The Back of the Turtle (8 page)

ALL DONE. THE DRUM PROBLEM SOLVED.

Sonny walks along, enjoying the morning sunshine and the sense of accomplishment that comes with having avoided an error in judgment. Now he won’t have to tell Dad about the drum or his moment of temptation.

Although he could.

He could tell Dad how he had been tempted and how he had fought and fought and how he had finally been able to overcome his desire. That would make Dad happy. Another vindication of free will.

The town square is empty, and there is no one in the park. Sonny walks around the square and counts the deserted stores. He gets to eight before he is distracted by a naked mannequin standing in the window of Fee’s Surf Wear. The last time he had come to town, the shop had been open. Now it is closed. There is a sign on the door that says, “Out of Business.”

When did Margery leave? Did she forget her mannequin?

The mannequin in the window has breasts, so it is not really a mannequin. Sonny stands next to the window and tries to think what a mannequin would be called that is not really a mannequin. “Womanequin” has too many syllables and “ladyquin” sounds
like “late-again” and could be confusing. The mannequin in the window is too old to be a girl, so “girliquin” won’t work either.

“Heriquin.”

Wham-wham.

“Heriquin” sounds like “hurricane,” and this reminds Sonny of Hulda Krause, who drove the school bus when the school was open. Ms. Krause was a large, powerful woman, who spent much of her time yelling at unruly children who would not sit in their seats. Sometimes Ms. Krause would stop the bus and huff and puff up and down the aisle, spraying everyone with gales of saliva.

Jimmy Turner and Bobby Thornton called her Hulda the Hurricane. Sonny liked Ms. Krause, and he was sorry when she died on That One Bad Day.

“Heriquin.”

Sonny wonders if he has come up with a new word. If the library were still open, he could go there and look up “heriquin” in the dictionary. And if he couldn’t find it there, then it could be a new word, and Sonny might get his photograph in the newspaper.

“Heriquin.”

New word discovered by Sonny.

But then “mannequin” should be “himiquin”?

Wham-wham, hammer-hammer.

Two new words discovered by Sonny.

SONNY
misses the stores that have closed. He misses the art shows and the music festivals and the fish fries that filled the
square. He misses the tourists who used to rent rooms at the Ocean Star Motel. He misses the families who would flock to the beach to see the turtles, and he misses the salvage that fell out of their pockets when they shook the sand from their clothes and beach towels.

Then again, there were times when the noise in Samaritan Bay was quite loud and bothersome. There were times when the sounds of glee and merriment were so loud that Sonny couldn’t think. There were times when he wanted to march into the park, ascend the gazebo, and speak to the town.

Quiet, he would cry out. Sonny is trying to think.

Now, the town is very quiet, and Sonny has no trouble thinking.

Sonny cups his hands and peers in through the window of the Samaritan Bay Tourist Information Centre. The centre used to be open seven days a week, but now it is only open on weekends. Inside, he can see the racks of colour brochures and the big turtle meter on the wall. Sonny feels sad for the information worker who has to stand behind the desk on Saturdays and Sundays waiting for the Laytners of Bracebridge, the Warltiers of Penticton, and the Hodges of Toronto to come in to get their plastic bags filled with free brochures.

Sonny wonders if he should go to the centre in disguise. He could pretend to be a tourist and take every brochure the information person offers. Good job, he could say in an encouraging voice. Good job.

Sonny looks around the square once more and pretends that the town isn’t dying, that it is just resting.

And then, there it is. The power jacket. The jacket with the
tipis. Sonny sees it for only a second at the entrance to the alley that runs behind the Co-op market. Strange, Sonny thinks to himself. Strange. It isn’t the old guy from the beach who is wearing it. It’s someone else. Someone moving quickly. Someone moving quickly with long black hair.

An Indian.

A young Indian girl in the alley.

First the drum and now this. Sonny can feel his whole body tremble with excitement as he realizes what it means.

The beginning of days.

