Compared with the horror of the last few moments—moments that had seemed almost surreal—the silence and relative calm now was just plain eerie. Brad stood frozen with the gun shaking in his hand, and stared unbelieving at what he’d just done. The bodies of both men lay on the floor, twitching. Colin on top of the stranger, lying face up, staring at the ceiling.
Brad shook his head, trying to convince himself that this was just a bad dream. Alas, it wasn’t.
And the bodies were still twitching.
Suddenly, Colin gasped. Actually, more like a long exhale. Brad forced himself to move. He dropped the gun and dashed over to the bodies, grabbing a pillow from the couch along the way. He knelt down beside Colin and raised his head up, sliding the pillow underneath. The man’s eyes were rolling, trying hard to focus.
His lips pursed, trying to form words. Brad reached over and dragged a blanket off the side chair, stuffing it into Colin’s massive chest wound. He applied pressure and stared into his landlord’s eyes. They were semi-focused now, and it felt to Brad as if the man was staring right into his soul. Judging it, condemning it. A soul that right now felt about as empty as a soul could feel.
Suddenly, Colin seemed to smile—maybe it was just the gas escaping through his mouth and nose, but to Brad it seemed like a genuine smile. Maybe his conscience just wanted it to be. A raspy noise came from deep down in his throat, and then words. Slowly, quietly, but they were real words. Brad leaned down and put his right ear close to Colin’s lips. It was barely a whisper.
“Check…Katy.”
His wife!
“I will, Colin. Hang on—we’re going to get some help.”
Brad turned his head back toward the couch and yelled. “Kristy, phone 911!” He couldn’t see her, but knew she was still down on the floor.
He felt a weak tug on his shirtsleeve. Colin was trying to get his attention again.
He whispered, “Letters…pocket.”
Suddenly, Colin’s head raised slightly and blood began streaming out of his mouth and nose. Brad looked on in horror as the man’s eyes rolled up into his forehead—then the head fell back down onto the pillow again as a massive sigh erupted from his lungs.
Brad knew he was gone. He put his fingers up against the side of his throat and on the inside of his wrist. Nothing.
He leaned back on his haunches and just stared for a few seconds, hearing his stomach gurgling with panic. He looked behind him—Kristy was standing up now, one hand holding the phone, the other hand covering her eyes.
Brad reached underneath Colin and checked the pulse of the stranger. Dead as well.
He stood and walked back to Kristy, took the phone out of her hand and wrapped his arms around her. “Did you phone 911?” he whispered.
“No,” she sobbed, shaking her head.
“I have to go check on Colin’s wife. I’ll take the phone with me. Are you okay here until I get back?”
Kristy shook her head violently. “No! I’m…staying with you!”
Brad grabbed her by the hand and pulled in the direction of the door. “Okay, let’s hurry!”
Out the door they ran, both breathing heavily. A light drizzle was falling, typical of late summer on Vancouver Island.
They dashed in the direction of the tiny cabin, illuminated by a single table lamp in the miniature living room.
Brad led the way up onto the wooden porch and pushed open the front door. The sight that greeted them wasn’t much better than the one they had just left behind. A once beautiful Border collie was lying on its side in a pool of blood, just to the left of the foyer. As their eyes adjusted to the dim light, they saw Colin’s wife, Katy. Sitting in an easy chair, eye glasses riding down over the bridge of her nose, a book lying face down in her lap.
And a bullet hole in the center of her forehead.
Her face was streaked with blood and for one weird moment Brad was reminded of the scene from the movie, Carrie, the one with Sissy Spacek’s face smeared in pig’s blood.
Kristy put her hands over her eyes and started to sob. Brad walked over to the very dead Katy. It was clearly a moot point, but he checked her pulse anyway—only because Colin, in the throes of death, had asked him to.
Then, acting purely on survival instinct, Brad headed towards the little office in the rear of the cabin. “Stay here, Kristy, I’ll be right back.”
He knew what he was looking for—evidence that he and Kristy had checked in. He’d asked Colin, when they’d arrived three days ago, to keep his visit incognito. Being a famous journalist, Brad was accustomed to wearing disguises and registering under phony names. But, he hadn’t worn a disguise that day, and Colin had recognized him as soon as he’d gotten out of his car. Seemed thrilled, a little star-struck. But, Brad had begged him to keep him off his records, to not tell anyone who he was, and then rewarded him with an up-front cash payment for the five days they’d planned to stay—along with a three-day bonus.
