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  “I’m sorry. Let me try again. I see Alexandre again on Monday. We’re talking. She’s listening. You were right — I have some things to work out.” Lane watched Roz poke her head out from behind the flowerpot. Even Roz heard the combative tone in my voice.

  Loraine smiled.

  “It ain’t pretty,” Lane said. “You know, dealing with this kind of stuff. . . it’s messy.”

  As if to confirm Lane’s observation, Ben barfed down the front of his T-shirt.

  Lane stood up, went into the kitchen, and returned with about two metres of paper towel.

  “It’s not that much!” Loraine laughed as she wiped up the mess and took off the baby’s T-shirt to reveal Ben’s ample belly.

  Lane held open a plastic bag. Loraine dropped the T-shirt inside. He rolled up the bag and set it next to what Loraine called Ben’s “wardrobe”— a backpack stuffed with all manner of baby essentials.

  “Where are Christine and Matt?” Loraine asked.

  “At work. They both got jobs at the same golf course. Today, Christine is driving the beer cart. I’m think she’s beginning to like the tips.” Lane reached for Ben. The baby leaned away from him and tucked his head next to Loraine’s neck.

  “He’s just started being shy in the last week. So, Christine is driving a beer cart?” Loraine raised her eyebrows.

  Lane laughed. “First she works in a coffee shop, then she drives a beer cart. That girl’s on her way to hell!”

  “Oh.” Loraine’s face took on an air of innocence. “Her mother’s been by to denounce her again?”

  “No. Apparently that’s died down. I guess excommunication is a one-time thing. Which is sort of fortunate when you think about it. Just drive up, do an excommunication, and drive away. Wash your hands of the child.” Lane watched Ben checking out his own navel. “Drive into the city, tell your daughter you want nothing more to do with her, then go get some shopping done. Just another day.”

  “So it was a drive-by?” Loraine rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, that’s an accurate description.” Lane stood up. “I think the coffee’s ready.”

  “While you’re up, tell Arthur to get out of bed. It’s after ten!”

  Lane opened the door. “Speaking of partners, how’s Lisa?”

  “Back to work. Missing Ben. They’ve got her working at a desk, developing some new investigative software.”

  He went inside. Lane poured two coffees — black for Loraine, cream and sugar for himself — and went back outside. “I heard the shower. Arthur will be out shortly.”

  Loraine took a sip. “You still know how to make a great cup of coffee. How’s Christine been doing otherwise?”

  Lane hesitated. “Better, I think. She seems happier. There’s a boyfriend.”

  “And?” Ben squirmed and Loraine put her coffee down.

  “I didn’t handle it well at first.” Lane felt his face turning red.

  “Sounds like a dad thing.” Loraine reached into Ben’s wardrobe.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? People keep saying that.”

  Loraine lifted Ben so he could stand on her knees while she tried to fit a red T-shirt over his head. “I think it’s a protective, instinctual reaction. And before I forget, I came by to invite all of you over for dinner.” Ben shook his head through the opening in the T-shirt and sat down.

  “I figured it was because you’d heard about Arthur.”

  Loraine stared at Lane. Ben looked at his mother. “There’s something wrong with Arthur?”

  “He’s got breast cancer. We saw the surgeon yesterday.”

  Loraine sat open-mouthed. Ben squirmed.

  Lane began to cry. Shit! Where did that come from?

  sUNDAY, AUGUST 26

  chapter 12

  “It’s called in.” Keely sat in the passenger’s seat of the Chevrolet as they drove west along Crowchild Trail.

  “So she said ten?” Lane glimpsed the morning mountains when they crested a hill.

  Keely nodded.

  Why does the time seem odd? Lane thought.

  “I want to see what the daughter and the mother are like together. Sometimes that will tell you more about people. Girls who are thirteen or fourteen can really help you to see their parents and the family situation in an accurate light.”

  That’s for sure.

  “After this, you want to go for lunch? My dad invited Dylan and me out. My mom keeps smiling about it. And you’ll be able to meet my brother.”

