The Vanishing Track (22 page)

“Maybe I could take our friend back to the Centre and get him something to eat?”

The younger police officer regarded Sean coolly.

The older man said, “Look, George, you need to stay away from here, okay? The Lucky Strike is off limits. You can't come back here.” Then he looked at Sean. “You're from the Carnegie Centre?”

“Yup,” said Sean affably.

“You must be new.”

“First week. I'm still learning the ropes.”

“Okay. Well, take good care of George. He's had a tough go of it,” said the older cop.

“Don't worry, officer,” said Sean. “I will. I'll make all the necessary arrangements.”

Sean walked side by side with The Indian down the street. “It's your lucky day,” he said.

“Really?” asked The Indian.

“Sure is.”

“How do you figure? Them cops come tell me I can't sit there no more. I don't know where else to go. I got problems, you know. Problems with my brain.” The Indian tapped his head. “How you figure it's my lucky day?”

“Because you met me. I'm going to make some arrangements. You'll see. Everything is going to be just fine. You're in good hands now.”

The Indian stopped in the street, smiling at Sean. “Wow, thank you,” he said, and reached over and hugged Sean. Sean let himself be embraced. He felt a wave of nausea as he breathed in The Indian's rank odor—a course mixture of stale beer, body odor, and garbage.

Sean pulled himself away. “Okay, let's get going here.” He forced a smile.

“Ain't we going to the Centre? That's what you told them cops.”

“No, I've got something even better in mind. You see, I've got a shelter that I'm running in conjunction with the Carnegie folks. It's quiet. It's safe. Nobody is going to try to take your stuff. Nobody screaming all the time. You can have lunch with me, and then you can have a shower and make yourself at home. How does that sound?”

“Too good to be true,” said The Indian, stumbling a little as he looked at Sean.

“It's true. You'll see.”

“We going to take the bus?”

“Nope, I got a car. Just up ahead.”

They stopped next to a Ford Fiesta parked in front of a laundromat. Sean slipped off his pack and rummaged inside. From the jumbled contents of his pack he took a shim that he had lifted from a tow truck the day before. He slipped it in the door and quickly popped the lock.

“You stealing this car?” The Indian asked.

“No, don't be silly,” said Sean with a ready smile. “I lost my keys and the dealer is taking their time cutting me another set. Hop in,” he said, reaching across to open the passenger door from the inside.

The Indian sat down next to Sean.

Sean fiddled with the wires until the car started.

“You ain't got a second set of keys?”

“Girlfriend flushed them down the toilet,” he smirked.

“Wow, that's really sad,” said The Indian, his smile fading.

They drove down Cordova to where it dog-legged onto Franklin. Sean almost missed the turn and ran a red light at Hastings.

“Holy cow, be careful, man. You're going to get us killed.”

Adrenaline coursed through Sean's body. His heart was racing. He felt hot on the inside, but cool and calm on the outside. He was having a blast.

“This is the place,” he said, stopping the car briefly on the road outside of Juliet Rose's house. “The little shelter is around back,” he said. “I've got a parking spot up around the corner.”

They drove a block up the road. Sean took the corner so fast that The Indian was pressed against the door of the car. Sean drove another block and then nosed down an alley. He parked the car behind a minivan next to a tumbledown garage. “Here we go,” he said cheerfully. “Watch your head there,” he added as The Indian got out of the tiny car.

“Wow, man, you're quite the driver. Why you gotta park so far from where you live?”

“Just stupid community association rules,” Sean quipped.

They walked the two blocks back to Juliet's house, and Sean led the man along the side of the building. “Come on around back, I'll show you.” The neighborhood was quiet at midday. A few birds sung in the thick hedge that separated the house from its neighbors.

Sean led The Indian down the concrete stairs that ran along the back of the house. Sean was careful to stay collected.

“Nice place,” said The Indian, looking up at the old home. Sean showed him where the steps descended into the concrete bunker.

“Yeah, I've owned it for three or four years now,” said Sean as they went down the steps.

