Glycerine

by Garry Ryan

  “Want some pizza?” Christine put a slice on a plate and handed it to Lane.

  He took the plate and sat down on the couch. “Good idea. Then I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute.”

  Maria asked, “Does this have anything to do with that Poulin woman?”

  ×

  Chris removed his PVC gloves. His hands were slippery with sweat. He reached up to remove the mask from his face. He looked at the sealed stainless-steel containers in rows and recessed into the metal framework Oscar Mendes had welded. Chris closed the lid of the metal drum bolted onto a base in the bed of his Chevy pickup. The round container behind the cab looked like a red diesel fuel tank complete with filler pipe. He was struck by a flashback of Oscar welding the tank and the searing white-hot burn of the welder as molten metal sealed the sections together.

  “That’s the last of it?” his father asked.

  Chris nodded. “Now we need to hook up the refrigeration unit.”

  “What for?” John A. glared at his son.

  Chris stared at the empty containers in the fridges with their doors open and their lights on. “The mixture becomes unstable as it warms.”

  “Have faith. The outside air is cool, and we’ll leave early in the morning. The west winds are forecast to be at twenty kilometres per hour by then. I’ll drive your truck. You follow in mine. By lunchtime we’ll be in Edmonton. By supper time we’ll be home.”

  Chris shook his head. “It’s not about faith; it’s about science. Eight degrees centigrade is where this stuff is most stable.”

  John A. dismissed his son with a wave. “We’ll see if your science wins over my faith.”

  Your faith didn’t win over my mother’s cancer. Chris stared at the connection that would hook the refrigeration unit in the tank to the auxiliary battery under the hood of the Chevy.

  ×

  Donna parked the grey van next to the white one in the middle of a lot bordered by shops, restaurants, and movie theatres.

  She locked the van door and began the walk back to her house. As she walked, she ticked off a mental list of things she’d already done to ensure that nothing had been forgotten.

  Fifteen minutes later, she walked up to her house. Her truck was parked out front, and the Harley was strapped on its trailer attached to the rear of the truck.

  She took a look around. All of the vehicles on the street were familiar. She walked up to the driver’s door of her pickup, opened it, climbed in, started the truck, and drove away. On the seat beside her were her sleeping bag, two helmets, a thermos of coffee, a pillow, and the desert camouflage jacket Lisa had given her the day she left for Afghanistan.

  FRIDAY, JULY 16

  chapter 10

  Weatherman Helps

  with Stampede

  Record

  Eight days of warm, dry, sunny weather have helped push this year’s Stampede attendance beyond even the most ambitious predictions.

  Friday is expected to be another record breaker even though temperatures are forecast to be somewhat cooler.

  If past years are any indication, the last Friday of Stampede draws the largest crowds. It is expected that the grandstand will be filled to capacity for the rodeo finals tonight.

  The finals of the chuckwagon and bronc-riding events usually bring the biggest crowds. At this pace, total attendance may reach 1.5 million, beating all previous records.

  ×

  Lane sat up on the couch.

  Matt was screaming.

  Lane stood. The white comforter someone had covered him with fell to the floor. He looked at his plate on the coffee table. His pizza was gone. Roz looked up at him with guilty brown eyes. Scout licked his lips, stretched his front legs, and did his version of downward dog. How long have I been asleep?

  He walked over to Matt’s bedroom door and knocked. “Matt?”

  Matt said, “He killed her!”

  Shit. Lane knocked on the door. “Matt!”

  Silence.

  “What?” Matt’s voice was distorted by phlegm and fear.

  “You’re having a nightmare.”

  The sound of footsteps. The door opened. Matt’s eyes were wild.

  “You okay?” Stupid question!

  Matt looked at the floor. “I felt so good yesterday.”

  “Want me to make some coffee?” This is going to be a long haul, Matt.

  “Sure.” Matt closed his door.

  Lane went upstairs, started the water boiling, and ground some beans for the Bodum.

  His phone rang and he reached for it. “Lane here.”

