She Felt No Pain (7 page)

“How far is it?” she asked, beginning to flag at his manly pace but too proud to show it. From the looks of his strong and sinewy legs, the Boston Marathon shirt he wore was well-earned.

Frank had a pleasant voice. “Only another five minutes.”

“Are these caches always located in out-of-the-way places?”

“The object of caching is to offer a challenge, but without bushwhacking where kids might get lost. The cache is never in plain sight, though. Logs are good, big rocks.”

“And you get the coordinates online?” When she looked at nature, she saw a different world. The heavy ground cover of salal, blackberries and huckleberries. A spaghetti plant, aka goatsbeard, dropped its fragile strands. The hard brown-and-cream carapace of a shelf fungus jutted from a dead aspen. “Can’t be easy to get a satellite reading with the thick canopy.”

Frank nodded. His head was nearly shaved. A cyclist, too, perhaps. The van had a rear carrier with a lightweight racing model. “It was easier in Victoria. Royal Roads campus had several. There was even a pub tour for grownups. We’re going west and heading around Lake Cowichan on the loop. But here sometimes you
can’t
get a fix. So you’re told to walk so many paces.” He showed her a print-off. People had related their experiences. They had names like Moss Troopers. Island Rovers. Virtual Dogs.

“And these caches look like...” Asking questions was her job. It wasn’t prudent to pretend to know everything. Listening was a primary tactic of interrogation.

“This is wet country. Generally a waterproof container is used. Tupperware works best, but sometimes only a big coffee can in a garbage bag.” He used his hands to approximate the size and shape.

“Sounds like fun for kids. Parents, too.”

Frank nodded, brushing a spider web from his face. “Much healthier than sitting at a mindless video game. This gets the whole family outside. And while they’re in the car, they’re planning ahead.”They had come about three hundred feet along the winding, narrow path. On one side a steep bank led to the rocky creek. High tide backed into the freshwater streams.“Over there,” Frank said. He stood down by a mossy log in a small clearing, watching his feet lest they trample evidence. Like most of the world, he had probably seen his share of forensics shows.

Gesturing to him to stay put, Holly walked up to the body, looking from side to side at the surroundings and stepping carefully. With shaggy brown hair streaked grey at the temples, the man looked younger than Bill, but his skin was weathered from outdoor living. He wore faded, ripped jeans, a plain sweatshirt with one sleeve rolled up and scuffed runners. Lying on a comfortable bed of bracken, he had one hand over his head in an almost demure posture as if to shield himself from sun. Her eyebrow lifted as she scanned the area, creating a mental grid. “Make haste slowly,” Ben had advised, quoting her the Latin like the good Catholic boy he’d been at fifteen when he’d nearly entered the priesthood. “What you do often can’t be undone.” She was not the coroner, but merely here to secure the scene, whatever Boone might decide about an autopsy.

At first sight, it seemed like a slam dunk. Near the body was a classic collection of drug paraphernalia, a clear bag with white-powder residue, spoon, plastic lighter, a water bottle and a faded plastic pencil case stamped “007” with the original Sean Connery in action mode with his Walther PPK.
What a strange collectible
for a loner.
His hairy arms wore an embroidery of needle marks. Lab tests would probably reveal an overdose. Was this the man Bill had said he hadn’t seen recently? Or the panhandler? And speaking of Bill, where was he?

The equipment was a HIV/AIDS minefield. It would have to be carefully removed. Nearby was a rolled-up sleeping bag and a small backpack, both of which looked new. She blinked as a tiger lily lifted its orange Turks head to a shaft of sun, before a cloud shadowed the path. Then came the pad of heavy feet and heavier breathing.

“Christ on a cupcake, are you trying to kill an old man, making me haul butt up here? Why not just put a gun to my head?” a gruff voice with a hint of humour asked. It was Boone, his stomach surrounded by suspenders and broken-down brogues on his feet. His teeth clamped an empty corn-cob pipe in homage to his former addiction. A battered leather doctor’s bag dropped onto the ground. He rooted through it and snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

Holly turned to Frank and introduced them. “Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Jones. You and your family can leave now. We have your contact numbers if any questions arise. It was a sad introduction to the island for you.”

Frank gave a quick nod. “Glad I could help. Almost went into police work myself, but the wife would have divorced me. It’s duller but safer being a math teacher.”