  “It sounds more like a family get-together.” Lane saw a car approaching. It was travelling at least twice the speed limit.

  “When I told my father we had some work to do, he told me to bring you.” Keely spotted the car. “Man, he’s in a rush.”

  They got a glimpse of the driver and recognized the vehicle as an unmarked police cruiser. “Wonder where he’s headed?” Keely looked over her shoulder to see if the car was turning north or south.

  “Anything to add to the plan for how we’re going to handle Jelena and Zacki?” Lane asked.

  Keely took a moment to think. “I’d like to ask more questions about the Branimir and Goran connection. Then if you could ask one of those oddball questions like you did the other night. You know, the ones that get people off-balance, so they end up saying more than they planned.”

  Lane nodded as he took his foot off the accelerator and flipped the right-turn indicator. The northern hillside on Calgary’s edge was a maze of condominiums. The road led to a golf course. He turned right and up the hill. On their left, acreages skirted the perimeter of the members-only golf course. They passed a supermarket and a gas station. On their right lay a green space.

  “These new communities have only one access road,” Keely said. “Makes it kind of difficult.”

  Lane spotted a red plastic container tucked up against the curb. It looked like it might hold eight litres. The top was duct-taped closed. And the container was taped to the concrete.

  It’s all wrong, he thought as they drove closer.

  His foot jammed down against the accelerator. The Chevy’s engine hesitated, then roared. He changed into the left-hand lane.

  “Get down!”

  Keely looked at Lane. He saw her silhouetted by light.

  The concussion hit the rear of the Chevy, lifting the right rear wheel off the pavement. The rear window bowed in and turned opaque. Lane felt a blow to his chest cavity. It pounded the air from his lungs. The Chevy rolled up onto its front left tire and then onto its roof. It thumped over the grass median, jumped the curb, and screamed over pavement. The grill hit the guardrail on the far side of the roadway. The airbags exploded in Lane’s and Keely’s faces.

  Lane felt detached from the experience as he listened to debris raining down onto the underside of the Chevy. The heavy-duty thunks must be bits of concrete or pavement. We’re kind of lucky the car is upside-down. He looked to his left at a guardrail about twenty centimetres from his nose. He put his hands over his head in an attempt to ease the pressure of the seat belt on his abdomen. Then he looked to his right. A droplet of blood spattered the fabric on the Chev’s roof liner. Another followed.

  “Keely?” He tried to see if her eyes were open.

  “Don’t yell. I’ve got a headache.” Keely put her hands on the roof.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Man, are you in trouble. My dad is going to be so mad at you. We’ll miss lunch because of this.” She turned to him and smiled as blood rolled through her hair and dripped onto the roof liner, forming a pattern of red dots.

  “Stop moving! She’s okay. It looks like a scalp wound. A few stitches and she’ll be fine. All she has is a headache. She’s being taken to emergency as a precaution. So far, it doesn’t look like she has a concussion.” The paramedic checked Lane’s eyes and peripheral vision. “How do your chest and abdomen feel?”

  The siren of Keely’s ambulance wailed as it drove away. Lane watched an officer move his cruiser to allow the ambulance to pass.

/>   Lane looked north and south. Cruisers with their flashing blue and red lights blocked all four lanes. The muscles in his neck ached.

  A fire engine was parked near the upside-down wreck of the Chevy. Two firemen with shovels were spreading something that looked like kitty litter on the ground to soak up spilled fuel. The bomb squad and Forensics Unit were taking measurements and marking bits of debris. Must be looking for what’s left of the bomb.

  One of the investigators looked Lane’s way and began to walk over. He was wearing a face shield and white bunny suit. What does Fibre want?

  “How are you feeling, Detective Lane?” Fibre removed his face shield and pulled his hood back.

  Lane moved his shoulders. “Sore all over.”

  “I wanted to talk with you before they take you to the hospital. Did you see anything before the explosion?” Fibre removed his eye shield and cradled it over his abdomen.

  “There was a red plastic container duct-taped to the curb.” Lane closed his eyes, trying to remember.

