The judge asks, “Exactly what was he escaping from?”
“The threat by a member of the RCMP that he would be roadkill. You’ll see that mentioned in my report.”
“But not mentioned in Dr. Dare’s,” says Brian. “He spent fifteen minutes with my client and produced two paragraphs, as against the seven pages from Dr. Sloan.”
Would that justice could be so easily measured. Arthur has little doubt that the astute Dr. Timothy Dare is on the mark. The young judge is clearly unfamiliar with Sloan’s shabby reputation.
“More to the point,” Brian says, “Dr. Dare was totally unaware of the childhood trauma that spawned this disorder, the murder of his father.”
Dare heaves himself to his feet with a cynical smile and walks to the door. Before leaving he winks at Arthur, as if they are witnesses to a cheap burlesque.
“Unless anyone strenuously disagrees,” says Takahashi, “I would like to order a further thirty-day psychiatric remand at VI.”
The Vancouver Island Forensic Clinic, a way station for the criminally insane. Arthur wonders if his wily former client can maintain his pretence through a month of observation. Now Faloon notices him, his expression evolving to surprise, then brightness and, to Arthur’s dismay, hope. He nods to Faloon, then flees like a coward as court is recessed.
As he hurries out to his truck, he tries to blot away Faloon’s last crestfallen look. Arthur’s major weakness as a lawyer was that he cared for his clients, even the most blameworthy. And Faloon was among his favourite villains. He feels conscience-stricken, helpless in retirement.
His drive to Pierre’s is interrupted by a brief encounter with the law, a matter involving his muffler and a warning. The restaurant is in a converted Victorian-era country home-he hasn’t been there since its opening two years ago. Pierre moved his business from Vancouver after an incident with a restaurant reviewer that culminated in the dumping of asparagus en sauce chanterelle on his head.
He finds Lotis smoking outside. Selwyn is in the lineup; the wait could be twenty minutes. But Pierre has spotted him through the window and comes outside. “Ah, it is Beauchamp. For two years you do not come to my restaurant. You are not deserved to be here, a traitor to my table.”
For a moment he fixes on Lotis, not quite ogling her, studying her, then urges them past the other waiting patrons. One of them makes a complaining noise. Pierre says, “This is Beauchamp.” He approaches a couple lingering over coffee and dessert. “Please, will you be so kind as to finish your flan at the bar. Your bill is paid.” He calls to a waiter: “Henri, c’est Beauchamp.”
Pierre refuses Arthur’s request to see a menu. “For your friends, I advise the tossed spinach salad, then the curried shrimp, it is exquisite. But for Beauchamp, who likes his meat, l’entrocote a la Bordelaise.” Arthur feels his taste buds quivering and reminds himself steak isn’t on the diet.
“I think something lighter.”
“Not to eat what I bring is an affront.”
Lotis Rudnicki, activist in the struggle for the classless society, expresses shock at the favouritism, the jumping of the line. Arthur explains that for many years he was diner-in-residence at the old Chez Forget. He’d also got Pierre out of some legal scrapes.
Over salad, Arthur makes bold to ask about Selwyn’s blindness, and learns he was sighted until fourteen, when a virus attacked his optic nerves. A dedicated man who has only the memory of beauty seen-Arthur finds much sadness in that, but more wonder.
He compliments Selwyn for his showing in court: a victory, the logging and the overflights have been put on hold. But Selwyn is gloomy, frets that the judge is pro-logging, clearly against them.
“Selwyn, you’re a grouch potato,” Lotis says. “You have to stop being so irrepressibly bleak.” He does seem a sad fellow. In counterpoint she’s cocky, a schemer, the brains behind the impasse at Gwendolyn Gap. “We have a secret weapon, Justice Santorini’s extreme need for Arthur’s love. If he asks this judge to drop his pants, he’ll drop his pants. That gives us stalling time.”
She causes Arthur discomfort with her bawdy analogies. According to Reverend Al, she has a history of leading student demonstrations. “International stuff as well, old boy. Anti-globalization. I suspect she’s an anarchist. Doubtless an atheist.” He spoke in awe, fascinated by rebels and disbelievers. Arthur has never met an anarchist, has never wanted to.
Lotis entertains with a chilling tale of the perils of hitching on Garibaldi. She was in a hurry to get to the Save Gwendolyn meeting on Wednesday. “I passed on the local serial killer, a two-ton gorilla in a one-ton truck. Gave a thumbs-down to three rapists in an Unsustainable Logging crew cab.” She performs, sticking out a thumb, making doltish faces. A comedic actor. One would consider her well tuned to the modern world, perceptive, were she not immersed in the dog-eared politics of the Left.
“I thought I’d be safer with the baby-faced suit in the burgundy Audi V8 guzzler. This massively unhip guy turns out to be Todd Clearihue. We’d never met, he didn’t know me from Mother Jones. Thought he’d impress me with his mall and marina and condos. ‘His vision,’ he called it-as if it’s something creative as opposed to an extension of his cock. Reminded me of my last producer blowing on about the umpteenth sequel of Scream.”
“That is where I saw you,” says Pierre, hovering while a waiter serves the curried shrimp and entrocote. “That scene, where you are naked, hiding from the slasher. Magnifique.”
“I’ll wait for the video,” Selwyn says, dry, unsmiling. He rarely smiles.
“The Return of the Slasher. Starring Todd Clear-cut, disguised as good old country boy. He dug my peace symbols. ‘Cool,’ he said. Cool? He’s a liberal, he’s hip to peace and civil rights.” She fakes a male voice: “‘Taking a little shakedown cruise Saturday on the boat, think you might enjoy that?’ When I drew his attention to the ring on his hand, he said his wife was in the city. I said, ‘Drop me off, I think I’m going to be sick.’”
As the Fargo chugs off the Garibaldi ferry ramp, Arthur is talking to himself again, reciting Shelley as a salve to his irritation. The ferry sailed three hours late, it’s half past seven, too late to lay down the law to Margaret. Anyway, he won’t run panting after her. She has Slappy, she doesn’t need another old dog hanging around.
He still feels his stomach complaining about the unaccustomed rich food. He ought not to have had the coeur a la creme d’Angers.
Also plaguing him is a feeling of uselessness as Nick Faloon blunders his way to a life sentence for murder. But is Arthur harbouring an illusion as to Nick’s innocence? Maybe Nick is capable of acts of vast evil, was guilty of the first assault, as well. Arthur can find little sustenance in that theory.
Stoney’s flatbed is still immobile at the side of Potter’s Road, but the tools and wheelbarrows have disappeared. Arthur’s muffler is in its death throes by the time he nears Blunder Bay, and the roar startles a goat escaping up the road. The fence will have to be mended again. Tomatoes must be repotted in the greenhouse. Bills must be paid. He has to keep on top of things.
7
After spending the morning with Paavo, helping him shore up the fence, Arthur visits the Woofer house to find Kim Lee at a wok, stirring chop suey.
“I.” She has trouble with that vowel, points to her chest. “Make. Out-take.” Takeout. She’s prepared a lunch for Margaret and Cud, to be hoisted to their tree fortress. Arthur sniffs at the wok. “I. Take. Tree house.” He doesn’t relish the idea of feeding Cuddles as well.