The Beast in the Bone

by Blair Lindsay

  Dennis Hunt inherited his father’s sly canniness and stubborn nature, even if his intelligence seemed measurably diluted. Kapp had heard that Hunt’s father often remarked that his son was “lazier than a pack of mules and nearly as smart.”

  But what he lacked in intelligence, he seemed to make up with charisma. Even at a young age, people liked Dennis Hunt… as long as they didn’t get to know him too well.

  Hunt also inherited his father’s notion of white privilege. The senior Hunt fought hard against Indigenous rights, especially land rights in places where oil might be found. And Hunt often told Kapp stories about his teens, when long rants from his father about the idiotic immigration policies of Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau “and his Paki friends” had been the centrepiece of family dinners. All of which explained Dennis Hunt’s privately held views that lax immigration policies had contaminated all of North America with “low-born parasites from shithole countries.”

  Publicly, Hunt tempered this, espousing “sensible” immigration reform, declaring that “ordinary Canadians” deserved a “step up” before immigrants did and that it was time to stop throwing money at Indigenous “free-ride programs.”

  Less than a year after becoming an independent, Hunt established the Conservative Action Party, and when his dementia-ridden father had a brain hemorrhage on the toilet at age eighty-nine, Hunt used his near billion-dollar inheritance to spread his message across Canada, tapping into the same simmering anger and general hopelessness that led to the election of Trump in the United States.

  Hunt, marketed by Kapp as a “plain-spoken everyman,” promised jobs to the jobless and environmentally sound jobs to parts of Canada where such notions were most popular. He swiftly grew a solid national base of support and attracted numerous defectors from several other parties once they saw which way the conservative tide was turning.

  It was only a year ago that Kapp became aware of his employer’s decidedly non-conservative pedophilia, of the network of like-minded friends that shared his obsession, and of the cop Hunt paid to identify potential victims through foster-care databases and then assist Sechev and Oakes with capturing them.

  By then he was in too deep to exit Hunt’s embrace without ruining himself, but Hunt must’ve realized he was considering it. Kapp had his own indiscretions involving male prostitutes, one of whom had turned out to be only seventeen. Hunt had video of several of the encounters, enough to end Kapp’s career and perhaps land him in prison.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hunt was still in his robe, taking in the spectacular view of the city as the sun set, the scattered red-yellow clouds above the blue-white mountains. “One day we’ll be looking at an even more spectacular view, Tim, from the Prime Minister’s Office.”

  Kapp said nothing.

  “But only if we keep this Herzog thing from getting out of hand.”

  More likely Herzog had been the one to let things get out of hand when he’d built a dungeon in his own basement. But there was no point saying this because Hunt had done Herzog one better, purchasing a rural ranch northwest of the city that—as a bonus—was equipped with an ancient 1950s bomb shelter fifteen feet below the stable and the horse-training centre that now occupied the property.

  Kapp pushed away thoughts of what Hunt intended to do there and said, “I’m not sure we can do anything about that, Dennis. The police know all about him by now. They’ve found his cache. The snuff stuff.”

  “You know this from our informant?”

  Kapp nodded.

  Hunt shrugged. “I’ve had no direct communication with him or Oakes.”

  Kapp knew this to be a lie. There’d been lots of electronic communication and even some private… parties. Besides, if they were talking about it, it was a big deal. It meant Hunt was worried.

  “You’ve contacted my computer investigators?” Hunt refused to use the term hacker, but he had learned lessons from Russia’s infiltration of America’s election process. Months ago, when it became clear the Conservative Action Party were capable of winning the next federal election, Hunt directed Kapp to engage several “high-level computer investigators.”

  The hackers, for that was what they were, were on the payroll as “website consultants.” Whether they were up to the task of tracking down the man who had invaded Calgary’s dispatch systems and lured Ash Keller to Herzog’s murder was another matter.

  “They’re on the job, looking hard.”

  “They know to notify us the second they find him?”

  “Yes.”

  That thought surfaced another worry.

  “Your own computers, Dennis. Are they… protected?” And clean of the kind of filth you’re into?

