He’d glanced back right as it happened, maybe hearing the same noises I was, and I could see his eyes clear as anything, staring at me, as the surface gave way beneath him with a wet crunch and he shot straight down in a gout of spray.
I thought about trying to reach the hole in the ice, or else finding something to throw him and help him out. But I didn’t do either of those things. I just stood there for a time, then turned and walked back to dry land.
36.
The sun was well up by the time I limped back to Gemma’s house. I’d been careful to disguise my tracks, and had taken a while to dispose of Randy’s gun where no one was likely to find it. Flint was gone and I was done. I hadn’t killed him, but I hadn’t saved him either, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
The house was silent and still. Randy was already gone, picked up by the driver I’d hired to take him to New York and his ticket to a new life in the south. If things had worked out differently, it could have been Gemma and me on a plane, heading for a vacation someplace warm. Sitting on a beach, hand in hand. Basking in the warmth of the sun and each other. That wasn’t going to happen any more, not in this life, and Flint hadn’t been the only one who’d taken that from me.
On Gemma’s computer I went looking for a particular business in San Francisco, tied to a particular name. It took a few minutes, but it seemed ‘Bluewave Financial’ was the one I was looking for.
My call was answered by a perky Californian voice. “This is Bluewave Financial Services, Michelle speaking, how may I help you this morning?”
“Curtis Marshall, please.”
Vivaldi played briefly before a second woman's voice said, “Curtis Marshall's office. How can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr Marshall,” I said.
“I’m afraid he's in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?”
“This is extremely urgent and it's a call Mr Marshall has been waiting for.” I pictured Randy in the car, listening to the radio. Relaxing, maybe thinking about hooking up with his cousin in Miami. “It concerns his nephew Joel,” I said. “If you could put me through, I know he'll be grateful for the interruption. It won't take long.”
“Who should I tell him is calling?”
“You shouldn’t.”
More Vivaldi, this time for a minute or so. Then a man's voice, deep, a little hoarse. “Who is this?”
“Mr Marshall?”
“Yeah. Who is this?”
“We've never met, Mr Marshall, but I guess right now I'm a friend.”
“What do you want? This better not be a waste of my time.”
“The same thing you want, Mr Marshall. A guy called Randy Faber stole someone close to you once.”
“What do you know about Joel?” Marshall's voice cracked a little as he said the name.
“Not much. But Randy also took someone close to me, and now he's run out of friends. I know where he's going to be twenty-four hours from now. If you're interested.”
No hesitation. “Go on.”
“He's boarding a flight from New York to Miami at ten thirty tomorrow morning, touching down at thirteen forty-five. I won’t go into details over the phone, but maybe he'd like to see some familiar faces down in Florida, being in a strange town and all. And I know how eager you must be to catch up on old times.”
“What is this information costing me?”
“Nothing. All I want is peace of mind. You can give me that by making sure Randy doesn't take any more lives.”
There was a slight pause at the other end, then Marshall breathed out and said, “I’ll be more than happy to see the little shit gets the welcome he deserves. I guarantee you'll have your peace of mind.”
“Thank you very, very much, Mr Marshall,” I said, and meant every dirty word of it.
I packed my meager things, took out the trash, made sure I’d left the place as tidy as Gemma would have wanted. Before I left, I took one final look around, breathed in the faint traces of her scent for the last time.
Then I was gone. I’d just dropped my bag in my passenger seat when a new-looking maroon sedan pulled up by the curb. Two middle-aged men got out, both wearing suits. One carried a clipboard, his eyes wandering over the building, and the other had a briefcase. They saw me and walked over, careful to keep their footing on the icy drive. “Good morning,” said the older and better dressed of the two. He checked his watch. “Just about, anyway. Lindsay Chalmers.”
I gave him a wave but didn't shake his hand. “Alex Rourke.”
A light went off in his head. “Ah. You have my deepest condolences for your tragic loss. I'm the attorney handling Dr Larson's estate and this is Jerry Kollina. He’s valuing the house as part of the handling of her will.”
“A realtor and a lawyer. I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere. Well, do what you have to. I'm going home.”
His eyes strayed briefly towards my bag. Then he saw me watching him and guessed from the displeasure coloring my face that I maybe wasn’t the sort to go stealing my loved one’s possessions before they could be divided up according to her last wishes. He tried an awkward smile. I didn’t return it. “Have you been here long?” he said. “If you have anything left to attend to here, please, feel free to stay. I wouldn't dream of intruding.”
"A few days. I had to pick up some of my stuff and deal with a couple of things, but they're taken care of now.”
He gave me his card, and that was that. As I reversed on to the road, ready to drive away from the two men, away from Gemma's empty house and away from Bleakwater Ridge, I thought about what I’d just done to Randy. I thought about Flint and how he’d ordered Randy around, and that had given him the power to kill people with a single phone call. I didn’t like that same feeling of control, but I could see how some people would get off on it. I just felt I’d owed it to Gemma, and I hoped she understood why I’d done what I’d done.
And knew that if she’d been alive, if she’d been able to talk to me, that she’d have been horrified, because that was the thing with avenging someone. The people who deserved it the most were always the ones who wanted it the least.
