Drake shook his head. “They won’t pay though. You’re going to jail, Mrs. Parker.”
Her head cocked back and her laughter cackled the same way it had when they spoke in the showroom. “Listen to me, Officer Drake, and try to keep your eyes focused on my face this time.” She winked at his reflection in the mirror. “I will not go to jail. You have nothing. Nothing will stick. I guarantee it.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
* * *
It was all about the bodies, and it always had been. Somewhere between standing over Michael Robinson and picking up the killer – Jennifer Parker – it had become personal. Just like the young girl in Ireland, Robinson’s death had become his responsibility. Was it because he’d been the first officer on scene, or was it because of the arrows? He stood in front of the half-erased whiteboard. The arrows went to the names of the man’s friends, but not to the killer. And there were still arrows pointing nowhere. Those arrows would never have a connection. The man had lost his opportunity to live and interact and be alive. Was that why he felt responsible for him? Was he identifying with the life that Robinson had led because he also had to live on the outside?
He was in a precarious position. It was only a matter of time before the threats from the postcards come true. Who would miss him then – Tracy, the woman from the restaurant? She would find out, and for a short while she might miss his company or wonder what might have happened between them. His life had barely made a ripple. If he were to vanish or be killed the world would hardly notice.
Ryberg was carrying a briefcase and smiling when he closed the door of Sergeant Thiessen’s office. Surprisingly, Thiessen was smiling too. Ryberg laid his briefcase on the long table and motioned for Drake to come closer. “John, I’m glad you’re here. Join me as I pack up my meager belongings.” When Drake was across the table from him, the older man whispered, “I think your sergeant believes I’m going to steal the stapler. He seems to be watching me.”
Drake didn’t look around. He smiled at the man. He was going to miss him. He’d taught him so much over the course of a few days.
Ryberg pushed some papers into his bag and continued speaking. “So we have nothing with which to charge the men on the list, including Trevor Middleton. We could charge them with petty mischief, but any judge worth his salt would call it exactly that – mischief. It’s disappointing, but I do not believe they’ll give you any further trouble.”
J.J. had been right – there was a red car that night. And the driver pushed a body out of the passenger side. But the car did not belong to Brian Stam; it was the personal car belonging to one of the owners – Jennifer Parker. When Sophie Peterson had called the dealership, the call was not handed over to the owner of the car but to a salesperson. And he pretended the demo car was his, in the hopes of earning Sophie’s business. Little did he know it would cost him a few hours of his life in a jail cell.
“And Mrs. Parker, what do you think will happen to her?”
The investigator’s accent grew stronger. “We’ve done all we can. We have provided the crown prosecutor with the facts – the evidence. It’s now up to the lawyers to make her pay. She killed two men. Two men are dead because of her.”
“She seems convinced that she’ll get off.”
“That is always a possibility. It’s out of our hands.”
He was right. Her husband had joined the dots, and figured out his wife was the killer. He had been willing to pay the consequences to save her. And when it went to trial he’d probably still end up providing her with an alibi. There was a possibility that she might not pay for killing two men.
Drake shook his head. “If she does get off, I wonder where she’ll go.”
Ryberg laughed. “She’ll stay here. Why would she go anywhere else? She’ll be known as the woman who killed two men and got away with it. She’ll write a book and live very comfortably. She’s not the kind of woman who will hide. She will flaunt her guilt as an accomplishment. Why not hide in Hope? It’s as good a place as any.”
He was right; he was absolutely right.
Drake shook the man’s hand, and Ryberg passed him a worn piece of paper.
“The list – you may as well have it. We know who they are now and what they did.”
Six names and two of them dead.
“I feel like I was running in every direction at once – chasing down these men and the other man too. They were all innocent.”
Ryberg stopped and looked straight at Drake. “You were; we all were. Sometimes that’s what it takes.” He let out a little laugh before going back to putting items into his briefcase. “This isn’t science; there is no easy road to the answer.”
“I’m going to visit Tony Hempsill and apologize. I hope he’ll testify against her. She had him manipulated – encouraging him to lie for her and make up a story about a truck.”
Ryberg stopped what he was doing and stared at him. “You did a good job, and you saved Monica. If you hadn’t got there when you did, the woman would have killed her, and possibly her child too. There could have been more names eliminated from that list.” He pushed the latch on his briefcase. “Pringle tells me he’s encouraging you to take your career to the next level. I hope you do that. I’d be happy to recommend or help in any way I can. Old dogs like me have to move on sometime. We need fresh, young talent to replace us.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket just in time to catch a cough. The hacking lasted for several seconds as Drake watched with concern.
“Look after yourself, sir. I hope you get through your challenges.”
He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to know about the man’s health problems or not. Ryberg did not react.
As Drake walked away he turned and asked one last question of the man who had somehow, in a very short period of time, become his mentor. “Your accent – where are you from?”
Unlike Drake, the old investigator had no secrets. He answered immediately. “Sweden. Born in Canada, but my parents spoke Swedish all through my childhood. The accent stuck.” He made his words even more pronounced. “It doesn’t go away.”
He didn’t expect the question to come back to him. “And your accent, John, where are you from?”
He stood at the door and tensed his shoulders as though he was ready for patrol. He thought of the old days – the men who had fallen, and the men he’d served beside. And then he said it. He finally told the truth – doing nothing to disguise his accent. “I’m from Scotland – born and bred.”
