Blood Lies

by Daniel Kalla

  We loaded into the car and Kyle shot out of the parking lot. Despite his change in style and ride, Kyle still drove with the same reckless edge that almost got us killed a few times during our teen years. He darted through the morning traffic as he headed onto the I-5 expressway.

  Once we’d driven twenty miles north of Seattle, Kyle ran out of traffic to weave through. We spent much of the remaining two-hour drive to the border reminiscing about Emily and Aaron. We swapped stories of my brother’s legendary lateness. Kyle reminded me about the time we were short one pallbearer at our grandmother’s funeral until Aaron caught up with us at the church doors. I told Kyle of how our high school graduation almost passed without a valedictory address because Aaron’s pre-ceremony nap had run long. “Maybe Aaron never disappeared,” Kyle said with a sad smile. “Maybe he’s just running really late this time.”

  As the road signs began to indicate the approaching Canadian border, my anxiety resurfaced. “Kyle, how am I going to get across the border without a passport or a birth certificate?”

  “Wouldn’t help if you had one, anyway. The border guards must have your photo. They’ll be watching for you.”

  “So how am I going to get across?”

  He pointed to a road sign that read LYNDEN, NEXT EXIT. “Not through any official border crossing.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said impatiently.

  He veered off the freeway onto the exit ramp. “In one year alone, Aaron and I did ten million dollars in international trade. Not one penny of that passed through an official border crossing.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “You’re going to smuggle me through the border like a seventy-kilo bag of B.C. bud?”

  Kyle’s smile grew wider. “Not through, Ben. Under.”

  “Under?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He turned off the quasi-main drag we were following, and the country opened around us. Fields and farmhouses dotted either side of the street, which wasn’t much more than a glorified dirt road. At the end of the road, a low fence guarded the highway running perpendicular to our street. Beyond that, I saw a red-and-white flag waving in the distance. I couldn’t make out the emblem, but I knew it had to be the Canadian maple leaf.

  My mouth went Mojave dry.

  Kyle turned right onto an even smaller road running parallel to the fence. With my heart in my throat, we drove about a quarter of a mile further before Kyle turned off into the driveway of one of the farms. He pulled up to the chain-link fence in front of the yard and switched off the ignition. He turned to me slowly. “Ben, are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Want to?” I couldn’t keep the indignation from my tone. “What choice do I have?”

  “You have one of the best defense attorneys in Seattle.” There was no playfulness in his expression now. “We could go back and see Michael Prince. Do all of this on the level.”

  “The ‘level’ is not going to work, Kyle.”

  “Okay. So what can I do in the meantime?”

  I smiled gratefully. “If you get me across the border, that will be more than enough.”

  “Give me a chance, Ben. I want to make amends.”

  “For what?”

  “What I did to your brother.”

  I was definitely not the one who deserved retribution for that, but I nodded my understanding. “I need to know more about NorWesPac’s Whistler project and how Philip Maglio ties into all of this.”

  He nodded. “And if I figure that out, how will I reach you?”

  “I’ll call you,” I said. “But Kyle, remember your warning to me. Be careful with Maglio.”

  “I will.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of multicolored bills, green, pink, and brown. He passed me the stack of Canadian money. “You’ll need some of this for your new home.”

  I didn’t try to play coy. “Thanks.” I took the cash from his hand and stuffed it into my wallet. “Kyle, I wanted to apologize to you.”

  He tilted his head, confused. “What for?”

  “When you were diagnosed…” I cleared my throat. “And you asked me to get my blood tested to see if I was a potential donor. I shouldn’t have waited. I should have come back straight away from that course I was taking in Boston.”

  He waved away the suggestion. “You were busy learning how to save more lives. Besides, it would’ve made no difference. We found a better match. Five out of six alleles.”

  I knew that bone marrow donors were selected based on the compatibility of six alleles—or gene pairs—in the blood; four or better was enough to try the donor marrow in a transplant. “Still, I should’ve gone in for the testing sooner.”

