Almost Criminal: A Crime In Cascadia Mystery Part 8

Rachel waited while I carried the cash upstairs and knocked on the door. The peephole darkened, and the door swung open.

"You're new."

The girl was pale and pretty, with her hair under a knit cap with earflaps and ta.s.sels. There was someone in the back too, a guy who glanced at me and disappeared into the kitchen. He was about her age, mid-to-late twenties, with a plaid shirt and stringy brown hair. The hallway was lined with a dozen heavy-duty plastic garbage bags, loosely tied.

The apartment was great - not much furniture, but sunny and clean. I could see myself in a place like it, with a girl like this. She held the door open as I carried load after load down to the truck. When I returned to pick up the last bag, she was still there.

"Thanks," she said, reaching out to touch my upper arm. "Will it be you next time?"

I nodded and shrugged.

"Good. Bye then."

All that thanks. I guessed it was because I'd played dumb, like I'd never seen them before. She was a chai latte, and he was a double Americano, every time.

"Isn't that a lot of weed for an apartment grow? Or is that normal?" Rachel asked, as I closed the pa.s.senger door. The truck was crammed with ripe green weed, and I was certain we'd leave a scent trail wafting behind everywhere we drove.

"It's not one apartment, it's the entire building. Look around, the garage is empty. n.o.body lives here but the caretakers. It's a factory, hoses and lights and fans on every floor. The elevator shaft's been turned into ventilation, blowing the smell up to the top floor and out over the lake."

"I can't believe how totally you're into this." She giggled.

"It's cool. It's a whole world that I never knew existed. "

Rachel steered the truck into the gravel drive of the day's drop spot, a medium-sized corn farm in the flatlands of the Fraser Valley. The grey Cavalier was parked by a chain-link fence alongside a truck, an old Dodge farmyard special with a missing tailgate. I told her to head to the far side where the Dodge would hide her from view, and to stay low while I delivered the product. I clambered over her and got out by the driver's door.

There was nothing in sight but hundreds of acres of young corn and the highway, cutting across one side of the property, where a couple of pickups were slowing near the farm's drive. As instructed, I pa.s.sed through the chain-link fence gate, disregarding the warning signs about guard dogs, and knocked on the door of what looked like a mechanic's shed. The cream-coloured metal walls and low-slope grey roof matched the farm buildings, but on a smaller scale. Surveillance cameras - real or props, I couldn't tell - hung from the corners, pointed at the rollup garage doors and the aluminum storm door where I stood.

"Yes?" The door opened a crack, then wider. A twenty-something guy with thin, wispy hair gave me a hesitant up-and-down.

"Mr. Blunt -"

"Yes, yes, you have it or not?" He was wearing matching green shirt and pants that reminded me of a school janitor.

I started to tell him the cargo bed was squeezed tight with three grows' worth, plus what been left in it overnight. I was trying to hint that it would go faster if he'd volunteer a helping hand, but he stood there looking somewhere over my head. The crunch of driveway gravel made me turn to see two big pickups wheeling in, with off-road headlights and gun racks in the rear window. Tall, skinny Ivan was driving the first; short, wide Bullard the second. They must have followed me here, or they'd been lurking nearby, but either way, my approach seemed to have triggered something. Suddenly I knew: the weed in the truck was for Randle's secret side business. The business that Bullard and the bikers knew nothing about.

Bullard climbed down from his club-cab Ford and pointed at me, then the s.p.a.ce beside him. I was kind of stunned, but I dutifully took my place at his side, keeping my eyes down. If they'd been following me, had they seen Rachel? I hoped she had the sense to sit tight, or better yet, to lay down on the seat.

Ivan strode over from his truck, looking like he hadn't washed since I saw him last. His eyes were flat but alert, roaming the fields and the road, taking in everything but me. Bullard pushed past the guy in green and I crowded in after him. Ivan remained at the open door, arms crossed and silent like a scarecrow bouncer. He was either protecting his boss from whoever was outside, or making sure the rest of us stayed in.

