The coke was hidden out back of the cabins somewhere, Eddie guessing Rudi might have posted a guard. He played it back in his mind, Axel Busch rolling the wheelbarrow behind the cabins. Had to be a shed or a storage unit, likely a path leading right to it. All that blow, Eddie thinking how long since his last line.
Using his good hand, he pushed branches aside, keeping his steps light, feeling his way, moving close to the end cabin. Every few feet, he stopped and listened.
Then he froze. It was a woman’s face at the small window. If she saw him he was fucked. He waited. Didn’t breathe. Nothing but his heart pounding. Then the blinds tilted shut.
The power saw stopped, and an off-road truck pulled around back. Sounds of them hooking a chain to the Town Car’s bumper, snatching the old Lincoln from the ditch. Then it was gone. He crouched, hearing somebody else walking, shoes on gravel, a tap on a door. Then whispers. A woman’s voice? He wasn’t sure.
Ears straining in the silence, he stayed like that a long time. Nothing but the buzz of insects. When he dared to move again, he went deeper into the cedars, a few feet at a time, getting around the back of the cabin, looking for a shed or something.
Then he heard the snap of a twig and he froze, someone passing near him, striking a match, the glow of a cigarette, a hand waving out the match. It was Axel Busch.
Moving along a path, Axel exhaled smoke, humming to himself. Eddie following him into the woods, Axel walking into a clearing, unzipping his fly, still humming.
The smell of his tobacco, Eddie staying low, taking his uncle’s pistol. Twenty feet between them.
Blowing smoke, Axel was thinking of Ashika, his first redhead, a fugitive. Had him by a decade. Undoing his belt before he closed the door. Did it standing. The woman urgent about it. Dragging on the cigarette, he grinned, thinking she might have shot him, Axel tapping on her door after the bikers drove off with Ramon’s body in the Hefty bags, Axel left behind, supposed to guard the coke. Planting his feet wide, he unzipped his fly.
Zeroing on the cigarette’s glow, Eddie came in low. Axel ground his shoe on the butt, humming, giving a loud exhale as he zipped up, dry leaves crunching underfoot. Eddie raised the pistol and swung, his foot hooking on something, and Eddie went down, landing on his busted hand, crying out.
Mid-zip, Axel jumped, grabbing for his shotgun.
Eddie felt for the pistol, found a stone and scrambled up, pushing away Axel’s barrel, catching the side of his head, knocking him into the bush where he’d just pissed. Eddie following him down, a second blow making sure.
Lying there, he was clutching his hand, the pain incredible. Getting his feet under him, picking up the flashlight, he shone it around, found the pistol, found an air vent, then the steel door in the ground, the handle he tripped over, understanding what it was. He switched the light off.
A bunker.
Twisting the handle, he yanked the door up. Dank air rose to greet him. Sticking the flashlight down inside, he switched it back on.
“Fuck me.”
He shone the light over at Axel, laid out cold, blood matting his blond hair, fly undone. Staring back into the bunker, Eddie crossed himself again, thanking Jesus Christ, Ramon up there with him. He climbed down the steps.
The bales were wrapped in heavy plastic. Eddie lifted one by its fabric-tape straps. Shoved it out the door, then two more, then he went back up. Looking at Axel on the ground, he shoved the flashlight into his back pocket, hooked the twelve gauge under his arm, his busted hand hurting, hanging useless. Stacking the bales, he tried to lift. No way. He tried with just two, tossing the shotgun aside. Moving.
Brambles clawed at him, at the plastic, the straps cutting into his wrist. Had to weigh fifty pounds each. Eddie thinking what they were worth, thinking let it hurt.
He had to go by the cabin again, past the window where he saw the woman. No other way to go. Practically holding his breath as he moved down the wall, crossing the drive. At the side of the lodge, he eased the bales down, catching his breath, rewrapping the strap around his good hand. Powder leaking out of one of the bales. Dipping a finger into the tear, he rubbed it across his gums.
Then, peeling off his shirt, he stuffed part of a sleeve into the tear. Wasn’t leaving a Hansel-and-Gretel trail, not letting these animals catch him. He felt the rush, thinking the shit was uncut. Eddie riding it, like on the wings of angels. Then he was moving again, knowing Axel would come around anytime, start yelling for help.
