CHAPTER 4

Old Gord is white and grouchy, and his home is known as the Edge House because it stands equidistant between the old site of S. Inlet and the new. Edge House is the only building not relocated, emptied or razed during the great move. All Gord had to do was take up sitting on his backyard porch instead of his front porch, in order to have sight of the church steeple while putting away beers and frowning judgmentally at the passersby, as is his wont.

He narrows his eyes with menace as he spots Aglakti and the stranger approach, the latter limping and stumping along stiffly like someone in the final stages of syphilis.

This observation informs Gord's opening remarks, belting out across the street in a gravelly baritone: "Why don't you go see a doctor, you goddamn pervert?"

He horks in the grass as punctuation.

"Hi Gord," calls Aglakti. "Can we talk to you a sec?"

"What for?"

"This is Mr. Mississauga, from the Ministry of the Environment. He's here to help us out -- trying to get to the bottom of things, and whatever." She pushes her glasses up on her forehead and flashes the old man a girlish smile.

Old Gord frowns. "Why should I give a shit, young lady?"

Mr. Mississauga takes a lurching step forward. "Without a solution to this problem, the tourists will stay away. Without tourists, your town will die, sir."

"I wouldn't want you getting no syphilis on my doorknobs."

"I don't have syphilis, sir."

"So why do you walk like a crank then, taxman?"

"I have two artificial legs, sir," explains Mr. Mississauga. He tugs up the hem of his trousers, exposing the plastic and metal shaft of his left shin.

Old Gord's face softens. He lifts his own left leg which ends above the ankle. "I lost mine in Korea. What about you?"

"Thalidomide poisoning, sir."

"Huh," says Old Gord thoughtfully. He picks up his cane and pushes himself upright. "That's a goddamn crying shame. Come on in why don't you? Don't dawdle with the screen open -- it lets in those Christ-forsaken black flies."

The inside of the Edge House is musty. Sun-bleached black and white photographs line the walls, long dead people staring out through soft vignettes in wooden frames painted with flaking gold leaf: some are somber women tied into Burqua-like Victorian dresses, some are dirty-faced soldiers grinning around cigarettes, arms on each other's shoulders or making the V sign. In the livingroom there are medals pinned over the fireplace in a neat row underlining a massive oil portrait of a young Queen Elizabeth II.

Old Gord lowers himself into the middle of a loveseat, gestures at two dusty easychairs for his guests. "So what can I do you for?" he wheezes, resting his cane against a porcelain statue of Mother Mary whose bosom has been stained dark by repeated contact with the cane's mouldering leather handle.

Mr. Mississauga has his bright yellow notebook ready. "I understand you've been experiencing nothing out of the ordinary during the nights, sir."

"That's so. I'm a Christian."

Mr. Mississauga stares into Gord's face, his chocolate brown eyes uncritical. Gord shifts in the loveseat, sniffs, and then decides to continue: "I know you government bastards think we're all trying to pull one over on the world, but I'm here to tell you it ain't the case. There's no trick to it, but there is a pattern. It ain't random, if you follow me, what happens at night. It ain't random at all."

Aglakti furrows her brow. "What pattern, Gord? What are you talking about?"

"That's enough sass, young lady," snaps Gord. He turns back to face Mr. Mississauga. "It's the sinners, Mr. Miyagi. Them what has Christ in their hearts aren't troubled at all, and them what's lost inside are flitting around at night in the Devil's canoe. It's just that goddamn simple. I don't know why you eggheads in Ottawa can't figure that out when it's plain as day."

Mr. Mississauga makes a note. "Would it then be fair to say, sir, that you've experienced no effects whatsoever from the phenomenon afflicting the town?"

"Yes, it would," lies Gord.

Mr. Mississauga's hand hesitates over the page. He looks up. "Aglakti," he says, "would you mind excusing us for a moment?"

"What?"

"Perhaps you could wait outside. I'll only be another minute."

She frowns, but stands. "Whatever," she says. She pushes open the screen door and it bangs closed after her.

"Don't let in the flies!" calls Gord. "Goddamn kids," he adds in a grumble.

Mr. Mississauga leans forward in the chair and regards Gord for a long moment. Gord blinks. He pulls his cane over and fidgets with the grip. He puckers his lips and says, "So what is it you wanted to say? I ain't got all day to sit around chewing the goddamn fat."

"What you tell me is taken in the strictest confidence, sir," says Mr. Mississauga evenly, folding closed his notebook and tucking it into his pocket.

"I ain't got no secrets. I ain't ashamed of nothing."

Mr. Mississauga spreads his gloved hands. "We are all of us sinners, sir."

Gord's eyes flick up to meet Mr. Mississauga's. "I'm a good man," he says.

"Yes," agrees Mr. Mississauga.

"And I'm a good Christian."

"Yes."

He puckers his lips again, looks down into his lap. "But God don't forget, do he?" Mr. Mississauga says nothing, so Gord continues: "When I was in Korea, something happened. Well, that ain't goddamn right -- I should say, I did something. It didn't just happen. I did it."

