Serpents Rising (11 page)

“Hello, Adam … hello, Adam …”

Joan was a with-it senior, but the new technology and things like talking to a machine were troublesome for her.

“I wanted to thank you for the omelet from Bobby's. It was as good as ever. I enjoyed every bite. And I also wanted to tell you that I unearthed those photo albums that we talked about. You can come by any time. Except tomorrow afternoon. I have a doctor appointment and before you get all nervous like people do any time someone over sixty says they're going to the doctor I'll just tell you it's my regular checkup. Anyway, any time except between one and four tomorrow. Well, uh, bye then.”

It was much too late to return the call so I took a long and as-close-to-scalding shower as I could stand, pulled on a pair of checked maroon and yellow lounge pants and a T-shirt, and fell into bed thinking sleep would come in seconds. I was wrong. A half hour later I was out of bed and sitting in the brown leather recliner Donna had bought me on my thirtieth birthday. “Old guys need their creature comforts,” she'd written in the card.

I sat for a long time, looking out at the night, sorting thoughts, searching memories. Listening to Blue Rodeo,
Five Days in July
. Until sleep finally came. But it wasn't the wake-up-refreshed kind. Too many weird dreams that bordered on nightmares. As with so many of my dreams in recent years, fire was a dominant theme.

The bedside clock — at some point I must have made my way into bed — read 7:14 a.m. I was sweating and had the kind of headache that is usually reserved for the morning after a whisky night.

A shower, shave, and a bowl of Frosted Flakes later, I was feeling almost ready to tackle the day's challenges. Just after eight I returned Joan's call.

“Hope I didn't wake you,” I told her.

“You'd have to call earlier than this. You forget I'm an old farm girl.”

“Farm girl maybe. Old, not so much.”

“You're already in the will so no need for morning BS.” She laughed and I was painfully reminded of how much like her daughter Joan was.

“If it's okay maybe I'll pop over and pick up those photo albums this morning … if you're sure you don't mind my having them for a few days.”

“Not at all,” she said. “There's too much to get through in one sitting. I'll see you when you get here.”

I hung up and called Cobb's cell. Didn't get an answer. No surprise. He was probably sleeping after the all-nighter in front of the building on Garry Street.
Surveillance
.

My second call was to Kelly Nolan. I got voicemail. Male voice “Hey. We're either golfing, swimming, taking care of the baby, or making love. Leave a message, and if it's one of the first three, we'll get back to you real soon; if it's that last one, it could be a while.” I tried to think of some clever one-liner but couldn't, so I left a message asking Kelly to call me. I wasn't confident she would.

The drive to Joan's was painfully slow — the Glenmore Trail shuffle. It took forty-five minutes to make a twenty-five minute drive.

At the house I rang the bell and heard a voice call out, directing me to the backyard. Joan was sitting on a lawn chair in a winter jacket reading the
Herald
and drinking coffee. Tough lady. The coffee was in a Calgary Flames mug. I'd forgotten that Joan was as big a hockey fan as I'd ever known. She'd been in the Montreal Forum in '89, the night the Flames won their one and only Stanley Cup.

“Coffee, Adam?”

“Thanks. That would be great.”

Donna got up and went inside. The photo albums were piled on a table. Piled
high
.

Joan returned with a coffee in hand and held it out to me.

“Thanks.” I pointed my chin at the photo albums. “Prolific.”

“Mm-hmm. And like I said, actually we both said, mega-organized.”

“Mega-organized,” I repeated.

Joan nodded. “I looked these over again this morning. There's a photo album for every year of her life from twelve years old on. It's a record of who she was, what she did.”

A couple of minutes went by before either of us spoke.

I said, “I miss her.”

“I do too, Adam,” Joan said, looking up at the grey-blue morning sky.

Neither of us spoke much after that.

O
n the way back from Joan's house I detoured to the north side of the city. I wanted to drive past Donna's old school. I wasn't sure why.

The building that housed Northern Horizon Academy dated back to just before the First World War. It had originally been a public school, A.C. Rutherford High School, a venerable old brick and sandstone edifice in a solid neighbourhood that was undergoing something of a renaissance — like Bridgeland in that respect. There were lots of in-fills and walk-up style duplexes, new but made to look old, with enough coffee places to keep everyone in the neighbourhood on a permanent caffeine high.

The school had closed its doors in 1971, because of a dwindling student population, but reopened four years later as Northern Horizon Academy.

I parked across the street from the main entrance and watched students going in and out of the massive main double doors that were flanked by tall cedars that looked to have been there for several graduating classes. A hand-painted sign next to the left hand cedar read “Go Marauders, maul those Rams.”

I sat for a few more minutes, watching, and listening to Jann Arden performing live with the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra. Finally I climbed out of the car and walked across the street and up the long, wide walkway that led to the front doors. I tried to imagine Donna going in and out of those doors throughout high school and was lost in that thought when I was almost run over by three teenage girls who had crashed through the doors and were running, laughing, and talking — a teenage version of multi-tasking.

