Once You Break a Knuckle (23 page)

—Your dad'll kill you, I said.

Ash said: —He'll choke you out, at least. And then he'll choke out Mitch for keeping it secret.

—Just don't tell him, Will said, looking from me to Ash and back again. —Don't
lie
. Just don't tell him the truth.
Omit
the truth.

—That's the same thing, Ash said.

—It's not.

—You want to ask your dad? I said.

Will smiled toward his hands, but it looked more like a grimace, like the face you make when somebody cracks a joke that reminds you of a dead person. —Dad and I aren't really talking, he said.

—I know.

—He wants me to keep at it, in Victoria. Do grad school. Be the first Crease to get a master's.

—What's so bad about that? Ash said.

Will shifted between her legs. He latched onto her knee and squeezed and she yelped, but before he could grin or enjoy it she twisted his ear, hard. They'd always been like that, so combative. And they argued about basically everything – but that's what Will liked about her, I'm sure of it. She could stand up to him, physically or otherwise. Once, on a roadtrip to the coast, they argued the whole way about churches and cults. Another time, Ash re-broke Will's collarbone when she knocked him down a set of icy stairs. They were just like Will and his old man, except for the obvious parts. I got the impression, watching them, that there was stuff Will wasn't telling me and stuff he never would.

—It's not
real
. What my dad does. That's real.

—I don't know about what you do, Will, I said. —Your dad thinks it's enough.

Will rubbed his jaw for a second, looked up at Ash as if to get support. She was playing with his hair, flat and egg-rimmed by the ballcap she'd whipped across the room. After a second of his gaze, she tweaked her eyebrows at him –
well?

—You try having a cop for a dad, Will said, which pissed me right off every time he brought it up. It'd always been the opposite with my dad, rest his soul. He was a birdwatcher, a Parks naturalist, university educated, but he wanted
us boys to land jobs you could have an arm-wrestle with. Not that it hasn't worked out for me and my brother, but sometimes you get envious.

—There's no rush, I said, but I'm not even sure what I meant.

—Everyone says that.

—Well maybe everyone's right.

Will's face twisted up, so disgusted – his unmatchable stubbornness heading its ugly rear. He gave me a limp wave, just the wrist moving, as if I wasn't smart enough to know how he felt, as if I were a dumb redneck and not his best friend since who knows how long. —You try having a cop for a dad, he said.

—I would, Will, except my dad's dead, I snapped.

—Guys, Ash said.

—Stop being a whiny bitch, I told Will.

He sunk against Ash, lolled his head over her knee. —You're right, he said toward the ceiling. Will could tell straightaway when he'd crossed a line, could defuse a situation like no one's business – something his dad taught him. The first weapon a cop employs is his mouth, Will's old man always said. The second weapon is an ass-kicking.

—I won't tell your dad – unless he flat-out asks.

Will flipped me a beer and cracked one for himself – a peace offer. —You're a good friend, Mitch. Possibly the best of friends.

—Fuck you too, Will, I said, and then we drank.

A
couple days later, I took the day off working on the house so me and Will's old man could go do a search and scour for Duncan Jones. I left Will in charge, which under normal circumstances would be a mistake, but there you go. His old man had done the cop thing and found out Duncan Jones liked to camp at a place called Mount Tobias, in the Rockies. We headed off that way in his squad car, a Chevy Impala with the code name fifteen-Charlie-seven and a series of bullet-hole stickers on the driver door that he thought were cool. He'd brought the German shepherd, Annabel, and the beast panted away in the backseat. During the ride, Will's old man made the required joke about the criminal in the back who'd forgotten to shave, and then another about him getting dibs on the shotgun – the one stored in a rack right between the front seats – if it came to a firefight or a
tactical repositioning
from a grizzly. —I don't have to outrun the bear, he said to me, and winked, but I'd heard that one before.

We went as far as the road would take us. Will's old man let Annabel out, and the dog came and put some weight on my shins. I scratched her behind her ears. Then Will's old man removed the shotgun from its rack. —Because Duncan Jones was armed, he told me. I guess, as the saying goes, it's better to have what you need than need what you have.