"What happened, sir?"

Gord doesn't answer immediately. He rubs at his eyes irritably, takes a breath as he stares over Mr. Mississauga's head and into the face of the Queen. "A girl died," he says at last. "That is, I killed her. I didn't mean to but there it is. I was in Inchon. We were taking it back from the Reds. She was hiding in the closet. I heard her move." He pauses, touches his own hands absently, softly. "She might've been six."

Mr. Mississauga says nothing. He doesn't blink or breathe.

"I stayed with her while she went," says Gord hoarsely. "She was in a lot of pain. It was a belly wound. But I didn't want to call it in. I didn't want...anyone to know." He looks up, his eyes rheumy. "And nobody did. My own wife never knew, bless her soul. But God doesn't forget. And when this whole town went damned He was damn sure to give me mine, too."

"What did you get, sir?" asks Mr. Mississauga quietly.

He nods toward the hall. "In the closet there. You'll find them. Go on. Look."

Mr. Mississauga works himself out of the chair and sallies in his humping gait across the room. His right hand buzzes as it closes to grip the doorknob. He opens the closet and scans down the shelves of old towels, jars of assorted screws, legal folders of yellowing tax papers. Shoved toward the back is a chess set in a mahogany box inlaid with Korean script.

"Take it out," calls Old Gord from the livingroom. "Look at the goddamn pieces."

Mr. Mississauga releases the doorknob, repositions his hand, and then closes it carefully over a corner of the ornate box. He draws it out and ferries it to the livingroom, depositing it on the coffee table with a thump. He opens the box.

"See?" says Gord, eyes out the window.

Mr. Mississauga gingerly lifts one of the hand-carved wooden pieces up before his eyes, turning it slowly. The piece is a queen. The sculpting is conventional aside from a set of chubby labia and upthrust breasts. He puts it back in the box and examines next a bishop with an erect penis, the edges of the head flared artfully. "An unusual set," remarks Mr. Mississauga.

"Goddamn perverted is what it's become."

"You didn't buy the set in this condition?"

"Just what kind of a low-life do you take me for, Injun? I told you I'm a good Christian. Do you think a good Christian would be caught dead buying something like that?"

"No."

"Damn straight, no," grumbles Gord, tapping his cane. "I used to use that set every day of my goddamn life. I've been playing Father Gomez since the end of the Soviets. But then -- this happened. Now I don't have the stomach to touch the goddamn things. I don't want to soil myself with the curse."

"The pieces changed when the town moved?"

Old Gord nods. "The very day. Punishment from on high, mark my words, for every wretched sinner in this godforsaken place. Including me, Jesus forgive it, even me." He takes out a wrinkled handkerchief and blows his nose while Mr. Mississauga closes up the box. Gord sighs, suddenly tired. "Is there anything else you're going to be needing from me, or what?"

Mr. Mississauga looks up. "There's just one more thing, sir," he says. "Do you mind if I check to see which way your sink drains?"

Later, Aglakti and Mr. Mississauga stroll up the front walk of the church. Aglakti has her hands jammed in her pockets sullenly and purple bags are developing beneath her eyes. "I need some Coke," she mutters.

"I could've seen Father Gomez alone."

"Are you kidding? Everybody's scared shitless of you. The only reason they agree to talk is if I promise to come."

"I do manage a lot of investigations without you, you know."

"Yeah yeah, you manage this and you manage that. You're always fucking managing things, Mr. Miss. Don't you ever get tired of it? Wait, don't tell me --"

"I manage."

"Fuck, and you're a comedian to boot."

"You saw it coming. It wasn't a very good joke."

"Well, you can work on that."

Mr. Mississauga finds Father Gomez in a small office in the back of the modest hall, kicking the insides out of a facsimile machine. The plastic paper tray skitters across the floor to stop at Mr. Mississauga's shoes. Father Gomez is instantly aghast and contrite. "Oh Heavens!" he says, blushing like a schoolgirl. "You've caught me having a bit of a fit, I'm afraid."

"Yes," says Mr. Mississauga.

The thin Venezuelan mops his brow with a tissue, leaving little fluffs of white fibre stuck in his eyebrows. He doesn't notice. "Let me just clean up a little here. I'm so embarrassed. It's just that infernal machine. I couldn't take it any longer. Goodness me, what you must think."

Mr. Mississauga says nothing, his expression bland but amicable. He takes out his notebook. "May I make use of your paper shredder, Father?"

"By all means, my son."

Father Gomez sits down at his desk and wipes the back of his neck with a fresh tissue, leaving more white clods. They get pushed into a neat line by his collar as he straightens his shoulders and smoothes down his mustache, his face confounded mid-smile as he watches Mr. Mississauga feed his yellow notebook with purple hearts into the shredder.

The shredder barks briefly.

