The Boy From Under

~~~

THE BOY FROM UNDER

by Craig Spence

Copyright 2018, Craig Spence Writer

Chemainus, BC

craigspencewriter.ca

ISBN 978-0-9739800-4-2

Other Books by Craig Spence

Josh & the Magic Vial (YA Fiction)

Einstein Dog (YA Fiction)

Blowdown (General Fiction)

~~~

Introduction

Victor Daly, The Boy From Under, is one of the few people in this world who remembers the day he was born. His 'eyes blinked open' and he found himself in a hospital room in Langley, British Columbia...

For him all time had collapsed into that precise moment, his past gone, even the concept of a past non-existent. Only later, much later, would he realize that he should have had one, that something had been lost, like a shiny object fluttering to the bottom of a very deep well, then sinking into the yielding sediment…

Adopted by Richard and Nora Daly after surviving a bizarre, near fatal accident on a country road crossing the Salmon River gully, Victor's submerged past doesn't prevent him from becoming a successful family court lawyer, freedom loving bachelor, and celebrated erotic photo-artist.

He's perfectly happy with his well-to-do, single lifestyle until he's hit by a double-whammy when: he meets Maria Selkirk, who's looking to get a divorce from her shipping magnate and crime boss husband Laurence; and sees a TV special about Crystal Doer, the teenage subject of a 35 year-old unsolved missing-person case.

Tension mounts as he tries to maintain moral, legal and professional balance in the face of love, murderous hatred and self-doubt, his world become a place where Machiavellian ethics – not to mention outright insanity – rule.

~~~

Author Craig Spence lives in Chemainus, B.C. His first novel Josh and the Magic Vial was nominated for the B.C. Book Prize; and his second Einstein Dog, for the Chocolate Lily Award of the B.C. School Librarians Association. He is a journalist, communications specialist and – above all – novelist. Find out more at CraigSpenceWriter.ca.

~~~

Chapter 1

Abducted

Sunday, August 13, 1972 – He waited east of the intersection of Harris and Riverside roads. Albert Doer would take a right turn there, heading to Abbotsford. He would glance left, just long enough to make sure there was no oncoming traffic, then pull out. He wouldn’t notice a white panel van parked on the shoulder about two hundred yards away. Why should he? Albert had no reason to suspect anything. Besides, by the time they got around to reporting what was about to happen the Doers wouldn’t remember a detail so inconsequential. And if they did? There were thousands of white panel vans in the Lower Mainland. This one would be scrap.

Frank inhaled and exhaled slowly. On the brink of the unthinkable he felt more alive than ever, fed off the monstrous energy of his plan.

Oh! What a feeling; what a rush! The lyrics came to him out of the blue. He winced, hated Rock n’ Roll and everything the song stood for. But you couldn’t control what the brain connected to, and he had to admit the music expressed his state of mind pretty well. It was the type of song Crystal Doer would be listening to, he guessed. That’s why it had come to him. Maybe it was being broadcast that very moment by one of the Vancouver radio stations polluting the airwaves with their smut. Maybe Crystal was tuned in, lying on her stomach, on her bed, letting its rhythms infect her.

Frank grunted, rested his head against the steering wheel, concentrating. Her last few times at church she had pouted like an underpaid harlot. Then stopped attending altogether. And the Doers let her get away with it. They were sinners. Worse sinners than Crystal. Hadn’t they allowed her to inhale the contaminating dust of Sodom and Gomorra, still circling the globe?

Good fruit can spring from crooked limbs. he muttered.

Suddenly there they were! The Doers followed his script exactly. Albert stopped, glanced left, then turned right. Crystal, as expected, was not in the car. She would not be going to church that day.

~

She didn’t mean to make her parents angry, but couldn’t help it either. The shudder of the front door slamming still echoed through the empty house. Crystal wanted to care, wanted to stop the hurt in her father’s eyes. But the devil had got into her. That’s how her parents saw it. She winced. Christian crap, she called their lectures. They went on and on and on about how much they loved her, God loved her, Jesus loved her…

Stop it!

