When the Killing Starts (29 page)

The road winds behind all the cottages, and I didn't see the car again until I got almost to the bridge. It was across it, turning south on the road on the other side. I squealed into the turn, grazing the side of the car against the abutment, and pelted after him. Automatically I flicked on the emergency switch, and the siren cut in, sawing the morning quiet to shreds as I rocked down the road behind him.

The other driver was good, and the car he was in was small and maneuverable. I didn't catch sight of him again all the way down the west road and out to the highway. I stopped at the intersection and checked the dust on the road for wheel tracks, but they didn't tell me anything, so I moved instinctively, turning down the highway toward Toronto, hammering as fast as my big six would take me, siren screaming. There is a good straight patch a mile down the road. You can see for three-quarters of a mile, but I didn't see the car on it, so I wheeled into a gas station on the side of the road. It was still closed, but the owner was out unlocking his pumps. He looked up in astonishment as I slammed to a stop beside him.

"Did a red compact go by a minute ago, speeding?" I shouted.

He was stupefied and slow. Then he said, "No, nothin' like that. Just a couple trucks."

"Thanks. Can I use your phone? I'm the police chief, Murphy's Harbour."

"Help yourself." He waved me on but bustled after me, mouth open. Not many of his days started this excitingly.

I dialed the OPP. A new man was on duty, crisp and efficient.

"Bennett, Murphy's Harbour. I'm looking for a red compact, could be a Mazda, license REN 111. It must be heading north from our side road. The guy in it is armed and dangerous. Approach with caution."

He repeated the number and said, "Right, I'll get it on the air, but we've got only one car out, the shift's just changing."

"Ask the sergeant to turn the guys out right away, and alert the rest of your people, could you, please?"

"Sure. Hold on." He turned away from the phone and after thirty seconds was back on. "This connected with the shooting down at the Harbour? We just got a call from your deputy there."

"Yes, that man's hurt bad. He could be dead. But send an investigator if you can. He's tied in with two homicides that happened in Toronto, Beatty and Michaels, two women."

"Shit. What's he doing up here getting shot?" Even hardened policemen have the curiosity of washerwomen.
 

"Let me talk to the guy in charge, please. I'll fill him in."

Another pause and I was talking to their inspector. His name is Anderson. He's an officious bastard. I've had trouble with him in the past, but now he was cool and efficient."

"Chief Bennett? What's happening?"
 

"It's those men Dunphy and Wallace, Inspector. They're involved with the Freedom for Hire hassle I had a couple of days back in Quebec. They're wanted for a number of offenses and suspected of two homicides in Toronto. One of them swore he would kill the kid who helped me, George Horn. He was waiting for him, only I beat him to it. He's got a rifle slug in him."

"Was that necessary?"

"Better him than George Horn," I said firmly. "He had an army automatic rifle, and he was there to kill."

"I hope for your sake you're right," he said. "You certainly overreact to threats."

"We'll see. For now, see if you can get an investigator to the scene to check the guy's rifle and if possible to take a statement. I'm not sure he'll be in time."

"A rifle slug?" Anderson repeated. "That'd stop a train."
 

"It stopped him," I said. "I'm going back to the scene now, if your men come to the Bull house, half a mile north of the north lock, east side of the lake, I'll leave my car on the road, a blue Chev."

"I'll come myself," he said.

I hung up and stood for a moment gathering my thoughts. There was nothing more to do here. The only other people to be alerted were the Toronto detectives. I picked up the phone again and phoned Metro Toronto homicide office, getting through to Inspector Burke.

"Bennett here. I found a guy with a gun in the Harbour. I put him down and chased another in a red compact, REN 111. Could be a rental. He hasn't come south, so he could still be in this area, maybe contacting a plane for a return to Toronto."

"Is it one of the suspects?" Burke sounded slow. He hadn't had much more sleep than I had, which was none.

"Didn't stop to check. My deputy's up there at the Bull house. The guy's name is George Horn. The daughter's there; maybe she'll answer the phone and put George on. He's a smart kid. This guy was waiting for him."

