Chapter 7
Angela and Aggie arrived at Vancouver International Airport at 11:20 am on Saturday, December 13. Aggie must have bought a travel guide; she snapped open a large black umbrella as they stepped out the doors toward the taxis. Rain swept in under the overhang drenching unprepared travelers within seconds. Angela huddled under the umbrella with her twin and stared out into the dark day.
“Brrr,” she commented. “I thought Vancouver weather was mild because of the ocean.”
“It’s the humidity,” Aggie explained. “Damp cold is way colder than dry cold.”
The twins entered the first in the long line of cabs that waited at the curb.
“Where to, ma’am?” The driver’s words were more understandable by their necessary content that by their actual sound. His accent was as obvious as his turban. He smiled and displayed broad, strong teeth. “You go downtown?”
“The Vancouver Hotel,” Angela said.
“I thought we were staying at the…”
Angela poked her sister sharply in the ribs. Aggie looked at her askance but didn’t protest further. The view over the Arthur Laing Bridge and up Granville was blanketed in thick misty rain, but that didn’t stop Aggie from enumerating the sights as they passed: the south arm of the Fraser River, the Marpole district and then Shaugnessy. Angela drank in the British style mansions that lined even the major thoroughfare through the exclusive neighborhood. She could picture herself in one of those, with a giant bedroom and a garden full of roses.
The cab went straight as an arrow, though slowly to Angela’s New York expectations. The cab driver was calm; he didn’t get angry at other motorists, didn’t shoot yellow lights. Angela glanced at the clicking meter. No wonder — the fare was obscene. When they pulled into the downtown area, the traffic slowed almost to a halt. Aggie craned her head looking up at the skyscrapers that made an alley of their street.
“Fodor’s says that Vancouver has one of the most beautiful downtowns in North America,” she commented.
“Hard to tell in the rain.”
“Don’t be a grump. This is a vacation.”
“You’re right.” Angela knew her anxiety had little to do with the weather. She smiled and hugged her sister’s arm. “It’s great to be here with you. Who cares if it’s raining?”
“Not me,” Aggie answered the rhetorical question. “Besides, it’s more British. We’re getting the full experience.”
Angela laughed and then sobered as the cab pulled into the high tunnel at the taxi and limousine entrance to the Vancouver Hotel.
“Wait here,” she told Aggie and the cab driver. “I’ll be right back.”
She ran into the lobby, hardly noticing the British East India rugs and heavy mahogany furniture. She stepped to the imposing front desk.
“May I help you, ma’am?” a stately middle-aged gentleman asked from behind the counter.
“Do you have any messages for Agnes Trout?”
“Let’s see,” the man flipped through a stack of papers. “I have one here for an Aggie Trout.”
“That’s me,” Angela smiled. “Thank you.”
She took the folded paper and turned away from the desk.
“Miss.” The man’s voice halted her. “We have a room reserved in your name, Miss Trout. Would you like to check in now?”
“I’ll be back later,” Angela temporized. She didn’t want to cancel the reservation and alert the man who placed the ad. Besides she needed to be able to pick up messages. But she had no intention of waiting at the arranged hotel like a sitting duck. She debated whether to take a key and risk paying an exorbitant figure for a room she wasn’t going to use. A man who could pay $120,000 for a twelve night stand wouldn’t stiff her for the hotel room, surely. “No. I’ll sign in now.”
“Do you have a vehicle, Miss Trout?” the man asked, undisturbed by her waffling. He lifted his pen over a room slip.
“No.”
“You’re in the Queen Anne suite on the top floor. That’s a non-smoking suite. I hope that is all right.”
“That’s fine.” Angela dug in her wallet for her credit card. Praying the man would stop her before he noticed the wrong name.
“No need, ma’am,” the man lowered his voice discretely. Angela’s face flushed with relief. “The charge is taken care of. We often put customers of TransGlobe in the Queen Anne. If you could just sign here.”
Angela tucked the company name into a corner of her memory. She looked at the slip and wondered why she needed to sign if not to pay for the room. Maybe the rules were different in Canada. She took the offered pen and signed ‘Anges Trout’ without hesitation. She had practiced for such an eventuality. The man handed her an envelope with the words ‘Queen Anne Suite’ engraved on the front. She could feel a flat credit card key inside.
“Thank you,” she smiled.
“If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant, Miss Trout, please don’t hesitate to ask. My name is Jeremy Smythe.”
Angela was used to friendliness from strange men. Though the Canadian was most discrete, she saw the more than polite interest in his eyes. She knew how to handle the situation.
“Thank you, Mr. Smythe,” she said in a no nonsense business voice. “Your hotel is lovely. I’m sure I’ll enjoy my stay in Vancouver.”
As she walked away from the desk, she rubbed the message slip between her fingers. She could feel Smythe’s eyes on her back and didn’t want to stop and read the note with him watching. The lobby was large and she quickly turned a corner that hid her from view of the front desk. She stopped next to a tall white pillar. Her fingers trembled as she opened the folded paper.
“Hi Aggie,” the note began informally. “Meet me in the lobby near the front desk at 10am on Monday. Danny.”
Angela shook her head at the brevity of the note, then she drew a deep breath. It was really going to happen. She leaned back against the pillar and drew in another deep breath. Keep breathing. She thought of her sister and winced. How would she ever convince Aggie to go for the interview? Maybe she should forget the whole thing. She forced herself to relive the moments as the ‘Captain’ forced the rolled bills up her ass. More than the bruises and cuts, more than the pain of forced sodomy, the memory of the money in her anus turned her bowels to liquid. She firmed her resolve. Aggie would understand when she told her. Her twin wouldn’t let her down.
“What were you doing?” Aggie’s words greeted her as she opened the back door of the cab. Angela slid onto the seat. “Are we staying here?”
“I didn’t like the room,” Angela lied.
“Take us to the Sylvia Hotel,” Aggie told the driver. She explained to the startled Angela, “The guidebook says it’s one of the best buys in downtown Vancouver. And it’s right on English Bay.”
A short drive took them to the entrance to the Sylvia. Angela was entranced by the ivy covered walls of mellow stone. The hotel was indeed on the waterfront. Across a narrow but busy road, a sandy beach fronted by weathered logs stretched out toward choppy white-capped waves. She could see the tops of pedestrians half-hidden by a low stone wall. The location was idyllic even in the persistent rain.
Angela insisted on entering the lobby alone. At the front desk, she pulled out a wad of Canadian cash and paid up front for three nights of a suite facing the water. The receptionist didn’t ask her to sign a room slip, didn’t even ask for a name, and she wondered again about the man at the Vancouver Hotel. Why would he, or Danny, want a sample of her handwriting? It was only too easy to guess. She went back out to the cab.