Deadline

by Craig McLay

  It was a strange feeling to be back for the first time in ten years. Everything was smaller than Colin remembered. The city was so compact compared to the North American sprawl. Roads seemed like sidewalks. Driveways looked like front steps. Friends who came over to visit kept remarking on the impressive size of the place, which Colin found strange as it was only slightly bigger than the apartment he’d been in back home. And everyone moved so fast. Colin had been honked at dozens of times because he kept forgetting to first look right and then left before crossing the street.

  They had come here to start research on their second book, which was going to be a more in-depth history of the Knights of the Holy Thorn and its survival and spread in the modern day. Here they would be closer to the British Museum, the British Library and the National Archives. Most religious historical documents were not stored in any one place. Most of the people who looked after them were volunteers with no formal archival training, so a lot of valuable material wasn’t even catalogued. Janice had made some contacts at the Religious Archives Group, however, and was confident that she would be able to find at least some of what they were looking for.

  Colin’s job was to try and track down any more modern adherents. Since the publication of their book about the Westhill killings, Brotherhood of Blood, they had received literally thousands of tips, hints, suggestions and even threats from supposed members. Most of them were cranks and wild goose chases, but some had referenced unsolved murder cases that looked suspiciously similar to what had happened back home.

  Colin wasn’t terribly eager to go looking for more people like Ezekiel Crowley, but figured it was probably preferable that he found them first than the other way around. You didn’t need to spend a day at the British Museum to know that it was usually a bad idea to piss off a sadistic group of religious radicals.

  Something else had come up, however, that had pushed the Knights out of the front of his mind.

  It had arrived in the form of an email a week ago. The email had not come to the Facebook author account that he and Janice had set up when the book was published. This one had come in through his private email address. It was one he never used for online registrations or purchases and didn’t give out to just anyone. All told, there were probably less than a dozen people who knew about it. The account was set up with a strict security filter. Technically, no email was supposed to make it to his inbox unless the sender was a recognized source. He didn’t know who the sender was, but the email had made it through anyway.

  The email was short and to the point:

  MR MITCHELL,

  YOUR FATHER WAS NOT AN OIL COMPANY EXECUTIVE.

  HIS DEATH WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT.

  SBL

  Colin didn’t know anybody with the initials “SBL”. Colin had just dismissed the email at first, but hadn’t gone so far as to delete it. Over the next few days, he had gone back to his email to re-read it dozens of times. Who could it have come from? Somebody who worked with his father? What did they mean when they said he wasn’t an oil company executive? Or that his death wasn’t an accident? Why were they contacting him now? Was it somebody who had read the book, done a little Google research and was just trying to wind him up?

  Colin kept telling himself to just ignore it. Forget about it. Delete it.

  But he didn’t.

  Colin padded into the kitchen and made himself a coffee. He missed his old coffeemaker, which was incompatible with British voltage and currently in storage back home. This one spewed out a black approximation of something that might charitably be referred to as a hot beverage, but that was the best thing you could say about it. There were plenty of little cafes in the neighbourhood that did provide the real thing, but they also charged accordingly. Colin reckoned they must be sending their staff to Columbia to personally harvest the beans. Despite having money, Colin had never been able to adjust to living that way.

  Janice was the opposite. Since their book had hit the charts, she had been taking a lot more taxis than tubes and had been gravitating more towards fancy restaurants than pubs. For somebody who said she didn’t care about money, she didn’t seem to have any problem spending it.

  Colin didn’t mind. There wasn’t a lot to recommend the life of a poor college student. She had also been tied up and threatened with torture in a dank stone basement. If anyone was entitled to a few posh dinners and less standing around, it was her. At the moment, she was out for lunch with a research fellow from the Archives. The two of them had corresponded quite a lot when she was doing her initial research. She had asked if Colin had wanted to come along, but he’d told her to go ahead. He had other plans.

  Colin heard the clink of the mail through the slot and walked to the front door to grab the envelopes. The tile was ice cold on his bare feet. The floor was supposed to be heated, but either the system wasn’t working or he hadn’t figured out how to properly turn it on. He’d never dealt with a heated floor before.

  Colin grabbed the mail. Most of it was junk, but a large envelope with a Canadian postmark grabbed his attention. He ripped it open and found a copy of the Westhill Sentinel. The front page featured a picture of Peter Devries getting out of a car under the headline “Former College President Indicted”. A handwritten note tucked inside read: “Thought you might get a kick out of this! - CJ”.

  Colin smiled. He had already heard that Devries had been arrested on multiple fraud and obstruction charges. Devries had pled guilty on many of those charges in exchange for a light sentencing recommendation that was conditional on his testifying against many of his co-accused, which included several police officers, his former head of security, and numerous city officials. The justice minister had denied all knowledge of any wrongdoing but stepped down anyway “to spend more time with his family” and with a lobby firm that was quite keen to harvest as much of his bid rigging expertise as possible.

  The mayor and the chief of police had come out of it mostly unscathed. Most of the people who took the fall for the Fresh Start spending fiasco were minor comptrollers and functionaries. Most of the bigger rats had disappeared back into the dark when the lights were turned on, leaving Devries and his well-publicized gambling problems to shoulder most of the blame.

  The prison project had been killed and the government had announced that there would be no public inquiry into where all the money had gone. They made some vague noises about procurement reforms, but otherwise just curled up in a stubborn ball while waiting for the whole thing to go away. It probably would have, too, if Colin and Janice’s book hadn’t come out and brought the whole mess back into the public eye again.

  CJ had graduated and gotten a job as a layout designer for the online version of the Toronto Star, where he seemed to be settling in quite nicely. The new president at Westhill had decided to keep the print journalism program running, but under a new coordinator. The last Colin had heard, Hal Watterson was working in the PR department of a dog food company. Colin was pretty sure it was the same company that had just gotten itself into trouble for using rendered parts from BSE-infected cows. He had even downloaded some of their damage control press releases for a quick laugh.

  Colin dropped the mail on the table and then headed into the bedroom to get dressed. He still didn’t have full mobility back in his right shoulder, which made it difficult to put on certain shirts. He wondered if it was his imagination that his shoulder seemed to hurt more because of all the cold, damp weather.

  Christ, he thought. It’s like I’m 60 already.

  Colin finished dressing and slid his arm carefully into his jacket. He zipped it up and made sure that the pepper spray was still in the right pocket. He didn’t know if the stuff was legal in this country, but he had bigger things to worry about.

  He had arranged to meet the mysterious SBL at a pub near Trafalgar Square in 20 minutes. He didn’t want to be late.

  THE END

  About the Author

  CRAIG MCLAY is the award-winning author of Village Books and
the Keys series. His whereabouts are known, but not entirely accurate. He can be reached (but not grasped) at his Facebook author page (www.facebook.com/cmvillagebooks).

  Editorial Assistance: Jenn Harris (www.lucidpulp.com)

  Cover Design: Mark Ecob

  Also by the Author

  Village Books

  The Keys Series

  The Island At The End Of The World

  The Shadow Of The Beast

  The House Of Morningstar (Coming 2013)