Lovelace and Button (International Investigators) Inc. Page 16

  Bliss’s plans are not for the ears of Lieutenant Jewison, or anyone else in the American administration, so he answers only that he and Daisy will collect their belongings from the cabin and then head back to Vancouver once they’ve picked up Trina’s car from Bellingham.

  “That reminds me,” he says to Daisy as Jewison escorts them back to the limousine. “I’d better give Rick a call.”

  By early evening, when Bliss gets through to him from the limousine’s phone, Rick Button is sinking rapidly. With no sleep since Tuesday morning, and no food since Tuesday night, Trina’s husband is fighting to stay afloat on coffee and a fast-deflating bubble of hope.

  “I’ve been on the Internet,” he tells Bliss. “Do you know that the odds of finding someone alive are less than ten percent after the first twenty-four hours? Did you know that?”

  “No,” admits Bliss, “although I do know that Daphne has beaten those odds before.” But Bliss catches the flatness of defeat in Rick Button’s tone, and knows that the other man has made up his mind when he responds, “It’ll soon be getting dark again, Dave.”

  By the time that the sun finally hits the western horizon, Captain Prudenski is back on duty in Bellingham, and he has a compassionate hand for Bliss when Jewison delivers the English officer to collect Trina’s car. “I’m sure they’ll show up sooner or later,” says Prudenski, though Bliss knows that “later” only means one thing.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “So. What are your intentions now?” asks Lieutenant Jewison, pointedly checking the office clock.

  “I think we’ll find somewhere in the city for a spot of dinner before heading back,” says Bliss, fearful that someone has already planned an escort all the way to the Canadian border.

  “No problem, sir,” says Jewison with a farewell salute. “My mission is accomplished anyway.”

  But dinner is the last thing on Bliss’s mind, and no sooner have they left the city centre than he U-turns and takes a fast spin down a deserted lane, with Daisy riding shotgun.

  “Zhey are not following,” says Daisy after a few minutes, and Bliss quickly heads for a now-familiar road out of town.

  “It’s about twenty miles,” Bliss is telling Daisy, as Bumface finally gives up hope of the two women eating lunch and returns with Spotty Dick to collect the tray.

  “Oh, look: here’s the White Rabbit at last,” mutters Daphne as Spotty Dick enters, then she turns with a scowl for Bumface, saying, “Which means you must be the Queen of Hearts,” before laughing, “Off with his head. Off with his head.”

  “You haven’t eaten your lunch,” says Bumface with a little less bonhomie than he’d shown earlier.

  “I was hoping for jam tarts,” continues Daphne, keeping up her banter, but Bumface is ignoring her as he gives Trina’s bed a curious look.

  “What’s up with her?” he demands, advancing on the bed with growing inquisitiveness. Then he snatches the giant hat off the bed and finds only a pillow and a rolled bundle of bedding underneath the sheet.

  “Where’s Mrs. Button?”

  “You must mean Little Bo Peep,” says Daphne gaily. “She slipped out earlier to look for her sheep.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll be back in a few minutes, dragging their tails…” Daphne continues prattling as she makes a play of looking out of the door, and Bumface roughly pushes her aside to stick his head into the bathroom.

  “Mrs. Button…”

  “I told you —” starts Daphne, but Bumface rounds on her, grabs her by the throat and stretches her onto her toes.

  “Where is she?”

  “Gone for a walk.”

  “John!” Bumface bellows at the camera. “Lock everything down.” Then he returns to Daphne and ratchets up the pressure as Spotty Dick skulks in the background.

  “I said, Where is she?”

  “You’re choking me.”

  “I know. Now, where is she?”

  “What’s up, Steve?” yells Dawson, crashing into the room.

  “The Button woman’s gone.”

  “How the —?”

  “Someone must’ve left the f’kin door unlocked,” he says, glowering at Spotty Dick.

  “So, where is she?” Bumface tries again as he squeezes harder, but Daphne closes her eyes and lets herself go limp, forcing him to drop her to the floor.

  “Christ! You’ve killed her!” says Spotty Dick, angrily stepping forward.

