Serpents Rising (7 page)

There was a kitchen table with two chairs sitting to our left, a dishpan with an inch or so of water in it perched on the heater that wasn't heating. But what jumped out at me was a potted geranium, healthy and well-tended, sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. I wasn't sure how the plant survived in the polar-like conditions, but maybe where it was — closer to the functioning space heater — the climate was somehow more tropical.

“Excuse me, sir,” Cobb said in a low voice, “my name is Mike Cobb and this is Adam Cullen. We don't mean to disturb you but as I was saying —”

“Yeah, you're looking for somebody.” The voice was sandpaper on mortar, rough but not very loud. And somehow not mean. Mostly he sounded tired, or maybe unwell.

“A young man, late teens,” Cobb continued. “We thought it possible he might stay here sometimes. We're wondering if you might know of him.”

The man didn't answer.

“If you don't mind, I'd like to come over there and show you a picture of him, see if it rings any bells.”

“Rings any bells,” the man said.

Cobb crossed the room, held the picture in front of the man on the stool. No reaction at first, but eventually the man moved in slow motion, his head pivoting just slightly to the right as he seemed to study the photo. Then nodded slowly.

“Forget his name, crackhead kid. He's okay though. Borrowed some winter gloves from me … hasn't brought 'em back yet. Ray or Clay or something.”

“Jay Blevins.”

The man nodded. “Borrowed some mitts from me.”

“When was the last time you saw him, Mr. … uh …”

“Morris. Not Norris. Last name, not first.”

“Right, Mr. Morris. When was the last time you saw Jay, do you remember?”

“Couple of days ago. Not here. On the street, out there.” He lifted his chin to indicate outside.

“Which street?”

A long pause. “I don't remember.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Sure, said hey, asked him how he was doin', stuff like that.”

“Does he stay here?”

For the first time Morris turned away from the window, swivelled slowly on the chair, and faced us. “Not enough room in here.”

The face was lined and creased and the nose was off-centre a little and bent. Thin lips, set back in a face that had gone unshaven for a few days. Looked like he still had most of his teeth. Morris was a man who might have been handsome once.

“Yeah, I meant in the building,” Cobb said.

“Down the hall … at the far end. But he hasn't been here for a while.”

“How long since he was last here?”

“Don't know … month maybe.”

“Think he'll be coming back?”

Morris shrugged, turned his head a little more, and saw me for the first time. I could see him more clearly now and realized that we were talking to a man who looked, sounded, and moved like an old man, but who, I guessed, was maybe forty, not more than forty-five.

Cobb said, “When you saw Jay a couple of days ago, did he happen to say where he was staying?'

“Don't think so.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“And you don't have any idea where we might find him? Where he sleeps at night when he's not here, who he hangs out with?”

“Not enough room in here.”

“Yes, sir, I understand. Do you know where he sleeps when he's not here?”

Pause.

“Nope.”

“Mr. Morris, it's important that we find him. Jay could be in some danger, some bad people are looking for him. You have any idea at all where we might find him?”

Morris shook his head. No pause this time. Definite.

“Anyone else you can suggest we might talk to? Someone who might know where we might find Jay?”

“There's always kids in and out of that place at the end of the hall. Maybe one of them.” He turned back to the window. The interview was over.

“Thank you, sir,” Cobb said. “We appreciate your time.”

Morris didn't answer and we left him and stepped back into the hall. I closed the door gently behind us. Cobb didn't say anything but led the way back down the hall.

Cobb held the flashlight out in front of us, allowing the light to illuminate the last door at this end. It was covered in graffiti art. Someone had talent. There were a few lines of poetry gracing the door's surface — or maybe it was prose — that mostly seemed to be exploring creative ways to adapt the word
fuck
to different parts of speech.

Cobb knocked, got no answer. He didn't bother to wait this time, pushed the door open, and let the beam of the flashlight work its way around the room. “Anybody home?”

Again there was no response so he stepped inside just far enough to let me move up beside him. We surveyed the main room. Stuff, a lot of it, covered most of the floor and a couple of makeshift tables that occupied the centre of the room. Two mattresses, clothes strewn in heaps on both of them; four chairs, none of them matching; several garbage bags, all of them crammed with something, garbage or possessions — it was hard to tell which.

There was more graffiti on the walls, and paper, sheets of loose leaf and a couple of pads of lined paper, several battered paperbacks, and an even more battered Bible lying amongst the rest of the stuff. The room didn't look or smell bad, really. I'd seen friends' teenagers' bedrooms, and this wasn't all that different. Too much stuff, none of it actually put away — chaos but not filth.

