“No, with the partition,” Adam tapped the soundproof glass inside the limousine, “I can’t hear a thing.”
“Thanks, Mr. Jacobson. You’ve been a big help.”
Thorpe called headquarters and told them he was going out to the airport to see if anybody remembered the car driven by the suspects. His first stop was the security department. They went through the videotapes for the time period mentioned by the limousine driver and saw nobody enter the terminal that fit the description.
As Thorpe walked to his car he looked up and saw all the vehicles parked around the airport.
They could have simply picked up a car and drove away.
There were several parking garages and Thorpe stopped at each exit booth and questioned the attendant. The first two didn’t remember anybody of that description exiting their areas. The third attendant recalled a couple of tall men leave in a minivan.
“We have our own video surveillance in the parking garages,” said the attendant, pointing to an office at the end of the garage.
“Thanks.” Thorpe ran to the office.
The security official gave Thorpe the DVD copies of the seven parking garage cameras for the last five hours. Hope they help.”
“This might be the break we’re looking for.”
Thorpe rushed back to headquarters where Collins, several other detectives, the department captain, and the Chief of police joined him as they sped through the DVDs. Several cars exited after 2:40. The cars contained families or business people that didn’t resemble the Clellands. At 2:48 a minivan pulled up to the pay booth at the parade. The driver of the van was wearing a hat and sunglasses. The tape quality was very good and through the driver’s window the detectives were quite certain that the man behind the wheel was one of the Clelland boys still with grey moustache and hair. A police computer expert took the picture and digitally reduced the glare on the front window, darkened the hair, and removed the moustache While still a bit grainy it was clearly one of the twin brothers. In the shadows of the passenger seat sat his twin brother. When they ran the licence number they discovered that the van was not stolen, but was purchased recently from a used car lot in Edmonton under the name Oscar Plate. They ran the name and found that he did not exist. The drivers licence number turned out to be fake.
Thorpe was leaning over the computer technician’s shoulder when the photo was enhanced. “Fantastic, print it and send it to all media and police departments in Western Canada. Include a statement that nobody except the police should approach the van, and then only with extreme caution and plenty of backup.
The technician printed several copies of the picture and handed them to Thorpe. He then sent, via email, the requests to the media and alerts to the police departments.
* * *
The Clelland brothers arrived at the lakeside campground in the early evening. The sun was still up and Ken started to relax as he ran along the edge of Madge Lake. He concentrated on keeping his footing on the rough trail filled with tree roots and fallen branches rather than on the pressure of getting out of Canada without ending up in prison. He glanced at the lake and imagined it was the water outside their villa in St. Kitts. The twisting trail ran through the dozens of giant recreational vehicles squeezed into campsites designed fifty years ago to accommodate small tents. The tall, thin trees stood guard without ever giving complete privacy to any of the groups. Ken noticed that most of the recreational vehicles had either satellite dishes or television antennas. As he passed a trailer the size of a battleship he heard the television through the open window. The news announcer on the television was telling everyone to be on the lookout for the blue van driven by the suspects in the Edmonton bombings. Ken stopped running and moved behind a small grove of trees. He realized, with the proliferation of television communication and cellphones that they were not as isolated as he had thought. He decided to walk the remainder of the way to limit drawing attention to himself. Nobody at the campsite had seen the two brothers at the same time, so the chances of raising suspicion were limited if the brothers weren’t seen together. The only link to the crimes was the van sitting beside their cabin.
Ken walked through the final length of the trail and noticed shoes moving on the other side of the van. Eric had intended to stay in the cabin. The hiking shoes moved towards the front of the van and stopped at the passenger window. Ken slipped behind a tree and watched as the man put his hand to the window to reduce the glare and peered into the van. The heavy-set man, in his mid-thirties, then moved towards the cabin. He tried to peek between the tightly closed curtains. The man had a phone on his belt. Ken moved closer as the man moved around to the back of the cabin and looked into the other window. Ken made sure no one was around and moved around the van and along the wall of the cabin until he was around the corner from the man. Ken picked up a heavy log and moved closer. The heavy man was concentrating on the window when the log hit the back of his head. The window shattered at the same time as his skull. The guy fell in a heap and Eric pushed open the curtains.
Ken grabbed the body and started dragging it into the deep brush behind the cabin. “We had company. They have a notice out to watch for the van. We have to move. Now! Get in the van and move into the back, out of sight. I’ll pay for the cabin and join you in a few minutes.”
“Right.”
Ken checked to make sure he didn’t have any blood on him and moved calmly around the cabin. He went into the office and was met by an elderly woman. “Usually my son does the business, but he’s out of the office right now. I can call him if you like, he has his cellphone with him.”
“Quite, alright. I’m just paying for one night in a cabin.” Ken paid the forty-dollar rent with two new bills. “Good day now.”
“You too, young man.”
As Ken left the office he noticed the confused woman slowly dialing the phone. As Ken opened the door of the van he heard the distinct ring of a cellphone coming from behind the cabin.
