Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

by Vikki Kestell

  The afternoon had faded into twilight, but she thought she saw a little sadness drop over him, and he sagged in his chair.

  “Actually, I should have said I was a cop on disability, and permanent disability, at that.”

  He sighed. “I have cancer, Elaine. Late stage, small-cell lung cancer. I don’t smoke and never have, but there you go—I’m still gonna die, and it won’t be very long until I do.”

  Laynie couldn’t catch her breath.

  Of all the things she imagined him saying to her, this was not it. She was shocked. Shaken.

  Then she started to piece it together. Thin. Sallow skin. Slow and careful. Bruising. Persistent cough. The signs had been there, and she’d seen them, but she hadn’t made sense of them. Until now.

  “Isn’t . . . isn’t there anything they can do?”

  “They can keep me ‘comfortable’—says here in fine print. When the doctor told me that I had only two to three months, I decided to spend as much of it up here as I could . . . before I, you know, before I couldn’t anymore.

  “It’s been six weeks, and I’m going downhill fast. I wear a fentanyl patch for the pain, but I can’t keep half my food down. I’m weaker. Stumbling. Falling if I’m not mindful. I’ll be packing up a week from Monday, heading back to Winnipeg. To a hospice center.”

  The gun tucked inside her waistband dug into her skin, and she felt ashamed of the motives she’d accused Roger of.

  “I’m so sorry, Rog.” For more than you know.

  “It’s not your fault, Elaine . . . and, anyway, it’s going to be okay. Not the dying part—I doubt that will be fun—but afterward? I know where I’m going when I die, and when I get there? It’ll be better than okay. It’ll be awesome. Because I’ll see Jesus.”

  He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I wanted to reiterate my offer. I’d like to help you.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a folded wad of cash. “I don’t need your money, so I’m returning it. Let’s keep you off the grid a while longer, shall we? Just stay. Don’t use your credit card.”

  “But . . .”

  “And maybe . . . maybe you can make sure I can get myself out of here, on the road when it comes time?”

  Laynie took the money, but her hands were shaking. “Yeah. I can do that. And thank you. I . . . I don’t understand it, but everywhere I’ve been since I . . . since I left, circumstances have pretty much gone my way—even when it looked like they hadn’t—and people, complete strangers . . . strangers like you, have helped me.”

  “Well, all those things, those blessings? You do know it’s the Lord, right? That he’s calling to you, trying to get your attention? I knew it that day when you drove up here and asked to camp out under my hay barn. Might as well have been a golden, neon arrow pointing from heaven down to you, it was that obvious in my spirit.”

  He coughed for a minute, then caught his breath. “I mean, someone must really be pounding on the gates of heaven, praying up a storm for you, eh?”

  A month ago, even just a week, Laynie would have snarled at him. Cursed him. Today, she couldn’t deny what he said.

  “I think it has to be my sister, Kari. My mama and dad, too. And the couple who sold Daisy to me.”

  He made a face. “Daisy?”

  “Yeah. Daisy. My trippy hippy-mobile.”

  “Um, yeah. I wasn’t goin’ to say anything, but whew! Who picked that upholstery fabric, eh? And that beaded curtain? Haven’t seen one of those since the sixties.”

  They laughed—which made him cough and cough—then they laughed again. The fire crackled and they talked. They roasted sausages on sticks over the fire, Laynie eating and Roger trying but unable to swallow more than a bite or two. Opening up to each other.

  As evening drew on, Laynie sighed in concern for Rog, concern mixed with relief. She didn’t need to leave this hiding place yet, this place of peace. She was safe again.

  For a little longer.

  Chapter 25

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON, A week later, Roger knocked on Laynie’s door. She figured he’d be coming. Last night as they sat before the firepit—they’d made a standing event of meeting there each evening since that first time—he’d reminded her that he’d be leaving the following morning.

  When she answered his knock, he was leaned against Daisy, hanging on the door’s grab handle, barely standing. She stepped down from Daisy’s doorway and pulled a little folding camp seat after her, knowing he needed it. He tried to sit, but his legs gave out. She caught him, helped him down to the seat, kept him from falling over.

