Deadly Ties
Jay Lang
EXCERPT
Chapter One
As the door opened in the dead of night,
I felt a rush of icy wind seconds before the killers appeared from the
darkness.
* * *
A chilly morning wind gusts through the
open car deck, almost causing me to lose my balance. Just as I reach the bottom
of the metal stairwell, a distorted voice breaks through the overhead speakers.
It’s the captain, informing passengers that a pod of orca has been spotted off
the starboard side.
Pushing against the wind, I make my way to
the railing and look over the churning, grey water just in time to spot a large
dorsal fin breaching the surface. Tourists quickly gather and shove to get the
best vantage point for taking pictures.
After a few quick moments, the whales
disappear and the onlookers slowly disperse. I lean over the railing and watch
the whitecaps on the growing swells as we head into rougher seas. As the
shorelines disappear, the wind picks up and mists of seawater spray over me. I
continue to look out over the water, entranced by the pattern of the rolling
waves. Though I get cold and wet from the saltwater spray, I don’t return to my
car until the Departure Bay dock comes into view.
The farther the ship gets from the
mainland, the more apprehensive and resentful I feel about going back to a
place I fought so hard to leave.
I haven’t been home for a long time. I
couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him again, especially since Mom died. She
was the go-between, the mediator between him and me. Over the years, I’ve opted
for self preservation. Instead of visiting, I sent the obligatory card whenever
a holiday or birthday rolled around. Yet, here I am in my late twenties,
subjecting myself once more to the bullshit I escaped from.
The ferry docks, and as I drive over the
noisy metal ramp onto solid ground, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my
gut.
I knew this day would eventually come.
Years ago, when Mom was still alive, Dad was diagnosed with a carcinoid tumor
in his lower intestine. From what his care nurse tells me, the cancer has now
spread to his stomach and lungs, and as gruff and emotionally arrested as he
is, I know my mom would’ve wanted me to help him in his final days.
Dark angry clouds hang overhead as a strong
wind pushes against the body of my old Honda Accord, making it challenging to
handle on the open highway. Despite this, the drive to Ladysmith goes by too
quickly. Before I know it, I’m turning onto Brenton Page Road.
A few minutes down the road, I pull over so
I can take a few steadying breaths. I remind myself that it’s better to
sacrifice time now than live with the guilt of not helping the cantankerous old
codger.
I listen to a couple of Neil Young songs
while gripping the steering wheel. Then, feeling as mentally prepared as I can,
I pull back onto the road.
After I pass the tall white inn, I turn
down the narrow, winding road toward the beach. When I come to the clearing, I
see the half-dozen row of waterfront cabins just up from the shore. I park, get
out of the car and stand, looking out over the sea.
When I was a child, I would wait until my
mom was asleep, then I’d take off my clothes and tiptoe out to the beach.
Standing naked under the stars by the glistening sea, the cool wind dancing
around my body. It made me feel alive…a part of everything.
I couldn’t do that now. I could never be
that naked and vulnerable. Too much has made me feel self-conscious and
ashamed. The freedom and purity I felt as a child was diminished by his
strategic and calculating attempts to destroy me. Piece by piece, bit by bit he
stole away the parts I needed to become a whole person.
But I wasn’t the only one cut in half. My
mother, God rest her, was a victim, same as me. It’s why we needed each other
so much. Together we made up a whole person.
I turn my attention to my father’s cabin,
which is shabbier than I remember— sun-bleached wood with cracked planks and a
short walkway overgrown with weeds. The red paint on the door has faded to a
dull burgundy, and the wooden chimes that I sent him a couple years ago are hanging
crooked on a large, rusted hook.
I take a deep breath then rap twice on the
door.
After a few long moments, I hear a gruff
voice from inside the cabin. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mila.”
The latch unlocks and the door slowly
opens. I barely recognize the man that looks back at me. My father, John Dovey,
once nicknamed Grizzly for his broad and muscular physique, has become a
withered and decrepit old man. He’s thin and gangly, stooping forward in his
wheelchair. If I had seen him anywhere but here, I wouldn’t have recognized
him.
He wheels backward, making room for the door
to swing open so I can enter.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, following him inside. His
care-aids told me that he doesn’t need the chair all the time. He can walk,
just not for very long or very far.
