Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  Nothing ever happened in Syron Lake. The four years he had been on the force, he’d come to expect that. In fact, it was perhaps the main reason he had applied for the job, after the craziness with Sophia. His ex-fiancée had run a tank all over his life, and he had lost steam in what had been a slow but steady climb up through the military police.

  Simply walking away from his old life had felt like the right thing to do. But at thirty-nine, and after two decades with the Army, he was not ready to sit around and call himself a retiree. He needed to keep busy — but not too busy, his therapist had said. Besides, he felt he needed to get as far away as possible from everybody and everything associated with that wretched history with Sophia.

  Syron Lake was perfect. It was a tiny town, way up North, in the middle of the forest. Nothing ever happened in these parts.

  He had grown used to dealing with the regular Friday and Saturday bar room brawls; shoplifting by teenagers and the odd pensioner; some vandalism; a car-theft here and there; an occasional break-and-enter; and the encroachment of drug dealers who were trying to gain a foothold in the high school.

  A body in the water up at Jay Lake was the biggest thing to have happened in living memory, as far as he knew. The last major investigation had been eight years before his arrival; and that time it turned out that the victim hadn’t been attacked as the gossipers had whispered, but had been working on the roof of his house when he slipped and fell backward onto an upturned rake.

  Parker felt the blood coursing through his veins as he drove over to Kennedy’s house. Maybe he was getting back to his old self. After all, the therapist did say the day would come when he’d look back and the devastation of the break-up with Sophia would seem like a tiny blip in his existence. Maybe that time had come.

  By the time he arrived at Kennedy’s two-story, his thoughts had swung in another direction. And he was riled.

  “Hey thanks, man.” Kennedy dropped his large bottom into the passenger seat. He held his bandaged right hand in the air and buckled up with his left.

  “You said the chief called you?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t have time to tell him about my hand before he hung up. He’s probably fuming right now that I’m not already there.”

  Parker clenched his teeth. Kennedy had been with the force for just over a year. Young and carrying a little too much weight for his height, he was eager to work, and intelligent enough. Still, he was a constable, with well below Parker’s experience. “So why didn’t the chief call me?”

  “Don’t know,” Kennedy said. “But I think he’s taking the lead on this.”

  “Yeah, but–”

  “Hey, Paul, I don’t want to get all tangled up in whatever thing you and the chief have going on, okay?”

  “What ‘thing’ are you talking about? I don’t have any ‘thing’ with Bromley.”

  Kennedy snorted.

  “Honestly, Max, I’m telling you, I don’t,” Parker said.

  “So why is it that you two don’t seem to ever get along?”

  “That, I can’t tell you. All I know is, I applied for this job and the police services board seemed pleased with my resume. First two weeks, things were off to a great start. Then Bromley returned to work after an extended leave, and it was like he had it out for me from day one. Even before I introduced myself, he was showing me some attitude. Four years on, it hasn’t let up.”

  “They took you on that time when he was on sick leave?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “My dad knows someone on the police board. It never came out in public, but around that time there were some real politics happening behind the scenes. Some members were against both the mayor and the chief, and they wanted to get rid of Bromley.”

  “I’m having a hard time believing a police chief would be so unprofessional as to let small town politics interfere with…but then, again, it’s Bromley we’re talking about, right?”

  “Yeah, it could be that. Or it could be that he just doesn’t like your head,” Kennedy said, snickering.

  They drove to the station, picked up a squad car and headed out of town. A few minutes away from the boat launch, they saw Mayor Demetriou’s Benz going in the other direction.

  “I’ll bet anything he was up there to see the body already,” Kennedy said.

  “Well, good luck in finding anybody to bet against you.”

  “Yeah.” Kennedy chuckled. “No doubt he was there.”

  “The man’s into everything that goes on in this town.”

  “Best mayor ever, some say. My folks included.”

  “Been hearing that since I moved here. I’m yet to see what’s so great about that guy.”

  “The town was as good as dead when the mines closed. People just up and left. My school got closed down because they lost so many students. But then Mayor Demetriou got voted in and he got the retirees to move up here and got this big tourism promotion thing going.”

  “And turned himself into a fat-cat in the process.”

  “Yeah. He’s done well for himself. But now people have all kinds of jobs, fixing up houses, working in the hotel, the restaurants. Locals and tourist are spending in the shops. Money’s flowing again. Not like when the mines were operating, mind you. But at least Mayor Demetriou saved Syron Lake from becoming a ghost town.”

  “That’s exactly what I don’t find too healthy.”

  “What?”

  “People in this town talking about this guy as if he’s some kind of savior.”

  Parker slowed down. He eyed a gleaming, beige Ford F-150 parked across a narrow, gravel side road, blocking it off completely.

  “Hang on, that’s the chief’s truck,” he said.

  He parked behind the pickup, and they followed the road into the woods and down to the lake.