He got behind the wheel and drove slowly out of the park. Twenty miles into Manitoba, Ken turned onto an isolated side road. He drove ten miles down the gravel road until they came to two abandoned farmyards. Ken pulled into one of them, the thick weeds on the driveway scraping along the bottom of the van, suggesting that vehicles rarely visited the farm. At the far end of the yard a disintegrating barn stood high over the other decaying buildings. It leaned to one side and the wood was more grey than red. Ken pulled the van inside the barn, beside an old combine that had not been used for decades. A startled owl swooped out of the rafters of the barn like a glider and disappeared into the nearby trees.
The brothers carefully searched the van and cleared it of any evidence. Ken scratched off the serial number and buried the licence plates, even though they were stolen. Over time the police would likely piece together the van was used by them, but by then they would be far away. Eric and Ken changed into blue jeans and multicoloured leather jackets. Eric opened the back of the van and pulled out an old, long, three-foot wide piece of plywood and dropped the end on the dirt floor of the barn, making a ramp up to the rear door of the van. He hopped in and pulled out the first of two new motorcycles. Ken then jumped up and pulled out a second motorbike. Eric washed off the tire tracks in the rear of the van and used a tree branch to obscure the tracks out to the middle of the abandoned farmyard where Ken had wheeled the motorcycles. Eric, stepping only on the grass to avoid leaving footprints, carried the plywood outside and stuffed it behind some other old pieces of plywood leaning against the barn. He took the tree branch and puffed up the grass where he had stepped. Ken closed the back door of the van, used the same branch to hide the footprints, and the brothers wheeled the bikes to the far end of the farmyard, stopping on some grass. Ken grabbed a handful of weeds, retraced their steps, and swept away any tracks from the bikes on the hard dirt.
Ken returned to Eric. “Okay, brother, we’ve made enough mistakes. Time to make a getaway.”
“For sure. Let’s get home.
”
“Plan ‘C’”.
“Right.”
Eric and Ken slipped on the backpacks that contained emergency food and water, bundles of cash, and six identifications, some stitched into the lining of the bags. They started up the bikes, the quiet engines would draw little attention.
“Remember Eric, side roads and secondary highways as much as possible, and steer clear of Winnipeg. With the media coverage they’re bound to know that we’re responsible what happened at the campsite and it’s on a direct line between Edmonton and Winnipeg.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Ken drove south in Manitoba until he neared Brandon. The nausea from riding a motorbike was barely tolerable for Ken. He felt relief as he approached the Brandon city limits, exhausted from lack of sleep and nervous Eric might slip up again and alert the police to where he was heading. A line of darkness met him as he took the last few curves of the secondary road, the wall of rain covered his visor and the asphalt beneath the motorcycle. He eased up on the throttle as he leaned into the sweeping curve. Even with the reduced speed the rear tire of the motorcycle danced left then right, sending the bike shooting into the shallow ditch, stopping abruptly as it caught the edge of a culvert. Ken flew over the handlebars and landed against a post on a barbwire fence, pain shooting from his left hip as he tried to get to his feet.
He looked up and saw rain dripping off the nose of a large cow munching on the grass just within reach on the outside of the field. Ken removed the helmet and checked himself over. He had been saved from cuts by the leather jacket and gloves. The hip was another story as he got to his feet and tried walking. After collapsing to the ground Ken laid there beside the motorcycle. The front wheel was smashed and flat, using a long stick lying nearby Ken was able to get up and walk slowly. He was certain no bones were broken or he wouldn’t be able to walk.
As he surveyed the area, the pounding rain both obscured his view and reduced the chances that anybody passing by would see the motorcycle. Tossing the helmet beside the bike he was confident his secret was safe for the time being. The bikes were purchased under false names, but to be safe Ken removed the Alberta licence plate and scraped off the VINl number. He slipped on the backpack that had fallen off during his tumble, turned towards Brandon, and started walking along the fence. A few cars passed and he stopped walking and dropped to the ground so nobody would spot him and stop.
After an hour’s walk with several rest breaks Ken reached the edge of Brandon. An empty park and a picnic shelter allowed him a chance to warm up by building a fire in the old rusted BBQ pit. With his clothes reasonably dry Ken’s thoughts turned to the need for another means of transportation. The train whistle was like a beacon, sending Ken on another long walk, this time in search of the local train station. He walked without the crutch so he didn’t attract attention, a limp was less memorable than someone walking with the aide of a makeshift crutch. In the centre of the city Ken found the train station and went into the washroom and cleaned up. After a cup of bad coffee purchased from a machine, and wearing a moustache and baseball hat, he bought a ticket for Montreal, paying cash for the private berth. The train didn’t leave for several hours so Ken secured his backpack in a locker and headed out to shop for some clothes and a suitcase. He paid cash for the items at a small store that didn’t have a security camera and left the four-hundred-dollar motorcycle jacket in a thrift shop collection bin, happy to be rid of the clothes that reminded him of the accident. He pulled the baseball cap down over his eyes and caught his breath over a double espresso at a street-side café, the rain reduced to a slight drizzle. His watch showed him that the train left in forty minutes.
He slowly walked the three blocks to the train station and recovered his backpack from the locker. After handing his ticket to the attendant he limped onto the train and went straight to his birth, falling asleep within minutes. The whistle of the train was a relaxing signal that he was moving further away from the Edmonton police who desperately wanted to catch him.
