The Beast in the Bone

by Blair Lindsay

  Focus. Time’s done for feeling all introspective and sorry for yourself.

  Nothing unusual lurked in the front or back seats of Sechev’s car. Not even any loose papers or wrappers. On a cop show, there’d be an address pad or an incriminating business card on the dash and the cops would easily access the suspect’s cellphone. Bunk, of course. It would be protected by a code.

  Facial or thumbprint recognition?

  But Keller was reluctant to (a) dig through Sechev’s bloody clothing to find his phone and (b) fool around trying to get his phone to recognize his bloodied fingers or his dead face. She guessed facial recognition algorithms might be suspicious of the brand-new hole in Sechev’s forehead.

  Besides, there might be an easier way.

  She slid the key into the ignition and twisted it so the car’s electrical systems came on. In the middle of the console was a touchscreen, displaying options. Phone, Entertainment, Climate… Navigation.

  She hooked a finger under the hoodie again and pressed Navigation, and was rewarded with more options, a set of preprogramed destinations among them, set by Sechev or whoever else used the car.

  Her heart beat faster and she bit her lip as she scrolled through them. Several led to office buildings in downtown Calgary. Possible but unlikely. Too ballsy by far for these guys. Oakes, with his house in the rural wilderness, might not have exemplified their modus operandi, but it felt more like what a ring of human traffickers would choose.

  Another destination led to a roadside rest stop just south of Red Deer. A meeting place? If she checked Google Maps, she was confident there’d be a forested area and washrooms or other such buildings. Similar spots were earmarked around Edmonton’s highways, all remote-looking.

  Too many and too far away to check before her Narcan ran out. She would have to skip these, but that was okay. They had the feel of crime scenes, but not tonight’s crime scene. Besides, she was looking for something else.

  She scanned up and down the entries, then saw it and her heart began to pound harder in her chest.

  Palomino Palace.

  The preprogramed destination was about twenty kilometres north of Ghost Lake and just south of Water Valley. Convenient but also remote. Lots of farms and acreages out there, but none very close together and no well-travelled roads anywhere nearby.

  … And the bookmarked rest stop south of Red Deer. Had Sechev or some other flunky met Robin’s captor there? Keller looked at the map. Yes. South of the rest stop were many highway exits, many options to get to Palomino Palace over near-deserted rural roads running west.

  She pulled out her own phone.

  No Signal.

  Tried 9-1-1 anyway.

  Call Failed.

  That was all right. If she was correct and Sechev had a jammer in his car, her phone would become functional again a kilometre or two away from here. She punched the lat/long coordinates of Palamino Palace into her phone with clumsy fingers and stepped back from the car, grateful to be away from the scent traceries of the man she had killed.

  The snow was coming down hard now. She had to go.

  Wait. One more thing to check.

  She groped under the dash and found the trunk release. A satisfying pop as it lurched open. She circled the car, her phone held high with the flashlight app on, steeling herself against what she might find inside.

  But the trunk was full of computers. Two laptops and one desktop, plus accessories. Not placed carefully, dumped inside like junk. There was also a four-foot roll of plastic wrap—she tried not to think about what that was for—and a large, hard-shelled Pelican case.

  Was the jammer in the case? Probably, unless her phone was dead for some other reason. Could Hunt have gotten it taken off the grid? Did he have friends in the police?

  Paranoid again.

  But even paranoids had enemies, and something was niggling at the edge of her consciousness about police, about Oakes the security guard, who might have had friends in the police force, even if he never made it there himself.

  Like you have time to think this all through.

  Arm under her hoodie, she slammed the trunk closed.

  She figured she could be at the Palace in about forty minutes and phone Decker and Sanders again on the way. She wiped Sechev’s keys and threw them onto his front seat.

  The wind came up and waves of thick snow streamed past her in flurried curls that reminded her of frosted Christmas windows.

  Focus.