The Indians have arrived. Soon the birds of the air and the fish of the sea and the animals, big and small, will come home, two by two. And then the people. All the people who had left will return with glad tidings of comfort and joy.

And in his mind, Sonny can see everyone together, gathering on the beach to await the second coming of the turtles.

And he is pleased.

MARA WAS IN SIGHT OF THE HOUSE BEFORE HER ANGER BEGAN
to subside. There was no reason for it. This Gabriel hadn’t done anything. He had simply chased down his pants. He hadn’t even crossed the barrier. Not like the tourists and transients who had tramped through the reserve, invaded homes, scavenged for souvenirs, and marked the buildings.

Not at first, of course. Not when the people were dying. No one came then.

Mara tried to remember how long it had taken before curiosity had overcome fear. She had chased more than one gawker off the reserve. At the height of the invasion, she had hidden herself in her grandmother’s house and waited for the trespassers to focus their cameras. Then she would shake her hair into seaweed and snakes, fling open the front door, and leap onto the porch, screaming and shrieking.

She was not particularly proud of those moments, and she had only done it three or four times. Okay, maybe more.

MARA
saw him as she came out of the trees. Nicholas Crisp. Sitting in the wicker chair on the veranda. The man appeared
to be snoozing in the afternoon sun. On his lap was a small hand drum.

“Hello,” she called out, so as not to startle him.

Nicholas’s eyes slid open, and a smile flooded his face. “Mistress Mara. It’s a fine figure ye carry around. And with fashion.”

“Mr. Crisp, but aren’t you the silver-tongued devil.”

Nicholas clapped his hands together and rubbed his thighs. “I’ll hope ye will forgive the audacity of my having commandeered this fine chair.”

“The chair’s there for that very reason.” Mara mounted the steps and sat down on the matching sofa. “Have you taken up the drum?”

“This?” Crisp held the drum out. “No, no. I’ve no such thing, though I fancy I might have a voice for such scales. No. It be here when I arrived. Sitting on this chair, as I am now.”

Mara took the drum and turned it over. It was well made, with time and skill. “It was here?”

“Aboriginal, I would guess,” said Crisp.

“Yes,” said Mara. “So it would appear.”

“Then I take it, it’s not one of yours.”

“I’ve not seen it before.”

“And ye hadn’t anticipated its arrival.” Nicholas stroked his beard. “Perhaps it’s from a secret admirer, for who else would leave such a fine piece of craftsmanship behind with no explanation but the gift itself.”

Mara struck the drum with a fingertip. The skin was tight and full of sound.

“Of course, the suggestion of an admirer is mere speculation
on my part, and, to be prudent, ye might wait to see what floats up in its wake before ye puts the wind in your sails.”

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Crisp?”

“It’s such generosities as what sparkles a day,” said Crisp. “I put a pot on every morning for courtesy’s sake and in hopes of luring passing souls into critique and conversation. But I didn’t stop by for a cup, blessed though it would be. I’m here on an errand.”

“An errand?”

“Two, to be precise.” Nicholas leaned forward in the chair. “The first is to invite ye to a festivity.”

“A festivity?”

“Aye, at the hot springs. Tomorrow evening at the full moon.”

“Ah,” said Mara. “It’s your birthday.”

“It’s a nimble memory ye has.” Crisp ran a fingernail along the wicker. “I celebrate it then, I do, for it’s a fine excuse for delight and revelry.”

“And just how old are you, Mr. Crisp?”

“Old.” Crisp laughed and rubbed the side of his nose. “Old and worn to an edge, if it’s the truth ye wish.”

“What can I bring?”

“Hope and charity.” Nicholas eased himself to his feet. “The rest will be provided.”

“You’re welcome to stay.”

“Pools to be tended,” said Crisp. “The boatman paid. Guests to be greeted, should any appear.”

“What was the second thing?”

“The second thing?”

“You said there were two errands.”

“Of course, of course.” Crisp scratched at his head, as if he hoped to start a fire. “I’d almost forgotten. The smoke! I was to mention the smoke.”

