Deadline

by Anderson, James

  Then he gazed up at the moon and let loose with a bloodcurdling howl, baying“OOOOOOWWWWWWW!”

  The Wolfman had left his telltale mark.

  Chapter 10

  Kandahar 11:30 AM

  TREVOR TREVANIAN pounded the keys of his Mac Powerbook Pro as he feverishly weaved his story.

  He told of the massacre and destruction at the village by the Taliban. He recounted the soldiers’s efforts at reconstruction and help for the Afghan people. He also wrote of their medical aid for the local hospital and the work of Dr. Khalid Kamal.

  Trevanian was back in his room at the Hotel Maywand. Located in the secure Green Zone, the hotel was frequented by many journalists and military personnel. While not deluxe by Western standards, the hotel was reasonably clean and free of bugs and rats.

  His phone rang.

  He was tempted to let it keep ringing rather than interrupt his work, but Trevanian picked up the receiver and answered. Over a crackling line, he instantly recognized the voice of Hamid Khan, a key source within the Taliban.

  “Mr. Trevor,” the voice said urgently. “I must see you immediately. I have information of great importance for you.”

  “Hamid, I’m right in the middle of filing a story. What is this matter of such great urgency?”

  “I cannot say over the phone, Mr. Trevor. But it is a huge story you will want to pursue. Meet me at the Café Zuraiya at noon.” A dial tone suddenly replaced the voice.

  Khan was a source Trevanian had cultivated over many months. With cash incentives, he had provided the journalist with many valuable insights into the workings of the Taliban and the even more secretive al-Qaida.

  It was information that brought numerous scoops to Trevanian who had built an international reputation as an outstanding expert on the war in Afghanistan.

  His nose for news told him this was something he couldn’t afford to pass up.

  The Café Zuraiya was a common meeting place for Trevanian and his source. The café was located in a small alley outside the protected Green Zone. It had its risks, but Trevanian was used to taking risks.

  He left the hotel and hailed a waiting taxi outside.

  The Café Zuraiya was a far cry from Tim Hortons. It was a dark, dingy room with several tiny wooden tables and small benches. It took a few seconds for Trevanian’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting from the bright sunshine outside.

  He saw several people sitting at tables inside. Some of them briefly glanced at him, but then returned to whatever business they were conducting.

  There was no sign of Hamid Khan.

  Was it a wild goose chase? But why would he call and not show up?

  Or had Khan’s Taliban buddies finally caught on to his association with the journalist?

  Trevanian had only been there a couple of minutes. He was about to order a coffee and sit down to wait for Khan when two men at a nearby table walked over to him.

  “Trevor Trevanian?” inquired a lanky man with breath that smelled like a camel. He also appeared to be in need of a good bath, given the strong body odour emanating from him.

  He had a pockmarked face and looked the type of man you wouldn’t want to tangle with in a dark alley.

  His buddy was heavier set with jowls that telegraphed his fondness for food.

  The pair reminded Trevanian of old-time comedians Abbott and Costello. But there was nothing funny about their attitude.

  “Who wants to know?” asked Trevanian.

  “You must be Trevanian. You look just like your photo in the press,” said Abbott, the thin one with the pockmarked face.

  “It doesn’t do me justice. I’m much better looking in person, don’t you think?” quipped Trevanian.

  But Abbott didn’t smile. He continued his humorless stare at Trevanian.

  “You must come with us now,” demanded the thin man in a stern voice.

  “Whoa, there buddy! I am not going anywhere until you tell me who you two are and where you want me to go.”

  “There is no time to argue. You must come with us now if you know what is good for you.”

  Suddenly Trevanian was staring at 9 mm Walther pistols in the hands of the two Afghans. They appeared to mean business.

  Trevanian vainly looked around the room as if expecting someone to help, but the people in the café went about their business, ignoring what was going on around them.

  Abbott waved the pistol toward the door. “Outside now, please!”

  Trevanian didn’t think he had any other choice. Trying to overpower the two would be too big a risk and he did not know what this situation was.

  He went outside followed by the two gunmen. A rusted out Lada was waiting at the curb driven by a heavily bearded, leathery skinned man. The kidnappers pushed him in the back seat and sat each side of him. Then the vehicle sped off.

  Trevanian noticed it was heading out of town and south along a dusty highway.

  Costello, the fat one, pulled a black cloth hood out of his pocket and pulled it over Trevanian’s head. It felt scratchy and smelled of oil.

  Suddenly Trevanian’s world went black. He had no sense of the direction they were heading.

  His first fear was that this was another kidnapping of a journalist. He tried to push the thoughts of Daniel Pearl, the American journalist beheaded by al-Qaida, out of his mind.

  Was he going to be the subject of a ransom or a useless demand for release of prisoners?

  There were many questions going through Trevanian’s mind, but no immediate answers.

  The two kidnappers remained silent as the car sped on the highway to whatever fate awaited Trevor Trevanian.

  Chapter 11

  Katie Cannon’s Apartment 5:30 AM

  THE PHONE’S incessant ring brought Katie Cannon out of a deep, blissful sleep.

