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  Donna nodded at Lane, braked, looked right and left, and then shot through a gap in the westbound traffic.

  A driver approaching from the east saw the police car’s lights and braked.

  Donna made it through the intersection.

  “Great work, Nigel! Now follow her. I’ll call off the marked units before someone gets hurt.”

  Donna saw a police car approaching with its lights flashing and its siren howling. Then it slowed, its lights went off, and the siren stopped.

  Donna turned right at the intersection, drove halfway down the block, and pulled into the parking lot between the Islamic Centre and the local watering hole. She shut off the bike, waited for her mother to climb off the back, leaned the Harley onto its kickstand, and reached into her left pocket. She pulled out the second remote, pointed it at the grey van, and pressed the button. The engine started.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Donna spotted a quartet of boys who looked to be fifteen or sixteen bounding out of the Islamic Centre. One of the boys held up a book. He moved to the middle of the parking lot and began to dance in a circle as he held the book aloft. The other three stood around the boy with the book and clapped their hands.

  Stacie took her helmet off, rubbed some life back into her hair, and checked her look in the mirror. “Is it going to work?”

  “It takes a minute.” Donna watched the boys as the one in the centre opened the book, tore out a page, and pantomimed wiping his ass.

  “Is that a Bible?” Stacie asked.

  “I think so.”

  More people were spilling out of the Islamic Centre. They stopped to watch the boys.

  The boy in the middle held the book out for the other three. All tore out pages and began to dance around, pretending to wipe their backsides with the gospel.

  Lane walked up beside Donna. “How are you today?”

  Donna looked at him and smirked. “Busted.” She turned and watched as the first bubble formed and detached itself from the roof of the van.

  “Did you know about the bomb?” Lane asked.

  “Bomb?” Donna turned back to face the detective.

  “Harrah!” a woman shouted as she emerged from the Islamic Centre.

  Nigel, Lane, Donna, and Stacie all looked at the tableau of capering boys and gathering crowd with their flowing clothing billowing in the wind.

  One woman was a little over five feet tall. She wore a red hijab and a long black outfit that almost covered the toes of her black shoes. She raised her arms. “Haven’t you learned anything? Mohammed walked under the window of that woman who threw filth down on him. He never fought back, and then when she was ill, he nursed her back to health. This is not how you are taught to act!”

  The boys stopped.

  “Fatima! Let the boys alone! They are only doing what that Poulin woman did to the Quran!” A man in a black suit stood just outside the door of the Islamic Centre.

  Fatima shook her head. “No! This is Canada. I do not have to be quiet! You be quiet, Ahmed! You and your friend Shefic think that it’s honourable to kill a child and a grandchild! You brought dishonour on all of us!” She pointed her index finger at the man for effect, then opened her hand and wiped the air in front of her face in an act of dismissal.

  A bubble of soap floated over her head.

  Ahmed looked around him for support. No one looked his way.

  Children pushed their way out from the crowd. One popped a floating bubble. Other children joined in and began to chase the bubbles. Squeals of joy followed the sound of children’s laughter. The laughter spread as the cloud of bubbles thickened and swirled.

  Donna turned to Lane. “Can you let us enjoy this for a minute or two?” She put her arm around her mother’s shoulder. “My sister would have liked this.”

  Lane saw tears running down Stacie’s cheeks. She leaned into her daughter’s embrace. He turned to watch as the boys handed over the pages torn from the Bible. Fatima gathered the pages and stuck them back inside the book. Around her, the younger children danced, laughed, and chased bubbles.

  The wind shifted. The bubbles turned back on themselves and gathered on the leeward side of the Islamic Centre.

  A cloud of dust from Jones’s explosion passed over them. The filtered sunlight created a series of rainbows in the soap bubbles that swirled skyward in a column of colour.

  “Absofuckinlutely beautiful,” Nigel said.

