* * *
At half past ten Constable Spacey phoned with news for Leith. She was calling from the Black Bear Lodge, she said. She was talking to an Evangeline Doyle, the name ringing a bell faintly in Leith’s mind. “I’ve notified Giroux and central dispatch,” she said. “Dion called in an hour ago with some info, but he was in some kind of rush and didn’t give me much to go on, so I wasted a hell of a lot of time trying to figure out what he was after. He mentioned Scott Rourke’s girlfriend, Evangeline Doyle, so I tracked her down. She’s here with me now at the Lodge, and she’s saying Frank’s gone up the Kispiox Range with Rourke, and that he might be in danger. Their destination is a bit convoluted, but I’ve got it pinpointed on a forestry map. I think it’s called the East Band logging road. We’ve got to proceed with caution, sir. I think Dion’s gone up ahead to see if he can find anything, but like I said, he wasn’t too clear on the phone, and we only spoke briefly. I told him not to approach the subjects, to wait for backup. I suggest you get reinforcements together and we meet at the Black Bear parking lot. It’s the closest landmark to the East Band I can think of to muster.”
It was a lot to take in. Leith caught the gist, checked his watch and said, “All right, thanks. We’ll be there soon as possible. Stay in touch.”
* * *
There was no way he could walk in silence here, in the receding snow and the brittle grasses, but it didn’t matter. The wind created a din across the bare patches of meadowland, and even if he wanted to call out and warn them of his presence, which was maybe the smarter move, he couldn’t. Not yet. Only when he’d made it to a stone’s throw from the two men he could make out the odd word fluttering back, and he could delineate against the blue-black their vague shapes bulked out by winter coats, both huddling, both wearing caps. He stopped to observe them, to get a handle on what was happening here. One man was seated on a bench between the hubcapped posts, his back to Dion, the other just barely recognizable as Scott Rourke. Rourke stood before the seated man and occasionally paced.
A small object passed between the men from time to time. A flask, Dion supposed. There was no snarl of anger in the voices, and maybe he’d been all wrong about Frank being in danger. As the breeze died down, he could make out broken conversation, Frank’s voice, saying, “Too late for that. Lenny knows. They all know. Must have the bloodhounds out by now.”
Rourke said something, broken by distance but patched together in Dion’s mind to “We can work it out. I know the land. We got a whole network of friends. Have faith.”
Frank had a strong voice, louder than Rourke’s and twice as rude, and it carried well. “Yeah, like that dick pal of yours, Morris,” he said. “What a warrior, long as there’s beer in his belly and no cops in sight. Cops knock on the door, and suddenly his casa is no longer our casa. Anyway, we sure as shit can’t stay here. I’m freezing my balls off, and I tell you, jail’s starting to look kinda nice.”
Rourke’s voice spiked in anger. “Jail is never nice. It’s hell. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? It’s hell on earth, and it’ll kill you.”
“Yeah, well, you do the crime —”
Rourke’s interruption was harsh but too fragmented to hear. Then came silence. Then the rushing wind again, and the grasses fretted and flailed. Sheltered by the dark, Dion had a feeling that if he spoke now, the situation, peaceful as it seemed, would whip out of control, would possibly snap. He took a sideways stance, sighted down his pistol, and lowered it again. No chance. The two men had huddled closer together and become a solid blot. He moved forward a few paces with a vague plan: get close enough, beam his light, aim, and shout a warning. Get them both away from the cliff. It was the cliff that made him nervous. That and the heavy object Rourke was now holding loose in one hand, which wasn’t a wine bottle, as he’d first believed. From the shape of it, and the relationship between hand and object, he believed it was a weapon. Gun, large hunting knife, or mallet. But probably gun.
Rourke made a turning motion and Dion dropped to his haunches. He heard Rourke say something about love. “You know what, Frank? It’s all about love. All about love, little brother.”
Frank said something that was whipped away by the wind, and Rourke spoke louder, making his point with passion. “I love all you guys. You’re family to me. Always remember that.”
It was the booze talking. Rourke had gotten himself tanked for courage, and it was strumming on his emotions, which was bad news, with drop-away cliffs and guns in the mix. And if it wasn’t Dion’s imagination, there was a note of farewell in those words.
