Almost Criminal: A Crime In Cascadia Mystery Part 2

"Fourteen, don't exaggerate."

Even she treated me like a genius sometimes. I did all right in school, mostly, but didn't choose it and don't like to talk about it. It's incredible how little it helps in real-world situations.

The van door opened and a dark, thick-bodied guy got out. He leaned against the hood and tilted his head back in the evening breeze. A leather jacket hung loose around his belly. Black hair curled out from a baseball cap. He placed a tiny brown dog on the gra.s.s and watched it scurry off with frantic energy.

"What grades'd you skip?"

"None."

I explained about Options, the open school my dad put me in when I was little. There were no grades, and they let me do whatever I wanted, which was math and science mostly. It was great for a few years, then my dad split and that was it for private school.

"Suddenly I'm in regular school where n.o.body else can do long division. I'd never even sat at a desk before," I said. "I became a bit of a s.h.i.t-disturber, which was blamed on an unstable family and the open school's lack of discipline, which I think they had a point, but Beth wasn't buying. She likes to think I'm a little version of her, smart and misunderstood. She went in and ranted about my so-called gifts. Put me through these tests. So they caved and put me in high school. I was ten years old. Think I'm short now? You should have seen me then."

"Whatever." She rolled back to face the water, disregarding my attempt at self-deprecation. "You were your own little man, I bet, like you are now. You don't care who says you're a spaz right to your face, or trash-talks you to your friends."

Over the water, I heard the van door clunk and watched the guy follow the pug dog, clicking his tongue when it roamed too far. Then he and the dog angled toward the water and the dock.

"- and you were in the city, so if you were going totally suicidal you could just transfer across town, right? Not like here."

I shrugged. "There's what, a month left?"

"Two and a half weeks of eyeball-peeling torture. Then it's exams."

Such a drama queen. "You can tough it out." She'd already been accepted everywhere she'd applied. All she had to do was graduate.

"Any other problems?" I wanted a change of subject.

"This month? Or this week?"

Whatever. "Today."

She took a moment to answer, leaning down to rinse her bottle in the lake. Did she know what that loose T-shirt looked like when she did that? "Grad."

I didn't attend my grad, and never felt that I'd missed anything.

"It's what, a night of dress-up, dinner, and dance at some golf club. I thought you weren't going."

"Exactly, but now Mom has her claws out, and she's tearing into me, one little shred of flesh at a time." She settled back down beside me, stretching in the sun.

He'd made his way to the foot of the wharf and then onto it, in a slow, splayfooted walk across the timbers. The wind was gusting gently toward the water, so we could hear him, but he couldn't hear us. Still, I dropped my voice.

"What does she want, a daughter who skips grad, or one who shows up with a girlfriend on her arm?"

That was a bit abrupt. I generally avoided the lesbian thing, since I kind of hoped she'd eventually discover the attractions that a guy like myself could offer.

She gave a vodka-loosened chuckle and elbowed me in the ribs. "The vulture's plan was that you'd ask me. It's the male thing. You're one, and you're available. I a.s.sume you don't have a grad date."

"Since I graduated a few years ago, no."

I half sat up, scratching my nose and watching with curiosity as the fat dude's eyes darted our way and then off again as he approached.

"Wouldn't it be you doing the asking, since you're the future grad?"

"Bro?" A high-pitched voice said. His double chin quivered under a little goatee and two or three days' stubble. He had a row of earrings up one earlobe.

I waited.

"Hey, bro, is your name Tate?"

What the h.e.l.l? I grabbed my skate deck and stood up too fast on the floating wharf, suddenly unsteady. I felt in a back pocket for a breath mint.

"Anatole said you'd probably be here. Over to the coffee shop? Mr. Kennedy sent me there to find you. He's got some work for you if you want it." He looked Indian, or Pakistani, maybe, but his voice was born in B.C.

"Sorry, man, I'm busy." I don't deal with strangers who walk up in the middle of nowhere offering work.

The dog sniffed at the railing and scuttled its b.u.t.t into a squat.

He nudged it with a foot. "C'mon, Mabel, don't be a jerk. It's worth your while, a hundred bucks for an hour or two. Easy bread, bro."

"I'll do it," Rachel spoke up. "If he doesn't want to."

If Rachel was willing, then why not. And he knew Randle Kennedy. "Can she come with?" I asked. "Fifty each?"

She nodded.

"You alone, bro. Orders."

I paused. I'm not good at turning people down to their face. I was available and he knew it, and Kennedy had always looked like money, which the hundred dollars proved. The guy didn't look dangerous. Pathetic, with the bro talk when he looked like somebody's father. If their father delivered pizza for a living.

I looked at Rachel and shrugged. "I could use the money."

Rachel spun away, bending to clip her water bottle on her cargo pants. I put a hand out to her, thinking I really should refuse the guy, but she was gone.

I opened the pa.s.senger door, but the guy waved me to the back.

