by Ross Pennie
“I don’t like this, Colleen. We shouldn’t be skulking around a criminal operation in the dark.”
“I do it all the time.”
Yes, well.
“But don’t worry,” she insisted. “We won’t get overly close.”
“Come on. Please. Let’s go home before we get shot at.”
She slowed down and turned right onto a gravel road opposite an impressive compound surrounded by a ten-foot barbed-wire fence. If the owners were looking for privacy, they’d chosen the right spot. The woods closed in on three sides. Behind the fence stretched two long, windowless buildings clad in metal siding. Halogen security lamps had been fastened to the eaves at regular intervals. It looked new, professional, secure, and forbidding.
“Okay,” he told her, “I get the idea. We can go now.”
She ignored him and continued along the gravel road, putting them at right angles to the compound. After two hundred metres or so, she stopped and killed the ignition, and then the lights.
“We sit here for a moment, while our eyes adapt to the dark. Then we use this.” She pulled an expensive-looking device from the console beside her. It looked like a pair of binoculars, but with more bells and whistles.
“What if they see us?”
“They won’t. Look at those ash trees. They make a nice distraction. We shall be able to see all we need through the rear windscreen. Thank you for polishing it, by the way.”
“Force of habit.”
She unfastened her seatbelt, then knelt on her seat and faced backward. She activated the binoculars, held them up to her face, then peered through them out the rear window.
For the longest time she said nothing as she scanned back and forth.
“Anything happening?” he asked, wishing she’d hurry up and they could go home.
“Extraordinary. This was certainly the time to come. These punters are nocturnal.” She passed him the binoculars, quickly explained the infrared mechanism, and showed him what to do.
It took him a while to get the hang of aiming the binoculars and looking at the night-vision screen, but once he did, the pizza turned to stone in his stomach.
CHAPTER 21
It was about midnight when Zol heard the garage door lumbering on its track below him. It made a hell of a noise here in the bedroom. Maybe you were supposed to grease the bearings from time to time. Or replace them? Dad would know. Before Mum got so sick, all it took was the hint of a home maintenance question and Dad would be over, his truck loaded with tools and his head full of know-how. Funny how you expected so many things in life to stay exactly the same. But they never did, so why would you expect it? Like Max and Francine. Who’d have predicted they’d reconnect and carry on a lively correspondence via snail mail?
He turned on his bedside lamp as Colleen ran up the stairs. When she pushed through the doorway, he could see she was flushed in a way that only guns, death, and sex could provoke in her.
She dropped her purse on the floor and tossed his keys on the dresser. “It’s worse than we thought,” she said, her tone breathless.
“What happened?” Those smoke shops were pretty tacky. “Did Hamish balk at the decor? Don’t tell me he embarrassed you by giving them pointers on cleanliness and pest control?”
She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder and kicked off her shoes. “He purchased his smokes, no problem. Two thousand of them.”
“What’s he going to do with them? He doesn’t have a clue what to test them for.” Until they had concrete information about the murdered woman’s research project, any scrutiny of rez tobacco would be a stab in the dark.
“We did some sightseeing after the smoke shop.” She removed one earring, then the other, and placed them on the dresser.
“On the rez? In the dark? Hamish would have been thrilled with that.”
“Oneida Road. A Rollies factory.” She described the forbidding compound in detail.
“Did they see you? Rough you up?”
“I was discreet. We stayed well back and . . . hey, don’t look so worried. I removed your number plates before I set off.”
“There were guns, weren’t there?”
“Two armed guards. Maybe a third guy by the gate. It was difficult to be sure.”
“Guarding what?”
“Forklifts. Loading a fleet of cube vans. All white and unmarked.”
“Could you see any of the cargo?”
“Cardboard boxes. Quite light, by the way the punters were tossing them into the vans.”
Sounded like Rollies in their flimsy packaging. “I see what you mean, it’s a bigger operation than we thought.”
She shook her head and the flush drained from her cheeks. “That’s not what I meant.”
“A fleet of cube vans loaded with smokes, all in one night? Sounds to me like they’re servicing quite the network of off-rez sellers.”
She dropped her clothes on the floor, revealing the last of the bikini tan that looked so hot on her. She grabbed his navy bathrobe from the closet and threw it on. There was something particularly sexy about a petite woman in a man’s robe.
“It’s the AK-47s that have me worried,” she said. “Both guards were packing them.” She pulled the tie around her waist and knotted it with a sharp tug. “Look, Zol, I know you have to do the right thing by your liver epidemic, but this is a major criminal operation. When one of the guys with the AK-47s picked up his night-vision binocs and aimed them at us, I suddenly felt like an amateur.”
Ten minutes later she stepped out of the shower looking one hundred percent delectable. But, given the look he’d seen on her face when she described being sighted by organized criminals packing AK-47s, he figured she’d be in the mood for no more than a reassuring cuddle. But no, as she slid in beside him she made it clear that his task was to dispel her thoughts of guns and gangs. Completely.
He was happy to oblige, accompanied at first by Marvin banging out a few bars of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” to the alluring scent of bergamot on her skin.