“Smoke?”

“On my way here,” said Crisp. “Floating above the reserve. As though someone were raising up a meal.”

“I was just there,” said Mara. “I didn’t see any smoke.”

“Well, then it was the fog and the mist playing mischievous tricks on these old eyes.” Crisp stepped off the porch and filled his lungs with the afternoon air. “And wishful thinking, for I was hoping that perhaps your relations had come home.”

Mara wrapped her arms around herself. “No one’s coming home.”

“Everyone comes home,” said Crisp. “Trust an old traveller on that. In the end, we all comes home.”

DORIAN HAD TO WASH HIS HAND SEVERAL TIMES TO GET THE
muffin slick off his fingers. When he came out of the bathroom, Winter was waiting for him with a box.

“You just missed Thicke.”

Winter glanced at the chair and the floor.

“It was disgusting,” said Dorian.

“Your replacement AmEx Black is here. I took the liberty of sending Mrs. Asher’s card directly to her in Orlando.”

“Zebras?”

“We believe so,” said Winter.

“How the hell did they get our credit card numbers?”

Winter set the box on Dorian’s desk. “These are all of our files on Dr. Quinn.”

Mr. Muffin Mouth?

Where had that come from?

Thicke was a fool, to be sure, but there was no need for that sort of assassination. Mr. Muffin Mouth. God, but that was funny. Dorian didn’t catch the giggle in time.

“Sir?”

“Nothing. I just thought of something amusing.”

Dorian could feel his emotions settle down. Mr. Muffin Mouth. Yes, now he could think it without going silly.

“So, what do we know?”

Winter took a file out of the box and placed it on Dorian’s desk. “This is the background check that was done when Dr. Quinn came to work for Domidion.”

Dorian opened the folder and began reading. “Born in Lethbridge, Alberta, 1970. University of Minnesota. Stanford Ph.D. Never married?”

“So far as we know,” said Winter.

Dorian paused on a page. “His father was in law enforcement. What did his mother do?”

“Teacher.”

“A sister?” Dorian looked up from the file. “Gabriel has a sister?”

“Younger.”

“Q never mentioned his family. What do you make of that?” Dorian turned a page. “Father and son moved to Minnesota? Mother and sister stayed in Lethbridge? A divorce?

“No record of a divorce,” said Winter. “The father was originally from Minnesota. A place called Leech Lake.”

“Sounds charming.”

“It’s a reservation.”

“Indian?”

“Anishinabe.”

“Q’s Indian?”

“Yes, sir,” said Winter. “It appears that he is.”

“He doesn’t look Indian.”

“I understand that such things are not uncommon,” said Winter.

“I suppose that might explain a great deal.”

Actually, it explained little. Dorian was embarrassed to have said it out loud, and he hoped that Winter hadn’t noticed.

“Let’s talk to the father.”

“Deceased,” said Winter.

“The mother?”

“We haven’t been able to locate her yet.”

“And the sister?”

“We’re looking into both the mother and the sister.”

“Look harder.” Dorian closed the file and settled into the chair. “So we have a mystery on our hands.”

“Sir?”

“A palpable mystery, my good Laertes.”

Dorian could feel his whole body begin to tingle. It was a pleasant enough sensation, and he hoped that it was the result of enthusiasm and not drug toxicity.

“A man disappears for no reason. The walls of his house are covered with strange writing. Secret files have been accessed. It’s almost Shakespearean, don’t you think?”

“Shakespearean.”

“Actually, Shakespeare didn’t do mysteries,” said Dorian, warming to the task. “A drama. That’s what’s going on. A drama. Before you know it, we’ll have twins separated at birth. Girls disguised as boys. Mistaken identities. Long-lost siblings reunited …”

Dorian caught himself. Now that had been bad. Worse than usual. What had he called her? Laertes? Not good. Not good at all.

“So what else do we have for today?”

“A mystery,” said Winter. “As you say.”

“Really?”