"Front seat's for Mabel," he said, depositing the dog beside him.

He must have read my face when he said, "Don't freak out, all right? Everything's cool."

The sweet stink of weed blended with wet dog and filled my nose and mouth. It was hot and foul in there, and dark. The back of the van was windowless, with two rows of vinyl seats. I resisted the desire to clamp my hands over my face. I did not want to embarra.s.s myself by upchucking Southern Comfort all over his ride. And if the smoke was fresh, there was the smoking-and-driving thing to worry about. There's a hundred bucks in this. I gave him a surrept.i.tious pink-eye check. His eyes looked clear, so I took one last deep breath and climbed in, dropping my deck on the seat beside me.

"Name's Skip," he said, starting up the engine. He was polite now, almost apologetic. "Got a phone?"

"What, you want to make a call?"

"Give it here, bro." He extended a hand. "It's cool, you'll get it back." When I didn't make a move, his voice hardened. "No s.h.i.t, I gotta have it."

Reluctantly, I slipped my phone onto his waiting palm.

"Not an iPhone?"

I gave him a look that should have told him if I had the money for an iPhone I wouldn't be here. He thumbed out the battery and dropped phone and battery into a metal box on the floor. I looked inside. It was lined with metal foil. To prevent location-tracking? Strange dude.

"And put this on." He handed me a black cloth bag. "It's just a hood. Relax, it's stupid, but those are the rules."

I couldn't look at him. This was ridiculous. What was the big secret? Who or what was I not supposed to see? We were at a lake, there was no one here but me and Rachel, and she was halfway to the skate park on her way home.

The dude was old and dumpy, a bit of a sad sack and he did not look frightening. So I figured, for a hundred bucks I'll do the hood. I shook out the cloth and bent my head.

"Not yet, not yet. Keep it on your lap, 'til you've waved goodbye to your girlfriend and we're on the road."

The van left the marina and picked up speed.

"All right, slide 'er on, all the way down. Like I said, don't freak out."

Easily said, but once that hood was on, the world shut down. It was stuffy and humid and I was inhaling my own breath, sweating, hearing every sound with sudden intensity. Fighting to stay cool. Flickers of light and shadow rose from the loose cloth around my neck, but not enough to tell me when the van was about to slow or take a curve. Skip hit a pothole and my head cracked against something metal. The sliding door, maybe. I grabbed the back of the seat in front of me and a.s.sumed the crash position. Cold sober now, and desperate to pull the thing off my head, I started talking, asking Skip did he live around Wallace, did he know the coffee shop, anything, to just hear his voice, to convince myself he was a human being, not an axe murderer, that there was a reasonable explanation for what was going on. Would an axe murderer have a raspy-sounding pug dog that smelled like it had been rolling in cows.h.i.t, that pushed a cold, snotty nose up the pants legs of hooded pa.s.sengers? Maybe.

The van clanged like a tin box when he hit the highway, and I tried to work out where we had to be - after all, there's only one highway, and when we didn't make downtown Wallace in a couple minutes I knew the direction we were going in was west. Time crawled and the humidity built up inside the hood and waited. A hundred bucks. Calm down. Breathe. He hit the brakes and the a.s.s-end swayed. Gravel hosed the floor under my feet. The van hammered against a crack or a seam in the road and suddenly hummed on smooth pavement. With that, I knew where we were. Predator Ridge, a new subdivision, paved just this spring. As a skater, I sought out silky new asphalt just for the pleasure of it under my wheels. I felt better now. I knew how to get back to the highway from here. The van climbed uphill, then turned and b.u.mped up to a driveway. We rolled into a building, the engine loud inside close, echoing walls. A garage door grumbled closed, sealing us in.

Skip's voice sounded murky through the cloth. "All righty then. Take it off, we're here. Sorry about all this cloak-and-dagger c.r.a.p, bro. Not my idea."

We were in a big s.p.a.ce, a garage big enough for a serious RV, maybe two. New construction, some kind of McMansion. The wood studs were clean and wet with sap, fresh pink insulation bulged from the walls. There was none of the usual garage debris. No bicycles, rakes or skis, only a dented grey Chevy Cavalier.

He opened the van door and the dog scrambled out, snuffling excitedly. "Honey, I'm home!"

The door at the back opened and Randle Kennedy strode out, with a tight, sour expression. The spandex outfit looked like he was ready for a run, or just back from one, all high-tech with reflective stripes, and a wind sh.e.l.l tied round his waist. He was slim, muscular, and unruffled. Didn't look like he'd broken a sweat, unlike most of the runner-moms I saw in the shop. When Mabel scurried in his direction, he pulled the door tight.

"Tie up that stupid animal." He strode over, silent on shock-absorbing Nikes. "You're late."

Avoiding his eyes, Skip stammered a story of chasing me down at the marina, and Randle twisted to me, his face opening to a welcoming smile.

"Mr. Kennedy."

"Randle." His handshake slipped smoothly into a soul-brother clasp. "You're ready to start?"

