by Jim Stark
The conversational karate simmered down a notch when everybody realized that Barbara Farley had put in an appearance at Ray's. She'd been keeping something of a low profile since the Caughy Commission hearing two days earlier, since the papers and the TV had portrayed her as some kind of a prehistoric dingbat. Everyone had heard that she had soured on the whole process when she saw what the news media had done, making fun of her like that, and making out like her late husband was loony-tunes. That was the part that really bothered her, people said, the part about her Joe. “And for them that saw it on the TeeVee, you could understand,” the local wisdom had it.
The TV was always on in Ray's, but the sound was never turned up, except on really dead afternoons when the girls found time to watch their soaps. For sound, they used CKBY FM, the country music station, same as everybody else in the area. It was five minutes shy of twelve noon, and everyone at Ray's understood, patrons and help alike, that when the noon news came on today, the radio had to go off, the TV had to get turned up, and everything else would have to grind to a halt. These were big doings in their neck of the nation, and that hadn't happened but once or twice in the memory of anybody still alive. Sure, there was the time Fatty Crosbie got himself shot, and there were the regular fights down at the British Hotel in Quyon, but this was really big. Last anybody heard, they had a nearly dead girl at Whiteside Lodge, and some other guy staying out there was missing. Ray's was the only place to go at times like these, and today's events had filled the restaurant almost to overflow.
"Must be the Mafia or something,” muttered Bill Watson. “You get to be too rich, and you end up playing with fire every time, I always say."
"I heard some folks even pulled their kids from school,” said Claire to Bill as she served his BLT and fries at the corner table, closest to the TV. “If I was you,” she added with a knowing nod, “I'd call up your Mary and tell her to do likewise. One day out of school isn't going to spoil anybody, and you just don't take chances with the little ones, what with killers on the loose, flying around in RCMP-type planes."
"I seen at least ten cop cars heading up there just after I opened up,” said Ray, as he struggled at the counter to keep the bills updated to match the food orders. “For an hour, cops coming and going every few minutes, with bubbles on, and some with sirens on too, and two ambulances. Ziggy said they got the road blocked off about a mile up from his place."
"Ooooeee, lookee here,” sang Tirone as he looked out the window and rubbed his chin stubble. “We got us a live one, Martha."
A spotless blue BMW pulled into the parking lot and Helen Kozinski got out. “One leg at a time, thaaaaaaaat's it,” coached the corner table. She locked her car with a remote and strode purposefully to the door, flipping back her long blond hair a couple of times along the way. “For effect, no doubt,” said Buck as he scooped up half a dozen mints and resumed his position at the corner table.
"Works for me,” said Bill.
"Now you fellas hush up,” scolded Claire. “We got a business here that we gotta—” She had to end her sentence there, about half ways to the end, and trust that these overgrown delinquents would “get it” and behave like normal people for a change.
As Helen entered, everything seemed normal, city normal, men and women eating and minding their own business. She scanned the full layout, out of habit more than any need, and made her way to a stool at the counter. She made fleeting eye contact with Buck, but they made no sign that they knew each other.
What could this be about? Buck asked himself. She's not supposed to come in here just for food or even a coffee. This is my territory. Maybe I should call Mr. O'Connor.
Claire was busy busing tables, so Lucille came out of the kitchen, drying her hands. “Coffee?” she asked.
"Thanks,” said Helen. “I could sure use a cup."
Her eyes told a story of anguish, and many unanswered questions. Her best friend was in the Ottawa General, under police protection, in critical condition. Events were out of control, and that was a place Helen detested and wasn't remotely used to. She had called her boyfriend and, offering no explanation, she'd asked him to rendezvous at Ray's, and not in uniform. Indeed, she'd insisted.
"Here ya go, darlin',” said Lucille. “Can I get you anything else?"
"Just coffee is fine,” replied Helen wearily, and gratefully. “And a table when there's one free. I have a friend meeting me here in a few minutes."
"The Gordons are pretty near done. That's them over there in the back, with the little girl. You set yourself down when they get up to leave and I'll be over to clean her up, either me or Claire."
