In the motel room, he laid awake beside her for some time, staring at a cheap painting of a mountain landscape on the far wall, pondering if he should postpone his flight to stay with her. During the night their shadowed bodies feasted on each other until they were spent. Light from the neon sign and streetlamp filtered through the curtains, playing on their bodies with a red and blue electrical hue. There was no past and no future in that room, only a needful present.
A card lay on the night table. A divorce card? Separation card? Or just a simple, ‘Leaving Your Loved One’ card? The last time he looked at cards he noticed how the industry had expanded to cover every possible occasion. He stretched an arm out for it. It was from her daughter, Emma; a simple card with bright sunflowers and ‘Thinking of You’ written in a flowery text.
It was the deciding factor for Gerry. He refused to be portrayed as the bad guy in this soap opera. As much as he wanted to deny it, he admitted to himself that his involvement did hold some responsibility. But he felt his influence was little more than a shadowy presence: a ship passing in the night. He didn’t think he’d outright stolen her away and was reasonably sure he hadn’t made any grand promises to her during the night. As much as he wanted to be the knight in shining armor, Karen would have to play the lead.
He tried to slip out quietly, but she heard him.
“Are you going home?” she’d asked and sat up in bed.
“Yes,” he’d said, his hand on the doorknob. “Got a plane to catch. You know where I’ll be.” And with all the gravity he could muster he’d said, “And I will be waiting.”
The scent of sex and sweat coated Gerry’s skin as he drove back to Fernly under the gray light of early dawn. The air beside the lake held a refreshing coolness. Pockets of fog clung to the ditches in small clouds. At the T junction, he turned north onto the highway toward Fernly. Part of his being remained with Karen in the motel room. With their minds clouded by passion, they’d said things to each other as lovers do.
Did he tell her something premature and impulsive like I love you?
Maybe he should have. His foot left the accelerator, and he drifted onto the shoulder of the empty road. He stared at the ditch and a narrow strip of fog pierced by cattails. What had the woman done to him? He’d left his business card in the bathroom, beside her toothpaste—the only encouragement he dared give her. It had all the info she’d need to get in touch.
He couldn’t ignore how natural it felt being with Karen. He tried to fathom how he fell so hard and fast. The comfort they’d slipped into so quickly wasn’t unlike what he’d shared with Helen when they first met. With Linda, the feeling just wasn’t there, even though he’d only slept with her once, and now probably would never again.
Linda. He shook his head and sighed. Their relationship had slowly reached a plateau where it levelled off. Stagnated. She wanted some movement, commitment—a pressure she constantly put on him. Linda came with her baggage of aggravating teenagers and an omnipresent, gun-loving brother, who saw himself as her chaperone and guardian, not unlike Karen’s father used to be. Gerry had to get Linda out of his head. Facing her again would be a major downer. Linda already stated her position, yet Gerry felt an obligation to have an ‘official’ end to it as his daughter suggested.
At least Karen knew it was no slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am deal. She’d be on his mind every moment; on the plane, at work, and at home, waiting for her call to give it a shot. Fernly brought them together again like two stars colliding, bright as burning magnesium. There was always the chance that taking them out of the town’s environment might snuff that flame as quick as it began.
And if she didn’t call? How long would he resist the urge to call her? A week? Two weeks? And call to where exactly? As far as he knew, she had no cellphone. He wasn’t sure how far he’d go to pursue her. Or, back home, comfortable in his real life, would he eventually write her off as a lost cause, glad to be out of the nightmare that brought them together?
Karen came with her own problems, notably her husband—a man best to avoid. He certainly made for a far worse situation. No one ever explained how Branko came to have such a fearsome reputation, and Gerry would prefer not to find out for himself. He was done with Branko forever.
Knowing Branko was Nick’s recent partner in crime fueled speculation, never mind his criminal record. Gerry had no fear of Branko, only natural respect toward a bigger man, much like against an adversary in the ring. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he thought what Branko did to Karen. The lingering soreness in his elbow was barely satisfying.
He pulled the car back onto the highway. The radio played a Santana tune, Black Magic Woman, and Gerry listened to the poignant lyrics as his mind roamed. He sang a few bars with Carlos.
His mind wandered to life and love for people in their forties. They naturally took stock of their position in space and time, weighing trade-offs they made early in life, scrutinizing the results. They questioned job satisfaction, marriage, kids, and relationships—anything and everything. The twenty-year syndrome. The first benchmark occurred shortly after high school or college, where one also had to take stock and choose a path.
If Karen were to make a bold move, it was certainly the right time. Gerry, bound only by Helen’s memory, realized in the past few days even that virtually disappeared. He smiled, thinking how his daughter would appreciate knowing it, saying something like, “About time you moved on, Dad” or “I think it might keep Mom’s pictures out of the living room.”
