(2012) Cross-Border Murder (36 page)
I had to smile. It was a moment of satisfaction I too wanted.
Then I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten, since leaving home, to check to see if Symansky had left a message. I used Phil’s phone and called Gina. But there were no messages. I explained that everything so far had gone according to plan and that Phil and I were heading in the general direction of the cottage. I promised that I would phone at some point later in the evening but that neither of them should stay up waiting for my call.
“Fat chance!” Gina retorted, “I’ll be staying within ten feet of the phone. Besides,” she said, “I’ve got Phil’s cellular phone number. So you’d better phone.”
The motel we checked into was modest. Ten units, built at least thirty years ago. Upgrading had been kept to the bare necessities. There were two single beds. A scatter rug had been placed near the entrance where the original wall-to-wall carpeting had become threadbare. It had a phone which went through a personal switchboard. A small color TV was sufficiently dated that the channels had to be changed manually. But it still suited Phil’s purpose. Before he rented it, he tested both his car phone and his portable cellular phone, and both provided clear transmission to the private detective we had hired who was stationed in the parking lot only about eight miles away as the crow flies. But the road to reach either him or the cottage meandered, and would take at least twenty minutes to travel.
Having booked into the motel, I called to check in with Gina and Mary. Gina answered after the second ring. She told me my only phone call had been from Mel Vogel, and that she had taken the liberty of telling him that I had been hard at work on an article and that she was under the impression I would have something for him in a day or two. I brought her up to date, and I gave her the telephone number at the motel. She told me that she had taken the liberty of inviting Linda over to discuss the implications of Hendricks’ last will and testament. I had forgotten their desire to see that Linda was compensated in some way for having been wounded by Hendricks. It reminded me that I had yet to hear from my lawyer. I had hoped that Gina might have asked me whether I wanted to speak to her mother. But she didn’t.
On the way to the motel, Phil and I had eaten at a fast food stop on the road, and had also stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts where we had bought a large thermos full of coffee and had stocked the van with a dozen sugar coated cinnamon twists. We had selected a spot at the back of the motel where we could sit in the van unobserved from the road or from the office. Through the van’s open window we could hear an incessant chorus of crickets in the field beyond.
Phil was already taking a sip from his thermos. “We should have got some Cognac to spike this coffee later! We probably have a long wait.”
“When do you expect him to make his move?” I had almost said when does Leclair expect him to make his move, but I had thought better of it.
“If I were him,” Phil said, “and if he uses the same route he probably used before, he should arrive at the parking lot just before dawn. That way he’ll be able to negotiate the trail without too much difficulty and will hit the cottage before he figures Francine is fully awake and mobile. Right now he’s probably resting somewhere. Maybe we should sneak around and check the cars. Maybe he’s booked himself into this motel!” Ryan grinned, “nah,” he said, “I’m sure he’d have chosen something classier.”
I reminded Ryan that Gooden had a cottage on the other side of the lake, but I was not sure whether he or his wife had the use of it at the moment. We decided to spell ourselves in the van. While one of us monitored the phones, the other tried to cat-nap on one of the beds. I was just about to head for the room when the phone rang. It was just before midnight. To Phil’s surprise, Gooden had already been spotted at the parking lot.
While I retrieved our few possessions from the motel room Phil put a call through to Leclair.
He had already started the engine by the time I returned.
“Come on. We’re on the move again.” He was in his element. “Gooden is already on the damn trail.”
“At this hour?”
“Yeah. I had forgotten the fact that there’s a clear sky tonight and a full moon. And it’s shining from a direction which gives him a reasonable view of the mountain trail. Bloody lucky our spotter hadn’t dozed off. He saw the lights of a car approaching. When it turned up the road to the parking lot, and switched to low beams, he was smart enough to move a few yards into the woods. But he was close enough to identify Gooden from his picture.”
“So where are we going?” I asked as we left the motel and turned South rather than North.
Phil compressed his lips. He did not look happy.
“You’ve spoken to Leclair?”
“Yeah.”
“And how did he react to our being here?”
