Lucky
Strike
Pat Wilson
and
Kris Wood
Text © 2007 by Pat Wilson and Kris Wood
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
Cover design: Trudy Agyeman and Vasiliki Lenis
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program.
RendezVous Crime
an imprint of
Napoleon & Company
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
11 10 09 08 07 5 4 3 2 1
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Wilson, Patricia, date-
Lucky strike : a Maritime mystery / Pat Wilson, Kris Wood.
ISBN 978-1-894917-51-3
I. Wood, Kris II. Title.
PS8645.I57L82 2007 C813’.6 C2007-900509-8
To our families
and to our friends
on the Eastern Shore
One
I stood just inside the terminal doors, watching the people leaving the arrivals area. No one looked suspicious, but then, how would I know? I was new at this game.
I turned up my coat collar and pulled down the brim of my hat. For the tenth time, I checked my pocket to make sure the instructions were still there. I’d tried to memorize them, but I’d been so distracted by the thought that any one of the hundred other passengers on the plane might be there for the sole purpose of ending my life, that the various numbers and directions on the slip of paper slid through my brain like an assassin’s blade between the ribs.
I watched most of the people on my flight disappear, picked up by waiting friends and relatives, or heading for taxis and parked cars. I decided that it was safe for me to leave.
Juggling the cat carrier, my new laptop and my bulky suitcase, I stumbled over to the car rental desk. “We try harder”, it promised me.
“Name, sir?” a bored young woman asked me.
“Trenchant. Charles Trenchant.” I tried to sound casual. Would she believe me?
“Oh, yes. We have you down for a three-month longterm rental. Driver’s license and credit card, please.”
I fumbled in the new wallet they’d given me in Ottawa along with my tickets. After some struggle with the unfamiliar snaps, I found both items and I pushed them across the desk with shaking fingers.
She gave them a cursory glance. “If you would just sign here, initial here and here and here.”
I licked my lips. For a horrible moment, I realized I’d forgotten my new name. I glanced at the top of the rental contract. Charles Trenchant. That was it! I did as she bade me, hoping that the signature matched that on the credit card and driver’s license which I’d signed some days before.
“Here you are. Ford Focus. Grey as per your request. Third car in the second row. Out the double doors, turn left at the sign.” She handed me some keys.
I picked up the keys and put them in my pocket along with the rental contract.
Outside, the fog was thick, so thick that it was like rain. The airport lights were dim yellow orbs in the murk. I doubted that any more planes would be landing tonight. I took a deep breath and stepped off the curb.
Two headlights dazzled me as a large, dark car sped towards me. I threw myself backwards, landing on top of the cat carrier. The cat hissed in alarm. My heart pounded in my chest and my breath came in ragged gasps. Was this to be my life from now on, always on guard, always watching for dark shadows, always afraid? Was this just the first of many attempts on my life?
I debated going back into the safety of the terminal, but the car had disappeared into the night. In any event, I needed to get going. It was already late, and I had a long way to go to my final destination.
I found the car, stowed my bag in the trunk, put the cat carrier on the back seat, and laid my laptop on the front seat beside me. I checked the map given to me by the rental agent, flicking the light on just long enough to read the instructions, but not long enough to make me an easy target if they were out there in the parking lot.
I headed off into the dark night, the fog swirling about my headlights, a fine mist coating the windshield with a greasy film. Within minutes, I was out of the airport area, and turning onto the main highway into the city. Always, I kept my eyes on the rear view mirror. However, the traffic was light, and at my cautious speed, it flowed past me in a continuous stream.
It had been some time since I had driven a car. Once my initial nervousness wore off, I began to relax a little. The fog continued to hamper my visibility, thickening as I neared the coast. I peered at the signs looming up over the roadway, trying to remember the instructions.
Soon I found myself on Highway 107, heading eastwards. After twenty kilometres of reasonable highway, the road deteriorated into a narrow, pot-holed two-lane nightmare that wound up and around the various headlands along the shore. After a while, I saw few houses, no stores, no gas stations, just thick forest on one side and the ocean on the other. The traffic had thinned to an occasional pick-up truck. At several points where the fog lifted, I caught a glimpse of waves below me on the passenger’s side of the car, and on my side, an unbroken hill of endless trees. I was aware that if I were to go off the road here, no one would ever find me.
It was at this point that the interior of the car lit up with the glare of headlights behind me. The vehicle was inches from my bumper, its high beams blinding me. I sped up. So did it.
I slowed down. Ignoring the fog, the blind corner and the double lines, a large black SUV swept past me, its headlights cutting a swath in the darkness. It pulled back in front of me and slowed down as if to stop. I knew that if they succeeded in stopping me, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I wondered if I had the skill to swing my car around the SUV and make a break for freedom. Just as I was calculating distances, the SUV turned off onto a dark sideroad. I watched in disbelief as its taillights disappeared into the fog.
Were they playing cat and mouse with me, I wondered? Was this just a ploy to put me off my guard? How long before the next attempt?
I pulled off onto the side of the highway and tried to gather my wits about me. My hands were shaking and wet on the wheel. The sweat ran down the back of my neck in a cold trickle. It seemed as if I’d been trapped in this car for hours, bumping along this endless dark road to nowhere. I wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing. Maybe James Bond could handle it with equanimity, but I was made of less heroic stuff.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled back onto the highway. The kilometres continued to click by under my wheels. Heads, harbours and coves swept past. An hour later, I drove through the small coastal village called Cormorant Harbour, the final leg of my journey.
It was only ten o’clock at night, but the streets were deserted. The stores were closed, and only a few streetlights looming out of the fog indicated it was any sort of a centre of civilization. I parked under one of the lights and consulted my notes. Just one more kilometre, and I should see the sign for Lupin Loop. Then, first house on the right.
The cat meowed, a demanding cry for food, for water, or perhaps a litter box. I didn’t know. “You’ll have to