“Yes, and several others disappeared.”
“The ones that died – do you know much about the deaths? How they died, whether their bodies were found, whether there was an inquest?”
“I didn’t go into minute detail but, yeah, I made some notes on their deaths.”
“Were there any deaths where the body was never found or wasn’t positively identified?”
“One guy – they were all men, by the way – died in a hunting accident. Another was in a car crash. I think both their bodies were identified. One died on a camping trip. He fell out of a canoe or something and was presumed drowned. I don’t think his body was ever found. What’s this all about?”
“You got any information on the canoe guy?”
“A little. I’d have to look through my notes.”
All through the meeting Rebecca had seemed hurried and nervous. Several times she glanced at her watch when she thought he wasn’t looking.
“Going somewhere?” he said.
She turned red and for a few seconds looked stunned.
“Oh… yes,” she finally admitted. “I’m just meeting a friend for coffee.”
Frank stared at her. Was she acting suspiciously or was he being paranoid? Finally he shrugged. “Anyway, can you look into the canoe guy? It could be important.”
“Come and see me tomorrow,” she said. “I really have to go…”
Frank felt guilty as he pulled out into traffic and followed Rebecca’s aging white Mercedes at a respectable distance. He figured he was being paranoid, but he had to know.
He promised himself he’d just check out her story. If she was going for coffee like she said, he’d leave it at that.
He relaxed when she pulled into the parking lot of the Boathouse Restaurant in Kits. He drove as close to the doors as he dared. Rebecca met and hugged a distinguished-looking middle-aged woman. Frank studied the woman’s face before they walked through the front doors, but it wasn’t familiar. Rebecca didn’t spot him.
“Get a grip,” he scolded himself as he drove away.
***
Despite her apprehension, Rebecca was flattered that the VP of Research for one of the largest pharmaceutical corporations in the world would take time from her busy schedule to have coffee with her.
As to the question of why, she pushed that to the back of her mind.
Her talk with Janet had shaken her belief in Frank’s theories about ‘the case’. Not only had he said nothing to convince her that Kaffir was kidnapping children, there was no proof that, other than Ralphie, the children were victims of kidnapping in the first place, and the deaths and disappearances at Kaffir could be coincidence. Even if Kaffir was involved in something shady, she couldn’t believe that Carla De Leon was part of it.
Even so, she lectured herself on the need to avoid saying too much or revealing anything about her original mission. She was dying to ask Carla about the new formulation for Olmerol, but in the end decided to leave it alone.
Rebecca arrived at the Boathouse, a casual eatery right on the beach, exactly on time. As she reached the door she noticed Carla approaching. She waved and waited for her new friend. She was expecting to shake hands, but Carla leaned in and gave her a polite hug. They each ordered a latte and Rebecca grabbed a biscotti.
They got a table on the patio. Rebecca smiled at the expanse of Kits Beach below. Beyond it, the sparkling waters of English Bay were dotted with kayaks, sailboats and, in the distance, the rust-coloured hulls of several gigantic freighters.
Rebecca’s initial nervousness melted away as Carla explained her research and implications it held for pregnant women. As the conversation got more personal, Rebecca was surprised at the depth of the bond they shared. Their life experiences were extraordinarily similar, and Carla seemed to understand – like few others, male or female, Rebecca had ever met – the forces that had shaped her.
Inevitably they got to talking about their relationships. Carla was once married, now divorced. Rebecca asked her about her husband.
Carla explained how her ex-husband, James, eventually came to resent her success and her race up the corporate ladder at Kaffir.
“He couldn’t compete with you,” Rebecca guessed.
Carla nodded. “In some ways being what most people would call ‘gifted’ has been a curse. James was intelligent, but I think he realized early on that I was out of his league.” She gazed wistfully at the crowded beach below.
“I was head of research for Olmerol when I was still in my twenties.”
Carla took a sip of coffee. “It didn’t help that I was a workaholic. He got downright nasty. Then he started fooling around. I decided that marriage wasn’t for me. I’m too driven – you could even call it selfish – to share my world with someone else.
“James remarried a long time ago, and I think he’s much happier now. We’re not close, but I see him from time to time. We’re not enemies, we’ve both just moved on.”
Rebecca was touched by the sad story.
“But enough about me,” said Carla. “What about you?”
Rebecca was nervous about opening up to Carla about her personal life, afraid that she’d inadvertently blurt out something she’d regret. But Carla had been so candid about her own marriage…
“I was married once,” she finally said.
“Recently?” Carla asked.
“About five years ago,” Rebecca answered. “Bob was everything I thought I wanted in a man – intelligent, thoughtful, charming, funny. He was a lawyer, but not the slimy corporate type. He was the sort of rumpled, hip, intellectual, free-thinking TV drama type, fighting for the common man against ignorance and injustice.”
Rebecca glanced over at Carla. Her friend smiled in encouragement.
“He seemed too good to be true,” Rebecca continued, “and in the end, he was. Everything was great until we got married and moved in together. It was gradual, but over time he got more and more controlling.”
