by Scott Cook
“It’s difficult to know. You see, gangs in Eastern Canada and the U.S. are very much about status, both within the organization and in relation to other gangs, which makes it easier to predict their behavior. Members often go through elaborate rituals to get promoted – they may have to endure a savage beating from the rest of the club, for example, or offer the sexual services of their girlfriend to the leader.” Singer surprised Alex by blushing. “You get the idea. Territories are also strictly defined, which can lead to conflicts. You’ve no doubt read about the turf wars in Montreal that flare up every few years between the Hells Angels, the Rock Machine and others. Something as innocuous as drinking in the wrong bar can spark a conflagration that leaves a dozen people dead in the streets.”
Alex sipped his drink. “But the Wild Roses are different?”
“Yes. In many ways, the club is quintessentially Albertan – young, fiercely independent, pragmatic, and concerned solely with making money. Rufus Hodge is their undisputed leader; he is utterly ruthless, and his word is law.”
Alex nodded. He had gleaned some of this from Chuck during the trial. Back in the early 2000s, Hodge had come seemingly out of nowhere, taken over a loosely affiliated group of small-time criminals, and, over the space of just a handful of years, shaped them into an extremely efficient – if highly illegal – business. While the small satellite clubs of the big eastern gangs were busy strutting around Calgary and Edmonton, selling pot and getting into brawls, Hodge was quietly building his methamphetamine empire with a dozen labs scattered throughout the bush in the sparsely populated northern half of the province. By the time anyone realized what was going on, the Wild Roses had sewn up the burgeoning crank market across three provinces. And the more people flocked to the new gold rush of the oil sands, the more people wanted the product.
When Chuck was undercover, he’d heard rumblings of a skirmish between the Hells Angels and the Roses in Winnipeg. Five men had been found dead in a minivan that had rolled down an embankment into the Red River. The coroner’s report indicated that it was massive trauma, not drowning, that had killed them. He attributed it to the drop into the river. As it turned out, the Angels had sent six men to intimidate Hodge into giving up the territory they saw as theirs. Five of them ended up beaten to death and placed in the van; the sixth managed to pass along a dire warning from Hodge before he died of internal injuries in hospital a few days later.
“The silence on the street would suggest that Crowe is someone who’s not to be messed with,” Alex offered.
“So it would seem,” said Singer. “And that, coupled with the fact that none of the other Roses are talking to Hodge, would suggest that Crowe is now running the show in his absence. Charles had suspected as much, but didn’t seem to ascribe much significance to it.”
“So if we run with our assumption here, Crowe is taking care of Hodge’s agenda, and that agenda is revenge. We need to talk to the cops and get some protection until he’s caught.”
Singer got up from her chair and closed the study door. Then she opened the drawer of a small side table next to the sofa and withdrew a manila envelope. When she sat back down, she looked as sober as Alex had ever seen her.
“The chief of police contacted me this morning with that same thought, and they’ll no doubt try to get in touch with you later today. But police protection is not what we need, my boy. Charles was the toughest, smartest cop I’ve ever met, and he was taken out as quickly and easily as a sacrificial pawn on a chessboard. Besides that, as far as anyone can prove, Jason Crowe is a law-abiding citizen whose only vice is his questionable taste in friends.”
Singer leaned forward earnestly. “Charles and I had many discussions during the trial, about many things. One of them was the possibility of reprisal from the Wild Roses. He believed it was unlikely, and I believed him. But he was also a thorough cop, and he was a realist who believed in contingency plans.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’m ashamed to admit this, Alexander, but I’m afraid the attack on Sarah Payne is not the only secret we were keeping from you. Charles knew there was a possibility, however slight, that you and I might end up in the line of fire in the event of a guilty verdict. So late last year – this was long before we learned of Ms. Payne, mind you – he used some of his influence to create these.”
Singer opened the envelope she’d taken from the table. From it she produced a small plastic card and handed it to Alex.
“This is yours.”
Alex looked down to see his own face looking back at him from a Saskatchewan driver’s license. The name on the card was Alex Wolfe, born July 22, 1982.
“Alex Wolfe?” he asked.
