Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller (20 page)

"I still think he's guilty," said RCPD chief John Haverly. "As far as we're concerned his flight is an admission of guilt, angry mob or no. He's presumed dead, and if he's not dead, he might as well be, because if any respectable police force finds him alive, they'll show no mercy."

Police patrols looking for Orson along Quebec and Ontario highways are expected to be recalled.

Machry crumpled the newspaper and crushed it on his desk, unsure why his eyes were watering; but then again, he was unsure of a lot of things these days. Alex Orson was dead, the Alex Orson he'd been working for a month to save. There were still a million unanswered questions: what had Edbrough hidden from them? Where did the Moose Killers and Ordoñez come in? What did Roland Orson have to gain from this? Who was the real Transit Murderer? His mid swam.

Machry took the final sip from his cup of coffee, then looked across his desk. He had once come across a novelty item, a box labeled
in case of emergency, break glass
. Inside it he had placed a bottle of scotch. He had always considered this to be a joke, but that morning, he smashed the glass easily and poured out a shot, raising it to his lips.

He gave up on it after the first drink. A bottle wouldn't solve his problems. He needed time to think…

Impulsively he walked out of his office and pulled on his coat. Ignoring the receptionist's greeting he walked out into a day of driving rain. He looked up into the dark grey sky, pondering his troubles.

He didn't know where he was going. But somehow, as if something had been leading him along, he wound up in the park.

The force continued to pull him, toward one tree in the middle. This tree was important, he knew it. But all he saw was a small, unfinished treehouse.

Machry climbed the ladder, swinging from side to side as he ascended the rungs. At the top, he looked around. On the one piece of wall that was completely finished, a large marker had scrawled something, and from the looks of it was at least a month old.

Charles Johnson. William X.

Ordoñez, sitting in his car away from prying ears, broke into a stream of vile curses, pounding the dashboard in rage. He had failed, he failed the Moose Killers, he had failed his client, and he had failed himself. The plan was so perfect: capture Harwell, and get Alex to Ridge City. Alex would obviously give himself up, wallowing in his misguided sense of heroism. He would then try to protect himself, and in the midst of an angry mob, nobody would think anything of a man dragging an unconscious boy back to a car.

He spat, despising himself. So simple and yet so perfect—and he had failed. He thought over what the man who taught him everything he knew would say. Then he found it, the words even manifesting themselves in a light French accent.
Go back to basics, Alberto. Pursue him and take him down. You tried your best but the time for subtlety is past. Find the boy. Kill him. And if your client wants him alive, give him a discount for poorly done work.

Ordoñez laughed heartily. He should have known all along. The boy was no longer a salary to him. He had become an idea. Alex Orson embodied his failure. Roland Orson could do what he wanted to the boy some other way, because Ordoñez was going to find Alex and kill him.

The police had said he was dead; Ordoñez had enough career experience not to believe police. Orson was continuing northwest, and his friends, the remaining ones, would be with him. He knew that his mentor would say something else to the current situation, but at the moment he couldn't summon the words.

Suddenly, a door opened in his mind and he had them.
You'll need help, Alberto. Don't do everything yourself
.

Ordoñez was sure he knew just the man, too. His fury forgotten entirely, he flipped open his cell phone and dialed the Quebec extension, area code, and number. The phone rang four times before another French voice answered.

"Hello?"

In the background Ordoñez could hear the clinking silverware and music of a noisy restaurant. "Moose Killer business," he said at once.

"The code," said the voice tersely. It had probably already realized who he was.

"E,f,6, 94—no—95, y,d,d, 31—is it 31?—yes, 31, h, g, v, c, 22—no—62."

"Impressive, Ordoñez," the man answered. "You remembered the whole thing this time." The mistakes had been no accident, they were not in the written code, but whoever came up with the idea had put them in as insurance.

"How are you, Levache? Eating anything good?"

"Grilled catfish and broiled asparagus over a bed of whipped potatoes. You need help, don't you?"

Ordoñez shook his head slowly—Levache saw through everything. "You're not working right now, are you?"

"Actually, I am," said Levache, annoyed. "And while I was answering this call, my target appears to have gone off somewhere."

"So sorry about that. But do you think you'll be finished by tonight?"

"My dear Alberto, I hope to be finished about twenty minutes from now. But that doesn't mean I want to help you fix yet another botched job."

"Why not?"

Levache was even more annoyed now. "Ordoñez, you know why not. You can't get whatever you want, just because you're Potard's favorite."

"Look. The job is a kid on a deserted highway."

Levache laughed heartily. "You could not kill a child in the middle of nowhere? This must be a new low."

"Previously he was wanted alive. But I've given up on that. I want him dead, regardless of my client."

"I'm not interested," Levache said.

"Are you saying you can't hit him?"

"
What
!?"

"I've never known you to turn down a moving target, Levache. And this boy is hard to hit. He seems to know all our tricks."

"I'm listening…"

"Likely he'll be hiding. Probably in the wilderness. We'll have to track him and then you'll shoot him."

"All right, Ordoñez," Levache said, dropping his fork. "You've piqued my interest. I'll meet you in Thunder Bay tomorrow morning."

"Oh, and one other thing…"

"Yes?"

"Do you like trains, Levache?"

Even though the snow was beginning to let up, digging a grave was slow work, and neither Sarah nor Anthony wanted to be the first to ask Alex for help. Since the second gunshot that had brought his friend's life to an end, Alex had not moved an inch. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head in his arms, not daring to move from the body.

