Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  Gisela had just unlocked her door when two hands clamped on her shoulders, one on each side.

  “We have to talk,” said a man and a woman at the same time. They shoved her inside.

  ***

  Louis drove to the back of his temporary home and parked his motorcycle by the back door. The dogs hardly let him take off his helmet as they greeted him by jumping and scratching his pants. A knock on the door made Louis turn his head toward the noise. It was the neighbor whose back yard was adjacent to Miriam’s.

  “My car doesn’t start,” he said, “and I heard you’re a wizard with motors. I was waiting for you to come home. Would you mind taking a look? I have to go work; I have a night shift.”

  “Sure.” Louis had a hard time pushing the dogs back inside the house. They were accustomed to constant company, and this weekend even the students had gone away for a time of fun and leisure. He’d take them for a nice walk later.

  The car was a Ford Tempo from the early nineties. Some of the parts were so rusty he had to spend a lot of time to find out what was wrong. It was close to ten o’clock when, finally, the little car’s engine roared to life. The neighbor thanked him and invited him to get a bowl of the delicious stew his wife had cooked. Louis’ pants and shirt were dirty, so at first he declined the invitation, but when the man insisted, Louis entered the house and took a place at the kitchen table.

  He had only tasted a mouthful of stew when he heard a big bang. The kitchen windowpane shattered, sending shards all over. Flabbergasted, Louis rose and retreated toward the interior of the house, joined by the neighbor and his wife. What in the world had happened? When he recovered from the shock, he tiptoed inside the kitchen. A fire was raging outside. Moments later, the sirens from the approaching fire trucks blasted the air. When Louis felt that it was safe to walk all the way through the kitchen he approached the window and glanced out. Smoke billowed from Miriam’s house. He rushed outside and neared the back door. He tried to open it—to no avail. He could hear the laments of the dogs trapped inside. Flames wafted from the broken windows; pieces of glass were everywhere. Disregarding danger, Louis ran toward the front of the house and had almost made it, when the fire marshal stopped him cold.

  “The dogs,” he screamed. “The dogs are inside!”

  In response, the man grabbed him by the waist and dragged him away from the house. With his protective outfit, mask and hard hat on, he looked at least twice Louis’ size.

  “They’re my friends,” Louis pleaded. A long bark followed several short ones. “We can’t let them burn to death!”

  The fire marshal took him close to a truck and told one of his men, “Be sure he stays here.” Then, turning to Louis, he said, “People heard an explosion. We don’t know what caused the blast. The house is breaking down and spitting debris all over. I risked my life to get you away from the inferno. So do me a favor; don’t give me problems.”

  Water hoses were hooked up to the nearby fire hydrants, and soon, big jets of water were propelled over the house, trying to tame the flames.

  ***

  When the news of the incident reached Stevenson early the following morning, the fire had been extinguished, and a preliminary assessment excluded the presence of humans among the blaze victims. Immediately, Stevenson inquired about Louis’ whereabouts and found out he’d been taken to the hospital and sedated. He rushed to UH to see him.

  Louis stood before one of the nurses’ stations, release paper in his hands. The baggy jeans and the brown flannel top the hospital had given him made Louis look thinner than he was. He had only a shopping plastic bag with him, from which peeped a pair of dirty jeans.

  The nurse was saying, “You should wait. It’s better if the doctor sees you; you were very upset last night. Don’t you have a relative who can take care of you?”

  Stevenson flashed his badge and said, “I’ll do that.” He took Louis by the arm, on to the elevator, and out from the back of the building.

  “A big disaster. The dogs are dead,” murmured Louis. “Miriam’s house has burned down.”

  “Yes, but you’re alive. You were lucky. How come you weren’t inside?”

  “I was at the neighbor’s, first to repair his old car, then to get some food. That’s when I heard a big bang.” In the cruiser, Stevenson took a baseball hat from the back seat and a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment. “Wear these,” he ordered. “I’m going to talk to the sergeant. If I get my way, we won’t say much about who was or wasn’t in Mrs. Dalton’s house. This will give us time to plan a strategy.” He put the car in gear and glanced at Louis. “You’re right. Camilo Estorbar is a cruel man. You messed up his plans, and he answered with a blaze aimed at killing you.” He stopped and looked deeply into the young man’s eyes. “To start with, you should tell me what you’ve done yesterday. Clearly, you came in contact with some of his so-called acquaintances.”

