When the Killing Starts

by Ted Wood

  I returned the knife to the detectives, got into my own car, and drove Sam over to the hotel Wallace had given as his Toronto address. Too late, of course. He had checked out that morning. The clerk let me see his room, but it was empty. He hadn't left any indication of where he was heading. Smart, just like Dunphy.

  By now it was midnight, and I drove back up Yonge Street to Fred's apartment. The strip was busy, as always. At its worst it's like the least scrungy part of Forty-second Street in New York. There are all kinds of girlie shows, but the Toronto Morality Squad keeps an eye on things, and the pictures of the girls displayed outside are eight-by-ten glossies, not posters. But the people are the same creepy bunch you get in districts like this everywhere, pimps, punkers, a few hookers, and a crowd of shiny-faced tourists. I kept my eyes open for Wallace but didn't see him. It was a long shot, anyway. He'd probably rejoined Dunphy and they were making plans to leave town.

  I got back to Fred's place at midnight and parked on the street, putting a Murphy's Harbour police summons card in the windshield. So far it had kept me clear of parking tickets.

  I walked around the block in the midnight warmth, giving Sam a chance to stretch his legs before we went up to our cell. A few people were sitting on the front stoops of their houses, talking softly, laughing. I heard the clink of glasses and at one point whiffed the familiar smell of grass. Maybe it helped the smokers forget the concrete around them, let them imagine they were out somewhere peaceful, like Murphy's Harbour.

  The apartment was warm, and I didn't fancy sleeping alone in Fred's bed, so I took the cushions off the couch and a blanket outside onto the balcony. From there I could see the sky, and in the quiet that slowly settled over the city it was possible to forget where I was.

  I woke early and dressed for a run. Sam came with me, and we clipped through the sleeping streets for most of an hour. Then I showered and reheated what was left of my hash, frying up a couple of eggs to go on top and making a pot of good coffee. I was drinking my second cup when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Michaels.

  "I hope I didn't wake you up, Mr. Bennett," she said.

  "No, I've been out for a run."

  "Oh," she said. "I was wondering whether you had any luck in your inquiries."

  "Yes, I did. In fact, I found the man who signed your son up."

  "And what did he say?" Her voice was all business. We might have been discussing her stock portfolio.

  "He wasn't very helpful. In fact, I was obliged to fight him and a partner of his. I stopped one of them, but the man I wanted got away." There. It didn't sound so foolish put that way.

  "Does that mean you've lost him?" she asked. She wanted value. She'd done her part, handing over the check. Now it was my turn, and I could expect the screws to keep on tightening.

  "I'm going out to the airport to check around. I figure he's heading out of town. He'll most likely fly."

  There was a silence. I could imagine her gray eyes focusing on some distant object while she thought, wondering what else to do. At last she said, "Did you get in touch with Broadhurst?"

  "Yes, he turned up and helped after the fact. I'm taking him with me this morning."

  "Is there anything I can do?" The first human thing she'd said to me.

  "Yes, Mrs. Michaels. If you hear from Jason, ask to meet him. Tell him you respect his decision but you have something for him."

  "I don't think that would work," she said. "He would probably sneer and say he didn't need anything. In fact, I don't know that he will call me at all.

  "Well, you know him better than I do, but it's kind of an instinct when you're heading out. You touch base with home, just once, kind of a good-luck charm, something like that."

  "If he does, I'll call you," she said. "Do you have an answering service or anything?"

  "Yes, there's a machine. I'll call in for messages."

  "Good." Another silence, and then she said, "Thank you. You seem to be making progress."

  "Not fast enough to suit me, but some," I said. "I'll update you on anything that happens today."

  "All right. Have you run up any expenses?" "Nothing heavy so far, thanks. If it runs into anything serious, I'll keep the bills and let you have them next time I see you."

  "Good. Please do," she said, and hung up.

  The next thing I did was phone Broadhurst, reaching his answering service. However, the operator let me ring through when I told her it was urgent, and I got him out of bed by the sound of it. "Any luck with the cab companies?" I asked him.

  "None," he said. "Are you still looking?"