We walked around the room, looking for … I wasn't sure what. I picked up some of the pieces of paper, more of the kind of art we'd seen on the door and walls. Same artist maybe. One scrap of paper was a note that read,

Zoe, please come home or at least call. Your Dad and I love you and we're going crazy not knowing where you are and if you're okay. Please, please call or send an email. We just want to hear from you.

Love

Mom and Dad

No way of knowing how the note had got to Zoe, assuming Zoe was one of the residents of the place, or whether she'd answered it.

Cobb and I worked our way through some of the stuff, but while there was lots of it, most of it clothing, there wasn't much to identify the occupants of the place or offer much help with our search. Again another room, this one with a door. It was open and I glanced in — more stuff, possessions that defined the word meagre. Stacked and stashed in an attempt at order.

After maybe ten futile minutes, Cobb said, “Let's get out of here. I've had enough.”

Neither of us spoke until we were outside. It was dark by then and I was instantly aware of a different look to the street. Different sounds too. It seemed even less friendly, more serious … dour. It wasn't a place I'd have wanted to be by myself. Cobb looked up and down the street, rubbed a gloved hand against his jaw, then turned to me.

“Any more ideas as to where we might look?”

I shook my head. “No, and I'm sorry I haven't been much help up to now.”

Cobb looked at me. “No apology necessary. If finding missing people was easy, I'd be out of a career.”

“I guess.”

“I'm bagged. I say we call it a day and start again in the morning. Are you game for another day of this?”

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I said.

W
e started in the direction of the car but had only gone a couple of steps when a girl crossed the street coming our way. She was carrying something bulky and paid no attention to us, probably deliberately. She passed us and looked like she might be heading for the back of the building.

I decided there was nothing to lose. “Zoe?”

She slowed, almost stopped, then picked up speed. Turned the corner of the building.

“Zoe.” I called again and started after her, Cobb right behind me.

As we came around to the side of the building, I thought we'd lost her. Black night, no illumination here from the street's lone streetlight. A shadow moving just ahead.

“Zoe?”

She kept going, now around the back of the building.

Cobb said, “We just want to ask you about Jay Blevins. He's in trouble and we need to find him. To help him.”

We came around the corner and she had stopped right at the hole in the wall entrance. The tiny amount of light from the interior of the building was enough to let us see her face.

I'd have put her at seventeen or eighteen. Pretty, or could have been with a little attention to her appearance. Her clothes were thrift store head to toe. Her light brown hair, what I could see of it, was a maze of tangles; a scarf haphazardly covered the rest. The bulky item she was carrying was a garbage bag. There was no way of knowing what it contained.

She was looking at us. More angry than scared. Or maybe pretending to be tough. “Stay right there or I scream and fifteen guys will be down here to kick the livin' shit out of both of you.”

Fifteen guys.
She might have been able to rustle up three or four, counting the cat, but I didn't think pointing that out would improve our chances of getting information from her.

“You don't have to do that. We're trying to find Jay. It's important. If you could help us —”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I … what?”

“You said he was in trouble. What kind of trouble?”

Cobb answered. “We think some people might be looking for him. If they find him, it could be very bad for Jay. He doesn't know, at least we don't think he knows, that he's in danger. We need to tell him and help him if he'll let us.”

“How do I know you're not those guys, or cops, or guys his parents have sent out to bring him home?”

“I guess you don't. We can show you our ID if that'll help. I'm a private detective. Jay's father hired me to find him. But not to get him to go home, just to keep him from getting hurt by the people I mentioned. This gentleman is a journalist. He's helping me.”

“Jay doesn't want to go home.”

Cobb shook his head. “Like I said, this isn't about him going home, Zoe. This is a lot more serious than that, believe me.”

“Zoe,” I spoke softly, hoping my voice conveyed sincerity. “We don't want to hurt you or Jay. That's not why we're here.”

“Okay, let me see your ID.”

Cobb pulled out his wallet, stepped forward with it. I fished in my pocket, found mine, and extracted a driver's licence and Press Club membership. It wasn't great but I hoped it might convince her. I started forward.

“Hold it,” the sharpness of her voice echoed off the building. “Only one of you.” She pointed at me. “You, the little one, you bring the ID for both of you.”

Cobb handed me his PI card. I guessed he was trying not to smile.
The little one.

