The flaxen-haired maiden felt a tingle in her southern parts. She managed to stay focused.
Robesonian.com was an online newspaper for Lumberton, the county seat of Robeson County, North Carolina.
"Hot damn," Ryan said, close to my ear.
Back to the surfing log. In moments I'd spotted additional telling activity.
Laurier/Lowery had visited dozens of sites designed for and by American draft dodgers of the Vietnam era. CBC archive pieces. Coverage of a 2006 draft dodger reunion in Vancouver. A site devoted to an exile community in Toronto. A University of British Columbia page titled Vietnam War Resisters in Canada.
"That nails it." Ryan straightened. "Lowery left Lumberton for Canada to avoid service in Vietnam. He's been living the straight life as Jean Laurier ever since."
"Straight except for one quirk." I indicated several Web addresses. Love Yourself and Tell. Hard Soloing. Ramrod's Self-Bondage Page.
"Pick one," I said.
Ryan pointed.
Ramrod's blog featured two stories.
A Baptist minister was found dead, alone in his Arkansas home, wearing a wet suit, face mask, diving gloves, and slippers. Underneath the outerwear were a second rubberized suit with suspenders, rubberized male underwear, and bondage gear constructed of nylon and leather. The reverend's anus featured a condom-covered dildo.
A Kansas plumber hanged himself from a showerhead with his wife's leather belt. The gentleman survived to tell the tale. In vivid detail.
Ramrod's home page had a colorful sidebar encouraging visitors into his chat room. Ryan and I declined the invitation.
Shutting down the computer, I began casually rummaging in the desk. What more did we need? Jean Laurier of Hemmingford, Quebec, was clearly John Charles Lowery, a Vietnam draft dodger from Lumberton, North Carolina.
The top drawer was a jumble of rubber bands, paper clips, tape, pens, and pencils. The upper side drawer held lined tablets, envelopes, and two pairs of drugstore reading glasses.
I could hear Ryan behind me, lifting couch pillows and opening cabinets.
The lower side drawer contained computer paraphernalia, including headphones, keyboard brushes, cables, and AC adapter plugs. In closing it, I jostled a white corner into view from below a mouse pad.
Lifting the pad, I discovered a four-by-six white rectangle. On it were written a name and date. Spider, April 7, 1967.
I teased the thing free and flipped it.
The snapshot was black-and-white. Cracked and creased, it looked every bit of forty years old.
The subject was a teenage boy leaning against a fifties Chevy, ankles crossed, arms folded. He had dark hair and eyes, and heavy brows that curved the upper rims of his orbits. He wore jeans and a tee with rolled sleeves. His smile could have lighted the state of Montana.
"Check this out."
Ryan joined me. I handed him the picture.
"Looks like Lowery," Ryan said.
"The name Spider is written on the back."
Ryan studied the photo, then returned it to me.
I stared at Lowery's face. So young and unspoiled.
Other images flashed in my brain. Water-bloated features. Algae-slimed plastic. A soggy nurse's cap.
"We're done here," Ryan said.
"Take these?" My gesture took in the photo and the Mac.
Ryan's gaze went to Bandau, then to the gouged front door.
He nodded. "The warrant covers it."
I couldn't have known. But that photo would dog me for many days across many, many miles.
And nearly get me killed.
I AWOKE TO RAIN TICKING ON GLASS. THE WINDOW SHADE WAS A dim gray rectangle in a very dim room.
I checked the clock. Nine forty.
From atop the dresser, two unblinking yellow eyes stared my way.
"Give me a break, Bird. It's Sunday."
The cat flicked his tail.
"And raining."
Flick.
"You can't be hungry."
Arriving back from Hemmingford, Ryan and I had grabbed a quick bite at Hurley's Irish Pub, then walked to my place. Thanks to Mr. Soft Touch, the cat ended up the beneficiary of my doggie-bagged cheesecake.
I know what you're thinking. Empty condo. Barren winter. Spring awakening!
Didn't happen. Despite Ryan's bid to frolic, the visit remained strictly tea and conversation, mostly about our kids and shared cockatiel, Charlie. Ryan took the couch. I sat in a wing chair across the room.
I explained my concern about Katy's dissatisfaction with the concept of full-time employment. And about her recent fascination with a thirty-two-year-old drummer named Smooth.
Ryan talked of Lily's latest setback with heroin. His nineteen-year-old daughter was out of rehab, home with Lutetia, and attending counseling. Ryan was cautiously optimistic.
He left at seven to take Lily bowling.
I wondered.
