Deadly Impulse

For my good friends:

Maureen, Marjorie, Millie, Rhondda, Marty,

Karen and Kay who know the value of

long-term friendships

(C) 2017 by Gwen Enquist. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system

or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of

the author.

ISBN 978-0-9783521-9-6

I wish to acknowledge Robert Scura’s articles in

PassageMaker’s e-newsletter, Channels, "A Trip Up the Pacific

Coast: Part 1 and A Trip Up the Pacific Coast: Part 2,"

March and April, 2011 respectively for their great details

on west coast cruising.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

If it hadn’t been raining so hard, waves of rain slashing across the umbrella held so tightly against her head, Kathryn wouldn’t have met him. If she hadn’t been held up a few seconds by the traffic light, or if she’d been walking closer to the edge of the sidewalk instead of next to the building, she would never have run into him as she rounded the corner. Nothing that followed would have happened.

The collision was stupendous, much like the slapstick of an Abbott and Costello movie or the prat-falls of a silent movie hero. Her umbrella took flight in the gusty rain and her packages flew to the ground, china contents crashing on impact only to be trampled by the drab crowd rushing to escape the rain.

She fell with the collision and had to struggle to her feet tearing her tights as they scraped over the cement. She looked hopelessly at her packages and at the tall man towering over her.

He grunted, Sorry, moved to walk away then noticed the extent of the damage. Her tights were ragged, her coat smudged with sidewalk dirt, hat and hair now limp under the deluge, makeup had washed from her face with streaks of mascara running like dirty rivers down her cheeks.

She peered at the wreckage of packages around her and wailed, Sorry! That was a gift for my parents’ anniversary. Can’t you look where you’re going? She kicked at the packages in frustration.

I could say the same to you, he said calmly, picking up the packages and dismissing them as totally destroyed.

I could have been hurt, she continued, wiping rain from her face and smearing the mascara over her nose. She dabbed a gloved finger at the torn tights, took the trashed gift from his hands and moaned.

Your umbrella nearly poked me in the eye, he said, his surly manner giving her no hope that hers was a one-sided grievance. His deep voice matched his looks, dark and brooding, greying hair peeked out under his hat brim which was pulled low over his face. He clutched a tweed overcoat tightly to his throat to ward off the rain.

As he stepped around her, she started to sob, gulping back tears that mixed with the rain.

Oh, for godsake. Now you’re going to cry?

The sobs continued. He knew he’d regret his next statement.

I’m going for a coffee. If you want to come that would be alright, he said ungraciously. He turned and started walking.

She dumped the ruined packages in a trash container at the edge of the sidewalk.

What the hell, she sputtered and joined him. I might as well. My day is already ruined.

How ungenerous of you, he said as they walked.

My gifts are ruined and your invitation lacked enthusiasm.

Oh, for godsake. Do you want coffee or not?

Yes, she said, but I hope it’s not Starbuck’s, as they stopped in front of a Starbuck’s café.

Now what’s the matter?

Never mind. A pause. It’s awful coffee, she muttered.

Have an espresso. It’ll pick you up. He didn’t hold the door for her and she had to push against it as she trailed him inside. The place was crowded with shoppers escaping the downpour and the air heavy with the smell of wet wool and roasted coffee.

He brought each of them an espresso without asking if she wanted it and sat across from her. He removed his hat and shook the water from it onto the floor. His full head of greying hair topped a surprisingly youthful face. She noticed a small scar at the corner of his mouth and wondered at its origin. Of course, he hadn’t smiled so his teeth were still a mystery.

As they sat across from each other, he took in her lavender turtle-neck sweater that fit loosely over a grey skirt and the torn black tights. His eyes flickered.

With the initial confrontation over, neither found anything offensive in the other, seemed, in fact, content to say nothing and watch the rushing crowds out the window. They sat there for a few minutes as they downed the bitter coffee, their little eye contact furtive while not a word was spoken.

Why did you come? he finally said.

Are you always so blunt?

