Falling From Grace (17 page)

15

The main
piece of evidence in my trial consisted of a segment of video. A cordon of uniformed officers advanced toward a blockade of protesters. The camera panned the line and zoomed in on the individual activists. It lingered on each one, my face, my profile unmistakable. My arrest a far cry from heroic. My recollection of the conversation with the officer went like this.

“What have we here? A tree-hugging dwarf? Where did they find you?”

When I didn't answer, he continued, “You are under arrest for criminal contempt of court. Are you going to walk, fly, or do we have to carry you?”

I slid to the ground. The next thing I knew I was hanging head down, pinned between the man's holster and elbow; the butt of his gun dug into my ribs.

I grunted in pain. “You can't do this.”

“Our rules now, shorty,” he replied.

“I object to the logging of this ancient rainforest,” I yelled, “and the destruction of the habitat of all living creatures on this land.”

“Tell that to the judge.”

The officer carried me toward the buses. From my compromised position, I saw Roger Payne watching from a group of loggers and forest company officials at the side of the road. His eyes widened at the sight of me.

“Loser.” A bearded man in a plaid shirt and dirty work khakis next to Roger yelled. “Freak, ever work a day in your life?” Roger elbowed the man in the chest and turned away.

The officer deposited me at the door of the bus. “Have a seat.” I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, not sure who to call to find out about Paul or if there'd be a signal. “I'll take that.” The officer leaned over and held out his hand.

“I'd rather not.”

“You'd rather. Remember what I said, our rules.”

The police arrested thirty-eight people on the road that day and transported us to the detachment in Duncan for processing. When I filed through the door with the others, I found Grace arguing with a uniformed clerk at the reception counter. Cedar, in diapers and a sweater, sat on the countertop in the crook of her arm, while Rainbow stood on a stool beside her, head resting on her forearms.

“Thank goodness.” Grace hurried over. “I tried to explain about Paul. They won't listen.” Rainbow jumped from her perch and wrapped her arms around my waist, face buried in my clothing.

At the mention of Paul, my knees buckled and I clung on to Rainbow, not sure if I could stand without her support. “Have you heard anything?”

“They've taken him to Victoria,” Grace said. “I called the hospital. But they won't give any information.”

The accompanying officer pressed his hand between my shoulder blades. “You need to move into the offices there.”

I peeled Rainbow's arms free. “I'll see you later,” I assured her and followed the man into the room.

“I've phoned your dad,” Grace called after me. “He'll find you a lawyer.”

One by one, the forest defenders were charged with criminal contempt of court, fingerprinted, photographed, and ushered into the segregated cells at the back of the detachment, bare barred rooms each with a single toilet, doors casually ajar. Mary stood up from a bench in the corner and hurried over when she spotted me.

“Where are my kids?” she cried. “They ripped Cedar right out of my arms.”

“Grace has them.”

The woman's face relaxed, then clouded over again. “And Paul?”

“Don't know.”

“I'm scared . . .”

“Faye Pearson?” A voice interrupted from the doorway. An officer beckoned. “You're wanted.”

The officer escorted me to a small room at the back of the detachment where I found Sergeant Lange seated behind a wooden desk. He offered me a chair.

“I'll stand,” I said, not wanting to suffer the difficult silence as I negotiated the climb into the chair.

“Suit yourself.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desktop. “You said you weren't mixed up in this protest.”

“I wasn't.” I paused. “Until this morning.”

“You'll have to take the consequences, but I want to know about your partner, Paul Taylor.”

“What do you know?” I gripped the edge of the desk. “Is he . . . ?”

The sergeant's face softened. “He's not dead.”

I fought back tears. “Thank God,” I blurted out. “How badly is he hurt?”

“Hard to tell. I talked to intensive care in Victoria. They've removed an arrow from his shoulder. They figured it was fired from a high-powered crossbow.”

“Bolt.”

“What?”

“An arrow for a crossbow is called a bolt.”

“Whatever you say.” He watched me curiously. “Your crossbow, I presume.”

“The stolen crossbow,” I corrected. “Was the bolt rubber-tipped? It shouldn't have penetrated. The bow might not be ours.”

“Right. I'm sure there's an army of folks walking around in the forest carrying crossbows.” He tapped his pen on the desk. “I don't know about the rubber tip. I'll check it out. You scientists work in a dangerous field. Weapons, shootings, vandalism. Why would anyone shoot your partner with a crossbow?”

“They mistook him for a tree-sitter?”

“Mistook? He wasn't a tree-sitter?”

“No. We were collecting data.”

“On?”

“Marbled murrelets.”

“Which are?”

“Seabirds that nest in old-growth trees.”

“Don't you study insects?”

“I'd like legal advice.”

He waved me out. “We'll need a statement.”

After two hours in the cell, we were freed, without bail, on our own recognizance, instructed not to leave the province, and told to expect court notification of a trial date by mail in the next week. I didn't hesitate to sign the paper shoved in front of me at the front desk stating I agreed not to return to the protest, the alternative being automatic jail. Paul was my first priority.

I stepped into the crowded lobby of the police department where a second busload of protesters waited for processing. I spotted Grace across the parking lot through the window, her back turned; she was in conversation with a person I couldn't see. The officer behind the desk handed over my phone.

“Your husband's outside,” he said.

“I don't have a husband,” I answered.

“Boyfriend. Brother.” The officer turned back to his work and mumbled. “Whoever he is, he's gotta be here to see you.”