  But Daphne is back in the wartime classroom, listening to the lecture on torture — psychological or physical. “The h’only truth what the h’enemy wants to hear is what suits them. It’s like the old ducking chair for witches. You’re only h’innocent if you drown.”

  “Wake up, you old bat!” screeches Bumface as he empties the cold contents of the teapot over Daphne, but Dawson drags him away.

  “Leave her,” spits Dawson. “The other one can’t have gone far.” Then he turns on Spotty Dick. “Tie her up and make sure you lock the door properly this time.”

  “I didn’t leave it open…” he starts to complain, but as the other two men race off in search of Trina, he quickly bends to the semiconscious woman and harshly whispers, “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” she mutters.

  “You’ve got to escape. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean it… You must get out now.”

  “I know. But how?”

  chapter eleven

  Storm clouds, ahead of a depression sweeping in from the Pacific, are forming over the mountains of northern Washington as Bliss races back towards the monastery, and the overburden of spruce and cedar further deepens the shadows along the twisty roads of the foothills.

  “I’ve got nearly four hours before my visa expires,” Bliss explains to Daisy, in the twilight, “and I’m damned if I’m leaving without them.”

  “But what are you going to do, Daavid?”

  “Well, I’ve tried asking politely, and I’ve tried force. So now…” he pauses, before confessing, “I’ve absolutely no idea. Maybe I’ll look for a hole in the fence. Maybe the gates will be open.”

  But the gates aren’t open. In fact, the gates haven’t been opened for over an hour, which gives Dawson some comfort when he runs to the gatehouse and checks with the flak-jacketed security guards.

  “No one is to get in or out!” he shouts to the two armed men, before looking to Bumface, asking breathlessly, “How long has she been gone, Steve?”

  “I dunno. I’d have to check the surveillance tapes,” says Bumface, turning back towards the building. “But I haven’t actually seen her move since lunchtime.”

  “Christ — that’s six hours,” says Dawson as he scans the fringes of the rapidly darkening forest. “If she’s in there we’d never find her.”

  “Yeah. But she’d never get over the wire.”

  “Check that the fence power is on when you get back,” says Dawson as he frantically searches the gloom for movement. “And give me some more lights — I can’t see a damn thing.”

  “Okay, John.”

  “And tell Allan to get a move on. We need him searching out here right now.”

  But Allan Wallace, alias Spotty Dick, isn’t planning on hunting far for Trina. In fact, as he stands frozen in the open doorway of the women’s room with a length of rope in his hand, he too is seeking an escape route.

  “What’s going on?” queries Bumface, running up to his stupefied colleague.

  “The old lady’s gone as well,” utters Spotty Dick, with all the surprise he can muster.

  “What?!” shouts Bumface.

  “I dunno how it happened,” says Spotty Dick. “She was out cold, and I just went to get the rope like John said —”

  “And you left the f’kin’ door open again,” yells Bumface, snatching the rope.

  “Don’t worry. They can’t get far,” says Spotty Dick.

  “They f’kin’ better not,” warns Bumface as he hea
ds to the surveillance room, calling over his shoulder, “You’d better go and tell John what’s happened.”

  “I’ll drop you at a bar a few miles from the place,” Bliss tells Daisy as he drives the tortuous road on automatic pilot, while he grapples with his conscience over his failure to take on the American authorities. You should have stood up at that conference and given them shit, he thinks, and he takes out his frustration on the road as he slams the car round a bend at double the posted speed. But he slackens off, knowing that someone would have stood up, saying, “Surely all the evidence points to the women returning to Canada, Chief Inspector.”

  “No, Daavid. I will stay wiz you,” replies Daisy, as he uses the hand brake to rally the car through a hairpin, but Bliss doesn’t hear as he asks himself, And wouldn’t you have taken the same tack in a similar situation on your patch?

  No.

  Are you sure?

  Yes — all right, he admits as he fishtails his way out of a greasy mud slick, although it still doesn’t explain why they’re more concerned about upsetting a bunch of armed religious fanatics than the disappearance of a couple of women.

