Planet Lara: Sanctuary

2. No Stone Unturned-2

The community centre is at capacity. Around a hundred and fifty Thalia Island residents are here. Everyone except Finan.

I’m seated at the far left of a long table up front, bookended by Catrina and Dakota, the rest of council occupying the remaining seats. A podium has been moved into place, the skinny mic tested and ready to deliver news. Lucy-Frank Makamoose, Benny Ackerman, Joey, and the rest of Finan’s guys are outfitted with boots and flashlights and high-visibility vests and walkie-talkies, ready to head out to their search area based on the boxy grid Len Emmerich tacked up on the wall behind the volunteers’ table perpendicular to our position.

Even Harmony is ready to go, standing next to her dad along the wall. “I will find Humboldt, Lara. He’s scared and he might be hurt and he trusts me,” she’d said, as I pleaded with Len to go back to the marina earlier today to look for him. So my little doctor-to-be friend ran to her mom’s and got her boots and then met her dad at their tiny house and they came here with compasses and canteens and her medical kit and a bag of meaty treats, ready to find everyone’s favorite dumb dog.

Wes Singh takes the podium and introduces himself—again, for those settlers who were here during the Kelly Lockhart shakedown—and explains what they know so far.

To my horror, it’s not much.

“At approximately one thirty today, Lara Clarke received a letter while working in her office at town hall. Inside the envelope was a grainy, printed photograph of Finan Rowleigh. We believe the photograph to be recent, taken in the downtown area of Thalia Island, which suggests that whoever is behind this has been on the island, right under our noses, and is familiar with the goings-on and rhythms our personnel and residents have established thus far. The photograph”—he holds it aloft in its clear evidence bag—“is the fourth in a series of clues pertaining to actions taken against Clarke Innovations, the Clarke Foundation, and Thalia Island. We suspect this to be the work of the Dea Vitae cult and its leader, Iona MacChruim, who some of you may remember as Ainsley Kerr.”

A low murmur ripples through the room.

“Law enforcement worldwide are actively searching for Iona, but to have her still operating in British Columbia, and on or near Thalia, is, of course, of grave concern.”

“Do you have any idea where she might have taken Finan?” one of the agritech guys—Geordie, I think—hollers from along the wall. My stomach clenches anew.

Len Emmerich slides in behind the mic. “At this time, we do not have any early inclination as to where Finan Rowleigh was transported. We’re only confident that he was in fact taken, and that he is likely injured, given that there were signs of a struggle at his truck, found abandoned at the marina. A short piece of security footage corroborates our early assumptions.” Another wave of worried mutterings. “I can assure you, we are leaving no stone unturned. As soon as we’re done here, we will initiate our search grid.”

Wes resumes his spot at the podium. “The RCMP has issued a bulletin to all provincial detachments and into Alberta, Vancouver Police are involved, and since Iona is wanted internationally via an INTERPOL Red Notice, the RCMP will be coordinating with other outside agencies as it becomes necessary.”

I balance my pounding head in one tremulous hand. This is unbelievable.

“It is of vital importance that if any of you have information that could assist us with the quick location and safe return of Mr. Rowleigh to his family, please, please come forward. No detail is too small.”

Gillian Peck, sitting in the front row with her younger daughter asleep across her lap, raises her hand. “Are the rest of us in any danger? This weird stuff keeps happening here,” she says.

Wes and Len are already shaking their heads before the question is finished. “Rest assured we are doing everything we can to secure the island,” Len says.

“You said that after the cult was found here—after they poisoned us. How do we know we’re safe now?” another resident asks.

Rupert stands from his place behind the table and, in a surprisingly strong voice, speaks as he moves to the mic. “Finan Rowleigh is family. I have known him since he was a boy. His mother Eileen is the closest thing I have to a sister. Finan’s own sister, Kira, a cherished niece. And as all of you have agreed to become a part of Archibald’s grand utopian experiment, you, too, are my family now. I will do everything in my power to keep every last one of you safe.”

The quiet roars through the cavernous hall.

