Shadow of a Killer
By David Anderson
Digital ISBNs;
EPUB 978-0-2286-0348-1
Kindle 978-0-2286-0349-8
Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0350-4
BWL Print 978-0-2286-0351-1
Copyright 2018 by David Anderson
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Dedication
For Joanne and Brendan, to whom I owe everything.
For Kit Schindell.
And for my community at Fairview.
14,000 feet up Glaciar de las Lágrimas, between Cerro Sosneado and Volcán Tinguiririca, Andes Mountains, on the border separating Chile and Argentina.
Chapter 1
It’s got to be now. Wait another day and I won’t even have a choice. I won’t have enough strength left; I’m already weak as dishwater.
I wrap the blanket tightly around my shoulders. A piece of strut I prised off the Cessna sticks up in the air, marking the spot I’ve been avoiding for so long. It sits there, silently accusing me – one way or the other, whatever I do. I crawl over to the snowy mound, kneel before it, close my eyes and pray to the God who has deserted me. My hand reaches out, rests gently on the curved, uneven surface. I grant it a benediction from my damned soul.
The fresh surface snow brushes off easily. Crisp flakes coat my sock-covered hands as I dig away, revealing the dark trophy beneath. Here lies my only hope, and yet?
The next part will be a lot harder.
I pull the wet socks off, revealing my white trembling fingers, and begin to undo the layers of dirty, soiled cloth covering my prize. By now I am utterly exhausted. I sit back, panting, eyes fixated on what I’ve uncovered.
Do it, just do it.
My fingers fumble in my outer coat pocket and find the Swiss Army knife wrapped in a filthy piece of cloth. I take off my eye shades and wipe my face with the back of my hand. Tears are no good to me now. I open the knife and begin my grisly work.
PART ONE
THE PAST IS NEVER DEAD
Vancouver, BC, Canada, a year later.
Chapter 2
When my doorbell rang I had no idea it meant that someone was about to die.
I had just come out of the shower and dried myself and was standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Not too shabby, I thought as I looked my naked self up and down. I’d got most of my weight back though I was still a bit too scrawny. My appetite had never quite come back to how it was before, though at least I was eating meat again. The vegetarian diet had been just too boring, for me anyway.
Before shaving, I switched the radio on. It was tuned to a local station, one that played good serious popular music, not top thirty crap. A song I didn’t recognise was just ending and the host started rambling away in his impossible to place accent.
“And now, here’s Jonathan Richman with ‘Her Mystery Not of High Heels and Eye Shadow’ . . .” The familiar tune started up. One of my favourite songs. . .
Well she don't act cool and she don’t blow hot and cold
Her mystery not of high heels and eye shadow
Well she laughs when she wants like you do when you're five years old
She loves the faded colours of the dark just like I do
My hand reached out to turn up the volume. Then the unwanted tears came, and I started sobbing uncontrollably. Angry with myself, I switched the music off. But the lyrics still went on inside my head, , ,
Well she don't act cool, don’t act like a femme fatale
Her mystery not of high heels and eye shadow
She laughs, when she laughs she's the breeze, she's the naturelle
She loves the faded colours of three a.m., just like I do
I still wasn’t over her, even now. My hand trembled as I took out the razor. If I couldn’t stop this shaking, I’d cut my face again.
Then the ding-dong of the doorbell sounded, and I jumped in my skin, dropping the razor in the washbasin. Sudden, unexpected noises could still do that, and I hadn’t taken my morning anti-anxiety pill yet. That came later, along with a big bowl of Bran Flakes and a mug of Italian coffee.
There it was again. . . ding-dong, louder this time.
I could tell from the time of day – nine-thirty in the morning – that it was probably the mail deliverer with a package. I didn’t go to the shops much anymore, so this would be the latest new thriller I’d ordered from Amazon. I wanted it badly. These days reading was my chief outlet.
A main way to escape the nasty little videos that refused to stop playing over and over again in my head.
Trouble was, I was still stark naked. The deliverer was a rather overweight, middle-aged woman, friendly enough but I knew she wouldn’t hang around much longer if I didn’t get down there pronto. I cursed under my breath, wrapped the big cream-coloured towel around me and rushed out the bathroom door in my bare feet.
From the top of the stairs I could see a cardboard package being pushed through the slot in my townhouse front door. The deliverer was forcing it through the narrow slit. It must have got stuck, but she wasn’t backing out now and I could hear sharp grunting noises as she kept pushing at it. I watched in appalled fascination as my precious purchase was being mangled. Halfway in and it got stuck even worse. I took the top stairs two at a time before my book got even more damaged.
Bad idea. Damp feet, slippery steps. My legs went from under me and I careened down the stairs on my bare butt. I staggered upright and hastily adjusted the towel.
BOOM! An enormous explosion knocked me over, ripped through my ears and instantly deafened me. I rolled backwards; hit my head on the foot of the stairs. The floor shook, and the walls seemed to vibrate like a major earthquake. Dust billowed around me; choked my lungs and made me cough.