“What is this, like, some kind of double basement?”

“Something like that.” Sean pulled the key to the new padlock from his pocket and opened the door. He reached in and flicked the ancient switch. The dim forty-watt bulb hanging in the middle of the square bunker came on, pushing the dark shadows back into the corners.

“Seems like a strange place for a shelter.”

“Doesn't it, though?” said Sean. “I know this seems kinda weird, but wait till you see where you get to sleep tonight!” Sean closed the door behind them and they passed through the outer room. At the far wall he pushed open a door that lead to another set of stairs. At the bottom a third door led to the inner room. Its fifty-year-old hinges glided smoothly, as if they had been oiled the day before.

Sean fumbled for the light switch. The Indian stayed close to Sean. The lights flickered on; pale, and covered in cobwebs, the three fluorescent bands illuminated a sparse, nearly empty space. Four folding metal chairs lined one wall, and in the center of the gray room a chain hung from a D-ring in the ceiling. A heavy meat hook dangled from the chain. As The Indian stared around him, puzzled, Sean pushed the door closed. Then he pulled on the stained white smock from his pack.

“What the fuck . . . ?” The Indian said, his face ashen, and he turned to try the heavy door.

Sean reached swiftly into his open pack and drew out the come-along, then smoothly swung it in a neat arc toward the man's head, connecting with the skull just below and behind the ear. The Indian took two steps sideways, his eyes glazing over, and then he fell to the floor in a heap. Sean stepped forward, the come-along hanging from one hand. He pushed The Indian with the toe of his shoe. No response. Keeping his weapon at his side, he felt for a pulse at the neck.

“Oh, good,” he said flatly. “You're alive. Now, let's see what kind of fun we can have.”

WHEN SEAN WAS
seven he visited his grandfather in London and found the man's journal of his internment in a Japanese
POW
camp. He had stolen the journal and read it many times. He learned a great deal from studying it. It proved useful during Sean's second stint in Juvie, when he was locked up for stealing his neighbor's cat and setting it on fire. There he met Paul, a half-witted bully who had nearly beaten a clerk to death for kicking Paul and his friends out of a convenience store for loitering.

Paul was the perfect sidekick for Sean's stay in Juvie. One of their projects had been a boy named Martin Obeg.

“Mind if we join you?” asked Sean congenially, as he and Paul sat down next to the boy in the common room. Martin looked up from his comic book, his pale eyes not registering any strength of feeling. He shrugged.

“Martin, we propose a little experiment. Like a science experiment. We're doing research, see? We're going to see how much pain you can handle without making a sound. Paul here is going to hold onto your arm, and I'm going to pull your fingernails out with these pliers,” said Sean calmly, placing a set of pilfered pliers on the table where Martin could see them.

“Your part in this is to keep your mouth shut while we do this. If you don't, Paul here is going to kill you. Does that make sense, Martin?” Martin's gaze moved from Sean to Paul and down to the pliers.

SEAN NEEDED TO
wash up before dinner. He locked the door behind him and walked slowly up the stairs into the backyard, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that the door to the bunker looked as it had when he first saw it. Everything seemed in order. His smock and the come-along were tucked safely in his pack.

Juliet had shown him where she hid the spare key, so he made his way into the house and to the bathroom. She had laid out a towel and facecloth for him. First he washed his hands in the sink, the water running red, then clear. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. He stood there for a long time, letting the hot water rinse the blood from his face and neck and arms and down the drain. As he showered, he considered what he would cook his hosts for dinner that night.

COLE BLACKWATER WOKE ON FRIDAY
morning with a headache and a wrench in his neck that felt as though it would hobble him for a month. It had been two days since the attack in the back alley. He turned on the shower, and in a moment the room was filled with steam. He pressed one hand against the wall and felt the water cascade over his back and down his chest and legs. He let his head hang, his hair dripping into his face, eyes closed against the light of day.

He found himself humming as the water poured over him. He mumbled a few tattered lines of a Moby song: “Why does my heart feel so bad? Why does my soul feel so bad?”