“So, you finally decided to grace me with
your presence,” he slurs as he parks behind a rickety table, on which sits a
half-bottle of whiskey and an empty glass.
I shut the door behind me and look around
the small room. There’s a worn-out green sofa that slouches in the middle where
the springs have given way. His old rifle sits on a gun rack proudly displayed
above the sofa. Pictures of my mom are hanging on the walls, along with a large
corkboard covered with photos and post-it notes. The small gas stove and fridge
have stains and dried food stuck to them. My father was never geared toward
cleaning, something that drove my mother nuts.
“I wasn’t sure you’d show,” he says.
“Yeah, me either,” I say in a low tone.
“But we’re family, so I didn’t see where I had much choice.”
“Family? Ha!” He grabs the bottle in his spindly,
pale hand and shakes it at me. “You see this? This is the only damn family I
got. The only family that’s stood by me.”
“That’s brilliant, Dad. Spoken like a true
reformed alcoholic.”
“You can drop the sarcasm. It’s beneath
you.”
I feel like saying, “No, quitting my job
and giving up my life in Vancouver to care for a terminally ill, cantankerous
alcoholic who’s done his best to kill himself faster is beneath me” – but I
don’t. Instead, I shift my focus from him to the window, and try to compose myself.
He seems pissed off that I won’t engage
with him, grunting and pouring another drink. He sets the bottle down hard on
the table. “I suppose you’ll be needing to stay here.”
Not
on your life. “No, I called the manager of the
cabins and asked if there were any vacancies. She said the cabin next door is
opening up in a couple of days. Until then, I’ll stay at the Inn up the road.”
“What’s the matter, don’t wanna stay here
with me? I wonder why that is?” He waves his arm around, spilling his drink.
“Maybe you think you’re too good because you’ve been living in the city. Ha!
What a joke.”
“You know, Dad.” I glare at him. “It’s not
that I expected you to completely transform from the jerk you’ve always been,
but I’d hoped you’d be a tiny bit happy to see me after five fucking years.”
He stares at me, then smirks. “Not sure why
you thought that. It’s been years since you’ve darkened my door. You don’t give
a damn about me. You’re probably waiting for me to die so you can take all my
stuff.”
A loud burst of laughter threatens to escape
my lips. Yeah, Dad, I left my peaceful
life in Vancouver so I could finally get my hands on your rickety little table
and nasty-ass couch. You found me out!
I take a deep breath. “There’s no point in
talking. All we do is fight. I’m going to the inn, and I’ll be back in the
morning. Do you need anything?”
“Yeah, another one of these.” He points to
the bottle.
“Nice try.” I walk to the door and turn the
handle. “It would be nice if you were sober when I come back tomorrow.”
He laughs. “For who?”
I walk outside and close the door behind
me. That sucked. Still, it could’ve been
worse. At least he didn’t throw anything at me.
Just as I start toward the car, I hear my
father yelling my name. I turn and open the door, poking my head in.
“What’s up?”
He’s still sitting with the drink in his
hand. “Do you need any money?”
Taken aback, I shake my head. “I’m good.
Thanks.”
Chapter Two
I watch the small sailboats sway to the
rhythm of the waves in the marina below as I debate going to the effort of
ordering food. My room is one of six spa-like suites at the inn. I heard that a
lot of writers would rent these rooms for months at a time when penning their
next novel. Not surprising, considering the peaceful surroundings of the area.
I flop down on the bed and stare up at the
ceiling, reflecting on the past forty-eight hours. The call from the medical
supports that cared for my father, the disappointed reaction from my boss when
I told him I was moving back to the Island, and—of course—the cold reunion with
my father.
Feeling overwhelmed, like standing in the
eye of a tornado with everything spinning out of control around me, my first
instinct is to jump into my car and head back to my safe, peaceful life on the
mainland. But I can’t leave, and I know it. I’m bound here until my father’s
body gives out. My mother would be heartbroken if I left him to die alone,
regardless that he’s a raging alcoholic. My only option is to do what I can
while staying emotionally distant and protected—yeah, right.
I order a pizza, then unpack my small
suitcase into the chest of drawers. Then I go into the bathroom to freshen up.