And now, with her head nestled on his chest, and her left hand stroking that scar on his right shoulder, she said, “Okay. I unloaded my latest on you. Tell me about yours. What happened while I was out with Hamish?”
“How do you —”
“Your breathing. It gets that little hiccup when you’re doing one thing and thinking of another.”
Shit. He’d failed when it counted most. Made her feel second fiddle when she deserved to be treated like . . . well, like the woman of his dreams. “I’m sorry, sweets. Was it that bad?”
“Not in the least. It was wonderful. Exactly what I needed.” She lifted her chin and gave him a reassuring kiss on the lips. “Now, who called?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, heavens, I’m so sorry. How thoughtless of me. Is it your mum?”
“Yes and no. But not what you think.”
He told her the story of Max’s shoebox of postcards, mailed one-by-one from Cambodia starting eight months ago. The first had been addressed simply to Max Szabo, care of Kitti Szabo, Scotland, Ontario, Canada. No street address or rural route. The message was simple:
Dear Max, I think of you every day and hope you are happy, healthy, and learning forgiveness and compassion from your loving father. If this card reaches you, please write back with your proper address and tell me about your friends, your hobbies, and your dreams. Your loving mother.
Either Max or Kitti, must have answered that first card. Three weeks later, Francine sent a second card, this one to Max at the farm’s full address on Jenkins Road, including the postal code. According to Max, his grandma thought it was natural that his mother wanted to write to him. And wasn’t he lucky to be receiving wicked stamps and pictures from so far away.
It seemed Kitti had agreed to be the go-between. She’d reviewed the mechanics of snail mail with Max and encouraged him t
o send a reply each time a card arrived. It was Max’s idea to keep them in the shoebox. And apparently Kitti’s to keep the correspondence from Zol.
When had they been planning to tell him? Time was running out for Mum. She’d made her peace with the black-eyed loon, but was she afraid there could never be peace with Francine if Zol got in the way? Mum had never thought Zol had done enough to make his marriage work. For a few minutes last night, he’d burned with resentment over his mother’s secrecy, but the pride on Max’s face told him to let it go.
“What’s a lost art, Dad?” Max had asked. Zol had chuckled and held Max close. Though Kitti Szabo could acknowledge that the Internet made itself indispensable — especially for organizing her Catholic Women’s League events — she insisted email was for business purposes only. Well-mannered ladies and gentlemen sent handwritten cards and letters to their friends and loved ones.
“And now,” Zol told Colleen, “he wants Francine to come for a sleepover.”
“That’s very sweet. When?”
“A week tomorrow.” He told her about Francine’s phone call and her plan to attend some sort of Buddhist retreat thing in Toronto next week.
“Not much notice, but that doesn’t matter. She has to come.”
“You think it’s a good idea?”
She pushed herself off his chest and held his gaze. “It’s the only idea. Francine is Max’s mother. No matter what happened in the past, no matter how poorly she took to mothering him as an infant, she’s an essential part of his life. And it took guts to make the first move.”
“You don’t mind if she stays here, in my guest room?”
“Of course not. I’ll make myself scarce.”
“I don’t want her chasing you away. Please stay.”
“We’ll see, Zol. It might be better for Max if I’m not here.” Her eyes danced with a cheeky smile. “You don’t want him caught in the middle of two women competing for his attentions,” she laughed, pinching his belly, “like his kind and compassionate dad.”
CHAPTER 22
Zol took two swallows of the Detour’s finest Guatemalan blend, his second coffee of the morning, then proofread the email a second time. He indulged himself in an epic sigh and pressed Send. Allie would make sure that Francine received the invitation, in which he’d given her a choice of Friday or Saturday night next week. He hoped she’d pick Saturday for the sleepover. Zol was always exhausted on Friday nights, especially with all this driving back and forth to Simcoe and watching out for deer. How did people commute like this for decades at a time?
Today’s Simcoe Reformer lay on his desk. The front page was reporting that though the “mystery liver plague count” was holding at twelve, the number of deaths had risen from two to three. A twenty-year veteran of the Simcoe fire brigade had died late yesterday in the liver unit at Toronto General Hospital.
The paper didn’t mention it, but two other victims were sitting atop the transplant list: Donna Holt and an Erie Christian Collegiate cheerleader.
According to the Reformer’s city desk, the regional council passed a resolution late last night expressing its extreme concern for the safety of the citizens of Norfolk County. Reeve Jed Conroy was quoted as urging everyone to remain calm while the Health Department sorted out this terrifying epidemic.
Great. Comforting words from the rational souls who controlled Zol’s budget and doled out his salary.
Nancy buzzed from her post in the outer office. She had Jed Conroy on the line. Speak of the devil. Anywhere else, he’d be called the mayor, but here in Norfolk County he was known as the Reeve, which people around here seemed to think meant the Revered.
“Dr. Szabo,” barked Conroy. “I got a call from Grant Dyment the fire chief first thing this morning. He’s findin’ it damn near impossible to cover his shifts at the fire station. Three more of his guys called in sick today. One of them thinks he’s down with the yellow jaundice thing. But who knows? Maybe they’re all of them incubating this plague and it’s gonna show up for real on them tomorrow.”
