After the Horses Page 13

  Dan heard a throat cleared behind him. He turned and saw large dark eyes set in a pale face. It could have been a vampire, if such things existed. Instead it was Ziggy, dressed in full Goth regalia, standing in the doorway watching him. Black velvet jacket over a black T, ruffled lace at the cuffs and collar; “Back in Black” emblazoned on his chest in case the visual hints weren’t enough. He looked like a mourner dressed for a very theatrical Victorian funeral.

  “Find anything interesting?” he asked softly.

  “The mysterious tenant,” Dan said.

  “Yes, I stay here when I want. Yuri gave me permission.”

  He crept in and sat on the futon, legs crossed in front of him.

  “That permission might have expired now that Yuri’s dead.”

  Ziggy cocked his head and regarded Dan curiously. “According to whom?”

  Dan left the question unanswered. “My name’s Dan.”

  “I’m Ziggy, as you probably know from reading my diary.”

  “Is that German?”

  Ziggy gave a funny, lop-sided smile. “No, just a nickname from when I was a kid. I used to run funny, sort of zig-zagging. They called me Ziggy for short.”

  “So, Ziggy. Aren’t you worried about staying here since the murder?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  Outside, a pigeon landed on the windowsill and began cooing to some invisible mate. Dan thought of the superstition about birds in the house.

  “You’re not afraid of being killed?”

  Ziggy shook his head. “What would I lose? Yuri was my only friend.” He gave Dan a close look. “If you think I’m being dramatic, I’m not. It’s the truth.”

  “Who do you think killed Yuri?”

  Ziggy reached for the bag of weed and produced a slender joint.

  “Maybe some hustler.”

  He lit it and took a toke, then held it out. Dan shook his head.

  “Why do you think that?”

  Ziggy stared at him for a moment, and then shrugged. “Yuri was in love with this Cuban guy named Santiago. Santiago wasn’t very nice to him, so Yuri told him to leave. After Santiago left, Yuri went a little bit crazy. He wanted them to stay together. Like, probably forever. There were a couple of guys who stayed the night with him after that. Rent boys. Maybe he hired some hustler to come in and things got out of hand.”

  “Had that sort of thing happened before?’

  Ziggy took another toke and thought this over.

  “Once or twice Yuri threw a couple of hustlers out of the house for behaving badly, but no one ever tried to hurt him before.”

  “Did Yuri seem afraid before he died? Was there anyone in particular he worried about?”

  Ziggy shrugged. “Not that I know of. But maybe he just didn’t tell me there was.”

  “Are you planning on staying here in the house?”

  He shrugged again. “Till they kick me out, I guess. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”

  “I read in your diary that Yuri locked you out for a while.”

  Ziggy glanced down at the pages. “He didn’t like it when I did dope. Heroin, I mean. He said it was messing up my future. So he kicked me out and told me to come back when I got clean. I wanted to apologize, but I never saw him again.”

  “It’s ironic, but you stayed with some friends of mine. Donny and Lester.”

  “Really?” Ziggy looked more amused than surprised. “You know Donny and Lester?”

  Dan nodded.

  “Cool,” he said, stabbing the joint out on a beam above his head. It dissolved in a flare of falling sparks. “Anyway, for now I’ll stay here. At least until someone changes the code. Then I’ll be screwed again.”

  “How did you get back in last time?”

  “Pure dumb luck. Yuri wasn’t answering my messages. I thought he was mad at me for using, so I came over to apologize just as Irma was coming by. I sneaked in when she got here. I found the code on his phone that he texted to her.”

  Dan looked at him. “Who’s Irma?”

  “Cleaning lady. She’s a trip. Eastern European something or other. Wicked accent, like Bela Lugosi.” He grinned. “Irma thought Yuri was evil. She used to leave religious pamphlets around for him. He laughed whenever he found them.”

  Dan recalled the picture of Jesus with the exploding heart. “What did Yuri think of Irma?”

