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Kimberley, October 30
12:08 p.m.
The small detachment in Kimberley was fashioned in the white-and-blue colors of the RCMP. Allan sat inside with Audra, Denis, and Logan, poring over passenger lists from Canadian Rockies International.
Allan found it frustrating work. They’d been going at it for close to four hours, cross-referencing names on flight arrivals and departures. They focused on males who seemed to have traveled alone, but it was nearly impossible to tell. Seventeen of them made their list.
The men had flown into the airport at various times in the days leading up to the disappearance of Guillaume Mills. Twelve flew back out in the days after the disappearance. The remaining five, they believed, were still in the area.
Logan would punch each name into the database to see if there were any outstanding arrest warrants or criminal histories attached to them. So far, nothing.
To Allan, any one of the men could be the suspect, or none at all. It made him want to throw his hands up in the air and give up.
“I didn’t think there would be so many people,” he said.
“Over a hundred twenty thousand pass through there every year,” Logan told him. “It’s a small airport but a little busier than you might think.”
“Guys,” Audra said. “Here’s another one.”
Allan stood up and walked the length of the table to where she sat. Placing a hand on the back of her chair, he said, “Who this time?”
Audra took a highlighter marker and drew a yellow line through someone’s name.
“Jacob Stark,” she said. “No other Starks on either flight with him. He flew in Thursday, October twenty-first.” She referred to another printout. “Says here he flew out Sunday, October twenty-fourth.”
“Jacob Stark?” Denis frowned. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But then, neither did any of the others.”
Allan said, “It’s not a name we’ve run across during our investigations.” He turned to Logan. “You?”
Logan shook his head. “Don’t know him. I’ll run the name. See if anything comes back.”
As Logan began typing on his computer, Denis asked, “Where’d he depart to?”
“Doesn’t say,” Audra said. “He arrived on flight one-one-three. Departed on flight three-two-one. Both passenger lists belong to Integra Air.”
Allan scratched his chin. “Never heard of them.”
Logan looked over. “The guy went to Calgary. Integra only flies to there from Canadian Rockies.”
“He’s the only one,” Audra said.
Denis said, “The only one what?”
“The only one who used that airline. All the others used Air Canada or Pacific Coastal.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Audra spread her hands. “Nothing. I’m just stating a fact.”
“It does tell us he headed east,” Allan said.
Denis chuckled. “Lots of real estate east of BC. Like the rest of Canada.”
Allan smirked. “Okay, smart ass.”
Audra said, “Was Calgary this guy’s last stop? Or did he continue on to somewhere else?”
“I’ll check with Calgary International,” Logan said. “See if he got on another flight there. By the way, his name isn’t setting off any alarms.”
“That’s zero for eighteen.” Allan took his seat at the table. “The guy we’re looking for might not have any priors.”
Logan nodded. “True.”
They spent the next hour finishing up with the remaining passenger lists; they never found anyone else who piqued their interest. Logan divvied up the phone numbers for all the hotels in the area, and the four of them began calling around to see where the eighteen men had stayed during their visit.
It was time-consuming work to read each name to a receptionist and wait for them to check their hotel bookings.
Allan managed to track down four men. Audra, Logan, and Denis each got three.
“That leaves five missing,” Audra said.
“Maybe they stayed with family or friends,” Allan suggested.
Audra sat back, crossing her arms. “What do you all think? Focus on these thirteen first, worry about the other five later?”
Allan nodded. “We’ll take the composite to these hotels. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it looks like one of these men.”
“Seven of these guys stayed right here in Kimberley,” Logan said. “We’ll talk to those hotels first. Then we’ll head up to Canal Flats and check The Paddlers’ Inn where Mr. Kasper stayed.
“If we don’t get any leads, we’ll head to Cranbrook and talk to the hotels where the other five stayed.”
Denis asked, “Where’s Canal Flats?”
“Seventy kilometers north of here,” Logan told him.
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” Logan tipped his head to the side. “It’s a little out of the way.”
Allan checked his watch: 2:35 p.m.
“Then we better get moving,” he said.
The visits to the different Kimberley hotels proved disappointing. No one could even faintly describe the men who had booked the rooms. Not even their hair, which is a feature people remember about someone more than anything.
When shown the composite sketch, most of the receptionists had all frowned and shaken their heads. One young woman at Trickle Creek Lodge said the sketch looked like Mike Vogel.
“Who?” Allan asked.
“You know,” she said. “Miami Medical. Dr. Deleo.”
Allan looked at Audra, and she shrugged.
They left Kimberley and headed up to Canal Flats.
Highway 93 took them through a flat valley with fields of golden grass on the left. On the right, the rippling surface of a river danced with sunlight. Beyond the river lay an imposing mountain range. Vertical slashes of granite jutted into the sky. Here and there, puffy clouds cast shadows on the ragged peaks.
When Allan saw Audra taking pictures with her cell phone, he decided to do the same. Neither Melissa nor Brian had ever been to British Columbia.
He said, “You and your family travel a lot. Ever been out this way?”
Audra shook her head. “We went on a ski trip to Banff a few years ago. All these mountains remind me a lot of that.”
Logan called back to her, “This highway actually leads you to Banff.”
“Ah,” she said. “Cool.”
Eventually, the road and river broke away from each other, and fields stretched along both sides.
Allan leaned his head back in the seat and let the white noise lull him into a light sleep. He woke up a short time later when he sensed the Suburban slowing down.
He opened his eyes to see them approaching a bridge. A sign read, “Welcome to Canal Flats. Source of the mighty Columbia.”
“So what’s the mighty Columbia?” Denis asked.
“The Columbia River,” Logan said. “It starts here.” He pointed to a large lumberyard on the other side of the bridge. “That’s the Canfor sawmill. The village’s main employer.”
Denis looked around. “There’s a village here? Where’s it hiding?”
Logan laughed. “It’s a small one. Just past the mill.”
Allan asked, “How many people live in the area?”
Logan looked back at him in the rearview mirror. “About seven hundred.”
“Surely you guys don’t service it this far out of Kimberley?”
“No, no. Invermere does. Still, it’s about a forty-kilometer drive for them.”
The visit to The Paddlers’ Inn proved just as disappointing as the ones they’d made in Kimberley. At least the owner remembered the man in question—Eugene Kasper. She described Kasper as a portly man in his early sixties with gray hair and a thick beard. Hardly someone who could jog the paths of Point Pleasant Park, let alone hike the steep hills of Kimberley Nature Park.
On the walk back to the Suburban, Allan rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension. “I feel like a dog chasing his own tail.”
Audra glanced over at him. “I know what you mean.”
“Eight down, five to go,” he said. “Hopefully something pans out in Cranbrook.”
“Fingers crossed. If not, we’re left with the decision to try and track down those missing five.”
Allan felt the truth of that like a punch to the gut. “And they could be anywhere.”
The drive to Cranbrook took an hour.
With each stop they made, Allan felt his optimism plunge deeper and deeper. He saw himself returning to Halifax empty handed, no further ahead than when he’d come out to BC.
“We’re down to our last name,” he said, climbing into the backseat and slamming the door beside him.
Logan started the engine. “Who’s the guy?”
Audra referred to the sheet of paper in her hand. “Jacob Stark.”
“Where’d he stay?”
“A place called Elizabeth Lake Lodge.”