His thoughts ranged back to the motel room where Karen’s suitcases would be packed again soon. Which direction she’d carry them would be her decision. The temptation to take her for his own gnawed at him. He wanted her there, beside him on the flight, her sparkling smile and laughter filling his world. Wanted her scent on him; her body in his bed. Carlos, singing about what his woman did to him.
He stopped at a red light on the outskirts of Fernly and watched a city bus stop for a pedestrian crossing the street in front of it. Wouldn’t it be nice if Branko just walked out in front of it? Gerry slammed the heel of his hand against the wheel. That’d clear things up all around. Then again, Branko’s behavior was the reason Karen came willingly into his arms.
He pulled onto Gravel Street, driving slowly, his eye on Karen’s home—now just a house—with Branko’s lime green Duster parked in the driveway. He wondered if Branko was monitoring the window or had crashed from a night of boozing his troubles away.
Gerry drove up to the garage and killed the engine. He stood beside the car for a time, running his eyes around the yard and the old neighborhood, as dawn brightened the sky. The grass had soaked up the night rain like a sponge and would need cutting soon. Michael promised to send over a friend later this morning to give an estimate on the garage repair, then make a quick call to Arthur’s insurance company.
Arthur bravely stood at the sink attempting to fill a glass pot with water with one hand. Gerry watched him in silence as Arthur completed the task without spilling.
“Dad! That’s great,” said Gerry, pulling off his leather jacket. In the next instant, he noticed Arthur’s wobbling knees and dashed over to the wheelchair. He helped him sit and took over filling the kettle.
Arthur nodded his thanks and said, “Tying, va-ee tying.”
“It’ll get less and less tiring. A little bit every day, Dad.” At least he would be leaving on a positive note with his father visibly improving. He wasn’t sure if it was Arthur’s speech becoming somewhat clearer over the past week, or just his ability to interpret his altered articulation.
Arthur let out a long sigh as he slouched in the wheelchair. He toggled the switch and steered over to the table. Gerry finished loading the coffee maker and ducked into the shower. When he came out, he set to work building a breakfast of hash browns with green onions and fried eggs with some hot sauce, becoming hungrier by the minute as he cooked. Then they sat at the table eating in silence until Arthur eyed him oddly.
“What?” asked Gerry, annoyed by the persistent stare.
“You wis her yass night.”
“I already told you that,” replied Gerry, sweeping his toast around the egg yolk. “That’d be the ‘neighbor woman’.” He chuckled. “I like her, Dad. A lot. She’s left her husband. He’s been beating on her.”
Arthur shook his head disapprovingly. “My day, you ran wiss anozer mam’s wife…husbam wood roun up a poshee. Might haf a acident”
“A posse, yeah, the good old days, right? Morality squad lynching.”
Arthur nodded and finished eating. He set his fork on his plate. “You stiw weavin today?”
Gerry nodded. “Got to be at the airport by two. Staying any longer won’t do anyone any good.”
He cleaned off the table and tossed the dishes in the dishwasher. He shaved his father and called his daughter, telling her he’d be home around dinnertime and that he’d grab something at the airport before the flight.
A knock at the door startled him.
He slipped over to the window for a look, half-expecting another encounter with Branko. The man at the door was tall with black hair and clad in a t-shirt with a company logo, denim jacket, and jeans, grasping a clipboard.
Gerry went outside and showed the man the damaged garage. They talked about Michael while he did some calculations on a clipboard. The guy seemed competent enough, the estimate a fair one, so Gerry gave him the go ahead. He took the estimate inside and advised his father to give it to the insurance adjuster when he showed up.
“I’m gowin ta be owite, son? Wiw my house be safe?”
“Yeah, should be alright, it’s me he wants.”
Arthur didn’t look entirely convinced. He told his son it would be rude not to call Irene before he left. Gerry thought about it for a time and picked up the receiver. He noticed the message light flashing on the machine. Pushing the button, he stood by the living room window looking out at Karen’s house. His father’s former voice on the tape sounded as if it were another man speaking.
“…after the tone.”
The beeps stopped. In its place was a long silence that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.
“It ain’t over…till it’s over.”
The voice.
Hollow and scratchy. Edged with menace.
A cold wind blew over Gerry. He turned toward the machine, but his body didn’t respond, afraid he would see the face of death rising from it.
Waves of fear radiated from his core. He dropped on the couch like a heavy stone.
But who could it be? Who else would know?
The earlier messages sounded almost jovial in comparison, as if the caller was enjoying his demented game. The voice was obviously disguised, but did it even come close to sounding like Branko? Visions rushed in, crowding his mind—Nick’s limp, sooty body lying on the gravel, Ginny’s ferocious toothy grin, a battered and bruised Branko confronting him on the driveway, the stony look on Michael’s face in the moonlight beside the river.