  Louis sighed aloud and said, “I went to the house of one of the people who used to work at The Tranquility Resort. They called her The Frog. Her real name is Gisela Cunnigham. The address is 27 St. Zenobio, off Highway 2.”

  “The reason for going there?”

  Louis turned his head to face the detective. “I had an idea…”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “But I didn’t do it.”

  “What did you intend to do?”

  “I wanted to steal the key of one of the buildings you showed me last time.”

  “But you didn’t do it?”

  “No. I chickened out.”

  “Good, because those buildings are completely empty.”

  “Empty? Where have all the people gone?”

  “Don’t know. We have to find out.” They’d arrived at headquarters and Gordon stopped the car and turned off the engine. “You have no place to go, son. Whoever is after you seems to be able to find you.”

  “I’m scared,” whispered Louis. “What should I do?”

  “Not much at the moment. Stay in the car. I’ll be back.”

  He was just inside the building, when Primo came out a lateral door. “A homicide, boss. Looks like a robbery gone wrong.”

  Twenty-three

  When a staff member of the Prescription Centre entered the pharmacy to start her shift, she waved at Jocelyn to come close.

  “Miriam Danton’s house burned down,” she told her. “I heard it on the radio.”

  “Oh my God! Poor Miriam! First a stroke, now this!” Her thoughts went to Louis, who may have not been careful with a stove or something of the kind. “How did it happen?”

  “There was an explosion.”

  “An explosion? Because of a gas leak?”

  “No explanation.”

  “Victims?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  Jocelyn felt blood draining from her face. As several clients lined up to drop off their prescriptions, she went back to the counter. She tried to concentrate on the task at hand—a difficult thing to do after the news she’d heard. When the place quieted, she called Gordon. She asked him immediately if Louis had been hurt. Gordon’s answer was cryptic. “You have nothing to worry about him. I can’t stay on the phone. I’ll pick you up at 5:30.”

  Relieved, she went back to work. At lunchtime, she drove to Miriam’s house. The place was cordoned off and two cars with the insignia of Public Safety Canada were parked at the front. She could see people working inside. No point asking them for information; she’d better rely on the neighbors. Only one was at home, and while the old lady was eager to chat, she didn’t give Jocelyn much information. She just talked about the explosion and the arrival of the fire department, stopping traffic on the road, and the temporary evacuation of all the dwellings within a radius of fifty meters.

  Jocelyn went back to her car, pondering the situation. The criminal ring that had circumspectly moved around Louis had a much longer and powerful reach than anybody suspected.

  She was anxious to see Gordon and learn what he had to say.


  ***

  The sergeant gave Stevenson ten days to put his plan into action. For the time being, there would be no release on what had been found in Miriam’s house. The forensic team associated with Public Safety Canada was still doing its work, and the authorities were waiting for the results. That would be the official version of the facts. Meanwhile Stevenson would stash Louis away, and any information the young man might provide would be shared, for the time being, only by a restricted number of people.

  After much inner turmoil, Stevenson decided to talk openly to the sergeant, and made him aware of the possibility that one or two members at headquarters might be on the take.

  The sergeant listened attentively; after Stevenson finished, he said, “A rumor had already reached this station and the chief had launched an inquiry. So, please, don’t say a word to anybody else.” He insisted Nick Primo and Santos Lopes be part of the current investigation, due to their impeccable records, and Stevenson agreed.

  Much relieved, Stevenson left, as his mind began to elaborate a strategy.

  On the way out, he got a can of Dr. Pepper for Louis, and joined him in the car.

  “I’m going to take you to my place while I think of a more suitable accommodation. You’re my nephew from Nova Scotia. And get ready to tell me all you know about Camilo and his gang. Agreed?”

