by Alex MacLean
“Looks bigger from up here.”
“It’s not much to drive through. If you blink, you’ll miss it.” Logan leveled a finger toward a large valley off to the east. “That’s the Rocky Mountain Trench over there.”
Denis’s eyes shone. “Beautiful vista.”
Allan said, “It’s the first thing you’re drawn to when you come out here. Makes me wonder if Mr. Mills was looking out at it when the suspect struck him from behind.”
Denis looked up at him. “Seems likely.”
Logan walked to the edge of the overlook and pointed down the embankment. “See those trees?”
Audra and Allan joined him.
“Yeah,” Audra said.
“That’s where we found his bike. We figured the suspect pushed it down there.”
Audra remembered the pictures. “Trying to delay discovery.”
“Two flyovers didn’t even spot it. I’m hoping the lab will be able to recover some latents.”
Denis seemed to have gained a second wind. He got up and walked over to them.
“So you got any theories?” he asked.
Allan said, “Like I told Detective Price, I’m seeing similar suspect behavior. The difference is in the method of murder.”
“Let’s assume our suspect is behind this one,” Audra said. “When we consider the dates and locations of the other murders, it tells us he hasn’t been moving in one direction or the other but zigzagging all over the place.”
Allan breathed in through his nose, exhaled through his mouth. “And we haven’t looked into Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta, or even other unsolved cases here in BC.”
Denis said, “How do you think he’s traveling?”
Audra considered that. “Hitchhiking seems unlikely. So I’d say, one, by car. Or, two, by plane.”
“Either way,” Allan added, “he has disposable income.”
Audra frowned. “Let’s say Liam Clattenburg did see our suspect that morning. What’d he say about Mr. Darling?”
“Clean shaven,” Allan said. “Clean clothes. He looks to be in shape.”
“Not how you’d describe a drifter.”
Allan shook his head. “I say he’s housed somewhere.”
Denis said, “But where?”
Allan spread his hands.
“I’ll have our guys take the composites around to all the hotels in Kimberley,” Logan said. “Maybe someone will recognize him.”
Audra said, “If he flew, he came into the area via the same airport as us. Right?”
“Canadian Rockies. It’s the only one here.”
“Can you get their passenger lists?” Allan asked. “We can check who was on the flights coming into the area in the days leading up to the murder and leaving the area in the days after.”
“Maybe check into car-rental companies too,” Audra said.
Logan pushed his shoulders back. “I’ll get right on that once we get back in town.”
“Speaking of which,” Denis said. “Has anyone noticed the sky over there?”
They all turned. Over the top of the mountains billowed dark clouds, mounting as they watched.
Logan said, “I did hear rain in the forecast.”
“We should head back,” Audra said. “You better lead the way out.”
34
Almonte, October 29
4:45 P.M.
Time hasn’t done much to change the face of Almonte. Fifteen years away, and everything is as I remember. Only it all looks smaller for some strange reason. Maybe it has something to do with living in Burlington for so long.
Almonte used to be a bustling mill town. The woolen industry was its lifeblood, providing lasting jobs for people to raise their families around.
But times change. Cheaper imports from Asia started taking over the markets. The mills in Almonte couldn’t compete. One by one, they began shutting down.
The Rosamond Mill No.1 was the last to close its doors in the 1980s. My grandparents had worked there until they retired. Shortly after its closure, the old mill was transformed into condos. Adaptive reuse to the tune of two, three, four hundred thousand dollars a pop, depending on how many bedrooms you want.
I drive up Mill Street, Almonte’s main drag. I see downtown has kept much of its old-world charm. It resembles a lot of other small towns built during times of prosperity. Brick and limestone buildings. Antique stores. Gift shops. Art galleries and bistros.
I hang a right at the lights. A block farther, I turn left onto High Street. It takes me through a residential area to John Street, where I hang another left. As I cross the railroad tracks, I lift my foot off the gas.
My hands white-knuckle the steering wheel. I feel a quiver in my stomach, a prickling of my scalp.
Wesley Street looms ahead.
I don’t know if my parents still live there, but I feel them nonetheless. The power of nostalgia surprises me.
Turning the corner, I see our old house. It looks the same, right down to the turquoise front door. The place is a boring Georgian. Red brick. Gable roof. If my parents had installed some window shutters, it would at least dress the house up a little, make it more appealing.
No one looks to be home. If my parents do live there, Mom could be inside. Dad could be at work. He’s sixty-two, so I doubt he has retired from Mannion Petroleum. I always pictured him working well into his golden years.
I see that the paved drive and single-car garage are new. The backyard has gone through a major transformation. It’s nicely manicured, with a few ornamental cedars and boxwood. The massive oak tree is gone. So is the picket fence Dad had put up to keep Joshua and me away from the railroad tracks.
As a kid, I used to love the shriek of the whistle as a freight train approached the crossing on John Street. That clickity-clack of the metal wheels rolling over the tracks. You could feel the rush and speed and unstoppable force of the train shake the whole house as it passed.
The tracks are still there, but it doesn’t look as if a train has rolled over them in some time. The track bed is overgrown with weeds.