And Sam’s piercing, determined eyes, like a hunter locked onto a spoor. The key turning in the lock of the black box.
He felt himself circling a drain.
Everything Gerry knew, or thought he knew, meant nothing.
And someone knew everything.
Who?
His breaths came in short gasps as if a vise clenched his torso.
An old beer drinking rhyme looped repeatedly in his head. ‘Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall…ninety-nine bottles of beer…’
And he was the last bottle of beer on the wall.
“He cowed me ast ite.”
Arthur’s voice startled him.
“You okay, son?”
Gerry rubbed his face with both hands. He stared at the wall as his father looked at him with concern; speaking, the words reverberating as if coming through a tunnel.
“Goo thing you goin home, son.”
Home.
The word hung suspended in the room.
Home to Vancouver where the young mother was killed by the voice.
Nick and Brian’s violent deaths were courtesy of the voice. The voice lived.
Gerry felt powerless to get off this dangerous path that could only lead to impending doom. The voice wouldn’t be satisfied until Gerry's head was mounted on a wall. It wouldn’t come by a gun or knife—too easy—it would be a trap set when his crew entered a burning structure. Maybe a fiery explosion. Every time the station alarm went off, he’d feel an extra jolt. Second-guessing command decisions at calls would drive him mad.
The voice proved itself quite capable. Determination, planning, and success were not to be taken lightly. He cursed himself for not acting on installing a call display for the phone. He sank deeply into the chair, swallowed by it, feeling terribly heavy, wishing for a bottle of whiskey. The thought made his throat go dry. His tongue felt large and swollen.
Arthur appeared before him holding a glass of water. Gerry climbed out of his trance and took the water, gulping it hurriedly. He went into his room and packed, hastily cramming items into his bags along with small items from his boyhood he’d found in the basement, and the black key box. The medallion went inside the middle of his carry-on, padded by t-shirts and socks. The item evoked a peculiar feeling, like a constant gnawing, growing. He debated whether he should get rid of it forever. He glanced around the room, sweeping it in a final check, and stopped on the West Gate yearbook on the dresser. He stared at it, thinking about leaving it there. But it contained a picture of Karen, the only one he might ever have.
He called his sister. No answer, but he left a farewell message and a weak apology on her machine and moved his bags outside into the car trunk. He went into the backyard and gazed around, stopping on the window where Karen climbed in. He drew in a deep breath and returned inside. He slid out a kitchen chair in front of his father and slowly sat, taking Arthur’s cool hands in his, and squeezed, fearing he might never see the man again.
They looked at each other for a long silent minute.
“You get better. Look after yourself. Work hard on the therapy. I’m really sorry about all this, Dad.” Gerry broke from his gaze and shook his head a few times. “I never thought what I did back then would see the light of day.” He bowed low, his forehead almost on his father’s knees.
Arthur returned the affection, mustering as firm a squeeze as he could manage. He ran a hand through his son’s hair. In spite of the recent tragedies, he was grateful to have seen his son after such a long time. He mumbled in a soothing tone, hoping to console his troubled offspring. Gerry’s tears were warm on his hands.
A dump truck rumbled past on the street, the loose gravel rattling in its box. The sound drew them apart. Gerry saw the wetness in his father’s eyes and sniffed as he wiped away his own. Before he walked through the door, he took a final look back at his father, who appeared especially frail.
Arthur rolled out to the veranda, waving as his son backed the car out. Gerry drove away and glanced into the rear-view as Karen’s house and Gravel Street diminished. Maybe forever.
As soon as he passed the town limits the feeling changed—a massive sense of relief overwhelmed him—like he’d felt years ago when he fled. He pulled onto the shoulder, almost breathless, and sat with his eyes shut tightly, resting his forehead on the steering wheel for some time, attempting to erase Fernly, grateful to have escaped a nest of demons.
All the way to the airport, he tried to dispel a rising fear of the immediate future and how to forestall his impending death. The voice wouldn’t let up until it finished with everyone connected with Zimmer’s death. Gerry knew how easy a target he would be at work; an abandoned vehicle flaming out of control, gas cans jammed in the back seat or trunk.
The only way to avoid it was to make himself a more difficult target, stop being a frontline firefighter. Transferring into investigations would be a good move. He’d be nearly bulletproof there. The voice would be forced to try another tack, something unfamiliar, maybe slip up. Gerry knew his home made for a juicy target, but a far too obvious one. Life would deteriorate into endless paranoia.
Who was the face behind the voice on the phone?
The man wouldn’t likely be strolling up his driveway with a shotgun. The man would have to case him out at work and at home. Vigilance and suspicion would be necessary.