I stepped forward and extended my arm in order to keep some distance between us, handed her the IDs. She held them so that she could examine them in the light, then passed them back to me.

“Come on,” she said and turned and went into the building.

We followed. No one spoke as we retraced our path back up the stairs to the last place we'd been in. When we got to her door I said, “You want me to go get the light bulb?”

“I've got light. Wait here.” She went inside, closing the door behind her. She was gone long enough that I looked questioningly at Cobb. He stared straight ahead, waiting. More patient than I was.

The door opened. Zoe stepped back, made a motion with her hand that seemed to indicate we should come inside. Cobb went in first and I followed him.

She was right. She had light. Candles, eight or ten at least, in various shapes and lengths, were lit, giving the room a very different feel from when we'd been in it before. She'd even pushed a few things around. Tidied a little.

She closed the door behind us, directed us to a lawn chair that hadn't been set up before, and a board set across two piles of magazines. Cobb let me have the chair, he sat carefully on the board. She sat on the floor opposite us.

“So you are Zoe.”

She nodded.

“What's your last name, Zoe?”

“Tario.”

“Thanks for talking to us.”

“I can get you some water.”

Cobb declined and I started to but thought better of it. In some strange way, I felt that this street girl was doing her best to be hospitable and that water was probably all she had to offer us.

“Thanks,” I said. “I'd appreciate a water.”

She got up, reached behind her for a plastic jug of water, poured some into a glass that may or may not have been clean. She handed me the water with a flicker of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

“I hope you like
cold
water.” She shook the glass and I could hear bits of ice hitting the sides.

“Cold's my favourite.” I said.

Another flicker, then she sat back down and looked at Cobb. “Why should I help you guys?”

“Because you'd be helping Jay,” Cobb said. “It's like we said before, there are some other people who might be looking for him. If they are, it's imperative that we find him before they do.”

“Who are these people?”

“We're not sure.”

“Pretty vague.”

“I wish I could give you more definitive answers but I can't. You're going to have to trust us.”

“Do you have any idea how many times I've heard that in my life? From my favourite uncle who was a pedophile to my first boyfriend who turned out to be violent to the two cops who arrested me for shoplifting and offered me some interesting ways to avoid being charged to … there's more, but I'm sure you get the picture. So, bottom line, I don't
have to
trust you.”

Cobb glanced over at me. I could see he was thinking about how much he'd tell her. He nodded. “Two drug trade guys were killed last night. A house over in Ramsay. Crack dealers … they were shot.”

Zoe looked thoughtful, nodded slowly. “I heard something about it on the news. There was a radio playing at a shelter I stopped at to get some blankets.”

Blankets. That explained the garbage bag.

“It's going to be bloody cold tonight,” I said. I shook my water glass to remind her just how cold. “Why didn't you just stay at the shelter?”

“I like it here.”

When neither Cobb nor I responded she added, “I sort of wanted to be here in case … someone comes here.”

“Jay?” I asked.

She didn't answer. Turned instead to Cobb. “What's the shooting have to do with Jay?”

“Maybe nothing,” Cobb looked down at the floor for maybe a millisecond then back up at Zoe, his decision made. “The guy who shot those two men was Jay's father. He's worried that the guys who are higher up the food chain might want revenge for a couple of their guys getting snuffed.”

“So why wouldn't they want to get their revenge on Jay's father?”

“They will want that. But if they're not successful, or even if they are, Mr. Blevins is concerned that they might want to go farther. If he's right, then Jay could become a target. Or maybe already is.”

Zoe didn't say anything for a couple of minutes. She seemed to be digesting the information.

Cobb let her think about it for a while. “Do you happen to know that house? It's on Raleigh Avenue.”

Zoe pulled a cigarette out of her jacket pocket, not a pack, one lone cigarette. She lit it from one of the candles, took a drag, blew smoke above our heads. “I know it.”

“You a user, Zoe?”

She shook her head. “Was. I've been clean for almost four months. Went through a program and got off it … for now. I guess we'll see.”

I appreciated her honesty. None of the “I've never used” or “I've beaten the thing for life” that you hear from a lot of users.

“What do you know about the house?” Cobb asked her.

“Not a lot. Jay bought there quite often. He took me with him twice. I hated the place. Real creepy guys. I remember one was called Stick. Real tall. The first time I went there with Jay, that asshole, Stick, offered to show me why he had that particular nickname. Total jerkoff.”