Despite the horror they’d just experienced, Brad was thinking rationally—and with self-preservation in mind. If their names were written down anywhere, he’d eliminate that evidence. Now that he’d determined there were no lives left to save, nothing would be gained by reporting this. In fact, a little voice was telling him that everything would be lost if they did report it. Instinct and gut feel were guiding him. It was the letter—he knew it was trouble. There was something about that one letter and the other nineteen.
There were several folders and papers on the desk. Brad leafed through them, scanning them quickly with his trained eyes. Nothing. Then, he went through all the drawers in the desk. Again, nothing with their names. Brad noticed that Colin’s computer was still on. He punched one of the keys and the screen lit up, but the CPU was locked and a prompt for a password appeared. Brad cursed under his breath. He just had to hope that there was nothing on the computer, but from what he could tell, Colin ran an old-fashioned little operation. Seemed to be all paper—the folders contained lists of prior guests and future guests. But, luckily, didn’t seem to list the current guests.
Brad started to turn away from the desk, but then stopped himself. Safer to just take the damn laptop. He unplugged it, shoved it inside its padded case that was lying on the floor, and stuffed it under his arm.
Brad took one last glance around the office and saw a calendar hanging on the wall. He walked over to it. In the square for the day he and Kristy had arrived, August twentieth, was written in black marker pen: “Bradley Crawford! Wow!”
Brad cursed again. He ripped the entire month of August off the calendar and shoved the page into his back pocket.
Before leaving the office, he took a quick peek in the garbage can. Some rolled up pieces of paper and chewing gum wrappers. Brad unrolled each sheet and gave them a quick once-over. All clear. Then he noticed that at the bottom of the can was a large brown envelope—legal size. He pulled it out and saw that it was addressed to Colin. He flipped it over and looked at the return address—no name, just a post office box in McLean, Virginia. Strange, he thought. An envelope addressed to an innkeeper on Vancouver Island, Canada, from an address in Virginia? And it was postmarked only ten days ago, so Colin had just received it.
Then it occurred to him. This envelope was just big enough to hold a pile of letters.
He folded the envelope and stuffed that in his back pocket as well. He dashed to the outer cabin where Kristy stood with her hands still over her eyes. He spun her around toward the door. “We have to go, Kristy!”
Her body obeyed the spin. Then she muttered, “Aren’t we calling 911?”
“No point.”
“The police?”
Brad opened the door and nudged her outside. “No point in that either. In fact, better that we don’t.”
Kristy protested. “But…they’re all dead!”
He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her back toward the cottage in a jog. “Not our fault. And not our problem. If we contact the police, it’ll become our problem.”
“But…Brad…”
“I’ll explain more later. Right now, we have to get off this island before we won’t be able to.”
He pushed open the door to the cottage. “Kristy, pack our stuff together—fast! Don’t leave anything behind!” He ran over and knelt once again beside Colin’s body.
“What…are you doing?”
Brad looked up. “Before he died, Colin mentioned the letters—said they were in his pocket. I’m going to take them.”
Kristy just stared at him.
“Kristy, trust me. It’s what we have to do. Please—just pack!”
She ran to the bedroom, and Brad immediately started rifling through Colin’s pockets. Checked his sport jacket, inside and out. Then lifted him slightly and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his pants. Pants that were moist—Brad shuddered, knowing why. Then he checked the front pockets. Nothing.
He scratched his head. Did Colin mean the pocket of something hanging in his closet back in the cabin?
Then it dawned on him. He meant the killer’s pocket! Of course, the man had already taken them from Colin and came over to the cottage looking for the one missing letter.
Brad gently eased Colin over onto his side so he could gain clear access to the killer. He reached inside the man’s jacket—sure enough, he felt a handful of letters in one of the pockets. Brad pulled them out and counted them. Nine. There were still ten more. He slipped his hand into the opposite inside pocket and pulled out some more. Five. So, five to go. He lifted the man’s bum up—moist as well—and felt inside the rear pockets. One held a wallet and the other one held the remaining letters.
Brad stood up and walked over to the closet, pulled out his briefcase and flipped it open. He stuffed the nineteen letters inside, then pulled the one he’d been given out of his back pocket and added it to the safe confines of his alligator leather case. He also threw in the envelope from McLean, Virginia, and the August page from Colin’s calendar.
