by Mike Knowles
“I didn’t know about those kids,” Jones said. “The judge won’t let anything about that into evidence.”
Pembleton smiled. “I’ll get it in. One way or another, I’ll get it in.”
Jones shook his head. “No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“I won’t use those kids to save my skin.”
“Don’t be stupid, Sam—not when things are finally starting to go your way.”
“Hear the Crown out, Dan.”
Pembleton set his jaw and tapped his pen against the table. The force grew with each tap until the pen flew out of the lawyer’s hand, and he slammed an empty palm on the table. The guard heard the noise and opened the door. “Everything alright?”
“No,” Pembleton said. “No, it is not.”
The guard lifted a hand to his belt and took a step toward Jones.
“No, no,” Pembleton said. “Nothing like that. I’m referring to the case. Everything is fine in here.”
The guard gave Jones a hard stare.
Pembleton raised his voice. “We need the room.”
The guard stared at Jones long enough to let him know who would be paying the tab for Pembleton’s mouth and then walked out of the room.
“I will talk to the Crown lawyers and hear their offer, but I want you to know that I think this is a huge mistake.”
41
The next week, Jones got a message an hour before he was supposed to meet with his lawyer that the meeting was off. He had to wait until the next day for a chance to call Pembleton from one of the prison phones. The lawyer’s voicemail answered the call and promised with saccharine pleasantries to call him back as soon as possible.
Pembleton blew off their meeting again the following week. Jones called again and again, and each time the voicemail happily swallowed his message. The television coverage was equally unhelpful. Every couple of days there was a small segment from sombre faced reporters standing on location, which contained little more than his name and someone new saying, “No comment.”
Pembleton showed up the week after that. Jones was led into the interview room and found his lawyer bent over the table reading a file. He was too engrossed in his work to even look up when he said, “Thank you,” to the guard.
When the guard left, Pembleton said, “No and no,” without making eye contact with Jones. He gestured at the chair opposite him with the back of his hand and turned a page. Pembleton only stopped what he was doing when he realized that Jones had not sat down.
“We have a lot to talk about, Sam. Please take a seat.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Getting you your deal,” Pembleton said.
“You were supposed to find out what the Crown was offering and get back to me.”
“About that,” Pembleton said. “I was concerned after our last conversation that you had no idea how the game is played and would therefore play it poorly.”
“I told you this is not a game.”
Pembleton pointed his pen at Jones. “You are wrong, and that is why you would lose. I, luckily for you, do not lose. I heard their offer and I rejected it.”
“That wasn’t your call.”
Pembleton pointed to the chair. “Sit down.”
Jones didn’t move.
“Do you want to know what they did next?”
Jones didn’t move.
Pembleton smiled. “Ask me what they did next.”
“What did they do next?”
“They got angry and threatened all manner of things. You would have been very frightened.”
“If you had told me,” Jones said.
“Ask me what I did.”
“No.”
“Sam, play along.”
Jones put his hands on the table and leaned across the table. “What did you do?”
Pembleton didn’t even blink at Jones’ display of aggression. He was too pleased with himself. “I did nothing,” he said with a smile. “I waited.”
“Waited for what?”
“For the Crown to catch up.”
“Catch up to what?”
Pembleton smiled and gestured at the chair. When Jones didn’t move, Pembleton crossed his arms. Jones yanked out the chair and sat.
“Catch up to what?”
Pembleton couldn’t lose the smile. “Me. It turns out that Kevin McGregor, in addition to the house, had a cottage just outside of Muskoka. It belonged to his father and now it belongs to—”
“Dylan,” Jones said.
“Yahtzee.”
“There were more bodies,” Jones said.
Pembleton pointed a finger gun at Jones and dropped his thumb. “There were more bodies.”
“How many?”
“Enough to get me a second offer.”
“How many?”
“Five years. You would be out in three.”
“No, bodies. How many bodies?”
“Four. All boys.” Pembleton leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Don’t worry, the third offer will be even better.”
Jones thought about four boys, about four sets of grieving parents, and then about using them as bargaining chips. “Take the deal.”
“Sam—”
Jones said, “Take the deal,” and then stood up and banged on the door.
42
Jones was surprised to find that he had a visitor the next day. It was just after nine in the morning, and he felt a sudden irrational panic that it was Tom coming to tell him something about their father. Jones followed the guard down to one of the video booths and he was surprised to see someone else on the screen. The young woman sitting in the visitor’s chair was fresh faced with shiny hair set in a tight bun that contrasted the oversized cardigan she gripped with two small fists. The hands caught Jones’ eye; her nails had the shine of a new car, but her scarred knuckles looked used. The young woman on the monitor bore more of a resemblance to the girl in the picture Norah had given him, but there were subtle differences—marks left by a world that only fought dirty.
Lauren pointed to the phone in her hand, and Jones realized that he was still standing. He picked up the matching receiver and sat down at the desk.
