He was given plenty of signage warning that the road was about to bifurcate, the right fork continuing to be the Sea to Sky Highway, and the left fork coming to a stop at a ferry terminal in a village called Horseshoe Bay. And his GPS snitch was more than good enough to tell him which fork he wanted: the left. So he continued to follow just out of sight, slowing from highway speed at the same rate as his target did.
It was the size of the ferry terminal that took him by surprise: not as big as the monster he'd driven past at Tsawwassen, but not the one-boat commuter-pooter he'd expected either. By the time he grasped how many different options there were, he was very nearly too late to see which one his quarry had chosen. Irritatingly, it was the one he would have to cross the most lanes of traffic to reach; he barely managed it without causing horns to be honked. And at once he had to deal with an attendant who, by his standards, took forever to do a simple credit card swipe and issue him a ticket. To someplace with the uncouth name "Heron Island."
Hell.
He knew it would be the smallest destination served, because all the others had at least two booths. Therefore he was about to park just behind his quarry, and sit there motionless for an indeterminate time, and there would probably be hardly anyone else around for her to look at whom she didn't already know.
"Lane One," the attendant said and gave him an unwanted receipt.
"Can I get a newspaper somewhere nearby?"
"As soon as you're underneath," the attendant agreed.
Underneath? This kept getting better.
All lanes of traffic past the ticket booths funneled leftward into a single lane—God knew why—and again, the Canadians all queued up politely and waited their turn. After a bit of winding, it just as inexplicably opened out again into a dozen or so lanes, and Lane One was the one he was already in. Everybody else got out of his way and let him make a little speed. This cheered him until he hit the first speed bump. It was a serious speed bump, and turned out to be the least serious of the series.
Lane One took him, very slowly, past long lines of stopped cars waiting for their ferry to arrive. His was empty. When he got to the front of it, there was a midget imitation of the ticket booth. He stopped by it. Without glancing up, a uniformed attendant inside pointed diagonally to the right. He followed the finger, and sure enough there was an unblocked entrance to a roofed-over area. He drove in cautiously, as slow as he dared.
Four lanes were full of cars, two on either side of a concrete walkway lined with pillars that held the roof up. No, five lanes: a fifth had just started up to the left of the rest, with one or two cars in it. He saw his quarry at once, at the end of the lane furthest from him. It was nearly but not quite full.
He thought fast. Take the lane farthest from her, and he was in front of her, in full view. Way in front, okay, but suppose they boarded the right lanes first, and she drove past him at three fucking kilometers per hour? Being what she was, how would she not notice him?
He parked right behind her, in the last space in that row. To examine him she would have to either turn around, or use one of her three mirrors, and in all those cases he'd at least see it and know she was checking him out.
He could see the newspaper vending-boxes the attendant had mentioned. Up at the head of the line; forget it. Fortunately she was engrossed in a newspaper of her own.
Time now to consider whether he should board this ferry with her. Or develop engine trouble at some point before he reached the head of the line.
An island meant fewer witnesses. It also probably meant they all knew each other, and would be likely to notice and remember him. On the other hand, all islands are tourist destinations; solvent-looking strangers his age and apparent status would probably be so familiar as to go unseen.
And this might be it. This might be the location of the ultimate target, the end of the quest. It would make sense in many ways. He had to at least get a GPS fix on wherever she was going, even if he didn't dare go for a visual.
Yes. It was worth the risk.
He leaned forward, crossed his forearms on the steering wheel, rested his forehead on them, closed his eyes, and was asleep nearly at once. He woke when he heard engines starting.
The ferry ride was forty minutes of total boredom. But he soon saw that only regulars, islanders, were bored. First-timers such as him found the scenery orgasmic. So he had to. Irritating. There was a whole lot of calm water, a big sissified sea. Rock stuck up out of it randomly in various directions, at varying distances, in assorted shapes. Some were green, some just grey. The sky was as big as a sky, and fully as skylike as every one he'd ever seen. The sun was on today. So what? Why did the view give so much pleasure? And why only to those who'd never seen it before?
It amused him to reflect that he might actually be on the verge of understanding those questions, and countless others like them, after so many years. An unimportant consequence, surely . . . but amusing.
Of course there was a place to park within a hundred meters of the end of the ferry ramp in (God help us all) Bug Cove, if you didn't mind paying an arm and a leg per hour or portion thereof. Unfortunately it was on the left, and the ferry debarked two at a time, with him in the right lane. To avoid drawing attention he took the first right he possibly could instead, and found himself in the parking lot of what looked like an old-timey train station whose tracks had been stolen, but was in fact the Heron Island Public Library. He paused before choosing a space, and a voice came in his open window. "Library parking only, mate. They're serious about it, eh?"
He turned to see Colorful Coot standing beside him. "I can see how they'd have to be," he agreed in his best imitation of Canadian manners. "I'm just waiting until I can get through the traffic to the pay lot across the street." He must have got it right because Coot bought it, nodded and walked away and never looked back.
He turned around, waited a couple of minutes while the ferry finished emptying. But his access to the lot was still blocked by cars waiting to board the ferry for the trip back to the mainland—and although the two immediately in the way saw his problem and tried to maneuver to make him a hole, they were unable to. Everything had to wait while the foot-passengers walked aboard first . . . or limped, or shuffled, or lurched on their walkers. Only then did the cars board, and they did so for nearly five full minutes.
Finally the way was clear; he zipped across the street and into the lot, where he found the only empty spaces were as long a walk as possible from the automatic kiosk where you had to buy your parking permits. The kiosk took only Canadian coins; he had just enough. He made himself consider the bright side. Most of the lot serviced a small but fully occupied and surprisingly unseedy marina operation. He was almost invisible way down at the end, and facing out at all the water just as yokels were expected to. He checked his GPS snitch's readout the moment he was back in the car, and saw that his target had gone to ground. The unit had automatically recorded the coordinates. He checked all his mirrors without seeming to, rolled all his windows up, and activated the GPS snitch's audio circuit in time to hear:
"—worry, though, your secret's safe: I didn't have time to tell him you used to drive the Jailer-Trailer . . . excuse me, the Police Community Services Mobile Unit."
"If I applaud, will you give me a straight answer?"
"Sure. I told him I was getting you high."'
Ah, he thought. Now we're getting somewhere. Leverage . . .
Unfortunately, the cop dropped out of the conversation nearly at once. The strong silent type. Okay, that was information, too.
Now, who were these other two assholes she was listening to?
He accessed the net with his phone and was only slightly surprised to learn GPS alone could not get him an address for that location. He could wait until business hours in the morning and inquire at the municipality's office. Or he could go there tonight and look at the street sign and the number on the door.