As Chapter Three opens, we find ourselves in BC’s Okanagan, where we not only meet one of the people Natasha and Jakob see in their Shadows, but also this person’s long-time friend: Owen Brophy, a cop who appears to have shadows—sketchy ones, not supernatural ones—of his own.
Three
Fruit orchards were the pride of the Okanagan. A sense of endless summer lived in the unbroken vista of vineyards and fruit trees in bloom, and spring had always been Owen Brophy’s favorite season. Not that he could slow down to enjoy the view. Instead he stood on the accelerator, trying to keep pace with his brother, barreling down the highway in front of him. “Shit, Steve!” He reached blindly for his cell and “Is someone shooting at you and I missed it?” he asked when Steve answered.
A hoarse cough of laughter replied and Owen clamped both hands back on the wheel to take a hairpin, cell now on speaker. “If I was still in uniform I’d nail your ass to the ceiling for driving like this.”
“Screw you,” Steve growled and Owen heard him light a smoke. “If you were in your uniform you wouldn’t even be back here.” He hung up and Owen could just barely see him ahead, turning into a development nestled here within the Okanagan foothills. The gates entrance boasted a broad billboard: RVH Construction. Owen signaled and tailed Steve through empty streets bisecting lots staked, serviced, and awaiting the construction of the designer homes RVH would provide. Braking next to where Steve had parked, Owen grimaced at how his ride, low slung and sleek, did not fit at this work site full of pick-ups, cement trucks, and men and women in tool belts and hard hats.
He didn’t fit, either. He scanned the site and didn’t see a soul who wasn’t clean-shaven, and the few bare arm out there weren’t sleeved up with tats. He unrolled the cuffs of his work shirt, glad he’d had the foresight to tie his hair back.
Steve beckoned and he followed over to where a guy had a cell at one ear and a clipboard in his hand. He grinned. Rob Haslom hadn’t aged a second since high school; still the same shaggy hair and those big, innocent eyes that had always let him weasel his way out of shit. Steve said “Brought you a surprise” when Rob hung up his phone, and Owen waited for the inevitable hug and handshake.
It didn’t happen.
His oldest, and once best, friend merely stared, face a blank, if confused, slate. A sheepish sort of heat claimed Owen’s cheeks and “Hey, Old Man,” he said. Maybe he looked different, but the nickname they’d once shared was the same—right?
Recognition and a whoop of welcome dispelled tension that had set in his shoulders, but the smile exploding on Rob’s face…. Shit. That made him feel worse, not better. That big, open-hearted grin, it had been trademark Rob Haslom ever since primary school when he and Owen had traded sandwiches and Matchbox cars. Seeing it now…Owen hung his head, feeling like he’d just run back home to the patient, forgiving friend he’d abandoned for all the cooler kids who lived down the block—the ones who turned out to be bullies and thugs. And when Rob clapped him close in a hug shame shrank him from the 6’2” he and his old buddy also shared, and he found his gaze staying affixed to the ground.
Rob said “What the hell are you doing back here slumming? Thought you were busy catching all the bad guys out in Vancouver.”
Girls too, Old Man. A shadow crossed his heart. “I—uh—I am busy with bad guys.” He forced a mechanical grin. “Plan to spend the day with you two, don’t I?”
“I…oh. That right?” Rob immediately looked pained—and Owen read the expression.
“I know you’re busy,” he said. “So I’ve mooched a few tools from this guy—” He tossed a thumb toward Steve “—to help out.”
Rob’s look of relief was immense. “Keep track of your hours,” he said. “I’ll pay you.”
Thank Christ. ’Cause he wasn’t catching bad guys anywhere anymore. Yet aloud he said—“Up to you. But thanks,” he tacked on.
Rob nodded, appraising him. “Jesus, Old Man. I would’ve passed you on the street.”
Owen’s hand came up and swiped—covered, really—his overgrowth of facial hair. “I-uh-I was undercover before I left the—” Force “—the-uh-city.” He could feel Steve’s eyes boring questions into his back. Felt the grin he’d been wearing slid off and fall into the sawdust. “Guess the look stuck.” He shrugged, hoped they’d just drop it.
“Outlaw biker,” Rob grinned. “You like it? Undercover?” He was on the move now, guiding Owen over to a roughed-in room which, all two-by-fours, resembled a jail cell.
Owen’s feet twitched, unwilling to approach it.
Rob passed him a nail gun, both brows up and clearly waiting for an answer: Did Owen like undercover?
Good question.
Undercover…undercover was like being trapped on an intersection between two disparate lives (or was that lies?); his own crossed atop whoever he was pretending to be. And the longer he’d stayed there, the more confused he’d become—who was he? Who did he want to be?
And who had Sondra wanted him to be? Needed him to be? In his ear he could hear his coordinating sergeants: “To help her is to hurt her. And to hurt her is to help her. That’s how crazy addiction is, Brophy.”
“You on a trip, Old Man?”