The body,
Sarah thought.
Jake is a body.

It took them three hours to finish the grave in the woods beside the highway, and then they picked up Jake by his hands and feet and lowered him in as carefully as they could. They threw the frozen dirt back onto the grave; Alex, still despondent, did not even seem to notice.

Sarah knew what was getting to him, the double shocks of Jake's betrayal and Jake's death. He had suddenly learned that his best friend in the world was simply using him as tool to get revenge on his father, and then he had allowed himself to die.

Alex was…nothing to him,
she thought.
But he made him pull the trigger anyway.

Anthony went off into the woods and returned with a large stone with he heaved over the grave. Sarah took a marker from one of the graves and scrawled on the rock:

Here lies Jacob Daniel Harwell

b. 1993 d. 2005

Sarah suddenly remembered the first few lines of an epigram that she had heard long ago. She wrote it on the rock as well:

May the earth quake for him

May the storms break for him

May the trees shake for him

Their blossoms down.

By then Anthony realized what she was doing, and took the marker from her. He wrote himself:

Jake Harwell's life stands as a beacon for all those who would let theirs go to waste.

It was uncharacteristic of him, but many people act in strange ways during such times.

After the grave was finished Sarah thought of Alex, taking it the hardest of all. She looked at him, still sitting and hiding himself. She didn't even know whether or not he was crying. She was, but Anthony was not.

Sarah didn't know what she could say to Alex that would make him feel any better. So, she walked over to him and sat beside him.

It was a while before she realized he knew she was there. And when he finally looked up, it was a face not streaked with tears or set with unfeeling, but colored with rage.

"The scum who did it," he said. "The scum. I'll kill him. I'll see him dead. And whoever ordered him to do it. And anybody even remotely connected with him."

He looked out at the road.

"This world killed Jake. His death was somebody's fault and I'll find them!"

"Alex," Sarah began, finding words, "it was Ordoñez. Who else could it have been?"

"Ordoñez!" Alex said, almost laughing. "A pawn! The man has no conscience and no thoughts of his own. He takes requests. He takes orders.

"He'll be the first to die. But there will be many others."

"Alex—"

"
My best friend is dead
!" Alex shouted. "I killed him! Somebody's blood will be spilled!"

They slept without eating, and the next morning Alex seemed to have recovered from his murderous rage. Sarah wouldn't have been surprised, though, if his sights were still set on Alberto Ordoñez. It was impossible for them not to be.

Alex sat by the grave while the others ate breakfast from their backpacks. Anthony had been looking at a map of Canada since early that morning. Eventually Alex stepped away from the grave and went to join them, where upon Anthony showed them the map.

"I found something great. How we'll get where we're going."

He indicated a large circle around most of Manitoba and Ontario. "This is where we are right now. Geographical area called the Canadian Shield. And check out what I found here."

He pointed to a snake-like line, winding its way across the shield. "Anybody know what this is?"

Neither of them felt like guessing. "What is it?" Sarah asked.

"It's a
railway
! The Trans-Shield Express, to be exact. Runs all the way from Ottawa up to Yellowknife. All we have to do is find it, board it, and jump off near Sawtooth!"

Alex looked at him incredulously. "You want us to jump on a train?"

"Is something wrong with that?" Anthony replied. An opportunity for misdemeanor had showed up, and he was happier that he'd been for a while. "We sneak on while it's stopped. Tickets are only taken at the start of the ride, and it's traditionally jumped by all kinds of hobos and drifters."

"How do we get there?" Sarah wondered.

"Well, we'll have to cut across the wilderness a bit. But just for maybe a day. Twenty miles at the most."

"I suppose…it's an idea…" Alex said. "But Ordoñez—I can't just leave. I have to kill him for what he did. He can't just get away with it!"

"He's an assassin! He's killed hundreds of people!" Anthony growled. "Just because some noble kid wants revenge, that's going to bring him down?"

"Anthony's right, Alex," Sarah said. "You have to get to Sawtooth. Jake would want you to. Ordoñez probably thinks we're dead. The police definitely do. We're safe from pursuit. We should get there now—or Jake will have died for nothing."

"I—he—but—" Alex gave up. "You're right. The Trans-Shield Express…not a bad idea."

"And something else!" A thought had occurred to Sarah. "We'll need a fourth."

"What?"

"We have four backpacks. We'll need a fourth person to carry the last one."

"Well, okay then," Alex said, looking back at the rock. "I'll do it. I'll go for Jake."

He looked around at his companions still sitting with the map.

"Get up! Get up! Everybody grab something! Let's go!"

So the journey began again.

CHAPTER 15

Hart

People deal with tragic losses in different ways. Alex, rather than becoming despondent and reticent, as he had shown signs of doing, was instilled with a burning desire to succeed in what he had set out to do. Sarah, however, was worried about the way he had taken to acting. In the days since leaving Ridge City he had appeared less like their usual reluctant leader and more like a vigilante: planning Ordoñez's death over and over in his mind and muttering about murders in his sleep. After a certain time with this new Alex, Anthony, who had been appointed armory manager by unspoken decree, refused to let him near their two weapons, even though one was useless.

The Canadian landscape had been laboring for the past few days under a deep fog and grey sky, giving way occasionally to halfhearted rain and snow. The Quebec Transit that they had stuck to for so long was becoming less civilized, and appeared to be showing the influence of the wilderness around it. At a point in deepest Manitoba, it simply stopped being paved, and became dirt.