False Witness (38 page)

Tess looked him in the eye. “You-know-who said –”

Sam put a finger to her lips. He turned to Flowers. “All right,” he said. “Can I make a quick phone call first?”

Flowers frowned. “You don’t need a lawyer, Bernstein. I just want to know what’s going on.”

Tess looked from Flowers to Sam. “Bernstein?” she said. “I thought that was
our
thing.”

“One problem at a time,” said Sam. He pulled out his phone and speed-dialed Crowe’s number. The spring in his stomach started to twist again when Crowe didn’t pick up after the first two rings. After the eighth, he hung up and turned to Tess. “You-know-who’s not answering. That’s not good.”

She bit her lip. “I guess we don’t have a choice. And we need as much help as we can get.”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?”

“All right.”

Sam walked over to a concrete retaining wall and sat down. He motioned for Flowers to do the same. “Better take a seat, buddy,” he said. “This is going to take awhile.”

He spent the next fifteen minutes bringing Flowers up to speed. His phone rang once during the conversation; the caller ID said it was Shippy again. He ignored it, as did Tess when hers rang a minute later.

“That’s where we are,” said Sam. “What do you think?”

Flowers glared at him. “I
think
you should have gone to the cops with this from the get-go, lunkhead. What the hell are you thinking, throwing in with Jason Crowe?”

“I told you,” said Sam. “He didn’t kill Palliser and Duff.”

“Of course that’s what he’d say, jackass! I’m sure he brings meals to elderly shut-ins and takes in stray dogs, too!”

“Look,” said Sam. “I don’t need you to believe me. But I do need you to help me. Are you in or not?”

Flowers mulled it over for several long moments. Finally, he said, “You realize I’ll be putting my career on the line if I do this, right? Not to mention my life, from what you’ve said.”

Sam shrugged. “You put your life on the line every day,” he said simply. “As for your career, think of it this way: you could be putting yourself on the fast track to detective. Imagine being the guy who solves this whole thing. You’d be the most famous cop in the country. Hell, they’d make a movie out of it! That guy who was Jaws in the James Bond movies could play you.”

Flowers extended a huge middle finger. “All right,” he said. “But holy shit, Sammy, do you ever owe me. I don’t plan to buy a beer for the next ten years.”

“Hey, you’re the one who pointed out how little I make.”

“You’re right. You can be my manservant instead.”

“Couldn’t pay less than the
Chronicle
.”

Tess glared at the two of them. “Are you quite finished?” she snapped. “In case you forgot, Angie was just kidnapped by the people who want us dead. Crowe is either dead or incapacitated.”

Sam felt the familiar roll in his stomach that seemed to occur whenever he remembered the stakes they were playing for. He laid a hand on Tess’s shoulder. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” said Flowers. “This is serious. I see that now.”

Sam turned to Flowers. “So what do we do?”

“Standard procedure for kidnappings is to wait for instructions. According to the message on that phone, they’ll get in touch with us when they’re ready.”

“All right,” said Tess. “Then we need to get back to Shitbox’s cabin. I think we should all stick together at this point.”

“Agreed,” said Sam. “Are you armed?” he asked Flowers.

“What do you think? I’m on an out-of-province vacation.”

“Don’t worry,” said Sam. “I think we can hook you up.”

His phone was ringing again. He pulled it out of his pocket with a scowl. “Jesus, Shippy, just give up already,” he said. Then he saw the incoming number; it was Shitbox. He slid his thumb across the faceplate. “Shitbox,” he said. “I’m glad you called. We have a situation.”

“I know,” said Shitbox. “Jason found their hideout. Or at least he thought he did. He went inside, and now he doesn’t answer his phone. I’m worried.”

You should be
, Sam thought. His stomach was in knots now. “I couldn’t raise him either,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve got some more bad news, big guy.”

He told Shitbox about Angie. He expected the man to go into a panic; he was almost shocked to hear what Shitbox said next.

“We have to assume Angie and Jason are in the same place,” the big man said evenly. “They’re forcing our hand. But we got an advantage they don’t realize.”

“What’s that?”

“We know where they are.” He told Sam about Crowe’s call and gave him directions to the Bluebird mine.

