The Devil's in the Details (35 page)

Since I always seemed to need a plan B, C and D, I shoved the jeans and Sens gear into the backpack. Next action: practice not snapping my ankles in those sandals. Except for my bulging backpack, which I didn't plan to leave behind, I didn't resemble any previous version of the dangerous fugitive, Camilla MacPhee.

The thing I hadn't realized about being a fugitive was how hard it is to make good decisions on the run. It's not like you have a comfortable bed or even a bathroom to hide in until you get your act together. You can't sleep properly, and you sure as hell don't follow Canada's Food Guide. Let me tell you, baby wipes only go so far to ensure personal hygiene. Toss the concussion into the mix, and was it any wonder I made a few questionable decisions?

Everything I told myself sounded like the words of a defence lawyer. I thought they might trip off Romanek's expensively forked tongue soon enough. Regardless of future legal implications, which I wasn't keen to dwell on, I had a job to do. So far, I'd made a mess of it. And I was running out of options.

It was time to visit the Westerlunds. I didn't want to screw up there. I needed a safe, comfortable place to plan that visit. Food would help too, since I'd tossed my cookies at Jasmine's many hours earlier. Plus, why not test the new outfit? I flagged a passing cab and sailed off to a small neighbourhood restaurant not far from the Westerlunds. As I got out, I spotted a bevy of brightly coloured balloons drifting lazily in the distance. The driver looked up too.

“Great weekend for it, eh?” he said.

“Should have been,” I said.

Inside the restaurant, I slid into the most isolated booth and ignored the two guys giving me the eye. I kept the sunglasses on. I knew I couldn't keep on racing around town like a cartoon character sporting idiotic outfits and thumbing my nose at the law. I was out of time and just about out of brain. My head and vision were getting worse. I needed medical attention. I was being foolish and stubborn. But I needed one more kick at the can. Then, if Romanek got that concession, I'd turn myself in. Once that happened, I wouldn't be choosing from any six-page menu. I kept institutional food in mind as I ordered a deluxe cheeseburger with bacon and mushroom, fries with gravy, a salad, juice, coffee and blueberry pie. The server took a quick glance at the tank top I was spilling out of. She kept one eyebrow raised as she wrote my order. Like I cared. Maintaining a fashionable body image was the least of my troubles. I said, “And I'll have ice cream on that pie. Two scoops, no, make that three.”

As I waited, I examined
One Man's Justice
, page by page. Sure enough, pages 149 and 150 were stuck together too. I used my fork to pry them apart. The paper tore a bit, but that was the least of my problems. Inside was a folded sheet of tissue paper with small, precise handwriting.

I felt more irritated than exultant. Secret messages? Glue in books? Not like Laura hadn't had a phone. Why this overly theatrical approach?

Dear Camilla:

If you have this letter, it's because I am dead. My hope is that you will find and read this book and therefore see my message. I have much to regret. I refer specifically to my involvement with the Settlers movement. I have blood on my hands and guilt in my heart. I lack the courage to turn myself in. In recent months, the woman you knew as Frances Foxall attempted to justify our role to the public. For her foolish decision, she is now dead, as is the woman who called herself Sylvie Dumais. I believe that someone is picking off those of us who survived. Bianca Celestri is still alive. I believe you can trust her. Norine Thompson was one of us. I am not so sure about her. I read about your successful investigations and thought you would try to put things right. You'll find information in my safety deposit box, which only you are authorized to open. Please deal with the documents accordingly. I hope they will help you to comprehend our actions and the blight they brought to our lives and the lives of others. I would like you to find my parents and put their minds at rest
.

Well, gee, thanks, Laura, wherever your soul is reposing, I appreciate your confidence and this bracing chance to live on the wrong side of the law while people try to kill me.

If Laura had admitted her guilt and taken her lumps, most likely she and Chelsea would be alive, Bianca wouldn't be on life support, and Jasmine wouldn't be in danger. In my frame of mind, I didn't care much what happened to Norine. I found
nothing to confirm or dispel my gut instinct that either Joe or Kate Westerlund had played some vile role in the Settlers' rampage.

I examined the rest of the book with care. No more glued papers. No clue as to who might be wiping out the Settlers and why.

The restaurant was soothing, homey and comfortable. I tried to focus my scattered thoughts. My vision was getting worse. I could hardly see in one eye. I foraged through my backpack for a pen and finally located one. But although I had a cool costume collection, I didn't have a pad of paper. The napkins in the chrome dispenser would have to do.

I took four of them. I started by sorting out whom I could count on and whom I couldn't. I could count on my sisters, but only to make things worse, so they went on the napkin marked
NOT
. I included Conn McCracken with my sisters. Elaine definitely went on
NOT
. Ray Deveau had a warm heart, cold feet and apparently a short attention span. As a cop, even in Cape Breton, there was no chance he wouldn't have heard about the Canada-wide warrant, yet he hadn't tried to reach me. That made Ray a
NOT
kind of guy.

Mombourquette would have to call in the cops, but he'd do his best to keep Jasmine safe, once I explained things. He'd help me afterwards, plus Gussie would be in good hands, so he got a separate napkin, labelled “Limited But Necessary”. I could count on Sheldon Romanek in court and for any legal jousting before, after, and during. He joined Mombourquette on the “Limited” napkin. P.J. did too. Although his loyalty was always to the story, he'd stick to the right side of the law.

