Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  Now, six months after everything had checked out, Greene felt well on his way.

  Fate had dropped into his lap the opportunity to make his first billion. And it would come long before he turned fifty-two, the age Isaac Greene had been when Magrelma’s worth had hit that mark.

  Greene drew in a breath with more than a hint of satisfaction. “Just so that you know,” he said, “the tailings pond has been drained. It’s been all taken care of.”

  The Russians exchanged glances.

  “What is this?” Nazarov’s forehead folded in deep waves. “This was never in the plans.”

  “I don’t gave a damn about your plans. This is my company; we’ll do things my way.”

  “This project was supposed to be handled discreetly.”

  “And it is. Mahler is the only other person who knew about it. And he’s no longer a problem.”

  “But Magrelma is not your company. You don’t run it.”

  “Don’t have to. I haven’t said anything to Maitland, although he’s supposedly in charge now. All I had to say to him was that I would be focusing on our Syron Lake assets. The drunkard was happy as hell to have one less thing to think about.”

  “But, draining toxic waste from a dam, just like that…this is not done.”

  “Ah, it has been done. The dam was breached. What didn’t spill out is now being carted away.”

  “But the authorities….”

  “Relax. It’s all taken care of.”

  Nazarov’s jaws pulsated.

  “Do you think I’d try to handle this on my own?” Greene snorted. “There’s nothing to be concerned about. There are some very high up individuals taking care of things. All will be well.”

  Nazarov stared Greene with hard eyes. Laschenko remained silent, as he’d always done at these meetings.

  “Look, it had to be done.” Greene leaned forward and continued in a lower voice. “Right now there’s a hearing to review plans for all the mining companies in Syron Lake. They’re supposed to hand back their licenses and turn the properties over to the government to maintain the waste sites. All the companies had confirmed they wanted to bail out in the next three to five years. Syron Lake Resources included. Mahler had ordered the company to file documents saying that.

  “But with the dam now busted, it would be political suicide for the government to take back the Syron Lake Resources license because they would be saddled with the cleanup bill. Taxpayers wouldn’t be too happy about that.

  “So, that’s where we’ve jumped in and said — out of the goodness of our hearts as responsible corporate citizens, of course — we’ll hang on to our license, bear the cost of the cleanup and hold on to the property for the long term.”

  Nazarov’s face remained taut.

  “See, it all works out.” Greene leaned back and smiled. “In this way, we’re already clearing the ground in preparation for our new operations. It’s being done right under their noses and nobody knows it.”

  Nazarov shook his head.

  Greene narrowed his eyes at the gesture; he felt irritation rising in his breast that his cleverness seemed not to impress the Russians. “Look, if we’d gone the official route, applying for permission to relocate the tailings pond, that could have meant years of bureaucratic red tape and, in the end, we still might not have gotten the go-ahead.”

  “This is too risky. It could jeopardize everything,” Nazarov said.

  “That risk has been taken care of.” Greene nodded with an air of triumph. “The official chairing the review panel is our man. That’s been doubly assured. There’s no way we’re losing that property.”

  “Getting this project off the ground was supposed to be left to us,” Nazarov said through clenched teeth. “That’s what we discussed.”

  Greene’s nostrils flared and turned bright red.

  Nazarov sensed that he had let too much of his anger show. He swallowed hard and switched to a calmer voice. “We already have a company set up to do all the preliminary work. You don’t have to get involved in this manner. All you need to do is provide the equity. Really, you should not worry yourself with all these complications. Let us handle the details. Just–”

  “No!” Greene slammed his palm down on the table. “This has to be done right. I’m leading this project and we’ll do it my way. Understood?”

  Chapter 44

  He had been eager to finish work all day. When he arrived home, he showered to go over to Stella Jacob’s place for what he planned as a casual conversation about her connection with Osgood.

  As he pulled on a crisp, white shirt, he caught sight of his face in the mirror. He frowned.

  He had not always looked like this.

  This face had manifested itself on him in the days that followed Sophia’s abrupt exit from his life.

  They’d dated for three years. She’d become friends with his friends and had spent time with his parents and his sisters. She’d even attended his father’s funeral and had held his hand before and after he’d given the eulogy.

  Three years, and she’d waited until the last day before their wedding to leave a note saying that she couldn’t go through with it, that she couldn’t continue to live a lie, and that she was taking off with the person she really loved.

  He had let her ghost beat him down for long enough now. That was the past. History. He was ready to crawl out from that dank, windowless dungeon or wherever the hell it was that he had been trapped these past seven years.

  He scanned his face in the mirror. The beard had to go.

  Chapter 45

  I tapped intermittently on the keyboard in a vain attempt to type up the day’s notes. Every so often, though, my mind wandered to the parts of the day’s events that would not leave me. The reminiscing was aided by Jan Arden’s Could I Be Your Girl? which I had set to repeat on my computer’s CD player.