  Fatima tucked the book under her arm. She walked away from the crowd and stopped. Two young boys, a daughter, and her husband joined her. The boys, the daughter, and the father all stood between Fatima and the crowd. The daughter stepped back and put her arm around her mother’s shoulder. They looked at the bands of orange, yellow, and blue momentarily suspended in the air.

  More children spilled out of the Islamic Centre as word of the rainbow cloud of bubbles spread. Soon, the parking lot was filled with children chasing bubbles, popping bubbles, and laughing.

  Lane watched as Fatima’s daughter started it. An ululating cry — a sound Arthur called the zaghruta. Soon more women joined. An ululating chorus rose up with the bubbles. It was a wild wolf-like call — raw and untamed. A song of celebration.

  ×

  Lane and Nigel sat in the interrogation room across the table from Donna and Stacie, whose red leather jacket was draped across the back of her chair.

  Lane asked, “What can you tell us about John A. Jones?”

  “Who?” Stacie asked.

  “He’s that guy from up north who’s going to war with the oil companies,” Donna said.

  “You know him, then,” Lane said.

  “Know of him.” Donna looked at her mother.

  “What are you trying to get at?” Stacie began to frown as she looked into a compact mirror and used a tissue to wipe at the smudged mascara below her eyes.

  “John A. Jones was killed in an explosion on the west side of the city shortly before your bubble machines went into action,” Lane said.

  Stacie’s face turned red as she put the mirror away. “Are you accusing my daughter of being involved with him?”

  “Hang on, Mom.” Donna put her hand on her mother’s arm. “He has to ask his questions. I know this guy. He’s got a job to do. Remember, he could have cuffed us. I didn’t stop when I was supposed to. He’s being more than fair with us.”

  Stacie shook her finger at Lane. “You’d better not hurt my daughter!”

  Lane wanted to smile. He looked at Nigel, who was covering his mouth with his right hand. Lane continued. “There was the potential for a massive loss of life if Jones’s attack was successful. And we need to know exactly what happened and who was involved.”

  “Donna wasn’t involved with this Jones fellow!” Stacie turned to her daughter. “Were you?”

  “No.” Donna turned to face Lane. “Today is the anniversary of my sister’s death. I saw things escalating in my neighbourhood. Islamophobia has become a problem. You must have seen some of the signs. I thought maybe the bubble machines would calm things down.”

  “What was the glycerine used for?” Lane asked.

  “When you mix glycerine and soap, you get better bubbles. Everybody knows that!” Stacie shook her head like she’d shared information that every other person on the planet but Lane was aware of.

  “Glycerine can also be used to make nitroglycerine,” Nigel said.

  “The explosive that blew up a pickup and left a crater in the road just west of the city,” Lane said.

  “We know nothing about that.” Donna looked at Lane.

  “Are you saying we blew up a truck?” Stacie asked.

  Lane looked at Donna, who smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and shook her head.

  Nigel asked, “We’re giving you the opportunity to admit your involvement in the explosion.”

  “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?” Stacie asked.

  Lane and Nigel stared at Stacie.

  Donna said, “Mom, please remember that you teach kindergarten.”r />
  Stacie looked at Nigel. “My daughter Lisa was killed by a bomb. We know what it’s like to lose someone that way. Why would we ever do that to someone else?”

  Lane thought, Good point.

  Nigel looked at Lane for direction.

  “Are you going to charge us with making bubbles?” Stacie laced the sentence with a sweet layer of sarcasm.

  “Mom. I think they’re trying to help. They used their lights to get us through the red light so we wouldn’t get into an accident. They got the other officers to call off the chase. Maybe we should just answer the questions.”

  Stacie looked at Lane. “It was you who called off the chase?”

  Lane nodded.

  Stacie looked at Nigel. “You could learn a thing or two from him. The way you talk to women, I bet it’s really hard for you to get laid.”

  “Mom!”

  Nigel turned red.

  Lane looked at Stacie. “Detective Li is my partner. I would appreciate it if you’d treat him with respect.”

  “I would . . .” Stacie began to say.

  “And we could do without the sarcasm,” Lane said.