“Hi.”
“How did you know I was here?”
Lauren smiled. “Are you kidding me? You’re famous. You’re on the news, or in the paper, at least once a week. Every time Norah reads something about you, she shows it to me.”
Jones frowned. “You went back? What about her brother? The one who—”
Lauren shoved the slouched sleeve of her cardigan back over her elbow. “I made him up. Norah doesn’t have a brother.”
“Why would you make something like that up?”
Lauren shook her head as though she had just heard a child say two plus two was five. “I was scared. Some stranger shows up and tells me that he wants me to leave with him. I didn’t know who you were, or what you planned to do with me.”
Jones shook his head. He had been so naïve. “I thought you would have jumped at the chance to get away.”
Lauren looked at Jones with eyes that were older than her age. “Leaving with another man would not have been getting away.”
Jones rested his elbow on the table. “I made a lot of mistakes. I thought I could save you.”
Lauren gave Jones a sad smile. “How could you save me? You didn’t even know me.”
“I thought I did.”
“I’m not the person you think I am, Sam. I’ve done things. Bad things. I didn’t do all of them because Tony forced me to. I made those choices. The girl you were chasing was an idea in your head. A fantasy. You were using me like every other john who answered my ad.”
“No,” Jones said. “That is not how it was.”
Lauren thought about it. “Maybe
you’re right. Norah says I have a tendency to be cynical. She says that I assume the worst about other people so that they can never disappoint me. You know what she says about you?”
“What?”
“She says you’re a hero. She doesn’t care why you went looking for me. She’s just happy you found me.”
“I’m not a hero,” Jones said.
“To some people you are.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you were trying to find something.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you were lost. Like I was.”
“Are you still lost?” Jones asked.
Lauren adjusted her sleeve again. “I think so. I made it through, but I don’t really recognize my life on the other side. Does that make sense?”
“I get it. Do you have anyone helping you find your way?”
“Norah knows all kinds of people. After she helped me get clean, she hooked me up with a therapist to talk to. I didn’t want to go, but she made me. At first, she’d go with me to every meeting and sit outside the door so I couldn’t run away again, but she doesn’t need to do that anymore. Talking helps.” She stared at Jones, reading something in his expression. “Are you talking to someone?”
“Not the person I want to.” Jones realized how it sounded when it came out and quickly made to apologize.
Lauren dismissed the words with a wave and pushed at her drooping sleeve again. “This person that you want to talk to, can they help you?”
“I need to tell her something.”
“Something for her, or for you?”
Jones opened his mouth to answer, but closed it when he realized the words were going to be a lie.
“You can’t find what you need in other people.” Lauren said the words with the practiced cadence of a mantra. “I learned that. Some days, I even believe it.”
“I need to tell her I’m sorry. Sorry for failing her. Sorry for failing her again.”
“She doesn’t know you’re sorry?”
Jones thought about it. “She does.”
“So who are you really asking to forgive you?”
Jones didn’t have an answer for the woman who used to be the girl.
“For what it’s worth,” Jones said. “I don’t think I’m lost anymore. I know where I am. That’s because of you.”
Lauren looked at Jones and smiled when she decided that he had meant what he said. “That’s good.”
Lauren shifted in her seat and Jones could tell that the conversation was coming to an end.
“Why did you come here, Lauren?”
She stopped shifting. “I wanted to tell you that I don’t feel that way anymore. I don’t want to die. I thought you should know that.”
Jones smiled.
“And, that I’m glad you looked for me,” Lauren said.
“So am I.”
Lauren put down her phone and stood up. Jones put down the phone and watched the girl on the screen turn to leave. Before she walked away, she waved goodbye.
Jones waved and then the girl was gone.
About the Author
Mike Knowles lives in Hamilton with his wife, children, and dog. He has written seven previous novels: Darwin’s Nightmare, Grinder, In Plain Sight, Never Play Another Man’s Game, The Buffalo Job, Rocks Beat Paper, and Tin Men.
Copyright
Copyright © Mike Knowles, 2020
Published by ECW Press
665 Gerrard Street East
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4M 1Y2
416-694-3348 / [email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Cover design: Michel Vrana
Author photo: Danielle Persaud
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Running from the dead : a crime novel / Mike Knowles.
Names: Knowles, Mike, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200154427
Canadiana (ebook) 20200154435
ISBN 978-1-77041-519-5 (softcover)
ISBN 978-1-77305-501-5 (PDF)
ISBN 978-1-77305-500-8 (ePUB)
Classification: LCC PS8621.N67 R86 2020 DDC C813/.6—dc23
The publication of Running from the Dead has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country and is funded in part by the Government of Canada. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. Ce livre est financé en partie par le gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,737 individual artists and 1,095 organizations in 223 communities across Ontario for a total of $52.1 million. We also acknowledge the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit, and through Ontario Creates for the marketing of this book.