Queen's Park

Friday, August 4
CHAPTER 21

Marv blinked. The grey upholstery on the back of the front seat was tinted pink. His stomach growled. Grimacing at the stiff pain in his back, he rolled up his blue wind breaker to serve as a pillow.

He tried to stretch his legs but his feet pushed against the passenger door. Marvin lifted himself onto an elbow, eased both feet to the floor and sat up. They were still parked in between a pair of brand new Lincolns. Dew glistened on all vehicles within his field of vision.

He felt the sun’s hand at the back of his neck. “Les?” Marv’s mouth was dry and he wished he could brush his teeth.

“Les?” He leaned forward to shake the shoulder of his older brother. Les slapped his hand away. “We smell better in the morning. You notice that? Think the cops’ll find us here?”

“We’re just another Ford in the lot,” Les said.

“What do we do now?”

“Get a cup of coffee and some breakfast, dummy.”

“How much you got?” Marv said.

Les reached under the driver’s seat and fished out a 35 mm film container he used to store twoonies. He poured the coins into his left palm and counted. “Fifteen.”

“Bucks?” Marv’s belly felt emptier.

“Twoonies. Thirty bucks.”

“Tim Horton’s?”

“Sure. Last night, I spotted one just down the road.” Les sat up.

“Then what?”

“We need another car. Cops’ll be looking for this one.” Les picked sleep from the corners of his eyes.

“Where we gonna get one?”

“Strip mall or one of those health clubs. Wait till someone ducks inside and leaves the car running.”

Marv felt better when they had a plan. “Then we’ll pay the old man a visit?”

“And it won’t be kidnapping,” Lester said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain after we have a coffee.”

“Mom, I’m late for work. You wake me up at five to look for lighter fluid. You don’t use lighter fluid anymore. I’m sure we threw it out after Dad died,” Beth said.

“It’s gotta be here somewhere,” Nanny said. The nightie she wore had been washed so many times that her body was outlined in shadow. She moved across the family room carpet to the garage door. Fluorescent tubes flickered inside the garage creating a soft, eerie light. Glass jars were scattered inside the green recycling box next to the stairs. She looked at the jars and said, “That’ll do the trick.”

“What?” Beth leaned against the wall.

“It’s okay.” Nanny closed the door and turned the lights off. She reached for her daughter, and put both arms around Beth’s waist. “I love you.”

“What?” Beth pulled away from the dusty scent of smoke and perfume, yet remained close enough to keep both arms around her mother’s shoulders.

“You heard me.”

“Mom. What’s the matter?” Beth felt a cold fist inside of her. For an instant she thought she might be sick.

“Can’t I just say it without you making a fuss?” Nanny moved back into the family room.

“But… ” Beth was framed in the doorway.

“I thought you knew.” Nanny sat and opened her smokes. She lifted the oxygen tube off her face and dropped it at her feet.

“I do know. It’s just… ”

“Spit it out girl,” Nanny flicked the lighter’s wheel and flame lit the end of her cigarette.

“You don’t say it very often.”

“There. It’s better when you say what’s on your mind.” Nanny took a drag and closed her eyes, “You’re late for work.”

“We need to talk,” Beth said.

“When you get home.”

Beth opened her mouth, closed it, looked at her watch, “Shit! I’m late.”

Nanny waited till the door closed behind Beth. The old woman lifted the TV remote. The screen eased out of black. Coffee cup in one hand and cigarette in the other, she waited until the commercials were finished.

She reached down to put the clear plastic of the oxygen tube under her nose and over her ears. She stood and shuffled across the carpet to the garage door. Flipping on the light switch with her left, she opened the door with her right hand. She wheezed down two steps where the cool of concrete met the soles of her feet. Sitting on the steps, she picked through the glass jars until she found one with a matching lid. “Small enough to fit in my purse,” she said. Back inside, Nanny headed for the sliding glass door, opened it and stepped out onto the deck. The sun licked the dew off the wood. Reaching back, she pulled the oxygen line but it was stretched as far as it could go. She took short gasping breaths. It was all her scarred lungs would allow. Her gaze measured the pathway to the shed where they kept the lawn mower and gasoline.

