Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

by Vikki Kestell

  “Within these marks, sir.”

  Zakhar squinted as his eyes searched the square. Then he saw it in tiny print. Maplewood.

  “Tell me the best way to get there.”

  The girl’s helpful disposition had reached its limits. She folded her arms across her chest. “My, if you aren’t the bossy one.”

  Zakhar withdrew his wallet and threw a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “I will take a newspaper, also.”

  The girl shrugged. “Happy to be of service, sir.”

  Zakhar started the car but, before he left the parking lot, he opened the newspaper he’d bought, disgusted that he hadn’t specified a paper written in French. On the front page, below the fold, he found what he was looking for.

  CCRA OFFICIAL AND WIFE

  FOUND DEAD

  He read slowly, tussling over a few unfamiliar English words. The article ended with “Royal Canadian Mounted Police have taken the lead on the investigation and have issued a nationwide bulletin for Lieutenant Moreau’s CCRA car. The RCMP, in conjunction with provincial police across Canada, are looking for a man in possession of Lieutenant Moreau’s credentials, reported to be passing himself off as the deceased CCRA officer. Call the RCMP tip line if you have information to help in the investigation.”

  I must rid myself of this car and get another as soon as possible.

  Zakhar tossed the newspaper onto the car’s passenger-side floor, then he pulled out of the gas station lot, following the directions the soda-slurping clerk had written out for him.

  Within half an hour, Zakhar was reading house numbers as he rolled slowly down Maplewood Street. There. He’d found the numbers that matched the address in the phone book!

  He scanned up and down the street, and saw no pedestrians, no one outdoors on the blustery fall day. The neighborhood was showing its age, the houses and yards not what they once were. Zakhar surmised that the residents, too, were older and would not present him with many difficulties.

  He observed that the Bradshaws’ house had a driveway but no garage. Zakhar assumed that what had once been the garage had been converted to living space some years back. No vehicles sat in the drive.

  He parked, got out, walked up the porch steps, and rested his hand on the gun in his overcoat pocket before he rang the doorbell. The chime echoed through the house, but no rustle of movement or patter of approaching steps answered. Whoever the Bradshaws were, they were not at home.

  What would Olander have bought from them for twelve thousand dollars? Surely it was a car? How can I find out which car?

  A neighbor, standing on her porch in an open doorway across the street, called to him. “Hellooo! Air ye looking for Shaw an’ Bessie?”

  Zakhar unclenched his teeth and forced his mouth into a semblance of a smile. He crossed the street and strode up the neighbor’s walk.

  “Yes, I am. Will they be home soon?”

  “Oh, don’t know ’bout that. They put suitcases in their car ’fore they left, so I ’spect they’ll be gone at least overnight.”

  Zakhar tipped his head, thinking. “Was there anyone with them when they left?”

  “No, just the two of them in the car.”

  “How long ago did they leave?”

  “Hmm. Half an hour?”

  “I see.” Zakhar again ground his teeth.

  “But the woman who bought Daisy may have followed them.”

  Zakhar shook his head. “I beg your pardon. Could you repeat that?”

  “I think the woman who bought Daisy followed them.”

  “What is a Daisy, please?”

  She slapped her thigh and laughed. Zakhar realized her other arm bore a plaster cast. “Why, Daisy’s a little motor home, ’course. Shaw and Bessie named her Daisy s’ long ago, I forget some people don’t know.”

  A motor home.

  Zakhar relaxed. His smile was less forced. “The Bradshaws owned a motor home named Daisy and a woman bought it from them?”

  “I ’sume she did. Shaw took the fer sale sign out of the back winder yesterday.”

  “And the woman you saw, she drove it away? Thirty minutes ago?

  “That’s right. Shaw and Bessie drove away in their car, and the lady drove after them in Daisy.”

  Zakhar brought out a photograph and stepped up on the neighbor’s porch, holding the photo toward her. “Is this the woman who bought their motor home?”

  She stared down her nose to study the picture. “I should think so, ’though she were a bit blonder.”

  Zakhar forced another smile and glanced to the side. “The Bradshaws didn’t have a garage, but I see that you do.”

  “My, yes. I don’t drive much, but I wouldn’t like leaving my car out in the elements like they did with theirs.”

