North by Northeast

by Cherime MacFarlane

  In Cache Creek, he almost got turned around until he realized Highway 1 and Highway 97 combined to go east to Kamloops while Highway 97 alone went north to Prince George.

  Glen breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the sign pointing to Prince George. He was happy to have managed the transition without making a mistake that would have cost them valuable time.

  North of Clinton, there were signs for towns named 70 Mile House and 100 Mile House. Those names gave him something to think about. He wondered why they had such odd names.

  Then he passed 108 Mile House which increased his curiosity. Further on just before Williams Lake was 150 Mile House. Glen decided he was going to find out what it was all about the first chance he got. The highway between 100 Mile House and Williams Lake was called Cariboo Highway.

  Glen wondered if he should be keeping watch for cariboo alongside the road. He tried to recall if he had ever seen any pictures of cariboo. Maybe they look like reindeer, he thought as he entered Williams Lake.

  He had planned to gas up at Cache Creek, as he was trying to keep the gas gage from reading any lower than half full. Since he got a little flustered when trying to get on the correct road, he kept on driving until he reached Williams Lake.

  The big V-eight really liked its fuel. He saw an open station with a restaurant attached as he reached the outskirts of the town. It was time to gas up and grab a cup of coffee.

  As soon as he shut off the Jeep alongside the gas pump, Hamish bolted awake. After a quick look around, H.M. scrubbed a hand over his face. "Aye. Something hot to drink an food is ah great idea. We should get something tha lads can eat when they wake. Where are we?"

  “Hang on, let me gas this thing up,” Glen replied.

  When the tank was full, Glen pulled the SUV over to the all-night restaurant. He parked it in a space in front of what was obviously a favorite stop for truck drivers. The majority of vehicles in the parking lot were trucks of all sizes and makes. "We're in Williams Lake and on target to make Prince George. I needed coffee."

  The two men got out of the Jeep. Both stretched before walking into the restaurant. There were a few travelers, along with several men who looked as if they belonged to the trucks parked in the lot.

  The waitress placed menus on the table. She filled the coffee cups without bothering to ask. Hamish doctored his with cream and sugar. Glen took his black. It was really hot, so Glen blew on it a little, before taking a sip.

  Hamish felt the need to load up. He ordered eggs and sausage, hash browns, and a side of biscuits with gravy.

  Glen raised one eyebrow. "You got a hollow leg or something I don't know about?"

  Hamish drank some coffee and leaned on the upholstered back rest behind him. "Well, now, I had ah couple of sandwiches yesterday, also pizza, as I recall. Before that I'm nae sure. It feels as if my stomach is gnawing at my backbone."

  Glen nodded. "I suppose it's not a lot to eat in twenty-four hours. You don't look as if you have gained a lot in the six months since I last saw you."

  "Nae. I eat, but mind, I may not eat for twelve hours afterward. If I'm working, I dinna have time for food. Ta," Hamish thanked the waitress for the plate she put before him with a smile.

  She got a tiny bit flustered after Hamish thanked her. The woman hurried away to get the rest of the order. She refilled H.M.'s water glass as soon as it was a quarter of the way empty. When Glen thanked her, she nodded without the big smile Hamish received.

  Glen liberally coated his food with catsup. "What was that about, man?"

  Hamish looked up at him questioningly. "What? What are ye talkin about?"

  Glen tilted his head toward the waitress. "She can't do enough for you, and me, well, it's like the difference between chopped liver and steak."

  They ordered roast beef sandwiches to go for Thud and Lurch. Hamish insisted on paying the bill. When the waitress returned, he thanked her with a nod. "Ta. ‘Twas good. Thank tha cook for me."

  The waitress held the receipt out to Hamish. When he reached for it, she held on to it for a moment. "Sir, would you be from the old country?"

  "Aye. That, I am. Born in Glasgow." H.M. put the receipt in his address book.

  "My grand da was from Paisley. He used to tell us kids how lovely it was." She smiled at him.

  Hamish decided to put it on just a bit for her. "Och, aye. 'Tis verra lovely in tha spring. If ye can, ye should go for ah visit, lass."

