A Hummingbird Dance Read online

  Praise for The Lucky Elephant Restaurant, the second installment of the Detective Lane Series and winner of the 2007 Lambda Literary Award for Gay Mystery

  “Lane and Harper are fine characters who deserve a series.”

  The Globe and Mail

  “Ryan has penned a haunting, psychological drama of the first order.”

  Edmonton Journal

  “Watching Lane and Harper unpeel the layers of this particular onion is an amazing experience.”

  The Star Phoenix

  “Ryan balances suspense with humour, creating books that are, quite simply, a great read.”

  Aloft Magazine

  “The second Detective Lane mystery is even better than the first, and that’s saying a lot.”

  Drewey Wayne Gunn, author of The Gale Male Sleuth in Print and Film

  “Ryan breaks down all forms of stereotypes including those surrounding disability, sexual orientation, race and religion. He doesn’t give the reader any opportunity to disassociate from the novel’s message, since he sets it all right here in Calgary. What emerges at the core is a message of respect toward all people.”

  BeatRoute Magazine

  A Hummingbird Dance

  Garry Ryan

  Copyright ©

  Garry Ryan 2008

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Ryan, Garry, 1953–

  A hummingbird dance / Garry Ryan.

  ISBN 978–1–897126–31–8

  I. Title.

  PS8635.Y354H84 2008 C813’.6 C2008–902312–9

  Editor for the Board: Douglas Barbour

  Cover and interior design: Natalie Olsen

  Cover photo: Garry Ryan

  Author photo: Karma Ryan

  NeWest Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, and the Edmonton Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).

  No bison were harmed in the making of this book.

  We are committed to protecting the environment and to the responsible use of natural resources. This book is printed on 100% recycled, ancient forest-friendly paper.

  1 2 3 4 5 11 10 09 08 printed and bound in Canada

  For Mike, Denise, Nick, Luke, and Indiana.

  chapter 1

  SUNDAY, JUNE 30

  “Christine called.”

  Arthur was sitting in a lawn chair with a glass of lemonade atop his generous belly. He still wore dirt-stained gloves, and the knees of his grey sweatpants were black.

  Lane found himself unable to speak. His mind turned into a shovel, digging and turning over memories just as he’d spent yesterday turning over the soil in the flower beds. He thought, I had it under control; I could handle it by not thinking about it. Now, just mention her name, and I’m back where it all started. “The flowers look great.” He looked around the yard at the annuals and perennials Arthur had planted today for their first summer in this house. It looked like a Monet. All of those impossibly bright waves of colour running up against and into one another.

  “Did you hear me? I said Christine called.” Arthur glared at Lane.

  “I heard you.” Lane was already exhausted with memories of her. He thought about what she looked like and realized that today he probably wouldn’t recognize her if he bumped into her on the street.

  “She wouldn’t leave a message. She did say that she’ll call back tonight at ten. It’s just enough time.” Arthur drained the last of the lemonade and took off his gloves.

  “Enough time?” Lane thought, Things should start to get easier now with this family. We’ve had more than enough time since it all happened.

  “We have to pick up Matt at the bus station in thirty minutes.” Arthur took a closer look at Lane.

  “He planned on being gone for at least a week. It’s only been two days.” Lane reached into his pocket for car keys.

  Arthur walked over and put a hand on Lane’s shoulder. “I’ll drive. Matt left a message. He sounded pretty upset. He asked us to pick him up.”

  Lane looked up at Arthur.

  “Christine’s call has really shaken you.” Arthur lead the way along the deck and out the gate to the driveway. He put his palm on Lane’s cheek. “This is how I felt when Matt arrived with no warning, and no time to prepare myself.”

  Automatically, Lane looked around to see if any of the neighbours had witnessed the public display of affection. “What did she say?”

  Arthur opened the Jeep’s passenger door, then walked around the front.

  Lane got in and shut his door.

  Arthur got in behind the wheel. “Put your seat belt on.”

  Lane heard the sound of waves sifting their frothy way up a beach. His mind wandered in and out of focus. His hand guided the the seat belt automatically into the lock. “What did she say, exactly?” He looked at the deck and the honeysuckle growing up the chain link.

  Arthur started the engine. “She said, ‘This is Christine. Is Lane there?’ I explained you were at work and she said, ‘I’ll call back tonight at ten.’ It’s a good thing we kept the same phone number.”

  “No indication of where she was calling from?”

  “None.” Arthur eased the Jeep out of the driveway. “I’ve been trying to remember how old she is.”

  “Seventeen.” Lane’s cellphone rang. He reached instinctively into his sports-coat pocket. “Hello.”

  “Lane? It’s Harper. We’ve got a missing cowboy. You and I’ve been assigned to it. I’ll call you later when I’ve got more of the details.” Harper hung up.

  Lane closed his phone.

  When they reached the Greyhound bus station on Ninth Avenue, he tried to recall how they got there.

  “You look awful,” Matt said to Lane. Their nephew threw his bag into the back of the Jeep and crawled into the rear seat.

