A Hummingbird Dance (16 page)

It took ten minutes to get to the opening in the chain link fence. Matt was thirty metres ahead. The evening sun was casting shadows. Lane watched Matt step inside the off-leash area and lean down.

“Wait!” Lane said.

Matt released the dog, looked back at Lane and shrugged.

“Don't worry,” Christine patted her uncle's shoulder, “she never lets you out of her sight. Just like Matt and me.”

Lane looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“We like to keep you around. Know where you are. We're strays, just like Roz.” Christine squeezed his shoulder.

To Lane, the touch of her hand felt like a benediction. He went to answer her and found he could not.

In the evening light, Roz's tail revealed the gold under the black when she ran to the top of the hill. She disappeared over the crest.

Lane and Christine caught up to Matt, who was bent double in an effort to catch his breath. He stood up and looked at Christine. “Did you tell him?”

“I will when I'm ready!” Christine marched ahead, her spine suddenly stiff with anger.

Above her, Roz poked her head over the crest of the hill, saw that they were following and disappeared.

“What are you talking about?” Lane asked.

“Christine wanted to talk to you about stuff.” Matt walked a metre or two behind Lane as they walked up the gravel pathway. On either side there was tough, blue-grey prairie grass. Lane reached the top of the first hill.

“Stuff?” Lane thought,
How come it's so easy to get into all kinds of trouble?

“You know. Paradise. You getting shot at. Arthur. All that stuff.” Matt reached the top where a valley and larger hill greeted them. Ahead, Christine ran up the
second hill while Roz sniffed at a bush before running up to another.

A jackrabbit hopped out of the brush ahead of the dog. The grey-tan rabbit stopped and stood on its hind legs. Roz looked at the rabbit and barked once. The rabbit launched itself up the next hill.

Dust puffed up behind Roz as she gave chase. Christine screamed something unintelligible and ran faster.

“Roz!” Lane ran after the dog thinking of the hole in the fence below the hill where a construction crew worked along the edge of four lanes of freeway.

Christine disappeared over the top of the second hill.

Lane reached the crest about thirty seconds later with Matt about three strides behind.

They stopped and looked down. The angle was almost too steep to travel down. A zigzag trail traversed the eastern slope. Christine was sliding straight down on her backside, trailing a cloud of dust. Below, a yellow backhoe scooped earth from a hole and dumped it into the back of a dump truck.

Roz tried to cut inside of the arc of the turning jackrabbit. It zipped between the backhoe and truck. Roz lost her footing and tumbled. The backhoe emptied its bucket into the back of the truck. Lane heard Christine's scream snuffed by the
whump
of soil and rock hitting the truck's metal box.

A cloud of dust rose up and swirled around the truck. Christine was on her feet and running. Lane watched her disappear into the cloud.

It took time for Lane and Matt to make their way
to the bottom. The operator had stopped the backhoe. The driver was out of his truck. Lane and Matt rounded the front of the truck. Sound was smothered by the idling diesels.

The truck driver was on his hands and knees at the edge of the hole. He reached down. His hand disappeared. He lifted Roz out of the hole by her collar. When he set her down, she shook the dust off her coat.

The driver reached down a second time. He pulled Christine out of the hole. She sat on the lip with her back facing them. Abruptly, she swung her legs around to get both feet underneath her.

As she leaned forward, the dog came over and licked her face. Christine wiped her face with the back of her hand. A smear of mud reached from her right eye to her ear.

The truck driver was the first to laugh.

Matt was the second.

Lane couldn't decide if he was laughing from relief or something else altogether.

After a few minutes, they followed the dog along a gentler slope that would eventually lead them back to where they started.

Even Roz stopped at the top. Her tongue hung out and she lay down with her belly against the cool grass. Matt rubbed her neck.

Lane looked back. The downtown towers stood above the expanse of urban forest.

“Did you ever meet my dad?” Christine asked.

“Twice.” Lane turned to study her eyes. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Matt watching them.

“Will you tell me the truth?” Christine blinked.

