Grave Concern (33 page)

By midsummer, word was out. That is, word was
officially
out to those who'd been living under a rock wearing earplugs. Unofficially, everyone for miles around had known the scoop for weeks: a cougar, possibly one of a pair, was almost certainly lurking about. Fearing lawsuits, Land-o'-Pines Camp for Girls refunded camp fees pro rata and sent girls back to their homes, province-wide. The local campground was closed until further notice. Stern warnings were issued by the town's own police force, and, for good measure, the Ontario Provincial Police, that children should be supervised
at all times,
even in the streets. And no one — but
no one —
should walk in the woods alone. Above an article on the topic in the local paper crouched a blurry “submitted” photo of indeterminate scale that, on closer examination, looked not unlike a generic house cat prowling a backyard.

If you asked Kate, it was all overkill. In little towns all over B.C., even her old city-on-the-Plains, cougars had a ball prowling around. People here just needed to “man up,” as the kids said. Take a Valium or something. Still, she relished the increased peace up at the cemetery. Even the staunchest family members rarely showed up these days. If nothing else, maybe Pine Rapid's crisis would turn to opportunity. For Kate. She got busy with the website. She got herself on Twitter and more reluctantly on Facebook, which as far as Kate could see was populated by the delusionally optimistic. Perhaps she had joined their crowd. She twittered and chirped away like a madwoman, promoting the business, with scant faith in the power of social media to slow the alarming dwindling of her bank account.

By the Friday before the August long weekend, Kate was grumpy again. For a month of solid self-promotion, she'd reaped exactly twenty reply tweets from her old friend Gladys, all exactly the same: “@glad2noU Bereft beyond words. Return date?” Plus two work-related nibbles minus financial commitment. In the height of summer, the last thing on people's minds was death or family obligation. And so at five o'clock, depressed by meagre and declining means and the state of penury and stasis these brought about, Kate closed up early.

The three short streets that comprised Pine Rapids's “business section” might have been a movie set in storage, labelled Generic Town (Abandoned). Every other merchant, it seemed, had closed up and left town. Kate smiled to herself. Never mind. Let them go roam the nation in campers or head out to their secret lakes to fish. Let them take their fill of foreign culture in far-off lands. Ho Lam's was always open: early, late, day and night. Kate had a pressing engagement. She had court to pay, and her court date had been postponed way too long. She would go see Leonard, suss out his plans for the weekend, and if it was all the same to him, ask him over for dinner, get them both drunk and with any luck, into her bed. Perhaps, at some point in the three coming days of dissipation, they'd take a spin through the valley on the Harley. Kate was smug. Kate was ready. Kate had plans.

Kate passed the Pussy Cat Palace, still open but closing in twenty minutes; Rory's Books and Gifts, closed; Dollarama, closed; and the Beanery, technically open but on life support. At the fire hall, Vince Vaillancourt, one of the skeleton staff on duty, lackadaisically hosed down the spotless fire truck yet again. I.G.A. Foods, open but empty. Bursting with life, on the other hand, was the LCBO across the street. Almost there. Kate scooted past Flower Power as quickly as she could; as scarce as work was, the Friday before long weekend was no time for Gwyneth Waters to be getting ideas.

A hand-lettered sign on the door of Ho Lam Video and Electronic read simply,

What?
The dog days of summer, and Leonard just ups and leaves? Leaving her, Kate, without recourse? While Mary, black-hearted Mary, was off visiting her father and others in Newfoundland? Kate's joy was now despair. She pulled out her phone and texted: “Return to bitter West imminent. Anywhere better than here. Await further notice.” Kate sank onto Ho Lam's front step, dropped her face in her hands.

If Kate's mind was city centre, the suburbs now became noisy. A hubbub, some urgency, pricked the bounds of Kate's consciousness. Roused at last from her small, inner world, Kate looked up. There sat Nicholas, alone in his shiny white pickup, honking like mad. At
her
.

He leaned out the window. “Kate! In the truck! Now!”

