by Glenn Muller
Fenn hung up and then noticed the flashing light. He hit PLAY. It was another message from Eileen.
“Okay, Kim. You didn’t call me this morning. I’m going to try you at work and if you’re not there, I’m calling the cops.”
It was quarter after eleven. Eileen would definitely have contacted the police by now. He considered phoning her back but felt that his news should be relayed in person. As for the police, well, since Tony had been conscious he would already have told them about Kim, and they would have put an all-points bulletin out for the limo.
Fenn didn’t know where the limo had taken Kim and had no desire to be held for questioning. That would only take him out of play and resolve nothing. This problem was as much his to solve as anybody else’s and, despite the serious consequences, he felt certain that his previous actions had been the right thing to do. He had no religious leanings but had once read a Buddhist quote that stayed with him.
No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.
This was now his path and he would let no one stop him from walking it.
CHAPTER 34
The office of Edward Hartman, Q.C. was a curb front unit of a brownstone condominium complex. Sandwiched between a bridal boutique and a hair salon, muted conversation from both often came through the walls. Not noisy enough to be intrusive but sometimes at a pitch that belied the exuberance of the patrons next door.
Ed Hartman would only take notice when a particularly loud giggle came from the bridal shop. The sound of such happiness made him smile. Reis would turn on her radio. She had no intention of chaining herself to some guy who wanted to build bookshelves in the basement, nor was she the type to stay home and play mommy. As for the hair salon, well, had it been a manicure salon she might have had some interest in it.
She checked her nails. Honed and subtly pointed they had come in useful with both Durrell and Svoljsak. She’d scrubbed them thoroughly afterward, of course, then later wondered if she should have done the same for her victims’. A small detail to remember for next time, should there be one. For a few seconds she thought about the guy that had screwed her out of ten thousand dollars. The one that got away.
A buzzing from her purse broke her reverie. It was Jenner calling her cell phone.
“The shit has hit the fan,” he said. “The funeral home is crawling with cops and our buddy, Fenn, tried to liberate his girlfriend.”
“How the hell did he know where she was?”
Jenner had a theory about that but prudently kept it to himself.
“Dunno. He took off but we’ve still got her. Lucien stayed behind to make sure there were no searches without warrants. He said we should convene at The Retreat.”
That made sense. The Retreat was Harrowport’s million-dollar ‘cottage’ in Muskoka. Large enough to accommodate moderate-sized business meetings, therefore a tax write-off, it was the logical place to regroup. Muskoka is lake country and the rugged landscape provides natural solitude for those times when getting off the beaten track is important.
She had first met Lucien Harrowport while attending a fundraiser with Ed at the Burlington Art Gallery. Within a month of their introduction, the funeral director had invited her to ‘spend a weekend in the woods’. It was so cliché. She’d acted surprised at being his only guest then let him seduce her on the rug in front of the fireplace. Snow falling outside, litres of red wine inside, it had been the proverbial pleasure doing business.
Keeping her voice low so Ed wouldn’t hear, she said, “What about tonight’s meeting with Wharfmine, R. J.?”
“Lucien was going to contact them and move the meeting to tomorrow night.”
“If they’ll still show up. A police raid could be just the thing to put these guys off.”
“Or a good distraction. While the cops are busy with the funeral home we’ll all be up at The Retreat, making deals.”
R. J. had a point, but the change in venue meant she now had a few more things to do.
“Call me when you get there and make sure you hang on to the girlfriend. We still need that disc.”
Wharfmine had the resources to produce and distribute the drug patches on a grand scale, but they couldn’t do it without the formula. It was imperative that she resumed contact with Fenn. The rescue attempt at the funeral home was proof she had his attention. His aggressive response, however, was a bit disconcerting.
Reis finished the contract she’d been typing. She enveloped and stamped it then went into the back office.
“I think I’m coming down with a cold, Ed. Unless you’ve got something urgent I’m going to drop off the mail and go home.”
Her boss looked up from his notepad and nodded. “That’s fine. Things are quiet right now. You get some rest.”