“You’ve gone to the shed a thousand times before. One more time won’t kill you.” Lifting the tube over her head, she looped it over the deck railing and stepped down to the paving stones. She stepped onto the grass and smiled. “Move slow.” Wheezing, and holding the jar between her breasts, she reached the shed. The metal door stuck at first, but she managed to shake it open. Gasoline, grease and grass clippings came together to create a communal scent rich with summer memories. Nanny bent to twist the black plastic cap off the red can of gasoline. “All I need is a jar full.”

Lane wondered what had been done to beef up security after someone mailed the Chief a letter bomb. He couldn’t tell if anything had been changed but then he’d never been to see the Chief of Police before. He nodded at Harper who sat behind a desk in the outer office. The officer nodded in return. Harper was in his late 20s, had thick black hair and an equally thick mustache. He was still built like someone who played on the front line of a CFL team, Lane noted. For a moment, he recalled their first meeting and wondered if Harper was thinking the same thing. Lane sat in one of the upholstered chairs. He took in the room. It was about as plain as an office could get.

Lane wondered again about the call he’d received about ten minutes before leaving home for work. “Can you meet with the Chief at 8:15?” Lane realized now it had to have been Harper making the call. The last time they’d talked had been nearly five years ago and Harper had only been on the force for one year. Recently, Lane had heard other officers make cracks about a gun-shy cop looking after the Chief.

Lane picked through the magazines to his left. Time, Maclean’s and Report on Business. He started with Maclean’s.

Another officer stepped into the outer office. His blonde hair was cut to a length of no more and no less than two millimeters. His boots were polished till they looked like black plastic. “Chief wants to see me.” He pointed at his chest, “Stockwell.”

“Take a seat.” Harper pointed at the chair to the left of Lane.

The officer turned, spotted Lane, hesitated for an instant and sat two chairs over.

Lane noted the hesitation and ignored it. It was old news. People like that can’t bother me anymore, he thought. He flipped through Maclean’s and glanced over the top of the magazine to study Harper. He still looks fit, Lane thought.

He looks much better than when he was being loaded into the ambulance.

“Lane, Chief’s ready to see you.” Harper hitched his thumb in the direction of the door on the right.

Lane stood, careful not to show any anxiety, and buttoned his grey sports jacket. He opened the door and stepped inside.

“That who I think it was?” Stockwell said.

“Depends on who you think it was.” Harper squinted at the computer screen, clicked the mouse and frowned.

“Detective Lane.”

“That’s him,” Harper said.

“Glad I don’t have a partner like that. If you know what I mean.” Stockwell brushed a white fleck off the breast pocket of his jump suit.

“Like what?” Harper stared at the other officer.

“You know.” Stockwell crossed his right leg over his left, raised his right hand and bent it at the wrist.

Swiveling his chair 180 degrees, Harper stood. He moved over to the chair Lane had left and lifted his left shoe onto the cushion. Then Harper pulled up the left leg of his trousers. In the meat of his calf, about two thirds of the way to his knee, there was a round scar. “It’s more of a mess where it came out the other side. My partner and I answered the call. A domestic dispute. When I rang the doorbell, the guy on the inside blasted a hole through the door. I remember looking down and there was smoke coming out of my leg. At first there was no pain. I just fell over.” Harper released the fabric and shook his foot. The hem dropped to the top of his shoe.

Stockwell yawned.

“My partner ran for the unit to call it in. Then the pain hit. My partner stayed with the unit. I remember watching the blood rolling off the top step and down to the next.”

“What’s this got to do with anything?” Stockwell sat with his knees spread wide.

“It’s got nothing to do with you but something to do with Lane. He was the next officer on the scene. Saw me lying there and he walked up the sidewalk with his hands locked behind his neck. I remember Lane’s eyes. He was taking it all in. The guy with the hunting rifle opened the front door and yelled through the screen. Lane said, and I’ll never forget this, ‘How do you get those roses to grow? I never had much luck with roses.’ ”

“You’re kidding, right?” Stockwell sat up.

“Then he says, ‘I’m going to put some pressure on the wound to try and stop the bleeding.’ He moved up to me and put one hand on my femoral artery and the other over the hole in my leg. He kept on talking to this guy about gardening. You know, asking questions about soil, fertilizer and watering. I started yelling at Lane to get his hands off me. Told him he was a pervert and the whole force knew it. He just ignored me and kept the pressure on the wound. Asked the guy who shot me if he had a towel. The guy handed one out the door. Lane wrapped it around my leg and then went back to applying pressure. The shooter started to talk about how he never meant to hurt me, just wanted to warn me off. All this time I’m still screaming at Lane to get his hands off me, so Lane asks the shooter to help put pressure on the wound. And I’ll be damned if the guy doesn’t lean the rifle up against the wall and come out to hold his hand on my calf. Lane pulls off his tie with his free hand and gets the shooter to help him wrap it around the towel. I wake up the next day and a doctor tells me I almost bled to death. He told me whoever gave me first aid probably saved my life.”

