On Her Trail

by Marcelle Dubé

  She looked up, expecting Mack to stick his head over the cliff. After a few seconds she realized he wasn’t coming. What the hell had he been doing while she was screaming down here? She glanced back at the rift and it stared back blackly. Had she just imagined the whole terrifying episode? Maybe Mack hadn’t heard anything because there hadn’t been anything to hear.

  Laura took a deep shuddering breath. What was happening to her?

  She steeled herself for the final haul up the cliff. When this was all over, she would come back and check the rift. But right now she couldn’t get away fast enough. She climbed from handhold to handhold, ignoring her throbbing shoulder and trembling limbs. Only a few more feet. Nothing to it.

  In spite of herself, she glanced back at the rift.

  Standing on the outcropping was the man she had seen the previous day in the woods. His blue jeans were held up by a belt with a heavy buckle. He wore work boots, a woolen checked shirt and a worn leather jacket. Around his neck was a leather thong with a stone pendant.

  He smiled gently at her, almost approvingly. Then she realized she could see the cliff through his insubstantial form.

  Laura almost levitated up the rest of the cliff.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The one vivid image Fay retained of that morning was seeing that man fall over the cliff. But the ride into town would forever remain a blur. She vaguely remembered an endless walk to Mack’s house and then the agony of being jostled in his truck as Laura barreled down the dirt road. She recalled freezing, even with a wool blanket around her and the truck heater going full blast, and knowing she was going into shock.

  She remembered being afraid of dying.

  But now she was in a warm hospital bed with a police officer standing guard outside her private room. Mack was being treated in Emergency, and Laura was making a nuisance of herself with police and hospital officials. Fay smiled as she heard Laura’s sharp tone in the hallway.

  For the moment all was right with her world. She fell asleep.

  ***

  “And I’m telling you there were at least two of them!” said Laura, raising her voice.

  The nurse at the ward station gave her a warning look. Laura glared back, and the nurse glanced away.

  The antiseptic smell that hospitals wore like cheap perfume was beginning to get to Laura. The ward consisted of one long hallway, with the nursing station in the middle and rooms stretching down either side. The walls were a shade of yellow obviously meant to promote cheerful calm. Green, purple, taupe and orange stripes on the floor led to other wards. Nurses and orderlies carried instruments and pushed carts, gliding silently from room to room, pastel-colored and smiling.

  Laura took a deep, calming breath and looked from the uniformed policeman to the plainclothes detective. Both stared back at her, stony-faced. “Mack sent one man, Barney Hicklin, on a wild goose chase down the highway, and two guys chased me and Jason out of the Trib. Even if one of those two was Adam, that still leaves two killers out there, and I don’t see you doing anything to catch them.”

  The two officers glanced at each other. Laura didn’t need special powers to read their thoughts. At Laura’s insistence—and out of a sense of self-preservation, she thought snidely—they had placed an officer at Fay’s door, but otherwise they seemed inclined to think Laura had made the whole thing up.

  “Have you at least found Jason?” she demanded.

  “That would be Mr. Howell, ma’am?” asked the detective, her tone carefully neutral.

  Laura hung on to her patience by sheer willpower. “Yes. For the third time, that would be Jason Howell.”

  The uniformed policeman, whose name tag read Robards, finally took pity on her. “Ma’am, we don’t mean to seem unsympathetic, but look at it from our point of view.” He uncurled a finger. “First, two paramedics and the two officers we sent to locate the alleged body haven’t found anything yet. And the only other person who could corroborate your statements is being examined by a doctor. As soon as Mr. Hawkins can answer some questions, we’ll be able to proceed.” Laura bristled, but the officer seemed unaware of the patronizing overtones of his words.

  Robards uncurled another finger. “Second, Mr. Howell’s office advises that he’s on holidays for a few days and can’t be reached. Doesn’t sound to us like his life is in danger. And finally, you tell us someone shot at you in town last night, but there’ve been no reports of shooting.” He shrugged.

  For the first time in her life Laura understood why people gnashed their teeth. Frustration mixed with anger in her empty stomach and she wanted to snarl.

  “He used a silencer,” she enunciated very slowly. “If I’m making all this up, how do you figure my mother got a bullet in her arm? How do you think I got this?” She pointed at her shoulder and its fresh dressing. “How do you suppose Mack got hurt?”

  Robards looked uncomfortable and glanced at the detective. She returned his gaze impassively. On his own, the policeman forged on.

  “The way it looks to me, ma’am,” he said, “is that someone got mad and got hold of a gun. There might have been a struggle, say, between yourself and Mrs. Thorsen. When women fight, it’s usually over a man—Mr. Hawkins maybe?” He gave her swollen, discoloring eye a knowing look. “Wouldn’t be the first time mother and daughter fought over a man. A couple of bullets might have been fired, say, accidentally, hitting the two of you. Mr. Hawkins might have stumbled on the altercation and in an effort to stop you, he might’ve been hit in the head with something.”

  Laura lost any hope of self-control. “And you might have been born with brains, but you weren’t!” she snapped.

