Reluctant Detective (23 page)

4
7

Anne had accepted the voices she heard during her dream as just
that – phantoms of a nightmare – but when some instinct within her insinuated otherwise, she jolted awake. Quickly and silently
she made her way to the head of the stairs. She crouched down, but
could see nothing. The voices were muffled. She recognized the Client's; the other she was unsure of. Then she heard two muted pops and a soft rumble like someone setting down a big bag of
potatoes.

Anne suddenly felt quite vulnerable in the moments of silence
which followed. She dreaded the idea of being discovered upstairs.
There was no way out. No back stairs. No fire escape. She'd be
trapped there.

She hoped to God that wouldn't happen, though, and maybe, if she
kept very still, they'd leave. Maybe they'd find what they needed
downstairs. Or head for MacLaren's ship, she thought.

Buzz buzz buzz
.

That sound seemed as otherworldly as her interrupted nightmare. Then she realized that it came from her own coat pocket. A wave of horror engulfed her. It was MacLaren's cell phone.

Anne's head jerked away from the buzzing like a person who'd just walked into a spider's web. She turned to look downstairs and saw a man raise his gun toward her.

“You again!” he said. His weapon flashed and cut a hole in the
plastered wall at the top of the stairwell.

Anne dove for cover and scrambled down the hallway toward the nursery. She heard footsteps on the stairs behind her. She grabbed the cell phone out of her pocket – it had stopped ringing – and slid
it across the room and under the door to the nursery closet. Then
she eased into the master bedroom which adjoined the nursery. In addition to passage to the nursery, the master bedroom also had a door to the hallway. Anne couldn't anticipate which route he would take – through the nursery or through the master bedroom, but, if
she hugged the wall, she'd gain a few precious seconds to make a
move. The back of the half-open bedroom door gave her a shadow of cover on one side, and a tall, glass, curios cabinet standing next to the nursery doorway concealed her on the other.

Anne flattened herself against the wall between the bedroom door and the curios cabinet and waited. Nervously, she fidgeted with her
wedding band. She feared to move a single step or even shift her weight. Nearly every footstep in the old house creaked, even the Client's. She could pretty closely measure his approach, and she
knew he was in the nursery.

When her cell phone rang again, it startled her. When three pops from his automatic splintered the wooden closet door, she flinched. Then the Client drew back the closet door, found it empty, and shouted to her, “It won't be long now.”

Anne suspected that he would enter the master bedroom from the
nursery. She had a scrap of a plan in mind, but she wanted a little
more edge, something to distract him for just a second, something
small. Something within reach. Anything. A faint groan of a floor
board alerted her. Too late, she thought. One of her hands clutched the other.

Then it struck her. Maybe it wasn't too late. Anne twisted the
wedding ring off her finger and waited.

The Client reached the doorway. Anne saw a ripple through the
etched glass of the curios cabinet. At that moment Anne tossed her
ring in a high arc over the cabinet and over the head of the Client. It landed with a clink on the floor. As he turned toward the sound, his back to Anne, she hurled her whole weight against the cabinet.
It toppled sideways, pushed the Client off balance, and shattered on top of him.

The cabinet downed the Client, and Anne fled the room. She flung
the bedroom door shut behind her. Her first impulse was to take to the hallway and run down the stairs, but that would have made her
too easy a target. Instead, she clambered up the flight of stairs to the third-floor attic.

Anne moved swiftly and reached the top. She tripped on the last step and fell face-first through the passageway. The Client managed
a wild shot, but missed. She rolled over and kicked shut the attic
door. Another shot. She could hear the Client's feet stumbling up the steps after her. Her fingers fumbled about for a key but found a slide
bolt instead. She flicked it into place and locked the door. She had
bought herself another few minutes at best, she thought. That was all the time she had left.

Little light made it into the attic, just that dull nighttime illumination which two gables provided, one on each side of the steep roof.
Thinking she was better off in the dark, she didn't look for a light switch or a ceiling chain, and she still had enough night vision to
make out rough shapes in the huge near-empty room that made up MacLaren's attic.

Near the middle was a heap of boxes and odd pieces of furniture.
Anne found a heavy trunk among them and pushed it in front of the door. She pushed over two more. The Client heard them jam
together in front of the door and fired a shot in the hopes of hitting Anne.

The Client rattled the handle, pushed against the door, and then
threw his weight hard against it. There was no top landing. So he couldn't get a running start to burst through. Nevertheless he kept
at it. Anne noticed that the bolt was weakening. No telling how much
longer it would hold. Then something gave way, not the door itself, but a panel at the top of the door. He threw his shoulder against it
again and again. Finally the panel stove in and splintered.

Anne saw his left hand reach through the hole in the door and feel
around for the key or latch or bolt or whatever else held the door so firmly, but he couldn't reach anything. He ripped off more splintered pieces. Then he stuck his head and one arm through.

Anne grabbed an old wooden coat rack. She rushed the attic door with the coat rack held like a lance. The Client heard her but didn't
see her until it was too late. The coat rack caught him in the face. She followed through and he toppled backwards down the stairs.

She heard him gasp, tumble, and cry out, and slide and tumble again. He hit the hallway landing with a thud. Then there was no sound at all. He was dead, she thought. She had killed him. For a minute or more, she felt like she was holding her breath, almost afraid the sound of her own breathing would resurrect him. Then
she heard him, this time more slowly, more falteringly and, she was
sure, more painfully, struggling up the stairs again. He would kill
her now with pleasure.

The Client exhibited less vigour on his return, but just as much persistence. He hammered methodically at the door. He worked more fragments of wood away. Eventually he found the bolt and
released it. Sheer force of weight drove back the steamer trunk and other items which had barricaded the entrance.

