The investigative team consisted of Jacobs and two other officers who went through the known details with Johnny and Melissa Banks. Johnny was impressed with the quick and professional way the three investigators questioned them and searched the shop carefully.
They dusted for fingerprints, used some sort of tape to pick up samples on the floor, taking samples from the overalls hanging on the coat rack as well, “To rule out fibers intrinsic to the environment,” Jacobs explained.
They had sent information to RCMP highway patrol in BC and Alberta, informing of a person presumed missing with Terry’s description and the few details available. These were basic: An employee struck with an unidentified object, male, recovering in hospital. Another employee, blonde, female, late thirties, location still unknown. Eyewitness report of a clean car, rental maybe? With two men asking for the woman by the name of Terry Mason; confirmed name of women presumed missing.
As the morning went on, reports came in from Isaac and the other employees, and they found that no one besides Pete and Jason had been at the shop the previous afternoon, except for two drivers on Johnny’s shift who had driven around the shop to park their trucks for the night, and then left early in the morning before Jason had arrived. Neither man had entered the shop when parking their trucks or leaving in the morning.
Then, within the span of twenty minutes, the RCMP received several tips. A caller the Prince George dispatcher knew by name due to regular complaints, reported a disturbance at the public boat launch next to his property.
“It happened last night! The dogs were barking, eh, so I couldn’t hear everything, but someone was having a party, that’s for dang sure! There was a woman screaming, some yelling, nothing made sense?” His sentence sounded more like a question. “I am sick and tired of the partying that goes on all summer, and now in the fall! When are you going to do something about it, eh?” The dispatcher politely took notes during a lecture on the value of taxpayer’s dollars, having several minutes to fill before coffee break.
The next call, which came to the Vanderhoof detachment, was more helpful.
This caller reported a car parked in the woods at the head of an ATV trail. She had noticed it while walking her dog early that morning. While listening to the radio on the half-hour drive to work, she began to wonder why a new car would be left on an ATV trail. None of the locals would park there; the kids, and some of their dads - she had smiled thinking of her husband on his ATV- came through that section of trail way too fast. Someone could get hurt. Due to the rash of thefts in the cottage community east of Vanderhoof, people took care of their toys, and vehicles especially.
When the dispatcher asked what color the car was, the woman thought it was gray, or maybe blue, but for sure was clean, a newer model.
The next call was to the 911 call center. An angry young man reported that the previous evening, his father’s one-ton had been boosted, the thieves pushing his dad over the embankment and driving off, the taillights of their car following the stolen Ford east on Highway 16.
The caller had finished his graveyard shift in a Vanderhoof sawmill, met some buds for breakfast, and then drove the twenty-five minutes to his dad’s home in the lakeside community between Vanderhoof and Prince George.
“My welder’s on that truck!” The young man was outraged and didn’t care who knew it. “The old man didn’t call in because he’d been drinking! My welder, actually, my welder and a boat-load of my tools are on that truck!” He wasn’t much more help, but the 911 operator learned the older man had walked five kilometers to a friend’s house where he drank beer and finished watching a hockey game before his friend drove him to his home, less than eight kilometres from where he changed his flat tire and lost his truck. The Canucks had won, making the lost truck seem like a minor issue at the time.
Chet Banks blew in with the service truck around noon, announcing he had been to see Pete, who was doing well, and demanded to know what they’d found about his newest trucker gone missing.
His arrival was timely, and Johnny guessed Mrs. B needed to go home and cry, and let her husband shoulder the responsibility. Chet was brash but likeable, and like his wife, got things done. He was a little intimidating. No, Johnny thought, he’s very intimidating. But though Chet was quick to express displeasure over a mistake to an employee, or anyone else, for that matter, he apologized quickly if he was wrong, and expected others to do the same. The job was more important than anyone’s feelings. He was a fair and generous boss, but not someone you wanted to disappoint.
It was obvious Jacobs and the other investigators liked him and took some time to ask him similar questions to the ones they had asked Johnny.
