Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  “Bite your tongue, Mr Dromel. I’m not in your bedroom now, so, yes, a lady.”

  “Okay, Miss Lady. You may be able to control what I say, but you can’t control my imagination. I’m not going to tell you what I’m picturing right now, but it looks damned fine to me.”

  “Naughty, naughty man.” I giggled much more.

  Suddenly I shrieked and dropped the phone. After scrambling about, I finally regained my composure and picked back up the handset.

  “Sorry about that,” I said.

  “What was that all about?”

  “My bathroom shelf fell over. Came down right down on my head along with the newspaper and a couple of books that were on it. I built it myself, last month. Guess I’m not that good as a handy-woman.”

  “Sounds like you need a man around the house. If you weren’t so far, I’d probably come right over.”

  His words lit up my mind. The idea of him being in my house, helping me to make it more of a home, excited me even more than the thought of what might follow between us after the repair job.

  Benoit T. Dromel. My man!

  Finally, a good man to call my own.

  I was a little embarrassed at my eagerness and didn’t want to betray how my heart grasped at the idea. An over-eager woman could send a man running for the hills.

  I changed the subject, blabbering anything that fell from my lips.

  “Oh boy, now I’ll have to get another copy of the latest local paper — if I can find one. Everybody’s talking about it. Plastered with pictures of the prime minister. He was up here to open a refurbished mill in a nearby town, and he gave a speech about some quarrel over lumber Canada has with America. A few big wigs from Syron Lake, including the mayor, of course, went for the opening and the local editor went crazy with the photos of the PM shaking hands with everybody.”

  Dromel had remained silent while I had prattled away, and now he sighed.

  “Oh, Stella, now you’ve gone and killed the mood.”

  “What did I say wrong?”

  “Why did you have to bring up that jerk?”

  “Mayor Demetriou?”

  “John ‘Jackass’ Peabody.”

  I chuckled. “Sounds like you’re not the biggest fan of our illustrious prime minister.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “He came off well on this visit,” I said. “Seemed down-to-earth and likable; at least from the photos he seems that way.”

  “He can’t ever be trusted.” Dromel’s voice had an edge to it I’d not heard before. “He’s devious and conniving. He’s a total slimeball.”

  “Are you saying that just because he’s a politician?”

  “I know from personal experience.”

  “You know the prime minister personally?”

  “Yes.”

  It sounded as if he had hissed through clenched teeth. I bit my lip at the thought that I’d seemed overly impressed about his knowing Peabody. He breathed heavily into the phone and it dawned on me that I had somehow touched a nerve.

  “So what has he done to make you so mad at him?”

  “Apart from more recent sins, which I can’t get into, I got to see what a lowdown scoundrel he is when we were at U of T together.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It may seem like nothing to you.”

  “Tell me, Ben. I want to hear it.”

  “When I joined the debate club, he was the president and he ran it like a fiefdom. It was as if he felt the whole set-up was there for his benefit and that of his clique. They seemed to think themselves some kind of blue-bloods. I believe his father was a bank executive or something like that. Anyway, there was lots that went on that wasn’t as it was supposed to be. But one incident in particular I’ll never forget.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The club was invited to send a delegation of four to Ottawa for a three-day visit on Parliament Hill. The club had a general meeting, and it was decided that two spots would be for the president and vice president, and the other two would be for members who won a couple of special debates.

  “Well, I won one of those spots. That didn’t seem to please Peabody because I beat one of his buddies to get there.

  “I worked as a waiter at a campus coffee shop to help pay my way through university. And I had the early morning shift the day we were supposed to leave for Ottawa. I finished up early and rushed to the appointed spot where I’d been told we were to meet to be picked up by the van that would take us to Ottawa. And guess what?”

  “They didn’t pick you up?”

  “The bloody van never came to pick me up.”

  “That’s a bummer.”

  “When I got back to my room, I found a handwritten note that had been slipped under my door. It was from Peabrain saying there was a last-minute change and everybody had to wait for the van somewhere that was a million miles from where I had originally been told to catch the ride to Ottawa.

  “The thing is, he knew my shift. He used to come in for breakfast almost every day, and I had taken his order at the till loads of times before. He knew I would be at work all morning and that I’d never see that note until it was too late.”

  “Sorry to hear that he did that to you.”

  “My whole life would’ve been totally different if I hadn’t been tricked out of my place by Peabody.”

  “How so, Ben?”

  He sighed, then he continued. “The four who did go to Ottawa, their fortunes were made on that visit. They were hosted by Thomas Schuckler. You’re familiar with that name?”

  “It vaguely rings a bell.”