They didn't see me until the last minute, managed to avoid me, and were genuinely sorry. Two blondes and a redhead, they looked to be in the upper grades.

I laughed and told them it was my fault. “I wasn't paying attention.”

“Are you looking for the office?” One of them asked.

“No, I … well, uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“On your left, you can't miss it.”

“Thanks.”

They moved off but I figured I was committed to at least going inside. A sign just above the handle on the door said, “All visitors MUST report to the office.”

I stepped inside and looked to the left. The office door faced in my direction. I started toward it, realized I didn't have a particular reason for being in the school and changed my mind. I turned, glanced up, and saw that the wall between me and the office was adorned with grads' pictures from various years. Four foot by five foot framed collections of headshots — one framed collection for each year. This wall featured recent grads, the years 2001 to 2010.

I was debating whether I should try to find Donna's grad year when the door to the office opened and a woman stepped out carrying a couple of file folders and a thick book in one hand, a coffee cup in the other. She went by me, then stopped. I was facing the pictures on the wall but sensed that she was watching me. With good reason. Schools and the people who work in them have been justifiably spooked by the number of violent incidents that have taken place over the past couple of decades. Strangers, especially those with no good reason for being there, aren't welcome.

“Can I help you?”

I turned to face her. “Uh, not really, I … my wife attended this school and I guess I just wanted to see what it looked like. She spoke of it often.” The last part was a lie but I figured it might help set aside fears that I was in the school for any nefarious purposes.

The person opposite me was my height and conservatively dressed. She wore glasses, utilitarian, not the high fashion kind, and a bun held her brown hair in place. She had a plain-ish face, thin lips, but in a way she was pretty without trying real hard. I guessed secretary or maybe librarian, though she was built solidly and looked fit enough for Phys-Ed.

“She isn't with you?”

“She passed away.”

“I'm sorry.” She looked like she meant it.

I nodded. “It was some time ago.”

“I'm afraid we have quite a strict policy about —”

“I know, reporting to the office. I was just on my way there but then I thought I probably wouldn't stay. No point I guess.”

“What was your wife's name? I might remember her. I've been here rather a long time. I'm sure there are students who would say
too
long.” A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“You must have come in contact with a lot of students over the years. I'm sure you can't remember all —”

“Try me.” The smile got a little bigger.

“Donna Leybrand.”

The smile disappeared. “Ah.”

“You did know her then.”

“I knew her and I remember her. Lovely girl.” A pause. “And I read of her death. A fire?”

“Yes.”

“I am so very sorry,” she said again.

“I appreciate that.”

“Would you like to come into my office, Mr…?” She gestured back toward the main office door.

“Adam Cullen.”

She held out her hand. I took it. Warm, long, slender fingers, no nail polish, firm grip.

“Delores Bain. I'm the principal here at NHA. I have coffee in my office if you're interested.”

Principal. All of my careful stereotyping was merely another botched piece of detective work.

I smiled. “Coffee would be very nice. But you look like you have work to do.”

“These?” She raised the folders and book just a little. “These can wait. The longer the better.”

She led me into the main office and lifted a hinged drop down door that took us past a counter where two boys were talking earnestly to a short, balding man in a white shirt and tie.

“Just so you know, boys,” the principal said without looking at the boys or the man, “even if you convince Mr. Turley that you shouldn't have to serve those detentions, you'll never convince me.”

I heard a groan from one of the boys as I followed her into her office. She closed the door behind me. There was a small coffee maker on a table in one corner. She pointed to a chair, one of two on this side of the desk, and went to the coffee maker.

“It's my one perk for twenty-nine years in the same school,” she said over her shoulder. “How do you take it?”

“Just milk or whitener, whatever you've got. One sugar if you have it.”

“I have milk, Mr. Cullen, so I guess that makes two perks.”

She turned around a few seconds later with her cup refilled and a fresh Marauders mug, which she passed over the desk to me as she eased herself into the chair behind her desk. There were certificates and photos on the wall behind her. The photos were student shots: sports teams, kids posing in front of the school, some receiving awards on a stage. With Delores Bain presenting, smiling, shaking hands.

It looked like she was in all of them. All but one. That one featured a young helmeted driver standing next to what looked like a race car. Stock, like NASCAR. The helmet made it difficult to tell if it was a boy or girl.

If Delores Bain had a family, there was no evidence of it on her desk — no pictures of kids or anyone who didn't look like a student.

I held up my mug. “Here's to NHA,” I said.

She nodded and smiled.

We sipped coffee for a few seconds.

“I appreciate this,” I said.

She nodded and leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. “Mr. Cullen, I invited you in here so I could tell you what a wonderful student Donna was. You're right, I don't remember them all, I wish I did. But I remember Donna. Anyone who taught her would remember her. She wasn't the most popular or the best athlete or the best … anything, really. But there was something about her. She was someone you looked forward to seeing every day. I'm sure you know better than anyone what I'm talking about.”

I nodded. “I guess I do, Ms. Bain.”