Had to get out of there, swipe a car from out front. Shoving the ripped bale with his foot, cradling the other, making his way to the driveway.
A light switched on behind him. Pulling tight to the lodge wall, he glanced back, heart jumping, the light shining from the end cabin. The blinds tipped and the same woman’s face looked out. He caught the cinnamon hair, then the light switched off.
Not sure if she saw him this time. Not about to wait and find out. Moving past trash cans, he got to the front, lugging and shoving, letting go of the straps. Nobody out front, the driveway was clear. The torn bale leaking more powder. Eddie getting another taste.
Fruit trees lined the drive, offering little cover, Eddie sliding the bales along the lawn. Thinking of what to do.
The SUV was Rudi’s. He tried its doors, then the hatch. All locked. A light blinked on the Range Rover’s dash, the alarm armed.
Moonlight on chrome, a bike leaned on its stand, far side of the front door, a Dyna from the look of it. Wouldn’t make it far on some one-percenter’s ride, juggling two bales of high-grade. Axel’s Beemer sat parked halfway down the drive. Carrying one, shoving the other bale with his feet, Eddie got to the car and looked in. Unlocked and no alarm. Opening the door, he felt around under the seat for a spare key. No idea how to bypass the ignition, he yanked at a handful of wires under the steering column, trying to pull them loose, not sure which ones to touch together. Didn’t dare switch the flashlight on again.
Somebody called out, and Eddie ducked low behind the door. It came from behind the lodge. He slid both bales down the lawn and into the ditch, the pain shooting up his arm. He kept low, knowing there was no way he could push both bales down the gravel road.
The voice called again, and somewhere a door slammed, then more voices from out back. He took his shirt, putting it back on, dipping his finger in the rip one more time, snorting the powder, leaving that bale. Hoisting the other with his good hand, he started down the road, working through the pain.
Made a hundred yards and had to set it down, gasping for air. More yelling got him moving, lifting the bale off the road, tumbling it into the ditch. He got it up into the trees. Behind him, the sound of the bike firing up.
Getting into the brush, he dropped flat as the Harley roared past, low branches clawing at him. Gathering the bale to him, he scooped leaves and dirt, covering the white plastic.
More yelling back at the lodge, the sound of another engine, a vehicle going the opposite way on the dirt road.
Lying flat on the ground, Eddie listened, putting it together. Nothing he could do but stay down. About ten minutes passed. Shoes sounded on gravel, the Honduran and the Mexican coming along the road, back toward the lodge, flashlights sweeping into the trees, the two of them talking. Couldn’t understand their Spanish from this distance, one on either side of the road, sending their beams into the woods, passing the boughs above Eddie.
Maybe fifty feet between them, Eddie held the pistol, made out Diego, guessing it was him who stuck the knife in his uncle, wanting to shoot him. The two men walked back to the lodge.
Eddie watched till their flashlight beams were gone. Sounded like the bike on some nearby road, maybe the Crowsnest. Rolling on his back, Eddie looked up through the branches, saying to the night, “Told you we should run.”
If he lived through this night, he’d do things different, sell the coke, clean himself up, live a better life, do i
t for Ramon.
After a while he rolled to his side and emptied his stomach, then he felt around for a stick. Finding one thick enough, he pressed it against the plastic, trying to poke a small hole, looking up at the night sky, thinking about mirror twins again, like there might be another Ramon out there somewhere, tears rolling down his face.
. . . SCOPING IT
The couple paddled side by side, one kayak red, the other yellow, going stroke for stroke. Looked like the man would make Salmon Rock ahead of the woman, but not by much.
Easing on the throttle, Beck cruised up the westerly side of Pasley, checking his depth, the cove where they spotted the sub just ahead. Jimmy out on the pulpit, hand shielding his eyes, scanning ahead, watching for deadheads and anything that looked like a conning tower. Jimmy playing like he knew what he was doing.
“Just getting into it when you spotted the sub, huh?” Jimmy called back, shaking his head at the thought.
“Something like that,” Beck said, getting that wanting-to-hit-Jimmy feeling again.
