I want to stand up and rage with him. Damn this wheelchair! “There’s nothing we can do,” I say. “Without solid evidence, Santiago’s golden.” Wait a minute. “Wait. What about this. I can tie Perot to Santiago. I saw him in the Shelby.”
He turns it over in his mind then shakes his head. “Yeah, but without Bradbury’s evidence about Razor Point Holdings we can’t tie the car to Santiago. It’s all the proof we need but it’s not evidence.”
We look at each other, at a loss for words.
His anger deflates and I see a new look on his face. A look I’ve seen before. That’s his I-have-an-idea look. Then it hits. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” I ask.
He slowly nods.
48
Cal
Why do I have to go to Mommy’s house? I’m supposed to get tonight and tomorrow night with you this week.” Ellie stamps her foot to emphasize her frustration. It is a funny image and I have to suppress the desire to smile.
“It’s because of Ariel sweetie,” I say. “You know I’m trying to help find her and bring her back to her Mommy and Daddy.” She nods but is not yet completely mollified. “Well, tonight I have to meet with Mr. Stammo and we are going to do some things that will help to rescue her.”
“Oh OK.” She gives me a big smile. “I hope you find her Daddy.”
“I do too.” I reach down and hug her. “Get your backpack, put your coat on and we’ll go over to Mommy’s.”
As she bustles about getting her stuff together, I think again about the enormity of the task that Stammo and I have to prepare for. We planned it out in detail this afternoon and we have just thirty-two hours left to complete the preparations. I run through the checklist in my head; it helps me focus on the task and not think too much about the consequences.
She’s ready quickly and we step out through the front door. As I lock it behind us, I have a frisson of fear. Will I still be alive to unlock it on Saturday morning?
We go to the garage in silence and get into the car.
As she clicks her seatbelt in place, she says, “Locked and loaded and ready to rumble.” It’s our code.
“Let’s do it,” I reply and fire up the Healey’s engine.
As I pull out of the garage she says, “Daddy, I’m glad I told you I want to be a policeman like you. Mommy said it was OK to tell you too.”
I feel a stirring of pride. “That’s good sweetie,” I say, “but you know I’m not a policeman anymore.” One day I will tell her the story of why I left the VPD, then rejoined and then left again in order to start up with Stammo.
“I know but you still are kind of a policeman, right?”
“Kind of,” I agree.
“So you do good things to help people?”
“Sometimes I do bad things to help people.” That slipped right out. I definitely didn’t mean to say that.
She’s silent for a while. Good. Maybe she didn’t catch it. Then, “So it’s OK to do a bad thing if it helps someone?”
“Well, I, uh…” Best to draw the moral straight line. “No. No sweetie, it’s not right to do a bad thing to achieve a good thing.”
“But you said you do bad things to help people.”
“I know I did… but I was wrong.”
She goes silent again and leaves me to struggle with the fact that I am about to do a very bad thing to achieve a good thing. I rationalize the hell out of it but still can’t shake the knowledge that I don’t have a moral leg to stand on. What we are about to do will save Ariel but… And what if Ariel is already dead? It will have been for nothing.
I continue my internal struggle until we get to Sam’s condo.
I lock the Healey, hoping that it will be OK on the street for the next couple of nights, and we walk hand-in-hand up the steps to the front door.
She welcomes us in with a big smile, hugs Ellie and kisses me on the cheek, which sends a little tingle down my spine. “Thanks for taking her Sam. I have to go away with Stammo for a couple of days. It’s the Ariel Bradbury case.”
“My pleasure.” She takes my arm and leads me toward the kitchen. The gentle pressure of her breast against my arm combines with the smell of her perfume and creates a strong reaction in my body. She squeezes tighter. “Elles Bells,” she calls, “Go upstairs, there’s a bath ready for you, no need to wash your hair, just a quick bath, jammies on, then call us and we’ll come upstairs and tuck you in.”
