Up in Smoke (24 page)

“Okay then, how do we find your cofactor?”

“Those students were a bust. You found that out the hard way.” His face softened. “They wouldn't tell the truth if their lives depended on it. No matter how professional your questionnaire.”

Was that a back-handed compliment? She'd take it as such.

“What about the first responders?” she said.

“They're almost all men.”

“So?”

“Most men are terrible historians. It's women who spot the details that produce a comprehensive medical history. And of course,” he said, “many gay men.”

She'd never thought about it that way. “Is that why you're so good —”

“At clinical diagnosis? ” A smile crossed his lips. “Maybe.”

Al had the same gift. She'd watched him notice the freshly restored bargeboarding on the Vanderhoef's Gothic revival house and use that detail to charm an entire family into spilling crucial information. But what about Dr. Zol? He was pretty good at detail. Though now that she thought about it, he was better at synthesis — making sense of the bits of information other people collected.

“What about their wives?” she said. “I bet if we gathered them in one room, got them racking their brains, we might come up with something.”

“A room full of anxious women, one of them a very recent widow? All talking at the same time? Better you than me.”

“But you'll come? And bring Al?”

He hesitated, as if more from surprise than uncertainty. “I don't know. I should leave you to it. Couldn't take that much concentrated estrogen.”

“Come on — the existence of a cofactor was your idea in the first place.”

He grinned, rolled his eyes and cocked his head to the side, like Oscar Wilde basking in the attention. Hamish did love to be complimented. But it took a fair chunk of chutzpah to get close enough to peer through his shell and glimpse the man inside.

“Well,” he said. “Okay, sure. But only if Al can come too. Bosniaks are used to taking it from all sides.”

CHAPTER
36

Zol shook the mouse on the desk in Hamish's ultra-tidy den and watched the monitor spring to life. At least something was working. He pulled the new
7
-Eleven phone from his shirt pocket and stared the damn thing down. When he'd tried it five minutes ago, a recorded voice had thanked him for his patience and said his service on their crystal-clear network would be operational in a few minutes. A few minutes? What the hell did that mean? What a stupid idea to get a phone from a convenience store. What was Colleen thinking? And where was she? His knees trembled as he thought of Max — frightened, tired, and mixed up in something no kid should have ever to go through.

He called up Simcoe Health Unit's email program and waited for it to load. Until the phone started working, he might as well check his email. He had to do something useful. He'd called Rosalind Wakefield's house from Hamish's landline a couple of minutes ago, but again Colleen hadn't answered. He'd got her recorded greeting, which by now he'd heard five times. Natasha was pretty certain no one would've fiddled with the home phones of the health-unit team, but he'd decided if Colleen answered he'd make sure neither of them said anything the Badger could make use of.

Why hadn't she picked up? She and Max must have reached the house. Or had she manipulated Rosalind Wakefield's answering machine from another location? If so, where were they now? Not in a suite at the Royal York, that was for sure. Tied up in a closet? Cowering in the dark in a soundproof warehouse? Or had she understood his coded Lemony Snicket message, was keeping her eye on the incoming call display, and was going to answer calls only from a
7
-Eleven phone? God, please make it that last option. Please.

He typed in his username and password. Thirty new emails since yesterday. Once Simcoe got to know him better, it would be more like two hundred. He scanned the list for anything that might not take much effort or brain power.

There was a message from Allison Sparling. The name didn't mean anything at first, but the subject line certainly did: “Francine arriving today
YYZ
.” He opened the message and read it quickly. It was from Allie, Francine's
BFF
since elementary school. As far as he knew, Allie was still single and working as an intensive-care nurse at Sick Kids in Toronto. How she'd hung in through Francine's multiple breakdowns and hysterics, he never knew. Allie was hardwired that way, he guessed, just as Francine had been hay-wired. When he allowed himself to think about it, the two of them were like Yin and Yang. And the fact that Francine was actually following through with a promise and arriving from Cambodia tonight, at
6
:
25
, Cathay Pacific, into Toronto Pearson via Hong Kong . . . ? Well, he was reserving judgment. He'd have to see it to believe it.

