by Garry Ryan
×
“I should have brought the .30-30,” John A. Jones said. He stood next to Chris atop the hill across the street from the schoolyard and in front of an apartment building.
Chris thought, I thought the Bible said thou shalt not murder. “You brought it with you?”
His father turned and looked down at his son. “Of course.”
They can use it to tie you to two murders, Chris thought.
“I have the right to defend myself.”
Against an unarmed girl and a man running away from you? Chris thought.
“That one who was on top of the hill. He’s getting closer. I may have to put him down.”
“How do you know he’s getting closer?” Chris asked.
“I know. Just like I know many other things. God warns me when a threat is nearby. That one is a threat.” John A. pointed at Lane, who appeared around the south corner of the school.
Mom always said, ‘Just agree with him. He has trouble with contradiction.’
John A. continued. “We’d better get back to the house and put that new plate on my truck. We need to get both vehicles in the garage.”
Chris reached into the pocket of his pants, pulled out the two screws he’d taken from the car, and dropped them on the ground before following his father down the hill.
×
Three minutes later, Lane reached the spot where John A. and Chris Jones had been. He looked across at the crest of the hill he’d stood on a few minutes before. He heard footsteps and looked over his shoulder.
Nigel asked, “Find anything?”
Lane held up two screws.
“What are those?” Nigel asked.
“We need to check whether one of the cars in the parking lot is missing a licence plate.”
It took them ten minutes to make it back to the Islamic Centre. A quick survey of the vehicles parked near the pub revealed the Escalade with a missing plate.
“We need that plate number because it’ll probably end up on Jones’s pickup truck.” Lane turned to Nigel.
“I’ll get right on it.” Nigel fished his phone out of his pocket and walked forward to check the Escalade’s VIN.
×
John A. Jones slid out of the cab through the passenger door of his red truck. “We need to stay out of sight for the next few days.” The door of his truck bumped up against the side of Chris’s truck. John A. leaned the passenger seat forward and pulled out his Winchester .30-30 in its green rifle case. He closed his door. “Don’t worry. A little mark won’t hurt your truck. There won’t be much left of it by the end of this week anyways.”
“Why wait that long?” Chris stood at the door connecting the house and garage.
“I’ve been watching the weather forecast. Clear and calm ’til the end of the week. The winds should pick up from the west by Friday or Saturday. A good, strong, steady wind is what we’re going to need.” John A. closed the door, held the rifle out front, and eased between the trucks.
Chris stepped into the garage and opened the first fridge to check the temperature of the nitro.
“Is it okay?” John A. asked.
Chris nodded. “Yep. Right where it should be.” What do we need that rifle in the house for?
“The only problem is we need to get some groceries,” John A. said.
“No worries. I’ll phone an order in and have it delivered.” Chris took his time closing the fridge door.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 14
chapter 8
Local MLA Speaks Out on
Honour Killing Legislation
MLA Laura Poulin promises to introduce a private member’s bill at the Alberta Legislature this fall.
Poulin says, “We need to protect young women from parents who adhere to rules that restrict girls’ and women’s right to religious and personal freedoms.”
Poulin would not get into specifics about the wording of the legislation.
Poulin says, “A young woman at my son’s school was murdered by her father and brother. This government has a responsibility to make it clear that so-called honour killings will not be tolerated in this province. We need to protect the rights and freedoms women have enjoyed for generations in this country.”
Bryan Kowalewski, leader of the opposition, says, “Poulin’s proposed bill exploits a tragedy. In fact, her bill may do nothing to help the very people it pretends to protect. My party will be proposing more effective legislation in the fall.”
×
“What’s our worst-case scenario?” Harper sat at a conference table with Lane, Keely, Nigel, and Harold Smith, the fire chief. Harold was balding, grey haired, and lantern jawed. His uniform jacket hung on the back of his chair.
“As far as an explosion goes, it depends where detonation occurs. You might be lucky and have only broken windows if there are any buildings close by. If the explosion happens near a hospital or shopping mall, the casualties could be in the hundreds. If we have a toxic cloud induced by the explosion, casualties could be even higher. We’ve had some experience with an explosion and fire at an oil-recycling plant in August of 1999. It was inside the city limits, there were only two fatalities, but there were evacuations.” Harold looked around the table. “That was not a deliberate act. You’re talking about a deliberate act. Casualties will most likely be much higher.”
“That’s right,” Harper said.
“Any sense of the target?” Harold asked.
Nigel said, “It will most likely be a petroleum facility. The guy we’re dealing with blames his wife’s cancer death on oil and gas activities around their home near Lac La Biche. He is a suspect in previous bombings of pipelines and sour-gas installations. Recently he has been saying that the only way people in the cities will understand what’s going on in rural areas is if they are exposed to the same poison.”
Harold said, “If it is a petroleum facility like an extraction plant, then we have a real problem. Some of the gases those facilities produce are heavier than air. I wouldn’t want to think about the scope of the disaster if a toxic, heavier-than-air gas is released by an explosion.”