Did Frank hear it too?
By now, Dion hoped that backup had gotten lost and would stay lost, because the situation had become fragile before his eyes. A swarm of officers now would just light the fuse. Rourke was on his feet again, pacing, and Frank stood too, and instead of wandering into a safer zone, as Dion hoped, he moved closer to the madman, and there they stayed on the brink.
Rourke wouldn’t push his friend over, Dion believed. That would be too cruel. He’d just take aim, when Frank wasn’t looking, and splatter his brains to oblivion. And the moment was now, Frank taking in the view, Rourke’s gun arm lifted, rigid at the elbow, pointed at the back of that man’s skull, and it was like watching porcelain fall. Dion levelled both arms, torch and gun, and moved, three strides forward with a bellow that seemed to come from elsewhere, not himself: “Scottie, stop!” And the dynamics changed again, and it was a terrible lining up of bodies, both men frozen in his flashlight beam, Frank by the cliff, turned in surprise, partially cut off from view by Rourke at centre stage, gaping, white-faced, Dion lunging forward over rough terrain toward a handgun now aimed straight at his face.
He retreated a step and stopped. He raised both hands, and the light beam went up too, and all went dark, leaving Rourke a cardboard cut-out against the sky.
“Dion?” Rourke shouted. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Dion shouted back, not at Rourke but Frank. “Move it, now. He’s got a gun. Get away from the cliff.”
As seemed to happen in Dion’s world these days, things went from bad to worse. With bewildering speed, Rourke turned and seized the younger man by the scruff of the neck, it looked like, but it was probably his coat, and yanked him toward him into a chokehold. Just like in the snapshot, but without the sunshine or smiles. “Oh, man,” Rourke said now, more a whine than a roar. “You don’t know what you’ve done here. He was going to go out painless. He wasn’t going to know what hit him, you dumb shit. Look what you done.”
Dion was doing just that, looking at what he’d done, and he felt that familiar slide of ice through his veins. He’d put Frank Law in a noose, gun muzzle against his temple, inches from a deadly fall. He watched Frank fight the grip, saw Rourke totter a bit, find his footing and hold fast, pure sinew, a wannabe Mohawk, a man not afraid of heights.
“I don’t understand,” Dion called out. He had knitted the plan together on the long drive up, custom designed for Scott Rourke, who was the home-grown religious type, rabid, reflexive, fiercely protective. Unless he had it all wrong, and having it wrong was a big possibility too, Rourke would rather see Frank dead than raped and ravaged in jail for the next twenty years. He called out, “He’s not going to jail, Scott. You got it wrong. He didn’t kill Kiera. We got a new lead on a guy, and it’s not Frank, and it’s not Rob either. It’s one of Rob’s employees. We have the guy locked up tight, man.”
The air cracked at his left, and he dropped to a crouch and froze. The bullet had whistled past his ear, he could swear it was Rourke’s way of saying “Don’t bullshit me.” He hitched his flashlight to his belt and stayed crouched. Stretch this out, he told himself. Things had shifted again, and yes, backup would be good now. They might not save the day, but they would resolve matters fast enough.
He could hear Rourke saying sorry to Frank, and he thought he heard a click, and he definitely heard Fr
ank’s yell of fear, almost a shriek, and it got him up out of his crouch to give it one last try, no longer a hostage negotiator talking but a pal to the rescue. “C’mon, Scott. We can sort this out. It’s not the end of the world. You need help, and I can help you get it. And by the way, Frank wants to live as much as you and I. Right?”
“Frank doesn’t know what he wants,” Rourke shouted. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Dion breathed hard. His options were running low, and a last-ditch plan had sprung to mind, and it was a shitty one. Worse, it was comical. But it was all he had, his last grenade. He raised his voice once more, trying for an emphasis he was not trained for. “Don’t be an idiot, Scottie. You want to protect him? Well, guess what. I care too, and a lot more than you do.”
If nothing else, Rourke would lose his train of thought, and that would buy some time. Rourke’s response was angry but puzzled. “Hey? What d’you mean?”