The house absorbed her tantrum. God, how she hated the place. Its walls, plush carpets and chintzy furniture absorbed her outrage as effectively as a padded cell, where she was forced to breathe in a middle-class miasma of freshened air, lingering tendrils of her mother’s perfume, shoe polish – the atmosphere was cloying, but Crystal couldn’t leave. Not yet. And that made her even angrier.

Beau padded up to the sofa and prodded her with his moist, rubbery nose. He placed his head on her stomach and she stroked his chocolate brown fur mindlessly. At least there was one being in the Doer household everyone loved unconditionally. It was so easy to love Beau. Nobody expects you to be perfect, she said, patting him. You already are, I guess. His irrepressible tale banged against the coffee table, a drumbeat of affection. He’d sensed her sadness, knew instinctively what to do.

The sound of an approaching vehicle disturbed them. Beau woofed uncertainly, trotting over to the living room window.

Shit! Her parents must have had second thoughts. They’d come back, were going to argue with her some more. Make her go to church. No way, she vowed, closing her eyes against them.

Beau woofed again, louder. Then he let loose a long string of barks that merged into a sort of howl. Alarmed, Crystal bolted off the sofa and hurried over to the living-room window. What’s wrong? she said, peeking out through the chink in the curtains. A white van had backed into their drive. She didn’t recognize the vehicle, but when the driver’s door sprang open, she did recognize Mr. Umbach from church. What does he want?

