She Felt No Pain (6 page)

Holly saw concern but a no-nonsense approach in Madeleine’s glacial Scandinavian eyes, more than a passing resemblance to an older Garbo. She was proving to be a good friend to the older man. Whenever Holly had called on Sundays before her return, he’d been having a “quiet dinner”, presumably alone. Now not only did he have Shogun, but he was laughing again, chatting on the phone with Madeleine like a teenager. “Odd timing, but I met a masseuse this week,” Holly said. Had Fate stepped in to lend a hand?

* * *

At ten the next morning, Chipper was doing mental calculations about how long it would take before he could afford an apartment and a sharp new silver Mustang convertible. His salary was bumping up big-time this year, but he had a ton of student loans. Living on the Prairies had been so cheap. True, his basement bachelor suite had been small, and the oil furnace woke him when it kicked in during cold winter nights. There wasn’t anything in a hundred miles to spend money on anyway. It would take him hours to drive to Regina, see a show and go to a club. Then on Sunday he’d have to return to work.

At Bailey Creek, Chipper slowed as a man waved him over. He pulled to a stop in the parking lot and got out, making sure the doors were locked. Kids liked to peek into the windows at the shotgun on the console. He adjusted his duty belt to ride easily on his slim hips.

The man was drinking a can of soda. Watching from a nearby van was a young family.

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?” he asked with a friendly smile. Maybe the guy merely needed directions.

“There’s a body in the bush.”

“A body…” He could hardly push saliva past his Adam’s apple as he answered three notes above his usual range.

T
HREE

O
fficer, are they poisonous? We didn’t know what else to do. We were hiking on the beach a few miles west. Darn cellphone dead as a doornail. Who could have thought? Telus told us no problem anywhere in Canada. We drove back at top speed then realized we had no clue where the nearest hospital was. Then we saw your flag flying and pulled in. Can you call 911?”

The gasping woman, clearly a tourist in her giant sunhat, light summer dress and clogs, stood in the detachment office, eyes wild with fear. Behind her, a man held a two-year-old in a Hello, Kitty jumpsuit, happily gurgling with a soother. The baby’s colour was good, and it seemed to be enjoying the action.

Holly considered the pale-pink heart-shaped berries nearly crushed in the woman’s sweaty hand. “No problem. These are salal. Quite edible even if they’re not ripe. They were a staple in the native diet. My dog thrives on them.” It was hard not to smile. A tour guide in darkest Kazakhstan.

Worry lines relaxed on the woman’s round face as she dropped them into a wastebasket. She patted her chest and leaned on the desk for support. “We figured those others, the yellow ones, and the tiny blackberries, were fine. But I didn’t recognize these. Dakota was toddling around and grabbed some before I could do anything. You know how kids put everything in their mouths.”

“I told you so, honey. Just look at him.” The man bounced the baby in the air until laughter bubbled out of the tiny, bow-shaped mouth. “Women.”

“The yellow ones are salmonberries. We have thimbleberries arriving, sort of a light reddish peach colour. You can’t go wrong with the raspberry and blackberry families. The first pull off clean, the others have a core. But avoid anything else as a general rule, and that includes mushrooms, though they’re scarce this time of year.” Holly led the woman to a wall poster of edible and poisonous British Columbia plants, pointing out baneberries, along with the dangers of deadly nightshade.

“Should we be on the lookout for snakes too? We saw a striped one.”

Holly laughed in spite of herself. About time she got to play ranger, a job she had trained for. “We’re as safe as Ireland. But don’t touch any rough-skinned newts. That’s a cute little lizard with an orange belly. Even skin contact is dangerous.”

“Thank you so much. We’re enjoying the island. Is it always this cold, though? We had to buy sweatshirts.” The woman gave a mock shiver and a friendly grin.

Holly pointed to a map. “We’re temperate rainforest. By definition that means cool, but this summer’s unusual. Go up island away from the winds if you want more heat. The Cowichan Valley is called the Warmlands for good reason.”

Suddenly self-conscious about her unnecessary panic, the woman brushed hair from her brow. “We’re from the San Joaquin Valley in California, and it’s an inferno down there. What a relief to escape the smoke.”

* * *

After the family left, Ann took a large sip of green tea, wincing at its bitterness. Recently she had changed from half-moon reading glasses to contacts, which cut the age difference between the corporals. Today she even wore a pastel lipstick and a bit of powder. The short cut of her sleek brown hair suited her. A new exercise regimen with a dose of yoga had smoothed pain seams from her face.

