Lovelace and Button (International Investigators) Inc. (16 page)

Looks as though I'm on my own,
Bliss says to himself as he returns to his car and takes out his map.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Trina?” asks Daphne with utter seriousness as they sit at the small wooden table, and she continues prattling as if in a Monty Python sketch. “Whenever I have tea with Her Majesty we always have Keemun,” she says, then she leans in conspiratorially. “It's her favourite, you know.”

“I'd heard that,” says Trina, playing along. But beneath them, in the basement's surveillance room, a hoot of laughter from Spotty Dick is quickly stifled by a newcomer who instantly takes in the scene and orders, “Wipe that stupid grin off your face, man, and get in there and stop them.”

Daphne pours from an imaginary pot then she holds out a make-believe plate, asking, “Would you like a chocky bicky to go with that, dear?”

“Gosh, thanks ever so much,” replies Trina as the door slams open.

“Just in time for tea,” mutters Daphne, turning with an insouciant smile and asking, “Do you take milk and sugar?”

“Game's over,” says Spotty Dick sourly.

“Oh, really. Does that mean we can go home now?” asks Daphne as a new face appears in the doorway, though this one is not shrouded by a hood.

“Leave us,” the newcomer hisses to Spotty Dick, before he strolls into the room with the brashness of a
corporate lawyer, pulls up a chair, and lets the tension build as his eyes hold steady on the two women.

“Ladies,” he says eventually, making Trina jump, “I'm afraid that we have no choice but to keep you here as our guests until certain decisions have been made.”

“But we wouldn't tell anyone what you do here — would we, Daphne?” tries Trina.

“You have no idea what we do here,” continues John Dawson with polished authority. “But we are not prepared to take that risk. And you will be well cared for — providing you co-operate.”

“But what about our families?” cries Trina.

“Ms. Lovelace has no family, but your husband and children will simply have to accept the fact that you are missing for the time being.”

“You can't do this,” spits Daphne. “I demand a lawyer. I demand my habeas corpus rights.”

“Actually, ma'am,” says Dawson, “I regret to inform you that you have no such rights under the president's anti-terrorism laws, and we can keep you incommunicado for as long as we deem you to be a threat to national security.”

“And you seriously think that anyone would believe me to be a terrorist.”

“Well, Ms. Lovelace, it seems that you entered the United States illegally by failing to obtain a visa at the border. So, yes, we do consider you a risk.”

The Mission of Mercy Monastery doesn't appear on Bliss's map — in fact it doesn't appear on
any
map — and he's forced to drive blindly around the thickly forested foothills of the Cascade Mountains searching for landmarks until he spots a familiar bar.

A dozen pairs of eyes follow him into the saloon, but the surrounding forest is abuzz with the sound of chain-saws,
so he's not surprised by the absence of the lumberjack who'd spotted the missing women the previous evening. However, a paunch-bellied woodsman propping up the bar appears to be something of a fixture.

“I'm looking for the monastery place,” says Bliss casually, once he's ordered a coffee, but he's surprised by the oldtimer's shrug of ignorance.

“Sorry, fella,” says the gap-toothed senior. “I'm kind'a new round here.”

A hoot of amusement from behind the bar leaves Bliss perplexed. “Do you know the place?” he asks, turning to the bartender.

“No, sir. Not me, sir. I don't know a damn thing,” he replies, and as Bliss sweeps his eyes around the room, the other occupants snigger into their beers.

“I see,” he says and changes his mind about the coffee.

“Hey — I've already made it!” the barman calls after him, then a gale of laughter follows him out the door.

Bumface and Spotty Dick are also finding amusement as they watch the surveillance monitors at the monastery and see Daphne and Trina scuttle back to the bathroom for another strategy session.

“God knows what the hell they do in there,” laughs Bumface.

“That's one of life's little mysteries, Steve,” says Spotty Dick, adding, “I even used to wonder if they had twin johns in the women's.”

A cloud of concern suddenly darkens the other man's face. “They could be cooking something up,” he warns, staring into the screen.

