Читать книгу Lake on the Mountain - Jeffrey Round - Страница 6

He was late again. It was the third time that week. His son was waiting on the corner outside the dry cleaners, chomping on the yellow crescent of a meat patty and still wearing his team uniform. Dan pulled over and sat by the curb, watching. A smattering of graffiti ran across the brick, swirls and squiggles approaching letters, black on white on red. Nothing actually intelligible except for the cryptic rendering Babb 2. But no Babb 1. Did graffiti artists disdain the sequential? He watched Ked push against the wall with one foot — the Jordan Spiz’ikes that cost more than any shoe Dan had worn at that age — then lean into the brick again. Push away and in, push away and in. It took on a rhythm.

Ked was with the same black kid from the other day — the one Dan had come to think of as the “ruffian.” His mind took in outward impressions: skinny face, weird hair, baggy clothes. A low waistband revealed the ruffled edge of blue-grey checkered boxers. At least the boy’s jeans were high enough, if he needed to run. What was it with teenagers and those freaking hoodies? They looked like ghouls roaming the streets, especially after dark.

The ruffian’s face was set on neutral. No expression of defiance or curiosity. Certainly no joy. Did that spell devious or repressed? Usually Dan got a feel for kids, but this one gave few clues. He seemed almost catatonic — no junky twitches, no arrogant swagger. It was unnatural.

Dan’s training taught him people were composites — aggregates of personalities, upbringings, social milieux. First you looked at the whole and then took in the details one at a time. Being a father confirmed it. You never knew who carried the knife and who might turn out to be a Rhodes Scholar. In this neighbourhood, sometimes the same kid filled both roles. Blue collar workers and artsy boho types eager to be near the film studios lived side by side with the new immigrants who thought they’d found Easy Street. A brave new world of 24-hour convenience stores, tenth-hand junk shops, and self-pumping gas stations, with guaranteed lifetime positions as parking lot attendants, fast food servers, and dollar store cashiers. Roll up, roll up — be the next ethnicity on the block to inhabit this ragtag, burnt-end-of-the-candle cul de sac. A new underclass of hirelings for the least-wanted jobs.

The old Canadians knew they lived in a ghetto at the bottom of Leslieville that held gold for a few, but fool’s gold for most. Trapped between the uptight New Agers of Riverdale and the monochromatic, mostly-white enclave known as the Beach (And don’t call it the Beaches! residents chided), theirs was the forgotten neighbourhood. Above and to the north, Greek and Muslim communities stretched along Danforth Avenue in uneasy communion. To the south there was industry, water filtration plants, and the decay-ridden stench of Lake Ontario.

Ked said something to the other boy, who responded with a gentle upturning at the edges of his mouth. Ah! He was shy, then. Or possibly enamoured of his son. Dan thought about the drink he’d be having at home and the files tucked into his case waiting to be unpacked. He honked.

Ked looked over and said something to the other kid. Hands gestured in teen-speak. Additional clues, these ones more arcane. Ked ran across the street and climbed in back.

“Hey Dad! Find any missing people today?”

“Just you.”

“Cool!”

Dan turned to look at him. “Better view from back there?”

Ked grinned. “Nah. I told Eph you were my chauffeur. Don’t blow my cover.”

“And Eph would be…?”

“Ephraim. New kid. He’s cool.” His son was mastering the art of the two-second meaningless sound bite.

“Does he need a ride somewhere?”

“Nah. He lives close.”

“Is he going to be a friend?” Dan probed.

“Um … maybe.” A one-shoulder shrug. “We’ll see how it goes.”

“He could stand a change of wardrobe,” Dan said, catching the boy’s retreating form in his side mirror.

Ked snorted. His freckles underwent a quick metamorphosis. “Eph’s from an underprivileged family. I hope you’re not going to hand me some crap about poor kids being bad influences.”

“Hardly.”

Dan reversed and swung the car around. Not bad influences, no. But what about the other kind? The kind that determined whether you became a success or failure in life. It added up. Who you hung out with, went to school with, fucked, or married — that sort of thing. It mattered in the end, even if for all the wrong reasons.

He eyed his son in the rear-view mirror. Ked’s head was down, focused on his Game Boy. “Good game?” he ventured.

“Pretty good.”

“Score any goals?”

“Nah.”

Dan nodded. “You’ll get there. Just don’t neglect your schoolwork.”

“I won’t,” Ked said without lifting his eyes.

“How’s your mother?”

“Same.”

Dan saw Ked wrinkle his nose the same way Kendra would at such a generic question. “Be specific or be gone,” she liked to say. Dan could play that game.

