by Ted Wood
After ten seconds of silence a man's voice called in accented English, "'O's there?"
"Immigration. Open up." Sam stood at my left side, panting. I wondered if he would be quick enough if one of the men had a gun. Come on, Bennett. I cooled myself down with a quick breath. This is Toronto the Good. Guys don't have guns.
The door opened, and the man from Bowen's house peered out. I shoved the door wider and stepped in, telling Sam, "Come."
There was another man sitting on the bed, holding a glass. He looked like a countryman of my guy, and it looked like water in the glass, or tequila. The first guy said, "Gerrout."
"Not yet, Señor Alvarez. You sit down."
He wasn't going to until I told him, "This dog is trained to go for your balls. Sit down when you're told."
He sat, knees together.
"Good. Now, let me see your passport."
"Passport? What the fuck you doin'?"
"Passport," I repeated, and held my hand out.
He swore under his breath and squirmed his hand into his right pants pocket and came out with an American passport. The picture might have been him, but the name was Fernando Guzman.
"You've been telling lies to the hotel people, Fernando. Why would you do that?"
"My name is my business," he said. He was a little more confident now. His buddy was with him. They had arms somewhere, knives certainly, maybe something heavier. He would try to talk himself out of trouble, but failing that, he would act. I was glad I'd brought Sam with me. They looked like hard men.
"And what business is that, Fernando?"
"Jus' business," he said.
"And what's your boss's name? Would it be Green? Or Webster?" He started to relax, I could see it in the muscles of his face, and then I sprung the third name. "Or Dunphy?" And his muscles flickered.
He recovered, but not well. "Never heard of him."
"Never heard of Green or Webster? That I can buy. But Dunphy, now that's different. Where is he?"
"I don' know who you talkin' about." He shrugged and tried to loll, and I hissed at Sam. Sam snarled low in his throat, and Fernando sat up straight.
"I don't have time for this," I told him. "Give me Dunphy and I walk away. If you don't, I take you to the cops."
He spoke in Spanish, and his buddy set down the glass very deliberately on the night table. But he took too long leaning over the drawer, and as he tried to slip it open, I kicked it shut on his hand. He yowled, and Fernando sprang at me. I straight-armed him under the chin with the palm of my hand, sending him sprawling as I told Sam, "Fight," and he took over, driving Fernando back into a corner. Fernando was pressing himself back almost flat on the wall, babbling in Spanish, one hand cupped over his groin.
I shoved the second man aside, and he rolled onto the bed, nursing his hurt fingers. There was an automatic in the night table and I took it out and checked it. The safety was off, and I slipped the magazine out and looked. Loaded. I shoved it back into the butt and pointed it at Fernando, moving out of the possible range of the other man. "Easy, Sam," I said, and he stopped pressing and fell silent, watching Fernando carefully.
"Illegal firearms. That's bad, Fernando. We put guys in prison for having guns in Canada."
"Is not mine, is his." He jerked his chin toward his buddy.
"Sure, your gun is someplace else, I guess. Never mind, I'll find it. But first, where's Dunphy?"
He swore at me, flat and unemphatic. Muy macho.
"I'm going to ask you one more time. Then I'm going to start breaking you up," I said. It's not my style. I'm a copper and I go by the rules. Usually. But this time I was in real trouble. Dunphy was behind the killing of Alison Beatty and probably behind the killing of Mrs. Michaels. And that meant he was behind the attempt to frame me for the murder. My only chance of a clean sheet was finding Dunphy. The police couldn't help. I had broken the law already. They would have to let this man go and charge me with unlawful entry, assault, God knew what.
"Where is Dunphy?" I said slowly, and I saw the fear coming alive in his eyes. He was tough in combat but not one-on-one with a gun and dog against him. I smiled and slammed him across the face with my left hand. He fell sideways and sat on the ground, holding his face, not looking at me.
"Get up," I said quietly, and when he didn't move, I hissed at Sam, and he growled and bared his teeth. Fernando kicked at him desperately, and Sam grabbed him by the ankle and held him as he yelled, keeping just enough pressure on the ankle that he couldn't get it free.