Helen waved and grimaced her appreciation. Too many words had passed her lips in recent hours. She was out of words, out of tears, and possibly out of a job.
"Turn her up, Bill,” hollered Willy from a couple of tables over. “The twelve o'clock is on right after that ad there, and kill that radio."
Bill was already operational. “That got her?” he asked back.
"Down in front,” hollered Grant Doherty. “And turn it down a bit. We're not deaf over here, eh?"
Bill wanted to make a lashing comeback swipe about how many of Grant's faculties were already getting dimmer than what they used to be, but the newscast graphics and theme music were beginning, so he saved it for later.
"Is it on yet?” asked Merrick McFee as he emerged from the men's washroom.
"Shut up, Merrick,” said Grant. “It's just starting."
That's funny, thought Helen. I didn't see that guy go in there, and there was another fellow who just came out of the washroom. It has to be a single-seater. I ... must be losing my concentration, like Cam said.
Marshall: Good afternoon. I'm Trent Marshall with the midday news.
At dawn today, there was a daring, military-style assault at the estate of industrialist Randall Whiteside, north of Quyon, Québec. Three or four men flew in to Wilson Lake in a pontoon plane, and in less than five minutes, they shot ... ?
Helen tuned out for a sip of coffee. She knew the details too well. The crime had been committed on her watch, and she'd been suspended from duty for not ordering Annette into the bomb shelter with Victor. How the hell was I supposed to guess that the RCMP would attack us? she said to herself. I thought Annette was being paranoid when she sent Victor down there. I could lose my job and my best friend on the same damned day. Life's a bitch.
Marshall: We go now to Katie Lochart, who is at the scene. Katie, can you bring us up to speed on developments?
Lochart: Trent, I'm not at the actual scene of the shooting. I'm about three hundred yards south of the front gate of the Whiteside estate, which is a couple of miles west of the lodge where the attack took place. The Sûreté, the Québec provincial police, have cordoned off all of Wilson Lake and a wide area around it.
Nobody is getting in or out of the estate now, and no one is saying a thing about who the victim was or why she was gunned down on the steps of the Whiteside's lodge before it was blown up. I tried to get a comment from Patriot Security, the Whiteside-owned company that was supposed to be protecting the estate, but they're being as tight-lipped as the police. Two ambulances were seen leaving the area at high speed just before six o'clock this morning, and the police presence here is now more than sixty.
It's unclear why the authorities are being so secretive about this case. One obvious factor is that this is one of the wealthiest and most influential families in Canada. As well, the RCMP are absolutely furious because reporters have speculated that the plane used in this crime may have been an RCMP plane. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't, we simply don't know at this time. Whatever the case, Solicitor General Rhéal Bélanger stated an hour ago that the Sûreté has been assigned primary responsibility for the criminal investigation, and it seems clear that this is because of the mystery surrounding the RCMP plane ... I should say the plane with the RCMP markings.
Marshall: Did they identify the man who was staying at the lodge? I understand he wasn'
t hurt.
Lochart: No, he wasn't hurt, but they refuse to say who he is or why he was at the lodge. All we know is that he was not a family member, and that he escaped injury by hiding in a nineteen sixties-era bomb shelter—or rather a fallout shelter—that the Whitesides had built underneath the lodge.
Marshall: So there's no word on what the motive might have been?
Lochart: No, I'm afraid not, Trent.
Marshall: Thanks, Katie. We'll be back to you for bulletins as the day goes on.
In Ottawa, all Members of Parliament are expecting this astonishing crime to dominate Question Period this afternoon. Solicitor General Bélanger will be making a statement in about ... ?
"Who needs coffee?” called Claire to everyone in general. The real keeners gathered around the TV for every last bit of trivia, but life in Ray's Restaurant gradually returned to normal, or as normal as it got with a smartly dressed city-woman sitting uncomfortably on a stool at the counter. The Gordons had finished eating and were standing at the cash, listening to the news and shushing their daughter. Helen took her coffee and retreated to the back of the restaurant, to a table splattered with ice cream and littered with cold fries. She put her coffee on a clean spot, took off her jacket, flipped it over the back of the chair, and sat down.