  “Volume?” Fibre asked.

  “Five to ten litres.” Lane opened his eyes. “Best guess.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I tried to get out of the way, but wasn’t fast enough.”

  “More evidence of your intuition. You reacted before the explosion. It probably saved Ms. Saliba’s life. The concussion would have hit her side of the vehicle first. Your clear recollections suggest you haven’t suffered a concussion. Very good news. Now you can go to the hospital.” Fibre looked at the EMT. “The detective is ready.” Fibre looked at Lane. “There is a preliminary finding that is unusual. There is no evidence of metallic projectiles perforating your vehicle or scattered around the site. Improvised explosive devices are notorious for containing all sorts of shrapnel. An anomaly for you to think about.” Fibre pulled his hood on, turned, and adjusted his face shield as he walked away.

  “Let’s get you to the hospital,” said the EMT.

  “We have to make a stop first,” Lane replied.

  The driver looked over his shoulder. “No stops. We’re going to the hospital.”

  Lane stepped away from the ambulance. He smiled. “You both need a coffee, and I need to tell my partner’s family that she’s all right. It needs to be done face to face.”

  The driver and EMT looked at one another.

  “What’s it going to be?” Lane asked.

  A voice came from behind the southern police barrier. “I’m late for my tee time!” Lane and the EMTS looked in the direction of the disturbance. A man in white shorts stood on the far side of the yellow tape. He looked at his watch. “I can’t be late! Let me through.”

  The officer on this side of the tape crossed his arms. “Cuff him and put him in the back of the cruiser!” the EMT said.

  The man in white looked at the ambulance, then at the officer, got into his Cadillac, and promptly backed into the vehicle behind him.

  “From bad to worse,” a fireman said.

  Ten minutes later, the ambulance stopped outside the front door of a family restaurant just north of Crowchild Trail. Lane stepped down from the rear of the ambulance. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  “If you fall, there’ll be hell to pay,” the EMT said.

  Lane smiled, entered the restaurant, and sidled past the line of people waiting for a seat. He found Amir, Katherine, and Dylan drinking coffee. Amir looked at his watch, then toward the door. He turned white when he recognized Lane.

  Katherine looked at her husband, followed his line of sight, and paled as well. Dylan glanced past Lane to see where Keely was.

  “She’s okay,” Lane said. “I saw her and she’s okay. Just needs a few stitches. She’s been taken to the Foothills Medical Centre as a precaution.”

  “You look like hell,” Katherine said.

  Amir slid over. “We have to go!”

  “And Dylan is going to drive.” Lane stood next to Amir, blocking him from getting out of his seat. “Okay?” Lane put his hand, still bloody from holding it against the cut on Keely’s scalp, on Amir’s shoulder.

  “My daughter’s blood?” asked Katherine.

  Lane nodded.

  Amir turned to Dylan. He reached into his pocket and handed the keys over.

  “Just follow the ambulance. That way we’ll all get there at the same time.” Lane turned. They followed him outside.

  “You must love this place.”

  Lane recognized the voice as he sat in the vinyl chair next to a bed in the emergency room. Harper stepped through the gap between the curtains. He was wearing his deputy police chief’s uniform. He shook Lane’s hand. “Detective Saliba okay?”

  Lane nodded. “As far as I know, her only injury is a scalp wound.”

  Harper sat on the edge of the bed. “How about you? It looks like someone dragged you behind a horse.”

  “My muscles are starting to seize up. Just bruises and sprains. How are you doing?”

  Harper leaned closer. “Looking under rocks and finding all sorts of crap that Smoke and his gang hid. Man, it’s a mess. He’s made the entire force look like a joke.”

  Lane closed his eyes. “Or he’s made himself into a joke.”

  “You okay?”

  “Just tired. Arthur’s on his way. He’ll pick me up, drive me home, and let the kids interrogate me.” Lane smiled. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Chief Simpson sent me down to check on you and Saliba. You know it has to be this way until the investigation is over?” Harper glanced at the floor.

  “I understand, believe me.”

