The Guardians (21 page)

    "What
website?"

    "You
know, one of those places where boyfriends submit photos of their
girlfriends."

    "Jesus
Christ, Randy. You're hauling me downtown so I can be your porn pal?"

    "First
of all, it's not
really
porn," Randy qualifies, popping the rest of
the shortbread into his mouth. "And second, it's Tracey Flanagan."

    If my
memory's right, Insomnia Internet used to be Klaupper's Deli, the latter
selling Polish sausages and German chocolates to the Grimshaw immigrants who
couldn't shake their taste for home. Now there are racks of hyperviolent games
where the meat counter used to be, and rows of computers where I recall walking
the aisles with my mother, searching for the imported butterscotch candies
Klaupper's sometimes carried. When Randy and I enter, I imagine there is still
a trace of fried schnitzel and Toblerone—and unexpectedly, my mother's Sunday-
only spritz of Chanel No. 5—in the air. But then, on the next sniff, it is
replaced by the fungoid aroma of teenage boys.

    "Back
here," Randy directs me, waving me to a terminal he's already secured in
the rear corner.

    I'm
worried at first we'll be observed by the kids who machete and Uzi their way
through the carnage on their screens. But as I pass, not one of them turns to
look at the shaky old guy who makes his way to the back. And though some of
them are apparently engaged in some communal game involving others in the room,
they don't acknowledge their fellow players in any way, aside from an
occasional cry of "Backup! Need backup!" and
" Why
won't
you
die?
"

    "Have
a seat," Randy says, pulling over a wheeled chair from the next cubicle. I
watch as he takes his wallet out and, from within it, a slip of paper with a
web address written on it.

    "Who
told you about this, anyway?" I ask.

    "I
went by the Molly Bloom for a nightcap on the way back to the hotel last night.
Had one with Vince Sproule. Who tells me about this."

    "This?"

    "Mygirl.com.
Where Tracey has her own page."

    "How
does Vince know about it?"

    "The
boyfriend, Gary Pullinger, let the cat out of the bag. Told one of his buddies
that he uploaded some snaps, and then the friend told some other friends and ..
. well, it's a small town."

    "Are
the police aware of this?"

    "It's
part of why they're still grilling Gary so hard. They're trying to see if these
pictures are part of a motive somehow."

    "Motive
for what?"

    Randy
types in the address and clicks Enter. Only then does he turn to look at me.
"She's missing Trev. Odds are she's not coming back. And you always start
with the boyfriend. Or the dad."

    "They
think Todd has something to do with this?"

    "I
don't think he's at the top of the list. The Pullinger kid holds that spot. But
you never know. Do you?"

    I'm
searching for an answer to this when suddenly Tracey is there on the screen.

    There
are no toys, props, costumes. No leather or rubber or lace. Just a young woman
without any clothes on. Standing in front of a cluttered bookcase or sitting on
the edge of an unmade bed in a basement bedroom, a towel on the floor around
her feet darkly wet from a recent shower. Her hair clinging to her shoulders,
framing her breasts. Water dripping off the ends and leaving a map of streaks
over her belly, fading sideroads all converging on the dark curls between her
legs.

    She
is smiling in most of the shots. The same expression of welcome she offered us
when we first wandered into Jake's Pool 'n' Sports. In a couple of pictures she
attempts a pouty look of wanton invitation, but it is play-acting that fails to
convince either the photographer or her, judging from the laughter that follows.

    In
all of the photos, even the silliest ones, she is beautiful. Beautiful in her
nakedness, but equally for the fun she is having, the goofing around that has
as much to do with pretending at being a seductress as with the provocation of real
desire. She is a young woman showing herself not to the camera's vacant lens
but to the man behind it.

    "Close
it," I say.

    "God.
You've got to admit. She's
something,
isn't she?"

    "Randy—"

    "You
wouldn't guess, under that dumb referee outfit they make them—"

    "Turn
it off."

    Randy
looks over his shoulder at me. "What's your problem? We're not peeping
through her keyhole or anything. The whole world can find this if they
want."

    "I'm
not talking to the whole world."

    He
presses his lips together in a combined expression of puzzlement and pain, as
though he'd let his hand linger over an open flame but was unable to figure out
how to pull it away.

    "She's
a kid," I say.

    "Okay."

    "She's
our friend's kid."

    "Okay"

    Randy
closes his eyes. Blindly, he slides the mouse over the pad. Clicks it—and
Tracey disappears.

    "Doesn't
it rattle you at all?" I ask, leaning in close enough to whisper.
"The way the whole Heather and Tracey things overlap?"

    "Sure.
I'd say it rattles me a fair bit."

    "It's
like someone is copycatting or something."

    "That
might be taking it a little far."

    "Maybe.
But on the same day we roll into town?" I shake my head. Part Parkinson's,
part avoidance of this line of thought. "We'll be gone soon."

    "I'll
stay as long as you have to."

    "I'm
fine, really."

    "Oh
yeah. You're just dandy."