Then I thought some more about Flint's orders to Randy and something clicked. With a cold, sick feeling, I realized what had happened. What I’d missed. Flint was dirty, a murderer and a drug user, but he hadn’t been Randy’s boss. I’d got the wrong person.
37.
I wished I was a cop. I wished I could summon swarms of cruisers to hunt down Fiona Saric, to corral her and arrest her and lock her down before she could vanish. But I wasn’t, and I couldn’t call them on the basis of things I shouldn’t have known in the first place, all to tell them to seize one of their own.
The dope operation had been run by a cop. Randy knew that, and it made sense. All the right connections. But it hadn’t been Karl Flint. Saric had been his partner for years. She knew everything he knew, and using the name of a cop everyone else knew was probably crooked and violent gave her the perfect fallback for when things went south on her. A fallback so good Flint had died for it. It had been Carita Jenner which had made it all feel right, and Saric had been the one to sow the seed with me on that score. She must have followed him out of the Bar None that night, seen what happened and where he ditched the weapon, and kept it. Then she’d given it to Randy a couple of days ago because she knew everything was coming to an end. Took the cell phone he used for dope running so she could plant it on Flint; it was why he’d been surprised when I’d called. Not because he wasn’t expecting it, but because he didn’t know whose phone it was. She was probably the one who’d tipped Flint and me off to the farm, figuring either me or Randy would take a bullet. Maybe the same one who’d pushed the search parties away from where Steph Markham had been killed. Covering her operation.
Always two steps ahead. Two layers deep. Randy had said the voice on the phone could have been anyone, man or woman. God damn it. God damn it.
That’s why they’d never met in person. She’d be
en setting Flint up to take the fall right from the very start. She’d been smart in the way Damien Ackroyd never was, keeping it damned well hidden that she was anything other than a regular detective. No sports cars or fancy houses.
And it had been the Ackroyd case which had given her away. She’d said she couldn’t stand drug use for what it did to people. ‘Flint’ had told Randy he’d be killed if he ever sampled the wares. But the real Flint, by his own admission, had sampled plenty himself.
I knew she wasn’t at work because I’d called the BCI and they’d said she wasn’t on duty. Now, as I pulled up in front of the pleasant-looking old brick house in Burlington the phone book suggested was hers, I could see she didn’t seem to be home either. No lights, no movement, no car out front. No answer when I rang. One of the neighbors said he’d seen her loading up the car and leaving first thing that morning.
She was gone. Probably driven all the way to Montreal by now. God damn it.
Short of anything better to do, I drove up the hill to Battery Park and spent ten minutes walking in the cold along a path lined by bare, empty trees at the top of the bluff. Beyond was Lake Champlain and the last, unmarked, resting places of Stephanie Markham and the Haleys. Everything felt grey and empty even though the sun was shining through the tattered clouds. I tried to think of a way to trace Saric but came up empty.
Then my phone rang, and Saric herself said, “Hello again, Alex. I imagine all hell's about to break loose back home.”
“How did you know?”
“Karl called me in a panic first thing this morning, wanting me to cover for him at work. Since Faber survived the farm, I assume he’s just made use of the evidence I gave him.”
“Yeah. So what do you want? Unless you're calling to tell me where you are, I doubt I'm interested in what you're going to say. You won. Well done.”
“I thought I'd apologize. I overreacted with Dr Larson. I thought she was on to something when she wasn't. That was probably the only mistake I've made in all the time I’ve been doing this. I shouldn't have killed her; I'd still be in business if I hadn’t. For a while, anyway.”
“Business? Is that what you call it?”
“Semantics. Listen, Alex, I still have something that belongs to you. Well, sort of. I thought you might like it back.”
I paused. Somewhere, muffled in the background at the far end of the line, I heard a man's voice yell something in French. The high-pitched tones of a child answered a second later. “What?” I said.
"You don't know?” She sounded curious.
“No. Don't know, don't know if I care.”
“I thought someone would’ve told you. I've still got a piece of your girlfriend's jewelry. Randy took it from her body.”
I frowned. “What?”
“It was hit by the bullet. I think he was worried he’d left traces on it. And I kept it in case we ever needed to plant it on someone. I’ve always tried to be prepared. Oh, I suppose her family were given her personal effects, not you, and they wouldn't have known. It's a silver necklace with a sort of flower-bird-thing hanging from it. Very nice, though I'm afraid it's in two pieces now.”
I thought of Gemma, holding the necklace up to the light when I gave it to her. The last time I saw her. The last time we were together.
“I forgot I had it,” Saric said. “If you want it back, you can have it.”
It stuck in my throat, but I asked anyway. “Where are you?”
There was a roar of wind as she turned. "You might want to move the phone away from your ear for a moment.”
A thunderous boom erupts from the earpiece. “Who did you kill this time?” I said.
She laughed. “Not me, Alex. Cannon. I don't understand it myself, but I'm told it's a tradition. They fire the cannon out over the river this time every year. A little cold, but everyone’s enjoying themselves.”
“Name the place.”