“OK Mommy.” She runs upstairs making slightly less noise than a herd of elephants might.
Sam takes me into the kitchen. There are two glasses of wine on the granite countertop. But instead of walking over to them, she pushes the kitchen door closed and puts her arms around my neck. She presses her body toward me and, feeling the growing pressure, she smiles and gently grinds her pelvis against mine. As I incline my head toward hers, the smile fades away and her lips open slightly.
I have been dreaming of this moment for over six years. I can feel my heartbeat. Our lips touch gently at first then part and then come together again with a rising passion. The tips of our tongues flicker together and I hug her closer. The kiss is long and deep. As we break away to breathe, she kisses the side of my mouth, then my cheek and then whispers in my ear so closely that the heat of her breath sets my whole body vibrating. “Stay the night.” Oh yes, yes, yes. Six years of longing are finally over.
“Sam, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We kiss again. She slides her right hand down from behind my neck and slips it between us. As she touches me, I want to explode. I glide my hands under her sweater, onto her naked skin.
A car horn sounds on the street outside.
I move my hand up and cup her naked breast. “Mmmm,” she purrs as I—
The car horn sounds again. Three deliberate blasts. Stammo. He said he would pick me up at eight.
“Sam, I have to go. That honking is Stammo. We have to leave now.”
Her disappointment is written all over her face. “Really, Cal? Really?” She pulls away but not completely.
“I’m so sorry Sam.” I realize I am still holding her breast. I let it go feeling stupid. She looks at my stricken face and giggles.
“It’ll keep,” she says and kisses me quickly on the lips. “When will you be back?”
“Saturday.”
“Well, California Rogan, on Saturday night I am going to…” she leans forward and whispers the rest of the sentence. I don’t know if it was so Ellie wouldn’t hear the words, or if it was to set my body tingling anew from the hot breath in my ear.
Stammo’s horn blasts again and I wonder if I will be back here whole in mind and body on Saturday night.
49
Cal
Wednesday
Thinking of Sam and of Ellie and of being a family again has helped me through the last forty-eight hours. Last night I got about five hours sleep deep in the woods in my newly acquired bivvy bag, but it is the only sleep I have had since I walked regretfully away from Sam’s front door. After a day of watching, my head is starting to nod. I check my watch; it’s Wednesday at seven-thirty and the sun is heading off across the Pacific, casting shadows of the trees I have been hiding in for the last thirteen hours, across from the immaculate lawns of Carlos Santiago’s Samuel Island estate.
Maybe Edward Perot’s not going to show. Maybe Carlos Santiago isn’t even here; I’ve certainly seen no sign of him in the over twelve hours I’ve been watching. I wonder for the thousandth time if we have got this all wrong and Ariel isn’t here at all. The rage I felt on Monday, when Stammo and I hatched this plan, has subsided and I’m wondering if I can go through with it without that rage to spur me on.
Also for the thousandth time I scan the scene before me with my binoculars. Off to the far left is the beach with the dock and the long, low boat that I saw on Salt Spring Island carrying the phony cop Sherri Oliver away. I look out to sea and can see no sign of any boat inbound to the island carrying Edward Perot to his
weekend getaway.
To the far right is the imposing mansion, its pristine white tinted rose by the soon-to-be setting sun. Beside it, about two hundred yards from me is what I assume to be quarters for the estate’s guards, I have watched their comings and goings all day. To my horror, I have observed eight of them. All dressed in fatigues, all sporting stubbly beards and all bearing AK-47s. Two are sitting on stools outside the main house. Clearly, Carlos Santiago feels under threat and clearly his guards make my task doubly hard and my escape many times more so. Behind the guards’ HQ are the kennels housing an unknown number of dogs. I can see only three but at times can hear more. The most fearsome is a monster who looks like a cross between a Pit Bull and a Rottweiler, chestnut brown with a white patch over his left eye.