"Easy, Sam," I said in the same tone, and he fell back a pace. Then I said, "On your feet," and Fernando got up slowly, pressing himself back against the wall. "Next time I hit you with the gun and you have no teeth," I said. Just talk, but he bought it. It wasn't me he was scared of; it was Sam. And Sam gave him an excuse to opt out of his machismo. His partner would vouch for Sam's ferocity. He was able to talk without fear of being scorned later.
"Dunphy 'as gone nort'." Fear had thickened his accent.
"Where north?" I asked, and in that moment his partner jumped at me. I didn't even have time to command Sam. I straight-armed him in midair with my left hand, but in that moment Fernando bolted. Sam was standing, whining, waiting for a command, and I called, "Track," as I struggled with the second man. He was wiry and hard, and I was holding the gun which I didn't want to use, handicapped. He cracked me a good punch in the left temple, and then I got him in a bear hug and head smashed him across the nose. He fell, and I left him and ran out of the door after Fernando.
He was on the floor at the end of the hall, Sam tugging at his arm. I was dazed from the punch I'd taken and from using my head as a battering ram, but I stuck the gun in Fernando's face and told him, "Freeze."
He froze, and I told Sam, "Easy," and he let go and stepped back a pace. I could hear voices in a couple of the rooms and knew I had to be fast. The guy downstairs had heard the ruckus, and he might just chicken out and call the police. I was in enough trouble.
"Where is Dunphy? No crap. Where is he?"
"He 'as gone nort'," Fernando hissed. "Gone nort' to find that guy."
"Which guy?" I jabbed him in the chest with the muzzle of the automatic, not hard but crisply.
He pulled his hands up over his face. "That guy 'o shot his frien'." He struggled for the word and lapsed into Spanish. "El indio."
I shoved him again with the gun and stepped over him, calling Sam after me. Behind me a door opened, and a man's voice said, "Fer Crissakes, keep it down out there. I'm tryin'a sleep."
"On your feet," I said, and Fernando stood up, backing away from Sam. "Downstairs," I told him, "and don't try to run or the dog will get you."
The desk clerk was standing at the bottom of the stairs, bobbing from foot to foot nervously. "Wha's happening?" he asked in a voice that told me he didn't really want to know.
"Nothing, thanks. Me an' my buddy're goin' for a drink at my place. G'night." I had slipped the automatic into my pants pocket, and I beamed at him. Apart from the anger on Fernando's face, there was nothing to disprove what I'd said.
I walked Fernando to a phone booth a couple of blocks over and told Sam, "Keep," while I went in and called Murphy's Harbour police station. I figured George would have patched the phone through to his house, or to the police car via the radio. It rang eighteen times, and I hung up reluctantly. He must be out in the car, checking properties for signs of break-ins. Maybe he was out of the car looking at the back door of the liquor store or the bank. Or maybe he was sitting behind the wheel with a bullet through his head.
I got my quarter back and called Elmer Svensen's office. He was there, sounding weary but still working. "Elmer, Reid. Got something for you."
"Good news, I hope. I'm getting no place," he said.
"Yeah, picked up a guy who knows Dunphy. He's seen him since he got back from the north."
"Where are you?"
"On Cynthia Street, close to the corner of Grange."
"Be right there," he said.
"Good, but before you do, ring the Parry Sound OPP. Tell them Dunphy is back up in the Murphy's Harbour area. My friend here says that he's gone north to kill George Horn. I can't raise the kid on the phone. Have them check the station and make their presence known, lots of flashing lights, and have someone try to raise George on the station phone. You got the number?"
"Gimme," he said, and I did. "Right. Stay put; there in ten minutes."
I hung up and went outside the call box to stand side by side with Fernando, looking as if we were just shooting the breeze, in case some citizen came by and phoned the local police and I had to do things by the book.
