paused for a moment, then blew out a breath in frustration. “But I—”
“Protocol.” She gave him a sincere but professional smile. Her vocabulary was beginning to assemble a category of helpful terms which made an officer sound efficient but still human.
“Okay, I guess that’s best.” He pressed his palms together. “Can we meet at the Grant Road turn at four? They live on Rhodenite. Nate works as a senior manager at Costco in Langford, but he has weekends off.” He paused as if something else bothered him. “Sure I can’t even call him? Give him a minute to prepare for the bad news.”
Holly closed her notebook. “Think about it. That would be even worse. Letting the man stew for an eternity, wondering about the details. We’re counting on you to help us do things the right way.”
As they returned to their respective vehicles, she could hear him mustering the youths to pack up. Clearly, the entry of civilian personalities could compromise even the most straightforward situation. She remembered how Ben Rogers had played a distraught family like a sweet piano until he got the necessary information. An older boy had been molesting the neighbourhood children, often through his sessions as a babysitter. The fact that he worked cheaper than the girls had made him popular. Avid churchgoer and boy scout, he was the last person to suspect. The children adored him and his gifts of candy. Apparently he was quite gentle, convinced that his affections were welcome. Recalling that sad monster gave her the shivers.
“I’m going to call in,” she said to Chipper. When the radio failed to work, she added, “I thought we were on West Coast Repeater west of Sooke.”
Chipper fiddled with the controls and shook his head. “It’s in and out like a yo-yo.”
Cells also out of range as expected, they found a pay phone at a service station. Holly didn’t like the feeling of being hung out to dry. What if something went seriously wrong? The techies had been working on the problem for years. At the end of the line, Port Renfrew was stricken when their phone lines went down in storms. Last week a car rushing a patient to hospital had crashed, leaving two victims to the failures of telecommunications along a rocky, forested coast.
Back in Fossil Bay, she and Chipper completed their paperwork at the detachment. Late reports were an officer’s bane. This would be a good test of the man’s determination... and his grammar. Careless errors which emerged in court cast doubt on the investigatory skills of an officer and could toss a case into the garbage can. Ann had left on their arrival, taking her aching back to an early bed.
A few hours later, she rendezvoused with Gable at the busy corner of Grant Rd. Noticing that he drove a venerable VW bus with large flowers painted on the side, she couldn’t help but comment when they parked on Rhodenite Drive in a tidy suburban enclave. “I know,” he said with a grin as he bumped the rusty door with a hockey hip block. “Got it from the collection of an aging hippie draft dodger. Runs an organic farm in Duncan. As old as the Vietnam War, but it still ticks like a Timex. While the weather’s still good, I plan to do some exploring on the island. Strathcona Provincial Park, Cathedral Grove. Come winter, I might get over to Whistler for some skiing.”
The Didricksons lived in a pink stucco storey-and-a-half home, judging from the rounded brown shingles, probably built in the early nineties. A towering monkey puzzle tree grew on the front lawn. As they walked along the bricked path, Holly gazed up at the heavy fruits ready to fall. Late-blooming azaleas and plump rhodos added riots of pink and purple to the tropical effect. Greater Victoria benefitted from the Japanese current, which moderated temperatures. Neither too hot nor too cold. The perfect porridge. A glossy black vintage Mercedes sat in the drive, ready for a Sunday parade. Islanders pampered their classic cars, freed from the salt and wear of winter driving. Forty-year-old Mustangs mingled with Gremlins, Bonnevilles, Pintos and the odd Studebaker Golden Hawk.
More nervous as they approached, Holly reviewed her courses in Interpersonal Communications, Crisis Management and Grieving. What had she learned about breaking bad news? Empathy. Eye contact. No box of tissues to replace the charming but unhygienic handkerchief. She hoped she wouldn’t stutter.
“Ready?” Gable gave her an encouraging look. For a moment, she thought he was going to squeeze her hand.
She knocked firmly, and the door was opened by a large man with broad shoulders. He had a slight beer belly, but the fitness genes announced themselves, and so did the aromas of bacon and fried potatoes from a late breakfast. In comfortable jeans, he wore a polo shirt and carried a copy of the Times Colonist under his arm, a welcoming smile on his round face, thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing her uniform, he furrowed his brow, then looked at Gable, a question in his cool blue eyes.
“Paul? Anything wrong?”
Gable shifted his glance back and forth. “Nate, this is Corporal Martin.”
Her pulse off to the races, Holly stepped forward, her hand extended. Their shake was a mere gesture of civility. Out with it.The swift cut is the kindest. “I have bad news. Your daughter, Angie, has been in an accident at Botanical Beach.” Damn. She hadn’t breached the battlements of the cruelest truth.
He stepped back as if struck, placing a workingman’s large hand on the door frame. His unshaven face paled, and his jaw hardened, a muscle at the corner pumping. “A car wreck? Damn those kids. I told her not to ride with anyone with a novice license.” He paused, staring in accusation at Gable. “You said you were taking vans. Call this responsible chaperoning? What the hell—”
“It’s not that, Nate,” Gable said, putting a hand on his shoulder and blinking, moisture in his eyes.
Holly swallowed back a sob. “She drowned, sir. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
As they stepped inside, she let Gable take him aside for a moment, opening her notebook in an automatic gesture. What did she really have to ask him anyway? A few muffled groans came from Nate, the paper dropping to the handsome fir flooring. Behind him, a polished mantelpiece was covered with shiny gold and silver trophies. On the wall, candid pictures of Angie poised at the starting blocks at her meets displayed the progress of a champion. Hadn’t Gable mentioned a son? An ancient golden retriever rose from a cushy corduroy pillow in front of the fireplace, shook its arthritic body, and ambled toward Nate to nuzzle his hand.
He straightened and cleared his throat. For a moment, though he opened his mouth, no words came. Suddenly he became aware of the dog and let his fingers brush the silken ears. “Buster. He’s nearly blind now. Got him when Angie was three. He was her guardian angel.”
Holly made sure that the dog saw her first before she stroked it. Like most goldens, it was quiet and amenable. A perfect therapy dog. Not as serious as shepherds, nor as bright, but a winning, dippy smile that made it one of North America’s favourites.
Nate pulled himself from Gable’s steadying arm. “When can I—”
Holly adjusted her voice for the gentlest tone. He was handling the death of a child better than she expected. Yet what else could he do? Keening and wailing was a woman’s province. Men had such burdens. No wonder they snapped. Her father had been dry-eyed throughout the crisis with her mother. For her a solid knight. But in private, she knew he mourned at every sunset, staring out to sea, alone and frozen in grief.
“Angie is at the Jubilee. There are formal procedures. An autopsy perhaps.”
“Is that necessary? She drowned. It seems simple enough. Why put us through...” His voice trailed off, and he finally let his legs shuffle him to a seat
