one of these houses. Either that, or she could have crossed north again once she got across Worth. He got out of the car, not even bothering to lock it, and ran. He stopped at the corner of Station Street, already out of breath. He turned in one direction, then another, squinting into the rain.