Fenn roared through the Holland Marsh alert for a sudden change in the flow. Highway 400 dropped and curved left here but it was the visual impact of dark organic soil on both sides of the road that slowed motorists the most. For many, the black earth of the reclaimed farmland was a demarcation line between city and country, and Fenn knew that once he was past the distraction the traffic would begin to thin out.
He checked the gauges for the umpteenth time. Oil pressure, water temperature, alternator, and tachometer were all within the expected range. The only thing that changed noticeably was the gas gauge. The Hemi’s power came at a price.
He’d top up the tank in Barrie and maybe grab some snacks, something to maintain his energy level for whatever lay ahead. So much had happened in the last few hours that his breakfast at Mount Nemo seemed like a distant memory. His weariness blanketed the pain in his shoulder, the pain in his ribs, and the pain in his knee, but the drone of the road had begun to sedate him to the point of inattention and he cracked open the window and took a few deep breaths.
Reis’s cell phone had been a silent passenger on the seat beside him since he’d left Eileen’s. The attaché bag was in the trunk. He’d put it there before Larry arrived with the tractor. As with everyone else, Fenn had been selective with the information he’d passed on. In Eileen’s case he’d withheld the discovery of the cash. Eileen wouldn’t filter what he’d told her, and a quarter-million dollars was serious paper. Serious enough to be a trump card, one to be held close to the chest, though Fenn wondered if he’d even get to play it. The sun continued to sink on his left and clouds were rolling in. An accident or unexpected detour would be a disastrous delay.
Most vehicles were moving the usual 30 kph over the posted 100. Fenn read the flow, watched for potential speed traps, and passed cars whenever he could. The first exit ramp for Barrie was coming up when the cell phone began to buzz. He lane changed to the right and picked up the phone. The number displayed was one he knew well. Surprisingly well.
“Hello?”
“Oh. Hi. Is Brittany Reis there, please.”
He recognized the voice but didn’t let on. “Reis; well, she’s tied up at the moment. May I ask who’s calling?”
The caller paused and Fenn, sensing she’d hang up, said, “Asha. It’s Chas.”
More silence.
“Asha?”
“Chas? Really? Chas, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Some unbelievable craziness. I guess Joe told you about the collision with the garbage truck.”
“Yeah. You might want to avoid the office for a while. Dieter’s pissed because it will affect the group insurance coverage. And Carole; well, she just wants to hang you by the privates from a flagpole. It was only a few minutes ago that she deigned to tell me that Brittany Reis had called here at lunchtime.”
“Reis called the DriveCheck number?”
“Yes. Looking for you. She left this number. That’s why I was confused when you answered. A policeman also called here, looking for you. He said you’d disappeared from the hospital. Are you okay?”
Was he? A bit battered and bruised but otherwise still in one piece. Could have been worse.
“Yep. Absolutely. I’m fine.”
“Oh, really. You’re fine.” It was the same tone his grandmother had used when a hockey puck cut his forehead open in peewee league and he wouldn’t go for stitches. He still had a faint trace of that scar.
“Yes. Let me bring you up to speed. The police are on their way to Eileen Tillart’s—Kim’s sister is holding Reis on her farm in Flamborough. Perhaps you could check on them for me.”
“Sure, I can do that. And where are you?”
“The outskirts of Barrie; just pulling into a gas station.” Fenn drew alongside the pumps and shut the motor off. Everything was at rest but he felt like he was still moving, out of synch, as if the world had stopped but he hadn’t got the memo: Should the Earth stop spinning, all instructors are to confess their sins before disembarking.
“Listen, Asha, I don’t know how this will turn out so I want to get something off my chest.” He put his head back and closed his eyes. If he was going to do this, he needed the right words.
“It’s hard to describe, but when I saw you and Joe at the theatre I felt that my life had suddenly been detoured and I hadn’t seen the sign. You were going one way and I was going another, and it didn’t feel right. I think we should be going together.” He realized how that had come out, and paused. Asha didn’t interrupt.
