by Ron Corbett
. . .
At 11:15 the waiting stopped. Yakabuski’s cellphone rang and when he looked at the number he saw it was coming from the detachment.
“Senior Detective Frank Yakabuski.”
“Yak, it’s Bernie Dowds, down in Dispatch. I’m glad I reached you.”
“Yes Bernie, what’s up?”
“A woman called us this evening to report her daughter missing. She lives on the North Shore. Girl is twelve years old and never came home from school. Or at least that’s what the mother thinks. She got home from work at 5:30 and her daughter wasn’t there, the way she should have been.”
“Shouldn’t you be calling the detectives in missing persons, Bernie?”
“I’m pretty sure I’m calling the right person. No one picked up on it right away.”
“On what?”
“The girl’s name, Yak. It’s Grace Marielle Dumont.”
Yakabuski stopped driving. Pulled over and began making a three-point turn.
“Dumont? As in . . .”
“Yep. Gabriel Dumont’s granddaughter. You should probably head over there, Yak. Patrol officers on the scene say there’s a big crowd starting to gather around the girl’s apartment building.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The land had flattened and was no longer wild. Cambino drove by cultivated rows of corn with thick corrugated leaves and golden tassels, by soybeans and ginseng fields, manicured lawns that went on for hectares, with finely muscled horses cantering out on the horizon. Because it was flat land, there were many fences. Clapboard and chain-link, cedar rail and white picket — the fences ran beside Interstate 57 for mile after mile.
The towns he drove through now were large and leeched out from the exit ramps, a spill of shoddily built homes and neon-lit convenience stores. Traffic on the highway was a constant three-lane stream in either direction. This was prosperous country. The land here was being used. Not like the hills and mountains to the south.
He was making good time and was fifty-seven miles south of Chicago when his GPS binged. It was a special bing, one Cambino had programmed into the GPS himself, picking the opening notes of “La Bamba” because it amused him to pick that song, a cantina favourite, a happy song, much the opposite of what the GPS had detected. Subterfuge when it was unnecessary, for Cambino never saw deceit and misdirection as things that should be avoided. He kept his speed steady and looked at the GPS screen. Saw the red line that lay across the Interstate. According to the GPS, it was seven miles ahead. As he looked at the red line, the opening notes of “La Bamba” rang out one more time.
. . .
The roadblock was set up fifty miles south of Chicago. The police had a good description of the campervan, and traffic was impeded as little as possible, the cops waving transport trucks through a lane that remained open, most of the cars waved through without any inspection.
But it was still a roadblock. It was still Interstate 57. And within thirty minutes of being set up, traffic was backed up for nearly a mile behind the barricades. Ninety minutes after it was set up, a cop manning a southern perimeter line saw the campervan, inching its way through the traffic jam. Within a minute of being spotted, every platoon commander and field commander in the mobile command centre was watching the campervan. What they were looking at surprised them.
“Do we have confirmation this is the vehicle?” someone asked over the police radio.
“Licence plate confirmed. Make and model confirmed,” someone else answered.
“Visual on the licence plate?”
“We’re close enough to read it. Plate number confirmed.”
“Do we have a visual on the driver?”
“Negative. Tinted windows. We have a silhouette. That’s all.”
“Can you tell anything from the silhouette?”
“Looks to be male. Not that tall, judging by the sightlines. Looks calm. He’s not looking around or anything.”
The cop in the mobile command centre stopped asking questions and looked back at his vidscreen. With most roadblocks, the person being sought never reaches the barricades. Almost no one has the jam for that. At the first sight of a roadblock, most suspects take off in the other direction. Or they try to be clever and slip out of the car when they’re stuck in the lineup. Occasionally, they will try to ram their way through.
But no one drives right up and rolls down the window. Certainly no one accused of the crimes the driver of this campervan was accused of committing. No one does that.
“If we move on him now, he may just blow the van,” said the cop by the barricades, who had been answering the questions from the mobile command centre.
“Thermal shows no firearms in the van, no explosive material of any kind.”
“Are we willing to go to the wall on that?”
There was static on the phone for a few seconds, but no one answered. The cop by the barricade said, “He’ll see us coming a mile away. I mean that. We have cars backed up more’n a mile.”
“Are you suggesting we just let him drive up to the barricades? If he does want to go out in a blaze of glory, that’s where he would do the most damage.”
“I don’t know if we have a choice.”
It went back and forth like that, until indecision and fear did what it usually does. The moment arrived and the answer was what happened next.
. . .
“He’s at the roadblock.”
“Fuck, we can see that. What’s he doing?”
“Nothing. He’s stopped ten feet back. Like he’s supposed to. Do I approach?”
“No. Stay where you are.”
“That’s going to seem odd in a second or two,” said the cop by the barricade. In spite of himself, he looked over his shoulder, to where he knew the mobile command truck was located. Get it together folks, he thought. People on the line here.
Then he heard the voice from the mobile command centre say, “Wave him through.”