Confused, I stepped outside, the fresh air welcome after the claustrophobia of the lock-up and the reek of accumulated human drama. I picked out Grace again across the parking lot in the milling crowd. A man stood next to her; the scene before me difficult to digest. Grace turned and her face brightened when she saw me. My mother touched the man's shoulder; he swung around as Grace called out, “Look who's here.”

From my vantage point on the station steps, I gazed at a person so like the image I saw in a mirror I felt lightheaded. A prominent forehead and square chin on a head and chest too large for the length of the forearms. Short bowed legs that stopped far too soon under a shelf of a bum. Stubby hands and fingers. Except my hair was straight, white-blonde, and fine as horsetail, his dark and cropped above the ears and wound into curls as taut as fiddleheads. I recognized the glasses balanced on a broad, flattened nose, and the neat half-beard familiar from his photos. His face lit up with anticipation as he walked toward me. I didn't know whether to turn back inside and lock myself in a cell or go to him and merge together like a scene in a crazy science fiction movie.

“Faye?” I heard Grace say. “It's Bryan. Don't stand there. Say hello.”

Sap, dirt, and blood covered my clothes. I hadn't seen a mirror for days, my last shower a bucket of cold water over my head behind a clump of salal a discrete distance from the creek. I stepped forward, conscious of myself swaying in the same waddling gait as he, arms not swinging far enough, hips rocking from side to side. He moved easily, his body toned and athletic, stomach flat, face fine-featured, and when he drew closer, his grey eyes gave the impression of kindness and intelligence.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted out.

“Didn't you get my emails?” he said, smile fading from his face.

“The signal's been weak,” I answered, my tongue uncooperative. How had I come to be standing on the steps of the Duncan
RCMP
detachment with another dwarf?

“I had a conference in Vancouver. I got directions from the university to your camp,” he explained. “The people there told me where to find you.” His face opened in a wry smile. “The dangers of internet dating. They never tell you about their criminal record.”

I grimaced. “I'm sorry, Bryan.” I wiped my hand on the back of my pants and held it out. “You sure picked the worst time.”

“It's all right,” he answered and took my hand in his. “I'm happy to meet you, Faye Pearson.”

“I have
to get my samples, and then I have to drive to Victoria to find Paul.” Grace listened patiently to my desperate appeal while Bryan waited in his rental car; Mary, the children, and Marcel in Grace's station wagon. Grace had offered them a bed for the night in Qualicum.

“What about Bryan?” Grace reasoned. “He's come all this way to see you.”

I threw my hands in the air in frustration. Bryan's arrival had knocked me sideways. I had considered him a fictional character, existing in text on a computer screen, a one-dimensional image in a photo, a duty to satisfy Grace. But he'd walked into my life, warm and breathing.

“I have to see Paul,” I insisted.

“Tomorrow, dear,” Grace said. “It's late. Come home with me. You need sleep. Besides, I don't know if they'll let you see him.”

Grace was right. When I dialled the hospital the receptionist asked, “Are you family?”

“His girlfriend,” I lied. Grace let out an exasperated sigh.

“We give information to immediate family only,” the woman said. “And never over the phone.”

“But he has no one else.”

“I'm sorry. You can try administration tomorrow.”

I turned off my phone and shoved it into my pocket with a moan. My mother steered me toward the car. “Let's go get your samples.”

Other than two
RCMP
cruisers parked off to the side and a scatter of protest signs in the ditch, the blockade site was empty when we drove past. A handful of arrestees lingered at camp, packing up gear, bidding tearful farewells to their friends. A few supporters from Victoria who had avoided arrest opted to stay in the valley to supply the tree-sitters and were setting up tents. “We're going to Vancouver to recruit friends to help Jen,” Chris and Sue announced, shoving the last of their gear into a duffle bag.

Terry was on the radiophone. “Cougar,” he announced when through talking. “The company has moved in and they're felling trees right around them. The police have read them the injunction and are telling them to come down. He knows if he does those trees are gone too.”

“Tell them to stay put,” Grace said. “The police won't allow them to hurt anyone.”

I left Bryan with Grace, Mary, and Rainbow to pack up the tents and gear and hiked back to the scene of the morning's crime. My stomach churned with nausea at the sight of the spatters of blood on the shoulder of the tree. I looked up, half afraid to see Paul's body swinging above me in the canopy, the dark stain on his shirt. I hunted around in the undergrowth and found the video camera, still switched on but the battery dead, its contents to remain a mystery until back in civilization with an electrical outlet at hand. The crossbow was nowhere to be seen.

16

We reached
the house well after dark. The headlights illuminated the steep, winding driveway through the trees to the house, which sat on a hill on the upland side of the east coast highway, the intermittent view of the Coast Mountains across the Strait of Georgia obscured by night. I helped Grace put out food and arrange towels and beds for the motley crew: Mary with a sleeping Cedar in her arms and a dirty-faced Rainbow in the guest room; Marcel on the couch in the family room. Mel, an early riser, was already in bed.

I showed Bryan to Steve's old room upstairs.

“I'm sorry about all this,” I said. I handed him a folded towel and washcloth. “I can't spend any time with you. I need to leave for Victoria in the morning. My assistant's in the hospital.”

“I understand,” he said. “After all, you didn't know I was coming,” but a flash of disappointment crossed his face and I felt a sting of remorse at the way I had used him. I couldn't deny a pull, a curiosity to know more than the name of his dog, his passion for rocks, his love affair with flat land.

“Well.” He hesitated, and then turned away. “Good night.” He reached up for the doorknob and the familiar gesture startled me. Up. Always up.