By now, I'd seen enough operations and learned enough about the business to know a hash shop. There was a shelf-lined front room with a German-made hash press on a worktable, and a door of pebbled gla.s.s leading to the rear. The shelves were paint-stained and mostly empty, but the wall nearest the hash press was stacked with gla.s.s jars of crystal-encrusted green buds. There was a pollinator, an industrial-strength motorized device for separating leaves and trim from the valuable resin glands. On the lower shelves were foil-wrapped rectangles of hashish, stamped with the House of Dreams coat of arms and stacked like gold bars in Fort Knox. Sitting on the floor, a tinfoil ball in his hands, was a three- or four-year old kid.

Bullard pushed open the rear door and called, "Kennedy," and waited. He gave me an appraising look while he waited for a reply.

"Yo, coming." Randle's voice echoed from far in the rear.

A moment later he strolled in with a nod and a relaxed smile, cleaning his hands on a paper towel. He nodded at me and said, "n.o.body expects the Spanish Inquisition. Have a seat, Bull, make yourself comfortable."

Bullard remained standing while Ivan disappeared into the back, where I a.s.sumed there was a drying room with enough s.p.a.ce to process the truckload of uncured bud I had in the truck. Randle and Bullard faced each other, Bullard acting like he had the upper hand, that he'd caught Randle at something. He didn't look threatening. His att.i.tude was more like a landlord checking on his property, or an insurance investigator or something.

The skinny guy in janitor greens - the kid's dad, I guessed - kept swallowing, looking terrified and trying to hide it. Worried for his son, I guessed, although if it were my kid I'd be more worried about the chemicals and concentrated hash oil that might be on whatever he was putting into his mouth.

It felt like minutes before Randle spoke. "Tate, you might as well head on home. These people are going to be here for a while." His eye caught mine. Get out of here with that load of weed before Bullard finds it.

I turned to Bullard for approval, hoping that my face wasn't as easy to read as the caretaker's. Had he or Ivan seen that I hadn't unloaded, and that the pickup was crammed to bursting? If so, I'd be as guilty as Randle if I left now. If not, I could get out of here with Rachel undetected and save Randle's a.s.s at the same time.

Bullard shook his head.

"He's in the way." Ivan said from the back door. "This isn't his problem."

"f.u.c.k." Bullard was more irritated with Ivan for speaking out of turn than he was at me. "Get out of here, you. Go."

I walked to the truck, feeling Ivan's eyes on me. He'd resumed his bouncer's pose, and if he was looking he could not have missed that I opened the pa.s.senger door, not the driver's. He couldn't have seen that the truck was loaded, because the cargo cap had no windows and weed isn't what you'd call a heavy load, but as Rachel took us out of there I saw his head turn, following the departing truck. Was he trying to see who was at the wheel? I was certain that, tinted gla.s.s or no, Rachel's silhouette couldn't be mistaken for, say, Skip.

Chapter 10.

The sun was already up at six in the morning, when I breached the gate to the unfinished sections of Heritage Properties. Only one switchback uphill from our nouveau-mansion neighbours with their groomed lawns and remote-controlled security gates, it was a zone of neglect, mud, mould, and decay, and houses that were old before they had a chance to be new.

I'd parked the truck up here for the past couple of days, still stuffed with the undelivered weed, while I pulled espressos and wondered about Bullard's spot-check. Was the entire hash factory a clandestine operation, or was it Bullard's operation and Randle was using it for a little extracurricular processing? It certainly felt like a surprise audit, and my load would have been a major problem. Where was Randle now? What happened if these guys caught you red-handed? Did they fine you, break your kneecaps, or worse?

Then Skip had stopped in for a carrot cake, and, acting totally James Bond, paid for it by slipping me a fiver that had a slip of paper tucked under it. Written on it was a time and an address where I could deliver the load. It seemed that we were still in business.

I called it the tree house. Its front door was framed by these huge peeled-log columns, entire trees nearly. Inside, two more tree-columns supported a two-storey entrance with gaping holes where floor-to-ceiling windows would provide expansive valley views - if the house were ever finished. The back and sides were nothing but shredded sheathing paper. The exposed chipboard had swollen, warped, and gone grey. But the doors could be locked, and there was a four-car garage that hid the dopemobile from sight.