“The
Anguis.
”

Dorian pressed a key on the computer. “I need a PAM environment.” He waited until the icon on the monitor popped up.

“It was lost in a storm.”

“Yes, sir,” said Winter. “That was the assumption.”

“But?”

“We’ve just received word that the
Anguis
might have been spotted off the coast of Argentina. Two months ago.”

Dorian did the math in his head. “So, it didn’t go down in the storm.”

“It would appear.”

“Which means the damn thing could still be floating around. Have we been able to confirm that it was the
Anguis
?”

“No.”

“Then I think we should assume that the ship off the coast of Argentina was
not
the
Anguis.
”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

Winter picked up the television remote. “This is footage that was shot early this morning.”

The image on the screen was of a wilderness river. Dorian knew he was supposed to recognize the area, but he couldn’t place it.

“North of Fort McMurray,” said Winter.

“Ah,” said Dorian. “The Athabasca River.”

“The tar sands,” said Winter. “As you know, Domidion has a sizable interest in Alberta’s energy sector.”

Dorian remembered arguing against tar-sands oil as an investment opportunity. The process required to extract bitumen was complicated and expensive. It used enormous amounts of fresh water and produced four times the greenhouse gases of oil extraction from wells. More troubling was the proximity of the processing plants to the river and the danger that the tailing ponds posed.

“A spill?”

“No,” said Winter. “But evidently there has been some seepage. Possibly from one of our ponds.”

“Didn’t we fund an environmental study that tied pollutants in the river to fluctuating water levels and natural erosion?”

“Do you recall the problem with the ducks?”

In 2008, more than 1,600 ducks had been killed when they landed on one of the tailing ponds. In 2010, another 350 ducks died in the same manner. These were the public figures. In actual fact, Dorian knew, the numbers were much higher.

“There’s been another waterfowl kill?”

“Fish,” said Winter. “Dead fish have started appearing along the banks of the river.”

Dorian watched the video. So that’s what those white dots were.

“But none of our dams have failed?”

“No,” said Winter. “The dams are holding.”

“Then this might not be our problem.”

“The level in one of our tailing ponds has been dropping rapidly for the past two weeks.”

“Don’t we have emergency protocols in place to handle situations such as this?”

“We do,” said Winter. “We’re pumping fresh water into the pond to keep the level where it’s supposed to be.”

“Our exposure?”

“Syncrude, Imperial, Royal Dutch Shell, Suncor all have holding ponds along the river,” said Winter. “There are over sixty companies in the immediate area.”

“So it will be difficult to determine where the problem originated.” Dorian turned away from the screen. “Do we have a Rapid Response Team on site?”

“We do,” said Winter. “They’re keeping the media away.”

“Who’s taking point?”

“Public Relations. They’re considering a press release.”

Dorian felt his face flush. He touched his cheek and discovered that he was sweating.

“Are any of the other companies issuing press releases?”

“No.”

“Then neither should we.”

It wasn’t a serious sweat. Just a thin film of moisture that lay on his face like a mist and felt cool to the touch. The condition wasn’t new. It had happened before. It would go away in a while.

“I’m going to the gym.”

“An excellent idea,” said Winter.

Dorian wondered if Winter worked out. She didn’t look as though she did free weights. Jogging perhaps, or more likely yoga. Dorian had tried yoga once but had been put off by the mystical overtones and the godawful positions that the instructor wanted everyone to assume.

Downward dog.

No matter what the health benefits, Dorian couldn’t see the point of lying on a mat with your butt stuck up in the air.

“Tell me,” said Dorian, “do you exercise?”

“Dance,” said Winter.

“Commendable,” said Dorian. “Olivia plays tennis.”

DORIAN
was in the elevator before he realized he was humming. “Danke Schoen.”

Great. Sweating and humming.

He’d grab a couple of towels from the attendant, have a swim
and
do a circuit on the machines. Maybe two. Force all the tensions and toxins from his body. But it would take him the rest of the day to get that stupid song out of his head.