He was about to type a brief reply to Allie's message, but remembered the “Escarpment Cable” guy screwing with the computer in his Simcoe office. The health-unit email service couldn't be trusted. He scribbled Allie's email address on a Post-it note — Hamish didn't tolerate stray bits of scrap paper — and logged out. He logged back in, this time to Google Mail, and scanned his inbox for a new message from Max or Colleen — nothing — then composed a brief note to Allie. He requested that she reply only to this Google address and included his new cellphone number — was the damn thing ever going to work? — and asked her to get in touch as soon as Francine landed. Before hitting Send he read the message twice to be sure it sounded cordial enough. Of course, he didn't mention he had no idea where Max was at this particular moment. The tables had turned — who was the flaky parent now?

He logged out, patted the phone in his pocket, and heaved himself out of the chair. He was desperate for a caffeine hit. He should have had the taxi driver take him to a Tim's on the way back from Natasha's office. What a hassle not being able to drive his own vehicle.

He went through four cupboards before he found the jar of instant. He tossed a mug of water in the microwave, set it for a couple of minutes, and rustled up some milk and sugar. The only way to get that stuff down would be with a couple of heaping teaspoons of sucrose. When the water boiled, he threw the concoction together — there was no way you could call it a coffee — and took it to the living room.

When was this damn flip phone going to work? He forced himself to drink half the coffee before he tried it again.

He flicked to the contact list, found Rosalind Wakefield's number he'd entered earlier, and pressed Call.

Four rings, five . . . “Good morning. Beaudelaire residence.”

It was her. She'd picked up. He could hardly believe it.

“Yes?” she said when he didn't reply. “May I help you?”

“You're okay?”

“I'm fine, thank you. And so is Mr. Snicket.”

Why was she speaking so formally? Was she using a code? Was there someone with her, threatening with a knife or a gun? Maybe she suspected the line was being tapped?

He had to be certain she was speaking freely.

“This is the
LCBO
calling,” he said. “We have a case of your favourite nightcap ready for you.”

“Good. A shot of Amarula and the world feels perfect.” He adored the way she always said it: purrhfect.

“Oh, my Sweets. You really are fine? And Max? I've been so worried. Why didn't you pick up?”

“Until a few minutes ago, I wasn't sure the line was safe.”

“But you are now?”

“Yes,” she said, then told him a complicated story — to which he was able to only half listen, he was so frazzled — about a catering van following them last night from the Spadina exit off the Gardiner Expressway to the house in Forest Hill. The van had parked all night on the street, between the Wakefield's house and the neighbour's. A few minutes ago, a woman dressed like a chef (minus the tall hat) had left the house by the front door, kissed goodbye to a well-dressed elderly woman on the doorstep, and driven off in the van.

“Zol? You still there?”

“Yes,” he said, pawing away the tears on his cheeks. “Still here.”

“How are you, my love?”

“A lot better now.”

“Did you get any sleep? That sofa of Hamish's didn't look too promising as a bed.”

It wasn't the uncomfortable chesterfield that had kept him from sleeping. “It was okay.”

“Have you called your mum today?”

“Not yet. But I will. This new phone started working only a few minutes ago.”

“Anything new on the investigation?”

How much should he say? How secure were these phones? “Hamish has a guy who's going to run some tests. I think you know what I mean.”

“And get results soon?”

“I'm hoping for today.”

“And then what?”

That was the million-dollar question. Did he go to the Badger first, give him a chance to shut down his entire operation until the contaminated tobacco was out of circulation? The Badger would refuse, of course.

Zol did have something that might sweeten the deal. He pictured the second loon's bright, onyx eyes staring at him, pleading for his loyalty. Could he give her up? Could he surrender the second loon to Dennis Badger and risk emboldening the Badger to try making a giant land grab?

Or did he go straight to the authorities and let them deal with the mess? But which authorities would that be? The cops were so reluctant to go onto First Nations territories that he'd have to drag them onto Grand Basin, kicking and screaming. Could he even do that? And what did cops know or care about obscure poisons in tobacco? Health Canada was supposed to regulate the tobacco industry, but what did office jockeys know about reining in criminal gangs?

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I haven't been able to think straight since you and Max drove off in that rented car.”

“I'm so sorry, my love. I was terrified that the Badger's men had followed us, and —”

“I know, I know. You did the right thing.” He paused, wondering whether to even bring it up. “Um . . . our little friend. Is she under lock and key?”

“If you mean the dear little creature with the shiny black eyes, the answer is . . . not exactly.”

The tension gripped his neck again. “But she is safe, eh?”

“Certainly. No worries there.”

“And . . . where is she, exactly?”

“What are you going to do with her?”

He wasn't sure, and he wasn't going to brainstorm about it over the phone. “Probably nothing. But I'd feel better knowing where she was.”