"Waiting where?"

"In the bush. Horn's got something going with the girl there. He was inside. The guy had an automatic rifle, military model. He was going to kill Horn for what he did up north, getting me away from them."

Burke didn't answer for a moment. I guessed he was puffing at the first of the day's Old Ports. Finally, he said, "What the hell, it's a nice day for a drive in the country. I'll come up and talk to the guy. Is he gonna make it?"

"I'm not sure. I took off after the car. Like I said, it didn't come south. He could be flying back to the Metro area or out of the country. All we can do is look for his car."

"Nice work," he said. "Just hope the bastard'll hang in till we can take a statement."

"Did you get anything more from the guy I handed to Elmer last night?"

He paused again and then spoke carefully. "Sergeant Svensen had occasion to talk to a visitor from the United States last night. But unfortunately he didn't give us anything useful to our investigation into the homicide of Mrs. Michaels."

"Pity," I said. "I'll be up at the Bull house, or if they've cleared the guy away by then, I'll be at the police station in Murphy's Harbour."

"I will see you there, Chief. Thank you for your assistance on this matter."

I hung up, wondering how long the department had been monitoring the phone calls from the homicide office. I couldn't think of any other reason for Burke's formality.

The gas station guy was anxious for more information, but I thanked him for his help and told him to call me if he saw the wanted car. Then I drove back to the scene of the shooting.

George was still there with his girl, who had changed into blue jeans and a sweater. She was calmer now, kneeling beside the wounded man, trying to stop the bleeding with a blood-soaked sheet. I could see that much from twenty yards off as I walked down through the trees.

George turned when he saw me. "He's bad, Reid, bleeding like a stuck pig. You got him in the gut."

"You haven't touched the rifle?"
 

"No, it's where it fell." He pointed. "Something else you should know as well."

"What's that? You recognize this guy?" I was still walking toward the man on the ground, but the girl was between me and his face. I wasn't prepared for George's news.

"Yeah, I recognize him. It's Jason Michaels."

 

 

 

TWENTY

 

 

"Jason Michaels?" I couldn't believe it. "You sure?"
 

"See for yourself." He stepped aside, and I ran the last few steps and looked at the man's face. It was Michaels, all right, gray faced. All the boredom and arrogance gone now. A sorry casualty, like a hundred others I'd seen, like I'd been myself, twice.

George was nervous. "This is bad, Reid. His old man's rich. This means trouble."

"Trouble, hell. He started this. He was lying in wait for you, going to drop you, and the girl as well, probably. If I hadn't been here, you'd be dead. Don't waste any pity on him."

"His old man's rich," George said helplessly. "We're going to need a lawyer real bad."

"Not as bad as he needs a doctor. Did you call for the chopper?"

"They said it was on its way." George was nervous; he wanted to say more, probably to ask me not to mention the girl when the statement came out.

I bent close to Jason's ear, speaking slowly. "Can you hear me, Jason?" He didn't answer, but a muscle twitched in his face. I took it for assent and went on. "Did Wallace send you?"

He didn't answer, but his eyelids flickered, and I could tell there was still somebody in there. "The helicopter's coming. You'll be in hospital in a few minutes. You're going to be okay."

Now his eyes opened for a moment, and he whispered. I bent and caught the word. "Dunphy," he said.

"Then you're clear," I lied. "He's the guy who'll go down. Just hold on." I moved the sheet aside and looked at his wound. It was bad, but it could have been worse. The slug had almost missed him, catching him within an inch of his side, tearing him open but missing most of the internal organs. The hydrostatic shock of the impact was his worst enemy. It had slammed everything in his body with enormous internal force. Heart, brain, everything, was jolted. That and the loss of blood would kill him if this were the boonies, but with help he would recover.

I stood up, and the girl replaced the sheet, pressing gently but firmly. She was calm, used to the sight of blood in operating theaters, I guessed. She would be a good doctor. George was looking up and behind him, and I raised my eyes and listened and heard the faint whup-whup-whup of a helicopter approaching from down the lake. "Go flag him down," I told George, and he ran down the driveway and out onto the dock.

