by Scott Cook
Alex stood as best he could. Supposed to be looking after me? He stared at the man, dumbfounded by confusion and fear.
Angie emerged from behind Shitbox, still pale and obviously shaken. “What the hell is going on, Alex?” she asked. It was the first time she had spoken since the attack.
Alex reeled. Ten minutes earlier he was having the time of his life. Now he was injured, standing next to a member of the criminal gang that wanted him dead, and staring at the woman he loved, knowing he had to tell her he’d been lying to her from the day they met.
“I honestly don’t know,” he said weakly.
Shitbox looked at the two of them and blushed. “I’m sorry, you guys. I really am. Look, just come with me and I’ll tell ya everything. Or what I know, at least.”
Angie stared up at the big man. “I just want to go home,” she said timidly.
“I know,” Shitbox said, his high voice full of sympathy. “But your place isn’t safe anymore.” He turned to Alex. “Neither is yours. Just come with me and I promise you’ll be all right. And hurry; we gotta get off this beach before anyone comes looking for those stupid kids.”
With that, he wrapped a tree-trunk arm around Alex’s shoulder and took Angie by the hand. He led them off the beach and into the town common, with all its shadows.
#
Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the dark in the main room of a four-room cabin, on the side of the hill that rose up behind the Bluebird Motor Inn. Shitbox had practically carried Alex up the steep road to the place. They left the lights off when they walked through the door at Shitbox’s insistence.
With Alex settled as comfortably as possible on the sofa, Angie beside him, the big man went into the kitchen area that opened onto the living room and returned with two cans of Coke. He gave one to each of them. “Drink this,” he said soothingly. “The sugar’ll help take the edge off the adrenaline.”
Alex and Angie did as they were told. It was true; he felt better after a few sips. But he was still exhausted. He looked over at Angie. Her face was unreadable in the darkness.
“Better?” asked Shitbox.
“Yeah.” Alex’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark. “Thanks. Now can you tell us what’s going on? Why couldn’t we go back to my place, or Angie’s?”
Shitbox sat back in an overstuffed armchair that groaned under his weight. “They aren’t safe anymore. Jason will have more to tell you when he gets here tomorrow, but –”
Alex nearly choked on his soda. “Crowe? Is coming here?”
“Yeah,” said Shitbox. “I told you, he’s not going to hurt you. He really needs to talk to you. He thinks someone else may try to hurt you.”
“You mean besides those apes tonight?”
“Those guys didn’t have anything to do with this. You’re lucky Jason had me watching you, though. That could have got nasty. Hey, what’s ‘yolo’ supposed to mean, anyway?”
“No offense,” said Alex, wiping his mouth. “But I have a hard time believing the man who blew up one of my best friends with plastic explosives has my best interests at heart.”
“What are you talking about?” Angie asked, clearly still in mild shock. “Alex, what’s going on?”
“Jason Crowe didn’t kill Chuck Palliser,” Shitbox said earnestly. “Richie Duff, neither. It was somebody else. And that somebody tried to kill Crowe tonight. They shot up the Rosebush. He was okay, but Miz Manning –” There was a sudden hitch in his voice, as if he was holding back tears. “Miz Manning was shot. She died.”
Alex blinked in the dark. “Diane Manning is dead?”
“Uh-huh. I’m sad about that. I liked her.”
“Who’s Diane Manning?” asked Angie. “Who’s Jason Crowe? What the hell is happening?”
Alex sighed. “I’ll tell you everything soon,” he said miserably. “But first I need to talk to Shitbox.” He turned to the big man. “Why would someone else kill Chuck and Richie Duff? And why would they use the same explosives that blew up the storage unit at Highlands the night Hodge killed Tom Ferbey?”
“Mr. Hodge didn’t kill Tom Ferbey,” said Shitbox.
Mr. Hodge? A crazy image of Rufus Hodge in a powder blue sweater and tennis shoes flashed in Alex’s mind. Mr. Hodge’s Neighborhood. He shook it away. “I saw it happen,” he said.
