Up in Smoke (22 page)

CHAPTER
33

An hour and a half later, at the front door of Hamish's condo building, Max felt like a dead weight in Zol's arms. Pyjamas, slippers, Game Gadget, Harry Potter, Lemony Snicket, pillow, blanket, duvet, a box of cookies, and a bag of chips. The kid was set for a week. He'd fallen asleep in the taxi on the way over. In fact, at Colleen's suggestion, it had been two taxis. They'd changed at the Day-and-Night Pharmacy. If the Badger's thugs were still on their tail, it was impossible to tell. The headlights of one small Japanese import looked the same as another. He'd called Hamish from the pharmacy and warned him the three of them were on their way over. Who knew it cost fifty cents to use a pay phone?

Hamish buzzed them in and told them to come up to the sixth floor. Apartment
601
. The condo tower was bulky — plenty of concrete and bricks — and this being Hamilton, there'd be lots of local steel in the framework. Colleen said the chances of the Badger being able to listen to anything they said inside Hamish's apartment was almost zero to zilch. Zol didn't like the sound of that almost. Of course, they'd ditched their cellphones and checked their pockets for electronic bugs.

Max and his paraphernalia weighed a ton by the time they made it to the elevator, up to the sixth floor, and along to Hamish's door at the far end of the hallway. Colleen pressed the doorbell and three seconds later Al and Hamish were at the door, clearly surprised by the child sleeping in Zol's arms and the two wheeled suitcases in Colleen's grasp.

“Sorry about this,” Zol said, running out of breath. “We must look like refugees. Can I flop Max down somewhere? On a bed, maybe?”

Hamish hesitated for a second, obviously unsure about having a kid disturbing his perfectly made bed. “Um . . . sure. No problem.” He turned and scurried across the living room. “The bedroom's this way.”

Max moaned softly as Zol settled him onto what looked like a vintage Amish quilt on Hamish's king-sized mattress; he burrowed into his pillow and duvet without opening his eyes. Out for the count, thank God.

Back in the living room, Zol whispered to Colleen, “Did they turn their cellphones off?”

“No worries,” she said, “had them off already. Put your feet up. We'll be okay here.” She'd given up her anger and was as game to make the best of a bad situation as he was.

He dropped into the old-lady wingback chair. It looked out of place against Hamish's
IKEA
-inspired decor, but it matched Zol's mood, and what a relief to finally sit down. Al came out of the kitchen holding a tea towel. He looked like a busboy on the
Titanic
— anxious to please, but aware that no matter how well he did his job there was big trouble ahead. “What can I get you guys? Decaf? Herbal tea?”

“Nothing for me, thank you,” Colleen said.

He turned to Zol. “How about a Jack Daniel's? You look like you could use it.”

Not after the slivovitsa. “I'll stick with a decaf, thanks,” Zol said.

Hamish kicked off his slippers, sank onto the chesterfield, and tucked his feet underneath him. “So, what happened?”

Zol looked around, realized he was checking for strangers that couldn't possible be there, and felt foolish. “Well, basically, I went to Saint Naum's, the Macedonian church on Stone Church Road, to meet Ligorov. He'd agreed to tell me everything we needed to know about Tammy Holt's tobacco plant research, provided his priest thought I was trustworthy. I met the priest, Father Stoyan, in his office. Father figured I made the grade, but when he went to get Ligorov, the guy was virtually dead.”

“What do you mean virtually?” Hamish said.

“He'd been stabbed. Through the heart. Inside the church — you know, where they hold the services.”

“The sanctuary?” Al said.

“I feel so awful about it,” Zol told them. He caught Colleen's eye and was relieved it held no reproach, maybe even a little encouragement. “Ligorov didn't want to come,” he continued. “He seemed to know that Olivia Colborne worked for Dennis Badger. And knew what happened to her. But he did the right thing, and then . . . shit. I hate this. Oh God . . .” He held his breath and blinked back the tears.

“It's not your fault, Zol,” Colleen said softly.

Her tone was sincere but it
was
his fault. And now they were all in it. Even Max. Up to their necks. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped his face.