About a month before graduation, Foxy was about to host Chemistry Study Group for the last time. There was no dope to be had in the area, so Foxy got busy on booze duty. Part of the supply would be acquired through Tim's older brother, Ray, who, having few friends, could generally be counted on to oblige. The kids would pool whatever money they could scrounge from parental purses and pockets, their own babysitting, and other work and hand it in a filthy bundle to Ray, with instructions on numbers of Labatt's Blue, bottles of tequila and Baby Duck, and similar delights. Ray would then walk into the Liquor Control Board of Ontario outlet and do his best to get the whimsical desires of his underage “friends” right in petitioning the clerk. (The clerk would shout the order to unseen workers in the back who would pitch the requested bottles in a box and whiz the order to the front down a rolling metal chute.)

Using Ray as legal purchaser, however, had its limitations. You couldn't really ask a lone person, even a fool, to purchase enough booze for several dozen teens at one go. And the LCBO store manager wasn't stupid. What to do? Cunning Foxy hit on a solution that would, in the event, require some assistance.

The night before the final Chemistry Study Group was a Friday, the busiest night of the week up at King's Hotel. Now it happened that, back in Grade 9, Foxy, unbeknownst to his peers, had had the nerve to ask out the much older Ariel Frank (whose on-and-off relationship with the unfortunate Kevin Farningham was then in an “off” phase). His date Ariel having reached legal drinking age, Foxy by association was accidentally admitted, well underage, to the tavern up at King's. (The evening in question had come to an abrupt end when Foxy, having binged on tequila, was dragged out the door and around back of the tavern by his furious date, who held his head and pinched her nose as he puked.)

The evening, however, turned out not to be a total loss. Unbeknownst to anyone, Foxy gained some valuable insight into the ways of the wayward inn that night. Turning your insides out onto the ground is one thing. Anyone can do it. But not anyone can do what Foxy did, which is to observe the ground itself even as it disappears beneath your stomach's effluent. In fact, Foxy had noticed the soil at his feet, how individual grains — black-glitter mica, clear quartz, pink granite, green gneiss — melded together in the miracle of sand. And something else Foxy observed: hinged at the base of the hotel wall beside which he was bringing up his guts was a wrought-iron door sporting decorative curlicues — a smallish door, to be sure, but big enough for a man to squeeze through.

Over the intervening four years, the knowledge of this door had frolicked freely in Foxy Raymond's id, peeping out now and again into everyday ego-view. By the figurative eve of graduation, ego and id fused, and Foxy saw clearly how the knowledge gained that evening could benefit him and his friends.

Nick — honest, reliable — was enlisted as Foxy's accomplice. And this is how on the Friday night before the last Chemistry Study Group meeting of his life, Nicholas found himself on a bicycle, following Foxy up the highway just as darkness was falling. When they got to King's Hotel, they dismounted and stashed the bikes in the bush by the parking lot. Weaving quickly between cars, Foxy led Nicholas over to the place where he'd puked all those years before. Sure enough, there was the little door, just as he remembered it, only rustier.

“Look,” said Foxy. “It leads into the basement, and I know for sure that's where they store most of the booze.”

“What is it?” said Nicholas. “What's it for?”

“Coal chute. From the old days, before regular oil furnaces. Truck came along, dumped the coal straight down there. Then they'd shovel it into the furnace. I'm sure we can get in. We'll have the run of the place.”

Nicholas looked doubtful. “Till someone comes around here and sees us, dickhead. And even if it works, how are we going to get out? You thought o' that?”

Foxy sneered. “Never heard of chairs? Ladders? Boxes? There's fuckin' something down there we can use.”

“Famous last words, Foxy,” said Nicholas.

But Foxy was already worrying the bolt. Having no luck, he looked around till he found a large stone.
Bang, bang
.

“Shhhh!” said Nick. “Someone'll hear us.”

“Over
that
?” The place was vibrating with bass. Whatever the music was sounded bad.

Foxy kept at the bolt —
bash, bash, bash
. He spat, and rubbed spit all around the bolt-holes.
Bash, bash, bash
. Nothing.

“
Now
what, Einstein?” asked Nicholas.

Foxy looked thoughtful, as though weighing a moral question. At last, he pulled something out of his back pocket. A condom.

“Oh, Foxy, you shouldn't have,” Nicholas deadpanned.

“No, you homo nerd. Watch this.” Foxy opened the package and removed the contents.

“Stick out two fingers,” he commanded.

“Fuck off,” Nicholas said.