Yes. People tend to tell the truth that way.

She crossed her arms over her chest. I wanted to get out of the rain, she said.

See. You were honest. He started to rise then stopped. I come here every day at three, he said and cocked his head as if he’d asked a question instead of blurting a fact. He rose and donned his hat.

Thank you, she said, for the coffee, a softening in her voice.

Mmm, he mumbled, jutting his chin in emphasis. He pulled a wallet from his pocket and threw a hundred dollar bill on the table. For your parents’ anniversary, he said.

Three o’clock every day, she acknowledged with a nod. I’ll remember.

And then he left. She sat, stunned for a moment that he was gone so quickly, then stunned at his generous gesture. She hadn’t said thank you; she hadn’t found the words. She’d say thank you tomorrow, at three o’clock.

She got up from the table. It was still raining with heavy gusts of wind slashing the rain against the windows. Her umbrella had been destroyed along with the gift. She looked outside with dismay and wrapped her coat around her, pulled on her hat and started for her car parked underground around the corner. By the time she reached the shelter of the parking garage, rain was running down her neck inside her clothes. Her skin crawled with the dampness as if, in a fugue state, she’d put on a wet sweater instead of waiting for it to dry.

She should have worn boots. Now her shoes squished with water and the leather would be ruined. They were her favourite walking shoes. This day that had started so well with enthusiasm about buying the anniversary gift had gone downhill fast. Vancouver weather, she should be used to it.

Who was the mystery man? He certainly seemed in the money. A bit of a creature of habit if he went to the same Starbuck’s every day at the same time. Maybe he just worked in the area so it was a handy café for a break. As she drove, her thoughts continued to circle around the unexpected meeting. He was good looking in a mature sort of way. That grey hair added substance to his square jaw and weathered face. He had a suntan in the spring. A skier, maybe a Mexico holiday? One way or the other, he had money. She’d have to thank him for his generosity, despite his aloof behaviour.

Pulling into her driveway she saw that Stefan’s car was already there. He was home early from his meeting. As she entered the hallway, the mouth-watering aroma of marinara sauce simmering on the stove suddenly made the day better. Everything was better when Stefan cooked Italian.

Stefan glanced over at Kathryn standing in the doorway. Oh, wow, what happened to you? You look like you’ve been picked up by a whirlwind and dropped back to earth.

I feel like it too. But it’s just an accident in front of the Starbuck’s at Georgia and Seymour.

Did you get hurt? More concerned now, Stefan stopped stirring the sauce and directed attention to his wife.

My knees are scraped, and my pride. She pulled at the tattered tights which caused drops of blood to seep into the cotton. I’d better get cleaned up. I think I’ll have a shower too. Dinner smells terrific.

She discarded her clothes, hung up the skirt and tossed the sweater into the laundry. The tights went into the trash container under the bathroom sink. The shower was hot and soothing after the clamminess of her clothes. Careful around her knees, she cleaned the scrapes with soap. After toweling dry she covered the injuries with Polysporin and Band-Aids and, dressed in jeans and shirt, she joined Stefan in the kitchen where he was pouring a glass of red wine.

You look like this would go down well, he said handing it to her. Carling phoned while you were in the shower. She said your twentieth school reunion is coming up and they’ve started planning.

Wow. Where did those twenty years go? She thought about this for a moment. I’ll call her after dinner.

They sipped wine together, Stefan intent on salad making, now, while Kathryn set the table. Dinner was almost silent. They’d been doing a lot of that lately, each thinking their own thoughts, their worlds touching on the domestic front while their personal lives dragged along at glacial speed. Kathryn recognized that tedium had crept into her life and she regarded Stefan across the table. He was focused on the news, softly filling the kitchen with talk that would otherwise be silent.

How did your meeting go? she asked in an effort to engage. Stefan was a structural engineer and worked with a large company that contracted to build office and apartment buildings.

