“It must have been a shock for her to learn all this, just when she’s burying her husband,” he said lamely. “What did you do?”
“I pack my tools. She watch everything I am taking. And she follow me around, ask questions. How long did I work on the house? Who hire me, Benson or Danielle? Did Danielle and Benson come here together? How long I know Danielle. She think Danielle and me try to trick Benson. Very angry.”
Now Matthew was interested. “What story did you tell her, Julio?”
In his heartbeat of hesitation, Matthew had his answer. Julio was hiding something. This innocent façade of just being a hired hand was a lie. At least not the whole truth. When Julio did answer, he seemed to be groping forward.
“Story? It’s not a trick. Dr. Benson hire me sometimes. I meet Danielle at his cottage. That’s all.”
Matthew took a guess. “But you knew her before that, didn’t you? She’s the one who recommended you to Benson.”
Silence.
“Where do you know her from?”
“A friend. One of her friends introduce me.”
“Were you her lover, too?”
“No!” Julio sounded genuinely shocked.
“But she was Benson’s lover.”
“No, no! Miss Janine think that. But is not true.”
“As you say, that’s how it looks.”
“He’s a good man. Danielle is a good woman.” Julio raised his voice. “Everything is finished for me. I am not a criminal, I don’t lie! I just want my money. Please give me that lawyer’s number.”
After giving Julio the number, Matthew resumed his walk. He was about to phone Peter Pomeroy to give him a heads-up when his phone rang again. What am I, he thought, central switchboard? It was the number Amanda had recognized the day before. Danielle.
“Did you get the passport?” she asked without so much as a hello.
“Where are you?” he countered.
There was a pause. A cyclist slalomed down the sidewalk, grazing Matthew’s elbow. “Still in the islands. Did you get help?”
There was an accusatory edge to her voice that he didn’t like. He told himself it was her desperation and her lack of subtlety in English, not hostility or entitlement. But a small voice in the back of his head reminded him that he didn’t know this woman or what she was capable of.
“Yes,” he said. “There are people looking for you. Amanda and Larry are coming down from Parry Sound.”
“Do they have my passport?”
“No, but they can help you get to Toronto. Larry knows every inch of Georgian Bay. So does George, who’s also looking for you.”
“Who’s George?”
“Another outfitter up there. Ronny’s father.”
She gave an audible gasp. “Ronny’s father? He knows where we are?”
“I don’t know, but he’s out on the bay looking for you.”
“Oh no! No, no! Susmaryosep! What does his boat look like?”
He stopped at a red light. The bustle of Toronto swirled around him, yet at the other end of the phone line, this woman was stranded on an island in the wilderness, frightened and hunted. “I have no idea,” he said.
“I saw a boat. Far away. Going very slow, like looking for something. I didn’t know who it was. Maybe police? But the boat had words on the side and a picture of a kayak.”
“That’s George.” Matthew thought fast. “Did he see you?”
“No, we were scared it’s police. We hid the boat.”
“Okay, listen, Danielle. Don’t go out on the lake again. You will get lost. Stay put and watch for Amanda and Larry.”
Danielle stifled a wail. “I have my son. He is just a little boy.”
“All the more reason to stay put.” Matthew heard her whimpering as she brought her panic under control. He debated whether to add to her worry but remembered she might not be as innocent as she pretended. “Your friend Julio contacted me,” he said.
“Julio? Julio!” She seemed to flounder. “Why?”
“He told me about the house Dr. Humphries bought for you.”
“No, no, no! Why did he call you?”
“Because he wanted my help to get his money for the renovations, and now Janine Saint Clair is not only refusing to pay him, but she won’t give you the house either.”
“Forget the house! The house is not important now. Tell Julio to stop.”
“So it’s true? Dr. Humphries bought you a house?”
“He wanted to help me.”
“Did you ask him to?”
