Call of the void, p.12
Call of the Void, page 12
Maddy’s eyes flared, while her psychic pal affixed me with the patient eyes a priest might give a petulant child.
“There are administrative costs,” Maddy said. “It is a registered charity.”
“No doubt,” I said. “But hey, I’m sure Emily would want you to enhance your creature comforts using her name.”
Her eyes seethed. “How dare you come in here and accuse us!”
Lilith placed her hand on Maddy’s arm. It was a neat trick, like she found a switch beneath Maddy’s skin to turn her instantly calm. “The thing is, Sloane,” Lilith said, “I’ve been communicating with Emily for years now, and yes, she would want her mother to have a more comfortable life.”
“She said that?”
“She felt it. And I felt it.”
“How many dead people do you communicate with like this?”
“They don’t have to be dead, and I have no control over the transmissions I receive.”
“OK,” I said, “but Maddy contacted you after her daughter disappeared, right? It’s not like Emily just randomly decided to send a transmission to your crystal ball or whatever.”
“You don’t believe,” Lilith said. “It’s understandable, given your history. You exude painful energy. I wouldn’t be surprised if your sister has tried contacting you. It is possible to lessen your burden, you know?”
My rage expanded. If I didn’t get out of here soon, the room and its occupants would be too small to contain it.
“Your sister’s journey is not over,” Lilith said. “Do you feel an odd presence in the darkest nights, when you’re all alone? Or perhaps you see things.”
“You’re a fucking crank,” I said.
I turned and walked back down the hall, Maddy and Lilith at my heels. I opened the door, letting in the glare of the sun. The news crew marched up the walk, led by a sleek blonde in a smart, blue pantsuit.
“Stay with us, Sloane,” Maddy hissed. “Think of what this could do for your agency.”
“I’m done.”
As I passed the crew, the newswoman turned to me. A camera aimed at me, and a microphone was thrust in my face. “Sloane Donovan, now that there’s a suspect in the Emily Pike case, what’s your gameplan?”
I pushed past and kept walking.
In the background, Maddy called out, “I want my baby’s jewelry back!”
As I drove away, I pulled out the vodka and took a good slug. Just in case, I took another. Then I called Wayne and told him I was done with the case. When he asked what happened, I hung up. Every time I closed my eyes, I got a flash of Emily Pike’s face.
CHAPTER 27
My buzzing phone woke me. I was on the couch, still in my clothes from the previous night. Again. Eclipse slept between my knees. The phone buzzed again from the coffee table. I picked it up and frowned. “Hello.”
“Sloane? You OK?”
“Jim?”
He laughed. “Where are you? You agreed to meet me at the Cove at ten, remember?”
I pushed myself up. My head screamed. The room spun.
“Shit,” I said.
“Do you remember calling me at one a.m.? You said you were up for a stand-up paddleboard lesson right then, and I suggested the morning, and now it’s morning.”
“Sorry. I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“Listen, you obviously just woke up. We can do this another—”
“No, I’m good. I’ll be there.”
After climbing out of the shower, I wiped steam off the mirror and examined the bags beneath my bloodshot eyes. I pulled on a white-and-purple bikini that kind of hung on me. Over that went cut-off jean shorts and a Singha beer tank top. They hung on me also. “You look like shit,” I told my reflection in the mirror.
“You look great,” Jim said. “I’m glad you drunk-dialed me last night.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” I said.
We walked down to the pebbly beach where several stand-up paddleboards waited, fin side up.
“Either way,” he said, “you called. I honestly didn’t think you would. I thought maybe you used your P.I. wizardry and found out my entire sordid past.”
“Probably would have bored me to sleep,” I said.
“Ouch,” he said, picking up a retractable paddle. He had me extend my right arm straight up and adjusted the length so that the handle was level with my wrist. I asked him about Sadie.
“She’s at camp for the week. Want some sunscreen? It’s pretty bright on the water.”
“I don’t usually wear it.”
“If you saw the melanoma scar on my back, you might rethink that.”