  She stood stock-still and lifted her face to the snow, letting its coolness steady her. When she felt her heart rate slow to something like normal, she dug her own keys out and got into her car.

  Seventy-One

  0145 hrs

  That number again. Hunt. The Fixer swore and glanced around at the wide office, looking for a place of privacy. Most nights there were a few cops pulling all-nighters in the cubicle farm, working one case or another. But not tonight.

  Lucky.

  Cautious anyway, he entered an unused office and shut the door, glancing at his watch.

  Shit, this can’t be good.

  He tapped the answer key. “What?”

  “Good evening to you too,” Hunt said.

  “Guess that plate worked out for you.”

  “It did… So glad you’re still up. Would hate to get you out of bed.” Stress in Hunt’s voice, despite the glib manner.

  “What is it?”

  “Got something else for you now.”

  “I’m not a twenty-four-hour drive-through. It’ll have to wait till morning.”

  “I want you to check on something at Ash Keller’s house.”

  A wave of apprehension washed over him. “At two in the morning? You worried she’s having bad dreams?”

  A long pause. “We felt it was best to clear up everything at once. Sechev was deployed to take care of her.”

  Deployed. Right. Hunt said “take care of her” like an actor fumbling lines in a B movie. The Fixer closed his eyes and cursed under his breath.

  “I very specifically told you not to do that. This isn’t like TV. You should’ve let it lie for a few days, let me handle it.”

  “I decided it would be best to ‘handle it,’ as you say, all at once.”

  “Then you’re an idiot.”

  “What did you say?”

  The Fixer ignored the sudden rage in Hunt’s voice. “In LA, they assign two detectives to every murder case. Two. Do you know how many cops get assigned here?”

  “Don’t you ever dare insult me again, and don’t you fucking lecture me, either, you little shit. You work for me. Are we clear?”

  “You need lecturing, asshole. It’s possible they could connect Arcand to Herzog’s murder, but there’d be a bare chance that would be the end of it. Coincidence he got murdered by a burglar. With Keller dead, too, they’ll go fucking nuts. Hero paramedic murdered? The media will never get enough of it. There might be a dozen cops working a murder up here, more even. If they suspect a connection, they’ll do a full-court press. And they’ll get results, you fucking imbecile.”

  “I told you, don’t insult me. There are consequences to—”

  “Don’t waste my time. Why did you call?”

  “I called because you work for me,” Hunt repeated, breathing hard into the phone. “And I have a job for you.”

  “You can shove—”

  “Shut up and listen to me. It’s done. And I’m not stupid. Sechev is making it look like an overdose.” He said it with a touch of glee. “Not a murder, get it? I’m far more intelligent than you could possibly imagine.”

  The Fixer held the phone back from his ear. He’d never viewed Hunt as a genius, but this was like talking to a kindergartner. He closed his eyes and tried to envision Sechev, with his gorilla mentality and tactics gleaned from the Russian mafia, pulling off something as subtle as a faked drug overdose.

  Not in a million years. “What went wrong?”

  A pause on the other end, probably Hunt unsure if he
was done explaining how smart he was. “We haven’t heard from him.”

  “Generalities aren’t going to help. Give me details.”

  “Sechev arrived at her place just after midnight. He was supposed to message me when it was done.”

  “Then maybe it’s not ‘done’ yet.”

  “I’ve sent him several texts. He hasn’t responded.”

  “Murder sometimes takes a while. How exactly is he making it look like an overdose?”

  “Keeping a gun on her and making her eat pills. Fentanyl.”

  A headache began building. Of course something had gone wrong. But the “gone wrong” should have meant Sechev had to shoot her, making things go faster than anticipated, not slower. Hunt was right to be worried.

  “All right. I’ll drive by. Take me about forty minutes to get there.”

  “Just make it quick. And—”

  The Fixer ended the call, then scrolled through his directory until he found Sechev’s number and texted him.

  H worried. Respond immediately.

  Waited. Less than a minute later his phone pinged.

