Roman tried to ease the tension in his body. Massenat was wedged between him and Santagata at the back of the aircraft with Funicelli in the front with Desmarais, but for a moment Roman worried that with the repetitive tapping of one heel and his hand on the same thigh, Santagata might pick up that it was more than just due to the rough flight and what lay ahead of them.
The questions had been sporadic, not only to make them not so obvious, but because for the first half hour the flight had been very bumpy. On the worst parts, as the plane lurched and tossed and rattled, they all fell deathly silent. Nobody felt like talking. Except for Desmarais, who whooped excitedly, ‘Just like riding a wild bronco at Calgary.’ The sight of four tough guys gripped with white-knuckle fever seemed to tickle Desmarais. Roman felt like saving an extra bullet for him.
Then the weather settled a little; there was still the occasional bumpy flurry, but not so wild.
‘It was mainly cross-border jobs in Canada,’ Santagata added after a moment. ‘Art was always worried about me flying back out or crossing the border straight after a hit, especially as I became known. I think otherwise he’d have used me more.’
‘Right.’ Roman nodded solemnly. He felt the tingle rise up through his body until it reached his fingertips. Santagata had said it as if to explain why Giacomelli hadn’t used him more, but at the same time he’d signed his own death warrant. Roman knew every hit Giacomelli had made in Canada, and none of them were major! ‘Santa Dave’ was dispensable. Giacomelli wouldn’t stretch that far to make amends, especially not with himself and Cacchione later declared as a team. Giacomelli wouldn’t risk that level of confrontation over a lone hitman.
But having made the decision, the only question was when? He’d originally planned to do it later: he could claim that Santagata simply got caught in the cross-fire with the RCs. But there’d be too much going on then, too much else to think about. Roman chewed at his lip, and felt Santagata’s eyes on him again briefly, glancing sideways and meeting them only for a second: dark almost black eyes, shielded even more with the weak cabin light. Difficult to read into.
Had Santagata picked up on something? Some invisible electrical signal that ran between them: He’s planning to kill you. So make sure to take him out first. Or had it been a double-bluff all along? Santagata at the same time measuring him for a drop. Jean-Paul never really had believed him about not abducting and trying to kill Georges, and maybe this was the pay-off. After all, that’s what Santagata did most: hits, not playing chaperone.
He felt the sudden pressure of it all like a powder-keg: the bumpy flight, Santagata’s eyes on him intermittently, what lay ahead and the contingencies yet to cover – his nerves wound so tight with it all that his whole body was shaking almost in time with this tin-can rattling through the night. And all because he couldn’t bear living in his brother’s shadow a day longer. If he didn’t make the…
‘Jesus!’ The bottom dropped out of his stomach as the plane fell sickeningly. A sharp shudder as the plane hit the bottom of the drop followed by some heavy tilting and swaying – then it rose again as swiftly until Roman’s stomach was at the edge of his throat.
‘Here goes again,’ Desmarais commented, wrestling with the joy-stick.
They saw sheet lightning out to their right, about five miles away. The small plane bobbed and swayed, but just before the next sharp drop Roman noticed one advantage: Santagata was no longer paying him any attention, his eyes were fixed stonily ahead.
The drop was longer this time, the shudder so hard as it bottomed out that the cabin lights flickered off. Roman decided in that instant to take his chance: he simply might not get as good a chance later! In the darkness he leant forward; and as the lights flickered back on he already had the .22 out of his garter strap and pointed at Santagata’s face.
Santagata took a second to focus on the gun. Distant lightning flickered against one side of his face. ‘What the fuck is this?’
Massenat between them leant back with his hands held by his shoulders. A ‘this ain’t nothing to do with me’ gesture.
Roman smiled slowly. ‘You know those Bond films where he’s got a gun pointed at the bad guy, but he daren’t fire it in case one of them gets sucked out of the plane?’ Roman steadied the .22. ‘That’s the one advantage of these low-flying shit-heaps. We don’t have that to worry about.’
