Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island (4 page)

“Maybe.”

“Derek couldn't make anybody mad.”

“I don't know, Timmy. I just don't know.”

At West Road they turned right onto Heriot Bay Road. A couple of hundred meters along, at the school Tim had gone to all his life until last year, they turned right again, passing the Village Square and Niko's Sushi Bar and Grill, great restaurant once, closed now—Tim hadn't cared for the sushi but the steaks were great—and on to Q-Cove Plaza. Jason parked in front of the Drugmart, jumped out, went inside, came back in less than a minute with the
Mirror
. Tim noticed his father check his watch before climbing in behind the wheel.

Jason started the engine and winked at Tim. “Plenty of time.”

They drove downhill to the ferry line-up, the
Powell River Queen
there already. Two and a half rows of cars ahead of them—not that many, usually more on a summer morning. The 8:00 and the 9:00 would've likely been overloads, Tim figured, maybe the 11:00 too—Oh, but they were already loading. Maybe they wouldn't get on? Damn!

“We're fine,” said Jason.

Was Tim that readable? He wished he could be more secretive. He wished he could see into the future. Heck, he'd settle for seeing the past—to see what happened out where Derek got beaten up. And why. Maybe if he could figure out why he'd learn who.

•  •  •

He'd done everything right and it felt good. Almost as good now as actually doing it. He sat in the big chair and realized he was smiling again. Even after three weeks he still felt, in his hands and arms, a bit of the satisfaction. Kid was a big shot, bruiser hockey player type, thought he could handle himself. But no, didn't happen, not against him and his bat. Did that ever feel weird, good kind of weird like he was born for it, bashing the kid with the bat, way the wood went slap into soft skin and flesh, hard where it hit bone. He could feel the rib-cage cracks happening, plunk of the bat and a little pop fly fell in safe right between the ribs, crack of the bat at the forearm and thigh and the breaks were sharp singles, then a coupla doubles, clean into the outfield, out to the warning track—that was good, warning track—and that big swing when he got the kid in the head it had to be a heavy-duty man-alive home run—over the fence, into the woods, outta there.

And hey, he'd watch the exchange, grass for cash, seven thou, who'd'a guessed the kid coulda got that out of them. Seven thou that didn't have to be reported. And specially not to the boss. Seven thou, no sharing. Who'd'a thought. Well, six now that Charlie had taken that pot.

He snapped open the can and drank down half the beer. Holy delicious on a hot day, best thing in the world. He'd kinda like to do it again, with a bat like that. Not the same bat, that bat was ashes now. Burned, just like the boss would want it. Had to burn his T-shirt and jeans too, good thing he'd brought others, but not the shoes, they were clean. Lotsa blood on the bat. And inside the plastic bag he'd stuck it in, after. Woulda looked funny, anybody saw him hiking through the woods, baseball bat in his hands. Hey, you got a bat? won't find no pitchers here! Smart, bagging the bat. And the mask. Musta looked weird to the kid, seeing a pink bear. Look out for the bear swinging the bat! Except nobody saw him. Only the kid with the seven thou. Friggin' pink bear in the woods. The bat and the mask, ashes to ashes. If he ever got to do all that again, he'd need a new bat. Mask too—different mask. He had lots of masks.

He finished the beer and went inside. Another beer and a pack of cards. Waiting to see what was dealt, figuring how to make it work for you. Any kind of gambling for that matter. And with that seven thou he'd been able to pay off half his gambling debts. Hah!

He sipped beer and belched. Nothing much to do till the boss started talking about all the problems, the boss'd sure do that. Soon, too. Figure how to solve the problems, yeah. He wondered what it'd be next. He mixed the cards three times, put the pack down on the table, and cut it once. Placed the lower half on top of the upper. Set up for solitaire—good draw: black king, red seven, ace of hearts, the two red deuces, red queen, six of spades. He sipped his beer. Time for the ferry, the evening at Saddleman's, always a few guys there ready for a game. He finished his beer, cleaned up the front of the cabin, washed his face and hands, water-combed his brown hair flat down to his ears, and set out for the afternoon chores.

Two cars pulled onto the
Powell River Queen
behind Jason Cooper's Corolla. There was still room for one more. “See?” said Jason. “We got on.”