  “Things are happening. We’re at the Starbucks across from the Co-Op. You are needed,” Keely said.

  “On my way.” Lane pressed the end button on his phone.

  Matt stepped into the kitchen wearing his work clothes and saw the expression on his uncle’s face. “Gotta go?”

  Lane nodded. “I’m sorry, Matt. You wouldn’t be going through this if it weren’t for . . .”

  “For what?” Matt put his hand on Lane’s shoulder. “I’d be on the street if it weren’t for you and Arthur.”

  Lane saw the clarity in Matt’s eyes. “Just pour the water in after it boils and let it sit for four minutes.”

  Matt nodded. “See you later.”

  Ten minutes later, Lane spotted Keely and Nigel in a black, unmarked four-door pickup truck. Keely lifted a coffee. Lane parked next to the truck and climbed in the back seat.

  Keely handed him a cup. “Extra-hot mochaccino.”

  “How come you didn’t call me last night?” Lane asked.

  “Lori said one of us needed to be clear headed this morning.” Nigel turned around in his seat to face Lane. “We need to get you up to speed.”

  Keely gripped the steering wheel and pointed at the red-and-white flag waving over the building supply store. “The wind is blowing from the west. The evidence Nigel has gathered suggests that Jones wants to give a major city a taste of what the rural areas endure with oil companies.”

  “Remember how Jones said that the people in the cities wouldn’t understand what the pollution was like until it happened to them?” Nigel asked.

  Lane nodded as he took a sip of coffee.

  Keely handed him a breakfast sandwich. She pointed at a grey unmarked Chev. “That’s your car.”

  “Thanks.” Lane unwrapped the sandwich, took a bite, and chased it with coffee.

  “We’ve narrowed Jones’s location down to three possible houses. All have double garages. All ordered groceries from over there.” Nigel pointed at the Co-Op across the street. The white-tipped mountains were just visible over the roof of the Co-Op.

  “And?” Lane asked.

  “We’re waiting. If we’re right about the amount of explosive, then we need to sit back until Jones makes his move. The collateral damage from an explosion like that . . .” Keely shrugged instead of finishing the sentence.

  Nigel tapped his handheld computer. “The most likely target is the extraction plant on the west side of the city. The plant extracts and stores natural gas and a variety of liquids. All are flammable. One is heavier than air and will cause asphyxiation. It will settle into hollows. The forecast is for winds of thirty kilometres an hour, which would push the cloud of gas into residential areas, including this one.” He handed the computer to Lane.

  Lane looked at a map of the city. Nigel had used purple to shade the northwestern quadrant of the city. “What kind of perimeter have you set up?”

  “All exits to Ranchlands are being monitored. That includes the buses-only underpass into Dalhousie. Fire and ambulance have been alerted. HAWCS is standing by.” Keely set her coffee in a cup holder in the centre console.

  Nigel said, “The plan is to tail him until he’s out of the city, stop him on the highway before he reaches the extraction plant, arrest him, or — worst case — detonate the bomb where there will be the least amount of collateral damage.”

  Keely said, “The RCMP is blocking the entrance to th
e extraction plant and extra cruisers are waiting along major routes out of the city in case we’re wrong and Jones takes another route.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it covered,” Lane said.

  “If we’re right and he’s been waiting for the optimum weather conditions, then it looks like this is it.” Nigel pointed at the rippling flag.

  “What are you not telling me?” Lane asked.

  Nigel looked at Keely.

  Keely took a long breath. “We have another suspect. She used her charge card to purchase a case of glycerine. I interviewed her. She’s hiding something. And she has a motive.”

  “Name?” Lane shoved the last piece of breakfast sandwich into his mouth.

  Keely said, “Stacie Laughton. Daughter was a medic in Afghanistan who was killed by a roadside bomb. Stacie lost her husband a year later. She says she bought the glycerine for her kindergarten class, but she was evasive and something doesn’t add up.”

  Lane looked out the windshield at the grey tips of the mountains. “Does Laughton have another daughter?”

