The Vanishing Track

by Stephen Legault

  Denman ran up the stairs, his ankle throbbing. He could hear sirens now over the blare of the car alarm.

  He reached the hall entrance of the house in time to hear Sean crash through the back door, into the yard behind. By the time Denman limped to the back of the house, Sean was gone.

  THE HEAVY STEEL door at the bottom of the second set of stairs was not locked, but barred from the outside with a metal rod. Cole removed the rod and pushed the door open. The smell was putrid, and Cole felt bile rising in his throat. He swung the light around the room and gagged.

  Juliet pushed past him into the darkness. “Cole, here, on the floor,” she said. Cole pointed the light toward her. On the floor lay a body in a pool of blood. Juliet knelt beside the man and put her fingers on his neck to feel for a pulse. “It’s George Oliver. He’s barely alive.”

  Cole swung the light around the room.

  “Oh my God,” he said. There was a man tied to a metal chair, his head lolling forward. Another man hung from a hook in the ceiling, his arms above him, his face gaunt and pale. Cole knew without checking that he’d been dead for several days. The room reeked of bile and vomit, urine and feces and decay.

  “Cole, help me get this man untied, and call for an ambulance.”

  They heard feet on the stairs and Cole looked up sharply, his body tensing for action. The feet were accompanied by a flood of lights.

  “VPD—we’re coming in!”

  “We’re here!” shouted Juliet. She was laying a second man down on the floor as half a dozen members of the tactical team burst into the room, pistols and shotguns held at the ready, lights on their weapons sweeping the room for danger.

  “This room is clear,” said one of the men into his headset. “We need an EMT team in here, and hurry.”

  Cole helped lower the man from the chair to the floor. “You okay, partner?”

  The man looked up at him, his eyes glistening in the darkness, reflecting the glare of the police lights.

  “I’ve seen better days,” said the man.

  “I bet you have,” said Cole, his hand resting on the man’s arm. “I bet you have.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  NANCY STOOD IN THE MEZZANINE of City Hall with a clutch of other reporters when her phone rang.

  “Webber.”

  “It’s Marcia Lane.”

  Nancy looked around her. “Are you talking on the record today?”

  “This is just an information call.”

  “Okay, go ahead. I’m just standing here at City Hall waiting to see if there are any more riots.”

  Nancy thought she heard Lane laugh a little, then grow somber. “I’ve got two things. First, my divers have recovered two more bodies. Same scenario as before. Shopping carts. Tarps; in one case, burlap sacking. They were farther west along the pier. The heavy traffic in Burrard Inlet kicks up a lot of sediment, so these two bodies already had a coating on them. We haven’t got a positive ID yet. It may take some time.”

  “You said there were two things.”

  “Yeah, we just got a 911 call from a house on Salisbury Street. I’m pretty certain we’re going to find the other missing people there. I’m heading that way right now. We’ve got a dozen units there, including tactical. Nancy, I’m pretty sure the call came in from your friend Denman.”

  “Jesus Christ. Juliet Rose lives on Salisbury Street.”

  “I haven’t got a situation report from the tact team yet, Nancy. But I’m pretty sure the guy we’re looking for has been passing himself off as a volunteer at the Carnegie Centre.”

  Nancy walked as calmly as she could from the gaggle of reporters and stepped into the rain, then broke into a run. It took her five minutes to hail a cab, all the while her heart beating furiously. She hit speed dial on her phone and tried to reach Cole, but he wasn’t answering his cell. She then tried Denman, to no avail.

  As she got in the cab she called her editor and asked him to send a photographer to the address. “Is everything okay, Nancy?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t reach anybody.”

  “I’m sure everything is fine,” said Pesh.

  “It’s just that Cole has a habit of, well, getting in too deep.”

  “Listen, Nancy, there is something else.”

  “God, what?”

  “Well, you’re not going to like it.”

  “Just spit it out, for Christ’s sake, Frank.”

  “Beatta Nowak didn’t show up for a meeting this morning.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Her car was spotted by a VPD mounted patrol unit in Stanley Park just after nine this morning. Look, it’s only been half a day. She could be out for a walk . . .”

  “In the rain?”

  “It’s Vancouver.”

  “Possible, but not likely.”

  “Nancy, these things happen.”

  “I know, Frank. I’ve been at this a while. I don’t take responsibility for what happens after I report a story.”

  “Okay. Well, I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Call me when you get there?”

  “I will.” She hung up without saying goodbye. The streets near the Salisbury house were choked with emergency vehicles. She handed the cabbie his fare and walked up the rest of the way. Three ambulances waited in the road, their crews wheeling stretchers toward waiting doors. She could see groups of men standing around in body armor and carrying automatic rifles and shotguns. A uniformed officer stopped her.

  “Are you a resident?” he asked.

  “Press,” she said.

  “Crime scene perimeter is right here.” He pointed to the sidewalk beneath their feet.

  “What happened?”

  “Found three people in a bomb shelter beneath that house there,” the officer pointed to the yellow house.

  “Alive?”asked Nancy.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Anybody else involved?”

