Moonheart (13 page)

Sara dug up her thermos and peered inside to see how much coffee was left.

"Anyone want some?" she asked.

MacNabb took the seat that Tucker had so recently vacated. Jamie hovered around looking like a disgruntled rooster until Sara steered him into a chair and set a mug in his hands.

"He seemed like a nice enough man," she said as she perched on the stool behind the counter. "He's looking for these two men, you see..."

Okay, Tucker thought as he climbed into his Buick.

It was parked on Fourth Avenue, around the corner from The Merry Dancers. He put his hands on the steering wheel and stared out the windshield.

So what did he have? Something. Maybe nothing to do with Project Spook, but then again... Tucker didn't believe in coincidences. The thing he had to figure out was what Tams was doing with the bone disc in the first place. He considered himself a pretty good judge of character, and he figured Sara was being straight with him.

So, if she had found the disc where she said she had, how had it gotten there in the first place? And what was it doing there? Obviously Tams had access to the storerooms, but Tucker just couldn't figure out what the point of it all was. If Tams was involved, why had he come waltzing into Benson's office with the disc?

Tucker scratched his head. He wasn't going to get any further sitting here. He'd have to put a tail on both Sara and her uncle and get back to headquarters to see what he could dig up on them in the files. Maybe things were coming together. Something had to give. Maybe even the elusive Mr. Hengwr.

He started up the engine and headed down Fourth to the Driveway. On the way he radioed headquarters and had a couple of men put on Sara Kendall and Jamie Tams.

"Yeah," he responded to a question from the man on dispatch. "It's in the Glebe. Between Third and Fourth. If you shake your asses, maybe you can still pick them up there."

Shaking his head, he hooked the mike back onto the dashboard. His squad was getting a little lazy. Too much sitting around. Well, if the feeling he had was right, things'd pick up pretty soon. And if they didn't? Well, he'd just have to push a little harder.

"So that's it," Sara said.

"I'd like to see those other discs," Jamie said.

He was still somewhat miffed at Tucker's treatment of him, but the Inspector's explanation to Sara had set his curiosity in motion, smoothing his ruffled feelings.

Sara laughed. "Good luck."

"Well, we've still got the other stuff you found," Jamie said. "I'll be a little more discreet in my inquiries after today."

MacNabb stood up. "I don't think I want to hear about this. I might as well head back to the office."

"I'm sorry to have dragged you all the way down for nothing," Jamie said. He was looking a bit sheepish. "I guess I got a little worked up."

MacNabb smiled. "I'm used to it. Wait till you see my bill. 'Bye, Sara. It was nice seeing you again. Try and stay out of trouble, would you, Jamie?"

"Well, now what?" Sara asked when the lawyer was gone.

"Now what what?"

Sara held up her hand and the ring sparkled.

"What about this and the painting and the other stuff?. Do you think it's all connected with the bag of bone discs at the museum?"

"Can't be." Jamie pursed his lips. "Aled died in '76 and that stuffs been sitting in the storerooms since then."

"Inspector Tucker seems to think that they'd been planted there. Either by you, or one of the men he's looking for."

"Well
I
didn't put them there. At least not the way the Inspector means."

"I know that."

Sara pulled out her tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette.

"It's funny though," she said around her cigarette as she lit it. "Them finding a whole bag of the same kind of artifacts. What do you think they are?"

Jamie shrugged. "All the designs were different, he said, didn't he?"

"Umhmm."

"It's hard to say. A game of some sort?"

"I wonder if they were planted in the storerooms," Sara said.

"To what purpose?"

Sara pointed her cigarette at Jamie.

"
That's
what'd be interesting to find out," she said.

"Are you going to play sleuth?"

"Maybe."

"Sairey, be careful." Jamie's face wrinkled with worry. "That man Tucker doesn't look like anyone to fool around with."

"He's not out to get
us,
Jamie. We haven't done anything wrong."

"He doesn't know that."

But her vague premonition hadn't left her yet. Nor had her dream. She remembered the discs falling over each other in a long tumble. It was too much of a coincidence that she'd dreamed that last night after only seeing one of the bone discs, and today was told there were sixty more. She remembered the cloth with the Celtic cross and ribbonwork on it. The shaman/bear had dropped the discs onto it as though they were some sort of... oracular device maybe?