  "I'm about to head out to the airport and check the departures, see if I can find anything. How about meeting me there?"

  He hesitated a moment. "I haven't eaten yet. When will you be there?"

  "Let's say an hour. I'll see you at the eastern end of the Air Canada terminal." He could pick up a doughnut on the way. Work is work.

  "Fine," he said without enthusiasm. "See you there."

  I hung up the phone and packed the few things I'd brought with me to Toronto. If I learned anything at the airport, I would follow up on it. Sam wagged his tail when he saw me pick up the bag. Behaviorists tell you that dogs don't think, but I'd make an exception in Sam's case. I'd swear he was a mind reader.

  Toronto's Lester B. Pearson Airport has two terminals. One of them mostly deals with overseas flights. It's where most of the foreign carriers come in. The other is for Air Canada and some charters. From there you get most of the domestic flights. I decided to check there first. If Michaels was being tossed directly to the lions, he would probably fly out of the other terminal, direct to Dallas or some other crossroads for Central America. On the other hand, if his mother was right about his contempt for Canada, he was probably flying off to some remote location inside the country to learn soldiering before doing it for real.

  At this time of year, a month before the first frosts, you can get a pretty good simulation of jungle conditions at a lot of points in Canada, remote points where you could fire all the guns you wanted without being heard. Going by the kid's comment to his mother, I figured that's what was happening. The only way to find out was to make like a copper.

  I left Sam in the car, with the windows down, and went into the eastern end of the domestic terminal. Toronto is a city that lives and dies by its map references. Broadhurst was there, still wearing the same suit, eating a doughnut and holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee. "Hi," he said.

  "Hi. Thanks for coming over. I thought I'd check the reservations people, see if the guys we need are booked on any flights."

  "You think they'd use their own names?"

  "No, but it's a starting point. I'll try the central terminal. Maybe you can talk to the people on the ticket counters. You have a photograph of Michaels?"

  "Yes," he said. "But not his clothes. Nobody's gonna remember a kid like that from a photograph."

  "Give it a whirl. Meantime, you might try describing the other guys I met." I told him what they looked like, and he nodded.

  Then I flashed my ID at security and was admitted to the central reservations terminal for Air Canada. It was cool in the air-conditioned office, and the pale clerk who checked the passenger lists for me had a savage cold. He sniffed constantly as he did things his way, starting out by checking that there was no J. Michaels flying out to Montreal or New York or Florida before he got around to the northern flights. And here we struck oil.

  "Yes, there's a J. Michaels booked aboard flight 76, to North Bay," the clerk said. He looked up at me and grinned, then sniffed, pulling in a dewdrop of misery that was dangling on the end of his nose.

  "Could I see the whole listing, please?"

  He pivoted the terminal so I could look over his shoulder. The names were a mixture of French and English, a good cross section of the area around North Bay, which is only a hundred miles from my patch at Murphy's Harbour. I scanned it quickly, noting the J. Michaels. "Any idea how this flight was paid for?"

  He c
hecked. "Credit card J. Michaels. Used for three tickets."

  "Thank you very much," I said. "When does it leave?"

  "Oh, it's gone," he said. "Left at 0850, that's half an hour ago."

  I frowned. "Can I use your telephone, please?"

  "Help yourself." He pointed, and I sat on the desk and hooked the phone off the cradle.

  "Thanks." I dialed out and asked the operator to connect me with the North Bay police. She put me through, and I was talking to Constable Dupuis. Good. I knew him. "Bonjour, Marcel," I said, and then rattled to him in French. He's bilingual but prefers French, and I'm fluent, so I paid him the courtesy. "Flight seventy-six from Toronto is coming in very soon at North Bay. There're three people on it I'd like detained. One is a bail jumper from Toronto, name of Wallace, K. Wallace." I described him. "He's from Georgia, talks like Gomer Pyle. He's on bail for a knife assault, so watch how you handle him. The kid I want is a J. Michaels, twenty, rich, five ten, dark hair. Can you hold them?"

  "I'll try, Reid. We've only got one car on duty this morning. Maurice will be out at ten, but he's at mass right now." Maurice Gagnon was their detective sergeant.