“Without approaching the vehicle? We haven’t done that with anybody yet. He may wonder why we’re doing that.”
“It’s the safest option. Raise the arm on the barricade and wave him through. Direct him to the median. Everyone else on this channel, back up.”
The cop by the roadblock looked behind him and motioned for the arm on the mobile gate to be raised. There seemed to be not a sound as it was raised. Every cop on the Interstate knew this was the vehicle they had been seeking. Knew the driver was a killer. Four people that they knew about, in the past four days, and how many more before that? For there would have to be more, from a man that killed this easily.
The campervan inched its way through the roadblock, the only sound its wheels turning on the pavement and the high caw of a black bird flying lazy circles above the jangle of cars below. A slow right turn as the van followed the trooper that was backing up and motioning with his hands to where the driver needed to go. The slop of tire over concrete and hardened mud when the van reached the median. Never a change in acceleration. Never a sideways glance from the driver.
An armoured personnel carrier followed the van down the median and when they had gone a hundred yards, the trooper held out his hand and the vehicles stopped. A half-dozen patrol cars popped the curb and repositioned on the median, in front of the camper.
“He’s boxed,” said the trooper.
“He just drove right in,” said the voice from the command centre.
“That he did. This is one odd bird.”
“Maybe he wants it to be over. Yell at him to get out of the van, hands on top of his head.”
The trooper yelled. The driver didn’t move.
“He’s not responding.”
“Give me a minute.”
A few seconds later, the hatch opened on the APC and a black-clad tactical officer exited. He walked to where the trooper stood, unslung his snub-nosed ri
fle from around his neck, and pointed it at the windshield of the campervan.
“Tell him again,” he said.
The trooper yelled the instructions one more time, but the driver paid no more attention than he had the first time. No one moved or spoke for several seconds, and in that time it came to resemble a scene, something static and rendered to memory: the Falcon Campervan with the roadside decals and the tinted windows; the police cars with their red and blue spinning lights; the black-clad tactical officer with the assault rifle; everyone standing on the median of Interstate 57, fifty miles south of Chicago. Even the circling crow seemed to hang suspended for a moment.
Finally the tactical officer reached for his shoulder microphone and said, “Can you confirm the vehicle has been cleared for explosives and firearms?”
“Confirmed. Nothing has shown on thermal imaging. There were dogs trotting right beside the van when it went down the median. Everything has been negative so far.”
“All right. Let’s go get this son of a bitch.”
The tactical officer started walking toward the van, keeping his assault rifle aimed at the silhouette of the driver’s head. He walked slowly but steadily, not in a straight line but in a wide arc so he approached the driver’s door from the left. Not straight on. Making sure there would be a twist of the driver’s body if he had a gun he wanted to fire. A twist that would be the last thing he ever did.
Go ahead, thought the tactical officer. Make a move. Save everyone a lot of time.
But there was no move. In the distance, the tactical officer heard the whirr of helicopter blades and knew a television station had finally arrived. He was surprised it had taken them this long.
The helicopter scared away the crow and seemed to give people freedom to talk, so there was a loud murmur in the air when the tactical officer reached in to touch the door latch of the van, a few shouts and “hurry up!” when his fingers touched the latch.
The cop pulled up on the latch, and the van exploded.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The apartment was on the eighth floor of Building H, on the south side so the windows were looking onto Filion’s Field. The white pine by the municipal garage was just tall enough to block any view of the river. At night, the lights from the sports field must have shone through the windows.
It was a two bedroom, with a living room, bathroom, open concept kitchen, and a balcony that resembled a concrete flower box. The walls were light brown, so neutral as to be unnoticed, a colour you would never recall. The furniture in the living room was a set you would buy at a big box store, a leatherette couch, loveseat, and chair.
She was waiting for Yakabuski in the kitchen. Rachel Dumont. Thirty-one years old. Government job with the federal Department of Public Works. She had long black hair and was dressed in what Yakabuski guessed would have been the clothes she wore to work that day. A dark-blue, mid-calf skirt. White blouse. Hair tied back with a cloth braid that looked homemade.
Yakabuski stood in the kitchen doorway and looked around. There were rosemary and sage plants in clay pots on the windowsill above the sink. Matching yellow towels strung over the handle of the oven. Dishes with a bright blue and yellow pattern stacked neatly in a tray by the sink. It was a tidy kitchen.
“Ms. Dumont, I’m Senior Detective Frank Yakabuski,” he said, as he walked into the kitchen. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
She took her eyes off the kitchen floor and looked up at him. “Shouldn’t you be looking for my daughter?”
“We are, ma’am. But I still need to hear what happened today, and I need to hear it from you. Not from someone else. I know you’ve already told this to a few people, and I apologize for making you go over it one more time, but it’s important.”
She stared at him. His hair was long for a cop, she thought, curling over the collar of his denim shirt, streaks of grey by the temples, clear blue eyes that had yet to move off her face.
“Tell me please, Senior Detective, what you are doing to find my daughter.”