Rebecca picked up her biscotti. “First it would be my hair, or my makeup – and it was never just that he personally didn't like them. They were unattractive or in bad taste by definition – like his personal opinion was the gold-plated reference for the rest of humanity.”
She held the biscotti between her two hands. “Then he started criticizing the way I dressed. I looked ‘frumpy’ or ‘cheesy’ or ‘slutty’ – and again, it wasn’t just his opinion, it was some universally accepted truth. He started going with me when I bought my clothes…”
Carla shook her head.
“He even tried to order for me at dinner, like I wasn’t capable of deciding what I wanted.”
“I’m finding it hard to picture you in that situation,” Carla said, smiling.
“I was ready to leave anyway, but any doubts I had were blown away when he got abusive. First it was minor things like grabbing me by the arm. It kept escalating. The final straw was when he back-handed my face after I refused to obey one of his commands.”
Rebecca jumped as the biscotti she was holding broke in half. She felt warmth rushing to her cheeks as she put the pieces down on her plate.
“Sorry,” she said.
“I understand,” Carla said.
“I walked out and never went back,” Rebecca continued. “From that time on I swore I would never take crap from another man. The second I see it I’m gone, and…”
It occurred to her that she was doing exactly what she’d sworn not to do – opening up about her life. She needed to shut this line of conversation down.
“Are you alright?” Carla asked.
“I’m fine,” Rebecca said. She smoothed down her skirt and took a sip of coffee. “I’m talking too much.”
“Not at all,” Carla said. “It’s fascinating. And you’ve seen a lot of bad behaviour since your breakup?”
Rebecca cringed. She had to answer. “I haven’t dated much since then. Maybe I’ve set my standards too high.”
“I don’t think wanting to be treated with respect is setting
your standards too high. So are you seeing anyone right now?”
Again Rebecca felt herself blush. “Not really.”
“Not really?”
“It’s complicated… he’s sort of a client.”
Rebecca clenched her fists. What am I saying? she scolded herself.
“A client?” Carla said. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Well, it’s really more of a business relationship.”
“That does sound complicated.”
Rebecca tried to steer the conversation somewhere else. “I can’t really talk about it. It has to do with my…”
Carla eyed her in a way that made her nervous. It occurred to her what she was about to say and who she was about to say it to.
She remembered Frank’s warning: If you go sticking your nose into the head office at Kaffir, you’re going to appear on their radar. I can guarantee that you don’t want that to happen.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “It’s really more of a friendship. I shouldn’t say anymore – it’s a confidentiality thing.”
“Of course,” Carla said, smiling and taking a sip of coffee. “I understand completely.”
A Dead Scientist
“Richard Carson,” Rebecca said when Frank showed up at her office the next day as planned. She spread several pages of notes on the desk in front of her. “He was a senior guy in the company – was there even before Carla…” She stopped short.
“Carla?” Frank raised an eyebrow.
She stared down at her notes. “Oh, Carla De Leon, the VP of Research at Kaffir.”
“You’re on a first-name basis?”
Rebecca blushed. “Hey, I’ve gone over these notes so many times I feel like I know the people.”
Frank continued to eye her strangely. He finally shrugged. “So – Richard Carson.”
“Like I said before, he drowned in a canoeing accident on a vacation sixteen years ago. The body was never found. I’ve got a picture.”
She handed Frank a photocopy of a newspaper clipping titled: ‘Researcher Dies in Boating Accident’. Frank read the article:
Doctor Richard Carson, 52, is missing and presumed dead after a tragic boating accident on Lake Nipissing in northern Ontario. Carson was the lone occupant of a canoe that capsized. According to his companions, Carson was out of their sight for about ten minutes as he paddled ahead and up an arm of the lake, exploring.
When they caught up, they found Carson’s overturned canoe. Rescuers combed the area for several days, but the body was never found. Carson was a senior researcher for Kaffir Pharma, a multinational pharmaceutical company based in Vancouver. He was single, and was predeceased by both his parents.
He finished reading and looked up. “What did the cops think about it?”
“They found a small patch of blood on the gunwale of the canoe, but not enough to suggest foul play. Their theory was that Carson had some kind of medical event – a heart attack or stroke. He collapsed, banged his head, and went overboard.
“They spent about a week searching for the body. That section of the lake is really murky and full of debris. There’s a lot of tricky currents that might have carried the body away. They sent divers down but they never found anything. The official verdict was accidental death.”
Borrowing Rebecca’s computer, Frank tracked down the location of the incident. It was the middle of nowhere, many miles from the nearest town.
He studied the photograph in the article. Richard Carson was undistinguished: middle-aged and pudgy, with a graying crew-cut and glasses.
Frank imagined what it would take to stage a death like that, deep in the wilderness. Carson would have had to plant food, clothing, and survival gear ahead of time, and would have had to navigate through the bush alone for several days. Was the man in the picture, an intellectual, a city dweller with a desk job, capable of such a feat?
Maybe, if he was desperate enough.
He held up the article and looked at Rebecca. “Okay if I keep this?”
