by Dave Butler
“So we just stand here while my mother’s in there with that wacko?”
The staff sergeant’s mouth curled up in a joyless smile. “Yes. Let us do our jobs. We do this by the book. That’s how we get her out of there safely, if she’s in there at all.”
In that instant, the man’s index and middle fingers went up to his ear, to the tiny earpiece Willson knew was there. He tilted his head slightly as he listened.
She watched his face for a clue, a hint of what was happening at the cabin, some sense of whether the ERT members had observed her mother, whether she was still alive. But he gave away nothing.
CHAPTER 37
APRIL 23, NOON
While the cabbie stowed his luggage in the trunk, Austin climbed into the rear passenger seat, happy to be out of the downpour. He’d stood at the corner of Granville and Hastings for five minutes, juggling his wind-blown umbrella, trying unsuccessfully to flag down passing cabs and ignoring his incessantly ringing phone. He’d almost decided to drag his suitcases and briefcase down the stairs to the Canada Line station two levels below the street when he finally managed to hail what might have been the only empty taxi in downtown Vancouver.
“Airport, please. Main terminal, Air Canada domestic,” Austin said to the cabbie as the small man seated himself in the front. He hoped that his curt statement would dissuade the cabbie from trying to make awkward conversation with him.
To emphasize his desire to be left alone, Austin lowered his head to stare at the growing list of emails and texts scrolling and buzzing across the screen of his cellphone. Unwilling to engage with anyone right now, he tossed it onto the seat beside him.
The driver turned left on Howe Street and zigzagged through the downtown traffic, passing hotels and nightclubs and condominiums. The late-afternoon city lights, the traffic signals, the neon signs, the vehicle headlights, all streaked and blurred and ran in the rain.
Just as they reached the north end of the Granville Street Bridge, Austin saw the driver’s eyes on him in the rear-view mirror.
“Expecting someone, sir?” the driver said in a heavy accent that hinted at a background in Eastern Europe.
“Sorry?” Austin replied.
“There’s a vehicle following us, sir. It ran a second red light in that last intersection. That person there wants to be right behind us.”
Austin twisted to look back. Through the wet hatchback window, he saw a pair of headlights close to their rear bumper. But he couldn’t see the make or colour of the car, nor could he identify its driver. His heart skipped a beat. What if it was the police or the Securities Commission? If that was the case, however, why no red and blue lights? Or it could be Hank Myers. Or an investor, desperately trying to chase down their money. Or it could simply be a driver who was in as much of a rush to get to the airport as he was. Nothing to worry about. He shifted in his seat to face forward again.
“No,” he said to the driver. “I don’t know who that is. But I’m in a hurry to catch my flight. There’s an extra twenty dollars in it for you if you can get me there fast.”
“Yes, sir. I can do that, sir.”
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi stopped in front of the domestic terminal at the Vancouver airport. Austin paid the fare and the tip in cash, then climbed out while the driver moved his luggage onto the sidewalk.
“Hey!” a voice yelled.
Austin turned around and recognized Matt Merrix just as the man grabbed him by his lapels. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” said the agent, his eyes wide, teeth bared like a wild animal. “You owe me money!”
Behind Merrix, Austin could see the agent’s Audi parked at an odd angle against the curb, its driver-side door open, the engine still running. Now he knew who’d followed them from downtown.
“Take it easy, Matt,” said Austin. He looked to the cabbie for help, but the small man was frozen in place, his eyes wide. “I’m heading out on a quick business trip. I’ll be back in three days.” He tried to pull out of the man’s grip without success. He had one hundred pounds on Merrix, but the man was clearly enraged.
“Fuck that,” Merrix snarled, giving Austin an extra shake. “You’re not going anywhere until you pay back the money you owe me and my clients. You keep promising to pay us out but I haven’t seen a fucking cent of it, and I’m tired of your lies. I’m not waiting any longer.”
“I told you I had to move some things around and that you would get paid,” said Austin, aware of the curious stares of the people passing by them. “You just need to be patient, Matt.”
