Cobb had his cell phone in his hand and was punching numbers. He held the phone to his ear, listened, then spoke.
“Lalonde, c’est moi, Cobb.” That’s about all I got of the conversation as Cobb spoke French for the next couple of minutes — one more surprise from a man I thought I was starting to know.
When he clicked off, he set the phone down and spoke to Jill and me. “I’m setting up a couple of guys to keep an eye on each of you for a couple of days until we get a plan of action in place and see what our school principal lady has in mind.”
He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and said, “I’ll need your address, Jill.”
“Whoa, wait a second.” Jill put a hand up. “Do I have any say in this? Who says I want anybody keeping an eye on me?”
Cobb closed the notebook and nodded. “Sorry, I should have talked to you first, but this lady is dangerous and I can’t protect both of you at the same time. You won’t see this guy; you won’t know he’s there unless something happens and you need him.”
Jill was silent but she didn’t look happy.
“And you have your daughter to think about,” Cobb added.
“Do you think Kyla could be in any danger?”
Cobb took his time answering her. “Truth is, I don’t know, Jill. The last thing I want to do is over-dramatize. But we’ve seen what Delores Bain is capable of. I really think we should take every precaution, at least for the present, until we can get a little better read on this.”
Jill’s features softened and she managed a smile. “I get that you’re just being cautious and I appreciate your concern. I guess I was just a little concerned about my privacy.”
Cobb returned the smile. “My bad, I should have talked to you before I called Lalonde. I’m sorry.”
Jill waved off his apology. “Not necessary.”
“What about the cops?” I asked. “Should we be involving them in this?”
“It’s an option.” Cobb nodded. “Problem is, we haven’t got anything that could be called hard evidence. And even if the police agree to watch Jill’s place, I’m fairly certain it will be in the short term only.”
“And your guy … guys?”
“As long as it takes until we get enough on this woman to put her away. That’ll be my job.”
Jill shivered. It wasn’t cold in the restaurant. “I’m sorry. I must sound totally unappreciative of what you’re doing.”
Cobb smiled. “You said the very things I would have said if I’d been in your position.”
Jill managed a small smile. “Thanks, Mike.” She gave him the address.
Cobb wrote it down. “Lalonde can start right away. I’ll call him and give the address.” He turned to me. “I’ll be putting a guy on you as well. Same deal. These guys are good at what they do. Discreet and effective.”
I was less reluctant than Jill, mostly because I’d seen Delores Bain in action. “You know my address.”
“I do.”
“And what about you?”
“I’ll be watching Delores Bain.”
“You’ll need help.”
“I can get help.” I opened my mouth but he cut me off. “I know what you’re thinking and the answer is no. I don’t think it’s a good idea to have the potential victim performing surveillance on the suspect.”
“Unorthodox, I agree, but potentially effective.” I was trying for levity but the gallows humour wasn’t working. Neither Cobb nor Jill laughed or even smiled.
I kept shifting my eyes back to the big windows, trying to decide if any of the cars in the parking lot looked like the kind Delores Bain might drive.
Cobb called Lalonde a second time and gave him Jill’s address. When he ended the call — again all of it but for Jill’s address in French — he turned to Jill. “He’ll be there by the time we get you home. Don’t look for him, you won’t see him. And I think it would be a good idea for you to take Kyla to and from school for the next few days.”
“Maybe I’ll keep her home. I can phone the school and get what she needs to do.”
“Even better.” Cobb’s next call was to somebody named Merle Jankowsky. This call was in English. Jankowsky would be watching me, or at least he’d be watching my apartment.
After that call Cobb set the phone down, sipped his coffee.
“I didn’t know you spoke French,” I said.
“I took three years of French at university before I switched to criminology. Spent two summers in Quebec with French-Canadian families.”
“International man of mystery,” I said.
“I think I’d like to be getting home,” Jill said. “Kyla’s with a babysitter and if this woman is as sick as you think …”
“You’re right. We should make a move.”
Walking out to Cobb’s Jeep, I scanned the parking lot once more. I’m pretty sure Cobb was doing the same thing but he was less obvious about it.
I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for since I didn’t know what kind of vehicle Delores Bain drove. But I was beginning to think that it was more and more likely that she had been at the wheel of whatever it was that almost picked me off the sidewalk a few days earlier.
Once we were in the Jeep and moving I began to relax. I’d offered Jill the front seat with Cobb but she opted for the back. She’d gone to the hospital in the ambulance with me so her car was still at my place. We agreed to leave it there for now. Cobb would drop Jill off, then me.
He pulled out of the parking lot, worked his way over to Crowchild Trail, and headed south.
For a while no one spoke.
I looked back at Jill in the back seat. “I’m sorry you got pulled into this.”
“I wasn’t pulled, it just sort of happened.”
“I guess so, but I wish it hadn’t.”
“I’m okay, honestly. I just worry about Kyla.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Lalonde is a good man. Nothing will happen to Kyla,” Cobb said.
It wasn’t a long drive to Jill’s house and in fifteen minutes we were pulling into her driveway. Large snowflakes were just starting to fall. Straight down, no wind.