“I mean I don’t want him going to jail, and I have my reasons that are none of your business. And I’m going to keep him out of jail if it kills me, and you’re going to help me by taking the rap. Right? I also have the means, and all you gotta do is hear me out.”
He had Rourke’s interest. The man’s face lifted, tuned in, leery but wanting to hear more. “Don’t know what the hell you’re talking about here, Dion. Explain yourself, and make it fast.”
Frank made a gagging noise, his boots scrabbling against the rocks and grit and grasses on the lip of a chasm. Dion could hear pebbles cascading, falling away into the abyss. He called out, “I’m not saying anything till you swear you’ll take the rap for him. Would you do that? You love him enough to trade your soul for his?”
“’Course I would. Any day.”
This was better than Dion expected. No bullets this time, but an actual dialogue. “Great, then I can make him get away with it. I can plant evidence. He’ll get six months for being accessory after the fact, probably on probation. He can do that easy. But you’ll go down for the murder itself. I’ll see to it.”
Rourke soaked up the information and then was bellowing again. “Why? Why would you do that? I don’t get you. You’re playing with my head here.”
“I said I have my reasons,” Dion bellowed back. “Take it or leave it.”
Rourke seemed to lose patience and yanked Frank again, pulling him against him like a rag doll, cocking the gun against his skull, and again Frank cried out. Dion cried out too, the last resort, the punchline that would make him the laughingstock of the police community for years down the road. “I love him more than you ever will,” he yelped. And cleared his throat and gave another hoarse shout. “You stupid bastard, that’s why.”
There. Ha ha ha, he had the asshole’s undivided attention now. The muzzle lowered, and Rourke was staring his way. Dion spoke more calmly now, like a man who’d gotten a load off his chest, like there was nothing left but gentle persuasion. “I saw it in your eyes, Frank. You felt it too, didn’t you? That night at the bar.”
There was no night in the bar, no love at first sight. In fact, he hadn’t seen the guitar man up close and in person until this very night. Frank made a noise, more a rodeo calf in distress than a man in love, but Rourke was diverted, still trying to get a handle on what he was hearing. “You? You have a thing for Frankie?”
“It’s more than a thing,” Dion said bitterly. “He’s what gets me through my day. And I don’t care if you don’t feel the same for me, Frank. It doesn’t change what I’m trying to do here. I’m going to get you off the hook, promise.” He searched his mind for a handy catchphrase, something gay-sounding, but drew a blank. He watched Frank struggle.
Rourke let loose a laugh. “Holy Jesus, and I thought you were into girls.”
“You can’t help what you’re into. Let him go, and we’ll talk it out, okay? We’re all freezing to death, and we better get our story straight before we go back down that mountain.”
“I can tell you one thing, Frankie’s straight as an arrow,” Rourke said. “Right, Frank?”
Frank snorted and kicked and tried to twist out of the older man’s grip, but he was losing steam, starting to sag.
Dion was starting to sag too. Ridiculously, he still held gun in one hand, flashlight in the other, neither aimed anywhere meaningful. He looked at his own boots, inhaling the mountain air, trying to stay on track. It was the stress, the humiliation, the wound in his side. The grass and mucky snow beneath had a rotten earthy smell, and now that they’d all done shouting, there was quiet, and beyond that a muted conversation, millions of branches sawing together whenever the wind gathered force. And there was something else, too. Mountains were great auditoriums in the dead of night, and sound carried. He heard a distant grumble and knew what it was. Engines. Three or four gutsy V8s working upward at speed.
The timing was incredibly bad, too late and too soon. He raised his voice, which was worse than hoarse by now, breaking up like bad reception. “If you don’t let him go, he’s going to the pen, and he’s going to end up with a scar like yours, but worse. Let him go. Let me save him. Only I can save him. I have an ironclad story for you to tell the cops, and long as you get it straight, this is going to work. But we have to get on it now.”
The now was delivered in pure exhaustion and tired rage, designed to startle Rourke into action. Instead, Rourke become a dark, baffled silhouette, frozen in indecision. Maybe he was having second thoughts about how much he loved Frank Law, if he was worth going to prison for. Maybe he just wasn’t buying the lie, or maybe he was going back to the simpler Plan A, shoot the loved one to save him from grief.