Ed was a good man. Kind and even-tempered. If he harboured negative thoughts about his handicap he hid them well. To Reis, the wheelchair was just a part of who he was—no more conspicuous than a pair of spectacles. Ed provided her with income and also routine. The routine was her little island of normality, a shelter from the storms she created for herself, and to maintain that Reis would not even so much as flirt with the man.
The drive home took fifteen minutes. She gave herself ten more to be out the door and on her way. For a meeting at The Retreat she’d pack for a two-day stay—nightwear as well as daywear since Harrowport wouldn’t be bringing his wife.
Her persona as legal secretary wore a shoulder-length brunette wig with loose curls. She peeled it from her scalp and replaced it with the straight black locks she preferred for conducting her own business. The skirt and pullover were exchanged for a dark grey pantsuit. Heels were heels.
The last item was the jade hairclip. It contained the half-tube of potent toxin that she’d prepped for that idiot, Fenn. In hindsight that would have been the same mistake she’d made with his father. Had she killed Fenn there’d be nothing to show the Wharfmine syndicate but a Neil Diamond CD, and there was no correction for that kind of error. Even money couldn’t cover it.
Money she had. Close to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That was her share of the buy-in. Aird had stashed a hundred and ninety thousand dollars from Harrowport’s research sponsorship in a couple of safety deposit boxes. The rest Reis had skimmed while mediating that deal. Aird, as she now knew, had used the resources of the pharmaceutical labs at Simedyne. His share of the project had cost him virtually nothing but time—time that Simedyne had already paid him for. Now, in a black leather bag next to her briefcase, the money would further her cause once again.
She flipped open her cell phone and called Fenn’s home number. He didn’t answer and neither did his machine. She could only think of one other way to reach him. She opened her phone directory and checked the commercial listings.
Driving schools.
DriveCheck.
Asha was on lunch so Carole answered the phone.
“DriveCheck Education Centre. Senior manager speaking. How may we be of service?”
“Would Chas Fenn be there?”
Carole’s voice dropped an octave. “Are you one of his students?”
“No. I’m an acquaintance.”
“Acquaintance.” Down two octaves and a little flat. “No, Charleton Fenn is not here.”
Reis could tell the call was about to be terminated. “Could I leave a message for him?”
“Why, certainly.” The honeydew in Carole’s voice practically dripped off her tongue. “What’s the message, Dear?”
“Tell him it is very important that he calls Ms. Reis on her cell phone. He has my number. Do you need me to spell Reis?”
“No, I have it. And if you happen to see our mutual friend, perhaps you could relay something for me.”
“If I can. What’s the message?”
“Tell Fenn he’d better call Carole in the next twenty-four hours, or his ASS is FUCKING FIRED! Do you need me to spell any of that, Dear?”
“I think I’ve got
it.”
“Very good, then. You have a nice day.”
CHAPTER 35
The Challenger rocked to the rhythm of the race cam, its exhaust pipes burbling with syncopated pops. The light turned green and Fenn moved with the flow, shifting gears and braking autonomously, while his mind tried to divine a course of action or at least predict with some certainty Kim’s present location.
He was driving south on Guelph Line, just a few blocks from where Reis lived. He didn’t know where Jenner lived. Asha would know but Fenn somehow doubted Kim would be taken there. Nor did he think she’d be at Reis’s condo since Reis seemed smart enough to keep a kidnapping at arm’s length. However, the condo may hold some clue and Fenn figured it was high time he invited himself in. He dropped down into first gear on Palmer Drive then stopped as a car exited the condo’s underground garage.
It was a black BMW 540i.
The Bimmer crossed his bow and Fenn made eye contact with the driver. Recognition was instantaneous but one look at Fenn’s face was enough to make Reis stomp on the gas. She caught an amber light at Guelph Line and headed south.