Rupert nods and maintains his position, spine straight, shoulders back, a pillar of strength in his bespoke suit, despite the cancer chewing through him. Wes Singh approaches once again. “If you have information, questions, concerns, or you just want to talk to someone, the community centre will remain open and guarded twenty-four seven, as will town hall. Again, no stone unturned. Thank you.”

The quiet is superseded by the movement of bodies, residents folding their bamboo chairs to stack on the carts without being asked. Catrina excused herself while Wes was talking and is now behind a long table at the far end with a few of her staff, coffee and tea and assorted pastries and bowls of fair-trade, organic bananas, oranges, and apples ready for the searchers and for those who don’t want to go home yet.

Though these circumstances suck, it is comforting to see the Thalia Island community rally like this—even the new settlers are lined up in front of Len and his guys, ready to do whatever they’re asked to find Finan. Most haven’t even finished unpacking their new houses yet.

Dakota hasn’t let go of me since we sat down. People are leaving, finding things to do. “I should go help,” I say.

She squeezes my hand harder. “You’re going to sit right here for a bit longer. Let the professionals handle things. Nothing you can do at this minute.”

“I’ve done enough already, you mean,” I mumble.

Dakota snorts. “None of that. No pity parties. Let’s wait until we have the good whisky before we start.”

Rupert approaches, the only reason Dakota lets go of me. She stands and meets his embrace. When the two of them are together, the genetic connection is obvious. Dakota is the much healthier version of her biological father—less jointed arachnid, more fitness model.

“We’re heading back to town hall for a video call with the coordinating agencies,” he says, his arm still draped around Dakota’s shoulders. “You should sit in, Lara.”

I nod and blot my eyes with the silk hankie.

“Dakota, could you give us a moment?”

“I’ll wait out front for you,” she says.

Rupert eases into the chair beside me. He has his own cane these days—way nicer than the one I had after my run-in with the iron rod during this summer’s once-a-century storm—but he’s reticent to use it. Just after the crowd moved to disperse, Wes handed it back to Rupert and muttered something under his breath—what looked like an admonition. Whatever he said worked because Rupert is back to using the black, high-gloss assistive device. I’d ask if he’s weak, or if the cancer is in his bones, but I cannot handle any more reality, any more bad news, just for today.

“The article Watts posted about Cordelia and Jacinta …”

“Does Wes know? About Jacinta?” I ask.

Rupert nods solemnly.

“I’ll bet that was an uncomfortable conversation.” For the past year at least, Jacinta has been hiding on Thalia Island, in a bunker my grandfather built decades ago. Rupert has kept her hidden, safe from her vengeance-seeking brothers, but also a secret from everyone, including his life partner, a respected member of the RCMP. Oops.

“And given this current calamity, my hand could not have been forced at a worse time.”

“I’m sorry, Rupert. For whatever role I’ve played.”

He flattens his veiny but well-moisturized hand over mine. “We innocents must pay for the sins of our forebears.”

“What about Jacinta? Does she have anything to do with this? With them taking Finan?”

He shakes his head. “Impossible.”

“At this point, I don’t think anything is impossible, Rupert. You can’t leave this out of the conversation. We have to put all our cards on the table.”

Harmony appears out of thin air, headlamp pulled over her forehead, her skateboard strapped to the outside of her bulging backpack. “Lara, I need to talk to you for a second.” She gently grips my wrist, her fingernails a bright blue today.

“You remember Rupert, don’t you?”

“Of course. I hope your cancer is almost gone. I promised Lara when I’m done with medical school, I will do whatever I can to help you.”

“Thank you, Harmony. I look forward to being under your care.”

She smiles. Her adult teeth are taking up more space these days. Amazing how fast she’s growing.

“OK, well, I didn’t think of this before because I’ve been so worried about Humboldt and everything just got”—she makes a tangled, spinning ball with her fingers and a weird sound to go along with it, and I know exactly what she’s saying—“but I wanted to tell you … the lady who gave me the letter to give to you today?”

I hold my breath. Was it Iona? Was she here? Was Harmony that close to danger?

“Remember that picture of you and your mom and that other lady when you were a baby?”

Oh. Oh no.

“The lady who gave me the envelope looked just like that lady in the picture with you. The lady I saw in your field while you were in the hospital.”