by Jim Stark
"Come on,” he said as he drummed his fingernails on the sink. “Come onnnn!"
"What's happening out there?” demanded Helen as she picked up the receiver. “They woke me to tell me that they picked up a plane on screen a minute ago. Is there a plane out there? Did it land?"
"Yeah, I saw it,” said Michael. “It's an RCMP plane, and it's on the water, headed for the lodge. Is there something wrong?"
"An RCMP plane? Are you absolutely sure?"
"I saw it written on the side of the plane, ‘R-C-M-P,’ in big letters. What's happening? Why are they—"
"I don't know, Michael. It must have something to do with Victor. I'll wake up Cam, and I'll call Annette and tell her it's just an RCMP plane. I'm going over to the lodge ... I'll be there in three minutes. You stay put."
"I'm going over."
"There's no need, Michael. You just—"
"I'm going!” he shouted.
"Look, I don't have time to argue with you, for Christ's sake. Just don't bring Becky, okay? I'm sure it's safe, but go alone, okay?"
"Okay,” said Michael as he hung up. He'd have to move fast. He was young enough to be scared, but old enough to be expected to handle things—even to take charge if need be. He was, after all, a Whiteside, and he had to acquit himself well in a crisis or lose face. He replaced the bathroom cabinet as quietly as he could and ran into the hallway ... and almost bowled over his teenaged lover, who had come to investigate.
"What's going on, Michael?” asked Rebecca. “You're scaring me."
"Look, honey, it was just an RCMP plane, so I'm sure everything's all right, but I have to go to the lodge and find out what's happening. Sorry, Becky, but you have to stay here. Helen said so. I talked to her ... there's a radio outfit in the bathroom that I didn't tell you about before. There's no reason for you to be scared. Now I gotta get dressed and go, honey ... please!"
Michael disengaged himself from Rebecca's worried grasp, ran into the bedroom and dressed faster than he had ever dressed before. Becky stood at the bedroom door, naked and frightened, her arms hanging limply at her sides, saying nothing, unconvinced. She was from a wealthy family herself, but all this security stuff—that was new for her, and right now, it was scary. “Where there's heavy security, there's real danger,” her mother had once said during an uncomfortable supper-table discussion of Rebecca's “emerging romance with the Whiteside lad."
"You're ... sure it was an RCMP plane?” she asked.
"Yeah, dead sure,” he said as he tied his shoes. “I saw it right on the side of the plane when it came in for a landing. It must have something to do with Victor Helliwell. I've got to go over in the boat. I'll call you on the—uh—come with me, hurry."
He literally pulled her back into the bathroom, removed the medicine cabinet, dialed 007 again, and arranged to have an agent stay on the line with her for as long as it took to sort things out. Becky suddenly felt exposed, and chilled. She wrapped herself tightly in a pink bath towel as Michael made the arrangements and explained them to her.
"As soon as possible, I'll patch in from the lodge and let you know that everything's all right. Okay? Okay?"
It wasn't okay ... not by a long shot. “No,” said Becky. “Hold me."
Michael let it happen. What were a few seconds anyway? And who will ever know, even if the worst-case scenario ends up being what actually happens. He held her softly, and calmly, with the strength of the man she needed him to be at this exact moment in time. He tried to prevent his body from signaling his difficulty, his anxiety, but to some extent, it was impossible. He kissed her on the neck, and cleared his throat, meaningfully.
Becky thanked him for at least making an effort to keep his priorities straight. But she also understood. “Be real careful, Mikey,” she said as she reluctantly took the radio mike. “Don't—"
Michael planted the world's speediest kiss on her cool cheek and ran out of the cottage, down the stairs, and out the dock to his boat. He unhooked the lines and hopped in. With a turn of the key, the engine jumped to life and he was off, at top speed, across the glassy lake. He reached blindly into the compartment beside the steering wheel and pulled out the binoculars, then pressed his knees against the wheel to steer, freeing up his two hands to hold and adjust the glasses. The results were blurry, so he half-stood, still pressing his knees against the steering wheel, so that the binoculars were looking above the windscreen.