  Donna put her hand over her mother’s mouth. “We had nothing to do with John A. Jones. In fact, what you’re telling us about Jones is news to us.”

  Stacie pushed her daughter’s hand away.

  Donna said, “What are we going to be charged with? Failure to stop for a police officer?”

  Lane looked at Nigel before he said, “Failure to stop for a red light.”

  “Oh,” Donna said.

  “Is that all?” Stacie asked.

  “What other charges did you have in mind, Ms. Laughton?” Lane looked at Stacie and waited to see what she would say next.

  Stacie looked at her daughter. Donna raised her eyebrows.

  Lane started to laugh. Where did that come from? All of the tension of the last few days drained away. Tears came to his eyes. He saw the shocked silence on Stacie’s face. He began to laugh harder. He felt Nigel’s hand on his back. Lane surrendered as the laughter shook his body from paws to tail.

  ×

  Keely stood and watched Chris Jones on closed-circuit television. She held her elbows with her crossed hands.

  “What’s the son been up to?” Lane asked.

  Nigel followed him into the observation room.

  “Not much of anything. He just sits there. He appears to be resigned to whatever happens next. It’s like he’s used to being controlled,” Keely said.

  “Any news on his father?” Lane asked.

  Keely shook her head. “Fibre is on scene. He and his crew are picking up the pieces. It will take a DNA sample to confirm the identity. Apparently they’ve found a forearm, assorted bits and pieces, and precious little else.”

  “Are you okay?” Lane had another flashback of Jones’s hand still attached to the steering wheel of the pickup truck.

  Keely shrugged. “It appears that the bomber was the only fatality. We prevented a massive loss of life. I should feel happy. Then I look at this Chris kid, and I don’t know what to feel.”

  Lane nodded and put his hand on her shoulder. “You two need some sleep before you can put this into perspective. I want you both to get some rest.”

  “After the interview,” Keely said.

  “I’ll go in there alone for now,” Lane said.

  “One thing.” Keely reached out to Lane. “In the car, on the way down here, he told the arresting officers he felt free.”

  Lane nodded. Of course he does.

  Lane walked down the hall and opened the door to the interrogation room.

  Chris sat in the corner wearing his camouflage pants and green T-shirt. The room stank of sweat and unwashed clothing.

  “I’m Detective Lane.” He sat down in the opposite corner of the room. Chris looked at Lane and nodded.

  “I’m here to ask you some questions. Our conversation is being recorded. I need to remind you that you don’t have to talk with me. You are entitled to the advice of a lawyer,” Lane said.

  Chris looked at Lane with clear blue eyes. He rubbed the top of his nearly bald head. “No, thanks.”

  Lane saw strands of blond hair on Chris’s shoulders. “Who cut your hair?”

  “My dad.”

  His voice sounds remarkably calm, almost disconnected. “How come he cut your hair?”

  “He said I needed to get rid of the earring, and the haircut would help me to find humility,” Chris said.

  “How did you get the sulphuric acid?”

  “Just checked the yellow pages for a place that did chrome plating, broke in, and took it. You’d be surprised what you can get into with a pair of bolt cutters.”

  “Who taught you how to do a B and E?” Lane asked.

  Chris shrugged. “My father. He said it was part of my revolutionary training. He thought he was the reincarnation of John A. Macdonald and it was his job to start a revolt that would lead to a true Aryan Canada. He made me memorize John A.’s speeches about the supremacy of the white race.”

  “What about the nitric acid?”

  “Took about a litre every night I worked at Foothills,” Chris said.

  Lane looked at Chris, who appeared to be studying the detective as if expecting more violent reactions instead of the respect he was getting. He’s probably used to being talked at and having the shit beat out of him if he shares an opposing opinion. Just keep asking the questions. “Who hired Oscar Mendes?”

  Chris looked at the floor. “I did.”

  “Where did Oscar die?”

  “At the house.” Chris appeared to study his shoes. He reached down to adjust the laces.

