The Cast Stone (26 page)

The hitchhiker looked like the Indians that showed up on movie sets, with a pair of long black braids tied with leather, darker skin; he could have been Indian, wore denim, and boots. Even the name he gave, Billy Thunder, sounded Indian. But the accent that accompanied the name was not Indian, not Cree, not Saulteaux. Ben suppressed a laugh at the thought, maybe he was Dene. He thought of asking, making a joke, but Billy Thunder or whoever he really was would likely not appreciate the humour, would not understand that the Cree and the Dene were once enemies and still teased and made jokes about each other.

The more Ben thought about it, the more honoured he felt that an Arab man would disguise himself as an Indian. It meant that there were a people more reviled than his people. Someone had said that the Arab in America was in as much jeopardy as the Jew was in Nazi Germany. Ben didn't know if that was true. It might be. The average German did not find out exactly what was going on in the concentration camps until the war was over. Maybe, you never know. That was the thing of it, you never know.

He had found Billy standing at the junction. He looked undecided, like he was not sure whether he was going down the gravel road to the reserve, or up the paved highway to the north. So Ben stopped and asked. “Where you going Bud?”

“To my reserve,” Billy answered quickly. He walked across the road toward the driver's side door until he was close enough to get a good look at Ben. “
Tanisi
.” Billy said the Cree word that meant How are you? the way that it was written, instead of the way it was commonly spoken; without dropping the unneeded middle “i”. That was when Ben first wanted to laugh but kept his face deliberately stoic, very Indian. “Jump in, I'll give you a ride.”

“You live here at Moccasin Lake?”

“Yes, I was just in town to buy some paint for my fence. Here let me get it out of your way.” Ben moved the four-litre pail from the front passenger seat to the back.

“You are not under arrest, Mr. Robe. There are no charges pending. We merely wish to discuss some matters with you.”

“I have nothing to say until you remove this hood.”

“The hood is for your own safety, Mr. Robe. When you were found you had a person in your company who gave the name Billy Thunder. What can you tell us about this person?”

“Remove the hood.”

“Only innocent people do not have to wear a hood, Mr. Robe. We found an M-37 assault rifle in your dwelling. You are not an innocent person.”

“Remove the hood.” Ben's voice was as flat as the voice asking the questions.

“Mr. Robe, you attended a clandestine meeting on the farm of Abe Friesen earlier this summer. Do you recall this event?”

“Remove the hood.”

“Mr. Robe.” The voice beyond the hood might have been a principal speaking to a schoolboy. “Do you understand where you are? Do you know the seriousness of the allegations against you?”

Ben did not answer. He rested against his arms handcuffed behind him, shifted them into the lower part of his back. He knew the answers to the questions, knew where he was. He was in a prison, not far from Moccasin Lake; Prince Albert maybe, more probably Saskatoon at the old correctional centre out in the industrial section. His calculation of time under the hood was limited by his inability to see the sun, but he knew he had not travelled far in the back of the Hummer, bound underneath a tarpaulin, rattled down the gravel highway, then smooth pavement when the throb of diesel engine became a whine of turbo, to here. Here was a correctional centre from the stop and go of their movement when they dragged him in. Stop and wait, held up by his arms, his hands handcuffed behind him, his feet tied together so he could not walk. Stop, wait, listen to the sound of steel doors clang shut behind them, listen to the grind of steel doors open in front of them. Then dragged, one person at each shoulder, arms looped through his, his feet dragged on concrete, carried too low to get his feet under himself to stand, ankles bound together so that he could not walk in any event, and when he tried to stand, while they waited for doors to grind or clang, his feet were kicked out from underneath him. Dragged to here. Here was a table and Ben lay on his back, on his arms, on his numb hands behind him, and the hood kept out the light.

“It was your responsibility.”

“I gave the prisoners to Ed Tremblay. He captured them. I trusted him.” Monica defended herself.

“It was still your responsibility.” Councilwoman Betsy Chance sat across the long table from Monica, looked directly at her. Monica stood straight at the narrow end of the table, not quite at military attention, but in a formal pose, stood for this dressing down from the full council. “Council appointed you to look after the prisoners.”

