And On the Surface Die (30 page)

The twists and turns past town had to be taken slowly, especially between rock cuts. At last she saw another vehicle. One rusty blue Sentra had run harmlessly into a ditch. She pulled over and went outside to check, sodden in seconds. No one.

Then she heard the Doppler sounds of a fire engine coming from Victoria, a sign of life in a fearful landscape. Why weren’t the local units responding? Her cell phone rang. “It’s Ann. Where are you?”

“Just arriving at West Coast Tire. I’m turning around and heading back in a minute.”

“Forget that plan. West Coast Road’s closed at Grant due to falling trees. The same for Otter Point. Thousands are down, and it just takes one monster to drop the lines.”

“Both? Those are our only arteries.” She felt an iron clamp latch onto her temples. What the hell should she do now?

“Just before it happened, Chipper was ordered to Sooke. They’re focusing on the most heavily populated areas and calling in all officers to respond as needed. The mayor’s declaring a state of emergency, whatever that actually means. Individuals merely out of power or stuck on their property are not a priority unless they’re hurt.”

Holly swallowed a lump in her throat. “Unless they’re hurt? Anyone all the way to Port Renfrew is beyond medical care, even if cell phones did work. Strokes, heart attacks, forget it. No helicopter can land in this. Survival of the fittest.”

Holly heard a rueful sigh from Ann. “I know. I can’t get out, so I’ll continue to man the radio. The land lines are down.

Surprise, surprise. Before they went, I managed to get hold of a neighbour to feed Bump.”

Her cat. Now Shogun. Animals were running the show. A little humour might help. “No cable TV then. Break out the solitaire deck.” Ann would be without her usual combination of liquor and pills to see her through the evening. How far could a life-threatening situation juice the adrenaline? The thought occurred to her that Ann might have a supply in her locker. “Sure you’re okay?”

“I’m good. And I wouldn’t be shocked if Mrs. Nordman sends her son with a pie on the ATV. You be careful, too. This post is small enough.”

As long as she stayed in the dark and deep, Holly risked being crushed by a tree, but she thanked Ann for the caution. The woman sounded genuinely concerned. Holly felt a wave of warmth and gratitude rise in her chest. Around the next curve, at the tire store, she could see the tangled remains of the Smart Car shoved like garbage against a mossy knoll to wait for a wrecker. It had done Trojan duty, but the price of environmental stewardship was steep. A flashlight moved inside the building, and she heard rapping on the window and a muffled bark despite the storm’s raging tempest. The door opened, and Shogun stitched out, jumping on her and whining like a long-lost sibling. “Thanks for babysitting,” she said to a chubby man in overalls with “Ed” on his nametag. To her amusement, he was sipping from a quart of over-proof beer.

“Emergency provisions?”

“Lady, I ain’t going nowhere, nohow. There could be looting.” She had to grin as rain poured down her face and licked at her mouth. “What, tires?”

“You got no idea. Some bad apples are probably cruising around looking for a chance to pick up a thousand bucks of wheels for their 1970 Scottsdale.” He took another sip, then burped and excused himself. “That’s a great dog. How mucha want for him?”

“He belongs to my father. How was the old fellow?”

“Him? Bragging his head off about that midget car. Got a Crown Vic myself.”

She took off west with Shogun down Sooke Road, following a derelict truck that looked like the culprits Ed had described. But it turned off onto Harbourview Drive. She passed Ayum Creek, where locals often parked their vehicles with For Sale signs. Except for the world’s oldest Jeep and a shaky truck camper covered in green mildew, it was deserted.

So the plan was to mass all personnel at the Sooke detachment on Church Street. She might end up doing any number of jobs. Accident response. Helping with ambulances.

Making sandwiches if someone had hit the grocery stores before they closed. The grid would be off by now as a general caution. No hydro repair personnel would be out in this storm. They were heroes, but they weren’t suicidal. Getting wet or cold never bothered them. Getting fried or crushed did.

Shogun sat in the rear seat without his harness, now an intricate part of the metal Christmas-tree ornament which was the Smart Car. Once at the detachment, she planned to leave him in the Prelude for the next few hours. As she passed a hobby farm, she saw someone leading a pack of llamas to safety in a barn. Safety was relative. Huge cedar trees loomed over the building. Cedars were especially dangerous. Not only did they hide rot inside, but they twisted on the way down. It was hard to guess where they’d fall, pirouetting like the late PM.