  “The bomb was meant for you and Saliba?”

  “Yes. Definitely.” Lane’s mind moved into crisp, sharp focus.

  “Any idea who?” Harper asked.

  “Yes. There are two possibilities. Either it’s connected to the disappearance of Andelko Branimir, or it’s related to the threats against Keely. And I’m convinced that threat comes from inside the department.”

  “A cop?”

  “Almost certainly. The letters, the pipe bomb, and the lack of physical evidence all point in that direction.”

  “How’s Arthur doing? Erinn and I heard about the cancer.”

  Lane shrugged. “Lori told you?”

  Harper nodded.

  “Surgery is on Friday.”

  MONDAY, AUGUST 27

  chapter 13

  Lane sat across from Dr. Alexandre. Both sipped their coffees.

  “Isn’t a psychiatrist supposed to serve soothing tea?” Lane asked.

  “You’re getting your sense of humour back.” Alexandre set her coffee down and smoothed her skirt. “To answer your question, I enjoy coffee. So do you.”

  “You continue to do your homework, then?”

  “Of course. I don’t like to go into a session knowing nothing about the patient. And this patient. . .” Alexandre closed her eyes and touched her forehead for effect. “. . .was recently involved in an accident.” She looked at the ceiling as if asking for guidance from a supreme being, “In fact, I would hazard a guess that you’ve been too close to the light in your recent past.”

  “Very impressive. What tipped you off?”

  Alexandre smiled for the first time. “I listen to the news, and you have the beginnings of some bruising on the side of your face. Also, you’re moving carefully, like your entire body is hurting.”

  Lane nodded.

  “How is your partner?” Alexandre asked. “I mean your detective partner.”

  “She got eight stitches for a scalp wound. I’ll go and visit her after this.” Lane frowned.

  “Do you know who set off the device?” Alexandre asked.

  “Not yet.” Lane heard his voice change.

  “So you’re on the hunt?”

  “I guess so.” So that’s what this is called. It is as primal as that. I’m a hunter.

  “Last visit, we talked about you being punished for saving your brother.”

  Lane took a long breath. “Just like my l
ast major case, which involved two sisters. The stepfather abused the older sister, named Maddy. Her younger sibling was about to be abused. We got the father. The sisters are okay. Or at least, they’re healing. My reward was being put under investigation for the loss of a firearm.”

  “Anything else?”

  “When my father was dying, he forgot about the recent past and only remembered me as a child. He accepted me all over again, and then he died. Now my brother and his wife want to sweep me back into the closet, get me to sign away any claim to my childhood, and disappear. I risked my life at the river to save my brother Joseph. When I think back on it, I was the one in the family who was drowning. It started to bother me again after Maddy’s stepfather tried to pull out his gun. It triggered memories of the day my brother almost drowned. There’s a moment when you either act or you don’t. I saved Joseph’s life. I saved a child and her older sister. I couldn’t figure out why I was suddenly persona non grata. Before those two experiences, I never understood the statement, ‘No good deed goes unpunished.’ Being punished for doing my job. Being punished for saving Joseph’s life. Being excommunicated from my family. Seeing my father after so many years. Having my own family. Having to do the work I do.” Lane stopped. Why am I running off at the mouth like this?

  “Okay then. Are you tired of feeling sorry for yourself?”

  And you call yourself a doctor?! Lane opened his mouth, but closed it when he saw the doctor smiling for a second time.

  “Sometimes depression can be the absence of emotion. It’s like eating bland food. It tastes neither wonderful nor terrible. It simply tastes like nothing.”

  Lane snorted. “Then anger is a sign of healing?”

  “In this case, I’d say so.” The doctor reached for her coffee.

  Lane saw her Adam’s apple. “What’s it like?”

  The doctor sat back in her chair and held the coffee with both hands in front of her, as if to fend off Lane’s question. “What’s what like?”

  “You know, juggling past, present, job, and family?”

  Alexandre thought for a moment. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Learning how to juggle it all.” She set the coffee down. “Speaking of juggling, how are things on the home front?”