  But you weren’t at Waco, were you?

  “Are you all right, Daavid?” asks Daisy as he misjudges a corner and scythes a path through a patch of bracken before regaining the road.

  “This is like a really bad movie,” he says without answering her question. “I should have put my foot down. I should’ve called a press conference, caused a scene — accused them of a cover-up. I should have done something.”

  “But zhey would have arrested you and sent you home.”

  “Why, Daisy? What are they afraid of? And who are ‘they’? That’s what I want to know.”

  John Dawson is also searching for answers as he scours the grounds for Trina, but he finds only deep shadows, and the occasional shuffling patient, until his worried-faced operative reappears.

  “Where’s Allan?” demands Dawson.

  “He left the door open,” squeals Bumface. “The other one’s got out now.”

  “Shit! What’s he doing?”

  “I sent him out here to help you.”

  “Well, where the effin’ hell is he?”

  “What I’d like to know is why everyone is so damned determined to kick me out of the country,” continues Bliss as he slips the near-side wheels onto the verge to avoid a suicidal rabbit, then spots the isolated woodsmen’s bar and slides to a halt amid a hail of gravel.

  “You’d better wait in here,” he says, quickly climbing out.

  “But why?” asks Daisy.

  Because fresh memories of machine gun shells ripping into the trunk of his car leave Bliss wondering how far the inmates of the monastery are prepared to go, though he doesn’t say so.

  “If I’m not back in an hour, call the police,” he carries on as he runs around to open her door.

  But she sits back resolutely. “Why you say you not come back?”

  Good question, he thinks, wondering if the mention of gun-toting guards will pry her out of the car or stick her to the seat.

  “Because of the…” he starts, with the words “machine guns” itching to get out, but then he backtracks, telling himself that it was nothing more than a warning shot across his stern. “Because it might be a little dangerous and I want you to stay here,” he says lamely, causing her to firmly plant her backside on the seat. “In zhat case, I come wiz you.”

  “Women,” he mutters in exasperation. “If it’s not Daphne, it’s you.”

  “But Daavid,” says Daisy as she lightly strokes his cheek, “I come all zhis way and we have just one night together. Now you say you will never come back.”

  “Well, that makes me feel more a lot more confident, I must say.”

  “Zhat is good, no?”

  “No — Yes… I don’t know,” he fumes as he slumps back into the driver’s seat. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “Oh, Daavid,” Daisy purrs reassuringly. “Maybe if you want to write zhe book about l’homme au masque de fer, you should let me come with you.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  ”Oui — as we say, it is la chantage.”

  “Well you could at least deny it…” he starts, but he gives in with an alternative idea. “Oh, never mind,” he says, then dashes into the bar.

  “Hey, man, you still owe for a coffee,” calls the barman lightheartedly, but Bliss puts on a no-nonsense face. “Enough crap,” he says, sticking his police I.D. under the man’s nose. “Now, what the hell’s going on up at the monastery?”

  The bartender’s eyes zip nervously around the room and catch some warning glances. “It ain’t sensible asking questions like that around here,” he says to Bliss, and he reaches to clear a dirty beer glass off the bar.

  “Well, I’m asking,” says Bliss, grabbing the glass and holding it hostage.

  “Hey, man,” he says with a shrug, “this is a small community — the trees have ears.”

  “Then you must know something about the people there?”

  “Sorry, man,” he says unapologetically. “We don’t have no contact with them. None of them ever come in here — but they wouldn’t, would they?”

  “And no one is curious?”

  The barman checks the faces of a dozen tired old loggers before shrugging again. “Don’t look like it, do it?”

  “But you must know something about them.”

  “Hey, they don’t bother us.”

  “Can I make a call?” asks Bliss, though he doesn’t wait for a response before lifting the receiver of the bar phone and dialling Mike Phillips’s number. “What’s the name of this joint?” he asks the barman while holding for the connection, and then he turns his back on the bar and cups his hands around the mouthpiece.