“That’s bullshit. I know what kind of scam you’re running. I won’t be the one who comes out on the short end of the stick while you fly off into the sunset with our money. I won’t let that happen.” Another shake. “I won’t let you ruin me!”
By now, the cabbie had hustled back into his taxi and driven away as fast as his Prius would take him, clearly shocked by the sudden violence. Austin turned to see instead a young RCMP officer, his uniform full of muscle and confidence. He grabbed Merrix’s left arm with his meaty hand. “Take your hands off him, sir. What’s going on here?”
Both Austin and Merrix tried to speak at the same time.
“I don’t know this guy at all,” said Austin. “My taxi driver said he chased us all the way here from downtown Vancouver. I don’t know if it’s road rage or what. Get him off me!”
“This guy stole millions from me, and he’s trying to get away!” Merrix said, his eyes still wide, spit flying, rain dripping from his nose.
“First off,” said the Mountie, his hand now in the centre of the agent’s chest, his eyes boring into him, “back off and don’t touch him again or I’ll place you under arrest.” He looked at the car parked haphazardly behind Merrix. “Is that your vehicle?”
“Yeah, it’s mine,” said Merrix.
“You can’t leave it like that,” said the Mountie. “We immediately tow any vehicles that are abandoned this close to the terminal.”
“But I’m trying to prevent him from leaving the country!”
The Mountie turned to Austin. “You say you don’t know this guy?”
“I have no idea who he is, and I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”
“Bullshit!” yelled Merrix. “His name is Stafford Austin. He talked me and my clients into investing money with him, and now he’s trying to leave the country without paying me back.”
“Calm down,” said the officer. “I’ll deal with this. I want you to go park your car properly, in one of the lots. Come back here and see me when you’re done. What’s your name?”
Merrix stood for a moment, obviously confused about what to do. “My name is Matt Merrix. Don’t let him leave the country,” he whined as he moved toward his car. Behind it, a line of taxis and limos sat waiting for the unloading space, their turn signals on and their wipers clicking impatiently in the rain.
“Go,” said the Mountie. “I’ll take care of this.”
Austin and the officer watched Merrix reluctantly climb into his car and pull away from the curb. As he passed, the agent stared through the passenger-side window, then accelerated quickly.
“You don’t know him at all? He seems upset with you. You haven’t done business with him?”
Austin did his best imitation of a scared and surprised man. It wasn’t difficult. “I’ve never seen him before. He really startled me. I think there’s something wrong with him.”
“Show me some ID.” The officer reached into his uniform shirt pocket for a notebook. Austin pulled his passport from his suit jacket and handed it to the officer. “You’re Brian Clarkson?” asked the officer, looking from the passport to Austin and back again. He wrote in the notebook.
“Yes,” said Austin.
“Where do you live?”
My address is in there. I live in Maple Ridge.”
“And where are you headed today, Mr. Clarkson?”
“I’m going to Toronto for a three-day business trip. Do
you want to see my ticket? My flight leaves in just under an hour.”
“No, that’s fine.” The officer looked at Austin’s two suitcases for a moment. “But you’re not planning to leave the country, are you?”
“No. Like I said, I’m going to Toronto on business.”
“Why two suitcases? That seems a lot for a three-day trip.”
“My son is attending the University of Toronto and will be staying out there for the summer,” said Austin. “I’m taking him some extra clothes and care packages from his mother.”
Austin watched the officer repeatedly tapping his passport against the notebook. “Why did Mr. Merrix suggest that your name is Stafford Austin?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen that guy before in my life. He must have me confused with someone else. He seems more than a bit unbalanced. Maybe he’s off his meds or something …”
The Mountie paused for a moment, Austin’s passport still in his hand, still tapping it. He stared at Austin, then appeared to make a decision. He handed back the blue-covered document. “Do you want me to charge that guy with assault?”
“No,” said Austin, looking and feeling relieved. “I just want to get to my flight. I’d left myself extra time, but after running into that crazy son of a bitch, I’m only just going to make it.”