“And you figure Dennis Badger has tapped your phone, and maybe your cars and your house?” Hamish pressed. “Even your office?” He never seemed to notice tears, which at the moment was good.

“Certainly seems like it,” Colleen said. “A guy like Badger has access to the very best gadgets.”

“He even knows Max's cellphone number.” Zol told them about the Badger sending the warning to Max's phone.

“No,” Hamish said. “What are you going to do?”

“Not give in,” Colleen said and threw Zol a look that said she was now backing him one hundred percent. “Before this all happened, I told him to call the police, let them handle it. But now it's too late. If we show the police the evidence we have linking rez tobacco to liver disease, the Badger will know we're onto him for all three murders — Tammy's, Olivia's, and Ligorov's.”

“They must have quizzed you at the church,” Hamish said. “It
was
a murder scene, Zol.”

“They interrogated me. Thoroughly. For an hour. And warned me not to leave the province. But with an orthodox priest vouching for me, they knew they wouldn't be pinning Ligorov's murder on me.”

“Did you tell them our suspicions about Dennis Badger and his tobacco?” Hamish said.

“You kidding? The Badger's got Max's cellphone number, friends in high places, and knows our every move. If he found out we'd fingered him to the cops, his guys would do to us what they did to those other three. Have Glock, will eliminate inconvenient witnesses.”

Hamish turned to Colleen and narrowed his eyes. “Wait a sec. Did you mention new evidence linking rez tobacco to liver disease? Did you guys stumble on something I don't know about?”

Zol explained about the papers taped to Ligorov's shin.

“But that's great news,” Hamish said, now beaming. “Now we know what toxin to look for in Badger's cigarettes. When we find it, we can join the dots, get the police to arrest him on the spot, and close down his operation.”

“If he doesn't kill us first,” Zol said. He could hardly believe they were involved in yet another public-health investigation where their lives were on the line.

“So, Dennis Badger doesn't know about Ligorov's papers?” Al said.

Zol shook his head, relieved he'd done something right. “No. Father Stoyan and I made damn sure of that.”

“That means you're safe, right?” Hamish said. “I mean, as long as Dennis Badger figures you have no actual proof of toxins in his tobacco.”

“I guess . . .” The weight of that uncertainty hung in the silence like a bad smell.

Zol fished out the crumpled piece of paper he'd slipped into his pocket at the church. It made him shudder, remembering how Jovan Ligorov had given up his life for these few scribbles. “Here's the formula. You think there's someone at the university who can use it to help us?”

Hamish stared at the paper as if he were looking at the Rosetta Stone. “I'll get on it tomorrow.”

Several moments later, Al padded back from the kitchen with a mug of coffee and handed it to Zol. Al scratched at his sideburn. His face was grave, as if he was remembering scenes from the siege of Sarajevo he'd endured as a teenager. “Whether or not Badger knows about Ligorov's papers, you guys can't go home. It isn't safe. The guy didn't build his empire on fair play. He's ruthless.”

Zol put the coffee on the table beside him. His stomach couldn't take it. There was an anaconda coiled in there, squeezing the life out of him. Where could he stash Max and Colleen? Not at her townhouse. Not at his parents' farm. And not here. The Badger's guys would trace them to Hamish pretty quickly, if they hadn't already. Zol pictured the boys transferring their scanning equipment to a new, unmarked van and setting up shop all over again. They would know the jig was up on their Escarpment Cable scam.

“What about the Sheraton?” Zol asked.

“No,” Colleen said. “We'd be there two minutes, and the Badger would find out.”

Al took a seat beside Hamish on the sofa. “What about your mother's place?”

“Which one?” Hamish said.

“The house in Toronto. She's away, isn't she?”

“For a few weeks.” Hamish turned to Zol. “She's golfing in Myrtle Beach. Has a condo there. Stays in it every fall and spring.” Hamish paused. Zol could see the wheels turning as he pondered. Hamish turned to Al and shook his head. “Sorry. I don't think so.”

“Why not?” Al said.

“She's fussy about her stuff. I'm supposed to use the key only in an emergency.”

“I'd say this qualifies,” Al said.

“But what if Max breaks something?” Hamish caught himself and looked apologetically at Zol. “You know, by accident, of course.”

