by Garry Ryan
Nigel reached for his cell phone and used his thumbs to take notes.
Lane took a look at the other containers. “You store sulphuric acid as well?”
Davies shook his head. “No. We use only nitric acid here. I do spot checks every so often.”
“How long ago was the last spot check?” Lane asked.
“One month to the day,” Davies said.
“We’re going to need a list of employees and their contact information,” Lane said.
Davies rolled his eyes. “Right at this moment?”
Lane took a step closer to Davies and caught an offensively potent whiff of aftershave. “I’m afraid so. We appreciate your diligence. You must be aware that nitric acid, in combination with other chemicals, is used in the manufacture of an explosive?”
“Of course.” Davies looked at his watch. “That’s why I keep a close eye on it.”
Not close enough, apparently. And he wears a Rolex. This guy is a walking cliché. “I’m afraid we will have to inconvenience you further. Our Forensic Crime Scene Unit is on its way to gather evidence from the storage room.”
“Any idiot knows that the person who took the acid would have been wearing PVC gloves! You won’t get fingerprints off any of the containers,” Davies said.
Nigel began to chuckle.
Lane stopped him with a glance. “It’s what’s inside the PVC gloves that interests us.” His phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and turned his back on Davies. “Hello.”
“It’s Harper. We need you downtown as soon as possible.”
“On our way.” Lane pressed the end button and pointed his phone at Davies. “You, or another representative of your company, will remain here until the forensic unit completes its work.”
“I have an appointment.” Davies crossed his arms as if to indicate that he was in control of this situation.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to cancel the golf.” Lane turned and left.
×
Donna had just finished the first floor of another new house and was heading home. She drove east along John Laurie Boulevard. The summer sun filled the cab with the scents of oak and maple sawdust. Each time she crested a hill, the grey tips of the Rocky Mountains set their teeth into the horizon. Then she spotted the Eagle’s Nest sign. About fifty people surrounded the sign, looking up at the words on the white background.
Donna leaned forward and squinted through the windshield to read the words.
DON’T JUST SAY
YOU BELIEVE IN GOD
KNOW HIM
IN MOHAMMED
She passed the gathering and heard the angry chatter through her open window. Donna turned left at the next set of lights and wound her way home. She pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine. She used her fingers to count off the days until Friday. “Six days to go.”
×
Keely sat in a conference room across the table from Harper and Chief Simpson. Lane saw that she’d let her unruly red hair grow longer so that it fell onto her shoulders, and although she looked tired, she seemed to be thriving. “Good to see you,” Lane said.
Keely smiled, got up, and hugged him. “How’s everyone?”
Lane smiled. “Just fine.”
Keely stepped back, cocked her head to one side, and studied him. “Are you lying to me?”
Lane ignored the question and turned to his new partner. “This is Nigel Li.”
Keely shook Nigel’s hand. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to be partnered with Lane.”
“People keep telling me that.” Nigel paused before he added, “People I respect.”
“We need to get down to it. Keely has been sent to us as a liaison between the RCMP and CSIS.” Harper waited for them to sit. “Keely, get us started.”
Keely opened the file in front of her and picked up an eight-by-ten photograph. “This is John A. Jones.” She handed it to Harper, who passed it to Lane and Nigel.
The man in the photo appeared to be at least fifty, with shoulder-length white hair and intense blue eyes that stared directly into the camera.
Keely said, “We suspect he’s been behind several pipeline bombings near Lac La Biche. The local RCMP detachment tried to find him earlier in the week. Jones has dropped out of sight.”
Lane looked at the photo, trying to think why it was tickling his memory.
Nigel said, “A source named Miguel said that Oscar Mendes worked for a man with long silver hair. We believe Oscar was working somewhere near Lac La Biche.”
Keely turned to Lane, who said, “We have nothing solid to go on, but our investigation was leading us to Jones’s stomping grounds. The witness was close to Oscar Mendes and provided us with the information.”