  Chief George Bromley wore dirty overalls and a baseball cap. A giant of a man, he didn’t need a uniform to look imposing.

  He stood watching a small boat anchored a few meters out as it bobbed on the water. Two bright orange kayaks were on the shore.

  A middle-aged man with a glum expression leaned against the wall of the camp. Near him, a teenage girl and a young boy sat on the ground, using life-jackets under them as cushions.

  “Max, what took you so long?” Bromley turned as he heard the footsteps on the gravel.

  “Morning, Chief.” Kennedy held up his bandaged hand.

  “Morning,” Parker said.

  “I didn’t send for you.” Bromley narrowed his eyes and fixed them on Parker.

  Kennedy could feel the frostiness in the air as Bromley and Parker locked stares.

  “Chief, he’s my hands today,” Kennedy said quickly. “Can’t drive, can’t take notes, can’t do a lick for myself right now.”

  Bromley’s eyes shifted to Kennedy’s injured hand. He looked across at Parker and slowly nodded.

  “Fine. But after you’re done today, Max, I want you to get to ER and get that properly fixed up. Understand? I don’t much care to have invalids on my force.”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Right.” Bromley pointed his chin toward the three solemn figures. “So, this family was out kayaking early this morning and came across this scene. There’s a body out in the water. Tangled up in some rope from the boat, it seems. It looks like Eric Tremblay’s boat. It’s his camp and that there, is his truck. More likely than not, it’s him out there in the water.

  “The recovery team’s on the way to fish out the body. The coroner’s been informed. I want you to secure this area and take a statement from these folks.”

  “Yes,
Chief,” Kennedy said.

  “Remember, if the media asks any questions, I’m the only one that answers. And there’s a bullhorn in the backseat of my truck. Take it. If anyone tries to approach the scene by boat, keep them away.”

  Chapter 34

  Parker’s eyes were focused on the road as he drove away from Eric Tremblay’s camp. But his mind was still back there, in that tiny clearing by the lake. The entrance of the gravel road was now blocked off with yellow police tape strung from trees on either side.

  Earlier that morning, it had struck him that he hadn’t paid attention to the calendar or the rhythm of life around him.

  “Hey, what’s the date today, again?” he said to Kennedy.

  “Thirty-first.”

  October 31.

  When he had driven over to Kennedy’s, Parker had got a kick out of watching the ghoulish decorations that kids, and overgrown kids who called themselves dads, had put out on their front lawns. The town was ariot with plastic headstones; carved pumpkins; scarecrows made of straw; fake cobwebs that tangled hedges; dismembered limbs made of papier–mâché; skeletons that dangled from trees; and all kinds of yellow tape with cheeky wording. He had read one that said: “Polite warning. Keep out, please!”

  “In a few hours, the kids will be out trick-or-treating,” Parker said. “Lucky thing Tremblay’s camp is so far out of town that they won’t have to see the real deal.”

  “I don’t know,” Kennedy said, “if I was still a kid, I would’ve found a crime scene exciting, especially on Halloween.”

  Parker shook his head. Kennedy was still very much a kid, he thought.

  “Did you know that guy that owned the camp?” Parker said. “Ever meet him?”

  “Don’t think so. You?”

  “Can’t recall ever meeting him. But I’ve heard of him fairly often. You know Osgood, right?”

  “You mean the crazy guy that keeps running for mayor?”

  “Hey, I voted for him.”

  Kennedy burst out in laughter.

  “I don’t know who’s nuttier. Him for going up when he knows he doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell of winning. Or people like you who throw away their vote by supporting him.”

  Parker kept his peace. There was no need to start an argument over politics.

  “Okay, so it’s established that you do know Osgood.”

  “Yeah, everybody knows Osgood.”

  “Well, he’s in my AA meetings and he–”

  “You’re in AA? Since when?”

  “Since two years before I moved here.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “I guess it never came up before. But getting back to Tremblay. Osgood and Tremblay are…, well were buddies. That’s why we’re going over to talk with him. He’s mentioned his fishing trips with Tremblay loads of times in our AA meetings. In fact, just Thursday he talked about how good it would be to reel in some pike this weekend. To take his mind off the elections.”

  “So why wasn’t he there?”

  “Well, that’s one thing we’re going to try to find out. But what’s kind of strange is that Tremblay was drinking at the camp. From what Osgood’s said at meetings, I got the impression that Tremblay never brought alcohol up at the camp. Ever. It was kinda like a spirits-free zone, on account of Osgood’s sobriety.

  “Same thing hunting. Back in the day when Osgood used to hunt, Tremblay owned a bush lot. Never took even a single beer there. Then Osgood lost his appetite for shooting four-legged creatures and Tremblay sold the lot or lost it in a poker game or something. I forget how the story went.”

  “Well, that was just plain stupid.” Kennedy snorted.

  “What was?”