“Mary Poppins has her. I gave her to Mary for safe keeping. It seemed appropriate.”

“Mary Poppins? What the heck — ?”

“Long story. But I think you know what I mean.”

“Max's friend?”

“Exactly. But do be careful. No rash decisions. Promise?”

She was right. Involving the black-eyed loon in any negotiations with Dennis Badger could be a huge mistake. It would be best to let nesting birds lie. Trouble was, that might be impossible.

“Look,” he said, glad to change the subject, “I heard from Allie today. You know, Francine's friend?”

“Is she all set for her arrival?”

He told her the details.

“Tonight? That's wonderful,” she said. “Max will be pleased.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“If I can tear him away from the television. There's a home theatre in the basement that's fully loaded. Sixty-inch flat screen, movie channels galore, and an entire library filled with video games. Rosalind's grandchildren must love it here. How many does she have?”

“None,” he told her. “Hamish is an only child.” And he'd never heard him mention the words video and game in the same sentence.

But really, who cared? Max was safe. Nothing else mattered.

Unless . . .

Was Francine going to insist on traipsing all over Toronto with Max in tow, while the Badger's men were on the prowl?

Hell.

CHAPTER
37

At one-thirty, Zol couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. He needed a nap. He'd spent most of the morning glued to Hamish's desk, running through his To Do list from Simcoe. He'd opened a new Google Mail account just for work, forwarded the most pressing messages to it from his health-unit email account, and got back to work, hoping the new set-up was secure.

Now, as he studied the chesterfield in the living room, he was amazed how short it was and surprised that he'd attempted to sleep on it last night. His neck wouldn't take it again. Would Hamish mind, or even notice, if he stole forty winks in his bed? As he stood at the bedroom doorway, something kept him from entering. It was Al's bed now too. Something stronger prevented him from taking off his clothes and slipping under the duvet. Was he afraid it would seem like a threesome? Or did it run deeper than that? Was he afraid he might get a buzz out of sharing their sheets?

He decided he'd better go home to his own bed. If the Badger's team was listening on the landline, or trolling with their scanners near his house, it didn't matter: Max and Colleen were safe.

He called a taxi on his new phone, was surprised how quickly it came, and jumped in. Minutes later, they were coming up on Kelly's SuperMart. On a whim, he asked the driver to turn in and wait. He wouldn't be long. The cabbie, who hadn't said a word since Zol had got in, pointed to the meter and shrugged — no problem.

Zol had never been inside the tobacco shop that occupied the front corner of Kelly's supermarket, but he'd walked passed it and glanced through the window countless times. The intriguing shapes of pipes, lighters, and other paraphernalia displayed in the glass cases had often caught his eye, as did the swashbuckling images on the tobacco tins.

Today, he was ready to do more than look at the pipes and tobacco. He was prepared to make a purchase. As he stepped into the shop, and the door closed behind him, he was instantly enveloped by a gorgeous, complex aroma. The odours flooded his mind with countless memories — summers hanging bundles of leaves to dry in his dad's stuffy tobacco kilns, evenings courting Francine over too many cigars and bottles of red wine, and nights entwined with Colleen, loving her and savouring smoky whiskys.

He steadied himself at the counter as Andy Williams crooned a private, dreamy rendition of “Days of Wine and Roses.” It was far from his favourite style of music, but he had no control over this crossed-wires, odours-music thing. He had no choice but to give into it and hope it was brief.

If the stocky, middle-aged lady behind the counter thought Zol was behaving strangely by staring blankly at the ceiling, she didn't show it. She was too busy peering into a handheld device and checking her inventory. Her plain, fleshy face and drab grey blouse reminded him of the librarian at Max's school. Not someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of. After Andy had finished crooning his way through a dozen or more bars, Zol gave a slight wave to catch the woman's attention and ventured a tentative smile. “I'd like the finest pipe tobacco you have in stock.”

She removed her reading glasses and let them dangle across her bosom from the silver chain around her neck. “Domestic or imported?”

Anything but Dennis Badger's local crap, he wanted to tell her. “Imported,” he said.

“Mild, mellow, or full-bodied?” she said.

“Um . . . mellow?”

“I'd say you're after something full-bodied. I have a nice Davidoff, the Blue Mixture.”

“What sort of aroma does it have? A hint of vanilla by any chance?” He had happy childhood memories of the whiffs of vanilla escaping from his dad's tobacco pouch. When Dad sat down to smoke his pipe, he was usually in his best mood; he sometimes told stories about the pranks he got up to as a kid back in Hungary.

