Jack launched himself upright, clawing at the ice, his heart pounding with fear, willing himself away from the masked man. In his desperation, he knocked over one of the girls standing over the bleeding student, and then he took off, skating as fast as he could, furiously working his arms and legs, bent at the waist.
He snatched a look over his shoulder and saw that the masked man was pursuing him, skating fluidly, swinging his arms elegantly, like a speed skater.
Jack knew the masked man couldn’t fire the pistol accurately without stopping to steady his aim, so he tried to make himself a difficult target, veering from side to side. He skated past a slow-moving family group, and then cut in front of them. He bent at the waist and accelerated as hard as he could, thinking hard about what he knew about skating, trying to find the magical balance between gliding and propulsion that made you move fastest. Jack had played hockey all winter for years, on frozen ponds and in rinks, and he’d even taken power skating courses, but stopped during university and was out of shape. His lungs burned as he moved, weaving among the slow-moving skaters. He brushed past an unsteady couple and they fell to the ice, and some people called out to him to be careful.
He glanced quickly behind him again but couldn’t see the masked man among the throngs skating along in the falling snow, but he felt him, felt the danger as if he had a target painted on his back, expecting at any moment the hot impact of a bullet.
Ahead loomed the bridge, where the rink ended, just before the locks, where a stage was set up. There, Jack thought, I will be cornered and shot. He’ll put a couple of bullets in my body to stop me and bring me down, then finish me with one through the head.
He glanced over his shoulder again and spotted his pursuer well behind him, skating with languid grace, his left hand behind him, the long pistol swinging in his right hand. He knows, thought Jack, that he doesn’t have to catch me, because I’ll run out of ice soon enough. Ahead were the skate shack and the Beaver Tail hut, where dozens of people stood in line.
Jack veered to the other side of the canal and as he passed the end of the Beaver Tail line, he saw the masked man gliding quickly toward him, standing ramrod straight, his legs spread and his arms out, his left hand bracing his right, the pistol pointing straight at Jack.
Jack dodged around the line and made a hard right, heading for the concrete steps up to the bridge. The slippery stairway was clogged with people, skates hanging round their necks.
“Look out,” Jack bellowed as he launched himself at the steps. Some of the people on the stairs turned, startled, and saw him hurl himself into the air, vaulting the first four steps with his legs pulled up under him, like a barrel jumper. He hit the fifth step hard, smacking his right shin and knocking over a woman and her daughter, but he kept upright and forced himself up to the landing halfway up the steps. He could see the people ahead of him look at him in surprise, and then look to the bottom of the stairs and dive for cover.
Jack’s skates clattered as he launched himself up the second flight. He bent double and scrambled up these steps. In his shooter’s stance at the bottom of the stairs, the gunman had a clear shot at him, but Jack was bent low enough that he was protected by the concrete railing. The skaters huddled in terror on the stairs watched as the gunman lowered his pistol and raced up the steps himself, taking them two at a time.
Jack was exhausted when he reached the top of the stairs and fell onto the sidewalk. Across the street, at the Chateau Laurier, two porters in wool coats and fur hats were ushering guests into taxis. One of them caught sight of Jack as he ran out into the traffic on Wellington, forcing cars to stop, skidding in the snow, the drivers gaping at the madman running across four lanes.
Both porters were staring, open-mouthed, when the second man on skates came up and assumed his shooter’s stance at the top of the stairs, legs spread, both hands on the pistol, and levelled it at Jack’s back. He fired, but he was breathing hard himself after his long skate, and his hands and arms were freezing, and his aim was badly off, and the bullet went well over Jack’s head, smacking into one of the stone pillars in front of the Chateau.
He held his stance, lowered his arms, drew a deep breath, released half of it, and focused, willing his arms to stop shaking, and drew a bead on Jack, who was running in front of a city bus. The bus driver, seeing a lunatic on skates running in front of him, hit the brakes and the bus went into a skid. The masked man held his arms steady, closed one eye, pulled the trigger and saw Jack run out of sight behind the bus. The bullet smacked into the engine block of the bus.