I glance in the mirror. I look pale and
stressed. When I left Vancouver this morning, I did a quick brush of my
shoulder-length brown hair and tied it into a loose bun before dressing in
leggings and an oversized hoodie—function over fashion, the same way I dress
while babysitting all day. Now, after being to my father’s place, I feel grungy
and gross.
* * *
The first blast of morning sun breaks over
the horizon and casts a blinding light through the large windows. I turn over
and throw my arm over my eyes. For a brief moment, I think I’m home in
Vancouver, and then reality hits me.
I roll onto my back and force in a deep
full breath, then exhale slowly. I can’t believe I’m actually here, just
minutes away from him. I must be out of my fucking mind.
I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of
the bed. My life in Vancouver has ended, at least for now. I need to put on my
big-girl panties and accept it.
My phone rings on the way to the bathroom.
It's the supervisor for the company that provides in-home care for my father.
I listen patiently as she relays the many
incidents that care aids endured while caring for my dad. She drops words like abusive, alcoholic, and unstable. All I can think is, no shit, lady, try growing up with him.
She then suggests putting Dad into
palliative care. I humor her and agree, knowing there’s no chance in hell my
father would ever leave his cabin for a regulated place that doesn’t allow
alcohol.
I assure the woman that I’ll be taking care
of him from now on, apologize for the trouble he’s caused, and thank her for
her service. As she says goodbye, I can tell by her tone how relieved she is to
be done with his bullshit.
Just before she hangs up, she informs me
that all his care aids have heard my father speak of me with pride and
adoration. I snicker to myself. They obviously weren’t aware of my father’s
tendency towards sarcasm.
After getting dressed, I head out of the inn
and drive into town.
Ladysmith is a quaint little bedroom
community with a big portion of the population made up of retirees. Being only
an hour from Victoria, a lot of the businesses here rely on tourism to
supplement the economy.
Once in town, I stop by a local coffee
shop, grab a latte, and find a seat. A few laid-back patrons are scattered
throughout the small shop. When I glance at them, they look back and smile,
something I’ve grown unaccustomed to while living in Vancouver. In the city,
people are stand-offish and typically focussed on an electronic device. Here,
there’s a strong sense of community and connection. I never realized how much I
missed that aspect of living in a small town until now.
I grab a local paper from an adjacent table
and flip to the classifieds. If I’m going to be living here, I’ll have to find
a job. While sipping my coffee, I scan the help wanted ads. There are many
listings for yard work, handyman jobs and one ad for a cab driver.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and snap
a picture of the contact information for the taxi driver job. Then I take the
last sip from my cup and am just about to leave when an elderly gentleman with
a grey comb-over and pop-bottle glasses walks up to my table.
“Hi, Miss,” he says in a soft voice. “You
finished with my paper yet?”
“Your paper?” I repeat, feeling
embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it belonged to someone. I just
thought I’d search the classifieds really quickly.” I offer the paper.
He laughs. “It’s ok. I set it down at my
usual table then walked away.” He gently takes the paper from my hand. “Did you
find what you were looking for?”
I smile. “A job. I was scanning the job
listings.”
“And?”
“And I’m not sure. The only job that might
be something I could do is cab driving.”
“Ah, yes,” he says. “My nephew owns the cab
company here. He needs to hire someone quickly because one of his drivers up
and quit.” The man leans in closer to me. “The guy had to leave on account of
his health.”
“Oh no. Was he sick?”
“He was messing around with another driver’s
wife and got found out.”
I shake my head and laugh. Typical small
town. Everyone knows what you’ve done before you’ve got your pants up.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Mila.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mila. I’m Rupert.” He
pulls out his phone. “Tell you what. Why don’t I give my nephew a call and see
if he can meet with you?”
“Really?” I say, taken aback.
“Of course!” Rupert stands close as he
dials a number on his cell phone, then loudly converses with the person on the
other end. By the time he’s finished, the other patrons are pretty much up to
date on the fact that I’m unemployed and Rupert is doing my bidding for me.
When the call finally ends, he smiles
confidently and tells me that his nephew can see me now, if I have a few
minutes to spare. “The office is only a ten-minute walk from here.”