Although the image was jumpy, even on the still waters, he could see Annette now, standing on the steps of the porch at the lodge, in her pajamas and her bathrobe, talking to three uniformed RCMP officers. He put the binoculars on the passenger seat, sat back down, and wondered again what the problem could be, what would bring the RCMP, the national police, to take a decision to fly in to Wilson Lake without even checking in with Patriot. Something was definitely not right about this.
It usually took Pride and Joy a little longer than two minutes to ferry Michael from his cottage to the lodge. When he was about halfway there, he again stood part way up to look over the windscreen, squinting into the rush of morning air. Something was going on over there, something troubling. The three RCMP officers were running down to the dock, towards their idling plane. Where's Annette? he wondered. The officers got into the plane ... and the plane was leaving, arching back the way planes do at full thrust, and ... and it was heading towards the boat, directly towards the boat. “They have to see me,” Michael shouted, as if to convince himself.
Suddenly, there was a massive explosion, and the lodge burst apart. What Michael saw wasn't the slow-motion symphony of flying wreckage and bodies; it was abrupt and loud enough to be heard above the roar of his outboard engine. We're under attack! He knew instantly. It's like nine-eleven! Adrenaline just flooded throughout Michael's body as he sat down and clutched the wheel. “This can not be happening,” he screamed at the top of his voice. But it was happening, and he guessed he had maybe six or seven seconds to decide what to do.
He steered directly towards the oncoming plane. About one second from impact, he veered sharply left. The steering wheel was on the left-hand side of the boat, putting Michael on the downside of the tilt. A bullet from the plane would have to pass through the hull of the boat before it got to him: instant armor. He didn't hear any shots being fired over the fierce whine of the plane, but he did see a string of tiny eruptions on the invisible surface of the water, just in front of the boat. It was surreal, like the Disney folks might draw it in an animated film.
He jerked the craft back to the right, leveled off, slowed down, and glanced back. The impact moment that every kid had seen in school flashed through his mind again. Back on September eleven, two thousand and one, the passenger plane flew right into Tower, as if it was hardly there at all, and only the billows of smoke came out. But in this reality, the little plane was airborne, rising, soon to be gone, with the terrorists inside, alive.
He looked towards the smoking rubble, still several hundred yards away. Patriot Security had just rolled in. A dozen agents were running every which way, and that had to be Cam O'Connor's white head bobbing across the yard. A huddle of agents stood just in front of where the lodge used to be. Someone has to be hurt there, Michael thought as he rammed the throttle full forward and aimed for the dock. Or dead.
By the time he arrived, Helen was jumping out of a Patriot van. Cam had already run out to the end of the dock. He was breathing hard and screaming instructions into a walkie-talkie while his agents searched for Victor and snapped photos of the departing plane and the smoldering lodge-site.
"What's the hell's happening?” screamed Michael to Cam as he threw the rope to an agent. “Those crazy fuckers were shooting at me!"
"They shot Annette, and we can't find Helliwell anywhere,” yelled Cam through the frenzied yipping of the terrified kennel-bound Samoyeds. “Are the ambulances on their way yet?” he barked into the walkie-talkie.
"It was RCMP,” yelled Michael as he struggled out of the boat and up to t
he dock. “I saw them, and they were in fucking uniform, for Christ's—"
"One of our guys saw the markings,” said Cam, “but it couldn't have been the RCMP. The best thing for you is to—"
"The ambulances just turned off the 148,” came Randall's voice on the walkie-talkie. “They should be there in eight minutes."
"Ten-four,” said Cam.
"Is she dead?” asked Michael insistently.
"Shot in the face,” said Cam. “Look, you get back across the lake and stay out of this. We'll deal with Annette. What's done is done. Let the police do their job. There's no need for you to—"
Michael ran the length of the dock, jumped off at an angle onto the beach, and ran over to a Patriot van to call Becky and let her know that the danger had passed and that he, at least, was okay. She would have seen the explosion, and she would have seen the plane speeding right towards his boat, and she would have seen him swerve ... and she would be pretty much insane with fear by now.
