by Rick Blechta
The space was large, with not many cars. Ellis ran from one to another, ears straining for any sound, eyes on the move.
Approaching the southeast corner, he heard a sound. A muffled whimper? He peered out from behind an SUV.
In the farthest aisle, he saw a woman in business attire lying on her back. Her hands were behind her, and a cable tie bound her ankles together. He couldn’t see her face, but he assumed from the sound he’d heard that she was gagged. Where was Johnson? And where was Pratt?
He took a chance and moved forward one car. He heard an engine start somewhere behind him. The woman put her head up. Ellis was close enough now to see her wide eyes. Johnson was coming, and she knew what he meant to do.
Sticking his head out again, he looked back. No car. It must be in one of the other aisles. Had Johnson seen him sneaking around?
Ellis’s mind was working furiously. Should he run to Trudell and drag her out of the way? Should he go find Johnson? Was Johnson armed? The detective was painfully aware of his lack of body armor.
“Jen will be so pissed if I get shot,” he mumbled to himself as he looked behind again.
No sign of Johnson. What was he waiting for? His last victim was ready for the kill. Was something wrong? Maybe Pratt had found him.
It was one of those decisions made without conscious thought. One moment Ellis was wondering what to do, and the next he was racing toward the woman.
Her head was up as she struggled frantically. A squeal of tires behind made Ellis turn.
An SUV had just turned the corner and was racing for him. With no time to react, he grabbed Margaret Trudell’s feet and dragged her behind a car to his right. If Johnson managed to hit it squarely, they were still in great danger. There was no time to do anything more.
Two shots rang out, then three more, followed by a deafening crunch of metal. Ducked behind the car as he was, Ellis couldn’t see what had happened.
He stuck his head up. The SUV had crashed squarely into a pillar about twenty feet away. Curls of steam rose from the crumpled hood.
Gun at the ready, Ellis quickly moved forward to the driver’s side. Johnson lay pinned against the seat by an exploded airbag spattered with blood. He was very clearly dead.
Pratt came running up, gun still in his hand.
“Well, that was a close thing.”
Ellis said simply, “You saved our lives.”
Muffled sounds came from behind the car Ellis had used for a shield.
Pratt grinned. “I guess it’s time we released the damsel in distress.”
TWENTY-SIX
It took forty-eight hours to get Trudell in to make a statement. By that time she’d hired Walter Hodges, one of Toronto’s best-known criminal lawyers. The irony was, she’d faced off against him in court many times—and tried her hardest to make him look bad.
“My client is just here to make a statement. I want to make that clear,” Hodges said as they took seats in an interview room.
Pratt kept his face blank as he answered, “Of course.”
He started up the recording unit, but Ellis opened his notebook nonetheless.
“Now,” Pratt began, “tell us what happened.”
Trudell drew herself up. It was odd to see her on the opposite side of the table in an interview room.
“Daniel Johnson set me up for that meeting at the courthouse yesterday.”
“How?”
“I got an email.”
“May I see it?”
Trudell and her lawyer huddled.
“You may not,” Hodges answered.
Pratt sighed. Why did lawyers always make things so bloody difficult?
“So Johnson lured you to the provincial court building.”
“Yes,” Trudell said.
“Didn’t you recognize him?”
“No. He had a beard—and I barely knew the man anyway.”
“And what happened?”
“He called me by the name I used when I was young. He had a knife underneath the coat over his arm. He pushed it against my back and told me I had to come with him.”
“Did you know why?”
“I could only guess that it had something to do with the trouble he got into eighteen years ago. He accused me and some of my friends of being involved in it. That was completely absurd.”
“And after that, did he say anything else?”
“He spoke very little. With the point of a knife in my back, I had little choice but to go along with him.”
“You knew what he’d done to your friends, didn’t you?”
Another huddle, this time longer.
“My client wishes to say that she did know some of the other victims—”
“Not all of them?” Pratt shot back.
More talk.
“Well, yes. All of them. But Ms. Trudell hasn’t spoken to any of them for many, many years. She lost touch with them once she went to university.”
“We were never that close anyway,” Trudell added. “I just hung out with them during the summers I spent at my aunt and uncle’s cottage.”
“And Daniel Johnson?”
“Just the kid who worked at the gas station. As I said before, I barely knew him and never spoke to him in my life.”
Pratt switched gears. “Tell me why you left your childhood name completely behind.”
“Detective Pratt,” Hodges warned, “that has nothing to do with what happened yesterday.”
Pratt ignored the lawyer. “Or why you’ve dyed your blond hair brown all these years. Most women would be thrilled to have blond hair.”
“Detective! My client came here this morning to help with your investigation, not be subjected to baseless accusations. May I remind you she was nearly murdered two days ago?”
Pratt stared at Gwen Trudell for several moments. He had a hunch she was teetering.