After Jamie left she couldn't get back to her novel. She just sat, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, going over the odd happenings of the past couple of days. A little chill touched her every time she thought of the gaping jaws of whatever creature it had been that sent her clawing her way out of her nightmare last night. The nightmare itself seemed like a warning of some sort. A warning about what? That she shouldn't get involved? Or that if she didn't get involved something terrible would happen to her?

That, she told herself, was taking it a little far.

She thought about the two photographs that Tucker had shown her. She'd forgotten to ask him their names. He probably wouldn't have told her anyway. She'd never learned the old man's, even though he'd been in the shop often enough. For all his friendliness, he never came across as the sort of person you could ask personal questions of. As for the younger fellow...

She tried to think of who might know him. Who else had played in that band? Julie might know.

She dialed the number and waited through a few rings.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Julie. Are you busy?"

"Nope. You calling about Saturday? I found out who's playing at Faces. Cobbley Grey."

"Who?"

"Cobbley Grey. That's Toby Finnegan's new band. Don't you remember him? He's that fiddle player that Linda had a mad crush on. He used to play in The Humors of Tullycrine."

Something went click in Sara's mind. The chances of it being coincidence had just dropped by a few more percentage points. It happened that way. Synchronicity. You never thought of someone, but when you did, all of a sudden the name kept coming up.

"Are they playing there all week?" Sara asked.

"Supposed to. They opened last night. Beth went and saw them and said they were pretty good. They're right up your alley— all jigs and reels and stuff."

"Julie, remember that guitar player in Toby's old band— the quiet fellow with the dark hair?"

"Vaguely. Why?"

"You don't remember his name, do you?"

"No. Is it important? Linda would know. Or we could ask Toby on Saturday. Have you got Linda's number?"

"No. But that's okay. It's not very important."

"I'm feeling snoopy. Why'd you want to know his name?"

"It's a long story. Are you working tomorrow?"

"I start at four."

"Drop in before you go in to work and I'll tell you all about it."

Sara cradled the phone and stared at it thoughtfully. She dug out her clock and checked the time. Five to five. Would Toby be at the club yet? Setting up maybe, or doing a sound check? Probably not. They'd have gone through all that last night. Well, there was Linda then.

Sara stopped and asked herself, why am I doing this? Even if she did find out the fellow's name, what would that get her? Nothing, she supposed, but she'd be doing something. It had started with finding that package in the storeroom. She was involved now, and she had to be doing something.

She pulled out the phonebook and looked up Linda Deverell's number. She might be home from work by now. Rolling another cigarette after she dialed, she waited for Linda to answer.

Johnnie Too-bad was listening to the new Black Uhuru album. The reggae sound blasted from two big Tanoy speakers, bass thumping in time to the ganja buzz that he was floating on. He was a thin, reedy black man, with red-brown dreadlocks and wide brown eyes, who'd taken his name from an old Slickers song. He had a set of scales on the floor in front of him and was weighing out ounces of ganja. Hemp, weed, marijuana, ganja, call it what you will— as Jab made ganja for men to get high, he made Johnnie Too-bad to sell it.

There was a big spliff stuck between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. In between weighing the ganja and bagging it in one-ounce plastic baggies, he took long tokes on the spliff.

Besides the sound system, two plastic milk crates filled with reggae albums and a few pillows strewn across the floor, the room was devoid of furnishings. There was a poster of Bob Marley on one wall, Gregory Isaacs and Bunny Wailer looked down from a second. The third had travel posters for "Sunny Jamaica," one on either side of the door leading into the room. Behind him, the curtainless window was open a crack, held open by a stack of cigarette paper packages.

When the knock came at the door, he hardly heard it over the sound of the music. It came again, between cuts, and he raised his head to stare at the door, the first whispers of paranoia knifing through his drug-fuzzed mind.

"Who is that, mon?" he called out.

He stared at the piles of ganja— half of it in neat little baggies, the other half a brown mound on a spread-out newspaper. He held up his spliff and wondered, mournfully, if this was going to be his last toke.

"It's Kieran. Kieran Foy."

