Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  Turning the car onto the westbound highway, he switched the wipers to high. There was an inch of fresh snow on the pavement, and more accumulating with each passing minute.

  Wednesday, November 26

  12:47 A.M.

  Upsala, Ontario, Canada

  Having trouble staying awake despite the NO-Dōz, Andy rolled down his window and let the cold air slap his face, pulling his mind back to the road and away from the temptation of sleep. The train tracks ran parallel to the highway and twice he had caught a fleeting glimpse of the train, only to fall behind again. Exceeding the speed limit in order to keep up, he fully expected he might be pulled over by the Mounties at any minute. He didn’t know quite how he would handle it. “Sorry, officer, I’m chasing a Bulgarian spy who killed my brother, a man who is presently dressed as a woman, and is riding the Winnipeg Express. And when I catch him I’m going to…”

  His attention drifted again, off to no place in particular—like a dream with a snow-covered highway running through it. He wondered if catching Borikowski would indeed be as sweet as he imagined, or if the fun was in the chase.

  Is the chase all I live for? he asked himself again, not wanting the answer.

  The storm would close the highway soon if the drifting continued. He had already passed three cars that had skidded off the road.

  In his fatigued delirium, his imagination ran wild.

  Racing down the highway, feeling two steps away from abstract, he heard Mari’s voice say repetitiously, “Hearts, eternity.” Repeatedly, the same two words. Then a vision: Mari beneath him, naked and trembling, her one speckled eye staring back at him, her smile sincere.

  He thought, Sincerity is the endangered species of the twentieth century.

  The radio returned his attention to the car. The band, Red Light, was attempting to rip apart the car’s small speaker. Mixed with his own fatigue from having been awake for the past forty hours, the angry music and NO-Dōz left him dulled.

  The disk jockey proudly announced the next forty-five minutes as commercial-free air time devoted entirely to Red Light. Andy sang—screamed—along with the music. He began smashing his hand against the steering wheel in time with the drums. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  He felt oddly evil now, and terribly alone—he fancied himself a misunderstood hero, but saw himself more as a heartbroken twin attempting to be his brother’s keeper.

  I will settle this for you, Duncan.

  I will settle this.

  The Man said, “Look out boy,

  better lay that weapon down;

  that gun is not a toy;

  that cap is not a crown.”

  His hand bounced off the wheel, his heart raced from the NO-Dōz in his system.

  I need my pills

  Got my eyes propped open: my heart alive

  Got my mind still hopin’…

  He had stopped for gasoline as he left Thunder Bay, but had not left his car, had not gone into the restaurant, for fear of encountering more Security Service agents. The result was now a burning stomach and a near-empty fuel tank.

  His head hurt.

  It’s the music, he thought; no, it’s the fucking pills, the NO-Dōz. See what you’ve done to me, you bastard?

  One thing’s for certain,

  The only constant is change. How strange…

  He left the radio loud for the entire forty-minute set.

  Then a heavily accented English voice advertised loudly and enthusiastically, “Virgin snow-covered hills bathed in a magenta sunset serve as background as a herd of elk drink from the crystal running stream below you. Off to your right a flock of geese take wing and disappear into the melting horizon. Whether hunter or photographer, adult or child, Purdy Wright’s Air Wilderness Excursions will show you the way it used to be: Nature at its best. Call Wright’s Guided Air Tours in English River today. And, if you mention this advertisement, you will receive an extra ten minutes in the air, courtesy of this station.”

  Andy had given the idea of a plane flight serious consideration, but due to the weather, and the possibility that the Security Service was watching the airports, had decided against it.

  He pulled into the breakdown lane and checked a map he found on the floor, a heel mark covering most of the eastern provinces.

  English River was not far away.

  He dry-swallowed three more NO-Dōz, his seventh and eighth and ninth. He urinated by the side of the road and thought he felt better, thought that maybe this time the pills would stay down. But as he sat behind the wheel, he felt it coming. Leaning out the car door, he vomited violently in three long heaves, and continued retching in spasms for another few minutes, his head tingling from the drug, eyes hot and dry, worms crawling inside his skull.

