Cold Dark Matter by Alex Brett

Author:Alex Brett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC022000
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2005-04-02T00:00:00+00:00

When I left Marcotte's it was dark and the wind had picked up. I stopped at the end of his walkway and glanced down the street to the Parkdale Market. In less than six weeks this deserted corner would be a bustling farmers' market overflowing with flowers and local produce, but right now the only sign of habitation was a naked metal frame and shreds of rope and canvas that snapped in the wind. Across the street a single bulb lit the swinging sign of the Black Horse Tavern, a forlorn-looking neighbourhood pub. So much for gentrification. I turned and headed down the street to my car. In the dim light the houses seemed to crowd against the sidewalk like a bad set of teeth.

I'd just opened my car door when I noticed a small pickup truck half a block down with the windows fogged over. Lovers in a huddle? Or some local kid having a toke before returning home. Of course, these days it was just as likely to be a new dad forced out into the cold for an after-dinner smoke. I threw Marcotte's envelope onto the passenger seat and thought of the articles sitting inside, then of Frederick working Ident with the local police. It was reassuring to know that things do change. There is some point to it all.

I took the scenic route home, heading down Parkdale Avenue to the Ottawa River Parkway. Usually I feel a calm set upon me as I look across the vast river to the shore of Quebec, but tonight even the river could do nothing for me as Duncan, Grenier, and Elizabeth Martin crowded my mind.

When I got to Elgin Street I took the back alley behind my building and pulled into my parking space, two dirt ruts cut out of the tiny weed patch the landlord advertises as a back lawn. In winter the yard looks like a refuse dump with empty bottles of Canadian sherry, dog shit, and paper bags scattered across the snow. Mint, my downstairs neighbour, is pushing Mr. Oinik to fence it and clean it up so her son, Amadeus, can play outside, but both Mint and I know the truth. Amadeus is happier at the computer. It's the two of us who yearn for a deck chair and a patch of grass.

As I pulled in I saw someone skitter behind the house and disappear next door. I didn't think much about it. The back alley is a hangout for people wanting activity a little more illegal than what they can accomplish on the park bench out front. There was rarely any violence, but I reminded myself to stay alert. I didn't have a wallet full of money, but my visitor didn't know that.

I waited for a moment in the car. When I didn't see any more activity I slid out, went around to the rear, and opened the Subaru's back door. The snowshoes could stay in the car — they were hidden beneath some old blankets — but the skies poked out over one of the folded back seats.

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