Done.
Kristy came running out of the bedroom, fully dressed, with their two small duffel bags. Brad went back to the killer’s body. He knelt down and removed the man’s wallet from his back pocket.
Kristy was still breathing hard. “Did you…find the letters?”
“Yeah, I got ’em.”
She dropped the suitcases to the floor. “What are you doing now?”
“Finding out who this prick is.”
Brad flipped open the wallet—the thing inside was glaring at him as if angry. The famous seal of the Central Intelligence Agency embossed on a laminated card attached to the inside flap of the wallet. The dead agent’s name was Richard Reinhardt.
He stuffed the wallet back in the man’s pocket and jumped to his feet. “Okay, let’s get outta here—fast!”
“Who was he?”
“Tell ya later.”
Brad grabbed his briefcase, computer case, car keys, and yanked open the door. Kristy carried the two duffel bags, and they ran to their Audi Q5. Everything went into the trunk. As he slammed the hatch shut, Brad was reminded by the image of his Ontario license plate that they had one hell of a long drive back across Canada.
“Shit! Forgot something!” Brad ran back to the cottage, and yelled back to Kristy, “Get in the car, hon, I’ll be right back.”
He dashed inside and over to the couch. Picked up the pistol he’d dropped after the shooting. Shoved it into his waistband and took one last glance around the cottage. Then, he reluctantly allowed himself one final look at the two mannequins of death sprawled out over the hardwood floor. Shaking his head in disbelief, Brad ran through the doorway for the last time and jumped into the driver’s seat of the Audi.
Cranked the engine and floored the SUV down the dirt path towards the freedom of the open highway, not more than a mile away.
Kristy leaned back against the headrest. “This is like a nightmare. I keep hoping I’ll wake up and discover that it was all just a dream.”
“Me, too.” Brad flipped on the high beams and glued his eyes to the road.
Kristy turned her head toward him. “Where was that guy’s car? I only saw Colin’s as we pulled away.”
Brad frowned. “Don’t know. Good question. Maybe he ditched it farther out and hiked in—so his headlights wouldn’t give him away?”
“Maybe.”
Kristy touched his arm. “Brad…what about our fingerprints?”
Brad shook his head. “Not a worry. Neither of us are fingerprinted in any database, so they wouldn’t be able to match us. And I checked Colin’s office—our names aren’t written down anywhere. Well, except for his calendar, and I took that page with me. And I took his computer.”
Kristy sighed with relief. “I feel like a fugitive.”
“We’re not—well, we are, but we’re not guilty of anything. It was self defense—but I have a strange feeling that we’d be hung out to dry anyway. So, best for us to run. It was all because of those letters and, ironically, I think our survival now also depends on those letters.”
“Why? Who was that madman?”
Brad swallowed hard. “CIA.”
Kristy put her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, God. What are we into?”
“Don’t know—but right now, let’s just get our asses back to Toronto. We have a three-day drive ahead of us. And…I never want to see Vancouver Island again.”
Brad gunned the car around a tight turn in the dirt road, and the Audi’s rear end spun off. He turned into the skid and the car straightened out again. He breezed through the next turn and was comforted knowing that the highway should be just about a half mile ahead.
Suddenly there were lights!
The headlights of another car, coming from a side road. The black vehicle pulled out onto the driveway and stopped, blocking their passage. Brad slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop just inches from impact.
The driver’s door opened. A short burly man jumped out and ran towards them. His figure was illuminated in the Audi’s high beams, and he held one hand up shielding his eyes. And in the other hand…
Kristy gasped. “Brad, he has a gun!”
Brad slipped the pistol out of his belt. Then he positioned it on his lap pointed towards the driver’s door; the door that within seconds would be yanked open by yet another killer.
Brad slipped his index finger against the trigger and, for the second time that evening, flipped off the safety with his thumb. He prayed that the darkness would hide the shiny black weapon that was now poised on his crotch.
The man was at the window now and Brad heard the flip of the handle. A rush of damp air swept through the car as the door was tugged open.
And there the thug stood in all his over-confident glory, gun pointed straight at Brad’s head. He snarled, “Get the fuck out! Both of you!”
Brad held his breath and pulled the trigger.