Farewell María. I love you.
Your sad Cal.
PART THREE
THE TIGER AND THE GOAT
Chapter 30
Vancouver, a year later.
After handing over Rachel’s car and having breakfast with her, I spent the rest of the daylight hours trapped indoors in my house. I mulled over the events down at Joe’s place, and considered calling the police again, until I deemed it too late to do so. Sometimes I stared out the side of the window, unwilling to go out and risk another confrontation with Hoodie.
When evening came I drew the blinds and opened a bottle of cheap Sauvignon Blanc. I sipped it and stared at the cannibalism book sitting on my side table. Having already examined it page by page, I no longer wanted to even touch it. My attempt to throw its sender off my scent had failed miserably but I knew that I couldn’t just sit around now and mope about it. My attacker had almost got me twice. A third attempt was inevitable.
Somehow, I had to proactively defend myself. The only way I could think of doing that involved seeing Eric again. I called him on my cell phone, told him it was urgent, and he agreed to see me tonight.
“I’m working late downtown as usual,” He said, “I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”
When we got to his place, no fancy supper was offered this time. To be fair, it was already too late in the evening for that. Instead, Eric showed me straight into his office-cum-study.
“So, what can I do for you?” he said, in a typically ‘make it quick’ tone.
I thought about whether I was really going to go ahead with this or not. Yes, I was.
“Mind if we have a drink first?” I asked. I needed one to settle my nerves.
Eric apologised for the oversight, left and came back with two small but well-filled glasses. I sipped mine. Not Irish Black Bush this time but something else, possibly a Highland malt. Whisky instead of whiskey; caramel tones instead of heather and thyme. It would do the job nicely. As Eric sat down across from me on the other side of the desk, I noticed a framed photograph on it of his daughter Jennifer. He hadn’t mentioned her to me for months. I wanted to ask him if she was still in Argentina but knew this wasn’t the right time. Instead I knocked back a good part of the drink and prepared myself for what was to come.
“Thanks for seeing me tonight,” I opened, “I’m wondering if you can do me a favour.”
“Anything I can do to help,” he replied.
I got right to the point. “I’ve recovered enough to start work again and I need some money. Got any flying for me?”
Since the Andes affair, as I tried to think of it, I’d been living on insurance and savings. After a year of this I was pretty broke.
Eric compressed his lips and I sensed that I wasn’t going to like his reply.
“Well, Cal, I think I’ve been pretty good to you, eh?”
He had. There’d been a lump sum payment when I’d first got back to Canada, some smaller cheques since, and useful things like speaking on my behalf in front of the media and shepherding me in and out of hospital. Sure, Eric would have seen these, including the recent last one, as photo opportunities and free advertising on the news. I wasn’t naive about that. But he’d still turned up when I’d needed him, and I was grateful. He wasn’t a bad man, just a highly driven one. Which made what I was about to do all the worse.
Eric gave me a steely look. “Unfortunately, as you know, I’ve had to continue my business engagements travelling up the coast and on the Island. For that I had to hire someone else, another pilot. Sorry, Cal.”
Well, I pretty much knew this was how it would be. No surprise there. I hadn’t expected this self-made man to sit around and lose business for a year.
“It’s okay, Eric, I understand.” I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward. “Actually, what I’d like to do is take a vacation. Nothing expensive, just somewhere fairly local. Mainly to get out of Vancouver for a few weeks, recharge my batteries. As I haven’t been working for so long I’m a bit hard up though.”
Eric, as I knew he would, caught on quickly. “No problem,” he said, getting up, “I think I can cover that.”
He went over to a painting on the wall, the one I thought was an Emily Carr, and pulled at the right side. It hinged outwards, revealing a small safe behind. After a few twists left and right of the centre dial he opened the door and took out a thick wad of money. I saw him count off the top twenty-five. He turned and held them out to me.
“Can we call this a severance payment?” he said.