“Only slightly annoyed. I think that he’d already decided he needed more manpower. He asked me to block off the road to Leadville. I’ve checked the map. It’s a small road which leads South and East. It’s about a mile to the South of the cottage.”
I already knew about the Leadville road from my study of the area surrounding Bull’s compound. In fact, Leadville as a place no longer existed. The road which passed Naomi’s cottage runs North and South. Owl’s Head mountain is to the North. At the southern end of the road, at the point where it loops its way back towards Mansonville, a narrow dirt road led off to the East and then headed South. It had once led to a primitive lead mine. During prohibition the dirt track had served as a hidden route, favored by smugglers and bootleggers. across the border into the United States.
“Why is Leclair stationing us there?” I asked puzzled.
“Leclair decided that if Gooden smells a trap and decides to take evasive action, he may not head back up Owl’s head mountain to his car. In fact, Leclair thinks Gooden may just have been clever enough to have arranged some back-up escape plan to the South of the cottage. Maybe even planting Symansky somewhere! Or he may have stationed another vehicle somewhere to the South. Who knows.”
“Makes sense.”
But Phil only responded with an unenthusiastic shrug of his shoulders. “Personally I think Gooden is too vain to have bothered!”
I did not envy the policeman who was stationed inside the cottage. I mentioned this to Phil.
“Leclair’s no fool. He was prepared at short notice to insert a second one. He’s seeing to that now before Gooden gets close to the cottage. Leclair himself will be stationed about three minutes away from the cottage on the road leading from Mansonville.”
I made a mental count. About eight bloodhounds after only one weasel! I hoped it would be enough.
Phil found a spot to turn on the Leadville road so that the van was facing down the valley towards Mansonville. We could see a few of the town lights in the distance. Phil and I sat in silence in the front of the van with the lights out and the windows open. Time dragged. We kept glancing nervously at the cellular phone. Through the open windows, I could hear the complex night sounds of the almost untouched countryside. The air itself was cold and damp, and among the variety of odors, I felt sure I could smell the distinct, pungent odor of a pig farm rising from the valley below.
Even from this distance, I could hear the shots when they were fired. Three of them. One right after the other. And then silence. We waited. I jumped when the phone suddenly rang with the shrill sound of a cornered animal. Phil grabbed it. But even before he got it to his ear, I could hear Leclair swearing in French. “Christ, he’s got away! He’s in the woods behind the cottage somewhere!”
That’s all I got to hear, since by now Phil had the phone pressed firmly to his ear. He grunted affirmatively a couple of times, and then put the receiver down. “Jesus!” Phil said, “he really did manage to weasel out of the trap! Son of a bitch!”
“But how?” I asked.
Phil guffawed. For a moment he almost seemed to be enjoying himself. “Through the goddamn front door! Jesus! Can you believe it! We didn’t anticipate he would have a gun. Not his style, we thought. He went in the front bold as brass instead of through the back as we had expected. He must have had a master key. When the two cops emerged from their hiding places, they didn’t even get a chance to tell him to freeze! He just fired a shot in their direction and dove back out the front door! They fired two hopeless shots at his retreating figure, but by then he was already into the woods! One of them tried to follow, while the other phoned Leclair. But since Gooden had a gun, the cop was cautious, so he lost him!”
I was prepared to believe anything. I wondered why they had not stationed one of the cops outside the cottage to block his possible retreat. But at the moment it seemed a moot point. “They think he’s coming our way. I just hope the son of a bitch does!” Ryan did not seem all that disconcerted. I had this strange feeling that he wanted to be the one to make the arrest or go down in the process.
“Leclair is now moving slowly along the road from the cottage in our direction. We’d better keep our eyes peeled. If anyone spots him, they’ll call us.”
I nodded. I opened the door of the van. Ryan gave me a surprised look.
“I know you have to stay near the phone,” I said, “but I’ll be able to see and hear better if I station myself a few yards away from the van.”
He nodded. He offered me his revolver. I declined. “I wouldn’t know how to use it. I’ll leave the door slightly open in case I have to scramble back in.”