“We’ve issued an amber alert, Ms. Dumont. That’s country-wide. Not a regional alert. Every police officer in Springfield now has a photo of your daughter. Every first responder as well. It’s the photo you gave us earlier. It’s a good quality photo, and that will help a lot. Grace is eleven years old, do I have that right?”
“Twelve next month.”
“She attends Northwood School, is in grade six, and is normally here when you return home from work, around 5:30 p.m. Do I have that right as well?”
She didn’t answer. Stared at Yakabuski for a few seconds and then got up from her chair and walked to the sink, where she began filling a kettle with water. “Would you like tea?”
“That’s very considerate. Yes, I’d like some tea. Would it be all right if I sat down?”
“Please. I have orange pekoe and Earl Grey. Some herbal teas as well.”
“Whatever you’re having will be fine.”
“You’re very polite, Mr. Yakabuski” — she placed the kettle on the stove — “and very good with your questions. People tell you things before they even know they’re doing it. Does the trick always work for you?”
“Ms. Dumont, I’m not trying to trick you.”
“Really? Then why aren’t you asking me the questions that matter?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
She placed a porcelain cup in front of him. The blue and yellow motif, he could see now, depicted sunflowers in the foreground of a blue summer sky.
“I mean, Mr. Yakabuski, that I’m a government clerk making thirty-two thousand a year. A single mother, living on the North Shore. My daughter has been missing seven hours. She’s old enough to run away. Grace would never do that, but it happens often enough up here. Twelve, thirteen, girls start drifting away.
“Yet here you are, the fifth police officer to come to my home tonight and ask me questions about Grace not being in the apartment like she normally is when I got home from work. All of you investigating a missing girl from the North Shore, the daughter of a single-mother government clerk.”
“Ms. Dumont, any missing child report is treated . . .”
“Be honest with me, Mr. Yakabuski. That’s all I ask.”
Her voice gave no hint of anger, or resentment, was as neutral as the paint colour upon her walls. Yakabuski took a sip of his tea, surprised to see it was white cedar, the winter drink of the Cree. Yakabuski took a long sip, the aroma reminding him of winter camping trips when he was a boy, far north on the Upper Divide, with his father and his cousins, not packing much so they slept beneath cedar boughs placed over burrowed snow, gathered berries before the sun went down, drank the ancestral drink of the Cree before going to bed.
“You and I both know why you’re here, Mr. Yakabuski,” she continued. “Maybe you should start asking me questions about it.”
Yakabuski put down the teacup with the picture of the sunny day.
“Fair enough. When was the last time you saw your father, Ms. Dumont?”
A patrol officer stood in the doorway to the kitchen, to give them privacy, the small living room filled with other police officers, the dining table taken over with laptop computers and recording equipment. Waiting for a call from whoever took Grace Dumont. To demand whatever it is you demand when you steal an eleven-year-old girl.
“I haven’t seen my father in eighteen years.”
“Long time. You had a falling out of some sort?”
“That would be an interesting way of describing it. How much do you know about my father?”
“Not as much as I’d like. I know he’s the head of a criminal organization called the Travellers. Some connection to the Traveller gangs in Europe, but not much. They’re spread out along the old fur-trading routes. French and Métis, for the most part. Some people think they’re gypsies. Your father is supposed to be th
eir leader. He has the same name as Louis Riel’s military commander in the North-West Rebellion. Don’t know if he changed it or if that happened naturally.”
She raised an eyebrow. “It was his name since birth. He has always been proud of it. You know more than most, Mr. Yakabuski.”
“My father investigated the Travellers fifteen years ago. After he found one of their clubhouses in High River. It was sick, what he found in there.”
Dumont sipped her tea. Stared at the back of the patrol officer. After a while, she said, “A lot of people believe the Travellers are the guardians of the old ways, great nomads from the past that were never brought under yoke. My father believes that. All I ever saw was a sick, twisted fantasy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Some people believe Gabriel Dumont used to wear the scalps of his enemies on a leather belt around his waist. Some buffalo hunters used to do that. The scalps of Sioux and the Dakota mostly. I don’t know if it’s true about Dumont. I suspect not, but my father believed the story. He tried it once. He had three scalps before he had to give it up. The smell was too much even for him. My dad may have known how to scalp a man, but he had not a clue what to do afterwards. I think you need to cure the hair.”
Yakabuski looked at her over the rim of the porcelain cup and thought it was so common he didn’t know why he continued to be surprised. By the things kept hidden in this world. By the damaged lives that are lived by people you pass on the street every day. Look at Rachel Dumont and you saw a composed young woman, the picture of self-decorum and rational, measured action. Raised by a man who kept scalps on a leather belt.
“How old were you when he wore that belt?”
“Twelve.”
“You didn’t have to think about that. I suppose that’s not the sort of thing you forget.”
“That’s not the reason. I left home the following spring. I was about to turn thirteen.”
“Where were you living at the time?”