  “Yes, a twin to the medic. I checked on her as well. She’s a contractor. Lives on her own. Divorced. Has a restraining order out on an abusive husband. Nigel found out a bit more.”

  Nigel reached over the seat and tapped an icon on his computer. A video played. It showed a rally in downtown Calgary in front of the federal building. The brownstone-and-glass structure was in the background. Stacie and Donna Laughton were in the foreground. Donna was holding a sign. WARS BEGIN WITH WORDS. Her mother held another sign. TALK PEACE.

  Lane looked closely at the image. “I’ve met her.”

  “And?” Keely asked.

  “I was walking the dog and saw her stop two guys from stealing from a neighbour’s house,” Lane said.

  “And?” Keely stared at him.

  “We sat down for a beer.”

  “Do you think she’s planning something?” Nigel asked.

  Lane thought back and remembered the rusted van parked out front. “What does the evidence say?”

  “We can’t find a connection between the Laughtons and Jones,” Nigel said.

  “And I’m sure the mother is withholding information,” Keely said.

  “Who is our primary focus then?” Lane asked.

  “Jones.” Nigel looked at Keely.

  “I agree, but we can’t afford to ignore this other evidence,” Keely said.

  “Donna Laughton has a van parked in front of her house. It had something painted on the side.” Lane closed his eyes as he visualized the van.

  “We went to her house. There was no one home and no van parked out front.” Keely looked directly at Lane. “What was this Donna like?”

  “She didn’t seem to be afraid of taking on the two thieves,” Lane said.

  “I don’t want to dismiss the possibility of a coordinated strike. If we’re looking for one explosive device and end up with two, the likelihood of fatalities increases exponentially.” Keely opened her hands with the palms up.

  The implication for Nigel and Lane was clear. None of them wanted blood on their hands.

  Keely said, “Nigel and I will keep one eye on the Laughton angle.” She pointed at Lane. “Jones is the one with the motive and the means to carry this out. You concentrate on him.”

  ×

  “I’ll drive your truck, and you follow with mine.” John A. Jones grabbed the bag of sandwiches and handed it to Chris. “Take these with you.”

  “There’s one problem. How will you detonate?” Chris asked.

  John A. tapped the side of his head with a forefinger. “There are blasting caps in my truck. I’ve been saving them for this.”

  Chris handed his keys to his father. “Did you switch on the refrigeration unit?”

  “Get me the blasting caps and quit worrying. I’ve done this before. All you need to do is follow my lead.”

  Chris thought, It was cool last night. Got down around ten degrees centigrade. Maybe it’ll be okay.

  ×

  Lane’s phone rang. He looked at Keely and Nigel before he brought the phone to his ear. “Lane.”

  “It’s Cam.”

  He sounds calm. He gets like this when something big is about to happen.

  “Are you up to speed?” Harper asked.

  “Yes.” Lane looked at the words of wisdom on the side of his coffee cup.

  “You concentrate on the primary target. You’ve got the lead. We’ve got all other major routes covered in case he heads for downtown or a target we haven’t considered. The interception points are located where the least amount of damage will occur if he detonates.” Harper waited.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Lane looked out the windshield as a line of cars waited for the light to turn green.

  “I want your mind cleared of all other distractions. We’re covered. Now you just do your job.”

  “And?” Lane asked.

  “And I’ll talk with you when it’s all over.” Harper hung up.

  ×

  Donna’s phone rang as she sat drinking her coffee at the local Starbucks. She lifted her phone out of her bib pocket, looked at the number, felt her chest tighten, and lifted the phone to her ear. “Hi, Sue.”

  “Is this a good time to talk?”

  “It’s good.” Donna looked at the coffee in her left hand and set down her half-finished bacon-and-egg sandwich with her right.

  “Del and I have been talking things over,” Sue said.

  “And?” Donna put her coffee down next to the half-eaten sandwich. Anxiety made it impossible to swallow.

  “I have some questions.”

  Donna heard the tension in Sue’s voice. “Go ahead.”

  “Are you in love with my husband?” Sue asked.

  “No.”