“Don't worry,” chuckles Spotty Dick. “They ain't got a stove.”

“Know thine enemy, Trina,” says Daphne once the taps are running.

“What do you mean?”

“I've been thinking about the fence I saw when we arrived. It was designed to keep people out, not in. This is not a prison, and this isn't a cell.”

“But what about the cameras?”

“Observation, not security,” she says. “Otherwise they'd have one in here as well.”

“Ladies…” calls Spotty Dick on the intercom. “Come out of the bathroom, please.”

“So what are we going to do?” whispers Trina.

“What would they expect of two middle-aged housewives?” asks Daphne, dropping thirty years without a moment's hesitation.

“Housework?” questions Trina.

“Precisely. And, just like good housewives, we'll put a lot of effort into it.”

With his suspicions cemented, if not actually confirmed, by the occupants of the bar, Bliss finds the path to the monastery and makes his plans. There's clearly no point in knocking at the gate and asking politely again, he tells himself as he sits watching the road from a blind spot about a mile away from the monastery's gates. Courtesy is clearly not on their topten list of commandments.

Meanwhile, Trina and Daphne have plonked themselves onto one of the beds, with their backs to the camera, and have begun to knit.

“What the hell are they doing now?” asks Dawson with his eyes on the monitor.

“Knitting, John,” laughs Bumface. “Her Majesty reckons they're making an escape rope.”

Traffic is sparse as the afternoon wears on, and after more than thirty hours without sleep Bliss comes close to snoozing several times, but he needs something bulkier than an ordinary car to prise open the gates for him, so has no choice but to wait.

“Stop that!” orders Dawson's irritated voice on the intercom, and the two knitters redouble their efforts.

The door opens a minute later and Spotty Dick appears, asking, “And just what do you think you are doing?”

“Knitting, of course,” says Daphne. “Here,” she adds, holding out an imaginary skein of wool. “See if you can get the knots out of that, would you.”

A mile away, a flash of white through the trees signals the approach of a vehicle larger than a sedan, and Bliss perks himself up and starts his engine.

“Ladies… ladies,” pleads Spotty Dick. “Would you please stop this nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” retorts Daphne indignantly. “Didn't your mother ever tell you the story of the emperor's new clothes?” Then she holds up the make-believe rope and eyes it critically. “Not bad,” she says, as she peers through the imaginary artefact and locks her gaze with his. “What do you think?” she asks with the calmness of a hypnotist, and the moment stretches and stretches until
he finally breaks free. “By the way,” she asks as he makes for the door with his head down, “what's your name?”

“That's interesting,” she muses to Trina as the door gently closes.

A large white Ford delivery van passes Bliss's forested hideaway, and he waits for it to disappear before gingerly emerging onto the road. Ahead of him, the two men in the vehicle are trundling along the back road at a leisurely pace at the end of just another working day, north of the border in Canada, and have their sights set on a few beers and a game of pool or two in the monastery's bar.

“Wann'a smoke, Reggie?” asks the driver as he holds out a pack to the front-seat passenger.

“Sure. Why not, Buzzer,” says the passenger, with a nod to the inert figure concealed under a large trough of dead salmon in the back of the van. “He ain't gonna complain.”

However, in the monastery's surveillance room, Dawson is furious at the women's refusal to obey, and is screeching at Spotty Dick. “Can't you see what she's doing, you idiot? Get back in there right now and make them stop.” Then he spins on Bumface, yelling, “Go with him and make sure he does.”

Outside, Bliss is scorching after the Ford van, while anxiously searching ahead for the occasional flash of white through the trees; praying that he won't suddenly round a bend and find himself peering into their rear-view mirrors.

“Ladies… ladies,” repeats Spotty Dick, crashing back into the room while carefully avoiding Daphne's gaze. “You've got to stop this, now.”

“Oh, hello,” says Trina, picking up where Daphne left off. “Just hold the end of this, will you?”

“Stop it!” he yells, then unthinkingly gives them credence by snatching at the imaginary rope.