  Hunt turned from the window, a sour look on his face. “They’re fine. Focus, Tim. Let me know when our people find the guy that killed Herzog… and I want eyes on the Keller girl again.”

  “The cop is keeping an eye on her—”

  “The cop, you told me, is reluctant. I want Sechev watching her full time. We may have to do something about her.”

  Kapp knew Sechev had already made several forays out to Keller’s acreage to surveil her. “I want a look at her,” Hunt had said. Sechev had cheerfully provided pictures.

  “Dennis, we can’t. Sechev is…” A blunt instrument, and a killer too. “Sechev is your principal bodyguard. Let me talk to the cop again, squeeze him.”

  Hunt considered it, then laughed. “Go on, then, squeeze him. You could use the practice.” He waved a finger in Kapp’s face. “But make sure we’re on top of this. You and I both know we’re the only ones who can fix this country, Tim. We have to make sure our enemies don’t derail us, especially with all those little skeletons in our closets, right?”

  Hunt grinned and Kapp looked away, nauseated.

  Forty-Six

  Keller’s phone beeped and three missed calls from Kate Lang’s cell appeared on the screen as soon as she activated the phone. The last occurred an hour before, at 1930. There were no messages.

  She hit redial and waited in one of a set of worn faux leather chairs while the phone rang. Spread out before her was a rabbit warren of cubicles. Detectives wove back and forth through them, some of them throwing her curious looks. Did they know her father, know her, or just wonder why some strange woman had been left waiting alone in the squad room?

  Lang answered the phone on the eighth ring and Keller felt a real smile coming over her face for the first time in hours. She heard a shuffling sound and then Lang’s voice.

  “Ash… you okay?” She sounded sleepy, how Keller felt herself.

  “Yeah, they’re going to spring me loose. Is it too late to buy you dinner?”

  “Right… right.” A chuckle. “What a goddamn day. You should’ve seen Grainger’s face when we got back to Stonegate.” She half-giggled. “I’ll be right up there. Just give me a half-hour. Which station did they bring you to, anyway?”

  Keller closed her eyes and rubbed a hand over her forehead. Lang wasn’t tired. She was drunk.

  This is your fault.

  “Hey, you know what?” she said. “We’re both exhausted. Let’s do dinner tomorrow. I got some big hunky cops here, will drive me anywhere I want.”

  Hesitation on the other end. “You sure?”

  She put everything she had into making her answering laugh sound authentic. “Absolutely. Just wanted to touch base… I’m sorry about today, Kate.”

  “No sweat, sister. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, right?” Sister came out a little slurred but not too much. Maybe Lang only had a couple of glasses of rye and Coke but they’d hit her hard. Keller could hope.

  “Sounds good, Kate.” She murmured a thanks and a goodnight and ended the call.

  Decker was standing behind her. From the concern on his face, he’d heard the forced humour in her voice.

  “Eavesdropping seems a little old school, Detective.”

  “Your friend okay?”

  She looked down at her phone. “I might need that ri
de you offered.”

  “Not a problem. Give me another second.” He retreated into the warren of cubicles while Keller stared at the carpet and wondered just how badly she’d stirred up her best friend’s PTSD.

  Decker reappeared a minute later, eyeing her with either wariness or respect. “The crime scene people put a camera down the grate. Looks like there’s a safe underneath.”

  “Is that a thank-you?”

  He blinked at her. “It is. Yes. Thank you.”

  Keller got to her feet, somehow. All she wanted was to crawl into bed for a week.

  Not exactly all you want, though, is it?

  “Can I go now?”

  “Just a couple more minutes, please.” He gestured to the chair. “There’s a patrol car coming that’ll take you anywhere you want.”

  She sighed and collapsed back into the chair. “Hawaii sounds good.”

  A bare uptick in Decker’s mouth. “Anywhere local.”

  “How long till your buddies open up the false drain?”

  “Probably be a while before they try. Wouldn’t be the first time something like that was booby-trapped.”