Harper looked sideways at Nigel, gave him a warning glare, and turned to Lane. “How sure are you that Jones is in town?”
“Two independent eye witnesses identified John A. Jones on Sunday,” Lane said.
Harper stared out the window. “Then we have to hunt the son of a bitch down.” He turned again to Lane. “What do you need?”
×
Donna had finished one house and was on her way to her next job. Norah Jones was playing on the truck’s radio when she decided she would stop at home to freshen up and have lunch.
She drove west along John Laurie Boulevard. At the first intersection into Hawkwood, she pulled up behind three media SUVs at the red light. The vehicles had call signs in metre-high letters painted along their sides. The light turned green. They proceeded west and at the first intersection beyond the Eagle’s Nest turned north toward the church. She spotted a white CBC van with its purple logo approaching from the other direction.
I hope things aren’t about to get worse. Donna followed the procession and parked at the back of the church lot under the buzz of the power lines that stretched east and west.
A group of three women stood under the shade of an awning outside the open front doors of the church, the Rocky Mountains in the background. The women reminded Donna of lipstick, nail files, and eyeliner pencils.
The TV crews hauled cameras from their vehicles. Two reporters — one man and one woman — primped behind handheld mirrors.
Donna opened her door and stepped out in her black T-shirt and faded bib overalls. She felt the heat of the pavement through the soles of her boots and began to walk toward the front of the church. A growing sense of apprehension made her stomach rumble. She noticed a black town car to her left.
A back door opened on the passenger side. Laura Poulin stepped out. The ex-Stampede Princess wore a red knee-length skirt and a red fitted jacket. S
he flipped her blonde shoulder-length hair over her collar. Poulin nodded in the direction of the trio of women at the front of the church.
Donna caught the scent of Chanel No. 5.
The voice of the woman in the middle carried across the lot. “We’ve invited you here to witness a protest. We are here to say that what happened to Shafina Abdula must not happen again. What some call an honour killing dishonours women in this country and, in particular, women in this community.” She held up a book with both of her hands.
Donna had a better view of the speaker now. She was taller than Poulin, wore a similar red outfit, and had styled and bleached her hair the same shade of blonde. In fact, all three of the women had similar hair and clothing styles.
“The Quran dishonours women. We are here to support the rights of all women in this country.” The woman bent at the knees and moved to set the Quran on the ground. On either side, the women put their hands on the Quran and knelt.
The must have spent a lot of time rehearsing this. Donna began to move forward. “Hey!”
The women stopped before the Quran touched the ground. They looked in Donna’s direction. The one in the middle continued to talk. “In this country we have the right to speak up for women who’ve lost their voices.”
Donna was ten metres away and closing. She focused on the Quran and the women who held it about fifty centimetres from the pavement. “Do you understand that people will die if you do this?” Donna pointed to the cameras aimed at the scene. “This story will make its way around the world. If you do this, there will be blood on your hands.”
“The Quran walks all over women’s rights. A young girl was killed in this neighbourhood. We have every right to walk all over the Quran.”
Donna stopped within a metre of the women and looked down. The cloud of Chanel No. 5 was overwhelming and made her eyes tear. She could see the layers of makeup on the women’s faces, the way their eyebrows were bleached blonde like their hair. The women’s eyes looked around and past Donna. They’re looking for direction from Poulin, Donna thought.
“Women have rights in this country.” The woman in the centre used both hands to bring the Quran in front of her face.
Donna grabbed the Quran with her right hand and tucked it in against her elbow.
“Give that back!” The woman’s eyes were almost as wide as her mouth.
Donna sensed the cameras coming closer as she backed away. She heard the door of the town car shut. Think fast!
The CBC reporter, followed by the woman with the camera, approached as Donna walked toward the town car.
The reporter asked, “Donna Laughton? I’ve interviewed you before about your sister. She was a medic killed in Afghanistan. Are you here to support these women in their protest?”
“No. These people do not honour the memory of my sister. And they do not honour the memory of Shafina Abdula, or any other woman, for that matter. They are practising the same intolerance that killed my sister.”
The reporter looked startled.
Donna heard the town car’s engine roar to life.
The woman with the camera approached to get a close-up of Donna.
Donna looked over her shoulder and saw the other reporters headed her way. She stopped at the front of the town car and looked through the windshield. The driver wore a black suit jacket, white shirt, and black tie. “My sister worked to save lives. These women —” Donna pointed at the front door of the church, then at the car “— incite violence.”
Another reporter asked, “Don’t you think they have a right to their opinion?”
Donna smiled and looked at the black car. “Why don’t you ask Laura Poulin? She’s the person who orchestrated this event.”
The driver of the town car inched forward. Donna stood her ground as the bumper came close to touching her knees. The driver leaned on the horn. The reporters gathered around the car with microphones and cameras.
One knocked on the town car’s tinted rear window. A moment later the window hummed and opened. The reporter stuck her microphone inside the car window.