"Start?"

"He didn't fill you in?" Another cool glance at Skip.

"No."

"Good."

Skip exhaled audibly. He'd done something right.

"For all the nonsense in getting here." Randle pulled a couple of fifties from somewhere inside his jacket. "You are cool with this?"

With what, exactly, I wondered. But I took the money, and glanced at Skip for a hint. Was there a correct answer?

"I can trust you?" Randle said.

Could he trust me? I'd gotten into a reeking claustrophobic van with a stranger and been scared s.h.i.tless with that stupid hood, simply because of his name. I could imagine what Beth would say if she knew. "Yeah, sure. Absolutely."

"This business is trust, you understand?" He reached out and laid a palm on my shoulder, gazing intently into my eyes. I didn't pull away. "All right." His face cleared again and he straightened. "Time to show you the ropes. That dog's under control?"

He led me through the garage's back door, with Skip trailing a few paces back. After the hooded drama, the sight was underwhelming. A bas.e.m.e.nt rec room in a split-level home, gridded with rows of steel-wire shelving like Safeway, except that the shelves held plastic tubs sprouting marijuana plants. I almost burst out laughing with relief. All that terror for this? Who gave a d.a.m.n about a grow op? Back in Vancouver there were two of them on my block.

"B.C. bud." Skip said with pride. "The best of the best."

The room was a jungle of green, fluttering in a fan-driven breeze. Bungee cords and plastic netting held the taller plants upright. Silver-shaded lamps suspended from overhead pipes cast a deeply shadowed light. From what I could see, just doing the math in my head, there were 128 plants here. There were eight rows of shelving, two racks to a row, and two bins of four plants each to a rack. With a few extras here and there.

"What do you know about growing weed, Tate?" Randle asked.

"Not a thing." I couldn't lie - he'd find out soon enough if I tried to bluff - but I felt I should say something that made me look interested and not stupid. My eyes traced a bundle of power cords from a rack of plants up to the ceiling and back to where it split out into a Medusa-head of cables that fed into a control panel of plugs and switches. "You've got some kind of control system for the lights?"

"Lights, water, air. Total control." A voice, accented with Russian or Polish, came from behind a row of plants, followed by its source, a tall man in his thirties, six-six or more and sinewy, wearing black jeans and a brown leather jacket. "Happy environment, happy plants." He looked at me without curiosity. "The new kid?"

"Tate, this is Ivan," Randle said. "He's learning the system, too, but he has a head start on you."

Ivan scratched at the little hairs under his chin, looking faintly worried or disappointed, and returned to whatever he had been doing. I was trying to hide the sudden elation I felt right then. Randle had been talking about me. I was the "new kid."

Skip added, "There's bio-enhanced bacteria, enzymes, bloom cofactors, and vitamins. They get mixed with water and sprayed on the roots for accelerated metabolism and faster maturation."

Randle interrupted. "Made in Amsterdam, to my specs." He pulled out a fat joint and rolled it over his palm and fingers like a card shark with the ace of spades, until an embossed gold crest printed on the paper faced me, with the words HOUSE OF DREAMS. With his eyes locked on mine, he placed the joint in his lips and lit it, inhaling deeply. After a second toke, he offered me a hit, but I waved it away. I wanted to project a businesslike att.i.tude, like I needed to concentrate. I didn't want to let on that the smell turns my stomach - even when I haven't been riding, half-drunk, in a fog of it. He nodded and began an explanation of the system and its sensors that kept the plants growing and concentrated the THC. I took in every word.

"What's in there? Some kind of dedicated controller, or is it a PC?" I wanted to ask a non-stupid question, and I knew more about computers than fertilizer.

Skip jumped in. "It's totally digital. Every grow has the same number of plants, or there are two controllers for double the plants, and like that."

In other words, he didn't know. I tried again, to Randle this time, "You've got eight rows, two racks and so on, for a total of 128 plants." The extras were there in case plants died, I supposed. "Base-eight math. Got a programmer nerd on your design team?"

"Right on, right on." Randle's broad grin told me I'd nailed it. "I knew you were the man for the job." He blew a ring of smoke.

He was flattering me, but I didn't get much flattery in my life, and it felt good. "It runs the security system too? Or do you have remote monitoring?"

He shook his head. "Security's not a concern. We have protection."

"No cameras?"

Skip said, "Got to look normal. Cameras and fences make the civilians curious."

"Nothing here can be traced." Randle said. "There's no alarm system, no telephone, no Internet, no modems. Skip locked up your cellphone?"

"In the black hole." Skip wanted to sound knowledgeable "Your phone's traceable even when it's switched off. That's why we pull the battery and lock it in the sat-shield box."

"But you need electricity for the lights," I said, confused that I had to point out the obvious. "Isn't that how they find grow ops, by watching power usage?"

Skip grinned and pointed to heavy-gauge cables leading from the controller toward the rear of the house.