I looked at the twenty-five hundred dollars in my hand and nodded. “Thank you, Eric,” I said, “That’s very generous. I’ll get my vacation after all. Probably leave in a few days.” I was pretty sure there’d be an official termination document coming to me in the mail from his lawyers, and that it would contain every conceivable legal protection for Eric and his companies. Eric’s continuing good favour would be dependent upon me signing it. He wasn’t one to leave loose ends.
I drained my glass in a sort of salute to him and held it out.
“One more for the road?” I said, “Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Of course.” He gave me an odd look, as I’d never been pushy like this before. But he took my glass and went out the door to refill it.
As soon as he left the room I jumped up and went around the desk. I pulled open the bottom right drawer, hoping the pistol he had been waving around last time was still there. It was. I took it out and crammed it into the deep inside pocket of my jacket. It bulged very obviously and for a moment I panicked. Then I took the jacket off and draped it over my arm, the folds of cloth concealing the weapon’s heft.
I just had time to stuff the bullet clips into the other pockets, close the drawer and sit down again before the door reopened and Eric came back in.
He gave me another strange look as he handed me the glass.
“Hot night,” I said, wiping beads of sweat off my forehead. It was an inane remark as the room, like every other room in his house, was perfectly cool.
His eyes went from my jacket to the safe on the wall which was still lying open. My heart thumped in my chest but I told myself; This is good, this is okay. Eric would count the money in the safe after I’d gone and find it all there. That would throw him off the scent. He might even feel a twinge of guilt for doubting me, at least momentarily.
And by the time he discovered the gun was missing, I’d be long gone.
“Cheers,” I said, knocking the whisky back.
Chapter 31
Someone was coming for me from my recent past. Deep down, I thought I knew who Hoodie might be and why he was trying to kill me, but I didn’t want to even think about that. Even at this point, calling the police again was still an option. Wasn’t it their job to protect the public? Well, as I now knew, not really. If I contacted the police, Schuller would chew me off for not reporting the ‘alleged assault’ (as they would call it) at Joe’s place straight after it happened. When he got tired of doing that, he’d then nod condescendingly while silently judging me crazy, irreparably damaged from my headline-making mountain experiences. The police’s forte was coming around after a criminal event and trying to find the perp. Which in my situation would be rather too late to do me any good.
What really put me off was that involving the police meant having Schuller bossing my life again. I could imagine his snort of derision when I showed him the small X inked beside the illustration in the book, and his skepticism when I told him about the attack at the Winged Moose. I just knew he would give me his sickening “petty thief after your wallet” line again, like he had the last time. He knew about my medication and would think I was seeing white Mercedes instead of white rabbits. Even if he agreed to police surveillance, it would only be for a few days, and he’d probably insist on leading it himself so that he could enjoy proving me wrong. I’d have his condescending, accusatory nasal drone in my ears as he accompanied me around. He might even insist on staying in my home overnight. The thought of sha
ring the same living space – maybe even a bedroom – with the man almost made me gag.
And after a day or two of Schuller hell? Extended personal protection meant hiring private security guards, something I couldn’t remotely afford. Running away might be a short term solution but I had to return to work to pay mounting bills and that meant coming back.
So I had two choices; live in fear for the remainder of my presumably very short life, or meet the danger head on, by myself, at a time and in a place that favoured me. Before my trip to Argentina a year ago I’d have had no hesitation in choosing the latter. Lack of confidence wasn’t a problem for me then, to put it mildly, and I’d have fancied my chances.
Cal Knox was a different person now. The plane crash and its aftermath had changed me so profoundly that I was no longer even sure I wanted to succeed this time. Psychotherapy for the last year had built me up mentally again but it hadn’t prepared me for this – how could it?