I took in the blue, full-sleeve surf shirt he was wearing. “Seriously?”
“I wish it were a bad joke.” He pulled out a tube of SPF 45 and squirted some on his palms. I turned my back to him, and he gently smoothed the lotion into the skin of my shoulders and upper back, rubbing the excess down my arms. He lifted my hair to get at the back of my neck and I closed my eyes. He was thorough, methodical.
Keeping my eyes closed, I saw nothing and heard no echoing screams, only the lapping of water and the tinkling laughter of children. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the sky. The smoke had cleared, and not only was the sky a vivid blue, but more importantly, I could breathe without feeling the scorch in my lungs.
“It’s a gorgeous day,” I marveled.
He laughed. “You just noticed?”
We pulled the boards onto the water, climbed on, and paddled from our knees out into the cove. I pushed up to a standing position and teetered a bit before beginning to paddle. Fucking booze. Today would be different, I promised myself. Not a drop. Lowering my centre of gravity, I engaged my core, and found my stability. Something I was good at faking, at least on a physical level.
“Nice!” Jim called out. “I knew you’d be a natural on that thing.”
With the marina to the left and the stilted waterfront homes to the right, we paddled out of the cove. He gave me a few pointers on stance and technique. My hangover began to evaporate as I bathed in a glow not just from the sun.
We made easy small talk for a bit, then fell into a comfortable silence. Once I turned to catch Jim looking at me. He held my gaze for a second or two, then turned to look at something else. Heading onto the choppier waters of Indian Arm, we spotted several seals cavorting nearby. He cupped a hand to his mouth and issued a surprisingly authentic seal bark. We laughed as the mammals froze and gave us bewildered stares.
Jim did a headstand on his board, then pushed up into a handstand. I called him a showoff, and he promptly toppled and splashed into the water. At that moment a boat cruised past and its wake caused me to lose my balance and fall in. We climbed back on our boards and just floated, dawdling our feet in the water, and enjoying the sun splintering off the water, the green hills of Belcarra, and the tiny woody islands on Indian Arm. Several herons took flight, wings skimming the water.
“It’s gorgeous here,” I said. “I’ve run all the trails on either side of the Arm, but it’s not the same.”
“Just wait till you see my second home. It’s coming up, right around this bend.”
At first all I saw was the island, a hundred yards from the mainland. As we paddled closer, a house appeared, nearly camouflaged amid the trees. Above the house, a Jolly Roger flag snapped in a sudden gust of wind.
“You live here?” I asked. “On an island?”
“Well, I paddle around here often enough to know there’s never anyone at the house. But the beach belongs to whoever happens to be on it.” We coasted toward the tiny, secluded cove. Jim leapt off his board and pulled mine up onto the sand. “Right now,” he added, “that would be us.”
From behind a tree he fetched a picnic basket and a blanket. He spread out the blanket and glanced up.
“Not bad,” I conceded.
For the next ninety minutes we ate the chicken, cheese, and pickle sandwiches he had prepared, along with a small bag of potato chips, and washed it down with chilled sauvignon blanc. Sobriety could wait one more day.
After several glasses of wine, Jim’s eyes changed from hazel to sea green. He talked openly about his life, how he’d competed in the semi-pro ranks as a surfer and catamaran racer, spending any money he’d made from endorsements as fast as it had come in. When he found out his girlfriend Annie was pregnant, he did the wrong thing and married her. They bought a place, Sadie came along, and he and Annie quickly grew to hate each other, finally splitting when their daughter was two.
“I was stressed, depressed, and living in a shitty little basement suite,” he said, “when my doctor noticed an ugly mole on my back. I had it removed, and when it came back as cancer, I saw my whole life flash before my eyes. All I could think was that I was going to die, and Sadie was going to grow up without me.”
Our shoulders touched and his skin was warm. He smelled like sweat and salty sea. I wanted to force him down on the sand. I wished he’d brought more wine.
