B.C. Blues Crime 2-Book Bundle. R.M. Greenaway
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duty notebook he’d left behind, but his private one, the one where he kept track of pertinent names and dates, random statistics, and whatever else he needed to keep the facts and fictions of his life in order.
Leith was still in his chair, just finishing a phone call, lodging a complaint of insubordination probably. He’d looked up, and Dion had spoken loudly to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Is that it, then? Should I pack my bags? You want my badge?”
Leith had observed him blankly for a long moment, and finally said, simply but coldly, “No. Why?”
“Anyway, I just wanted to apologize.” Dion had moved closer to the table and saw the notebook lay as he’d left it. He’d reached out, picked it up, tucked it behind him.
Leith didn’t seem to care about the notebook or the apology. He left his chair abruptly and walked out, and that seemed to be the end of the matter.
Another freight truck roared by, breaking the limit. Jayne Spacey, Dion thought. Eight o’clock. He checked his watch, comparing it to the radio clock on the bedside table, and saw that the watch hands were off by over ten minutes, confirming his fears. It was a special watch, older than himself, all gears and leather. He adjusted it and gave the stem a bit of a wind, whistling a careless tune.
He changed into jeans and sweater, boots and jacket, and went downstairs, hoping not to run into any of the other officers lodged at the Super 8 — Fairchild, or Bosko, or especially Leith. But there was nobody around, not in the halls, the stairwells, the lobby, or next to the lobby in the motel’s small diner — Western food, gingham motif — run by a thin, aloof Korean named Ken.
Dion took the only booth in the place, the one by the window. There was nothing to see outside now but the occasional passing truck, vehicles going from point A to point B, passing through Hazelton by necessity. Everyone broke the limit, leaving arcs of slush or swirls of crystal in their wake. He ordered dinner, roast beef for the protein, salad for fibre, all the trimmings for the calories. Filling himself out to be the man he’d been before was one of his major goals. Gaining weight wasn’t as easy as it seemed.
After dinner he walked along the cold, blustery highway that formed the backbone of the town. The lamp standards blazed their dead orange-grey light along the four-lane strip, and the banners banged and clanged in the wind. The businesses along the highway were closed, all but the Catalina Cafe, lights on bright, the stout silhouettes of diners against the drapes. And the Chevron, the twenty-four-hour gas station/convenience store where Kiera Rilkoff had once worked part time. Youths loitered on the sidewalk, smelling of cigarettes and weed, and Dion worried about being swarmed. They didn’t even look his way.
From inside the Chevron he phoned Spacey, and her little blue Toyota RAV4 pulled up soon after. He climbed in the passenger seat, and they were off, exploring the great spread of land that made up the Hazeltons. Her uneven smile lit by the dashboard, Spacey said, “In the city you get entertained. Here you have to entertain yourself. Wheels help, big-time.”
The drive turned out to be a nice break from routine, though she barrelled along the backroads too fast for comfort. In Old Hazelton they stood in the snow in a darkened park ringed by enormous dark trees that rustled their dead leaves and whispered. Spacey told him about the totem poles and longhouses, the preserved Gitxsan village of Ksan. Later she took him to a viewpoint over a chasm and told him of a dramatic rescue that took place here. She drove down to a winter-dead meadow with train tracks and a river, and they walked southbound along the ties and talked, mostly about her life and troubles. But she was funny, and she didn’t seem worried that he wasn’t laughing or had little to say, as though she knew he appreciated her even in his silence. He looked across at the trees growing on the far riverbanks, leafless, tall, and ragged. The trees looked like a tribe of giants deep in conversation. Black cottonwood, Spacey told him, following his eyes.
A train came and went, also southbound, and it was while it flooded past, shaking the ground they stood on, that Spacey put an arm around his waist and stood close, tilting her face for a kiss. He wrapped her in both arms to complete the embrace, and completed the kiss too, feeling the warmth of arousal as their mouths met, and something even better: a dramatic change of mood, a teasing sense of bliss.
Spacey pushed him away with a smile and said it was high time for a drink. They returned to the RAV4, and she drove along a road that followed the river a ways, pulling into the parking lot of a large post-and-beam structure that glowed like a cruise ship in the dark. The Black Bear Lodge. A couple dozen vehicles sat in the snow, all of them four-by-fours, and Spacey said, “More traffic than you’d think, even in winter. You got your heli-skiers and skidooers and hunters. And a few locals, anybody with extra money in their pocket. This place isn’t cheap.”
Inside they found the bar was doing good business, even at this hour, nearly midnight. The lights were warm and the music just loud enough to add milieu without hammering the eardrums. Spacey said she’d only have one beer, and she’d make it last, no problem; it wouldn’t even touch her bloodstream. Afterward, they’d go to her place and play Scrabble. She said it with a wink.
His first clue that something was wrong came as he followed Spacey through the bar and she reached back to grab his hand, guiding him to a table with a good view on the brass and glass of the long bar itself, at the attractive, brown-haired woman mixing drinks there, who was looking across at them with what looked like stony-faced wonder.
“Why’s she staring at us?” Dion asked as he took a chair, returning the stare.
“Because she’s a nosy, jealous bitch,” Spacey told him. “That’s Megan.”
Megan, if Dion recalled right, was Jayne Spacey’s ex-friend, which made this spot the worst possible choice in the whole bar. Before he could object, Spacey leaned across the table and kissed him on the mouth. Then she sat back and grinned at him. “It’s okay. Kind of awkward, but she won’t bother you. I will have to ask you to go up and order, though, since she and I aren’t speaking.”
He pushed his chair back. “We can move. We’ll sit over there. I don’t need her glaring at me like this.”
“She’s not glaring at you, she’s glaring at me. You she likes. She’s always had a thing for native guys, like my ex, Shane.”
“I’m not —”
“Whatever. Just smile at her nicely and make her twitch, horny little cow.” She tilted her head, reading the doubt on his face, and her voice went smoky. “C’mon, do me a big favour and play along. I’ll pay you back in a big way.”
Understanding was jolting through him now, followed by amazement, followed by mute anger. This wasn’t friendship, and it wasn’t even sex. He was a prop, and she’d brought him here to fling daggers at the one who’d hurt her. He opened his mouth to argue, but shut it again, knowing anything he had to say would only take the situation on a fast downhill slide. He would play along for as long as it took to drink one beer, then he’d insist they leave.
He stood and dug out his wallet, walking up to the bar. He ordered two draft pints from Megan. He didn’t smile at her, and she didn’t smile back. He left a generous tip, brought the mugs back to the table and settled in, his back to Megan. He drank his beer and let Spacey do her thing, chatting and posing, showing her ex-friend what a great time she was having with her new boyfriend.
About halfway through his beer, just when he was getting used to the idea of being a prop and deciding he actually didn’t care, a hulk of a black-haired man in black leather walked up to their table, glowered at Dion, and said to Spacey, “Get over here and talk.”
So this would be the cheating husband Shane, still crazy about her, the Shane who she’d never forgive. Spacey stayed in her seat, and Dion remained next to her, mouth shut, marvelling at how she’d fixed this scene. He listened to Spacey telling her ex, “You’re looking kinda desperate, Shane. Why don’t you go poke Megan in the ol’ beaver pelt? Looks like she could use the exercise.” She put her arm through Dion’s as she spoke, and it was here he messed up badly by losing patience, removing her arm, and standing up, telling her he was done.
Outside,