Huh? The meeting. Okay, I guess. The owners want to push back finalizing the deal to June fifteenth. They’re waiting on some money. Not a big problem. He took a swallow of wine then returned to his food. He was the type of person who chewed every bite multiple times. When they were first married, she used to count his chews, constantly amazed at the focus he gave to food. Now, with each meal, irritation rather than amazement surfaced and only subsided when his plate was empty.

Do you have to work tomorrow? she said.

He looked up, fork in the air. Sorry, did you say something?

No, nothing. She waited a beat. The marinara sauce is good, she said.

Yeah. Great recipe. Spaghetti claimed his attention. Stefan had been a good cook long before Kathryn had met him. His mother was a short-order cook for thirty years and taught Stefan all the basics which he brought with him to married life. She remembered the first time he invited her to dinner at his apartment. He cooked beef Stroganoff over egg noodles, accompanied by a nice Burgundy with Crème Chocolat for dessert. She was entranced. He never disappointed in the kitchen.

A soft sigh escaped her lips.

A clock ticked in the silence counting the beats of her life.

She felt the familiar lassitude of another evening envelope her. Evenings were as predictable as sunset. Dinner was the highlight after which they cleaned up the kitchen together, then, would go to the den to watch the evening news on three different channels. Stefan was a news junkie. Rather than listening to the never-ending news, hour after hour and the broadcasts that revisited tragedies for days claiming the public can’t get enough of this story, Kathryn drifted into a reverie which lasted until Stefan turned his attention to the maps he collected and studied with such fervor. Kathryn would sit beside him and read anything at hand, mostly novels of her book club’s choosing. The silence crawled towards bedtime, where, after a good night kiss to Robbie’s bedside picture and a perfunctory kiss to each other, they turned on their sides and waited for sleep to come.

Tonight, as she lay in bed, the mystery man claimed her thoughts. It must be because she’s lying down as she was on the sidewalk, she thought. She could still picture him bending over her from a great height, a big head with a hulking mass of shoulders. So different from Stefan who was tall but lean and wiry and not the least bit grey. She realized with a start that she hadn’t told Stefan about him and wondered why. Now, with Stefan resting beside her she could easily bring it up as an amusing story and they both could marvel at the generosity of the stranger. But she didn’t and it didn’t occur to her to question that choice.

* * *

Good afternoon, Mr. Wolfe. Lawrence, the doorman in peaked cap and navy uniform, opened the door for Lucien Wolfe. Lucien strode past Lawrence smiling and giving a little salute to the man who was the door-keeper of the most expensive condo building in Vancouver. As he shook his hat and coat, Lucien trailed rain water across the marble floor to the elevator. As much as Lucien liked luxury, he always thought the waterfall-feature in the lobby was unnecessary in a city where rain often came in deluges, like today. It was like the building was trying too hard.

An elevator took him to the penthouse without stopping and the door opened directly into his apartment. Before him was the panorama of the Vancouver skyline. Rain or shine it was magnificent with the north shore mountains framing the view on one side and the ocean stretching out from the other glass wall.

Lucien dropped his coat and hat onto a chair in the foyer, ran a hand through his hair as he walked into the living room. He stopped abruptly.

What are you doing here? he said to the woman sitting on the sofa, feet up and lounging as if she belonged there. She wore a grey cashmere sweater that showcased her assets and black leather pants that blended with the couch. Red hair in soft waves to her shoulders had been the first thing that Lucien had noticed years ago when they met. Since then he’d noticed her propensity to stray. Why did Lawrence let you in?

I’m still your wife, Corrine said. Although you’d never know it by the way you’re so hostile.

I’ll have to inform Lawrence, again, he emphasized, that we’ve separated. He poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. What do you want? He took an initial swallow, then, stood holding the glass, eyes fixed on his wife.

Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?

You drink enough on your own time. What do you want? Exasperation in his voice.

Mouth now in a grim line Corrine stood up and walked to the window. With her back to Lucien she said, "My lawyer wants another go at the terms. He’s not satisfied that you’ve