Cam was too busy to let a teenager eat up his time. He had the Québec provincial police and two ambulances on the way ... and the RCMP! He had already ordered Grant Eamer, the company pilot, to get out to the lodge in the helicopter, and all available Patriot agents who were assigned to the estate but who weren't at the compound were now on their way from wherever they lived. Cam jogged back to the land end of the dock and up to the spot where three of his agents were kneeling around Annette's body. “It had to be a professional job, Randall,” he shouted into his walkie-talkie. “We can't go inside. There is no inside. The whole thing is caved in and strewn about ... smoldering logs all over the fuckin’ place."
"Cam,” came Randall's excited voice. “Is Annette still alive?"
"She's hurt bad,” said Cam, peering over shoulders at the bloody face with the hole where the bridge of a nose used to be, “but she's still alive. There's no sign of Victor. I figure there's no way he could have—"
"He's okay,” shouted Randall. “We got him on the radio. Here, I'll patch him through to you. Go ahead Victor."
"Cam,” said Victor frantically, “are my dogs hurt? Is Annette okay?"
"Where the hell are you?” said an ashen-faced Cam O'Connor.
"Annette ordered me down to the bomb shelter,” he said. “How long until you guys can dig me out?"
Chapter 16
IT'S NOT YOUR TIME
Annette didn't hear the gunshot, didn't feel the bullet strike the bridge of her nose, but she saw it happen, from above, from outside her body, like in a slow-motion film. She saw herself tumble down a half dozen steps to the ground in front of the lodge. She saw blood dribbling out of her face, her nose, and the back of her neck, onto the pine needles. She saw an elongated blob of rose-colored saliva run slowly from her open mouth onto the shriveled surface of a brown maple leaf, a juicy curiosity for insects to discover and taste. Then ... it seemed a full century later ... she saw brilliant flames spit out from the windows of the lodge. She saw the roof lift gently up as logs sailed sedately by overhead, breaking into its parts even as it rose, and she saw cinders and splinters landing on what used to be her body.
The scene that Annette witnessed wasn't so much ugly as it was ... unfortunate. She had become quite fond of life on planet Earth, and she felt sad to be leaving it behind.
Reality, or what had passed for reality for thirty-five years, was now much like a flat canvas, a pitiful attempt at art, created with no particular skill or inspiration. All the same, it had been her painting, and she had enjoyed it. “This” was her reality now, whatever “this” was, and it was stunning to behold, to be part of, to have as part of one's own self, wondrous beyond belief: the dark tunnel, the shimmering, cool white light dangling at the end, her weightless, windless emergence into that light, into a universe without fear, the intense, sexual sense of penetrating peace, the absolute knowledge that a body is literally made of love, as surely as fire is made of wood.
Annette gradually became aware that a man was standing in front of her, or at least “was” in front of her; whether one stood in this place was unclear. This was no ordinary man she was gazing at, into, through. This was a vision of a spirit-man, a male being who was clothed only in light, who consisted only of light.
"Victor,” she said. “You died too, so you and I will always be like ... this ... now?"
"My dear Annette,” said Victor, with great affection. “I met your mother and father. They're fine. They look forward to seeing you, and I'm sure you want to see them too, but it's not your time. I'm sorry, Annette. It's only for a while, but you must go back."
"Wait, no,” she protested. “At least let me see my parents for a moment."
It wasn't so much that they appeared as that they'd been there all along, unnoticed. They didn't speak, but they did smile, and their faces said they would all meet again, at the proper time. Her parents were so young, in their early twenties, a good deal younger than their own daughter, and yet somehow ageless. They were filled with the same transcendent peace that consumed Annette, and then they were gone. Victor stood alone, asking again with his eyes that she try to understand, to accept what had to be, for now.