I thank Rupert for his kindness and head
out of the cafe, my head whirling.
This would never happen to me in the city.
Although I’m completely unprepared, no resume, underdressed and not in the
right mind frame to sell myself, I know that an opportunity like this won’t
present itself twice.
* * *
The old guy was right—it took less than ten
minutes to get to the small, stand-alone cab company on White Street.
Rupert’s nephew, Don, is sitting behind a
cluttered long desk with a laptop opened in front of him. He’s about forty-five
and has a thin comb-over resembling Rupert’s. He knows my name before I even
open my mouth and motions for me to sit in a chair in the corner of the small
room. Usually, I would feel over-wrought with nerves in a job interview, but
here in this humble little office, sitting with a guy that could pass for a
used car salesman or someone in the custodial arts, I am at ease.
Don and I talk for a half-hour about what
brings me to Ladysmith, how long I’m staying, and what would make me a good cab
driver. I give him a sweetened-up answer to every question he asks, assuring
him that I have a perfect driving record and a class 4 licence from when I
drove a limo in the city a few summers ago. By the end of the interview, Don is
smiling and passing me a map of the area, disregarding the bit I told him about
growing up here, and suggests I study it before starting my first shift in two
days.
I push aside my enthusiasm over getting a
job and slowly walk back to my car, dreading the inescapable visit with my dad.
With some luck, I’ll find out how he’s getting his booze every day, but I
highly doubt he’ll reveal his supplier. My guess is that he picks up the phone
and calls a local bootlegger that survives off chronic drinkers like my father.
Then I remind myself that I’m not here to
cure my father. My intentions are much more selfish than that. I’m waiting for
him to die.
Not because of the pain and strife that
he’s caused my mother and me, but for the simple reason that his declining
health isn’t just the by-product of his cancer—it’s the end result of his quest
to self-destruct. If anything, I have to give my father kudos for being
committed. Be it from guilt, self-loathing, or resentment, he swam to the
bottom of a bottle and hasn’t resurfaced since Mom died. Maybe his terminal
diagnosis could’ve been staved off if he had the balls to quit drinking.
My perspective would’ve brought on great
opposition from my mother, a tolerant wife who always made excuses for her
husband. It always enraged me. When my dad came home from a night of binge
drinking, belligerent and staggering, he’d go to work on me first, ensuring
that my self-esteem was just as he left it: bruised and insignificant. A few coarse
words and a random cuff to the head usually did the trick. When he was
satisfied with the damage to me, he’d focus on my mother. Every time, she’d
only combat his words with a soft, gentle tone of reason.
It never worked. Alcohol was just an
accelerant to his already fractured character. From what Mom told me, he had
been raised by alcoholic parents. He was imprinted with abuse and never found
enough strength to change it. If it wasn’t for the love of my mother, my
interpretation of a healthy parent-child relationship would’ve been pretty
fucked.
Still, I’ve never had what could be
classified as a functional relationship with anyone. My feelings were always
too fear-based, which is never a good foundation for building trust. Every
relationship ended the same way, with the girl saying I was suffocating her
with my trust issues. On occasion, they suggested I seek counselling to help me
deal with my emotional problems.
In my defense, I didn’t attract the most
honorable of women. The girls I chose always lived fast and shunned commitment.
No matter how hard I tried to change the type of girl that I was normally drawn
to, they all turned out to be the same inside.
Chapter Three
Over the next couple days, my time is spent
running around for my father, getting his groceries and meds, and cleaning his
place. Whenever I have a spare moment, I study the new street map of the area.
We scoff at each other a few times, but
nothing out-of-control. He doesn’t say much that means he gives a damn,
certainly nothing equalling a congratulations over me finding employment so
quickly.
Fortunately, I spent my last night at the
hotel and can move into my own cabin today. I won’t have to run back and forth
from the inn anymore. By a stroke of luck, I meet the old tenants while moving
in. They have a brown leather sofa, a recliner, and a kitchen table they don’t
want to take, so I offer a few bucks and it’s a done deal. Saves me a lot of
time and money. Yesterday I picked up a blanket and a pillow, so for now I
don’t have to worry about a bed. I can just crash on the couch.