Mr. Mississauga brings a new notebook out of his pocket: blue sky background with a big picture of Pikachu on the cover. It is titled in English and Japanese: FLIRTING! HAPPYNESS! GO!

Father Gomez asks, "Do you have a little girl at home, Sky?"

"No," says Mr. Mississauga. "I buy them in an Asian market."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"The notebooks, Father."

"I see."

Mr. Mississauga clears his throat. "Father, you have experienced nocturnal displacement..."

Father Gomez accidentally knocks over a cup of pencils. "Would you be more comfortable sitting down? I've had handicapped parishioners, of course."

"No," says Mr. Mississauga. "I am not handicapped."

Again, Father Gomez tries to smile. "My son --"

"My question is: have you experienced any other strange effects?"

Father Gomez pauses from collecting his pencils. "What do you mean by strange?"

"Out of the ordinary."

"There's nothing strange about acts of God," he replies indignantly, resuming his clean up. "Strange isn't the word I'd use, at any rate."

"What word would you use?"

"Holy, perhaps. Tangible evidence of the Lord's work on this Earth is very special." Father Gomez rights his cup and puts the pencils back inside, nodding with satisfaction.

Mr. Mississauga concedes the point. "Very well. Have you experienced any holy effects besides the nocturnal displacement, Father?"

"What is that?"

"That's my new question."

"What's nocturnal displacement?" snaps Father Gomez. "I resent any sort of sexual insinuation. I've heard the same rumours you have, but we're not all the same, you know! I am a man of God."

"Yes," agrees Mr. Mississauga. "Do you wake up at the old town site?"

"Well, yes, you know that. You saw me at the bus this morning."

"Yes," agrees Mr. Mississauga again. "Have you experienced any other holy effects?"

"What? Are you sure you don't want to sit down, Sky?"

"Any other effects, Father?"

"No, certainly not."

"May I see your chess set, Father?"

"My what? Tell me, my son, are you a Christian?"

"No," says Mr. Mississauga. "But I accept confession."

They stare at each other for a thick moment. Father Gomez blinks, his eyes flicking to a poster of the Ten Commandments pinned up behind Mr. Mississauga. Quietly he says, "Just what are you implying?"

Mr. Mississauga says nothing, so Father Gomez becomes angry. "What right do you have, anyway, to come in here and badger me? Do you even have a warrant, Detective? You can talk to anybody in town about this, why waste my time? I have -- important faxing to do."

Mr. Mississauga considers this, then makes a note.

"What are you writing there? You can't quote me," says Father Gomez, standing up out of his chair and banging his knees against the desk. "That's against the constitution. I'm calling my lawyer, right now." He shuffles over to the window and sticks his head out to yell, "Errol? Errol!"

Mr. Mississauga gives him a tight little smile. "Am I to understand that you object to my seeing your chess set, Father?"

"What does my chess set have to do with anything?" he cries, eyes wide, tufts of tissue drifting down from his brow. He blinks at them, perplexed to see snow.

Mr. Mississauga persists politely but with emphasis. "In the past, Father, did you play chess with Gord?"

"Well yes, I did..." he replies, turning away from the window with a frown.

"When did you stop?"

"I wouldn't actually say that we've stopped, no. We still play, now and again."

"When did you last play?"

"Play chess or play chess with Gordon?"

"Play chess with Gordon."

"It's been a few months," says Father Gomez grumpily, arms crossed.

"Have you played since the town was relocated?"

"Probably. I'm not sure. I play games with so many of my parishioners -- it's a wonderful way to get comfortable." With a look of irritation he brushes loose tissue bits from his neck. "Is your home church in Winnipeg or Ottawa, Sky?"

"Why haven't you played since then?"

"No reason. We'll play again. I'm glad you reminded me, frankly. Poor Gordon."

"Why 'poor Gordon'?"

"I don't know if you know but he lost a foot in the Korean War."

"Yes."

"And, of course, his wife passed away two years ago this September."

"Do you use his chess set or yours?"

"His."

Mr. Mississauga pauses, licks his lips, then makes another note. "Never yours?"

"I'm not sure that I have one. Perhaps the church does. In the basement."

"I see," says Mr. Mississauga. He closes the Pikachu notebook and tucks it into his pocket. "Before I go, let me ask you this, Father: other than nocturnal displacement and the erotification of your chess pieces, have you experienced any other holy effects?"

Father Gomez opens his mouth and then closes it. He raises a hand angrily and then drops it. He slumps his shoulders and looks Mr. Mississauga in the eye, preening over his mustache sullenly. "No, that's everything."

"Yes," agrees Mr. Mississauga. "Thank you for your time."

On his way out Mr. Mississauga taps Aglakti's shoulder. She's asleep on the back pew, a full can of Coca-Cola clutched in her right hand. "Fuh?" she says, fumbling with the cola and then hurriedly sucking the spill from her wrist. "Wha huh?" she adds, squinting.

"We'll need some supplies," says Mr. Mississauga.

Aglakti stretches and yawns. "Where're we going?"

"To the old town site."