"Goodbye, Victor,” she said. “It's so perfect here. I'd rather stay. Please, my dear man, I'd really rather stay."
Victor smiled at her gently and receded slowly back into the light. By imperceptible stages, total darkness returned. Fear also returned—only a twinge at first, then with a vengeance. And the pain, the towering, rolling waves of flame within. Annette wondered if she could manage a bit of bodily control, in spite of a million shattered nerve endings.
"RCMP,” she tried to say, but nothing came out. For her body, it was like sleep, the sleep that shuns the dream. But her soul seemed to be making a bumpy landing; first a touchdown, a sharp smack on the tarmac, then a sudden jolt skyward. For a moment, she seemed to be floating beneath the soap-white ceiling of the operating room. She felt that it was within her power to leave the hospital, to turn again towards that beautiful light, and Victor, and her mom and dad. But she also knew that Victor had spoken the truth. It wasn't her time.
"Well, we got a heartbeat and we got breathing and we got brain function,” said Dr. Otto Kreuzer. “I can hardly believe it. Have you ever seen anything so improbable as this woman, lying here, alive? This one definitely gets the luckiest-patient-of-the-year award."
There were headshakes all around, and when the masks were pulled down, smiles emerged—heady, proud smiles.
"Great work,” said the hospital administrator from the back of the pack. “Now please remember, the cops and the politicos are all over this case. If you're asked, the drill is ‘no comment’ beyond these facts. Annette Blais is alive. The bullet went through the bridge of her nose and the left eye socket, glanced downwards, and exited from the back left of her neck. It went through her nasal cavities and missed everything important. She may lose the sight in her left eye, but there's no reason to believe there will be brain damage. She's on the critical list, but we expect her to pull through. Again, all other questions go to the chief of surgery, okay? All other questions!"
Annette looked down from the ceiling. She didn't know the details that were emerging from her “case,” but she knew she would, soon, for whatever that turned out to be worth. With great regret, she let herself slide back into that jumble of torment and terror that was her wounded body.
These people are good at what they do, she thought, and essentially decent. She resolved to tell them everything she had just seen, heard, experienced. And why not? They should know about the other side if they're going to make intelligent decisions about keeping people on this side. They may not be able to understand it all. Maybe they just can't, no matter how I might explain. Still, she decided that she would try to explain, for her own reasons, if not for theirs.
I'll probably have a difficult convalescence, she said to herself as darkness made a bid for her mind, but at least I'll know for the rest of my life that heaven is waiting for me when I
do finally die.
Chapter 17
RENDEZVOUS AT RAY'S
"No free candy mints, no tip,” said Buck Ash, with a shadow of a grin, and through the Player's cigarette that hung permanently from his lips. “That's the damn rule."
Ray checked the big glass jar with the chrome lid and, sure enough, the mint supply had run out. He filled it up, not only because free mints was the official policy of Ray's Restaurant, but because Buck and the other regulars really meant it when they said, “No candy mints, no tip.” The last thing Ray needed was unhappy waitresses.
"I filled that sucker up just a few days ago,” he complained. “You guys been double-dipping again?"
"Triple-dipping when you're not here to catch us,” said Buck as he waited for Ray to find his bill.
"It was an RCMP plane, I tell you,” said Bill Watson. “Benoit saw it right from his upstairs bathroom window this morning. I seen him at the hardware. He said it came in from the west, flying right into the sunrise, around 5:30, and it was outta there barely ten minutes later. He said when he heard the news about the shooting and the explosion on the seven o'clock news, he called up Jake at the Shawville police and told him all what he saw."
"Sounds like old Benoit had a good long crap,” commented Jesse McCain.
"You shouldn't say it was an RCMP plane,” said Willy impatiently. “They said on the eleven o'clock that it was marked RCMP, but it probably wasn't really RCMP."
"Coffee, ladies?” hollered Ray over to the two elderly women that had just seated themselves. Barbara Farley and her sister Dorothy nodded gratefully. “Anybody else?” he added, searching the room for takers.