“Don't be a jerk.”

“Jerk
off
, to you,” said Nicholas. However, after looking right and left, he stuck out an index finger. Foxy placed the flattened condom on the fingertip. Cold.

“Don't get any ideas,” Foxy said, unrolling the condom slowly down Nick's finger. When it was fully unfurled, Foxy carefully removed it from the tip. The condom hung limp, jelly-like from Foxy's hand. Grasping it firmly at either end, Foxy spun around and rubbed the condom all over the bolt and bolt-holes.

He turned and grinned. “Lubricated,” he said.

After a great deal of rubbing, Foxy held the bedraggled condom out to Nicholas, whose first instinct was to knock it away. But he took it and shoved it in his pocket rather than litter. Foxy kept at the bolt, wiggling, wiggling. Then — movement.

“Now, hold this like this,” Foxy said. As per instruction, Nicholas pressed hard against the door. Bit by bit, Foxy worked the bolt free. The door made a miniscule movement. The hinges were rusty but not beyond hope. Together, the boys put their backs into it. Inch by inch, they pulled the door wide.

6

The Visit

Though numerous retorts whirled through Kate's head, none found its way to open air. Beneath the anger and self-pity, a part of Kate remained the soul of reason: in a pinch, thought she, even a yelling, honking, happily married former suitor in an F–150 could substitute for social life. She dusted herself off and, with studied nonchalance, sauntered over.

Shading her eyes, Kate looked up. “Can I help you at all, Nicholas?”

Whether from fury, embarrassment, sunburn or all three, Link's face was positively crimson. “Kate! Get in! Something's going on up Wycliffe Road!”

Nicholas leaned across the cab and pushed opened the door. “C'mon! The more the merrier!”

Kate climbed in.

“Not another dog-flattening, I hope.”

Nicholas looked blank.

“Never mind,” Kate said. “In-joke. Speaking of merry, you don't seem very, Nicholas.”

“I'm not.” Nicholas glanced over his shoulder and pushed hard on the gas. They roared up Main toward the traffic light. “Okay, I'm going to tell you what I know, because you're one of the few people I can trust.”

“I'm flattered,” said Kate.

“So I've planted a couple of cameras in the woods at likely spots. You know, to see if we can get evidence of cougar. Well, just a few minutes ago, I'm sitting here in my truck, half asleep, monitoring the video. I usually do it later, after work, but this time, I don't know, I was doing it live. Bored, I guess.”

“I hear ya,” said Kate.

“So first I see something, fawn-coloured, big-headed, whip by. Could be cougar. So I'm excited. But Kate, I'm watching, watching, to see if it comes back.”

“And?”

“It didn't, but guess what did?”

“I have no idea.”

“Bill Chambers' legs. I'm sure it was him. Hunting knife in the thigh pocket. Those Friday night ‘meetings' at the graveyard? Never came without the knife. Every time.”

“You think my landlord is hunting cougar?”

“Your landlord, eh? Lucky you. Well, what do
you
think?” Nicholas asked.

“Can this thing go any faster?” Kate replied.

Nicholas did his best. The pickup strained around corners and sprayed ditches with gravel.

To lighten the mood, Kate said, “How come you're still here on the long weekend? Surely you don't have to work
every
day of the year.”

“I was going to go home, but then I don't know, I sensed this weekend could be a turning point. Partly the cameras, I guess. Finally getting them set up. Partly the quiet. Everyone's off, out of town. Perfect time for a secretive beast to show itself. I really do want to get this thing over with.”

“Doesn't Kathleen mind? I mean, with the kids and all.”

Nicholas said nothing for a few seconds. Steered melodramatically around a pothole. As he did so, he grimaced slightly, and Kate noticed the teeth. Ah yes, Link's teeth had always made her think of the snow in the Christmas carol — deep and crisp and even. That was because Link's father had been one of two dentists in town. Kate had envied Nicholas his teeth while simultaneously dreading the annual visits to Dr. Enderby for checkups that invariably ended in excruciating drilling and filling.

She was about to change the subject, when Link said, “She's used to it. They all are. Nature of the job.”

Kate allowed a little silence, then changed the subject as planned. “Uh, Link, I know this might sound strange, but did you go up at all to the shenanigans at the Roadhouse Museum on July 1?”