Bliss is still two hundred metres from the gates, and his pulse is racing as he nudges the car round bend after bend at breakneck speed.

“Now look what you've done,” exclaims Daphne in mock anger as Trina starts to cry.

“Oh, for chrissakes…” moans Bumface from the doorway.

Bliss's timing is perfect. He rounds the final bend just as the huge gates are swinging open, and without a moment's hesitation he guns his engine and flashes through the gap before the van driver has a chance to get his vehicle in gear.

“Terrific!” he exclaims as the giant gates flash past in a blur, and ahead of him, through the trees, he catches his first sight of the monastery. Then his whole world explodes.

Thirty minutes later, with the dust settled, Daphne and Trina are back in their room nursing their wounds after an abortive escape bid, while Bliss is back at Bellingham police station wondering how the hire-car company will react to their vehicle's shredded tires and the ragged line of bullet holes across the trunk lid.

“They sure as hell get touchy about trespassers up there,” the desk officer explains as Bliss recounts the moment when a row of vicious spikes had sprung out of the roadway in front of him, a dozen sirens had screeched overhead, and a couple of hooded men had jumped from behind trees with sub-machine guns. “You're lucky to have got out alive.”

“But what are you going to do about it?” demands Bliss angrily.

“I suppose I should give you a ticket for trespassing…” the sergeant begins as he scratches his head, though is saved further deliberation by the appearance of Captain Prudenski.

“Chief Inspector Bliss, there's a couple of people who need to talk to you,” he says without ceremony.

“People?” queries Bliss, but the captain clams up and ushers Bliss into a room where two smart-suited, smart-mouthed, executive types wait with painted-on smiles.

“Look, David — you don't mind if we call you David, do you?” asks one, his tone as clipped as his brush-cut hairstyle.

“Who are you?” queries Bliss.

“That's not important, David,” starts the other, a beefier version.

“In that case, I think I'd prefer you to call me Detective Chief Inspector,” says Bliss coldly, sensing that he holds the higher ground, guessing that their desire for anonymity means they are probably walking on quicksand.

“Dave…”

“Detective Chief Inspector.”

“Look, how long are you going to keep this up?”

“Until I start getting some straight answers.”

“If that's the way you wann'a play it…” says Brush-head. “In which case, we've come to tell you that the search has been officially called off. We're satisfied that the two ladies in question left the United States of their own free will sometime late yesterday evening.”

“But that's not true,” spits Bliss.

“Choose your words wisely, Chief Inspector. We do have the documents to prove what we're saying.”

“Then how come the Canadians have no record?” demands Bliss.

“Sloppy record-keeping,” continues Brush-head. “They're renowned for it.”

“I don't believe this.”

“Look, David — excuse me,” says the muscular one, switching on a smile and putting a hand on Bliss's
shoulder. “But you have to understand what you're dealing with here.”

“I think I'm dealing with a couple of jerks who've been watching too much television,” Bliss says as he shakes off the hand and heads to the door. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have two women to find.”

Brush-head beats him to the door and holds it shut with his back. “Sir. We're not asking. You should understand that you are only here as a guest. Your visitor's visa can be revoked immediately.”

“You've already tried that once.”

“We can do it again.”

“And what do you think Her Majesty's government would say about that?”

“They'll say whatever we tell ‘em to say, Davie boy,” he scoffs. “Just like they always do.”

Talk about Big Brother
, Bliss is fuming as he steps outside and confronts Prudenski. “Who the hell are they?”

“Way above my pay scale,” admits the captain, “but they've got more clout than the governor. He's called off all search efforts and put out a press release sayin' that the women were just fine and dandy when they crossed the border last night.”

“But this is a load of nonsense,” insists Bliss. “We checked all the border posts this morning. They did not leave the country.”

“Dave, I hate to tell you this, but an immigration officer has remembered seeing them pedalling home.”

“When? Where?” demands Bliss.

“Last night around ten. At the sleepy border crossing on the back road, near where the machine was found.”