    "Nothing
a decent night's sleep won't fix."

    "And
you're going to get that in Ben's bed?"

    "Don't
worry about me."

    "What,
me worry?" Randy smiles, looking very much like Alfred E. Neuman.
"All the same, I think I'll stick around so we can head out on the same
train. How's that?"

    "We
Guardians stick together."

    "Goddamn
right." He pinches my cheek. Hard. "You are goddamn right there,
brother."

    From
Insomnia, we make our way to the Grimshaw Community Services building,
otherwise known as the cop shop. We present ourselves to the receptionist as
patrons of Jake's Pool 'n' Sports a couple of nights ago, here to answer
questions.

    "Regarding
Tracey Flanagan," Randy says when the woman doesn't seem to register
either us or what we've just said.

    "I
know
what it's
regarding
," she replies. "Have a
seat."

    When
two officers finally emerge, it's a Laurel and Hardy pair, a slim fellow with
jug ears and a short waddler heaving a basketball around inside his shirt. The
big one introduces himself to Randy and takes him down the hall to an interview
room, leaving the tall one standing over me, nodding as though something in my
appearance has just settled a wager and he'd won.

    "Trevor,"
he says. And then, when this fails to remove the puzzled expression from my
face, he taps the name tag pinned to his shirt. "It's Barry Tate."

    "Barry.
I think I remember."

    "I
was a year behind you. We even had a couple of classes together."

    "Hairy
Barry," I say, and then he's all there. The only kid in school with a
handlebar moustache that, unbelievably, actually suited him. "You played
hockey too, right?"

    "I
took your number the season after . . . after you stopped playing."

    "Did
it bring you luck?"

    "Eighteen
goals."

    "Not
bad."

    "Some
goon broke my wrist in a game against Kitchener the next year, and that was it
for me."

    "Now
you're one of Grimshaw's finest."

    "Pension,
dental, paid holidays. And you get to drive a car with lights on the
roof."

    Barry
starts down the same hallway, but I have a little trouble lifting myself out of
my chair. It brings him back to grip my elbow and heave me up. "You
okay?"

    "Just
a little stiff in the mornings."

    He
gives me a look that says he's not buying that for a second, but hey, a man's
body is his own business. I'm expecting him to make a joke instead, something
to brush away the awkwardness, but he just stands there with his hand on my
arm.

    "I'm
sorry about Ben," he says.

    "Me
too."

    "I
used to see him up there in that window of his. Thought about calling on him,
but never did."

    "I'm
not sure he would have come to the door."

    "Even
so. I feel lousy about it."

    Barry
guides me down to an interview room next to the one I can hear Randy giving his
statement in (". . . delivery guy. Just a boyfriend giving his girl a
kiss. Didn't see much more to it than that . . ."). Next door, we take our
places on opposite sides of a metal table, Barry slapping a notepad onto its
scratched surface.

    "Okay,
then," he sighs. "Tell me about your night at Jake's."

    It
takes only a minute. Me and Randy having drinks after Ben's funeral. Todd
Flanagan and Vince Sproule there watching the game. And Tracey bringing us
pitchers and whiskeys. Other than the pizza-delivery guy, who dropped by to say
hello to the girl, nothing to report. And judging by the way Barry Tate flips
the notepad closed when I'm finished, he didn't expect there would be.

    "That's
great, Trevor. We appreciate you stopping by."

    He
rises, extends a hand to be shaken, but I don't move.

    "So
unless you have any questions of your own . . ." Barry says, now pulling
his hand away and using it to open the door.

    "It's
not really a question so much as a suggestion."

    "Oh?"

    "Maybe
you guys should check out the Thurman house."

    He
looks like he might laugh, as if he's not sure if I'm being serious. "Why
would we want to do that?"

    "It's
just a thought."

    "Have
you seen or heard something that makes you have such a thought?"

    "Not
really. I just thought I spotted some movement in one of the windows last night."

    "You
happened to be walking by?"

    "I'm
staying with Ben's mother for a couple of days. I'm the executor of his estate.
She's a little lonely, so I'm staying in his room."

    "Which
has a view of the Thurmans'."

    "That's
right."

    "Where
you saw . . . ?"

    "A
flash. Something passing behind the glass."

    "Male?
Female?"

    "I
don't know if it was even a person."

    "Well,
I have to tell you, that's not going to be enough for a search warrant."

    "You
think you need one of those? Even if you got one, who would you serve it on?
The place has been empty more or less since you and I were shooting spitballs
in Mrs. Grover's French class."

    Barry
Tate crosses his arms over his chest. Considers me. Perhaps wondering whether
the years have left old Trev as bonkers as Ben McAuliffe was.

    "Hell
of a business," he says finally. "What they pulled out of that place
back when we were kids."

    This
is a surprise. It shouldn't be, but it is. Even though all of Grimshaw
remembers the bad news of the winter of 1984, it feels as though it's private
knowledge, something shared by me, Randy and Carl alone.