“Nope. Down south that weekend. Why?”

Something told Kate it was better left unexplained, at least for now. “Just wondered. There were some fun little acts, not least of which a guy with boa constrictors and things.”

“I
hate
those guys,” Link spat.

Wow. Vehement. In shock, Kate asked, “How come?”

“Stuff like that gets the public crazy about exotic pets. They rush out and buy tarantulas or snakes or iguanas then crap out when it comes to actually looking after them. They drive out Wycliffe Road or somewhere and release them in the wild. Drains MNR resources rounding them up when people call in complaints, screws up the local ecosystem for a while, does a nasty number on the exotics themselves, being from the tropics and all. God, I hate those guys with a passion.”

“Yikes. So forget I said anything.”

“Done.”

“Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away.”

“How did you get into, you know, conservation and stuff? When we were in high school, you could care less.”

“Kathleen,” Nick said bluntly. He gave a little grunt or a laugh cut in two by embarrassment. “She picked me up off the floor. Literally. I was wasted at a party. Can't remember whose. Kathleen hauled me up and stood me against the wall and told me to straighten up for good or get out of her life.”

“When was this? I never knew you were
in
her life.”

“Final year. The last coupla months. She asked me out to a movie instead of going to the Valentine's Dance.”

“Which I'd turned down.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“You discussed me with her?”

“Maybe. Don't remember.”

Kate pondered her younger self, and Kathleen's. One of them, and it wasn't Kate, had learned early to stand up for herself.

They drove along in thick silence, which Kate was desperate to break, if only for her own mental health.

“But your job. How — ”

“Her brother, Jack. Remember him? Couple years ahead of us. Went into forestry. Took me aside one time he was home, said environmental stuff was getting big. He was too far through his program to change, but if I had all my sciences, I'd be laughing. And I did.”

“Amazingly enough,” Kate couldn't resist putting in.

“Yeah, yeah. Just 'cause you couldn't hack chemistry. Didn't you flunk out of Lawson's class?”

“No. Never took it.”

“Ah, that's it.”

“Hey, don't knock avoidance.”

Nick looked at her strangely. “So anyway, Waterloo had a degree in environmental science, but I quit after a year. Too theoretical. No hands-on. Went to college and took a diploma. It all kinda grew on me. Kathleen was behind me, of course, a hundred percent.”

Kate felt vaguely chastised by the last statement, though she doubted that was Nick's express intent.

“Speaking of which, Nick, whatever happened on the campout the other night? Or do I need to fill out an ‘Access to Information' form?”

“Here's exactly what happened. I got eaten alive — by mozzies. That was about it. By morning, a few crows had gathered. Making a hell of a racket. Woke me up in fact.”

Kate took a deep breath. “Any ravens?”

“No. Why?” Link's face was innocent as a baby's.

Well, well, wasn't he the smooth one.

Nicholas suddenly reached around the seat behind him. “Oh yeah, here's your stuff back.” He tossed her the bottle of
OFF
! “Once I actually put it on,” Nicholas grinned, “it did the trick. Thanks.”

The truck slowed a bit. Apparently, they were nearly at their destination, but not quite. Kate judged it a good time to bring up an old worry. “You know, Nick, a few months back, when I was supposed to be still home recovering from broken ribs, I surprised Chambers snooping around
in my office
. He's the landlord, but still. It was pretty suspicious.”

Nicholas's thick eyebrows shot up. He glanced at Kate with a look she could have sworn was worry. “You look worried,” Kate said.

“I don't trust that guy.”

“Should
I
be worried, you think?”

“Well, I doubt he's an axe murderer, if that's what you're thinking. I'd guess he's looking for something concrete — maybe information?”

“But what?” Kate asked. “There's nothing remotely useful to him in there. I can't even read my own accounts half the time.”

“You pay your rent on time?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Maybe he's got a higher-paying tenant and he's looking for an excuse to throw you out.”

“Maybe.”

After a bit, Nicholas said, “Anything weird about your computer?”

“Anything
not
weird, you mean. I'm not the most tech savvy person around. But, as far as I can tell, everything's the same.”

“Beats me then,” said Nicholas.

“Except,” said Kate.

“Except?”

