The Unlucky (13 page)

The crowd enlarged around her as she was lost in her thoughts. Now the crowd closed in even more, people pushing and shoving. Someone stepped on someone else’s foot, and another bumped someone into a table.

What the hell?

The front doors to city hall were pushed open and held there. An entourage of men filed out.

There he is,
Vivian said.
In the long, beige overcoat.

Sarah had to jump to see over the heads of the people in front of her. It was easy to spot Fletcher. She saw the family resemblance to Joel and was happy she had left the gun behind.

But now it was impossible to get close enough to give him the message. There was no way, short of making a large commotion, to get out of the throng shoving their way by her. It was like she was stuck in the crowd of a rock concert after a fire alarm had been pulled, moving upstream with the crowd. It was that or be stampeded and stomped on for trying to go the opposite way.

She jumped up to look over the heads of the crowd. Fletcher’s entourage was moving to the side, slightly away from her now, heading toward the street. Sarah moved people out of the way and nudged a path for herself, then jumped again.

She was still no closer.

Use the can.

The can? How?

Then it came to her.

She hunched her shoulders as she held the can out. After a moment, she pulled coins out of her pocket and dropped them into the can, shaking it.

Members of the crowd looked her way and gave her room.

“Spare change?” she said. Then louder, “Can you spare some change?”

In under ten seconds, the crowd still thick and moving as one, had opened around her like a parting of the sea. She shook the can hard and asked anyone who would look at her if they had spare change. A couple of people tossed quarters in as they moved away. The reaction to someone perceived as homeless disgusted her, but it worked. Vivian had known it would work.

On the move now, she caught up to Fletcher’s entourage and was ten feet behind as his team hustled toward cars parked on the street by an underground garage door entrance. The crowd thinned here, leaving room to pick up her speed even more and reach him in time. She tossed the can aside, the coins rolling out along the cement.

As they reached their cars, two of the four men ran to the other side to get in while one man stopped to open the door for Fletcher.

Sarah stepped on the back of the leg of the man holding the door, slamming his knee into the cement with the force of her weight. He squealed at the pain.

Using her forward momentum, she grabbed the startled Fletcher by the collar and spun him around. He lost his balance and dropped to the ground on his back, a poof of air escaping his lips as it was forced from his lungs. In that second, she detected the other two men dropping into the car on the other side oblivious to what had just happened.

Sarah straddled Fletcher, forcing his arms back.

“What the—” he tried to ask but Sarah slapped the words out of his mouth.

“I’m so sick of people like your brother,” Sarah spat. “Look at you. How could you not know who he was and what he was up to? You’re just as bad.” Instead of slapping him this time, she clenched her hand into a fist and jabbed at his mouth, splitting his lip against his teeth, blood surfacing instantly.

The other two men had gotten out of the car and were coming around the vehicle now, shouting for her to stop.

Time was out.

“Take this, asshole.”

She shoved the note into his breast pocket and slapped it. Then she shot upwards, spun in a circle to dislodge the hands that reached for her, and ran for the crowd of people still milling about the flea market.

Shouts to stop followed her as she got lost in the crowd. Moments later, she exited the thickest part of the crowd and headed for Queen Street, baseball cap in hand, long hair flowing over her shoulders.

Her last job of the night was to walk four blocks north of Queen Street to meet a man at Princess Margaret, Toronto’s cancer hospital.

For the first time in a long time, she felt energized. Deliver the note. That was all she had to do.

She delivered the note all right.

Sarah style.

She was back. She was angry.

And it felt good.

Chapter 15

Fletcher Aldrich’s bruised ego and fat lip infuriated him more than he thought it could. More than he wanted it to.

“I’m calling the police,” the guard across from him said, already pulling out his cell phone.

“Don’t.” Fletcher stuck his hand out, gently pushing the cell phone down. Then he touched his lip, dabbing at the fattest part. “I’ll handle it.”

The car was underway, driving south toward the Gardiner Expressway.

Could that have been Sarah Roberts? If so, how did she get to him? How could she know of his involvement?

He had to talk to Marshall.

“Driver, pull over.”

The car slowed, then stopped at the curb. A taxi’s horn sounded before it sped around the stationary vehicle.

“Get out,” Fletcher said.

“Sir?”

“All of you, leave me.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved a billfold, tossing a hundred dollar bill to each of the men. “Take a cab home. We’re done for the night. Meet at the office in the morning.”

“But, sir—”

“Go,” Fletcher said, louder.

The men moved slowly, reluctantly, but got out of the car.

“Drive,” Fletcher said when he was alone in the backseat. Then added, “And close the divider.”

Once the window was up, Fletcher dialed Marshall. Before hitting the send button, his phone rang in his hand.

“What?” he answered.

His wife waited her customary two seconds before answering, like she was perpetually eating something and needed to swallow before speaking.

“When are you going to be home, honey? I’ve got dinner on.”

“I’ll be home within the hour.”

“But you said you’d be home early tonight.”

“I got delayed.”

The pause again. He almost ended the call.

“Why are you talking like that?” she asked.

“I banged my lip.”

“On what?”

“Look honey, I have to go now. I’ll be home soon.”

“But dinner is ready, and I—”

He ended the call and dialed Marshall. After two rings it was answered.