In his desperation for a suspect, Bruno Martella’s image came to mind but was immediately dismissed. Gerry felt bad thinking about a brother firefighter like that, but it wouldn’t be the first time a firefighter took up arson. Certainly, the man had the knowledge and the motive—jealousy. Anyhow, Bruno had been at his side during most of the Vancouver fires, putting himself at risk. Bruno had no connection to Fernly, as far as Gerry knew. For him to discover the shared past on Modano, Tremblay, and Zimmer would be about as much investigative work as Sam was doing.
Traffic was light and the smog thickened on the way to Toronto’s Pearson airport. He turned in the rental car and bought a magazine, hoping to take his mind off things for the five-hour flight. He spent a half-hour in an airport bar, in an alcove in sight of check-in terminals, staring at hundreds of preoccupied faces as they passed.
His usual seat, one he paid for, was in the rear on the port side beside the emergency door. In an emergency, he wanted to be the guy with access, in control. In most news films he’d seen, the tail section, more often than not, fared better in crashes. The plane was only half-full.
A young man in his thirties with thick curly brown hair, wearing a blue blazer and jeans, took up the seat beside him. Gerry nodded a greeting. The man produced a briefcase and opened it revealing a thin laptop computer, a cellphone type he’d never seen before, file folders, and another component with an LED screen.
Gerry asked him about how much work he could do on the plane and was surprised to discover he could send a fax, email, and make in-flight calls. “I thought inflight calls were banned,” asked Gerry. The man handed him a business card.
Encom Technologies-Joel Landers.
“Never heard of them. Anyhow, I’m Gerry.”
The man smiled. “Glad to meet you. I’m Joel, an IT guy. This here setup is in beta testing. We’re hoping to win the in-flight office tech race. If you need to make a call, let me know.”
Sometime after the plane lifted off Gerry settled in and reached under the seat for his carry-on bag and the yearbook. He opened it, leafing through to Karen’s senior class. Yeah, she was good then and better now, he remarked to himself. There were some pretty girls in her class who appeared quite sexy back then, but in hindsight looked pretty sleazy. Like Ginny.
A few pages over was his class of miscreants, tough guys, and a few extremely bright fellows. Two of the brighter guys owned successful companies—at least that’s what he heard ten years ago. He flipped over to the athletics section and the Eagles football team where a slim, rugged Branko smiled, clasping a football, posed as if ready to snap a pass. He probably looked like that when he snagged Karen a year or two later. He wondered how Branko got along with her mean father.
Gerry came across Michael’s picture and smiled. Quite a guy. Few friendships could last with so many miles and so much time between them yet still maintain camaraderie, as though they’d seen each other only last week. Two old comfy shoes, we were, he thought. Michael’s only picture in the book was with the Juicers, an extra-curricular club. The Juicers stood around a workbench displaying ammeters and various other technical instruments in the school’s Electric Shop Club.
The Auto Club photo, being a group shot, was a half-pager taking in about twenty-five students ranging from juniors to seniors, posing before what appeared to be a 70’s era Cutlass. The club boasted a large membership because guys wanted to know how to do simple maintenance.
Brian Tremblay squatted front and center, grasping a grease gun and pointing it like an automatic rifle. His long, dark hair, parted in the middle, hung down the sides of his face, matching his Fu Manchu moustache. He wore a long-sleeve shirt, easily hiding the ugly scar on his forearm, courtesy of old man Zimmer.
A face at the end of the front row struck a chord in Gerry—a disturbing familiarity.
The young fresh-faced boy was no doubt a junior. The longer he stared at the round face, the more it made him uneasy. Somewhere, he’d seen that face before. He leafed back to the individual photos, profiles of the grade nine boys. The boy’s round face held solemn eyes and an unruly mop of straw-like hair. Paul May was his name. Gerry narrowed his eyes and took a pen from inside his blazer. He drew a moustache under the boy's nose.
Gerry’s face paled.
Paul was the staring guy at the reunion with the camera.
The same face from the news clipping on the library microfiche; now an older, more filled out version.
The little boy in the picture where Adrian’s wife donated the artifacts to the Fernly library.
Paul Zimmer aka Paul May. Hiding in plain sight
Gerry felt like he was falling through a trap door.
Paul, the guy in the maroon car who slowly passed him on his way to Nick’s. Paul, taking his picture at the reunion and getting an eyeful of him dancing with Karen. Had to be. And somehow knew where and when Gerry worked as well as what he’d done every single day since he arrived in Fernly.
The voice. It fit so neatly. There was no one else it could be. His breaths grew rapid and his heart rate ramped up.
“You okay there, fella?” asked Joel. “Not airsick I hope, eh?” He shifted a bit further from Gerry.
“Uh, no…not really, just a little nauseous.” Gerry caught the attention of a steward and ordered a whiskey. He squirmed in his seat, unable to take his eyes from the photo. Joel grew uncomfortable, continually eyeing him with furtive glances.