“So you’re saying Lane’s a little light in the loafers but he’s a good cop,” Stockwell said.

“No.” Harper backed away. “I’m saying I was an asshole then and you’re an asshole now.”

“Arthur? You awake?” Lane said. He looked through his reflection in the coffee shop window. A bicycle courier tore down the center of the street. A middle-aged man in a grey business suit carried a laptop and dialed a cell phone. A man in a green ski jacket and jeans followed in sock feet. He carried his boots over his shoulder. A shoebox sized Leatherette case was in his right hand. Lane thought about the street people. They were mostly men in their 30’s and 40’s. He remembered his mother bringing him downtown on the bus when he was a kid. He couldn’t remember it being like this.

“It’s five to nine. I’m never awake before a cup of coffee,”

Arthur said.

“The Chief talked to me this morning,” Lane said.

“The Chief? You said, the Chief?”

“Yes, and I have a new partner,” Lane said.

“A what?”

“A partner. The Chief said it was time for me to stop working alone. She said I had a better record of arrests than anyone else in the department and didn’t want to lose all that expertise. She asked how I did it.”

“And you told her?” Arthur said.

“She asked. Nobody else ever did.” Lane began to realize how much of a risk he’d taken.

“I can’t believe it.”

“I always said, if anyone ever asks, I’ll tell. She asked, I told.”

“What did she say?” Arthur said.

“Fascinating.”

“Don’t play games. What did she say?”

“Fascinating. That’s all she said. Fascinating.” Lane recalled the smile on her face.

“You’re kidding me,” Arthur said.

“Not at all. She’s got a sense of humour. That brings us to the best part.”

“It gets better?”

Lane wished he could see Arthur’s face. “Guess who’s coming to dinner?”

“Get to the point if you want me to make supper again!”

Lane said, “Apparently, he specifically asked to be teamed up with me.” There was 30 seconds of stunned silence after Lane told Arthur the name of his new partner.

Ernie rolled over. Sleep had opened the door to another nightmare. The knife’s blade appeared under his eyes. His nose filled with the stink of onions on Uncle Bob’s breath.

“Get the phone!” Nanny said.

The phone rang again. Ernie rolled and planted his feet on the carpet. He stood. The phone rang.

“Ernie!”

“Why can’t you get it yourself?” He took four stumbling steps before mind and body began to work together.

“Get the damned phone!”

Ernie picked up the phone and leaned right to look into his grandmother’s room. She sat at the chair in front of the window overlooking the street. Cigarette smoke coiled its lazy tongue along the ceiling. A pair of field glasses were propped up, balanced near her left hand.

“HELLO?” The voice on the phone was a nail through the ear drum.

Ernie held the phone at arm’s length.

“HELLO?!”

Ernie felt knots developing in his neck muscles. No, it’s not a nightmare, I’m awake, he thought.

“LISA! IT’S ME, LISA! WHO’S THERE?”

“Who is it?” Nanny said.

“WHO’S THERE?” Lisa said.

Ernie turned the receiver upside down and spoke into the mouthpiece, “Me.”

“WHERE’S MY FATHER?”

“Oh, her,” Nanny said.

Ernie put his hand over the phone, leaned and said, “How’d you know?”

“Even a deaf person complains when she’s around. A screamer from the get go.” Nanny stubbed a filter tip into a mountain of butts.

“ANSWER ME!”

Ernie brought the upside down phone closer, “Don’t know where he is.”

“LIAR! WHERE THE HELL IS HE?”

Ernie closed his eyes and visualized his 20 year old cousin, Lisa. She had ordered him around like a slave for as long as he could remember.

He pressed the receiver against his thigh and said to Nanny, “You wanna talk to her?”

“What for? She doesn’t listen to anyone but herself.”

Nanny sipped coffee.

Ernie held the receiver half a meter from his face.

“WHERE… THE… HELL… IS… MY… FATHER!?”