“Figure it out. There aren't too many spots near the border that will fit the bill. I'll be waiting.”
She hung up.
I wondered who, amongst the few local non-cops whose numbers I had, would know about tourist attractions over in Quebec. Gemma’s friend Bethany was the first to jump to mind, but when I dialed the number she’d given me it was dead. I double-checked the slip of paper and saw that the handwriting on it was my own and the number was Gemma’s landline.
I screwed up the note and tossed it away real fast, tried to pretend I’d never seen it. Tried to pretend that I didn’t know what it meant.
Rob solved it in the end. I asked him if he could look up events on the border for me. “Somewhere with a cannon or two by a river,” I said. “I guess it must be an old fort or something, but I don't know where. I heard people talking French so I assume it’s in Quebec.”
“Huh.” Tapping on his keyboard. “Fort Lennox? But that’s mostly open in the summer. Nothing about them firing off cannon in winter. How are you, by the way?”
“I’m OK. Back at work tomorrow, the day after at the latest. What else?”
“Hmm... looks like there’s a few over the border on the Richelieu River. Here we are: Fort St Marc. Today’s the anniversary of something long-winded from the War of 1812. They have an annual fete there. Fireworks, guys in costume, the works. Looks nice.”
“Whereabouts is it?” I said.
38.
Ah hour and a half later, I pulled into the visitors' parking lot next to the hulking stone bulwark of Fort St Marc. The place looked busy enough. Carnival atmosphere, everyone wrapped up warm. Stepping out of the car and hauling my coat around me, I felt isolated, cut off from the people milling to and fro. Exposed, especially since I’d had to leave my pistol behind on the other side of the border. I joined the weekend visitors to the old fort, heading through the gates and up on the flat-topped ramparts. The central courtyard was alive with food stalls, most of which were adopting a pretense of simple period stuff, as well as entertainers of all sorts. The sun was going down and I guessed it wouldn't be long before the fireworks started. From where I stood on the western bastion I had a great view of a sweeping bend in Richelieu River and everything for at least a mile in almost every direction.
My gaze turned inwards as I scanned the faces of the people ambling around below, looking for Saric. Not easy, not with so many scarves, hoods, big coats. She might have been down there, but I didn't get the feeling that she was. I’d switched my attention to the visitors on the ramparts by the time my cell rang. “I was beginning to think you weren't coming,” Saric said. “I thought I'd got it wrong again and you couldn't work out where I was.”
I turned, trying to run my eyes over everyone in the fort, looking for anyone holding a phone. “I nearly couldn't. Nearly didn't bother, either.”
One, two. Deep in conversation. Both men.
“What, can't see me?” she said.
No point hiding it. “Not yet.”
“You're looking in the wrong place. Turn around.”
The rampart behind me was empty all the way to the edge. Beyond, though, on the far side of the river, a figure was leaning against a dark car parked by the side of the track that ran above the bank. The figure waved. “Hi, Alex,” Saric said in my ear.
“I thought you might have had the guts for a face-to-face.”
“Don't be stupid. I’m not suicidal. I thought it might be fun to see you one last time, but I'm happy doing that through binoculars. And don't even think about trying to get round here in time to catch me. The nearest bridge is three miles away and I'm gone as soon as I see you leave.”
“Where's Gemma's necklace?”
“The people organizing the festival have a property collection point. There's a package with your address given as the sender, but no postage on it. I told them someone must have forgotten it on the way to the post office.” Her tone changed. Nasty, controlling. “Go fetch, boy.”
“At what point did you stop being a cop, turn your back on everything you should have stood for?”
> “When I saw that big old house that Damien Ackroyd had, all the things he owned, and I thought about my idiot junkie brother.” She sighed. “He must have known the dope was killing him, but he still had to keep buying it. Dealing didn’t appeal to me, but that kind of customer demand was hard to resist, as was the money, so I decided to go into delivery. Karl was an easy fall-guy if I ever needed one. I was already giving it serious thought when he killed that hooker. When he made a half-assed attempt to wipe that pipe down and hide it in a dumpster a couple of blocks away, he became my ‘get out of jail free’ card. It's all been roses ever since.”
“Well, I sure am sorry to ruin it for you.” Looking at her, the world tasted sour. Only a few hundred yards away, but it might as well have been a million miles. And I knew she was enjoying herself.
“Don’t sweat it, Alex. It had to happen eventually. Karl was so easy to control, once you knew what buttons to push, but he was never stable enough for this to last forever. Everything ends.”
“You were in it for the cash, huh? Was it worth killing for?”
“Alex, do you have any idea how it feels to be top of the heap? Do you think someone with my skills should spend thirty years investigating burglaries and auto theft and then retire on a police pension? Really?”
“No. I'd never have let someone like you join the force in the first place. I'd have let you rot under the rock where you were living.” I wished I had a gun. Pistol, rifle, anything. Grab that cannon they were firing earlier, put it to use. Anything at all, if it could only reach her. Hit her with the fury I had balled up inside. Give her what she deserved. But I couldn't.
The Touch Of Ghosts: Writer's Cut (Alex Rourke) Page 17
