up that way somewhere?”
“No, no. It’s a whole different mountain. It’s over here.” She poked the air to her left.
The Hazeltons were surrounded by mountains, so it wasn’t a helpful poke. “D’you have a map? Could you show me where it is?”
She didn’t have a map. He brought the one printed for tourists from his vehicle and flattened it on the kitchen counter, and Evangeline’s pearly pink fingernail showed him it was pretty well just across the highway from the entrance to the Bell 3. An old logging road that didn’t have a name, far as she knew.
“You take this road called McLeod, past this ranch, and then about five miles along there’s a sign on your left warning people about logging trucks, and you take that. It’s steep and gravelly, but not too bad, you don’t need a four-by or anything….”
Her finger travelled up the mountainside, ended at more or less where she thought the plateau was located, and marked it with an X for him in ballpoint. “East Band,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Scottie called it East Band. I don’t know, East Band mountain, or road. He just said East Band.”
When she was done, he told her to wait there. Out in his car he phoned directly to Jayne Spacey, his point person for the night, and told her where he was, at Scott Rourke’s residence, and where he was going, up to a lookout on a logging road past McLeod, in an area possibly called East Band. He told her that he needed backup, because he believed Scott Rourke was up there with Frank Law, and it could be a dicey situation.
“What, where?” she said.
He looked at the map, so little of it marked with names. The lookout wasn’t a tourist hotspot, and there was nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the green. There was no East Band that he could see. “I can’t explain everything right now,” he said. “But Evangeline Doyle’s here. She’ll give you directions, or maybe she can just take you out there. That would be better.” He thought a moment, staring at his map, struggling through the logistics as the clock ticked. If the team had to come out to Rourke’s trailer to get Evangeline, there would be a good half hour wasted, considering the road leading to the area she had pointed out started somewhere up Highway 37, not up Kispiox Road. The closest point between the detachment and the East Band, as he saw it, was Old Town.
He said, “I’ll leave her at the Black Bear Lodge. You can meet her there. Get a team together. I’ll go up ahead and see what I can find out, and wait there for backup. I’m not sure if Rourke is armed. You have to move fast on this. I don’t know what exactly I’m headed into.”
“Yes, fine,” Spacey said.
He shut his phone and jogged back to the trailer to get Evangeline. She sat in the passenger seat and he fired the engine, aware that it was all wrong, somehow, him and Spacey, the games they were playing and the dynamite they had underfoot. But in this case she would have no choice but to act, and he could hardly sit here mulling it over anyway. Rourke had at least an hour’s head start, and Dion was almost certain that if Frank wasn’t dead already, all in the name of mercy, it was just a matter of time.
Twelve
The Gates
THE SKIES WERE NO LONGER a weird, writhing pink but black velvet spangled with stars. He found McLeod Road, no problem, passed a ranch, and about five miles farther found a logging road jotting off his left, with a brown government sign warning about logging trucks. So far Evangeline had it all dead right.
The road started good and flat, and his high beams cut a white path before him as he sped along, exposing so many blurry kilometres of frozen gravel. Then it began to slant uphill, the grade increasing until the engine had to clear its throat and change gears.
The last of the ranch lands fell behind and the wilds closed in fast, and he became aware of his isolation, and almost worse than what he couldn’t see before him was what he could, caught in the periphery of his lights, the flanks of nightmare forests. Something loomed in the headlights bigger than a deer and flashed away as he jumped on the brakes and slid into a spin across gravel and ice.
He sat breathing hard till his heart slowed, straightened out the vehicle, and carried on.
The road branched, and he braked at the unmarked crossroads and swore. Evangeline hadn’t mentioned any branching. He left the car idling and went around to the back to dig out a reflective marker to leave for the team to know which branch he’d gambled on: the left.
From here the gravel steepened, deteriorated to ruts, and forced him to a crawl, and he knew he’d lost the race. It was time to find a good place to turn around, go back and wait at the crossroads for the backup that was bound to be just minutes behind him. Twenty minutes, he figured, if Spacey had jumped to it.
A fairly good place to turn around came up, but he passed it, thinking the next would be even better. Another chance didn’t seem to come up, and he kept climbing the narrow road, higher and higher, alternately accelerating and braking, swerving to avoid the potholes, suspension jouncing crazily. When the gravel levelled out and gleamed away ahead of him, a pale blue ribbon touched with ice, he made a deal with himself that he would travel up this stretch as far as it went, and soon as it got rutty again he would turn back.
A kilometre into the stretch his headlights glanced against something man-made, off the road to his left. He pulled over again, this time shutting off engine and lights so the night’s blackness invaded his lungs and made it hard to breathe.
Turning on the flashlight only made the blackness worse, so he flicked it off again. He backlit his wristwatch to show the time, calculated his backup ETA once more, tried his radio, got nothing but static, waited another full thirty seconds, then left the car, and with light on full blast headed toward the object downslope that had caught his headlights.
The object, as he’d thought, was a vehicle that had driven off the road across the dead grasses of a broad clearing, churning the snow and leaving twin tracks, and yes it was an old green Jeep. Frank’s wheels. He touched the hood and found it cool but not icy. All doors were locked. There was nothing of interest visible inside. The footprints, two sets, headed off into the woods toward an opening in the trees. If he could read anything in the tracks, they seemed unhurried. Two friends ambling along.
He called out Frank’s name, and Rourke’s, and listened. This was where he would post himself, then, and wait for backup. Again he backlit his watch, and it dawned on him that there was something wrong with that ETA. He tried his cellphone again and found again no reception. That was what mountains did, threw walls up between towers, killed the signals.
And now he felt so tiny and alone, here in the vastness of the night. Grasses rustled, branches swished, wood creaked, but nothing in all those sounds warned him of company. The two friends were long gone. He could stand here and freeze, or he could return to the car and head back down the mountain, or he could follow those tracks. The risk, as he saw it, was moderate. Rourke didn’t have a gun, at least not registered, and he, Dion, did.
The tracks didn’t lead far. The trees formed a thick canopy that kept snow off the trail, and there were no signs of passage, leaving only the path itself as a guide. The path was decent at times and at times became nothing, leaving him to cross boulders along the brink of what looked like a bottomless pit in his torch beam. When he’d gotten past the big rocks, the hillside dipped, and he could just make out the trail angling across its face. No footprints still, and he wondered again