Will's old man figured Duncan Jones wasn't a threat to anyone but himself, and maybe some of the poor animals who wandered between his irons. If a guy was going to go postal, he just went – that's what he told me. Guys like
Duncan, guys off the deep end, could be scooped back to shore with some gentle persuasion. When Will's old man said
gentle
he made quotes in the air with his one free hand. John Crease: the kind of guy everyone wants as a dad up until the point they do something stupid.

—You talked to Will at all? he said, holding a branch so it wouldn't whip me in the teeth.

—A bit, yeah, I said.

—He say anything?

—Anything about what?

—About
anything
, Mitch, Will's old man said, and let a little sigh follow the last word, and I felt pretty dumb right then, and then pretty terrified, because I might have to lie.

—He said you guys were fighting.

—We're not fighting, Will's old man said. He scowled at me, giving off all that menace as if he might just punch me right then and there. Not that he
would
punch me. Still, he looked like he might.

—Well, not talking, I said.

He scratched the nape of his neck. —He mention what his plans are?

—No.

—He doesn't want to do a master's degree, but the Force'll pay for it.

—Man, that's free money, I said, uneasily.

—He could stay in Victoria. The Force will
pay for it
, his old man said. —Maybe I could get transferred there.

We got going again. I was worried he'd know I'd omitted the truth.

In general, that summer, the forest wasn't in great shape. The place smelled like woodsmoke instead of pine needles and nectar and the air was dry enough for it to tickle your throat if you breathed too deep. I don't know a whole lot about ecology, but to my mind soil shouldn't be grey and it shouldn't powder your fingers like chalk. People said the hot spring and mild winter had caused more mountain meltwater than ever, but everything – the low, bent dogwoods, the knee-high bushes, even the falling pinecones that my head was like a magnet for – was parched, papery, brown.

Eventually Annabel perked up, and Will's old man tightened his grip on the shotgun. The dog veered off the path and bolted between the trees, not running, but fast enough that the two of us had to hustle. We must've been nearing the summit, where people camped all the time. As we bushed on through, I couldn't see ten feet forward, but Annabel's clumsy traipsing was enough to guide us. Will's old man held the shotgun in front of him, at an angle, and he used his elbows to ease branches and debris out of his way.

After another minute of fighting through the woods, the tree cover fell aside and the forest opened up into a glade with a great, wide panorama of the valley and the Purcells off on the horizon, white-capped like the teeth of the earth. The sky blazed like a chimney, but I don't know if that was from the fires or the afternoon sun gunning light through the haze. Six years earlier the same thing had happened, and most of the Interior got burned. A lot
of people lost their homes. Invermere, and most of the Kootenays, had the Purcells as a shield, but if the fires wanted to scale the mountains, the fires would. It was pretty awe-inspiring, all that destruction, all that power.

Then Will's old man said my name in a slow, sober way that made me not want to turn around, not want to see whatever it was he'd discovered, because I'm not like Will's old man or even Will – I can't block things out like they can, I don't have the stomach for it. Most people don't, even though most people – at least most guys – like to say they do. But there's no way to test it. You just have to end up staring something awful in the face, and maybe not even something physically awful. Everyone regrets things, and to be a cop, I think, you need to be able to face that regret full on, or else it'll ruin you. Will's old man always said the job eats up your humanity. I still don't know what to tell him in response.

What he'd found was a decapitated stag's head, impaled on a tripod of sticks, its antlers sawed off and its open mouth stuffed to bulging with milkweed. It was a gruesome thing to look at, and then, looking at it, to smell – the eggy stink of gore and flies and that way animal guts stain your skin orange. The creature's eyes lolled into its head, probably where they went as it bled out. Its mouth had been forced open – I could tell by the rigid muscles in its cheek. It was like staring all dead things in the face.

Will's old man had taken off his sunglasses and hooked them in the collar of his shirt. The creases around his eyes
bunched up, especially in the fatty bit above the cheekbone. He loved animals so much. Annabel inched forward to sniff the stag's head, but even she seemed unnerved, or at least as unnerved as dogs get. Will's old man let the shotgun's muzzle touch the dry dirt, and with his free hand he pinched his temple, the bridge of his nose. —I'm sorry, Mitchell, he said.