“No, I didn’t ask him!” Her outrage crackled through the line. “He’s a nice man. Was a nice man. But not Miss Janine! You tell Julio to stay away from Miss Janine!”
“But he’s out thousands of dollars.”
“Not important!”
“I’ve given him the name of a good lawyer.”
“Lawyer! Aiee! Janine has lawyers, judges, and politicians —” An agitated male voice erupted in the background, speaking in rapid Tagalog, and Danielle dropped her voice. “You don’t understand. Julio is illegal. No papers. The big lawyers will send him away.”
Matthew was no stranger to the plight of undocumented migrants. During his overseas assignments, famine, war, and ethnic cleansing drove hordes of desperate, penniless people across borders into neighbouring countries or makeshift border camps. A whole underground economy flourished in the tent cities, shantytowns, and back alleys of large cities, where migrants eked out a precarious living under periodic threat of eviction or pogroms. They formed loving communities, raised children, and built schools and storefronts on the dusty streets. Sometimes happy but never secure.
He left Danielle with the promise that he would pass on her message to Julio, but before he did so, he thumbed through his contacts to see if there was any way he could find out more about Julio Rodriguez. What was his status? Was he on a federal list somewhere? Had a deportation order already been issued? He knew thousands of illegals lived happily in the Toronto underground, embraced and shielded by their communities. Many of them had come to Canada under the temporary foreign workers program but had seen their work visas expire under a recent, ill-advised government rule limiting work terms to four years. Just when they’d settled into a life here, they had to leave. Thousands opted instead to go underground.
The largest group was from Mexico, numbers that had swelled since the American president began threatening to deport millions and build a wall to keep them out. Many had sneaked across the nearly nine-thousand-kilometre, largely unprotected border with the United States, even risking death or frostbite by walking across in the middle of winter.
Julio was a Mexican. Had he been a casualty of the four in, four out rule, in which case he would have had some papers of some sort, or had he sneaked across the border?
Matthew didn’t want to draw attention to him by contacting anyone in Immigration, Refugees, and Citizenship Canada. He did have one possible trustworthy source, but before he stirred up more embers of trouble, he had to put out the one fire he had already lit.
Peter Pomeroy’s cellphone rang six times before flipping over to voicemail. Matthew cursed and left a hasty, cryptic message urging him to hold off taking any action on Julio Rodriguez’s claim and to call him ASAP. Next he phoned Julio.
“I called your lawyer,” Julio burst in, sounding buoyant. “He says we can fight. Not for the house, but for the money.”
“Did you tell Mr. Pomeroy you were undocumented?”
Silence on the phone. Matthew pictured Julio’s stunned expression. When he finally spoke, he was defiant. “Who tell you that?”
“Is it true? I want to know what I’m dealing with here. And more importantly, so will Peter Pomeroy before he takes any legal action on your behalf.”
“I have documents,” Julio said, his defiance fading.
“Are they real?”
A long pause. A muttered curse. Matthew turned the corner onto a side street, leaving the traffic and crowds of Queen Stree
t behind. Peace settled around him. He headed for his apartment in the aging brick low-rise that took up much of the block.
“I have a real driver’s license and social insurance number,” Julio said. “Good enough?”
“No. Not when Janine Saint Clair’s high-powered lawyers get their claws into you.”
He sighed. “How did you learn this?”
“I spoke to Danielle. She wants you to back off and forget the house.”
“Danielle?” He brightened. “Where is she? Here in Toronto?”
“Not yet. She’s having a bit of trouble.”
Julio cried out a Spanish curse. “What’s wrong?”
“She and her family are lost somewhere in Georgian Bay.”
“She is still with Fernando?”
An odd choice of phrase, Matthew thought. “And her son. For now she is safe, but she’s very worried about you. She seems to care a lot about you.”
“She’s … an old friend.”
“Friend.” Matthew let the ambiguity of the word hang between them. He turned into his apartment building and began up the stairs. “O-kay.”