Was Lily's fragile progress the reason for Ryan's recent good humor? Or was it springing from renewed contact with Mommy?
Whatever.
Ryan promised to deliver Charlie the following day, as per our long-standing arrangement. When I was in Montreal, the bird was mine.
When told of the cockatiel's upcoming arrival, Birdie was either thrilled or annoyed. Hard to read him sometimes.
After Ryan's departure I took a very long bath. Then Bird and I watched season-one episodes of Arrested Development on DVD. He found Buster hilarious.
In Montreal, the week's major paper comes out on Saturday. Not my preference, but there you have it.
I made coffee and an omeletlike cheesy scrambled egg thing, and began working through the previous day's Gazette.
A massive pothole had opened up on an elevated span of Highway 15 through the Turcot Interchange. Two lanes were closed until further notice.
A forty-year-old man had snatched a kid in broad daylight and thrown him into the trunk of his car. The sleazeball now faced multiple charges, including abduction, abduction of a child under fourteen, and sexual assault.
Twelve stories reported on how the economy sucked.
I was reading a human interest piece about a hamster that saved a family of seven from a house fire when my mobile sounded.
Katy.
"Hey, sweetie."
"Hey, Mom."
We're Southerners. It's how we greet.
"You're up early."
"It's a gorgeous day. I'm going to Carmel to play tennis." Katy's lighthearted mood surprised me. Last time we'd talked she was in a funk.
"With Smooth?" I had trouble picturing the dreadlocks and do-rag on the country club courts.
"With Lija. Smooth's got a gig in Atlanta." Derisive snort. "His ass can stay there for all I care. Or Savannah, or Raleigh, or Kathmandu."
There is a God who answers our prayers.
"How's Lija?" I asked.
"Terrific."
Katy and Lija Feldman have been best friends since high school. A year back, following Katy's much-delayed college graduation, they'd decided to try rooming together. So far, so good.
"How's work?" I asked.
"Mind-numbing. I sort crap, Xerox crap, research crap. Now and then I file crap at the courthouse. Those jaunts through the halls of justice really get the old adrenaline pumping." She laughed. "But at least I have a job. People are being dumped like nuclear waste."
Okeydokey.
"Where are you?"
"At the town house. Gawd. I hope we can stay here."
"Meaning?"
"Coop's returning from Afghanistan."
Coop was Katy's landlord and, from what I could tell, an on-again, off-again romantic interest. Hard to know. The man seemed perpetually out of the country.
"I thought Coop was in Haiti."
"Ancient news. His Peace Corps commitment ended two years ago. He was in the States ten months, now he's working for a group called the International Rescue Committee. They're headquartered in New York."
"How long has Coop been in Afghanistan?"
"Almost a year. Someplace called Helmand Province."
Was Coop's reappearance the reason for Katy's sunny mood? For Smooth's heave-ho?
"You sound happy about his homecoming." Discreet.
"Oh, yeah." The Oh lasted a good five beats. "Coop's awesome. And he's coming straight to me after he checks in at home."
"Really." My tone made it a question.
"Play your cards right, Mommy dearest, I might bring him by."
A blatant dodge, but since Katy was so excited, I decided to press on for details.
"What's this awesome gentleman's actual name?"
"Webster Aaron Cooperton. He's from Charleston."
"You met him at UVA?"
"Yep."
"How is it that young Mr. Cooperton holds deed to a town house in Charlotte?"
"He finished school here."
"Didn't like Charlottesville?"
"Wasn't invited back."
"I see."
"He's really nice. Loads of fun."
I had no doubt of that.
"And the town house?"
"His parents bought it for him when he transferred to UNCC. As an investment. They're beaucoup bucks up."
Thus Coop's freedom to hold morally admirable but woefully underpaid aid jobs.
Whatever. Shaggy musician out. Humanitarian in. Worked for me.
"You and Coop dated following his return from Haiti?"
"When we could. He was in New York a lot."
I paused, allowing Katy to get to the reason for her call. Turned out there was none.
"Well, Mommy-o. Have a good day."
Mommy-o?
Who was this strange woman posing as my daughter?
Ryan delivered Charlie around noon. Eager to be off to Lily, he stayed only briefly. The door had barely closed when the bird fired off two of his bawdier quips.
"Fill your glass, park your ass!"
"Charlie."
"Cool your tool!"
Clearly, the cockatiel training CD had seen no play time in my absence.
Point of information: confiscated during a brothel raid several years back, Charlie became Ryan's Christmas gift to me. My little avian friend's repertoire is, shall we say, colorful.