  He knew she wouldn’t be expecting the arm that shot toward her, palm up. His hand struck her chest with the full force of his weight behind it. She flew across the tiled entryway and crashed onto the hard floor. She lay there, stunned by the impact. He had already stepped through the open door and pushed it behind him.

  He crossed the entryway to her before she could catch her breath. He watched her face as he threaded the can-like extension onto the gun’s barrel with slow, deliberate motion.

  “No, please!” she protested. She tried to get up, but she was weak, still stupefied. As he pointed the gun at her, she threw up her arms.

  “Please—”

  ZAKHAR BACKED THE WOMAN’S car—a ten-year-old sedan in pristine condition—out of the garage and parked it along the curb. He drove Lieutenant Moreau’s car into the garage, discarded Moreau’s credentials on the front seat, gathered his belongings, and transferred them to the front seat of the woman’s sedan.

  Next, he strode across to the Bradshaws’ house, vaulting over the short gate to the backyard. The rear door splintered under his first kick, and Zakhar found himself in a homey but worn kitchen. He moved quickly, going from room to room, until he found a bedroom the Bradshaws had obviously used as an office.

  The desk he found was clean and organized, as tidy as a pin. Zakhar sat down at it and tugged open drawers, searching the hanging file folders for paperwork that would tell him more about the motor home the Bradshaws had sold to Linnéa Olander.

  No. Not Linnéa Olander. Elaine Granger.

  He stopped at a hanging folder when he saw a tab reading DAISY. He yanked it from the drawer.

  Nothing.

  Angered, he threw the folder across the room, pushed back the chair, and stood up, accidentally catching his toe on a metal waste can. The can crashed against the wall and fell over, dumping its contents.

  Zakhar stared at the paper waste spilled on the old, putrid-green shag carpet. He got on his knees and pawed through the papers, smoothing crumpled sheets, examining them. He saw a bit of folded cardstock and picked it up.

  He pressed the card open on the desk’s blotter. It was a vehicle registration. He read from top to bottom.

  Make: WINNEBAGO

  Model: ITASCA SUNDANCER

  Year: 1984

  License: Québec KEF 484

  He exhaled. He had the vehicle information he desperately needed. Still, tracking Olander’s vehicle would be difficult.

  He returned to the woman’s car. As he drove away, he failed to notice that the buffeting wind had caught the unlatched front door of the woman’s house and pushed it inward. He was too fixated on his pursuit of Linnéa Olander.

  Soon. I will have her soon.

  LAYNIE FOLLOWED SHAW and Bessie’s little car as best she could as they left Montreal and merged onto ON-417 east. She struggled with Daisy’s bulk and length on the busy highway traffic—and with the wind gusting hard, occasionally pushing or swaying Daisy. Laynie’s hands and arms hurt from gripping the steering wheel.

  Although Daisy was more vehicle than she’d ever driven, the rental car and the motor home were also the only vehicles she’d driven in years.

  My driving skills are seriously rusty, she admitted as Shaw zipped ah
ead and she fell farther behind. I must drive with caution.

  Yes, she had a signed bill of sale in her purse and the title in the glovebox to prove she had paid for Daisy, but she had not yet registered the motor home. Registration required that she present herself and the motor home at the appropriate government office within six days, show her driver’s license, the resigned title, proof of purchase and insurance, and pay for new plates—which is exactly why she didn’t intend to register Daisy.

  Why take the chance that some registration official might recognize her from the newspaper photograph of Marta Forestier? Instead, she would drive conservatively to avoid being pulled over and sell or abandon Daisy before she crossed the border.

  Up ahead, she spotted Shaw and Bessie’s car pulled off the highway onto the shoulder, waiting for her. As soon as they caught sight or her, plodding along, they merged back into traffic and slowed their speed so Laynie could keep up.

  Ottawa lay on the Ontario side of the Ottawa River. Gatineau was on the other side in Québec. Shaw followed ON-417 across the river, where the highway joined Autoroute 50 E and then QC-148. On the far western outskirts of Gatineau, Shaw turned down a road and pulled alongside a shady municipal park. Laynie pulled in behind him. Shaw and Bessie joined her in the motor home.