“She is more important than me right now. We have to protect her.”
“I have a couple of people looking for her.”
“What people? Police?”
“Not police or border agents. Friends. You can trust them.”
“Who?”
Reaching the second floor, Matthew was puffing. “Amanda Doucette, the woman I work with, and a local outfitter.”
“One woman? One man?”
“Yes. And a big enough boat for them all.”
“Do they have a gun?”
Matthew stopped dead on the landing. “I don’t think so. Why would they need a gun? Julio, what’s going on?”
Silence again. A chill shot through Matthew. “Is something wrong? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No, no! Fernando is frightened. Tell your friend just … just be careful. Okay?”
With that, he hung up before Matthew could ask him what the hell he meant. Careful of what? Of Fernando? All his doubts and suspicions about Danielle crowded in. Was there something more going on? Had he inadvertently sent the intrepid Amanda straight into the path of danger?
The heat was sweltering in his apartment when he rushed in. He peeled off his sweaty suit as he jammed his phone in the crook of his neck and phoned Chris, praying the big goofy cop was still around.
“God!” Chris cried. “News?”
“Where are you?”
“Still stuck downtown behind some kind of goddamn parade.”
Matthew laughed in his relief. “Welcome to the Big Smoke.”
“I’m trying to get to Highway 400 so I can get up north.”
Matthew dragged his overnight bag out from under the bed. “What happened to renting an airplane?”
“I am! Well, not renting, borrowing.” Against a backdrop of engines rumbling, Matthew heard him sigh. “I wasted all morning trying to find a rental, but they want me to jump through a thousand hoops. I tried waving my RCMP badge, but no dice. My pilot’s license isn’t enough without proof I’d flown this model of aircraft in the last thirty days. Otherwise I’d have to go up with an instructor and … fuck, I’ve flown planes all over the north and Newfoundland, flown in blizzards and fog, landed on lakes smaller than postage stamps, but it’s not enough. Then I remembered I have an RCMP buddy who retired up near Collingwood. He’s got a plane right on the bay, and he’s getting her ready as we speak. I just have to get out of this goddamn city!”
“Take me with you.”
“What? What for?”
“I can help. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”
“No way! It’s not a pleasure trip, Matthew. I can’t take an inexperienced civilian —”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tymko! I’ve flown in dangerous missions all over the world. I’ve been right on the front lines, filed stories from the cockpit of a reconnaissance plane.”
“But —”
“Amanda’s in trouble, Chris. We both love her. We both owe it to her to do everything we can.”
In the background, a motorcycle roared past. A horn honked. Matthew threw clothes into the bag. He waited.
“Do you know something?” Chris asked finally.
“Just that Julio gave me a cryptic warning about Danielle. And we don’t really know much about her.”
“We don’t know anything about Julio, either.”
“True.” Matthew tossed his toothbrush and washing kit into the bag and zipped it shut. “Look, I’m packed. Ready to go. Tell me where to meet you.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Lump it.” Matthew locked his apartment door and ran down the stairs. “I’m grabbing a cab. Where?”
Chris caved in and gave him the name of a street corner just off the major expressway. Matthew was already running toward Queen Street, snapping his fingers at a passing cab, and as he threw himself into the back seat, a huge grin spread across his face.
The old newspaper hack was on the move.
What he hadn’t told Chris was that his one and only flight in the combat zone in Afghanistan had nearly gotten him killed, and he’d vowed he would never set foot in a small plane again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Chris drove like a rocket up Highway 400. In the middle of the day, the expressway was busy with trucks and commuters, forcing him to weave in and out like an Olympic skier in the Super G. His touch on the wheel was light and his timing split-second, but more than once Matthew felt he was back on the mad highways of Asia. After one such harrowing deke, he glanced over at Chris. Behind sunglasses, the man’s expression was grim.
“I assume you guys give each other a pass when you get caught speeding.”