“Yes.” Lane watched her eyes filling with tears.

“What was he like?”

“He was married and his wife was expecting a child. Your mother got in touch with him when she found out she was pregnant with you, but it didn't go well.”

“Well?” Christine wiped at her eyes, creating more muddy smudges.

“He was a football player.”

“And?”

Lane took a breath. “When your mother talked to him, he denied that he was the father.”

“Oh.” Christine looked over the city. Roz got up and put her head in Christine's lap. “Are you going to be around much longer?”

Lane looked at Matt and then back at Christine. “I'm here. I don't plan on going anywhere.”

“But you got shot,” Matt said. “And Arthur cries when you go to work.” Christine looked up at her uncle.

Lane opened his mouth to reply and closed it.
How do I answer this one?
“Are you two coming to the rodeo with us?”

“Are you going to be there?” Christine and Matt asked at the same time.

“Yes.” Lane looked at each of them in turn.

“What the hell happened to you?” Arthur stood at the back door. Christine sat in a lawn chair to empty dirt from her shoes.

“She fell in a hole,” Matt said.

Christine glared at Matt.

“You what?” Arthur stood next to Christine and picked a piece of dirt from her hair.

“I was looking for Roz, and I fell in.” Christine looked up at Arthur.

He saw the streak of mud along her cheek. Arthur looked at the dog. “You both need a bath.”

Roz howled when Christine took the dog into the shower. Matt waited outside the downstairs bathroom door with towels to catch and dry a reluctant Roz.

The soothing scent of chicken, ginger, sesame oil, and lemon still filled the kitchen where Lane and Arthur waited.

Arthur poured boiling water into the tea pot. “The kids told me you're worried.” Lane set the fourth tea cup down.

“We've had a hell of a year. My sister died. And everything else that's happened. Of course I'm worried.” Arthur set the tea pot on a ceramic hot plate in the center of the table. The scent of mint mixed with the others.

“Can we go to the rodeo?” Lane smiled.

“You'd better be there.” Arthur unplugged the kettle.

The door of the bathroom opened. There was the sound of Roz's nails slipping on hardwood.

“Roz!” Matt said.

The dog ran up to the top of the stairs, entered the kitchen, looked at Lane and Arthur, then shook the water off her back. It splattered the front of the fridge and Lane as he bent to grab Roz.

Arthur opened the door to the deck. Roz scooted outside.

Lane grabbed a tea towel and wiped his face. Then he used it to wipe the fridge and the floor.

“You'd better be there,” Arthur said.

Lane looked at his partner. “Count on it.”

“What did you call me?!” Matt's voice was accented with outrage.

“A cripple!” Christine said.

“Don't you ever call me that again!” Matt said.

“Then stop callin' me a bitch!” Christine said.

Arthur and Lane looked at one another as if to say, “Here we go again.”

Lane moved to the top of the stairs.

“Keep your clothes on. We're saving that for the next major emergency,” Arthur said.

Lane turned.

Arthur offered a wan smile.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 10

“Fibre wants to see us.” Harper drove along Parkdale Boulevard. Joggers and cyclists raced along the pathway between the boulevard and the river. Lane saw two cyclists exchange insults as they passed one another. One ran off the path, hit a low spot in the grass, and went over his handlebars. The other looked over his shoulder, laughing, and promptly disappeared into an evergreen tree.

“There's something you don't see every day,” Lane said.

“What?” Harper turned right and up the hill to the hospital.

Lane thought about the way Fibre liked to keep his office cool all year round. “I should have brought warmer clothing.”

They found Dr. Colin “Fibre” Weaver waiting for them, wearing a grey tweed jacket, white shirt, and khaki tie. Fibre was pouring over a file in a room with two computers. The room shone with cool air, sparkling metal furniture, spotless glass, and a single filing cabinet. The only paper on the desk was in a manila folder.

Fibre looked up, checked his watch, and did not shake hands. “There have been some unusual findings.”

Harper closed the door and sat next to Lane.