  The nurse at the ward station stood up, a grim look on her face, and the policeman in front of Fay’s room turned away to hide his grin. A couple of heads poked out of nearby rooms as people looked for the source of the disturbance.

  Robards scowled and looked as if he wanted to slap handcuffs on her. Let him try, thought Laura. She’d had enough of this uniformed jackass. Before she could continue listing the man’s defects, the detective stepped between them.

  “Stu, why don’t you go check on Hawkins? If the doc’s through with him, bring him upstairs.”

  He didn’t want to go, Laura could tell, but he had enough wit to recognize an order when he heard one. With a sharp nod at the detective, he turned on his heel and headed for the elevator. Laura stared after him, infuriated by the hint of jauntiness in the man’s step.

  “You’ve got to forgive Stu,” said the detective mildly, turning back to Laura. “He doesn’t know when to quit.” She was a tall, heavy woman with gray hair cut in a neat, shoulder-length bob. She carried herself with the grace of strength and the assurance of power.

  When Laura didn’t reply, she sighed. “Tell me something, Ms. Thorsen. You say these people have been after you for over a week, and yet you never contacted the police. Not even last night, after you say someone shot you. Why not?”

  Laura’s anger deserted her, leaving behind only silence. She couldn’t admit to this woman—Harris was her name, she suddenly remembered—that she had turned to the police as the lesser of two evils. Now that Johnny Tucker’s people knew where to find her, she had to take a chance on the police. Surely the man couldn’t bribe every police officer in the country.

  She was saved from trying to find a palatable answer by a muffled ding announcing the elevator’s arrival. She looked up as the doors swooshed open and there, striding down the hallway, was Jason.

  “Oh, thank God,” she whispered.

  At that moment, Jason saw her. A grin split his face and he pulled a rolled newspaper out from under his arm.

  “It’s here!” he cried, unable to contain his excitement. He waved the newspaper at her. “It’s all here!”

  “That does it,” said the head nurse, slapping a file folder down on the desk and rising to her feet. “All of you,” she said tightly, pointing at the detective, Jason and Laura. “Off my floor. Now.”

  ***<
br />
  “All I know, Officer,” said Mack, “is that the man was chasing Laura down Tutshi Street, shooting at her. If you don’t believe me, go check my truck. He shot the back window out.” Mack’s head pounded with the fervor of an incipient migraine, and all he wanted was to lie down. He wished the doctor would return and make the man go away.

  Officer Robards jotted down the information in his notebook. “Thank you, sir, I will. Now, about this Mr. Rhys…”

  ***

  Only a smattering of people shared the cafeteria with them, most of them nurses and orderlies on late coffee break. Laura sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair and read every word of the newspaper article. Detective Harris read over her shoulder. The woman smelled of soap and shampoo, reminding Laura that she hadn’t bathed in a while. Both women ignored their coffee growing cold on the table, but Jason wolfed down a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausages, toast and a banana.

  Laura’s entire article was all there on the front page of the Whitehorse Daily Tribune, without a word changed or omitted, and with her byline.

  “Any idea if the wire service picked it up?” she finally asked, not daring to believe her ordeal might be over.

  “Nope.” Jason shrugged. “But radio and television stations are reporting growing interest in gang activities. Apparently the RCMP and the Crown Attorney’s office are working on new information and are looking for a key witness.” Despite their redness, his eyes sparkled.

  He had spent all night on the Internet, sending the story to editors and news people throughout the country. He had also placed the story on the Trib’s web page. The story was now in the public domain—Johnny Tucker would be a fool to have her killed. She hoped his hired killers could read.

  Detective Harris finally straightened. She had finished reading the article.

  “That question I asked you upstairs?” she said to Laura, who nodded cautiously. “I guess I know the answer now.” Harris looked grim. “I’ll arrange for security until we’re sure you’re safe. Excuse me, please. I have to make a few phone calls.”

  She stepped away from the table, pulled out a cell phone and made arrangements for a search for two armed suspects.

  Laura watched her for a few minutes, debating whether or not to tell the detective about the skeleton. Her stomach clenched at the memory of the apparition on the outcropping. It was the same man she had seen in the woods, the man from the photograph.

  She would wait to talk to Fay before saying anything to the police. She didn’t seriously think her mother had anything to do with the skeleton’s presence, despite its proximity to home, but…

  She would talk to her mother first.

  ***

  Laura stayed at the Howell house while Fay and Mack remained under observation overnight at the hospital. Mr. Howell enjoyed the excitement. Laura had to remain available for questioning by the police and—when they finally arrived the next day—the special investigators from the Crown Attorney’s office. Police were a constant presence in the Howell home, although they did try to stay out of the way. Laura appreciated the safety they represented, unnerving as it was.

  The man who had shot her was found within hours, and he admitted he and Hicklin were the only ones after Laura. And no, he didn’t know where Barney Hicklin was.

  Laura was inclined to be skeptical, but Detective Harris believed he was telling the truth.

  “How can you be sure?” asked Laura. They were sitting in the Howell living room, drinking Seth’s homemade lemonade.

  Harris shrugged. “There are methods for questioning.”

  “Methods?”