For the same reason, I didn't bother interrogating him. If he had argued with me, somebody might have heard and called the heat. Nobody did. I heard a couple of cars way down the block on Dufferin Street, one of the city's arteries, moving slowly, bakers or produce people at groceries, heading in for an early start on their day's work or guys coming back from successful dates. Then I heard a speeding car, and a minute later Elmer Svensen and his partner pulled up at the curb.
Elmer got out and took two quick steps up to me. "This him?"
"Yeah, Fernando Guzman, Florida. I think he's involved with the Freedom for Hire people. He tells me that Dunphy's gone north."
"Where'd you dig him up?"
"Step over here a minute and I'll tell you." I repeated, "Keep," to Sam, and he sat on his haunches, staring at Guzman calmly.
Elmer and his partner walked off a few steps with me, and I said, "I found him at the pilot's house, the company pilot for the Michaels outfit. Followed him to the Alameda Hotel. There's another guy with him, likely gone by now. They had a gun, and I got Sam to take this one out and bring him down here. So far there's nothing on him that you want to touch with a ten-foot pole. It's all been pretty shaky procedure. But if I walk away and then call Sam off, you can talk to him like you just found him here. You may get something. You may not, but it'll all be kosher."
"Thanks, Reid." Elmer slapped my bicep lightly. "Where you heading now, home?"
"No, I'm going up to the Harbour to help George Horn find Dunphy. Tell Lou something so she won't worry when I don't show up. I figure Sam can dig the guy out if he's hiding around the station or wherever."
"Okay." Elmer nodded. "I've called the OPP, and I've got a kid at the station calling the Harbour every three minutes until we raise your deputy."
"No response yet?" I was starting to worry seriously. George was not the kind of man to leave the phone unanswered.
"No, I just checked before we got out of the car. Nothing." That was Elmer's partner, and he was on my side now. I guess Elmer had told his fortune for him, along with something of my pedigree.
"Okay, good luck with this guy." I turned and jogged to the corner. From there I turned and looked back. Sam was dividing his attention now, guarding Fernando but also keeping the two detectives away. He was snarling at them, but when I whistled, he bounded away toward me. I saw Elmer and his partner step forward to Guzman; then Sam was beside me, and I jogged back to my car and put him in and headed north, taking the automatic out of my pocket and laying it on the seat beside me.
NINETEEN
I flew up the highway, pushing my car as hard as it would go, ignoring every speed limit and overtaking the few vehicles on the road as if they were standing still. At a few minutes to five I was wheeling into the side road that leads down to Murphy's Harbour. It was still dark, but the birds were awake, and when I pulled in to the station and sat, I could hear the morning chorus.
There were lights on inside the station, although the police car was not parked outside. That was normal. I generally leave the lights on while I'm out on patrol. The only question was, why was George Horn still away? Had he taken the scout car to his home? I moved carefully. Without opening the door or killing the motor, I wound down the passenger side window and told Sam, "Seek." He squeezed out and ran in circles around the station, moving deeper and deeper into the bush that surrounded us. He even crossed the road and went up over the rocks on the far side, nose to the ground, searching for signs of anybody who might be hiding.
It was a kamikaze mission for him, and I hated doing it, but without his help I could have stepped out into an ambush, and once they had shot me, they would shoot him out of revenge and caution. This way we both had a chance.
After three minutes or so he came back into view, and I whistled him in. There was nobody within two hundred yards of us. From any farther than that they would not have had a clear shot. I cut the motor and ran to the back door of the station. It was locked, but I let myself in and checked around quickly. The place was tidy but empty. No clues to where George had gone.
I had to find him, and I thought for a few seconds about my firepower. Then I unlocked the shotgun. It was loaded with SSG, heavy buckshot that would give me a kill over thirty yards. I thought about that for a few seconds, then unloaded it and stuck in a couple of rifled slugs. They're a one-piece projectile, accurate up to maybe seventy-five yards and heavy enough to knock down a bear. Then I added three more SSG shells and stuck a couple of extras into the pocket of my light jacket. If I had to return fire, I could do it. I figured the shotgun would be a better street weapon than the rifle. And if all else failed, I still had the automatic I'd taken off Guzman.
