The Arx (24 page)

His path had become inextricably linked with Gloria’s death and the events that followed. He fought against an impulse and cursed himself for giving in as, for the first time in days, his thoughts drifted yet again back to ‘the case’.

His investigation so far, and his own intuition, told him that he’d stumbled onto something far more dangerous than anything he’d dealt with before. But was the information real, or was it his imagination? Could it all be explained away as coincidence? Was he finding patterns where none really existed? Was Retigo’s journal just the ravings of a lunatic?

He needed to prove to Rebecca, his old colleagues, and especially himself, that he still had what it takes, and he needed to find justice for Gloria and Ralphie.

He mentally shifted the bits of information he’d compiled since Gloria’s death around in his mind like the pieces of an ever-changing jigsaw puzzle: a murdering cult patronized by the rich and powerful, a multi-billion-dollar corporation conspiring to kidnap and murder innocent children, a drug-induced deformity, a baby with the facial expression of an adult and the aura of a wild animal, a slip of paper that appeared to be a hit list but contained only two names.

Something connected the pieces. Some angle of approach, some intellectual prism, would reveal the relationships among the diverse facts he’d uncovered. He lay back, eyes closed, an arm resting on his forehead.

He opened his eyes and lowered his arm as it occurred to him that at one point he’d been close enough to reach out and touch the nexus that connected all the facts.

He sat up and blinked. Like the keystone supporting an ancient archway, the new information, or rather the new way of looking at old information, instantly imposed form onto fragments that had seemed random and unconnected, and provided the strength to hold them together. A portrait of the case had finally morphed into existence.

The form coalesced in his mind and suddenly he was wide awake. He got up and put out a hand to steady himself as he stumbled to the bathroom. The ancient plumbing creaked and knocked as he splashed cold water on his face. To his relief, he found a bottle of aspirin on a shelf in the medicine cabinet. He chugged three glasses of brownish water and used the last one to wash several pills down.

In an instant, a weight fell from his shoulders as a realization swept over him like an icy breaker on Kits beach.

He wasn’t crazy.

He took off out the door.

Pedestrians stared and veered widely around him as Frank made his way to the Granville Skytrain station. The other passengers in his rail-car held their noses and moved away as it sped toward the stop in Yaletown where he’d left his car. He prayed that the vehicle would still be there.

He made it to the spot where he’d parked, what seemed like a lifetime ago, and breathed a sigh of relief. Though several parking tickets fluttered beneath the wipers, the car was undisturbed. He found the spare key he’d hidden in a magnetic holder in the wheel-well.

He didn’t want to go home. The image of the car from the parkade creeping by his bedroom window still made him nervous. Here, in the decrepit underbelly of the city, he was a lot harder to find. Anyway, he was anxious to test out his new theory. Instead he drove back to his hotel. He hauled his gym bag, unused for more than a year, out of the trunk. After stripping off his filthy clothes, he showered, then slept for a couple of hours.

He awoke feeling a little better and changed into the clothes from the bag. Patrons who were probably used to the outlandish sights of the Downtown Eastside still stared as he walked into the Laundromat wearing shorts, a tee-shirt that said ‘Vancouver Sun Run’, and gym shoes, and used some of what was left of his cash to run the washer and dryer. The rest paid for a cheap Bic razor.

Dressed in his newly-laundered clothes and the gym shoes, he hit the nearest branch of his bank, convinced them who he was, canceled all his credit cards and arranged for a new one, and withdrew enough cash to last him a few days.

Finally ready, he headed for Mountain View Hospital.

Frank wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he met Ricky Augustus again. Two things nagged at him and convinced him that the quadriplegic was the key to the mystery. The first was Ricky’s eyes, hauntingly similar to those of Gloria’s kidnapped baby. The second was the simple fact that Ricky’s name was one of two on a list Frank was still convinced was a ‘hit’ list. Why would anybody go to the trouble to kill a mentally challenged, speechless cripple?

The nurse had said they had no idea what had caused Ricky’s deformities. If whatever was behind the conspiracy he’d uncovered related to the side effects of a drug taken during pregnancy, maybe Ricky was living proof of that fact. Maybe his mere existence posed a danger to Kaffir Pharma and those who controlled it. If they got wind of Ricky’s existence…

Then there was the supposed accidental death of Richard Carson. Was Carson really dead? Like so many aspects of the case, his death could be explained away, but Frank’s gut told him something more was going on.

“Hi Frank,” Nurse Carstairs greeted him as he walked through the doors of the Mountain View Centre. “Good to see you back here.”

“No offense,” she continued, “but you look like you’ve been through the wringer. Maybe you should come back after you’ve gotten some rest.”

“I’ve had a rough couple of days,” Frank smiled, “but I’m fine. Actually, I think a little time with Ricky would pick up my spirits.”

She smiled. “I’m glad someone is finally taking an interest in Ricky.”

“That reminds me,” Frank said. “The first time I came here you said that nobody had ever visited Ricky. I was just wondering – is that literally true? No one has ever visited Ricky Augustus other than me?”

Her brow wrinkled in thought.

“I can’t remember anyone ever visiting him. I can check the records for you.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

She disappeared into a back room and returned several minutes later with a thin file folder.

“I was almost right,” she said, smiling. “Apparently Ricky did have one other visitor, a couple of years ago. It was before I started here; a man.”

“One visitor? Did he leave a name or address?”

“No address. He was required to leave a name, but I’m not authorized to release that information. I guess it’s okay to tell you that it doesn’t really look like a real name anyway.”

“John Smith, or something like that,” Frank said.

The nurse nodded.

“Can you tell me anything about him?”

She thumbed through the papers in the folder.