Shitbox shrugged. “Jason said you saw someone shoot Tom Ferbey, but it wasn’t Mr. Hodge. He was with Richie Duff that night. Miz Manning said it was an outrage that Mr. Hodge got convicted, cuz there wasn’t any real evidence, just circumstantial stuff.”
Alex opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. The aftermath of the panic he’d experienced over the course of the night had brought with it a kind of clarity, a sharpness of thought. Was he sure it had been Hodge that night? The photo he’d managed to snap just showed someone with longish hair and beard scruff. And Alex had to admit he’d only seen the face with his own eyes for a second at most. Had he pointed out Hodge’s mug shot in the book the next day, or had Chuck Palliser pointed it out to him? If he was being honest with himself – and he realized now that he no longer had the luxury of fooling himself – his memory of the night was sketchy at best. He’d convinced himself otherwise during the trial, thanks to Chuck and Leslie’s coaching. But had he really recognized the face? Or had that just been Chuck’s zealousness?
And, of course, there was Gregory Larocque’s collusion in the guilty verdict. Was the prosecution’s case really that flimsy? Being in the thick of it, he’d only thought about his role as a witness. He had barely skimmed Sam Walsh’s coverage of the trial. Why would he read in-depth? He was living it.
“Shitbox,” he said. “Let’s say what you’re saying is true –”
“It is true.”
“Okay. If that’s the case, who killed Tom Ferbey? And why did they blow up the storage unit? And why did they kill Duff and Chuck Palliser?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Alex could see the shadows on Shitbox’s face bunching. “I think you should talk to Jason about that stuff. I’m not sure I understand it all.”
Alex sighed. His mind was reeling, his body was hurting, and he was exhausted. Beside him, Angie was curled up on the end of the sofa, her soft, rhythmic breathing audible in the still night air. At least I don’t have to explain The Story to her tonight, he thought.
“Let me,” said Shitbox. He rose from the chair with a creak and lifted Angie gently off the sofa as if she were a child. He walked softly to the bedroom, laid her on the bed, and covered her with a quilt emblazoned with a flock of green-headed mallards.
“You must be bagged,” Shitbox said as he shut the door behind him. “Why don’t you take the couch? I’ll sleep on the floor. I’m pretty near wiped myself.”
Alex was too tired to argue. “All right,” he said. He was asleep before his body was fully prone. He couldn’t even hear the buzzsaw drone of Shitbox’s snores when the big man fell asleep minutes later.
CHAPTER 26
Sam and Tess stepped out of their cab at Anderson Station a few minutes before six o’clock the next morning. They had remained silent during the ride. Sam could see the tension in Tess’s face. His own belly felt full of thorns; his quest for the truth seemed insane in the light of morning, and he was going to drag the person he cared about most into it with him.
Sam paid the driver. The two waited where they were until it pulled away onto Macleod Trail. When they were sure he was out of sight, they walked toward the silver Yukon parked about a hundred yards away.
“I feel like we’re in a John Le Carre novel,” said Tess.
“Who’s that?”
She slapped his arm. “God, you’re stupid.”
Crowe didn’t get out when they reached the SUV. He unlocked the doors and the two threw their bags in the cargo area, then climbed in. Sam took the front seat, Tess took the back. He half expected her to make some remark about him being sexist, but she didn’t.
Crowe looked tired. “Did you get any sleep l
ast night?” Sam asked.
“Enough,” said Crowe. He nosed the Yukon out of the parking lot and headed into the early morning traffic on Macleod, heading north.
“Are you going to tell us where we’re going?” Tess asked.
“The Kootenays. A place called Lost Lake.”
“O-kay,” said Sam. “Can we ask why?”
“Because that’s where Alex Dunn is.”
Sam was stunned. “You know where Dunn is?”
From the back seat, Tess asked, “Is he safe?”
“He is,” said Crowe. “But he might not be for long if we don’t get there soon.”
“How do you know where he is?” Sam asked. “Even the cops don’t know that.”
Crowe gave him an annoyed look. “I sent in an access to information request.”
“Why do you say he won’t be safe for long?” Tess asked.