Gerry felt his brow moisten and looked out the window at the puffy white clouds, trying to calm himself by envisioning a serene scene of sitting in his boat floating in a back bay with the coastal mountains surrounding him.
Like a rubber-necker passing a traffic accident, Gerry’s eyes returned to the photo. He read the caption below with the student profile and was stabbed by another blade of fear.
The last words in Paul’s student profile were—Master Planner.
Paul May. Destined to inherit a possible treasure to only learn there was nothing for him but an old family tragedy.
Gerry felt his nerves fray.
Michael’s words echoed in his mind “Pretty good stretch, eh?” He hadn’t missed by much. Only it wasn’t the mother, Anna, it was her little boy doing the killing. After Adrian Zimmer died, she must have remarried or reverted back to her maiden name.
It was little satisfaction to Gerry figuring out the who because he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Based on two pages in the yearbook, it was a ninety percent certainty.
Paul covered his tracks well. The only tangible proof of anything was on his father’s answering machine. Of course, even that was disguised and probably came from a phone booth. And the man upstairs at the Fernly fire station sitting on the computer—a blond man—as Gerry and Sam passed the office he worked in. The man disappeared before Gerry left Sam’s office. He recalled her saying his name was Paul but couldn’t recall the last name. Too much coincidence. How many Pauls with blonde hair could there be running around Fernly and in Gerry’s orbit?
Had to be him. Having access to the Fernly fire computer and fire investigation networks it would be easy to hack into Vancouver’s system. Wonderful. And the why was becoming clearer although still speculation on Gerry’s part. No doubt the kid used to sit on grandpa’s knee, eating up the man’s daring adventures, probably likening him to some kind of Indiana Jones. For years, Paul likely envisioned a life of luxury, compliments of Grandpa Ben Zimmer’s treasure. There was nothing. Paul must have been devastated upon his grandfather’s death. People killed for much less.
How Paul made the connections was the intriguing part. As far as Gerry knew, Nick always possessed the key. A hunch came to Gerry; along with a flash of Nick lying prone on the gravel drive as good as dead. He rapidly flipped to the individual shots of the West Gate senior class, usually taken the same day.
Now, one hundred percent sure.
That’s how Paul knew. They were in the same class. There it was in the V of Brian’s partially unbuttoned shirt, hanging from a chain, the top of a rounded object was visible—the top of the medallion.
Gerry closed his eyes. The puzzle was nearly complete.
And he was the final piece.
Gerry let out a short blast of air and shook his head. At the barbecue, Sam told him about Nick and Brian having quite the fight outside a bar. Nick became a suspect in Brian’s death because of it. No one knew for sure what set them off.
Gold fever? Had they ended their friendship bitterly over an object with no apparent value but still somehow worth something to each of them. Sure, they’d paid a heavy price to get it. The potential of finding something for the key to open must have kept their hopes high and imaginations running over the years. The two dummies hadn’t bothered to research Zimmer, just sat on their butts waiting for the Tooth Fairy or a drug-induced vision to lead them to an imaginary treasure fueled by a memento. Or had they really found Ben Zimmer’s treasure?
Brian likely took initial possession of the key because he paid the price; wore the scar from the home invasion. A trophy for putting the final boots into old man Zimmer.
Gerry turned to Joel who was typing on his laptop. “About that phone. I sure could use it.”
“No problem. Where are you calling? Just need to know for the testing.”
“Fernly, Ontario.”
“Okay, I’ll key in my code. Just punch in your number with the area code.” He handed Gerry a sheet. “You have to rate the quality of the call, too.”
Gerry took Michael’s business card from his wallet and entered the numbers. Michael’s cellphone rang a dozen times before he picked it up.
“Miss me already, eh?” Michael said, with a short laugh. Hammering sounds and the whining of a drill filled the background. “Just a minute, it’s really noisy in here. I’ll go outside.”
Gerry covered the receiver as best he could and explained how he figured everything out.
“Really incredible, Gerry. Paul May, eh? Devious prick. At the dance with the camera, too. Makes sense, yeah. To think he went through all that for nothing.”
“He doesn’t know that. Probably figures there’s still gold in them thar hills. I got to give you points for coming so close to figuring it out, Michael. Close, but no cigar.”
“Guy needs all the points he can get. And Gerry? If I remember right, Paul May was on the Fernly fire auxiliary, before my time though. I never saw him. I only knew he wasn’t active anymore but helped out by upgrading our computers. Sam probably knows him better.”
“So, it was really him I saw there.”
“I get more points. Yeah. Could be where he picked up his knowledge. She probably taught him some investigation tricks.”
“And we know what the flipside of fire investigation is,” said Gerry. “I figure Paul somehow heard of Tremblay and Modano from his mom, the rumors about the fire. Then, sometime after the fire, after seeing the medallion around Brian’s neck at school, put things together.” He drew in a deep breath and paused for a few moments. “He killed Modano, Tremblay, and likely my fire death victim in Vancouver.”