“Charles said it was important that you keep your first name, rather than trying to get used to someone else’s. People tend to get suspicious when the new fellow in town doesn’t answer to his own name. As for Wolfe, it was Charles’s mother’s maiden name.”
“Okay, let’s say for the sake of argument that this isn’t batshit lunacy. What about you?”
“Leo and I will be safely aboard a cruise ship some six thousand miles from here two days from now. We’ll be gone for eight weeks, which should give our boys in blue ample time to get the situation under control. If not, we’ll simply extend our stay.”
Alex’s hangover had given way to a dizzying sense of unreality. The trial was over – he was supposed to get on with his life as Alex Dunn, not Alex Wolfe. Dunn had a lot of work to do, women to chase, a bestselling book to write. Wolfe didn’t fit into those plans.
“That’s all well and good for you,” he said. “You’re semi-retired . . . ”
“Fully retired as of today,” Singer said gravely.
“The point is, I have a life. Plus I think the sum total of my bank accounts is something in the neighborhood of two grand. How far is that going to get me on the run? Plus I’ve got a mortgage and bills to pay, not to mention a job where my boss might get a little peeved by the fact that I haven’t shown up to the office for a couple of months!”
Singer made a patting motion with her hands in the hopes of soothing him. Alex noticed the old girl’s face was flushed, and this time it wasn’t from alcohol.
“I understand, my boy. And that’s why I didn’t ask you to come with Leo and me.”
Alex blinked stupidly. That thought hadn’t even occurred to him.
Singer smiled wanly. “You have every right to be upset, Alexander,” she said. “You’re quite right that this is asking a lot of you. But Charles and I both understood that you’re not the running sort. I would like to believe that I wasn’t either, in my salad days, but that’s neither here nor there. With age comes some wisdom, yes, and perhaps even a modicum of courage – how else could we face the slow, steady betrayal from our own bodies? – but age also brings with it a kind of low-grade paranoia, a belief that danger lurks around corners and in alleys, and that our bodies no longer have the capacity to save us from it. Fight ceases to be a viable option; only flight is available to us.” She sighed heavily. “The fact is that today, I am an old coward. You are not. You’re frightened, of course, but even so, you want to see how this will all resolve itself. Perhaps you’ll even be a part of that resolution. It’s your nature, my boy. Charles saw it, and so do I. It’s why you’re such an exceptional reporter.”
Alex didn’t know what to say, so he took another sip of his drink. It had started to dull the edges of his fear, but did nothing to subdue the unreality of the situation.
“I took the liberty of phoning Mr. Shippobotham while you were driving over here,” Singer continued. “He is in complete agreement with me, and he assured me that your job is secure. However, the Chronicle won’t be able to pay you during your absence; something about union rules, I believe.”
Alex ran a hand down his face. This was crazy – wasn’t it? It was like something out of a movie, the kind with a stupid premise that made you suspend disbelief to a ridiculous degree. Ben Affleck in Reporter On
The Run. “Let’s hold up a minute, here,” he said. “If I’m going to do this – and that’s a big if – don’t I have to go to through the police? I mean, I can’t just go off and do this on my own. There are official channels we have to follow.”
“Says who?”
“What?”
Singer stood up and began to pace across the study’s rich, dark carpet. “My boy, I’m afraid you, along with the vast majority of television watchers, have been duped by what you see on the idiot box. Witness protection isn’t some sort of organized federal program here in Canada. Even in the U.S. it’s no great shakes, but up here, it’s a spit-and-baling-wire solution at best, and according to Charles, it rarely works. The police will only supply the witness with new identification – a social insurance number and a driver’s license – and send them on their merry way. No money, no protection, no false references if the poor sap is applying for a job. Nothing.”
“That’s it? In return for putting your life on the line?”
“And, in your case, putting a vicious killer behind bars.” Singer sat down on the sofa, resting her elbows on the small expanse of lap that managed to extend beyond her hefty bosom and belly. Alex thought it made her look like she was pleading.
“I’m ashamed to admit there’s little more. A local police officer might be contacted in whatever area the witness relocates to and asked to keep an eye on the poor bastard. Unfortunately, there’s almost no money allocated anywhere for this type of program.”