I got out of the Jeep, opened the door for her. She stepped out, then bent down and looked in at Cobb.
“Good night. Be careful, okay?”
Cobb nodded. “I will.” His eyes flicked in my direction, then back to Jill. “We both will.”
“Good.” Jill smiled at him and straightened again.
I walked her to the door. She turned to me, her face showing concern but, at least to me, no fear. This wasn’t a woman who scared easily. I liked that.
I slid my arms around her. “When this is over, I’m going to finish cooking that dinner I started. Maybe a little less drama next time.”
“When this is over,” she repeated softly and stepped into me, lifting her face to mine. The kiss was long and slow.
I tried to think of something to say that would be meaningful but I realized it wasn’t necessary. I didn’t need to say it and she didn’t need to hear it.
“Good night. I’ll call you.”
She smiled, nodded, and murmured something that might have been good night but it was so soft, I couldn’t be sure.
Snowflakes fell on her hair and her scarf and on both of our faces. It felt like a scene from Holiday Inn. I was grateful for a moment that felt normal.
Jill turned and stepped inside.
Cobb had said not to bother looking for Lalonde, that we wouldn’t see him. I looked anyway.
I didn’t see him.
When I was back in the Jeep, Cobb pulled away from the curb, did a U-turn, and headed back to Crowchild Trail.
“Figured I’d take Crowchild to Memorial then over to Bridgeland that way. Make sense?”
“Good a way as any.”
We drove without talking for a couple of minutes. I looked over at Cobb. “This guy Lalonde, is he one of the guys who was at the Harley restaurant?”
“Uh-huh.”
; “And the guy who’s watching me? The other guy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you say Lalonde is good at things like looking after people?”
“Very good.”
“But he can’t be there all the time.”
“Both he and Jankowsky have some people they work with. As good as they are. Jill and Kyla will be watched round the clock.”
The snow was falling harder now and Cobb turned the windshield wipers on to a faster speed. Visibility was becoming a little difficult.
“When we get to your place I’ll come in for a second just to …” He didn’t finish the thought.
He angled right onto Memorial Drive heading east toward my part of town. I wanted to talk. Needed to talk. Nerves maybe. I needed to talk about something that didn’t involve people trying to kill people.
“I have to tell you, the French thing, that blew me away.”
Cobb glanced at me. “Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. I mean I think it’s great. It just surprised me. I guess I didn’t see you as a bilingual kind of guy.”
“We all have our surprises.”
“I guess so.”
“Now take you, for example,” he said. “I didn’t figure you to have the most complete collection of Canadian music on the planet.”
I peered out into the snow that was getting still heavier, hoping Cobb could see the road okay. I could barely make out the huge poplars that dotted the boulevard on the south side of Memorial Drive, trees that had been planted after the First World War in memory of men and women who gave their lives. I’d always thought the trees were one of the coolest things about Calgary.
I looked back at Cobb. “First of all,” I said, “I doubt it’s the most complete.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But it is pretty damn impressive. How long you been at it?” It was like he sensed my need for conversation — normal, everyday, mundane conversation.
I shrugged. “I guess I’ve always bought a lot of records but after the fire I needed something to think about that wasn’t Donna or the fire or what my life could have been if there’d never been a fire.”
“Any particular reason that the something you decided to think about was Canadian music?”
I shrugged. “Not sure. I mean, I’m not some nut-bar nationalist. My all-time favourite song is Barbra Streisand singing “Memory.” You know, the song from Cats.”
Cobb nodded.
“And if I could only go to one concert for the rest of my life, it would be Bruce Springsteen. My favourite singer of all-time is Frank Sinatra, my favourite group is the Beach Boys, and watching Mark Knopfler play the guitar is like watching Derek Jeter play shortstop. But one day, for no particularly good reason, I decided that I wanted to listen to the Rankins and Sarah McLachlan and Lightfoot and Cohen and Cockburn and Bachman and a whole bunch more amazing artists I’d never heard of but found out about on CBC. So I did. It became the focus I needed, an escape maybe. But the thing is, I really like this stuff.”
“Wow, sounds like a speech somebody ought to give to some parliamentary committee on funding for the arts.”
“Probably already been done. Probably didn’t help.”
“So you’ve got music by other people,” he said.
“Sure, tons of it, but most of it’s boxed up and in a storage locker in the basement of the building.”
Cobb nodded something that looked like approval. “That’s a cool story.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
The snow had let up some and we could see a little better. We were approaching the intersection at 10th Street Northwest and the light was green so Cobb picked up speed a little to make the light. As we cruised through the intersection, a dark blue one-ton dually pulled alongside us in the inside lane and I happened to glance over.
“Cobb!”
I was too late. Delores Bain, at the wheel of the pickup, jerked the steering wheel hard to the left and slammed into my side of the Jeep. Cobb wasn’t ready for it and we were propelled to our left, into the westbound lane and directly into the path of an oncoming City of Calgary sanding truck.
It was one of those moments when everything slows down and your mind speeds up. I remember thinking the truck was probably a five-ton but seemed like a monster semi-trailer. I remember thinking too that there was no way it could miss us.