The porters watched, mouths agape, as the man in the mask unscrewed the silencer, put the gun in one parka pocket, the silencer in the other and clattered back down the stairs to the canal.
Jack ran past the startled porters, through the Chateau’s beautiful wooden revolving doors and into the lobby, where his skates skidded on the waxed stone floor, and he fell on his hands and knees, chest heaving, eyes wild with fear. Everyone stared at the apparition. A valet started towards him, calling out: “Sir! Sir! Please! Your skates will damage the floor.”
Jack ignored him and launched himself to his feet again, driven by terror and adrenalin, and dashed across the lobby. He turned right down a hallway, running past a bank of elevators and down to the side entrance. The valet pursued him. He left a trail of scars behind him on the burnished stone floor.
He burst out the side door that led onto MacKenzie Avenue, and sat down heavily, his back against the wall. He tore off his gloves, and with frozen, trembling fingers set to work on his skate laces. As he struggled, someone stepped out through the door. Jack started, fearing it was the masked man, but it was a heavyset man in a blazer. “Sir,” he said. “I’m Daniel Davis, hotel security, and I’m going to have to ask you to wait for the police. You may have been having fun, but you’ve done a lot of damage and the police need to talk to you about that.”
Jack looked up at him as he tore off the first skate.
“Do you have a gun?” he asked him and bent to work on his second skate.
“Sir, I’m not allowed to discuss the hotel’s security arrangements,” said the man. “Would you mind telling me your name please?”
Jack pulled off his second skate and got to his feet. “If you don’t have a gun, I’m not sticking around, because the guy chasing me has one.”
He left the skates on the sidewalk and ran across the street in his socks, through the slush, toward the Rideau Centre Mall.
Marie-Hélène had first aid training, so as soon as Jack and the masked man disappeared, she dropped to her knees and went to work on the injured student. She unzipped his parka and yanked his injured arm out of it so she could examine the wound. He had been hit from behind, halfway between his elbow and his shoulder. There was a tiny entrance wound on the back of his arm and a much bigger exit wound through his bicep. His arm was sticky with blood and more was oozing out of the wound. She clamped her gloved hand on it and the man yelped in pain.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said to the guy. “What’s your name?”
He stared up at her, his face contorted with pain. “Miko,” he said.
“Miko, you’re going to be fine, but we have to stop this bleeding. You’re going to have to be brave for a minute, okay?” She turned to Sophie, who was staring toward the bridge. “Sophie! Colis! Sophie!”
Her friend started and turned to her.
“Donne-moi ton foulard!” she yelled, and Sophie skated over and gave her her scarf. Marie-Hélène folded it into a square and pressed it against the oozing wound. She tied her own scarf around the guy’s arm, tightening it with an efficient knot.
“Sophie,” she said again. “Appele 911!”
Sophie yanked out her BlackBerry and got set to dial, then stopped. She stopped turned to one of the girls standing there staring at Marie-Hélène and Miko.
“Hey,” she said. She tapped the girl on the arm. “Call 911.”
The girl, who was in a daze, started and
looked at Sophie. Then she dug her phone out of her purse and jabbed at it.
“Why don’t you do it?” she asked Sophie.
Sophie looked down at Marie-Hélène. “Marie-Hélène, Il faut que j’y ailleaie. Désolé, mais je dois partir avant que les police arriver. Je dois immédiatement parlez avec mon avocat, immediatement. Désolé.”
Marie-Hélène looked up at her, her face suddenly hard.
“Marie-Hélène,” said Sophie, who was starting to cry. “Je dois partir tout de suite. Je vais tout t’expliquer plus tard.”
Marie-Hélène nodded. She looked very angry. “Oui,” she said. “Allez-y. Attention, hein.”
Sophie skated towards the steps where she had left her boots. Her neck was cold without the scarf.