  Message Failed.

  He tapped Resend.

  Message Failed.

  “Idiot.”

  He swiped away the phone screen and tapped at the GPS tracker app, his gaze automatically shifting around the office to verify he was still alone. On his phone, a swirling circle resolved into a detailed map, Keller’s car a bright, pulsing dot in the middle of it. It was on the move, nearly five kilometres from her house, heading steadily west. In the middle of the fucking night.

  “Fucking hell.”

  And it had to be her. There was no way Sechev would’ve chosen to use Keller’s car to dispose of her body.

  He texted Sechev again.

  Message Failed.

  He checked the app again. Keller had passed over Highway 2 and was still moving west. He frowned. There wasn’t much out that way, except…

  The Palace.

  “Fuck me sideways.”

  He slipped the phone into his pocket, quickstepping to the door and out into the snowstorm.

  Seventy-Two

  0200 hrs

  Keller was seven kilometres out from home when her phone rang. She’d been focusing on the road with some difficulty, her mind wandering back to her struggle with Sechev and the awful punch the gun made when she’d pulled the trigger.

  The phone chimed again and she realized she must be out of range of the jammer.

  Cool.

  She tapped the button on her steering wheel to send the call to the in-car speakers without bothering to check the number. Speaking to almost anyone would be an improvement over the last couple of hours.

  “Ash?”

  “Tyler?”

  “Yes.” He laughed. “Sorry if I woke you, it’s just—oh shit, of course I woke you.”

  “No, not really.”

  A pause. “It sounds like… Are you in your car? You get called in or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  Another pause. Because although he’d suggested it, it was unlikely any medic would get called in at two in the morning, and if they did, it would be because everyone was being called in due to some disaster—a plane crash, a bombing, Godzilla attack. And Atchison would already be aware of such circumstances because Calgary Metro would have called anyone and everyone else before they ever got desperate enough to call in Ash Keller.

  “Okay…” His puzzled tone evaporated quickly. “Hey, I’m calling ’cause Kate’s awake. She’s still intubated but she’s writing on a pad. She’s asking for you. Can you come by?”

  Her heart leapt. “Oh my god, that’s fantastic.”

  “Yeah, right? Can you stop by? I mean… are you on your way to work?”

  “Not work,” Keller said. “It’s…”

  It’s just that I shot someone who tried to kill me, and I have to go save this girl I met once at a hostage taking and if I take the time to involve the police, who I should really be calling right this fucking minute, the delay might get the girl killed because the police probably won’t believe a single thing I’m saying.

  “I can’t right now. In the morning though. I promise.”

  “Okay.” Atchison sounded distant now, wounded that she wasn’t coming straight in to see her best friend.

  “I’ll be there soon as I can, I promise.” Unless I’m dead or in jail. Both very much on tonight’s menu, but no point in telling Atchison that.

  “Ash, are you all right?”

  She bit her lip. “Never better. Give Kate my love, okay?”

  Keller hung up.

  The snow was thickening, a starscape of ragged, clotted flakes coming straight at her windshield. It was almost hypnotizing, and that was a bad sign. In a few minutes she would pull over and give herself another shot of naloxone, and hope against hope that her body was in the meantime metabolizing the narcotic Sechev had force-fed her.

  Then call 9-1-1.

  Hey, have I got a story for you.

  Her phone rang again.

  “I am one hot prospect tonight,” she murmured to herself as she glanced at the number.

  Decker. Now you call me.

  She answered. “Hey there.”

  “Ash?”

  “Harry.” She suppressed a giggle.

  Definitely time for a shot.

  Decker sighed hard in unvarnished exasperation. “You called my partner over an hour ago. We’ve been trying to reach you ever since.”

  “Sorry about that.” A chuckle threatened to burble up. “There was a guy trying to kill me and I couldn’t call back.”

  “What did you say? Where are you?”

  She bit down hard against laughter.

  Jesus, that was quick. You’re fucking high.

