Flight of Aquavit (2 page)

car-length distance behind Hugh on the straight

and narrow road. We were on Highway 219, that’s

all I knew. I wondered what the heck was out here.

Where was he taking me?

As we drove in a southerly direction, a pitiful

parade of two, my headlights cut a slender swath

through the night. Drifts of snow passed lazily

over the pavement before me like feathery ghosts.

The sky was black. No streetlights or traffic lights,

farmyards were few and far between, and the

moon had gone into hiding. There are times, driv-

ing at night, when abandoning the noise and glar-

ing brightness of the city for the countryside

brings me comfort; darkness and silence envelop

me like a protective blanket. At other times, the

same setting seems ominous and threatening, as if

something is out there, lurking behind the curtain

of night, something…not good. And tonight it

was the latter knocking at the door of my brain.

Funny how things can turn around so quickly. A

slightly elevated pulse and body temperature,

along with a general creepy feeling, slowly over-

took my tough PI guy bravado.

I began to notice the distance between our

vehicles growing. Hugh was speeding up.

Eventually, my only guides were the two red

lights of his rear end. And every so often, as the

Anthony Bidulka — 11

Intrepid sunk into a dip in the highway, I would

lose sight of him completely. Was he trying to lose

me? Just as I accelerated in an effort to catch up, I

saw the brake lights of the Intrepid flash once,

then twice, his right turn signal blinked its inten-

tion, and then…he was gone.

I sped up to 120 clicks.

I followed his right turn onto an intersecting

gravel road identified by a sign that simply read

Landfill. I made the turn and soon found myself

idling past the entrance of the South Corman Park

Landfill site. The Intrepid was nowhere to be seen.

I came to a stop and took a quick glance around. A

chained and padlocked gate blocked access to the

property and I could see no other obvious way for

Hugh to have gotten in unless he’d had the key,

which I doubted. So I put the car back in gear and

kept on rolling. I topped a hill and about a kilome-

tre later came to a full stop. My headlights had

fallen upon the unmistakable yellow and black

checkered pattern of a dead-end sign. Next to it

was another sign telling me that I was at the “T”

intersection of Twp 354 and Rge Rd 3055. Okey

dokey. Right or left? Which way did he go?

It was as dark outside as I’d ever seen it and

even with my headlights on high beam, there

were no obvious telltale signs of recent travel. The

snow on the road had been worn into the gravel so

there were no tracks to follow. Over the sound of

my engine, I could hear the lowing of the wind

that every so often built itself into a powerful blast

and rocked the body of my little car. For a moment

I sat there, wondering yet again what madness

12 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

had brought me here. It was never a good idea to

be caught in the countryside, late on an ice-cold,

winter night, perhaps a little lost. Had I taken the

wrong turn off the highway? Or was my future

client somewhere nearby, waiting for me, wonder-

ing where I was? But which way? Right or left? I

had no obvious clue. But I had an idea. I couldn’t

see anything, but maybe I could hear something.

I rolled down the window, but the wind and

car engine were still too loud. I turned the ignition

key to silence the car but the wind was blowing

right into my ear. I’d have to get out. I buttoned the

top buttons of my coat, readjusted my scarf, pulled

on a pair of lined, leather gloves, opened the door

and pulled myself out of the Mazda. (I seldom

wear a toque, preferring a hooded coat or ear-

muffs—the damage to my hair just isn’t worth it.)

I rounded the car to the north side for protection

and bowed my head against the wind, listening

for anything that would give me a clue as to

where Hugh had gone.

It was then that I heard it.

It was all the more surprising because, despite

my actions, I hadn’t really expected to hear any-

thing except perhaps the distant howling of a hun-

gry coyote.

But it wasn’t a night creature that I heard. It

was the sound of an engine.

There was someone else out there.

The engine rumbled and grumbled as some

engines do, sounding not unlike an animal…bid-

ing its time until it could…attack…

From the cadence I could tell the vehicle was

Anthony Bidulka — 13

idling. Whoever was in the car was just sitting

there, lights extinguished. Waiting. Watching.

But why? Was it Hugh? Was it someone else?

How far away? It sounded…close. Or was this just

a trick played on my ears by the wind?

My eyes strained to cut through the night, as

black as a flock of crows, but to no avail. I could

see nothing. I could feel my heart begin to race

faster. And even though it was bitterly cold, a thin

line of perspiration trickled from my forehead

towards my neck, almost freezing on its way.

This wasn’t good. Something wasn’t right here.

And just as that thought entered my head a set of

headlights illuminated, appearing suddenly, like

two bright orbs, two-hundred metres down the

road to the right of me. I shielded my eyes in a

useless attempt to get a better look, but I couldn’t

tell if they belonged to the green Intrepid or some

other vehicle. And then, two-hundred metres to

my left, another set of headlights flashed on.

Shit.

There were two of them.

An ambush.

Beating my own hide by several seconds, I

skidded around my car and jumped into the dri-

ver’s seat, battling the wind to pull the door

closed. I glared at the two lighted sentinels, each

the same distance away but in opposite directions.

Cripes! They began to move.

They were coming after me!

I turned the key in the ignition and, despite

every movie I’ve ever seen, the rotary engine of

my sweetheart of a car turned over on the first try.