Johnnie Too-bad's tension drained away under a flood of relief. He took a long toke, then went to the door, opening it a crack. Ganja smoke drifted from his nostrils as he looked Kieran over.

"What you want, mon?"

"Can we talk?"

Kieran smiled, eyeing the spliff and Johnnie's dilated pupils.

"Sure, mon. I and I have time to talk. How's it you find I?"

"I ran into Larry on Rideau Street."

Johnny shook his head. "That mort needs to learn a t'ing or two. He knew I busy."

"I won't take long. I need a little help, that's all."

Johnny stepped aside so that Kieran could enter, then closed the door. He offered Kieran the spliff.

"No thanks."

"It's good smoke, mon. Straight from Ja-mai-ca, you know? There's a man there has a connection wid I. No problem. Only here. Babylon is the problem."

Kieran pulled up a cushion and sat down across from Johnnie. The Rastaman turned over the record as it ended and Black Uhuru came roaring from the speakers again.

"You got trouble wid the po-lice, hey, mon? What you want wid I?"

"Two things. Have you seen Tom around? Thomas Hengwr?"

Johnnie shook his head. "He is very hot, that mort. Po-lice want him bad. You, too. There is trouble, you know, mort? I and I don't want no trouble. What is this other t'ing you want wid I, mon?"

"I need a place to stay. A safe place."

"That will cost, mon." Johnnie rubbed his fingers together. "Cost plenty, you know? You very hot, mon."

"I haven't got any money. I..." Kieran sighed. "Okay. Thanks anyway, Johnnie."

"Wait up, mon," Johnnie said as Kieran stood up.

The Rastaman dug into his pocket and came up with a wad of money. He peeled off three twenties and handed them over.

"I and I will help you, but..."He shrugged, indicating the ganja. "I tell you this. I and I hear you are in town, hear you are in bad trouble, you know? I feel bad, mort. Too-bad." He grinned. "But t'ings are bad wid I, too mon. Po-lice watch I too much, you know? I and I give you this money. Other t'ing is too much risk, mon. You understand I?"

Kieran nodded.

"Thanks," he said, pocketing the money. "I'll get this back to you as soon as I can. I... Stay cool,
mon ami.
"

"I be cool, mon. Always cool. You keep the money, mon. Jah know that we are friends. What is money, then? Is only Babylon. Poor or rich, I and I be happy. Give I the smoke and the reggae, you know, mon? Let the baldheads keep Babylon."

Does that make me a Rasta as well? Kieran wondered. He too had left the cities, the "Babylon," for the simpler life down east. He took Johnnie's hand and squeezed it tightly.

The Rastaman smiled and took another hit from his spliff.

"You remember your friend To-by, mon?" he asked.

"Sure. What about him?"

"He too is in town, you know? He plays the music."

Johnnie mimed playing a fiddle. "Where's he playing?"

"In the club Faces, mon. Is down Bank, you know? Maybe he can help you where I and I cannot, hey?"

"It's a thought."

Kieran hadn't seen Toby for a long time. Not since the days of The Humors, with Eamon and Tim and John Sanders. "You have a lively time, mon." Kieran smiled.

"Salut,"
he said as he stepped into the hall.

The music from Johnnie Too-bad's stereo followed him down the stairs.

Kieran Foy, Sara repeated to herself for about the hundredth time after she finished talking to Linda. It was five-thirty and she was locking up the store. Well, now she had a name to go with the face, but it didn't help any. She wasn't really sure what knowing his name should do. Perhaps she should go to Faces tonight and try to find something out about him from Toby. She didn't know Toby all that well. Enough to say hello to and that was about it. Still, he'd have no reason not to talk to her, would he?

She decided to have dinner at Patty's Place, the small Irish restaurant across the street from Faces. That way she'd be able to see Toby as soon as he showed up at the club. She'd rather talk to him before he started his first set.

She set off south on Bank. It wasn't a long walk. Just past Lansdowne Park and across the bridge. At the corner of Fifth and Bank she paused, stopped by the usual question of whether or not she'd actually locked up the store when she left. Looking back, she never noticed the plainclothes RCMP officer who slipped into the doorway of the Herb and Spice Shop, waiting there for her to turn around and cross the street before he set off after her once more.