I looked out from the side of my bedroom window, careful not to move the curtain. The street was deserted, quiet, but I knew he was out there, waiting, biding his time. He would get me sooner or later. Maybe a car would come screaming down on me as I crossed a road, or footsteps run up behind me on a dark night and a bullet enter the back of my head. Giving in to that would be so much easier. Perhaps I deserved whatever fate I had in store, perhaps I truly had it coming.
Something deep inside me said; No. That’s not how it should end. I went to the single shelf above my bed and took down my most sacred object, the only thing I had left belonging to María. The antique rosary I’d found among her belongings. I ran the bright, pearl-like beads slowly through my hands until my fingertips reached the little crucifix at the end. The letters ‘INRI’ at the top of the cross and the emaciated man beneath, hanging in the classic position – I seemed to see them for the first time.
He suffered too, more than me. Lost all his friends. And they say he did no wrong either. If he could endure and see his destiny through, maybe I can too. I hung the rosary around my neck and tucked it under my shirt.
Where could I go? I went through a very short mental list of wealthy people I knew apart from Eric. There were only a couple that I knew anyway well. I found a number in my notebook, picked up my cell phone and made a call to a downtown business address.
To my surprise, a plummy voice I instantly recognised said “Hello?” at the other end. I didn’t even have to get past a secretary.
“Walter, it’s Cal here. How are you?”
“Calvin, my boy! I’ve been reading about you in the papers. Long time, no see, and all that, eh?”
I ignored the comment about being in the news. We exchanged some fairly meaningless pleasantries then I quickly got down to business.
“You still have that place out at Fort Stuart?”
“The cottage? You want to go there?”
Maybe I could put my unsought celebrity to good use for once. “To recover for a little while, you know? Get my head together.”
Walter Lemesurier was an upper middle class Brit from the Channel Islands, perched only a few miles off the coast of France. I had a hunch he might have some personal or family experience with mental illness.
“Right, old man, I see what you mean. Clear the mind for a bit, eh? How long do you need it for?”
Tough question. How long would it take for my pursuer to find me? I daren’t make it too easy or he would smell a rat. But I couldn’t make it too hard either, or he’d simply wait me out and perform the hit when I inevitably returned home. I hadn’t worked out any of these details yet.
“I was thinking maybe a couple of weeks, three at the most.” If I needed more, I would call him again. “Would that be okay? Are you using it yourself?”
He gave a throaty chuckle. “Dear me, no. I’ve far too much to do, I rarely get time these days. Like the city too much, to be frank. I have a local bloke who comes by there every so often and keeps it clean.”
“Walter, I can’t pay you, you know that? My savings are pretty much shot these days.”
“Don’t mention it, Cal. Have it as long as you like, important you get well and all that. All you’ll need to do is stock the fridge. The key’s in the usual place. The smaller key is for the back door. The alarm code is my birthday, 471956, you have forty seconds to punch it into the panel and wait till the red light goes off. Green light spells ‘Go’ as the kiddies used to say.”
“Thanks, Walter, I’ve noted that down. I appreciate this very much. Very generous of you. I’ll take good care of the place.”
“I know you will, old boy, I know you will. I’ll tell the local guy you’re coming round, so he won’t bother you.”
“That’s great. One other thing. If anyone asks, can you keep this quiet? I don’t want reporters following me, TV cameras, that sort of thing.”
“Sure, no problem. Bloody pests. Mum’s the word, to quote the Bard. I have a friend down there, Fred Sampson, runs the bar at the little hotel on Main Street. You can ask Freddie to let you know if any pesky journos descend on the place.”
I noted the name, thanked Walter again, and cut the call. My heart was pounding and I took a slow, deep breath. Was I really going to go through with this? Yes. The only person who would know where I was going would be Walter and, while he put out an image of playful buffoonery, he was canny and dependable beneath it. Even if my pursuer somehow discovered Walter’s existence, he wouldn’t get any help there.