“If you hang up, she’ll only call back,” Nanny said.

“ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION.”

Ernie put the phone to his lips. “You tell me.”

“ERNIE! YOU LET ME TALK TO MY GRANDMOTHER RIGHT NOW!”

Ernie stood in the doorway. Nanny turned to face him and shook her head.

“She won’t come to the phone.” He realized his mistake too late.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WON’T?”

Ernie sagged cross-legged to the carpet. First the nightmare about Uncle Bob and now the living nightmare of Bob’s daughter. “I’ll talk if you stop yelling.”

“I’M NOT YELLING!”

“Nobody knows where he is.”

“SOMEBODY HAS TO KNOW.”

“The police are looking for him. I don’t know where he is. They found his car at the airport. That’s all I know.”

“BULL SHIT!”

“The bastard put a knife to my face, I ended up in the hospital and I don’t care where he is!”

“LIAR!”

Ernie slapped the receiver onto its cradle while realizing Lisa was right about one thing. He wanted to know where Bob was and if he was coming back with another knife.

The phone rang ten times.

“Ignore it. Go and take a shower,” Nanny said.

Ernie locked the bathroom door. He showered till the water turned cold. He shut it off and listened. Nothing. Relief and a thick towel warmed him as he wiped himself dry. He slipped into black t-shirt and jeans.

“She stopped callin’,” Nanny said.

Ernie waited.

The phone rang.

He hesitated.

It rang again.

He picked it up and held it away from his ear.

“Hello?”

“Dad?”

“Hi. Ern, I’m on my way home. Write down my flight number. Air Canada 597 out of Toronto. I get in at 1815.

They changed the time.”

“Got it.” Ernie wrote it all down on a scrap of paper.

“How’s Nonno?”

“Okay. Took me golfing.” Ernie thought about what his grandfather had said about running out of time.

“Still taking the doll everywhere he goes?” Miguel asked.

“Yep, but he did get her a dress.”

“Good. You okay?”

“Yep.” Ernie lied. Dad didn’t deal with other people’s problems, he thought. Maybe that’s why he took a job half way around the world.

“Good, see you tomorrow.” Miguel hung up.

“Who was that?” Nanny said.

“My Dad.” Ernie prepared himself for the inevitable sarcastic comment.

“Good, you need your father around.”

Ernie cocked his head to the right and looked carefully at his grandmother.

Nanny didn’t turn. Ernie saw his reflection next to hers in the window.

She said, “What you staring at?”

“You okay?”

“Don’t you worry, Ernie, everything is gonna be fine.” Nanny waved her hand once as if to dismiss him.

Lane decided to arrive through the back entrance of Queen’s Park Cemetery. Evergreens lined up like dark green angels on either side of the narrow, paved roadway. Their scent seeped inside the car.

Ahead, Randy walked alongside the road in his red hard hat, khaki shirt and pants. A gas powered weed eater was balanced in his right hand.

Lane coasted up beside, “Got a minute?”

Randy’s smile faded as he turned. His lips formed a straight line and his eyes adopted a blank expression. Lane wondered if he’d see the person behind the mask. Randy stopped to face the policeman. Lane took extra care as he stopped and shut off the engine. He heard bird song.

Randy held the weed trimmer balanced like a spear, “You hear it too.”

Lane stood straight, closed his eyes and leaned till his back formed a gentle curve. “Yes.”

“People make too much noise to listen to the music birds make.”

“I’ve got a couple of questions.” Lane felt caught off guard by the apparent sensitivity of a man who seemed so guarded.

“Yep.” Randy shifted the weed trimmer around to the front of his body.

“A witness says Ernesto drove a Lincoln here the morning Swatsky disappeared.”

Randy shrugged.

“Can you confirm that Ernesto drove a Lincoln to this cemetery the morning Robert Swatsky disappeared?”

Randy’s eyes studied Lane.

Lane said, “Can you… ” Then he remembered their last meeting when Randy had answered a similar question with, ‘He owns a red van.’ Randy is not a liar, Lane thought. His silence is as good as an admission. “You don’t lie, do you?”

Randy continued to watch the detective. At first he gave no indication of having heard a word, then he said, “Look, this thing is heavy.” Randy hefted the trimmer to accentuate his point. “Let’s go sit in the shade.”