I’m completely settled in by 4PM, an hour
before I have to be at the cab company for my first shift. I take a fast
shower, tie my hair into a loose bun, slide on black slacks and a sweater, and head
out.
* * *
Don shows me the cab—a Chevy Lumina that
looks more like an old cop car than a taxi—then gives me a quick rundown of how
the navigation system works on the computer screen fixed to the dash. In the
few minutes before my shift starts, I buzz into a nearby coffee spot to grab an
espresso and a handful of snacks to keep me going through the night.
My evening starts pretty uneventfully: an
elderly lady going from the mall to a nearby apartment, a teen girl returning
home after babysitting all day, and two ladies in their fifties off to test
their luck at bingo. Every passenger is super friendly and talkative, which
settles my first-day nerves.
As I wait for the next call, I idle on the
roadside so I can eat a snack and phone Dad.
He’s slurring and ranting about something
on TV that pissed him off. After making a bullshit excuse to end the call, I
say that I’ll swing by in the morning. He grumbles and hangs up.
I polish off the last bite of my muffin
just as Don messages me about another fare. A bus stop, not far from the
highway.
En route, it starts to rain. By the time I
reach the stop, the sprinkle has turned into a full-on downpour, and my wipers
are on high-speed.
Pulling close to the stop, I strain to make
out the willowy figure in the darkness. It’s a woman with a large suitcase, two
shoulder bags, and a guitar case at her feet.
I park next to the small plexiglass shelter
and slide down the window. “Did you order a cab?”
Her long, blond hair is stuck to her skin,
obstructing most of her face. She nods before fumbling with her bags. I pop the
trunk and hop out, getting instantly soaked. Quickly, I help the girl pack the
large suitcase in the trunk.
Once it’s loaded, the girl clambers into
the backseat with the rest of her bags and I slide behind the wheel.
“Wow, that’s a lot of baggage to be hauling
on the bus,” I say, starting the car.
She laughs. “Tell me about it.” Her voice
is soft and unassuming. “I was on my way to a gig. My car broke down. Had to
call a tow truck.”
“Where were you heading?”
She lets out a frustrated sigh. “The Joker
Lounge here in town. I wasn’t planning on bringing everything I own with me. Or
looking like a drowned rat.”
“I’m sorry about your car.” I try to get a
glimpse of her face in the rear-view mirror. “Are you from out of town?”
“Victoria, on the rare occasion I don’t
have a gig. Otherwise, I stay in hotels in whatever town I’m playing.”
“That’s great. Do you just play guitar? Or
do you sing as well?”
“Both.”
The cab passes under a streetlight and I
catch a glimpse of the drenched stranger in the back seat. Captivating green
eyes shine out from behind wet, blond locks.
As we drive toward First Street, I steal
the odd glance. Her lips are naturally pink and stand out against her porcelain
skin. She looks to be the same age as me—somewhere in her late twenties. The
soft edges of her face remind me of a flawless portrait hanging in a gallery.
She is perfect.
Before I had clearly seen her, my words
came easy. Now, knowing how stunning this creature is, my hands begin to sweat
and I fumble for my words.
Before I know it, we’re pulling onto First
Street and only a couple of blocks from The Joker Lounge. The hard rain has
reduced to a drizzle, making it easier to read the marquees and signs on the
buildings.
“What’s your name?”
I glance in the mirror, relieved we’re not
face-to-face. “Mila. Yours?”
I watch as the edges of her full lips turn
upward. “Ava.”
Knowing I only have a couple minutes before
she exits the cab and disappears forever, I muster my bravery and ask, “What
are you going to do with your luggage while you play?”
“I have no idea. I was planning on getting
a room before my gig, but the car wasted so much time. I’ve only got half an
hour before my first set.” Those green eyes meet mine. “Why do you ask?”
“I…uh…” I swallow hard. “If you need a ride
to a hotel after you’re finished, you can leave your bags in the trunk. You can
call me when you’re done, and I can give you a ride. I mean…If you want.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “You’re very
kind. I just might take you up on that. If you’re sure it’s not too much
trouble?”
“It’s fine. I don’t think any passengers
will need to use the trunk tonight. Unless they’re disposing a body, in which
case I’ll just cram it on top of your suitcase.”