“Delores, please.”

“Delores,” I said.

“I was so shocked when I read about the fire. I wouldn't have known it was Donna Leybrand except that the story mentioned she had attended NHA. I did some checking and when I realized it was
our
Donna …” She stopped, looked down at the desk, her eyes moist.

“Ms. … Delores, you must know the fire was deliberately set. The papers were all over that.”

She looked up, cleared her throat, working at being composed. A small nod. “That had to be terrible.”

“It was. You may have read that I was a suspect for a while.”

She looked at me. “I seem to recall something. That too would have been horribly difficult.”

I nodded. “Delores, let me ask you something. I've been thinking about the fire a lot lately and there's reason to believe there may have been something in Donna's past that led to this person setting the fire. I know it's a long time ago, but can you recall if there was something, anything, that might suggest there was someone at this school who disliked Donna enough to want to … hurt her?”

Delores Bain didn't answer right away. She looked down at her hands, furrowed her brow, thinking. Then she looked back at me. “I really can't, Mr. Cullen. I wish I could help, I really do. But there's nothing that comes to mind that could have led to something as dreadful as what happened to your wife.”

I nodded again, sipped coffee.

“Mr. Cullen —”

“Adam, please. Turnabout's fair play.” I managed a half smile.

She returned the smile. “Adam. Are you certain that Donna was the intended target of the attacker, or indeed that anyone was? That it
was
an attack?”

“I received a note one year to the day after the fire. It read ‘The Cullens live and love here. I guess not anymore. Ha ha.'” I told her about Donna's hokey little plaque that had been next to the front door.

Delores Bain pushed her coffee cup away as if it were suddenly distasteful. “That's … beyond belief. But even that, I'm not sure it points necessarily to your wife being the intended victim.”

“Actually, I've always believed it was me the arsonist had been trying to get, and I'm not totally convinced that that wasn't the case, even now, but I guess I'm just wanting to satisfy my own desire for the truth, whatever it is.”

“That's certainly understandable.”

“And like I said, there are a few other things that have come up that have me thinking about it all over again.”

She watched me, waiting for me to say more. I thought about mentioning the note to and from Kelly but decided against it. I doubted that the principal of a school would be able to shed much light on the communications between students. I stood up, extended my hand.

“You've been very kind to take the time to talk to me. And I enjoyed the coffee. Thank you very much.”

She rose, took my hand, offered a smile that was equal parts sympathy and encouragement. “You are welcome here any time, Adam.”

As I turned and walked out of her office I was aware that I could barely remember my high school principal, only that he was tall and seemed too focused, for the most part, on our football team that I seem to recall he once coached. And that was the extent of my memory of him. I was pretty sure that if I had attended Northern Horizon Academy, I'd have remembered my principal.

When I got back to the apartment I wasn't in a real good mood, though I wasn't sure why — maybe the futility of what I was trying to do.

I made myself a bacon sandwich and a fruit smoothie and sat down at the kitchen table with the photo albums. I'd finished the sandwich and the smoothie and was halfway through the second album — grade eight — with nothing in the pictures or the captions to set off any alarm bells when the phone rang.

I picked up on the third ring and barely got hello out before a breathless voice on the other end jumped in.

“Adam, it's Jill Sawley, from the shelter.”

“Jill … uh … yeah, hi … thanks for calling.” I was caught a bit by surprise with the result that neither my mind nor my mouth were working at full capacity. Again.

“I've just seen Jay Blevins. I tried to talk to him but he got away.”

I tried to think.
What would Cobb want to know?

“Where was this and how long ago?”

“Just a few minutes ago. A couple of blocks from the shelter. I didn't have my cell phone with me so I couldn't call you until I got back here.”

“Did you talk to him at all? Get an idea where he was going, where's he's hanging out?”

“I tried. He was across the street and he seemed in a hurry. I called and he stopped but then he waved and kept going. I tried to follow him but I guess I'm not much of a detective. I lost him, or he lost me, in a hurry.”

“Was he with anybody?”

“I don't think so. It happened kind of fast. If anything it looked like he sped up when he saw me … like he wanted to get away from me.”

“Listen, Jill, I'd like to take a run over there if that's okay. Maybe you could show me where you saw him, what direction he was going … and … stuff.”
And stuff
. What the hell did that mean? I was back to sounding like an idiot.

“Of course. I'm working today but there are two of us here so I can get away for a few minutes and take you to where I saw him.”

“Great. I'll see you in a half hour or so.”

I looked outside to check the weather before I headed for the car, always a good idea in Calgary. I decided, based on my visual assessment, that a down-filled jacket, toque, and gloves were solid choices.

I called Cobb again on the way to the car, got him this time.

“Adam,” he said, “I just checked my messages and was about to call you. What's happening?”

“I just heard from Jill Sawley, the woman who works at that shelter in Inglewood. We've got a Jay sighting. Recent, within the last half hour, not far from the shelter. She couldn't catch up with him but got a look at what direction he was headed. I was just on my way there.”