Roman squeezed the trigger as Santagata lurched and reached across. Still he would have got the shot off cleanly, but at that second came another sharp drop, the cabin lights flickering off again.
Then Santagata’s hand was on his arm, pushing it away. Roman struggled to point back at Santagata’s face. Santagata was strong, straining hard, and Roman had to bring his left arm up to get any movement back that way. He daren’t risk another shot on the off-chance: too many danger points it could hit.
The cabin lights flickered back on and he saw a patch of Santagata’s hair matted with blood, a trickle running down his forehead. He’d grazed the skull with the first shot.
Santagata reached for his gun with his other hand; Roman didn’t notice, but Massenat did. He pinned down the gun arm, then whipped his elbow sharply back into Santagata’s stomach. Santagata keened forward with the blow, heavily winded.
All the strength went from Santagata’s body in that same instant, and Roman wrenched his arm free as Santagata’s grip loosened.
Roman grabbed Santagata’s hair and pulled his face back up straight. ‘So it’s goodbye Mr Chips.’ Santagata’s eyes had barely re-focused on him as he put the gun by Santagata’s left eye-socket and pulled the trigger.
Santagata’s head flew back with the impact and Roman was left with some hair in his hand. He wiped it disdainfully on his seat.
Desmarais half-turned, his face as red as his hair. ‘You guys wanna pull stunts like that – least you could do is fucking warn me.’
Roman smiled drolly, his breathing still ragged. ‘Just imagine it’s still the fucking Calgary stampede – but now the cowboys are shooting in the air.’ Roman was glad that something could rattle Desmarais; it was his turn to gloat at the fear in Desmarais’ face.
They sat out the rest of the turbulence in silence, Santagata’s body intermittently double-lit by bursts of lightning. Then Desmarais dropped two-thousand feet so that Roman and Massenat could risk opening the door to get rid of the body.
‘Never did like paying fucking excess baggage,’ Roman remarked as it sailed out.
Massenat chuckled briefly, but the silence was quickly back. They’d weathered one storm, but there was a tougher one yet ahead. And now they were one man down.
Eight minutes later Jake Kirkham called. They’d seen the plane land, and the car had just left the airfield. ‘Two men and a woman inside. I’ll call again when they’ve reached the safe-house. Let us know what you want us to do then.’
When S-18’s Melanie Fuller phoned back after only seven minutes, Michel thought she had good news. But no, Mundy hadn’t responded to his bleeper message yet.
‘It was something else I thought I should pass on straightaway. One of the guys here with a high clearance pass was able to access a bit more information. He says that it’s a sector 14 operation, three-man monthly rotation guard team. Still pretty basic info, I’m afraid – but it might help.’
‘Sector 14? Where’s that?’
‘Northern Ontario. An oblong block stretching between Hearst, James Bay and Iroquois Falls, sixty miles from the Quebec border.’
‘Okay.’ All Michel wanted to do was race to a map, but it was immaterial: he’d already decided that if they didn’t raise Mundy fast, he was heading out there.
‘I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve got something on Mundy. If he doesn’t phone within the next few minutes, we’ll start trawling his regular haunts.’
Michel said that he’d probably be on the move soon. ‘At least make a start on heading to sector 14.’ He gave his mobile number and signed off.
He’d spent the last seven mi
nutes pacing the floor of his office and the squad room like a caged lion, the door open between the two, and spent only another minute continuing pacing before diving for the phone to make the arrangements to head out there.
Sea King helicopter would be the fastest way. One could be brought up from the RCMP and army air-base on Montreal Island within minutes. ‘All that’s needed is a nearby roof-pad.’
Michel got Christine Hébert to arrange the roof-pad and liaise back with the air-base, and two minutes later she confirmed that she’d laid everything on with the West-Laurent Towers just three blocks away. ‘And the chopper’s already left. Said they should land there in about six minutes.’
Michel managed to get everything together with a minute to spare. Breakneck run along the Dorchester Boulevard corridors and down the three blocks with an ERT* team of four – with him still shouting and filling in details as they went – he was breathless as they rose in the elevator to the roof-pad. His heart pounded hard and heavy. No call back still on Mundy’s whereabouts.