I needed air and some open space. The tension in the van had been getting to me. I moved about two yards into the woods and slightly ahead of where the van was stationed. I found an old birch tree and leaned against it. It took me a minute to get my breathing under control. Slowly the moonlight began to define shapes. And I began to distinguish the forest sounds: the soft rustle of small animals burrowing through the leaves, the whir of insect life, the periodic hooting of a distant owl. I glanced back at the van which loomed, dark, and large, like a juggernaut poised at the valley below. A half-hour dragged past, but it seemed more like an hour. The phone in the van remained silent. Suddenly a very distinct sound made me freeze. Something was blundering through the woods about twenty yards ahead. A large animal? Gooden possibly? A shot of adrenalin slipped through my blood stream. I tensed.
Then Phil flicked on his high beams.
“There he is!” He shouted, leaping from the van.
As I moved towards the road, I saw Gooden stiffen like a deer in the van’s headlight. Although it could not have been for more than a few seconds, Gooden stood, his mouth open, a truly puzzled look on his face. Slowly he began to raise the gun in his hand. But still blinded by the headlights he did not know where to shoot. Before he could decide to turn and leap back into the bushes, I saw a flash from Phil’s revolver and heard his shot echo down the valley. Gooden dropped his gun and grabbed at his left leg. His staring, puzzled eyes betrayed a kaleidoscope of emotions: fear, anger, confusion, and finally something akin to contempt. But by then Phil had taken the four or five strides that were necessary, and launching himself at Gooden, had toppled him over onto his back. Both men grunted as they landed on the dirt track with a crunching, scraping thud. When I got to them, Phil had rolled Gooden over onto his stomach and had pinned his arms behind him.
“Handcuffs,” Phil shouted, “in the glove compartment.”
I ran back to the van and returned with them.
“My leg!” Gooden muttered through gritted teeth.
“Piss on your leg!” I heard Phil say, “we’ll fix that later!” And with that, Phil clicked the handcuffs into place. He flipped Gooden over and made him sit up.
Gooden was breathing heavily. “Symansky.” He said. “Where the hell is he?”
He stared at me. “You!” He said as recognition dawned.
“Symansky?” I asked, incredulous. “Did you really expect him to be here?”
He made an effort to hide the pain. In his eyes, I saw hatred. He tried to mock me with a cynical harsh laugh devoid of any humor. “Played you beautifully, didn’t he! The bloody bastard! And me too!” His breathing was rapid and erratic. “But I’ll get him for this! That’s a promise! Tell him that!”
Two police cars, their lights flashing strangely in the night, came bumping up the dirt track and came to a halt just a few yards behind Gooden. A grim faced Leclair nodded to Ryan who was grinning as if he had won a lottery. I wanted to question Gooden further, but one of the police officers was tending to the wound in his leg. And I could see from his reaction to the presence of the police that he had now opted for a stonewalling silence. He was not going to say anything more until he had a lawyer sitting beside him.
I watched as he was bundled into the back of one of the police cars. He sat there with his lips compressed and his eyes closed as if the scene around him no longer existed. It seemed only minutes before Phil and I were driving away. He had handed over his revolver to Leclair, and one of the officers was left behind to seal off the area until it could be properly inspected. Twenty minutes later we were passing the motel and I began to focus my thoughts.
“Any of that coffee left?” Phil asked.
I reached for the thermos, poured a cup and handed it to him.
“Amazing how warm it’s kept.” He took three rapid sips. “Another hour to go,” he said, “and then a good shower, a double cognac, and bed.” He chuckled quietly. “What more can a an ex-cop ask for!”
How about a wife to go home to, I thought to myself. But I didn’t say that. I glanced at my watch. I reached for his cellular phone.
“Who are you calling? Gina?”
“No. The newspaper. There’s still time to get something in tomorrow morning’s paper. Not much. But maybe something in a box on the front page.”
For the next twenty minutes, I spoke with one of the night editors. I dictated the essential facts, sticking to events involving the cottage. I did not mention the break-in at the flat. I tried to keep any speculation out of the story that would appear tomorrow morning. That could wait for a longer piece I planned to write later. But I did say that the police suspected a tie-in to both the murder of Naomi Bronson and her former husband Michael Monaghan fifteen years ago.