Apart from the movements of the guards there has been absolutely no activity on the estate for the whole day.
I put the binocs down and check my watch again. Five minutes later than the last time I looked. I’m probably going to have to spend tonight in the forest behind me. I check my stuff, also for the thousandth time. My backpack is bulging with my camping gear and emergency supplies. The bivvy bag is rolled and strapped to the backpack. I have my binocs slung around my neck and attached to my belt is a water bottle and the hunting knife Stammo insisted I take. “Can’t go camping without one,” he insisted. I have to say he has been great. He was a Boy Scout leader when Matt was a kid and what he doesn’t know about camping and survival isn’t worth knowing. That plus his military background are the only things that have made this job possible.
I check the last item. It’s a Winchester Model 70, built in 2012 by FN Herstal so Stammo tells me. It’s not the absolute best rifle for the job but at this range it should be enough. My only experience shooting a rifle was with the Army Cadets when I was at school. I was pretty good then and during our practice yesterday, I was consistently able to hit targets at three hundred yards. It’s enough distance for today but will it be different when the targets are breathing and not just paper?
As I worry the thought, I see movement in front of the house. A woman has come out through the main door, beside her is a girl.
My trembling fingers can hardly steady the binoculars. I adjust the focus and right there I am looking at the face of Ariel Bradbury. “Thank God,” I breathe. She is wearing a frilly, lacy skirt with white stockings and black patent leather shoes. Her top is red and sequined and her hair looks like it has been curled. She is every bit Canada’s Little Beauty. Santiago’s people have dressed her up like this for the pleasure of Edward Perot. I can feel the rage returning. Good. Very good.
I watch as they walk about the lawn. The woman beside her is dressed in a maid’s uniform—I’d thought they went out of fashion in the last century—she is talking to Ariel and smiling. What kind of woman—? Maybe she doesn’t know what is planned for her.
Maybe if I could take a photo and email it to Steve, it would be good enough evidence for a warrant. I won’t have to use the Winchester.
I fumble my phone out of my pocket.
They get close to the beach and Ariel points to it, looking up at her minder. The woman shakes her head. I train the phone on them. They are a long way away. I wonder if my phone’s got a good enough resolution to confirm who it is. I take one picture. Not too good, Ariel is mostly turned away from me.
A voice shouts something in Spanish; the guards are on their feet. One of them is pointing out to sea. The huge dog gives a couple of barks.
The maid hurries Ariel back to the house. I snap off a couple of photos but the maid is now between Ariel and me. I keep taking them until they disappear inside. I quickly check the pix. No good. Then I notice there are no bars on my phone. I can’t send them anyway. Damn!
Then I hear it. The unmistakable woomp-woomp-woomp of helicopter blades. My heart starts racing in tempo. A helicopter. I had expected them to arrive by boat.
Anyway it is now, as they say, show time.
I remove the binocs and put them and my water bottle and a half-finished sandwich into the backpack and zip it closed. I do a last check of the ground. I have left nothing. I take the Winchester and walk two trees to my left. The tree is an Arbutus; it’s one of the reasons I chose this spot. Not for its beauty but because the trunk conveniently splits into two at chest height. I lean into the trunk and settle my left triceps in the crook between the boughs. I nestle the stock of the Winchester into my right shoulder and force myself to breathe steadily.
The helicopter has to land on the lawn, the forest is too close to the back of the house to provide a safe landing spot. I’m guessing and hoping that it will land as far away from the house as possible, which should place it nearer to me. I adjust the sight for a range of one hundred and fifty meters. I look up at the helo, it’s less than half a mile away. Then it hits me. The pilot could be used to track me. What with the speedboat, the armed guards, the dogs and now the helo, my chances of a clean escape are dwindling toward zero.