One tall and one stocky ferry worker waited till exactly noon. Tall slid the guard across the rear of the ship while Stocky pressed the button on an electronic switch that raised the last three feet of the steel boarding ramp to create a protective barrier. Slowly the ferry pulled away from the dock. Out of Quathiaski Cove and into the burbling water of Discovery Passage.

Tim left the car and stood in the rear, in warm sun. He looked back at the island he left every day to get to his new school, Timberline High, attached to North Island College. His island was a good place to come back to, afternoons or early evenings, depending on whether there was hockey practice. Usually he rode his bike that his parents had bought after he'd grown seven inches last year. If Derek was driving to college he'd throw the bike on the truck for the trip home—sometimes Derek stayed in town with his girlfriend. Shane used to ride with Derek until he went to Vancouver to train for Juniors with the great Carl Certane, a silver and a gold at the 1988 Calgary Olympics, a bronze and a gold in Albertville in 1992. When Shane left home, the Coopers, each in their way, cheered him on while finding themselves saddened (Jason), devastated (Linda), jealous (Derek), or abandoned and relieved (Tim).

Now Tim watched Quadra Island recede, the powerful wake of the ferry cutting across the churning water of the passage at an acute angle. Tim loved living on Quadra. Walk in the woods with his family or by himself, plan with his father the future of the woodlot, read in their living room by the fire in the winter, on the deck in the summer. He'd made some good friends at Timberline, liked half the guys on the hockey team, still got along with most of the kids he'd grown up with. But a lot of the time he enjoyed hanging out at home by himself.

Except for the last three weeks. Without Derek it felt a lot less like home. Shane had come back four days after the attack on Derek. But not for his brother. It wasn't a holiday for Shane; the technicians had re-iced the smaller rink at the Campbell River arena and he had been using it every day. Having won gold last winter at Juniors meant he got
carte blanche
from the rink. Quadra and Campbell River each claimed him as its own.

In the past weeks he'd been a black presence, brooding or in a constant twitch—Jason, Linda and Tim at first hoping it was on account of Derek. Wrong. It had become clear that Shane was obsessed with Shane—his status, his need to get back to training and practice. Moving up to Seniors meant he had to work even harder, as he'd explained. Not that Shane didn't care about Derek's condition, but they knew Derek's coma was only a secondary cause of Shane's agitation.

Tim loved watching Shane skate. He remembered Shane's first double axel when he was eleven, and his first triple in the short program at the Juniors two years back—Tim felt as if the jump/spin had lasted a full minute because it seemed he'd held his breath that long. Shane in a simulated tuxedo had been a miracle of moving perfection. And he would be again. If he didn't fall when there was no reason to. But that'd never happen again. It couldn't.

The ferry slowed as it approached the Campbell River dock. Tim ambled back to the car and found Jason reading his paper. “Anything exciting?”

“Another land settlement up north,” said Jason.

“Zeke's going to be pleased.”

“Or really ticked off at how slow it's going here.” Ezekiel Pete and Jason Cooper had played and fought together all the way through elementary school, had fallen out of contact with each other when Jason's parents divorced and his father had taken him to Vancouver, way better schooling there than he'd get in Campbell River, his father had insisted; and besides, Jason's mother, Sue, was taking up with Richard, like her a member of the Cape Mudge Band. Zeke and Jason re-met summers when he came back to Quadra from the University of Victoria; they formed a friendship stronger than the one they'd left behind. Jason rediscovered his love of the land his mother had left him when she died of cancer, Jason only fifteen. Halfway through UVic he'd changed his major from engineering to environmental studies, and after his degree had gone to BCIT for a certificate in silviculture. With no immediate profession and little income from part-time forestry jobs, he decided to live on Quadra in the old farmhouse that he fixed up for himself. And soon after, for himself and Linda. Zeke Pete was his best man, even if, as Zeke liked to joke, half of Jason's blood was that thin pallid stuff—“Too many white blood cells there, Jason”—one of Zeke's beloved lines. Zeke was one of the Cape Mudge Band's chief negotiators trying to move toward settlement, hoping to transform the reserve into the tribal land it had once been. Now Jason added, “But it'll help Zeke put more pressure on.”