  Keller’s head bobbed more than it nodded. Was having her in a patrol car rather than a taxi just Decker’s way of assuring himself he could haul her back if they found anything that implicated her in the next half-hour?

  Definitely paranoid.

  Maybe he was just being sympathetic. It was frustrating, though—despite the exhaustion, despite the tenor of their conversation, part of her mind was still busy thinking he was attractive.

  Probably less dangerous getting involved with fentanyl.

  “Ash.” Decker took the chair beside her. “Whoever arranged all this—the stuff with the dispatchers, getting into the tracking systems—that’s no mean feat. It’d take more than your average hacker to do something like that.”

  “You’re—” Worried about me. Keller halted herself before she tripped into an assumption that might be unwarranted. Anyway, it was his turn to talk. “Go on.”

  He scratched at his head. “That same person obviously feels some kind of connection to you, however that came about. It’s not impossible he’s hacked into your phone or your home computer.” He watched her closely, perhaps gauging if she was frightened by the idea.

  “Is that your way of saying you want me to hand over my phone and computer?”

  “That would be up to you at this point. I’m just saying I could bring a tech round to your place. Make sure—”

  “No.”

  Suddenly whatever adrenalin she’d had in her system was gone and the buildup of fatigue poisons was making her irritable.

  Not just that, though, is it? You have that good old craving back again, don’t you?

  “I think I’ve had enough,” she continued. “I just want to go home. I’ll let you know if I have any problems other than maybe not having a job anymore.”

  Decker stood with her. “I’ll admit I didn’t like you walking through a murder scene, but your reasons are somewhat understand—”

  “Can we say ‘Thank you, Jesus.’”

  “Hey… easy. I was going to say that nothing else that happened was your fault.”

  “That’s great.” She looked around. “The ride?”

  He indicated a door to his right, then dug in his pocket and proffered a business card. “I’ll be in touch, call you tomorrow.”

  “And here I thought I had nothing to look forward to.”

  He crooked his jaw. “Quite the smart ass, aren’t you?”

  “Get it from my dad.”

  He took a long breath. “In the meantime, if you think of anything—anything—call one of the numbers on the back. One’s me, the other’s Sanders. It’ll reach us twenty-four seven.”

  Keller twisted the card around. Cellphone numbers were scrawled in pen on the back, different from the printed one on the front.

  Hey, girl, call me maybe? Is he giving you his number because, or because? Jesus, Keller, get a grip.

  She was longing for too many things at once—a meal, a bed, and maybe a kiss—in no particular order. But that wasn’t true, because fentanyl still aced them all.

  Let’s try coffee. How hard could it be to persuade patrol cops to cruise by Starbucks?

  “Thanks.” She pocketed the card and eyed the exit.

  Decker took the hint and gestured with his hand, walking with her. “Look, when I speak to your supervisor—”

  “Why, why, and—oh yeah—why are you speaking to my supervisor?”

  His expression was earnest. “I was thinking I’d emphasize how brave you were, looking for additional victims. Versus how stupid some people think you actually were, looking to become a vic yourself.”

  God forbid you and Philby ever meet. You’ve both got my number.

  “Maybe you don’t want me to emphasize the brave part?” he asked.

  Keller felt her exhaustion like a fever now, tiny claws in her brain, fraying at her temper. One more question, one more solicitous remark, one more anything and she might scream.

  “Tell him whatever you like.”

  She brushed past Decker into the hallway and down the stairs.

  Forty-Seven

  Thanks be to God for patrol officers who get through night shifts on coffee.

  Keller settled back into the squad car after they’d hit Starbucks, a venti Americano in her hand. Two Stevia, shot of whipped cream, two extra shots of espresso—she wasn’t even a bit worried about the caffeine interfering with her sleep.

  “Gimme a break with the venti business.” This from McInroy, a tanned man with grey hair, a linebacker’s build, and a bulbous nose that screamed hypertension. McInroy was senior to his partner by about twenty years and rode shotgun, his eyes everywhere as they cruised up toward Stonegate. “I don’t mind they call it venti,” he clarified, “but some of them get snooty if you ask for a large.”