“Same as what?”

“Same as always,” came the reply from the backseat.

“That’s what you say every time I ask.”

Ked looked up. “It’s true. What do you want me to say?” His voice rose in pitch, as though puberty wasn’t done with him.

“I want you to tell me how she is. Happy? Healthy? Going anywhere interesting?”

“She’s fine. She’s happy. Not going anywhere. She doesn’t ask as many questions as you.” Ked bared his teeth at the mirror then turned back to the Game Boy.

“You’re really exasperating, you know.”

“I know, Dad. I learned it from you.”

Cars buzzed past the intersection. Rush hour was in full swing. The streets were packed with the usual muck of traffic heading away from the downtown core. A black Neon swerved into their lane without signalling. Dan felt a prickling of anger on his scalp and back.

“Who taught these losers to drive?”

Ked looked up again. “Other losers?”

Dan braked for a scattering of teenagers running from the 7-Eleven and dodging cars. More hoodies. The smallest of them banged a pop can against an SUV, exchanging glares with the driver and flashing a less obscure hand signal Dan recalled from his own teen years. The light turned red. Vehicles continued to flood the intersection, blocking the way.

“Inconsiderate moron!” Dan yelled through the window.

An Asian woman looked nervously away.

“Too much testosterone, Dad,” Ked informed him.

Dan thought again how the city had devolved over the past fifteen years into a rat’s nest of frustration and seething tempers. Corporate crime had taken the backseat to a more visible MTV-style menace: street gangs shooting and killing in broad daylight, the corrupt, surly cops who chased them, and the mindless assholes who blocked intersections and drove like the selfish pricks they were. That and the slow-moving immigrants who learned to drive at schools with names like Lucky Driver and navigated as if they were herding caravans in the desert. What did luck have to do with it?

There was a moment’s respite as Dan turned down his street. The overhang of leafy boughs made it seem like a vast cathedral. The elation vanished. Once again he had to squeeze past his neighbour’s car to get into his parking pad. If she’d pull up another foot it wouldn’t be a problem, but Glenda couldn’t be bothered to clear his drive. He looked over. She was out raking leaves in the kind of outfit women wore to cocktail parties. She ignored him. He’d been an occasional dinner guest before Steve moved out. Dan liked Steve, but had wondered about his wife. She always seemed a little vacuous and self-absorbed. Maybe Steve liked his women that way.

He got out and slammed the car door. “Fucking princess,” he muttered, hoping she might hear but Ked wouldn’t.

“You got that one right, Dad,” Ked said, shouldering his knapsack.

Juggling his laptop, briefcase, and raincoat, Dan fumbled the key into the lock. As the front door swung open, he smelled something disgusting — like farts, only worse. His first thought was about the garbage. This was more immediate. He looked down and just missed stepping on a large brown turd.

“Not again! That goddamn dog!”

“I’ll clean it up.” Ked threw his knapsack on the counter and darted for the cupboard to retrieve a mop and a plastic bag.

“I just walked him at lunch time!” Dan fumed, knowing that had been seven hours ago.

Ked bagged the offending litter and knotted the handles together. “Maybe he’s mad because you neglect him too.”

Dan looked at his son. “Are you saying I neglect you?”

Ked looked up, his face serious. “No, Dad. I’m saying you could be a better dog owner. Even dogs need love.”

“He’s your dog — you love him.” He watched his son swipe at the spot with the mop. “He does it on purpose.”

Ked looked pained. “He’s old, Dad. He can’t help himself.”

“That’s not true. When it’s an accident, he hides it in the basement. When he does it at the front door like that — one big piece of crap right where I’ll step in it — then it’s a big ‘Screw you, buddy.’”

Ked giggled.

Dan looked around. “You see — he’s nowhere in sight. He knows he’s done something bad, otherwise he’d be here to greet us.”

“He probably knows you’re pissed and he’s hiding from you.”

Ked finished cleaning and put the mop away. They looked up at the sound of claws scampering over hardwood. The transgressor, a ginger-coloured retriever, stood at the living-room door, tail wagging.

“Here, boy!”

The tail wagged harder, but the dog held his ground.

“Son of a bitch!” Dan snarled.

The dog’s ears went down; the tail came to a standstill.

“He’s afraid of you,” Ked said.

“He’d better be.”

Ked knelt and stroked the dog’s silky ears. He pointed at the spot he’d just cleaned and looked at the dog. “Did you do that?” The dog’s ears went back down; he looked away. “That’s a bad boy,” Ked said gently.

The dog whimpered.

“He says he’s sorry,” Ked said.