  It grieved Laynie to see how quickly he’d deteriorated. In just days, he’d gone from noticeably thin to frail and emaciated, his breathing, labored. She didn’t know how he’d made it from the house to her RV under his own steam. And although she had promised to make sure he made it to the hospice center in Winnipeg, he still acted like he could get there without help.

  Laynie no longer believed him.

  “Leaving . . . tomorrow. You’re . . . welcome to stay on . . . long as you like. Realtor knows you’re . . . here.”

  He’d told her about his arrangements that had been in place for a while. He’d made his will. His church family and fellow officers would take charge of his service, burial, and personal effects. He’d engaged a realtor to sell his townhouse in the city and his parents’ lake house. He’d designated the profits from them to various friends and charities.

  Laynie licked her lips. “Well, I’m thinking about coming with you, Rog. Actually, I was thinking of driving you to town myself. To the . . . hospice center.”

  Was that relief washing his face?

  “What . . . ’bout Daisy?”

  “If it’s okay, like you said, I’ll leave her here. I’ll come back and pick her up . . . later on.”

  Or not.

  She didn’t know at this point.

  He nodded and swayed. She caught him before he slid off the camp seat to the ground—and decided to amend their timetable.

  “I’m going to help you back to your house, Rog, and get you packed up. Is that all right?”

  “Y-yeah.”

  Laynie helped him to his feet, grabbed the little camp seat, and took it with them—and was glad that she had. Roger had to stop and rest several times on the short walk back to his house. By the time she got him to his front door, he could no longer stand on his own. She settled him in a recliner where, by all appearances, he’d slept for some nights.

  She pulled up an ottoman and sat next to the recliner. “What do you need me to pack for you, Rog?”

  “Can’t . . . take with you.”

  She was initially confused. Then she saw the tears standing in his eyes.

  You can’t take it with you. Going into hospice . . . and beyond, he would need nothing.

  She fought back her own tears. “Will you want your Bible . . . to hold on to?”

  He nodded, and one hand flopped toward the end table. There it was, with an envelope from the hospice center sticking out from its pages. Laynie picked up the Bible, slid out the envelope, and laid the Bible in his lap. Roger sighed his thanks.

  Laynie pulled the letter from the envelope and read it over. Reread the address and protocol for checking in.

  “Rog? Would you like go today? This afternoon rather than tomorrow?”

  He again nodded.

  Laynie swallowed down the lump in her throat. “I’ll get the Jeep ready.”

  She found the keys to Roger’s Jeep, returned to Daisy, and packed everything she wanted to take with her into her wheeled suitcase. She zipped the bag closed and then spotted Shaw and Bessie’s travel Bible. She tucked it into her purse.

  When she had deposited her suitcase in the back of Roger’s Jeep and her purse on the front seat, she went looking for a sleeping bag. She found one on a shelf in his closet and grabbed a pillow from his bed. She used these and a blanket to make up a bed across the rear seat of his Jeep. She grabbed a few bottles of water for the road and threw them on the passenge
r seat, then drove around to the front porch.

  “I’ve arranged for you to lie down in the back, Rog.”

  She helped him up and half-dragged, half-carried him to the waiting vehicle. Before he got in, he looked around a last time. He smiled, gazing toward the lake, then at her.

  “G-grateful . . . Lord brought you . . . ’Laine. Thank you . . . for blessing me . . . for sharing . . . my last days here.”

  “H-he used you to help me, too, Rog. I’m the blessed one.”

  With tears streaming unheeded down her cheeks, Laynie realized how truly grateful she was for this place and the short season of peace that had healed many of her wounds. And for Roger’s company.

  You did this. You orchestrated this. Thank you.

  She didn’t say, “Lord” or “God” or “Jesus.” She was afraid to. Wasn’t quite ready to “go there.”

  “No one can be saved without repentance. Repentance is where we—every one of us—acknowledge and confess our sinful, needy state before God and ask for forgiveness through the blood of Jesus. A place where we surrender fully to the Lordship of Christ.”