  “Well, yes, techniques…”

  “Good cop, bad cop!” exclaimed Laura.

  “Excuse me?” said Harris, clearly nonplussed.

  “You know,” said Laura accusingly. “Good cop, bad cop. Officer Robards gets me all riled up, and you come across all reasonable. Good cop, bad cop.”

  The detective looked sheepish. “It’s a little more strategic than that.” She took one look at Laura’s expression and grinned. “Mind you, Robards is very good at it, especially with women. He grates. Comes from growing up with five sisters, I guess. It’s amazing what a person will let slip when they’re ticked off.”

  Laura almost sniffed with annoyance. She didn’t relish the thought of police techniques being applied to her.

  “As for the creep who shot you,” said Detective Harris, “the only chance he has is cooperation. Tucker can’t help him now—in fact, I think he’s afraid Tucker will send someone after him. It’s in his best interest to cooperate with us and help put Tucker away. And don’t worry about Hicklin. We’ll find him.” She swirled her lemonade absently. “He has to stop for gas somewhere, and we’ve alerted every gas station along the Alaska Highway. Every RCMP unit in the territory is out looking for him. It’s just a question of time.”

  The rush of activity helped Laura keep her mind off Adam, whose remains had finally been found, much to her relief. She couldn’t stomach the thought of returning to the cliff—she didn’t know if she ever would. She couldn’t even think about Adam without being swamped by anger and regret, and much to her surprise, grief.

  But worse, every time she thought of Adam, she thought of the rift, and its skeleton, and the man she had seen, who wasn’t a man anymore.

  That first night, undressing in the Howells’ spare room, she found the stone pendant. She stared at it for a long time before replacing it in her jean pocket. She didn’t remember putting it there in the first place.

  ***

  Fay and Mack returned home the next day under police protection, while Laura remained in town. Mack insisted on staying with Fay until Hicklin was caught.

  Laura answered every question, took every phone call and spoke to every member of the press who contacted her. By the end of the second day, she was talked out. Hicklin or no Hicklin, she was going home.

  ***

  “What about your job?” asked Mack. He stirred honey into his coffee, completely oblivious to the amount of caffeine he was about to ingest, mere hours before bedtime. A small white bandage covered the wound on his forehead, giving him a rakish air.

  Laura shrugged and took a sip of her herbal tea. It tasted like lukewarm dishwater. “It’s still mine, I guess. The publisher called and apologized, although I’m damned if I know why. I don’t think he does, either. But the job is mine if I want it, and he’s offered to replace my car.”

  Mack looked unimpressed. “We’ll take a picture of your black eye, then you can ask for a raise, too.”

  Laura’s grin faded when she glanced at her mother’s back. Fay stood at the sink, staring at the drawn curtain, oblivious to the conversation. Her bandaged arm was strapped securely to her body with a sling to keep it from moving. Doctors had removed the bullet and determined that she had a hairline fracture in the humerus. She refused to take painkillers, stating she wanted her wits about her. Fay hadn’t spoken more than three words since Laura’s arrival.

  What was going through her mother’s mind? Was she worried about Hicklin? Laura wasn’t. The man must have heard the radio reports or seen the papers. She was willing to bet he was long gone.

  The phone rang. Mack was closest, and he picked it up.

  “Hello, Detective Harris,” he said after a moment. “Yes, this is Mack. They’re both here. Really?” He paused for a few moments. “And you’re sure it’s him? Yes, I’ll tell them. Do you want me to tell Stevens and Basingham? All right. Thanks again.”

  Mack hung up, turned to the two waiting women and grinned. “A car took a bend too fast about an hour south of here and crashed into a tree. There was a fire, but they identified the car as the one Hicklin was driving.”

  “What about the driver?” asked Laura, her fingers clenched around her cup.

  “Dead. The fellow was barely touched by the fire, but he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and the crash battered him around quite a bit. It sounds like Hicklin, right up to the ponytail and the bomber jacke
t.”

  “No identification?” asked Laura.

  “Nothing. But if you were a hired killer, would you walk around with ID?”

  “I guess not,” agreed Laura.

  For the first time in days, the little knot of tension in her stomach loosened.

  “What about those two police officers?” asked Fay, startling them. “Shouldn’t we tell them?”

  “Harris said she’d call them herself,” said Mack. “On their cell phones.”

  At that moment a familiar knock came at the door and they all looked down. Officer Stevens let himself in with his borrowed key and walked into the living room. He removed his knit hat when he saw them looking down at him.

  “Evening,” he said. His cheeks glowed from the brisk night. He was dressed warmly in boots, heavy sweater, jacket and gloves. “I guess you heard?”

  “We did,” said Fay. She seemed to shake herself out of her funk. “Where’s Officer Basingham?”

  “She’ll be right in, ma’am,” he replied. His hands twisted the hat, stretching it out of shape. “Ma’am, if it’s all right with you, we’d like to finish out the night here. Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Nonsense,” said Fay firmly. “You and Officer Basingham have done a wonderful job but there’s no reason to spend another miserable night out there.”

  Then Officer Basingham arrived and they shook hands all around, said their goodbyes and left.