“Whoever is behind this thing had some kind of plan to get rid of key people involved in Hodge’s trial. They wanted it to look like I’d done the job so that I’d skip town. Then they sent someone to kill Hodge on the inside. They figured, with the revenge killing of a cop, and Hodge dead, Diane wouldn’t bother with an appeal. With everyone involved either dead or missing, they thought no one would ever nose around into what really happened that night at the Highland yard.”
Sam chewed this over. “What about the judge?”
“These guys aren’t stupid. They know better than to kill a judge.”
The drove in silence for a while. Crowe made a left turn onto 16th Avenue, which took them west out of the city. It eventually turned into the TransCanada, gateway to Banff, the Rockies, and finally the Kootenays. The rising sun behind them cast a golden hue on the approaching mountains as they drove westward. The three remained quiet, each lost in their own thoughts, as prairie grassland gave way to foothills, then to the Rockies. Canmore came and went, then Banff. Beyond that was the winding mountain pass that took the TransCanada into Kootenay National Park and British Columbia.
Finally, Sam said what he knew Tess was thinking: “Are they going to kill Alex?”
Crowe stared at the road ahead. “I think so. They took out Palliser and Duff to make it look like payback. But they also did it to silence two of the people who knew the most about the case.”
“That’s true,” said Sam. “Palliser did the investigation almost single-handedly. The local cops didn’t even try for a pissing match; they knew he knew his stuff, and that he was as badass as they come.” He glanced at Crowe. “Present company excluded, of course.”
Crowe chuckled softly.
“But how could they find Alex?” Sam continued.
“I did,” said Crowe. “These guys are good. The gunmen at the Rosebush weren’t part of the Aryan Brotherhood. And whoever was shooting at us had extensive experience with military-grade firearms. I could tell by the patterns. Small groupings, double or triple taps. They were leading the cops in the wrong direction – again.”
“But why the Aryans?”
“Whoever it is, they’re trying to set up another hit on Hodge. The Brotherhood isn’t like the Roses, or any other gang. They recruit almost entirely inside prisons. And they’re more than willing to slice someone up for the right price. They don’t care if it adds years to their hitch. All their best people are on the inside. The ones on the outside are just wannabes.”
“So whoever killed Ferbey pays the Aryans to take out Hodge, and the cops buy it, because it looks like revenge.”
“Exactly. Case closed, no more investigations. The story of Rufus Hodge comes to an end, as far as they’re concerned. No big loss.”
“What if they trace the money for the hit?”
“They can’t – it’s all in cash. Phone transactions, untraceable twenties.”
Sam frowned. “How do you know that?”
“They tried once before, with Billy Trinh.”
“The guy who got killed in prison?”
“Yeah. I talked to his boss. He told me everything.”
“You must be a persuasive guy.”
Crowe smiled. “When I have to be.”
“But why all twenties? That seems a little bulky, doesn’t it?”
The smile on Crowe’s face disappeared. “Twenties are hard to trace because there are so many of them in circulation. Easier to deposit. Easier to launder.”
“So where did the killers get all that cash? They must have sold the product they stole.”
Crowe fixed him with a look. “You remember last night you asked me why the storage unit didn’t need a failsafe?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s because the last thing we wanted to do was blow up what was inside.”
“The meth?”
“There was no meth in that unit.”
Sam and Tess looked at each other. “There wasn’t?” Tess asked.
“Of course not. You don’t stockpile product; it’s too time-consuming to make and distribute. The demand always exceeds the supply.”
“Then what was in there?”
Crowe turned his gaze back to the road in front of them.
“Eleven million dollars in twenty-dollar bills,” he said. “And I want it back.”
CHAPTER 27
Eddie was painfully aware of the clop-clop sound of his work shoes as he brought Rufus Hodge’s breakfast to his cell. Apparently, Hodge was right; he was a heel walker.
He slid the tray of grayish oatmeal and sausage pucks through the slot in the bars. Hodge took it and sat down on the cot, tucking in greedily. Eddie had gotten him a double order. He didn’t know why.
“Thanks, officer,” the ugly man said through a mouthful of oatmeal. “I’m gonna need my strength today.”
