Certain types of cancer
Infect each generation,
Despite our best defences.
Let your guard down for a moment
And the seed takes hold…

8 - The Boy At The Side Of the Road

By the time they hit Barrie, Toronto’s murky urban sky had given way to that particularly stunning blue associated with the North. It was still cold, even colder than it had been in big city, but the sight of clean white snow and evergreens had a way of lifting Leda’s spirits. She opened the window a couple of inches and let the air fill her lungs.

Helen followed in her Jeep. They could have easily fit their luggage into Leda’s Honda, but Helen had a meeting in Toronto on Monday, and Leda wasn’t sure how long she needed to stay, so it made more sense to bring two cars.

North of Barrie the temperature took another dip. Leda shut the window, but refrained from turning up the heat. She hadn’t been to the new place in months. The work was essentially complete. The Midland decorator had called to say the new curtains she’d commissioned looked great, and the furniture had been delivered more than a week ago.

It was time to pay the general contractor. Once that was done, Leda would bring in a local firm to re-work all the doors and install the security system.

Her new house was on Concession 3, with no neighbours for a mile on either side. Given her obsessive fears, she didn’t know how she was going to find the courage to spend time alone there. It had always been her dream to build a retreat where she could feel close to nature and write in peace.

Leda realised a year ago that she would have to make a choice: she could either admit to herself that her greatest desire was never going to be realised, or she could face her fears and find a way to make it happen.

The house was about five miles southwest of Midland, near a small lakefront community called Wye Meadows. The village had a grocery store, an LCBO that sold liquor and beer, two schools and five churches. It was a quaint locale, one of those towns the tourists love to stop in. To cater to the summer folks there was a trendy ice cream parlour and one of the oldest houses had been converted into a “cottage collectables” shop.

As always, when Leda slowed to turn off the main highway onto Concession 3, she was aware of a weight being lifted from her chest. As a child, she’d spent a couple of weeks every summer in her grandmother’s house on the edge of Wye Meadows. It was the only place where she’d felt truly safe.

Nanny, as she’d called her grandmother, had died when Leda was in her early teens. It was just as well. At least she hadn’t had to live through the murder of her daughter and her great grandchild.

Nanny had made no secret of her dislike for Leda’s father, who was never invited to stay in her house. Thanks to Nanny, Leda had nothing but happy memories of Wye Meadows.

Leda glanced in her rear view mirror to make sure Helen had made the turn onto Concession 3. There were a few tree farms and a lot of county forest, but no houses along the way. If the contractors had kept their promises, the laneway leading to her drive would be well-cleared but difficult to spot. She kept her eyes on the right side of the road, concerned about missing the driveway.

Something moved in her peripheral vision. She looked quickly to the left in time to see a person stagger out of the woods. He was young – perhaps fifteen or sixteen. When he tried to flag her down, his movements were erratic. She slowed and turned on her blinker to let Helen know she was pulling over.

Had she been alone, she wouldn’t have considered stopping along an isolated stretch of highway for a stranger. But she wasn’t alone. Helen was with her, and Helen presented an imposing figure by most standards.

Besides, the boy – and he was a boy, she could see that now – appeared to be injured. The side of his face was bruised and there were dark stains on his plaid jacket. In this weather, he should have been wearing a parka, but overcoat, hat, boots and gloves were all conspicuously missing.

He did not approach their cars, but waved once again before doubling over and retching into the snowy ditch.

Helen loped across the highway without waiting for Leda, who followed quickly on shorter legs.

“Are you all right?” Helen said.

The young man mumbled. He looked up at Helen through bloodshot eyes.

“I’m Leda Maguire," Leda said. "This is Helen Strachan. What is your name? Was there an accident?”

“I think he’s been drinking,” Helen said.

“I don’t smell any alcohol.”

“Drugs, then. He’s completely shot.”

“We can’t leave him here,” Leda said.

“Any suggestions?”

“We’re less than a mile from my place. Let’s get him into the back of the Honda and you follow us. We’ll leave your Jeep at my place and ride together to Midland.”

“Can’t we just dial 9-1-1?”

“Trust me,” Leda said, “by the time an ambulance gets here, we could have driven him to the hospital, spoken with the doctors, given a statement to the police, found out who his people are and had him released to his family.”

“We’re in your neck of the woods, my friend. Let’s do it before we all get hypothermia.”
***

Inspector Jack Brown finished half the grilled dog he’d bought from the street vendor outside of Old City Hall. He took one last bite, careful not to drip condiments onto his coat, before tossing the remainder into a trash bin.

Life was about compromise. Jack loved the sloppy over-sized hot dogs – heart attacks on a bun, his wife called them – but he knew Jessica was right. The best things are meant to be enjoyed in small measures. Jack still indulged in the occasional dog, but he never ate more than half.

He was finished in court for the day, so he turned his cell phone back on and checked his messages. There was one from Jessica, one from the desk sergeant, Matt Cummings, and one from Starky’s cell.

Starky answered on the second ring.

“You’d better get over here, Jack,” he said. “I’m at InkWells on King, the big one next to the Tim Horton’s.”

Jack glanced north, towards the parking lot where he’d left his un-marked sedan. Then he looked south toward King. He had to shade his eyes against the watery winter sunlight. He knew where the bookstore was. The only question was whether he felt like hoofing it, so soon after shovelling down a bun-full of cholesterol.

On the other hand, once you scored a parking spot downtown, it was best to hang onto it.

He started walking south.

“Be right there,” he said.
***

“Lucky thing you brought him in when you did,” the doctor said. “He was bleeding out. If he'd spent any more time in the cold, we might’ve lost him.”

Leda nodded. “There seemed to be a lot of blood on his shirt.”

“Do we know his name?” Helen asked.

“Nope,” the doctor said. “He wasn’t carrying I.D. and he hasn’t been able to speak.”

“You can call me if there’s any change,” Leda said. “We’re not far from here.”

“Leave your number with the nurse.”

“Alcohol?” one of two O.P.P. officers asked.

“No,” the doctor said. “Looks life Rohypnol to me. They’re running the blood downstairs right now.”

“Roofies. Great. Find out how much of that crap got into him, will you?” The officer scribbled into his notebook. “And run a rape kit while you’re at it, Doc.”

“Already done, Bill.” The doctor lowered his voice, though Leda and Helen were still able to hear. He waved the chart in front of the officer’s face. “No shortage of evidence. Looks like multiple villains. We’re running the samples downstairs with the blood even as we speak.”

“Shit,” the Officer said, “he’s about the same age as my boy. How soon before he comes around?”

“Minimum six hours. I’m going home now, but I’ve left word he’s to stay under watch. I’ll be here first thing tomorrow. You can talk to him then.”

“OK, thanks, Tom,” the officer said. “We’ll be here at seven.”

“Bring coffee.” With that high command, Dr. Tom tucked the chart under his arm and disappeared down the hall.
_______________________________

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK, FOR VOLUME 9 OF "TWO GOOD HANDS", a Leda And Strachan mystery!

Copyright belongs to Donna Carrick. No part of this story may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.

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