—No.

He waved his hand at me – just the wrist, just like Will. —I'll call this in, he said, and pulled his shoulders back and straightened, cashing in on one last energy reserve.

And then a rifle blast cracked through the air.

It was close, so close, and as loud as a treefall or a lightning strike or a backblasting car with no muffler. I felt the concussion of it, the
whoomp
of air, and then Will's old man clamped one massive hand on my shirt. He heaved me to the ground. I landed wrist-first, on my knees, felt the impact spike all the way to my shoulder. Will's old man yelled something, I don't remember what. The bushes were all shuffling, and the trees, and the dry grass shimmered in the air as if we were in some part of the Old West. Will's old man levelled the shotgun, pressed the stock to the meat of his shoulder. His whole upper body leaned forward, one foot braced, knees bent and calves quivering in anticipation of the firearm's kick. His face was stone solid. His eyes squinched to bead points. He breathed slow, even, as if the adrenalin hadn't touched him. And he'd flattened me, effortlessly. People actually
fought
with that man.

A second shot barked from the forest, but there was no
flash, no sound of impact. It was a warning, a scare tactic; maybe no bullets were being fired
at
us. Will's old man hauled me to my feet and we bolted for the tree line, and then, without words, jogged down the path with Annabel taking point. Will's old man breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth in double-exhales, sweat pearling at his temples and on the ridges above his eyes. He looked like he was clenching his teeth. Somewhere during the run his sunglasses had shaken loose from the collar of his shirt.

—Fuck sakes, he said when we reached the car. Sweat had turned the neck of his shirt grey, and his cheeks were flushed red, burning. He pressed both of his fists to his lumbar, knuckles first, and he sucked a steadying breath, as if to ignore a great discomfort. Then he opened the rear door and leaned on it while Annabel clambered inside.

—You can't even help anyone anymore, he said.

He'd misjudged the situation and was probably hating himself for it, would be slow in forgiving himself. That's how things went, how they always had: he held grudges for a long, long time, and he could just as easily hold one against himself. He eased the door shut, making sure Annabel's tail was clear of the latch, and then he put his hands on the top of the squad car, spoke right at me: —It's like nothing you can do will change a thing.

He
therrap
ed his fingers on the roof. After a moment of that, of me looking anywhere but at him while his fingers thrummed, he pushed away from the car and lowered himself in. Annabel loosed a low, throttling whine from
her throat. I'm not sure if Will's old man wanted me to say anything, or what I could possibly have told him to make things okay, but not a day passes when I don't wish I had gathered the nerve to try.

IT ISN'T EASY TO
sleep after getting shot at. Take that from someone who knows.

Will's old man stopped at the foot of my driveway and the two of us sat in the idling car and stared at the lights and the windows of my house, listening to the radio play who cares what. He stuck his fingers through the ringwire grate that separated us from Annabel, and the beast set about licking them. We hadn't said a whole bunch on the way home. Will's old man had reports to file, questions to answer – the Force might be in touch, he'd told me. It was the time of night when everything turns the same shade of grey. The dying hour, I'd heard it called.

—If you see Will, don't tell him what went on, he said.

—You got it, Mr. Crease, I said, and climbed out of the squad car. He waited for me to get inside before driving off – thirty-eight percent of all assaults happen while people fumble for their keys. I had a missed call from Ash and another from Will, but neither left any messages. I didn't call them back because the last thing I needed to hear was that Will had drilled through another plumbing line or blown up the breaker panel or cut off his own hand with a tigersaw.

Andie had ordered pizza and left them on the coffee table and hit the rack early, so I ate straight from the box,
turned on the TV and listened to a repeat of some Liberal politician touting the slogan
It Can't Hurt to Try
. I didn't exactly care to hear about the war or the economy. All I could think about was the gunshot and Will's old man pushing me to the ground. It was like I could taste the sulphur, somehow, or the smell of cordite, but of course I'm imagining that. Still, it got my heart racing. I don't know how anyone faced those kinds of situations days out and days out. That doesn't make me a coward. That makes me normal. The line between being brave and being stupid is thinnest at both ends, or so the saying goes.