by J C Paulson
“That was Day, then,” Lacey said, a huge grin splitting her face at Grace’s reaction.
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes. High five me, McPhail,” she said, holding up her hand. “They can’t positively identify him as that specific child, but it’s so close. Close enough that I can move on this story. Finally.”
Claire Davidson had leapt from her chair and rushed over to Grace’s desk.
“How close?” she asked.
“DNA proves he’s a member of that family, and that he died as a teenager. Reuters is going to interview his remaining family members. That should do it.”
“Okay. Great job, Grace. What’s your plan?”
“At some point I’m going to have to call the military and the Ministry of Defence. The police will not be happy if I do that before they’ve caught their killer, though. I’ll call them and see where they’re at.”
She stopped talking. Her chocolate eyes, wide with excitement, dimmed and narrowed.
“I can’t believe I’m high-fiving over a dead child.”
“You’re not, Grace,” Lacey said, her hand reaching out in sympathy. “You’re excited because you’re going to solve this crime, and maybe extract some justice for the poor kid.”
“Still. Excuse me.”
Grace bolted for the ladies’ washroom and locked herself in a stall. Leaning on the cubicle wall, she dropped her head in her hands. Sometimes, she thought, the cynicism necessary to keeping an objective distance from story subjects went too far; and the emotions, contrary to the objectivity, could be overwhelming. It was hard to manage both.
“Grace.” Claire was knocking on the door. “It’s okay, Grace. We all understand. It’s the excitement over a big break in a story. It’s not your cold, cold heart. Come out of there.”
Grace sniffled, wiped her eyes and emerged from her privacy into her editor’s arms.
“I feel like a jerk, just the same.”
“Which is why you know your motivations are pure, and your reaction was natural. Honey, sometimes I think your heart isn’t chilly enough, but your empathy is also what makes you a great reporter. Don’t be so damn hard on yourself.”
“Thanks, Claire. I appreciate it. But . . .” Grace saw herself celebrating in her mind’s eye and shuddered. “I have to think about it.”
“Don’t think for too long. And call Adam. I know you want to, and you should. Let’s get on this story, okay?”
“Okay.”
“It’s the only thing you can do for that child. Or Elias.”
“I know.”
Grace gave Claire a small, shaky smile, and the two women returned to the newsroom, where Grace’s coffee was rapidly cooling. She took a sip, gave Lacey a quick hug of thanks, and picked up the phone.
“Grace,” Adam answered. His voice was thin and strained.
“Adam, I have an update. But are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just working this case. What’s up?”
“The child’s DNA has been tested, and he is a member of the Dualeh family. They don’t have a definite identification; there were no dental records, and his parents are dead. But it’s ninety-five per cent.”
She could hear Adam’s heavy breathing on the other end of the line.
“That’s great news, Grace. Thanks. I have to run.”
“Can’t tell me why?”
“I’ll tell you later. Have a good day, Babe.”
And he hung up.
He had never been so curt with her, in any conversation. Grace wondered what was going on, fear plucking at her brain. She hadn’t been able to squeeze in a question about how to proceed, either. She picked up the phone again. It rang and rang, but Adam didn’t answer. She hung up and tried again. Then she tried his office line. Same result.
Hell.
Frozen with worry, Grace willed her brain to clear. What should she do next? She thought back to the clues Adam had shared with her, the information he had gathered from her uncle, the names — real or assumed — of the people involved in the fire-setting and the veterans’ murders. What would Adam do next? What had he said last night?
“Tom Allbright will help us create a sketch of Charles Best, whoever the hell he is. And we keep looking for George.”
A sketch of the killer.
We keep looking for George.
Grace pushed her chair back. She threw her digital recorder and reporter’s notebook in her bag, which already held her camera, and grabbed her purse. Lacey looked up in surprise.
“Where are you going? I thought you were going to make some calls about the Somali child.”
“Change in plan. I’m off to interview some people who might know the bastard behind this. Or one of the bastards. See you later.”
