The Arx (13 page)

The car continued to accelerate and broke through the split-rail fence guarding the cliffs. The edge was seconds away. Frank lunged for the steering wheel. Saying a silent prayer he hauled the wheel as hard as he could to the right. The car performed a sideways drift that slammed the still-open driver’s door shut. A shower of gravel trickled over the cliff face.

Still coasting, the car didn’t have enough speed to make it up the hill. Frank hauled on the wheel with one hand and frantically twisted the key with the other. The engine started and he stomped on the gas. The vehicle tore through the fence again and up the steep embankment, spraying a cloud of dirt and grass behind it. It finally came to rest on a level area not far from the road.

Frank sat shaking for several minutes. Finally he got out and stumbled over to the motionless body of his attacker. The man lay on his back, a deep depression across his chest where the car had crushed him, a bloom of darkness spreading over his shirt. His staring dead eyes and pockmarked face were unfamiliar.

Frank rifled through the dead man’s clothes looking for identification. In a pocket inside the jacket he found a wallet. It was too dark and too dangerous to check it now. If anyone had seen or heard the fight the cops could be there any minute. He shoved the wallet into his own coat pocket.

What would happen if the police connected him with the death? Many of his former colleagues still considered him mentally unstable. Would they believe his claim that the killing was self-defense? What if Grant Stocker was in charge of the investigation? Was the Lead Detective’s childish grudge against Frank so all-consuming that he’d try to pin a murder on him?

Then there was the body. He ventured to the brink over which he’d almost plunged, took a chance and flicked on his lighter. In the dim light the ground fell almost straight away, the steep slope collapsing into a thick clump of woods at the bottom.

The body was only a few meters from the edge. Fighting to control his shaking hands and the reflex of his gut, he rolled it to the edge and over, cringing at each bump it made on the way down. He couldn’t tell whether it landed out of sight. Again he risked flicking on his lighter and searched the ground for any evidence of the horror that had taken place. Other than the tire tracks there was nothing.

Exhausted and still shaking, he stumbled back to his car, the staring eyes of his assailant etched into his brain.

He fishtailed along Point Grey Road, barely conscious of where he was and what he was doing. He’d gone a few blocks when the crushing weight of terror struck suddenly, like a lightning bolt splitting his skull. The shaking returned, so violent this time that he couldn’t handle the car. He spotted the parking lot for the beach at Spanish Banks. It was almost empty.

He skidded into the driveway and screeched to a stop in one of the parking spaces. The interior of the car was contracting, threatening to crush him. He threw the door open and staggered outside. The reality of what he’d done finally hit home. He doubled over and spilled his guts on the pavement, then straightened up and headed for the beach. The ocean pounded in the distance, the hiss of the surf drilled into his brain.

He stumbled through the sand, tripping over logs, falling and rising again, frantic to escape the terror that dogged his every move. As he climbed over a giant log he slipped on its spray-soaked surface, fell, hit his head, collapsed, and knew no more.

Sometime later a screeching sound woke him. He opened his eyes. It was almost light. A seagull was perched on the log beside him, cocking its head and staring down at him. He lay on his back in the sand, hidden behind the massive log.

It took a few seconds to remember where he was. He felt the pair of painful lumps on his head and checked his hand for blood. There was none. There were noises in the parking lot. He rose to his knees and peeked over the log. A homeless guy was hovering around his car. His shopping cart stood nearby. He leaned down and peered into the passenger’s window.

Frank staggered to his feet and yelled, “Hey!”

The bearded man jumped back. He spotted Frank, grabbed his cart, and took off. Frank staggered to his car. The shaking had finally stopped. He fell into the driver’s seat and limped home.

Lawrence Retigo

Frank slept through most of the day. He neglected to set the alarm, but was so exhausted that for first time in almost a year he wasn’t plagued by nightmares. Once or twice he was vaguely aware of the ring of his cell phone, but went back to sleep without answering it.

When he woke he felt like he’d been in a train wreck. His body ached with a brutal combination of strained muscles, scrapes, scratches, and bruises. His left ankle was stiff and swollen, and throbbed painfully. Slowly he remembered what had happened the night before, and once again had to stamp down a panic attack.

He’d killed a man. It had been in self-defense, but the man was no less dead. Though he’d been a police detective for many years, it was only the second time Frank had ever taken the life of another human being. He was still having trouble dealing with the first time.

He stumbled out of bed, showered, and dressed. Putting on his pants he felt for his wallet, and remembered the one he’d taken from his attacker. He grabbed his jacket, removed the wallet, and looked inside. It held a few hundred dollars in cash, one platinum VISA card, and a driver’s license with his attacker’s picture. The name on the cards meant nothing to him.

Stuck behind the cash was a slip of paper. He pulled it out. It was a photograph, the size of a passport photo. It wasn’t his assailant. The man in the picture looked in his early thirties, thin, with longish ginger hair and a goatee. Frank turned it over. On the back were hand-written two names: ‘Lawrence Retigo, Apartment 401 – 754 Newbury Place’. Lower down, almost as an afterthought, was written: ‘Ricky Augustus, Mountain View Psychiatric Clinic’. Neither of the names meant anything to him. He placed the picture in his own wallet.

He turned on the TV, and was relieved to find nothing about the killing on the news. If the body had been found it might make it into the afternoon paper, which would be out any time. Nervous at home, he went for a walk, detouring to a coffee shop to grab a cup while he waited. He saw the paper delivered to the convenience store across the street and rushed out to buy one, dreading, against all logic, that he’d see his picture splashed across the front page.