Blevins had told Cobb one of the guys was very tall. Maybe Stick was one of the victims.

“Who else was there, do you remember?”

“The first time it was only Stick and two kids who looked junior high school age making a buy. The second time, it was like Walmart on Saturday night — people everywhere. Stick was there and another guy was doing the selling and distributing. I didn't pay much attention to who was in there, mostly I wanted to get out and gone as fast as we could. After that time I told Jay I wouldn't go there anymore. He said he'd buy for me — that was when I was still using.”

“Crack … that what they sold there?”

“Crack, ecstasy, blow, lots of other stuff. One stop shopping.”

Cobb nodded and leaned forward. “Jay ever say anything about the people who sold out of that house? Like who they worked for?”

“No. I even asked him once. He said he didn't know and didn't want to know. Just as long he could get what he needed he didn't care if Stephen Harper owned the place.”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's not him,” Cobb said, smiling.

Zoe didn't return the smile.

“Listen, Zoe, we don't know who runs that place either and we don't know if it's the same people Stick and his pal report to … or maybe
reported
to is more accurate. But we've talked to some guys who are in the know and they've told us that these aren't people you want to mess with.”

“So why are you messing with them?”

“Because a scared dad hired me to protect his kid. And that's what I'm going to do, but I could use your help.”

“Trouble is, I don't know where he is. Jay isn't what you'd call reliable. He'll tell you he's going to be somewhere at a certain time and show up a few hours later, or the next day, or not at all.”

There was a knock at the door. Sitting there grouped around the candles, talking in low voices, we hadn't heard anyone approach. I have to admit I jumped. I think Zoe did too. Cobb stood up, turned to face the door.

“Yeah?” Zoe called

A gravel voice answered. “I got an extra heater and a cord. I'll leave 'em right here.”

“Thanks, Jackie,” Zoe called again, then looked at us. “Jackie Morris. My neighbor. Good guy. One person I
can
trust.”

“We met him.” Cobb sat back down.

We waited and no one spoke until we heard shuffling footsteps moving away from Zoe's door.

Cobb said, “You were saying that Jay isn't reliable.”

Zoe looked at each of us in turn. It looked like she was deciding whether she ought to be critical of Jay in front of strangers.

“Sometimes he's great. When he's sort of in control of his life, everybody loves him — he's funny, smart, creative, considerate … just a good guy. I know that sounds, I don't know —”

“We've heard that same description of him from other people,” I said.

She nodded. “Anyway, Jay is pretty heavily addicted. He's tried, really tried, but he can't seem to stay clean, at least not for any length of time.”

I sipped my water. “Back to my earlier question: is Jay the reason you're here tonight instead of somewhere warm? You're expecting him?”

She hesitated then smiled a little. Shy. “Not expecting, exactly. More hoping.”

“If he doesn't show up here, is there anywhere you could suggest we look?”

“If I knew, I'd look there myself.”

Cobb said. “So you haven't seen him in a while.”

“A week, maybe more. Like I said, he tends to disappear from the radar sometimes. Real hard to find then. I've given up looking. I just live my life and if he comes around, great, if not …” She shrugged.

Cobb stood up. “Thanks Zoe. We do appreciate the help. If you hear from him or
of
him, I'd appreciate a call.” He handed her one of his cards.

“Likewise.”

“Fair enough. You have a cell phone?”

“Uh-uh. The thing with having a cell phone is they expect you to pay the bill now and again.”

Cobb nodded. “If we find out anything, I'll get word to you.” He turned toward the door.

I finished my water, set the glass down, and stood up. “Zoe, just wondering, I know it's none of my business, but have you answered that note from your parents?”

She looked over at the note, then back at me.

“Sorry, we weren't really snooping, just trying to find out if Jay —”

She waved an arm. “It's okay, and no I haven't. My bad, huh?”

“I don't know anything about your relationship with your parents. It just sounded like they're worried, that's all.”

“That's another story for another time. I'll think about letting them know I'm okay.”

I nodded, turned, and followed Cobb to the door. As we stepped into the hall, the space heater and neatly coiled extension cord were sitting next to the doorway. The heater didn't look like it would generate a lot of warmth but maybe it would help if it was right next to you. Maybe.

Cobb didn't say anything until we were back on the street. The temperature had dropped a few more degrees but the wind had let up. A few flakes of snow drifted down. It wasn't a bad night, especially if you were going home to a house with a furnace and a warm bed.