Joseph Fletcher paced across his bedroom pulling tight the belt of his silk dressing gown. He swept back the blinds and could see the faintest lightening of the dawn over the slate grey water of the strait. The moon hung still high and bright in the pearly morning darkness.
"Damn it Matthews. How, in God's name, are they doing it?"
Matthews was taken aback. He had worked for Joseph Fletcher as bodyguard for more than five years now. He had never heard him swear once; neither would he permit his employees to swear in his presence. Matthews had heard that lecture many times. "It is common and boorish and reveals your base origins when you use the language of the streets. I wish to be surrounded by gentlemen."
The fact that he swore now as he paced up and down was a testament to just how much the early morning call had upset him.
Slight and dapper with a ramrod straight carriage and generous white hair, Joseph Fletcher appeared every inch the gentleman he portrayed himself to be. He was flawlessly groomed always and his hands soft and neatly manicured as though he never did more then read the society pages.
Matthews knew precisely what those hands were capable of and had often hidden the evidence of his employer's predilections. He had seen those cool grey eyes grow cold and icy and he knew he never wanted that gaze focused on him.
***
When the telephone had rung at just after 4 AM this morning, Matthews had left his customary post, outside of the bedroom door, to answer it. When he had understood the nature of the call, he had put them on hold and had ventured into the bedroom to awaken his employer. He was relieved to find him alone.
Mr. Fletcher had taken the call in the library, though he did not stay seated at his desk in the pool of light cast by the antique bronze tiffany lamp. He had placed the call on speaker phone and paced up and down in the long shadows of the room. Matthews had heard and didn't hear, the raised voices from where he stood, hands clasped, in front of the library door.
"Anatoli Sidorov was little more than a thug. That is not the point," Fletcher said. "How are these fucking tree-huggers, taking out our own people? I know that it's them; they make it clear with their posing of the bodies and from the method of execution. I am assuming that Anatoli was the same?"
"Yes," The voice on the other end of the call affirmed. "One of his juniors came up to his place, delivering a whore, and they found him sitting up in bed with his eyes wide open.
The kid was still gagging while he was telling me. He says that they touched him and he just tilted slowly to the side and a flood of water just gushed out of his mouth and nose."
Fletcher shivered slightly in his dressing gown and then consoled himself with the fact that his own security was inviolate. No rag tag group of environmental terrorists would ever be able to lay a finger on him, he thought as his Toronto counterpart continued.
"The Russians are definitely not happy. Sidorov was the connection to the Russian processing boats that take the seals off the ice. The market is lucrative and they are nervous about it."
"Nothing is going to change," Fletcher said flatly. "This is nothing but a minor inconvenience." He paused, with eyes narrowed, to drum his fingers against the desk top considering, and then resumed his pacing as he said, "Step up your actions against the various groups, especially the ones on the Saint Lawrence. If a few more of their members start ending up dead, well, they may get the message to leave our operations alone. Was there any chance to get rid of Anatoli's body?"
"No, the stupid bitch started screaming her head off and the kid was so busy puking that the neighbors had phoned the cops before we could act on it. We don't need a copy of the coroner's report though, to know what happened to him."
"That is just fucking great," Fletcher hissed. "Call a phone conference for this afternoon. The cops will be on us like shit on a blanket AGAIN and we better ALL have our stories straight this time."
Fletcher disconnected the phone. He took a moment to collect himself, straightening his shoulders. Talking to the Ontario boss always brought out his Strathcona roots, and he hated that.
The small time hood that he had been was long buried under the prosperous façade of Joseph Fletcher.
He swept out of the library and back down the hall to his bedroom suite with Matthews trailing at a respectful distance.
***
Fletcher had been pacing for almost an hour up and down in front of the floor to ceiling windows. His view was of the manicured lawns and gardens that ran down to the rocks of the shore, drenched in the rain and the watery morning light. When his associate in Vancouver had been drowned and left posed in his own bed, Joseph had known where to lay the blame.
He had made his own discreet and sometimes not too discreet inquiries. It had become apparent that those actually directly involved with the hit had faded away into the mists, the radical population was very mobile and very hard to effectively track.
He had retaliated with beatings and arson and threats. He would have to consider harsher tactics; he needed some names.
Finally he barked at Matthews, "Wake the chef, I want breakfast in half an hour in the dining room."
When Matthews had made his discreet withdrawal, Fletcher went to the window, staring out into the dawn. His eyes focused on a small out cropping of rock just off the beach, too small to be called an island, nothing but a lone, gnarled cedar tree surrounded by clumps of hardy beach grass clung there.
As Fletcher watched, a lone seal hauled out up onto the rock.
***
Orion Gaelan was cold; the chill air raised pebbled goose flesh along his arms and legs. The rocks were worn smooth and coated with algae under his bare feet as he picked his way silently along in the darkness, moving further into the shadows under the fisherman's wharf. Above his head the wooden planks of the wharf stretched back out towards the water and he could see the dark bulk of the fishing boats tied up further out along the pier.