The helicopter is close now. It seems almost overhead. It is shiny black and carries no markings other than the registration letters. Its body rotates so that it is facing the mansion and it floats down to the corner of the lawn closest to me. I whisper a quiet thank you to Mars, the god of war. Then a curse. The passenger door is on the side facing away from me. The helicopter will shield whoever gets out. Assuming they walk straight to the door of the mansion they will come into view about halfway across the lawn.
If I were to move about a hundred yards to the right, I would have a better shooting angle. But I don’t have time. The guards are now looking in this general direction so they might see me. I adjust the scope for the extra distance.
The helicopter touches down and the engine pitch drops. I see movement through the window and it looks like the passengers are starting to debark. The first person I see is Stammo’s son. He walks briskly to a position about twenty yards to the front of the helicopter. He stops, looks back and gives a brief wave to the pilot. He looks over toward the beach area for a second and then turns back and scans the forest. For a second he is looking straight toward me. It’s not possible that he can see me is it? I find I am holding my breath but he turns around and heads briskly over to the guards’ quarters.
I return to steady breathing in rhythm with the helicopter’s slowing blades. I scrunch down to shooting position and remember the plan. If it’s only one of them, take him out. If it’s both, take Santiago first because Perot is less likely to realize what’s happening and take evasive action.
Ten seconds and I see Santiago. He’s walking toward the house with Perot striding beside him in lockstep. The perfect metaphor for the collusion between politics and drugs.
I sight the crosshairs, breathe, hold, squeeze one, squeeze two and the Winchester pounds against my shoulder. Bolt up, back, forward, down. Site the crosshairs on Perot—he is standing over Santiago probably asking him if he’s OK—breathe, hold, squeeze one, squeeze two.
I survey my handiwork and tap the headset. “Both down.”
“Good man. I’ll make the call. Get out of there fast.”
One thing first. Bolt up, back, forward, down. I take aim at the helo’s rotor mechanism and fire the third bullet. I see a piece of metal fly off and hear the clang of the bullet a small fraction of a second later.
I scoop up the two spent cases, fumble to unzip the backpack, drop them in and re-zip. Note to self: should have left it unzipped. Both guards are running toward the fallen figures. The Winchester goes in its case and my hands tremble as I try to fasten it to the backpack. A quick glance and I see two more guards spilling out of the guardhouse. One looks toward the dock and the other scans the forest but I’m pretty sure that he can’t see me through the trees.
I finally fasten the gun case to the carabiners on the backpack; thirty precious seconds spent. I stand and do a last scan of the ground. I can’t see any sign of my sojourn here. I take one last look at the scene. I hear a voice shout, “Son muertos!” The
y’re dead. I feel the first twinge of regret that I know will follow me for the rest of my life but I can console myself with the fact that Ariel is now safe and there is one pedophile and one drug lord fewer in the world. Three more guards are in evidence and two of them are heading toward the kennels. It’s time to go.
I slip my left arm in the backpack’s strap and something punches me in my right side. I stumble but don’t go down. I turn. He is standing there with what looks like a Sig Sauer in his left hand. I look down. A bloom of red is soaking through my clothing.
“We meet again, Rogan. Third time’s a charm.” Matt Stammo, the Bookman, has a big smile on his face.
50
Stammo
Steve. Listen. Rogan and I are on a boat just off Samuel Island. We’ve been putting Santiago’s property under surveillance.”
“Uh-huh.” Well at least he’s listening.
“Anyways, we just heard some shooting. Exigent circumstances eh?”
He’s silent for a bit. “Could be someone hunting or doing target practice.”
I gotta improvise here. “What, with machine guns?”
“Machine guns?” That little white lie got his attention.
“Yeah. Three or four of them. Sounds like a war’s going on.” Silent again. “It’s your chance to get in there and save that little kid.” Still silent. “And maybe grab Santiago too.”
“You better be right about this Nick. I’ll call you back and let you know what’s happening.” He hangs up.
I put on my headset and thumb the button. “I think Steve’s going for it. Get to the rendezvous ASAP.”
No reply.
“You there Cal?”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 83