I turn my car around at Stanley Sanitation and park across the street. Wesley is a short street. Four houses on one side, three on the other.
I sit there for a while. I don’t know why. Curious, I guess.
At 5:15, a red pickup appears on the street. I know right away that it’s Dad. I’m not sure if you call it brand loyalty or blind loyalty, but Dad always drove a Ford. Never mattered if the company put out a lemon, he stuck with them as long as I can remember. It’s probably a matter of tradition—his father always drove a Ford too.
My guts become jittery. My knee bounces, hitting the bottom of the steering wheel.
I watch the pickup turn in to my parents’ driveway. It stops in front of the garage. The driver’s door swings open, and he steps out.
I must say, the fifteen years haven’t been kind. The old man is sporting a chrome dome and a white beard. He’s also packed on some weight.
He reaches into the cab and produces the same metal lunchbox he carried when I was a kid. It makes me smile. The thing looks like a relic.
I wonder if he or Mom ever thinks about me. Ever wonder what I became. Where I ended up.
Dad, maybe. Mom, probably never. I was her pariah. Her demon spawn.
As Dad shuts the driver’s door, I pull my car into the street. He’s walking toward the garage when I pass. On impulse, I toot the horn at him. He half-turns, lifting a hand.
I laugh to myself. The old fool doesn’t even know who the hell he just waved to.
I decide to stay the night in town. The seven-hour drive up from Allegheny did me in. I’m exhausted, and it’s another five hours back to Burlington. Too much for one day.
I plan to grab a room at the Riverside Inn then find a good place to eat. Maybe that bistro I saw on Mill Street.
But there’s somewhere I want to go first. I’ll be remiss if I don’t.
I find a flower shop downtown and buy a ground vase with a bouquet of blue peo
nies, white lilies, and orchids. The pretty blonde behind the counter gives me directions to Auld Kirk Cemetery. I must’ve been twelve when I was last there, twenty-one years ago.
Lanark County Road is a scenic drive past open fields and scattered farms. The trip is shorter than I remember. The cemetery is only two to three miles from town. I see it up on the right.
There’s an old church just inside the gates. It has the same Gothic Revival architecture as other churches in the area. Box-shaped. Rubble stone masonry. Lancet windows in the front and sides.
Mom and Dad buried Joshua among the family plots my grandparents bought several decades ago. I know the grave is at the back of cemetery, but it takes me a few minutes to find it.
Kneeling down, I brush aside some leaves covering the marker. The inscription is simple. “Joshua James,” it reads. “May 16, 1975—July 29, 1984.”
It’s strange to have forgotten his middle name.
Mom and Dad obviously visit often. The pillow floral arrangement looks new. Purple flowers outline Son, which is spelled out in white flowers.
I set my vase down beside it.
I’m not sure why I came here. Joshua doesn’t know. He’s dead. And the dead don’t see us. They don’t hear us.
The dead are just dead.
I guess coming here seemed like the right thing to do. I may never return to Almonte again.
Tomorrow, I’ll head back to Burlington. I’ve made up my mind about Heidi. I’m not going to be run out of my own home by her.
The girls are going to make this hard. I feel sorry for them.
How will they cope with the loss of their mother?
35
Kimberley, October 30
12:08 P.M.
The small detachment in Kimberley was fashioned in the white-and-blue colors of the RCMP. Allan sat inside with Audra, Denis, and Logan, poring over passenger lists from Canadian Rockies International.
Allan found it frustrating work. They’d been going at it for close to four hours, cross-referencing names on flight arrivals and departures. They focused on males who seemed to have traveled alone, but it was nearly impossible to tell. Seventeen of them made their list.
The men had flown into the airport at various times in the days leading up to the disappearance of Guillaume Mills. Twelve flew back out in the days after the disappearance. The remaining five, they believed, were still in the area.
Logan would punch each name into the database to see if there were any outstanding arrest warrants or criminal histories attached to them. So far, nothing.
To Allan, any one of the men could be the suspect, or none at all. It made him want to throw his hands up in the air and give up.
“I didn’t think there would be so many people,” he said.
“Over a hundred twenty thousand pass through there every year,” Logan told him. “It’s a small airport but a little busier than you might think.”
“Guys,” Audra said. “Here’s another one.”
Allan stood up and walked the length of the table to where she sat. Placing a hand on the back of her chair, he said, “Who this time?”
Audra took a highlighter marker and drew a yellow line through someone’s name.
“Jacob Stark,” she said. “No other Starks on either flight with him. He flew in Thursday, October twenty-first.” She referred to another printout. “Says here he flew out Sunday, October twenty-fourth.”
“Jacob Stark?” Denis frowned. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But then, neither did any of the others.”
Allan said, “It’s not a name we’ve run across during our investigations.” He turned to Logan. “You?”
Logan shook his head. “Don’t know him. I’ll run the name. See if anything comes back.”
As Logan began typing on his computer, Denis asked, “Where’d he depart to?”
“Doesn’t say,” Audra said. “He arrived on flight one-one-three. Departed on flight three-two-one. Both passenger lists belong to Integra Air.”
