A Hummingbird Dance (23 page)

Up ahead, a flashlight waved at them. Two blue and white cruisers were parked across the highway. Oscar stopped for the officer with the flashlight.

The officer leaned to see inside the cruiser. “Who are you?” he said to Lane.

“Lane. You want us to walk from here?” Lane asked.

The officer nodded. He pointed at the side of the highway. “Park over there.”

Oscar parked on the shoulder. He took a tray of coffees from Lane. “Don't forget the Glock.”

Lane eased out with the coffees and set his tray on the hood of the car, then opened the back door, reached for the Glock, and put it on. Oscar went to talk with the officers at the cruisers, then returned.

“They're set up about fifty metres down the road. I checked with the spotters. The people on the barricade are quiet. Probably waiting for sunrise.” Oscar looked over his shoulder at the horizon, where there was a hint of purple.

Lane took one tray of coffees from Oscar and picked up the other from the hood. “Any sign of Eva?”

Oscar shook his head. “Not yet.” He went to say more and closed his mouth.

Lane walked along the highway toward the next pair of police cars. Oscar followed.

“She's my auntie. Watch out for her, will you?” Oscar looked toward the barricade.

Lane nodded. He looked at his watch and saw that it was five o'clock.

The officers at the cruisers watched the two men approach. One officer said, “The tactical unit is on its way. We're to sit tight and wait for them.”

“What's that coming this way?” Lane looked south, where three sets of headlights travelled west, parallel to the highway they stood on. Oscar and the other officers turned to watch.

Lane stepped between the grills of the cruisers blocking the highway. He followed the yellow line as the darkness deepened. He looked up. No stars or planets winked back. The darkness became so complete that he relied on his feet and ears while waiting for his eyes to adjust.

“Lane?” Oscar asked.

Lane kept walking.

Ahead, he saw the straight lines and angles of a silhouette gradually becoming a road grader parked across
the highway. In front of the grader was a mound. Lane stopped. “Eva?”

Silence.

There, as the whisper of a twig scratching up against fabric on his right. Fear grabbed for his belly. He swallowed.
What was I thinking, standing out here with eight cups of coffee in the middle of an armed standoff?
“Eva?”

“She's not here.” The matter-of-fact voice came from behind the barricade.

Hooves clattered across the pavement. Something brushed across his back and disappeared into the ditch on the left.

“What was that?” Lane's heart raced and his legs shook. He forced himself to breathe.

Another voice to his right said, “Just a deer. You startled it.”

Lane tried to slow his breathing.

The sound of engines made Lane look to his left. Three pairs of headlights bounced across an open field.

Lane could sense the tension rising around him. He stood there, holding the coffee and wishing there was a bathroom nearby.

The lights came closer. The sound of their engines made it impossible for Lane to hear what the men were doing at the barricade.
Whoever is hidden on my right probably has me in his sights
, Lane thought.

Lane could see that two of the approaching vehicles were pickup trucks and the third, with its close-set headlights, was a tractor.

The pickups stopped at the far side of the fence. Two
people climbed out of the back of one truck; a third got out of the cab and walked toward the fence.

“Hang on fellas, it's just us! We brought food.” It was a woman's voice.

Two of the women put their feet on the bottom strands of barbed wire and lifted the top wire with their hands. The third woman grunted as she bent down to step under the wire. As she stood, she turned and held the wire for the other two.

“Hang on fellas! It's me, Eva!” She walked down into the ditch, tripped, and fell to her knees.

Lane put the coffees down on the yellow line and moved to help her. She was up before he could get there.

“You okay, Eva?” another woman asked.

“Fine! Get that fence down for the backhoe!”

The women at the wire each moved to a fence post.

Lane could hear the wire complain as the women used pliers to pull rusty nails away from the wood.

Lane felt the wet of the dew at his ankles. He offered Eva his hand. She grabbed his elbow. They climbed out of the ditch.

They stepped onto the pavement.

Lane picked up the coffees. “Want a coffee?”

Eva looked in his direction. In the growing light it was possible to see the features of her face. She wore a heavy coat, a ball cap, and a smile. “‘Bout time
you
brought
me
coffee.”