Months ago, during one of Beth's bad days, I'd taken off and waited for her to chill out, going for a hike uphill through the unfinished subdivision. When I saw the tree house, directly uphill from Pop's, it was a perfect escape. I popped the rusty realtor's lock, swept out the mouse s.h.i.t, and brought up a cooler and boom box.

I could sit on a folding chair borrowed from Pop's bas.e.m.e.nt and look down on our moss-covered roof, imagining Beth nibbling distractedly at her breakfast while Bree slept late, enjoying her first days of summer vacation. If the electricity had been run up this far, the house would have made an ideal grow op - no one ever entered the wasteland up here - but the gas and electrical lines had never made it this high.

In what would have been the great room, I saw a spot where some insulation had been pushed into place under a window. Lifting a flap of gla.s.s wool, I knocked and pried until I found a boxed-in section of plywood, and picked at the panel until I loosened it enough to pull it off. A hole in the wall, literally, and a perfect place to hide my growing stash of money. Robbie the Robot was full.

I was procrastinating, and I knew it. The truck was loaded and ready, but Rachel had started her summer job, so there was no one to drive it but me. This morning was her training shift at Five Star Video, the only place in Wallace with a summer job for a girl with spiky white hair and a scaly tattoo snaking up her neck.

I took the driver's seat. Fortunately for me, Rachel had backed it into the garage, so I didn't have to reverse it out.

First I checked the glove box. Whose truck was this, anyway? There was a stack of greasy papers and oil-change receipts, and a vinyl pouch with the registration and insurance, in the name of an Edmond Ngan. Good to know. My buddy Ed lent me his truck, officer, I have no idea what's in the back.

I'd never driven the truck alone. In both of my driving lessons, Rachel had kept up a steady stream of reminders: listen to the engine, shift up now, and push in the clutch when you stop.

I swallowed and slipped the truck into gear. This is how it feels to be out of your depth. Pressure on the gas, slip out the clutch. No problem, a bit of a lurch but no squealing tires. Out of the garage and onto the paved road in a deft, smooth shift-and-turn. Not bad at all.

The next level of challenge: a hundred feet down, the dirt road was barricaded. b.u.mp up onto the sidewalk and steer between two rough-framed buildings and behind them onto the service trail. The trail was blazed years before by the power and gas line crews. What was left was a pair of wheel ruts, overgrown with gra.s.s and blackberry brambles. Rachel had driven up it so there was no doubt that the truck would fit. I just had to follow it downhill through the woods and eventually I'd reach the highway. She a.s.sured me that it was easier than it looked: just keep your wheels in the ruts and the truck will steer itself. I took it as easily as possible, sliding in the clutch and letting the truck roll downhill so I could pay attention to keeping my tires in the track as I threaded between the trees. As the trail left the unfinished properties behind, there was a fork that I didn't remember from the drive uphill, and I chose the trail with the larger ruts, but I hadn't gone a hundred feet before it dead-ended at a bramble-covered stack of railway ties.

No way to turn around. I'd have to take it in reverse, uphill. No problem, just keep in the ruts. I pushed both pedals down, put the gearshift into reverse and craned my head out the window to see where the path forked. I slid the clutch out slowly, just an inch, and the engine stalled. I tried again with more gas, and the woods filled with the whine of an over-revving engine and the smell of burning clutch. I hadn't known that smell before yesterday. The truck shuddered but remained immobile. I let out another inch of clutch and it caught, grabbing the rear wheels and skittering the tail sideways to crush a sapling and stall the engine with a choking sound. The smell of gasoline filled the air.

What now? I lay my forehead on the steering wheel and nearly wept. I wanted to walk away. But I saw myself telling Randle, or worse, Bullard, about the truck I'd left stranded in the woods, and how someone had reported it to the police and had it towed, load of dope and all. Bullard would not have enjoyed the story.