“Go ahead.” Lane felt the cold vinyl against his back and legs.

“First off.” Fibre closed the folder. “The bullets are a match. Ballistics confirms this. The bullet that wounded you, Detective Lane, was fired from the same weapon that killed Blake Rogers. Both are .22 calibre.” Fibre spoke in a monotone and looked at an invisible point between Harper and Lane.

Harper shrugged as if to say, “Tell us something new.”

“The bullets from Mr. Rogers' weapon are a match with the ones we found in the exterior walls and roof of his house. Also, the angles and patterns of penetration in your damaged vehicle follow the pattern on Mr. Rogers' house. The first shots were near target and subsequent rounds went high. Which, as it turns out, was quite fortunate for the two of you, since his
weapon fired large rounds with far greater velocity.” Fibre took a breath.

“So you're saying that Blake was a poor shot, and the person who killed him was not,” Harper said.

“Person or persons. I try not to make any assumptions whatsoever.” Fibre made momentary eye contact with Harper.

Harper made no attempt to hide his frustration. “None of this is news to us.”

Fibre smiled.

Lane and Harper looked at one another. If Fibre had stood on his desk and danced, they would have been less shocked.

“At the same time, some fascinating evidence was gathered at the scene where the remains of the deceased dog were unearthed at Blake Rogers' acreage.” Fibre turned in his chair.

Lane and Harper leaned forward.

Fibre looked out the window.

Lane thought,
This could go on all day
. “I'm sure Detective Harper meant no offense by his remark.”

Fibre turned back. “I apologize,” Harper said.

Fibre's face remained blank. “Human and canine blood were removed from the baseball bat. The human blood type matched Mr. Lombardi. The human hair found on the bat was also consistent with Mr. Lombardi's hair. We are presently awaiting
DNA
results. It appears the bat I found was the murder weapon.” Fibre leaned back in his chair. His arms windmilled as he leaned back a bit too far. For a moment, Fibre was on the edge of going backwards over the chair.
He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk, and checked to see if Lane or Harper had noticed the near disaster.

“That
is
new.” Harper kept a straight face.

“Anything else?” Lane asked.

“Fingerprints matching those of Mr. Blake Rogers were found on the wooden handle.” Fibre adopted a pose which could only be called self-satisfied.

“That is news. Were there any other findings?” Lane asked as he stood.

“Our team continues to examine evidence from the house. We'll keep you informed.” Fibre turned and looked out the window.

“Very impressive work, Colin,” Lane said.

“Of course.” Fibre waved his hand without turning around.

Lane and Harper walked out. In the elevator, Harper raised his eyebrows.

Lane shook his head.
We need to wait until we're in the car
, he thought.

It took five minutes to get back to the car.

“Okay.” Harper put the key in the ignition. “What?”

“Fibre's just wacky enough to bug the elevator, that's all.” Lane put on his seatbelt.

“So what if he does?” Harper turned on the engine and slipped the transmission into drive.

“He's a valuable source of information. I don't want to offend him.”

“You're afraid I'm gonna open my mouth and piss him off?” Harper braked for traffic. He turned down the hill and headed for the river valley.

“Yes.” Lane looked across the river at the trees on the bluff.

“Do you want to know more about the land claim?” Harper guided the car around a descending curve in the road.

“There's a coffee shop right around the corner.”

“Why did I know you were gonna say that?” Harper smiled.

After ordering coffee, they found a seat at one end of the café, close to a window.

“So, what did you find out?” Lane asked.

“It's more complicated than I thought. You see, the land Blake Rogers lived on has been in his family for nearly one hundred years. One of his ancestors was the minister who worked on the Sarcee Reserve — that's what it was called before T'suu T'ina Nation — and he was deeded the land.”

“Here you are.” The waiter slid their coffees onto the table.

“Thanks,” Lane said.

Harper took a careful sip, smiled and took another. “You've done it again! This is great coffee. How do you find these places?”

“You were saying?” Lane took a sip of his mochachino and wore a mustache of whipped cream.