“Who is this Oscar Mendes exactly?” Keely asked.
“He was shot in the back, and his body dumped in the basement of a new home. A bullet fragment from his body was matched to the unsolved shooting of a young woman near Lac La Biche,” Lane said.
Harper gestured for Jones’s photograph. “So we have missing nitric acid, stolen sulphuric acid, higher than usual sales of glycerine, a new killing that seems to be connected to an old one, and a religious zealot we’re unable to locate. Is that all that we’ve got so far?”
“That’s not all of it, actually.” Nigel nodded in Lane’s direction. “I was asked to research the unsolved murder of the young woman. Jones told investigators that he did not want to know who shot the girl, but she was trespassing on his property. Jones now appears to be in a deteriorating state of denial. His wife died of breast cancer last month. Two women from his community — or cult — left with their children a week after the funeral. They said they questioned Jones’s leadership. That his behaviour was becoming erratic, that he threatened them and their children. They ended up in Edmonton in a women’s shelter. The reports are here.” Nigel tapped a red folder and took a breath. “Jones is also a member of a Christian Aryan Nations group.”
Lane glanced around the table. Keely met his gaze. Harper’s face was red. Simpson was listening and frowning. Lane thought, Nigel, do you have to sound so damned condescending?
Nigel continued, apparently unaware of his effect on the others around the table. “Since the death of his wife and the departure of the two women — one of them, by the way, was his daughter — there has been a power struggle within the community. One of the men in the community apparently asked some questions of Jones and was excommunicated. So there’s been a fracturing of the community, resulting in a tremendous upheaval in John A. Jones’s control over his life and those he led. Two weeks ago he spoke to a CBC reporter. Jones blamed fracking for his wife’s cancer. He holds several oil companies responsible for her death. One of his most pointed comments was, ‘People in the city will never understand the way that oil companies are poisoning people in the rural areas until it happens to them.’ That comment was made one week ago.” Nigel pointed at his laptop. “I can play the clip for you.” He looked around the table. Nigel saw that Harper was watching Lane. Keely was in the process of closing her mouth.
Lane thought, Remember how important it is to listen to this guy. It all comes out like the voice of a commentator, implying we’re all imbeciles if we don’t see things the way he does. Still, Nigel may have a point. “You’ve given us lots of information. What conclusions have you reached?”
Nigel dropped his eyes to stare at the red folder. “Men like John A. Jones need to feel they’re in control. Jones lost his wife and has also lost control of at least some of the people he thought were his followers. His generalized threat to people who live in cities, combined with his disappearance and allegations that connect him with bombing of installations near various oil and gas facilities, leads me to believe that he is planning a major act of violence and targeting a major urban centre.”
“Do you have any concrete proof of a link between Jones and this city?” Harper used a deliberate monotone.
“No.” Nigel’s face reddened. “But I’m rig
ht. I know I’m right.”
Lane put his hand on Nigel’s forearm.
Harper shook his head and took a long breath. “All right.”
“You guys done?” Keely asked.
Harper frowned at Nigel, who gritted his teeth.
“Good. I’m tired of being the only woman in the room when there’s a pissing contest going on. It’s the same game they play in Ottawa.” Keely tapped her laptop. “The fact is that John A. Jones was recorded making a call to a Calgary number. It’s a business called Foothills Fertilizers.”
Lane and Nigel looked at one another.
Harper took a look at Simpson, who leaned in closer as he focused on Keely.
Lane said, “We haven’t figured out who Jones’s connection is yet. What time was the call made?”
Keely scrolled down the page. “Ten o’clock, Thursday night.”
Nigel asked, “How did you connect those five conspirators to the plans for attacks in the GTA?”
Keely leaned back, looked at Nigel, frowned, and stared at Nigel. “How did you know that?”
Nigel turned his palms up. “It was a reasonable deduction.”