“What?” He whipped around.
Rob blinked. “You’re just…out there.” He gestured across the valley and over into the patchwork sections of orchards and vineyards beyond.
Owen lost himself a moment in the endless fields and their predictable tree upon tree. There was no confusion out there in the orchards, just tidy rows and precision. “Undercover,” he murmured, gaze caught in the soft colors of peach trees and cherry blossoms, pinks and pale tangerines. “Undercover’s like…like drinking adrenaline.”
“That’s neither a yes, you like it, nor a no, you don’t.” Rob’s mouth quirked. “You sound like my father-in-law.”
Owen’s brows jolted. “He a cop?”
“Retired. Instructs now, but only when he feels like it, out at the Police College in Ottawa.”
No shit? “I’ve taken courses there.” Back when he’d played with the idea of leaving the frontline, of bumping his rank up to sergeant or lieutenant. “Who is he? I might know him.”
“Lieutenant Cory Chandler, former RCMP,” Rob announced, all affected pomp. “But we call him C.C.”
Owen laughed. “Well, for shit’s sake. He instructed me.”
Rob smiled. “Small world.”
“Lieutenant Chandler’s a good instructor. A great guy.”
Rob nodded. “I’ve got no cliché axes to grind with my father-in-law. But please—lieutenant? Like I said, he’s just C.C. to us.”
Maybe, but that’s never who Cory Chandler would be to him. The RCMP may not have been who he’d policed for (work for the Feds? No thanks) but an older, more decorated officer from any other agency still deserved to be addressed with the rank and title he’d earned.
’Cause Christ knew law enforcement, of any stripe, wasn’t easy. He slipped a hand in his pocket, drew out his phone. Any word from Sondra?
No. But did rehab even allow clients to make calls?
“I’m going to need this wall reinforced.” Rob smacked a two-by-four in the frame they’d approached. “The owners want a soundproof theatre room here.”
Jesus. First-World demands. “Hoo-hah.”
Rob shrugged. “They pay me, I dance.”
They shared a grin, then Owen plugged his nail gun into an air compressor and buckled a tool belt ’round his waist.
When Steve dropped a hand on his shoulder a quick moment later, he was shocked to see the sun soaring mid-sky, and to notice that the whining saws and zing-schwack! of nail guns had gone quiet. “Let’s eat.” His brother swung a cooler. “I brought enough for you.”
Owen threaded his way over open floor joists to where Steve and Rob sat in a roughed-in room that smelled like fresh sawdust. They’d all worked in the same house all morning, yet he hadn’t seen either of them. He glanced around at the square footage of the place. Who the hell needed to live like this? Who could afford to? Drug dealers and thieves, he mused sourly, and opened Steve’s cooler.
Well, shit.
Thick sandwiches, chocolate bars, and a couple slices of (local, no doubt) cherry pie. So much for the diet and discipline that helped keep all his urges in check. The urges that liked drinking adrenaline.
“I know it’s not tofu,” his brother growled.
“Fuck you,” he replied pleasantly and unwrapped a sandwich; ham, cheese, tomato and—he took a monster-sized bite—full-fat mayonnaise. Did Vestemere still have a gym? He hoped so. ’Cause this sandwich tasted like more.
Rob said “How long you home for, Old Man?”
Owen took another bite and shrugged, an aim at indifference. “Few months?” He let it hang like a question. “Few years?” He ignored the startled glance that shuttled between Rob and Steve, unwrapped the other half of his sandwich.
Rob cleared his throat. “You—uh—staying at your folks?”
A shard of irritation needled him. Rob could stop pussyfooting around, just say ‘What the hell’s going on for you, Owen?’ He would answer.
Maybe.
“Yeah,” he replied, and balled up the plastic wrap from his sandwich, tossed it back into the cooler, then pulled out some pie. “Our folks are out on the island, condo-sitting for Tess while she back-packs Europe.”
“Because it’s such a good idea to screw off for six months when you have a whole goddamn zoo in your house,” Steve tossed in and lit a smoke, assaulted his lungs with a drag.
Rob grinned at them both. “Little sisters,” he said.
Owen grinned too. Rob’s own sister, Sab, was a foul-tempered motor mouth who’d been a shameless flirt back when they’d all been kids. “How is Sabrina, anyway?” he asked.
“Good. Married. A mommy.”
“And wait till you meet hubby.” Steve broke in. “He makes that thing—” He pointed to the diamond in Owen’s ear “—look silly. Guy’s got a whole friggin’ jewelry store hanging off his ears.”
Owen tried to fathom hard-ass Sabrina with a guy who wore ears full of bling, but couldn’t get past his own earring, now as conspicuous as a hula-hoop. He rotated it between two fingers.
His brother squinted through smoke. “You gonna clean up while you’re here?”
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? “Wha—”
“Cut the hair? Get a shave? Christ—have a shower?”