  There was a pause at the other end. “Then why him?”

  “He’s the best man I know,” Donna said.

  “Oh.”

  Donna waited.

  “Then the next thing we need to talk about is that Del just can’t walk away if you go ahead with it. And I can’t either.”

  “What would you like to do?” Donna looked up as a woman calmed an angry toddler who was trying to climb out of a stroller.

  “We would like to make a deal with you. An arrangement. Argh! Do you find that there aren’t any words that help you to say what you mean in a situation like this?”

  ×

  Chris followed his father over the bridge on Crowchild Trail. He looked right at the traffic coming down Stoney Trail. It travelled underneath the bridge and made its way down to the Bow River valley. He looked ahead. Waves of heat rose from the pavement. He looked at the cab of his white, black, and red truck and saw his father’s shoulders and head. Chris had salvaged the Chevy from the parts of three cannibalized trucks. He saw heat distorting the air above the cab.

  Chris grabbed his cell phone and dialed. He watched as his father reached for the phone on the seat beside him and brought it to his ear. “Yep.”

  “Dad. Remember that the stuff gets unstable as its temperature rises. Stay away from any bumps in the road.”

  “I told you not to worry. There’s a gap between what faith can accomplish and what science is able to explain. My faith will carry us through.” John A. Jones hung up.

  Chris put the phone into the cup holder between the seats of his father’s truck. He looked ahead and saw that they would soon be out of the city. He looked at the mountains. Their white tips and grey shoulders seemed so close — an illusion created by atmospheric conditions.

  ×

  Lane’s phone rang and vibrated. He held it up to his ear. “Lane here.”

  Harper said, “The suspect vehicle is on the move. It’s headed west on Crowchild Trail just as your team predicted. Units from other locales are converging on the scene to help block traffic. HAWCS says she can pick you up at the soccer field in Ranchlands. Are you able?”

  “On my way.” Lane hung up, started the engine, and hit the
lights.

  One minute later, he parked on the upper edge of the playing fields with their panoramic perspective of downtown high-rises that rose out of the river valley fifteen kilometres away. Lane watched the helicopter hover and then land at the centre of the field about fifty metres from the playground. Lane shut and locked the door of his car, then ran down the hill and onto the flat. The grass was spongy under his feet. He crouched as he came within range of the helicopter’s rotor. The disturbed air and the jet engine created its own chaotic environment of kerosene fumes and dancing debris from the fresh-cut grass. Lane stepped on the footpad on the strut, opened the door, and climbed inside.

  The pilot — the name Lacey was on her blue flight suit — wore a helmet. She watched as he climbed in and put on the safety harness. She pointed at a headset.

  Lane put on the headset and adjusted the mic. “Let’s go.” He felt the helicopter lift and watched the field shrink beneath his feet. The pilot swung the tail around. The city centre was behind them and the mountains were out front. Lane looked down. An adult led a line of toddlers climbing the path to the playground. He could see that each child held onto a rope. For a moment, he saw their faces as they looked up at the helicopter. One waved at him. Lane waved back.

  The helicopter accelerated. The pilot said, “Roads are being blocked behind the suspect vehicle. We should have a visual in two or three minutes.”

  Lane looked ahead. Crowchild Trail crossed over Stoney Trail. The western edge of the city was a road marked with houses and condos on one side and acreages and golf courses on the other. To the south, the Bearspaw Reservoir was like the head of the Bow River snake winding its way back to the Rocky Mountains.

  To the northwest he could make out the stacks of the extraction plant.

  “We have a visual on the vehicle,” Lacey said.

  Lane looked at the four-lane highway. Traffic was stopped at the lights marking access to Bearspaw School on one side of the highway and Bearspaw Community Hall on the other. A red truck was fourth in a row of vehicles in the right lane. Ahead of it was a white, black, and red truck with an auxiliary fuel tank set in the front of the box.

  Lane looked down and to his right. He could see police cruisers — out of sight of the red pickup because they were hidden by the crest of a hill — stopping the flow of traffic behind the trucks.