Why indeed? Why go on fighting this way? he found himself thinking. He hadn't slept a full night in two months. His nightmares had abated the last two nights, but only because he'd been beaten nearly unconscious in a dark alley. He still had no idea who his masked assailants were.

And if Denman hadn't arrived on the scene when he did, Cole Blackwater would be a troublesome but quickly forgotten memory on God's green earth, he reflected.

Had he really been beaten so badly? Or had he simply given up?

He turned the shower off, took a towel from the rack, and dried himself with slow movements. After he dressed, he picked up the
Vancouver Sun
from his doorstep. He brewed coffee, and in the half light of dawn, opened the paper. On page three was Nancy Webber's scathing indictment of the Vancouver Police Department's handling of both the Lucky Strike raid and the disappearance of two men and two women from the Downtown Eastside.

She had written an opinion piece for the editorial page, which closed with a couple of pointed questions:

If four people were missing from Point Grey or the West End, would the Vancouver Police Department be taking their disappearances more seriously? If the Lucky Strike Hotel had been occupied by protestors wearing suits, objecting to its conversion from luxury condos to a single-room-occupancy hotel, would the police have tear-gassed them? The City of Vancouver and the
VPD
have made clear, with their words and their actions, which of its citizenry it favors.

Cole put the paper down and smiled for the first time in two days.

COLE MET DENMAN
on the corner of Hastings and Main. Instead of going straight to the Priority Legal offices, they walked two blocks to Oppenheimer Park.

“What's this all about?” Cole asked as they strolled to the center of the ball diamond.

“Working the kinks out.”

“Here?” said Cole, looking around self-consciously.

They stopped. Denman took note of the two dozen homeless men and woman who had slept in the park overnight and were slowly rising with the sun. He said, “You really think some tai chi is going to make you stand out
here
?”

Forty minutes later they continued on their way to the Priority Legal offices, fresh coffees in hand. “We've got to regroup after the Lucky Strike raid,” said Cole, rolling his shoulders, feeling them loosen. “We've got the media on our side now. The cops finally stepped over the line. We've got to use this goodwill to build a wave of public support for a comprehensive plan to end homelessness in this city once and for all.”

“How are your shoulders?”

Cole stopped his shrugging and looked sideways at Denman. “Okay, so the tai chi is working. And the three homeless dudes who joined in were a nice touch.”

THE “USUAL SUSPECTS”
is how Cole referred to the conglomeration of activists assembled at Priority Legal when Denman and Cole arrived. Beatta Nowak from the Downtown Eastside Community Advocacy Society was prominent among them, sitting at the end of the boardroom table, a cluster of reports and newspapers around her. Half a dozen other activists from the Advocacy Society occupied the chairs lining the wall behind her.

Francine Lanqois from the Carnegie Centre was in the room, as were representatives from a score of other non-profit organizations serving the homeless in the Downtown Eastside. The room was close and smelled of nervous sweat.

Denman introduced Cole. “We're going to talk strategy and communications for the next hour or so, and I've asked Cole to add his thoughts.”

“The End Poverty Now Coalition is talking about retaliation,” said Francine. “There's talk of occupying the mayor's or the chief constable's office.”

“I'm not going to be able to help them if they do that,” said Denman. “There's only so much this office can do. I don't think I can help them out if they take over City Hall.”

“I'll pass it on,” said Francine.

“It's not a bad strategy . . .” said Nowak.

“The problem is that the cycle never ends,” said Denman. “They try to occupy City Hall, or the police chief's office, and
VPD
then has to use force to put a stop to it, citing concerns over anarchy in the streets. So then what do they do for an encore?”

“But it gets people's attention,” said a young man sitting with Beatta.

“Yeah, nothing else seems to!” said a woman to their left.

“Our groups need to find a place, somewhere between the Salvation Army on one side and the End Poverty Now Coalition on the other, where we can push hard for a solution without all ending up in jail,” said Denamn. “Cole, what do you think?” Denman turned to Cole.