“We use a variety of techniques and are reluctant to share them,” Keely said.
“So this information sharing goes one way only?” Nigel held his right hand out, palm up.
Enough of this! Lane stood up and smiled. “You said we have only a week. We have to track down Jones. Our first step is to find out who was on the cleaning crew at Foothills Fertilizers on Thursday night. Then we’ll have a short list of suspects.”
“And who wants to bet that one of them has given false contact information?” Nigel asked.
“Do you always have to have the last word?” Harper asked.
“Yes.” Nigel turned to face Harper. “So, does this mean we’re still on the Oscar Mendes case?”
“We’ve got some work to do.” Lane took Nigel by the arm and led him out of the conference room.
×
Chris Jones pulled the PVC glove from his left hand, took the face shield off, and carefully set the equipment down on the workbench a metre away from the laptop.
He looked inside a pair of white refrigerators. Each had its shelves removed to accommodate a seventy-five–litre stainless-steel container on the bottom. Each container held the mixture of nitric acid, sulphuric acid, and glycerine. He checked the thermometer in the first fridge, gently closed the door, and repeated the procedure at the second fridge. He ran his fingers around the magnetic seals to insure that each fridge door was properly closed.
Chris moved over to the laptop and entered the date, time, and temperature. He went to the door of the garage, opened it, and squinted at the sunshine.
×
Lane’s phone rang as he held the office door open for Nigel. Lane fumbled in his pocket for the phone and looked at caller ID. “Harper?”
“Are you alone?” Harper asked.
“Yep.” Lane stayed outside of the office and let the door close while Nigel went inside, sat at his desk, and began working on his computer.
“It was a mistake to partner you with Nigel,” Harper said.
“What?” The kid really did get on your nerves, Cam.
“I mean we thought that if anyone could work with Nigel, you could, but he’s impossible. I knew he was a problem, but that’s an understatement. He’s an arrogant pain in the ass. If we weren’t in the middle of this Jones case, I would pull him right now.”
And Nigel may well be right about Jones. “I’ll let you know if it was a mistake.”
“Okay, but don’t feel like you have to make it work. He’s an arrogant little prick.” Harper hung up.
Lane walked into the office, sat down, and leaned back in his chair. He looked at the ceiling. Yes, he’s difficult, but his assessment of Jones is probably sound. And he does need to learn the difference between confidence and arrogance. He turned to Nigel. “We need to find out who was working at Foothills Fertilizers on Thursday night. Who has their cleaning contract?”
“I’ll find out,” Nigel said.
Lane’s phone rang. “Lane.”
“There are reports that John A. Jones was spotted in Edmonton this morning,” Keely said.
“You think he’s headed this way?”
“My sources say that his community has fractured and he may have been forced out. So, if Nigel is correct, we may have a messianic zealot with access to explosives and nothing to lose.”
“Thanks. I think.” Lane ended the connection.
An hour later, Nigel set down his phone and looked away from his computer. “Of the three employees working Thursday night at Foothills, one doesn’t check out. The phone number he gave is out of service. The address is for a house in Sunnyside that’s been demolished.”
“Sunnyside is just across the river from where Oscar Mendes was buried,” Lane said.
Nigel nodded. “The guy gave his name as Chris Wright. A Chris Wright with the same birthday died twenty years ago, one week after being born in Fort McMurray.”
“Any photographs?” Lane asked.
“Yes.” Nigel pointed at the screen.
Lane got up and looked at the image of a nondescript, round-faced young man smiling at the camera. “Looks like he could pass unnoticed almost anywhere.”
Lane went back to reading the autopsy report on Oscar Mendes.
They took an hour for lunch on Stephen Avenue. The mall was awash with jeans, cowboy hats, western shirts, boots, and the twang of country and western bands making a few extra dollars working for the Stampede. A woman with blonde hair, tight jeans, Botoxed lips, and generous cleavage was covering Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” She was backed up by a man on bass who wore an ancient white Stetson, a curly-waxed moustache, and a beer belly hanging over the top half of his belt buckle. The woman on drums was half the age of the other two and wore a ball cap to cover her turquoise hair. She can actually play, Lane thought.