Councilman Moosehunter leaned forward slightly to see around the person to his right, so that he could see Monica. “It's not that we really give a damn about whether the prisoner was poisoned, you realize. We're dedicated to killing as many Americans as we can, same as you. The problem lies in two separate factors. First, we traded a prisoner for two of ours, one of those was at your urging. Council went with your recommendation.” The person beside him leaned back so that Councilman Moosehunter did not have to lean so far forward. “By poisoning the prisoner you jeopardized all future exchanges. This is very delicate. The process of a prisoner exchange requires a great deal of good faith and it exposes our negotiators to incredible risk. Councilwoman Chance negotiated that transfer for us. Her credibility is now tarnished.”

Monica glanced at her friend Betsy who sat shoulders back and stared directly at her.

“The second factor,” Councilman Moosehunter continued, “maybe the more critical factor, is that the prisoner was poisoned with yellowcake. The Americans now know for certain that we have it. We've been able to keep them guessing so far. Do we have the material or not? Now they know. Maybe it's a good thing, maybe it was time to let them know that we have it. But, that was for council to decide, not you.”

“I was not aware of Ed Tremblay's actions. He acted without my instructions.”

“It was still your responsibility.” Councilwoman Chance repeated.

“I am not denying my responsibility.” Monica stood a little straighter, a little more formal. “I am merely advising council of the facts. I take full responsibility for my actions and ask the indulgence of council once more. Please tell me what council needs done to repair the damage.”

Council sat back in unison. Each of the seven looking down the table at Monica. Chairman Booth sipped water from a plastic bottle before he spoke, straightened his glasses to see the length of the table. “We are going to ask you to do something that you might find goes against your sense of loyalty. You will have to decide where your loyalty lies, with this council or with Ed Tremblay.”

“I assure council that my loyalty lies here.” Monica indicated the table.

“One thing more.” Councilwoman Chance turned slightly as she spoke. “Your friend Ben Robe has been taken in. We appointed someone to watch out for him, but our man was obstructed by a neighbour woman.”

“Rosie?” Monica guessed.

“Whoever she was, she grabbed our man's gun away from him as he came out of her house. The arrest did not take long. Your friend Robe apparently went willingly, did not resist.”

“That is just for your information. You are not to do, or try to do anything more about it.” Councilman Moosehunter did not lean forward to speak this time. He did not even bother to look at Monica.

“Should I have the barrel of yellowcake moved from the house?”

“Where to?” Councilwoman Chance spoke in a sarcastic tone.

Monica shrugged, lost for a second. She had never received a dressing down before, did not know how to react. She was determined to stand up, say ‘yes sir', ‘no sir', ‘three bags full sir', ‘never complain, never explain', ‘take your lumps', ‘maintain honour', all those military axioms. Yet she was shaken by Betsy's behaviour. Betsy her friend was a different person from Councilwoman Chance. Councilwoman Chance obviously was not her friend.

“That barrel is in the best place we could find.” Chairman Booth spoke quietly, explaining to a five-year-old patiently. “There aren't many houses left with cold war bomb shelters made of a foot of reinforced concrete. That barrel is giving off radiation, radiation that can be detected by satellites. Radiation that can only be stopped by an inch of lead or heavy concrete. As Councilwoman Chance asked you, where do you think we could move it to?”

Monica shrugged again.

“So you realize, Miss, what needs to be done is not to move the yellowcake, but to remove the risk.”

“You mean Ed.”

“We mean Ed.” Councilman Booth stood abruptly; his chair scraped back loudly. “You will cooperate with Councilwoman Chance in ameliorating the problem.” The meeting was over.

His body was shutting down. Rick did not need Doctor Finlayson's report that his kidneys and liver were failing. He did not need to look at the intravenous tubing stretched to the hum and bubbling machines, did not need to crane his neck to see the digital readouts. He knew, felt the slowing of his life, felt it fade, drip away. The time would come soon when he closed his eyes and would never open them again. He forced them open now, to look around the hospital room, at his mother sitting in the armchair by the window where there was good light. She was keeping her hands busy with her knitting, found comfort in doing, in making. His father would be pacing — the room was too small for him, he needed the hallways, and the little green area outside where patients and visitors sat at plastic picnic tables, ate a sandwich or drank a coffee and smoked cigarettes.

Vicky looked away from her knitting for a second, at her son in the bed, the back raised. He was looking at her. She smiled at him, put down her needles and yarn on the floor beside her.

“You okay, Ricky?” She asked leaning over him.

“As okay as it could be, Mom. Where's dad?”

“He's around somewhere. Do you need something.”