Death's Last Run

by Robin Spano

  “Neither,” Norris said. “Not that it’s your business.”

  “You think you’re a sheriff in the Wild West?” Clare wanted Chopper to come back — or to know for sure that Noah was listening. “Inventing your own laws, taking envelopes from criminals. Oh wait — maybe you mixed up The Dukes of Hazzard with The Sopranos.”

  “As opposed to you, thinking you’re Charlie’s next Angel?” Norris snorted. “Look at you. A man has just died, and you’re holed up in your new boyfriend’s cabin, miles away from the crime scene and any of the suspects.”

  Norris advanced toward Clare, handcuffs dangling from his belt. Clare noticed that the belt end of the cuffs was open — he could slide them off and restrain her in seconds.

  Clare thought about the possible reasons Norris might want her in handcuffs. She felt the snowmobile key on its puffy orange keychain in her pocket.

  Norris was blocking Clare’s route to the door. Maybe intentionally, maybe not.

  Clare didn’t know what Norris wanted, but she needed to buy time until she could figure it out. “Can we stop acting like we’re on opposite sides? I know our organizations both suck, but that doesn’t mean you and I have to be enemies. We’re after the same killer, right?”

  Norris’ puffed chest seemed to deflate a bit. “Look, kid, this makes me sad. Chopper and I have been friends since we were teenagers. But I’m pretty sure he’s behind both of these murders.”

  Clare felt her stomach sink. “Why?”

  Norris held up three fingers on one hand. “Three people are involved in a drug export operation.” He pushed two fingers down. “Two are dead.” He waved his remaining index finger. “One is left standing. Pretty easy to spot the killer.”

  Clare wondered if it really was that simple. She didn’t see anything to be gained by Chopper wiping out his partners.

  “Listen,” Norris said. “I have an idea. You want to help me out?”

  Clare had no idea if she wanted to help. How could she, until she heard the idea? Still, she nodded.

  “Okay. Get into these handcuffs. I want to stage an arrest, trick Chopper into a confession when he comes back.”

  Clare backed a step away. Norris still hadn’t asked if Chopper was home — which meant he came to the cabin knowing full well he wasn’t. “How will that trick him?”

  “Get in the cuffs and I’ll explain it. We don’t want to miss our window while Chopper’s away.”

  “I’ll hear him coming from literally a mile away. Have you heard his sled? It’s louder than a helicopter. Plus, I mean, you’re a cop, you’ll understand this: I need to know more before I let myself become immobilized.”

  “I shouldn’t be saying anything.” Norris shook his little head. “But okay, I’ll give you this: the DEA’s involved now, too. They’re actually the ones who suggested this experiment.”

  “Experiment?”

  “To get a confession. I’m wired up to their offices right now.” Norris patted his chest, implying wires under his shirt.

  “The DEA,” Clare said. “Is that who gave you my name?”

  Norris frowned, nodded slightly.

  Clare would ask to see the wires, but she was pretty sure they weren’t there. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll play your game. Stage the arrest.”

  “Excellent.” Norris advanced toward Clare with the handcuffs.

  “But first, I want to show you these papers I found.”

  “Papers can wait,” Norris said. “Chopper will be back any minute.”

  Clare wanted to ask how he knew that — if it was even true. “These are significant. I don’t know how, but maybe you’ll be able to help make sense of them. The DEA is mentioned a lot. I think Chopper might have immunity.”

  “Chopper . . .” Norris’ jaw fell.

  Clare hated this part — creating doubt in strong friendships — because what if neither one was guilty?

  “Where are these documents?” Norris glanced around the room, like maybe they were pinned to the walls.

  “In that trunk.” Clare pointed. “The one that’s doubling as a coffee table. I picked the lock and took photos of all the documents inside. It burned me to do it, because Chopper’s a really cool guy. In another circumstance I could really have gotten to like him.” Clare was rambling; she was nervous as hell.

  Norris took a step toward Clare. She tried not to flinch. “Show me on your phone, if you took photos.”