“They carved a big chunk of flesh from my back, then tested my lymph. It hadn’t spread, so I took it as a wake-up call to make some changes. I scraped together every cent I had and bought the kayak shop. I’m still in debt, but who isn’t these days? Sorry, I’m babbling. You look like you want to say some—”
“Take off your shirt.”
Jim paused, then peeled off his surf shirt, and sat back. He had surfer muscles: defined chest and abs, and a broad upper back.
And several dozen scars.
He stiffened as I ran a hand over his chest, my fingers pausing at a few of the small, round scars. The one in the centre of his back was more ominous; four inches across and an inch thick, carved into an inverted V, like an angry, purple brand. I traced it with my fingers.
“I used to tell people I was attacked by a shark,” he said. “Makes for a better story.”
I kissed the back of his neck and goosebumps immediately rose on his skin. He was salty, and I ran my tongue up to his ear, leaving a wet trail. We grabbed each other at the same time; me pushing, him pulling, until I straddled him.
We kissed, devouring each other’s lips, faces, necks. I was dimly aware of the drone of boats in the background, people out there, doing things, but on this beach, on this island, there was only us. My past drifted away and sank into the ocean, and the future was an irrelevant abstraction. There were only our bodies and our wine-enhanced passion and the sun on our scars. Jim ran his hands up the sides of my thighs and clenched my ass. He was hard in his board shorts and I ground myself into him as we kissed and kissed.
My bikini top came off and we awkwardly wriggled out of our bottoms. I had just climbed on again when I felt a stab of pain. The echoing scream. The smell of gasoline. A bloody, naked body face down in the snow.
I pulled off and rolled to my side, reaching for my bottoms. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m fucked up.” I stood and ran naked into the ocean, where I dove down, down, down, to the rocky bottom. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. When I came up, maybe I would be reborn a different person, hopefully on a different planet. As long as I stayed in this body, in this place, I was doomed.
A tap on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see Jim looking at me underwater. He waved and pointed up to the surface.
We rose and swam back to the island, where we sat naked for several minutes. “I keep my lifeguard certs up to date,” he said, “so any time you feel the need to test my skills—”
“I’m fucked up.”
“Is it déjà vu, or didn’t you just say that?”
“No, really, I’m—”
“We’re all fucked up, Sloane,” he said. “We’ve all got baggage.”
“Not like me.”
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself. You’ve got a cool job that you seem pretty good at. You’re beautiful.”
“I’m bipolar,” I said. “I’m supposed to be taking my meds regularly, but I don’t, because they make me feel slow, and I fucking hate feeling slow. But when I don’t take them, I drink like a fish and do all kinds of stupid shit.”
“Like calling me?”
“I don’t remember doing that. For all I know, you called me this morning and took advantage of my blackout.”
He nudged me with his shoulder. “Maybe I did.”
I laughed and some seawater came out of my nose and my eyes welled up. Then I got mad at myself and stifled the tears before I embarrassed myself further.
“I’m sorry about your family,” he said softly.
I looked over to see him offering a small, apologetic smile. “I Googled you,” he explained.
Of course you did. “Was it entertaining?”
“It was really sad,” he said. “I’m sorry, Sloane.”
I nodded. “So now you know I have a mental illness and that I was kicked off the force for lying about it—after my mentally-ill sister killed her entire family, then herself? Man, no wonder you wanted to date me so bad.”
“I wanted to date you because you’re different.”
I laughed and shook my head, feeling that tightness in my throat again.
“And you’re a survivor,” he said. “You’re cynical and you’re tough, but you don’t roll over and play dead for anyone.”
“Wow, Google is getting more and more informative all the time.”
“Smart ass,” he said. “I could see that in you the first time I met you.”
“Maybe it’s all just a façade,” I said.
“I doubt it. I’ve hung around enough film sets to recognize good actors, and you’re not one of them.”
“Ouch.”
“That’s a compliment. My ex-wife was a good actor—not necessarily on screen, but she knew how to tweak her emotions to manipulate people. You’re real, and I find that unbelievably attractive.”
