I sit up. “How do you know? Did they release the information?”
“Nothing has been released. The police aren’t saying anything. This was posted to the comment section of a news blog.”
“Hard Facts?” It was infamous in certain circles for having a comment section that was used by criminals themselves. Seb used to work with the excellent journalist who ran it. Krista Dennings used to work with her, too. Calling it Hard Facts was a bit of an insider joke. The blog itself was solid, but the gold was all the useful speculation and shade in the comments.
She hands me the laptop. “That’s the one. The Fugitive Squad or whatever they call themselves rolled up on a biker bar in Surrey. Apparently, it’s the second time in a week they’ve been there. They found a man matching Dao’s description and brought him in.”
“Positive ID?”
“No. Apparently, he didn’t speak—according to three separate comments. There was some horrific racial abuse on the part of the people commenting, saying that he wasn’t speaking because he’s an immigrant and doesn’t know English. Nora? What’s wrong? Please don’t look at me like that. This is good—it could be him. Nora?”
I try to respond, want to respond, but it’s like some kind of fever has gripped me. Since I survived that burning warehouse in Detroit, I’ve thought of nothing but finding Dao and finishing this. But they caught him. It’s over. It just doesn’t feel that way right now.
“Hey,” says Simone. “Hey, you.” She sets down her coffee mug and puts her arms around me.
Edison Lam’s Point Grey mansion is a graveyard. All the lights are off, and Kristof is nowhere to be found. A little Chopin wouldn’t be out of place here. I buzz at the gate. There’s no answer on the intercom. The security cameras at the gate clock my every move, though.
A car turns onto the street. I step into the shadows, not bothering to get into the Corolla, which I parked at the curb. It’s not even five a.m., and the sun hasn’t yet made an appearance. It’s too early for a house call, but Simone’s news has changed my plans.
The car pulls into a driveway four mansions down.
I cross the street and keep walking. An early-morning stroll without my dog is anathema to me. It feels wrong. We should be on these pristine streets together watching the world wake up. But I won’t go to her before I feel some kind of closure. Life is too precious.
After circling around the block, I find myself in front of Lam’s house again. There’s still no answer to my buzz on the intercom. But I can feel someone there. It’s one of those rare moments I feel a certain level of sentience coming from an inanimate object. It’s not just a camera. It’s a window. There’s someone on the other side, watching.
“Is it him? Is he the one they picked up last night?” I ask, speaking into the box. I turn to look directly at the camera mounted on the outer wall, the one closest to me. “Answer me, goddamn it! It feels too easy. Doesn’t it feel too easy?”
The last question comes out as barely a whisper. I can’t explain it any other way. I’m thinking of Dao, knowing he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
Something isn’t right.
My calls to Bonnie go unanswered. Lynn and Everett, too. I’m so desperate I try Adele’s office, but it’s Saturday and nobody answers the company line.
Then I do something out of character. I call the police, the Whistler RCMP. I tell them my neighbor’s house has been broken into and give the cabin’s address. I hang up and get into the Corolla.
There’s one more call it occurs to me to make. “I’m going to Whistler,” I say to Simone.
“Wait, Nora,” she says. “They’ve got to make a statement soon. They’ve already said there’s a suspect in the manhunt in custody. Let’s just hang on for a bit, okay? The weather is terrible. There’s another foot of snow coming our way. Don’t drive in these conditions.”
“I have to,” I say. “I can’t reach Bonnie or her parents. I’ve already called the police to take a look. I’m just . . . I have to check.”
She’s silent for a moment. Of all people, Simone realizes what it has taken for me to call the cops. “Fine, okay. What’s the cabin address?”
I give it to her and hang up.
After starting the car, I run back to the intercom. “I’m going to Whistler.” Once again, I give out the address. Just in case there’s someone listening.
It’s snowing, a light down that drifts more than falls. It’s only until I get onto the highway that I remember I don’t have winter tires.
There’s traffic approaching Squamish. On the radio they say the road closure has just been lifted about an hour ago. In the dead of the night, when police were apprehending a suspect at a biker bar, a minivan crossed the center line and collided with an SUV. Two people were killed and two airlifted to a hospital in the Lower Mainland. No names are being released at this time, authorities say.
So it’s not really my fault that I’m driving faster than I should, on a road so dangerous that two people were killed on it just hours ago. It occurs to me if I drive a little faster, I could solve the problem of my existence once and for all. I’m so tired, so strung out on adrenaline, that a swerve into a railway doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Bam. It would be over. But not until I make sure Bonnie is alright.
This drive, this treacherous road, it all seems to be leading to something inevitable. I just don’t know what it is.