But it did.
Or at least we missed it. Cobb, instead of trying to get us back to our side of the road, spun the wheel left and crossed in front of the truck, trying for the far lane on the other side of it. If there’d been a vehicle in that lane we’d still have been hit head-on, but afterward I figured Cobb was gambling that whatever was in that lane had to be better than the sanding truck.
I’m guessing the truck driver must have done some nifty driving too, though probably about all he could do was hit the brakes. We hurtled by the truck and into the inside lane of westbound traffic.
If there’s a God for journalists and detectives he or she was smiling down on us at that moment. There was no one in the inside lane, at least not for a few hundred meters, which gave Cobb time to get the Jeep stabilized and heading straight — even though straight was still on the wrong side of the road.
But not for long.
Cobb cranked the wheel back as we came out of the intersection and slammed the accelerator to the floor. We spun some, although the road was better in the intersection than almost anywhere else, and we rocketed back to our side of the road, this time narrowly missing a furniture van. That driver gave us the finger as we roared in front of him.
“You okay?” he yelled.
“Yeah,” I yelled back at him.
“Was it her?”
“It was her.”
“Hang on,” he shouted again, I figured more from adrenalin than the need to make himself heard over the noise.
We were several car lengths behind her but she must have seen what had happened in her rearview mirror. She sped up and began changing lanes and swerving around and between cars to try to lose us.
As good as Cobb was at driving at high speed in close quarters — and I found out that he was very good — Delores Bain was proving to be as good. I had a flashback to a picture on the wall of her office. The photo of someone standing helmeted next to a race car, face difficult to see in the helmet. I had assumed a former student. Maybe I was wrong.
We gained ground slowly. Both vehicles careened through the snow-covered streets with a couple of near misses for each of us and one that wasn’t a miss at all as Cobb swerved around a cab only to come face to face with a Dodge Caravan that had pulled onto Memorial from 4a Street directly in front of us.
Cobb braked and threw the steering wheel to the right this time, sending us into a sideways slide toward the van, then at the last second, with a hard crash seeming inevitable, he released the brake, hit the gas, and spun the wheel hard back left. The Jeep brushed the van but we avoided the worst of what had the makings of a bad wreck. It was Cobb’s side of the Jeep that made contact with the right rear of the van, but again he was able to keep us on the road and for the moment at least we were once more travelling in a straight line.
I looked back and the van seemed okay.
I don’t know how long the chase lasted. It seemed, I’m sure, much longer than it actually was. At Edmonton Trail, Cobb ran a light that had just turned red. Had anyone been entering the intersection even a second or two early, we’d have hit them at high speed.
“Let her go!” I screamed. “Either she’s going to kill someone or we will.”
Cobb didn’t answer but seemed to bear down even harder. I focused again on the road. At least for the section immediately ahead of us, there didn’t appear to be anyone but us and the truck ahead of us with the woman who had killed my wife at the wheel.
And though I knew that, I also knew that the police abandon high speed chases when they pose a danger to the public. This chase was clearly a danger to the public.
“Let her go, C
obb,” I said again. “I’ll call the cops. Let them handle this.” I reached for my cell phone.
Cobb eased off on the gas pedal and we slowed. I looked up to watch the taillights of the pickup disappear from view.
Except that they didn’t disappear from view. I calculated that Delores Bain was maybe a kilometre ahead of us. But the distance between us wasn’t increasing, even as Cobb slowed. It was just seconds until I realized why.
The pickup was slowing too, at the turnoff to the zoo. She started to the right, then spun into a U-turn.
And suddenly was coming back down Memorial Drive, now racing back to the west.
Straight at us.
There could be only one reason for her to do what she was doing. She clearly intended to hit us head-on — to kill herself and us. The hunters were once again the hunted.
“Jesus Christ,” I said in not much more than a whisper.
Cobb did the one thing I hadn’t thought possible. He floored the Jeep and propelled us ahead, at greater and greater speed straight at the oncoming pickup, two vehicles racing headlong at one another. If this was chicken I hoped Cobb was prepared to lose the game.
“Cobb,” I said and looked over at him expecting to see someone who had lost his mind.
Instead what I saw was concentration and allconsuming anger but not someone who was, even temporarily, out of his mind. And there was something else — control. Whatever was happening, it was clear that Cobb was acting, not out of desperation, but in a calculating and unnervingly calm way.
Or was I delusional? Desperate and hoping, praying that the crash that was only seconds away could somehow not happen.
“Hang on!” Cobb yelled for the second time.
I was already doing that with every ounce of strength I possessed. Cobb ripped the steering wheel hard right and we careened off the pavement of Memorial Drive and onto the boulevard that ran along the south side of the road. We were travelling fast when we hit the curb, flew up, then back down with a crunch that brought my jaws together in a jarring flash of pain.
The Memorial Drive trees were now an obstacle course with Cobb trying to somehow slalom us between them. A massive poplar loomed up in front of us, but it looked like we might get by it. But what then? Beyond that a steel street light pole, just as deadly.
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