The girl looked up "He's luckier than he looks," she said. "He's torn up, but you missed the spleen. His intestines are going to need putting back together, and there's the risk of peritonitis, but that's all. An inch higher and he would have bled to death before we could get him to a hospital for a splenectomy."

"Thank the Lord for that. I didn't want to kill him, just to drop him. And thanks for the first aid."

Behind me I could hear the helicopter lowering itself to the dock. Then the engine note slowed, and within seconds two men came up past the house with a litter. One of them was in plain clothes. The other one was an ambulance attendant. They ran to the downed man, and the attendant stuck a needle in his arm and held up a bottle of plasma.

"Help me get him on the stretcher," he said, and he raised the bottle while the other man and I lifted Jason, cradling him under the waist, trying to prevent any more strain on his wound.

I took one end of the litter, and George took the other while the attendant walked beside us, holding up the bottle of plasma. We walked carefully over the rough ground and onto the driveway. Jason groaned as we moved, a good sign. As long as he could feel, he was reacting, fighting for life. I didn't want his death on my conscience, but I was glad he was on the litter and not George Horn, probably with a sheet over his face.

I spoke to the other man as we walked. "His name is Jason Michaels. He was with the mercenary force, Freedom for Hire. George here and I got him out. Now he was back trying to kill George."

"That all you got?" the man grunted. His jacket was smeared with blood, and he was angry at the mess. Blood was something only other people got on them.

"Got a tape recorder with you?" I asked him.

"Yeah, in my pocket."

"Get everything down," I said. "He's ready to talk." We had reached the dock, and as the detective turned to look at me, I could see contempt in his face.

"You're a bastard, Bennett," he said.

I didn't answer. Excuses wouldn't help. "Just get the statement. George, go with this officer, witness Jason's statement, and give them the story. I'm waiting here for the OPP investigation team."

"Right." We crouched automatically under the downdraft of the chopper and shoved the litter inside. The ambulance man stepped up, still holding the plasma bottle. Then the detective and George got in, and I backed away and stood watching as the pilot lifted off and swung away north, ignoring the line of the lake now, heading straight for the hospital.

I walked slowly back up the drive. Eleanor was standing at the top beside the house, rinsing the blood off her hands, rinsing and rinsing as if the action would wipe out all that had happened here. She looked up dully as I approached. "What was that man trying to do, Chief?"

"George told you where he went the last few days, did he?"

"Not much." She straightened up, shaking the water from her hands. "He said you and he had been north, been through a forest fire and brought a man out. That's all."

"There's more. The man who was shooting at him, the one I hit, that's the guy we brought out."

She looked at me and shook her head, confused. Then she did the practical thing, opened the back door and nodded an invitation. "Come on in. I'll make some coffee."

I came after her, and she went into the kitchen. She ran the water and washed her hands one last time, with soap, then dried them on a towel that hung on the back of the door. I watched her, missing Fred. This girl was younger, shorter, but she had the same air of good sense to her. I got the feeling she didn't rattle easily. Another good trait for a doctor. "This is getting heavy," she said. She gave her hands a little jerk, angrily, and hung up the towel. "I like George. But I don't want my parents getting the news this way. They'll freak out. They still figure him for the Indian kid on the gas pump at the marina."

"He's a hell of a lot more than that," I said. "You can be proud to be his friend."

She ran water into the pot. "Friend is fine," she said, turning the tap off with another angry gesture. "But you don't know my father. He's WASP through and through."

"Tell you what." I was improvising. "He doesn't have to know all of it. Just say you heard a noise when you woke up and you saw a man with a gun and called the station. George was here. I was here. That's enough. He'll believe that."

"Will you back me up?" she asked, looking at me levelly.

"To him, yes."

"Fine." She grinned now. "This whole thing is so unbelievable he won't know what's true and what's not." She put the coffeepot on the stove and turned on the gas. It lit with a quiet pop, and she leaned against the stove. "Funny," she said. "That guy out there was an inch from being killed and all I can think about is what my father is going to say."