He had hidden clothing among the dry rock backfill of the foot of the wharf. The ornamental garden and the dense backdrop of shrubbery formed an effective screen as the land dipped towards the water creating a small semi-enclosed space like a three walled room.
He had used this space many times since he had begun to come ashore again. It was…convenient.
At first he had feared that it might be a favored haunt of the homeless who were always looking for the security of such hidden spaces, but its proximity to the water, a predisposition to flooding when the tides were high, and the overwhelming smell of the fishermen's catch were enough to keep the space deserted.
He retrieved the waterproof bag from its hiding place and pulled out the towel and garments, just as the shivering had become full-fledged tremors. He was hunched over not quite double as he used the towel to roughly rub the water and salt from his legs and lower body. He struggled to pull on his shorts and then cursed under his breath as he fought to pull the denim of his jeans up over the damp skin of his thighs. He was impatient, but after the first time he banged his head on the underside of the wooden wharf, he forced himself to calm and methodically managed to make the garment cooperate.
Once he had laid the plastic bag out on the ground and folded the towel over it he sat down to don the t-shirt, sweatshirt, and down jacket. He flipped his wet hair out of his face as he was tying his work boots, and his attention was caught by the long line of salt-encrusted pilings that ran like columns down a promenade away to the water, in ever increasing heights. The pattern of light and shadow spoke to him and he suddenly wished for his camera. I will have to come back, he thought, at a later time, another night. I need to find Liath.
By the time he had towel-dried his hair and finger-combed it he was beginning to warm inside his clothing. He tucked the towel and the waterproof bag into the small empty backpack and cast a quick look around on the ground for anything, any trace left behind.
He was overly cautious; he knew that, Liath had told him again and again that there was nothing to fear, when she had coaxed him finally to return to the land. But then Liath had never had…
His mind moved suddenly and obsessively to the image of his skin, hidden, safe at last, safe. He breathed a sigh as he held that comforting image for a moment.
Liath doesn't know, he thought, what it meant to be stranded in human form, to have lost a part of yourself and to be unable to find it. To know the terror and despair of imprisonment, only to find that the one you love has become your jailor.
No Liath didn't know what it was to beg and plead for her freedom and to have to endure the touch of the human who enslaved you, to stay month after month on the land while the love you once held in your heart soured and transformed to a bitter and hard masquerade.
She didn't know the long and sleepless nights stretched out at the side of the one who imprisoned you, for the sake of love.
Liath didn't know the months of careful observation and covert action, to solve the most important mystery of your existence; she didn't know that the overwhelming sense of relief at the long awaited reclaiming of your skin, would be slowly swallowed by the empty space that the loss of your lover left in your heart.
Liath didn't know and he hoped devoutly that she never ever would.
Swinging the pack up to one shoulder he scuttled outward until he could stand almost upright beneath the wharf, by then almost at the water's edge. After looking carefully about and noting that at this late hour the streets were deserted, he stepped out from his shelter and crossed quickly to the street.
He could cut across behind the parliament buildings and then directly across Beacon Hill Park where once he emerged onto Cook Street it was just a few short blocks to Liath and Clare's small house in Fairfield. He needed to find Liath; he needed to speak to her.
The streets and spaces behind the grand parliament buildings were deserted and dark. They held the particular kind of stillness that comes between very late night and very early morning, when the nighttime world has gone to rest and yet the daytime world still slumbers, cocooned in safety.
As he trudged along Orion thought about the past twelve hours. He shook his head ruefully.
I really just want to be left alone, he thought, but it appears that is just not to be. Christ, that woman in Stanley Park this afternoon. I just know she was from Linda; I just know it. I could feel it.
I thought for a moment she had me. It was like I couldn't move, or like I was running through mud. She was so fast. Sure she just wanted to talk…sure! And to change in broad daylight on a beach in Stanley Park in front of her! She didn't even look that surprised. I was so happy to get back in the water; fuck, if I'd have known what was going to happen I would have just travelled back here in seal form.
Beacon Hill Park was dark and shadowed with the overhanging trees, and he stayed to the pathway even through the ornamental gardens, his feet sounding hollowly over the footbridge.
I was sure that it was better to go to Ryan's place in Tswassen. He was cool about it, loaning me the clothes and the money for the ferry—shit, I HAVE to remember to mail that back to him. What are the odds, I mean really, what are the odds that Ben and Will would be sitting in the seats behind me on the ferry? I am so fucking glad they didn't see me. If they knew, that I knew, that I heard…I could just take to the water again, that would be so much….
He hitched the pack up onto his other shoulder as he paused before crossing Cook Street. He looked straight down past the park, past the long row of pools of lamplight, and could see the darkness of the ocean beyond Dallas Road.
