Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(65)
Compounding Arthur’s discomfort was the forever-looming figure of Dr. Lloyd Chalmers. Would Arthur never see the back of that man? His judicial recount was set for the day after tomorrow, Monday, in Halifax. He’d been five votes behind the Liberal candidate at the Official Count. Arthur assumed Margaret would be there, giving moral support — a victory for Chalmers would ensure the Greens the balance of power in the new Parliament.
But Arthur didn’t know how he could survive four years of his wife caucusing with him.
He briefly considered imbibing a mug of gupa, in hope of finding again the transcendental peace that had brought him such strange and misty comfort in June — a notion he quickly rejected. It would be less risky to embrace the Baba’s mantra — so he recited it aloud several times to his wheelbarrow. “Joy is wisdom, time an endless song.”
It seemed to work. He remembered where he was, on a pleasant little farm overlooking the Salish Sea, in his cherished garden, on a brisk and sunny Saturday. To complete the scene, the two young Woofers were wending their way from the goat pen with filled milk pails — a bucolic landscape by Constable or Pissarro.
The girls seemed to be fully deprogrammed — Reverend Al had spent considerable time with them, enlightening them about the dangers of cults, and they’d not been enticed back to Starkers Cove.
But they were an exception to the growing, overpowering presence of the Transformers, whose aura had settled over the island like a warm, fuzzy blanket. Silverson had swollen his ranks by opening up Starkers Cove to children, and on weekends it seemed half the island passed under the Mission’s gate, teased into empty-mindedness by its message: “When you realize there is nowhere to go, you have arrived.”
Their latest recruit, according to bar talk, was Auxiliary Constable Kurt Zoller, whose awakening to a hunger for self-realization seemed as likely as a sudden cessation in the earth’s rotation.
Arthur’s plans were to spend the rest of the weekend reading some poetry, playing some Bach, maybe doing a little fishing, gaining strength for another pre-trial skirmish in Calgary on Tuesday. George Cowper Jr., the very able counsel for the plaintiff, was applying to adjourn the trial for six months. Farquist was too busy running for the leadership of the Conservative Party to give sufficient heed to his slander suit: that was the bald truth of it.
Arthur was in a dilemma. His instinct was to oppose the adjournment. But the trial date was only a few months away, March 2, and he was not exactly armed to the teeth with proof. Svetlana Glinka had cashed in her chips and was out of the game; Lou Sabatino was still AWOL. Francisco Sierra had doggedly collected many useful bits and scraps, but hardly enough to tilt the scales.
Arthur and his diligent investigator could use that extra six months to build their case, track down Sabatino, alias Robert O’Brien. Who, as of two weeks ago, was still alive. In Calgary, from the postmark on a letter he’d sent to his family. That good news had been conveyed to Francisco Sierra by Celeste Sabatino. Also much alive were Sierra’s chances of finding Sabatino, especially with the gift of half a year.
Without Lou to save the day, Cowper would make short work of Margaret in cross. “And where is this amateur video you claim to have watched in the dark recesses of a bookstore café? Why hasn’t Mr. Sabatino come forward?”
Again, that welling of despair. This lawsuit had become more difficult than the toughest of his murders, cases in which he wasn’t literally wed to his client. But Margaret hadn’t wanted “any goddamn best specialist.” She had wanted her life companion.
Guilt had triggered his response: “Yes! Of course! No problem!”
He paused to stretch his creaky back, thought of Baba Sri Rameesh again. “Let what comes come; let what goes go. Find out what remains.”
But it was hard to let what goes go. What remains? An awkward, messy trial of Sisyphean difficulty.
He emptied his wheelbarrow of the last of the straw, decided to clear his head with a brisk hike to pick up his mail and a few sundries at the general store.
He did not get far before Reverend Al came by in his Honda Civic and insisted he get in beside him. “I was just on my way to see you. There are things to talk about, old boy. I’ll have something to say at service tomorrow about the Transformers. I’d like you to be there — we’re forming an action committee. There’s no time to waste. They are truly about to own this island. They’re not just colonizing minds, they’re taking over the Trust.”
The two-member Islands Trust was Garibaldi’s governing body, serving under a government mandate to preserve the unique environment of the islands of the Salish Sea. Arthur hadn’t been paying much heed to local politics, but had read in the Bleat that Garibaldi’s two quarrelsome incumbents had quit in a huff, and two of Silver Tongue’s favourites were running in a special election called for December. Ida Shewfelt, a Pentecostal Christian converted to the teachings of Baba Sri Rameesh. And, horribile dictu, Kurt Zoller.
“Kurt has gone completely under,” Al said. “Hypnotized, hears Silverson’s voice coming from the trees. Silver Tongue is about to become the dictator of all Garibaldi through his two anointed proxies. No one else is running, and nominations close Monday. Christ, the bishop’s edict be damned, I may have to run myself. Ida Shewfelt! The queen of kitsch.” Winner of best arrangement at the annual flower show, with her little elves dancing among the blooms.