B.C. Blues Crime 3-Book Bundle. R.M. Greenaway
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Dion observed the crowd, which numbered about a hundred and fifty, so many faces under-lit by flame. Hardly a bunch of kids, these were a fair mix of old and young, and none of them looked stoned or rowdy. He recognized several from their appearances at the detachment over the last few days. There were Kiera’s parents, looking frozen in place. Lenny Law and Scott Rourke and Evangeline Doyle clustered together near front centre, with the drummer Chad nearby, head bowed. He didn’t see Frank anywhere. Stella the violinist stood to one side of the crowd talking with an individual he didn’t recognize, man or woman he couldn’t tell at this distance. Their conversation looked animated, maybe angry. He asked Thackray who the unknown individual was.
Thackray squinted. “Looks like Jim from the garage,” he said, and squinted harder. The individual was bulked by winter clothes, hood up, but turned more their way so the face was exposed, and Thackray grinned. “No, it’s her. Well, they’re twins, right?”
“Who?”
“Jim and Mercy,” Thackray said. “That’s Mercy. You can tell by the lack of moustache.”
Mercy, Dion thought. That word again. He tried to put it together with recent thoughts, but it didn’t mesh, and it was moments like this he despised what he had become. Fragmented. Unwhole. Next to useless.
Thackray seemed to notice he was struggling and dropped a clue. “She manages the band. Well, did. I’m not sure there’s any band left to manage.”
Dion watched the fiddler Stella and the band manager Mercy, the way they talked. They were trying to be discreet with their argument, he saw. The hand gestures, though angry, were short jabs, then hands jammed back into coat pockets. With their hopes of success trashed, he supposed, no wonder they were angry. Still, this was the time and place for prayers and grieving, not anger and recriminations. Bitching at any vigil was disrespectful. He checked the other faces in the crowd and found them devout, like churchgoers, listening not to a sermon right now but to a rockabilly love song blasting out over the speakers. Many were crying.
A young woman in Sorel boots and bundled in a heavy parka stopped in her passage and handed Dion a glass. There was a tea-light barely glowing within the glass, faintly blue. “For Kiera,” the woman said, and moved on, distributing her candles to all those who stood lightless.
Seven
Up in Smoke
THEY DIDN’T KNOW ENOUGH about Potter to tackle him scientifically. He lived alone far from downtown, out in the country, up a long, straight road that shot away into the foothills. Leith was seated in car two of a fleet of six, passenger side. Bulked out in Kevlar, he stared ahead and worried that the man, if he was the killer, could be on his toes, braced for this pending Armageddon. The team had considered a surreptitious approach, but the long, straight road posed a problem, with nothing on either side for cover but scraggly fields now smothered in snow. Sneaking up would be an elaborate operation, would take time to arrange, and time was too precious right now to waste. So it was the shock-and-awe approach, carom in fast and roust the bastard; he’d be face down on the floorboards before he knew what hit him.
The house that came racing into view through the dusk was small and cute, white and turquoise, with a generous deck, lots of lattice and neat landscaping, and something about it jarred Leith as he stared forward. The little house was backed by dark woods and a steeply ascending rock wall, and all was still and silent and unlit. A truck sat in the driveway, fairly new looking. Leith ordered the vehicles to a stop here at a good distance, and he jumped out of the SUV and stood in the snow and stared at the little white house, not taking his eyes off it, because whatever it was that prickled at his nerves, intuition or superstition, or simply a wealth of bad experiences, he was certain the place was booby-trapped.
The standoff continued, unilateral and surreal. The ERT commander joined him, and together they watched the little house at the end of the driveway, the parked truck, the closed drapes. They were discussing Leith’s gut feeling and the approach they’d take when lights came on in the house, in a slow-blooming way, from darkness to dull orange. “Aw, shit,” Leith said, starting forward, stopping when he saw it was too late. The ERT was making a call. The dull orange glared bright, the curtains flared, and there came a thud of internal explosion, and another, and a third. Car doors opened and closed and the team was out, a band of helpless spectators as the house became engulfed in flames.
Was she in there? Was she going to burn? Was that all they had accomplished?
Leith conferred with the team, and they spread out to explore the perimeter of the burning building. He was called over to view the fresh snowshoe tracks at the back, leading up into the mountains. One set. He and four others took up pursuit but found the trail was narrow, the snow deep, and the risk too great that Potter would be waiting ahead with a scope and nothing to lose. So they turned back to make a plan, wait for the dogs and gear and reinforcements. Leith stood watching the frantic swivelling of red and white lights from fire trucks approaching along the beeline road. Potter would have had the same kind of view, would have had maybe five minutes to splash the gasoline, light the fuse, and grab his bag, pre-packed, and take off. He wouldn’t be far, but every moment now he was adding distance.
He was probably one of those goddamn survivalists who could burrow into the scree for months, catching rabbits and sipping melted snow. Leith spent ten minutes on the phone, calling in choppers and dogs and as many hands as he could rope in on short notice to search the property for Kiera or the clues that would lead him to her.
And then he joined in the search himself.
* * *
But she wasn’t anywhere on the property. The dogs arrived, and it was a dog that found Potter, or at least drew them close enough to his hiding spot that Potter opened fire, three blasts, rapid-fire, and by the sound of it the fugitive had not only the registered bolt-action Browning but an unregistered semi-automatic.
They had forged high enough on the mountainside that the air felt thin in Leith’s nostrils. The blasts had come horribly close, had frozen him in his tracks alongside the others in the posse, nine in all, and in the time it took for the sound waves to disperse, he went through his half-second mantra, always there for him when things got dicey, to bring scant comfort: That he would have to lead the way, might die, Ali and Izzy would have to carry on without him, but luckily his insurance plan should cover them well, even put the kid through university if she was so inclined.
On that note of slight comfort he could go forward now, in ERT mode. Some days there just wasn’t enough manpower and he had no choice but pitch in, join the front lines, and today was one of those special days. Possibly his last. The plan of the hour was simple: encircle the hideout, give Potter nowhere to run, and then try talking him out. Failing that, because time was of the essence, Leith would fire a warning shot. Failing that, he would coordinate moving in by cautious degrees. He didn’t have to remind his team that it was imperative Potter be taken alive. Nor was there time for a nice leisurely siege.
He gave the signal and began to climb, upward and around, through dense woods. The climb was hellish. His vest was bulky, his gear catching on the underbrush, branches scratching his face. And god, he was no ninja, every move a snap, crackle, and pop, and he could only pray foolishly that if he should come into the sights of Potter’s gun, he would see it first.
Twenty minutes later they had found their spots, and he was within shouting distance of the lair. Without a megaphone he had to bellow: “John Potter. I’m David Leith, RCMP. D’you hear me?”
The answer was a barrage of bullets. As the echoes faded, his men reported in, all safe. Potter was desperate, and this was going to end badly. Leith stayed low, a leg already starting to cramp, and shouted, “It’s over, John. We’re not here to hurt you. You need help, I understand that. I’m here to get you that help. You’re surrounded now, man. Get out here with your hands up where I can see ’em and let’s get to somewhere warm and dry where we can talk in peace.”
Silence. Maybe Potter was reloading. Maybe he was eating a sandwich. Maybe he was setting a bomb that would blow them all to hell. “Potter,”