No I can't do that, at least not until I talk to Liath and tell her what I heard.
There were no lights on in their house when Orion went through the gate and up the few steps to the front door. He knocked once sharply, and could hear the shrill barking of a small dog from the house next door. There was no response and he knocked again. The overhead porch light came on, and he said in a loud voice, "Liath it's me, Orion, let me in." The door opened and Clare stood wrapped in a robe, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
"Clare," he said. "Is Liath here? I need to speak with her."
The distress in his voice brought Clare completely awake. "Why no Orion, Liath isn't here. I believe that she is with her new beau this evening. But I know that she is supposed to play at the Esquimalt Youth Center at lunch time today so I am sure she'll be home in at most a couple of hours. Won't you come in Orion? I'll make some tea to warm you up, and then you can stretch out on the sofa for a bit while you wait for her."
A half an hour later, with the peppermint tea warm in his belly, his head propped on a spare pillow, and a worn quilt thrown over his lanky frame, Orion lay on his back on the sofa, listening to Clare's whispered, "G'night," and the soft tread of her steps back to her room.
He closed his eyes and though he felt exhausted, sleep wouldn't come. As he stared at the play of light and shadow across the ceiling he cast his mind back to the overheard conversation that so troubled his heart.
"They're doing it tonight," Ben had said in a hushed tone. "It's all planned down to the last detail. The Russian is the one they are taking out."
"Sidorov, the fucking meat packer?" Will responded, in a rumbling whisper.
"Yesss," Ben hissed his response, the excitement evident in his voice. "Archer is going to call me when it's a done deal. He and Joseph will be on the flight out to the coast before dawn. The big boys have been really turning up the heat on us in the last little while. Archer says that at least three of their guys have gone missing, vanished off the face of the earth. Joseph got dragged into an alley at a boycott march and beat up pretty bad before a cop car pulled up and they dropped him. So Archer is nervous. He wants to lay low over on one of the Gulf Islands for a bit."
Orion had sunk lower into his seat, and pulled the hood of his jacket forward to more thoroughly obscure his face.
I knew it was them, I knew it, he had thought, all those questions about what I thought should happen to the mobsters and sealers and hunters. I knew, and I just refused to see it. I wish that Becky had never confided to them that we exist. I wish Liath had never let her see…And they thought, they thought that I might help them in such an endeavor, that I would be party to their murdering revenge, because I am Selchie…
"So does that mean that the next hit is going to be out here again?" Will said in a louder more excited whisper, momentarily forgetting himself in his arousal.
"For God's sake man, keep your voice down," Ben hissed, then after a moment continued, "Archer says we will have to shuffle the list a bit so it might be us, yeah."
Orion had jumped as Ben's cell phone rang. When Ben had fished it out and answered he heard,
"You've got Ben. Hey…Archer, the project is completed? Man, that's wonderful .Not a hitch, you're good. yeah I'll be waiting at the airport for you. No, no we'll sail over. Uhh-huh…Good, all right then, see you tomorrow."
"It's done," Ben confided to Will. "Come on let's go down to the cafeteria and get a coffee, I'll tell you all about it."
Orion had heard the rustling in the seats behind him as they stood and he had strategically rolled his body to the wall as they passed by him, as though he was seeking a more comfortable position in sleep. If they had looked, and he wasn't sure they had, but if they did they would only have seen the anonymous back of a sleeping passenger.
Orion had stayed put in his seat, until the last call for vehicle drivers had sounded, and then he had moved quickly, with his hood overshadowing his face, to the foot passenger exit. There was no sign of Ben or Will. As he came up the escalator and was finally out of the terminal he walked straight past the bus stop, where the foot passengers were lining up, and he kept going out into the dark of the parking lot. When he was far enough away from the lights he started to jog.
At Lands End he made his way to the water. It was not as fast but it was safer this way, he had thought as he stripped off his clothes at the rocky edge of the shore…
Orion opened his eyes to the shadowed ceiling above him; he needed to speak to Liath. She would be able to tell him what to do with the information he had. Liath would know what to do. He wished that she were here now with her calm eyes and smiling face. As soon as she came home, he would tell her everything he knew, everything he suspected. As soon as she came home, then he would be free to return to the waves.
He turned on his side seeking a more comfortable position and eventually, as the sky outside began to lighten, he closed his eyes in a restless slumber. He closed his eyes to a dream…
Ben was trying to drown Linda, his Linda, in waist deep water just off the shore. She was calling to him as she fought and thrashed, fighting Ben's hands on her throat "Orion, help me, help me…please!"
Now Ben held her under the water and Orion could see the disturbed and churning surface of the water as the air escaped her lungs.
"Linda," he screamed, "Linda." He thought his heart would burst, but he couldn't help her, he was chained to the shore, he was a prisoner on land. The surface of the water stilled, and then Ben's cell phone began to ring.
"You've got Ben…"