  Ziggy struggled out of his jacket, revealing a thin chest and arms. But no track marks, Dan noted. He was still clean.

  “You mean, like, was he afraid of her?”

  “Sure.”

  “Nah. Yuri thought she was a joke. He loved teasing her, but he wouldn’t fire her. I think he felt sorry for her. Santiago liked her. They were both illegals. I guess he could relate.”

  “Why didn’t Yuri marry Santiago and help him get his citizenship?”

  “They talked about it. I think Yuri was testing him to see if he’d remain faithful. Santiago couldn’t be faithful to save his life. Yuri wanted to rescue everybody. He should have been rescuing himself.”

  Not bad advice, Dan thought, though a trifle late on the delivery.

  He felt Ziggy’s hand on his forearm. The other snaked down to Dan’s crotch. Dan pushed the hand away.

  “Please!” Ziggy said. “Am I a freak? Do I look repulsive?”

  “You’re not repulsive,” Dan said.

  “The last guy I had sex with said I was attractive.”

  “Was that Charles?”

  Ziggy’s eyes flashed. “Did you read the entire thing?”

  “No,” Dan said. “But I know Charles.”

  “He used me.”

  “He’s in a relationship.”

  Ziggy rolled his eyes. “I know. He’s married to the accountant.”

  “Married men don’t stick around.”

  “Tell me about it.” He gave Dan a sidelong glance. “What about you? Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Then why aren’t you interested in me?”

  Dan looked the boy up and down. Rule number one of the gay dress code, he thought. Don’t wear make-up and skin-tight jeans unless you want to look girly. But how to tell him he was attractive, even under that garish get-up?

  “Can’t you find me attractive?” he pleaded.

  “You are attractive.”

  He ran a hand over Dan’s chest. “Then touch me.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty. Just touch me.”

  Half my age, Dan thought. He tried to recall the distinction between pedophiles and pederasts. Pedophiles had unsolicited sex with minors, while pederasts shared the bodies of willing, or in this case aggressive, younger men. As a teenager, he’d often been on the other end of the equation, but now he was the older one. A thousand thoughts went through his head: his discovery of sex with grown men, his fears at not being attractive enough, his worries at being discovered to be queer. Hell, most of his sex education had occurred beneath a train trestle in the clear light of afternoon once he realized the twelve-year-old girls who pursued him at school could do nothing to satisfy his sexual urges. It was their older brothers he’d wanted.

  “Be a man. Touch me!” Ziggy commanded.

  Dan sensed his own adolescent bewilderment and anger in Ziggy. Like this boy, he too had known what he wanted from men as far back as he could remember.

  “Not while you’re stoned,” Dan told him. And not ever, he thought to himself.

  Ziggy must have sensed his reasoning. “It’s because I’m too young. Don’t worry, I’ll say I was the aggressor. I went after you. I don’t know why people always think it’s the older person.”

  “It’s just the way people think.”

  “Why aren’t you married? Or are you? It’s okay, you can tell me.”

  “I’m not married. I told you the truth. Did you tell the truth about your age?”

  “No. I’m only nineteen. So what’s wrong with you then? Why aren’t you married?”

  “I’m not the
marrying kind.” Better to discourage any further hopes on Ziggy’s part, Dan thought. “Some days I’d rather have a good conversation than sex.”

  Ziggy smiled. “What are you anyway? A psychologist?”

  “No.”

  “A cop?”

  “I’m not a cop either, no.” He paused. “Have you had sex with cops?”

  Ziggy nodded. “One.”

  Dan decided against asking if it were Trposki. “I’m just trying to help out on the murder.”

  “I thought you were a cop because you were reading my diary. I thought maybe you were looking for something to say I was a psycho and that I killed Yuri.”

  “Did you?”

  The face that stared at him was all seriousness. “Yuri was my friend.”

  “Friends kill friends. It happens all the time. Sometimes it’s just an accident.”