  “The woman who rented the place found them,” said the officer

  “And the perp?” asked Nancy.

  “On the run,” said the cop.

  “You’re kidding me.” Through the rain she made out Cole’s dark, hulking form. “Cole!” she yelled over the hiss of rain and the wail of sirens. “Cole!”

  She saw him peer over the railing of the porch and then rush down the stairs and run along the sidewalk, another uniformed officer following him.

  When he reached her, they held on to each other, the two cops looking on. “What happened? Is everybody okay?”

  “Juliet and Denny are fine. Juliet is in shock, but she’ll be okay. Denman is in the back of that ambulance. Broken ankle.”

  “What happened?”

  He told her. “Denman tackled the freak, but he got away. The kid, Sean, he’s the one, the killer. The police are setting up a perimeter. I think they might be too late,” said Cole, looking at the officer who had followed him. “I think the freak has given us the slip. He’s crazy, and he’s still out there.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “IS THIS AN OFFICIAL VISIT?” asked Charles Livingstone. He was seated in his plush office, his fingers pressed together in a tent in front of his chest, his body slouching slightly in his huge leather chair.

  “Constable Winters and I are really here for information. And, I suppose, to give you something of a warning, really,” Marcia Lane acknowledged.

  Livingstone leaned farther back in his chair. “A warning? That sounds ominous.” He smiled thinly. “It’s already been a difficult day, you understand.”

  “I do understand. This isn’t related to the newspaper stories, at least not directly. Not that I can see. It’s about Sean.”

  Livingstone’s body seemed to deflate at the mention of his son’s name.

  “What about him?”

  “When was the last time you saw him, sir?”

  Livingstone pressed his fingers more tightly together so that the tips became white. “It’s been some time. A year, maybe?”


  “Do you know where he is right now?”

  “Well, he should be in school. He was attending college here in the city.”

  “He isn’t living at home while he attends school?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s a personal matter, Sergeant.”

  “Humor me.”

  Livingstone contemplated this for a moment. “My son has a problem with authority. He doesn’t accept mine, or anybody else’s. I won’t tolerate that in my home. It’s just too disruptive. Too disruptive. To me. To my wife. To my home.”

  “So you kicked him out?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. He left; I made it clear that he wasn’t welcome back. He’s well provided for, I assure you. He’s an adult, twenty-four years old, for God’s sake.”

  “Have you ever heard from him?”

  “The last time I heard from him he’d been kicked out of Simon Fraser. He had decided on a new career path, and was enrolling in the community college. He was looking for more money, as usual.”

  “No phone calls?”

  “No.”

  “He never drops by the house for a visit?”

  “Sergeant, where is this going? I’m being interrogated without counsel present. I’d like you to explain to me what this is all about.”

  “You’re not being interrogated, Mr. Livingstone. I assure you, if you were, you’d know it. I am trying to establish what I can about the patterns in your son’s life. He has quite a record, doesn’t he?”

  “Surely you can’t blame that on me. My wife and I have done everything we can for Sean. It’s not our fault that he’s a rebel. Without a cause, I might add,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I’m not blaming you, Mr. Livingstone. Lord knows children develop their own propensities, regardless of our parenting. Did you know he committed assault in September? He broke the nose of a classmate right in front of his whole class, and then walked out and was never seen by the school again.”

  Livingstone leaned forward. “Nothing about Sean surprises me, Sergeant. Now, if you wouldn’t mind cutting to the chase, it’s getting on in the day, and I really should be heading home. My wife is not well.”

  “What troubles her?”

  “That’s a private matter, Sergeant.”

  Lane nodded. “Sean isn’t at your home now, is he?”

  “I’ve already told you, I haven’t seen him in a year! Just exactly what is this all about?”

  “Mr. Livingstone, your son is wanted in connection with the murder of five people, and the kidnapping and attempted murder of two more.”

  The blood drained from Livingstone’s face.

  “About thirty minutes ago our officers found three people tied up in a fallout shelter under an address in the east end of the city. One of the men was dead, the other two are now in critical condition at Vancouver General. For at least one of them, the next couple of hours will be the deciding moments in his life. Sean also assaulted a well-known community activist who confronted him before our tactical team arrived, and your son is currently the subject of a city-wide manhunt. If you should hear from your son, we’d like to know about it immediately. If you see him, consider him extremely dangerous and call 911 immediately. Do you understand, sir?”

  Livingstone simply nodded, his blue eyes inscrutable.

  “FRANK, IT’S CHARLES.”

  “How are you today, Charles?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “I’m doing okay, all things considered.”

  “Backlash?”

  “Some. To be expected.”

  “Listen, Frank. I feel I haven’t served you very well in this matter. I had a meeting with the partners this morning, and we agreed that I should recuse myself from this file. The other partners have agreed that if you still want the firm to represent you, one of them will step forward. We also want to give you the opportunity to back out of your contract with us all together.”

  “Let me think about that a little.”

  “We wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to seek counsel elsewhere, Frank.”