  That smile.

  Those hazel eyes.

  That wink.

  It had lasted mere seconds, yet it had spawned hours of daydreams.

  I had scrambled home to Google him. But all I could find on Benoit Dromel was the bio that accompanied his appointment to the CNRA, a couple of years before.

  Born in New Brunswick. A double major in engineering and law at the University of Toronto; so, obviously ambitious, with a brilliant mind. Admitted to the bar some twenty years ago. A brief stint in the private sector and a steady climb through the public service, culminating with the post of Director at the Canadian Boundary Waters Commission, before being selected by the prime minister — Prime Minister Peabody’s predecessor, that is — to serve a five-year term.

  No mention about a wife or family.

  I, of course, had taken notice of his left hand. No ring.

  The website didn’t give a date of birth, and without hair of a color that could give away his age, his wrinkle-free face suggested he was in his early forties. His CV, though, pegged him at a decade older.

  His image — both the picture on his web profile, and the intelligent features I’d begun to pay attention to since the afternoon session — was now burned into my mind. That smile….

  Somewhere in my reverie, I was aware of car lights turning into my driveway. Still, I was startled to hear the knock.

  “Ms Jacob.” The man at the door dipped his chin in a somewhat shy bow. “I’m Detect– I’m Paul Parker. We met at the Field Naturalists meeting the other night.”

  At first I didn’t recognize him. Then I noticed the freshness of his clean jaw. So there’d been a more than decent-looking man hidden under the beard, after all.

  No ring, here, either.

 
; Still, he was a Syron Lake cop. The panel chairman may have been supportive of me, but I figured that Mayor Demetriou may not have been as pleased with my presentation.

  Demetriou had left for an out-of-town conference after the first day of the hearing, but city staff had been there earlier in the day and surely would have relayed my harsh words about the company and the authorities back to him.

  This cop was employed by the town, so, ultimately, Demetriou was his boss.

  “What do you want, Detective?”

  He widened his eyes and pulled his head back, as if he was surprised at my tone.

  “It’s about Osgood. I have just a few questions. May I come in?”

  I stepped aside and he entered, fidgeting with the leather jacket in his hands.

  The chair scraped the floor in an ugly screech when I pulled it from in front of the computer and offered it to him. I would have preferred to have set him down at the other end of the table, far away from my computer. But that other chair was pilled high with copies of reports that I had collected from the CNRA hearing.

  I leaned against the table and folded my arms. For some reason, unlike with the mayor, I was not at all bothered as this cop scanned the almost bare room, which was still littered with unpacked boxes.

  “You, of course, heard the news,” he said.

  “Yes. Still can’t believe it. Someone from the Field Naturalists said he committed suicide.”

  “Actually, there was no suicide note. But he did have your number jotted down.”

  “Well, we exchanged numbers the night we met at the Field Naturalists meeting.”

  “You were at the Moose Lodge the Friday night of the speeches, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Parker shifted forward and perched himself at the edge of the chair. “Osgood didn’t make too many friends in high places on that occasion, did he?”

  What kind of trap was the mayor trying to lay for me, here? My body stiffened and my tone grew colder.

  “What are you on about, Detective?”

  “I’m just trying — as a friend, you understand — just trying to get a sense of what was happening with Osgood just before he died.”

  “But you seem to be suggesting his death wasn’t a suicide.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything.”

  “So what is this inquiry all about then?”

  “Look, I’m not here on duty, okay?” He smiled sheepishly. “This isn’t anything official.”

  “If it isn’t, why are you here, then?”

  “Osgood had his eccentricities and, sure, he was a joke to some and a nuisance to others. But he was a good guy. I knew him fairly well. Well enough to think he deserves to have questions about how he died thoroughly checked out.”

  I remembered how this cop had shaken Osgood’s hand the night of the political meeting; yes, it had seemed warm and sincere. And now, too, he sounded earnest. Perhaps he wasn’t here at Mayor Demetriou’s behest after all.

  I stood up straight and faced him. “Osgood was advising me on how to deal with the spill. He was the one who suggested I apply to speak about it at the federal government hearing, which I had the chance to do, today. He also encouraged me to launch a class action lawsuit.”

  “Did anyone else know about this?”

  “Mayor Demetriou found out about the lawsuit.”

  “Did he know Osgood was advising you?”

  “I’ve no clue. I’d gone to the reservation to try to get them involved and I think Demetriou found out because someone from the reservation told him about my visit. He came to see me about it.”

  “And?”

  “Let’s just say he wasn’t too pleased. He warned me not to go ahead with the class action.”

  “When was that?”

  “It was the Monday or Tuesday after the election.”