“Nick, that's it!
Everything
wasn't the same. My bulletin board. The one above my desk, with everyone's names. My clients' names and important grave dates. Listen, a while back I forgot a very important client. A
very
important date. So I printed out a hard copy in a large font size — so I can't miss it.”

“You ever heard of getting your computer to remind you? Just plug in all the info and it'll ding you when the date comes up. It's not hard, Kate.”

“Sounds hard to me. Besides, twenty minutes later I'd forget it dinged and be back at square one. See, I've cross-referenced dates with colour with my wall calendar, so I can't possibly forget anyone ever again. Every day at work, first thing, I look it over and write my to-do list in that day's colour on my hand.”

Nicholas laughed. “Complex and low-tech all at once. That's our Kate!”

But Kate's thoughts were elsewhere, ticking over at a furious pace, her words directed less to her companion than herself. “Yeah. No. But it
wasn't
a regular workday, so I never noticed the list was gone. It was the time I'd cracked my ribs. I just dropped into the office for a quick boo.
And
I'd printed out another copy at home to use anyway.”

“You cracked your ribs?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Long story. But that's it, Nick! Chambers was after my list of clients! And I'll swear on every dead body on that list, Chambers wasn't doing it for himself. No, sir. Foxy's got his fingers in this. And Greta's got her fingers into Foxy. You must know she's trying to muscle in on my business.”

“Why would I know that?”

The truck came to a lurching halt, ending all further speculation. Nicholas threw off his seatbelt and hopped nimbly out. Kate, whose back had lately begun to stiffen up after sitting, was slower off the mark. When her feet touched ground, it took a while to evolve from stooped Cro-Magnon to upright Homo Sapiens. Nicholas, meanwhile, was heading in long bush-strides straight into the undergrowth. Kate hurried after him with a sinking feeling.

Although she quickly lost sight of him in the trees, Kate was somewhat reassured by a faint, narrow trail underfoot. Soon, however, her confidence began to waver. The on-again, off-again path could not be mistaken for anything but an animal trail. And after all, there had been
something
on Link's camera. Didn't cats like to stalk their prey quietly, closing in from behind, choosing the right moment to pounce and open the jugular? Kate glanced back frequently as she went along. She recalled, during her tenure out west, the odd news item describing how a child or a lone, petite woman had fallen victim to cougar attack. The children often survived with the help of a nearby combative adult. But the lone, petite skiers or hikers generally weren't so lucky. Well, there was one advantage to middle-aged spread, she thought. Of the many things Kate had been called in her life, “petite” was not one. (Not that she was Greta-plump. In a certain light in a good mirror, with a bit of squinting, Kate could almost call herself “trim.”) But now she remembered poor Ned Nickers and his bloodied withers, and, come to think of it, a perfectly normal-sized man on Vancouver Island who was attacked. The “petite” factor lost all of its comforting resonance.

So intent was Kate on her route-finding, alternating with rear surveillance, she ran straight into Link, who had halted. He held a finger to his lips. Kate stifled a scream of fright and held his arm in a death grip. Prying her fingers away, Link said nothing, but motioned her to follow.

Slowly, they tiptoed deeper into the bush, Kate desperate to know whatever Link knew, but intuiting it wiser not to ask. It wasn't long, however, before she heard something. From an indistinct location up ahead came a mighty whoofing and grunting. Kate stood her ground and refused to go on. But Link paid no attention. He kept walking, and Kate, terrified at the prospect of being left alone, summarily dismissed her misgivings and hustled up to catch him.

Buck Miller sat against a tree, rocking back and forth in agony, holding his groin, which was bleeding profusely. As soon as Buck caught sight of Kate and Nicholas, he let out a torrent of language such as Kate hadn't heard since the infamous final Chemistry Study Group, when Foxy's mom and dad, Betty and Jack Raymond, had made their entrance a full twenty-four hours early. Nicholas threw off his daypack, rifled through it, and grabbed some kind of tarp. In that time Kate only managed to croak out, “Buck, what happened?” To which only Buck's continuous blue streak served as response. The torrent of words gradually slowed to a trickle, and by the time the syllables became self-repeating, Nicholas had the tarp bound like a diaper around Buck's private parts and 911 dialed up on his cell.