  When she had Roger settled on the back seat, she locked up the house. She drove down the drive, onto the dirt road and out to the village, taking it slow for Roger’s sake. At the bait shop she pulled in and got out. Went inside.

  “Hello, Elaine,” Bart said. “How are you and Roger getting on?”

  Laynie exhaled. “We’re leaving today, Bart.” She drew two sets of keys from her pocket. “Would you . . . see to the house and to my RV?”

  He slowly took the keys from her hand.

  “Um, Roger’s lying in the back seat, and I figured you and Liz would like to say goodbye.”

  Bart stood still, staring at the counter between them, nodding slowly. “We would. Yes.”

  Laynie stayed in the store until he and Liz, both weeping, returned.

  LATE THAT EVENING, Laynie checked Roger into the hospice center not far from the University of Manitoba. The staff members were calm, capable, and compassionate, carrying Roger from the Jeep to his room, bathing him, dressing him in clean pajamas, putting him to bed, making him comfortable.

  The charge nurse approached Laynie. “Hello. I’m Reina. You are?”

  “Elaine. I’m a friend. Roger doesn’t have any family.”

  She nodded, already aware that he didn’t. “Well, Elaine, we’ve assessed Roger’s condition. His form of cancer is very aggressive, and his body is already shutting down. Since his signed orders refuse the use of an IV, I don’t think he’ll linger with us more than a few days. You are welcome to stay with him. We’ll bring in a cot for you.”

  Laynie hadn’t planned on staying . . . but how could she leave Roger to die alone?

  I can’t do that. You put Rog in my life and put me . . . here. For him.

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  She sat next to Roger’s bed and took his hand. He opened his eyes once, tried to smile. In her heart she heard him say, “It’s going to be okay. Not the dying part—I doubt that will be fun—but afterward? I know where I’m going when I die, and when I get there? It’ll be better than okay. It’ll be awesome. Because I’ll see Jesus.”

  “You’ll be okay, Rog, remember? It’ll be awesome . . . because Jesus will be there. And I’ll stay with you until . . . until you go. I won’t leave.”

  He closed his eyes, but Laynie felt him squeeze her hand.

  Sitting in his darkened room, watching him slip into a sleep from which he would not wake, Laynie leaned her weary head on their joined hands.

  You’ve been a good friend to me, Rog. I won’t forget you—and I truly hope “the other side” is as awesome as you said it would be.

  ROGER PASSED QUIETLY in the night. When the hospice center wakened to its morning routine and Laynie realized he was gone, she notified the staff. They had Roger’s instructions for what to do when he died.

  Laynie gathered her purse and, at the staff’s request, went to wait in the lobby.

  Wait? Wait for what?

  They assume I knew him better than I did. That I had a reason to stick around.

  Through the open curtains she saw that the day was a dank, leaden gray, the sky heavy with rain-bearing clouds. As she had when she and the Bradshaws parted company, she felt alone. Bereft.

  What do I do now?

  She spoke to the charge nurse. “Do you have a phone I might use?”

  “Yes, we keep one for the use of family members. That room there.”

  The phone had a Winnipeg phone book next to it. Laynie looked up cab companies and placed a call. “Hello. I’d like a taxi, please.”

  She gave the address of the hospice center, then removed her suitcase from Roger’s trunk and left it just inside the center’s front entrance.

  She approached the charge nurse again. “These are the keys to Roger’s Jeep.”

  The nurse took them reluctantly. “We have no instructions regarding his vehicle.”

  “I think his church will know what to do with it.”

  A taxi was pulling into the parking lot. Laynie grabbed her suitcase on the way out and flagged it down.

  “Say, what day is it?” she asked the driver.

  “What day is it? Monday. October 8. You been in a cave or something?”

  Laynie ignored his question. “I need an HSBC bank, please, whichever branch is closest to the Greyhound station.”

  At the bank, she withdrew another two thousand in cash, then had the cabbie drive her to the Greyhound station. During the ride, Laynie pondered how she felt inside. A week into October? It should be mid-November already. Had she spent only two-and-a-half weeks at the lake? Fewer than twenty days of peace and freedom?

