Dead Politician Society

Chapter 61 - Clare

Clare revved her engine as she merged onto Highway 400.

She glared at the lines on the road, the lines taking her north to Orillia, to the trailer park where she'd grown up. She wasn't supposed to see family while on assignment. Even if she was pulled from the case, she should wait for the paperwork to make it official. But she was in a mood for breaking rules. The paperwork could shove itself up Cloutier's hairy dark asshole.

Okay, that wasn't an image Clare wanted to bring to mind ever again.

She passed Canada's Wonderland. She'd wasted several teenage summer days there, eating funnel cake and riding roller coasters and smoking cigarettes with friends. And summer nights, when B-rated rock bands would play outdoor concerts, she and Lance would curl up on a blanket on the grass and make out like crazy. Little did she know he was probably already cheating. She could kick herself for not seeing what was so clear to everyone else. Damn, she probably was a lousy cop.

When she passed Barrie it meant she was close to home. That used to be a good thing. She'd loved the trailer growing up. Not like now.

Her father's good days were over and his living days were numbered. His emphysema was advancing at an alarming rate—likely because he still smoked. She couldn't figure out if the addiction was too powerful, if he wanted to quit but just couldn't. Or was it worse than that? Did her father, the town's official arm wrestling champion for twelve years running, simply not feel like he had anything to live for?

Her mother had turned into a robot. Big shiny smile with nothing behind it. She refused to see the truth—that her husband was dying, and he was accelerating his death with the poison that had caused it. If Clare tried to bring it up, she changed the subject and opened a new box of wine.

When Clare arrived in Orillia, she stopped downtown first. Her mother loved flowers and her father never bought them anymore. She parked her bike and kept her helmet with her. The bulky half sphere under her arm reminded her how far she'd moved beyond this place; that she'd packed up after high school, zoomed away and created a life of her own.

Okay, really? Shauna Bartlett was walking toward her in a stupid yellow skirt. Was she going for the 1950s soda shop look—a virgin, in honor of her upcoming nuptials? It would be hilarious if she got married in white. As she came closer, Clare saw Shauna's terrible skin. It used to be clear and smooth, but she was already showing signs of age in her early twenties. Maybe she had an STD. Clare smiled broadly as they passed on the sidewalk to let that bitch know who was on top.

Shauna smiled back. "Clare," she said.

Congratulations, Shauna. Here's hoping you have what it takes to keep Lance from cheating. But she only said that in her head. Out loud, Clare said, "Hey, Shauna. I heard your great news. Congratulations."

"Oh. Um, thanks. I hear you're a cop in the city now."

Clare nodded.

"That's so cool. Do you, like, arrest bad guys and all that?"

Clare smiled despite herself. "More like bicycle thieves. But you gotta start somewhere, right?"

"Totally. I still think you're the coolest person in our graduating class. Did you hear I'm studying to be a hairdresser?"

"Um. No. I hadn't heard. But I'm sure you're a natural. You always had the best hair in high school."

"Thanks." Shauna smiled broadly. "Hey listen, I'm late for lunch with my girlfriends. But great seeing you."

"Yeah. You, too."

Clare hugged the helmet tight against her body. She went into the florist and picked out some sunflowers—her mother's all time favorite, and her own. But on the way back to her bike, she dumped the flowers in the trash. What was she thinking, going home while undercover?

There was a society meeting tonight, and until she was officially pulled from the case, she was on it. She had to go back to the city and learn what she could.

As she sped back to Toronto, Clare told herself it was job devotion that had kept her from continuing on to see her parents. She told herself again, but it wasn't true. She couldn't bear to hear her father's wheezing, then listen to his half-baked excuse about going to the store for some milk, or popping by the garage to check on someone's car, then coming home smelling like smoke while she and her mother pretended not to notice.

She took the 427 down to the Gardiner Expressway and drove north to Kensington Market. She parked a block and a half from her destination and walked to the back alley where—if all went well—she'd be able to listen to the people in the SPU meeting.

She already knew who the members were. But what were they talking about?