“I have your contact information, Mr. Clarkson, so go ahead and catch your flight. I’ll contact you when you get back to Vancouver if I need to. Safe travels.”
Austin moved like a man in a hurry. It wasn’t difficult because he wanted to put as much time and distance as he could between himself and Merrix and the RCMP officer. He slid his laptop bag over his shoulder, pulled the handles of his two suitcases up, and then, rolling them behind him, he entered the busy domestic departures area without looking back, his suitcases leaving dual tracks on the wet sidewalk.
Less than an hour later, Stafford Austin — a.k.a. Brian Clarkson — was beginning to relax as his Air Canada flight for Toronto lifted off the runway at YVR.
Six hours later, Austin fully relaxed when his Air Canada flight for San José, Costa Rica, lifted off the runway at Toronto’s Pearson Airport.
Staring out the window as the aircraft passed over Lake Ontario, gradually banking to the south as it climbed, Austin reluctantly accepted that his Canadian project was behind him. Like the other schemes he’d been forced to withdraw from, some of them very quickly, the concept of a ski resort in Collie Creek had ended before its time. He felt a sense of loss for what might have been. He could have taken it further, found more investors, if only he’d had more time. He could have finalized the investment fund for the highway and pipeline if the government had co-operated. That would have raised many more millions. He could have done more with the fake property title he’d created for the old sawmill site at Donald, a site he’d hoped to promote as an oil or gas refinery to Chinese investors. More millions again. But that was a lot of ifs, and all were irrelevant now.
However, unlike the previous times in the U.S. and Chile, Austin was abandoning Collie Creek with a very large sum of money waiting for him. It was money he’d moved to a Costa Rican bank via the Cayman Islands, his to use as he pleased, and if he was careful it would keep him comfortable for many years. For the first time in his adult life, he imagined himself calling somewhere home for a few years instead of months. This would be a new experience for him. He thought about the many willing, dark-haired ticas he’d met on his last trip to San José. From experience, he knew he’d be able to entice one of them to join him in his new life, agree to his becoming her tio rico, or “rich uncle.” Money could do that.
He closed his eyes and anticipated the sights, sounds, and smells of his new hilltop house overlooking Manuel Antonio National Park, with the Pacific Ocean beyond: the rich, humid air; white-throated capuchin monkeys chattering and scrambling through the trees beside his expansive west-facing deck; in the afternoon heat, the constant tinny buzz of cicadas in the massive fichus trees in his yard. He imagined day’s end, the sun dropping into the ocean like a stone, an ice-cold Guaro Sour in his hand, a barely clad young woman beside him, illuminated in the warm afterglow of —
A light touch on his shoulder broke Austin’s train of thought. He turned to see a smiling flight attendant leaning over his business-class seat. “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Clarkson?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling back. “It’s time to celebrate. Bring me a glass of your best Scotch, please, with a bit of water. Make it a double.”
CHAPTER 38
APRIL 23, 2:00 P.M.
“Alpha team reports three adults at the cabin,” said the staff sergeant. “All inside. Appears to be two females and one male. We’ve got eyes on them through a window on the south side. There’s a dirt bike parked near the north side of the building, but no other vehicles present.”
“Three?” asked Willson. “Who’s the third?”
The officer listened to a broadcast on his earpiece. “No confirmed ID on any of the three yet, but they’re thinking it is your mother and Trueman there. Any idea who the male may be?”
“No idea,” said Willson. “I guess it could be John Theroux, although I think he would’ve told us if he’d found out where his wife was hiding. Maybe it’s the trapper … maybe Trueman knows him?”
“It’s not the trapper,” said Fortier. “I called him earlier to get a sketch of the cabin for these guys. He was in Calgary with his wife. He doesn’t know Trueman or Theroux. He says if someone’s in there, they must’ve broken in.”
Fortier and Willson walked toward Trueman’s truck and then returned to the staging area. “There are no fresh bike tracks on the road there,” said Willson. “Beyond the truck. So whoever it is must have ridden in from somewhere else. Is there another access road to the cabin?”