“According to this, he was a distant relative of Ricky’s. Ricky had so few prospects, and no one had ever come to see him, so I guess they gave the guy the benefit of the doubt.”

As before, Nurse Carstairs led him to Ricky, who occupied the exact same space he had during Frank’s first visit. Frank asked her to bring him a chair and he sat down in front of the quadriplegic, who this time faced the room with his back to the wall. As before, Frank told her that her presence wasn’t required, and she went off to perform her other duties.

Frank glanced around to make sure no one else was within hearing distance. Satisfied, he moved his chair right in front of Ricky and leaned forward, his lips close to Ricky’s ear.

“I found a list with your name on it,” he said. “I think it’s a hit list. I think your life may be in danger.”

Ricky’s expression seemed to alter slightly, though so subtly it was almost imperceptible. Frank waited for more of a response. Almost a minute passed. Frank was about to conclude that his theory had been wrong when Ricky’s fingers slowly crawled up onto the stick of his electric wheelchair and he swiveled around, first to one side of Frank, then to the other.

At first Frank thought his host was trying to get away. Then he realized Ricky was checking that the nurse was nowhere to be seen. His suspicions were confirmed when Ricky quickly swiveled back to face him.

Ricky stared into his eyes. It was unnerving. He had the impression that the crippled man was measuring him somehow, trying to come to some decision. After another minute or so of uneasy silence, Ricky spun his wheelchair to the right and Frank caught a slight movement of Ricky’s head in that direction.

He was confused at first, but finally guessed that Ricky was motioning for him to move as well. He shifted his chair around so that he was once again facing the quadriplegic. Ricky continued to angle his chair away from the room, and Frank understood – Ricky wanted to be facing away from the rest of the ‘inmates’. Frank moved aside to allow Ricky to turn, then re-positioned his chair. Now their faces were both out of view of others in the room – Ricky because his back was to them – Frank because Ricky blocked their view.

Ricky’s wheel chair crawled forward so that their faces were centimeters apart. To Frank’s shock, Ricky’s lips started to move. There was almost no sound, only eerie puffs of air coming from Ricky’s mouth – puffs that were nevertheless being shaped into something intelligible by Ricky’s lips. Frank tried to read those lips and strained to hear what Ricky was saying.

Ricky had to repeat himself several times before Frank nodded that he understood, and he smiled.

Rebecca Tells All

The golden expanse of Kits Beach stretched out below them in the afternoon sun as Rebecca and Carla sat on the patio of the Boathouse restaurant. Toddlers plopped plastic buckets onto sand castles under their mothers’ watchful eyes. Shirtless teenage boys yelled as they tossed a football around. A wet and shaggy black Lab, a chunk of driftwood clamped in its teeth, waded on shore and drenched its owner shaking off the salty water.

Rebecca and Carla had just finished a light lunch. Rebecca sat bolt upright in her chair, hands gripping her coffee cup. She’d made up her mind to tell Carla the truth. She’d be admitting to betraying a woman who had become, after only a few meetings, one of the best friends she ever had. But it had to be done, and the sooner the better.

She was about to open her mouth when Carla spoke, “Something’s bothering you.”

Rebecca felt herself blush. “I have a confession to make,” she said.

Carla smiled at her, “Oooh, sounds serious.”

“To tell the truth, I’m ashamed to admit it. I hope it won’t ruin our friendship. Before I say anything I just want you to know that I was just desperate to get to the bottom of what happened to my sister.”

“Your sister?” Carla said.

Rebecca stared into her cup, unsure how to begin.

Carla touched her hand. “I can’t imagine anything you could say that would destroy our friendship. Go ahead, tell me.”

Rebecca lifted her head and looked at her friend. “Well, the fact is that when I came to see you that first time, I wasn’t honest with you. I wasn’t working on an article at all.”

“Really?”

“It seems silly now. A friend of mine was helping me investigate what happened to my sister Gloria.”

Rebecca explained the circumstances of Ralphie’s disappearance and Gloria’s suicide, the theory about the baby not being Ralphie, and the DNA test. Carla shook her head slowly as she listened.

“This is the friend you spoke about before,” Carla said.

Rebecca nodded. “Like I said, he’s got some psychological issues. I should have known better than to buy into his story.”

Carla’s eyebrows knotted together. “So if you weren’t writing an article, what were you doing?”

A gust of wind licked over the patio. Rebecca pulled a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

“My friend had this idea… it’s embarrassing to even say it now – this idea that the kidnapping of Gloria’s baby had something to do with Kaffir and Olmerol.”

Carla laughed. “Your friend has a vivid imagination.” Her expression turned serious. “So our friendship has just been a ruse to allow you to spy on me?”

“That’s how it started out,” Rebecca said, “but that was before I got to know you. I really do consider you my friend. I’ve come to value our time together.

“I hope you understand the context for all this. My sister’s child was kidnapped and killed. Then she committed suicide. I refused to believe that she could harm her own baby. I was desperate to prove her innocent. I was grasping at straws.”

“I’m so sorry about your sister,” Carla said. “But – your little investigation is over?”

“Yes. The whole issue is closed as far as I’m concerned. I told my friend to get help.”

“And do you think he’ll do as you say?”

“He’s kind of fixated, but eventually he’ll come to his senses.”

Carla touched Rebecca’s sleeve.

“So who is this friend?” she asked. The usual childlike quality in her voice seemed harder than before. Or was Rebecca’s guilt distorting her perception?

“I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to tell you,” Rebecca said. “I’m sorry. I hope you understand.”

“But I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Technically he wasn’t my client, but it would still be unethical for me to talk about it. I’m sorry the whole thing ever happened. I’m guilty of some bad judgment. Can we just forget about it and go on from here?”