Lane held the tray. She took a cup and pulled at the plastic cover. “Got more?” she whispered.

Lane nodded.

“You boys want some coffee?” Eva asked.

Silence was her answer.

“Bruce, Elliott, Everett? I know you're there. Your mother told me you three helped move Norm's grader last night. You come on out and get a coffee! You must be cold. It'll warm you up! Your mom is in the truck on the other side of the fence.” Eva lifted her coffee in greeting.

A man appeared from behind an evergreen in the ditch. Another materialized from the opposite side of the road, next to one of the women working at the fence.

Two more crawled out of the trench cut across the pavement.

Lane handed out coffees. The men cradled their weapons as they formed a circle around Eva. “Two more coffees left!” Eva said.

Another man stepped out from behind the ancient grader. He hopped over the trench. When he reached them, Eva handed him a cup.

They stood there in silence, sipping their coffees.

The engine of the backhoe belched a cloud of diesel smoke. It inched nearer to the fence. The women at the fence posts had the wire down on the ground, keeping it there with their feet as the backhoe hobbled over the uneven ground, nosed down into the ditch, then crawled up the other side and onto the pavement. The cab lights revealed a driver wearing a pink ball cap and red satin jacket.

Eva waved at the driver. “Judith! Shut it down.”

The clatter of the diesel died.

In the fresh quiet, Eva said, “We're gonna have
breakfast. Then we're gonna talk. Your mothers and aunties are in the trucks. We've been talkin'. We don't want anyone else to die. Lost Norm and Alex and four other boys. That's enough.” Eva pointed her coffee at Lane. “The policeman's here ‘cause I invited him. He's the one got shot by Norm.”

Eva waved at the pickup trucks. The engines started up and the trucks moved forward. Dipping and bouncing, they eased their way in and out of the ditch, then parked between the protesters and the police.

The woman driving one pickup opened the door and looked into the crowd. She nodded at one of the men who nodded back. Similar greetings occurred within the group of women and men.

Within five minutes the women had coolers out and more coffee. The coolers held sandwiches, muffins, bread, fried potatoes, and bacon. Paper plates were distributed. People stood alone or in groups, talking quietly while eating and sipping from coffees resting on hoods and tailgates.

Eva looked at Lane. “Come on. Get something to eat.”

Lane's phone began to vibrate. He pulled it out of his pocket. “Lane.”

“McTavish here. We've just arrived. We're wondering if you need some assistance.”

Lane looked at the faces of the men and women around him. “We're just having breakfast.”

“What?” McTavish said.

“Who's with you?” Lane asked.

“Don't worry, Stockwell is not on this detail. He's
off duty until the shooting has been investigated.” McTavish sounded insulted that Lane had even asked the question.

“At this stage, everything is fine. Give us some space. Eva's looking for a solution and it'll take time.” Lane looked east. The sun was painting the horizon red and orange. A layer of solid cloud left a gap so the sun could paint the belly of the overcast.

“Check in with me every fifteen minutes or I'll be calling you. The chief is pretty specific about that. She doesn't want anyone else hurt.” McTavish was blunt to the point of being rude.

“None of us want that.” Lane looked at the sky as the top half of the sun rose, ripe and orange. He looked at the people, could see their faces now, their teeth when one or two smiled. A mother hugged a son. A wife touched a husband's hand. Eva watched it all.

Lane thought,
There are more officers at the roadblocks, policemen putting on their body armour and checking their weapons, and scouts watching us through night vision goggles
. Someone touched his elbow. He looked to his right. Aidan offered him a sandwich.

“Egg salad. My specialty.” She sipped at her coffee and watched him over the rim of the cup.

“Thanks.” Lane unwrapped the sandwich. It was thick whole-wheat bread. There were sweet pickles in the mix with the egg. Lane was ravenous. “This tastes wonderful. I haven't had breakfast yet.”

“So, it tastes wonderful only because you haven't eaten?” Aidan asked.

Lane could swear Aidan was smiling behind the coffee cup.

“You're enjoying this.” Lane waved his sandwich in the general direction of the barricade.