  “Mike, I’m at a bar called Pete’s Place,” he says, then quickly explains his intention of returning to the monastery. “If I don’t call you back in exactly one hour,” he goes on to say, “then you better start some serious shit-stirring with the local force. Okay?”

  “I don’t know…” begins Phillips worriedly, but Bliss’s mind is firm.

  “One hour, Mike,” he says, and then he pulls the barman towards him with a crooked finger and hands him the phone, saying, “Give this police officer the address and directions to this place. And if I’m not back in an hour, expect an international invasion.”

  In the quickly fading dusk of the forest, Dawson and Bumface are running from the gatehouse towards the main building with growing desperation.

  “I’ll tell the staff to get all the others inside,” yells Bumface as they reach the main doors. “We’ll have to let the Rottweilers loose.”

  “Wait a minute,” says Dawson, hanging back with concern. “What about Allan? He’s gotta be out there as well.”

  “Okay, so what else do you suggest?” demands Bumface. “He’s gonna get it one way or another. At least it’ll be quick.”

  However, Allan Wallace has no plans to be caught in the open by the dogs, or any other way. He has slipped a spare key for Buzzer’s van from the cabinet in the surveillance room and is headed for the gates at full tilt.

  “Where’s Buzzer going?” enquires Bumface as he spots the white van speeding along the driveway towards the gates.

  “He can’t get out,” says Dawson confidently. “I told the guards to lock everything down.”

  But Wallace has another view and he roars up to the gatehouse, yelling, “Quick! Open the gates! I’ll get them.”

  “I thought Mr. Dawson said I wasn’t to open the gate for anyone,” equivocates the guard.

  “He didn’t mean me, did he?” yells Wallace.

  “I don’t —”

  “Quickly, man. Open the damn gates.”

  “I ought’a check…” says the guard, still vacillating, but Wallace keeps up the pressure.

  “Look. It’ll be your fault if they get away.”

  Bliss’s mind is tumbling with implausible machinations as he scr
eeches around the familiar bends before the monastery’s gateway, though with Daisy alongside him he has no intention of trying to ram his way in again.

  “I think I’ve got a plan,” he says, with less than a mile to go, though it’s not a plan, merely a sketchy outline, and he warns her not to leave the vehicle under any circumstances.

  “If anything happens to me, don’t try to help. Don’t stop for anything. Just drive back to the bar and scream for help.”

  “Oui.”

  “Here’s Mike’s number,” he adds, handing her his notebook. “And make sure they call the police in Bellingham.”

  “Daavid. Zhis is dangerous, no?”

  “No,” says Bliss, though he is still wondering if that means “yes” when the opening gates come into view. “Hold tight!” he yells, slams on the brakes and feels the adrenaline rush as he readies to run the final few yards.

  Spotty Dick is someone else with pulsing veins, and he sits at the wheel of the van watching the gates slowly open as his foot taps the pedal.

  “Hurry up. Hurry up,” he breathes and is within inches of hitting the throttle when Dawson and Bumface run to the gateman breathlessly shouting, “Shut the fucking gate. Shut the fucking gate!”

  “But Mr. Wallace said —”

  “I don’t give a shit…” starts Dawson. “I told you…” and then he spots the shadow of Bliss standing in the gap between the gates and he pales. Pulling himself together, and dropping his tone, Dawson cautiously advances, asking, “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I was intrigued by your ecclesiastical pontification,” starts Bliss conversationally as he walks forward into the light. “Was that Episcopalian or Catholic, Mr. — um, or should I address you as ‘Father’ or ‘Brother’ or —”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” enquires Dawson with growing suspicion, while behind him Spotty Dick is being forced by Bumface to back the van off.

  “That’s what I like: a man who cuts to the chase,” carries on Bliss in Oxbridge tones while extending a hand, but he finds his advance blocked by a wall of flesh as one of the gate guards joins Dawson, so he turns with a broad sweep of his hand to indicate that he too has backup. “My wife and I are members of the Church of England ourselves,” he says, pointing to the indistinct figure of Daisy in the driver’s seat of Trina’s car.