In the immediate crisis, she had shoved Paul Gable and Janice Mercer to a distant burner. The welfare of two people in the face of this Armageddon seemed a secondary problem. Where was the man? Did he have Janice with him? Was he even on the island? She approached the bridge over Sooke River at the turn to the road to the famous Potholes. These geologic wonders, gorge after gorge of carved basalt, along with the part of the Goose that wound its way nearby, were huge tourist draws. In summer, the jewelled necklace of quiet pools beckoned swimmers to its cool, clean water. And there was camping in the north of the park on acres of forested sites.

Her foot trembled on the gas pedal, and the car shuddered to a stop as she pulled over. Hadn’t her father’s friend Madeleine mentioned a VW camper hidden in the woods near this spot? Holly examined her options, drumming her fingers on the wheel. The CD player thumped out k.d. lang’s “High Time for a Detour”. Then she made her only choice. She called Ann on her cell and described her suspicions. “Remember how Gable’s wife said that he went camping? I’m going up to the Potholes to check for the van. Twenty minutes max.”

“Bad idea. It’s solid trees up there. Big mothers. What if you get trapped? If he’s around, he’s not getting out of the area. But chances are, if he saw the weather coming, he left a long time ago.”

“What about Janice? I have to satisfy myself. Remember the school body shop and that missing paint.”

“At least let me check to see if there’s an update. Maybe the kid’s home. Damn it, Holly, don’t you realize—”

Holly clapped the phone shut. It was five o’clock. Some feeble light remained amid the dark torrents of water and raging sky. As she turned up the road, she passed Wink’s restaurant and convenience store. Beyond was the soccer field, the safest place in town. Broad and open with an osprey nest at the top of one tall floodlight. There was one windy perch to wait out a storm, she thought with a grim laugh. Then the trees got larger. Some were three hundred years old, up to five feet at the base, nothing like the first-growth eight-foot-wide round at the Sooke Museum, but jaw-dropping all the same. Douglas firs were the tallest on the island. They could live for thirteen-hundred years and reach one hundred metres. With even greater lifespans, some cedars were twenty feet at the butt. Wonderful to behold, but an entire forest when they fell, bringing tons of debris. What had her father said when he had hired a service to cut the last two killer firs on their property? “I want to go to the trees, not see the trees come to my living room.”

On one side of the road, the sagging hydro wires tossed like spaghetti. By now, either the power was off or every street should have an officer posted. At a corner near a trailer park, a loose tin roof on a shed clattered. Shingles from some hapless property fluttered across the road like a deck of cards. She felt Shogun’s warm velvet muzzle creep over the side of the seat, nudge the belt aside, and rest on her shoulder, an oddly endearing and self-taught gesture.

She passed Charters Creek, then Todd Creek, with their legendary trestles upstream, prized by photographers. These tributaries were prime salmon territory, and the fish were finishing their runs. Water was flooding over the bridge boards, and one plank seemed dislodged. Maintenance had been minimal lately with budget cuts at the Capital Regional District, which managed the park. As she got out of the car to gauge the stability, she gagged at the smell of rotting salmon carcasses. Come back to spawn, the female laid her eggs and the male covered them with milt. The nest, or “redd”, was hidden under gravel. Exhausted and mere shadows of their rainbow selves, the faded fish waited in the quiet shallows to die. From her peripheral vision, she spotted movement in the bush. A juvenile black bear was feasting on the remains, eating only the heads. Seeing her, it rose to its feet and chick-chick-chickered. Nearly soundless through the din, the bear’s message was clear in its body language. Mine. Keep away. Shogun was pawing at the window, frantic to come to her “rescue”.

She got back in, trying to shake the stink off her clothes. At least the road was deserted. Everyone was wise enough to hunker down in their homes, praying that the trees they should have cut wouldn’t crush them.