That left Mrs. Parnell and Alvin. Bunny too. They went on the “Count On” napkin. I glanced around the restaurant. The ogling guys had departed, and no one was paying attention to
me. My mountain of food arrived. But I had lost my appetite. I ate three fries, then sat staring at the rest. Finally, I pulled out Bunny's phone, at least I was hoping it was Bunny's phone. It had about fifty per cent charge left. I prayed it was enough to do the job. Alvin answered on his cellphone instantly.

“Camilla, where are you? Are you all right? Can we . . . hang on, Violet wants to talk to you.”

“Ms. MacPhee. These news reports are most distressing. Trumped up charges, obviously. We had no idea how to reach you. How may we assist? Shall we meet you in bail court? The hospital?”

“Did you find out anything about the Settlers? Any photos?”

“We have a few print-outs. No photos.”

“Are you in the balloon?” Damn that cellphone static.

“Yes, it's the final evening. But we can get down and join you. Just say the word. It's hard to hear you, there's a lot of static.”

“Can you get to the Vanier area in thirty minutes or so? River Road near Queen Margaret. I need witnesses. And there's safety in numbers.”

“You can count on us,” Mrs. Parnell said.

“You're on the right napkin.” I gave them the Westerlunds' address and filled them in on what to expect. I repeated everything so the static on the phone didn't screw up my meaning. “You can't miss me, I'm wearing a blonde wig.”

“In fact, Ms. MacPhee, the location is excellent. Our balloon is heading south on the Rideau River. We can't control direction, as I imagine you know, but we can control up and down. We'll be there.”

I called Bunny and brought him up to speed and told him what I needed. “Wow. I've never been a witness. Cool.”

“Thanks for everything, Bunny. You can count on me if you ever need anything.” I turned off the phone, in order to conserve power in case I had to call the “Limited But Necessary” list.

I left most of my meal untasted.

At the cash, I turned my attention to the small television set mounted by the coffee makers. The people at the counter were watching with great interest. The local news was on. A reporter stood on a street corner.

“The hunt continues for fugitive Ottawa lawyer, Camilla MacPhee, now considered armed and dangerous. MacPhee is wanted on a Canada-wide warrant in connection with two murders as well as car theft. A third victim, Bianca Celestri, is in critical condition under police guard at the Ottawa General Hospital. In breaking news, MacPhee is believed to have gained access to a weapon from an Ottawa police officer after injuring the officer in a house search. Ottawa police have not yet issued a full statement on this latest development, but we will keep you informed.

Police have increased the reward for information on MacPhee's whereabouts to twenty-five thousand dollars. A special tip line has been set up.”

The tip line number flashed below a file shot of me looking deranged. A couple of guys at the counter wrote down the number.

“An officer's weapon?” I blurted. “What the hell was that about?”

“That's something, eh?” the cashier said as she handed me my change. “Apparently, she shot a cop.”

“Holy shit.”

“They're going to take her down first time they see her.”

I said, “And ask questions later.”

“Yup. Something's got to be done about people like that. It's got so nobody's safe nowhere.”

“You got that right.” I headed back to the washroom and lost my three fries.

I did my best to keep my head high as I left.

There wasn't a cab to be found. I whipped out Bunny's phone. The first cab company I called said thirty to forty minutes. The second couldn't commit to a time. What the hell. I called Youssef and said a friend had given me the number, and I needed to be picked up near Montreal Road and the Vanier Parkway. I tried a little French accent just in case. I didn't want him to send the cops. Twenty-five thousand dollars goes a lot further than the average fare. Youssef wasn't on duty. His cousin Faroud could be there shortly.

Faroud didn't recognize me and didn't seem remotely interested in his passenger. That was good, because the tip line reward would probably get him into a program to get his medical accreditation here. Faroud was not in a chatty mood. That wasn't my problem, but I needed his medical knowledge. I said, “I'm visiting a friend with a bad concussion. You ever know anyone with a concussion?”

“Yes,” he said.

“She says the symptoms come and go. Did you know that?”

“It can happen.”

“She's having trouble with her vision. Did the person you knew have that?”

“I've known people with that problem.”

“Sometimes her vision's a bit better, then a bit worse, then a bit better. Can that happen? I mean, in your experience.”

He looked back at me in the rearview mirror. I didn't think there was much chance he'd recognize me. Especially without my stinky dog. He said, “In my experience, your friend should get to a hospital fast.”

“But my question was, do the symptoms come and go? Get better and then worse and then better? That's what's happening to my friend. Her vision in one eye seems to come and go.”

He said, “Concussions are tricky. The symptoms can change rapidly. Seem better, seem worse. But it doesn't matter. If your friend has unstable symptoms, especially vision loss, she has to go to the hospital. She might have bleeding in her brain. Does she live here? I'll take her.”

“It's okay,” I said. “Just asking.”

“No charge to take her,” he said. “But maybe 911 is better.”

“I'll ask her,” I said as we pulled into the Westerlunds'. The meter read five dollars. I dropped ten onto the front seat. “Thanks. Can you come back in fifteen minutes? I'll try to talk my friend into going to the hospital.”