  She instinctively fumbled for the black, cordless phone on the small wooden table stand next to her bed.

  “Hello, Katie Cannon here,” she breathed huskily, trying to shake off the drowsiness and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “This better be damn good at this time of the morning.”

  “Katie, David Hagen night city editor at the Daily Express. Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I thought you’d want to know about this new development. The police are busy responding to a call in High Park. The body of a female was found in the bushes. The Wolfman may have struck again!”

  Cannon instantly became alert. “Right, David. Thanks. I’ll get over there right away.”

  As Cannon replaced the phone, Chase stirred in the bed.

  “What’s up, honey? Something important happening?” Andrew sat up in the bed, rubbing his eyes.

  “I have to go out, Andrew. It appears the Wolfman has another victim. You go back to sleep, I’ll see you later. Lock up when you leave. Love you, sweetie.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek as she arose from the bed.

  “Be careful out there, darling. I worry about you with that crazy pervert running loose.”

  Cannon hurriedly threw on a black pantsuit, grabbed her portable digital voice recorder and her car keys.

  She was wide-awake now and on the story.

  * * *

  As Katie pulled into High Park, she saw three parked police cruisers with their lights flashing, an ambulance and the forensics van nearby.

  She displayed her press pass to the police officer standing in front of the yellow crime scene tape. He waved her through.

  Cannon spied a trio of detectives huddled together in discussion. She headed toward the group, particularly a young homicide detective named Peter Moon.

  Moon was tall, with straw-like hair. He had a nice taught, muscular frame that Cannon found attractive. Moon was also sweet on her and had asked her out a couple of times.

  Cannon, however, was in a committed relationship, but could not let anyone know. She parlayed his interest in her, however, and flirted to gain information the police would not normally give reporters.

  “Peter, what’s the scoop here. Is it the W
olfman again?”

  “Looks like it. It has all the trappings of his handiwork, including the missing tongue and his trademark signature.”

  “You mean the bite marks on both her breasts?”

  “You got it Katie, but I don’t want to see that in your story. I gave you that info before in confidence and strictly off the record. It could cost me my job if anyone knew I gave you that information.”

  Police routinely withhold some crime details from the public to help identify the real culprit. It helps them rule out false confessions by those seeking to claim credit for crimes and the public notoriety that goes along with it.

  “Peter, my sources are sacrosanct you know that,” said Cannon. “Don’t worry; I’ll keep that strictly off the record until you guys capture this psycho creep. Can I view the victim?”

  “Sorry, Katie but you really don’t want to do that,” said Moon. “She’s not a pretty sight and there are some severe mutilations. Anyway, the forensic people are busy gathering any DNA evidence on the site before we ship her off to the morgue.”

  “Any ID on the victim?”

  “She’s a lawyer by the name of Antoinette Bower. The victim’s another young professional woman. This creep really seems to be targeting young female professionals. He obviously holds some kind of sick grudge or is envious of their success. He’s probably a loner and loser who can only get it up by overpowering and dominating successful women.”

  “Aren’t you concerned that he seems to be escalating these murders? They used to be a week or two apart and now we have two in one week.”

  “Yes, I am afraid his compulsion is getting worse. Our profile on this guy describes him as likely a white, male in his 30s, a loner or social misfit working in some menial job. There may be some form of child abuse underlying this or mother issues. Obviously he has it in for successful women. Better watch out, Katie. I don’t like the fact that he has been e-mailing you lately after his latest victims. You might end up on his hit list if you’re not careful.”

  “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself,” said Katie.

  “I’m sure you can. But it wouldn’t hurt to have some personal bodyguard protection from a police officer. When are we going out for that dinner date? I’d be most happy to become your personal bodyguard.” Moon gave Katie a mischievous grin.

  “Not now, Peter. I told you I’m involved with someone. I like you but I’m a one-man kind of girl and I want to see where this relationship is going.”

  “Well, whoever he is, he’s one lucky guy. I hope he treats you right. You know I’m attracted to you Katie and you can’t blame a guy for trying. If things don’t work out you know where you can come for a shoulder to cry on.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. You’re a nice guy Peter, but I don’t think a cop and a reporter would make a good mix – we both keep brutal hours. We’d rarely see each other.”

  “Ah, but when we did the sparks would fly,” said Moon with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Who found the body?”

  “That guy over there. He was out walking his dog in the park and came across her in the bush.

  Peter pointed to a middle-aged man in T-shirt and running pants talking to another police officer writing on a notepad. The man held a leash attached to a black and white Springer Spaniel sniffing around the ground.

  “Well, I better go interview him before the TV news trucks get here. I’m surprised they are not here yet. They must still be having their morning coffee and donuts. See ya later, alligator!”

  Cannon headed toward the morning dog walker, digital mini-recorder in hand. She mentally prepped the questions she was going to put to him.

  Chapter 12

  Southern Afghanistan 4: 15 PM

  THE RUSTY Lada rumbled along the dusty Afghan roads. They had traveled for hours in silence.