  “I didn’t kill Yuri.” Ziggy’s eyes narrowed. “I’d be more likely to kill myself. If I did, I’d just lock the doors and unplug myself. No one could get in until it was too late.”

  Dan thought of the diary entry he’d read. “I hope you won’t. It’s seldom that easy. Besides, you know what they say: it gets better. I can vouch for that. I come from a shit background, too, but life turned around for me.”

  “Yeah, whatever. You probably didn’t grow up in care. I grew up in care. It doesn’t get better for someone like me.”

  He looked away, as though they’d touched on something too raw to discuss.

  “I’m sorry for intruding on your private space.” Dan turned to leave. “If you ever just want to talk or anything …”

  Ziggy’s eyes met his. “You want to get together again? Not as a date or anything. Maybe just to meet up for a coffee? Don’t worry, I won’t stalk you.”

  Dan smiled. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”

  He held out a business card. Ziggy turned it over and tapped it with his index finger. “Missing persons? I could design a nice little skull for you on the back, if you want.”

  “Not exactly the sort of message I’d like to deliver to clients.”

  Ziggy laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  Dan pushed the door open and stood in the hallway. Ziggy watched him closely.

  “Will I see you again?”

  “You’ve got my number,” Dan said. “Contact me and I’ll get back to you.”

  “You promise?”

  “You have my word.”

  Seventeen

  Desecration

  The house was dark again when he got home. Ked was out. Ralph came to greet him briefly then returned to his bed. Dan knew he’d better get used to it.

  There were no messages on his answering machine. But what he found on his laptop turned out to be far more interesting. His e-mail in-box held a response from the Sûreté du Québec. He had an inkling even before he opened it. Inside lay the answer he’d been seeking. Or, rather, the answer he’d been hoping not to have to face. Nothing one-hundred-percent conclusive, but certainly leaning in that direction. He responded as quickly as his French would allow and sent it off. If the reply came soon, it meant putting off the search for Santiago Suárez a few days. It looked as if he’d be going to Quebec.

  He slept uneasily, unsettled by dreams of young men with pale faces. A little before five he woke and couldn’t get back to sleep. He gave up trying and got out of bed, feeling disoriented. Middle age was turning out to be a bitch. He thought of the e-mail he’d received and went to his office, but there was no reply. The Quebec police had probably wisely stayed in bed.

  Dan hadn’t seen Domingo since the previous week. She was due for another round of chemo that afternoon. There was no need to get her hopes up when he saw her, but he felt he should at least broach the subject of finding Lonnie and the probability that her son was no longer alive.

  He arrived early at the hospital. The waiting room was crowded, as usual. He made off down the corridor to her room, but stopped when he heard voices coming from inside. Women’s voices. They weren’t raised, but he felt the tension. After a moment, footsteps approached and a woman emerged. She checked her watch, an unsettled look on her face, then headed to the elevator. Dan thought she looked familiar, though he couldn’t have said why. Then it clicked: she was an older, harried version of Domingo.

  He heard Adele say, “Can you believe that? The fucking church! How dare she come in here and upset you on your chemo day?”

  Domingo mumbled a reply Dan couldn’t make out.

  “How dare they desecrate our relationship like that? A relationship of twenty-two years built on love and truth. That woman is immoral! If they want you to go to church, tell them you’ll go to the gay church, where you’re welcome. If she believes in God, then she’ll know that God doesn’t care what denomination you pray in.”

  Again, Domingo spoke too softly for Dan to overhear.

  “I’m sorry,” Adele said, her tone changing. “I’m sorry for getting angry.”

  Dan heard the sound of a scraping chair. He stepped into a doorway, out of sight.

  “I’ll be back to pick you up at four.”

  He waited till Adele’s footsteps died out then went in. Domingo was sitting up in bed. She smiled wearily when she saw him.

  “Hi there!” Dan tried to be as cheery and nonchalant as he could. “Are you ready for today’s adventure ride?”

  She looked away.

  “Everything okay?” Dan asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Test results not good?”

