Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  Dollars and cents. It was language lawyers would understand, I thought.

  Randy Vohles nearly crushed my fingers with his handshake. He had a powerfully-built upper body, as a result of having to propel himself around in a wheelchair.

  “When I was in high school, a drunk driver ran head-on into the car my buddies and I were driving in on our way home from a baseball game,” he said. “I was lucky. My best friend, who was at the wheel, and his brother, who was in the front passenger seat, died on the spot.”

  He listened, and fired off questions, and scribbled notes furiously as I told him about my background, about how I had ended up in Syron Lake (leaving out my hopes concerning Peter, of course), about how I came to witness the spill, about the unenthusiastic response of the town’s mayor and my run-ins with him, and about the CNRA hearing and the panel chair’s reaction to my speech (leaving out anything of a personal nature, of course).

  Almost every sentence Vohles uttered during our two-hour conversation included some variant of the word “interesting.”

  “I’m very interested in considering this further,” he said when we shook hands again at his door. “It looks to be an uphill battle, but challenges don’t faze me.”

  Still, like the seven other lawyers I had consulted before him, he said, “I’ll get back to you after we’ve reviewed this and made a decision on whether to take the case.”

  So far, from Vohles’ reaction, my new approach seemed to be doing the trick.

  I hoped it would work. Now that the CNRA hearing was over, I’d vowed to put every effort toward getting the class action started — in Osgood’s memory. It was the only way I could rid myself of the guilt I felt at not voting for him, and of the uncomfortable feeling that I was partly responsible for his suicide.

  If we could only get Vohles’ firm to champion our cause, we – the ordinary folk, the little guys – would finally have a chance of bringing at least one corporate predator to its knees. As the elevator took me to the ground floor, I began planning to scour the Internet for any new or remotely related information that I could email to Vohles as a follow-up in order to keep Syron Lake at the front of his mind.

  I pushed my way through the revolving door and re-emerged on Bank. It was three o’clock and the wind was blowing as hard as ever.

  I hugged myself and maneuvered around other pedestrians battling for the narrow strip of sanded pavement. A couple of blocks past Somerset Street, I came to Peppard Street.

  His street.

  I bolted into a coffee shop and claimed a place where I could look out, yet remain hidden by the dingy curtains. Opposite was a car park adjoining Peppard Place, a massive government complex in steel and glass that took up an entire block.

  I could relax now. The Greyhound bus back up to Syron Lake was not until midnight. I could take my time with a bowl of minestrone and crackers; after that, I would stretch out a tall latte for the hour or two I imagined it would take to see him appear. If he did appear.

  By the time my watch said it was half past five, the second hope I had for this Ottawa trip had all but faded.

  During the CNRA hearing, the panel chairman had never been without a cup of coffee; he would either come into the hall with a cup in hand, or, before his arrival, one would be placed at his spot on the panel table by some underling.

  Apart from giving a view of the car park adjacent to his building, the coffee shop was the only one on this stretch of Peppard Street. I had figured this would have doubled the chances that I would catch a glimpse of him, caffeine addict that he seemed to be.

  But the hours had worn on and he hadn’t appeared in the almost steady line-up for coffee and donuts.

  He didn’t show up, either, in the car park, which had quickly emptied just past four o’clock and now had only a few vehicles left.

  In the corner of the lot closest to me, a gloveless driver wiped snow from his windshield. He alternated between using his right and left hand to hold the brush, and shoving frozen fingers under the armpits of his coat.

  As I watched the hapless creature, it finally dawned on me that it was hardly likely that Dromel would have been parked there.

  He sat almost at the top of one of the major agencies that occupied Peppard Place. A complex of that size was certain to have underground parking. And he, more than likely, would be among those privileged to have a reserved spot, protected from the rain and snow.

  I sighed, feeling my spirit deflate along with my lungs.

  I had traveled hundreds of miles to this city with a hope of…of what? I wasn’t sure, exactly. All I knew was that I craved to see him again. I longed to look into his hazel eyes again. I needed to see if those eyes would still lay on me with the fierce intensity that had stirred up a hope of…yes, a hope of love.

  Now that hope seemed illusory, like all the times love had been teasingly dangled in my face before.

  I had come to accept that there would be no reconciliation with Peter. Where that relationship was concerned, I had put one foot in front of the other and was marching on to better things. Or so I’d thought.

  I wasn’t so naive as to believe that Benoit Dromel was in love with me.

  No, I had read enough in the online forums and agony aunt columns to understand that for men, desire, or to put it plainly, lust came first. But, what I’d understood from what I’d read was that men come around eventually, and begin to love the object of their desire.

  After my online research, it had dawned on me that, in all my weak attempts at romance so far, my mistake had been that I’d set out expecting men to think and act like I, and perhaps every other woman, did when we entered into relationships. We put love first because we start out with the expectation that a relationship should be founded on love.