I took my travelling case out from the back of the closet, opened it on the bed and packed it with casual clothes, running shoes, and the first aid kit from the bathroom. Toiletries and a pair of Leica compact binoculars went on top. Lastly, I opened the drawer in my bedside cabinet and took out the pistol I’d stolen from Eric. ‘Sig Sauer P229’ was engraved on the slide part and handle grip and a quick bit of Googling revealed it was one of the most popular hand guns in North America. A bit more Googling got me to the manufacturer’s website and a PDF file of instructions about fifty pages long. I cut to the chase;
‘4.3 Loading the pistol (ready to fire). 1. Point the pistol in a safe direction. 2. Insert a full magazine and make sure it is engaged. 3. Pull the slide back fully and release, allowing the slide to fly forward. 4. Push down the decocking lever with your thumb. THE PISTOL IS NOW LOADED AND READY TO FIRE.’
I read a bit more, about reloading while firing and that kind of thing, then placed the loaded gun and the two spare clips of ammunition into a small shoulder bag. A last look around to check that the windows were all locked and I switched on the home alarm on the way to the back stairs down to the garage.
My trusty three year old Hyundai Genesis Coupé started first time despite not having been driven for months. I locked both doors, clicked the garage door open and eased the car out into the back alley. My hand went inside the shoulder bag on the passenger seat, fingers curling around the gun.
My eyes scanned left and right. I was just about to turn left when I noticed something in a neighbour’s tree glint in the late afternoon sun. I leaned back while my eyes searched the lower braches. There. A dark, round lens. A camera was watching me. I allowed myself a tight-lipped smile.
I turned left at the end of the alley and drove across town. Even with a stop at the grocery store, I would be at my destination by suppertime. I accelerated onto Highway One and peered into the rear-view mirror, looking for Hoodie’s slick white Mercedes. It wasn’t there. Three or four ordinary looking cars came behind me, none of them seemed suspicious. For the next few miles I weaved in and out of lanes, overtook as often as possible and watched behind to see who followed closest. No white Mercedes, no matter how many times I checked. Had he switched to something else? For a long time I couldn’t discern any pattern at all. Then, just as the light was beginning to fade, I picked it out.
A black Audi with tinted windows. Plenty of power to follow and react quickly, without being conspicuous. I kept my eye on it and it always stayed three or four cars behind me. At the nex
t roundabout I turned off and found a grocery store. Without looking back I went in and filled a cart, then loaded the bags into my trunk beside my travel case.
Back on the highway I checked in the mirror again. The black Audi was still three cars behind.
Chapter 32
It promised to be another hot summer day, the sun already streaming through the rear bedroom window by seven in the morning. I’d flown Walter around quite a lot in the past, when Eric had been on overseas trips. About two years ago, after taking Walter to a nearby airfield, I’d stayed in this cottage overnight, but I’d forgotten how luxurious it was. Even though Walter rarely used it, there was no expense spared and, considering the place was dust-free and well aired, his local caretaker had done a good job. There was even a small wine cellar in the basement that I’d already taken a quick peek at last night. It was well stocked with antipodean reds and whites.
Staying in the city had really been getting on my nerves. I was keenly aware that the anonymity of crowded streets was an illusion. My shadow – Hoodie as I still visualised him – might be three or four people behind me in a packed underground station and I’d never know it. Eventually I’d make a mistake, like walking up a deserted lane, and he’d take his opportunity. Ten minutes later, he could be miles away, most likely driving across the bridge down to Richmond, to catch whatever the next flight happened to be at YVR airport.
Here, in this remote spot, a good half hour walk from the tiny town of Fort Stuart, I felt much safer. With flat, open land on all four sides of the cottage, extending with only minor undulations to distant trees, anyone approaching would know they were in full view.
I reckoned that it would take the Audi driver at least a day or two to scout out the area and set up a safe base for himself in Fort Stuart. Meanwhile I would familiarise myself with the surrounding countryside. And, no matter how much the thought of it terrified me, see if I could figure out a trap.
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