  “Guzzling down four tall ones while out in the water by yourself. That was an accident waiting to happen. What a dumb way to go. Good thing he didn’t leave behind any wife or children to mourn over him.”

  Parker again restrained himself. What compassion, he thought. It took riding with a man at a time like this to really get to know him.

  They pulled up at Osgood’s place in silence.

  Kennedy got out of the car. He approached the door and knocked. Finding it open, he walked in.

  Parker took his cool time gathering his pen and notebook. The chief had made it quite clear he hadn’t been assigned to the case; that he, Chief Bromley, was in charge; and that Kennedy was conducting the investigation under his, Bromley’s, instructions. Okey-dokey. He would hang back a bit and not let Bromley’s attitude rile him.

  He had just reached the door, when it swung back violently. Kennedy dashed past him, nearly knocking him over.

  Kennedy’s legs collapsed under him, and he fell onto the squad car’s hood. He folded over in two, and his body heaved. Once. Twice. Then all the contents of his stomach emptied out onto the bumper.

  “You alright?” Parker called out.

  Contorted by spasms, Kennedy was beyond hearing.

  Parker took out his revolver and stepped cautiously into the cluttered room.

  The smell of death hung in the air.

  A large, red splotch stained a wall in the living room, behind a wing chair.

  Osgood’s body was slumped in the chair. An old rifle lay between his knees. The barrel was pointed upward, toward Osgood’s face, only part of which was left intact.

  PART II

  Chapter 35

  I hurried down the corridor of the community center, almost tripping in my high-heels. It was the first time I’d worn them since moving to Syron Lake.

  With all other venues being either occupied or too small, the community center ended up serving as the home of the Canadian Nuclear Regulatory Authority for the week.

  The hall took on the appearance of an official federal government hearing room as best it could.

  Below the basketball hoop at the front of the room stood a slightly raised platform with a table fitted with microphones and three empty chairs. Directly in front of it was another table with more microphones.

  To the right of this setting, dour-looking civil servants in two banks of desks flipped through thick files and peered at laptop screens. To the left, the baby-faced radio reporter sat fiddling with large, ancient-looking recorder, and a journalist from the newspaper scribbled notes on a pad.

  Two unmanned television cameras bearing C-PAC logos stood on tripods, one at the center of the room, trained on the panel’s table; the other at the side, was pointed at the presenter’s table.

  The rest of the hall, which on most days served as an indoor walking circuit for seniors in the morning and a basketball court for teens on afternoons, was taken up by rows of chairs, most of which were occupied.

  It was easy to tell the ordinary townsfolk from the town officials and the strangers.

  The locals, sprinkled across the hall, but mostly in the back rows, were in sweaters, flannel shirts, jeans, and sweatpants; the majority of them were regulars who attended every Council meeting or political event and whose faces often showed up in the background of photos in the newspaper. Mayor Demetriou, a few councilors, and some City staff sat together in various degrees of business casual.

  The strangers wore suits, the cuts and material of which made it obvious that they were way beyond the average Syron Laker’s budget. Both men and women sported sleek, coiffed hair. Their watches, bangles, necklaces, and earrings shone and sparkled with the brilliance of real gold, silver, and diamonds. Apparently the mining business was doing well, very, very well.

  I took one of the empty seats at the front, aware that my best wardrobe on a non-profit editor’s salary had never been spec
tacular to being with. I was glad, though, that I had at least thought to change out of my grubby walking shoes and into the high-heels for the occasion.

  The door at the far end of the room swung open. Three men entered the hall and approached the panel table. More suits.

  The C-PAC cameramen, sporting oversize headphones, dashed to their equipment, and the public servants sat up with more alert expressions.

  Murmurs in the hall had died down but not completely, and when a bald-headed man took the seat at the center of the panel, he tapped his gavel three times.

  “Order. Order, please.”

  A hush fell over the room. Even Mayor Demetriou, who’d been chatting with a councilor behind him, abruptly ended his conversation and turned to face the panel.

  “Bonjour et bienvenue.” The bald-headed man adjusted his microphone. “Good morning and welcome. We are here this week to consider plans that will affect the long term future of this community….”

  I felt a slight tremor course through my body. The battle had begun!

  As an administrative tribunal, the CNRA functioned somewhat like a court, in that the panel was to hear evidence and arguments and make a decision that would be legally enforceable. It was no surprise, then, that the majority of the strangers representing Syron Lake Resources and the other mining companies were lawyers.

  Seeing them in the flesh in their expensive suits, I began to wonder at my sanity in going up against them. I had no legal training whatsoever and had known nothing about uranium mining prior to moving to this town.

  But events had landed me right smack in the middle of all this, and turning back out now was out of the question.

  Since Osgood had suggested that I apply to be a participant, speaking at the hearing had been only a remote possibility. Now, with reporters’ recorders and television cameras rolling, and a roomful of strangers watching and listening, it was all too frighteningly real for someone more comfortable tapping away at a keyboard in obscurity.