Judgement By Fire (17 page)

Anger blazed
across the other man’s features, and Lauren had a sudden insight into just how
dangerous an enemy Warren Dillon could be. He kept his voice under tight
control as he replied. “Not much in the trust department, are you? I’m not sure
you’re really the one for Jon, not if you jump on every little excuse to call
his integrity into question.”

Lauren
flushed, feeling about two feet tall at his words, but still she had to know,
and she looked mutely at the security chief.

After what
seemed like an age, he decided to answer. “Jon was with me. To save me having
to drive out of my way to meet him here after a long day, and longer evening
looking over your break-in, he met me at an all-night truck stop outside Port
Hope. While some heartless bastard in a dark Jeep-style vehicle was running
poor Pippa Williams down and leaving her half-dead in the street like a dog,
Jon Rush was turning out on a bitter cold night because he needed to meet with
me and talk to me about how to keep you safe.”

There was an
edge of anger and contempt in his voice and a sick feeling of shame flushed
through her. She should have trusted Jon, yet knew if the scenario played
again, she’d still have had to ask the same questions.

The room was
silent aside from the occasional squawks of birds that crowded a bird feeder in
the kitchen garden near the window.

Finally,
Lauren sighed and said, “After all that’s happened, you can’t blame me for
running scared.”

The big man’s
eyes took in her pale face and the lines of tension around her eyes and mouth
and his expression softened.

“No, no, I
guess not. You’ve certainly had bad experiences recently.”       

             “But nothing like
what has happened to Pippa Williams. Maybe you should be at this woman’s
bedside, in case she has anything to say, or needs some protection.”

            “But I told Jon I’d
see you safely back to West River.”

            “I’m a big girl. Let
me have a vehicle and I can see myself safely back to West River. I think
you’re needed elsewhere.”

            Warren thought for a
moment, seemed to argue with himself, then nodded.

“Jon keeps his
personal truck in the garage here, and I’m pretty sure he’s been driving a
company Jeep, so you could take his vehicle. I’ll drop your canvas off with the
repair artist, so you don’t need to detour into the Toronto area, and I’ll also
alert the police chief in West River to be on the lookout for you,” he told
Lauren, picking up his phone.

            “Great, that’s all I
need. Maybe he’ll put my name out on the police radio band and then everyone in
the area with a scanner’s going to think I’m some kind of wanted desperado,”
Lauren said, rolling her eyes.

Warren
grinned. “Just promise me you won’t trash Jon’s truck. He restored that baby
himself, and he loves her.”               

*
* *

           
Things were moving
too quickly, spiraling out of his control. Or maybe they’d always been out of
his control, and he just hadn’t known it. But ever since he’d overheard Pippa
Williams talking on the phone to Warren Dillon, on the same day that he’d
realized his biggest, most recent investments were going wrong, it had seemed
like every move he’d made had been a step towards an inevitable end. There
could be no going back. However, if he were going to crash and burn, then he’d
take the others with him. They, too, would fry in his final blaze of glory.

*
* *

Jon’s personal
truck turned out to be a lovingly restored Ford half-ton of 1950’s vintage,
deep maroon in color with gleaming chrome accents.

            “Ooh, I’m gonna love
driving this baby!” Lauren said gleefully to an anxious looking Warren Dillon
and Mary Wilson, as she hoisted herself into the cab.

            “Does she know how
much work Jon put into this truck?” Mary asked Warren nervously.

            “Jeez, Lauren, I
meant what I said. Jon
loves
this truck. He rescued it from a farmer’s
field back over Orangeville way and has done all the restoration work himself.
For all our sakes, don’t let anything happen to it! Not even a little, tiny,
superficial scratch, or he’ll know and he’ll have our heads!” Warren was only
half-joking, but Lauren was much too delighted to have the opportunity to drive
the magnificent old truck to care about their attack of nerves.

            “Gee, guys, don’t
worry, everything will be fine. This truck and me are gonna do some real
drivin’,” she said, in her best mock Texan accent.