“I’d have to say that is compelling evidence, but why do you think it took him so long?”
“That’s anyone’s guess. Did his life go for shit so he started looking into his past and what could have been?” He paused. “Michael, you think you can call Sam for me, let her know?”
“Whoa there, buddy. Bad idea. I do that, I’ll have to tell her what I know. You really want me to do that? She’s straight up, she’ll go after me hard for withholding evidence. I have nothing to trade to hold her off, not like you do…just a minute.” A door closed loudly, and the background noise hushed. His voice lowered. “You want this to blow a hole in your life? This could go south if you don’t control it.” Michael lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “I think it would be a real bad idea if you involve more people.”
“I’m not sure what I should or shouldn’t do.”
“Gee, the crime might be too old to worry over. There’s a statute of limitations for some crimes so—”
“This was murder, Michael. If I lived to a hundred it wouldn’t matter.”
“On that, yes, but your involvement was minor…an accessory or manslaughter. How do they say…aiding and abetting? I’d just let it die.”
The phone went silent for a long moment. The man beside him rubbed the back of his hand and stared out the window.
“Hey, Gerry? When I first signed up, the guys were showing me some stuff on the computer; personal emails between the Hamilton Fire Chief and some woman in a city department there. Juicy stuff. Fit for the Penthouse magazine letters section. Their affair went public. Big messy scandal. But the guys said Paul was the hacker who intercepted it all. They saved the messages for a laugh. I’m thinking he hacked it directly from city computers.”
Gerry nodded. “From what Sam told me—which an investigator in my department corroborated—confidential computer files have been compromised. Paul sure looks good for the hacker, too” he said, letting out a loud breath, thinking about how easy it would be for an IT guy to sneak in and snoop around in any number of networks if he had proper access or passwords.
“Gee? I’d like to help you out but can’t think of what I could do. I’ll work on it. Get a lawyer—a good one. Don’t fall for Sam’s smooth assurances. She’s just waiting to pounce. Get some concrete promises on paper. You have good stuff to trade for. Take care, mon ami.”
Joel turned to him when he ended the call. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Did you really find a killer?”
Gerry nodded and handed the phone back to him. “And I can’t do a damn thing about it.”
“That’s…like a way cool story,” added Joel, handing him a questionnaire and a pen.
Not if you’re the next target, Gerry almost said. He felt a great urgency to get home, a need he couldn’t quite fathom because up here at thirty thousand feet, at least he was safe from the Master Planner. Gerry checked all the boxes—yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes.
After a long period of frazzled thoughts and two whiskeys, tension stoked anxiety in him almost like a phobia. He went to the washroom and threw some cold water on his face, his eyes automatically seeking the scar as he looked in the mirror, images flashing before him.
Back in his seat he took out his wallet and pondered Sam’s card for some time. Maybe it was time to call in the troops. “Okay to use your phone again?” He told Joel he was calling Vancouver and punched in Sam Markham’s number. Her phone went to a machine causing him to curse aloud, garnering frowns from nearby passengers. The message played, then clicked as Sam picked up.
“Well, well. Captain Ormond. I’ve just been thinking about you. What can I do for you?”
“I have some information you might find interesting.”
“I was wondering when you’d come clean.”
Gerry grunted. “I need you to look into Paul May.”
“Paul May?”
The depth of her surprise was clear even at altitude.
“Sounds like you know him, right?”
“Know him? Yeah, I do. He installed all our software, wired us up with everyone across the country. Looks after all our investigative files.”
Gerry nodded. “Another piece of this puzzle. It’s how he knew my duty schedule and all the present investigations—yours, and ours in Vancouver.”
“Put on the brakes right there, Ormond. You think he’s the one lighting everything up? You better not be flinging me any more bullshit because that’s all you’ve been giving me. Did you just pick his name out of the phone book?” She paused for a long moment. “I know you know something—always have—but this sure doesn’t sound like it. You got anything; you tell me sans bullshit. You already owe me for those police patrols at—”
“It’s big. Believe me. But what I owe you is small potatoes. You’re going to have to go the extra mile. It’s that big.”
She laughed derisively. “The extra mile? Who you kidding, Ormond?”
Her tone made him wince. “Look, I think I’m next on this guy’s hit list and—”
“Paul May’s more likely to have a grocery list, Ormond. He’s a soft touch, a Walter Mitty type. You’re slinging me bullshit. Give me something right now or I hang up.”
“I can give you the murderer of Ben Zimmer—your cold case.” Gerry paused letting it sink in, sensing some control. “You like that?”
“Zimmer? How’s he connected with May?”
“Paul May is his grandson.”
She paused to absorb the news. “You know for a fact Tremblay and Modano murdered him? You were there, right?”