Fenn let up the clutch, angled slightly into the driveway entrance, then cranked the wheel hard left with lots of gas. The Challenger’s rear wheels spun and the back end came around in a tight u-turn. He roared up to the light. It was now red. Long streams of cars, four lanes in all, blocked his access.
Fenn rolled onto the crosswalk to keep sight of the BMW as it travelled down the road. He jumped the green and raced after it but two blocks later the next light was also red. Five cars were ahead of him, though only a single van entered the intersection from the side street. Fenn pulled into the oncoming lanes and with a hand covering the horn button he sped through the junction.
The road inclined as Guelph Line crossed the QEW highway and he saw the BMW reach the crest then turn right to take the highway on-ramp. Fenn moved to the curb lane and the Challenger became boxed in by the lunchtime traffic.
“C’mon. C’mon!”
He cut onto the ramp and the Hemi pulled hard as he shifted quickly through the gears. The BMW was no longer in sight but Fenn could see the next exit ramp and Reis wasn’t on it. The highway was about to divide with two lanes going south and two lanes going west. Reis could have gone either way but the current density of trucks made lane changes difficult so Fenn stayed to the right and went west.
The westbound lanes were joined by one more then all ran straight. Fenn picked his way from gap to gap until he had open road then pushed the throttle down. The speedometer displayed miles per hour and Fenn was up to one hundred while still in third gear. He shifted to fourth.
The Challenger soon closed on the next pack of cars. At the rear, in the centre lane, was a black BMW. Fenn began to flash his lights. He wanted Reis to see him and make a move while he had open space to maneuver. If that wasn’t Reis then there’d be no response—he’d have gone the wrong way and the chase would be over.
He flashed again and the black car moved into the right lane. Then it moved onto the paved shoulder and began to pass the vehicles ahead of it. Maintaining 130 mph Fenn also eased over, went onto the shoulder, and roared alongside the pack.
The BMW jinked to the left. The shoulder ended at a bridge abutment and the metal side-barrier was cutting across to close his lane. He stabbed the gas to pass the final car and nipped back onto the highway narrowly missing the concrete base of the overpass. That brought an angry honk and a flashing of high beams from behind, but he was now on the BMW’s tail.
Fenn moved up until the bumpers were a mere hand's width apart. He watched Reis, calmly, as she shot frequent glances at her rear-view mirror. Fenn could draft her like this all day, but just racing along the highway wasn’t going to advance his mission. He had to get Reis onto lesser roads. There was an interchange coming up. A secondary highway that went toward Flamborough. If he could get Reis onto it he would have some options.
The pack was a good distance behind so he moved into the centre lane and drew up beside the BMW. When Reis failed to look over he drifted right until their side view mirrors were almost touching. She drifted closer to the shoulder. Needing to be subtle, Fenn didn’t press her further. The interchange cloverleaf was getting nearer and Fenn could tell she was considering the exit. He stayed beside her and pretended not to notice.
The exit ramp opened up yet Reis maintained her position. The collapsible bullnose between the lanes became prominent and it was now Reis’s turn to be coy. Fenn was about to give a persuasive nudge when, just at the point of no return, she slammed on the brakes and dropped off Fenn’s wing in a screeching cloud of smoke. Reis chucked the 540i onto the exit ramp and hit the gas.
Fenn’s smile was fleeting. He’d got what he wanted but the next bit was going to be trickier. He flew under the interchange overpass. To catch Reis now he’d have to exit the highway via the opposing on-ramp. The median wedge beyond the bridge became rapidly narrower and Fenn gave a sigh of relief when he saw the merge lane was empty.
He cut his speed with braking and downshifts—third—second—then keeping the clutch depressed slotted the pistol-grip shifter into first. As the grass verge ended, Fenn steered to the right and locked up the brakes, putting the Challenger into a sideways slide. When just about stopped Fenn released the clutch and applied the gas. The rear wheels smoked and the back end spun left to complete the one-eighty. Still on the gas, Fenn stamped down the clutch and banged the shifter into second. The car launched up the ramp and he redlined the tachometer knowing the sooner he made the entrance, the less chance he’d meet someone head on.