Then he entered the vast open loft. He stood silently until his eyes
adjusted to the dark room. He expected some counter-move on
Anne's part, but he had heard nothing from her since she had driven
him down the stairs. Warily, the Client circled the accumulation of
boxes and crates in the middle of the floor. Then, his eyes scoured the corners of the room.

Rain drummed noisily on the roof. A blast of wind buffeted the house, and a draft of cool, wet air streamed through the half-open
window of the east gable. The Client moved toward it, his gun
leading the way. He lifted the sash higher and looked out. Sheets of
water raced down the steep pitch of the roof and dropped with a tinny splash into the gutters along the eaves. He looked to his left
and right and up toward the roof peak. Somehow she had managed
to escape out the window and down the roof, he thought. She may
have gotten down, but that was a long drop. Two storeys. If she was desperate enough to take that chance, it was a good bet the fall had killed her. The Client pulled his head back inside, shut the window, and hurried to the stairs.

Suddenly, he stopped and turned. He strode across the attic floor to the other gable and peered out. Through the rain-distorted panes,
he saw her. She was clinging precariously to the roof, her body stretched out full-length and her fingertips desperately hanging onto the window sill. Only inches separated them. Their eyes met.
Hers fluttered with terror. His locked in surprise. She had no choice.

Anne let go and slid helplessly down the roof, her shoes grating against the asphalt shingles and her hands abrading against the coarseness of the surface, but neither broke the speed of her de
scent. Her legs shot off the roof and into the air. Her hands clutched
madly at anything; they grasped an eaves trough; and they held
on tight until her torso jerked to a halt in mid-air. Her body swung
back. Her knees crashed against the siding with enough force to break her grip on the rain gutter. She fell backward, landed on the roof of the side veranda and nearly rolled off, but Anne recovered her footing, and she leapt from there onto the sodden lawn below.

From the gabled window above, the Client watched Anne's efforts to elude him with a grudging acknowledgement. After she dropped
from the veranda to the ground, he lost sight of her for a moment,
but she reappeared, limping diagonally across the lawn, and headed in the direction of Summerside's waterfront.

By then he had raised the window sash. He braced his gun. It was an easy shot.

He took careful aim, and he gently squeezed the trigger.

48

“Who the devil are you? And what are you doing on my bridge?”

Captain Ryan McKillop was short, sturdy, and direct. He had muscular forearms and thick fingers. He had just walked onto
the darkened bridge of the
Arctic Growler
and seen Ben Solomon standing in the shadows. He didn't seem the least bit timid in Ben's presence even though Ben was much larger.

“Detective Sergeant Ben Solomon, Captain. I'm here as part of an investigation. We have reason to believe that a person connected with a major crime will arrive in this area tonight. Mr. MacLaren
agreed to let me stand watch here to see if he showed up.”

“You have ID?

“I do,” said Ben and flashed his badge.

“Lemme see that again,” McKillop said.

Solomon pulled out his badge again. McKillop took a close look and said, “Charlottetown Police Department?”

Solomon nodded.

“Summerside has its own police force. What are you doing here?”

“Our investigation began in Charlottetown and unexpectedly led
us here.”

“Have you contacted local authorities?”

Solomon shook his head. “No, but the law allows some latitude when dealing with an ongoing crime, and this is one of those situations.”

“You have a warrant?”

“We don't need one. We were invited to come aboard.”

“I see,” McKillop said. He thought for a bit and added, “Well, I'm
going to un-invite you. This is my ship, and this is private property. So unless you have a warrant or some assurance from the Summer
side police that you're not pokin' your nose into things that don't concern you, then you'll have to find some other place to conduct
your investigation. I've got a ship to get under way.”

Ben nodded and left the bridge. A nasty gust of wind whipped at the door. It drove a stinging rain before it. He made his way down several ladders to the main deck.

The captain had been more obstinate than Ben expected under
the circumstances, but McKillop was right. He had no authority
aboard the ship. Still, that didn't stop Ben from wondering if
Captain McKillop might be hiding something himself. Maybe he and MacLaren had some crooked business on the side. Or maybe each of them had their own little scheme going. His cop instinct said it was one or the other, but it was unlikely he would ever know the truth. He had enough things to worry about as it was.

First of all, where was the Client? Solomon had been waiting on the bridge for two, nearly three hours. The Client knew MacLaren
was there. So what had happened? Had something more important
come up? And if so, what could stop the Client from pursuing a
million-dollar purse? If there was some change of plan, he couldn't
imagine what it would be. If the Client had headed for MacLaren's
house, Anne would have called, but she hadn't. Nothing made sense. It was clearly time to regroup, he thought, as he started his car and pulled away from the wharves.

Maybe Anne has an idea. If not, we'll call it a day.

Ben turned the windshield wipers to high speed and eased off the accelerator. Even at that, it was difficult to see as he drove up the street to MacLaren's house. He rubbed the sleeve of his jacket
against the windshield to clear a film of condensation. It was a poor
night for driving. A miserable end to the Canada Day celebrations. And most of the population of the Island must have agreed. The streets were empty. No late-night partiers stumbling home. No drivers on the road – except him, of course – and one other car
which passed.

He drove two more blocks before he reached MacLaren's house. He saw a light burning in a downstairs room.

That's peculiar
, he thought.
Anne wouldn't be that careless
.

He found it even more peculiar that the front door was wide open,
the house had been torn apart, and a dead man had bled across the
library floor.

All of these things were unsettling, but not finding any trace of
Anne was alarming.