  Kyle sighed. “One benefit of my whole Bible-thumping shtick is that I’ve learned to let go of blame. For others and myself. It’s a toxic wasted emotion.” He smiled reassuringly at me. “Come on, Dr. Horvath, let’s go to Canada.”

  Kyle reached under his dashboard and dug out a flashlight before climbing out of the car. I threw the knapsack over my shoulders and followed him to the padlocked gate in front of the house. He dug in his pocket and brought out a key chain. He chose one of the smaller keys, inserted it into the padlock, and twisted. The lock popped open with a loud click. “Let’s hope nobody’s home,” he said with a half-smile.

  We hurried up the pathway to the farmhouse, weaving through a garden of overgrown vegetation. As I followed Kyle past one small tree, a branch snapped back and scratched my cheek. I suspected the denseness of the shrubberies had nothing to do with neglect and everything to do with camouflage.

  We reached the house’s steel door. Kyle chose a different key, turned the lock, and opened the door. A high-pitched buzz greeted us. Kyle walked calmly across the stained linoleum floor to the alarm control panel. He typed in a five-digit number. The buzz held steady. He typed it again. No change.

  Kyle turned to me, his face shrouded with concern. “They’ve changed the code.”

  I swallowed. “Who?”

  “No time,” he barked. “Come on.”

  Kyle sprinted down a short hallway that smelled of mothballs. He yanked open a flimsy-looking door and raced down the concrete steps, flicking on his flashlight in the sudden darkness of the unfinished basement. As soon as we reached the cement floor, the house’s alarm erupted like a foghorn. “The cops will come,” I shouted at Kyle over the throbbing noise.

  He glanced over his shoulder at me. “It’s not the cops we have to worry about.”

  Before I could ask whom I had to fear more than the cops, he turned and scurried down the corridor. Rushing after, I almost ran into him when he stopped abruptly in front of an old refrigerator against the wall. “Now what?” I shouted.

  He moved to the left side of the fridge, stretched out both arms, and began pushing the fridge to the right. “Help me!”

  Frantic, I leaped beside him and shoved my shoulder into the cool metal. The fridge scraped against the floor as it reluctantly wobbled a few feet to the right. Behind the spot where it had stood, a five-by-three-foot passageway appeared. With the flashlight’s beam held in front of him, Kyle ducked down and angled his shoulders into the hole. I followed after.

  The tunnel opened up a little wider and taller, but I still had to crouch to avoid hitting the wooden beams overhead. I fought to stave off inklings of claustrophobia in the dank, confined space that smelled of mold. A few steps deeper into the tunnel, and the jerky beam of Kyle’s flashlight barely lit the way ahead.

  He ran the beam along the wall until it found a switch. He reached out, flicked the switch, and suddenly the tunnel was illuminated by a chain of overhead bulbs. Suddenly able to see ahead of me, I now appreciated the extent of the channel. Bolstered by a series of wooden supports and rebar, the tunnel ran as far as I could see, the length of at least two football fields.

  Abruptly, the alarm went dead. Kyle froze. He glanced at me with an expression that was anything but relieved. Above us, we heard creaking noises. Kyle pointed u
pward. “They’re here,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”

  Head tucked forward, Kyle sprinted along the uneven surface leading deeper into the earth. I raced along, clipping my shoulder against the occasional beam. After running about fifty yards, Kyle’s pace petered to a trot. By a hundred yards, he had stopped altogether. He was panting and wheezing loudly.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He turned back to me and nodded. “You go ahead…,” he gasped. “I can’t…I need to catch my breath…I’m gonna go back.”

  I pointed behind me. “What about them?”

  “I know them,” he huffed. “It will be okay.”

  “You sure?”

  Kyle began to reply but a harsh wet cough stopped him. When the spasm of coughs finally broke, he spat up a large wad of mucus. The chain of drool on his lip was bloody. He wiped it away with a hand. “I can talk my way out of this.” He panted rapidly and then cleared his throat. “The tunnel will take you to a farm outside of Aldergrove on the other side of the border. From there you can catch a bus into Vancouver.”