  "Thank you, sir. I have been saving my tips. I hope to be able to get over to Scotland in a year or so."

  Hamish handed the paper bags with the sandwiches in them to Glen. With a smile for the young woman, he shook her hand. "Ye will luv it, lass. There're hostels ye can stay in, mind? Ye should be able tae have ah verra excellent time."

  As they got into the Jeep, Glen turned the key in the ignition to start the engine looking at Hamish. "Un huh. What was I talking about? That's what I was talking about."

  As he buckled his seat belt, Hamish grinned at Glen. "Can I help it if ye were born in tha wrong country? Ye know I have been through it before. Remember tha time in Australia, when the official got all teary because she asked me tae sing Scotland Tha Brave for her? I sang it, then we needed ah box of tissues, mind?"

  Glen turned to watch behind as he backed the Jeep out of the parking space. "Come to think of it, I do recall the incident. You Scots are all "balmy" as Francie says."

  Hamish just laughed at him. Glen was glad to hear his friend laugh. He needed a break.

  Glen drove by places with names as if they were towns, but they seemed to have been named just for fun. They were simply homes or businesses and homes combined. They would not be classified as towns anywhere in the U.S.

  When they got to Quesnel, it seemed to Glen the sky might be getting lighter in the east. If he kept up the pace he had been maintaining, they would get into Prince George early in the morning. Glen thought he wouldn’t have a problem driving as far as Prince George. They could change drivers then unless someone else woke up beforehand.

  Just outside of Cinema, Lurch woke. His huge stretch and great yawn caused Thud to wake as well. They called for a pit stop. Glen looked for a wide place on the shoulder of the road and pulled off on finding one. The four of them took care of business. All four men walked up and down the road for a few minutes to limber up.

  Lurch got in the driver's seat, feeling rested enough to take the wheel again. He adjusted the seat and mirrors to accommodate his height. As they drove up the road toward Prince George, Hamish filled the other three men in on the thoughts he had come up with for a plan.

  As he expected, there was a mutiny on his being the only person who went out to the Sunny Day. What he did not want to mention was his need to keep them from being accomplices to murder.

  "And what if something happens and ye're not able tae get Lori out? What do ye think we’re tae do then?" Thud crossed his arms while glaring at Hamish. "Are ye no takin tae much on yerself? And about tha wee goodies I'm to put together, are ye planning tae handle them alone? Who do ye think ye are, Superman?"

  Hamish was adamant. "Might I inquire as tae tha last time ye crept around in tha dark, Thud? Ye ought tae know by now, I'm part vampire. One benefit tae insomnia is that it teaches one tae move around in tha dark easily, as we spend so much time in it."

  Glen waved a hand toward Thud. "H.M. may have a point here. Lurch is too big for creeping around anywhere. I would volunteer to go with him, but we might be better to have an alternate plan to rescue Lori, if something goes wrong."

  "Aye." Hamish sighed. "Tha possibility exists I might get my head blown off. Then what? If I’m tha only one lost, you three will need tae have an alternate plan."

  Lurch nodded. "Elden said she was locked up. If all Day is doing is keeping her locked in a room, the question is which room? I think we’re dealing with a large ship."

  "Per'aps," Hamish broke in. "But there are common denominators tae all luxury yachts. They will have the best staterooms amidships a
s the ride is better there for guests. The crew usually is in tha bow, in small cubbyholes. So Day is likely tae be amidships. If he wants Lori tae paint him an original, truly worth somethin, he will nae put her in the scuppers, ken? And he will wish tae keep her near, I would think."

  Glen pillowed his head on his jacket. "H.M. is correct about luxury yachts. Back when I was a beach bum, I was on a couple of those big boys. The sailing ones especially will have the staterooms close to amidships. Usually the engine is in the stern, with maybe, the galley over it. In the very center will be the settee dining area. It can also be farther forward if there are several banks of staterooms."

  "Tha layout will be more apparent when we see the bugger." Hamish ran his hand through his hair. "I have turned tha bleedin thing over an over. Until we see tha bloody piece of shite, we're only speculatin. But at least we have a start on a plan."

  Thud would concede that. "True. Until we hav it in sight, we're throwing darts in tha dark."