Back at the coffee shop he rifled through the paper, searching for news of the death. Nothing. He was surprised and puzzled, but breathed a sigh of relief.

He scanned through a second time to double check. Again there was nothing, but a name in a small piece near the back caught his eye and floated unanchored in his memory for a few seconds. At first he wasn’t sure what he’d seen. He had to re-read several articles before he located the name that had drawn his attention: ‘Lawrence Retigo’. He pulled out his wallet and checked the back of the photograph from his assailant’s wallet. He read the article:

Local Reporter Dead

A man killed in a tragic car accident a month ago has now been identified. Lawrence Retigo, a reporter for the community newspaper ‘CityLine’ died when his car crashed through a guard-rail on Highway One and rolled several times down an embankment before bursting into flames. Retigo’s dental records had to be used for identification. The cause of the accident is still under investigation, but no foul play is suspected at this time. Speed and alcohol are believed to be involved.

Mr. Retigo was well-known in journalistic circles and had been a fixture at CityLine for more than five years, primarily covering local events and human interest stories. His editor, Harold Rawlings, said of Retigo: ‘He was an able journalist who was well-liked by his peers – he will be sorely missed’.

It occurred to Frank that there was something familiar about Retigo’s address. He racked his brain for an answer and when one finally came, the hair at the back of his neck stood on end.

Frank was stretching his goodwill with Art Crawford to the limit, but he convinced his friend to check out the VISA card and driver’s license Frank had removed from his attacker’s body.

Frank spent a gut-wrenching morning the next day waiting for the result, knowing he risked being implicated in a murder.

“Nothing,” Art said when he finally contacted Frank. “As far as I can make out, both the credit card and driver’s license are bogus.”

“As for the other thing,” Art said, “yeah, a body was found out near the university. They’re investigating. What the hell are you mixed up in, Frank?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Frank said. “Thanks, Art. I owe you big time.”

He searched the web for a picture of Retigo and eventually found one. It confirmed that Retigo was the man in the photograph from his assailant’s wallet.

But who was the other name – Ricky Augustus?

The next day, Frank tensed as Rebecca got up from her desk to study the bruises and scrapes on his face.

“What happened to you?” she asked. “Not another bar fight.”

When he’d answered the phone that afternoon she said she’d been calling him for a day and a half, worried that something had happened. He’d chewed her out for breaking their agreement and using the phone.

Now he cursed himself for agreeing to come to see her.

He smiled. “My bar fighting days are over – I hope.”

“Come on Frank, what's going on?”

“I think I had a run in with somebody from Kaffir.”

He told her about following Catherine Lesko, staking out the mansion and about the man attacking him. He didn’t mention that he’d tried to break in, that his attacker had tried to stage his death, the man’s wallet, the photograph, Lawrence Retigo, or most importantly, that he’d killed somebody.

“So someone caught you sneaking around outside the mansion and attacked you,” Rebecca said. “You sure you didn’t just get mugged?”

“In Point Grey? Anyway I think I’d know the difference.”

“Did he say anything?”

Frank shook his head.

“So what happened to the guy?”

Frank’s body tensed.
Shit, I’ve opened a can of worms now.

“He took off,” he lied.

Rebecca stared at him.

“You don’t believe me,” he said.

“It just seems far-fetched. What you’d expect them to do is call the police. What are you doing creeping around somebody else’s property anyway – especially in that neighbourhood. You’re going to wind up in jail again. The cops might not be so sympathetic next time.”

He realized that if he said any more he’d be forced to tell her everything. His first thought had been that by telling her he’d impress on her the level of danger facing them. He hadn’t thought about how she’d react.

“Anyway, how does it involve Kaffir?” she said. “Some billionaire’s security guy works you over. Pretty heavy-handed, but I don’t see the tie-in with Kaffir.”

“You’re right,” Frank said. He decided not to mention the relationships he’d found between the women he’d been following and Kaffir. “There’s nothing to say Kaffir had anything to do with it. I’m over-reacting.”

Again she eyed him strangely. “Aren’t you going to the police?”

“So they can arrest me for loitering?”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Frank waved a hand dismissively. “Forget it. It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. You’re right; it was probably just some gung-ho security guy.”

She stared at him for a few seconds, unconvinced.

Finally she said, “You look terrible, Frank. Maybe it’s time to take a breather.”

His fingers dug into the arms of the chair.

“Remember our deal,” she said.

He calmed himself. “I hope you’re not going to invoke ‘the deal’ every time we hit the slightest snag…”

“The slightest snag? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?”

“Look, everything’s fine. I just don’t want to talk to the cops. They figure I’ve lost it as it is. They’d just think I was delusional.” As the words escaped his lips, a thought occurred to him: Rebecca might think he was delusional too. He put the thought aside.

He realized that just by being here he was putting Rebecca in danger.

The Bad Side of Town

CityLine News occupied the bottom floor of a crumbling brick building at an address perilously close to the Downtown Eastside, the poorest and most infamous neighbourhood in Vancouver, where the hollow-eyed, skeletal frames of junkies shuffled along the sidewalks, and discarded condoms and syringes littered the alleyways. CityLine had the look of a business that was barely staying afloat.

Frank pushed open the graffiti-plastered front door, walked down a short hallway, and ended up in a dingy reception area.

“I’ve got an appointment with Harold Rawlings,” he said to the black-clad and heavily pierced girl behind the desk.

“Just a sec,” she said, chewing on her gum. She pressed a button on an antiquated intercom.

“Mister Rawlings, a Mister…” she let go of the button and looked up at Frank.