Sam blinked.
Jesus
, he thought.
This guy is smarter than he lets on.

“We have another advantage,” said Sam. He told Shitbox about Flowers. “But I still trust Crowe, which means I trust his decisions. He put you in charge; you’re the one we’re going to follow.”
I’ll convince Flowers it was his idea somehow
, he didn’t add.

“We gotta press the immediate advantage,” Shitbox said. “That means we all head for the mine right now. That way, we’re right outside when they contact us. We’ll be at least one step ahead of them.”

Sam blinked again.
Who
is
this guy?
“That’s brilliant,” he said. “I’ll bring Tess and Flowers up to speed.”

“Roger that. Anything else before we move?”

A dozen things came to mind, but Sam pushed them away. If he gave this any more thought, he’d find himself grabbing Tess and heading for the nearest RCMP station to lock themselves in a holding cell. The time for talking was over; now was the time to act.

“Just one thing,” he said. “Aren’t you going to look a little . . .
conspicuous
wandering around with a bag full of weapons?”

Shitbox honked a high, nasal laugh. “That don’t really matter at this point in the big picture, Sam.”

“No, I suppose not,” he said. Sam was ashamed of himself for jumping to the conclusion that Shitbox was some kind of simpleton, and that he, Sam, deserved to be left in charge in Crowe’s absence. “All right, we’ll meet you there.”

“Roger that.”

“And Shitbox?”

“Yeah, Sam?”

“Thanks for looking out for us.”

Sam expected a sentimental reaction from the buffalo man. The actual response sent chills down his spine instead.

“Don’t thank me,” said Shitbox. “The real shit hasn’t even started yet.”

Alex was still in shock as he and Shitbox made their way down side streets towards the hiking path on the east side of Lost Lake. Shitbox had filled him in as he prepared for their departure: Angie held hostage. Crowe captured or dead. The rest of them heading for some kind of showdown. This time the day before, Alex had been sitting in his swim shorts, banging away on his Macbook, dreaming about
real
bestsellers, not Canadian bestsellers. Dreaming about the beautiful woman he would lay with that night. Dreaming about so many things. He didn’t know what he would do if anything happened to Angie. The thought alone made him nauseous.

He was lagging behind Shitbox, who could move incredibly quickly for such a big man, especially one carrying a shoulder bag full of weapons and ammunition. He had slowed a few times to let Alex catch up, but this time was different. When Alex finally reached him, Shitbox snaked out his free hand and cuffed Alex on the back of the head.

“Wake up, soldier!” he cried. “We got miles to go before we sleep!”

The words had more of an impact than the slap. Alex shook his head and took a big breath. He didn’t have the luxury of self-pity; Angie needed him. It was time to man up.

“Yessir!” he barked. He picked up his pace to match Shitbox’s. They marched through streets and empty fields on their way to the trail. Eventually, proper neighborhoods (such as they were) gave way to rambling, overgrown lots that were home to trailers and rickety old outbuildings. Rusted-out hulks of old vehicles lurked in the knee-high grass. If Lost Lake had a ghetto, this was it.

“This is a shortcut,” said Shitbox. “The old road’s still there; you just need to know where it is.”

Alex looked ahead of them and saw what Shitbox was talking about. It was little more than a rutted logging road, overgrown with weeds and other brush, but it was there.

“How did you know about this?” Alex asked.

Shitbox smiled down at him as he pushed some branches out of their way. “I didn’t spend all day, every day watchin you,” he said. “I got a life, ya know.”

They followed the overgrown road for about half a mile, until Alex saw a building looming in the distance. He couldn’t see far without his glasses – he’d left them in his room at the Bluebird Motor Inn – but he could tell it was a good size, and at least two stories. About fifty yards away was a sign, announcing they should stay out. They ignored it. Another sign, this one so faded by the elements that it was barely legible, told them they were entering the office of the Bluebird Mine, and that, being guests, they should check in with the receptionist in the lobby.

“Hey,” Shitbox said, his voice low. He looked down at Alex. “Same name as yer motel. Funny, eh?”

Alex stared up at him, wondering what went on inside that big, round head. They made their way around the back of the building to the sheltered area where, unknown to them, Crowe had begun his reconnaissance an hour earlier. Shitbox unslung the black bag onto the forest floor and removed what looked to Alex like a digital video camera with a slightly extended lens. It was matte black, with a rubber grip on one side. Shitbox held the lens up to his right eye and closed his left.