She tried calling Jack, but there was no answer. She dialled another number.
“Hello,” said the man on the other end. “I can’t really talk right now. I’m in a meeting.”
“Listen to me,” she said. “Did you tell anyone that Jack was trying to get in touch with me?”
“What?” said the man.
“Listen,” she said. “I need an answer. Who did you tell? Did you tell anyone that Jack was looking for me?”
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I really can’t talk right now.”
“Just tell me who you told,” she said. “It’s important.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” he said, lowering his voice. “Why? Did you see him? Did he harm you? What’s going on?”
“Are you sure?” she said. “Are you sure you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Of course I’m sure,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks. I’ll call you later and explain what’s going on.”
She got to the bench where she left her boots and changed into them as quickly as she could, shivering in the cold. She had just finished putting on her boots when her BlackBerry buzzed. It was Jack.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better,” he said. “Do you believe me now?”
“Oh my God. Who was that? What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Let’s meet. We need to talk.”
“Where are you?”
“Buying boots. Can you meet me?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “Remember that place where Ed tried to pick a fight with one of the Senators? Don’t say the name.”
“I know where you mean.”
“Meet me there in twenty minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
“Do me a favour,” he said. “Take the battery out of your BlackBerry now and don’t use it until you see me. Okay? I’m gonna do the same.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t tell anybody where you’re going.”
“I won’t.”
Ashton slept late, then went to a neighbourhood gym for an hour on the elliptical machine. She had been working such long hours since she caught the Sawatski case that she had neglected her workouts, and she could feel the difference. Her body felt bloated and she had more aches and pains than she liked. She stopped at Starbucks on her way home, bought a huge macchiato, then picked up the paper. She planned to spend a happy hour doing not much at all, then crack open her laptop and work on the Sawatski case.
She still didn’t have a working theory to investigate, but there were enough loose ends that she felt if she pulled them all something might turn up in the next day or two. If nothing did, Zwicker would likely insist that they move on, and she wouldn’t be able to say he was wrong. So the next day or two would be crucial, and she hoped to steal a march by sending a series of Sunday afternoon emails, and drawing up a plan of attack for Monday morning.
She needed to convince Zwicker to let her put pressure on Sophie Fortin, at her workplace if necessary, to find out who she’d been sleeping with. Fortin had ignored several calls on Saturday, and late in the day a defence lawyer named Jonah Chisholm had called. He’d said that he was representing Sophie, and expressed the hope that they could sit down soon to see how Sophie could help with the investigation, as soon as he’d had a chance to thoroughly debrief his client.
Ashton was curled up on the couch, flipping through a day-old Citizen, sipping her coffee, when her phone buzzed. The call display showed it was Zwicker.
“Ashton,” he said. “We have an odd situation here. Have you heard the news from the canal?”
“No,” she said. “What is it?”
“There was a shooting, about an hour ago. Some guy in a balaclava tried to shoot someone, and winged a bystander, an African kid, Miko Wamala, the son of the Ugandan ambassador.”
“Bizarre,” said Ashton.
“It sure is,” said Zwicker. “The kid’s been taken to hospital. Is likely going to be okay.”
“Why are you telling me this?” said Ashton.
“Well, we have a witness at the scene, a Marie-Hélène Bourassa. Does that name ring a bell?”
Ashton’s mind raced. “Does she work with Sophie Fortin?”
“That’s right. She’s a receptionist or some damn thing in Mowat’s office. Anyway, she was skating with Fortin today when Jack Macdonald skated up, wanted to talk to Sophie. They tried to brush him off. Bourassa says he said someone was trying to kill him. Sophie said she couldn’t talk to him, but he keeps trying. They’re trying to get rid of him when the African kid suddenly gets hit. They turn around, see a man in a balaclava, holding a pistol with a silencer on it. Macdonald takes off.”
“Holy cow,” said Ashton. “I need to come in right now.”