The air quickly cleared, and I sat up, blinked, spat out powdery saliva from my mouth. The silence was total. Then the smoke alarm above my head went off. I stood, with one hand flat against the wall to steady myself.
My front door, solid wood, had almost held but leaned inwards at the top. The mail slit was now a gaping hole, splintered all around. Everything was black and smoky. With my mouth tight shut, one arm holding the towel tight around me, I yanked at the door, scared of what I would see on the other side.
The door swung back towards me and I peered out. My doorstep was now freshly painted slick shiny red, rivulets of it running in all directions. In front of me lay a mound of ragged clothes and a bloodied carcase.
The mail deliverer or what was left of her.
A vivid image of a similar scene swam up in my vision, engulfing me. Suddenly I was back there again, reliving it. My heart pounded, and I immediately began to sweat. My eyes flickered left and right in panicky hyperawareness. The mail deliverer’s hand had been blown off and there were severed fingers stuck around the hole in the door.
Slivers of flesh. Again. My head swam and mercifully everything went black.
Chapter 3
I woke up to the smell of antiseptic in my nose and someone pulling at my hand. Bright light penetrated my eyelids. I wiped grit out of the corner of my eyes and slowly opened them, blinked several times. My sight was still sensitive from the sun blindness a year ago. There was something painful sticking out of the back of the hand I’d just used. I was in a strange bed, not my own.
The young woman placed my arm back down on the sheets and said something.
“. . . I’ve changed the IV and I think he’s waking up, doctor.”
A man in his sixties with a stethoscope around his neck and a handlebar moustache leaned over me. I focused on the name tag on his white coat. A Dr. Wilberforce.
“Wakey wakey, Mr. Knox. Feeling better?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“You’ve had a bit of an unusual experience. Soon be right as rain though.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody sent you something nasty in the mail.”
“Am I hurt?” I couldn’t see how I could be. I remembered walking to the door.
“Not badly. We thought at first you might be mildly concussed. Your left bicep is lacerated and required a few stitches. But you’re a healthy . . .” – he consulted the clipboard he was holding – “thirty-four year old man so it will heal quickly.” He jerked a thumb at the IV bag hanging to the left of my bed, its clear fluid dripping like a second-hand marking time. “Given all the crap floating around after the explosion, I put you on a strong antibiotic. We’ll keep you in overnight to get your strength back and for us to observe. All being well, you can go home tomorrow morning.”
“That’s it?” I felt terrible, like I could sleep for a million years.
The doctor looked away, as if thinking what to say, and gave a little embarrassed cough.
“Well . . . we’ve given you a strong sedative. Help you sleep. That’s what you’ve been doing for the last several hours. Do you good. Especially after all that you’ve been through the last year or so, eh?”
I groaned inwardly. Of course, he would know. The nurses would know, the whole hospital would know. Reporters would be swarming around like flies.
Again.
“The nurse is going to send you back to sleep now, Mr. Knox.”
I opened my eyes immediately. “Wait! One more thing.” I licked my lips to moisten them. “The mail deliverer?” I already knew the answer full well but had to ask it. The question hung in the air.
The doctor hesitated. “She wasn’t so lucky I’m afraid. Didn’t stand a chance really. Even a small amount of Semtex or C-4, or whatever it was, can be devastating to the human body. Someone will be here to talk to you about that tomorrow.”
The police. Again.
I closed my eyes and prayed the sedative would work fast and long.
Chapter 4
“I don’t think I can face it.”
Eric knew exactly what I meant. “Don’t worry. Follow me.”
He led me out of the ward, along a corridor and into a broad, metallic elevator. We went down to the basement, turned left and walked down a very long corridor.
“How do you know where to go?” I asked him.
“I scouted it out while you were talking to the cops.”
Thorough, I thought, just like he is in business. Which was one reason why, at fifty-five years old, Eric Larsen had already climbed to the top of the greasy pole in Vancouver real estate development.
“This way,” he said, and led me into what looked like the mouth of a tunnel. “This underground passage takes us past laundry rooms and out the back way.”
Five minutes later we approached the outside door. Eric grabbed the handle.
“Ready?”
I nodded.
“Keep behind me and don’t stop.”
He stepped out the door and I followed on his heels.
Instantly several microphones were thrust in front of me, amid a cacophony of babbling voices. Early June sunlight blinded my eyes and I looked down at the ground, almost head-butting the mikes.
“Comment . . . related . . . injured . . . recovery . . . set back . . . connected . . .”
Only the main words registered as I pushed away the rest. The questions were background noise, instantly forgettable. I’d become good at that.
Eric’s bulky frame cut a swift path through the reporters. I was wondering how many blocks away he’d had to park – Vancouver General being right in the middle of the city – when he stopped, reached down and opened the passenger door of his silver Jaguar.