She says nothing, and instantly I feel a
wave of regret for spewing out the lame joke.
Then: “Please don’t do that,” she says
seriously. “Do you know how hard it is to get corpse smell out of fabric? I can
tell you from experience—it’s a real bitch.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror and we
simultaneously bust out laughing.
I pull up to the glowing red sign of The
Joker Lounge. Ava fumbles with her things in the backseat for a few moments.
“So, any idea what time you’d like me to
come back tonight?”
“The lounge is only open till ten. I’ll
call you through the dispatch.”
She steps out of the car, then turns to
grab her bags. She swings them over one shoulder and hoists the guitar case in
the other hand.
Before she closes the back door, she leans
down and looks over the seat at me. “Thanks for doing this. I’ll let you know
if they boo me off early. I just hope I have enough time to get fixed up.”
“It’s no trouble. And don’t worry—you could
wear a gunnysack with your hair sticking straight up and you’d still look
great.”
As soon as the words leave my lips, I
regret it. I sound like a desperate pervert. My face flushes.
She flashes a perfect smile. “Thank you.”
* * *
For the next few hours of picking up and
dropping off passengers, all I can think of is Ava.
The evening passes in a haze, and to my
shock I see that it’s nearing ten. Though I’m not tired, I stop by a drive-thru
for a coffee, just for something to occupy my brain while I wait.
I’m just taking the last sip when the
computer screen lights up and the address for the Joker Lounge appears on the
screen. Immediately, my hands clam up.
She looks different than she did hours ago.
Her hair is a flowing, golden blond, and her pale skin now has some color.
Wearing a tight pair of jeans and a black suit jacket with matching boots, she
looks fashionable and hot.
She opens the back door of the cab and puts
her bags and guitar case on the seat. Then, to my shock, she slides into the
passenger seat next to me.
As soon as she closes the door, the gentle
aroma of lavender fills the car. She clicks her seatbelt in and looks over at
me. “Thanks for keeping my suitcase safe.”
“It’s nothing, really.” I smile without
making eye contact. “Where am I taking you?”
She has a reservation at the motel just off
the highway. It’s a ways away, which suits me fine. On the trip, she asks me
how long I’ve been in the area. I briefly touch on why I’m in Ladysmith, giving
her the rosy version.
Ava tells me how she doesn’t stay in one
place long enough to call it home. More often than not, she lives out of her
suitcase at motels up and down the Island. She’s getting tired of being on the
road, but she’s been performing for years and has no idea what else she could
do. I tell her that she sounds articulate and bright, and I’m sure she’d do
fine in anything she put her mind to.
My statement makes her blush, and she
reaches over and lightly pushes my shoulder. “You don’t know me. Maybe I’m a
sociopath and I’m manipulating you into thinking good things about me.”
“You could be right. I’ve definitely been
wrong about people in the past. Especially women.”
Ava chuckles, then points ahead to the old,
blue motel on the side of the road.
After I pull up to the entrance, Ava
reaches into her bag, unearths a few bills, and places them on the dash.
“Thanks again, Mila.”
I get out and retrieve her suitcase from the
trunk. As I place it on the ground, I notice the name A. Fellows on the tag.
Her hands are full with her guitar and
smaller bags, so I follow her to the lobby door with the suitcase.
“I’m good from here,” she says with a
smile, hooking an arm through a bag handle so she can grab the suitcase. “Are
you working tomorrow evening?”
“No. I work the following afternoon. Why?”
Ava looks down at her feet. “I just thought
that maybe…if you were free…you’d like to catch one of my sets at the lounge.
I’m here for two more nights.”
I laugh. “If I’m bored?”
“Yeah, or whatever.”
“I’ll come, but not because I’ll be bored.
It’d be cool to watch you play.”
She asks for my number, and I watch her
punch it into her phone.
With that, Ava walks inside the building
and I get back into the cab. My head filled with the beautiful stranger, I
drive back to headquarters to conclude my first interesting day on the job.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this excerpt from my
newest novel, Deadly Ties. If you’d like to purchase my novel please click this
link for your choice of bookstores. Thank you, Jay
https://books2read.com/Deadly-Ties
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