She didn’t like Umbach. Creep! You could tell he was thinking you naked whenever he looked at you, and judging you at the same time. He was nothing but an old lecher. There were others like him, but he was the worst of the old goats. For a second she thought of hiding, pretending she wasn’t in. He’d think she’d gone with her parents. But he caught a glimpse of her at the window, and waved stiffly. She’d have to open the door, explain that her parents had already left. No doubt he’d be wondering why she wasn’t with them. Why had he come to their house? It didn’t make any sense. His rap at the door cut short Crystal’s uneasy thoughts.

~~~

Chapter 2

Near Fatal at the Salmon River Bridge

Friday, September 18, 1978 - Darlene Cassels followed the centre line along 56th Avenue, white knuckling it. Tufts of fog brushed against the windscreen like old ladies’ hair: thin and silvery. She smiled. Sometimes she thought the strangest things, coming home from work. No wonder, she griped. By the time her shifts at the Rendezvous Pub finished she was a basket case: legs like sandbags, head thumping to the good-old country and western beat, lungs dry as an old man’s wheeze.

For a brief spell, after climbing the hill past 232nd, things cleared and she enjoyed a view of the full moon sailing in the night sky. Then the car lurched forward and she descended into the Salmon River gully. Darlene tightened her grip again, muttering a curse. Even on clear nights the steep switchbacks made her nervous; in heavy fog it felt as if she was flying by instruments.

For Christ’s sake! she grumbled, mad at herself, mad at the Rendezvous, mad at the world.

Then it happened.

Actually, the fog saved him... or it... or whatever you wanted to call the skinny waif that appeared out of nowhere. Had the night been clear, she would have been driving faster. She’d hit a possum once. It materialized in the glare of her headlights, lumbered onto the road, met its end with a sickening thump-crunch under her mashing tires. She didn’t even stop that time. Didn’t dare look in the rear view mirror.

The Boy appeared suddenly too, a formulation of mist. For years – forever – that ghostly form would haunt Darlene. In the instant before impact she barely had time to recognize the apparition for what it was. She slammed on the brakes and prayed God Almighty would prevent what surely had to happen from happening. The car slewed left. She released the brakes for a second and it veered into the opposite lane. Maybe, in a half-assed way, God had answered. She knew she was going to hit the kid, and remembered the sound of his tiny body bumping against the side of her car – like a bird, really... no more of a jolt than that. But because the car had changed direction it struck him a glancing blow, not head on.

Thank the Lord!

Then everything went deathly silent, except for the scream that tore out of her as the Pinto shuddered to a stop.

After that, recollection blurred. She scrambled out of her car, ran around to the passenger side, and found the boy lying face up on the road.

Fuck!

She had enough first aid to feel for a pulse. The boy’s heart was pumping a mile a minute, but he wasn’t breathing. Mouth to mouth! Now! She’d never done it before, not on a real, live victim. Kneeling beside him, she pinched his nose, yanked open his jaw and sealed her lips against his tiny mouth.

Please God!

Again, her prayer was answered. After one or two puffs, the boy gasped, like a creature emerging from the womb, sucking in the life sustaining air. He wasn’t conscious, but he was breathing. It was more than she could have hoped. A salvation of sorts, because if she had killed him... Darlene Cassels couldn’t bear to think it.

~

Just when you thought you’d seen it all something came along that blew you away. Constable Tom Cochran knew Darlene Cassels from his rounds of the neighbourhood watering holes, showing the flag. He liked her, but had to stow that in a compartment somewhere out of sight, out of mind. He’d driven her to the station, taken a breathalyzer sample, which she’d offered willingly, then asked a few preliminary questions. He’d be muscled out of the picture pretty quick, though. He was sure of that.

Am I a suspect? she asked.

We have to investigate all possibilities. That’s how these things go.

He couldn’t say any different of course. But in Constable Cochran’s mind she was already ruled out. She’d left work at about one-thirty, hit the kid at one-forty-five, and had him to the hospital by two. The investigating officer would check with her boss and fellow employees, of course, but if she’d left the Rendezvous when she said, and if there were skid marks that matched her description of events out at the Salmon Creek bridge, that would pretty well rule her out. How the kid had ended up on a collision course with her Pinto was anybody’s guess, but Darlene Cassels didn’t have anything to do with it. She just happened to be passing by on a trajectory that intersected with the victim’s.