* * *
Eric drove south down the country road and turned down a small road heading west. After driving two hundred kilometres Eric checked the gas tank and noticed that the needle had hardly moved. He turned south and drove towards the United States border crossing south of Estevan, Saskatchewan. The roads were quiet and Eric made good time. As he passed through Estevan he searched for a restaurant where he wouldn’t stand out. He noticed several recreation vehicles and American cars outside a café on the southern end of the city. He parked his bike near the window so he could keep an eye on it and ate a hearty meal, his appetite improved with the distance between himself and the carnage left behind in Edmonton. Eric purchased a sandwich and two more bottles of water, hopped back on his motorcycle, and continued his journey south.
Seventy miles down the highway Eric pulled into an empty roadside rest area. He took off his leather backpack and pulled out the “Gerald Parks” identifications and slipped them in his pocket. Parks was the name used for the purchase of the motorbike. The other five passports and drivers licence were squeezed into the false bottom of the backpack. He placed two dirty pairs of underwear just inside the backpack to make the border guards hesitate if chose to search his bag. As sip of water and he was back on the motorbike heading for the United States border.
The American guard at the border was a tired-looking lady who seemed to find each person who passed through her gate an annoyance. Eric smiled as he handed her his passport.
“Where’re you off to?” The border guard studied the passport.
“Vegas for a little R and R.” Eric looked over his wraparound sunglasses.
“How long will you be in the United States?”
“Five days.”
“How much cash do you have on you?” The guard stared at Eric over the top of her glasses.
“About three hundred dollars,” Eric lied. He had one hundred times that amount.
“I think you better pull over there, Mr. Parks.” The guard pointed to a brick building across the parking lot.
Eric nodded, took back his passport and headed for the building. A heavy-set man walked out the door of the brick building and waved Eric to a stop. The man briefly spoke with the female guard by walkie-talkie.
“Good morning, sir. We’ll just have a quick look in your bag.”
“Of course.”
The man unzipped the backpack, hesitated when he saw the dirty underwear on the top. He reached for his nightstick and pushed the underwear aside, exposing several tee shirts and another pair of jeans. “Not many clothes for five days.”
“I like to travel by bike, so I usually buy more clothes when I arrive at the holiday spot. Casual man, tee shirts and jeans.”
“Uh, huh.” He pulled out a bundle wrapped in plastic. “This your cash?”
Eric thought about his statement to the guard. “Yeah, about three thousand.”
The guard unwrapped the money and flipped through it. He set the money on the table and looked at Eric. “I understand you told my associate you had three hundred dollars.”
“Oh no sir, I think I said three thousand. If I said three hundred it was a slip of the tongue. Who goes to Vegas with three hundred dollars?”
“Good point. Well, we’ll have to let the Canadian border staff know you have this much. Don’t want you paying taxes when you return home.”
“Sure man. Thanks”
The guard returned everything to the backpack and handed it to Eric. “Well, good luck.”
“Thanks, sir.” Eric jumped on his bike and headed south on the highway.
Blue heat waves danced across the highway as Eric sped down the secondary highway at the border between North and South Dakota. Traffic was scarce, but Eric resisted the temptation to speed. He seemed to be able to see forever on the flat farmland. The highway was in poor condition, and few of the vehicles were newer, reflecting the poor economic conditions of the area.
As Eric glided dow
n the road he dreamed of reaching the airport in Chicago and the start of his complicated route to the small island in the Caribbean that was now his home. As Eric leaned into a curve in the road he caught sight of something ahead of him. An old pickup truck was parked on the side of the road with its hood up. A man stood in the middle of the road waving his arms. Eric wanted to go around him but it was a tight squeeze to get by so he pressed the brake lever and the new bike quickly stopped.
“Hi, thanks for stopping. My truck broke down and my wife is lying on the seat. She’s expecting a baby. Can you help us?”
Eric took off his helmet. “Sure, I have a cellphone in my backpack. We can call for help.”
“Much obliged.” The man leaned on the back of his truck while Eric took off his backpack. Eric pulled out his cellphone and started to turn back to face the stranger when the shovel hit him in the side of the head. Eric spun around and fell on the ground, shrouded in darkness.
Chapter Eleven
Ken lounged in the dining car as the train weaved its way through the undulating terrain of Northwestern Ontario. The champagne was nicely chilled and the steak cooked to perfection. Ken dabbed his lips with the cloth napkin as the waiter put the last of the wine into the flute. The bubbles in the champagne reminded Ken of scuba diving in the clear warm water of the Caribbean.
He made his way to the lounge car where he sat in a large chair and pulled out a novel to help him relax and pass the time on the slow journey. He lost himself in the pages of the story of a lawyer trying desperately to get an innocent man off death row and smiled, knowing that the lawyer would have to be a magician to get him or his brother off if they were caught. The concern faded as he remembered Canada didn’t have the death penalty.
“Excuse me, may I?” Ken looked up to see a woman gesture towards one of the empty seats across from him.
Rough Business Page 12
