by Ken Ogilvie
“I might take you guys up on that offer, though I have some serious thinking to do first. But if you do have any ideas on where Jackie might be hiding, let me know, won’t you?”
Silence reigned for a while. Shorty frowned. Lukas remained slumped in his chair.
“Okay. I guess that’s it. Call me if anything brilliant comes to mind.” Hound wolfed down the remainder of his sandwich and extricated himself from his chair. “See you tomorrow at nine.” He nodded encouragingly at Lukas, and then made for the door. Daisy was in the far corner of the room, taking an order. Waving at her, he dropped ten dollars beside the cash register and copped a quick look at Sally, who was gazing dreamily out the window. Hound wished he could be like Sally and think of nothing very much. His mind was never at rest.
On the way home, Hound thought of Rebecca. He wondered how the search team was faring. If, like him, they had drawn a blank on Jackie, they would return to Conroy and dine at the Royal Oak Hotel. Maybe he’d ask to join them and trade notes. Perhaps he could still contribute something useful to the search. He decided to go home and meditate some more.
He turned into his driveway, his head full of thoughts about Jackie. She hadn’t been at the derelict mine site, and she had come and gone from his cave a second time. She wouldn’t dare go back again. So where else could she be? He didn’t have a clue. He was afraid that she would come to Conroy while Rebecca was there. Jackie was driven by a pathological hatred and a lust for revenge, so even if DI Sykes was around, it might not stop her from going after Rebecca again.
Hound drew up in front of his house and scanned the grounds and surrounding fields. His fingers tingled — a bad sign — so he eased open the car door, slid out, and sank to his knees beside the Bentley. He listened for a while but heard nothing untoward. Shutting the door with a soft click, he sniffed at the air, drawing another blank. Something was still niggling at him. He rose cautiously to his feet, took a wary step past the Bentley — and suddenly that familiar scent of nail polish struck him like a sledge hammer. He stopped abruptly and heard a crack as a bullet zipped past him, just inches from his head. He took shelter behind the Bentley.
A minute later, when no more shots were fired, he mustered enough courage to raise his head and peek through the car windows. His blood ran cold. There was Jackie Caldwell, standing perfectly still in the tall grass. He could almost feel the hatred streaming from her. She held her rifle to her shoulder for an instant, but then lowered it, whirled about and fled.
Hound fumbled his cellphone from his pocket and called O’Reilly’s office, only to hear a recorded message. He tried Rebecca’s phone and got her voicemail. Perplexed, he keyed in O’Reilly’s number. Sally answered, still at Duffy’s. Hound told her what had just happened and asked her to alert the OPP in Orillia, then try to reach O’Reilly.
Hound hurried into his house, trying to think what to do next. In the kitchen, he filled a large glass with water and gulped it down. Then he went into the living room, closed the thick drapes and slumped into an armchair, where he sat, panting. His breathing began to slow. He had to go after Jackie, although with no gun to defend himself with, he didn’t know what he would do if he found her. Maybe he should just try to keep her in sight and tell the police her whereabouts.
He returned to the kitchen and grabbed some sliced meat and a brick of cheese from the fridge, in case the chase became a long one. After another large slug of water, he dashed from the house. Here he was, putting his life on the line again, although he figured Jackie would beat it from here as fast as she could. If she hung around, the OPP would set their dogs after her and catch her in no time. He resolved to follow her for as long as possible, though if she had a vehicle close by, which was likely, he would soon lose her. The cops would have to take over after that.
Jackie’s trampled passage through the hay was easy to follow. When he reached the dirt lane and spotted fresh footprints, Hound knew where she’d gone — the abandoned sawmill, now closed for more than two decades. Jackie’s father had owned and operated it when she was a child, and had shut it down after Steven Bradley’s gold mining scam bankrupted him. Hound cursed himself now for not thinking of it before. It was almost in his backyard. The OPP had searched it on the first day of their hunt, so she must have hidden somewhere else until they’d checked it. She had gone back to the cave when she decided they wouldn’t return and must have moved to the sawmill after he discovered the body in the meadow near his cave. Hound had to admire her cleverness at confounding both him and the police. She was not averse to taking risks, and this made her far more dangerous than any wild animal he’d tracked, or any other human he had encountered, including Guido Daglioni. He wouldn’t underestimate her again.
Hound recalled Maggie saying that Jackie would hide out somewhere near Conroy. He should have taken it seriously and checked the sawmill after the police left the area. He might have captured her by now. He continued on.
Arriving at the sawmill, Hound moved warily around the dilapidated buildings and found the one Jackie had settled into. Tire tracks led from it to a shed in which she’d hidden the Ford F-350. Another set of tracks and a scattering of mud indicated that she’d left in a hurry. Hound’s only consolation was the large pile of food supplies that she had abandoned in her haste to get away.