“Shouldn’t you tell me where you’re going? Or Claire? Is this dangerous, Grace?”
“I don’t think so. It’s just a business. The guy the cops are looking for owns it. I’m off. I’ll call you if I need any help, okay?”
She was already halfway to the door. Grace flew down the stairs and out to her car, wondering why she hadn’t told Lacey where she was going. Had she told her the whole truth, Lacey would have insisted on coming. Why was that a problem?
Grace admitted to herself that her mission could, in fact, be dangerous. She didn’t want anyone else involved. But what could go wrong in the middle of the day, in a very public place?
Throwing her bag on the passenger seat, Grace jumped into the Honda and gripped the steering wheel. It was then that she noticed her hands were shaking.
Calm down, she told herself, as she turned out of the parking lot and headed through downtown, taking vague note of traffic lights and pedestrians. Fifteen minutes later, she was headed south, out of town.
It would have been a beautiful drive down Valley Road, had Grace been in a frame of mind to notice the rolling hills obscuring the horizon, a light mist scarfing the hollows and painting the lowering clouds a dusty lavender. Early autumn beauty could not pierce her focus. Her thoughts churned as her eyes kept a grim watch on the narrow highway.
She had never before noticed the turf-growing business, nor the Paintball Palace in her many forays down the road. Friends owned an acreage not far from there, near Pike Lake, and Grace had traversed Valley Road countless times on her way to visit them. Where was this place?
Finally, as she turned a ninety-degree corner, a small sign on her right came into view: Green Summer Turf and Paintball Palace, one kilometre. Odd, she thought. Why would the owners not advertise the businesses’ existence with more visible signage?
That’s not good, her brain said loudly. Pay attention.
She turned down a gravel road and soon saw fallow fields that had grown lawn grass earlier in the season. At least there is turf being grown here, she thought, and relaxed just a little. Half a kilometre later, she was driving into the parking lot serving a small building, not much larger than a double-wide trailer. Palace, indeed, she thought. What the hell kind of a place is this?
Should she go in as a journalist, questions at the ready? Or should she present herself as a friend of the owner, and see how far that got her?
Grace slipped her recorder into her purse and turned it on, then slowly got out of the car, looking carefully around the premises.
Parked nearby, under overhanging trees, was Adam’s unmarked police car.
Chapter Thirty-One
Adam’s brain exploded in anger and confusion. Adam had trusted him, even supported him. How could he have done such things?
Sadly, Adrian Cey had said, many of them look so much the same.
That went for priests as well as for homeless people, apparently. Suddenly, it didn’t seem quite so strange that Al had eaten a pastry offered by a clergyman.
On autopilot and fuelled by fury, Adam didn’t pause to think. He strode back to the car and radioed Charlotte to put out an all-points bulletin. He sent James back to Harbour House, told him to call Crown Prosecutor Sanjeev Kumar for a warrant, and to wait fo
r backup before ramming the goddamn door down.
“Where are you going?” James asked.
“To find George Best.”
“Without backup?”
“I don’t need backup to interview one guy in the middle of the fucking day,” Adam snapped. “Get this place searched.” And he drove away.
He sped down Valley Road, which carried little traffic at that time on a weekday, realizing he had no clue where Paintball Palace was located. Damned if he would turn on the siren, he thought. No way was he alerting Best to his imminent arrival, assuming he could find him.
Screaming around the corner that gave out to a berry-picking orchard and restaurant, he began to wonder if Paintball Palace and Green Summer Turf were fictional. But there was the sign, half-hidden by scraggly bushes. Two minutes later, followed by an enormous cloud of dust, he screeched into a small parking lot, stopped and flung himself out of the car.
Adam stalked to the tiny building, threw open the door and found the little front room empty. This was no palace, for paintball or anything else. The games must be staged outside.
Instead of calling out, Adam slipped behind the front desk and approached the office door on the right side. It was slightly ajar; he pushed it open, slowly and silently. Vacant.