That was the last straw. Alex stood up and positioned himself so that he was staring down at Singer. “Great!” he cried, throwing his hands up. “Now I just need to shut off my utilities, abandon my house and car, and hope that I can find a job wherever I end up without any references. Hell, if Richard Kimball could do it week after week, I can too, right?”
Even as he ranted, Alex knew he wasn’t being truthful with Singer. His parents both had money, and he could ask for it, but there would be questions. Questions he was in no mood to answer, even if he could. Given the option, he would probably take the risk of going the official route rather than putting himself through the process of submitting to his parents. The less he talked about them, the better.
Leslie Singer gave him a hurt look; she appeared to be on the verge of tears. “My boy, you didn’t think Charles and I would leave you without resources, did you?” She reached into the envelope that had held the new driver’s license and birth certificate, pulled out a light blue card and handed it to Alex. It was a MasterCard in the name of Alex Wolfe.
“There’s a pre-paid twenty-thousand dollar balance on that account, and another twenty thousand in credit available beyond that, should you need it. I’ve also arranged for seven thousand in cash to be sent to you via email transfer today. Will that cover your mortgage and bills for two months?”
Alex stared blankly at the card. “Uh . . . yeah,” he muttered, his mind reeling again. “That’ll cover it. Look, Leslie, I-I don’t know if I’d be able to repay you . . .”
Singer frowned and gave a dismissive wave with her liver-spotted hand. “Nonsense,” she said. “Leo and I both come from old money, and I’ve made a tidy sum off the good people of Canada during my years in the courtroom. I earned every penny, mind you, but I’ve always felt a bit guilty knowing that the civilians, the ones whose testimony puts criminals behind bars, got nothing, while I earned a healthy salary and a reputation as a dragonslayer. Consider this my white liberal guilt made manifest in a gift to you.” She dropped a wink. “Besides, Charles threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Then say nothing. I would suggest gathering a bag with essentials as soon as you leave here, and then renting a car as Alex Wolfe. The sooner you put miles between you and this benighted little cow town, the better.”
Alex nodded. “That makes sense. But I don’t know where to go.”
“Then just pick a direction and drive. You’re an exceedingly clever young man, Alexander. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
“Should I contact you once I get settled?”
Singer looked horrified. “Absolutely not! For security’s sake, neither of us should know where the other is. In fact, Charles said to discourage you from contacting anyone while you’re away. It’s the reason so many criminals in witness protection end up dead – they get drunk and call a relative or a friend back home. The next thing you know, someone shows up on their doorstep with a shotgun and a grudge.”
Alex felt a twinge in his belly. “That makes sense. So . . . I guess this is good-bye.”
“Just one more thing,” said Singer. “Charles was quite adamant that you write a book about your experiences – minus Sarah Payne and Gregory Larocque, of course. He said the story needed to be told, and you needed to make some money from it. Perhaps your . . . time away might be the perfect opportunity to write it.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Alex extended his hand. “Good luck, Leslie.”
The old girl ignored his hand and stood on her tiptoes, planting a solid kiss on his right cheek. Alex felt absurdly touched at the gesture from this hard-nosed fireplug of a woman. A mist of tears shone in Singer’s eyes in the bright summer light streaming through the high windows of the study. “And to you, my boy. And to you.”
CHAPTER 6
Jason Crowe knew the guard leaning against the wall was a cop before he even sat down in the hard plastic chair in the visiting room of the Badlands Institute for Men. The name of the place sounded ridiculous to him, like it was some sort of trade school for black hats in old MGM westerns or something, instead of a maximum security prison for the worst that Canadian society had to offer.
This was the third undercover cop today. The first had followed him in an unmarked car when Crowe left his little house in the low-rent Bowness district around noon. He hated living in the cramped, dank bungalow, but he’d been forced to stay away from his downtown penthouse in the months since Hodge’s arrest. The cops couldn’t trace the apartment to him – it was rented in the name of a very wealthy lady acquaintance who currently lived in Monaco – but they could follow him and ask how a mechanic managed to scare up seventeen grand a month for a place with a waterfall in the foyer. Crowe was an expert at looking over his shoulder, but he was also an expert in risk management. And when it came to self-preservation, he was a goddam Jedi knight.