  "Can you try to get him out there after church? And make sure he's got his gun with him. Wallace can be ugly. In the meantime, can you have the uniformed guy check the airport, detain them? I'm on my way up there on the next flight."

  "For sure," he said. Then he chuckled. "We heard you were on vacation with that actress lady."

  "I am. But this came up, and she's working on a movie, so I'm at loose ends."

  He made a frank French comment, and we both laughed, me dutifully, him with real amusement. Then I added the wild card. "The third guy who may be with them is called Dunphy. He's a dangerous SOB, but hold him if you can. He's wanted for assault." I gave him a description, and he wrote it down.

  "Who did he assault?"

  "Me," I said, and he laughed and broke into his accented English.

  "'E assault you, an' 'e get away. You slowin' down, Reid. Good t'ing your lady workin' for a while."

  "I'm fighting fit this morning. I'll be there as soon as I can."

  The clerk had been listening. Like most Air Canada people, he was bilingual. He had gotten so wrapped up in my conversation that he hadn't kept track of his nasal drip. I handed him the tissue box off his desk. He took one and blew his nose. "I heard what you said about getting the next flight. I'm sorry to tell you, Chief, there's nothing else before six o'clock tonight. Get you to North Bay around seven."

  "How about the other carriers?"

  He shook his head. "No, there're a couple of flights early tomorrow, but nothing before that. I'm sorry. You want a seat?"

  "No, thanks. I can make it up there by two if I bend a few laws," I said. "Thanks for the assistance. Please keep it all confidential. This is a police investigation."

  "No problem," he said grandly. I left him rooting for more Kleenex.

  Broadhurst was eating another doughnut, not making any progress with his photograph. I told him to keep on checking. I was just following a hunch about Michaels. I asked him also to call Mrs. Michaels and fill her in. Then I went back to my car, spent half a minute fussing with Sam, and left.

  Traffic was thickening up. Sunday brunchers were heading for one another's houses. Families with kids were taking them out to the conservation areas that hang around the fringes of Toronto like a big jade necklace. Everyone was headed somewhere. Some of the moms and pops were obeying the law too closely for my schedule, so I drove across the 401 then headed north on the 400 Highway, three lanes each way, a freeway that really is free. About twenty miles north of Toronto we finally shook loose from Sunday drivers, and I tucked in behind a Corvette that was humming down the outside lane about twenty miles an hour over the limit. We were both pulled over at a radar trap half an hour later, but the guys let me go when I flashed my ID and told them what the rush was.

  The 400 ends at the two-lane highway that runs up past Murphy's Harbour. It was thick with traffic, and I debated whether to stop, but finally I pulled off and into the lot of my little police station. The place was locked. I had left it in the charge of George Horn, an Indian who is a law student at the University of Toronto, home on vacation. He's helped me in a number of cases, and if he weren't off getting more education than he needs for the job, I would nominate him to replace me. If I can convince myself to quit.

  He was out back, sitting in the stern of an aluminum johnboat, holding a fishing rod with an old-fashioned casting reel on it, watching a red-and-white bobber far out in the lake. He had one of those remote telephones with him and a minnow pail of bait.

  He jumped up when he saw me, rocking the boat as he reached for the oars and pulled in the fifteen paces to shore. "Hi, Reid, what're you doing back here? Don't you trust me?"

  "Where would Tonto have been without the Lone Ranger?" I asked him, and he laughed and shook his finger at me.

  "Beware, racist, I know the statutes you just broke there. You're messin' with a lawyer here."

  "I will live to rue the day. Mind if I open up? I need a couple of things from inside."

  "Su casa is still su casa," he said, and turned as the reel on his fishing rod started paying out line. He picked up the rod and held it, unmoving while the bobber pulled out of sight for two more seconds. Then he struck, and the rod bent. "There's a pike out there, twenty, twenty-five pounds," he said happily. "This is thirty-pound test."

  "Keep a tight line. I'll be inside," I said, and took out the station keys.