  “Well, he’s a little before your time. He’s dead now. Was a stalwart in Canadian politics. He took those four under his wings. Groomed them. All became MPs and three of them left politics and went on to claim spots on various boards. And, of course, Peabrain, who just barely passed to get his degree, is now prime minister of the second largest country in the world.”

  He exhaled a long, sorrowful breath.

  “It kills me to think of what I could have been if I hadn’t been robbed of my place on that trip.”

  After a pause, he almost whispered, “I haven’t ever really told anyone about this.”

  “Peabody acted like a total scoundrel,” I said. “But, Ben, why should you be upset about how things turned out for you?”

  He said nothing.

  I continued,“I mean, look at where you are – commissioner at one of the most important agencies in the nation, doing important work to keep Canadians and this land safe. And you’re taking over duties for your chairman these days. Seems to me like you’ve done pretty well for yourself.”

  “I suppose.” There was little conviction in his voice.

  He could do with a bit of cheering up. This was as good an opening as any. I took a deep breath.

  “How about forgetting about that unhappy trip that never was by joining me on a trip to somewhere warm and sunny.”

  He seemed to catch his breath, but didn’t say anything.

  “Ben, are you there?”

  “Yes. What are you talking about?”

  “Trinidad. I told you I grew up there, remember? Well, one of my old school friends found me on Facebook, today. Her family’s one of the richest on the island. They own a hotel and other businesses. Well, she’s invited me to come for the Carnival.”

  I paused and thought carefully how to phrase the next bit. “She said it would be okay to bring someone along.”

  There, I’d got the proposition out. Tri
ed to sound casual. But the tremble in my voice betrayed that I knew it was a big deal. I had not used the word “boyfriend” or “partner.” But it hung in the air.

  Traveling together would be a declaration of our status as a couple.

  “I don’t know, Stella–”

  “You don’t have to answer right now.” I cut him off before he could commit himself verbally to a “no“.

  There was silence on both ends.

  “I mean, we have a few days to play with,” I said. “Carnival is not for another couple of weeks or so. You could give it some thought. I mean, she said we could stay in the pool house. It’s a little, one-bedroom guest-house. It’s got its own kitchen and everything. Totally separate from the main house. So we’d be on our own.”

  “I’ll give it some thought, Stella. That’s all I can promise.”

  I stifled a sigh. It was not the response I’d hoped for. But at least he had given me reason to hang on to my hopes.

  Chapter 68

  Dromel stroked his beer bottle until the beads of condensation flowed down in streams formed by his finger. It was Monday night. The dimly lit bar was empty, except for one other lonely sap who walked around the billiards table, cue in hand, looking for the best angle to shoot the next ball in a game against himself.

  Eyes fixed on the player, who bent to assess the situation from the level of the table, Dromel shook his head at the thought that, to the waitress who sat picking her nails behind the counter, he, too, must have seemed as much a loser as the guy with the cue stick.

  He looked at his watch: ten pm. Another night of waiting in vain for the stranger in the expensive suit to turn up.

  Had he played it too hard? Did the Syron Lake bosses decide to back off because he’d got too greedy? Or were they playing mind games with him, calculating that he’d begin to second-guess his strategy, just as had done a second ago? Or that he would start looking over his shoulder for some ominous figure in a trench coat?

  Whatever, he thought.

  The stranger’s veiled threats would not sway him. He would double his resolve.

  In two months, he would turn fifty-three. No other chance like this would ever come around again. He would let nothing pry his million dollars from his hands.

  Dromel threw his head back and finished his beer. He slammed the bottle back down on the table, surprising himself with the loudness of the thud. The waitress jumped off her stool and looked in his direction. He pretended he didn’t see her, stood up, fished some bills from his pocket and slapped them on the table.

  As he wound his way aimlessly through the rough, unplowed streets, he was glad for the utter desolation of Ottawa at that hour. He inched through the snow, grasping the steering wheel and listening to the tires groan.

  He let his mind go blank, focusing only on the moment and navigating the ruts. He was glad for this mental reprieve. Thinking had become too much of a burden because his thoughts would only slip back into the merry-go-round of wondering when, or where, or whether he would see the well-dressed stranger again.

  At a quarter past eleven, just as he pulled into his spot in the parking lot at the Riverside Drive condo, his cell phone rang. A long distance number showed up on the screen.

  “Hi, Berni–”

  The voice on the line was sharp and short. “I thought you would’ve called today.”

  “What’s that, darling?”

  “Actually, I mean yesterday. What was yesterday for me. But it’s still today for you.”

  “Slow down, Bernice. You’re not making any sense.”

  “I’m not making any sense? Just how disconnected are you from this relationship, Ben? Do you mean to say that you haven’t even realized that you had to call me today?”

  The shrillness of her voice sent his pulse racing and left him disoriented. He didn’t have a response.