I got out and took a closer look at the situation, and took a tire iron to the little spruce, or pine, or whatever it was that was jammed under the back b.u.mper, pulping the poor thing to mush. Then I rolled the truck downhill, away from the mess my tires had carved into the path, and tried again. It took a few attempts. I was gentler on the clutch, but it wasn't particularly smooth - the truck shook and the smell of burning clutch spread through the cab and probably the entire forest, but eventually I made it to the fork and from there through the lower meadows and down to the highway.

The last job of the day was done. I'd driven from Chilliwack to Harrison Lake, from deep-woods grow ops to a depot a few blocks from Bullard's strip club. The final delivery was to Randle's hash factory, where Johan - the skinny dude who liked workie-green clothes and shared child-care duties with his girlfriend - offered a cup of tea. Since Bullard's visit, we were like war buddies, tested under fire. He and Astrid, the girlfriend, chattered with me about ethn.o.botanicals, the magical, mystical and curative plants that have been used for millennia, they said, from Ayahuasca to iboga bark, peyote, salvia, yerba mate, and various fungi. I'd been pleased with myself - I didn't just listen, I could hold my own in a conversation with these people. I was a beginner, sure, but I was picking up a few things about the products and the processes, and they were treating me as an equal.

Now I was heading back in the general direction of the highway, and only a little bit lost. Getting there had been easy. Skip's directions had been clear, but a couple of the streets had been one way, so I couldn't return by exactly the same route. I wasn't worried, there was the one main highway that paralleled the American border, and as long as you headed toward it you'd eventually find your way.

Back roads like this were perfect for driving practice, with plenty of slowing and speeding up and hills that needed downshifting. I still freaked out when a car crept up behind me at a stop sign or red light - rolling backwards into them was a real possibility - but on these streets there was barely any traffic. It had been range land once, and still felt like a cowboy might come moseying into view, but fields had been parcelled off into suburban-style lots, with double carports and trailer-sized garages, and trucks and ATVs in the front yard, and signs for hairstyling or piano lessons.

The road rose and then dipped, and I had to slow down in a cloud of acrid, heavy smoke. A house fire, from the smell. As I got closer I could see that the flames were out and the fire crew was cleaning up. The roof was a gaping, ribbed hole, and sky-blue vinyl siding curled off the walls in waxy sheets. Folding tables were strewn across the driveway, and firefighters were shovelling metal light stands and coils of air ducting out of their way. It was a grow op fire, and a grow op that I knew, although I'd only seen it from the inside. I knew the three-car garage, tall enough for an RV. And I knew the Chevy Cavalier in it, wheels burned tireless, grey paint charred, interior gutted. I knew about the secret compartment that was inside its warped, buckled trunk. It wasn't going to be crossing into the U.S. anymore.

A man in an orange vest stood on the street, waving me on, yelling at me to keep moving, keep moving.

Chapter 11.

Only Beth let the kitchen door screech like that - Bree and I couldn't stand its tortured squeal, so we lifted the handle up when we came in or out that door. Beth did too, when she remembered.

I called out from the piano room, "Hey there. I've been waiting for you. Wait 'til you see what I've got."

"Any messages from Eleanor at the gallery?" Her voice carried in.

"Nothing on the machine."

"Why aren't you at work?" She sounded tired.

"I don't work Wednesdays. Come in here, I have something for you."

"You didn't work Monday, either. Jeannie called looking for you." She sounded edgy, like Eleanor was supposed to have called, and she was feeling ignored. Not the best mood for the demonstration that I'd set up.

I heard the kettle clunk on the new sink, and the sound of the strong new tap.

"Why didn't Jeannie call my cell?"

"That's the thing, isn't it? Your phone was in the cafe and you weren't." Her tone said, And where were you?

Of course I'd been running weed for Randle. Left the phone behind because those were the orders. And I hadn't worked many shifts lately. Christine was happy to sub for me, and Jeannie hadn't complained.

"Jeannie's confused sometimes," I improvised. "She changes the schedule and then doesn't tell anyone. She took me off the Monday shift and ended up short-staffed, and then yesterday there were three of us and the afternoon was dead. I don't know what she's experimenting with. But forget that, come see what I've got for you."