They walked to the north side of the mausoleum. Randy set the trimmer down in the shade, next to the wall. He removed his hard hat. Randy sat down, crossed his legs and leaned against the cool of the concrete.

Lane sat against the wall, about a meter from Randy.

“When you’ve been put on the stand, told to tell the truth and been accused over and over again of lying, lies don’t come easily. Hanging onto the truth was all that I had left at one time. Then I came to realize it’s all we ever have.” Randy stared north to the trees and the clear sky above. A passenger jet climbed to gain altitude before crossing the Rocky Mountains.

“Amazing,” Lane said.

“What?”

“That’s the longest answer you’ve given me so far.”

“Maybe that’s because I figure you recognize the significance of truth,” Randy said.

“How come you never played hockey again?”

“That’s a long story.”

Lane decided to let the conversation take them where it would. Randy wasn’t about to be forced or intimidated and this way they might end up where they needed to go. “I’ve got time.”

Randy nodded and smiled. “When I first went to the police about the assaults, I was 19 and drunk. That was the end of my hockey career.”

“But you were a top draft pick.”

“Number one when I was 18. Drank the signing bonus and rolled a brand new Corvette into a ditch. Walked away

with a few bruises.”

“I’m not sure I get what you mean about it being the end of your career,” Lane said.

“By the time I went to the police, the coach had won two Stanley Cups with a Canadian team. People were talking about Canadians taking back their game. You remember?”

Lane nodded.

“Lots of people think I put an end to that because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

Lane waited.

“Pro sports doesn’t like rookies who open up a closet full of dirty laundry. Ex-teammates, roommates and coaches lined up to try and convince me to keep quiet for the good of the game. The owner and a couple of broadcasters backed the coach. Lots was written and said about me and how I was a drunk looking to make a name for myself because I didn’t have the heart to play with the pros. There were also some vague references about me trying to hide my sexual preferences.” Randy looked at Lane to see if he had any questions. “Then the video turned up. The tape caught him threatening to end my career if I didn’t do what he wanted and he made it very clear what he wanted. I won in court but it made a lot of people look bad.”

“So you ended up here?”

“Bounced around a bit first. Drank for another year. Came here about five years ago,” Randy said.

“Where does Ernesto fit in?” Lane said.

“He used to bring little Ernie to my hockey games. He was my number one fan. Even went to some of the trial. Ernesto got me the job here.” Randy shifted his body to look directly at Lane, “My face was in every newspaper, on every television. I became totally isolated. I couldn’t even go to the grocery store because people would look at the cover of some newspaper or magazine, see my face and turn their backs. You wouldn’t believe some of the reactions.”

Oh, yes I would, thought Lane. He tried not to feel compassion for Randy but it was impossible.

“Anyway, I ended up here. Ernesto put me back together. He used to say, ‘That is the life.’ And he’d tell me how he’d watched his wife die of cancer. How he could do nothing to save her. How he felt so helpless. How he felt he’d let her down in some way. He learned that life just does that sometimes and there’s really no reason for it. Ernesto used to remind me, ‘You told the truth. Sometimes the truth gets you in the most trouble but you have to hang onto it or it slips away and you’ve got nothing.’ I don’t know what I would have done without him. Some of the guys around here would have nothing to do with me at first, but Ernesto had a way of bringing everyone around. Except of course for Tony. There is some old country feud between them. I assume that’s why you’re here.”

Lane was caught off guard again. He’d made it a rule never to underestimate the people he interviewed and he’d underestimated this one.

“You don’t like to lie either. I’ll take your silence as a yes. Don’t feel bad. Most people believe in the dumb jock stereotype whether they realize it or not.”

Lane shook his head, realizing Randy had outfoxed him.

“I was 15 when it all started. At 20 I was still 15 up here.” Randy tapped the side of his head with a finger. “When the abuse started to happen, I turned inward. Blamed myself.

Thought there was something wrong with me. Got really self-destructive. Having that happen and then being in the spotlight for over a year, man that does some weird things to

the psyche. Emotional and psychological pain is the worst.

Take my word for it, I know.”

Lane nodded unconsciously and caught himself too late. Randy had taken complete charge of the conversation. It’s as if he sees right through me and I’m supposed to see through him, Lane thought.