“We both know that things have gone south for me, lately, and my situation has caused all kinds of trouble for people in my life. But it’s something I have to finish, and hopefully resolve. What I’m trying to say is, if you don’t want to commit to a relationship, I’ll understand, but …”
But what?
But I might get my head blown off. But they might toss me in jail and throw away the key. But I won’t have a job, or even a licence to drive when this is all over.
What? Just say it.
“It would help if I knew that you have some feelings for me, Asha Fabiani, because …”
Say it. “… because I’m in love with you.”
Of all the times he had looked into her eyes and been tempted to stroke her hair, had wanted to nuzzle her neck, or kiss those luscious lips. Of all the times he had turned away and told himself it was the gallant thing to do but knowing that being gallant was just an excuse. All of those times had finally come down to this—a phone call at a gas station.
That’s probably what she’s thinking, too, he thought, as the silence on the line continued.
“Please say something, Asha. The suspense is killing me.”
Nothing. Asha was no longer there. He’d pushed his luck and scared her off. He held the phone in front of him and spoke to it, as if to her.
“I’d run, too, if I were you.”
The plastic box didn’t answer back. Or even glow back, which was odd because he hadn’t turned it off. At some point in the past few minutes it had powered down.
The battery was dead.
== == ==
Bloomfield was beyond taking no for an answer.
“Don’t let Lareault say another word to those newshounds before he speaks to me,” he yelled into the mouthpiece. “Get him on the line, now!”
The staff sergeant paced about the yard outside the Tillarts’ barn. He had no doubt that the person cuffed in the back of his car was the prime suspect in the murders of Marty Durrell and Stanislaw Svoljsak. All he needed was a female PC to peel off the wig to prove it, to his satisfaction at least. The couple’s statement that Reis had come to their property looking for Charleton Fenn was plausible once they’d told him of Fenn’s connection to Kim and the kidnapping. A little odd, perhaps, but a minor detail considering he’d just made the biggest collar of his life.
Eileen and Larry Tillart were sitting on their back porch watching him. They were nice folk. Reis had claimed they’d attacked her with bees, but Mr. Tillart showed him where Reis’s BMW had crashed into one of the hives they kept on the property. If she’d been swarmed, it was her own fault. Apart from that, the only thing he’d got out of the suspect was a demand for legal representation.
“Okay, Frank, what’s so important that you had to interrupt my being burned at the stake?” Lareault sounded as if he could use some good news so Bloomfield got right to it.
“I’ve got Reis, and possibly the murder weapon. I’ve also got a lead on the Klassen kidnapping, and you know what that means.”
“You’ve got Reis? Great work, Frank. Now, tell me about Klaasen.”
“One of the guys who allegedly helped Miss Klassen escape from the funeral home is called Charleton Fenn. Klaasen’s kidnapping is the result of a deal gone sour between Reis and Fenn. Fenn helped the Tillarts restrain Reis and is now on his way to a country retreat near Port Severn where he believes the funeral home employees have taken Miss Klaasen. If this information stands up, Operation Second Life just might get one.”
“Yeah. About that. We were apparently on the verge of nailing a West Coast crime boss. Nicolas Wray landed in Hamilton yesterday and we’ve got him on camera leaving John C. Munroe Airport. The intel is that his schedule included a meeting at the funeral home. Not sure if we’ll get another go at that.”
“Don’t sweat it, Evan. We’ve been spinning a lot of plates, lately. Let’s take the pieces we’ve got and see how they fit together.” Bloomfield waved to a patrol car that had stopped at the bottom of the driveway. “It looks like my backup has arrived, so I’ll let you get back to your press conference.”
“That can wait. I need all information on the kidnapping as soon as possible. Then, we’ve got to get the Emergency Task Force up to Muskoka. Have you ever been in a helicopter, Frank?”