  All during that week of the hearing, Dromel had laid bare what he wanted. Surely a desire of such intensity could be watered and nurtured by the love I could offer so that love would eventually bloom in its place, or alongside it.

  The memory of the way he had looked at me was intoxicating; to have been wanted like that by someone….

  I’d never felt as if I had been fully loved, or even quite belonged anywhere.

  At home, my dad’s and his second wife’s drinking meant neither of them was ever really available to have an intelligent conversation, let alone a relationship with me. I loved my grandparents — two gentle, old people who’d shown me the most embracing love I’d ever known; but they were of a different generation, which left miles of distance between us.

  At the convent school in Trinidad, there were a handful of girls with whom I spent some of my free time, but we weren’t very close, partly because my dad’s problem with the bottle made me afraid to open up to anyone, and partly because the meagre finances of my home created a stark contrast with my classmates’ middle and upper class backgrounds.

  For most of college and my early working days the sense of isolation had lingered on. I’d thrown myself so fully into trying to get ahead, I’d had little chance to open up to anyone. And when I did try, well, all my attempts at romance just petered out and died.

  This is my fate, I thought, to always be alone.

  I pursed my lips, as if doing so could hold back the tears that began to well in my eyes.

  A waitress appeared in the far corner of the empty cafe and began wiping down the tables and noisily adjusting chairs around them. It was now a quarter to six. I took the hint, slipped on my coat and exited into the frigid street.

  Two doors down, the lights inside a bookstore glowed invitingly. The sign on the door said they closed at ten. Through the large shop window, I could see a couple of chairs among the clutter of shelves and display tables. Perfect.

  It didn’t matter that
it was a French bookstore and I couldn’t read French. Just to appease the sullen, elderly woman who sat at the cash register, I bought a celebrity magazine. Between that and the novels I’d brought with me, I would kill four hours before heading to the Greyhound station.

  I found a chair in a private spot, in the furthest corner at the back of the store, and settled down. The place was quiet, except to for the radio going on the cashier’s desk, which was near the door and out of sight.

  I had been the only customer in the store for a while, and then the bell at the entrance sounded.

  After a brief, muffled conversation, footsteps approached my way. I looked up and saw a man in a back toque and a long, black leather coat moving down the aisle, his face turned toward the shelf as he seemed to be reading the titles of the books.

  My heart suddenly jack-hammered against my rib cage. I could hardly breathe.

  It was Benoit Dromel.

  Feeling panicked, I got up. I wanted desperately to see him. And I also wanted to flee. But there was only one way out, and he was blocking it.

  Dromel came halfway up the aisle and I froze.

  He pulled a book from the shelf, and, as if suddenly becoming aware of being watched, he turned to face me. He tilted his head and scanned my face, as if searching his memory.

  “Ms Jacob?”

  A warm sensation rushed through my body. The soles of my feet and my palms itched maddeningly.

  He strode closer, his teeth glistening in a broad smile.

  I cleared my throat. “Mr Dromel.”

  “Visiting Ottawa?”

  “Had some business to take care of.”

  Ottawa was not a large city. Yet still, it must have seemed to him quite a coincidence that I’d ended up right in the vicinity of his office.

  “Working late?” I blurted.

  He nodded and stopped just a couple of feet from me. Those eyes. Yes, those hazel eyes were on me as intensely as ever.

  “I heard this was a very good book store.” The lie fell uneasily from my lips. “Best place for French Canadian literature.”

  “It is.” He held up the book he’d chosen. “Came to get this. It’s just out. By a former teacher of mine.”

  The sign above the aisle said “Littérature acadienne.” I knew just enough about Canadian culture to understand that referred to books from the Atlantic provinces. He was from New Brunswick, so, yes, his presence here made sense.

  He bent his head and flipped through the pages. He hadn’t worn a ring during the Syron Lake hearing, but I wanted to make doubly sure. My eyes followed his left hand, but he turned it before I could glimpse his ring finger.

  He looked at his watch. “I’ve got a business dinner in about an hour. Are you driving? Or can I give you a lift anywhere?”

  His dilated eyes penetrated mine. They made me quiver. The way he said it, a “lift” sounded like it meant more than just a ride. I bit my lower lip and drew a deep breath. Involuntarily, my eyes darted to his left hand again.

  When I looked up at him again, it was obvious that he had followed my searching glance. He seemed amused.

  We were both on the same wavelength. I might as well be direct.

  “Not married?” I said.

  His smile widened. “No, I’m not married.”

  “In a committed relationship?”

  He threw his head back slightly; he chuckled. “No, again. Not in a committed relationship.”

  He moved closer and gently curled his left hand around my upper arm. My heart pounded so hard, I was sure he could hear it. He bent his face toward mine.

  I wanted more that anything for our lips to merge, to be wrapped up in his arms, and to let myself be swept away by the tidal wave of emotions and sensations that seemed on the brink of overwhelming me. But I raised my hand and held back his shoulder.