“Marshall?” Fletcher asked.

“Identify yourself.”

“Fletcher Aldrich, code 0-4-0-7-1-4.”

“Go ahead.”

“That girl just attacked me.”

“The same girl we’re having trouble with?”

“The same. At least I’m pretty sure it is.”

“Where?”

“In front of city hall. As I was about to get in my car.”

“Your men didn’t stop her? Apprehend her?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Marshall asked, his tone deeper, angrier.

“She was too fast.”

Fletcher’s driver took a hard corner to gain access to a ramp that led onto the elevated highway, tossing Fletcher into the side door.

“That is not good.”

“I understand. But why me?” Fletcher rubbed his lip again. It seemed fatter somehow. “How could she even know about my involvement?”

“She doesn’t. She’s fishing. But her boat will spring a leak soon.”

“How soon?” Fletcher asked.

“Go home. The Club is closed today. Only the caretakers are there. Everything’s fine. We’re fine. Relax and tend to your brother’s funeral arrangements.”

Staring out the window, he almost didn’t catch what Marshall said. They were on the Gardiner heading toward the Don Valley Parkway, the driver revving the engine in the fast lane.

Fletcher pushed the phone into his ear. “What was that about a funeral?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you would’ve been the first to know seeing as you’re a Toronto councilor, a public figure.”

“Is that sarcasm?” Then, after a moment of no response, Fletcher asked, pronouncing each word by itself. “What? Funeral?”

“Your brother’s. Joel Aldrich was found shot today.”

Fletcher shot forward in his seat. “What?”

“Funny thing is, he was shot with the police weapon registered to Detective Timothy Simmons. The same gun that was stolen from him by the girl we’re all looking for.”

“Are you saying she stole an officer’s gun, went to Orillia, shot my brother, left evidence there to incriminate herself and then came here to clock me one in the mouth?”

“You don’t sound too upset about Joel.”

“She did us a favor. We tried to include him in The Club but he wanted to do his own thing. He was a risk, a liability. Is that bitch of his dead, too?”

“Yes, Belinda is gone.”

Fletcher stared out the window as the driver slowed with the traffic heading north on the Don Valley Parkway. His face reflected back at him off the deeply tinted windows, his lip appearing misshapen.

“Marshall. We have to stop her.”

“We will.”

“It has to be today.”

“Anything else?” Marshall asked.

Fletcher knew he was in no position to order Marshall around. The
anything else
comment was sarcastic and it told Fletcher that Sarah was all he was dealing with since Vanessa’s escape from The Club. They could blame Vanessa for fucking everything up, but she was dead. Once Sarah was removed, operations could go back to normal.

“Call the rest of the board,” Marshall said. “Get Harold, Omar, and the Turner brothers on alert. Maybe you should organize a meet. Get everyone together. Contact all your insiders collectively. Get everyone on the streets looking for this girl. She can’t be far and she takes risks, like trying to get close to you. She’ll fuck up. We’ll catch her. Then we can finish this.”

“How will we finish this?” Fletcher asked.

“As we always do. Another funeral, quieter though. Then the ovens.”

“Has anyone located the black book? We have to get that book back. If it fell into the wrong hands—”

Marshall clicked off.

Fletcher leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The adrenaline had fled his system, leaving behind jellied limbs. He shouldn’t have asked about the black book. To most it was a myth. But in reality, The Club needed a ledger of sorts. They needed to make sure whoever came to The Club, whoever used its services remained quiet, remained loyal. There were clubs like theirs all over the world. The last thing they needed was for it to fall prey to what happened to the one at Dolphin Square in London. At least Marshall didn’t allow the victims to be driven back and forth to the parties like their London counterparts. That was too risky. You paid to get in and participate, but you
had
to participate. That allowed you to leave. The subjects, the victims, never left. Ever. Unless they were in a wooden box or an urn.

Fletcher liked it that way. No loose ends and no blood on his hands—unless he chose to have blood on them. But then that was fun.

He expelled a long breath between his now deformed lips and got ready to call the board members one by one.

Something nagged at him. Something Sarah had done. Before his men got to him, she had slapped his breast pocket.

He looked down, opened it and saw a white piece of paper folded up inside. He unfolded it, and read the words. Ice coiled up his vertebrae as he shivered.

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

He had to stop her. Joel was different. He was an asshole that tortured women and dismembered them for pleasure. Their deal was he would stay quiet about The Club if Fletcher left him alone to his pleasures. Fletcher had agreed. Joel was too stupid to have any longevity in this torture business. Joel would be caught and would commit suicide in prison, or men Fletcher knew on the inside would finish him and have it look like suicide. Joel was different. Learning of his death at Sarah’s hand was a good thing.

But the note said that his father would also die for Fletcher’s transgressions and Fletcher couldn’t let that happen. His father had been there for him his whole life. He wouldn’t be where he was without his father. The cruel world, or universe or God or whatever was out there, saw fit to give cancer to his hero of a father. He lay withering and dying, with only one wish left. To see his one good son be elected as mayor of Toronto, and Fletcher aimed to give him that wish before he died.

Instead of dialing the board members, his nervous fingers brought up the Princess Margaret hospital’s number from his contact list.