“And after you’ve talked things over with our lawyer,” Mom added. “We can discuss all that when you’re home. I just hope the police don’t find the cellphone with the terrorist’s picture in it. That could cause us problems.”
“The phone’s safe,” I said. “During the fight, it fell between the boards of the deck at the cottage door. I erased the image.”
“And now, Annie,” Dad said, “I think you and I should go to the cafeteria and have a cup of their horrible tea.”
After the door had hissed shut behind my parents, Raphaella sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand.
“Your dad says you should get a medal. You’re a hero.”
“I’m no such thing.”
I told her everything that had taken place after I left her in the auditorium.
“When I finally worked out who he was and what he intended to do, I was petrified. All I could think about was that huge room full of kids-and you-and pictures I’ve seen on the TV news when somebody goes into a school or someplace with a gun. I didn’t know what to do. I said something stupid to him, and he turned around and hurled the shovel and hell broke loose. It was a fluke, the way it turned out. It could just as easily have gone the other way.”
“Maybe your dad thinks you’re brave because of what you didn’t do.”
“What’s that?”
“Run away.”
II
I HAD BEEN HOME a couple of days when the cops telephoned and asked me to come in to make a statement and answer some questions. By then my constant headache, the jungle drum beating in the background, had faded, although my face still looked as if I’d stayed in the boxing ring one round too many.
My parents were having their five o’clock glass of wine together on the patio when I got off the phone, and when I told them about the upcoming interview they exchanged glances. My dad was up to speed on everything by that point. Mom had been in a bad mood lately. I didn’t blame her. A judge had clapped a total ban on publication of any aspect of the story. Mom’s exclusive-at least for the time being-had gone out the window. So much for freedom of the press.
“We’d better go over this together,” Mom cautioned. “When are you due at the cop shop?”
“Day after tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.”
“I’ll call Mabel Ayers and see if you can get in to see her tomorrow,” Dad said, getting up and going into the kitchen.
“Do I really need to talk to a lawyer?” I asked my mother.
“I can’t believe you asked that,” Mom replied.
Long experience as an investigative reporter had left her with a schizophrenic attitude toward police forces in general. She respected cops, knew their jobs were difficult in ways the public did not understand, agreed we needed them. “They’re unappreciated,” she would say. But she had also seen cops fudge evidence to get a conviction and even lie in court, under oath. She had, within the walls of our house, renamed the RCMP the RCLC-Royal Canadian Lies and Coverups.
“You have to be prepared for what they’re going to ask you, that’s all,” she said, putting down her wine glass. “They may try to trick you. And Mabel will be helpful.”
THE NEXT MORNING she and I drove to the city and met with Mabel Ayers, a chubby middle-aged woman with a small, messy office and a phone that rang constantly. The morning after that, I drove over to the OPP headquarters and met with three inspectors who represented, together, eleven letters of the alphabet-CSIS, RCMP, and OPP. The Rama First Nation cops who had arrested the paintball terrorist weren’t represented.
I was nervous. The two males wore dark blue suits, one with a red tie and one with a red-and-blue tie. They were clean-shaven, their hair clipped short. The woman-OPP-had on a dark grey pantsuit and wore her sand-coloured hair short. They sat across a big table from me, each with a newish file folder and a pad and ballpoint pen. It seemed more like a business meeting than an interrogation. Mom had warned me to keep my wits sharp. I jumped right in with the question Mabel had told me to ask first.
“Are you recording this interview on audio or video?”
RCMP frowned, then exchanged glances with the others. “This isn’t a formal interview, Garnet. And no, we’re not recording you.”
“On video or audio,” CSIS added. “Now, Garnet-”
“So I’m not under investigation?”
A look of irritation crossed CSIS’s face.
Mom had warned me that they’d call me by my first name, and she had been right. It was a technique to make me feel at ease so I’d trust them, and at the same time it emphasized that they were in control. They had introduced themselves using surnames only, but I was Garnet.
OPP tried her luck. “Garnet, this is just a chat. A conversation. We think you can help us fill in a few blanks, that’s all. Okay?”
I nodded.
Under questioning, I related that I had taken a walk around the grounds of Geneva Park, waiting for the show to start, when I noticed a man in a groundskeeper’s uniform emerging from the woods with a shovel in one hand and a duffle bag in the other. When I asked him what he had been doing in the woods he attacked me.
“I was just being nosy, I guess. I didn’t expect him to clobber me.”
From the time he bonked me with the shovel I didn’t remember much, I told them, except that I was mad and wanted to hit him back. I answered their questions truthfully but volunteered nothing. They didn’t ask me if I’d ever seen the guy before. Why would they?
“Is he hurt bad?” I asked.
“He’ll live. Do you remember opening the duffle bag?” the woman enquired.
“No.”
“Or putting it behind a tree?” one of the men-CSIS-asked.
“No.”
“So,” RCMP summed up, “you had no idea that you had saved the lives of a couple of hundred people?”
“No.”
I had been afraid they’d grill me about Mom’s phone call to the cops, the one weak spot in my story. But she had said in her formal statement that she deduced the youth summit had been the terrorists’ target all along, and with the show opening that evening-which she knew about because her son’s girlfriend was stage manager-she alerted police out of caution. Her version of events sounded pretty thin to me, but she emphasized that we had to stick with it. I guessed it had satisfied them because my interview came to an end with no hint that they were sceptical of Mom’s version. In unison the three inspectors got to their feet, and when I followed suit they thanked me for coming and wished me a speedy recovery from my injuries.
Just as I turned toward the interview room door the CSIS inspector said, “It’s quite a coincidence, though, isn’t it?”
I almost laughed. How often had I seen this same ploy in detective movies? The bad guy thinks he’s fooled the detective with his lies. The polite cop thanks him and is about to leave when he stops, as if a stray thought has struck him. He turns and says to the suspect, “Oh, one more thing. It’s not important, but…” Then the bad guy, his guard down, spills the beans.
But I hadn’t told any lies. I turned back toward the three suits, stood silent and waited.
“Your mother is an investigative reporter,” CSIS went on. “She’s the one who broke the story about the Severn Ten. She appears to have a lot of information about them.”
“And here’s you,” RCMP continued, “the son, who just happened to be on hand to prevent the massacre.”
“Yeah, well, Orillia’s a small town,” I said, and walked out the door.
Two
I
MOST OF THE KIDS I had gone to school with saw graduation as an escape hatch. They couldn’t wait to leave Orillia in their dust. For them it was a small town, practically a village, narrow and unexciting, with nothing new to offer. They had explored all its possibilities long ago, and living here was like being condemned everlastingly to read and re-read a dull book. As graduation neared they became restless, eager for a future that would be rosy only if it was lived somewhere else. I had been just as fidgety-not to get out of town but to get on with my plans for the future.