  The drive from Montreal had taken them two-and-a-half hours at Laynie’s speed.

  “Shall we have a spot of lunch?” Bessie suggested.

  While Bessie fixed them tea and sandwiches, Shaw pulled a road atlas of Canada from Daisy’s glove box and sat down at the table with Laynie.

  “We’re here,” he pointed. “Bessie and I will rejoin 417 and stay on it until we reach North Bay. Then we’ll turn north and catch ON-11, the Trans-Canada Highway, and ride it pretty much all the way to our son’s place in British Columbia. But that’s us—we don’t know where you plan to go next.”

  He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. “You have our number. We’d like it if you kept in touch while we’re on the road.”

  Laynie had been thinking while she drove. “I suppose I should get a mobile phone, too. Maybe I need to visit one of those big box stores before I leave these cities, a store where I can buy a phone and a few odds and ends.”

  Like a top-of-the-line laptop, a broadband modem, and a coaxial cable.

  “Double back into Ottawa and you should find what you’re looking for. And there’s a nice RV campground, Wind-in-the-Trees, just ahead if you decide to spend the night before traveling on.”

  Bessie set the sandwiches, hot tea, and a plate of grapes on the table. She scooted into one of the bench seats and Shaw moved to sit next to her. They joined hands and reached for Laynie’s fingers, then Shaw bowed his head.

  “Our heavenly Father, we come before you in the mighty name of Jesus, the Savior of the world. Thank you for this food and for protecting Elaine—us, too, Lord. We trust you. Your word and your promises are true, Lord, so we rest in the assurance that you will never leave us nor forsake us. Amen.”

  Laynie blinked back tears, hearing Kari’s declaration twined within Shaw’s blessing, “All of God’s promises are true, Laynie, because he is true . . .”

  They ate and then cleaned up—Bessie showing Laynie around the miniscule kitchen—when Shaw’s mobile phone warbled.

  He picked up the call. “Hello? Hiya, Dennis. No, we’re out of town. We’ll be gone—what?”

  Shaw’s words stuck in his throat. “Oh, no . . .”

  Bessie and Laynie read the concern on his face as he listened to his friend talk. Eventually, he said, “Thank you for calling us, Dennis. Could you . . . could you do something for me? Could you check our house? Make sure no one’s broken in? Yes. Please call me back, either way. Thanks.”

  He hung up and stared at Bessie. “That was Dennis.” For Laynie’s sake he whispered, “Our next-door neighbor. He went to check on Mrs. Rosenthal—she lives across the street. About a month back, she fell and broke her arm pretty bad. Well, Dennis thought it odd that her front door was a-hangin’ open as chilly as the wind is today, so he went to check on her. Found her on the floor. He thought she’d fallen again, but . . . she’d been shot.”

  Bessie gasped, “Shot? But who . . . Shaw, will she be all right?”

  “Dennis doesn’t know. He called an ambulance and they took her away. The police came, too, and asked him questions. Then the police did a search of Mrs. Rosenthal’s house and found a car in the garage that didn’t belong to her—it was a missing CCRA car, one stolen from New Brunswick.”

  “What’s CCRA?” Laynie asked, her attention caught by the words “New Brunswick.”

  “Canada Customs and Revenue Agency.”

  The skin on Laynie’s neck and arms began to crawl.

  At the same time, Bessie frowned. “Just one cotton-pickin’ second.”

  She climbed down from the motor home, went to the car, and returned right away, nodding, her chins wagging up and down with her head. “I thought I’d remembered reading something about a stolen CCRA car. Look here.”

  She read aloud, “Headline says ‘CCRA official and wife found dead.’ Article says, ‘An officer of the CCRA, stationed in Moncton, NB, was the victim of a home invasion Friday evening. Lieutenant Paul Moreau and his wife, Michelle, were at home, watching television, when a person or persons unknown broke in through the back door. The Moreaus were robbed at gunpoint and found deceased by friends late Saturday after they failed to appear at a dinner party. Authorities report that, in addition to cash missing from Lieutenant Moreau’s wallet and Mrs. Moreau’s purse, Lieutenant Moreau’s official CCRA vehicle and his CCRA credentials were gone, presumed to have been taken by the attackers.’”