  "Now, on another matter. The lock picks an other little things. There's ah small park almost across from tha junction of tha Cassiar Highway and tha Yellowhead on tha way to Prince Rupert. I am tae call me contact from Carnaby. He will meet us at tha park. He asked for six hundred dollars Canadian for tha goods he's supplyin. Tha man tells me Burns is big enough tae have ah Bank o Scotland there."

  Lurch tossed the map to Hamish. "Then it looks like we’re stopping in Burns and Carnaby. Since Prince George is the biggest burg around here, we should try to gas up there."

  Glen fell asleep in the back seat. Lurch and Thud ate the sandwiches which waited for them. They tried to be quiet so Glen could nap. Hamish was not into idle talk in any case.

  Now he was trying out scenarios for plan B — how to rescue Lori in the event he got bumped off. As an old Yank friend of his used to say, "In a crapshoot anything is possible". This was surely a crapshoot.

  "What day is it Juan? You need to tell me. If you won't tell me where we are going, at least tell me what day it is." Lori stood with her hands on her hips as she stared at Juan.

  He deposited the food, more oatmeal, and a can of soda, on the nightstand. "Very well, Senora. Today is now Tuesday."

  "What does that man want with me? When is he going to tell me what he wants?" Her voice rose. Lori realized she was close to being hysterical. Perhaps this trip is meant to break his captives' spirit, she thought. As Lori considered the idea, she tried to tone down her distress.

  Lori reached out toward Juan. "There has to be a reason for this. For his kidnapping me. I don't understand what he wants."

  "I must go. Senor Day requires his breakfast on time. If I am late, there will be punishment. It is not me he punishes, Senora, it is my family. I must go."

  Lori dared not hold him further. Juan's anxiety was evident. Day was a bastard of the first order. Cruelly calculating, the man knew how to hurt people.

  Sunday, Monday, now it was Tuesday. It felt as if she had been his captive for far longer. None of this made sense.

  The man was well off, or he couldn’t support this yacht. As many times as she tried to make sense of the situation she found herself in, it still left her reeling from the senselessness of his actions.

  Nothing added up. He hadn’t even approached her physically. No one had touched her in any manner to suggest sexual abuse. She no longer feared being raped. Day had left her alone. Since that one time in the dungeon, he kept to himself. If he didn’t want her body, what did he want?

  Lori went over to the bowl of oatmeal. It was best eaten while still warm. If it sat too long, it would become lumpy. Once it got cold and lumpy, she couldn’t stomach the stuff. The nausea was somewhat better, but she was still easily pushed over the edge.

  Concerned about the baby growing inside her, she fretted about the lack of medical care. By now she would have been home and scheduled an appointment. Lori had no way of finding any answers to her concerns.

  From what she picked up here and there, no two women reacted the same to being pregnant. The stress of being held prisoner was adding to her discomfort. She believed that was a reasonable assumption on her part; how could it not?

  Her hand went to her abdomen and Lori abruptly moved it away. They might be watching her somehow. Day could have cameras hidden in the room. She didn’t want him to suspect her secret. The man didn’t need another weapon to use against her.

  Spoon in hand, she dipped into the oatmeal. She must believe keeping up her strength was in her best interests, not his. This was insane. Day was crazy which was also evident.

  Tuesday, that long? Someone was searching for her. Hamish, he would hunt for her. Her husband possessed an excellent mind. He’d unraveled the puzzle of Vincent's death four years ago, but with so little to go on, would he be able to find the answer here? If he did, what would he be able to do about it? Surely the police, the Coast Guard, someone would listen.

  It occurred to her, if they were sailing north, they should be in international waters. Then what? The thought was chilling. Canada was just a tiny little hop north of Seattle. What could Hamish do in that circumstance?

  The oatmeal was forgotten, Lori sat slowly on the bed. At the moment, Day had the upper hand. Lori fell back on the only thing she might have left. She prayed.

  ***

  Detective Edwards reviewed the documentation sent to him by the two art galleries MacGrough told him about. Those two lists, plus the one from the local gallery, confirmed five people attended all three openings. A painter having worked in the gallery had disappeared right after each of the shows.

