I had no car with me and the chance of a taxi waiting around was close to zero. By the time I called for one, I’d be dead. Buses didn’t run on this route late at night. On one side of me was the broad, deep Fraser River; on the other was low ground and small airfields. What the hell was I going to do?
Rachel. I made for the Winged Moose and ran into the room at the back where I guessed she’d be. It was a small office. She looked up from some papers as I entered breathlessly. I closed the door behind me. No sign of my pursuer yet. It would take him a few minutes to get his act together. It had to.
“What’s the matter?”
“I need to borrow your car. Emergency. No time to explain.”
She gave me a piercing stare then a little nod as if she’d made up her mind.
“Okay. Here. Beige Toyota Corolla in the far corner.” She reached into her bag, took out a bunch of keys, and quickly slid one off the ring. I took it greedily.
“Thanks, I’ll get it back to you later.”
“Tomorrow morning will do. One of the guys here can drop me off home tonight.”
“Great, thank you.” I turned.
“This way goes straight out to the car park,” she said, pointing behind her.
I went to the door she indicated, unlocked it and slipped out. Stopped where the concrete path ended and the car park began. The night air cooled the sweat on my forehead as I looked around, spotted the Corolla. Ran over to it, got in, switched on the engine.
My hands trembled on the steering wheel and it wasn’t from fear of Hoodie. It was the Beaver experience all over again. Heart pounding, pulse racing, body sweating. “No!” I barked the word angrily out at myself. I had always loved driving, almost as much as flying a plane, and I was bloody good at it. This has to stop. I have to get my act together, right now, this very second. A couple of deep breaths. Still no sign of Hoodie.
I pulled out of the car park and turned left, which was the direction I needed to go. Big mistake. I had committed myself before I spotted the trap. The white Mercedes was directly ahead, sitting sideways onto the narrow road. I could still get past him but something told me he would never allow that. Smashed bodywork would mean nothing to him. Sure enough, as soon as he saw me approaching, he pulled all the way across the road, completely blocking it. I would have to ride up onto the grass verge in front of the Mercedes to pass him. Side on, he’d have a good chance to take me out with his automatic.
I had a better option. One that I’d practised in quiet car parks late at night when I was a teenager in love with speed and the machines that could give it to me. Now I just had to summon up the confidence to attempt the manoeuvre, remember the sequence of steps correctly, and co-ordinate them perfectly.
With my left arm over the steering wheel in the twelve o’clock position, I increased speed to about thirty-five mph. My right hand was on the emergency brake release button and as I approached the Mercedes I pulled up the brake handle as hard as I could. As expected, my rear wheels locked and the tyres began to audibly slide.
Next, I jogged the steering wheel slightly to the right to upset its balance, then immediately twisted it hard left to the six o’clock spot. The next few seconds would decide whether I wrecked Rachel’s car or not.
The Toyota began to rotate one hundred and eighty degrees. As it did so, I removed my right hand from the emergency brake lever, getting both hands back on the steering wheel, and pressed down on the accelerator. It was tempting to floor the pedal but I knew I mustn’t do that.
It worked. Not using the foot brake prevented the front tyres from sliding and skidding, which warded off any loss of momentum. The heavy, engine-bearing front of the vehicle didn’t degrade or “sink” as it would otherwise have done. In short, the vehicle pivoted nicely in a classic J-turn.
Well, fairly nicely. I hadn’t been quite aggressive enough with turning the steering wheel. I wondered if Rachel kept her tyres regularly pumped up at gas stations. If their pressure was too low, the tyres would roll right off the rims. I held my breath and prayed.
Thankfully, the car rotated the full one-eighty. The car steadied and I roared away down the road, leaving the Mercedes, and hopefully a very angry Hoodie, in my dust.
I sped along Russ Baker Way, making for the bridge to Vancouver, expecting Hoodie to follow me. It wouldn’t take him long to catch up in his Mercedes. Accelerate alongside, wind down his window, shoot me, take the next flight out of here . . . I checked the mirror. No sign of him so far. It wouldn’t be long. I stepped on the accelerator and raced for my life.
At the next intersection I joined Grant McConachie Way and mixed with the heavy flow of traffic coming from YVR airport. Taxis weaved their complicated in and out pattern all around me, saving vital seconds for their impatient customers riding in the back. I dreaded one of the weavers turning out to be the Mercedes and checked all movements both left and right of me, my head jerking around as if I’d contracted a nervous tic.
