Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you the nuclear hearing chairman? My buddy from high school works at the front desk. He said this was your room number.”

  So much for professionalism and concern about the safety of guests at this hotel, Dromel thought.

  “Well, are you the chairman? Are you Mr Dromel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “What for?”

  “I need to speak to you about something important. In private.”

  The young man took to the captain’s chair in the corner of the tiny room. Dromel shifted the clothes that lay on the bed and sat beside the open suitcase.

  “I read about you in today’s papers,” the young man said. “I don’t know if you read the local paper?”

  “I glanced at it.”

  “Well, my uncle is the one who drowned last weekend at his fishing camp. Eric Tremblay. The story was on page three.”

  Dromel looked at his watch.

  “My uncle worked for Syron Lake Resources. They mentioned that in the article.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  Jacques Tremblay bent his head and looked at the floor. After a while, he propped his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands over his face. His shoulders shook.

  Dromel remained silent as he listened to the sniffles and sobs. He checked his watch again. “Look, kid, I hav–”

  “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to….” Jacques wiped his eyes with the cuffs of his sweater. He sniffled. He took a big breath, then continued.

  “I’ll get straight to the point. About two weeks ago, my uncle came to see me in Ottawa. I’m in college down there. So he came down and he said he needed to get something off his chest. He’d done something bad. He wasn’t thinking straight when he did it, because he’d been to the doctor and they’d told him he had cancer really bad and he had four months to live.”

  Dromel looked at the open suitcase. He was tempted to start packing and tune the kid out. But the young man’s agitation caused him, instead, to merely shift his weight on the bed.

  “And?” he said.

  “Well, shortly after he got that diagnosis, some people approached him. Said they were from the company. They knew all about his work, his shifts and everything. They said the company wanted the tailings pond breached. But it had to look like an accident. So he waited until there was a big storm and then…he broke the dam.”

  “What?” Dromel stood up.

  “He was ashamed of himself afterward. He told me that he planned to let it out in public, like, you know, like a deathbed confession, just before the cancer took him. But then the accident happened. He never got the chance….”

  Jacques bent his head again and sobbed.

  Dromel rested his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “Thanks for coming to me with this. Does anybody else know?”

  “As far as I know, no.” Jacques wiped his eyes. “I’m his only family and he didn’t have a girlfriend. His best buddy committed suicide this weekend, too. I don’t know if my uncle may have told him. He was supposed to be out fishing with him that day. He wasn’t too right in the head, that guy. Something like that could have sent him off his rocker; or he could have found out my uncle had drowned and then decided to do himself off.”

  Dromel paced in front of the bed.

  “I came to you because my uncle had made me swear that if the cancer took him before he could make the video public that I would do it for him. We’d spoken about me anonymously passing it to the police. But I don’t trust the cops. Don’t want to have anything to do with them.”

  Dromel continued to pace in silence.

  Jacques watched him, his head moving left to right, like a spectator at a tennis match.

  “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.” Jacques propped his elbows on his knees and cupped his chin with his hands. “I’m feeling kinda zoned out right now. Got no family left now. Don’t even know if I should go back to school or not.”

  Dromel stood directly in front of Jacques.

  “Look at me, kid,” the panel chairman said sternly.

  Like a child, Jacques obeyed and lifted his eyes to meet Dromel’s.

  “Give me a straight answer,” Dromel said. “How much was he paid?”

  Jacques looked away.

  “What? Did you think the cops would ask and I wouldn’t? Talk to me. How much?”

  Jacques bit his lip.

  “Speak up!” Even Dromel was startled by the ferocity with which the command came out.

  “Fifty grand,” Jacques said under his breath.

  Fifty grand, Dromel repeated in his mind. And they had offered him only six times that much for his part in whatever grand scheme Syron Lake Resources was up to. He began to feel insulted.

  “What happened to the cash?”

  Silence.

  Dromel checked his watch.

  “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know what he did with the rest, but he gave me thirty grand. We spread the money in four different banks in Ottawa, under my name. None has more than eight thousand.”

  Wise, Dromel thought. Unlikely to raise suspicions. This situation should not be a problem.

  Dromel tried on a tone of sagacious authority. “What your uncle did is a very delicate matter. It has to be handled with the utmost discretion. Do you understand?”

  Jacques nodded.

  “Leave this with me,” Dromel said. “I’ll consult with the relevant individuals at the CNRA in order to ensure the matter is dealt with effectively.”

  Jacques smiled uncertainly. “I was thinking I should maybe, you know, make myself scarce for a little while. Go somewhere where I can chill out and clear my head.”

  Dromel immediately understood the kid’s convoluted manner of communicating. He was really asking whether he could consider the cash his to keep.