  “What’s the date today, Ben?”

  “Today? Today is the– Oh, sorry! Sorry! Sorry, Bernice. Happy birthday.”

  He sat in the car, unwilling to get out and face the frigid air.

  “Ben, that sounds so hollow because I had to practically drag that out of you.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry I forgot. I’ve had so much on my mind lately. There’s this big project and it’s kind of stalled and that’s killing me.”

  “Oh please, Ben. Enough with the excuses. After more than two decades together, you’d think I could count on you to do something as simple as remember my birthday.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “I try so hard to keep things going between us, to make this work even though we’re on two different continents. But when you’re so tuned out from me like this…it…it just makes me wonder.”

  “Wonder what?”

  “Wonder whether it’s worth it to continue.”

  “Whoa there, Bernice. Sounds to me like you’re overreacting over this.”

  “I’m over–” She sighed heavily. “Look, I’m so angry and disappointed right now, it’s best that we hang up before I say something we might regret.”

  “As you wish, Bernice. But, I’m really sorry. Okay?”

  The line went dead.

  He hugged himself against the cold and dashed to the door. As the elevator took him up to his floor, the conversation rang in his ears. It occurred to him that Bernice was spoiling for a fight. Maybe she was just really upset. But could it be that she was fishing for a reason to call things off?

  That nagging thought came to him again, that maybe she had found someone over there in Paris. Maybe some smooth-taking Frenchman had wined and dined her for her birthday and had got her thinking she didn’t need ole Ben back in Ottawa anymore.

  His blood raced; he could feel it pulsating in the veins and arteries of his neck.

  At his door, his fingers fumbled with the keys; when he entered, he slammed the door shut, not caring that the sound echoed down the corridor.

  He flung the keys on the table and patted himself down, reaching into every pocket in his coat, jacket, shirt and trousers. He knew the stash of little white pills were not on him; they were in Hull, in a box hidden in the floor below the fridge, where he always left them. But the craving he felt now drove him to make what he knew would be a futile search of his pockets for the fix.

  He walked immediately to the fridge, pulled out a beer, twisted off the cap and paced the living room. He stopped at the window and looked down at the blanket of white, where the blue waters of the Rideau River would normally be shimmering.

  It was bloody cold out there. The prediction was for Arctic air to drift down over the next week, plunging temperatures even further to record lows.

  Damned, crazy weather.

  With the million dollars, he could be permanently free of this frozen hell.

  In the meantime, he’d take whatever relief was coming his way.

  He dialed and waited.

  The voice that answered the phone was bright, if a little uncertain.

  Dromel cleared his throat. “Sorry to call you so late. You weren’t asleep were you?”

  “No. I’ve been fighting to get my novel going again.”

  “Listen, Stella, I’ve decided I will join you for Carnival after all.”

  “Really, Ben? That’s the best news ever!”

  “But, and listen to me carefully, Stella, we still have to be discreet. Even there.”

  He heard what sounded like a grumble.

  “We can’t travel down together,” he continued, “and I can’t stay with you at your friend’s either.”

  “Oh?” />
  “But I do want to see you again. I long to be with you again.”

  “Me, too. I long to be with you, Ben.”

  “I’ll take this as a opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. I’ll travel to Grenada and then sail over to Trinidad for the Carnival. I’ve always wanted to do that. I’ll call you when I get there. We’ll have a great time, just the two of us.”

  He paused and listened to the silence on the line. “Still there, Stella?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was subdued. “That’s not really how I’d pictured this trip would be, you know.”

  “I know, but the world’s a small place. Your friends might take pictures and plaster them all over the Internet, and that won’t do us any good, would it?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Trust me on this, okay? It’s better this way.”

  “I suppose.”

  Chapter 69

  The pounding grew louder and more incessant. Williams rolled over in his bed and scrunched into a fetal ball.

  This must be the granddaddy of hangovers, he thought. He’d had too much to drink the night before and had dragged himself to the nearest motel.

  Where was he? Somewhere in North Carolina. Or was it South Carolina? He couldn’t remember.

  All he knew was that he and Young were on the road, living it up on their share from the Canadian gig. Young had got lucky with a shapely, young blonde the night before, and he wasn’t willing to share. So, he, Williams, had stayed behind and drank until the bartender threw him out in order to close up the place.

  Now he was paying for downing all that booze.

  The pounding grew louder and more urgent, until he realized it was not coming from inside his head. He flung the covers off and sat up, and immediately paid for the sudden movement as a throbbing pain seized his brain.

  The sound was coming from the door.

  “Wake up, you lazy bastard,” a voice growled above the banging. Young’s voice.

  Williams staggered out of bed, in nothing but his jockey shorts, and flung the door open.