  Bessie kept reading. “‘Royal Canadian Mounted Police have taken lead on the investigation and have issued a nationwide bulletin for Lieutenant Moreau’s CCRA car. The RCMP, in conjunction with provincial police across Canada, are looking for a man in possession of Lieutenant Moreau’s credentials, reported to be passing himself off as the deceased CCRA officer. Call the RCMP tip line if you have information to help in the investigation.’”

  “It’s him. It’s Zakhar,” Laynie whispered, reliving the moments after Flight 6177 landed in Moncton, when the provincial police entered the aircraft, and an official had introduced himself.

  “I am Lieutenant Paul Moreau, Canada Customs and Revenue Agency. You are Marshal Tobin? Marshal Forestier?”

  Shaw bent toward Laynie. “What are you saying?”

  Laynie pointed at the paper. “This man, the attacker. It’s Zakhar.”

  Shaw stilled for a moment—but only a moment. He picked up his mobile phone and dialed.

  “Dennis? Shaw here. Did you—you did. And . . . Oh. I see. But nothing taken?”

  He listened while Dennis filled him in. “We appreciate your boarding up the door, Dennis. You’re a good friend and a good neighbor.”

  He listened further and brightened. “Really? That’s great news. Thank you for telling me. I will call you back later.”

  Bessie asked, “What is it, Shaw?”

  “Dennis found our back door bashed in. Nothing taken, apparently, although the trash in the office was dumped out on the carpet. Dennis took the police over to show them and said he’d board up the door for us.”

  “Why the trash?” Laynie demanded.

  “Hmm?”

  “It has to be Zakhar, Shaw. He found my bank, as I suspected, and that’s how he found your house—but he’s looking for me. What was in the trash that could have interested him?”

  “Nothing. Just receipts and scrap paper. Nothing else I can think—oh, dear.” He looked to Laynie. “I pulled our registration from Daisy’s glove box. Tossed it away.”

  “Does it list Daisy’s make and model?”

  “And plate number, too.”

  Laynie’s mind had gone into spy mode, calling upon her survival and evasion training.

  Daisy needs different plates, like right now. And I need help!

  B
ut she had no one. No one she could call upon.

  “In other news,” Shaw continued, “Dennis talked to Mrs. Rosenthal’s daughter, Avery. She says the doctors think Mrs. Rosenthal will make it—although it’s about the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “What’s strange?” Bessie asked.

  “Remember how she broke her arm last month? She fractured both bones in her forearm ’bout halfway ’tween her wrist and elbow? The doctor had to surgically implant two plates and a fistful of screws in her forearm to hold the broken pieces together.”

  Shaw slid his eyes over to Laynie.

  Laynie, caught thinking about her own worries instead of paying attention, tried to demonstrate a little empathy. “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, ouch. Well, when Zakhar shot Mrs. Rosenthal, he got her square in the chest. But, turns out, the doctors deduced that Mrs. Rosenthal threw up her arm, like in an automatic defense reflex. The bullet struck her cast, took out a chunk of it, went into her arm and hit one of the plates, then ricocheted off the plate, and whacked her a good one in the chest—just east of her heart.”

  “Oh, my Lord!” Bessie breathed.

  “Dennis says Avery’s calling it a miracle. Because, although her mom’s chest is gonna be black and blue and she has to have another surgery on her arm, Mrs. Rosenthal’s alive and kicking.”

  He looked at Laynie again. “She told the police that the man who shot her had a red stain on his face.”

  Laynie covered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Shaw. I’m so sorry. I brought all this on you and your friends!”

  “You’re not hearing me, Elaine. We’ve been praying, putting our trust in God’s word, and he has protected us. How? We left minutes ahead of Zakhar because of the dream the Lord gave Bessie. He got us out of there in the nick of time! And, although Zakhar shot Mrs. Rosenthal in the chest—an old woman who should be dead—but she ain’t. God has his hands on you and everyone around you, Elaine.”

  Laynie blinked back tears. Was Shaw right? Was it God? Because from the moment she’d run from Madame Krupina’s Spa until now, she’d seen and experienced countless “peculiar things”—things she’d racked up as coincidence, karma, accidents, or good fortune.