She grinned
with delight when she turned the ignition key and heard the purr of a
beautifully tuned engine. After surveying the dash to make sure she knew where
everything was, Lauren gunned the accelerator and took off down the driveway
with a spurt of snowmelt-wet gravel and a cheerful blast of the musical horn.

            As she predicted,
everything went well as she cruised the side roads and Highway 401 without a
care in the world, enjoying the envious glances many of the male drivers who
passed her cast over the truck. Several times other drivers of ancient trucks
and cars blasted their horns towards her in courteous recognition, and when she
stopped at a truckers’ café near Belleville for a sandwich and coffee she
almost had to fight the guys off. In this case, she knew it was the truck’s
body they were interested in, not hers, and the horsepower and all the other
works under the gleaming maroon hood.

Finally, on
the last leg of the journey home, she was singing along with an Elvis Presley
tape she’d found in the cd/cassette player on the dashboard—
tut, tut, Jon,
not an original fitting!—
when she noticed a big dark colored Jeep in the
rear view mirror. He was coming up fast behind her on the narrow lane and
Lauren wrestled the steering wheel so that she could pull over to give the
other vehicle room to pass.

            “Slow down, you
creep!” she muttered to herself as she saw the other vehicle was making no
effort to slow as it hurtled towards her. Suddenly afraid she’d be hit, Lauren
debated whether to hit the accelerator and try to get out of the way or pull
right over and risk getting stuck in the ditch that she knew probably lurked beyond
the tall pile of dirty, melting snow on the side of the road.

            Before she could make
a decision, the Jeep skidded past her, cutting in front at great speed and
clipping the front wing of the truck Lauren was driving. Panicked, Lauren
wrestled the wheel to keep from losing control as the heavy truck slewed
crazily off the road, the brakes catching just as it hit the snow bank.

            The other vehicle
disappeared with an insolent blast of its horn but not before a shaken Lauren
had seen the Rush. Co. insignia emblazoned on its passenger door.

            She sat for a few
moments, paralyzed by shock and fear as she tried to come to terms with what
had just happened. Her left shoulder ached where she had struck it on the
driver’s door as the truck skidded to a halt, and her left wrist was beginning
to throb ominously with the pain of what she prayed was a sprain, not a break.
A glance at the sky showed dusk approaching and with it would come freezing
temperatures. This quiet road was no spot to be stranded overnight.

Lauren got out
and walked around the vehicle to see how badly she was stuck. Silently, she
cursed her decision to take a shortcut home on the back roads, because the
front end of the truck was comfortably lodged right in the snow bank.
Underneath the snow, no doubt, there would be soft ground to suck at the tires
once she started trying to get out.

On a sudden
inspiration, she rummaged in the truck cab in hopes of finding a mobile phone
or a car phone. After all, Jon had installed a new millennium state of the art
CD player, why not some telecommunications?  But she was out of luck. Standing
at the rear of the cab, her shoulder aching and her wrist throbbing, Lauren had
to fight back tears as she realized how serious the situation was and that she
was in it alone. There were no houses or other buildings in sight, and the only
habitation she remembered passing had been a good five miles back. The road
didn’t look exactly well-traveled, either. She was on her own.

Carefully,
hampered by the pain in her wrist and shoulder, Lauren started the truck and
began rocking it gently backwards and forwards using the manual transmission
and crossing her fingers the strain wouldn’t burn the gears out. She gave a
victory whoop as the tires begin to bite at the far end of a reverse swing, and
with a roar the big vehicle whipped backwards onto the road. Safe now, Lauren
sat with her head down on the steering wheel, trembling in every muscle with
effort and anxiety.

Once the worst
of the shock effect had worn off and she was on the open road again, anger
began to take its place. Did the idiot driving the other vehicle not see what
had happened? Didn’t he understand how dangerous such silly games were? Seared
into Lauren’s mind was the insignia of Jon’s company she had identified as the
Jeep sped by. One of the company vehicles had run her off the road, and whoever
had trashed her studio had pinned Jon Rush’s business card to the slashed
canvas on her easel.