Conroy had switched from the e-word to the p-word. The man had read his Reformer — or at least the headlines — and seemed in no mood to be either gracious or logical.
Zol was careful with his tone. He knew he had a thing about politicians and could not afford to show it in his voice. He’d strive for equanimity. “I’ll call the chief and arrange to have his men checked out in Emerg without delay, sir.”
“All I’m sayin’ is you gotta get to the bottom of this before we lose our fire service. Because, as I said earlier today to the Reformer, I’m afraid our Norfolk County Detachment of the provincial police will be next.” There was a pause, and Zol could hear the reeve dragging on a cigarette. After a short cough and another quick drag, he said, “You got somethin’ new to report?”
“Well . . . as a matter of fact, sir . . . yes.”
How much should he tell Conroy? Nothing of substance, he decided. Not when the reeve and his council indulged in the propagation of inflammatory resolutions.
“We do have an important lead,” Zol ventured.
“Tell me about it.”
“I’m afraid it’s too soon to say.”
“Come now, man. It’s about time you guys got this problem out in the open. I won’t have any secrets on my watch.”
“We’re getting there, but the situation is rather delicate. I wouldn’t want to be premature in my comments.”
“Delicate, eh? I hear you’ve got it in for our First Nations brethren.”
“Mr. Conroy, I don’t have it in for anyone.”
“Didn’t Elliott York pass on my warning about venturin’ into tiger territory? You better speak to that hotshot specialist friend o’ yours from Hamilton. You know, the blond fellow who’s a little light on his loafers.”
“Sir?”
“My sources tell me he’s been sniffin’ around, trying to pin this liver business on Native tobacco. The idea is ridiculous.”
How had such a boor managed to get himself re-elected so many times?
Dumb question.
But had Hamish actually said anything about Native tobacco and the liver epidemic? Nothing quotable, Zol was sure of that. It was too early in the investigation; Hamish’s pride made him guard his opinions until he was certain he had all his germs in a row. Somehow, Hamish’s tête-à-tête with the Holts had been shared with a neighbour, then broadcast via the Grand Basin grapevine.
The real puzzle was how Native gossip had arrived so quickly at Conroy’s ears. It was only last evening that Hamish had interviewed the Holts and learned something of Tammy’s tobacco virus project.
Conroy swore under his breath and coughed heavily from lungs long steeped in death smoke. His two-pack-a-day habit was common knowledge. As was his contempt for provincial legislation that now kept him from smoking inside any building except his own home.
“Dammit,” Conway said, once he finally finished coughing. “When will you guys give the tobacco industry a break? You know how important tobacco has always been to our local economy.”
Zol knew from his dad that Conroy was tight with the local growers and counted on their support at election time. And though a property developer himself, Conroy had remained absolutely silent on the debacle over Dover Creeks Estates. Dad said that Conroy was terrified that any of his numerous properties in Norfolk County could be the object of the next Mohawk land grab. Did the reeve have informants stationed deep in the rez?
The call ended with Conroy telling Zol to get the damned lead out, leaving Zol pondering his cold and lifeless coffee.
Conroy was right, of course. This liver thing wasn’t going to stop at Erie Christian Collegiate and the Simcoe Fire Service. Police officers, teachers, bus drivers, power plant workers — any of them could be next.
Nancy slipped in with a message. Dr. Hitchin had called from Simcoe Emerg wh
ile Zol was on the other line. A school principal had arrived in Emerg this morning — weak, delirious, and jaundiced. His name — Walter Vorst.
Zol put his head in his hands. Was this ever going to end?
He looked up and stared out the window. He hated the gangster rap scrawled on the wall behind the parking lot. At the muffler shop next door, a cube van pulled in with a delivery of auto parts. Last night on the rez, Colleen had watched five cube vans take delivery of a large shipment of Rollies. Those hundreds of thousands of smokes could be anywhere by now. How many of them were contaminated with a liver poison?
Whether Dennis Badger admitted it or not, he held the key to the epidemic. Zol was sure of that now. But until the team discovered how Native tobacco was poisoning some livers but not others, he had nothing concrete to take to the Badger. No evidence to confront him with. Just an empty plea for cooperation.
Concrete evidence or not, he and the Badger had to meet face to face. If not today, tomorrow. Dennis had to be persuaded to withdraw his tobacco products from the market until the liver thing got sorted out. And the Badger needed to pressure the Rollies barons to do the same.
Zol knew that asking for a temporary shutdown of the smoke shops was one thing, but what would the Badger have to say about the dozen eighteen-wheelers Colleen had spotted outside his Hat-Trick factory? Did he care how many livers that cargo might poison? Maybe he’d care if he could be persuaded that killing off livers was bad for his business.
As Zol gazed through the window, he imagined his former schoolmate swooping in aboard his private helicopter. Was there anything that anyone could do or say that would get the guy to listen?
CHAPTER 23
The shadows were beginning to lengthen as Zol got into the minivan and headed for his six o’clock appointment. Too bad there wasn’t enough time to pick up a tall one at the Detour on the way out of town. He could do with the hit.