One of the facts that bothered them all was the collection of sockets littering the floor. Chet Banks squatted down, careful to avoid the areas marked off by ribbons, and surveyed the scene. He didn’t comment on the whiskey, but Johnny knew he noticed.
Standing, he said, “Sockets are made of metal, have a hole in them, are expensive, easy to find, heavy.” He straightened his knee, the pop making Johnny wince. “They are also hard to identify. Who has the time to scribe their name on sockets? We lose them by the handful in the bush, especially in the winter. Always buying new ones. Whatever the case, they didn’t get these. Dropped them and left.” He looked around. “I know it’s snowing, but have you looked around outside?”
Jacobs nodded toward the door. “Let’s go out there. I’m guessing you spend more time here than Johnny. Maybe you will see something we missed.”
Johnny led the way out, taking time to grab a long-handled spade from the rack by the door.
They entered the covered lean-to where tires, dunnage, oil containers, and other paraphernalia would collect until the mechanics went on a rampage and cleaned it out. The space was organized, only a few months since a major clean-up.
Using the flashlight on his phone, Chet approached the wall of the shop. “Look at this. These aren’t work boot tracks, they’re some sort of shoe.” They looked where he indicated, noting the set of footprints in the clay dust that led further back into the lean-to, and then back out toward the front of the shop, the to-and-fro tracks distinct from the many other prints of sharp-treaded work boots.
“Look,” Jacobs said, holding up his foot. “I wear a size ten. These are a similar shape and size to the prints my boots are making.” He looked at Johnny’s feet, encased in expensive, heavy, and much larger work boots, then at Chet’s footwear. “What size are yours?” he said, pointing at Chet’s boots.
“Ten and a half,” Chet said, stepping down beside a print Jacobs made. The work boot track was definitely bigger than the track made by the investigator’s light boot, larger than the unique track near the wall. “Okay.”
Chet continued into the gloom of the lean-to, using his phone light to look for details, careful to keep his feet clear of the tracks near the wall.
Next to a pile of wood dunnage was a neat stack of large concrete blocks. One was obviously missing from the stack. The blocks were covered with yard dust, and the outline of the missing one showed cleanly on the block now exposed.
Johnny pointed the shovel at a gleam in the shadow of a stack of used tires. Several dozen large sockets had been threaded on a cheap polyethylene rope, the bright yellow of the rope and the rounded sockets now standing out in the beams of light from Chet’s phone and Jacobs’s flashlight.
Chet turned away, shaking his head. “Not good, not good.” His voice was flat but rose in volume. “Would you just look at that! They found the blocks and dumped the sockets and rope.” He glared at the group. “Looks to me like they want to sink something.”
With a curse he turned and walked back into the shop, avoiding the two officers taking photos of the tracks. Entering the shop, Jacobs and Johnny close behind, Chet dialed a number, then lowered his phone and turned off the flash light.
“Yeah, hello, Bob. You been fishing lately?”
They heard a hearty, “Well, hello to
you, too, Chet. I’m just fine, thanks.”
Johnny smiled briefly, recognizing the voice of Chet’s buddy, a local pilot and avid fisherman. Bob had delivered parts several times to remote logging locations, a very uneconomical but quick delivery system, dropping expensive parts from several hundred feet, wrapped in bubble wrap with a long streamer trailing behind.
The legend was that once, a nonplussed mechanic had found the streamer Bob duct-taped to the box of parts was actually a crimson satin bathrobe, embossed with the stitched monogram “Amy,” the name of Bob’s now ex-wife.
“Bob, listen. Are the lakes still open? What have you seen from the air the last few days?” Chet asked, turning the speaker on without warning Bob.
“Well, the smaller lakes are frozen, and some of the bays on the bigger lakes, probably couldn’t launch a boat now, but most launches are closed anyway. Hey,” he chuckled into the phone, “I ever tell you about the time …”
Chet cut him off. “Are you in town? If I needed a flight this afternoon, you available?”
“I’m twenty minutes out, coming back from the mine. Yeah, I could take you up later, what’s up?”