  Trevanian had a sense they were headed south, but knew little else. Several times he tried to converse with his captors. He asked where they were going, why they had taken him, what they expected to achieve by this action.

  All his questions were greeted with silence.

  After a couple of hours, he complained about the hood. It was hot, scratchy and difficult to breathe. He also desperately needed to urinate.

  “You need to stop soon unless you want me to piss my pants, guys,” said Trevanian.

  The car pulled over to the side of the road. The two Afghans in the backseat pushed him out of the car. They removed the hood and gestured to a nearby ditch.

  Trevanian paused and took in a deep breath of the warm, dry air. It felt glorious after the confinement of the hood. His eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight and he surveyed the rough terrain around him.

  It was a barren wasteland of dust, rock and mountainous terrain. He had no idea where they were – in the middle of nowhere. But the road ahead was snaking up into the nearby mountains.

  Trevanian thought it looked like they were near the Afghan-Pakistani border, bounded by the mountain range. It was likely the Safed Koh range that bordered on Pakistan.

  He unzipped his fly and emptied his bladder while his captors observed.

  Then the three Afghans in the car each took their turns urinating into the ditch while two of them kept a careful watch over Trevanian. As if he was much of a flight risk out here. There was simply nowhere to run.

  It would be certain death from thirst and starvation even if he managed to escape his captors. He wouldn’t have the first idea where to run to even if he could escape.

  The only course of action was to allow them to take him wherever they were going. Then he could try to talk his way to freedom at his final destination wherever that was going to be. Trevanian prided himself on being a very persuasive fellow.

  “Fellas, I’m not going to be a problem. I’ll go wherever you want. Is that hood really necessary? It’s damned uncomfortable. How much longer is this journey?”

  Surprisingly, Abbott responded.

  “It is going to take another couple of hours, Mr. Trevanian. The hood will not be necessary until we get nearer to our final destination. Please bear with us. This journey you will find in your best interests as a newsman. We will soon be crossing the border into Pakistan.”

  “Why the secrecy? Why can’t you at least tell me why you are taking me to Pakistan?”

  “My name is Dharwal. You have been especially chosen for this assignment. Consider it a high honor for an infidel. Now please get back in the car.”

  The Lada continued on its silent journey into the mountains of Afghanistan and Trevanian’s destiny somewhere in northern Pakistan.

  Chapter 13

  Somewhere in Toronto 7 AM

  THE WOLFMAN sat in front of the computer screen and began typing the e-mail.

  After grabbing a few hours sleep, he had come into work early so he could use one of their computers to send his message to that reporter Katie Cannon. That way it could never be traced back to him.

  He had seen this morning’s paper and the front-page story under the by-line of Katie Cannon. He felt his anger rise.

  The bitch depicted him as a sick, psycho killer. All these professional bitches stuck together. Their air of superiority infuriated him.

  He recalled how his father kept his mother in line. When she became uppity he chastised her regularly.

  “Women should be seen and not heard. Know your place, woman,” his father would say as his fist connected with her face.

  At first he had been afraid of his father and his anger. Afraid he would turn on him. But that had not happened.

  Instead he saw it as a valuable lesson. His mother deserved it. She did things to bring on his father’s wrath. She was often sneaky. She hid some of the housekeeping money he gave her to do things behind his back.

  His mother began to take college courses part-time during the day while his father was at work and he was at school. He would see her doing some of the homework when his father wasn’t around. That wasn’t right.

  So
he eventually told his father. His father was grateful and rewarded him with candy and comic books.

  His father soon put a stop to his mother’s day classes. For a few days his mother walked around wearing sunglasses.

  Then one day suddenly she was gone. Disappeared off the face of the earth. His father told him she had left them. Abandoned them.

  “Good riddance to the bitch,” he said. “We’re better off without her.”

  For a few months it had just been him and his Dad. Life was better. They would often go to the movies to see Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bruce Willis or Sylvester Stallone. They were his favorites. The movies had lots of killing and explosions. They brought lots of thrills.

  Then his Dad started seeing other women. Most of them slept over from time to time, but didn’t stay long.

  But one of his girlfriends, named Gina, moved in with them. Things were fine at first but after a few months the arguments started. The shouting got to him. He kept to his room most times when they were fighting and listened to his music to shut out the noise.

  Gina never learned. She kept provoking his Dad. He called her a tramp and accused her of sleeping around. He started to beat on her like his Mom. But unlike his Mom, Gina fought back and often gave back as well as she received.

  One night during a particularly vicious beating, she reached for a heavy iron frying pan on the stove.

  Thwaack! She crashed it against Dad’s skull. His eyes rolled and his legs gave way. He crashed to the floor unconscious.

  He remembered the commotion that followed. The paramedics. The police. They put Gina in handcuffs and took her away. He was turned over to the Children’s Aid Society.

  His Dad never recovered. He died in hospital. An embolism, they said.

  Gina was charged with manslaughter, but a female lawyer got her off with a self-defence plea and a not guilty verdict by the jury.

  Again it was women sticking up for women and he was left an orphan. He missed his Dad terribly.