The barrier lowered. The row of cars beside theirs rolled off the ferry. A minute later car brake lights in their lane went red, Jason started the Corolla, and in five seconds they too were driving off. They took 9th Avenue up to Dogwood, turned left, and headed up the hill to the rink. Jason pulled across the oncoming lane into a parking lot. A perfect summer day, the air clean as rainwater. Tim stared at the mountains across on the mainland, crests of snow above brown and green layers, a child's icing colors, as they rose hard-edged against any encroachment on BC's interior.

The façade of Strathcona Gardens, the sports complex, featured two green pipes about a meter in diameter: water slides for the indoor swimming pools. The larger of the two ice rinks had once been the venue for the Junior Women's Hockey World Finals, its ice of professional quality. When Shane had begun figure skating, he'd been one of only two boys who'd taken lessons. Of course they'd both been teased, Queers! Girly-boys! Faggots! The other boy had dropped out. One day, before that first triple axel, three guys attacked him after practice but by then Shane had grown so powerful he'd beaten their faces in. After the first triple axel the thunderous applause was a warning to anybody who'd ever think about challenging Shane again. Outside the rink, anyway.

They pushed open the big glass door, glanced through more glass at men and women swimming laps, and carried on past the information desk: “Hi Coopers!” This from Kay, the cheery large young woman. Tim reckoned she knew him and his father in their own right, but Shane's fame reflected off anyone in his family. They pushed open the door, felt the icy blast, walked past the big rink over to the smaller one. No Shane.

The Zamboni made its cleaning rounds, growling softly as it dragged the conditioner. Driving the Zamboni was the legendary T. Shorty Barlow—as Shorty called himself. He was a tall skinny man, maybe late thirties, maybe early fifties. Standing between tank and conditioner, he called out, “Heya Timeee!” and brought the Zamboni over to the rim of the rink by Tim and Jason.

“Heya, Shorteee!” yelled Tim. The only person outside the family he accepted calling him Timmy.

“Good to see ya.” T. Shorty's blue eyes blinked, exaggerating the crow's feet that stretched to his ears. He might be grinning except under his walrus mustache it was hard to say. “Gonna look good on the team again, kiddo?”

Tim said, “Gonna try.”

“Hey, can you believe this new machine I've got? Electric, like the Montreal Canadiens have. Plug it in overnight and you're home free.”

“Nice, Shorty” Jason said. “Glad to see you. Shane around?”

“Yeah, he was out here. He's with Osborne. How's Derek?”

“The same. Just going over to see him.”

“Damn effin' dreadful thing.” Shorty pointed to the office. “Shane's in there.”

•  •  •

The office door stood ajar. Tim heard heightened whispers. Jason knocked. Silence, then the door opened wide.

Shane said, “Hi Dad, hi Tim.” As tall as his father and younger brother, short brown hair, red shirt, khakis and sandals, Shane carried himself like a young man who usually owned the space he walked in but today only rented it. His face, despite its smile, looked strained. “Come on in. Austin's here.”

Half sitting on the desk, Austin Osborne, Shane's guide and sponsor. White-blond hair, handsome face, eyes green, tennis shirt, khakis, running shoes. Osborne stood. “Hey Jason.” They shook hands. “Hello Timmy.”

“Hello.” Damn him.
Timmy
was reserved for family and Shorty.

“Hello Austin,” said Jason. “Didn't know you were in town.”

“Just arrived and headed here, see if Shane was skating. I lucked out.” A grin to Shane. “He looked great. Smo—king, that's what he was, Jason, king of the smoke.”

Tim felt his usual relief around Austin: Shane had to deal with him, not Tim. He'd known Austin for four years, since Austin had offered to act as Shane's sponsor, covering his training and competition expenses. Shane would never have come this far without Austin, not on what their mother made as a nurse, not on what the woodlot brought in. He'd overheard his parents: how would they repay Austin. But it was impossible because Austin had made it clear all he wanted was to support a great talent. He heard his father whisper, Twenty-five thousand a year, Linda. Costumes alone cost over four thousand.

Austin was saying, “. . . no leads, no suspects?”

Jason said, “Mounties are at it. Dorothy said she'd keep me informed.”

“If there's anything I can do—”