“Lucky thing, really, her getting the sub in the shot,” Jimmy said. “Out of focus, but still, you can make it out.”
How did Jimmy talk him into this? Beck guessed the guy would wet himself if the conning tower rose up right then. Jimmy just playing.
In case it did, Beck had more than a flare pistol this time. The Sig nine millimeter tucked behind the folded chart in the compartment by the throttle, full clip of 124-grain asshole-stopping power. Took the piece off some junkie dealer two years back, its serial number filed down. Never handed it in, Beck kept it, not even sure why. When he quit the force, he stuck it in a drawer and forgot about it.
Pulling into the cove, he made his sweep. Nothing there now but the rotting hull he spotted Friday. Tangles and ferns down to the waterline looked undisturbed. Nobody had stepped ashore.
“Sure this is it, huh?” Jimmy called, coming aft along the rail, Beck using the twin Yamahas, backing her to the mouth.
Glancing at the Lowrance, he cruised to the top end of the island, keeping her a hundred feet from shore, eyes scanning ahead. A merganser perched on a dock rail turned its head, watching them go by.
The wake washed a stony beach, Beck sweeping the west side of Popham Island, then around the rock crop by Little Popham. An offshore breeze was picking up, Beck looking along the logs beached from the last storm. Nothing there.
Took her up to Hermit, Jimmy back on the pulpit, gazing out and playing sailor, Beck at trolling speed down along the east side of Pasley, passing Worlcombe, nothing but a couple of dolphins playing.
Skirting the bottom of Bowen, Beck headed back out into the Strait, cutting taller water, Jimmy making his way back to the console, slipping on his windbreaker. Vancouver Island showed blue in the distance. Clouds massing over its Island Ranges looked like added peaks.
Jimmy, like a broken record, talked some more about saving whales at the bottom of the world, fierce westerlies south of latitude forty, cyclonic storms and crushing sea ice. Telling Beck the waves in the Strait were tame.
Beck tuned him out, remembering Mañana was painted on the tug’s wheelhouse. Likely find it down at Lonsdale Quay, like a parking lot for tugs down there. Beck pretty sure he could ID the two clowns on board, both with a touch of Latino, one older than the other, maybe related. But they were no threat. It was the ones on the sub, two with shaved heads, heavy on the tats, gang shit. Another one taller, with a wild kind of pomp. The man in charge was the one with the gun, had that Ben Kingsley look, like in Sexy Beast.
The way Griff told it: three guys forced him into the Strait, looking to kill him. Fit the description of the guys on the tug, the one with the pomp was from the sub. When the shit went wrong, one guy shot the other, guy with the pomp catching a bullet. Griff bailing over the starboard rail, diving as long as his lungs allowed, freestyling it for his life, making strokes for Spanish Banks, the closest point of land, expecting a bullet in the back.
Could go have a look at the Quay. Find the tug. Could call Danny Green, fill him in on what went down. Beck having a pretty good idea how Danny or anybody from the department would see it: a wild tale of a narco sub in Canadian waters, chalking it up to another ex-cop seeing hundred-proof spooks. Beck known to tip the bottle. The kind of shit that brought laughs around 312 Main.
“Suppose I owe you an apology,” Jimmy said, getting his attention. “Knew you had a thing for Vicki, or trying to have one. I should have backed off.”
“Girl makes up her own mind,” Beck said.
“Yeah, still . . .”
Beck shrugged, the hit-Jimmy feeling fading. If the sub hadn’t shown, things would have gone a different way. And he’d have more to show than a raspberry thong. Thinking he should ask Jimmy to return it.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing.”
“So, we’re cool?” Jimmy said, then stuck out his hand.
“Yeah, we’re cool.” Beck let go his grip on the wheel, the two of them shaking, both squeezing and smiling. English Bay coming up ahead.
. . . SLIPPING THROUGH
Must have nodded off, slept through the comedown, felt like something crawling under his shirt, pine needle poking his ear. Moonlight cut through the treetops, Eddie stiff from lying on the ground, the flashlight under him, his hand throbbing with pain, couldn’t flex his swollen fingers. Using his good hand, he sat up and shook his shirt, then felt for the bale. No idea how long he had slept.