  “Yes.” Louis opened the pop can, the usual swish filling the air.

  Stevenson shot him a glance as the young man sipped the soft drink. “Still scared?”

  “You bet! The dogs were inside, my motorcycle was inside; they thought I was in the house. If my neighbor hadn’t asked me to fix his car, I’d be dead.”

  “You got the picture. You must be one of the few people who could send Camilo to jail. So, you know a lot.”

  “He’ll find me again.”

  “Not if my plan works. We didn’t release any precise information about what we found in Mrs. Dalton’s house. We’ll keep it that way for a few days. In other words, we let people believe that you are, in fact, dead.”

  “Oh, that’s smart.”

  “It is, but we can’t hide the truth for long. We have to get at Mr. Estorbar in the next few days. We need to find out where he moved his operation. We’ve already got evidence he had substantial activities in the land behind The Tranquility Resort. But we need to have proof of his criminal doing. That’s where you come in.”

  Louis finished his pop and squashed the empty can.

  “By the way, Gisela Cunnigham was killed last night. Any hint of who might have done it?”

  “No.” He remained silent for a moment, then said, “Wait a minute. The first time I went to her house a lady blocked Mrs. Cunnigham’s way. They fought; the lady screamed she wanted twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Did you grasp the name of the woman?”

  “No.”

  “Age?”

  “Old, maybe even forty.”

  “Something about her aspect?”

  “Short, fat.”

  “Hair?”

  “Fair or gray.”

  “That’s not much.”

  “Well…I remember something about her face. It had…blisters? No, marks, marks all over.”

  “I see. Later, you can help our artist draw a sketch.”

  They arrived at Stevenson’s house. Louis inquired about the For Sale sign.

  “I’m selling my house. People will come to look at it, so get ready to play the part of my nephew.”

  Stevenson took Louis to the guest room, and told him, “We can rest a bit and watch TV. There’s food in the fridge. I have to go out, but will be back by eight o’clock. Do not open the door for any reason, and don’t use the phone. Got it?”

  Louis nodded and stretched out on the bed.

  Stevenson went back to the station and exchanged the cruiser for his car. He got rid of his bullet-proof vest, threw it on the back seat, and drove to the hospital. Jocelyn was standing at the main entrance. Quickly, she walked over and took her place in the passenger seat.

  “Hello, Jocelyn. How’s Miriam?”

  “Not too good. She was having nightmares, got very agitated, and they had to sedate her. There’re feeding her intravenously.” Jocelyn buckled up. “I booked at Kersey on your behalf and asked for the same table we had last time. It’s in a quiet spot.”

  Stevenson nodded and stopped at the red signal at the crossing of Windermere and Richmond.

  “We’re not going to say anything about who was or wasn’t inside Miriam’s house when the explosion took place. Since we’re dealing with a bomb, we can suspect it could have been a terrorist attack. It’s the job of Public Safety Canada. For the time being, the on-going investigation is top secret. At headquarters, however, we think somebody was after Louis.”

  “You told me he’s okay. Can you say a bit more?”

  “Later. Did you find out anything about who was in charge of the video?”

  “Yes.” Jocelyn opened her purse and took out a plastic sleeve. “My discreet inquiry about the procedure used to store the recording stirred up a bit of commotion. To make a long story short, one of the orderlies had taken the video home—by mistake, he said. I used the authority of your name to get a copy.”

  “So, end of the story. Got the name of the orderly involved?”

  “Yes. I wrote it on a Post-It and pasted it on the cover. It may take some time to find out what the procedure is for securing items of this kind. I really have no business to inquire, but I’ll try to ask questions, here and there. I may come up with something.”

  Gordon took the video and put it in his pocket. “Primo and I will be able to see if it’s been doctored. If not, as I hope, you don’t have to do any more snooping. We watched it very carefully after the poor girl died.” He parked the car close to the restaurant’s entrance. “Good work, partner. Fast, too. Thanks.”

  They drank their coffee and ate their meal, talking about the nothings of life. When the waiter came around with a refill of coffee, Gordon twisted his moustache, something he did when he had to make a decision he preferred to avoid. But he had no choice; he had to ask Jocelyn some questions.