Lucille came over with a cloth and a tray and began clearing up the detritus. “Your friend, the one meeting you here, does he drive a black sports car?” she asked.
"Yes,” said Helen. “Is he here?"
"Just drove in the lot,” she said.
Roy Taggart was the head of the Commercial Crime Division at the RCMP. He had dressed in his civvies, as Helen had asked, but from the muscular, ready-to-elbow way he walked, by the cat-like way he surveyed the room, he might as well have worn his scarlet tunic and busby. “You holding up okay?” he asked as he hand-dusted the red vinyl seat.
"I suppose,” said Helen. “I haven't cried in years, but I couldn't keep my emotions together for a while there. The doctors, the police, they won't let me go see Annette and they won't tell me a damned thing. It's driving me crazy. And I'm so scared that she's not going to make it...” Her lips began to quiver and she turned her head abruptly to one side, hoping that might make it easier to apply the brakes.
"I know,” said Roy as he placed his hand on hers. “Look, the Sûreté is in charge at the hospital, so I can't do anything about getting you in there to see her, but you must have heard the doctors’ press conference. Annette's still alive, Helen, and they're finished the operation."
"She liked you, Roy,” said Helen, struggling for control. “She and I used to drink a few beers now and then, just the two of us. We'd get dressed in our grubbies and go to one of the sleazy bars on the Gatineau strip, just to stay in touch with ordinary people, you know? We'd gossip and talk about guys and all that, you know ... girl stuff ... just for the hell of it. She and I trusted each other totally, and now..."
"Look,” said Roy, “I have to get back. Why was it so important for me to come all the way out here?"
"Coffee?” asked Claire, who had suddenly appeared at their table. Taggart waved her off brusquely, and Claire made a face as she wheeled about and stormed off.
"I've ... just got to know,” said Helen quietly, but emphatically. “You know there's been talk that someone from the RCMP might have been involved. I ... have to know, Roy."
Roy shot back in his chair, a shocked look on his face. “Absolutely impossible!” he spat. “God, how could you even think it, Helen?"
"So ... there's no doubt in your mind that the RCMP was not involved?” she asked.
"None,” sputtered Taggart, seemingly uncaring whether anyone overheard him in the crowded restaurant. “I mean Jesus H. Christ, Helen, have you lost your mind? We're the national police!"
She tried not to let her face change, or reveal anything. Her gun was in her purse, which was on the table, beside the ketchup. She wanted to take it out, shove it into his mouth and pull the trigger, but that wasn't the way to handle this. She looked into his eyes, and he seemed desperately hurt and angry. He was good, very good, at what he did.
Helen had one of the first production LieDecks turned out by Whiteside Technologies taped under her left breast. The pin had tapped her ribcage when he said “absolutely impossible,” and again when he said “none.” Not only was the RCMP involved in the attack at the lodge, but her lover knew it ... and he lied. This was too much—to lose her best friend, her job, and her man all on the same day! The tears gushed, but she refused to sob. She wiped her eyes with a paper napkin and pulled herself together.
"Thanks, Roy,” she said with a forced smile. “I'm sorry ... I just ... I had to ask, you know? You'll tell me if you hear anything, eh?"
"Of course,” he said soothingly, causing her LieDeck to signal another lie. “Now look, Helen, I really have to go. Will you be okay?"
"Yeah,” she said with a sniffle. “I'll call you tonight.” She was also very good at what she did.
Roy Taggart stood up, kissed Helen very lightly on the cheek, and hurried from the restaurant. The kiss burned. Helen took her purse and went into the women's washroom to remove the LieDeck. She lifted her blouse from inside her skirt, reached up and yanked the device out, tape and all. It hurt, but more hurt at this point made little difference. She rammed the LieDeck into her purse, lowered the toilet seat lid, sat down, put her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. This was no time to indulge the pain.
What do I know for sure? she asked herself. Annette may live. Roy's going to jail. The information I've got gets me my job back. The RCMP knows about the LieDeck, so Roy knows, and he probably guessed that I had one on me. Oh my God! He must know that I knew he was lying to me! I've ... got to get out of here!