  Clare shook her head. “I deleted them after I emailed everything to my boss. It’s probably overcautious, but I don’t like to leave evidence on my phone, even with an unlock password.”

  Norris squinted at Clare, like he couldn’t decide if she was smart or stupid.

  Clare nodded at the coffee table. “It took me a while to pick the lock — all I had was this lame Swiss Army knife — and I’ve already closed it back up again. But since I’ve done it once, the second time should be faster. Or maybe you have better tools?”

  Norris brushed past Clare to study the coffee table.

  “The lock’s on the side by the fireplace,” Clare said. “Under the glass — you need to crouch down to see it. You want help moving the table top?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  When Norris was as far from the door as possible, in as awkward a position as possible, Clare bolted. Outside, she grabbed the key from her pocket, threw her leg over the spare snowmobile, and pressed the electric start button.

  Which would have been perfect, but the sled gave back no juice. The engine coughed, sputtered, and stalled. Clare opened the choke and tried again. Same thing. Once more and the same. And now she’d likely flooded it.

  Of course Norris was close behind. He pushed out the door and headed straight for Clare. She rammed the throttle all the way open, willing the carburetor to open up quick so the engine would start.

  “What’s wrong with you?” His voice hovered between frantic and reasonable. “Five seconds ago you were showing me evidence. Now you’re running like I’m something to be afraid of. Did I spook you? Come back inside and work with me.”

  Clare pressed the ignition one more time and got power. She hadn’t ridden a snowmobile in a few years, and even Chopper’s “old” machine was newer than the sleds she’d ridden around Muskoka with her friends. But she gave it as much throttle as she could and bolted the hell away.

  The wind was cold and Norris was right behind her. Clare couldn’t hear what he was shouting over the roar of the two machines, but she could see his mouth moving in her side mirror.

  She had no idea where to drive in these woods. The only route that made sense was back down to the highway. Problem was, she had already started to go the other way — up into mountainous no-man’s-land — and Norris was behind her. Turning around was impossible. Clare realized too late that she should have stayed in the cabin, kept Norris talking longer. Even if he’d gotten her in handcuffs, someone would have arrived, eventually, to rescue her.

  Or maybe she would have already been dead.

  Clare zoomed along, knocking branches away and smoothing the ground, which unfortunately blazed a path for Norris to easily keep pace. She looked for something she could throw, something to catch in Norris’ sled skis or even block his vision. A scarf would be ideal. Or a chunk of something hard. But she’d bolted so fast from the cabin that she wasn’t even wearing a winter coat.

  She could see her hands getting red with no gloves on. They’d have frostbite soon, for sure. But Clare could only feel the pain vaguely.

  The trees cleared and Clare arrived at a logging road covered with snow. She had no time to think, so she turned right to head downhill, figuring — hoping — this road would eventually connect to the highway. The problem with a wide road: Norris’ sled was more powerful. It took him no time to zoom up ahead of her and block her from passing.

  Norris skidded to a s
top in front of Clare. She slowed her machine and turned the steering as far as it would go to the right, to avoid crashing into him. Off the sleds, she would stand no chance. Norris had grown up here — he knew the woods and the mountain. Clare didn’t even have her Swiss Army knife as a weapon — that was back in Chopper’s warm, cozy cabin.

  Clare’s machine banked nicely — it gave her the angle she needed to avoid crashing into Norris. But just before she was clear, Norris reached out — probably to grab her arm, but he caught the left side mirror instead. Clare’s front end tilted onto one ski as she gunned the throttle to full.

  Fuck. Clare’s machine jerked forward hard and Clare saw she’d lost the mirror. She leveled her sled and zoomed back uphill, because Norris was still blocking the downhill direction. In her remaining mirror she saw Norris toss the mirror away and gun his own throttle. He didn’t lose too many seconds getting back on her tail.

  The sky was getting dark. It was that weird time of twilight when you couldn’t tell what was real and what was shadow. It was even darker in the trees, but Clare banked a sharp left to get back onto the trail they’d blazed from Chopper’s cabin. Norris was only seconds behind, but at least this path was narrow and he couldn’t head her off again.