The Partnership Ends
After yet another session with Rebecca, Frank made his way from her building to the parkade where he’d left his car. He always came away from the sessions drained and confused, like he’d just wakened from a bad dream.
He hadn’t come to any conclusions about whether the sessions were actually doing any good. Many days had passed since he’d had a drink. He still had trouble sleeping, and still set the alarm as always, but several nights lately he’d woken up without the usual remnants of his recurring nightmare.
That had to be a good sign, but in the deepest part of his psyche he knew he was still damaged goods, still far from being the man he once was. There was always an obstacle in the sessions, an unassailable wall that thrust up out of the earth whenever he got too close to his demons.
He distracted himself by focusing on the case. Knowing what he’d learned so far about the conspiracy surrounding Olmerol, he was convinced that Richard Carson had faked his own death.
Why? Either Carson was part of whatever was going on and for some reason wanted out, or he somehow found out about it and was smart enough to kill himself off in the eyes of the world before the others did the job for real.
Whatever the reason, Frank’s gut told him that Richard Carson held the key to what he was looking for. It was possible that Carson could provide convincing evidence of what was happening and prove that Frank wasn’t crazy.
The problem was: how could he hope to find someone who had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to disappear? Frank shook his head as he walked. The answer was simple – he couldn’t. He couldn’t hope to find Carson, at least not without more information.
He was jolted awake as someone shoved him to one side. He looked up. A girl in jeans and a black leather jacket had pushed past him. As he watched she turned her head back and smiled. Frank shuddered, remembering the final entries in Retigo’s journal.
A few minutes later, as he reached for the door into the parkade, a hand appeared and opened it for him. Frank looked over. A middle-aged man in a business suit had appeared at his side. The man swept his hand forward motioning for Frank to go ahead, and smiled.
Frank watched the man head for a nearby car, then trudged up the narrow walk that ran beside the spiral driveway leading to the third level, where he’d parked. Lately he never took the elevator; he imagined the door sliding open and an assassin waiting with a shotgun in his hands.
He laughed at his own paranoia. Anyway, he thought, that’s not how these guys operated. They were a lot more subtle. They’d use a method that didn’t arouse any suspicion. Of course, they could make it look like a robbery…
As he turned a corner a sliver of shadow moved on the periphery of his vision. His muscles tensed. He listened closely and was sure he heard footsteps following him. He started to sweat. He walked faster, finally reaching the third level. The footsteps grew louder. He looked for any other customers in the dim light of the parkade. There was no one.
Finally he spotted his car and felt a wave of relief. He rushed toward it, glancing around him. He heard the footsteps again, closer now, still approaching, faster. He fumbled nervously with his key, slid it into the lock, and opened the door. His heart stopped when a man appeared from behind a concrete pillar beside him.
For a second their eyes met. Frank’s heart was pounding in his chest. He had no gun, no weapon of any kind. He was a sitting duck. The man smiled and continued walking, heading for a sports car on the other side of the level. The man clicked his key fob and the car beeped in response. He opened the door and stepped forward like he was going to get in, then turned, smiled again, and nodded at Frank.
A jolt arced down Frank’s spine.
The man got into his car and drove away.
I’m losing it, Frank thought.
He flopped down in the driver’s seat, still shaking. On the way home, he told himself he was being irrational. He’d never actually seen anyone following him, and he was trained to notic
e these things.
Nothing had happened since he was attacked outside the Dogan mansion, and he was convinced that his attacker had acted alone and on the spur of the moment. No matter how many logical arguments he set down and confirmed, he could feel the paranoia welling up inside him.
His fear was illogical, animal, primordial. It threatened to cripple him. He thought about Rebecca’s comment that he wasn’t ready for this case, and considered that maybe she’d been right after all.
When he got to his house he examined it, inside and out, in neurotic detail. He found nothing. He checked the locks on all the doors and carefully drew the curtains to leave no gaps, recalling the bedsheets tacked up around the windows of Lawrence Retigo’s apartment. He stumbled upstairs, determined to get some rest, but instead lay staring at the ceiling.
He got up, parted the bedroom curtains, and peered down at the street. A sports car identical to the one from the parkade was driving by, slowly. He couldn’t see the driver’s face.
He watched for another hour, but saw nothing, and went back to bed. Finally, exhausted, he drifted off, tormented by a brand new set of nightmares.
He woke the next day after only a few hours’ sleep and reached out a shaking hand for his cigarettes. They weren’t there. He panicked, and remembered he’d left them downstairs. He spent the day scouring the block through the slit of a pulled-back curtain, chain-smoking, and trying to calm his shaking hands.
His thoughts kept drifting back to what had happened the night before. If they knew about him, how soon before they found out about Rebecca? By dusk he’d decided he needed to check on her.
The sky began to open just as he rushed out of his front door. He held his jacket collar together and sprinted to his car, scanning to the left and right. Again the image of Lawrence Retigo crowded into his mind. He was re-living Retigo’s nightmare.
Despite the earlier incident, he drove to a parkade downtown, circled to a level almost empty of cars, and parked in a darkened corner. He saw no-one as he locked the car and descended to the street.
The Arx Page 15