“Right. Next time he can clean it up, if he’s so sorry.”

Ked looked at the dog. “Did you hear that, dude? You better behave or Dad’ll put us both out on the streets.”

The dog’s tail thumped enthusiastically.

“You have to learn to speak his language, Dad. Watch his eyes.” Ked turned to the dog and opened his arms. “What do you want, Ralph? Show me!”

The dog turned its gaze to the French windows at the rear of the house.

“You want out?” Ked said.

Ralph bounded to the back exit and stood waiting. Ked unlatched the door and the dog tore outside.

“You have to ask him what he wants,” Ked said. “He tells you with his eyes. If he looks at the treat cupboard, he wants a reward. If he looks at the fridge, he probably wants whatever you just had to eat. If he looks at his leash, he needs a walk.”

“Don’t tell me he speaks English.”

Ked looked at his father sympathetically, as though he might be just a bit slow. “No, but he can understand what you’re saying. You have to learn his language, too.”

Dan nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Hey, Dad! I got a new book today.”

Ked retrieved a paperback from his knapsack and tossed it on the counter. Dan glanced at a woman’s pensive face framed by dark bangs, her cigarette upraised and smoke curling artistically overhead. Harrison Ford’s sweaty likeness menaced a library barcode with a hefty handgun. Across the top in red letters: Blade Runner.

“It’s really cool. It’s about this guy who lives in LA after it’s been totally destroyed and hunts androids for a living,” Ked said. “The only problem is, they look and act exactly like humans, so it’s hard to tell who’s an android and who’s a real person.”

Dan grunted.

“You know it?”

“I know it,” Dan said. “Only in my day it was called Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep.”

“Yeah — I think that was before the movie, though.”

“In the old days.”

“Right. Anyway, I think I’m going to like this one.”

The answering machine blinked red on the side table. Dan regarded it, appraising what it might hold. He pressed play. A cool voice emerged, the tones submerged beneath a wall of self-assurance.

“Hello, Daniel,” said the voice. “It’s Bill....”

“Speaking of androids,” Ked said quietly.

“He’s cancelling,” Dan declared, shaking his head. “I knew he would.”

“… I wanted to give you a heads-up. Something’s come up at the hospital and I can’t make it tonight. You and Ked have a good time without me....”

“We will, you dick-head.” Dan reached out and cut the message off.

“Why do you date him?” Ked asked. “He treats you like shit.”

Dan raised a warning finger. “I can say that — you can’t.”

Ked rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying ...”

Dan pressed play again. A second voice began. “Hey, Sis — how are things?”

“Does ‘Sis’ mean sister or sissy?” Ked said.

“Both.”

“Hey, Ked,” the voice continued. “Happy birthday, dude.”

“Cool! He remembered.”

“Danny, I forgot to ask if we’re having burgers or chicken for supper. I don’t know whether to bring white cream soda or red....”

Dan smiled.

“… so maybe I’ll bring both. See you tonight!” The message clicked off.

Ked looked up at his father. “Is ‘sissy’ a bad word?”

“Depends who’s saying it.”

Ked pondered this. “Did you and Uncle Donny ever date? I know he talks about what you look like nude....”

Dan raised a hand. “Don’t believe everything he says!”

“… but I wasn’t sure if you ever dated him.”

“We dated. It was a very long time ago.”

“But was it more than sex?” Ked persisted.

The topic of his father’s sexuality had never been off-limits, but of late Ked had become more curious about Dan’s private life.

Dan thought this over. “I guess it was, though we may not have realized it at the time. Maybe that’s why we’re still friends.”

“Then why don’t you still date him? Is it because he’s black?”

Dan shot Ked a look. “You know it’s not. Your Uncle Donny just likes to date a lot of men at once....”

“He’s a slut!” Ked crowed.

Dan eyed his son. “Ked — don’t talk like that.”

“Why? That’s what Uncle Donny says about himself.”

“Nevertheless.”

“And you like to date just one guy at a time, right?”

“Something like that.”

Ked thought this over. “Do you think you and Bill will ever get married? I mean, for real married, like in a church and everything.”

Dan reached over and tugged his son’s dark curls. “Why? Do you want to be my best man?”

Ked shrugged. “I would if you wanted me to.”

“I’ll let you know when we set the date. In the meantime, I’ve got a bit of work to do....”

Ked groaned.

“… and you’ve got at least one guest coming for supper, so let’s go get ready.”

Upstairs in his office, Dan set his laptop on the chair and cleared his desk. On the walls, Martha Stewart’s Corn Husk competed for calm with the green-and-white striped shade pulled down. A single upright oak shelf held investigative reports, half-read anthropological texts, and a handful of slim detective novels, book-ended by Joyce, Pound, Proust.