Silence. Gerry took a step back, tried to slow his mind with a deep breath, closing his eyes, preparing to enter a minefield. Where was the playful Samantha he’d met at the barbecue? “I…have an eyewitness.”
“Who?” barked Sam. “If you’re taking me on some merry-go-round on this—!”
“I’m not. I swear. But my witness wants immunity. Protection to testify.”
“C’mon Ormond, I’m a fire marshal. You know I don’t have that kind of authority.”
“Who the hell does out there?”
She sighed. “A crown prosecutor. William Edwards is the county guy I work with here.”
Frustration washed over Gerry. More people involved. He gripped the phone. “Well, get him to give me some.” Gerry cursed as he stepped on the first mine, imagining a leg blown off.
She chuckled, reverting back to a college girl's tone. “The first time I asked you about Modano and Tremblay I could tell you knew more than you were letting on. You’re a terrible liar.” She laughed again. “I was even thinking of bringing you in the one time, making you sweat—”
“Shut the hell up, Sam! I don’t have to give you anything if—”
“Then why the hell are you?” she roared back.
Joel turned his head.
Gerry thought about her words. Was he really that afraid of Paul May, the Walter Mitty of arsonists? “I told you. I believe I’m next on his list. I want you to trust me and to help me, and I’ll help you.” He spoke slowly and drew in a deep breath. “You’ve got the connections to protect me and arrest him before he can make another move.”
“Maybe, I can. But I’ll need more than your theories for an arrest. My brother-in-law at Fernly PD is one thing, but anyone else will need even more.”
“Look, Sam. What I can give you is the shortcut option. I can come clean tell you now, or you can pry it out of me later while we dance with the courts and lawyers. Or you can dick around with it later, standing over my corpse wishing you could have wrapped up your cold cases.” Gerry’s knuckles went white on the phone.
Silence.
Gerry thought he heard a metallic squeak over the line, imagining her leaning back in her chair, picking over the details. Probably eyeing the arrows she spoke about on her whiteboard, sticking voodoo pins in his photo. As he waited for a response, he thought of Paul May hacking away, infiltrating department computers and correspondence, knowing everything; when Gerry’s shift was on duty, the numerous small fires in Vancouver, the phone warnings to terrorize him. Sending messages that the Angel of Death was hot on his heels. The pins in the map at home getting Joni involved, trying to help figure things out. A pattern, she’d said. Some German name. And the Greek letter X?
“Sam? I’m going to call my daughter. She may be in danger. You talk to your crown prosecutor pal on the hot line. I’ll call you back in…” Gerry glanced at his watch, “a half-hour.”
He cleared another call with Joel and dialed his home number, feeling his nerves jangle with every ring, hoping she was home.
“Joni. Good to hear you, again. Yeah. Fine. I’m on the plane. The district map with the pins and that, uh, blot thing?”
“Rorschach, Dad.”
“Yeah, right, I need you to look at it. That Greek letter you mentioned…”
“For sure. It’s an X, Greek for chi. I told you. A big X.”
Gerry cursed under his breath. He should have put it together. The guys at the station mentioned he might even be the target. “You’re sure the intersection of the X is our house?” A foregone conclusion, he thought. For a treasure hunter, X marks the spot. Smack dab in the middle of AXE. The old dysfunctional frat.
“More or less our house, Dad.” She said nothing for a long. “Thought you said he was dead? Did you get in more trouble there or something?”
“He is dead, but it’s not him. A long time ago I did something, and a guy is trying to get even. A fire investigator in Fernly is trying to help. I’ll tell you when I get home. But until then, please leave the house. The X is his target—our house. Promise me you’ll go to the mall or next door for a few hours, sit with Mrs. Niederlander? Or help her in her garden. Okay?”
“Sure, Dad,” she replied softly.
Probably thinks I’m nuts, he thought, always telling her to keep away from the house. He glanced at his watch; one-and-half-hours from Vancouver. Twenty minutes to Investigator Markham. Gerry noticed his seatmate had closed his briefcase and was paying rapt attention to him.
“Pardon me,” said Joel, closing his laptop. “You’re getting kind of loud. I mean you were yelling in the phone and all.”
Gerry sucked in a long breath. “Yeah. Sorry for disturbing you.” He craned his neck to pick out an empty spot, thinking of changing seats. “I’ll need the phone again, pretty quick.”
Joel handed him another questionnaire. Then he snapped his fingers. “Now I know. Figured I’d seen you before. You’re the fire guy, got that medal last week, right? Cool. Saw it on TV news highlights.”
Gerry nodded and they made small talk, a welcome distraction for Gerry as he monitored the second hand on his watch. Joel went on to explain the uber modern operation of his portable office. Gerry thought Joel’s wand scanner and email capabilities might come in handy if he had to get a deal on paper with Sam. He decided to stay in his seat.