  Arthur looked at Lane, nodding in agreement with Matt’s diagnosis.

  Lane watched the boy closely. His black hair was cut short. His chin was peppered with acne and he’d removed his earring. There were dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes.

  Arthur and Lane climbed in. They waited, in silent agreement, for Matt to speak.

  It was quiet for the first eleven minutes as they left downtown and drove north, then west toward the mountains.

  “Hungry?” Arthur asked.

  “Nope.” Matt looked out the side window.

  “Want to talk?” Arthur asked.

  “Nope.” Matt continued to look away.

  They drove up Sarcee Trail in silence. When they got home, Matt grabbed his bag out of the back. “I’m going to bed.” His gently lurching CP gait seemed more pronounced as he made his way inside and downstairs to his bedroom.

  “What do you think happened?” Arthur opened the door and stepped inside.

  “I don’t know.” Lane checked the phone to see if there were any messages.

  “Should we go and talk with him?” Arthur paced the kitchen.

  “Let him sleep. It looks like he needs the rest. Maybe he’ll feel like talking in the morning.” Lane looked at the clock on the stove. It read eight o’clock.

  “She said she’d call at ten,” Arthur said.

  “I know.”

  Lane
’s cellphone rang at twenty after ten. He flipped it open. “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” Harper said. “Shhhhh.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, just got Jessica to sleep.”

  “You’re holding her now?” Lane asked.

  “Yep. It’s crazy, but if I walk and talk she falls asleep. The moment I stop talking or walking, she starts crying again. She’s already got me tied around her little finger.”

  “Kids.” Lane looked at the clock and thought about Christine not calling, Matt not talking, and Harper’s infant daughter, who had changed the logical, outspoken detective into a proud daddy with her voice recorded on his pocket computer.

  “Tell me about it. Anyway, I found out some more about our missing person. Name’s Ryan Dudley. Went out for a ride on his horse. The horse came back without him. Sounds like a real cliché, eh? Same address as Tyler McNally who disappeared last year. Both disappeared on June thirtieth. Both went to the same high school.”

  “How come we were assigned this one? I’m assuming the victims live in the country.”

  “They live near T’suu Tina. You know, the reserve. The land north of there was recently annexed by the city, so it’s our case.” Harper started making cooing sounds to soothe his daughter.

  “The date is probably significant.” Lane looked at Arthur, sleeping and snoring on the couch.

  “I’ll check that out tomorrow. The chief called me. She thinks there’s gonna be a lot of pressure to have this one solved quickly. Ryan was a rodeo competitor. The Stampede’s only a couple of weeks away. You know how twitchy everyone downtown gets about Stampede attendance. On top of that there’s some noise about a land claim. This one could get real messy.”

  So, what else is new, Lane thought. His doorbell rang. Arthur stopped snoring but did not wake.

  “See you in the morning at the gym.” Harper hung up.

  Lane closed his phone. The doorbell rang again. He walked to the front door, checked the peephole. A young woman with black hair and a face distorted by the fisheye lens stared back at him.

  Lane opened the inside door. She studied him through the glass of the screen door.

  He opened the outside door with his right hand. Lane looked at the young woman’s face and felt like his heart was running a marathon. The girl had close-cropped black hair, a black, short-cut jacket, pink skirt, white socks and white shoes. Lane thought she looked like an impressionist’s version of a twenty-first century rebellious female who had recently moved to the city from Avonlea.

  “What happened to your old house?” the girl asked.

  “That’s a long story.” Lane looked closer at the face. There was a hint of Africa on her skin. Then he looked at the garbage bag leaning up against her leg. There were light green marks on the bag where the dark green plastic had been stretched beyond capacity.

  “The old place is a long way from here. I had to check the most recent return addresses on your letters.” She glanced at the shoe box under her left arm. “A bus driver told me how to get here. Thanks for the money, by the way. I checked. You never missed a birthday or Christmas. I would have been lost without the money.”

  “Christine?” Lane’s throat was so constricted he almost choked on her name.

  “Uncle Lane, you remembered. I was afraid you wouldn’t.” She moved closer to hug him around the chest with her free arm.

  Lane wrapped his left arm around her shoulders. She smelled of the country.

  The garbage bag leaned over and spilled half of its T-shirts, underpants, and a brand new sports brassiere that rolled down the steps.

  “Who’s there?” Arthur’s voice was full of sleep.

  “My friend’s mom warned me I was going to be excommunicated.” Christine sat at the kitchen table, eating salad and fanning five slender fingers in front of her mouth each time she talked.

  Lane and Arthur sat on either side of her.

  “How come?” Arthur’s eyes were drooping. He nodded before raising his head back up.

  “How come she warned me?” Christine asked.

  “How come you were going to be excommunicated?” Arthur leaned his chin on his fist.

  Christine dropped her fork and rubbed her scalp. The hair was a uniform length of less than two centimetres. “I shaved my head.”