“Okay, I’ll call you soon.” Chet abruptly hung up and turned to Jacobs. “Listen, who takes a person, leaves their clothes, grabs a brick on the way out, leaving a mess of sockets behind? I think we should be checking the local lakes, and we had better get on it. About four hours until it gets too dark to see. I hate to be judgmental, but we really have no idea who Terry is, and what she may be involved in. All the same, we need to figure this out now. I think she’s in danger.”
He paused as his phone rang, holding it at far enough away to see. “Hmph,” he grunted, “unlisted number.”
Chapter 14
Terry woke up again, disappointed and angry. She was lying in borrowed clothing on the floor in the back of a filthy bush truck. She was cold in the T-shirt and nylon shorts. The idiots who grabbed her had used plastic ties on her wrists that were now cutting into her skin. Her contacts were killing her. She was extremely thirsty, and her mouth tasted of vomit. She flexed her legs, now her ankles were securely taped. She needed to pee.
But Terry was feeling better, her headache not debilitating, and her mind clear. The vehicle was an older Ford crew cab, nearly identical to the one her dad drove when she was a teenager. She was on the floor. No, she was lying on fast food wrappers, tools, cords and straps, a phone book. Wow. The amount of clutter was amazing, and in it she saw her chance to escape.
Like her dad’s old truck, the bolts holding the front seat to the floor were exposed, and she quickly broke the cheap plastic ties holding her wrists by sawing them on the sharp edges, noise from the engine and heavy tires masking any sound she was making.
The tape on her ankles was tougher, but she found a box knife among the scattered items. Idiots! she thought, and she stealthily sliced through the tape. Next, she quietly cleared the rubble away from the heat ducts under the front seat, allowing the warm air to flow.
She relaxed, that felt better. Turning slightly, she looked for clothing, blankets, anything to lessen the cold if she escaped. The rear seat was folded upright and had a woven cover, but there was no chance of removing it.
Searching quietly through the clutter, her hand closed on a cold metal object with a rough, knurled section at one end. A torque wrench! She slowly pulled it out, wincing when it caught, wiggling carefully, and sliding it awkwardly over her torso in the tight space, shivering as the cold metal rasped over her body.
Okay, Terry, time for shock and awe! She repeatedly flexed her muscles, then took a deep breath, and rising from the floor, she screamed, expelling all the sound she could muster. Holding the heavy wrench in both hands, she rammed the ratcheting end into the side of the driver’s head as he turned, mouth open. The wrench made a sickening sound over the loud diesel engine, and he slumped forward, his foot thrusting down on the pedal, the heavy vehicle beginning to accelerate.
“Hey!” Blake swore as he reached for the wheel and knocked the shifter into neutral, the motor booming harshly, cutting in and out as the rev limiter kicked in.
Blake’s head was in the middle of the truck and she punched at it but missed as he ducked. He was busy trying to get the driver’s inert body off the accelerator pedal and steering wheel, and to knock the shifter back into gear without using the clutch, gears grinding. The truck was slowing rapidly, coasting uphill in neutral. She could see the Rocky Mountains ahead. It was broad daylight.
This time she swung the heavy tool left-handed at Blake’s head, and he yelled in pain. Blood gushed from a deep cut above his left eye, effectively blinding him on the left side, and the truck continued to slow.
Terry ripped the door open on the familiar vehicle and turned, grabbing a reflective vest and a first aid kit from the seat. She stumbled to the ground and saw Blake struggling with the driver, dragging him into the passenger side. The truck was stopped now, and she heard the emergency brake engage, diesel engine rumbling. She dropped everything but the torque wrench and smashed at the driver’s mirror. In several swings it was hanging from the heater wire, and she turned toward the window. She missed the driver’s window as the truck lurched ahead, grinding and jerking in granny low, but connected with the rear passenger window, glass flying into the cab. Blake had gotten himself into the driver’s seat, gears grinding as he forced the transmission into second gear.
Terry watched as the vehicle lurched up the hill picking up speed, then black smoke poured from the lugging engine as the driver shifted into third gear too early.