Yet, over and
over again, everyone, Jon, Chief Ohmer, Warren Dillon, even Paul Howard, had
kept telling her there seemed to be no connection between what had had happened
to her and Rush Co. And she had believed it; although she’d been unable to
think of anyone she might have injured sufficiently to spark this kind of
retaliation.

Now, after the
brush with the Rush Co. Jeep, she had to look carefully at the whole situation
because it was obvious there
was
a connection between the company and
the things that were happening to her. She remembered both Mary Wilson and
Warren Dillon admitting that there had been a series of crises at the company.

Lauren was sure there
was a link between them and the events that had so disrupted her own life.

The incident
on the road was hardly enough to be a murder attempt. Serious though it was, it
wasn’t likely that there would have been deadly consequences—at which thought
her throbbing wrist and shoulder protested—because she had not been going very
fast and the other vehicle had only clipped her wing, pushing her into the side
but not really forcing her off the road over a cliff, or anything equally
murderous.

Not like
the attack on poor Pippa Williams,
Lauren thought, pleased to see that home
was in sight. Then another thought put butterflies into her stomach.

Oh, Good
Lord! The wing!  Did you think to check what kind of damage was done to Jon’s
‘baby’?
Shrieked the voice in Lauren’s head. This time she was easily able
to quell it.

“Frankly, my
dear, I don’t give a damn about Jon’s precious baby!”

Another idea struck
her like a punch in the chest. Her only real connection to Rush Co. was her activities
with the ABC committee. Would Jon be angry enough at the interference with his
corporate plans to play these deadly games? Another equally frightening though
popped into her mind. Probably no one else, other than Mary Wilson and Warren
Dillon, knew it was Lauren, not Jon, behind the wheel of the very distinctive
truck. What if someone, some disgruntled employee with an axe to grind with
Rush himself, had seen the vehicle, assumed Jon was driving, and had taken the
opportunity to run him off the road?

Lauren’s mouth
went dry and her heart was thumping loudly in her ears. What if someone was
trying to hurt or kill Jon?  Motivated by fear, she pressed her foot down hard
on the accelerator and the big vehicle leapt forward in response. Somehow, she
must warn find Jon and warn him of the danger he was in.

Jon had driven
out of Toronto as though the devil himself was on his tail. He’d hated leaving
Lauren, especially after the passionate night they’d shared, but had thought
her in safe hands with Warren. Then all this mess had come up with poor Pippa
Williams and Jon had admired Lauren’s courage in insisting that Warren return
to Pippa’s bedside while she carried on to the studio alone.

Admired it,
yes, but had been furious about it at the same time. In fact, he’d probably
have a few words to say to Warren about the matter, but when he’d called the
house Mary had informed him that he’d just missed Warren and that Lauren had
been gone only a few minutes herself. Given the situation, it was probably
unfair to criticize his chief of security, but the thought of Lauren alone and
possibly at the mercy of the person who had ransacked her studio with such
shocking hatred put his stomach into knots of anxiety.

Then there was
the attack on Pippa. For a start, it certainly wasn’t an accident—the old woman
who’d witnessed the whole event from her wheelchair at a second floor apartment
window had been very definite that the dark-colored Jeep-type vehicle had suddenly
started up from the curbside and driven straight at Pippa as she crossed the
street from her late bus.

Pippa had
suffered serious injuries but the doctors seemed to think she would pull
through. As the truck had rushed at her, it seemed she’d tried to jump clear
but had slipped on the ice.  The impetus of trying to get away had meant that
she’d taken the impact against her hip instead of her whole body and she’d been
thrown, landing in a pile of recently ploughed, soft snow.  Nevertheless, she
was still unconscious in hospital with a policewoman at her bedside and no one
was sure when, or even if, she would properly regain consciousness.

The meeting he
was committed to that morning had paled into insignificance when Warren’s
second in command had called him about the hit and run. He’d had to finish it
anyway, and the details had seemed to drag on interminably. When he’d phoned
his home to discover that Lauren had already left—alone—the knot had settled in
his stomach and he’d been unable to shake it.