  “That’s it?” Lane asked.

  “Well, the day before that I asked Mr. Whitemore if it was true he told a reporter that girls of fourteen and fifteen weren’t married off to older men in Paradise.” Christine looked at one and then the other, waiting for a response.

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Arthur said.

  “Paradise practices plural marriage. There was a documentary on TV. My cousin told me about it.” Christine shovelled more salad into her mouth.

  “Oh.” Arthur leaned back.

  “Was it true?” Lane asked.

  “About the girls?” Christine asked from behind her fingers.

  Lane nodded.

  “One of my friends was married off at fourteen and another at fifteen. Whitemore said on the TV show that girls weren’t married until they were at least eighteen.”

  “And?” Lane waited for more. He thought, How did she end up in Paradise?

  “He lied.” Christine shrugged. “He told us to tell the truth and he lied.”

  “How, exactly did you get away?” Lane asked.

  “I was packed and ready when the confusion started.” Christine looked out the window.

  Lane waited.

  “Well my friend’s mom didn’t want her fourteen-year-old daughter married off to a sixty-year-old man from Utah, so she jammed the cupboards in her house full of kindling, made sure everyone was outside, then set fire to the place. While everyone else in Paradise was trying to put out the fire, she left with her daughter. I walked in the other direction.”

  chapter 2

  MONDAY, JULY 1

  Harper and Lane put equipment bags in the trunk of their unmarked Chevrolet.

  “So this kid is your niece, you haven’t seen her in more than ten years, and she’s from Paradise?” Harper eased his football player’s frame into the driver’s seat.

  “And, I’m her godfather.” Lane opened the passenger door.

  “You know about Paradise?” Harper started the engine.

  He looks a little tired this morning, Lane thought. “Jessica okay?”

  “She was up in the night. Erinn’s beat. Glenn could sleep through a hurricane. So, I was up walking Jessica for a couple of hours ‘til she finally nodded off. I woke up on the couch with her drooling on my chest.” Looking over at Lane, Harper said, “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Okay, what do you know about Paradise?” Lane put his seat belt on.

  “Fundamentalist polygamist group near the US border. There are other polygamist communities in Utah, Arizona, and Texas. The communities trade young women back and forth to marry older men.” Harper backed out before shifting into drive and making for Crowchild Trail. “The older guys often kick the teenaged boys out because of the competition for females. Want to know more?”

  Lane shook his head. Too much information, he thought. “What about the cowboy who disappeared?” How did my sister end up in Paradise?

  “The story of the missing cowboy is getting more interesting by the hour,” Harper said.

  “How’s that?”

  “I think I’ve found a pattern. Wanna check it out?” Harper accelerated.

  Aidan put on a black ball cap. The fingers of her right hand tucked a wayward strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She carefully packed away the four heads of cowboy marionettes sitting in pairs in the crew cab of a pickup she’d built. Its front license plate was stamped with Republic of Alberta. She placed the cowboys in a metre-long case designed to fold out into one section of the set. In each of the other felt-lined maple cases, the marionettes hung by hooks so their strings wouldn’t become tangled.

  One male and one female marionette sat nearby. The female h
ad blonde hair and blue eyes. Her face was large, out of proportion to her body. She wore black. The male’s face was as large, with dark hair and large brown eyes. He wore a fluorescent pink shirt, pride-orange pants, royal-blue socks, and jacaranda-purple shoes.

  Aidan picked up the marionettes by the strings so they faced one another. She began to speak in two voices. The first was decidedly sarcastic and male. The second was hers.

  “You know this isn’t my real voice. I won’t speak. Lots of hearing people wanted me to speak, then tried to correct me when it came out different from what they expected. Some even laughed at me.” Alex, the male, placed his hands on his hips.

  “I know, I know. But this is a show. Most of the audience is hearing. They need to listen to your story. Don’t worry, if anyone in the audience is deaf, I’ll have an interpreter to sign,” Aidan, the female marionette, said.

  “You’re really going to do this?” Alex held out his right hand.

  “Yes.” She dropped her gaze.

  “You know what will happen, don’t you?” He shook his head. “I mean, I can’t stop you, you’re the puppeteer. But this will probably get messy. And you’re a woman. Things always get messier for women. I tried to tell you what it was like before I died.”

  “That’s why we’re opening at the rodeo. I need to see the faces of that audience, how they react to what we have to say about what happened. Then I’ll know.”

  “What? What will you know?” he asked.

  “If they understand what it is we’re trying to say about what happened to you. How those four guys got away with what they did to you. How the Premier talked about you as if your life didn’t count for much.”

  Alex shook his head. “And don’t forget what this has done to you.”

  Harper aimed the Chev down a straight section of the two-lane highway on the west side of the city. “Two years ago, a seventeen-year-old named Alexander Starchild was killed along this road.”

  Lane looked left and right, where a mix of evergreen and poplar trees grew behind a barbed-wire fence. To the west the mountains were white-tipped and seemed magnified, closer somehow.