The staff sergeant pointed to the Google Earth image. “There’s a rough track that leads from the cabin back to the Donald Forest Service Road. Here. The male suspect must have come in that way. I’ve got a team watching that spot, as well.” His hand moved to his ear again. “Hang tough. Bravo team reports that the male has opened the cabin door and is moving toward the bike. He’s wearing a coat, carrying a pack, and is putting on a helmet.” A pause. “He appears to be leaving.”
“Alpha and Bravo teams, this is command,” said the sergeant. “If the male tries to leave the property, let him go. We’ll either arrest him down here when he gets to us, or Charlie team will take him when he reaches the other road.”
A moment later, they all jumped and turned their heads at the sound of gunfire. Two pops from the direction of the cabin followed by silence. Then four more pops.
“Sitrep!” yelled the staff sergeant over the radio. “What’s happening out there, teams?”
Willson was already moving. The thought of her mother in the middle of a gun battle was more than she could stand. As she ran by Trueman’s truck, she pulled her pistol from its holster and held it by her leg as she raced up the gravel road. She could hear both the staff sergeant and Fortier yelling at her to stop, but she was beyond listening to them. All thoughts were for her mother.
She’d run only a few hundred metres when she heard the sound of a dirt bike ahead of her, the engine screaming. She heard footsteps behind her as well, and assumed it was Fortier following her up the road. She ignored them, keeping her attention ahead. The bike was coming at her through the trees to her right. She hurdled over an overgrown ditch and crashed into the forest, her pistol out in front of her.
Catching a flash of movement, Willson changed her trajectory and saw the helmeted man on the bike reach the edge of an opening in the trees. He turned his head and saw her just as she saw him. He raised his arm, and she felt burning around her left bicep at the same time as she heard the crack of the gun. Grunting, she jumped and rolled behind a spruce tree. She peeked around the trunk and saw the man coming toward her on the bike, his head swivelling, searching for her, the helmet visor black and menacing.
&
nbsp; Willson scrambled to her feet, stepped out from behind the tree, and fired three rounds directly at the man’s torso just like she’d been taught, just like she’d practised hundreds of times on the range. With the impact of the bullets, the rider’s hands lifted off the handlebars. He flew off the back of the bike. The engine raced for a second, and then, with a bang, the motorcycle collided with a tree.
There was so much adrenalin in Willson’s bloodstream that she barely felt the pain from the wound in her arm. She kept her pistol aimed at the now prone man. Breathing hard, she crossed the distance between them, carefully stepping over a downed tree.
She saw the man’s pistol first, lying on the forest floor where he’d dropped it. She kicked it away from him. Standing over him, she saw three dark marks in the centre of his jacket. Normally she’d be pleased with her shooting. It had probably saved her life. But she was rattled by the sudden turn of events, and the reality of having needed to shoot another human being.
She knelt and used her injured arm to check for a carotid pulse, keeping the gun on the man with her right. No pulse. She yanked the helmet off his head and gasped when she saw Hank Myers’s face staring up at her, eyes open but lifeless. “You son of a bitch.… That’s the last fucking time you’ll threaten me or my family.”
She heard a sudden crashing behind her and spun quickly, moving her pistol in an arc as she turned. Just as she was about to squeeze the trigger, Fortier emerged from behind a copse of trees, his own pistol out in front of him.
“It’s me, Jenny,” said Fortier, gasping for breath, raising one hand as if in surrender. “Are you all right?”
Willson suddenly felt the sharp pain in her injured arm and dropped her pistol. “I think I’ve been hit, Ben, but you should see the other guy …” She slumped to a sitting position on the forest floor, her back against a log.
Fortier knelt beside her and placed his hand gently on her shoulder above the injury. “Are you okay?”
“Like they say in the cowboy movies, I think he only winged me.” She grimaced. “It hurts like hell. It might be a while before I can play the violin again …” She smiled a weak smile, the effects of the adrenalin beginning to fade. She knew that shock would soon follow.