  “What if they’re waiting at the other end?” I asked.

  As Kyle was about to answer, we heard an unintelligible shout rumbling down the tunnel behind us. He turned sideways and leaned against the side of the wall to make space for me to pass.

  I hesitated.

  “Go!” he barked.

  “Thanks,” I said as I squeezed past. Automatically, I broke into a run.

  “If you see Aaron, say hi for me.” Kyle’s voice echoed behind me.

  Chapter 17

  Without looking back, I sprinted the final hundred feet of the tunnel. I hit the end where a lopsided wood ladder clung to the wall in front of me. My chest thudded from more than exertion as I grasped a rung of the ladder and began to climb. Six feet above me, I saw light leaking through the edge of the wooden plank that covered the exit.

  When my palm touched the splintering wood, I hesitated, wondering whether someone on the Washington side of the tunnel had called ahead to arrange for their Canadian colleagues to meet me. Turning back wasn’t an option, so I pushed up against the plank and met no resistance. Sliding the board further out of the way, I heard a hissing noise. I froze.

  Even before I noticed the green glass panels, I could tell from the tinted light flooding the hole that I’d emerged inside a greenhouse. Listening intently, I recognized the noise as coming from an automatic watering system. I waited but heard no other sounds.

  Tentatively, I stuck my head up and out and glanced around. The greenhouse was crowded with rows of plants and vegetables. Swiveling my head in either direction, I saw no sign of anything except plant life. I scampered out of the opening and slid the plank across the hole, trying to replace it as I’d found it.

  Tiptoeing down a row of peppers toward the greenhouse door, I stopped to gain my bearings. The structure was located behind the farmhouse and in front of a row of crops. I saw a tractor parked outside the barn and a new silver pickup in the driveway, but there was still no indication of company.

  I tightened the shoulder straps of my knapsack and took a couple of deep breaths. Then I pulled open the door and dashed for the driveway running beside the farmhouse. Though free of the claustrophobic confinement of the tunnel, I felt like an escaping prisoner hit by floodlights as my feet crunched on the dirt of the driveway. Without slowing, I raced by the house and toward the eight-foot fence guarding the house from the street.

  Behind me, I heard the storm door whoosh open. “Hey, what the fuck?” an angry voice shouted.

  I sprinted for the gate. Skidding to a stop, I yanked at the gate’s handle, but the latch didn’t budge.

  “Where do you think you’re going, asshole?” the voice called out, moving closer.

  I jumped up, grabbed for the top of the gate, and hoisted myself up, pulling with all my might. I vaulted over the top of the fence and landed awkwardly on the gravel. As soon as I regained my balance, I sprinted out into the open street.

  “Wait!” But the voice was already fading behind me.

  Running down the street, I heard the pickup truck’s engine fire up. I ran as fast as I could, but I was certain to lose this race in a hurry. I veered across the street, heading for the neighboring farmhouse. Grunting and gasping, I scrambled up the driveway.

  The same people who had built the tunnel might have owned this farm as well, but I had no other option. I rushed to the front door and rang the bell. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the silver pickup from next door idling menacingly in the middle of the road. In a baseball cap, a young muscular East Indian man sat behind the wheel of the truck. He glared at me through the open driver’s window.

  Bobbing from foot to foot, I rang the bell again. The driver revved his engine.

  The door opened. An older man in a denim shirt and jeans stood in front of me with arms crossed over his chest. He could have stepped out of a Norman Rockwell rural scene, except he wasn’t nearly as welcoming as a Rockwell character. “I told you people a thousand times, damn it!” He scowled. “No soliciting.”

  “No, no,” I said, searching for a passable lie but coming up empty. I pointed behind me to the truck on the street. “That man is trying to kill me.”

  He waved his palm, agitated. “I don’t want none of your troubles!”

  The old man began to slam the door in my face, but I wedged my foot into the gap between the door and the jamb. The door crushed the blisters that had formed on my toes inside my poorly fitting shoes, but I ignored the pain shooting up my legs. Though I knew I was getting nowhere with the old man, I pointed dramatically behind me to the man in the pickup.