  Hands shaking, he resisted the stomach seizures, aware that the manufacturers placed a trace amount of a vomit-inducing chemical in over-the-counter drugs to prevent misuse and overdose.

  I have no choice, he reminded himself, disquieted by the drug, jumpy and nervous.

  He gagged down two more, knowing these would stay put where the others had not.

  And they did.

  ***

  Purdy Wright’s Air Wilderness Excursions was listed in the Yellow Pages, complete with an insert map showing the way out to the field. The wind had increased dramatically in the last ninety minutes and the snow was drifting badly. As Andy left the roadside phone booth, he saw a bundled Mountie closing off the entrance ramp to the highway, using a wooden barricade that carried the bold capital letters: CLOSED.

  So now he had no choice and little time.

  It was two o’clock in the morning when he reached the Quonset hut on the outskirts of English River; a snow-covered sign rocked in the wind. A double-wide house trailer sat off to the right. A relatively fresh set of tire tracks led to a hefty truck parked by the trailer, and Andy knew that, given the present rate of snowfall, it had not been parked for more than an hour.

  Andy pounded on the door and waited. A light appeared at the end of the trailer; then another, closer. The door cracked open. “Yeah?” complained a firm man in his mid-thirties, wearing a T-shirt with the faded letters CUNY across the front and a pair of white long underwear ripped at the crotch.

  “Purdy Wright?”

  “Might be.”

  “I’d like to hire your services.”

  “Tomorrow, buddy. Come back tomorrow.” He began to shut the door but Andy stopped it with a hand that held a one-hundred-dollar bill.

  “Tonight.”

  Wright flicked on the porch light and took a good look at Andy’s face, and at the bill. He then poked his head out of the door—his hair tossed by sleep—and examined the weather. He yawned. “Not in this shit. Come in a minute and we’ll work this out; but let’s make it fast, shall we?”

  Andy accepted the invitation to warmth and followed Wright inside.

  Wright, however, had headed into the small kitchen area immediately adjacent to the equally small living room. When he turned around he held a long-barreled pistol in his hand, aimed at Andy. He waved it, until Andy saw him, and then said, “No, no, no. Don’t even flinch, Baker.”

  “Oh shit!”

  “Hands against the wall, there… that’s good.” Wright patted Andy down and withdrew the two wallets—Andy’s and Welch’s—and the silenced automatic. He tossed the gun into a padded chair behind him and motioned for Andy to sit down. Wright sat in a worn sofa-chair facing Andy. “They’ve been looking hard for you. They’ve come here twice.” He stood and went into the kitchen, still training the gun on Andy, and retrieved a piece of paper—a flyer. He handed it to Andy, and sat back down.

  The xeroxed page showed a recent photograph of Andy—most likely taken by a hidden camera at the Security Service offices—and also listed his physical description with a brief warning at the bottom.

  Wright said, “Listen up now, friend.”

  Andy listened.

  “I don’t know what it is you’ve done, and just mayb
e I don’t give a shit. Just maybe the Security Service has hauled my ass in a bunch of times on trumped-up charges that never stuck—you follow me? Maybe that’s because—because of certain things. Maybe there’s other reasons. One thing is for certain: you better have a lot of money on you, or you just ran out of luck.” He searched the contents of Andy’s wallet, counting.

  “You’re American?” Andy asked.

  “I might have been. Once.”

  Andy explained directly. “I need to reach Winnipeg by six this morning. If you can’t offer me that, then by all means, turn me in. They’ll send me home and everyone loses.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The sympathy routine.”

  “Is that what that was?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Six this morning. Can you fly in this storm?”

  “In this storm? Are you—”

  “Yes. This storm. If you can’t—”

  “Mister. Purdy Wright can fly in damn near any weather. I fly a ski plane. Snow doesn’t bother me.”

  “How about a storm?”