Terry dropped the wrench on the ground and quickly put on the vest. Ripping open the first aid kit, which was nearly as greasy and disgusting as the vest she had wrapped around herself, she pulled out rounds of gauze and tan stretchy wrap.
Scanning up and down the hill, she gathered her things and carefully walked down into the ditch and out of direct sight of traffic. Her bare feet were going numb as she skidded and slid down the frozen gravel shoulder, avoiding patches of dirty snow. She needed a ride but didn’t want Blake seeing her if he came back.
The shiny emergency blanket was just large enough to make a flimsy skirt. With trembling fingers, she taped it carefully.
Now, she wrapped each foot in the ugly tan sports wrap, fastening it with the strips of duct tape that had been clinging to one leg, knowing better than to use the unreliable metal clips.
And there was a container of aspirin. She quickly chewed some of the bitter tablets, grateful for the sharp tang that negated the sour, sick taste of vomit.
The outfit was warmer than the T-shirt and shorts alone. Several vehicles had passed, traveling west down the hill. Now, hearing a high-powered engine approaching, she climbed back onto the road, standing next to the torque wrench, knowing better than to pick it up—she already looked crazy enough, dirty reflective vest clenched over her ill-dressed body.
The vehicle speeding up the hill was a Toyota pickup, flashing lights on top, wide load emblazoned on a six-foot sign buffeting in the wind. The nose of the pilot car dipped as the driver hit the brakes, and from seventy-five meters Terry could see the driver lift a mic to her mouth.
Terry stood quietly as the pickup slowed, the passenger window silently rolling down. The concerned woman in the driver’s seat was still, mouth formed in an “o.” She slammed the truck into park and, with one last burst of words, dropped the handset and hurried around to Terry as a Western Star rushed by in the passing lane.
“Oh, my dear, what happened to you?” The woman put an arm around Terry, steadying her. She walked Terry to the passenger door, tossing a clipboard and some neatly stacked paperwork into the rear bench. Settling Terry in the seat, she reached across, cranking the heater to the highest setting, selecting the “vent” option that blew hot air directly onto Terry. She switched the heated seat control to the maximum.
“Dear, are you in trouble?” Her face was concerned, waiting for Terry’s response.
“I don’t think so. Two guys. I think I hurt one of them bad.” The heavy smell of the woman’s perfume and the blast of warm air on her face and body were such a relief that Terry began to sob.
“They’re driving a flat deck Ford crew cab, it’s blue. The driver’s mirror is hanging off, and the rear driver-side window is broken.”
“I see.” Standing at Terry’s open door, the woman said, “Okay. I’m Freda. I’m piloting for my husband.” She indicated the wide load that had passed them and continued up the hill. “Right now, we are going to get some warm clothes on you, and some hot coffee inside, okay?”
Reaching across for the radio, Freda called her husband and gave a quick explanation.
Freda opened the rear door, and Terry heard the sound of a heavy zipper, three distinct “zips” from what she assumed was a suitcase being opened. The familiar scent of clothes fresh with fabric softener circulated through the vehicle.
The woman handed Terry some wet wipes, “Here you are, you need to clean your face. When she pulled down the visor and adjusted the mirror Terry was surprised to see blood dried on her face and on her arms as well. When her face and arms were clean, Freda helped Terry remove her vest and makeshift skirt. She quickly helped her pull on a thick, baby-blue sweatshirt with “World’s Best Grandma” in large, loopy script across the front. Then a pair of underlayer leggings, new from a box. They were loose on Terry, but so warm. Finally came a set of stiff, freshly washed, blue coveralls. Terry had relieved herself before returning to the road and was finally feeling warm and somewhat comfortable.
The normality of sipping coffee from a thermos lid, and the smell of the clean clothing, touched her deeply. She continued to sob silently, shaking with relief, mind and body reeling from the ordeal. It was over. No, it isn’t, she thought.
“Just a minute.”
Freda, standing at her open door, stepped back as Terry, her feet still wrapped in the ACE bandages, got out. She walked several yards up the road to retrieve the torque wrench from the shoulder.
Always a Brother Page 8