Dan had three cases to write up before the weekend. Donny would be here by eight o’clock, and that left only tomorrow and Friday morning. After that, the wedding would take up all his free time. If he didn’t work now, they might not get done.

He pulled up the latest: a seventy-six-year-old female who hadn’t returned from a day trip to Toronto. He scanned the screen. No physical or mental impairment. The woman’s daughter had tried to file a report with the Kitchener police; no one would take a formal statement. She’d been advised to contact the Toronto force, who confirmed they’d had notice of her mother’s whereabouts on two previous occasions. The bottom of the report carried a familiar name.

Dan flipped through his Rolodex and fingered a card. He had a good guess what had happened. If he were right, Sergeant Carmen Stryker could probably confirm it. He glanced at the clock — nearly seven. If Stryker was still at work, that is.

The phone rang once and someone grabbed it. “Stryker.”

“Hey, Carm. Dan Sharp here.”

“Sharp! How the hell are ya?”

“Plugging away at it.” Dan pictured the beefy sergeant sweating at his desk. “How about you? Still on the desk, I see.”

“Fuckers!” the cop growled. “I never get outta here before eight.”

Dan heard what sounded like a fist banged onto a desktop.

“You’re too good at what you do, my man. If you stopped solving problems indoors, they’d have you back on the streets in a flash.”

A hearty laugh. “You got that right! Anyway, what can I do you for? Your mother disappear again?”

“Close. You must be reading crystal balls. I got a misper who came through your office twice before. Wondered if you were keeping her holed up there again.”

“Name?”

“Edith Walmsley, age seventy-six. Kitchener address.”

“Sounds familiar — she has a history, you say?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Dan heard the tapping of keys. Stryker grunted. Then, “Oh, shit — her! Crazy bitch. Yeah, she’s here. This time we’re keeping her till we make sure her family knows what she does with her spare time. I don’t want her coming back with that poor little old lady story.”

“Shoplifting again?”

“You got it. More jewellery. This latest price tag might just put her in the big league.”

They had a chuckle over the foibles of little old ladies then Stryker had to take another call. “Say hi to the wife for me,” he said, hanging up.

“If I had one I would,” Dan said to the empty air.

One down, two to go. A drink would serve him well now. He slid the drawer forward and reached for the Scotch. He twisted the top and hesitated. When was the last time he’d worried that he couldn’t be bothered to use a glass? Too long ago. Anyway, it was just one. The initial gulp tasted medicinal, iodine on an open wound. The second went down easier.

The next file was more difficult. Two years earlier, a male vic had been found in the Don Valley with gunshot wounds to the face and head. The description was laughably commonplace: white, 175 centimetres tall, 22 to 25 years old, brown hair, heavy tattoo work on the chest and arms. Numerous calls had come in for someone with that description; it never turned out to be him. The case languished in the John Doe files before showing up on a junior officer’s desk. It was another month before it was transferred to Dan’s.

Dan and the junior officer had perused the photographs together. A tattooed word caught Dan’s attention: bog. Dan thought he saw what the problem was.

“What kind of moron tattoos bog on his chest?” the underling sneered.

“Maybe a Serbian moron,” Dan said. “It means ‘God’ in Serb. You ask off continent?”

The man’s face fell. “How the hell was I supposed to know that?”

“Never assume anything about a man who can’t tell you how he ended up on a morgue table,” Dan said.

The underling stared at Dan as though he were God in any language. Dan wasn’t about to tell him he knew only two words in Serb, thanks to a former lover who’d come and gone with the greeting “Pomoz’ bog.” God help you. Though in this case, it appears God hadn’t.

The call came from Bosnia a week later. A woman had reported her son missing two years before. He’d left home looking for employment in March. He hadn’t said where he was going but maintained cellphone contact with her until August 16, the day the unidentified body turned up in the Toronto ravine. The Serbian police forwarded the report and a dozen snapshots. The only thing that didn’t fit was the age. According to his mother, her son was thirty-two when he disappeared.

Whether he was twenty-five or an underdeveloped thirty-two wouldn’t make much difference. Dan looked over the photograph of a mop-haired young man in a navy T. Spiky tattoos peeked from under the sleeves. Dan pulled up the morgue photos. The dead man’s face was too damaged to confirm anything, but the tattoos showed a similarity.

The photographs supplied by desperate relatives fascinated Dan. Of course, with hindsight you could read whatever you wanted into them. Those sad eyes might be holding back a lifetime of misery and despair, or maybe they were just bloodshot from drink. That grim stare could belong to someone who’d finally found the determination to leave a hopeless situation, or it might have been masking a simple dislike for the photographer.