He relayed this information to Sally, who told him the Orillia police had been notified but hadn’t yet managed to contact O’Reilly or the search team. Hound couldn’t tell her which direction Jackie’s truck had taken, other than down the dirt lane to Main Street, where she would most likely have turned north, as going south would involve driving through Conroy, where the townsfolk would spot her. Assuming she had, it was anyone’s guess which way she would go when she reached the Trans-Canada Highway. Probably she’d continue northwards, as it was more sparsely populated than the south. The police should be able to narrow their search and, with luck, catch her on the Trans-Canada, although Hound figured she wouldn’t stay on the highway for long. There was too great a risk of running into police patrols or being spotted by their helicopter.
Hound concentrated his thoughts on where Jackie might go once she left the Trans-Canada. Nothing useful occurred to him. Then he had an idea. There was someone who might be able to help him locate her . . .
Chapter Seventeen
Monday, October 1, 2007
Jackie scrambled through the hayfield. Hound would be on her trail before long, although not before first contacting the police. There was no time to load up the truck, so on reaching the sawmill, she clambered into the F-350 and raced off, leaving everything behind except her rifle and a suitcase, now lying next to her on the passenger seat. It held three boxes of cartridges, and nothing else. No food, no clothes, no blankets. No cutlery, dishes or matches. She had a small amount of cash stashed inside her jacket pocket, but she couldn’t spend it near Conroy in case she was recognized.
Damn that Hound. The guy had nine lives, and he was way too clever. She’d have to be extra careful next time they clashed. That one small slip, approaching him from upwind, had spoiled everything. The burning question now was where to go? Hound would tell the police what she was wearing, and her large truck would be a cinch to spot.
She sped down the dirt lane, glaring at Hound’s redbrick house as she passed it. She hoped he wouldn’t see her, but assumed he would. She wheeled north onto Main. When she reached the Trans-Canada, she thought for a moment and went south. She figured the police were less likely to look for her that way, although it was still risky. They would certainly be checking the highways to the north of Conroy.
She headed west at the first available crossroads, but then she had an inspiration. She would go south, all the way to Hamilton where Kingsley was, along with his criminal pals. Surely he would help her. If not, then all hope was lost. She really would kill him then. He could stash her truck someplace the police wouldn’t find it and get her a car. And she could wring some money out of the miser. She had no idea where he
was staying, but that wouldn’t be too hard to discover. She could corner his sleazebag lawyer, Clayton Metcalfe, and force him to tell her. He’d be easy enough to find.
Jackie motored along at just over the speed limit. She was listening to the radio, waiting for the police to issue a public broadcast. Nothing yet, which was some small comfort.
She zigzagged southwards along the lanes and back roads. She was keen to get to Hamilton and park at a busy shopping mall, where her truck wouldn’t be so obvious. Then she would take a much needed break. Tomorrow, she would saddle Kingsley with the truck and make him get her an old-model car the police wouldn’t recognize. She realized that her fingers were trembling.
Two hours later, she crossed the city boundary. The public broadcast had been issued about an hour ago, yet she’d passed no cops along the way. It had been the right decision to go west and south. She had only been to Hamilton twice before and she didn’t know the city well. It could be difficult to find a place to stay for the night — it had to be somewhere that took cash and didn’t insist on seeing her I.D. Her best bet would be a basement apartment in a seedy part of town. She could browse the ads in the local newspaper and check out the neighbourhood before deciding.
A massive shopping mall came in sight. Jackie swerved into the lot and found a vacant space beside a large pickup truck. Stashing her rifle under the back seat, she headed into the mall, keeping her face well down. Her photo must be in all the papers by now. She became increasingly anxious. It was late afternoon and she still had to find accommodation, and then move the truck to a safe place for the night. The mall lot would empty out before midnight and she couldn’t leave the F-350 exposed.
In a magazine booth just inside the mall entrance, she bought the Hamilton Spectator and a city map, which she took over to an empty bench. She found a number of low-priced apartments advertised, and selected two to reconnoitre.
Soon she was cruising through a dingy neighbourhood with rundown houses, battered old cars and trucks, and kids with dirty faces slapping hockey pucks about. She motored on to her second choice, which also looked promising, though it wasn’t as decrepit as the first one. She decided to try that one, and called the owner from a phone booth. She went back to it and parked a few blocks away. It was a two-story clapboard disaster, desperately in need of a paint job, or better still, demolition. A toothless man greeted her at the front door. He led her to the side of the house and pointed down a narrow flight of steps.
Jackie descended the broken concrete stairway to the rooms — a windowless bedroom, filth-encrusted washroom, and a shower stall that a child would have had trouble squeezing into. The cramped living room sported a foul-smelling couch, flanked by an upended cardboard box serving as a side table. The only redeeming feature, in Jackie’s view, was the private side entrance. It meant she could come and go without disturbing the owner. She ascended the uneven steps and offered him a week’s cash in advance, provided he could wait for it until tomorrow. With a gummy grin, he demanded a down payment, which she refused. He was still willing to let her have it, and didn’t ask for I.D. She would use the place for a night and the lousy bum wouldn’t get a cent when she left the following day. The place was obviously illegal, so he wasn’t likely to report her to the police.