  Clare felt the front end of Norris’ sled skis bump the back edge of her machine. Motherfucker. He was nearly close enough to reach out and knock her off her sled. Alone in the woods, with frostbitten hands, Clare would not stand a chance of survival. She had to stay on her sled — and keep it in motion — until they came across another person. A great plan, in the middle of nowhere.

  She felt a solid bump. His machine connecting with hers. Which was fine in theory — the engines were in the front; he was more likely to damage his machine than hers. But Clare’s frozen hands were having trouble holding on. She looked at her hands, imagined them enveloped in a warm protective orb — two orbs, one for each hand. And in the same thought, she knew that her mind was losing focus — the scene felt a bit like a dream.

  Chopper’s cabin was in sight, but an empty cabin wouldn’t help if he and Jana weren’t back from town.

  Another bump from Norris. Man, Clare wished she had her gun on her. She was surprised Norris wasn’t using his, but then that would be a dead giveaway, if Clare was found dead with a cop’s bullets in her. She had to give him credit for a brain.

  What could she throw at him? Could she rip off her other side mirror? Not likely, while she was trying to steer. Clare felt like the Road Runner. She needed a cliff to trick Norris into zooming over. Or was it the coyote who always won? Shit, her brain was getting wonky. Clare pulled her left, non-throttle hand in and warmed it on her skin under her shirt.

  Pain sliced through her hand at its first contact with body heat, but Clare kept it there. She’d have to ride cross-handed soon, to warm up her right hand the same way.

  At the cabin, Clare saw no sign of anyone else — no other snowmobiles parked — so she made a hard left, down the hill toward the highway. She knew this route better, having zoomed up and down with Chopper a few times, but she was still no pro. She couldn’t dance with the curves like a local.

  Norris lost a bit of ground, not being ready for Clare’s sharp turn, but it didn’t take him long to find his spot right on her ass again. Another bump of the sleds and Clare nearly lost her balance.

  What Clare couldn’t figure out was why Norris? Why would he have murdered Sacha and Richie? Was it as simple as them threatening to expose his dirty ways? Or was there someone else involved — the someone who had given Norris Clare’s name? Someone in the FBI or RCMP? Someone pulling the purse strings from New York or Washington? For a split second, she thought of Noah — but that was crazy. She and Noah were working together; he wasn’t working with Norris.

  She thought again about the girl on the boat.

  Clare saw a flash of yellow coming up through the trees below. A third engine’s noise joined the chorus and Clare realized with a loud thump in her chest that this was Chopper coming home. She couldn’t see if Jana was with him; she just pulled to one side of the trail so he didn’t smash into her as he barreled up the hill. Norris seemed to take a couple of seconds to realize what was happening. He slowed, looked like he was about to follow Clare, then zoomed back onto the trail and rode fast down the mountain. The trail was wide enough for two sleds, barely, and Clare watched with nerves on fire as Chopper’s sled cleared Norris’ by a hair.

  Norris was getting away.

  Chopper — without Jana — pulled over to the side and stopped by Clare.

  “My god; your hands.” Chopper pulled off his gloves and gently fit them on Clare. “We need to get you warm. Leave this sled here for now.”

  “But . . . Norris.” Clare pointed downhill. Her teeth were chattering. She was surprised how hard it was to speak.

  Chopper put his big yellow jacket on Clare and sat her in front of him as he rode up the mountain. Slowly.

  She thought vaguely that she should be going down the mountain, back to the village, but Clare’s mind was all over the place — mostly somewhere delirious. And a warm cabin sounded just right for right now. As she daydreamed, feeling Chopper’s arms and gloves and jacket surrounding her, she wondered why Noah wasn’t as cool or as kind to her as Chopper.