Helen was terrified, but she was also a professional, and there had to be a way out. That other guy, she remembered. The other guy that came out of the men's washroom ... Marty ... no, Merrick ... he went back into the washroom after the newscast and never came back out. There has to be another door on the far side of the men's can, leading to the garage, so they can get from there to the restaurant without having to go outside. If the RCMP are waiting for me, they'll wait outside, not in the restaurant. The men's can ... that's my escape route.
She dug a black silk kerchief out of her purse and wrapped it around her head, hiding her blond hair. She put her sunglasses on. It occurred to her that she'd left her favorite jacket on the back of the chair in the restaurant, but there was nothing she could do about that now, and its presence there would speak to her obvious intention of returning from the washroom to her table. She tucked in her blouse, checked her face in the mirror, and made a quick dash from the women's washroom to the men's. Thank God, she said to herself when she found it empty. And she had figured it right. There was another door, on the far side, that led to the waiting area of the garage.
Merrick McFee was a large, balding man with bunker-oil hands and several teeth. He glanced up at Helen with an astonished grin, but said nothing. He was discussing an invoice with a farmer, and Helen decided that would have to wait. She flashed her Patriot badge briefly at the farmer and said, “Police business—sorry, sir, this will only take a couple of minutes.” She grabbed Merrick by the elbow and led him quickly out of the office area and into the garage itself, beside the muddy wheel of a hoisted-up Toyota.
"Look,” she whispered, “we've got a real situation here. Lives are at stake. That's why I had to go through the men's toilet. Sorry, but you have to help me. You got a tow truck with a radio?"
"Yeah,” said Merrick, “but—"
"Get it, immediately. Drive the nose into the garage. I can't be seen. I'll get in when you drive in, then you get me up to Whiteside's, fast. Don't worry. You'll be back here in ten minutes. Now go,” she ordered. “Don't run, just hurry."
Merrick watched a lot of television, and he loved cop shows best. Here was his fifteen minutes of fame—Andy Warhol's promise made good. He did exactly
as asked, and as soon as he pulled to a stop with the truck's cab right inside the garage, Helen hopped in the passenger side. She pulled the door closed behind her, dropped down and curled up on the floor, and drew her gun, mostly for effect, for Merrick's benefit. “Okay, go!” she said, “and don't squeal the tires."
Merrick backed up, shifted gears and pointed his rig north. As soon as he reached third gear, Helen asked if they were being followed.
"Nope,” he said. “Somebody chasing you?"
"Give me the mike,” she commanded as she hoisted herself out of the footwell and onto the bench seat. “Patriot, it's Helen Kozinski here. Whoever's monitoring C.B., tell Cam this is a Code Beaver—I repeat, a Code Beaver! I'm in a tow truck headed for the estate from Ray's on the 148. I need to be met. Hurry!"
Code Beaver was the Patriot equivalent of red alert. Fifty seconds later, three cars, roof lights spinning and sirens on, came screaming up to the tow truck from the north, blocking the road. Merrick braked to a rough stop, and Patriot agents jumped out and approached, guns in hand.
"Thanks,” said Helen sincerely as she pressed a twenty-dollar bill into his shirt pocket. “You may have saved my life."
"Jeeze, my pleasure, Miss,” said Merrick.
"Best you don't say anything about this for a while."
"Okay,” said Merrick. “Whatever you say, officer."
Fat chance, thought Helen as she stepped down from the door and ran quickly over to O'Connor's car. “Go,” she yelled as she jumped in. After Cam squealed a perfect U-turn, Helen grabbed her LieDeck from her purse, flipped a switch, and held it between herself and her boss. “It's on the beeper mode,” she said. “The RCMP was definitely involved in the attack, and they probably know that I'm on to them."
There was no beep.
"Holy fuck,” said Cam.
Chapter 18
BASTARD!
When the Patriot vehicles arrived back at the manor, the Sûreté officers demanded to know what the hell was going on. They—the Sûreté de Québec—were charged with protecting the estate now, and conducting the investigation into the attack. Cam and Helen were in no mood to trust the police, any police, and refused to talk. The head of the Sûreté was furious, and threatened them with obstruction of justice charges. Cam and Helen ignored him and walked into the stone mansion without a word.