14 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

They were coming, from either end of the T. I

had to somehow get turned around and get the

heck out of there. I tried a U-turn but only made it

half way. The road was too narrow. I stopped,

backed up, frustrated at losing the time, and

pointed myself back in the direction I’d come

from. In my haste and growing anxiety, I was hav-

ing a difficult time getting the stick shift into first

gear. My eyes flew to the rearview mirror. They

were coming. They were coming! Both vehicles

had arrived at the intersection and were turning in

my direction. They were coming!

I think I swore and grimaced and somehow

managed to get into first, second, third and fourth

within the next few nanoseconds. My car fish-

tailed wildly as I accelerated and caught tufts of

roadside snow and gravel under my churning

wheels. If only I could get to the highway, I would

feel safer.

The reflection of the chase car’s lights in my

rear-view mirror became blinding as they caught

up with me. Holy Moses Boat Builder! They were

right on my tail. We were all climbing to speeds in

excess of one hundred kilometres per hour on a

gravel road and the highway was coming up fast.

How would I make the turn? Suppose there was

oncoming traffic? Should I signal? Should I signal

left but then go right? Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Not so stupid.

I had one advantage. I was in front. I could pay

attention to where I was going rather than whom

I was chasing. I only had time to make, consider

and carry out one plan. So it had to be a good one.

Anthony Bidulka — 15

I slowed down to just below ninety, took a good

look at where I was heading, then extinguished

my headlights, making it seem—I hoped—as if I’d

disappeared. In the next few seconds I was either

going to (a) end up in a ditch, (b) be rear-ended by

one of the other cars, or (c) make a left turn onto

the highway heading back towards Saskatoon

before the bad guys behind me realized what was

happening.

I was shooting for (c).

It sort of worked. I made the turn, just barely

missing a collision with the snow banks of the

opposing ditch and, after a bit of an amusement

park ride, was firmly on the road facing north. I

turned my lights back on and dared a look in the

rear-view mirror. As hoped, car number one had

been totally bamboozled and sailed right through

the intersection. Car number two, however, had

been far enough behind both of us to have figured

out what I was doing. He too made the turn. I had

gained some distance but he was still on my tail.

My only hope was to reach city limits before he

caught up with me. I didn’t know what he’d do

with me if he did—shoot out my tires or try to

force me off the road?—but I was not about to find

out and become an action-flick cliché. I floored it

and aimed straight ahead like a rocket bound for

the moon.

About halfway to town I noticed the lights

behind me getting smaller and smaller and finally

I lost sight of them. Had he turned around to

check up on his buddy? Did he want to avoid the

revealing lights of the city? Didn’t matter, at least

16 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

he’d given up on me.

It was not until I was back in Saskatoon and

slowed to city speed that I noticed my hands. I

watched them on the steering wheel, as if they

weren’t my own, twitching crazily like bags full of

jumping beans. My head felt odd, as if I was in the

cabin of an airplane that had just lost pressure.

Was it going to implode? I pulled into the bright-

ly-lit lot of a Petro-Canada gas station. I craned

my head over my left shoulder. I had to confirm

they weren’t coming up behind me. Who were

those guys? What would they have done if they’d

caught me? Was it a coincidence this had hap-

pened while I was following Hugh? Probably not.

So then the question was, who the hell was Hugh

and why had he set me up?

My skin shifted as the cellphone on the seat next

to me began to jangle. I eyed it warily, the normal-

ly innocuous ring now ominous. I reached for it as

if it were a stovetop that might be hot, finally grab-

bing hold of it and bringing it to my ear.

“Hello,” I croaked.

The voice that answered was Hugh’s, but a dif-

ferent Hugh from the smiling ski instructor I’d met

on Broadway Avenue. In a menacing, flat tone he

said, “Drop the case, Mr. Quant. Or next

time…we’ll catch you.”

My name is Russell Quant. I’m thirty-two, a for-

mer police constable for the city of Saskatoon,

Saskatchewan and I have had my shingle out as a

private detective for over two years. I get to set my

Anthony Bidulka — 17

own hours, answer to no one and indulge my

active extrovert or solitary introvert as my mood

dictates. Now that being said, the life of a private

detective can certainly be a capricious one. So to

balance everything out, I crave and maintain a

certain level of calm, steadiness and predictability

in my day-to-day routine.

Enter Kay Quant, nee Wistonchuk.

Mom.

Mom is a sixty-two-year-old who speaks with

a heavy Ukrainian accent replete with rolling
r
’s

and wailing
oi
s. Even so, I’ve never considered

myself half-Ukrainian. Not because I didn’t want

to be, but because my mother rarely mentioned

the fact and my father, a very proper Irishman,

ignored his own heavy brogue and my mother’s

penchant for garish colour combinations and told

us we were Canadians, plain and simple. My

mother is just shy of five feet tall and, although

leaning towards stocky, she has generally kept the

same dress size since giving birth to her last child,

which was me. She sports a tightly permed head

of dark hair with the occasional sproing of white,

horn-rimmed spectacles and a face that can alter-

nately scowl away a pirate ship or warm the heart

of its captain.

For the first time since knowing her, which is