  “Tricky winds tonight. Risky. But I’ve flown worse. It’ll cost you more.” Wright put down his weapon.

  Andy relaxed, thinking, His button is money. “You’re instrument-rated?”

  “How else could I fly at night. Jesus Christ, buddy, you think I’m stupid?”

  Andy asked, “How much?”

  “Where do you want to land?”

  “Away from people, but close to the city. I’ll pay extra for that.”

  “You’re damned right you will, buddy.” He rubbed his face. “Twelve hundred American.”

  Andy could hardly believe the figure. “Six.”

  “This particular excursion package comes complete with a private landing strip and ground transportation into the city. Eight hundred. That leaves you four and change.”

  “You’re all heart. Okay. Deal.” Andy pictured Mari.

  The two shook hands, leaning from their chairs. “You get the weapon back at the end of the line. You pay the cash up front,” Wright explained, while fishing the bills from both wallets and counting out the eight hundred. “And you agree to letting me tie your hands. Otherwise, no deal.”

  Andy pondered the offer. With his hands tied, the man could knock him out, empty both wallets, and leave him in a snowbank somewhere. “What if I don’t agree?”

  “Then you’re stupid.” Wright picked up Andy’s gun and carried both weapons with him as he walked into the confined kitchen and located a ball of thick twine. “It’s that, or the SS. Your decision. But either way… first I tie your hands.”

  Andy was not in the habit of finding himself in these situations. He was nonplussed. He debated attempting a struggle with Wright, but to what end? To win the fight would lose him the flight, and therefore his chance at Borikowski. He turned around and offered his wrists. “Get dressed. The sooner I’m in Winnipeg, the better.”

  Purdy Wright smiled, and searched for the end of the twine.

  3:12 A.M.

  The Outskirts of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada

  When Andy awoke, Wright was speaking gibberish into the radio. It was some kind of crude code Andy did not understand. He soon realized Purdy Wright was far from the model citizen.

  The plane dove at an unbelievable speed.

  Andy closed his eyes and thought, All I’ve been through… and now I die in a plane crash.

  Then the plane leveled off.

  He glanced at Purdy Wright and saw a devilish grin. Andy did not particularly care for show-offs.

  Wright switched off the wing lights, his eyes trained on the instruments. The plane was now less than twenty feet over the dark, dense sea of treetops—dangerously low.

  “Hey, what the fuck?” Andy questioned.

  And then, eyes still glued to the dash, Wright shoved the wheel forward, dropping the plane so quickly, so severely, that Andy lifted from the seat and his raw stomach nearly emptied again. Wright dropped the plane into a tiny opening in the forest, a snow-covered lake or small pond. The narrow opening was barely wider than the wings of the plane.

  “You should try this in a wind!” the pilot suggested comically.

  The landing strip, a title that dignified the snow-covered lake, had been lined with flaming-orange auto flares, placed intermittently every ten yards for the length of the pond. Andy could find only one explanation—Purdy Wright was a part-time smuggler.

  At the last second, the pilot switched on one lone spotlight, pulled to a stall, and landed gracefully. Practiced. “A friend of mine lives here,” he said, pointing to a large log house at the far end of the otherwise uninhabited lakeshore. “So you don’t get the wrong idea… if it makes any difference… we occasionally run executives out here. Their wives think they’re on fishing or hunting trips… you follow me?” he asked, flashing his eyebrows. “It’s a very exclusive club. The girls here are the best in Canada. I get my air fare, and a small kickback… it helps pay the bills.” He smiled.

  “And taxes,” Andy offered, returning the grin.

  “Yeah. That too.” He reached out his hand, waited for Andy to turn around, and cut the twine from his wrists. “There, you’re on your own. Unfortunately, I must take off before the flares die. A commercial flight goes over this area in ten minutes.” He winked. “I wish my friend would pay me in merchandise. He’s a careful man. Don’t make trouble.”

  “One question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Were you a draft dodger?”