  “Apparently I was fine yesterday. Blood was good. Sleep was good. Mood was great. Then this morning I got a visit from two of the Furies.”

  “Oh-oh,” Dan said. “I thought I saw Adele leaving a minute ago.”

  “She’s half the problem. The other half was my sister.”

  Dan nodded sympathetically.

  Domingo shrugged. “It’s the church. All that family and religion stuff. We West Indians are full of it. They want to drag me off to repent, while Adi’s having a fit about it.” She sighed. “My sister and I haven’t spoken six words in all the years Adi and I have been together. When I got sick, I called her. I probably shouldn’t have. They’re all praying for me — the whole nine yards.”

  “So let them pray. It can’t hurt.”

  She pushed aside a half-finished breakfast tray in front of her.

  “It’s just having my sister coming in here ranting about giving up my sinful life and coming back to Jesus. I said, ‘Ranee, I have no problem with Jesus, but giving up the woman I love is not an option.’ Then she sits there and stares at me while Adele throws daggers at her with her eyes. Both of them staking out their territory and that territory is me. I know they mean well, but I really wish they wouldn’t fight over me like that.”

  Dan took her hand and felt its lightness. Definitely not a day to tackle the subject he’d considered taking up with her.

  “Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to talk to Adele?”

  “No, that wouldn’t have any effect. Anyway, she’s right. I should forbid my sister from coming in here and talking like that, but it upsets me to have to do that. And now I’ve got three hours of sitting here while the doctors pour poison into my system. I’m fighting inside and out.”

  “You can put it off for another day, if you want to.”

  Domingo shook her head. “What’s the point? I still have to go through it. And psyching myself for a day beforehand is half the battle. That’s hard. I know it’s supposed to be good for me, but it seems like all I have to look forward to is thinning hair, shaky hands, and feeling chilled even in summer.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll be fine now that you’re here.”

  Dan settled beside her in the visitor’s chair, feeling as resigned as she sounded. After the first bag of chemicals emptied, a nurse arrived wearing a full-body gown, then proceeded to put on gloves before hanging up the second bag. Dan averted his eyes while she changed Domingo’s dressing and reinserted the PICC line. Done, she put everything in
a hazardous waste container and left.

  Dan struggled again with telling Domingo what he’d heard from the Quebec police, that finding her son alive was as unlikely as winning the lottery at this point, but today it wouldn’t help her. He suspected it was just one of many things she’d reconciled herself to already.

  Eighteen

  Where the River Narrows

  The reply from the Quebec police was there when he woke. Dan thought it over and decided a quick resolution was best. He called Ked and Kendra to say he’d be gone for a couple of days. Afterwards, he contacted Donny and Lionel. That covered his Need to Know list. For good measure, he left a message for Inspector Johnston. She called back to ask a few details about the trip, wishing him luck in finding Lonnie. Then he left the city and headed east.

  His car burned up the Highway of Heroes, that stretch of the Macdonald-Cartier Freeway where the bodies of fallen soldiers made their final journey between the armed forces base at Trenton and the forensics centre in Toronto. It had earned its nickname from the crowds gathering on overpasses to salute the convoys moving beneath, during what Dan thought of as a misguided war on Iraq as American indignation mollified its wounded pride over being attacked on its own soil. Not our war, he thought. Easy to say, of course, but Dan wasn’t sentimental about such things: when you go to war, you put your life on the line. It was a given. There were plenty of ways to die, few of them pretty. Dying wasn’t always the worst option, what with the burgeoning cases of post-traumatic stress disorder making the lives of returned soldiers even more of a nightmare than what they’d endured in the desert. Dan knew about living with nightmares. Now that was brave, he’d have said, if anyone asked.

  His favourite time on the road was early morning, before the other drivers came out to ruin things for him. He liked the feel of being the only person alive for miles around. No one to talk to, no one to bother him. An eight-hour solo drive to Quebec City was just the thing to quell his burgeoning misanthropy.