Oh. That kind of cleaned up. Still, Steve was treading on a border called Mind Your Own Fucking Business, and Owen’s shoulders shot back as he got ready to spit back a reply.
His brother merely continued smoking. And squinting. “People talk,” he said. “And in a small town like here, they’re gonna talk about you.”
Oh, piss on that. Like small towns were saintly. Hell, sometimes small towns were more edgy than so-called big cities. People got bored here. Monotony wore them down. Resentment from carrying the same family name (and its snooty—or shitty—station) chewed at them too. So…why not tip back a 26oz every night? Why not spice up the sheet sports with the high school sweetheart you married twenty-some boring years ago by snorting a few rails of blow? After all, you’ve seen every tired old bra and washed-out pair of panties she owns, don’t you deserve a little more excitement than that?
Although…he’d grown up here in Vestemere, and his family had never felt tedious. In fact, his Mom and Dad had raised four kids, each held a job, and had always been the busiest people he knew—yet they still missed each other if they had to be apart. In fact, the only time he’d ever known his Dad to sleep on the couch was once after he’d bought Mom those driving lessons, one sin in a lifetime of hand-holding, kisses stolen behind their kids’ backs, and laughs at inside jokes only the two of them knew.
So how the hell was it that he, having grown up seeing that, had committed far viler infractions with Sondra within just a handful of months and not even having been legally married?
’Cause you were on that intersection, Brophy. Not knowing who you are or who you want to be.
And you’re still there.
“Look in the mirror,” Steve growled, and Owen startled, for it felt like his brother had just read his mind. “If you’re going to live here, you’re going to have to be yourself.”
But…who was that? And if Steve and Rob knew, would they still call him a cop? Or a brother? Or ‘Old Man’?
Rob made a show of waving Steve’s cigarette smoke away. “Since I married Jessie, I’ve learned to care less and less what folks think,” he said.
God love Rob Haslom, eternal Boy Scout and diplomat. Owen exhaled, replete with relief.
“She’s an artist,” Rob went on and, to Owen’s amusement, his chest swelled. “So’s my brother-in-law—the guy Mr. Sensitivity here just made fun of.” This he paired with a mock stink-eye at Steve. “They let their freak flags fly, although…” His face clouded. “Sometimes that attracts weirdos.”
And what, Owen wondered, constituted a ‘weirdo’ back here in sedate little Vestemere?
“She’s been getting strange fan mail lately,” Rob said.
“Oh?” Steve stubbed his smoke out. “You never said nothing.”
“She didn’t want me to, but…it’s weird,” he repeated, then offered empty hands like he’d run out of any other apt words.
Owen straightened, bothered not so much by ‘weird’ fan mail than by how rattled Rob seemed because of it. “Weird how?”
“Well…” A rush of color made Rob’s face a beacon. “It’s probably nothing compared to what you see in the city.”
What the hell? Were both Rob and Steve somehow plucking his thoughts? And doing it to make him feel like an asshole? “Well, that’s good,” he said sharply. “’Cause I’m not interested in discussing anything I see in the city.”
Rob blinked and Steve narrowed his eyes. Owen swallowed. Okay, Brophy. No one’s making you feel like an asshole. You’re just acting like one. “What I meant was that’s why I came home—to get away from the things I see in the city. And besides, we were talking about you, Old Man, not lame-assed old me. Now: what’s going on?”
Embarrassed color remained on Rob’s cheeks. “It’s…she gets little kid books. Storybooks. Postmarked from all over the country.”
So multiple senders, or one well-traveled sender? Owen listened.
“And that by itself would be nothing, but these books—fairytales, I guess you’d call them—they’re all different, but all defaced the same way.”
“Defaced?” The word raised a chill Owen wasn’t prepared for—and sharpened his awareness. “How so?”
“The—uh—the prince and princesses at the end…they’re mutilated. Eyes poked out, red slashes on their throats—”
“That’s fucked up,” said Steve.
“Thanks, Tips.” Owen scowled at him. “Anything else?” he asked Rob.
“Yeah.” Rob nodded and the embarrassed color was gone. Now he just looked concerned. “Happily Ever After is always stroked out. Someone writes Fairytales Often End Violently overtop in red marker.”
Jesus. That was screwed. “What’s the Lieutenant saying? Her Dad?”
Rob shook his head. “We haven’t told C.C.”
Why the hell not? His face must have said it for Rob flushed—and shrugged. “Artists,” he said. “And weirdos, remember? It could be someone making an artistic proclamation of some sort—and wanting Jessie’s endorsement or review.”
“Or maybe it’s not,” Owen answered, and this time didn’t apologize for his tone. For shit’s sake—why did civilians always think it was better to not call the cops?
“You think it could be serious?” Rob asked.
Owen had no idea. But he’d excused things that had turned out to be as serious as it got, and look where he was now—on an intersection where he was homeless, unemployed…yet still wondering if maybe he really did prefer bad guys to good.
©bonnie randall 2005