  “Well, it may be a necessity, but if I do, it’s not because you haven’t served me. We stepped into this mess together, Charles. We both thought this was what was best. I still do, by the way. I’m still planning on moving ahead with much of what our little Manifesto stated.”

  “Well, I think that’s probably the right thing to do, Frank. But I’d suggest laying low on some of the more controversial stuff for a while. Let the Lucky Strike sit for a time. Hell, Woodwards sat for fifteen years. I don’t see any reason to rush into things at this point. If the people of this city think it’s so terrible for a businessman to do what the law entitles him to do, then let them live with the alternative: a cesspool of crime and disease and filth full of people who live like animals.”

  “Okay, Charles, I get what you’re telling me. Like I said, I’ve got to think this over.”

  “What is the Board of Trade saying?”

  “It’s ironic that I’ve got to present to them this coming week, don’t you think?”

  “Did they ask you to not talk to them?”

  “They would never do that to me, Charles. I own the Board of Trade. I did get a call from the chairman today. He asked me to avoid the subject. Let it all blow over. There will be more than the normal level of media interest this coming week. He suggested talking about the West End projects.”

  “Fucking cowards. You should talk about the projects just to spit in their eye.”

  “Are you okay, Charles? You sound like you’re taking all of this personally. It’s just the cost of doing business in Lotusland. Can’t help but piss off the bleeding hearts.”

  “Yeah, I’m okay . . . It’s just a family thing.”

  “Is Martha okay?”

  “Well, not really, but it’s not that, it’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing. Anyway, I’m sorry this has turned out so badly.”

  “It’s not so bad, Charles.”

  “We don’t know that yet.”

  “Have you heard from him?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  “If there are any threats, call the police, Frank.”

  “I’m okay. I’m fine. He might control the east side of the city, Charles. But I control the west. And I’m not entirely without recourse to the tools that he employs.”

  “Frank, if there are any threats, just call the police.”

  “Okay, Charles, okay. You sound like my mother.”

  “I’m sure she was a smart woman. You’ll get back to me about the representation, right?”

  “Next week. We’ll have lunch. Let’s just see how this plays out.”

  “Okay. Listen, I’m just heading into the car park, where the signal . . . spotting . . . lose you, we’ll . . .”

  “You’re breaking up a little, Charles. I’ll talk with you next week.”

  THE CELL PHONE lay on the concrete next to the tire of his black Jaguar. The tiny voice could still be heard coming from the earpiece.

  “Charles? Okay, well I guess you’ve cut out.” Then the line went dead.

  Charles Livingstone’s hand was still curled, the fingers grasping at air. He lay prone between his car and a BMW, his dark suit rumpled.

  “Hi, Dad. It’s good to see you,” said his son, his left hand curled around a tire iron.

  THIRTY

  “I’VE GOT TO WRAP SOME things up at my office. Why don’t you head over to my place, have a bath, and make yourself at home?” Cole fished into his pocket for his keys and handed them to Nancy. They were sitting in the boardroom of Priority Legal.

  “You think Juliet is going to be okay?”

  “She’s fine. Denman will take her to his place tonight.”

  “I doubt she’ll ever go back to her place again.”

  “Hard to blame her after what that freak did.”

  “What did you think of what that shrink from
UBC said?” Nancy asked, looking intently at Cole.

  “Hargrove? Well, it makes sense. Sean is a psychopath.”

  “I’m glad Denman called him to talk with us. What Hargrove said, about these people being able to burrow into your life, it’s pretty scary. I really feel for Juliet. She must be feeling horrible right now,” Nancy said, shaking her head, her raven black hair floating across her shoulders. “I mean, how are we to know? How is anybody to know? The guy knew all the right things to say. Knew exactly how to get into her life. It was like he could read her mind, knew all the weaknesses there. And then just played her like a fiddle.”

  “I found it particularly interesting what he said about the music. That people like Sean know all the words but not the music.”

  “Yeah, I found that interesting too.”

  “I mean, I met the guy. I’m a good judge of people, I think. I didn’t see anything wrong with him, except that he seemed, well, flat, was all.”

  “I’m glad that Denman brought him in,” said Nancy again. “I think it will help Juliet.”

  Cole stood up. “So I’ll see you at my place?”

  “Don’t be long,” said Nancy. She stood and touched his hand. “You’re taking a cab, right?”

  “You call me when you’re at my place.”

  “Cole?”

  He turned to her at the door. “Yeah?”

  “I, well . . .”

  “I know, Nancy. I’ll be home soon.”

  Cole walked toward the back of the law offices. Before he turned into Denman’s tiny cubicle office, he knocked. “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “Come on in, buddy,” said Denman.

  “How are you guys doing?”

  Juliet sat in the only chair in his crowded office, while Denman leaned on the edge of his desk. His left foot was in a cast; a pair of crutches leaned against the wall.

  “We’re okay,” said Juliet.

  “Thanks to you,” said Denman. “You showed up just in the nick of time.”

  “Juliet, how are you feeling?” asked Cole.

  “Sick,” she said, looking down at her hands.