Sliding an old photo across the table, he asked, “This is all six of you, isn’t it?”
She picked it up, stared for a moment, then let it flutter from her fingers.
“Where did you get this?”
“From Bruce Moore’s mother. It arrived by courier this morning. That’s Curt Dewalt on the end, with his arm around you, then Becky Collins, Tom Lamport, Bruce Moore and Saara Lahti. Your hair is blond, strikingly so.”
“We were so young.”
Pratt said in a gentle voice, “We know what happened all those years ago.”
“Hearsay,” Hodges snapped.
“Maggie?”
Her head went down for nearly a minute. Then she finally looked up.
“I’m sorry, Walter, but I can’t carry this burden any longer. I just can’t.” Another long pause. “Detective Pratt, ask me any question you want.”
“Gwen!” Hodges said. “I cannot allow this.”
She put her hand on the lawyer’s forearm. “It’s time to tell the truth, Walter. Way past time.”
Pratt asked, “Why did you keep silent for so long?”
“I didn’t think I would at first.” She shook her head. “Despite what you may think of me, I’m not a bad person.”
“How do you square that with ruining an innocent young man’s life? You and your friends lied. Your parents lied. How could you allow that?”
“We panicked. Curt bolted into the woods, and we all followed. At least, I thought everyone followed. Bruce had a small flashlight. We stumbled around for hours. You wouldn’t believe the shape we were in! Eventually, we came to a cottage. Tom knew the family who owned it. They gave us all rides back home. Bruce made up some stupid story about a boat with engine trouble.”
“And when word got out about the accident?”
“Bruce’s and Becky’s parents figured out we were lying. They brought us all together, along with a lawyer from Toronto. It was made clear our lives would be ruined if what actually happened ever got out. Our parents swore us to secrecy, and we all got sent away. University was about to start up anyway.
“I kept wanting to tell. Curt
was the one who really applied pressure on us to keep silent. He’d had trouble with the police back in Calgary, and that’s why he’d been sent to Muskoka that summer. He told us he’d go to jail, and if that happened, he’d make sure we all went with him.”
“So you kept silent.”
Gwen Trudell squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes.”
“I’ve looked at your biography online. Besides changing your name and hair color in order to hide your past, you have made no mention of all those summers in Muskoka. Do you even need those glasses you’re wearing?”
Finally, the lawyer spoke up again.
“Gwen, you really have to stop.” He looked at Pratt. “This interview is at an end.”
Pratt turned off the recorder and got up.
“You disgust me,” was all he said as he left the room.
Back in Mac’s office, they discussed what would happen next.
“It’s up to the Crown,” Mac said. “There doesn’t seem to be much stomach for looking deeper into this. If she hasn’t already, Trudell will no doubt resign. Everyone else involved is dead.”
Ellis shook his head. “What about Featherstone? I’m sure he was paid off, and there might be others. The parents represented a lot of power and money. You read the accounts of the case. It just screams of a setup.”
Mac shrugged. “Not our call. I know it stinks, but it is what it is.”
“It’s a goddamn tragedy,” Pratt said. “It amazes me what people will say to justify their actions. You expect better—but you never get it.”
“Ain’t that the truth, Pratt.” Mac stood. “Well, boys, good work. I need the write-up on my desk ASAP.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Ellis was still fuming when he arrived home that evening. He wanted to go after Featherstone and had been told that wouldn’t happen either.
When Jen had found out about what happened in the parking garage, she’d been as angry as he’d expected. Tonight she seemed quiet.
“Still mad?” he asked as they sat down to dinner.
“No.” She looked up at him, eyes distant. “I have something to tell you.”
Ellis’s heart sank. He knew she’d been unhappy lately. Surely she couldn’t want to leave him!
Then Jennifer laughed.
“You look so frightened!” She got up from her seat, came over and sat on his lap. “I wanted to tell you this morning, but you cleared out so quickly, I didn’t have time.”
“Tell me what?”
“First you have to promise to be much better about staying safe in the future.”
“I’ll quit my job if that’s what it takes to make you happy.”
“There’s no need. I know you love being a cop.” She kissed his forehead. “Do you promise?”
“Of course! Now what is it you want to tell me?”
“David Ellis, you’re going to be a daddy.”
RICK BLECHTA has two passions in life: music and writing. A professional musician since age fourteen, he often brings his extensive knowledge of that life to his crime fiction. Rick is now the author of three novellas for Orca, as well as eight novels. His novel Cemetery of the Nameless (2005) was shortlisted for the Arthur Ellis Best Novel Award, and his second Orca novella The Boom Room (2014) was shortlisted for the Arthur Ellis Best Novella Award. Rick participates in a blog called Type M for Murder, which can be found at www.typem4murder.blogspot.com. For more information about Rick, visit www.rickblechta.com.