  “I know, it’s a big problem,” Keller said, taking a chance. “They should strike a government committee. Study the whole thing.”

  The driver, Gauthier by his nametape, looked horrified at this, but McInroy just snorted and muttered, “Smart ass.”

  Gauthier looked brand-spanking new. Creases ironed so ruler straight on his uniform, Keller would’ve bet he had creases, too—that he ironed it while wearing it. She guessed it was one of his first nights riding patrol, and McInroy was by turns gruff and gentle with him, the way Lang had been with her.

  “Let’s take the side roads up to Stonegate,” McInroy said, and Gauthier obediently turned up one of the starkly lit industrial roads in the city’s far northeast.

  McInroy swivelled to look at Keller. “There’ve been a few burglaries ’round here. Won’t take us more than five minutes. All right with you?”

  “Happy to do my part for the community.” She raised her cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Happy to do my part,” McInroy echoed, then turned back to watch as they zigzagged lazily through the twilit side streets west of Thirty-Sixth Avenue.

  Gauthier slowed suddenly and pointed to his left. “What d’you think?”

  In the middle of rows of warehouses two blocks long, a large white truck was backed up to one of the loading bays.

  “See all those lights they got on?” McInroy said. The inner bay was flooded with light and the truck’s headlights were lit. “Probably legit or they’d have killed all that.” He wound down his window and Keller heard music playing dimly in the distance. “Not many burglars listen to Spotify,” he added.

  “Right.” Gauthier started to accelerate away.

  McInroy put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, that’s just what I’m thinking. Let’s cruise it anyway.” He chuckled. “Modern-day thieves, maybe they need a little music to get them through the job.”

  They rode, got a few waves from the half-dozen workers working to off-load a late delivery, and cruised on, McInroy apparently satisfied that it was the rarest of burglar who would be moving boxes of under
wear into a Walmart warehouse in preparation for distribution.

  Keller tried to ration out her Americano so she could savour the smell, given the other far less savoury aromas around her. The back seat of a patrol car, after all. Just like the back of an ambulance, at some point it had been splashed with every kind of body fluid humans could produce.

  She remembered the list on the wall during training in a rough descending order of their likely appearance on an ambulance floor: Vomit (bile), blood, piss, spit, shit, aqueous humour, spinal fluid. Even then, she’d wondered that they left out tears.

  Robin swam suddenly into her mind and she pulled out her phone. It was nearly 2030 and there were still no replies to her previous texts, but she hit reply anyway.

  Some weird shit today. You’ll see it in the news. Stay hidden. Stay safe. Text me please. Let me know you’re okay.

  She wished she could reach out to Kayla, wherever she was, and tell her the same thing. Crazy? No. Staci was dead. Keller had saved her just so someone else could hunt her down again.

  Except it wasn’t someone else, was it?

  She could feel her father, hanging over her shoulder.

  Sort out the facts.

  The farm and the girls. Social services had fostered Staci, Kayla, and Robin away from abusive or neglectful parents, but each had been targeted and collected by Oakes somehow. Then Keller had come along, the bull in Oakes’s china shop, and set them free.

  Staci’s subsequent murder was far too coincidental. Someone had gone after her, and therefore all of them, Keller included. It was only ever safe to assume the most dangerous possibility—anything else left you vulnerable.

  Someone was worried about them, thought they knew something they reckoned should stay secret.

  This explained Staci’s murder and Keller’s stalker, but not Herzog’s brutal murder. That obviously smacked of revenge or retribution. And the murderer thought to thank paramedic Ash Keller.

  Two different vectors at work here.

  Keller read 12-lead ECGs for a living. It was a routine part of the job. Attend a patient having chest pain, and you had to take a history and vital signs as well as do a 12-lead. The tracings that came from the electrodes on the patient’s chest painted an exact picture of the intrinsic pacemaker system in the muscle of the heart, electrochemical signals that followed vectors of force. Those vectors flowed differently in a heart under stress, as in a heart attack.