  This naive pup had put himself in a totally vulnerable position. If he, Dromel, had been wicked in nature, he could have easily frightened this yokel into emptying the bank accounts and handing all the money over to him.

  But the kid was now alone in the world. What was he, eighteen, nineteen? At any rate, he was a few years younger than Dromel had been when he’d lost his father, a hardy lobster fisherman, who was the last of the elders in his family. Dromel remembered the confusion and the sense of being adrift that he’d felt, and which the kid had just seemed to have described. Unlike the kid, Dromel had been lucky; he’d been well into his studies and he’d begun a serious relationship, and that had kept him grounded.

  The money seemed to be all that this kid had. Dromel didn’t need it; he was going after a much larger paycheck.

  He caught sight of the clock on the bedside table. He had to get going in the next few minutes, otherwise his brief reunion with Bernice would be in jeopardy.

  He walked to the door.

  “Good idea,” Dromel said. “Go away, somewhere. But don’t go living high on the hog, calling attention to yourself. Understand?”

  “I’m not like that.” Jacques got up and walked toward the door, grinning for the first time. “I’m actually really responsible.”

  “Remember: absolute discretion.” Dromel wagged his index finger. “Don’t talk about this with anyone.”

  Jacques reached for the door knob, then spun around.

  “Oh, wait. I almost forgot. What should I do about the video?”

  “The video?”

  “When he was down to see me, my uncle go
t this fancy camcorder that he couldn’t make head nor tails of. So he asked me to help him tape his confession. I figured out how to work the thing and we did the recording in his truck as he gave me a lift to my school. It’s all still on there.”

  “Do you have the camcorder?”

  “Not on me. I saw it up at my uncle’s camp. I could go get it.”

  “Not enough time.”

  Dromel walked over to the bedside table and scribbled on the hotel stationery.

  “Here’s my address in Hull.” He handed Jacques the paper and opened the door. “Copy the video on a stick and mail it to me. Don’t use my name; just put the address on the envelope.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Jacques slipped the scrap into his pocket.

  “I mean it, kid,” Dromel said. “Keep in touch. I need to know where to find you, if I have to.”

  Chapter 48

  My feet took me down Ontario road. Destination: Syron Lake Inn. He was staying there.

  I had remained behind after he had adjourned the hearing; I had stood at a window in a quiet corner of the community center and had watched for him to enter the parking lot.

  The first three letters on the plate of the green Prius he drove was all I’d managed to get. I’d watched him turn onto Ontario Road, which would have taken him to the Inn, the crown jewel in Mayor Demetriou’s empire.

  I had remained at the window of the community center for what felt like an eternity, nibbling at an egg sandwich and looking out for the Prius. He would have had to pass this way to get out of town and I had been glued to my vantage point so that I could get that last glimpse of him.

  But now, my feet were taking me toward the Inn.

  My mind was blank. I had no clue what I would do or say when I got there. All I knew was that I felt a compulsion to once again see those hazel eyes, that square jaw, and that now seductive, bald pate.

  Somewhere inside, I felt my entire future was wrapped up in those hazel eyes.

  A swift movement caught my attention.A green car came flying around the bend, a few meters ahead. It was him.

  His eyes were fixed on the road. He zoomed past in an instant.

  He didn’t even see me.

  I stood and watched the car grow smaller in the distance, until it disappeared behind an outcrop of rocks.

  No, I thought; this could not be how the story would end. It could not be that he had come all the way to this town, had come into my life at this moment, and had ignited something deep and primal inside of me, only to slip out of my life forever, just like that.

  Chapter 49

  Chief Bromley slammed down the phone. He walked to the window behind his desk and leaned against the frame. He tapped his fingers slowly, letting each one hit the glass separately.

  Parker, who had been on the other end of the line, entered.

  “Sit down, Parker.”

  The chief took a deep breath, which expanded his already enormous chest. He walked over to his chair, but remained on his feet.

  “An eyewitness told Kennedy that the other day you went out back for a smoke and offered him a cigarette. Said you were a real friendly guy. Kind, even. That you gave him almost a whole pack. Now, tell me Parker, since when did you start smoking?”

  “I started when I was nine or ten,” Parker said matter-of-factly. “Nasty habit, I know.”

  It was true. He had started at a young age. He was just leaving out the part that he’d quit in his mid-twenties after one of his early girlfriends had insisted she would not kiss a smoker. He had completely lost the craving for nicotine, and hadn’t lit up until that morning when he needed to ease some information out of the eyewitness whom he had lured behind the station.

  “Right,” the chief said. “Another thing. Word got back to me that a neighbor on Eric Tremblay’s street saw you banging on the door of his house. Said you left his grieving nephew very upset.”

  “I never banged on Eric Tremblay’s door. That’s simply not true.”

  “And the next thing. You’ve been asking questions around town about Eric Tremblay’s drinking habits.”