Hamish could be a real shit sometimes, and ridiculously selfish. But you had to be cautious with him — he never took well to criticism. If he wasn't handled carefully, he could go into a sulk that lasted a week. “Never mind,” Zol said. “It's okay. They wouldn't be able to get there without being followed, anyway.”

Al launched himself off the sofa. “Sure they could.” He glanced at his watch. “We've got half an hour. The car rental places at the airport close at midnight. Hamish, call me a taxi. Tell them I'm going to . . . I don't know . . . anywhere but Hamilton airport.” He shoved his feet into his sneakers. “The hospital. That's it, tell them we need a cab right away. To Emerg at Caledonian.” He grabbed his jacket from the front closet and said, “I'll redirect the driver en route.”

“I'm not sure I follow,” Zol said. “You're picking up a rental car? At this time of night?”

“The Badger's watchers have no idea who I am,” Al said. “Just some guy getting into a taxi. And then another guy driving home for the night. The parking garage downstairs is secure and the elevator takes you directly into it from here. No one will see them. It's perfect. But I'll need that electronic thingie for the garage door.”

“It's in the Saab,” Hamish said, now standing in the middle of the living room, looking bewildered.

“You've got an extra one,” Al told him. “I'm sure I saw it a few days ago. Look in your junk drawer.”

Hamish shrugged, seemingly content, relieved even, to be letting Al take over. “Okay. I'll see if I can find it.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Zol heaved himself to his feet. Everything was happening way too fast, and it wasn't even clear that Hamish was completely on board. He put his arm around Colleen. “Do you understand what's going on?”

“Max and I are driving to Hamish's mother's house. Tonight. In a rented car. Thanks to the smarts and kindness of these terrific gentlemen.”

“You okay with it? You need to think about it?”

“It won't be for long. I have fake glasses and a black wig in the suitcase. After you phoned from the church and told me about Ligorov, it seemed an eternity before you returned.” She turned to Al. “Where in Toronto does his mother live?”

“Forest Hill,” Al said. “Quite the place. You'll like it. She's got a fantastic record collection. All the great baritones and tenors. Caruso to Bublé and Groban.”

Colleen drew in close and squeezed Zol's waist. “You'll have to explain to Max what's happening, and why he has to lie low on the back seat until we reach Toronto. And don't forget to call Ermalinda first thing in the morning.”

He'd make some excuse for their sudden absence and tell Ermalinda to take a mini holiday. Until Monday at least. “How will I contact you?”

“There's a
7
-Eleven on Upper Wellington. Stop there in the morning and get one of their pay-as-you-go phones.” She squeezed him again. “And never let the blessed thing out of your sight.”

CHAPTER
34

Zol woke up with a start. Where the hell was he? On yeah, on Hamish's chesterfield. What time was it? Six-thirty by his watch. And still dark. His rubbed at the sharp ache in his neck. This sofa was too damned short for a proper sleep. And how could he have slept, anyway?

He hadn't heard from Colleen. She should have called as soon as she and Max got to Forest Hill. Rosalind Wakefield's phone would be secure. Colleen could have made at least a quick call to let him know the two of them were safe. The sound of her voice, her distinctively musical accent, would have been good enough. She needn't have said anything substantial or compromising.

When he'd heard nothing by one o'clock, he'd phoned the Wakefield mansion, but no one answered. A woman's voice on the machine — private-school Toronto accent, halfway between plummy British and nasal New York — invited callers to leave a message and informed them that “calls will be returned in due course.” He'd got the same response at two a.m. and at four. What the hell was going on?

He groped for the switch on the lamp beside the chesterfield, gave up, and stumbled to the bathroom for a leak. He found the kitchen phone and punched in the Forest Hill number again. As before, five rings, six, then the machine clicked on. He nearly hung up, but decided to wait for the uppity voice and leave a message, though he wasn't sure what he'd say. But this time, the greeting was different. He must have punched in the wrong number. He glanced at the display on the phone. No, he had it right.

