The kitchen’s white linoleum was spotless, just like the white appliances and cupboards. The air shone with a chemical mix of air freshener, bleach, and Lysol. Lane checked the sink; no dishes, just polished stainless steel.
Bobbie pointed at the upholstered chairs arranged around the oak kitchen table. “Sit.”
Harper sat.
Lane stood.
She moved closer to the sink to fill a kettle with water. “Honey?”
Lane’s stomach heaved at a childhood memory of eating too much cotton candy at the Stampede. His mouth filled with saliva.
“This is Cole,” Bobbie said. “Say hello to the police, son.”
“Hello.” Cole was staring at the toes of his white socks.
Lane noted the sharp creases in the boy’s white T-shirt and khaki pants. Cole’s eyes were blue.
“Would you like some ice-cream, Cole?” Bobbie said the words to her son while smiling at Lane.
“I love Jesus more than ice cream,” Cole said.
Bobbie patted his hair without touching his scalp.
“Okay, honey. Go back and watch some more television, son.”
Lane spotted the immaculate white soles of the boy’s socks. A bead of sweat crawled along his hairline from forehead to earlobe. “I’ve…” He clamped his hand over his mouth and headed for the front door. He spotted Cole sitting erect in the chair in front of the TV. There was momentary eye contact between the two. The boy’s fear was palpable.
Lane spotted the handle on the screen door. He turned the handle, pushed the door open, took two steps down and breathed fresh air. He crossed the lawn and leaned on the cool metal of the Chevy’s rear fender. His belly heaved. He slid his feet back. Lunch poured out onto the pavement. It splattered the black-walled tire and wheel rim. After the fourth heave, he felt a hand on his shoulder. A pair of flies began to circle the edge of the puddle.
“What the hell is going on with you?” Harper asked.
“Don’t know.” Lane shook his head.
On the way back, along the boulevard, Harper had to pull onto the grass while Lane threw up again. They stopped under a sign next to a church. Lane looked up at the sign. Bobbie’s quote for the week was written across the top. Under that, I’m going to heaven. Are you coming with me?
Chapter 2
THREE KILOMETRES EAST of Bobbie’s house, Jay Krocker reached into the bag of almonds on the front seat. Popping the nuts one by one into his mouth, he chewed, and tapped out a beat with his left foot. Six speakers pounded a drum solo against the interior of the Lincoln.
The traffic on Crowchild Trail thinned as the sun ducked behind the Rockies. Purples and reds reflected in the Lincoln’s rear and side mirrors.
Jay rubbed his right ear and counted four silver studs, like stepping stones, forming a ‘J’ along the lobe and auricle. He tucked a strand of black hair behind his ear.
A blur passed Jay on the left. The Toyota pickup cut him off. Jay hit the horn and the brakes at the same time. The rear tires locked and squealed.
The Toyota’s driver was just visible over the top of the bucket seat. His arm reached out the open rear-window and extended one finger.
Jay’s foot punched the accelerator. The Lincoln took a big swig of gasoline.
The Toyota changed lanes again and cut off a white minivan. The van braked and skidded sideways. It straightened out when its driver released the brakes.
Jay closed on the Toyota.
A fist appeared in the truck’s rear-window.
Rage focused Jay. His mind was temporarily uncluttered. He swerved into the right lane.
The Toyota cut in front of him.
Jay hit the brakes and made a feint left.
The truck swerved to block him.
The Lincoln roared. Jay passed on the right. He waited until he was sure he passed the Toyota. Then, he cut left and pressed the brake pedal.
For an instant, he thought the Toyota would rearend the Lincoln. The truck skidded to avoid a collision. It swerved, bounced over the curb, and onto the grass. It leaned up on its left wheels, before rolling onto its side.
Jay glanced in the rear-view mirror. A cloud of dust obscured the accident scene. His heart pounded with adrenaline. He eased into the far lane, accelerating away from Crowchild Trail.
Chapter 3
“WATER GOOD?” HARPER lifted his glass. The tumbler was nearly opaque from scratches and repeated washings. He looked closely, searching for floaters. First, he held the glass up to the window, then swung it the other way to see if anything showed up against the red cedar on the opposite wall. He set the glass back down, shaking his head with disgust.
Lane took a sip of water.
“You’re getting some colour back,” Harper said.
Lane leaned against the upholstery and waited.
“You got the flu?” Harper looked around to see where the washroom was.
Lane shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“What the hell’s the matter then?”
Lane took another sip of water, looked at his partner and shrugged. “Flashbacks.”
“Oh.” Harper remembered the months of mental reruns following his recovery from being shot.
Watching his blood drip down four concrete steps while a screaming man aimed a high-powered rifle.
Harper flinched as he recalled what it felt like to be waiting for the muzzle flash.
“Ready to order?” The waitress might have been sixteen. She had a gold stud in her left nostril and another in the right eyebrow. Her hair was crimson, except along the part where the black had grown back in.
“Special looks good.” Harper nodded in the direction of the menu printed in red on a whiteboard next to the bar.
“It’s better than good.” She turned to Lane.
He thought the pink T-shirt shouldn’t go with the lime-green slacks, but somehow the fashion faux pas worked for her. “Chicken fried rice, please.”
“Drinks?” she asked.
“Water’s fine,” Lane said.
“Bottled water,” Harper said.
“Perrier?” She carbonated the word with sarcasm.
“Long as it’s in a bottle.” Harper’s voice was low.
His ears turned red.
“Okay.” She turned, took four steps, and pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.
“Proof is in the food. It’s great.” Lane looked at the three-year-old calendar, chipped green linoleum, and the table next to them. It had three mismatched chrome they came from a garage sale.
“Despite the decor.”
Harper asked, “You gonna explain about the flashback?” Lane stared at his glass. “My first year on the street.
I found Candy’s body in a garbage bag. She was three.” He experienced a return to the overwhelming dread he had felt in Bobbie’s kitchen. “It took six months until I was able to sleep through the night. I kept waking up, remembering the smell. I kept seeing the look on Candy’s face. I couldn’t stop thinking about what life must have been like for her.”
“Those mental carousels go round and round. Believe me, it’s hard to get off the ride after when those thoughts get stuck in your head,” Harper said.
“Giving advice or trying to change the subject?”
“A bit of both. You’re pale. Thought maybe you didn’t want to go there again.”
“One special.” The waitress set an oval plate of rice and ginger chicken with salt-and-pepper vegetables under Harper’s nose. “Chicken fried rice.” She pushed the second plate over to Lane. The heat breathed a cloud of condensation up the side of his water glass.
“That was quick,” Harper said to the waitress.
“And delicious.” She slid a bottle of Perrier in front of Harper.
The detectives ripped open paper-wrapped chopsticks. Harper said nothing for a full five minutes while demolishing the special. “Man, this is the best Chinese food I’ve ever tasted.”
Lane swallowed a mouthful of fried rice. More than three-quarters remained. “My kind of place.”