“Good luck up at Cowichan. There’s a record-breaking Sitka Spruce just off the road near Harris Creek. It’s on the tourist maps.”

As Frank jogged off, Holly took a log for a seat and watched Boone do his job. Easier on the eyes and nose than an autopsy but not half as interesting.

He gave a series of hmms as he completed a mental checklist. “No blood, no apparent wounds. Eyes are getting cloudy. Rigor’s just set in, and liver mortis indicates this is where he died,” he said, having moved the body and loosened the clothes to check underneath. “A bit of bruising on his knuckles. Right hand. Might not mean anything.”

Judging by the rubber tube, he’d been injecting his left arm, so that fit. Was he the one who gave Bill a punch? “Squatters have been camping under the bridge. I talked to one earlier about a panhandling situation,” Holly commented.

Then he rotated the head and peered into the mouth. “Looks like he’s been living outside, no frequent showers, shaves, or shampoos, but he’s had some dental work in the distant past. Silver fillings, nothing fancy. A few teeth missing. Fights. Falls. Poor nutrition. Gum disease. To be expected.” He took a temperature and nodded to himself. “Cool back here in the woods. I’d say he died sometime last night, if the rigor isn’t lying. We’re lucky the damn bears didn’t get to him, nice chunk of steak like that.”

“An overdose? With all of that gear, it seems obvious.” She swept a hand over the scene.

“Sometimes the most evident answer is the real one. Don’t look for no zebra in a herd of horses.” He picked up the plastic bag. “Hardly anything left. His last fix. Poor sod went out with a bang...or a whimper. Dropped dead on the spot. Just enough time for an uh-oh. Give the immediate area a sweep in case he’s tossed sharps into the bushes. Kids come here, I imagine. Ride their bikes up the creek trail.”

“Yes, and now there are caches in the area.” She explained the concept.

He was looking inside the pencil case. “Extra syringe. Cotton pads.” He opened a tiny bottle and sniffed. “Bleach. Primitive sterilization but better than nothing.”

“That pencil case looks ancient.” When someone’s possessions were boiled down to whatever they could carry, the items provided an often poignant flash of humanity. Had he been holding fast to this item from childhood? Bought it at a second-hand store? Innocence mixed with the most sordid of experience. “Any ID?”

“Getting to that, missy. Hold your horses. Don’t act like you have something better to do here in Lotusland North.” He slipped a thin leather wallet from a pocket and opened it, pooching out his large lower lip. “Driver’s license. Ontario. How about that?” He cocked his head. “Looks like our man is Joel Hall. Whoa. Here’s a CT credit card in the name of Phillip Blunt. Twenty bucks. A lottery ticket for last week. Super Seven. Not enough numbers circled to win.”

“Wouldn’t that make a great story? Guy’s found dead with a million-dollar ticket?”

Snorting, he fingered his way under an interior flap. “My oh my. A hundred dollar bill? And another?” He flicked one with his nail. “Brand new, too. If he was selling, it wouldn’t be for this much at one crack. Maybe it came from Phil’s wallet.”

“I doubt he was a dealer. Usually they have a place to sleep, not to mention wheels.”

“Unless the dealer turned doper. Shot up the profits.” He held up a picture. “Who’s this angel? Too young to be his mother. An old girlfriend? Or a wife?”

“Or a sister. Let me see.” She held the small black-and-white photograph by its edges. High-school graduation package size. Judging from the hair style, it was definitely Seventies. She’d seen her mother’s yearbook from university. Bouncy hair, fluffed up, “teased” had been Bonnie’s word. Pouffy angora sweater. Ring on a chain. The woman was attractive, and her smile was full of youthful hope. Something was vaguely familiar about her. On the back was written in teenage script with a little heart over the i:
Love and kisses
always, Judy.
“If only there were a last name on this. Judy’s probably married now, too. And anyone can get a driver’s license. It’s out of date, too. With no picture like the new ones in this province.”

“Another lost soul, I’d say. Doesn’t look like he’s had much of a life. Just an accident waiting to happen. But someone meant something to him once. Maybe she’s still thinking about him. And that cash has me scratching my head.” As Holly got up, he took her seat with a groan. “Knee’s screaming blue murder. I oughta get a replacement, ’cept I’d have to wait six months.”

“I’ll check the backpack.”