Who was and was not a suspect wouldn’t be for him to determine of course. Regional headquarters would be all over this one, and the media. Constable Cochran had been around long enough to know how things played out. They’d have to release details about the file in the hopes of identifying the kid; that would trigger a frenzy of media attention. This file had front page stamped all over it.

His watch commander Staff Sergeant Vince Loewen hadn’t minced words. If there’s a god damned piece of lint on her collar, bag it, man, he’d said. In other words, don’t screw up, because there would be microscopes within microscopes trained on everyone involved, and the biggest eyeball of all would be Superintendent Bruce McCallum’s. You don’t want to get his blood pressure up, now, do you?

No, Constable Cochran agreed, he didn’t.

Darlene Cassels said she had no idea who the victim was. That would be checked out, too.

Do you have any children, Darlene?

No, she said glumly. He’d touched a nerve.

That’s it for now, he concluded.

I’m okay to go?

No, he answered, allowing a hint of apology. We’ll have to get a statement first, that will be up to the investigating officer. We’ll be keeping your car for a while. Forensics will want to go over it…

You’re making me feel like a criminal, for Christ’s sake!

It’s routine, Constable Cochran assured her.

How will I get home? To work tomorrow?

The investigating officer will get you home once he’s got information for a statement.

Who’s this ‘investigating officer’ going to be?

Don’t know, he shrugged. Want a coffee?

Nodding, she sagged in the hard backed chair on the other side of the interview room table, exhausted. Constable Cochran was pretty sure her greetings during his next few walk-throughs of the Rendezvous would be chilly. Couldn’t be helped.

We all have jobs to do, he thought glumly.

~

Shit, Ryan Ansell grumbled, pulling into a spot half a block from the Langley RCMP detachment. The Vancouver Province was already there, CKNW, CBC. BCTV. He slammed the car door and jogged the rest of the way. What the hell ever happened in Langley except horses and cows? Whatever was going down, the local constabulary were being pretty tight lipped. In fact, they’d punted the item up to regional HQ, a development which had its up side and its down: in the plus column, it would be easy to get the basic facts about the story; on the down, they would be the facts and nothing but the facts that the RCMP brass wanted the pack to feed on. Everyone would have the same news. When he’d phoned about their terse release to see if he could winkle out a few details, the receptionist wouldn’t even put him through to Superintendent what’s-his-name. McCallum, he reminded himself.

Something big was in the pipe, though. Ryan felt it in his bones. He’d phoned a few contacts to see if he could get a jump on the story – that had contributed to his tardiness – but if any of them knew anything, nobody was saying. So all he had were the sparse details from a release that had come in by fax at nine that morning, simply announcing the time and place of the news conference and directing reporters to be there at eleven. He’d be under the gun if he wanted to get an item into the final edition. It would have to be a Second Coming type story for his editor to go with it.

On his way in Ryan noted a payphone in the lobby. If the item was going to run, he’d have to call it in, and the quicker the better. The receptionist directed him to a conference room and Ryan squeezed through the crowd, taking a spot at the end of the table closest to the door. Camera crews were still setting up and radio reporters were jostling to place their microphones in a bouquet at the head of the table. He hadn’t missed anything. The spokespersons for today were a cop and a doctor, Ryan noted. They were dressed for the occasion, the cop in uniform, the doctor in a suit and tie. Ryan didn’t know either of them. Obviously every news outlet in the Lower Mainland had read the RCMP communiqué the same way his assignment editor had: it didn’t say much, which left a lot to say. Ryan tuned into the buzz in the room to see if anybody had any details. Too bad he didn’t have a photographer with him, he thought...

Good morning, the cop said. My name is Superintendent Bruce McCallum and this is Doctor Andre Zalewski, Head of Pediatrics at Langley Memorial Hospital. Constable Don Driedger here... he gestured toward a young man in uniform... will hand out details of our remarks in a moment, but I want to begin by saying we’ve asked you here to help with an investigation that is currently underway. We won’t be able to give you much information, but we’ll do our best to answer questions.

Superintendent McCallum paused, scanning the room, then picked up a prepared statement that had been sitting face-down in front of him.

At about two o’clock this morning the Langley Detachment of the RCMP responded to a call from Langley Memorial Hospital. A child had been brought in by a civilian, after having been struck by her car in the vicinity of Salmon Creek and 56th Avenue. The child is in serious but stable condition. He has not regained consciousness and remains in a coma. We estimate the age of this child to be four to five years...

A murmur circulated through the room forcing Superintendent McCallum to pause.