Five words into the recording, it hit him. The voice was Colleen's, apologizing for being away from the phone and asking the caller to please leave a message. It was a short greeting and the beep took him by surprise, left him too flummoxed and tongue-tied to leave a message. He hung up, his mind spinning. Should he be relieved that they'd made it to the house or shitting his pants because something terrible was going on? He downed a glass of cold water from the tap, racked his brain for a plan, and dialled again.

After Colleen's greeting, he said, “This is Daniel Handler trying to reach Ms. Beaudelaire. Sorry I missed you. I'll try again between seven and eleven.” Colleen and Max would understand the cryptic message. As fans of the Lemony Snicket series, they'd know that Daniel Handler was the author's real name — it appeared nowhere in the books — and Beatrice Beaudelaire was the woman Lemony Snicket loved from afar. Colleen would get the
7
-Eleven reference too. Of course, it wouldn't mean diddly if Colleen and Max were . . . he couldn't let himself think what could be going on in that house if the Badger had followed them there.

He showered and shaved, hoping the morning ritual would make him feel a bit more human. It didn't. He dug through his suitcase for a clean shirt and underwear while Hamish took his turn in the can. Al, in tee-shirt and bikini briefs, was preparing breakfast in the kitchen.

“Coffee and waffles okay?” Al asked.

The waffles sounded like a stretch, even if they were smothered in real maple syrup. He might manage the coffee. “Sounds great. Thanks. Can I help?”

“Got it covered.”

A few minutes later, Hamish stabbed at a second mass-produced waffle from the plate in the centre of the table. He turned to Zol. “Know where these are made?”

Zol was halfway through the mug of instant Al had handed him. He found breakfast conversation impossible until he'd drunk at least one full cup of coffee. How could anyone live like this, no grinder, no coffee apparatus anywhere in sight?

When Hamish got no answer, he supplied it himself. “In Simcoe,” he told them. “A huge factory, just for waffles.” He looked at Zol, “Know how I know?”

Zol threw him a look that said
Not a clue
.

“A patient of mine. Truck driver. Every week he makes the circuit to Arkansas and back. A tractor trailer full of frozen waffles destined for Walmart.”

Zol forced down another swallow of the liquid in his mug that was masquerading as coffee. “They must eat a lot of waffles in Arkansas,” he said. It wouldn't be authentic maple syrup they put on them, but something horrible and synthetic.

“No, no,” Hamish insisted. “Once Walmart receives them at their international headquarters, they repack them and send them off to every town in North America. Back here, even.”

Zol pictured freeways crawling with eighteen-wheelers hauling waffles from Simcoe to Arkansas to Yukon.

Al held his fork above the half-eaten waffle on his plate. “You mean this waffle was made in Simcoe, sixty minutes down the highway from here, trucked all the way to Arkansas, only to be trucked back again?”

“Dumb, eh?” Hamish said.

The caffeine was starting to kick in. “What was wrong with your patient, the trucker guy?” Zol asked. “He choke on a waffle and come down with some exotic infection?”

“Scrotal abscess,” Hamish said seriously. He hadn't gotten the joke. “His testicles were floating in a bag of pus the size of a grapefruit. Group B Streptococcus.”

Waffle, syrup, and saliva spewed out of Al's mouth. “Shit, Hamish,” he said, spluttering. “Not at the table.”

Hamish looked at Zol as if to say
What's the big deal? Pus is a natural biological substance.

Sometimes the guy just didn't get it. As Zol's mum liked to put it, how could someone so smart be so dumb?

Mum and Dad! He'd been incommunicado since last night. Mum could have taken a turn for the worse and Dad could be trying to reach him, the same way he'd been trying to find Max and Colleen. Getting that phone from
7
-Eleven was now number one on his to-do list.

He put down his fork. “How did your guy get the infection?” He imagined these things started as ingrown hairs or innocent little zits on the privates.

“From driving a big rig for hours on end, stuck to a sweaty seat. I call it truckers' balls. Especially bad for diabetics. Sometimes the infection gets so brutal they lose their boys to gangrene.”

Al had his hand clamped over his mouth. His face had turned pea-soup green.

“All that,” Zol said, “so we can pop a waffle in the toaster for a quick breakfast. How nice is that?”