My next move was to phone the OPP and see if they had managed to raise George. The constable at the other end was young and pushy. "Naah, no idea where he's gotten to. We've had our guys make a couple of drive-throughs. They haven't seen anything." I could almost hear him chewing gum, relaxed, wondering why we were in a lather over something he didn't understand.
"Listen, in case you didn't get the whole message, we're looking for two very tough characters, Dunphy and Wallace. They're trained soldiers wanted for suspicion of a couple of homicides. They're dangerous."
"Yeah, I heard," he said. "Why in hell'd a couple heavies like that be wandering around Murphy's Harbour beats me."
"They're out to kill my deputy, George Horn, that's why. Get the guys back on patrol here. If you can't do it yourself, let me talk to the person in charge."
He became a bit more respectful at that. "Yeah, well, I'm on my own, Chief. The sergeant went off at four. I'll call the guys back and send them over."
"Good. Have them show a lot of presence. I want their lights flashing, the works. We're talking about dangerous people."
"Will do," he said, and I hung up.
My next move was to call George's home. His mother answered and told me that George had been out all night. I didn't alarm her but asked her to give him the message that the colonel was in the area and to call me when he got home. She rang off, and I stood for a moment wondering what George was up to. He didn't have a girlfriend in town, not one that I had heard about. He must still be on patrol. And that could mean he was dead. There was nothing to do but search for him and hope.
I had Guzman's automatic stuck into my belt, and I went back out and into my car, bringing Sam and the shotgun with me. It was still dark, but the predawn chill told me that the sun was coming up soon. I left the windows down and drove off slowly, all through my little town.
This was the last week in August, tourist season still. Because of that the bait shop was already open, ready to cater to early-morning fishermen. I went in and found Jacques Perrault checking the minnows in his tank. He frowned when he saw me. "Hey, Chief. I thought you was on 'oliday with your lady."
"She's out west working. I'm trying to locate young George. Has he been by?"
Jacques shook his head. "No. I was open 'alf an hour already, 'aven't seen him."
"If he comes by, could you give him a message, please?"
"Sure t'ing. Shoot." He reached for a pencil and scribbled as I spoke.
"Tell him that Dunphy's here. He's to go to the OPP office at Shawinagan and wait there until I call."
"Got it." He knew that George and I had been involved in an adventure up north, but I guessed he did
n't watch much TV. He didn't have any reaction to Dunphy's name.
I nodded thanks and went back to the car. It was gray light now, when the trees behind the town start to loom as individual points, like small mountains, and you're aware of having the world to yourself. It's a favorite time of mine, but this morning I didn't savor it. Where was George?
The scout car wasn't anywhere in town. I drove around all the main buildings, checking the backs of them, even getting out to check the garbage dumpster behind the liquor store where they were making renovations. I had a feeling that Dunphy might have taken pleasure in leaving George's body there and taking off in the scout car. Or, on the other hand, he might have stuck George in the car and driven it into the water somewhere. Unless George had been alert or somewhere else instead of here. But where?
It figured that the OPP car would have driven around my bailiwick once, so that meant they would have seen the scout car had it been abandoned by the road. Which meant that I should look deeper, checking all the places George might have driven into, the off-road areas we normally checked at night. There were dozens of them, but it had to be done.
I left the town behind me and headed north up the heavily wooded road that runs behind most of the lakeside houses along this shore. Some of them are visible from the road, but others are hidden behind the trees, and I pulled into one driveway after another, checking for the scout car. By now it was completely light, and I cut the headlights and drove quietly, hoping not to alert Dunphy if he was waiting somewhere. It seemed unlikely. If he wanted to nail George, he would be waiting at the station, hidden on the hill across the road, but Sam had already checked there and come up empty. Most of the cottages had cars outside them, and one had lights on in the house. I saw the owner at the kitchen window and got out and asked if he'd seen anything of George. The guy was an aging Brit with the racial stereotypes he'd picked up in English boys' books and never changed. "Goofin' off on you, is he? You can't trust Indians," he said amiably.