Down a short hallway were a small, filthy bathroom, a tiny lunchroom and two more offices. Also vacant.
Adam turned on his heel and stormed out the door, wondering where the hell the staff had gone, considering the office had been left open. A breath of wind carried a possible answer. He heard the paf-paf of paintball guns, men’s voices raised in simulated combat. Adam headed north, toward the sounds.
His cellphone rang. Quickly pulling it out of his pocket to silence it, he saw that it was Grace and answered.
“Grace,” he said, and heard her news about Abukar Dualeh.
Those fucking bastards, he thought, and hung up on the woman he loved.
But someone had heard his phone; he must have been nearby. Seconds later, a man emerged from a nearby copse of golden-leaved trees, paintball gun aimed at Adam’s chest.
“Hello, Adam,” he said.
“Hello, Adrian.”
“What brings you here?”
“He said, innocently. You know what brings me here.”
“May I introduce you to George Best?” Cey asked, as a second man emerged. “Although perhaps you have met.”
“Not exactly.” Adam’s hand twitched on his belt, a finger flicking the safety. Best nodded at him with a wide grin, as if he were a customer or a friend.
“Did you come for a game?” Cey asked. “You would be excellent competition. May I set you up with a gun?”
“I have a gun.”
“Very funny, Adam. You know what I mean. Have you played before? It’s very . . . challenging.”
Before Adam could respond, Father Adrian Cey lowered his sniper-style device and fired a blue ball at his leg, aiming precisely where Adam had been shot six and a half years earlier. He knew the spot exactly; they had talked about the experience.
Pain exploded at the impact, fireworks popped in his head, and Adam reached for his weapon.
Too late. Cey had divined his next move, and fired again — this time at Adam’s hand, just as Best unleashed a ball at Adam’s shoulder.
Adam hardly registered that he was outmanned; he only knew he had to move, and fast. Instinct fired his legs, and he sprung to his right, landing crouched on his hands and feet before running into the trees behind his vehicle. Breathing heavily, Adam took stock, narrowing his eyes to peer into the trees.
Another ball hit him in the chest, so hard it knocked the wind out of him. Where did that come from? It must have been at close range. There was a third man, somewhere nearby. Maybe more. This, Adam understood in a flash of clarity, was no game.
They couldn’t have known he was coming. They did not expect him, but they were ready for him.
He hit the dirt and crawled away toward more promising shelter. A series of barrels had been arranged beside a small grove of larger trees. Whether they could see him, or were just firing for effect, Adam didn’t know; but paint rained on him as he scrambled for the barrels, reaching for his gun. Then he heard something else, something more sinister. The crack of a pistol.
Adam’s brain snapped back to the night he had been shot in the bar. Waking in the hospital, surrounded by the concerned faces of doctors. A long blur of pain and medicated confusion. Months of heavy drinking and mindless fucking. He froze in terror.
Sweating, shaking and completely disoriented, Adam fought to understand what was happening and failed. Was this reality, or the worst nightmare of his life? Unable to turn his head, his legs turned to water and he sank to a crouch, his back sliding down the solidity of the tree trunk.
Adam lowered his chin and peered down at his legs. Six or seven large yellow, blue and red splotches decorated his pants, to the point where they were no longer black. What the hell were these colours doing on his clothes? There were more on his shirt. He touched them, and felt painful bruises under the fabric, covering his chest.
I must be dreaming, he thought. If I’ve been shot that many times, I couldn’t be alive, could I?
There’s sweat or something on my face. Is it blood?
He raised a hand and drew it down his cheek. It came away covered in blue and yellow. Strange, for blood, he thought. Where was it coming from? He felt his head, ran a hand through his hair, but couldn’t find the wound.
I must wake up now, Adam told himself. Grace will be worrying. Where is Grace?
What is that noise? Adam started violently, and almost dropped what he clutched against his chest. Shocked, he realized it was his sidearm. The noise, again. Shouting. Someone shouting his name. Grace?