  “As part of the investigation, I’m supposed to gather all the information about the victims of an act of violence. One is Miriam Danton. Did she have an enemy?”

  “Hmm, I’m not sure.”

  “Do you know of any wrongdoing Miriam might have committed in her life?”

  Jocelyn looked away, lips clamped shut.

  “I’ll rephrase the question. How did you meet her, and what kind of relationship did you have with her?”

  Jocelyn described the car accident, how she’d ended up in a ravine, injured and half frozen, and how Miriam had come to her rescue.

  “When did all this happen?”

  “About eleven years ago.”

  “What was Miriam’s job at that time?”

  “Part-time at a grocery store. She rented rooms to students, as she does now, and had a permit to practice clairvoyance. She had a few clients, strange people, mostly.”

  “Any problems with the police?’

  “Well…there was…” Jocelyn hesitated and asked the waiter to refill her mug. “There was an investigation into a man’s death. It had happened at a fair where Miriam had rented a booth.”

  “Death? Murder, you mean?”

  “Yes. They interrogated all the people who’d rented tents or booths. They’d found a big piece of a woman’s outfit in one hand of the dead man, and the fair’s manager thought it belonged to the dress Miriam wore that evening.”

  “Found the dress in Miriam’s house?”

  Jocelyn laughed. “Of course not.”

  “Was there a follow-up?”

  Jocelyn nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. A month later, a man busted into Miriam’s house and began whacking her knees with a baseball bat. I was walking home, and I saw the man in action through a corner window. I called nine-one-one, started screaming, and entered the house. The man let go of Mir
iam and came after me; the baseball bat landed heavily on my shoulder as he took off for the road.” Jocelyn paused. “The police arrived, an ambulance took us to emergency, but the man was never caught.”

  “That’s the reason you two left?”

  “You bet. We didn’t feel safe. We moved up north for a couple of years. Then I got a good offer from the hospital here in town. And Miriam? Well, her knees never worked well, in spite of two operations. She had enough money to buy a nice house. She made a living renting rooms or offering room-and-board to students. No more readings of the future or holding séances. She’d had enough of all that crap.”

  “I see. So all that you told me happened more than ten years ago, and thousands of miles away. Chances are she wasn’t the target of the explosion. A long-range plan of revenge would have been well thought out. Whoever was in charge of harming her would have done some research and found out she was in the hospital. Louis was the target.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “I have to go. Tomorrow morning, come to headquarters for a deposition.”

  Twenty-four

  Camilo paced his office in downtown London, a lit cigar in his mouth. He stopped in front of the large window and looked out. The view was beautiful, now that the trees were budding, and the flower beds below were filled with tulips of bright colors. He had a lot to be proud of. His parents had emigrated from Mexico in the early sixties, worked hard, and managed to send him, their only son, to the Richard Ivey School of Business at Western. He remembered how much he’d suffered the disdainful looks of his schoolmates. He was short, fat, and the clothes he wore were cheap and out of style. Almost all the students in that school had affluent parents, drove cars—often sports cars—and ate at fancy places. His lunch was packed in a brown bag. He ate in the cafeteria or, when the weather was good, sitting on the grass of the expanse that flanked the school on the eastern side.

  He’d suffered humiliation after humiliation and was happy when his parents died. They were an embarrassment for a young businessman determined to climb the ladder of success. It hadn’t been difficult to enter the world of drugs when he was still in high school. The underworld had welcomed him as a negotiator between the Mexican producers and Canadian consumers. He’d kept up the front of the successful businessman by building and managing The Tranquility Resort Complex, which offered relaxing holidays just outside the city. When the occasion came to extend his reach to teenage prostitution, he hadn’t hesitated. The thirty-five acres behind the resort, bought cheaply, offered a fantastic opportunity. A natural barrier of old and dead trees, thick bushes, and big boulders separated that acreage from the resort premises. The big barn that was once used for storing farming equipment had been an ideal receptacle for hiding the activities going on during the construction of the prostitutes’ living quarters.