The second cop had sat two booths away from him at the Ding How, a pricey gourmet Chinese place downtown, where Crowe calmly lunched on black chicken (he’d picked up a taste for it in Shanghai years earlier, and he’d never met another non-Asian who could stomach it) and scanned the local papers. Every ninety seconds or so, he’d glance at the cop’s reflection in the glass of a framed silk tapestry. Judging by the way the guy fidgeted with his wedding ring, he was a newlywed, which meant he was probably hungry for a promotion so he could afford his new wife and, no doubt, a kid or three. He was certainly unschooled in real Asian cuisine; like most Westerners, the cop’s idea of Chinese food would be deep-fried spare ribs and sugary sauces. He ordered bird’s nest soup and nearly gagged on his first spoonful of the glistening goo. Crowe bit his lip to stifle a laugh; the dude had obviously picked it because it was the cheapest item on the menu, and he had to justify his expenses. Cops.
When he was finished, Crowe took out his wallet, placed five twenties on the table, and dropped a friendly wink at his waitress, a pretty teen in a tight red silk cheongsam, as he left. The wink, combined with his rough good looks and a forty-five dollar tip, raised a hot blush in her cheeks. A final glance at the cop caught him talking into the sleeve of his cheap suit. As Crowe passed, the cop jerked his arm back down to his side, looking like a kid whose mother had just caught him spanking the monkey in the bathtub.
The first cop resumed his reconnaissance as Crowe nosed his midnight blue Navigator into downtown traffic, then onto the Trans-Canada and east for the hundred-mile jaunt to the Badlands Institute. He had though
t briefly about taking his favorite ride, a cherry-red 1960 Porsche Boxster, to the Badlands, just to be nice and obvious. Ultimately he decided against it. He didn’t particularly want to have to answer questions about the name on the registration, and besides, the cops could fucking well earn their pay. He almost lost his tail half a dozen times without even trying before he got out of the city. The flashy SUV may have stood out in some other cities, but in oil-soaked Calgary, Navigators were as common as dog shit in a Bowness backyard.
The landscape transformed quickly as Crowe made his way east and south of the city on the Trans-Canada. Urban sprawl gave way to fields of golden wheat and bright yellow canola, and brilliant green grazing lands, then suddenly to the dun-colored scrub of the Alberta badlands. Hoodoos sprouted from the rocky ground like misshapen stone fingers, and suddenly the world looked like an alien desert where Captain Kirk might go mano-a-mano with a guy in a cheap lizard-man costume.
The prison was about ten miles outside the town of Drumheller. Now, as Crowe entered the dingy gray visitation room, listening to the buzz of the fluorescents overhead and the muffled sounds echoing into the room from the concrete hallways beyond, he glanced casually at Cop No. 3. The dude was broad and stocky in his too-small guard’s uniform, and was putting a lot of effort into trying to look like he belonged there, though Crowe thought maybe the guy didn’t really know whether a guard was supposed to act differently from a cop. Crowe had dealt with more than enough undercover law enforcement agents to know that you handled them the same way you would a strange dog – you act like it’s not there. He ignored the pseudo-guard as he walked past, focusing instead on the sound of his own bootheels on the concrete floor. Just to be a pain in the nuts, he sat at the farthest of the small blue-gray cubicles, where prisoners and their visitors conversed via telephone through quarter-inch Plexiglass.
Crowe yawned. It had been a busy twenty-four hours, and he was tired. The airwaves and Internet had been thrumming with the news about Chuck Palliser and Richie Duff. Crowe had spent the morning monitoring Google News and Twitter, and listening intently to one of the AM all-talk stations, first as he showered and changed his clothes from the night before, then as he drank several cups of espresso. The station’s morning man had fielded dozens of calls from people across Alberta, demanding the return of the death penalty. One even suggested a group of listeners converge on the Badlands Institute and take matters into their own hands. “Now that’s going a little too far,” the morning man said, then added: “Or is it? Call in and tell us what you think!”