No, not Grace. A man’s voice, calling him. He recognized the voice. It wasn’t James’s, nor Lorne’s. Who was it? He tried to clear his head, to search his memory, but he couldn’t place the voice’s owner. Adam tried to peer around the tree, to see who was there, but he found that his neck wouldn’t work. He was paralyzed. Whether from fear or because he was dreaming, he couldn’t tell.
They’re hunting me, he thought.
Something buzzed in his pocket. What was that? Some sort of medical device? He patted his pocket, and the buzzing stopped. Good. Maybe he wasn’t in the hospital, then. But it happened again, and Adam reached in, annoyed, to pull out a cellphone. Its screen was alight; Grace’s name was spelled out in large black letters.
Grace.
He touched the button at the bottom of the phone, and Grace’s voice suddenly came to him.
“Adam, where are you?” it said.
“Grace? Is it you? Am I dreaming?”
“Adam, you are not dreaming. Where are you? Can you describe what’s around you? I’m in the parking lot. I need to know where you are.”
Not dreaming? But Grace was speaking to him. She always said he was dreaming, and she was always right. Was she right this time? Or was she trying to confuse him? Why would she do that? He couldn’t see her.
“Adam! For God’s sake, talk to me. You’re not dreaming. It’s not safe this time.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Yes, Adam. Always. Can you tell me where you are?”
“Behind a tree.”
“Good. Adam. Listen to me. You’re having a flashback. You’re all right, love, but you have to fight. You have to come out of your dream. You have to wake up now.”
“I have to wake up now. Where am I? I’m not in the hospital. Am I in the bar?”
“No, Adam. You’re in a paintball arena. They’re shooting paintballs at you. Stay behind the tree, but wake up, Adam. Please, Adam, wake up.”
Another shot rang out, and Adam heard Grace scream. The bullet skimmed past Adam and embedded itself in the bark of a tree to his right. Paf-paf-paf: more paintballs, two bursting on the barrel to his left.
“Goddamn it, Adam,”’ Grace said, a sob escaping her th
roat. “Wake up. Get on your stomach, draw your weapon. I won’t, I can’t lose you now to these bastards. You have to wake up.”
Her scream and her words crashed through Adam’s paralyzed daze. Slick with sudden sweat, he flipped over onto his belly, clutched his sidearm between his shaking hands, and knew what had happened to him.
“I’m awake, Grace,” he said, though a shuddering breath. “Hell. Where are they?”
“I can’t see them, but I can hear them. They’re to the north of me, maybe five hundred metres out. Where are you? Can you tell me?”
“I — I’m in a circle of barrels with trees around it.”
“Do you have your gun?”
“Yes.”
“James is on his way. I called him when I saw your car. I’m going to see if I can find them.”
“No! Grace, stop. They’ll kill you.”
“Not if they don’t see me. They don’t know I’m here.”
Adam continued to shake and sweat, but by now his faculties had kicked in sufficiently that he knew he had to stop Grace from venturing into the paintball arena.
“They may have heard you scream. I’m okay here. Wait for James. Get in your car and head back to the highway.”
Another shot rang out.
“Go, Grace. Now!”
“No. I can’t leave you.”
“You must. You’re not even armed.”
He couldn’t see Grace wildly looking around the property, hair swirling in the wind, desperately trying to spy George Best and Adrian Cey, wondering how to help Adam. But he saw her in his mind’s eye, and a tear trickled down his cheek.
“Please, Babe, go. I’m begging you.”
A paintball whizzed through the air and caught Grace on the arm. She emitted a cry of pain and threw herself onto the ground. They’d found her.
“Grace!” Adam yelled over the phone. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Get in your car! Go!”
Adam came out of hiding as if he were on fire, bellowing at the attackers, drawing their attention from Grace. Bullets and paintballs zipped at him, as he ran a serpentine route from tree to tree.