Great theory—except for that minivan.
Both drivers flung their vehicles to the right. Fenn barely missed the guardrail, the van was not so lucky. The Challenger shot out of the merge lane into the path of oncoming traffic. A Buick, about to enter, locked up its brakes as did the truck behind it. Fenn cut across the yellow line into his own lane and shifted to third.
The road rose steeply to Clappison’s Corners, a major intersection, and Fenn could see the BMW approaching the plateau. Its brake lights came on briefly then extinguished as the traffic light blinked green. Fenn raced onward and crossed the intersection as amber turned to red.
The change in landscape, from suburban to rural, was immediate and the intersecting thoroughfares became numbered concessions. It only took a couple of kilometres for the clusters of houses to be replaced by secluded farm homes and open fields. The BMW turned left onto a concession and the Challenger, hot on its tail, did likewise. Fenn knew these roads intimately, and for what he planned Reis couldn’t have picked a better road if he had chosen it for her.
He took up the draft once again and as the two cars sped along the vacuum effect began to suck dust off the road. Fenn took a hand off the wheel and tapped his horn. It was a declaration, not a warning.
CHAPTER 36
The BMW 540i was well-balanced fore and aft, and had power and stability. Reis handled it well considering their speed on the uneven surface of the country road. The Challenger, with its big V-8 motor up front, was not quite so nimble. It had the advantage of acceleration but this wasn’t a race and Fenn knew he had to rein Reis in before much longer. He saw the next bend as the perfect opportunity.
They weren’t travelling quite so fast as on the highway though Fenn’s speedometer needle was close to 90 mph, which for the 540i would be over 140 kmh. The only vehicle in sight was a tractor collecting hay bales. The road itself was deserted.
Fenn kept the space between their bumpers to an arm’s length and eased closer to the shoulder. The road curved right. Had it curved to the left, what he had in mind wouldn’t work. He tapped the horn to get Reis to look in the mirror. It was not intended to make her miss the bend, merely to make her miscalculate the braking point. Yet she was also late in turning for the curve and had to compensate with more brake and steering.
As Reis pulled the car into the turn, weight from the right rear corner was transferr
ed to the left front wheel. Fenn moved up and gave her a tap with the Challenger’s bumper. Already off kilter, the high speed nudge was all it took to make the BMW lose traction and swerve to a right angle with the road.
Reis counter-steered like an expert but there was too much momentum and not enough room for the correction. The black car shot off the tarmac, skipped across a shallow water-filled ditch, and ploughed to an abrupt stop in the loose dirt of the cultivated field. Fenn had swung far left after the bump to avoid the spinning car and then brought the Challenger to a halt. He threw it into reverse and backed onto the shoulder. The 540i was up to its axles in mud and there was no sign of movement within.
Fenn shut off his motor and pulled the key. He advanced on the BMW, walking in the ruts where its tires had compressed the soil. Reis appeared to be slumped forward, her seat belt still on but loose. The sudden stop had probably lashed her head against the steering wheel and knocked her out without triggering the airbags. He opened the driver’s door. Reis lay against the wheel, her left arm dangling beside her leg.
With a hand on the door for support, Fenn leaned in to push her back against the seat—and came within a hair’s breadth of being skewered. Peripherally, he saw her fingers twitch as Reis jerked upright and thrust her right fist toward his face. He threw himself backwards using the door for added thrust. Her lunge barely missed his chin and as Fenn fell back he heard the door hit her skull with a thud. He scrambled up, ready for another attack, but found Reis lying motionless over the passenger seat. This time she was truly out.
Her weapon had landed in the mud. It was the jade hairclip he’d knocked off the desk the last time they’d been this close to each other. The pin appeared to be a needle, locked open like a penknife blade. He cleaned the piece off and his thumb found the lever on the little brass tube. Fluid squirted from the needle tip. Interesting. He figured out how to fold it up and put the device in his pocket. Then he went back to his car and fetched some bungee cords from the trunk.