  The one name on each of the lists which bothered him the most was Jeremiah Alden Day. The man was a big name in the art world. He collected art and was a respected broker who acted as a middleman for other collectors. Day’s record in the city was spotless, there wasn’t even a traffic ticket noted. The man’s financials were exceptional. If he wanted to light cigars with $50.00 bills, it wouldn’t put a dent in his bank account.

  None of the other four people appeared to be in a position to kidnap artists. And Day owned the boat. Day had means, opportunity, but no apparent motive Edwards could see.

  There was still no word of a ransom demand being issued. He was sure MacGrough would call him if one turned up. Had the woman simply taken off somewhere? That was within the realm of possibility. She could have decided to leave her husband. Women did stuff like that all the time.

  MacGrough was pretty intense. It was possible she got tired of him. Or she got homesick and wanted to leave Scotland. She was an artist; God only knew what they could, or would, take a wild hair to do.

  As he really didn't particularly care for MacGrough, Edwards ran a check on him. He found no illegal activity for either of the MacGroughs. Edwards was halfway hoping Hamish MacGrough had a drug bust hiding away somewhere. He was a musician; they were all a bunch of flakes.

  No such luck. But Edwards found a connection to the murder of the front man for the band Bushmaster. The detective found it intriguing. Interest piqued, he came up with the name of the investigator on the case.

  Edwards decided to contact Lieutenant Fredrick in L.A. It might be a good idea to get his take on the MacGroughs. He placed the call but had to leave a message for the lieutenant. Edwards asked Fredrick to please contact him when he got a minute on an urgent matter.

  The return call from Los Angeles came just after noon. Edwards closed the door to the office. "Hey. Thanks for getting back to me. There’s a situation here involving a Hamish and Lori MacGrough."

  Fredrick broke in, "Better you’re stuck with him than me. The man can be a real pain in the butt, and he's a devious bastard."

  Edwards hated hearing the other detective's last remark. "Let me tell you what’s going on here. It seems his wife was kidnapped. There's no ransom note. All this appears to be tied in with two disappearances down there."

  "What disappearances here?" There was a distinct change in Fredrick's tone.

  "Well, a Kai Jaensen, who wor
ked out of a gallery in Marina Del Rey. The other artist was a Selena Rivera, out of Santa Barbara. That gallery is called, hang on… Casa Real. Both of them disappeared the same way. No ransom notes, no bodies, no nothing. The Jaensen guy vanished almost four years ago."

  He heard Fredrick's intake of breath on the other end of the line. "Just after Slaughter was murdered. Lori MacGrough, did she have a show at the Marina Del Rey gallery?"

  Edwards checked his notes. "Yeah, and at the Santa Barbara gallery as well."

  Fredrick was silent for a minute. "I'll make a few calls on those two. But I think you got a real big problem. Looks like someone was after Lori MacGrough and took second best the other times. Shit! We could have a serial killer on our hands. You come up with any leads?"

  "Well, MacGrough told me about the other galleries. I checked, and there were five people present at all three openings."

  "I'm going to give you a fax number. Save me time. Fax over the lists. You got anyone running those people down?" Frederick sounded very interested.

  "Well, sort of. But one of the people on the list is hard to find. Rich guy, he has a big yacht and bounces around all over the west coast, clear down around Cabo San Lucas. The guy has tons of money." Edwards was chewing on one thumbnail.

  "Send me the info on that guy first," Fredrick snapped out. "Tell me, do you know where Hamish MacGrough is?"

  Edwards checked his notes. "I don't have a local address for him, but he gave me a contact number in L.A., a Warren..."

  There was a short, harsh laugh, then Fredrick broke in. "Warren Hale. Shit, man! If you can’t put your finger on MacGrough, you’ve got more problems than you know. He has a thing for the woman like you would not believe. If someone has his woman, or he even thinks someone has her, MacGrough will move heaven and earth to find him. He has a sharp mind, does the crazy Scotsman, and a temper to match. I’ll bet he has more money than you realize. You'd better get a handle on him quick. I'll get back to you on this other stuff, but it looks like we’ve both got trouble."