  I stepped back.

  He straightened himself. The smile was replaced by a look of confusion.

  “Look,” I said, “I know your position with the CNRA and my participation in the hearing makes things complicated.”

  He said nothing.

  “Not so?” I continued.

  “I guess it does.”

  He bent his arm and checked his watch again.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve read up on conflict of interest. And, well, if you were to recuse yourself from the part of the panel decision involving Syron Lake Resources, then there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  He shifted his weight.

  “I mean,” I said, “you can still decide on the licenses of the other companies. I didn’t speak about them. But if there’s to be anything between us, I think it could only happen if you didn’t take part in the Syron Lake Resources decision.”

  He looked past my shoulder.

  I had an unbearable sensation of drowning, and felt compelled to continue trying to persuade him. “I mean, the company’s already agreed to do what I always thought was right. They’re saying they’ll bear all costs. As for my further suggestion that they be made to pay the bill and still lose their license, I know that’s maybe a long shot. But I’m sure the other two panel members can be trusted to make the right decision.”

  Dromel still said nothing.

  I bent my head. I had made an utter fool of myself, and the heavy lump in my throat was my only reward.

  “That’s a pretty major decision.” Dromel spoke softly, and I thought I heard kindness in his tone.

  “Well, if you went to the Ethics Commissioner about it….”

  He held me by my left elbow, and I looked up at him.

  “Okay, leave it with me,” he said.

  I swallowed hard and nodded.

  He released his hold on my elbow, turned, and walked away. After a few steps, he turned around and came back. He took out a pen and a business card from his pocket, scribbled something, then handed the card to me.

  He winked, then left.

  I watched until he disappeared around the corner. I stood motionless, unable to draw normal breaths as I listened to the cash register being rung up. The bell tinkled as Dromel left.

  I raced to the front of the store and peered out the display window. Dromel opened the door of a beige Audi, got into the driver’s seat, and took off.

  The cashier had her eyes fixed on a thick novel that she held up close to her face. A deep-voiced French crooner softly belted out an oldie over the radio.

  I glanced down at the back of business card Dromel had given me. It had a handwritten phone number on it.

  I took two paces to a nearby chair and dropped down into it; my legs were too weak to support me.

  “What have I done?” I whispered.

  Chapter 60

  Wednesday, January 05

  The black SUV pulled up in front of the hotel near the Ottawa airport. The driver swung the front passenger door open and stared at the man who stood outside hugging himself as he hopped from one foot to the next in the ankle-deep snow.

  “Get in,” the driver shouted.

  “Oh man! What the devil is this? Damn near froze my tail off, standing out there just two minutes.”

  “Welcome to the Great White North, Simmons.” The driver chuckled.

  Spike Simmons heaved himself into the seat. As soon as he buckled up, he rubbed his hands together and blew on them.

  “For heaven’s sake, Pablo, how do you people live in this place? Damn, that’s cold!”

  “Just dress for it. It’s not that bad.”

  “Look here, I’m wearing my best winter coat and stil
l that bloody cold shot right through my bones. You must really hate me to make me wait outside that place.”

  “Sorry, bro, but I probably shouldn’t even be meeting you, in the first place. I’m kinda suspecting I’ll regret agreeing to see you.”

  Pablo Rojas turned onto Lester Road, welcoming its lack of traffic and the long, desolate stretch lined with trees and brushes that lay ahead. It meant few or, hopefully, no eyes would fall on them.

  The agent with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service had often told Spike Simmons that he loved him like a brother. It was because he owed his life to him, literally.

  Five years earlier, they had been at a meeting of international intelligence officers in Atlanta. At lunch, Rojas had an overenthusiastic conversation with his mouth full, and before he knew it, the world was going black before his eyes and he was gasping for breath. Someone grabbed him in a bear hug from behind and slammed clasped hands into his torso. The blow was so hard, it cracked two ribs; but it freed his windpipe and he crumbled to the floor gasping what he would forever think of as the sweetest breaths he’d ever taken.

  His savior was now sitting beside him, splaying his palms before the vent that spewed heat from the engine.

  “So what’s this about Simmons?” Rojas said. “You call me up out of the blue, second day of the year, and say meet you at the airport in three days. What’s up?”

  “I should have stuck to my guns and insisted you meet me inside the airport, where it’s nice and toasty.” Simmons shook his head. “Instead I had to taxi it over to this hotel and stand in the bloody snow. That’s cruel, man. Just cruel.”

  “Come with it, Simmons. Why are you here?”

  “I need your help with this case I’m–”

  “I knew it! I knew you didn’t want to come up here just to wish me happy New Year.”

  “Look Pablo, Director Hutton himself is breathing fire down my neck on this one. But I’m stuck. We’re at an absolute dead end with this thing. I need anything, and I mean every bloody scrap that can be scrounged up.”