“Yes, you do,” said Zwicker. “I just got a report from Jack Vierra, the weekend duty officer. He didn’t see the link to your case right away.”
“Oh, it’s linked,” said Ashton.
“I know,” said Zwicker. “Here’s how I know. About ten minutes ago, 911 gets a call. Male caller with a disguised voice, a fake accent. Won’t identify himself. I’m going to read it to you: ‘Tell Detective Mallorie Ashton that the canal shooter is RCMP Inspector Emil Dupré.’ He repeats the message word for word and hangs up.”
“Holy fuck.”
“That’s right. And it gets better. The call was from 613 555-0139. You know who that number belongs to?”
“Ed Sawatski,” said Ashton.
“I want you in here right now,” said Zwicker.
Rupert Knowles didn’t like going to meet Fred Murphy on a Sunday afternoon. He didn’t like giving up time with his family, and he didn’t like reporters. He saw the parliamentary press gallery as, at best, a troublesome filter between the prime minister and voters. Journalists were an unpredictable, unprofessional bunch of egotistical slackers who frequently missed the point and messed up the message and just as often petulantly refused to deliver it, despite the best efforts of the prime minister’s stressed out media staff.
So when Murphy called him at home – God knows how he got his unlisted number – and asked for a chat, Knowles said, no, sorry, he couldn’t, but maybe they could get together for a coffee sometime soon. He’d ask his assistant to find a time this week if that worked for Murphy.
Murphy laughed. “It’s not like that. Sorry, Rupert. I need to see you. For your sake as much as mine. It’s very important. I could see Naumetz instead, I guess, but I think it would be better if I saw you. I assume he’s busier than you are. Would you say that’s right?”
Rupert agreed. Yes, he said, he was very busy but the chief of staff was even busier.
“That’s what I thought,” said Murphy. “This won’t wait. And I’m telling you it’s very important. I don’t want to track down Naumetz to tell him that you told me to call him instead, but I will. This matter is very important and it won’t wait. I’m repeating myself, aren’t I? I already told you that it’s very important and that it won’t wait.”
Knowles took it in. “I’m thinking.”
“How’s three o’clock?” said Murphy. “You name t
he place. It won’t take long.”
So Knowles was uneasy as he entered the little tea house in Rockcliffe.
Murphy was waiting for him, sitting in the rear of the empty place – a faux Victorian nightmare of lace curtains and ornate wallpaper, chosen only because it was close to Knowles’s house. Murphy was wearing a frayed green sweater, and warming his hands around a cup of coffee. His laptop was open beside him.
“Kind of you to come, Rupert,” said Murphy, standing to shake his hand.
“No bother at all,” said Knowles, amused that they both started with lies.
“Rupert, I’ve been in the business for a long time,” Murphy said, when Knowles was settled and served with coffee. “And I’ve never blown a source. I’ve always been very, very careful. However, I intend to reveal a source to you today. I suspect it will cost him his job, but unless I am sorely mistaken, the information he gave us was a malicious lie, and I will not protect a source who tells a malicious lie, who induces us to report something false for the purpose of hurting a rival.”
He sat back and fixed Rupert with a steady gaze. “Do you get that? Do you see the ethical code here?”
Rupert nodded. “Of course.”
“I like the system,” said Murphy. “I don’t give a good goddamn who the prime minister is, who’s in power, who’s out. Couldn’t care less. I don’t even care that half the stuff you tell the voters is nonsense. Not my fault if they’re stupid enough to believe it.”
Murphy wore an odd, twisted smile. Knowles grew uneasy. He wondered if Murphy had been drinking. Then the smile was suddenly gone.
“I wish we’d met for a drink instead of a coffee,” Murphy said. “I have no choice but to give you this information, and I’m going to ask for some in return, which I ask you to provide to me as soon as you get it. You can’t really agree to that until I tell you what I have to tell you, but there you go. Nothing I can do about that. I think you’ll be smart enough to do what I want.”
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