  Peace. Freedom. I don’t think I can survive without those anymore.

  With time on her hands, Laynie fumbled in her purse and powered on her mobile phone. She’d turned it off when she left Ottawa and had left it off until packing yesterday afternoon. The battery had been dead when she’d slipped it into her purse, but she had charged it in Roger’s Jeep on the drive from the lake into the city.

  As the phone came on line, five text messages pinged their arrival—all from Shaw and Bessie. The earliest messages started out with, “We’ve arrived at our son’s house. All is well,” and the final message evolved to, “We’re really worried about you. Please let us know you’re all right?”

  Laynie wasn’t going to reply, but the Bradshaws’ anxious faces rose before her. She shot off a quick text to let them know she was okay but that she’d been out of cell range. She then slipped the phone back into her purse.

  Minutes later, she received another text—one that made her smile.

  “Thank God! We’re so glad you are all right. We have been praying hard for you.”

  She texted back, “Thank you. I’m very grateful.”

  At the station, Laynie perused the schedule and routes. She found a bus that would leave Winnipeg at noon, travel down 75 to a Canadian–US border crossing, join I-29 on the other side, and continue on to Grand Forks, North Dakota. She would wait until the last minute to purchase her ticket, paying cash for it.

  Since the bus didn’t leave for hours, she went in search of something to eat, suddenly aware that she hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. When she finished, she used the restroom. In the stall, she removed the HK P7K3 and extra magazine from her purse and tucked them into her bra into the hollow between her breasts. Unless she gave Customs and Border Protection agents reason to, they rarely searched Americans crossing into their own country.

  But that was before terrorists attacked us.

  Laynie considered leaving the gun behind, then discarded the notion. Having a means to protect herself was worth the risk of being found with a gun in her possession.

  The wheels of government bureaucracy don’t move that quickly. They won’t have put stricter rules in place yet—but that surely will change.

  She also wasn’t sure how she’d mov
e on from Grand Forks after she’d crossed into the States, but she knew where she was headed.

  And she had time enough to figure it out.

  A PROGRAM CHIMED IN the headset she wore. Vyper cracked her gum, rolled her chair from her RCMP terminal to the one she used for her “other” employment, and entered the password to unlock the screen.

  She smiled when she saw the alert. There you are! Came up for air, did you? Or should I say, for money?

  She pulled up a map on the terminal’s second monitor and stuck a virtual “pin” at the bank’s location. Winnipeg. What’s next, Elaine? Will you disappear on me again now that you have a fresh supply of cash?

  A half-dozen chimes sounded in her headset, and Vyper toggled to another screen. Ah. And you’ve turned on your phone. Finally!

  She dropped another pin on the map to indicate the tower off which the phone had pinged, then opened a window into Elaine’s mobile service provider and displayed the texts. She chuckled aloud. “Oh, my. Someone loves you, Elaine.”

  Another chime. She read a text Elaine sent in reply—but her phone had pinged a mile from where she had received the texts. Vyper dropped another pin.

  “I see you’re on the move, Elaine. Where are you going, my dear? Back into your little hidey-hole? Please give me more clues. Pretty please?”

  She waited in the hope that her target would continue to use her phone. Just as she’d given up for the time being and decided to go back to her work terminal, her headset chimed the arrival of yet another text.

  She scanned its contents. It read, “Thank God! We’re so glad you are all right. We have been praying hard for you.”

  Vyper was puzzled. How archaic. Someone praying for you.

  Another text. “Thank you. I’m very grateful.”

  Vyper was intrigued. Hmm. You interest me, Elaine. You’re not behaving like the Russians’ usual fare. I wonder why this Zakhar person is so intent on finding you—did you accidentally see something you shouldn’t have?

  Pity. Dimitri is not a nice boy.

  She frowned as the thought of Zakhar intruded. Zakhar? He had ignored her instructions not to call her unless it was necessary. “Do not call me, Zakhar. If my daily email reads, ‘No Activity,’ it means no activity. It means I have nothing to tell you.”