A little further down, four square-dancing couples followed the orders of a caller in a black Stetson who told them to allemande left. Lane caught a glimpse of frilled pink panties under white crinoline.
Lane held the door to The Diner and let Nigel go in first.
“Never been here before,” Nigel said.
The sounds of voices, dishes, and an espresso machine were complemented by the scents of coffee, chocolate, fresh fruit, and bacon.
Nigel looked at the row of red tractor chairs along the counter. “Never seen a place like this before.”
“For two?” a dark-haired woman asked. The sleeves of her black blouse were rolled up, revealing scars running horizontally and vertically up her forearm.
Lane nodded. She led them past the crowded counter and up the stairs to a table near the kitchen.
“Coffee?” the woman asked.
Lane turned his coffee cup right side up and smiled. Nigel did the same.
Lane added raw sugar and cream. A waitress arrived with a carafe of coffee, put down two menus, filled their cups, and moved to the next table. Lane put down his spoon, lifted the cup, and closed his eyes as he sipped.
Nigel drank his with double the sugar.
There was a lull in the conversations around them. Lane looked at the stone walls next to his elbow. “Go easy on Harper. He was my partner. He’s a good man.”
Nigel opened his mouth.
Lane held up a finger and cocked his head to one side. “He has our backs. We should give him the same courtesy, don’t you think?”
Nigel put his coffee down. “If you say so.”
Lane nodded. You don’t sound convinced, but I do say so. “Can we lose the sarcasm? We’re partners. Got any plans for the Stampede?”
Nigel stared back at his partner for a moment then smiled, nodded, and inhaled. “I’ll try. Stampede’s not my style. How about you?”
“I like the fireworks, but that’s about it.”
After lunch, they returned to their work. Nigel spoke again at five o’clock. “
I think I’ve got something.”
Lane got up and looked at Nigel’s computer screen. Nigel pointed at an image of Chris Wright on the left side of the screen. Then he pointed to a group shot of men, women, and children sitting on wooden steps. Behind them, John A. Jones stood on the top step under the gable of a two-storey log house. Nigel enlarged the image and pointed at a young man of eighteen or nineteen who stood next to John A. “Looks like the same person as the missing guy from Foothills Fertilizers.”
Yes, it does. “Name?”
“Chris Jones,” Nigel said.
And you didn’t say ‘I told you so.’ Maybe there is hope for you. Lane patted Nigel on the shoulder.
×
It was dark by the time Lane decided to take Roz for a walk. Matt was asleep, Arthur was snoring on the couch, and Christine and Dan were at a movie. There’s a connection between Mendes and Jones, I’m sure of it, Lane thought.
The sky was clear, and the stars were winking. Mars was especially bright in the sky. Lane felt himself beginning to relax as the rhythm of walking allowed him to make sense of the last three days. Roz trotted alongside, every so often looking up at him for reassurance.
They walked past Donna’s house. Again he read the words painted along the side of the van: Beauty could use a little help to save the world.
They walked until they reached Nose Hill Drive; then they turned and walked home. It was a rare night when light clothing was comfortable after dark.
They were close to home when they reached the elementary school across from the strip mall. Lane crossed the street, climbed up to the level of the strip mall’s parking lot, and sat down on the curb. Roz sat next to him with her rear legs tucked to one side. Behind them were the windows of the International Kickboxing School. Beside that was the Islamic Centre.
Roz bristled and began to growl. A coyote with a ragged tail walked down the middle of the street and turned into the school parking lot.
Lane looked left down the parking lot and saw an SUV with two silhouettes sitting in the front watching him.
He looked right and saw a pickup truck with two more shadows turned his way.