He glanced at his watch. They wouldn’t get there for a good hour and a half after Elena Waldren’s arrival. He shook his head. They’d probably be too late: raising Mundy and phoning the safe-house to warn them was still the best bet.
* * * *
* Emergency Response Team.
Art Giacomelli looked at the numbers on the computer screen. They hadn’t moved for the last fifty minutes. Something was wrong, seriously wrong.
He phoned Jean-Paul and said that he had concerns about ‘Santa Dave’. He didn’t explain exactly why, just asked Jean-Paul to phone Roman and find out where they were at that moment, and then ask to speak to Santagata.
‘Maybe it’s nothing. But I’ll know for sure from what Roman tells you. Phone me straight back.'
Jean-Paul made the call. Roman answered after the second ring, and Jean-Paul asked how it was going.
‘Fine. Everything running to plan. We just landed ten minutes back.’ Roman sounded slightly out of breath, agitated.
‘And you found out the location?’
‘Yeah, it’s about a half-hour run away.’
‘Where did you end up? Where are you now?’
‘Some dead and alive place called Cochrane, Northern Ontario.’
It meant nothing to Jean-Paul. ‘One advantage of Canada’s wilds, I suppose. If you want to hide someone away.’ A second’s pause, then Jean-Paul asked for Santagata to be put on. ‘There’s just a small thing I need to clarify with him.’
‘He, uh… He can’t come to the phone right now. He’s taking a leak in the bushes. Long flight and too much coffee.’ Roman chuckled hesitantly.
Apart from the hesitation, Jean-Paul could clearly hear the engine noise and rush of them on the move, not stopped by the roadside. Roman was lying.
‘I really need to speak to him Roman,’ Jean-Paul pressed.
‘As soon as he’s finished taking a leak, I’ll get him to phone you.’ Roman didn’t trouble to mask his annoyance. ‘That is, if he gets a chance with all we’ve got on.’
The line clicked off abruptly.
Jean-Paul dialled straight back to Giacomelli and relayed how the call had gone.
‘Bad news,’ Giacomelli said on the back of a heavy sigh. Giacomelli explained why. Four years ago Santagata had a hit contract on someone he knew. Problem was the guy was always on the move, but Santagata knew him well enough to be able to buy him a present without making him suspicious. ‘So he buys him one of those satellite watches. You know, the one’s where you can move from one country to the next and it always shows the right time ‘cause it’s linked to a satellite. But it also tells you exactly where you are, within ten fucking yards! It’s that accurate. And if you know the watch’s serial number – which Santa Dave did – there’s a web-site where you can find out exactly where it is. So he knew where the mark was, made the hit, then took the watch back.’ Giacomelli drew hard on his cigar. ‘So tonight he arranged to phone me every couple of hours to bring me up to date – which he’s now twenty minutes over in doing – and he wore the watch and gave me its serial number. And for the last fifty minutes it hasn’t moved from near a place called Holtyre, a good hundred and fifty miles from where Roman says he is now. So either Santa Dave’s thrown the watch out the plane window in disgust ‘cause the battery’s flat, or he’s gone with it.’
‘Let us know if you can remember anything?’
The two police officers had left over an hour ago, but still the words bounced around in Mikaya Ryall’s mind. Remember? That was half the problem: she’d never been able to remember a single thing clearly enough so that she could say, Yes, my stepfather molested me. He came to my room on this night, and touched me here, here and here. It was all just shadows, dreamlike fragments.
But those shadows had haunted every other moment of her life since. It all seemed so real, but when she tried to recall she could only remember it happening in her dreams: nothing she could pass on or tell to anyone else. They’d think her mad. But the shadows would leap out and became all so vivid and real again each time a boy touched her or tried to kiss her. She’d shiver and shrink away in panic, terrified. She’d been called frigid and cold and weird, and a couple of times a lesbian. A few of the boys she’d really liked, and she’d reach out to them tearfully and want to explain: but how could she when the images were only in her dreams?