"We are looking for the parents of this child, and ask them to please come forward and identify themselves to the RCMP. The boy has brown hair and blue eyes. He weighs about 35 pounds and is just over three-and-a-half feet tall. You will find more details and contact information in the sheets Constable Driedger is handing out. I ask you to please emphasize that information in your stories, ladies and gentlemen. The child was unattended when he was struck. We have no idea who his parents are, or what the child was doing out at that time of night. There is nothing to suggest that the driver of the vehicle that struck the boy knew him.

At this time we cannot provide more information. Obviously we are concerned that we do not compromise an ongoing investigation, but it is crucial that we find the parents or guardians of this child. Doctor Zalewski and I are prepared to take questions.

For a millisecond the room stood poised on the edge of incredulity. Then all of a sudden everyone wanted answers and Superintendent McCallum had to hold up his hands like a traffic cop.

~

Richard shook his head. What was the world coming to? I mean, four years old, for god’s sake. How could anyone dump a four-year-old in the middle of the night?

Nora, who was gathering the dishes from the dining room table agreed, but said nothing. Nothing needed saying. On second thought, though, she cautioned against hasty conclusions. We don’t know if the child was ‘dumped’, Richard, she corrected. Maybe he wandered away from home or something.

He looked over his shoulder from the kitchen sink, his hands still immersed in the warm, soupy water. Come on, Nora! he objected. If the kid had been lost, surely somebody would have reported it by now.

No getting around that. But his wife simply didn’t have it in her to condemn. She was forever finding excuses, even for the most heinous crimes. Maybe the parents of this child were living in poverty. Perhaps they were poorly educated, or mentally unstable, or had marital problems. Or, or, or.

No matter what, Nora would suggest mitigating circumstances. She was more New Democrat than Christ was Christian: no one was beyond the pale of social responsibility as far as Nora Daly was concerned. What? she frowned. Richard turned back to the dishes, still smiling. Her understanding went beyond forgiveness. Forgiving meant condemning, and condemnation was an instinct you wouldn’t find in Nora Daly’s DNA. She was perfectly innocent – not naive, but infuriatingly innocent. That was one of the things he loved most about her. He hoped he would never be humbled by her capacity to forgive.

Forgiveness? He turned the word over in his thoughts, but refused to crack it open.

The Boy. Funny how the media came up with phrases that encapsulated a situation. The Boy’s temporary name was perfectly anonymous, yet somehow tragic. It captured nuances of the child’s circumstance without saying anything, really. He and Nora had watched the coverage on the six o’clock news after reading about it in the final edition of the Vancouver Sun, which Richard sometimes bought on his way home. The details were sketchy: just enough information to breed speculation.

Funny, Nora said, grabbing a dishcloth. Some of us want kids and can’t seem to have them; others have ‘em and don’t seem to want ‘em.

He let the observation pass. It wasn’t meant to be remarked on really. One way or another they would have kids. Someday. They were too perfect not to: perfect lovers, perfect friends, and destined to be perfect parents. Well, maybe not perfect, but pretty darn close, Richard allowed.

What! Nora snapped the dishcloth at him, laughing at his Cheshire grin.

~

The Boy’s eyes blinked open. For him all time had collapsed into that precise moment, his past gone, even the concept of a past non-existent. Only later, much later, would he realize that he should have had one, that something had been lost, like a shiny object fluttering to the bottom of a very deep well, then sinking into the yielding sediment...

Oh!

A face peering down at him made him want to smile. But he frowned instead. He wanted to say something. But what? Here was a perfect stranger, the first person he’d encountered in his new world, and he couldn’t think of a word to say. So he waited.

Oh my god! Nurse Caitlin Beskau cried. You’re awake!

In other circumstances, he might have questioned her reaction. After all, the mere act of waking wasn’t miraculous. He knew nothing of climbing out from under the Salmon River bridge; being side swiped by Darlene Cassels in her Ford Pinto. Nor did he know about the police investigation or the breaking story centered on him – he was in the eye of a hurricane, was the eye of a hurricane.

Nurse Beskau smiled brightly and stroked his hair. He flinched. But a tingle of electricity shot up and down his spine, and for the very first time in his new life, he did want to smile. He could not formulate his feelings into any sort of articulate sound, but he was grateful for Nurse Beskau’s radiance and the sensation of her hand smoothing his fine, brown hair.

After she left the room to get Doctor Zalewski, The Boy never saw her again.