Laura Poulin spoke. “Women in this country have the right to voice an opinion even if those same rights are restricted in other parts of the world.”
Donna shook her head as the cameras and reporters gathered around the open window of the town car. Poulin opened the door, stepped out, and continued. “The Charter of Rights and Freedoms guarantees our right to freedom of speech. And that book belongs to me!”
Donna turned and saw Poulin looking at her over the roof of the town car. Donna felt an old rage take hold. “What does it take for you to understand? Do you have to lose someone close first? If you disrespect this —” Donna held up the Quran “— another Shafina will die. Another Lisa will die. You will have blood on your hands no matter what you say about freedom of speech. What about another person’s right to life?” She walked away from the cameras, climbed into her truck, set the Quran on the seat beside her, started the engine, and drove away.
×
John A. Jones wore sweatpants and a T-shirt. He sat in a garage-sale leather recliner and watched the weather channel.
Chris looked at the crown of his father’s polished scalp.
“Is the coffee ready?” John A. asked.
“Almost,” Chris replied.
“It’s looking more and more like we’ll leave on Friday. I don’t know why the Good Lord is making us wait, but I’ve learned to trust in Him and do things in His time.”
Chris heard the coffee machine splutter and made his way into the kitchen. As he poured his father’s coffee, he thought, Why not smash the pot over his head?
THURSDAY, JULY 15
chapter 9
Two Horses Killed in
Chuckwagon Crash
Stampede officials are investigating a crash at the Stampede racetrack last night.
Two horses from the Franky Smith rig were euthanized. Veterinarians said the injuries to the horses included multiple fractures to their legs.
The collision occurred on the backstretch when the Brubecker wagon cut across to the inside of the track and forced Smith’s horses into the rail.
One outrider was sent to the hospital with undisclosed injuries.
So far, there have been no other fatalities at this year’s Stampede.
Heather Logan, spokesperson for PETA, says, “This happens at the Stampede every year. It’s time for the chuckwagon races to stop. Haven’t enough animals died in the name of entertainment?”
×
The howling tore Lane away from sleep. Scout, who hadn’t made a sound until now, was wailing.
Lane looked toward the open bedroom window. Did we leave the dogs outside?
He sat up and put his feet on the hardwood floor. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants. Lane looked over at Arthur, who snored.
The dog howled.
Matt screamed. It was a savage sound, a wounded sound, a sound with a physical presence. Lane shivered, made for the door, and hit the light switch. The room filled with a blaze of white light. He opened the door and turned on the hallway light.
Matt screamed again.
Lane pounded down the stairs and into the kitchen, turning on lights as he went.
At the bottom of the next set of stairs Scout — mouth open, eyes open — howled. Roz lay with her paws over her ears. Lane’s feet met the oak floor of the family room.
Matt opened his bedroom door and stood there in his black underwear. His chest heaved, his eyes wide open.
Lane saw a vein pounding at Matt’s throat.
“He killed Jessica!” Matt said.
“Who?” Lane asked and, as he said it, knew the answer.
“The devil! The guy in the devil mask! He killed her!”
“What happened?” Christine wore an oversize white T-shirt and grey flannel pajama shorts. Daniel stood behind her in his blue boxers.
Thump!
They all looked at the ceiling.
“Arthur? You okay?”
Lane asked.
“What’s happening?” Arthur asked.
Lane turned to Matt. “Jessica is safe. You saved her yourself. It happened a year ago, remember?”
Matt dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head. “He killed her! She was crying. He picked her up and threw her against the wall! I went to her. She wasn’t breathing. Her eyes were open!”
Keep your voice low. Lane stepped closer to Matt. “It was a nightmare.”
“I have to see that she’s alive! I have to see that she’s okay!” Matt turned his back to them and began searching the floor for his clothing.
Lane saw the sweat running down Matt’s spine.
Matt went back into his room and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. “I’ve gotta know.”
“Matt? It’s two thirty in the morning,” Christine said.
Matt stood in the doorway. His face was pale against the fabric of his T-shirt. “I need to be sure!”
Give him time to wake up. To work this out on his own. Lane asked, “Can we have a cup of coffee first?”
Matt blinked. He looked at Christine and Dan. He saw Arthur at the top of the stairs. Matt leaned against the doorway. “Shit!”
Five minutes later, the warm scent of coffee filled the kitchen. Roz yawned, and her tongue curled into a C. Scout sat next to her, watched, and yawned.
Lane saw that Matt’s heart rate and breathing had calmed.
After they finished their coffee, Christine and Dan went back to bed.
Arthur pointed at Matt. “Okay if you and I see Dr. Alexandre this morning?”
“I have to work.” Matt got up to pour another coffee.
“You can phone in sick for one day,” Lane said.
Matt turned to protest.
Lane stood up. Arthur did the same. They approached their nephew together.
Matt’s chin dropped. “I can’t sleep. I close my eyes and I see Jessica’s body. I see the guy in the devil mask.”
“Should we go for a walk?” Lane asked.
Matt nodded.