But Holly knew that she had her bad moments. The former supervisor had told Holly never to call Ann after supper, when she might be mixing alcohol and painkillers. Many people with similar injuries took advantage of disability pensions. Ann soldiered on and never made excuses.

As Holly returned minutes later from a bathroom break, a call came in on the radio. Ann listened carefully. “It’s Chipper,” she said, picking up a pen and notepad and asking a few questions. “He’s down at Bailey Bridge. They’ve found a body.”

“A drowning?” Holly asked. Summer wasn’t a period of intense storms, but unwary tourists were caught in the occasional riptide or rogue wave. Ocean swimming was bitter cold. Even the surfers and parakiters wore wetsuits. She hoped it wasn’t a child. No one had been reported missing, but this was prime boating season. Recently two people had perished in quiet Sooke Harbour. Alcohol was often the guilty third party.

“Not this time. Up the hill beside the creek. Must be one of those drifters camping under the bridge.”

“Was it a fall? A fight?” Maybe she should have tried to get the men to relocate. Such a narrow line between proactiveness and bullying. This wouldn’t look good if headquarters got sticky about her loose protocol on public lands. “You told him what?” she heard her superiors ask.

“Going by the scene, Chipper suspects drugs.” Fatal overdoses had doubled on the island last year, but were still much lower than Vancouver. Addicts ran a calculated risk. Lower population, less chance of getting damaged goods.

“I don’t understand. Bill said...” Her voice trailed off. What about that fresh shiner? Maybe he was the victim. But he’d said he never trucked with hard drugs, and she’d watched him carefully for signs of nervousness. Steady as Sir, the giant rock on Muir Beach.

“Who’s Bill?”

“Bill Gorse. An older man I met down there. Resident peacekeeper, he fancies himself. Sets strict rules for drinking and drugs. He mentioned a couple other men, but they weren’t around.” Derek Dunn, was that the name? Had he come back from selling that camcorder? And what about Joel Hall?

She arrived at the scene ten minutes later. Chipper gave her a wave and came over with several notebook pages. This wasn’t the first body they’d found, but she hoped never to be so callous as to be unmoved by death. It was her job to protect, but if too late for that, to serve in the ceremonial offices with every possible dignity. Even so, death had its hierarchy. Traffic fatalities were on the bottom of her list. Mangled remains which demanded a strong stomach and a gentle hand for survivors. What might she find here?

Chipper was out of breath, and a sheen of sweat covered his brow, perhaps from climbing up and down the path beside the creek. “Ann said that the ambulance should arrive any minute. Boone, too,” he said. Boone Mason was their local coroner. British Columbia had an idiosyncratic system, dating back a century, employing thirty-two full-time and seventy-five part-time people on an ad hoc basis. Anyone with a strong medical, law enforcement or legal background could certify a death. Recommendations to prevent future accidents were also within purview of the mandate. It was Boone’s call to request a Medical Examiner for an autopsy in case of a suspicious death. He had been a private investigator in Vancouver before a knee blew on him. He lived with his deaf cat in a spacious doublewide in a nearby trailer park.

Holly paused in the theatre of her responsibilities, looking at Act One, Scene One. A family of four stood by their loaded Grand Caravan with a dusty Ontario: Yours to Discover plate and a moulded plastic gear carrier open on top. The little girl of around seven was crying, her face buried in her mother’s lap. An older boy sat looking at a small metal tag glinting in the sun while his father read a road map. Hapless tourists, or they wouldn’t be stopping here at high tide when the beach was inaccessible. Perhaps they were admiring the distant rollers or counting the many fishing boats peppering the bay. The first of over two hundred cruise ships had entered the strait over a month ago.

Chipper held up his notebook, printed in his usual meticulous style. “I’ve got all the names. Plates, home numbers. Driver’s license ID, the works. Plus I made a preliminary outline of the scene. Though my drawing’s not—”

“Where
is
the body? And what are those people doing hanging around here? Are they witnesses?” Holly asked quietly. A cold trickle was making its way down her spine like mercury falling in a thermometer. She felt a twitch of annoyance at Chipper’s priorities. How secure was the scene? Normally he loved stringing yellow tape.

“B-b-but
they
found the victim. Farther up the creek.” He pointed up a path half hidden by leafy salal.

“Surely not the kids. They look pretty young for long hikes.”

“They were geocaching.”