"Not until I have my tea."

She made me wait for the whistle, and then the required minutes for the leaves to steep before removing the strainer from the pot. She might not sit down to eat, but she wouldn't rush her tea. I waited patiently, cross-legged on the floor with my back to the Bosendorfer, surrounded by crinkled squares of bubble-wrap and green plastic wire-ties. On the carpet between my feet sat a cone-shaped electric device made of stainless steel, the size of a small kettle, nearly featureless except for a black k.n.o.b, a red b.u.t.ton, and a green light. White script identified it as a Volcano. Beside it lay a foot-long deflated balloon of floppy clear vinyl. In my left hand I held a small herb grinder.

With a large earthenware mug warming her hands, Beth rounded the corner and took it all in, her brows furrowed. Whatever greenhouse work she'd been busy at, it had been something brutal. Her clothes were filthy with sappy residue and her fingers were red, the knuckles swollen and recently scabbed.

I felt like a salesman. "This is a vaporizer."

I twisted the grinder, dropping a few fine shreds of Randle's best medical marijuana onto a saucer. Beth's eyes were dark. I knew my timing was wrong, but I pressed on.

"I know it looks weird, but don't freak out. The device here is on loan. And I got this free," I nodded at the pot. "So you could try it."

"Is that what I think it is?"

I was nervous all of a sudden, making quick, twitchy hand gestures as I explained the Volcano and its operation.

"I know these ladies, all right? Up the valley there's a compa.s.sion club, a support group for cancer patients using medical marijuana. It's for people in remission too. They asked about you and we got talking."

"How would you know such people?"

"You probably know them too." They're everywhere, I wanted to say, but I had to get back on topic. "They do good work. This is prescribed by doctors. Cancer patients use it, and MS patients, AIDS."

"For G.o.d's sake, Tate, I do not want to discuss this." Her mug clunked down and she crossed her arms. Her posture was rigid, like she was ready to panic. "Take this thing out of here."

I hadn't known how she'd react, but really, her generation, I'd figured she'd be less uptight.

"Look, don't freak out, just give it a try. I know you're past the worst of the hospital stuff, but I see you every morning and I know you still feel weak and c.r.a.ppy a lot of the time. This is supposed to relieve nausea and help your appet.i.te. If it works for you, they gave me a doctor's name, where you can get a prescription."

"That's enough."

No it wasn't enough. This was one topic I knew about. "It's ready now, see the light? You put a half-gram in, about a teaspoon. Then you hook the bag on. It doesn't take long."

I slid the plunger-like marijuana container into the cone's narrow opening and clipped the plastic sac to it. A low hissing sound escaped and the bag began to rise, slowly, like one of those popcorn makers from when she was a kid, before microwaves.

"The thing with medical marijuana is how you ingest it. If you smoke it, you're sucking all this tar and stuff into your lungs, which didn't do Bob Marley any good, did it?" I grinned, trying to lighten her up. "And medical users are already sick, or compromised or whatever. Some people bake brownies, but you lose half the good stuff in the heat of the oven. But this is designed for safe delivery, it's hot enough to vaporize the essential oils without burning the leaves. All the good, none of the bad. The light's on, here you go."

"That's enough, Tate, I heard you out, now I have work to do."

I unclipped the bag, filled with hazy grey mist, and held out the mouthpiece. "Just hold the nozzle to your mouth and inhale."

"No. I won't have you bringing drugs into my home." Her voice was getting up into warning territory.

I was pleading now. "Give it a try. People gave me this stuff as a favour to you, because it's for nausea and pain. I know you still get sick." I stood, and extended it to her.

"I won't." She pushed it away.

"Come on, Beth, n.o.body gets busted for an ounce or two of weed. It's like, a technicality."

"Two people just died in one of those grow ops. Is that what you call a technicality?" She moved in on me like when I was a kid and she was winding up to whack me one. "It's all people were talking about at work. Right here in Wallace."