abruptness, Holly shivered. The idea of looking at a floater didn’t appeal to her. “How long had she been gone?”
Ann touched a finger to her long sharp nose. “Lucky you. The girl was in camp only last night. Annual high-school senior bonding exercise. Not enough chaperones. Never are. Not all the armies in the world can stop hormones when their time has come.”
Holly saw Ann’s eyes glance at the graduation picture of her son. Was that what had happened? As Holly’s plain-spoken mother reminded her, nothing could screw up a woman’s life faster than an early, unplanned pregnancy. Life was an uphill battle after that, not impossible, but tough on everyone. “No-fail protection,” Bonnie Martin had said in a wry tone to her bored young daughter in their birds-and-bees talk, crossing her fingers in a telling gesture. “Keep your legs closed.”
“Paramedics have the location, but they’re tied up for an hour. No need for resuscitation in this case, sadly.” As the two headed out, Ann added, “I’ll call Boone.”
Boone? Hadn’t Reg mentioned a coroner? “Oh, right. Thanks.” Her mind racing, Holly grimaced. Her first serious situation as a leader, and she wasn’t even rolling on four wheels. What did anyone expect from a tiny outpost, one staff member chained to a desk? Suppose something didn’t look right? Should a murder investigation ever be necessary, protocol dictated that larger resources would come to her service. Sooke was headed by a staff-sergeant, so an inspector would come from Langford, the West Shore detachment. She gave herself a mental scold as calming logistics kicked in. Why be so dramatic? This is going to be simple but monumentally tearful, as are all senseless young deaths.
After grabbing her pristine notebook, Holly headed for her jacket. “So we’re off, and—”
Ann looked up with a slow, deliberate question. “Don’t you want to know the girl’s name?”
Holly turned away to bite her lip. “Of course. Guess I’m just...never mind.” Confessing her weaknesses to this woman was not an option.
Ann said. “Angie Didrickson.” Then she spelled it.
Outside, as they approached the five-year-old white Impala, Chipper patted the trunk, frowning. “We should have our own FB decal, not SK.” The huge black initials helped helicopters identify each detachment and coordinate efforts.
“We’re lucky to get Sooke’s castoffs. I was guessing a quad and a couple of bikes,” Holly said, belting up. Parked behind their building was a 1985 Suburban with 250,000 Ks, another donation from the big dogs. Still, it would come in handy in winter if they had to go off-road or up the tortuous steep hills north into the San Juan Ridge.
As they headed down West Coast Road with Chipper at the wheel, ugly clear-cuts began skirting the road. “Not even a margin any more,” Chipper said. “Is this going to be the next Sun River, with thousands of houses?”
“It’s oceanfront or oceanview. Pure gold. Only the zoning gods will hold the balance.”
Checking the time, Chipper reached for the siren, but she said, “Leave it off. No need to pass on this road. It’s too late for her, and it’ll only frighten the tourists and attract gawkers. We don’t want a parade.”
They slowed at Jordan River, no longer a landing site for logs, as in its historic past. Electrical generation from the river had first reached Victoria in 1911, and the massive structure of the old powerhouse upstream had once attracted visitors. More people came to surf now than to ogle ancient buildings, and the storms of fall and winter brought peak conditions. Though there was only a brisk wind today, six or seven hopeful people on boards paddled out to catch the waves. The Chula Coffee and Juice Bar sold exotic fruit drinks and custom coffee, the closest Canada came to Malibu. At the beach, campers and vans lined the shore, some VWs with flower-power paint jobs. Every so often, a free camping spot could be found, but for how long?
Holly owed her job to what loomed ahead, a billboard advertising the first major housing development west of Fossil Bay. To her left and right, great roads were being dozed into the woods or carved across former clear-cut hills. Million-dollar properties, especially on the oceanfront. Recent rulings by the Minister of Forests, with no consultation or conditions, had threatened to allow the timber companies to turn tens of thousands of hectares of lease land into lucrative real estate. Hit hard by a downturn in demand for timber products, the companies claimed that their debts could be settled better from immediate revenue, not wood scheduled to be cut in 2050. Mills were closing everywhere, from Nanaimo to Campbell River. Citizens and environmentalists fought back in public meetings, and surprisingly draconian zoning laws had temporarily halted the deals. Everyone knew that the battle had merely paused for breath. The boomers were on the move, especially from Ontario, and those not able to afford houses in costly Victoria wanted property. Moving vans went west and returned empty. Meanwhile, laid-off timber employees wondered if they should join the building trades.
The farther they drove, the paler Chipper looked. He took a hand off the wheel to rub his cheek. She noticed that he had left the music off. “Anything wrong?” Holly asked.
He shook his head like a wet dog. “Uh, I’ve never seen a body before.” He swallowed back his words as if to master a gag reflex. “Wish I hadn’t eaten such a big breakfast. Spicy food and stress don’t mix, but I couldn’t hurt Mom’s feelings.”
She smiled to herself. Even a few more years gave her the edge. It was the way of the force to pass on wisdom and experience. Not everyone made a good candidate. Ben Rogers, her old mentor, had been chosen for his intuition, coolness, talent for details and tact. He’d never use tasteless slang or refer to a victim as a “crispy critter” to draw a cheap laugh.
“There’s a first time for everyone,” Holly said. “Mine was pretty bad. The victim had been lying in a remote bush camp for a week in thirty degree Celsius temperatures. His wife sent us looking when he was days late returning from hunting. A pro told me to put Mentholatum in my nostrils.”
He reached into a storage compartment and pulled out a tube. “Cherry Lipsol. Do you think this will work?”
“It made me sneeze, and anyway, this girl...Angie just died.” She gave him a quick glance and sent a challenge she knew he couldn’t ignore. “You can stand to the side, Constable. No problem.” In public, Holly automatically reverted to rank instead of a first name, a tenet of professionalism. And calling civilians “you guys” was equally prohibited. “You’re not a waitress in a truck stop,” Ben had told her.
“No, Guv, I mean ma’am,” he said as his nostrils flared like a young stallion’s. “Count on me. I’ll be your right-hand man.”
A red hawk drifted on the thermals over the cliffs. She closed her eyes for a moment as the car streaked along at eighty kilometres per hour. A campfire last night, headed for a coffin in the morning. How large was the group, and how many other people were in the popular area, enjoying the scenery? Then she sent relaxation messages to her flexed stomach. It was an accident, nothing more. Over and out. Nervous this morning, she had breakfasted on only an apple. Now she felt slightly nauseous from the coffee.
“Careful: Winding Road,” the sign read. The island’s terrain was like an overlapping series of green, ribbed reptiles. Water flowed off the glaciated hills as quickly as it arrived. With only thirty more kilometres to Port Renfrew, the speed limit slowed to fifty on hairpin turns. Little opportunity to pass unless courting suicide. “Jeez,” Chipper said. “These bicycles.” They watched as five racers, their heads bent low, legs pumping like young locomotives, sped along in line. Technically they owned the lane, but sometimes they would shift over like a flock of birds if the berm