Chris grunted. “A pass? I might even ask for an escort!” He reached over to check his phone then swore and tossed it aside.
“Do you want to call her again?” Matthew asked.
“What’s the point? She knows my number. If she cared, she’d call me.”
Matthew flinched at the bitterness. “When we get in the air, I’m going to phone her and blast her with both barrels for being such a selfish bitch.”
“It won’t help,” Chris said. “When she’s on a roll, nothing else matters.”
“But there’s more in her life than just her and her current mission. Especially now. I can tell her that.”
Chris shot him an oblique glance. Matthew knew his face was red, and his voice had more of an edge than he’d intended. He forced himself to pull back.
“You’ve known her a long time,” Chris said. “Was she always like this?”
Matthew shook his head. “But she’s always tilted at windmills, ever since I’ve known her.”
“How did you first meet?”
“In Thailand. She was a rookie on her first overseas job, working for a new Canadian NGO start-up called Caring for Cambodia, which was trying to rebuild the country’s decimated school system. In the 1970s, the Khmer Rouge regime had assassinated all the intellectuals and professionals, including all the teachers, in an attempt to root out spies and dissidents. So there was no one left to teach the kids. No curriculum or textbooks, either. I was actually covering the conflicts in Afghanistan and Pakistan at the time but was taking some R&R in southern Thailand. It’s a small world for the Canadian ex-pat community overseas, especially in Southeast Asia. We met on a beach.” He smiled at the memory. “From the moment she learned I was a journalist, she began hounding me to cover Cambodia’s struggle to rebuild. The world, of course, was more interested in wars. Iraq was descending into chaos. Afghanistan and Pakistan were both clusterfucks. Pakistan’s progressive prime minister, Benazir Bhutto, had just been assassinated. Headline-grabbing shit. The bosses were never going to bankroll a nice feel-good story about Cambodian school children. Boy, did she give me an earful.”
Chris floored the truck around a tractor-trailer before taking his eyes briefly o
ff the road. “What was she like back then? Before …”
“Before Nigeria? More easygoing and upbeat. A great tease. She was still the same shoot-with-both-barrels, go-through-the-mountain Amanda. But the trust …” He shook his head dolefully. “She sees enemies now where she used to see allies.”
“Like the cops.”
Matthew shrugged. “In the countries where she worked, they were usually on the wrong side. But in Nigeria she was betrayed by people she thought she could trust. The security guards they hired to protect the village they were working in, for example. They were young men, many still in their teens, some even former students she’d helped. They were hired by some faceless international security firm that uses locals to protect companies and NGOs from thefts, attacks, and terrorists. But the firm’s pay is shit and their training less than shit. The kids were easy to bribe and bully. When the Islamic terrorists invaded, the kids all folded like scared puppets. They either joined the terrorists or turned tail and ran.”
He paused. Dark memories of Amanda’s ordeal crowded in, but he wondered whether she would want them shared. “Has she told you any of this stuff?”
Chris shook his head. “Just broad strokes. We’ve talked about some of the experiences that just don’t let us go. I lost a woman I thought I loved in a botched shoot-out up north. Amanda told me she and her colleague Phil escaped their burning village in the dead of night, but she couldn’t save the children.”
Matthew nodded. “Couldn’t save” didn’t begin to describe the horrors. Save from a life of sexual slavery and abuse or a quick death as a suicide bomber or child soldier. “And that’s what haunts her the most. Not that she was almost killed. Not that she spent a month hiding in the countryside trying to get to Lagos. It’s that she couldn’t save the children. They kidnapped the children they wanted and slaughtered the ones who were too young.”
Silence. Matthew glanced at Chris, whose face had closed as if a dark cloud had passed over his thoughts. I’ve obviously touched a nerve, he thought. The longer any of us work in the dark halls of human pain, the more black clouds gather in the recesses of our mind. He wondered about the woman Chris had lost and about all the other innocents the Mountie had been unable to save.
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