She left the house and scurried to her truck, intending to drive it through Hamilton to get a feel for the streets. It was 7:30 p.m. and the evening traffic should have peaked. It was risky to drive the truck in the daytime, but she needed to conceal it for the night. The rifle and cartridges would remain where they were, tucked under the back seat, and she would take the suitcase with her. The best place she could find to park was in a murky corner of an underground parking lot somewhere in central Hamilton. She would leave it there and catch a bus to the apartment — she couldn’t risk a taxi. Then she could get some rest, though she knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. Her mind had been in turmoil since she’d been on the run. She would search for Kingsley tomorrow. As her exhaustion took hold, her hands started to shake again. She drove on doggedly, longing for the serenity of the northern woodlands.
The evening traffic was light. On the lookout for police cruisers, Jackie spotted a black limousine parked in front of a seedy-looking real estate office. The syndicate! She veered towards the car and noticed that the rear bumper had a dent, just like the one on the limo that Marco Perez had driven in Conroy. It must be the same car. She eased into the curb a few car lengths ahead of it and waited. This might be a break. Her exhaustion gave way to nervous excitement.
Twenty minutes later, a beefy man with curly black hair emerged from the building and climbed into the limo. He drove off, with Jackie following behind. The man looked familiar, his bullish features reminding her of Guido Daglioni, Perez’s now-deceased bodyguard. This guy might lead her to Kingsley, or at least to where he worked.
The limo wove through the Hamilton streets. Behind it, she noticed that the other vehicles were giving it a wide berth. The driver was obviously well known. The city had a reputation for being home to organized crime, and it had become a protective shield for Kingsley, who was most likely using it to help nullify the charges against him — while she was being hunted like a wild animal. It wasn’t fair.
Jackie followed the limo to a shopping plaza next to a row of office towers, and into an underground parking lot. There, the big car backed into a reserved spot. Jackie cruised past it, shielding her face with a hand and hoping the man hadn’t noticed her. She searched for a suitable place to park, and by the time she returned to the limo, he’d disappeared. In a panic, she dashed to the nearest exit, ran up two flights of stairs and burst through a grey metal door into an elegant and spacious foyer. The man was nowhere to be seen. She went up to the information desk.
The young attendant’s eyes widened at the sight of her odd clothes.
“Excuse me, miss,” Jackie said, panting. “I’m here to meet someone in one of these towers. Trouble is, I don’t know which one, or what floor he’s on.”
The attendant frowned. “Who does he work for, ma’am?”
“I know it sounds dumb, but I don’t have the company name. He’s a big man, way over six feet tall. He told me to come to his office this evening for a job interview. I lost the address, but I know it’s in here somewhere. Please, I need the work. I’m broke.” She tried to force out a tear.
“His name?”
“His last name was Daglioni, I think.”
“Well, there was someone with that name here. His first name was Guido.” The woman lowered her voice. “He was shot by the police. Surely you remember the news coverage a couple of months ago?”
“Yes, of course, miss. The man I’m to meet is his brother, or a cousin, I’m not sure which, and I could be wrong about the last name. Please, can’t you help me? I’m late.” She glanced at her wristwatch and quickly covered it with her sleeve — the watch was too expensive for the rest of her outfit.
“Sorry to sound officious, ma’am, but I have to be careful about giving out potentially sensitive information on the clients in the building.” The attendant was silent for several seconds, then she scanned Jackie’s clothes again and her tone became sympathetic. “I guess I can help you, though. You don’t look dangerous.” She leaned over the desk. “I’ll tell you, but only if you promise not to let anyone know it was me that gave it to you.”
Jackie nodded.
“Okay, then. There’s a cousin here who looks a lot like Guido. His name is Mario. Last name’s Daglioni like you thought. He works for a real estate company on the third floor. Stargate Developments Limited.”
Jackie thanked her effusively.
Chapter Eighteen
Monday, October 1, 2007
Hound drove north on the Trans-Canada, gazing out in admiration at the rugged Canadian Shield landscape, a vast expanse of granite, lakes and trees that stretched for hundreds of miles. It was late afternoon and the sun was beginning to set.
He lowered the window and let the
cool breeze play across his face. Jackie’s attempt at shooting him was a reminder of how dangerous she was. It wasn’t that he’d got in her way, he was obviously a threat to be hunted down and eliminated. If he waited for her to make the next move, she would finish the job when he wasn’t looking, so he had to seize the initiative and get to her first.
It was time to visit his friend, Matthew Simon, someone with strong links to the indigenous people who for millennia had inhabited eastern Georgian Bay. It was a long shot, but maybe Matthew could help him find Jackie.
Matthew was a quiet and contemplative man who kept his feelings and thoughts to himself. He and Hound had formed a bond while tracking the same white-tailed deer, Matthew for food and Hound out of simple curiosity, but there was something else that linked them, though Hound couldn’t say what it was. The time he spent with Matthew was always special.
After driving for close to an hour, Hound turned east off the Trans-Canada along secondary highways and back roads until he reached a dirt path that was barely wide enough for his Bentley. He travelled along it until the track became impassable by car, then he switched the motor off and opened the driver-side door, which struck a large tree trunk. He just managed to squeeze through the narrow gap.