“Swatsky’s story has all the ingredients the public seems to love. There’s corruption in politics with violence and attempted rape thrown in. This story will be everywhere if Swatsky ever turns up. Right now, the attack on Ernie isn’t a big story. But if Swatsky turns up, all sorts of conflicting news angles will be out there. And who’ll be right in the middle of it?”

“Ernie.” Lane felt the weight of choice on his shoulders.

The choice, he’d been told was up to the courts and not up to him.

“You’re a smart man. And Ernesto says you’re a good man.

So, that’s why I’ve explained all of this to you. For a long time I didn’t trust anyone. Somehow, I think I can trust you.”

“It’s up to me to find out what happened,” Lane said.

“This time it’s a little more complicated than that. By the time the media is through with a story like this, almost no one will know the truth and the victim will be a basket case. One newspaper reporter explained it all to me. He said, ‘Look, your story has a life of its own. You’re a number one draft pick. Your coach won the Stanley Cup twice and what he did or didn’t do to you is unimportant. It’s the way people can’t get enough of the story that’s important.’ And then he said, ‘Don’t take all the attention personally, kid.’ How could any thinking human being say something that god damned stupid?” Randy stood and put on his hard hat.

And you haven’t really told me anything while telling me everything, Lane thought. “Have you got a home number I can reach you at?”

“241-1786. Need to write it down?”

“I’ll remember.” Lane smiled, stood and slipped an arm into his jacket.

“I’ve got a question,” Randy said.

“Okay.”

“How come, after you saved that cop’s life, you never got any recognition?”

“How did you know about that?” Lane concentrated on adjusting the lapels of his jacket to hide his surprise.

“It’s amazing what you can find out if you have a library card.”

“It’s a long story.” Lane looked straight back at Randy.

“I thought so.” Randy picked up the weed trimmer and moved back to the roadway. “Time to get back to work.” He put ear plugs in. Then, with one pull, the trimmer’s gas engine started.

“Never ignore the obvious,” Lane said and made for the Chev. He had another stop to make.

Lane parallel parked across the street from a brown five storey office building. This side of the street was lined with mature trees and two storey homes. It was just off 4th street where trendy coffee shops and restaurants had revitalized the neighbourhood. He realized Randy hadn’t given him any specifics but he’d given him the answer. Lane had to admit the jock was a couple of steps ahead of him. And Randy knew Lane was close to the truth. He sized me up and went straight to the heart of it all, Lane thought. This case is all about heart.

He walked into the five storey building, past the main floor pharmacy, right past the lab and up the stairway to the third floor. Halfway down the carpeted hallway, he pushed open a beige metal door with the sign Dr. Wallace and Dr. Keeler Family Practice.

The receptionist was on his left, behind a meter high wall of plastic and glass. She lifted her head, frowned and said, “Oh, it’s you.”

The tone of her voice told him he’d come at a bad time. Lane looked right to see at least ten people sitting in the waiting room.

“To see Dr. Keeler?” The receptionist tapped the side of her glasses with a pencil. Not one hair dared moved out of its appointed place.

“Please,” Lane said.

“Take a seat.” She let out a long, exasperated sigh.

Lane found a seat near the window and looked out at the trees and rooftops across the street.

“Read to me.” A big little voice said. A bright yellow book dropped into his lap.

The child standing in front of him was between three and four years of age. Her black hair was cut short. It framed brown eyes and a round face. She wore blue Oshkosh coveralls and a red T-shirt. Slapping the book with her right hand, she climbed onto the seat beside him.

Lane looked across at a woman who smiled wearily. An infant slept in her arms.

He smiled, lifted the book and began to read. After the third book, the little girl announced, “I’m Dayna.”

“I’m Lane.”

“Read another story.” Dayna scampered to a pile of books in the corner, picked three and brought them back.

“Millicent and the Wind,” he said, as she put both hands on his wrist and leaned in to study the pictures. Lane ached for the children he would never have.

“Mr. Lane?” Lane lifted his head to see, Mavis, Dr. Keeler’s nurse. Shrinking violet had never been a phrase used to describe Mavis. She was taller than he was, broader in the shoulders and as tough as any person made out of marshmallow could be. “Hurry it up detective.”

“Bye Dayna,” Lane stood, looked down.

The child looked up with a frown. “Bye.” She waved by closing and opening her fist.

“Say thank you,” Dayna’s mother said.

“But he didn’t finish all my stories!” Dayna said.

Lane followed Mavis. He felt like a car being pulled along by the draft of a semi.