Allan scratched his chin. “Never heard of them.”
Logan looked over. “The guy went to Calgary. Integra only flies to there from Canadian Rockies.”
“He’s the only one,” Audra said.
Denis said, “The only one what?”
“The only one who used that airline. All the others used Air Canada or Pacific Coastal.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Audra spread her hands. “Nothing. I’m just stating a fact.”
“It does tell us he headed east,” Allan said.
Denis chuckled. “Lots of real estate east of BC. Like the rest of Canada.”
Allan smirked. “Okay, smart ass.”
Audra said, “Was Calgary this guy’s last stop? Or did he continue on to somewhere else?”
“I’ll check with Calgary International,” Logan said. “See if he got on another flight there. By the way, his name isn’t setting off any alarms.”
“That’s zero for eighteen.” Allan took his seat at the table. “The guy we’re looking for might not have any priors.”
Logan nodded. “True.”
They spent the next hour finishing up with the remaining passenger lists; they never found anyone else who piqued their interest. Logan divvied up the phone numbers for all the hotels in the area, and the four of them began calling around to see where the eighteen men had stayed during their visit.
It was time-consuming work to read each name to a receptionist and wait for them to check their hotel bookings.
Allan managed to track down four men. Audra, Logan, and Denis each got three.
“That leaves five missing,” Audra said.
“Maybe they stayed with family or friends,” Allan suggested.
Audra sat back, crossing her arms. “What do you all think? Focus on these thirteen first, worry about the other five later?”
Allan nodded. “We’ll take the composite to these hotels. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it looks like one of these men.”
“Seven of these guys stayed right here in Kimberley,” Logan said. “We’ll talk to those hotels first. Then we’ll head up to Canal Flats and check The Paddlers’ Inn where Mr. Kasper stayed.
“If we don’t get any leads, we’ll head to Cranbrook and talk to the hotels where the other five stayed.”
Denis asked, “Where’s Canal Flats?”
“Seventy kilometers north of here,” Logan told him.
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” Logan tipped his head to the side. “It’s a little out of the way.”
Allan checked his watch: 2:35 p.m.
“Then we better get moving,” he said.
The visits to the different Kimberley hotels proved disappointing. No one could even faintly describe the men who had booked the rooms. Not even their hair, which is a feature people remember about someone more than anything.
When shown the composite sketch, most of the receptionists had all frowned and shaken their heads. One young woman at Trickle Creek Lodge said the sketch looked like Mike Vogel.
“Who?” Allan asked.
“You know,” she said. “Miami Medical. Dr. Deleo.”
Allan looked at Audra, and she shrugged.
They left Kimberley and headed up to Canal Flats.
Highway 93 took them through a flat valley with fields of golden grass on the left. On the right, the rippling surface of a river danced with sunlight. Beyond the river lay an imposing mountain range. Vertical slashes of granite jutted into the sky. Here and there, puffy clouds cast shadows on the ragged peaks.
When Allan saw Audra taking pictures with her cell phone, he decided to do the same. Neither Melissa nor Brian had ever been to British Columbia.
He said, “You and your family travel a lot. Ever been out this way?”
Audra shook her head. “We went on a ski trip to Banff a few years ago. All these mountains remind me a lot of that.”
Logan called back to her, “This highway actually leads you to Banff.”
Eventually, the road and river broke away from each other, and fields stretched along both sides.
Allan leaned his head back in the seat and let the white noise lull him into a light sleep. He woke up a short time later when he sensed the Suburban slowing down.
He opened his eyes to see them approaching a bridge. A sign read, “Welcome to Canal Flats. Source of the mighty Columbia.”
“So what’s the mighty Columbia?” Denis asked.
“The Columbia River,” Logan said. “It starts here.” He pointed to a large lumberyard on the other side of the bridge. “That’s the Canfor sawmill. The village’s main employer.”
Denis looked around. “There’s a village here? Where’s it hiding?”
Logan laughed. “It’s a small one. Just past the mill.”
Allan asked, “How many people live in the area?”
Logan looked back at him in the rearview mirror. “About seven hundred.”
“Surely you guys don’t service it this far out of Kimberley?”
“No, no. Invermere does. Still, it’s about a forty-kilometer drive for them.”
The visit to The Paddlers’ Inn proved just as disappointing as the ones they’d made in Kimberley. At least the owner remembered the man in question—Eugene Kasper. She described Kasper as a portly man in his early sixties with gray hair and a thick beard. Hardly someone who could jog the paths of Point Pleasant Park, let alone hike the steep hills of Kimberley Nature Park.
On the walk back to the Suburban, Allan rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension. “I feel like a dog chasing his own tail.”
Audra glanced over at him. “I know what you mean.”
“Eight down, five to go,” he said. “Hopefully something pans out in Cranbrook.”
“Fingers crossed. If not, we’re left with the decision to try and track down those missing five.”
Allan felt the truth of that like a punch to the gut. “And they could be anywhere.”
The drive to Cranbrook took an hour.
With each stop they made, Allan felt his optimism plunge deeper and deeper. He saw himself returning to Halifax empty handed, no further ahead than when he’d come out to BC.