On the other side of the bridge, I took a series of random left and right turns, not caring where it led me, checking the mirror again and again. Still no sign of the white Mercedes. Hoodie must have considered the risk of open pursuit too great and abandoned the chase. I breathed a bit easier, but I still had to decide where to go. Hoodie knew where I lived, so why would I go there? Trouble was, I had nowhere else to go. After a lot of thought, I decided I had little choice but to double bluff him. After all, for all Hoodie knew, I could have called friends, even police by now.
When I got home I parked on the street. There was no white Mercedes awaiting me. I flew into the house like an Olympic sprinter and slammed the door behind me. Checked all the windows, switched on the alarm. Spent a restless night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and jumping at every little noise.
I called Rachel early the next morning and thanked her. The sound of her voice was a gift of precious normality in my now, once again, very abnormal life. She still didn’t ask for an explanation and I could have hugged her for that alone.
“Look, if you’re in some sort of trouble, call the police,” she said.
Smart girl. Last night I’d thought long and hard about doing that very thing. In the end, I hadn’t. Schuller would have come around and grilled me, demanding evidence and witnesses. Of which there were exactly none. If I pressed charges I would get nowhere – Hoodie, and his Mercedes, would be long gone – and it would be my word against Joe Donnelly’s. What Joe had done made me very angry indeed, and yet somehow, I couldn’t feel revengeful. Sure, I could get the police to visit him, question him, take a statement. It would make yet more headlines in the newspapers and internet sites, and that would hurt me more than it would bother Joe. Any publicity is good publicity, right? For at least a short while, the Winged Moose might have some extra customers. None of this would shake off Hoodie or get him away from me.
“Thanks for the advice,” I told Rachel, and I meant it sincerely, “Where do you want me to bring you the car?” She told me her address and we agreed to meet at a café on Number Three Road not far from her apartment in Richmond. I could catch a bus back.
I switched on the house alarm, looked all around me, and locked my front door. Rachel’s Toyota was parked across the street. As I walked to the car I noticed a homeless man, dressed in filthy clothes, sitting propped up against a white picket fence across the road. His cap was lying on the sidewalk in front of him. It was a strange place to sit begging. Not many people passed along this quiet residential street. I’d never seen this before.
As I looked at him, his coal black beady eyes watched me. I approached the driver’s side, stooped low and shone a flashlight underneath the car. There was nothing attached or otherwise odd, as best I could tell. I pulled slowly out, observing the homeless man in my mirror. He reached deep into the many folds of his clothes and extracted a cell phone, pressed a number, held it to his ear.
A homeless guy with a cell phone?
I eased away with my eyes still fixed on him. Now I knew how Hoodie could keep track of my movements so successfully. He didn’t have to be around all of the time. The hired help, and there were probably several of them, would keep him informed.
I had an uncomfortable ride to Richmond, alone with my thoughts. When I got to the coffee shop and sat down with Rachel, I exchanged her car keys for the few items I’d left behind last night.
“Thank you,” I said, “Good to have this stuff back, especially the Kindle.” I forced a grin. “I only got halfway through the thriller I’m reading on it.”
“You life seems to have more twists and turns than any thriller, Cal.”
I wondered how much she’d seen going on last night and was relieved when she didn’t follow up her remark with any awkward questions. In my currently confused state, I wouldn’t have known what to say. Instead, she explained that she had to get to work, gave me a last concerned look and quick peck on the cheek, and left. I drank a double espresso, glad that I hadn’t had to dance around my situation with Rachel. When the time came, if it ever did, I wanted to be dead straight with her.
The bus was crowded on the way home. My eyes scanned each and every face. I told myself to breathe easy, Hoodie would never do anything in a crowded, confined place like this. It didn’t help. My stomach was a tight ball of tension, my nerves taut like piano wire. All I knew was, this situation was destroying me. It had to end soon.
When I got back to the end of my street, the homeless person was gone. I waited until some teens turned into my block and followed close behind them. Loud, crude, and with their cell phones out to text and take selfies, they never even noticed me. When they passed my house, I dived inside the gate, key in hand, and rushed inside.