Ryberg nodded, accepting. Maybe he knew; maybe he didn’t. “Good luck to you, John Drake. Keep in touch.”
“I will, sir. Thank you for your help.”
Epilogue
* * *
Drake stood off to the side of his apartment window for ten minutes before he was satisfied that there was no movement from the street below. He moved to the other end of the living room and removed two screws and pulled the ventilation grate on the wall. Reaching down inside the opening, he used the screwdriver to pull up a loose strip of wood from the floor. He fished into the hole with his fingers and pulled out a small package. Peeling away the batten of fiberglass insulation, he removed a cellular phone and battery from the sealed plastic bag. He placed the battery in the phone and watched the small device light up. His fingers automatically pushed on the numbers that he’d memorized twelve months earlier.
Three rings, and then the familiar voice. “Speak.”
“I’ve been receiving postcards. They’re addressed to me – the old me. Somebody knows I’m here.”
“Wait. I’ll call you back.”
It took exactly ninety seconds before the phone rang again, and he heard the woman’s voice – terse, officious, just like always. “Postcards? Plural? As in more than one?”
“Two, over the past month. The address is to John Drake, but my real name is on the card. Postmark is Canadian – general delivery.”
A slight pause. “We’re pulling you out.”
“Sorenson, wait.�
� He used her name. He knew it wasn’t her real name, and he was sure he was on a secure line, but he still shouldn’t have said it.
“No, you wait. I knew this cop thing was a mistake – too high profile.”
Drake held the small phone to his ear and watched some leaves blowing around outside the window. They blew down the road and into a driveway across the street.
“If it really was them we wouldn’t be having this call.”
He thought he could hear a breath being sucked in. He pictured Sorenson in an office somewhere, shaking her head, ready to alert a team to pick him up and transport him to another town – somewhere else off everyone’s radar.
She spoke slowly, quietly. “If they know where you are – you’re done. You know how it works.”
“If they were going to do it, I’d be dead. I’m not.”
“Not yet.”
It was a pointless argument.
Another silence.
Somewhere between seeing the arrows on the board that went nowhere and telling Ryberg a little bit about who he really was, he had decided. “I’m not leaving. If they’re going to come, let them come.”
He quickly hung up the phone before she could reply, and pulled out the battery. There was nothing left to say. For a moment he considered driving down to the Fraser River and throwing the phone out into the water as far as he could. He stared at it for a moment, then rewrapped it with the battery in the plastic bag and covered it with insulation once again. Then he replaced it behind the grate in the wall.
The wind rattled against the window and startled him. When he looked out, the same leaves were blowing around in the street. They moved in a circular motion as though they were part of a miniature whirlwind. The first snowfall was over. Rain began to fall on the road and quickly splattered against the window. It was starting slow, but that wouldn’t last. This was Hope, and there was only one type of rain here. Within the next few minutes those raindrops would get bigger and they’d pound down on the street, washing away what had been left behind. He turned the wall thermostat up a couple of degrees, and then took a glass from a shelf on the wall. From the back of the cupboard, he pulled out a bottle of the familiar golden liquid. From the dusty bottle of The Balvenie he poured one large shot. He sipped the scotch slowly, the way it was meant to be enjoyed, and continued watching the rain, waiting.
Acknowledgements
* * *
I’ve never been very good at accepting help, but I’ve found that when writing a book you need it. You absolutely need it. Without the efforts of the following folks this book would not be readable. Their time and work helped turn my story into a book. Saying thank you is not enough.
Rachel Albang spent hours helping make sure the story read and flowed the way I had intended.
Mallory Eaglewood encouraged me more than she’ll ever know. Her input was essential in helping me complete this project.
Cindi Jackson made sure the key elements were believable and told the way they should be told. Her expertise was greatly appreciated.
Melissa Bowersock sorted the work out and was kind enough to tell me the truth. She gave me far more than I expected.
My extremely patient editor is Laurie Boris. You can connect with her at [email protected].
My talented and speedy formatter is Rich Meyer. Rich can be reached here [email protected].
The errors relating to police terminology and procedures are mine – all mine. Any of the stuff I got right is due to the hard work and insight of these dedicated RCMP members.
Cst. Ian MacDonald and Special Cst. Holly Ross sent me an incredibly valuable email listing the errors that I made. Their “but we did very much enjoy the book” was also extremely reassuring to this sometimes insecure scribe.
Michelle Alton assisted with some research and terminology.
Sgt. Jean Hamm took the time to go through this work line by line and suggest corrections. Then, he was kind enough to talk me through many of the mistakes I’d made. His enthusiasm helped me cross the finish line.
Again, the errors are mine and are sometimes by design in order to forward the story. And, as the majority of my audience is in the US, the book was written in US English as opposed to Canadian.
Pamela Tagle is my oldest friend and secret weapon. She checks every word I write. I’m not sure I could complete a book without her assistance. And if I did I’m not sure it would be readable.
My sincere thanks to Gus Hardy for telling me who the murderer was. After years of hearing the premise for this story, he furnished me with the information I was missing. I’m very grateful to him.
And as always, thank you to Jacquie, the freckle-faced girl.
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The story of John Drake continues in One Minute Past Midnight (Book Two in the John Drake Mystery series). This book will be released in 2016.
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The Dead List Page 22