The clerk's face softened, as if she sensed Zol was actually going to spend some serious coin. She took a packet from a locked case, put her glasses back on, and, reading from the label, told him, “It promises a rich, chocolaty smell in the tin and a smooth smoke offering a sweet, woodsy taste and . . .” she thrust out her bosom and grinned, “. . . a hint of vanilla.”

He raised his eyebrows and chuckled. “Almost good enough to eat.”

“I wouldn't do that. Not at these prices.”

“You say it's imported?”

“From Denmark.”

If Danish pipe tobacco was half as good as the butter cookies the Danes shipped all over the world in those large blue tins, he knew this would be okay. “How much is it?”

“Ninety-two twenty-five,” she said without blinking.

Ninety-two dollars? This stuff was more expensive than Scotch. He swallowed hard and did his best to keep a straight face. “For how many grams?”

“Two hundred and fifty.” She held up the bundle of five small tobacco tins presented together as elegantly as a lifetime investment from Birks or Tiffany's. “This is the minimum I can sell you, I'm afraid. Because of the way it's packaged.”

He slid his credit card into the machine and punched in his
PIN
. He knew this was going to be worth it.

The taxi driver tooted at Zol as he exited the store. He hopped in. Again, the cabbie still didn't say a word. The midday traffic was light, and they got to Scenic Drive and Zol's street in a matter of minutes. The house looked okay. He could see through the window that his minivan and Colleen's Merc were still in the garage. There were no vans parked on the street or at the neighbours' on either side.

He went in the front door, turned off the alarm, and set his purchase on the kitchen counter. The house felt strange. Eerie. Alien. Something was wrong. He flipped on the halogens, froze, and listened. Then he realized what was different. The dead quiet. It was his house, but he never got to experience it like this — alone. Ermalinda always greeted him at the door with a string of chatter. Max was usually clicking on the computer, or banging around the kitchen making himself a snack, or up in bed snoring the place down.

He scanned the kitchen. Colleen had left everything spotless. Nothing looked out of place.

He jumped and nearly knocked the shopping bag onto the floor as something snapped, then whirred, beside him. He wasn't alone after all. His heart pounded in his ears. He turned, arms up in defence, ready to fight. But no one was there. Two seconds later, another snap, and the whirring settled into a familiar hum.

How stupid — it was just the fridge coming on. His heart fell back into his chest, but it took awhile for the pounding to fade.

Excited by his purchase, he looked at the bag. The clerk had wrapped her best tobacco in white tissue paper, sealed it with a gold sticker, and placed it in a hunter-green paper bag a manly man wouldn't be embarrassed to carry. He chuckled at the irony. The makers of fine tobacco got men to part with serious money because they were selling them a lot more than shredded leaves and nicotine. They were selling a dream. Single malt distillers played the same game. It wasn't ethyl alcohol they were peddling, it was prestige. Trouble was, all three — nicotine, alcohol, and prestige — were addictive.

He dropped his jacket on a chair and went into the computer room. He'd lined one wall completely with bookshelves and loaded it with
DVD
s — movies,
TV
shows, and video games. Mostly for Max. He couldn't let himself think about the money those disks represented. Was this a collection or another addiction? Or were they one and the same?

The
DVD
s were not in any particular order, though Max was careful they were returned to their proper cases. In the early days, he hadn't looked after them, left them strewn all over the place. He'd learned the hard way that the most exciting part of a video game could get ruined by careless gouges on the disk.

It took awhile, and Zol's back ached as he perused the shelves peering at the fine print, but he finally found
Mary Poppins
. And behind her, the blue Birks box.

He brought the box to the kitchen, paused for a deep breath, then lifted the lid. He took out the loon and couldn't help smiling. He caressed her with both hands and felt a warmth gathering in his chest. He lifted the little creature, held her nose-to-nose with his, and stared into her unwavering onyx eyes. What scenes had they witnessed in the past two thousand years?

He turned the silky-smooth pipe in his hands and examined it from every angle. The bird and the rectangular block she was nestling on, the size of half a deck of cards, had been carved from a single piece of dark grey pipestone. The whole thing fit perfectly in the human palm and balanced there gracefully.

The magical thing about fine art was you knew it when you saw it. Actually, you didn't see it, you beheld it. You succumbed to its presence. Moisture stung his eyes. It took quite a while to blink away the mistiness.