  I felt my throat tightening. The memory of my encounters with the mayor rattled me. Perhaps I’d already said too much to this cop. I was still too new to this town. I didn’t fully understand the dynamics of this place. The pendulum of uncertainty had sung again, making me wary about saying anything further to Detective Sergeant Paul Parker.

  “Look, I’ve got a lot of work to do,” I said. “Are we finished here?”

  Parker seemed to hesitate. “Yes. Thanks. I appreciate your time.”

  He stood up. As he did, the CD kicked in a repeat of Could I Be Your Girl?. The song had been playing quietly in the background all this time.

  Parker’s eyes darted toward the computer and rested on the pile of Jan Arden CDs that sat on top of the tower.

  “My elder sister’s a big fan of hers, too.” He smiled.

  The Web browser on my computer was open and showed a page with Benoit Dromel’s picture — enlarged to fill up the screen. I didn’t have a screensaver running. My heart pounded at the thought of the cop’s eyes gliding from the pile of CDs across to the screen. I feared that with that particular song repeating, the frenzy of emotions which now possessed me concerning Benoit Dromel would be laid bare.

  “Well, thank you for stopping by.” I took a step closer to the door and extended my hand toward it.

  Parker seemed taken aback by the abrupt gesture, but proceeded to leave.

  I followed him to the door. Through the thin material of his white shirt, I observed the taut muscles of his back. He smelled of sandalwood and cedar. Nice aftershave, I thought.

  He stepped across the threshold, then turned around sharply. He stood there, hesitating.

  “Look, I’m not sure what happened to Osgood,” he said, “but, yes, I have my doubts about the suicide theory. I don’t mean to frighten you. But if what happened to Osgood had something to do with what he was talking to you about, there may be a possibility you could be in danger too.”

  So were we back to this cop being the mayor’s messenger out to scare me off this battle with the mining company? My eyes narrowed to a stern stare.

  The detective pulled out a pen and a small notebook from the pocket of the leather jacket and scribbled.

  “Look, if you ever need help, give me a call.”

  He tore off the page and extended it to me.

  I shrugged and took it, telling myself that there wasn’t any circumstance under which I’d feel the need to use it. Little did I know how wrong I was about that.

  Chapter 46

  The last day of the hearing, I arrived early to reclaim a seat at the front. I hadn’t enjoyed having to peer over heads, nine rows deep, as I’d been forced to do the previous afternoon when the Syron Lake Resources team swiped the seat I’d had the entire week.

  From my position, I had a clear view of the panel chairman — and he of me. He called the session to order. Three minutes into the presenter’s speech, he flipped open his laptop.

  I looked directly into his eyes — and he into mine.

  A surge of warmth flooded every inch of my body. I bent my head and bit my lip to restrain the giddy grin that threatened to break out on my face.

  “Does this have potential?” I wrote in my notebook.

  Throughout the rest of the session, practically every time I looked up, I met his gaze. No, I was not mistaken about his interest.

  Embarrassed at where I had allowed my thoughts to wander, I looked away almost immediately every time our eyes met. Except on two occasions; at those moments, I saw the sides of his lips curve slightly upward. A knowing grin. An alluring grin.

  The hearing ran right through lunch without a break and wrapped up at half past one.

  As Benoit Dromel delivered his
closing remarks, I scribbled a couple of words, and drew a line down the left side of the question mark I had written earlier. I smiled giddily and filled it in.

  The note now read, “Oh boy! Does this have potential!”

  Chapter 47

  With a rolled-up twenty-dollar bill held to his right nostril, he inhaled sharply, drawing up the last remnants of the crushed OxyContin pill. He checked his face in the mirror. He brushed away what looked to be specks of the powder, dusted down the dresser, and began to pack his suitcase.

  He had hoped to adjourn the hearing at noon to give himself enough time that he wouldn’t have to rush. No such luck. The last presenter was so long-winded, and Rigby just kept firing off questions, as if any of it really mattered. Two or three more proceedings, and Rigby would learn, Dromel thought to himself.

  A three-hour drive to the Sudbury airport lay ahead of him. He would have twenty minutes to catch his flight to Ottawa.

  Bernice would be back that weekend, well, for a few hours anyway.

  She was in the air already, on her way from Paris. She was scheduled to be in some African nation or the other the following Monday. She had planned things so that they’d meet at the Ottawa airport, spend the night at a nearby hotel, and then she’d catch an onward flight, early the next morning.

  He could not afford to miss his plane.

  The knock on the door startled him.

  He had already checked on the staff and delegated the work of ensuring the orderly return of equipment to the CNRA headquarters; he wasn’t expecting anyone.

  Through the peephole, he saw a young man who nervously looked about him. The stranger knocked again.

  Dromel flung open the door.