He put a warning hand on her arm. “Go slow. You don’t know what might be in there.”

She carefully looked through the pouches and zipped pockets: Soap, a ratty towel, a disposable razor, and a couple of t-shirts that had seen better days. Nothing was outstanding. Two pop tarts were crumbling in their packets. The flotsam and jetsam of the bottom rung of society. “Nothing to speak of. Not even a secret hiding place.”

She gave the area a once-over. Needles were everywhere these days, even collection boxes in the ferry bathrooms, and the exchanges for addicts were attacked as “enabling” despite the fact that they minimized the HIV infection rate. Recently the fixed exchange location in downtown Victoria had drawn so much criticism that in its place, a mobile van cruised the streets. With the apparent inconvenience of finding the vehicle, many were reusing dirty needles. “Harm reduction” was a tough sell for activists battling more conservative citizens. Fortunately, in Canada health care was regarded as a right, not a privilege. Since its inception, no prime minister had dared prod the sacred cow.

To be as thorough as possible, she established a fifty-foot perimeter. The scraggly undergrowth defied combing. Sword ferns dueled with deer fern and bracken. Pick-up sticks of skinny alders blocked her progress, and the prickly weave of tiny ground blackberries threaded together the tapestry. Nothing more turned up except a beer can with fresh butts. Prints probably, DNA possibly. For good measure, she paper-bagged everything, peering at the water bottle, which seemed to have three good latents. In the distance, the wail of the ambulance could be heard. They’d probably been jammed by a fender-bender. Travel in the summer on the two-lane to Victoria was getting slower every year now that the housing developments in Sooke had ballooned the population. Hadn’t anyone thought about infrastructure when that Sun River development of five hundred people had begun? And west of Fossil Bay, the Jordan River plan, involving hundreds of hectares of former clear-cuts, now stalled in the zoning, foresaw another nine thousand people. The traffic ramifications reminded her of sand dripping in an hourglass.

“Here are the ETs,” Boone called, making final observations in a notebook. At least his purpled face had returned to a normal colour. This kind of exercise was taxing for the old man, but she liked working with him, trusted his wisdom.

They made their way back to the parking lot after the body had been removed. Boone drove off in his Jeep, the tailpipe dangling with baling wire. Surprisingly, the Jones family was still there. She walked over to thank them again. In the back seat, the kids were watching a video.

“Everyone’s getting hungry, and we’re due in Port Renfrew, where we’ve reserved a campsite,” Chrissy said. “I don’t think they got that close a look at the poor man. Frank saw him in time. Let’s hope it’s not quite real, only a bad memory. I told them that he had a heart attack. It seemed easiest.”

Nothing wrong with a white lie now and then. “One last question. Did you find that cache?” Holly took off her cap to wipe her brow.

“Are you kidding? We got out as fast as we could.”

For safety, Holly waved them back across traffic onto the busy road. Geocaching sounded like fun for kids. A real game in the real world...except that in this case a corpse had joined the party. As a first step, she’d run his name through CPIC. In all likelihood he had a record, perhaps even outstanding warrants. She respected the humanity, the mother who had borne him. But he had committed himself to a maverick lifestyle and removed himself from a world of cares.

Under the bridge, Bill’s old lawn chair still stood, nearby a coffee pot and enamel cup beside a careful fire pit with a metal screen on top. She tested the ashes and found them cold. His meager belongings, consisting of a wheeled dolly with a shock-corded milk crate, sat beside his backpack. This way, hitchhikers could carry more, and the dolly could go into a trunk or truck bed. Odd that he’d left it so trustingly, but probably it held nothing of value. She’d lived light too, possessing no furniture that couldn’t be left behind in the places she’d rented. But didn’t everyone want a room of his own? Her mother would have expected her to reach out a hand, not be judgmental about those who lived on the street...or in the forest.

Chipper capped a bottle of spring water and wiped his mouth with a snow-white handkerchief. Other than her father in courtly mode, he was the only man she’d ever seen use one. “Everything go okay?” he asked.

Holly cocked her thumb. “That old guy I met the other day, Bill. Did you see him when you got here?” She explained in brief what Boone had found.

“No one was around but the family. Is that his stuff? We should be talking to him.” Chipper looked disturbed, as if he had failed to secure the scene. “We
definitely
should be talking to him.”