Only a few hundred yards between him and the lodge. He needed to stash the coke and get out of there. South would take him to the Crowsnest. He needed a car, make his way west to Chilliwack. Figure things out from there.
Swiping dirt and leaves from the plastic, he listened to the night. Getting to his feet, he grabbed the straps, lifted and started, not daring to turn on the light, praying he was moving south, putting distance between him and Rudi’s place. Getting his mind off the pain, Eddie tried to imagine some faraway tropical beach, the sun baking him brown, waves lapping the strand, a black-haired woman with a white smile, a flower in her hair.
Crunching twigs and leaves, he stumbled through the thick woods, bumping trees. Still too dark to see much, the stars of no help, his feet hooking stones and roots. Slipping down a gully, a trickle of a runoff, he felt the icy water through his sneakers. Setting the bale down on the bank, he bent and cupped water to his mouth. Stones were slick with moss.
Moving around a deadfall blocking a gully, Eddie guessed he was far enough to chance turning on the flashlight. He pushed the bale up a bank, his shoes slipping, caked with the clay. Sticking his finger in the plastic hole, he was wiping more coke across his gums when he heard it and froze.
Waiting till it came again, Eddie sure it was the baying of a hound. Switching off the light, he was moving, boughs slapping at his face. The pain didn’t matter now. Twice more he went down, protecting the hand, grabbing the bale, gauging his direction and moving south.
The baying became louder. No mistaking it. He needed to ditch the bale and get the hell out of there. Nothing but cedar and brambles all around. Pulling on the straps, he dragged the bale across the forest floor, no sense of direction now, just had to keep moving.
He almost ran right into it, a hollowed trunk, a remnant of some long-ago forest fire. The opening big enough to fit the bale. He shoved it in, the baying getting louder.
Through the coke buzz, he heard something else — sounded like an engine. A car driving past, Eddie praying it was the Crowsnest. Just off to his right.
Tossing on handfuls of dirt and leaves, he left the bale and scrambled, moving through the woods, his clothes catching and ripping, Eddie clutching the broken hand to his chest, the baying driving him. Stumbling out on the shoulder of the road, he caught himself from falling, his chest heaving.
The sun was just breaking to the east, Eddie moving west past a marker: Berkey Cree
k, it said, graffiti on the back of the metal sign. Keeping along the shoulder of rock and fern, he tossed away the flashlight, ran and stumbled, the dawn glowing red on a rock outcrop to the north. Best if he stayed to the trees, ducking when he heard a vehicle. Waiting till it passed.
There was a bar in Hope called Skinny’s, the guy running the place was Reddit, a guy Eddie scored from once or twice, guy that might help him out. But Rudi Busch would have put out word. Eddie rethinking it, Busch and his boys would know Reddit, too. Best thing was steal a ride and put some miles behind him and here, find a clinic, have someone look at the hand, put down a meal and come back tonight.
There were guys he could talk to at the North Shore shipyards who didn’t deal with the bikers, might give him a decent price on the bale. No way he could go back to his apartment for his passport or money. No way he was getting on a WestJet.
Picking a palmful of blackberries, he popped them in his mouth and chewed. Plucking a few more as he kept moving.
Walking until he didn’t hear the dogs anymore. Stopping, resting on a rock, checking the hand, brown and purple fingers looking like ballpark franks in the early light, a steady throb of pain running up his arm. Chasing away thoughts of amputation, telling himself he was a good healer. Then another thought came to him: go back to the fishing boat, talk to Beckman, the ex-cop, tell him how it all went down, the jacking of his boat, explain he was as much a victim, show him the hand.
The guy that went over the side had to be crew, Eddie certain he drowned. Good chance the ex-cop wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. Still, Rene Beckman would be looking to set things right, being a lawman and all. Eddie might get him to work a deal. Guy had to have cop buddies, right? Guys with flak vests and firepower. Guys that would drool to go bust Rudi Busch and the sub crew, get their hands on a bunker full of blow. If he worked it right, Eddie would square things for Ramon, the assholes getting busted while Eddie slipped away with his bale of coke, enough to set him up for life.
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