“Are you videotaping them?” asked Alex, bemused.

“Thermal imaging,” said Shitbox. “If we’re lucky, the building will be cold enough that I can make out any warm bodies inside. It’s hot outside, but the building’s in shade all the time, too.”

Alex sat quietly for several moments as Shitbox scanned the building. He was starting to feel about as useful as an ashtray on a jet ski. But he knew one thing for sure: he would do whatever it took to save Angie. If that meant dying, he was ready.

Shitbox lowered the device from his eye. “We got lucky,” he said. “Sorta. There’s warm bodies on the second floor, but I dunno how many. It’s just a red blob.”

“What do we do now?” asked Alex.

“We wait for Sam and Tess, and whoever this cop is,” said Shitbox. He frowned. “I dunno about this, Alex.”

“Sam trusts him.”

Shitbox gave him a sour look. “I don’t like cops. Neither does Jason.”

Alex had finally had enough of this line of thinking. “Look,” he snapped. “With all due respect, Shitbox, you and Crowe are fucking
criminals
. Just because the cops are after you doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with
them
. Police are actually quite nice people when you’re not committing a crime.”

“Me and Jason don’t hurt anyone who doesn’t try to hurt us first,” Shitbox said evenly. “None of the Roses does. We’re just runnin a business.”

Alex goggled at him. “You manufacture and sell crystal meth,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice down. “Millions of dollars worth of it.”

“We never put a gun to anyone’s head and said, ‘Here, take this.’ They come to
us
. And if they didn’t get it from us, they’d get it from somebody else. We haven’t put any product on the market for months now. You seen any headlines lately that said ‘Meth problem over’?”

Alex thought about that for a moment. Now wasn’t the time for this argument. “All right,” he said. “I’ll drop it if you give Flowers a chance. Deal?”

“I’m not gonna guarantee anything. All I know is he better not get in my way.”

Shitbox’s tone indicated that particular conversation was over. Alex wondered what this man’s history was. Crowe’s, too, for that matter. They were children once, just like him and Angie, Tess and Sam. What led them to the lifestyle they belonged to now? What factors in their lives were so different from those in his own? Was it economics? Abuse? Or was it a simply a completely different way of thinking, regardless of circumstances?

Shitbox rummaged in the black bag again. He withdrew a pistol and handed it to Alex. It was the first time he’d ever held a gun in his life. The weight of it felt strange in his hand, alien. Up until this point, he’d never honestly spent a moment’s thought on the subject; here, now, it made him feel like a virgin on the set of a porno movie.

“That’s a Glock,” said Shitbox. “Standard police issue. It’s a good gun for beginners.”

“Why?”

“It’s light, and it don’t jam. Really light kick for a nine-mil.”

Alex gripped the gun in his right hand and pointed it towards the building. He positioned it the way he’d always seen cops do on TV.

“Not bad,” said Shitbox. “But be ready for the recoil. Don’t just hold yer right hand in yer left; you need to brace it.”

“Is there a safety?”

“That thing on the back of the grip.”

Alex looked at a small cylinder that protruded from the back.

“Don’t push it in yet,” said Shitbox. “With luck, you won’t have to use it at all.”

Alex stared at the mine office in the distance. The sun was no longer directly overhead; it had begun its hours-long crawl towards the mountains in the west. The shadows cast on the old building by the trees overhead made it look like something out of a horror movie.

“Do you think we’ll be lucky?” Alex asked.

“I dunno,” said Shitbox. “I think luck is kinda like yer dad on Christmas: if he shows up, take the present. If he doesn’t, just get on with your life.”

Sam and Tess waited as Flowers pulled his big Ford around and parked it in the paved lot next to the bathrooms. As the big man shut of the engine, Sam was alarmed to see he was on his cell phone.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked as Flowers exited the truck.

Flowers raised his eyebrows. “What business is it of yours?”

“I’d say it’s very much my business, given the circumstances.”

“Glad to see we trust each other,” Flowers said. “Stop being paranoid; it wasn’t anybody important.”