The “why” could be more difficult to determine. Some disappeared to punish whoever kept them from whatever was “out there.” Occasionally they returned on their own, without finding what they were seeking. Dan wondered if the ones who never showed up again had been more successful. Still others claimed not to know why they’d left or even to have considered who might have been hurt by their actions. Sometimes it was sheer desperation, a last chance to escape whatever held them back. It didn’t matter — they just went. Then there were the ones who didn’t have a chance to think about it, because vanishing was the last thing on their minds. They had futures, careers, families — and every reason to stay. They turned up in ditches and farmers’ fields years later, a pile of bones, a tag of cloth, a collection of dental records. What had made them the target of murderers, the victim of rapists who felt they had no choice but to finish a job gone wrong? These were the most intriguing ones.

The second-last photograph showed a group of young men playing ball near a line of bleachers. Marker arrows pointed to a shirtless figure, his right arm thrown back and a ball in hand. The torso was wiry, the ribs too prominent. A blazon of hair ran up his belly and across his chest. Dan’s eyes lingered. If the boy had been alive, he might have found the photo erotic. Being aroused by pictures of the dead made Dan queasy, however. He brought out a magnifying glass and leaned in. On the left pectoral over the heart, he could just make out the word bog. Case closed.

He signed off on the file and wondered about his Bosnian counterpart — the one who would contact the family with the news. No matter how a case ended, Dan seldom took pleasure from it. It was work. Whether he successfully tracked someone down or had to pass on bad news had little bearing on how he presented it. He offered his findings quietly, but unambiguously. “Your son died of natural causes.” “The dental work confirms it’s your daughter’s body.” “Your wife is alive and well, but no longer a woman.” His words fell with simple gravity, as though he were pronouncing a sentence the hearer must bear accordingly.

Some took the news quietly. Others cried or broke down, knowing their lives were changed forever, if not outright ruined. For some it came as a combination of pain and relief at finally knowing. Knowledge could stop the hoping, but it didn’t make things better. They were the ones who made Dan’s life hell, though he didn’t resent them. It was the ones who didn’t or wouldn’t grieve he resented, as though they’d made his work a failure, like a fireman saving a burning building only to learn it had been condemned. He hated futility — the feeling that his work amounted to nothing. “No return” was unacceptable.

In the course of his investigations, Dan was meticulous. A missing person’s past was like a shadow thrown against a curtain, all outline and little detail. Sometimes the smallest point was the telling one. He thought of the junior who’d missed out on the word bog. The mistake was understandable, but it was sloppy work all the same. Know thoroughly the nature of what you’re being asked to investigate and then look for the unexpected — that was Dan’s modus operandi. It was the only way to find the missing, especially if they didn’t want to be found.

He stopped and took another pull from the bottle, then settled in again. He brought up the last file and glanced at the overview. He didn’t have to read far. Why anyone was surprised when abused teenagers ran away, Dan couldn’t imagine. The fourteen-year-old, Richard Philips, had left his home in Oshawa following an argument with his mother and stepfather. The photograph showed a dark-haired teenager with wary eyes and a pouting mouth. Dan wondered who’d taken the shot.

The details were predictable. Richard’s problems had started when he was twelve, not long after his mother remarried to a man who never got along with her son. According to his mother, her son had been picked on at school. More importantly, he had sexuality issues. Richard’s stepfather threatened him after police nabbed him hanging around a gay cruising area. The boy disappeared two weeks later when the same officer picked him up again.

Dan sat back. He could easily imagine some sadistic homophobe getting his jollies by fucking with the kid’s nascent sex drive. At that age, it was hard enough to accept yourself for what you were. To have bullying cops, taunting classmates, and a narrow-minded stepfather harassing you might prove too much for some kids. Running away was one solution. Suicide was the other.

The report carried the usual protestations by the mother and stepfather: they’d given their son everything and didn’t understand how he’d become someone they barely knew — angry, resentful, and gay. The first two were usually easy to explain when the history was examined. The third wasn’t something you could rationalize to distraught parents, especially the ones who wanted to justify their actions: threats and beatings, doors locked at midnight to teach a lesson to the habitual latecomer and rule-breaker. Self-justification was one thing, but how did you forgive yourself if you locked your door and your kid ended up dead? It happened. Ask Lesley Mahaffey’s parents.

Dan looked at his watch — nearly time. He closed the file on the teenage runaway and went downstairs to see what Ked had done to prepare for his party.