  Parker said nothing.

  “What does this add up to, Detective Sergeant?”

  Getting no reply, the chief continued. “I’ll tell what it adds up to: insubordination.”

  Parker’s jaw moved up and down as he ground his teeth.

  The chief narrowed his eyes and drew himself up.“I believe I made it clear to you the other day that you’re not assigned to this case.”

  “I was only trying to help Max. He’s a good cop, but, let’s face it, he’s very green.”

  “Parker, how many civilian cases of possible drowning and suicide have you investigated? Answer me that.”

  “None, but–”

  “But nothing. This is not the military. This is a small town. With small-town folks. As far as dealing with civilian cases in a place like this is concerned, you’re on par with Kennedy. So don’t think you can waltz in here flashing your military experience as if that’ll make you some kind of hotshot cop in Syron Lake.”

  His so-called superior was not covering himself in glory with his logic, Parker thought. He battled with his facial muscles to prevent the contempt he felt from leaking out in his expression.

  “Perhaps it has escaped your notice, Parker, but I’m the one in charge around here,” Bromley said. “And I am giving you a final and very clear warning. If I ever catch you covertly investigating this or any other case that I’ve not assigned you, I am going to haul your sorry tail before the disciplinary committee so fast, your head will be spinning. Now get out of my office and get to work on the cases I’ve assigned you.”

  “And a good-day to you, too, Chief,” Parker said as he walked out the door.

  Chapter 50

  Director Hutton walked with leaden feet down a corridor at the White House. Two minutes before, he had been in the Situation Room in the basement taking a beating.

  It was late November and the president was not a happy man. The opposing party was gloating at its gains in the mid-term Congressional elections a few weeks earlier. Meanwhile, the Administration was not looking good at all in the news.

  Hutton knew the latter all came down to him.

  Earlier in the week, a terrorist attack on a Bangkok disco packed with American tourists had left five dead. Among them were a Florida cheerleader who was celebrating her twenty-first birthday, and an otherwise ordinary Houston medical student who had walked in with three pounds of plastic explosives strapped to his waist. The morning’s Washington Post had led with a damning leak: the FBI had had the bomber on its radar eighteen months before, yet was unable to prevent the tragedy.

  When he’d received the summons to attend the National Security Council meeting, Hutton had fully expected to have his head chewed off. He’d been in the business long enough to have developed a thick skin. But the ferocity of the pummeling from a president who’d always seemed completely unflappable had left him reeling.

  Maybe you’re getting too old for this, he told himself.

  He suddenly found a hand rubbing his back, making wide circles from one shoulder blade to the other.

  “So you got his full nuclear blast.”

  Her voice bore sympathy with a touch of amusement. Secretary of State Angela Roseau finished by patting Hutton’s lower back, then walked side by side with him.

  His dressing down had been all that much worse because she had been there to witness it. He hadn’t been able to turn his head in her direction during the entire meeting. And he could hardly find his voice now.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “That w
asn’t about you. I don’t think he’s recovered from the mid-term elections. We lost the House, and our majority in the Senate slipped quite a bit. He’s going to have a rough time getting anything done from now on, and he knows it.”

  “Umm,” was all Hutton could muster.

  “He’s been raging at everyone lately. He’s even going ballistic about this softwood lumber dispute with Canada. Ordered me off to see Peabody in Ottawa, next week. I’m not looking forward to that at all.

  “I’ve tried every strategy in the book with Shirtsleeves and so far nothing’s worked. So I’m not sure what I can accomplish with this visit. If it was his deputy, Danforth, that I was dealing with, I’m sure there’d be progress. Danforth is a reasonable man. But Peabody seems to take more pride in flaunting his pig-headedness than in trying to prove himself a wise leader of a major nation.”

  Roseau sighed.

  “The president has me under his thumb because he needs this softwood lumber trade deal. It’s his last term and it’s supposed to be part of his legacy.

  “And the party is getting antsy, too. We’ll hurt badly if we don’t stitch this thing up. It could lose us a lot of financial support from the lumber industry, not to mention cost us a chunk of union votes.

  “If we get this trade deal done, we’ll be sitting pretty, but failure would make life difficult for whoever the party nominates to run in the next election. So you can imagine how the president is getting an earful these days from everyone around him who could be in line to take up his place when he vacates the Oval Office.”

  “Okay, I see the big picture,” Hutton said, finally; he hadn’t realized before how much he would enjoy having her try to perk up his spirits. “But I don’t know, Angela. Maybe I’m getting too old for this business.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “You’ve got years and years of service to this great nation ahead of you yet.”

  She stopped and faced him. She smiled, and as he observed the way her blue eyes sparkled, Hutton wished there were some way to capture and contain their brilliance that he could bask in it whenever he wanted.