  The first thing I did was phone North Bay. Marcel had good news and bad news. The flight had arrived early, and according to the clerk on the ticket desk, the three men I was looking for were on it. The bad news was that they had walked out and got into a waiting vehicle about two minutes before the police cruiser arrived.

  "The clerk didn't get a make on the car, of course?"

  "You know 'ow it is, Reid. We was lucky 'e see anything."

  "Well, at least we know that they're in town. That's good." I said. "Thanks, Marcel, I'll be up there in about two hours."

  I hung up the phone and thought for a while. Then I decided to bend the law a little. I'm licensed to carry a gun while I'm in the Harbour or on duty elsewhere. Technically, it belongs in the office safe if I'm off duty. But these guys were rough. If I came up against Dunphy again, I wanted some backup. So I unlocked the safe and took out my.38. It's a modest little piece by American police standards. Half their men carry heavier weapons, Magnums sometimes. But in Canada the possession of a gun is usually enough to cool a situation out. A.38 is as good a totem as anything else. The safe also contained the shoulder holster I'd used as a detective in Toronto. I don't like it. You take too long drawing your weapon. But then again, you should be enough on top of things to have the gun out in lots of time.

  In this case, I might not be. The Freedom for Hire guys were probably armed with the guns they would use in the bush. Most likely the M-16 I'd used in 'Nam. Or if they were wealthy enough, the new automatic weapons that elite squads use these days. Either way, my.38, with its effective twenty-yard range, wouldn't be enough firepower. So, after some thought, I unlocked the station rifle from its stand. It's a Remington.308, and I'm accurate with it at 400 meters, probably farther than they would teach kids like Jason Michaels to shoot accurately in the time they had him up there, wherever they had taken him.

  George Horn came in as I was loading the rifle. He was carrying a pike so big that its tail trailed on the floor as he stood there with his arm crooked against the weight.

  "You got yourself a keeper," I said.

  He grinned automatically, but his eyes were on the gun. "Yeah," he said, then, "I guess you know it's not hunting season, Reid."

  "It may be where I'm going." I finished loading, put the safety on, and picked up the box of shells.

  "You on a case?" He straightened his arm, and his fish trailed half its length on the ground. He was looking at me very straight, an athletic, go
od-looking kid who would have made any marine recruiter snap out of his lethargy. He wanted to come with me but was too proud to ask.

  "Not a case exactly. I'm looking for a kid who's run off with a bunch of crazies. It's just a favor to his old man, not a police case at all."

  "Then why the weapons?" He was turning into a lawyer right enough. A year ago he would have said guns.

  "They're armed. And, like I said, they're a bunch of crazies."

  "If that's the truth, why aren't you working through the police? Your jurisdiction only extends over the Harbour."

  I laid the gun on the counter, pointing away from both of us. "Well, it's sort of borderline." He didn't say anything, but I could tell from his expression that he wanted more. He deserved more. He'd helped me out a number of times in the past, and he was twenty now, adult and sure of himself, getting good grades in a class filled with bright kids with expensive educations behind them.

  "Okay." I gave in at last. "I'll tell you. I'm dealing with a crowd of mercenaries. They've scooped up this kid, and they're up outside North Bay somewhere holed up, teaching him how to fight. They they'll ship him out someplace and he'll get his dumb head blown off by some very capable Cuban-trained revolutionaries."

  "What makes you say that? Maybe he'll be on their side." The lawyer emerging again.

  "No, that's not how it works. The revolutionaries are fighting for a cause. They despise mercenaries. And with good reason. Most of them are psychos, misfits who can't hack it in civilian life. They're happy to get paid for killing people."

  He frowned at me, thinking back to the law libraries in Toronto. "If they're hired here and shipped out, I don't see what laws they're breaking."

  "Nor me. The only one I can dream up, if they train here, is possession of automatic weapons."

  "Yeah." He nodded. "That would stick, but it wouldn't be much of a penalty. They'd lose the guns, get a fine, that's all."

  I picked up the rifle, slipped out the magazine and put it in my pocket. Then I worked the action once, to be sure it was unloaded, and crooked it into my left arm. George watched me silently.