The tears streamed down her face as she cut through the bed-sheet with the scissors, trying to make sure she kept the strip even as she went.
And now young Lorena as well. Mikaya kicked herself that maybe she should have been bolder earlier and said he was molesting her, then try and fill in the gaps later. But each time she ran it all over in her mind, there were always too many questions she wouldn’t be able to answer: Which nights? Where did he touch you? What did he say? Why didn’t you say anything, try and stop him? She shook her head. Even now with the answer to why her and Lorena weren’t able to respond and fight back, they still weren’t able to do anything concrete. They were still trying to get her and Lorena to recall something from being awake, from real life rather than dreams. ‘Sorry, I just can’t help you. I wish I could.’ Nothing was going to stop him now.
She wiped at her tears with the back of one hand and started cutting the second strip.
Even if she could remember anything, it was too late. Too late. She would never be the same again. She wanted children, loved children. But what would she do? Lay there with teeth gritted, her whole body trembling until the boy had finished? And if she wanted more children, a proper marriage – night after night of the same? It was unthinkable, a living hell.
And now she’d let Lorena down too by not speaking out. She was suffering the same. Probably it would be too late for Lorena as well – she’d go the same way as her. All Lorena had left to cling to was the hope that one day the dreams would fade. Maybe she’d be luckier; for Mikaya they hadn’t, and she knew now with certainty that they never would.
Her vision blurred with tears, she looked up thoughtfully to the handle of the high latch window, wondering if it would hold her weight. She’d have to be quick. Her dorm friends had gone to the Student Union bar to give her time alone with the policemen, but they’d be back soon.
Patrick Mundy regularly had eight to nine hours a week to himself that were sacrosanct, off-limits to any contact from his department, no matter how urgent: his regular card-game, golf round, and going to watch the Senators play. But the last two months, he’d added another few weekly off-limit hours since he started dating Suzie Harrigan.
Twelve years his junior and class all the way. Long auburn hair and large hazel eyes with sweeping lashes that could melt Greenland. Audrey Hepburn and then some. Mundy was in love. But this would be the third time up to bat for him, he wanted to put in the time to make sure that she was the right one; he didn’t want to spend his early retirement in lawyers’ offices sorting out yet more alimony.
So when he was with her, his mobile and pa
ger were switched off; she had his undivided attention. Not that it would have made much difference where they’d gone tonight: Clair de Lune. Popular with high-flyers and government ministers, mobiles and pagers were strictly off-limits. Otherwise the restaurant would have been a cacophony of endless bleeps and rings. What few were brought along and left switched on, bleeped and rung without anyone paying them attention behind the closed door of a back cloakroom.
As they left the restaurant, the air was brisk. Mundy wrapped Suzie’s coat around her. In his own coat pocket his bleeper light flashed, but he hadn’t yet looked at it nor had any intention of doing so. Mundy was strict with his time alone with her: nothing like being dragged away on emergencies every other date to give a taste of things to come and kill all hopes for a future relationship.
‘Where do you fancy tonight?’ he asked. ‘The Glue Pot or the Laurier?’ They usually went to one or the other after dinner: short night-cap at the Hotel Laurier piano lounge or a longer session listening to live blues.
She mulled it over for only a second. ‘Mmmm, The Glue Pot.’ She pecked him on the cheek.
Melanie Fuller was still on switchboard, so most of the calls to track down Mundy had fallen to her S-18 colleague, Brian Cole. He called Clair de Lune twenty-five minutes into his roster, fourteenth on his list.
‘Yes, he was here earlier. But I’m sorry – you’ve just missed him.’ An effete, faintly French accent that sounded faked.
‘When did he leave?’ Cole pressed.
‘About ten minutes ago.’
‘Do you know where he might have gone?’
‘I’m sorry. We make a habit of not chasing our clients from the restaurant to ask where they might be going.’ Mocking tone, the accent more exaggerated. The phone was put down abruptly.
The Last Witness Page 53