  And she was. Rapture was twisting its way into the edges of the thickening snowstorm outside her windshield, pulling everything into a soft fuzziness encircling her vision. She eased her foot against the brake, slowly applying pressure as she pulled onto the shoulder of the road.

  “Keller. Ash. Where are you?”

  She blinked. She’d been on the verge of passing out. She ground a fist against her broken rib. Not too hard. No pneumothoraces, please. But the action ignited pain deep enough to drag her to the surface of her reverie.

  “Ash. Tell me what’s going on?”

  She dug into her thigh pockets. What was left? One syringe still full but several vials of naloxone she could refill from, if she could keep her hands from shaking long enough to draw it up. It would have to be enough to keep her going—long enough to find Robin, anyway. Just one thing. Just that thing.

  “Ash?” Decker’s voice held frank worry now. She could hear it even through the creamy haze of the narcotic.

  “I’m in trouble.” She tried not to slur it but was doubtful she’d scored 100 percent.

  “Are you drunk?” he asked. “You’ve been through a lot. I understand. I can come—”

  “No, I’m not drunk. I’m stoned.” She heard indignation—well, slurred indignation—in her tone.

  A hiss. “Well, that’s just great.”

  She licked her lips. “A guy named Gavril Sechev broke into my home and tried to kill me. Fed me pills. He… they took Robin again.”

  “Say that again.”

  “Gavril Sechev.” She took care to enunciate the name clearly but it still felt like she was speaking through a mouthful of cotton. “Russian or East European. He works for Dennis Hunt and he tried to kill me.”

  “Dennis…? The Dennis Hunt?”

  “Yes. Oakes, Herzog, and Hunt. They all have that same ring. They’re connected, Harry. I swear it. All part of this shit. Hunt sent Sechev to kill me.”

  “Okay…” A long pause as Decker processed this, or perhaps he was deciding how best he might handle what he might forgivably think was drug-induced dementia. “Let me send help. Are you at home?”

  She unsheathed the syringe. Where to inject now? But she still had o
ne butt cheek as yet unassaulted, so the decision was easy.

  Jesus, if things don’t go well, the coroner is going to have so many bruises to count.

  “Give me a second.” She rolled halfway over and tugged her pants down to expose her left buttock. The familiar cold bite of the needle and then the sting as she forced the plunger down and sent the drug flooding into the muscle.

  She sat back, capped the needle, and tossed the empty syringe back onto the passenger seat, sighing hard. “Okay. You still there?”

  “Where are you, Ash?”

  Decker sounded distracted now and she wondered if he were working some kind of cop magic, tracing her location. If so, he already knew she wasn’t at her house, which was fine. She didn’t mind if he sent people after her.

  She just didn’t have time to wait for them.

  “On my way to Hunt’s palace.” She felt clearer now. Good old Narcan. She pulled back onto the road. Back in her spaceship, but the snow was wet now, turning to rain. Icy roads ahead.

  “That’s a bad idea, Ash. You’re—”

  Her phone beeped twice, echoing through the car, and went silent.

  She looked at the screen. The battery icon was hollow.

  Her phone was dead.

  Seventy-Three

  0210 hrs

  Sanders sped up the Deerfoot and then onto Highway 2 at just shy of 130 kilometres per hour, mostly courting the left shoulder of the fast lane, dodging right for the few assholes who wouldn’t get out of her way. It’d been a long time since she’d responded hot on a highway and there was an element of fun in it.

  She could’ve justified activating her red and blues but there wasn’t much point at this time of the night. Traffic was light and in the sleety downpour, most vehicles were hugging the centre and right lanes anyway, driving way below the posted limit as she cruised on by on their left.

  She glanced at the navigation screen as she passed CrossIron Mall. Google Maps was telling her to “Go ten kilometres east on secondary Highway 566,” the Balzac overpass. Then it added, as if looking for praise, “You are on the fastest route to your destination.”