  Wright studied Andy thoughtfully. “Do I fly like a draft dodger? No. I hope not. I was Air Force. I went AWOL after the Tet Offensive, hopped a freighter in Saigon, and ended up here.”

  “We could have used you.”

  “No doubt.” Wright hesitated and then said, “I was young. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Now, I must be off. For one hundred American, Jacques will see you eat and clean up. You don’t smell too good.” He grinned. “They’ll supply transportation into Winnipeg. Ask him for my good suit. We’re about the same size. It’s yours.”

  “I thought you said you never come here.”

  “I thought you said your name was Welch.”

  Purdy Wright performed a beautiful nose turn and faced the plane back down the strip. A few of the flares had already died out. Wright saluted properly. “Good luck!”

  Andy nodded rather than compete with the noise of the engine. He climbed out onto the wing and jumped to the hard-packed snow. Two dark figures ran toward him and guided him over to a parked truck. They watched as the plane took off. Fifty feet into the sky, the plane’s lights came on and it banked to the right and vanished.

  The fee was two hundred dollars, not one, but bought Andy the pin-striped suit, a brown leather briefcase, which he stuffed with his winter coat and smelly clothes, a Bogart hat, a trim to his beard, breakfast, and an offer of their best whore. He accepted a ride to the train station instead.

  He arrived at six o’clock as the express pulled in—the hour the ticket office opened. Adding the dining car and scenic coaches required twenty minutes and in this time Andy bought a private cabin ticket to Vancouver, keeping a close eye on the one man who could have been a Security Service agent. Andy looked much different in gold-colored wire-rim glasses, a fresh suit, and a Bogart hat, but even so, did not press his luck. When his business was through, he hid for ten minutes, sitting on a toilet in the far stall of the men’s room, window cracked, keeping an eye on the coaches.

  Borikowski and his almond-eyed woman had not disembarked, so Andy, ticket in hand, boarded.

  He looked out his window for any last-second departures, wondering if they were still on the train.

  None.

  As the train rolled out, Andy shut his eyes and fell asleep, hat tilted over his head.

  Shades of Humphrey.

  9:03 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Terry Stone said, “The White
House has agreed to try to stop him.”

  Chris Daniels’ relief was apparent. “How will they do it?”

  “They’ll arrange a joint operation between Navy UDT and the Coast Guard.”

  “Underwater Demolition…?”

  “Exactly. They’ll have two options: one is to blow it outright; the second is to sabotage and force it to drift into our waters, much the same as is done for drug smuggling off Florida.”

  “And how’s that?” Daniels asked.

  “They drop a UDT some distance in front of the plotted course of the vessel. The UDT is in dark rafts that utilize powerful electric—and therefore silent—engines. As the ship approaches—usually just before dawn—the UDT approaches the vessel and sabotages the drive shaft or steering mechanism. Timers are used, which gives the UDT time to escape detection before the sun comes up. Then, sometime later, the charges, which are exceptionally quiet and made just for such purposes, leave the ship helpless in the water. At this point the Coast Guard happens to wander along and offer assistance, or in this case, board the ship and make arrests on whatever charges they can find—and there’s always something. In the case of the drug smugglers, they are often outside of our waters, so the idea is to render them helpless when they’re in currents that will drag them into U.S. waters, and therefore under the jurisdiction of the Coast Guard.”

  “I always wondered why so many of those busts were made on ships that were floating helpless at sea. It never occurred to me that we had staged the whole thing.”

  “We often do.”

  “It’s an interesting strategy.”

  “Yes. Once they float into our waters, they’re ours.”

  “So they’ll need to determine exactly which ship Borikowski is on, assuming we’ve guessed right….”

  “Yes, they will. But it shouldn’t be as difficult as it sounds. They have radar stations all along the Vancouver area and though the merchant traffic is heavy there, they should be able to locate a Soviet trawler; and even if he’s on an American trawler, they should be able to figure out which ship is headed toward the area of that submarine. It may not give them a hell of a lot of time to react; but the UDTs are highly trained and should be able to handle it.”