At last she reached the main parking entrance, including a cement-block bathroom, an information kiosk, and a collection box for fees. The mountainous and rocky terrain belied the fact that in the Thirties and Forties the area had been a farm where turkey and prize-winning Jersey cattle had been raised. Deertrails, the home of the Weilers, had passed into the hands of a developer in the Eighties and had attracted interest from architects and investors worldwide. What a challenge to incorporate a massive stone lodge and recreational complex on top of this steep cliff. Wealthy tourists would have paid hundreds a night to stay here. Though built in her lifetime and a source of wonder every time she passed, this Camelot’s builder had the vision of Arthur but not the resources, and a fire had ravaged the initial efforts. Its timbers burned, and only the rusted beams of its steel structure intact, two massive chimneys lifted into the air, fireplaces large enough to roast oxen. To the right, the river danced and broiled in steep cataracts. Stairways led to scenic views. To prevent vandalism and injuries, the place was fenced with chainlink. One pet owner had fallen to his death when his dog ventured too close.

The storm howled on, venting its rage down the narrowing canyon. It was verging on dark, the purpling shadows making inspection difficult. Madeleine had been walking farther up, where the Goose intersects before kilometre 49. Holly made her way through more deserted parking lots and reached the empty camping area. Down she drove through the hills, squinting against the pouring rain that blurred the windshield, despite the manic blades. More than once, she stopped to let the windows clear with the defroster. Shogun was fogging the cab with his breath. She imagined he was hungry, missing his lunch. Her stomach growled with companionable protest, and she felt lightheaded as she gripped the wheel. This was no time to think of food, yet the body needed fuel. She rummaged in her glove compartment for a stale granola bar. Shogun licked the shards, nabbing a raisin, which she’d heard were toxic to dogs. About to turn back, she thought she saw something far off, white against the muted green and browns of the landscape.

“Jesus. I wonder,” she muttered to herself, feeling the sugar surge kick in. Was it a mirage? Were her eyes too tired to focus? One side of the road was eroding with flood water, and she drove at a banana slug’s pace. Finally she stopped at a cement barrier, picked up a hefty Maglite, and opened the car door. A solid wall of water, SWOW as her father called it, poured in and soaked her from hat to boots. Shogun whined at her departure, and stuck his head over the headrest. She recalled that he hadn’t been let out for a pee. Moving the seat forward, she said, “Get out. Quick one only. No fooling around.”

Instantly he lifted his leg to decorate her tire. She walked a few paces toward the white object as her focus sharpened. The hat brim couldn’t protect her from horizontal rain, and she wiped her eyes. Suddenly the dog’s ruff hairs went up. Before she could grab him, he rushed forward. “Shogun, no!” She stumbled after him, falling and thumping her knee.

Nose to the ground like a bloodhound, the dog moved around bushes and charged toward the river, its torrents raging over the crash of the storm. Then she saw the dark green van emerge from the background like Arnold in
Predator.
Other than the white curtains, the van was perfectly camouflaged amid the trees.

Head dipped in the classic herding pose, shepherd’s lantern tail flipping from side to side, Shogun began circling the van. Holly moved to the rear door. Pepper spray? In this holocaust, she might as well aim at herself. But overkill was dangerous. She flipped open her holster and drew her Taser, feeling its smooth power ease into her hand, a true equalizer, but not to be used lightly. She flashed her light at the paint. It looked fresh. There was always the chance this wasn’t Gable, but the percentages were moving in her favour. A bumper sticker read “Free Tibet”, along with a bright blue and yellow national flag. “Hello,” she yelled, rapping at the rear door. “Police. Are you all right?” Whoever was in there, even Gable, must be frightened to death. But did he have a weapon? She could see nothing through the curtain, only a vague bluish light. As seconds ticked by and her heartbeat tripled, a fierce barking arose. Tiny paws scuffled on the back windows. Chucky?

Then the door flew open, flinging the Taser to god knows where. With a roar, Gable leaped out, hatchet in hand, a deadly caricature. He struck at her, but she parried with the Maglite and fell back, bruising her hip on a picnic bench. When the Yorkie rushed out like a rabid squirrel, Shogun gave a mortal howl that began with a roo and proceeded to a guttural barking that matched his name. Chucky laid back his ears and squealed under attack as they whirled circles around each other. In the melee, Gable moved toward her, menacing the hatchet. His face, rough with days of beard, looked pale green in the light. “Bitch,” he growled. “Why didn’t you just leave me alone? I didn’t do anything. I didn’t.”

Staggering to her feet, her hip and knee throbbing, Holly fingered open her holster and pointed the gun at Gable. “Stop, Paul. Everything’s over. I don’t want anyone hurt.” When he swung the axe toward her, she gave a warning shot in the air. “Don’t make me do this.”