Call of the void, p.26
Call of the Void, page 26
Walking up a short concrete ramp to the outbuilding, I snipped the chain that held the handles of the two sliding doors shut. The chain clinked to the ramp as I slid open the door to the right. From the direction of the road across the field came the rumble of a truck. I paused, waiting for the headlights to pass by in the distance. With a quick glance behind, I entered into darkness. Motes of dust danced as the beam of my headlamp illuminated the hooks in the ceiling. I smelled the coppery tang of old blood that had soaked into the floorboards.
A flapping sound behind me made me whirl and jump back as a bat nearly grazed my cheek on its way out the door. Several of the hooks swayed in the breeze, making a sound like chains clanking. My heart began to gallop in my chest.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, making me jump again.
I pulled it out. Kai.
“What do you have for me?”
“Why are you whispering?” he asked.
“’Cause I’m in a haunted fucking slaughterhouse,” I said, stepping back outside into the humid night.
“You might consider going vegan,” he said. “Check your email. I just sent you what little information there is on this Danko guy. If it’s the same guy you’re looking for, all I could find was an old address on Stave Lake Road—”
“I’m there now.”
“It’s been on the market for twelve years. Property taxes are all paid up though. Guess it’s not exactly a hot market out there?”
“Place is just oozing with untapped potential. Any other residences listed?”
“Nope, but he was married a long time ago. And divorced—also a long time ago. His ex remarried. Lives in Chilliwack.”
“Address?”
“It’s in the email I sent you. Oh, and one more interesting thing.”
“What’s that?”
“This guy’s credit score. Despite owning the property, it’s pretty much non-existent. No credit cards, no mortgages, no loans. Which means, unless he’s dead or living completely off the land, he’s a cash only guy. Makes him almost impossible to track.”
“He’s got money to pay the property taxes. Has he filed a return recently?”
“Hey, I’m strictly amateur now. My present operating system won’t let me peek into government institutions. Plus, with all the CRA scams, they’ve really upped their cyber-security game. Be thankful I found you the ex.”
“I owe you one, Kai.”
“You can pay me back by not calling me again.”
“Yet you keep picking up the phone.”
“Yeah, well. Just be careful. This guy is taking pains to cover his tracks, and he’s doing it really well. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want to be found.”
CHAPTER 59
After completing a rough walking tour of the property, I got back in my Jeep and drove south, over the Mission Bridge and past Matsqui Village. Ten minutes later, I was driving past strip malls, car lots, and storage facilities on the outskirts of Abbotsford. It was nearly three in the morning and other than cops, the only people out were those on something or looking to score. Though my eyes burned with fatigue, with every beat of my heart, the thrill of pursuit pulsed through my chest.
Back at the Danko home I had discovered no graves, no abattoir jumbled with human bones, no Mason jars packed with formaldehyde-preserved organs, no shreds from victims’ clothes. For that matter, I had also not seen any sign that a human being had set foot on the property in a long time. Yet, there was something, an ineffable sense of something that was once there, that kept me pushing to the next step.
I thought to call Wayne again, at least text him what I was doing, but he would only tell me—and rightfully so—to get my ass home.
Approaching the turnoff for the highway, for one second I considered heading west, back home to bed.
I yawned, and pointed my Jeep east, toward Chilliwack.
TOCK-TOCK-TOCK. A drop of water hit my cheek and my eyes snapped open to see an overcast sky. Another raindrop hit my face through the open window. I was parked on a hill, across the street from what looked to be a new townhouse development.
TOCK-TOCK-TOCK.
The sound came from the roof of my Jeep. Craning my head out the open window, I peered up to see a crow pecking at something on the metal, maybe the shit of another bird. Reaching my arm out, I slapped at it, and the bird flew away, cawing.
It was 7:27 a.m. I didn’t remember falling asleep. My mouth tasted sour and my stomach burned. I popped a breath mint and got out of the car. As I climbed the steps of the townhouse, a curtain in the living room moved, but I didn’t see a face. I knocked, and a man in his early sixties answered. Lanky, bald, and wearing round glasses, he was definitely not Paul Danko.
After apologizing for the intrusion, I introduced myself and asked to speak with Shirley Beckett. He said she was his wife and asked what it was regarding. I flashed my credentials and told him it was a missing person case.
“Who is it, Don?” said a woman’s voice.
“A private investigator,” he answered over his shoulder. “Wants to ask you some questions.”
When Shirley Beckett appeared in the hall, my main question was answered. Though in her mid-fifties, she was a petite, dark-eyed brunette wearing glasses and a housecoat.
Once again apologizing for the unannounced arrival, I said I had a few questions regarding her ex-husband, Paul Danko. At this, her current husband made a face and retreated into the background, letting her know he’d be in the kitchen.
Shirley invited me to have a seat in the living room, which looked out over nearby Mount McFarlane, its peak wreathed in fog.
“I heard something about a missing person?” she asked.
“Persons,” I said, taking photos from my satchel and placing them face up on the coffee table in front of her: Angela Fromme, Amber Sebastian, Emily Pike, Loretta Houston, and the sketch of Lola. “Only the first two women are missing.”
