The Vanishing Track (40 page)

Even at a young age John David knew that his father drank during those long afternoons in the shed. The term alcoholic wasn't widely accepted during the 1950s, unlike today. He was a functional drunk. The children all learned in time to avoid the shed, but sometimes trouble found them regardless of where they hid.

John David left home when he was fourteen and hitchhiked to Saint John where he sold newspapers and lied about his age. He lived in a hostel. By the time he was sixteen he'd been to jail twice and had twice been returned to his family home, where he received tremendous beatings from his father and faced the pitiful tears of his helpless mother.

After leaving home for the last time at sixteen, he never spoke with his father again. He didn't correspond with his mother for years, and then only once a year at Christmas, the first letter coming to announce that his father had died at his own hand the previous fall.

John David's big break came when he was eighteen. He had been hanging around the newsroom in the evening, bringing the reporters coffee, when a cub reporter who wrote filler for the entertainment section was hit by a car on his way into the office. The man wasn't seriously injured, but twelve column inches needed completing that night, and no one was around to fill the space. The entertainment editor knew that John David liked movies, so he asked him to write the copy on whatever film he had most recently seen. A year later the paper was helping John David through college and in 1973 he had a regular column for the entertainment section. And like his father, he was a functional drunk.

In 1978 he was offered a position with the Victoria
Times Colonist.
He and his young family moved across the country where he became the editor of the paper's entertainment section. He had big dreams, but bigger obstacles.

In 1980 he moved again, to Saskatoon, and then to Winnipeg. And Calgary.

By 1984 the pattern had become clear. The young man from Moncton, with the quick wit and the biting commentary on movies and culture of the day, performed well for the first year or two at each paper, but he soon began to disappear and would be found sleeping off a week of binge-drinking on the couch of a stranger. John David's wife left in 1989, taking their three children with her, proclaiming they deserved better. And he knew they did.

In 2001 he attended his first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. He stayed for fifteen minutes and then walked two blocks down Eighth Avenue in Calgary and drank himself unconscious. He spent the night in the drunk tank and the next thirty days in a detox program. Then he found a job with
Fast Forward
magazine.

He flew to Toronto for his daughter's graduation from a good
MBA
program. She didn't know he was in the room. After the ceremony John David found a bar a few blocks away and had his first drink in two years. He woke up in the Toronto General Hospital.

His family never learned he was in the city, and when he checked out of the detox program, he caught the Greyhound and rode it straight back to Calgary. There he learned he'd been fired, and that his meager possessions had been sold at auction by his landlord to cover his unpaid rent.

He got back on the bus and with the last of his money rode it as far as Vancouver.

Years passed. He watched movies, ate candy and popcorn he found on the seats when the other patrons left, and twice a day attended Alcohol Anonymous meetings.

Sitting on the park bench that morning, his fifty-eighth birthday, his cell phone rang.

“Hello,” he answered, his throat dry.

“John David, is that you?”

“It is. Who's this?”

“It's Deborah.” His wife.

He was silent.

“John . . .”

“Is everything alright? The kids?”

“They are fine,” said Deborah, in a weary tone.

“What then?”

“Your sister just called. Last week. Your mother passed away. Nobody could find you.”

“Thanks . . .” he said, distracted. His eyes filled with tears as he hung up.

He caught the SkyTrain. The afternoon was dark, the sky crowded with ominous clouds that threatened rain. He found an
AA
meeting in the basement of the Pennsylvania Hotel. After it ended, he sat in the chair for half an hour. The man who ran the meetings asked if he was okay and John David said he was and got up and left.

It was dark and raining when he reached the street. He didn't have an umbrella so he turned up the collar on his coat and dashed down the block. It was a Friday night and light spilled from the Cambie Hotel into the rain-slick streets like a beacon. John David followed it like a moth to the flame.

He woke up without his coat or wallet behind a dumpster in Trounce Alley. He tried to stand but couldn't. He begged for money to buy food but bought a cheap bottle of vodka instead. A week passed. He slept in the alley. One night he woke from a dream about his wife and children. A gentle rain was falling on his bare head.

Somebody was softly nudging his arm. He tried to turn over and go back to sleep. His head was resting against the rough brick of a building and his movement jarred him awake. He tried to blink but his eyes felt as if they were on fire.

A tender hand rested on his arm. He blinked again and his eyes came into focus. A young woman was hunched down beside him. An orange backpack sat next to her.

“What is it?” he said.

“I'm Juliet,” she said. “I'm a nurse. I work for the Health Authority. Do you need help?”

He blinked again, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. His face felt like sandpaper had been scraped across it. “I'm an alcoholic,” he said, a tear trickling down his face.

“It's okay,” the woman said. “It's going to be okay. We can get you help.”

WRITING A NOVEL IS AN
act of faith and perseverance. Many people expressed their confidence in me during the writing of
The Vanishing Track
, but none more than my wife, Jennifer. For her love and unwavering belief in me, I am deeply grateful.

My best friend, Josh Slatkoff, has been a constant support in the development of the Cole Blackwater series, and never more so than in the penning of this novel. I will never forget the day in 2006 when, running over the rocky dome of Victoria's Mount Doug, Josh and I first discussed the character of Sean Livingstone.

Frances Thorsen of Chronicles of Crime in Victoria,
BC
, has become so much more than just a favorite bookseller. She is a champion for my work, and I am humbled by her support. As my story editor, she has provided firm, steady guidance for the refinement of this novel, and I am grateful.

Without the support of so many other booksellers across Canada, the Cole Blackwater series would not be possible. I am grateful to all those stores that have stocked my books and continue to promote them.

My gratitude to the team at TouchWood Editions, and especially Ruth Linka. Working with a publisher who shares your vision is a deeply satisfying experience, one I wish every author could have.

In particular, my thanks goes to Lenore Hietkamp, who was the copy editor for
The Vanishing Track.
You have my gratitude, and my sympathy.

There are many people working in the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver who are doing the hard work of making the lives of the homeless better, and they have taught me much over the last six years. John Richardson, formerly of Pivot Legal Society, David Ebby of the
BC
Civil Liberties Association, and Judy Graves, the City of Vancouver's advocate for the homeless, stand out among them. My gratitude also to
VPD
Constable Jodyn Keller who provided me with the essential perspective of the on-the-ground effort of the Vancouver City Police to address the issue of homelessness.

And to Jennifer, Chris, David, Richard and Sharon: They are just a few of the many people I have met in Vancouver and Victoria whose lives have not turned out as they might have expected, who are living on the streets, who are suffering, and who have taught me so much.

STEPHEN LEGAULT IS AN AUTHOR,
consultant, conservationist, and photographer who lives in Canmore, Alberta. He is the author of four other books, including the first two installments in the Cole Blackwater Mystery series,
The Cardinal Divide
and
The Darkening Archipelago
, as well as
The End of the Line
, the first book in the Durrant Wallace Mystery series. Please visit Stephen online at
stephenlegault.com
or follow him on Twitter at
@stephenlegault
.

Other books by Stephen Legault

Carry Tiger to Mountain: The Tao of Activism and Leadership
(2006)

THE COLE BLACKWATER SERIES

The Cardinal Divide
(2008)

The Darkening Archipelago
(2010)

The Vanishing Track
(2012)

THE DURRANT WALLACE SERIES

The End of the Line
(2011)

For information on new books in the Cole Blackwater series, the Durrant Wallace series, or other books by Stephen Legault, visit
stephenlegault.com/writing
.

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The second book in the Casey Holland Mystery series,
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The Corpse with the Silver Tongue
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The Corpse with the Silver Tongue
is the first in the delicious new Cait Morgan mystery series.

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