The carver had fashioned a large cavity, the tobacco chamber, into the loon's back. The chamber appeared empty but charred. He turned the bird on her back and tapped her against his palm. Nothing fell out of the cavity, no bits of tobacco, no pieces of dirt, not even a dead spider. He went nose-to-nose with the little bird again and put his lips over the small draw hole in the base. A bitter, flinty taste met his tongue, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. The bitterness faded, and he blew gently through the hole. A few motes of dust puffed from the chamber. He blew twice more, then inverted the bird again and tapped a few tiny bits of debris into his palm. Should he save those for the archaeologists? They could be hundreds of years old. He set them on a saucer, raised the pipe again to his lips, and made one final blow before inhaling through the draw hole. It was amazing how easily the air flowed, and with the right amount of resistance. This pipe was going to give a very nice smoke.

He opened the packet of Davidoff's finest, taking care to damage as little of the packaging as possible. It seemed wrong to rip the elegant wrapping. He removed a tin and slit its seal with his fingernail. He pried it open and breathed deeply. Delicious! The woman at the shop had promised chocolate, but that was only the beginning.

As he started itemizing the aromas, Warren Zevon took over the kitchen, belting out “Werewolves of London.” When Warren's ebullient howls reached their peak, Zol knew he'd hit the jackpot with this Davidoff stuff.

He fished a paperclip and a disposable lighter from the junk drawer and carried them with the loon, the saucer, and the tobacco tin into the sunroom. He set them on the table and eased into his recliner. The buttery leather never failed to soothe.

He'd never been a pipe smoker, but when he was little his dad taught him how to pack his after-dinner pipe for him. There was a knack to it, which Zol mastered at an early age. Tobacco had to be trickled, not dumped, into a pipe's chamber. Then it had to be tamped to the proper density. If you tamped the tobacco too hard, the pipe wouldn't draw. Too lightly, and the tobacco would burn too quickly — all flame and little smoke. The novelty of preparing Dad's pipe, without being allowed more than an occasional puff, wore off by the time he became a teenager. But it was a skill you never forgot, like stringing tobacco leaves by the thousands, hanging them on wooden laths, and hefting them day after day into the stifling drying kilns.

And now, he was packing an heirloom calumet and tamping it with a paperclip he'd adapted for the purpose. He tried drawing on the pipe before lighting it. It gave the perfect amount of resistance, like sucking through a drinking straw. He flicked on the lighter and waved the flame in a circular motion over the tobacco surface while taking short puffs. No smoke yet, only a brief glow as a few strands of tobacco swelled and unravelled in the brief flame of this the customary “charring light.” He extinguished the lighter and tamped gently once again, this time with his finger. Now the loon was ready for a proper lighting.

He applied the flame and drew short puffs, like his father used to do. The Davidoff and the loon did the rest.

Now this was a smoke. Richer, smoother, sweeter than he remembered his father's ever being. All the same, it was the by-product of incomplete combustion, so it made him cough and stung his eyes and throat. He puffed again and again, and gave into the seduction. The loon's eyes winked at him through the blue haze, and an orchestral version of “Rêverie” by Claude Debussy filled his brain with its glorious, sinuous melody. He sat back, breathed deeply, and let his mother's favourite musical piece waft through him. He really should give her a call.

As the orchestra played in his head, he puffed contentedly. The pipe went out twice, which was par for the course. Fiddling, re-tamping, and re-lighting were integral to the ritual. This pipe drew nicely, its smoke flowing in an effortless stream.

The Debussy lasted longer than his usual crossed-wire snippets of synesthesia, and by the time the piece had finished he'd smoked down to the dottle. He cleared the spent tobacco from the chamber and repacked it with fresh Davidoff. He set the pipe in his lap, then pecked at the keypad on the
7
-Eleven phone.

“Hi, Mum,” he said. “What's new?” She'd told everyone to stop asking her how she was doing. The short answer was that she had early lung cancer and chemotherapy wasn't such a big deal. The long answer was filled with a host of side effects, indignities, and future worries she wasn't prepared to discuss.

“Your father, he going crazy with that metal detector thing again.”

“What's he doing?”

“Walking beside road, checking ditches for stray coins and other stuff.”

“That's harmless. And, hey, he might find something valuable.”

“He look ridiculous.”

He lifted the pipe from his lap and held it in his palm. Should he tell her what he'd been doing? She wouldn't approve. But what the heck. “You know our little friend with the shiny black eyes?”