* * *
At half past ten Constable Spacey phoned with news for Leith. She was calling from the Black Bear Lodge, she said. She was talking to an Evangeline Doyle, the name ringing a bell faintly in Leith’s mind. “I’ve notified Giroux and central dispatch,” she said. “Dion called in an hour ago with some info, but he was in some kind of rush and didn’t give me much to go on, so I wasted a hell of a lot of time trying to figure out what he was after. He mentioned Scott Rourke’s girlfriend, Evangeline Doyle, so I tracked her down. She’s here with me now at the Lodge, and she’s saying Frank’s gone up the Kispiox Range with Rourke, and that he might be in danger. Their destination is a bit convoluted, but I’ve got it pinpointed on a forestry map. I think it’s called the East Band logging road. We’ve got to proceed with caution, sir. I think Dion’s gone up ahead to see if he can find anything, but like I said, he wasn’t too clear on the phone, and we only spoke briefly. I told him not to approach the subjects, to wait for backup. I suggest you get reinforcements together and we meet at the Black Bear parking lot. It’s the closest landmark to the East Band I can think of to muster.”
It was a lot to take in. Leith caught the gist, checked his watch and said, “All right, thanks. We’ll be there soon as possible. Stay in touch.”
* * *
There was no way he could walk in silence here, in the receding snow and the brittle grasses, but it didn’t matter. The wind created a din across the bare patches of meadowland, and even if he wanted to call out and warn them of his presence, which was maybe the smarter move, he couldn’t. Not yet. Only when he’d made it to a stone’s throw from the two men he could make out the odd word fluttering back, and he could delineate against the blue-black their vague shapes bulked out by winter coats, both huddling, both wearing caps. He stopped to observe them, to get a handle on what was happening here. One man was seated on a bench between the hubcapped posts, his back to Dion, the other just barely recognizable as Scott Rourke. Rourke stood before the seated man and occasionally paced.
A small object passed between the men from time to time. A flask, Dion supposed. There was no snarl of anger in the voices, and maybe he’d been all wrong about Frank being in danger. As the breeze died down, he could make out broken conversation, Frank’s voice, saying, “Too late for that. Lenny knows. They all know. Must have the bloodhounds out by now.”
Rourke said something, broken by distance but patched together in Dion’s mind to “We can work it out. I know the land. We got a whole network of friends. Have faith.”
Frank had a strong voice, louder than Rourke’s and twice as rude, and it carried well. “Yeah, like that dick pal of yours, Morris,” he said. “What a warrior, long as there’s beer in his belly and no cops in sight. Cops knock on the door, and suddenly his casa is no longer our casa. Anyway, we sure as shit can’t stay here. I’m freezing my balls off, and I tell you, jail’s starting to look kinda nice.”
Rourke’s voice spiked in anger. “Jail is never nice. It’s hell. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? It’s hell on earth, and it’ll kill you.”
“Yeah, well, you do the crime —”
Rourke’s interruption was harsh but too fragmented to hear. Then came silence. Then the rushing wind again, and the grasses fretted and flailed. Sheltered by the dark, Dion had a feeling that if he spoke now, the situation, peaceful as it seemed, would whip out of control, would possibly snap. He took a sideways stance, sighted down his pistol, and lowered it again. No chance. The two men had huddled closer together and become a solid blot. He moved forward a few paces with a vague plan: get close enough, beam his light, aim, and shout a warning. Get them both away from the cliff. It was the cliff that made him nervous. That and the heavy object Rourke was now holding loose in one hand, which wasn’t a wine bottle, as he’d first believed. From the shape of it, and the relationship between hand and object, he believed it was a weapon. Gun, large hunting knife, or mallet. But probably gun.
Rourke made a turning motion and Dion dropped to his haunches. He heard Rourke say something about love. “You know what, Frank? It’s all about love. All about love, little brother.”
Frank said something that was whipped away by the wind, and Rourke spoke louder, making his point with passion. “I love all you guys. You’re family to me. Always remember that.”
It was the booze talking. Rourke had gotten himself tanked for courage, and it was strumming on his emotions, which was bad news, with drop-away cliffs and guns in the mix. And if it wasn’t Dion’s imagination, there was a note of farewell in those words.
Did Frank hear it too?
By now, Dion hoped that backup had gotten lost and would stay lost, because the situation had become fragile before his eyes. A swarm of officers now would just light the fuse. Rourke was on his feet again, pacing, and Frank stood too, and instead of wandering into a safer zone, as Dion hoped, he moved closer to the madman, and there they stayed on the brink.
Rourke wouldn’t push his friend over, Dion believed. That would be too cruel. He’d just take aim, when Frank wasn’t looking, and splatter his brains to oblivion. And the moment was now, Frank taking in the view, Rourke’s gun arm lifted, rigid at the elbow, pointed at the back of that man’s skull, and it was like watching porcelain fall. Dion levelled both arms, torch and gun, and moved, three strides forward with a bellow that seemed to come from elsewhere, not himself: “Scottie, stop!” And the dynamics changed again, and it was a terrible lining up of bodies, both men frozen in his flashlight beam, Frank by the cliff, turned in surprise, partially cut off from view by Rourke at centre stage, gaping, white-faced, Dion lunging forward over rough terrain toward a handgun now aimed straight at his face.
He retreated a step and stopped. He raised both hands, and the light beam went up too, and all went dark, leaving Rourke a cardboard cut-out against the sky.
“Dion?” Rourke shouted. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Dion shouted back, not at Rourke but Frank. “Move it, now. He’s got a gun. Get away from the cliff.”
As seemed to happen in Dion’s world these days, things went from bad to worse. With bewildering speed, Rourke turned and seized the younger man by the scruff of the neck, it looked like, but it was probably his coat, and yanked him toward him into a chokehold. Just like in the snapshot, but without the sunshine or smiles. “Oh, man,” Rourke said now, more a whine than a roar. “You don’t know what you’ve done here. He was going to go out painless. He wasn’t going to know what hit him, you dumb shit. Look what you done.”
Dion was doing just that, looking at what he’d done, and he felt that familiar slide of ice through his veins. He’d put Frank Law in a noose, gun muzzle against his temple, inches from a deadly fall. He watched Frank fight the grip, saw Rourke totter a bit, find his footing and hold fast, pure sinew, a wannabe Mohawk, a man not afraid of heights.
“I don’t understand,” Dion called out. He had knitted the plan together on the long drive up, custom designed for Scott Rourke, who was the home-grown religious type, rabid, reflexive, fiercely protective. Unless he had it all wrong, and having it wrong was a big possibility too, Rourke would rather see Frank dead than raped and ravaged in jail for the next twenty years. He called out, “He’s not going to jail, Scott. You got it wrong. He didn’t kill Kiera. We got a new lead on a guy, and it’s not Frank, and it’s not Rob either. It’s one of Rob’s employees. We have the guy locked up tight, man.”
The air cracked at his left, and he dropped to a crouch and froze. The bullet had whistled past his ear, he could swear it was Rourke’s way of saying “Don’t bullshit me.” He hitched his flashlight