Dion held out his arms. “Send him over here. You can do the time a lot better than he can. Nobody’s going to mess with you, that’s for sure.”
“I think you’re full of shit,” Rourke said. “It’s a trick, and a pretty sleazy one too.”
One minute, two minutes, and they’d be coming down the ravine, and in a panic Rourke’s trigger finger would twitch, and blood would spray all over the hubcapped gates of heaven. Frank’s blood. Frankly, Dion wasn’t sure he cared any longer, or if so, why. Who was he trying to impress, now that he had nobody to impress? Not the RCMP, not Looch in his grave, not Nadia from rehab, and not the old Indian Willy who thought they shared some kind of kinship but was dead wrong. He had nobody to impress, and what did it matter if Frank got a bullet in his head? In the spirit of resignation he told Rourke, “I’m coming forward so we can talk without yelling. Don’t you fucking shoot me.”
“I won’t shoot you,” Rourke said. “Just keep your hands up.”
Gun holstered, flashlight slung in its loop, Dion linked chilled hands behind his head and stepped forward, coming close enough that Rourke’s face became more than puddles of shadow. “I’m giving you my word, Scottie. All I want is for him to be free.”
Rourke studied him with wonder, and with revulsion, and then something else creased his brow, some kind of understanding. “I feel for you, man,” he said. “Being like that. Must be horrible.”
“It is horrible.” Dion reached out and touched Frank Law on the arm, claiming possession. Rourke released his chokehold, and Frank crashed to his knees. Dion helped him up and pulled him away from the madman, behind him to safety, and now that the danger was more or less passed, it crossed his mind almost irresistibly to whip out his own gun and put one through Rourke’s face, if nothing else just to get back at him for all this crap he’d put him through tonight. Flying backward, Rourke would sail over the cliff. Soar free like the eagle he always wanted to be. And that would be that.
He said instead, “First off, you’re going to have to break your alibi for the day Kiera died.”
“I can do that,” Rourke said.
“And I’m going to need your DNA.”
“You’re not getting my DNA how you’re thinking, y’queer,” Rourke said, but just joking.
“S
pit into a baggie, that’s all you have to do,” Dion said. “Could you do me a favour and put that gun away? Makes me nervous.”
“No chance,” Rourke said. “You think I’m stupid?”
“I know you’re stupid,” Dion spat out, angrily, not wisely.
The engines were definitely there now, somewhere above, not loud but distinct. Rourke heard it too. “Cops,” he said in a furious rasp, and his gun was up again, pointing at Dion. “You lying fucking cheating piece of shit.”
“Wasn’t me,” Dion told him, too cold to care about the gun in his face, which he had come to realize wasn’t going to discharge anyway. He just knew it. Probably wouldn’t have discharged into Frank’s skull either, and what he should have done, instead of charging like a fool to the rescue, was wait at the crossroads as he was supposed to, and these two fucking hillbillies would have finished their Scotch and returned down the mountainside, where they would have been arrested without incident. But he hadn’t waited at the crossroads, and here he was in the middle of this big ugly mess he’d made, miles too late to go back, and so much explaining to do that it almost made his knees buckle. “They were going to track you down one way or another,” he said. “Just be cool. They’re going to arrest Frank, but they have nothing on him. I know the file. All they have is what Lenny’s saying, but Lenny doesn’t know anything, really, and he’ll change his tune. So until Frank confesses, they have nothing, and long as he sticks to denial he’s home free.” He pulled something from his pocket, a granola bar wrapper he’d forgotten to dispose of, and held it out. “Spit into that.”
Rourke did as he was told, and Dion pocketed the evidence that was supposed to dupe the entire North District Major Crimes Unit into a wrongful conviction. Rourke nodded at Frank, who was crouched down, massaging his neck, not returning the gaze. “Hear that, Frank? Don’t stop denying, and you’re home free, kiddo.”
“Fucking maniac,” Frank whispered, like his vocal cords were too sore to blare it out.
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