He lived alone far from downtown, out in the country, up a long, straight road that shot away into the foothills. Leith was seated in car two of a fleet of six, passenger side. Bulked out in Kevlar, he stared ahead and worried that the man, if he was the killer, could be on his toes, braced for this pending Armageddon. The team had considered a surreptitious approach, but the long, straight road posed a problem, with nothing on either side for cover but scraggly fields now smothered in snow. Sneaking up would be an elaborate operation, would take time to arrange, and time was too precious right now to waste. So it was the shock-and-awe approach, carom in fast and roust the bastard; he’d be face down on the floorboards before he knew what hit him.
The house that came racing into view through the dusk was small and cute, white and turquoise, with a generous deck, lots of lattice and neat landscaping, and something about it jarred Leith as he stared forward. The little house was backed by dark woods and a steeply ascending rock wall, and all was still and silent and unlit. A truck sat in the driveway, fairly new looking. Leith ordered the vehicles to a stop here at a good distance, and he jumped out of the SUV and stood in the snow and stared at the little white house, not taking his eyes off it, because whatever it was that prickled at his nerves, intuition or superstition, or simply a wealth of bad experiences, he was certain the place was booby-trapped.
The standoff continued, unilateral and surreal. The ERT commander joined him, and together they watched the little house at the end of the driveway, the parked truck, the closed drapes. They were discussing Leith’s gut feeling and the approach they’d take when lights came on in the house, in a slow-blooming way, from darkness to dull orange. “Aw, shit,” Leith said, starting forward, stopping when he saw it was too late. The ERT was making a call. The dull orange glared bright, the curtains flared, and there came a thud of internal explosion, and another, and a third. Car doors opened and closed and the team was out, a band of helpless spectators as the house became engulfed in flames.
Was she in there? Was she going to burn? Was that all they had accomplished?
Leith conferred with the team, and they spread out to explore the perimeter of the burning building. He was called over to view the fresh snowshoe tracks at the back, leading up into the mountains. One set. He and four others took up pursuit but found the trail was narrow, the snow deep, and the risk too great that Potter would be waiting ahead with a scope and nothing to lose. So they turned back to make a plan, wait for the dogs and gear and reinforcements. Leith stood watching the frantic swivelling of red and white lights from fire trucks approaching along the beeline road. Potter would have had the same kind of view, would have had maybe five minutes to splash the gasoline, light the fuse, and grab his bag, pre-packed, and take off. He wouldn’t be far, but every moment now he was adding distance.
He was probably one of those goddamn survivalists who could burrow into the scree for months, catching rabbits and sipping melted snow. Leith spent ten minutes on the phone, calling in choppers and dogs and as many hands as he could rope in on short notice to search the property for Kiera or the clues that would lead him to her.
And then he joined in the search himself.
* * *
But she wasn’t anywhere on the property. The dogs arrived, and it was a dog that found Potter, or at least drew them close enough to his hiding spot that Potter opened fire, three blasts, rapid-fire, and by the sound of it the fugitive had not only the registered bolt-action Browning but an unregistered semi-automatic.
They had forged high enough on the mountainside that the air felt thin in Leith’s nostrils. The blasts had come horribly close, had frozen him in his tracks alongside the others in the posse, nine in all, and in the time it took for the sound waves to disperse, he went through his half-second mantra, always there for him when things got dicey, to bring scant comfort: That he would have to lead the way, might die, Ali and Izzy would have to carry on without him, but luckily his insurance plan should cover them well, even put the kid through university if she was so inclined.
On that note of slight comfort he could go forward now, in ERT mode. Some days there just wasn’t enough manpower and he had no choice but pitch in, join the front lines, and today was one of those special days. Possibly his last. The plan of the hour was simple: encircle the hideout, give Potter nowhere to run, and then try talking him out. Failing that, because time was of the essence, Leith would fire a warning shot. Failing that, he would coordinate moving in by cautious degrees. He didn’t have to remind his team that it was imperative Potter be taken alive. Nor was there time for a nice leisurely siege.
He gave the signal and began to climb, upward and around, through dense woods. The climb was hellish. His vest was bulky, his gear catching on the underbrush, branches scratching his face. And god, he was no ninja, every move a snap, crackle, and pop, and he could only pray foolishly that if he should come into the sights of Potter’s gun, he would see it first.
Twenty minutes later they had found their spots, and he was within shouting distance of the lair. Without a megaphone he had to bellow: “John Potter. I’m David Leith, RCMP. D’you hear me?”
The answer was a barrage of bullets. As the echoes faded, his men reported in, all safe. Potter was desperate, and this was going to end badly. Leith stayed low, a leg already starting to cramp, and shouted, “It’s over, John. We’re not here to hurt you. You need help, I understand that. I’m here to get you that help. You’re surrounded now, man. Get out here with your hands up where I can see ’em and let’s get to somewhere warm and dry where we can talk in peace.”
Silence. Maybe Potter was reloading. Maybe he was eating a sandwich. Maybe he was setting a bomb that would blow them all to hell. “Potter,” Leith called out. “I’m coming down so we can talk, okay? Just stay where you are.”
There was another blast, and this one had a different sound, a different sort of finality. A sharp, clean handgun blam. Leith swore out loud, notified his men, and went scrambling cautiously through muck and bracken down the slope.
He found Potter hunkered deep in the hollow formed by two firs, head bowed forward between his knees as if ashamed of the big bloody mess he’d made of his life.
Leith made his radio call, bringing in the medics. Then he mirrored Potter in a way, head hung, nothing left to do or say.
* * *
Some hours later, from the case room in Terrace, he called Giroux to tell her about Potter. Not just the death, but what had been found in the remains of Potter’s burned down house. “Convenience store receipts,” he said. “For cigarettes. Dated Saturday. Checked the security footage, and we got Potter alibied, no doubt about it. We’ve almost certainly got him on the Pickup killings, but he wasn’t involved in our girl’s disappearance, and we’re back to square one. Bosko’s just dealing with some stuff here, then we’ll head back to Hazelton. Be there in two hours, max.”
Giroux spoke quietly, which was a departure for her. “I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee, Big City. See you soon.”
* * *
With all hands on deck for a full-team briefing, the small detachment was filled to capacity. The air was overtaxed, dry and hot. Leith’s nose was stuffed, a new discomfort to go with the headache, the guilt, and the dull pain in his wrist left over from the sprain. Any spiritual satisfaction he might have felt for stopping John Potter in his sadistic tracks would just have to wait. Right now his focus was on Kiera.
Outside the snow pelted down on New Hazelton, thick and fast, blanketing the village afresh. Four names were up on the board now: Frank, Stella, Chad, and Rob, four young people suddenly cast in a far harsher light. Bosko had suggested the approach to be taken, and Leith spread the word to the team. “We don’t want the