“I’ve never seen any of them before,” she said, her eyes going from one photo to the next. Her face was getting paler by the second, perhaps recognizing a younger version of herself in some of the images.
“You were only married to Paul for a short time,” I said.
“We got married young. Too young. I was twenty-two, he was a few years older.”
“Can I ask how you met?”
“At work. You know, groups of us would go out to the pub after work and he and I, we hit it off at first.”
“What kind of work?”
“I was an addiction counselor. Used to go into various prisons. Back then he was a guard at Mountain. Heard he moved on to Kent later. Worst of the worst, that place.”
My head felt light as my brain worked overtime to process this new information.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
I stared at her. Before my eyes, she morphed into a younger version of herself, before becoming Angela, then Amber, then Emily. I blinked and she was back to being a fifty-something woman in a housecoat again. She looked apprehensive. I asked how long it had been since she saw him.
“At least thirty years,” she said, leaning forward and speaking in a quieter tone. From the kitchen, a kettle began to sing. “I ended the marriage. Paul was a strong, stable man; and for me back then, it represented everything that men in my life weren’t. I felt safe. But then it grew stifling. He wanted me to stay at home more, wanted me to quit my job. I was only just starting out. I also wanted to go out with my friends. He didn’t like that. It made him mad.”
“What did that look like, him getting mad?”
“When Paul was mad, he’d just kind of simmer, grow distant and cold. A few times, near the end, he’d take off, sometimes for a few days.”
“Do you know where?”
“His family cabin, up near Stave Lake. His dad’s place, somewhere off the grid. Would you believe, I never met his father? And I only met his mother at the wedding. She was an odd duck, too. Barely left the house.”
“This might seem an odd question, but did you ever have any pets when the two of you were together?”
She nodded. “I had a shih tzu. She went missing shortly after we were married. Paul said it was probably coyotes.”
CHAPTER 60
“Donovan, you’re not supposed to be out there alone! I need you to get the fuck back home!”
As I drove through the Chilliwack farmlands, the morning rain came down harder. I flicked the wipers onto the highest speed.
“He’s a prison guard, Wayne. Our guy. His name is Paul Danko—”
“For the love of fuck—”
“Just listen. According to his ex-wife, he may work at Kent Prison. Before that he was a guard at Mountain, which also housed Amber Sebastian’s father Ray. Correctional officers are considered law enforcement, which is why information about him is scarce. Even Kai couldn’t find out much.”
Dead air. For a moment, I thought our connection was broken. I hooked left on a roundabout and pointed my Jeep back toward the highway. Then Wayne asked, “Are you coming back here or not?”
“I’m already out here, Wayne. I just need to check—”
“I think it may be time to revisit our contract, because I’m pretty much through with this. I need a reliable partner.”
“Wayne, please, just find out what you can about Kent—”
The phone went dead.
Kent Pen. The government euphemistically called it a federal correctional institution, but it was really just BC’s one and only maximum-security prison, and it housed over four hundred of the country’s worst offenders. To earn your place among the gangsters and serial killers and ultra-violent psychopaths out here, you had to have unleashed a good dose of pure hell upon society.
Even a lawyer or a cop would require pre-authorization before waltzing into a place like Kent. Given that fact, it didn’t seem wise to enter the front doors flashing my P.I. license and making inquiries regarding one of their C.O.s, so I sat in my newly acquired Volvo in the parking lot, waiting and watching the entrance.
Several hours ago, I’d pulled into Yolanda Miller’s driveway to find her once again sitting on her porch, spitting tobacco into her yard. Over several mid-morning vodka coolers and some amiable conversation, she agreed to rent me her Volvo for three hundred dollars. I’d left my Jeep as a security deposit.
Now I watched as a steady trickle of people exited the building, carrying the collateral damage of violent crime in their haggard and hard-living faces. Mothers and fathers, wives and girlfriends—even some of the young children looked like they had just viewed a horror film, an ongoing one they’d carry with them for the rest of their lives.
Studying my surroundings, I counted at least six cameras situated on light posts around the parking lot. To my left was a 30-foot watchtower in which I could see the faint silhouette of a guard through the tinted glass. Surrounding the compound were tall chain-link fences topped with hula-hoops of hurricane wire. Every few minutes, gunshots echoed off the mountains nearby. At first, I thought the sounds were coming from the prison, but then remembered the gun club I’d passed on the road in. Hearing continuous gunshots must be a good way to keep inmates on their toes. Or maybe it was like a lullaby to them.
An hour went by. Ninety minutes. Sitting in a beater for an extended period of time in the visitor parking lot of a prison made me feel exposed. That very moment a camera might be zooming in on my face through the windshield. Knowing my luck, Paul Danko could be the one on camera detail. No matter who it was, a vehicle sitting for too long would arouse suspicion.
Separated from the main lot by a gate was a smaller lot that appeared to be staff parking. I could see rows of parked vehicles, mainly trucks and SUVs. Remembering back to my cop days, I had heard that correctional officers worked 12-hour shifts, but when those shifts began and ended, I had no idea. With no other corroboration, I was operating on the word from a long distant ex-wife that Danko might be working here. It also seemed a bad idea to call the prison and inquire about a specific guard. Word would travel pretty fast within those walls. Problem was, even if he was here, I had no current photo and no idea what type of vehicle he currently drove. For all I knew, it could have been his day off.