“Believe me,” I said, “I’ve done my share of lying. I got pretty damn good at it, so much so that I beat lie detectors. Not that different from manipulating people into getting what you want.”
“But you wouldn’t have been able to have become a cop, had they known.”
“Yeah, God forbid they ever have any mental defectives on the force.”
“When were you first diagnosed?”
“Seventeen. But I knew I was different much earlier.”
“How?”
“I began acting on my uncontrollable impulses.”
“Such as?”
Grabbing the emergency pack lashed to the webbing on the front of his paddleboard, I unzipped it and rooted around, pulling out some tide table papers, held together with a paper clip. Jim watched curiously as I removed the clip, straightened it, then squeezed the ends together so that it was thin yet sturdy.
“Sloane MacGyver,” he quipped.
I motioned for him to follow me. At the front of the house, the door showed a scratched-up brass Eversafe lock. Crouching down, I inserted the paper clip into the lock.
“What if there’s an alarm?”
“We’ll deal with that when we come to it. Got any money in your bag?”
“Maybe twenty bucks.”
“Go get it.”
By the time he returned, I had the door open. I wiped my sandy feet on the doormat and walked naked across the creaky living room floor.
“What if they come back?” Jim asked.
“Then we apologize profusely and paddle our asses home,” I said, taking the twenty from him. A wine rack in the kitchen held only reds. I was a seasonal red wine drinker and right now it was the wrong season. I opened the fridge and found a bottle of mid-range white. I left the twenty in its place and closed the door.
Jim leaned against the doorway wearing a half-smile as he looked me up and down. I stood beneath a skylight, the thrill pulsing through every cell in my body.
I twisted the cap off the bottle. “What?” I asked innocently.
“You’re beautiful,” he said for the second time today, “and I feel like this is going to go down as one of the defining moments of my life.”
I pulled him in and kissed him hard. We drank straight from the bottle, then kissed again, tasting the cold wine on each other’s tongues.
“Don’t suppose you have any condoms in your emergency pack outside,” I said.
“Damn. I knew I forgot something.”
“Let’s go see what they have in the bedroom.”
“We could so get arrested for this.”
“Are you in or out?”
He kissed me again. “What do you think?”
Thirty minutes and a bottle of wine later, we neatened the kitchen counter and locked up.
Back on the beach, Jim fell asleep spooning me, while I stared into space and listened to the wind in the trees and tried not to think about all the ways I could flush this down the toilet.
CHAPTER 28
Time slowed as we slid into August, as temperatures kept rising and the provincial wildfires renewed their fury. Some days the smoke returned like a vengeful spirit, clouds the colour of cast iron massing to the east, reminding us that close by, the world was on fire, and it was only a matter of time until it was our turn in the furnace.
Meanwhile, I was healing. On the surface, anyway. I was working steadily and sleeping more or less regularly. I wasn’t taking my pills, but I wasn’t drinking to the point of oblivion anymore either.
Jim lived in a ground floor suite on South Granville and we saw each other nearly every day, if only for an hour or two in the evening, after Sadie had gone to bed.
When flowers arrived at the office, Wayne teased me mercilessly. Christalmighty, Donovan’s in love. I never thought I’d live to see the day.
Air quality be damned, we even managed a Sunday picnic in Deep Cove, with Jim providing kayaks and paddleboards. Wayne arrived with Sally and Theo, his eight-year-old son from his first marriage. We spent the afternoon paddling, playing bocce and laughing as we ate hot dogs and chips. Sally—who instantly became my hero when she arrived with two boxes of wine—was the life of the party, infecting everyone with her boisterous energy and laughter. It was fun to watch this plump, middle-aged ex-socialite wearing a leopard-print sundress chase the kids across the park with a squirt gun as they squealed and fired back at her. As the sun went down and a cool breeze rippled off the water, the laughter quieted down, and the kids began to yawn. Jim pulled the kayaks and boards back into the shop. I moved to the box of white plonk, filling up my cup when Wayne leaned over. “You driving, Donovan?”