She nodded. “I like to see people stick up for themselves.”

Lane looked at the rifles and shotguns leaning up against the trucks. “I'd prefer it was done without weapons.”

She pointed at his Glock. “So would I.”

“Fair enough. How come you're talking to me today?” Lane asked.

“Eva likes you. She doesn't like everybody. And I saw you try to save Norm. You didn't try to stop Eva from cutting Stockwell down to size after the bastard killed Norm.” Her voice choked at the mention of Norm's name. “And you stopped me from running into the middle of the whole mess.”

“I regret not thinking quickly enough to save Norm.” Lane looked at his coffee and sandwich.

“That's my big regret about Alex. But Alex is dead and so is Norm.” Aidan shrugged.

Lane looked around. “Maybe that's why Eva is here. One less regret.”

Aidan said, “It's time to talk. At least that's what Eva says. When she talks, people tend to listen. And most of these people have been at her sweat. They'll listen to her if they'll listen to anyone.”

Eva looked toward the barricade. “Any more fellas there?”

“Just me,” a voice said.

“Come on out. Time to talk,” Eva said.

A man stepped out from behind the barricade. He carried a rifle with a scope mounted on top. Lane saw
that it was Al from the gas station.

“Come on over, Al,” Eva said.

A woman, who Lane assumed was Al's wife, said, “Coffee's good.” She handed Al a cup when he got close enough.

Lane saw the golden eagle amulet at Al's throat, his buckskin jacket, pants, and moccasins. Over top of it all he wore a black waterproof canvas coat reaching to his heels. The coat matched the colour of his stetson. Lane looked around, studying the reactions of the First Nations people to Al's European attempt at transforming himself into an aboriginal. Most faces revealed neither distaste nor acceptance. Only one young man smiled and shook his head at Al's outfit.

Eva handed Al a sandwich and the last cup of coffee Lane had brought with him.

The sun was high enough now to hide itself behind the solid cloud cover. Their part of this world was half-lit somewhere between sunrise and sunset.

“We've got some time,” Eva said. “How much?” Eva looked at Lane. All eyes turned in his direction.

“How much do you need?” Lane asked.

“Hard to say,” Eva said.

Lane pulled out his phone, recalled the chief's number, pressed a button, and waited.

“Lane?” the chief asked.

“We need some time. Eva's got everyone together to talk,” Lane said.

“Do you trust Eva?” the chief asked.

Lane nodded. “Yes.”

“How much time do you need?”

“I'm not sure.” Lane waited.

The chief took some time to reply. “I'll get you as much time as I can. Pretty soon someone from the province will be calling me and then someone from Ottawa. The media will get wind of this if they haven't already. It'll be a circus in no time. Who knows how much time you'll have? I'll get in touch with McTavish for you. You call him in two minutes. Keep him in the loop?”

“Okay. Thanks.” Lane closed his phone and looked at Eva. “The chief of police is giving us as much time as possible. I'm not sure how much.”

Eva nodded. “Let's get started.”

Lane called McTavish. “Sit tight. We're trying to sort this thing out.”

McTavish said, “Understood.”

Lane closed his phone while nodding at Eva.

Eva sat on a tailgate at the edge of a rough circle where some leaned against the trucks, sat in lawn chairs, or stood together in pairs. She listened. The conversation flowed and ebbed as the people spoke of their issues. Some talked of the two years it took to find Alex's killers. Many wondered why Norm was killed. They asked if it were true that there were no bullets in his twenty-two rifle. Others talked of the city trying to push them off their land.

Lane watched Eva handle each issue with a nod or the one comment she repeated over and over again, “Six dead is enough.”

Every fifteen minutes, Lane called McTavish with an update. If Lane forgot, someone in the circle would remind him.

Three or four hours later one woman said, “What about the guns?”

Her son stood, lifted his shot gun, ejected the shells, and set the weapon down in the middle of the high-way. The women looked at each man in turn. In silence they waited as one man after another emptied his weapon and set it down next to a growing stockpile. An hour later, the group watched Al as he cradled his weapon in his arms, refusing to meet any of the eyes aimed at him.