  The gesture had the desired effect. The pickup revved its engine, squealed its tires, and then fired off down the road.

  I freed my foot from the door and it slammed shut with enough of a breeze to rustle my hair. “I’m going,” I called to him, hoping the old man wasn’t on the phone to the police.

  My right foot throbbing, I hobbled back out to the street and along it as fast as I could. I followed the side street for two blocks until it gave into a busier road. Keeping an eye out for the silver pickup, I met the sporadic but growing traffic with ambivalence. One part of me felt safe amid the protection of potential witnesses, the other part overly exposed.

  A rusty red Honda slowed down and rolled to a stop beside me on the road’s shoulder. A bearded young guy with pierced ears and a friendly face rolled down his window. “Hey, buddy, you need a ride?” he called out. “I’m heading into town.”

  Unkempt with a battered knapsack, I imagined I must have looked like a down-on-my-luck hitchhiker. I was tempted to climb in the man’s car, but I realized that his was the kind of attention I was desperate not to draw. “Thanks. I’m okay.” I smiled without making eye contact. “I feel like walking.”

  “Okay. Happy travels, man.”

  As he began to roll up his window, I yelled, “Hey, how far is it into town?”

  He pointed ahead of him. “Seven or eight blocks down the road.”

  I dropped my head to the ground and waved him away. Miserably, I wondered whether the old farmer or the young driver, if they saw the reports of me on CNN (or its Canadian counterpart), would remember the desperate-looking man who fit the fugitive’s profile.

  I trudged on, eventually reaching “downtown” Aldergrove. I almost smiled when I saw the green Starbucks emblem among the fast-food joints and gas stations that dotted the main strip. I headed inside. I dug out the Canadian money Kyle had given me and ordered a coffee from the flighty young clerk whose attempts to engage me in chatter were in vain.

  Passing by a woman in the line behind me who held a cycling helmet, I had a longing that bordered on hunger for a punishing bike ride. I found a stool in the back corner and wedged myself at the countertop. Maybe it was coincidence but as I drained the large coffee, the fog began to lift inside my skull.

  I picked up copies of two Vancouver dailies, The Vancouver Sun and The Province. Sc
anning them from cover to cover, I found no mention of my story. The newfound sense of anonymity allowed me to relax slightly.

  I dug inside the knapsack and found a pencil and paper. I scratched a few notes for myself and then stood up and headed to the bathroom in the back of the coffee shop. I hadn’t planned to make contact with Michael Prince yet, but the deserted pay phone in the hallway beckoned. I had two options: I could make the call collect or I could leave an indelible impression with the woman at the counter by asking for twenty dollars’ worth of coins. Reaching for the phone, I opted to the dump the charge on my attorney. I dialed the number from memory, and Prince’s hospitable assistant, Janelle, accepted the charges without hesitation. Fifteen seconds later, I heard Prince’s calm voice. “Benjamin, I have been searching high and low for you.”

  “You’re not alone,” I said, keeping a furtive eye out on the coffee shop.

  “For the record, fleeing isn’t what I would have counseled,” he said with veteran understatement.

  “Duly noted. Have you spoken to Helen Riddell or anyone with the S.P.D.?”

  “The S.P.D. is unaware that we have a professional relationship. I can’t think of any helpful reason to inform them yet that we do.”

  The wisdom of his logic sunk in. “I imagine they’re looking pretty hard for me.”

  “You might say that. How did you cross the border? At Aldergrove?”

  I knew my collect call was bound to have tipped him off to my whereabouts, but it still jarred how quickly he was able to pinpoint me with technology as a basic as call display. “Michael, no one can—”

  He cut me off. “Of course, they can’t. Our discussions are entirely privileged.”

  My grip on the receiver relaxed.

  “Ben, why don’t I arrange to meet you somewhere?”

  “In Canada?”

  “If you prefer,” he said. “I can bring you to the U.S. Consulate, and we can negotiate the terms of your…delivery…to the S.P.D.”