Al scrambled from the table and scraped the remains of his waffle into the garbage. “You two can talk about all the gross things you like, I'm having a shower.”

“I haven't told you about Winnipeg,” Hamish said after Al was out of earshot. He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “They're threatening to report me to the College of Physicians.”

“Who? Not the guys at the National Microbiology Laboratory?”

Hamish nodded.

“Why'd they do that?”

“They know I lied about the samples from . . .” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “. . . Namibia.”

“How so?”

“Docs in Swift Current, Saskatoon, and Prince Albert have been seeing cases of non-healing blisters on hands and faces.”

“Anything like your lip and finger disease?”

“Identical. Winnipeg sent me photos.”

“And the
EM
findings?”

“Matchstick particles. Identical to ours. That's what got them suspicious.”

Zol leaned back in his chair and massaged the painful crook in his neck. Things were starting to make sense. Winnipeg realized it was too much of a coincidence that the ultra-rare, hybrid virus that Hamish had sent them last week was now turning up in three Saskatchewan cities.

“It didn't take a genius to figure out that my specimens didn't come from Namibia.”

Hamish's problem with the national laboratory aside, there was one question that mattered more than anything else. “Do any of these Saskatchewan blister cases have acute liver disease?”

Hamish shook his head. “Believe me, I asked right away. As far as Winnipeg knows, no outbreaks of jaundice, hepatitis, or liver failure in any of the prairie provinces.” He paused and made a dismissive gesture with his fork. “Except for a minor outbreak of hepatitis A traced to bean sprouts from a hydroponic operation near Moose Jaw.”

Bean sprouts. They got you every time. If it wasn't viral hepatitis, it was salmonella or E. coli.

Zol took another bite of mass-produced waffle. Not so bad, considering its cross-continental perambulations. “Are they any closer to fully characterizing the particles?”

“They're not saying. But they will. And when they do, they'll hog the academic limelight.”

“Look on the bright side,” he told Hamish. “Winnipeg tipped you some important information we could never have proven on our own.”

“Like what?”

“Dennis Badger's contaminated tobacco has made it halfway across the country. At least as far as Saskatchewan. Those matchstick particles prove it.”

Hamish rolled his eyes. “Terrific.”

“Did you tell them about Wilf Dickinson finding those same particles in cigarettes manufactured on our local rez?”

“Of course not. I'm not crazy.”

Zol swallowed the last of his so-called coffee. It was cold and tasted like charcoal, but he could feel the effect of the caffeine. “Why the complaint to the College of Physicians?”

“The guys in Winnipeg take their public-safety mandate very seriously. My less than truthful story about the blister specimens I sent them got their director onto his high horse.”

“Did you come clean?”

“More or less, but it was too late. By then, the guy was ready to burst a gasket. Gave me a thorough blasting on the phone. Said their institution is built on trust, which I had subverted.”

“Subverted? That's stretching it, for crying out loud.” He put his hand on Hamish's shoulder. “Don't worry about it. The College won't take away your licence. The worst they might do is send you a stern letter that demands a response.”

“Not according to the man in charge of our nation's premier reference laboratory.”

Zol looked at his watch. Seven-forty-five. “I know you've got to get to work. But a couple more things before you go.”

Hamish raised his eyebrows.

“Can I use your study today? My Simcoe office is bugged and I don't dare go home. Badger's probably blanketed the place with microphones and scanners.”

“Sure, the computer's login password is on the underside of the keyboard. And there's an extra set of house keys in the top drawer of the desk.” He folded his serviette, pushed away from the table, and set his dishes in the sink.

“How quickly will you be able to get our samples tested for traces of Tammy's
5
-
FNN
?”

“I've been thinking about that. There's a mass-spec genius in our building. He's got a federal grant to build the next generation explosives detector for use in airport security — something passengers can walk through without stopping. He's usually up for a challenge.”

“Can he do it today?”

Hamish held up both hands defensively. “I haven't the faintest idea how long these things take. Could be an hour, could be a week. How will I find you?”

“Email me. My Google account.”

“It hasn't been hacked?”

“If the Badger is that good, we're screwed.”

He'd change the login password first thing, just in case.