“Why?” Eddie asked. “You’re not leaving your cell.”
“No?”
“No. The warden ordered you confined for the next couple days, until this thing with the Aryans dies down.”
Hodge grunted a laugh. “They’re comin. Today.”
Eddie’s brow furrowed. “Why do you say that? We’ve got extra men watching everyone with a shaved head and goatee.”
“The kind of money we’re talkin, they don’t give a shit. They want their payday; they don’t care what happens to em after that.”
The guard in the glass box at the end of the hall, a guy named Crenshaw, looked nervous. He was one of the younger men, nowhere near as big as Mitch Casson. Eddie wondered if he could handle himself. But then, what was there to worry about? The box separated the two ends of the corridor, and was locked on both sides. It was how the guards kept the worst inmates in solitary, and the other inmates out of solitary.
Eddie stood and waited as Hodge finished his breakfast. The man’s appetite for the garbage they served in the Badlands was mind-boggling. When he was finished, he put the tray on the floor of the cell.
“I need that back,” said Eddie.
“What’s the hurry, officer?” Hodge asked. “I ain’t going anywhere.”
Eddie sighed. “Fine.”
Crenshaw’s voice came over the radio on Eddie’s hip. “Hey, man, I gotta take a leak. I’ll be right back.”
“Whatever,” Eddie said into the microphone at his throat. He watched Crenshaw leave, heard the buzz as the lock clicked in place behind him.
Hodge looked up at Eddie from his cot. “Alone at last,” he said. “Tell me something, officer. How did it feel when you took out that Aryan fuck?”
Eddie blinked. He could feel blood rising into his face. “What do you mean?”
“You weren’t beatin on him. You were beatin on someone else. Who?”
Eddie rounded on the ugly man. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Hodge stood up and gripped the bars of his cell. “I seen a helluva lot of fights in my time,” he said. “You were gettin revenge on a guy you didn’t even know. That means he was standin in for someone else.”
Hot shame rose in Eddie’s chest. “Shut the fuck up! You don’t know what you’re
talking about!”
“Okay, officer,” said Hodge. “Whatever you say. I just think there’s someone else in that head with you. The same guy you’re beatin on when you meet up with them fellas at the bar. Same guy you’re kickin the shit out of in them karate matches.”
C’mere n take yer medicine.
Eddie slammed his baton against the bars, narrowly missing Hodge’s fingers. “SHUT UP!” he cried.
At that moment, the buzz of the guard box lock sounded once, then again. Crenshaw had returned to his post. Eddie stood as close to the bars as he could without touching them. “Why do you do this to me?” he whispered. His guts were a roiling storm of shame, despair and fury.
Hodge gave him a crooked half-smile and tapped the part of his forehead where the bruises had finally faded. “Why not?” he said.
Behind him, the guard box lock buzzed again. Eddie closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Cold fingers were gripping the muscles of his neck in the beginnings of an ugly headache.
“Jesus Christ, Crenshaw, do you have a walnut for a fucking bladder?” he asked.
Then he heard another buzz, closer this time. It was the lock on Hodge’s cell opening. Eddie opened his eyes and saw Hodge reaching down for his breakfast tray. “Better turn around, officer,” the ugly man said.
Eddie spun around, still holding his baton. Crenshaw had left the guard box and was walking towards him, hands behind his back. Except it wasn’t Crenshaw. It was someone else in his uniform. Eddie could see the cuffs of the pants rising several inches above the man’s ankles. The shirt strained against a chest and arms too large for it to contain.
Eddie finally recognized the man – Cox. An inmate. An Aryan inmate. He reached for the mike at his throat, but Cox was too close to him. A hand flashed out from behind the inmate’s back, and the handset dropped to the floor, severed from its thick, coiled wire. Eddie could see the edge of a blade in Cox’s hand now. He brought his baton down towards Cox’s wrist, but the inmate was too fast for him. Eddie spared a glance at the guard box. Three other Aryans in prison fatigues had made it through the box and were now inside the secure corridor. Behind them, a squadron of guards worked frantically to open the guard box from the other side. Only Cox was armed, as far as Eddie could see.