  And as she drifted in this space, with Chopper carrying her into the cabin and talking to her in a low, gentle voice, Clare realized maybe it wasn’t Noah’s job to look after her. Maybe Noah was the one who had been in the cold too long and Clare needed to be there for him, to put her magic jacket around him and make him feel warm again.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  MARTHA

  Martha swirled the single malt around her glass. She couldn’t peel herself out of Fraser’s flaming red armchair to have her driver take her home to bed. “I think this is the ugliest chair I’ve ever sat in.”

  “It’s art,” Daisy said. “I thought you were supposed to be the sophisticated one.”

  “And there, Daisy, is your fallacy. Contemporary art is nothing but narcissistic crap.” Martha had never voiced this particular opinion before, even internally. Half of her was pretty sure she sounded like a drunken fool; the other half thought she sounded brilliant. She raised her index finger and turned toward Fraser. “You and Daisy, letting Sacha drink underage at your parties . . . Daisy even giving her drugs . . . how could you not see you were confusing her?”

  Daisy snorted. “Why don’t you write a blog post exposing our laissez-faire parenting? Bore your remaining two followers into leaving.”

  “I’m sht-still in the race.” Martha heard herself slur. Or was that stutter? “Unlike where my opponent is heading.”

  “Yeah,” Daisy said, “and all the other contestants are having a field day. Have you even read the comment section of your post exposing Kearnes? People are divided into three camps: Those who were never going to vote for you, those who supported you until you alienated the religious vote, and those who liked your progressive new platform until you started playing dirty yourself. Everyone sees through your so-called confession as openly slinging mud at Kearnes. It worked — no one likes him now, either. But how can you even think you’re still in the race?”

  “I never knew you followed politics.”

  “I do when it’s fun.”

  Martha pursed her lips. “How many drinks have you had?”

  “I don’t actually drink at all, at the moment.” Daisy patted her belly with a very amused look on her face.

  Fraser grinned up at Martha in a way that she wished she didn’t find even partially adorable. “Come on, let’s get you into your car and home. Last thing we need is paparazzi snapping a photo of you stumbling out of here.”

  “The press can kiss my ass.” Martha saw Daisy and said, “It’s not as nice an ass as Daisy’s, so maybe they won’t want to. But at least I never gave our daughter drugs.”

  Da
isy rolled her eyes. “At least I was Sacha’s friend. She hated you.”

  Martha sprang back an inch in her chair. “What I’d really like to know, though, Daisy, is why did Sacha like you? What was the mysterious bond you shared to make her tell you about the drugs she was smuggling?” Martha was sober enough to know that she needed to be drunk to ask these questions.

  “Really?” Daisy rolled her eyes. “You want to know why Sacha and I clicked?”

  Martha arched her eyebrows.

  “It’s because I listen.”

  Martha’s eyebrows fell back down. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”

  “I only met her in her final year of high school, but if Sacha came home with a problem — if she was pissed off because she got a B on an essay she’d worked hard on, or if she was shut out of a social clique because she didn’t care about idle gossip — you and Fraser had no time to listen. You were off dealing with your own problems — bigger problems, was how you made Sacha feel.”

  Martha swallowed hard.

  Daisy continued. “I didn’t have bigger problems. And if I did, I still made time for Sacha’s. I know I’m not some crazy intellectual like you — or some savvy businessman like Fraser. But if you want someone to feel close to you, all you really have to do is listen.”

  For a moment, Martha believed Daisy. Then she remembered: “You gave her drugs, Daisy. Then you used those drugs against her — to push her out of the family. What was that?”

  Daisy frowned, like she was trying to come up with an answer that didn’t make her look like a gold-digger.

  Martha didn’t wait. “Is it because Fraser loved Sacha more? You didn’t like having to share?”

  Fraser held a hand in the air, as if pretending to be a crossing guard might stop Martha and Daisy from arguing. “We’ve all had one drink too many. Well, not Daisy, but hormones can make us say things we don’t mean. Come on, Martha. Time to let your driver take you home.”

  Daisy smirked. “You know the bitter irony? It was you who motivated her to import the drugs in the first place.”