  “Are you referring to your father’s house near Lac La Biche?”

  Chris nodded.

  “How did he die?” Lane asked.

  “Oscar figured out we were getting him to weld a container for the bomb, and he tried to run away. My father shot him.”

  “How did the body end up in a basement in this city?”

  “My father told me to bring Oscar’s body here. To hide it so that it wouldn’t be found. I looked for a house under construction and buried him in the basement.”

  I wonder how you felt about that. “The girl who was killed on your father’s property was killed with the same rifle?”

  “He shot her too. The kids from town used to come out to the house on the weekends. They’d drive into the yard late at night. Dad got mad one Saturday night. Two pickups were roaring around the yard. One of the trucks kept backfiring. The little ones in our house started to cry. My dad took his rifle and shot at one of the trucks. He told us he had the right to defend his family and his property. Then he told us to keep our mouths shut.”

  His voice sounds resigned. “The officers who drove you here reported that you said you feel free now.”

  Chris lifted his head and looked at Lane. “My father controlled our lives. He told my mother she didn’t need chemo after the doctors recommended it. He said it was poison. Then she died of cancer. My father said it was the will of God.”

  “You think differently?” Lane asked.

  “I think my mother died because she did what my father said. Oscar died because I did what my father said. Oscar was kind to me. I’d never had a friend like him before. My father shot him in the back. My father died because he wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to explain how unstable nitroglycerine is when the temperature rises. I should feel sad, but I don’t. And I don’t have to lie for him anymore. It’s a relief.”

  “How were Donna and Stacie Laughton involved with you and your father?” Lane worked at keeping his voice neutral.

  “Who?” Chris looked directly at Lane. For the first time, the young man looked confused.

  “Donna and Stacie Laughton. The other members of your team.”

  “Team? My dad was paranoid. I was the only one who knew about the bomb. He wouldn’t have told anyone else, and I never told anyone. My father killed Oscar because he was so paranoid
about the oil companies and the government, because he thought Oscar was an informant. My father would never work with someone else. Especially someone he didn’t know.” Chris stared at the wall behind Lane.

  “You’re going to need a lawyer. I think that’s the next step you need to take.”

  Chris shrugged. “Whatever you think.”

  Lane stood up.

  “There’s one other thing.”

  At that moment Lane felt as if he were in a church confessional. The impulse to shut off the camera almost overpowered all of his training.

  Chris began to talk with his head down, his eyes focused on the floor. “I could have plugged in the auxiliary refrigeration unit. I knew that the nitro would become unstable very quickly as its temperature rose. But I didn’t connect it. I didn’t want to see anyone else killed. I saw the girl get shot. I saw the blood spray against the inside of the windshield. I saw Oscar after he was shot in the back. It took him fifteen minutes to die. He was screaming. I couldn’t understand what he was saying because he spoke in Spanish. He kept coughing up blood. His eyes went out of focus. It was horrible.” Chris lifted his head and looked at Lane. “I didn’t want anyone else to die.”

  If you hadn’t done what you did, I would have had to shoot your father, Lane thought.

  Five minutes later, Lane walked into the observation room. Keely and Nigel looked up at him.

  “Go and get some sleep. Chris is going to be fed and put in a cell. I’m going to send Donna and Stacie home. Agreed?” Lane asked.

  “Please do it soon,” Keely said.

  “I’m with Keely,” Nigel said.

  “What happened?” Lane asked.

  Keely said, “They’ve been fighting since you left them. We got a call from Lori. Stacie is driving her crazy.”

  “We made a deal. The interview is over for now. The two of you will go and get some rest. I’ll take care of Stacie and Donna.” Lane crossed his arms and waited.

  “Is that an order?” Nigel smiled but couldn’t hold onto it.

  “Yes,” Lane said.

  “Thank God,” Keely said.

  Lane watched them walk away, then made his way back to his office. When he walked through the door, he studied Lori’s face. She rolled her eyes and dipped her cowboy hat in the direction of the conference room.