Mercifully, the half-hour elapsed, and he didn’t have to listen to tech talk and jabber with Joel. He made the call. “Sam? What did you find out?”
She sighed, a low tone like a rumble coming over the line. “The honorable William Edwards said, “On what basis?” Ormond, you haven’t given me anything. I need something. He wouldn’t commit to a deal, but if you come clean, he’ll do his best to cut you some slack.”
“Slack? No slack. I want the rope cut. If the media gets a hold of this, they’ll twist it. My department will crucify me. The public will shit on me.” Gerry closed his eyes. “All I have is circumstantial evidence on Paul May—a letter that’s very compelling, almost hard evidence.”
She didn’t say anything.
The stress weighed on him like fatigue, making him feel very heavy. “Sam, I’m desperate here. C’mon, I’m an eyewitness to murder for Christ's sake.”
Silence again. Gerry heard a tapping over the line, maybe a pencil.
“I’ll need something. Got that letter with you?”
“I can give you that. If nothing else, you’ll get one feather in your cap; one cold case closed. And it points directly to Paul May aka Zimmer who has strong motives to kill Modano and Tremblay. It blows everything open.”
Sam let out an audible hiss of air.
The heel of Gerry’s foot hammered against the floor. “Come on, Sam. What more do you want, another eyewitness in a twenty-year old case? It ain’t gonna happen, you know that.” He had an impulse to hang up, leave her with her glorious visions of solved cases dried up and blowing away. His facial nerves tingled, radiating like the heat after a slap.
“Ormond? Hang on a sec.”
Gerry’s jaw dropped slightly. He turned to Joel. “What the hell? I find her a murderer and she puts me on hold.”
Joel frowned. After a long moment, Sam came back on the line. “That was Fernly PD. Paul May isn’t home right now.”
Gerry deflated.
“But they did have a peek in his garage, a workshop of sorts. Several pictures of you pinned up, a few dancing with Branko Chelnick’s wife. Tsk, tsk, Ormond, you sure know how to stir the pot. A map with stick pins in it around your Vancouver fire district. It’d be a stretch in a courtroom but right now he is a person of interest. I can talk to the RCMP, plead your case. I’ll contact Vancouver PD, too.”
Gerry gave her the home number of Scott Byrd, with the Richmond RCMP detachment. “Get him to baby-sit my house till I get home. He’s a good friend.”
“And I’ll need that letter, Ormond, along with your statement. Write it out and fax it to me when you land. Listen, this is going to take time. I don’t know how they’re going to react to this story out there—hell, out here even.”
“When you get an assurance from the lawyer, I’ll give you the eyewitness and statement to seal this case.” Gerry placed his hand over the mouthpiece and rummaged in his carry on and the black box inside. He turned to Joel and asked if he would scan the letter and send it.
“Yeah, can do,” said Joel, excitement in his tone. “Glad to help put away a murderer. No problem at all.”
Gerry nodded and handed him Ben Zimmer’s confession and Sam’s business card with her email address on it. “Sam? It’s on its way.”
“Wow,” said Joel, reading the letter. “This is pretty cool.”
Gerry had an impulse to tear it away from him but decided it would do no harm to his own case. He hadn’t killed Adrian. Joel had been privy to his every word with Sam, albeit only one side of the conversation. For the life of him, Gerry couldn’t recall if he’d admitted to anything concerning the murder. Screw it, he thought, he needed the guy’s hi-tech office-in-a-box. The whole thing would probably come out in the wash anyhow, unravel like a roll of one-ply dropping off a bridge.
He looked at Joel’s face and read him as a decent fellow. But could he keep a secret? Joel placed the letter on the lid of his laptop and waved the scanner wand slowly across it. When he pressed send, Gerry grabbed his hand. “This has got to stay between us,” said Gerry, with a hard look, the gravity in his voice eliciting a faint tremble in Joel’s green eyes.
“Uh, sure. Yeah, cool. You know, I’ve been to the Philippines…”
As Joel yammered on beside him, Gerry reclined in his seat, knowing the email might just be what Sam needed to put things into motion. He was strangely relieved he’d brought her in. At least he wasn’t entirely alone. But once he got home, he would have to give it all up. He could only hope it would be worth it.
He felt like demanding the pilot put the pedal to the metal to get this bird moving. Or standing up in the aisle screaming. If the RCMP weren’t interested or weren’t able to move fast enough, Vancouver PD might be. If either of them sent a unit to his home they’d want to know why. He didn’t want any fire units involved, either. Fire Chief Herstmann would then want to know how he’d cleared the Vancouver arsons. And on and on and on.
Let the cards fall where they will, he thought.
An image flashed in his head of playing cards, the famous Wild Bill Hickok hand of eights and aces, strewn into a blazing fireplace.