They nodded without expression. “What he did was out of affection for my wife, not malice. Maybe out of a rebellious spirit, but we were all rebellious at that age, weren’t we? I don’t have to tell you he can’t be brought before the adult courts or that your mischief charge will be embarrassingly difficult to prove. I don’t have to tell you that the Charter of Rights permits-indeed exalts-free political speech, and I don’t have to tell you that the RCMP won’t want to find itself in the inglorious position of seeming to take sides in an election campaign.”
A blast of wind rattled the windows. The snow came in whirling gusts, no longer melting but caking the roofs of outbuildings, driveways, vehicles. The two officers were staring at each other again, neither daring to be the first to speak. Finally, Matthew said, “Wow, look at that snow. Guess there’ll be a lot of cars scrambling to get off the island.”
Eloise nodded, handed back the sweater, and rose to lead her partner to the door. “We’d better not miss that old tub of a ferry.” For Arthur, a little wink, like a kiss.
It was an hour later, after lines had been drained and animals sheltered, that Arthur came into Nick’s room and caught him teary-eyed on the bed, issuing directives to his humming computer.
“Everything erased?” Arthur sat down with him, propping himself up with a pillow.
“I’m doing a deep dig, cleaning out the register.”
His dad had already talked to him, severe but sincere. Arthur suspected he was suppressing pride in his boy. And in truth it was quite a feat, despite the close call. One could only pray that the repercussions to Margaret’s campaign would dissipate.
“Other officers might have mindlessly followed through. We were lucky.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been so stupid.”
“You’re too bright for your own good. That’s a blessing, you’ll need to scramble to pick up a few weeks of school.”
Nick wiped an eye, shut down his computer. “It wasn’t real hard to hack in to them. It was sort of an experiment, figuring out how spammers beat the system. I hate spam.”
“Well, you’ll never want for a job in cyberspace. Looking forward to getting back?”
“Yeah, but I like it here. I didn’t at first. I guess I’ve been a real headache.”
“We’ll always welcome you back.”
A smile came out of nowhere. “Lavinia told me the chicken fuckers were here.”
All day, Arthur had fought off calling Margaret, not wanting to alarm her, to tell her about Nick’s escapade-it would be too distracting, could put her off her game in the campaign’s critical final days. But he decided to touch base after hearing on the news that the latest poll had her only a whisker behind O’Malley, two points.
He caught her canvassing in Porcupine Bog, so hoarse as to be barely audible.
“Arthur, I’d like you to come to the last all-candidates.” On Saltspring Island, Saturday afternoon, half past one.
“I thought I made you nervous.”
“I’m beyond nervous.” He barely made out the next phrase: “I need you.”
That caused a welling of feelings that for some foolish reason he couldn’t translate into words. She needed him. The political recluse had been elevated several feet above the level of excess baggage. “Of course I’ll be there.”
He told her he’d stopped by the school, the advance poll, and marked a big fat X for a soon-to-be-sitting member of the House of Commons. He wanted to discuss the LeGrand affidavit with her, but she was being greeted by a voter. He shouted: “On to Ottawa.” If it comes to pass, he’ll tough it out, an act of love.
She had passed the phone to Eric Schultz. “Christ, I’m freezing out here. How is it your way?”
“We’re battening down.”
“This blow could help. Our vote’s firm, we’ll pull out ninety-five per cent. Socialist hotbed here in Porky Bog, but they’re looking over our merchandise, they may be ready to board the bus. O’Malley is holding at thirty-five, Blake thirty-three, the rest fighting for scraps. That spam attack bled a lot of vote away, probably enough to…”
“The bleeding has stopped.”
“How did you hear?”
“There was a police investigation, Eric. Someone filed an official complaint.”
“Never thought they’d carry through. I bitched, I hollered. Find some kind of charge, I said, shut down that operation.”
Arthur was speechless.
“You still there, Arthur?”
It was Schultz’s turn to be at a loss when Arthur filled him in. Finally: “I don’t know what to say.”
“I didn’t tell Margaret.”
“Best that we do. Don’t want her boobytrapped by some clever reporter.” Soft profanities, he was flustered. “Any chance this will get a proper burial?”
“I’m hoping so, but it’s probably all over Garibaldi.”
“Christ.”
“That’s the bad news.”
“There’s better?”
“Eric, I’ll ask you to deliberate long and carefully on this, but we now have a strong intimation of a corrupt payment to the office of the late justice minister.”
His recital of LeGrand’s affidavit produced a long whistle. “That clinches it. Keep this under your hat-it’ll come out in Question Period tomorrow that the administrator of Boynton’s estate has uncovered an account worth four million and change, untouched, that would normally devolve to his survivors. What’s the best way to handle this? Tomorrow’s Friday, a bad media day. Just before the election is best, Monday. Has to be released carefully, shouldn’t come from us.”
“It may be too late already.” Arthur told him how he’d lost a free speech debate with Nelson Forbish. He got a laugh, Schultz in a spirited mood now.
“Better tell Mr. Forbish to keep mum.”
“Not to worry, the Bleat comes out mid-week.” Nelson had been known to put out special editions, single pages emblazoned “Extra!” but this weather promised to thwart such a plan.
The storm accelerated into the evening, yet another blizzard on the mild Pacific coast, weather patterns changing, hotter summers, capricious winters. Outside, the sound of a tree cracking under the weight, a leaner, an electric pop as a breaker snapped. Lights out.
Arthur fumbled his way to the candle bin, arrayed several on the dining room table, threw more logs on the fire. The Nicks and the woofers were out in that whirling snow, by the brick barbecue, preparing to grill steaks. They seemed content, in parkas and toques, laughing in the dusky light, tossing snowballs.
The phone lines were still open, so Arthur dialed Wentworth, who must be worried his general will be trapped here, Napoleon on the isle of Elba.
“I’m afraid we may be forced into a slight change of plan, Wentworth.”
Just silence but for the sound of a gulp.
“Not sure I’ll be able to fly in early tomorrow, the weather may not permit. I’ll try for the ferry.”
“That doesn’t get here till noon.”
“Right, so I’m going to ask you to cross-examine the maid and the guard. I think you’re ready for that, and I can’t comprehend how I could do a better job. Anyway, Kroop may need another day to settle his insides. If not, find a way to spin things out until I get there. I’m sure you’ll do a rip-snorting job.”
“Two witnesses aren’t going to fill the morning.”
“Oh, raise some argument or other, something that will get the old boy going. If nothing else works, feign illness.”
“I am ill.”
“I have complete faith in you, Wentworth. You’ve done admirably. Admirably.”
“Are you sure, Arthur, because…”
“Any problems, I’m always right by the phone.”
Arthur made tea and sat down with Virgil’s great and ancient tome, and began to read aloud by the flickering light. “It is sweet to let the mind bend on occasion.”