I checked my phone. No further response from Wayne. Which meant he was still pissed. I cursed myself for being such a stubborn bitch and once again considered starting the engine and driving away.
But I couldn’t.
I called Fiona Saddy. She was just going into work.
“I have a person of interest named Paul Danko,” I said. “He’s a correctional officer, possibly at Kent.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Look him up, Fiona. Because I can’t find anything about him, but I think he’s connected to the missing girls and the murder of Emily Pike. He used to work at Mountain, which is where Amber Sebastian’s father—”
“Hang on,” she said. “I’m just heading into a meeting. I don’t have time to deal with this now.”
Movement to my left drew my eye and I turned to see a brown Yukon drive past and exit the parking lot. The profile of the driver froze the air in my chest.
My mind flashed back to the man asking for directions near the Benoit house. Balding, moustache, glasses, smiling as he asked if there was a shortcut down to the water.
Don’t think so. But I’m a little lost myself.
Well, thanks anyhow. I hope we both make it to where we need to go. Bye, now.
“Fiona,” I hissed. “It’s him. I just saw him.”
“Calm down, Sloane. Where are you?”
“At Kent Prison, in Agassiz.”
“Don’t do anything. I’ll let Davis know—”
“No—”
“He’s on your side, Sloane. I’ll run a check as soon as I can and get back to you.”
“I’m following him,” I said, and ended the call.
The Volvo coughed several times before starting. By the time I pulled from the lot, the Yukon was several hundred yards down the road. In the hills north of Agassiz, traffic was sparse, but hopefully the rain hampered visibility sufficiently that my gray vehicle would blend with the landscape.
The Yukon drove at a steady seventy kilometres per hour, passing the town before turning west onto the Lougheed Highway. He picked up speed to pass a slow-moving flatbed carrying a backhoe. I hung behind the flatbed for a minute. When I finally edged into the oncoming lane to pass, I immediately jerked the wheel back to avoid getting in a head-on collision with another car. After a seemingly endless succession of vehicles travelling the other direction, I was finally able to pass. The Yukon was gone. I stepped on the accelerator and sped along the highway, the Fraser River to my left. The squeaking wipers on the Volvo were pathetic, merely moving the water from one side of the windshield to the other. I drove as fast as possible, passing slower moving vehicles, and receiving honks for cutting it close against oncoming traffic.
It wasn’t until I’d crossed the bridge over the Harrison River that I saw a smudge of brown in the distance. The Yukon. Slowing down to a normal speed, I hung back, and despite the weather, kept my headlights off. Fifteen minutes later I saw a sign for Deroche. We were close to the Sebastian home. The Yukon kept going.
I called Wayne and left a message: “I am following Paul Danko west on the Lougheed, past Deroche. He’s in a brown Yukon and it looks like he’s heading for Mission. His ex-wife said he has a cabin up in the mountains. I can’t get close enough to get a plate. I know you’re pissed, but I could use your help here. There’s a good chance I may be out of cell range soon, but my GPS will be activated.”
I put the phone down and raised the Nikons. It was raining too hard to make the plate on the Yukon. An old pickup pulled out from a driveway in front of me, forcing me to slam the brakes. Up ahead, the Yukon’s right signal light flared, and Danko turned right and disappeared. The GPS told me it was Sylvester Road, and when I got close, I turned right as well. The Yukon was again a blip in the distance.
The distance between homes grew further and further apart and vehicles became sparse on the narrow road. He drove at a steady, measured pace. No other cars were in my rearview, so if he had good eyes and had been paying attention, he’d have seen a gray Volvo clocking him for kilometres. When Sylvester Road became an unpaved service road, my heart rate quickened even more. He was heading away from Mission, and we were already many kilometres north of the derelict family home I had visited the previous night. The road twisted and steepened, and several times Danko’s vehicle disappeared around corners.
As soon as I caught a glimpse of the Yukon, the road curved sharply to the right, and once again it vanished. Coming around the corner, suddenly there he was, pulled over on the side of the road about a hundred yards ahead.
My breathing stopped and my muscles tightened. If I kept going, I’d be forced to pass him, and he’d see me. If my tail wasn’t already burned, it was about to be. Using the lamest of evasive tactics, I pulled into a driveway on the right, nearly smashing into the propeller of a powerboat parked beneath a carport.
Through the trees and brush to the left, the brown SUV sat on the road, idling. A few moments later it slowly drove away.
On the patio above the carport a tall, shirtless man stepped out and frowned down at me. “Help you with something?”
I stuck my head out the window. “I’m a little lost. How far is the lake from here?”
“Not much of a lake in this direction,” he said. “More like mud flats.”
“Know of any cabins nearby?”
His eyes narrowed. “They’re a ways up. About as far as you can go. And they’re not exactly the kind of places you go rent for the weekend. I was you, I’d turn around, head back to the highway, keep going till you get to Harrison. I doubt there’s much up this way you’d want to find.”