I dived inside. Eric shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side, grabbing a parking ticket from the windshield on his way. He turned the key and the engine purred to life.
“How’d you know you wouldn’t get towed?” I said.
“I could tell you I own the tow company VGH employs,” he replied, easing the long automobile through photographers and cameramen. “But the truth is, the new Eric Larsen Wing got me this special parking pass.” He tapped the upper corner of the windscreen.
“City Hall doesn’t seem to agree, though,” I countered, nodding at the parking ticket in his lap.
He scrunched the ticket up and threw it in the back seat. “That’s just a fake ticket I had printed up,” he laughed, “I call it insurance. There’s a stack of them in the glove compartment. Makes regular punters feel better, so they don’t scratch the paintwork.”
I shook my head in near disbelief. Typical Eric the Great Manipulator. We turned onto Broadway and headed west. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“Thought you might like to avoid your place for a while,” he said. “My workmen should have your front door and hallway repaired by tomorrow. You can stay with me and Maureen tonight.”
I pictured the view from the guest bedroom in Eric’s penthouse suite overlooking Jericho Beach. “Shouldn’t be too much of a burden,” I grinned, “Thanks, Eric.”
“Good. I want to talk to you later.”
A shadow fell over me as we passed a tall building and I shivered involuntarily. I had a pretty good idea what Eric wanted to talk about.
Chapter 5
After a four course meal which featured a giant red lobster around the halfway mark, Eric’s wife Maureen, a slim Irishwoman with all the softness and tact her husband lacked, excused herself and disappeared into their den. Seconds later I heard her turn on the big screen TV. The hired help, a Filipino maid, came in to clear up and Eric and I went to an adjacent room with overstuffed chairs and an enormous mahogany bar cabinet that extended along most of the far wall. Eric never did anything by halves.
He strolled over to it and took out two sparkling cut glass tumblers.
“Glenfiddich? Maybe Black Bush?”
I thought about the medications I was taking and my doctors’ dire warnings about not mixing them with alcohol.
“A thin finger of Black Bush,” I replied.
Eric poured a generous two fingers in each glass and handed one to me. I gave it a good sniff and smelled honey and heather. “Ambrosia of the gods,” I smiled.
“Excuse me a minute, will you?” he said, and picked up a small laptop from a side table, “Just got to check a couple of things.”
I imagined him consulting stock prices or whatever rich property magnates have to do every couple of hours and let him get on with it. There wasn’t much of visual interest in the room, so I ended up staring at the top of Eric’s head, at the wiry grey hair slicked with some expensive gel but not well enough to hide the small bald spot.
It hadn’t been there when we’d first met four years ago. He was one of my regular passengers down at Canada Place and I was holding the door of the Beaver open while he stepped out onto the quay. He gave me his usual tip then followed it with a shrewd look, a sort of up and down appraisal as if a decision was forming in his mind.
“How long did you say you’d been flying?” he asked.
I couldn’t recall ever mentioning it. “Nearly ten years,” I replied, exaggerating quite a bit. I’d only had my license for six of them.
“Pays well, I suppose?”
“Not well enough,” I answered, thinking about my several maxed-out credit cards and all the things I wanted to buy but couldn’t. Turned out, that’s exactly what he intended me to think.
“Want to work for me?” he said. “I have property developments all along the southern BC coast and on the Island. I need a pilot on call, someone who can
take me anywhere I want to go at short notice, stay overnight, that kind of thing. I didn’t notice a wedding ring. You a single man?”
I nodded.
“It’d be salaried, of course,” he continued, “And I’d cover all your expenses. Convenience comes at a cost.” His lips smiled thinly but his eyes were piercing.
“Quite a big cost actually,” I said, “You don’t just need a pilot, you need a plane.”
“I have that already,” he replied, “Just waiting delivery. How does a Cessna 208 Caravan appeal to you?”
Top of the line, the largest single engine floatplane in the world. Big, fast, luxurious, several steps up from this old Beaver. It appealed to me very much indeed. He said he had a meeting and hurried off, but he gave me his card before he left. I called him the next day.
The rest is history, as they say. Later, of course, I would wish I’d thrown his card into the water . . .
“Enough of this,” Eric said, interrupting my thoughts. He closed the laptop and added, “Everything seems to be ticking over nicely,” whatever that meant.
I took a sip of the Black Bush and nodded.
“Come on into my office,” he said, “Bring your drink with you.”
He picked up his own, untouched drink and led me into what he called his office. I’d never been in here before and it turned out to be more like a large study-cum-library. He sat behind an antique desk while I squeaked my butt on a shiny green leather armchair in front of it. I looked around and admired the low, glass-fronted bookcases and the oil paintings hanging above them. I recognised a couple of distinctive Lawren Harris landscapes and a small canvas depicting totem poles that I was pretty sure was by Emily Carr. My kind of room, at least in my dreams.
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