~~~

Chapter 3

The Evening News

He jabbed the up button, as if the office tower had ribs, a central nervous system, a brain that could sense his impatience. Off to his left a pair of high heels clicked a staccato against the foyer tiles; he resisted an urge to glance, guessing by the resolute tapping that the approaching woman must be in a state of near-panic, late for work or an appointment. As she got closer, though, he recalibrated. Something in the cadence signaled urgent but calm efficiency. The bell dinged, the door whooshed opened, her pace quickened to a trot as Victor stepped on board. Turning to face the selection panel, he depressed the hold button – not something he’d normally do, but the thought of her glaring as the doors clamped shut unsettled him.

Thank you, she said, stepping on board.

Floor?

Twenty-three.

Same as me.

The woman returned his quick smile. Auburn hair, fashionably mussed; jean jacket with upturned collar, opened to reveal a T-shirt with a rhinestone starburst stitched onto its chest; tight jeans. Most certainly not a secretary or professional woman, Victor judged. Model? Actress? The frank curiosity of her pale green eyes surprised him. She was on the point of saying something, when the elevator lurched into its ascent, sending the blood rushing into Victor’s legs. He hated elevators, kept his eye on the digital floor readout to hide his discomfiture.

They hurtled up in silence, but he could feel those inquisitive green eyes of hers taking him in on the periphery. Who was she? Did he know her? His body elongated with the force of deceleration, the elevator jerked to a stop, the doors rumbled open. Twenty-third, he announced with a nervous grin. She stepped off first, waited, walked with him down the carpeted hall. Victor Daly? she asked, by way of introduction. He nodded. I’m your nine o’clock. Maria Selkirk. When he looked surprised she added, I recognize you from the picture on your web site.

Then you've seen my good side, he quipped, shaking her slender hand, oddly aware of how small and cool it felt inside his own. Is there a bad? she teased. They laughed as he held opened his office door.

Half-an-hour later he had an outline of Maria Selkirk’s petition scribbled on his legal pad. Married seven years; wealthy by any standard; one child, Aaron; husband Laurence Selkirk, high flyer in the shipping and airline industries; extramarital affairs documented by a private investigator. She wanted a divorce. But Maria Selkirk wanted more. She wanted her husband out of her life.

Based on the information you’ve given me, you could make a case for divorce with generous support payments for yourself and Aaron, he said gingerly. Have you thought of alternatives, though?

Such as?

Counseling, that sort of thing.

She frowned. A lawyer is what I need right now, Mr. Daly, she said.

He sighed. I am a lawyer, he countered, perhaps more emphatically than necessary. Then added by way of corroborating argument, The court will consider favorably any efforts you have made to restore your family relationship, Maria.

Not applicable in this case. There’s no point trying; I don’t’ even want to pretend to try.

Why? A judge would be interested in your answer, too – especially if your husband’s lawyer raises the question and points out how hard he’s tried.

If my husband really was what he seems, a garden house philanderer, I wouldn’t be sitting here in your office, Mr. Daly, Maria said. I’d be trying to work things out, as you suggest. But Laurence is not who he seems. He’s handsome, has a veneer of culture, and all the tribal markings of success – yes. He treats people decently for appearance’s sake. But... She paused, looking miserable.

You want sole custody. But what, Maria?

It’s difficult to explain.

You have to understand, the court won’t place any stock in your feelings. A judge needs very good reasons if he's going to limit your husband’s access. In the view of the court it is in the best interests of the child to maintain a relationship with both parents, and that takes precedence. I’m not being personal here, please understand, but in my experience the court tends to see arguments against liberal access as vindictive...

The law is an ass!

And blind to boot, he agreed. But it’s that guy up on the bench we have to convince, Maria, and unless you have a really good case I cannot, in good faith, recommend an application for restricted access. Have there been instances of physical abuse against you or Aaron, recklessness that could be construed as endangerment, that sort of thing? There’s no way what you have presented so far would persuade a judge to grant anything other than joint custody. In fact, an aggressive application for sole custody and limited access might undermine your own standing. We have to do what – in the court’s opinion – is best for Aaron.

Thank you for your time, she said abruptly, picking up her purse and heading for the door. He moved to usher her out, but she waved him off. I’ll find my own way, she insisted.

She left a vacuum in her wake, which troubled Victor. Maria Selkirk was beautiful, no denying it, but that didn’t explain how she’d sucked all the air out of the room when she made her abrupt exit, leaving him short of breath.

He scanned the lines of notes he had taken in his cramped, tidy hand. If a stranger reviewed them, what kind of conclusions would they draw about Maria Selkirk. Well heeled, unhappy and cheated in marriage, braced for the emotional wreckage of divorce. He tore the sheets off his legal pad and inserted them into a folder, which he would add to the stack on his desk. 'Selkirk,