“He’s not too busy just yet, so you’re lucky.” Mavis led him to the doctor’s office and swept Lane inside with the folder in her hand. “Another case?”

“That’s right.” This was a familiar routine for Mavis and Lane. He’d first seen Keeler because he was a top notch family doctor and later on to ask medial questions related to his cases. All he had to do was phone ahead and Keeler would work him in. Amateur sleuths were everywhere and this one happened to offer invaluable medical insights. “Mavis, you’re a life saver.”

“Yah right, save your charm for Arthur.” Her voice softened. “The doctor’ll be here in a minute.”

Lane sat in one of the chairs in front of the doctor’s desk. He studied the photographs on top of the pine bookshelf behind the desk. An 8 X 10 was a family shot of the doctor, his daughter, son and wife. All were taller than the doctor.

“Detective?” Keeler always used the title when it involved a case. He stood in the doorway dressed in a white smock and red golf shirt.

Lane was reminded of the face of a writer who loved ghosts and gore.

Keeler shook Lane’s hand and said, “I’ve got maybe three minutes.” He shut the door behind him before sitting down across from Lane. Keeler kept his hands on the arms of the chair while studying the detective.

Dr. Keeler always seems to enjoy this so much, Lane thought, then said, “I’m working on a case.”

“We’ve done this at least 50 times before and you always start the same way.” Keeler tapped his wristwatch with an index finger.

“How much damage can a blow to the throat cause?”

“Depends on where the blow lands, the power of it and the size of the person or persons involved.” Keeler leaned forward.

“Apparently, the attacker had a knife to the nose of an adolescent male. The attacker,” Lane deliberately used the present tense even though he was almost certain that past would have been more accurate, “weighs about 140 kilos. His age is 53. The victim is close to the same height and weighs about 85 kilos. The victim says he,” Lane curled the forefinger of his right hand over top of his index finger and jabbed both in Keeler’s direction, “struck the attacker in the throat. Apparently, the attacker fell forward on top of the victim.”

“The Swatsky Case?” Keeler said.

“You understand this is entirely confidential?”

“Of course. Go on.”

“The victim has studied karate and I suspect he’s having flashbacks about the attack. There is also evidence suggesting the attack was sexually motivated. There are indications the attacker may have committed at least one prior assault similar to this one.”

Keeler opened the collar of his golf shirt to expose his throat. He pressed his finger on the ‘V’ at the base of his neck. “Feel that?”

Lane reached under his tie, eased his fingers between two buttons and felt a soft valley of flesh in between bones.

“If the blow landed there with sufficient force, then the attacker is a dead man. Fractured trachea. About ten years ago I was working at Emergency. A car accident happened right outside the door. A passenger fractured his trachea. We were there within 30 seconds. The guy never had a chance.”

“A kid could do that?” Lane needed to be certain.

“If the blow lands in the right spot and with enough force, it’s all over,” Keeler said.

“And it’s quick?”

“Very. Is the kid strong?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s distinctly possible that the attacker is dead.”

“Thank you,” Lane reached across to shake hands. “And you understand… ”

“Very confidential, as always. One of my male patients was sexually abused by an uncle. He’s been in therapy for five years. The emotional damage can be irreparable.”

“It’s my job to find out what happened.”

“What happens to the kid?” Keeler said.

“That’s up to the courts to decide.”

“You think so? This is the kind of case people can’t get enough of.” Keeler said as he shook Lane’s hand.

“V-Channel news and weather update.” The woman with the black hair, white blouse and microphone stood on the bank of the Bow River. The white stone of the Louise Bridge was in the background. “It may be sunny in Calgary but it’s raining in the mountains.”

A closer shot of the bridge with water churning around the supports. Debris carried by the silty water was only a meter or two away from rubbing against the underbelly of the bridge.

Cut to the reporter. “Conditions on the Bow River are exceptionally dangerous. The fire department is warning boaters to stay off the river until conditions improve. So, you can’t cool off on the river for the next few days. If that makes you hot under the collar what’s next will really steam you. Here’s Ralph Devine with a story about a major crime.”

Cut to a head and shoulders shot of a man with black hair and salt and pepper beard. “The Swatsky disappearance may cost Red Deer taxpayers more than they thought. Investigators now believe the missing mayor may have gotten away with as much as 13 million dollars. More at six.”