“Geo...what?” The
geo
she got, but was it catching or cashing?

Chipper grinned at being a step ahead. He spelled the word. “I just heard of it. Apparently it’s a game with an Internet site. You need a GPS.”

“For kids? Sounds sophisticated, not to mention expensive.” Then again, what did she know about the costs of raising a family? It sounded cheaper than outfitting a couple of boys for hockey.

“Maybe ten years ago. Now even Canadian Tire carries units at a reasonable price. Then you go online and search for treasures according to their coordinates.”

“Treasures...what kind of—” Were people leaving valuables in the bush? Clueless townies fumbling around in the hinterlands surrounded by the perils of nature was an ugly picture. It didn’t take much to get lost in thick and mountainous terrain with a disorienting canopy hiding the direction of the sun. Even in small East Sooke Park, a missing hiker had been forced to spend the night.

Chipper gave a small frown with his tilde-shaped brows, turning his back on the family and lowering his voice. “Not
real
treasures. Cheap little stuff that kids like. A pin, a toy, a balloon, a stick-on tattoo. When you find the cache, you can take something and leave something. Write in the logbook. It’s actually pretty cool.”

Holly observed the family from a distance, keeping her voice low. “What’s that metal thing the boy has? Please don’t tell me he found it at the site.”

He made an effort not to laugh in what should be a sober moment and put a hand on her forearm. “Relax, Holly. It’s called a travel bug. They brought it from Ontario to place in a cache. They’re numbered so you can track them all over the world. It’s like a parallel universe, another dimension.”

She was getting distracted by the details, verging on short-tempered being left out of the loop. Death and games had no business interacting. “Okay. Sorry. Humour me and slow down. Does this have anything to do with the body? Was the
victim
geo...caching?”

“No sweat on that. The vic...the man looks like a regular here at the bridge. The game explains why this family was in the area, that’s all. Good thing they weren’t farther back, because a cougar and cubs were reported in the bush along Tugwell Creek, and bears are always around.” Black bears, not grizzlies. The smaller brother was much less dangerous, both in size and temperament.

She nodded, flexing her shoulders, reminding herself that being in charge carried stress as well as prestige. “I need to talk to them. They probably want to get on with their vacation. Meanwhile, don’t let anyone else pull in to admire the view. Say you’re conducting an investigation.” Number ten in the one hundred useful ambiguous phrases for law enforcement.

“I can put up neon cones or crime-scene tape. There’s some in the trunk.”

Chipper was a by-the-book man, but this time she didn’t agree. “Then everyone will stop to gawk. Be firm, but try not to provoke interest.‘Investigation’ could mean anything. Vandalism. Stolen goods.”

He made his face as bland as a pail of chocolate milk. “Okay, Guv.”

After tossing him a wry look, she walked over to the family and introduced herself. Frank and Chrissy Jones were from Sudbury.

“Mr. Jones, can you take me to...” She mouthed “the body” so as not to alarm the children.

He gave her a blink and a subtle nod. “You guys stay here. I’m going with the officer. Mom will give you a drink. And kids, I’m real proud of you. Remember that helping the police is important.”

If only all parents thought like that. Holly knew the value of an upbringing stressing the right attitude. Some wouldn’t turn in their child if he torched a school.

As Chrissy handed out juice boxes from a cooler, Frank led Holly up a narrow path by the stream into the rainforest.

Spared from the axe, giant red cedars and Douglas fir sent their branches up to three hundred feet into the air. Bigleaf maples were festooned with grandfather-beard mosses. In the dry weather, the forest colour had lost some of its lustre, and banana slugs napped in the moist patches under leafmould. Horse droppings showed where a few locals exercised their animals. Every now and then they passed a massive barkless stump with two deep holes six feet up the butt. These were cut for springboards, a pioneer practice which boosted up the axe-or saw-man to spare him the thickness. Before power tools, a ten-foot-diameter tree had taken a day to cut. Now the monsters, if any were left, were felled in minutes by a chainsaw. Whimsical people put piles of cobblestones in these holes, turning the stumps into wooden goblins. Moss asserted its dominion, and an occasional red huckleberry grew on top like a natural flower pot. The British navy had been cutting masts on the island before Confederation. A tree eight hundred years old would have been alive at the time of the Crusades. Now heli-logging was tracking the last giants into formerly unreachable corridors. Joni Mitchell was right about a tree museum. If Holly had been Minister of Forests, she’d ban taking anything over three feet in diameter.