Call of the void, p.30
Call of the Void, page 30
“You better not let the hero complex go to your head, kid. Tossing me a tenner because you’re famous now. Pfft. I hear you’ve been refusing big money interviews. It’s only going to make your damn P.I. mystique grow in the eye of the public. Some might think that’s a well-calculated ploy on your part, playing hard to get. But don’t mess around; take the money and run, that’s what I say. Or take it and give it to me, forget the misguided attempt at integrity. That ship sailed the moment you decided to make a living skulking around fleabag hotels photographing men dipping their shlongs in their secretaries.”
“Quite the spiel, M.J. You take to the bottle again?”
“No, but you have. I could smell the booze on you from down the street. Not even noon yet.” She pulled out a pack of gum and offered me a stick. “Take it. You got company upstairs.”
“No more reporters, I hope.”
“Uh, no,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the black Escalade waiting down the block, Giller at the wheel.
Travis Benoit sat on the top of the stairs outside the door, wearing grandfatherly bifocals while reading an issue of Spy Gadgetry that had been delivered to our doorstep. He looked up at me as I climbed past. He handed me the magazine along with some bills and flyers that had been sitting by the door. I unlocked the door to the reception area and ushered him in ahead of me. No way was I turning my back on Travis Benoit.
“Interesting business you’re in,” he said, surveying the waiting room. “Once upon a time, I could’ve imagined doing something like this.”
“Tough to get a license with your record.”
“Therein lies the rub,” he said, glancing around. “Is this room secure? Any recording devices whirring behind some clock face or an electrical outlet? I was just reading about the gadgets you people use. Interesting stuff.”
“Had I expected you, maybe I’d have installed something ahead of time. With my voyeuristic partner, however, all bets are off.” Opening the door to my office, I gestured him in. Once again, he appraised the surroundings before taking a seat facing the desk. I took a beer from the fridge and offered him one and he nodded. I sat down, and we opened our beers and sipped in silence. The evidence board to the right was stripped bare, all our case evidence turned over to the police. If Uncle Trav had paid a visit ten days prior, he’d have seen his face up there.
From the window came sounds of the street: trucks rumbling, horns, sirens screaming. It all seemed far removed, like I was living life through someone else’s eyes.
“You’re famous,” he said.
“Hoo-rah,” I said, gulping my beer.
“Pretty sick stuff up in those woods, that business of keeping those girls all those years, having babies with them.”
“The drugs you supplied were instrumental in their abduction.”
He just looked at me.
“Same stuff was also used to kill inmates at Kent,” I said. “Before that, Mountain. Not merely inmates, but rivals of yours. I wonder why that didn’t make the news.”
Travis Benoit took another sip, crossed his legs, and picked a speck of lint off his jeans. “I was just glad to see justice done.”
“Paul Danko came out of a coma a few hours ago,” I said. “I just found out, but you probably already knew that. He isn’t able to speak yet, but the doctors say his brain function is just fine. He’ll stand trial, and given the nature of his crimes, it’ll be a lengthy one. A great deal will come of it. No matter what investigations are under way, names will be named. This is too big.”
His eyes didn’t leave mine as his mouth gave the faintest of smiles. A contented smile of one who can see not just several chess moves ahead, but the entire game. “At the end of the day,” he said, “everyone gets what’s coming to them.”
“Is that what you came here to say?”
He shook his head. “When you risked life and limb to talk to me in my home, I couldn’t figure out if you were doggedly tenacious, or a couple cans short of a six-pack. Either way, you impressed me. I could use someone like you from time to—”
“You’re offering me a job?”
“Strictly under the table.”
“Of course.”
“Does that mean you’ll accept my offer?”
“Are you fucking kidding?”
He shook his head, then leaned forward and grabbed a tissue from the box on my desk. Holding it in his right hand, he reached inside his jacket. I grabbed the desk drawer that held my extra Enforcer, but he already had the gun out. The pearl-handed pistol he had relieved me of the night I showed up on his doorstep.
“Thought I’d return this,” he said, wiping it down with the tissue before placing it carefully on my desk. “No bullets. Man in my position can’t be walking around with a loaded firearm.”
I placed the weapon in the drawer. He checked his watch and stood. “You did a good thing up there,” he said. “You ever need anything—”
“Never going to happen, but thanks.”
He smiled. “Never say never.”
I followed him from my office and opened the frosted glass door. Travis Benoit turned to go down the stairs, then stopped and moved sideways to let someone pass. “Ma’am,” he said, nodding politely to the diminutive figure of Dee-Dee Sebastian hobbling up the stairs. Her wizened face beamed a hard-earned smile, as two of the most incongruous people imaginable crossed paths, neither of them knowing how their lives were connected.
He nodded back to me, then turned and continued down the stairs.
“Dee-Dee!” I said, holding out my arms.
We embraced and Dee-Dee kissed me on the cheek. Tears streamed down her face. “You brought her back to me,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “You brought my baby back.”
I couldn’t speak. We remained in a silent embrace. At first, I thought the wetness on my cheeks was from Dee-Dee’s tears, but it was from my own.
VANCOUVER SUN – OCTOBER 3
By Jerry Fifer, Staff Reporter
Former prison guard Paul Danko, charged with the murders of two women and the abduction and confinement of five women over a forty-year span, was found stabbed and beaten to death in a pretrial infirmary, where he was recovering from wounds sustained prior to his arrest on August 24. A trial date had been set for early next year. Danko’s murder occurred when guards were mobilized during a fire alarm. Corrections Canada has announced that a full investigation is being launched. Authorities say that there are no suspects, though sources say that it is likely Danko made enemies during his eighteen-year stint working at Kent Institution.
Meanwhile, excavations are still underway in and around the Danko property outside Mission, to find possible remains of other potential murder victims. VPD Inspector Pryce Davis of the Serious Crimes Unit says, “Due to the scope of this case, the investigation will go on for some time, even despite Mr. Danko’s demise.”
CHAPTER 69
One month later
Number 129, a tall brunette, bombed past me on the steep downhill of the final stretch. Rocks and roots were slippery from torrential morning rains. The only thing I could hear was my own breath in my burning lungs. My hands and feet had been numb for the past hour.
Another runner passed me, a young, petite blonde. The bitch actually flashed me a smile that I read as: nice try, old-timer.
Pissed off, I cranked up my pace, passing the blonde and hurdling a fallen tree. Now I was flying, finding my stride. It had taken only sixty-five kilometres to do it.
A flash of white to my right. Glancing over, I expected it to be a white nightgown, but it was only morning mist lingering amid the trees. When my feet left trail and hit gravel road, I nearly stopped cold. The finish line was a hundred yards ahead. A cheering crowd, most people huddled under umbrellas. Panic surged in my chest and I felt the sensation of leaving my body.
Just kick and breathe, kick and breathe.
I felt myself slow.
“Sloane! Go, Sloane, c’mon, move your ass!”
Fuck off, Karin. I narrowed my vision to the road five feet in front of me. Lead seeped into my legs.
“C’mon, Donovan!” Wayne’s deep voice. Of course, the one race he shows up to and I bomb out at twelfth place.
“Go, Sloane!” A shriller voice, almost a scream.
A child’s voice.
No. I can’t see them now. Not now.
Don’t look.
Kick and breathe.
“Go, Sloane, go!” Familiar.
I looked up, saw Karin, Wayne, Sally, cheering and clapping.
My breath caught in my throat as I saw Sadie, clapping and waving her arms.
Sitting atop Jim’s shoulders.
He smiled and shouted my name.
And I ran.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
An author without people in their corner probably wouldn’t be much of an author at all, and I’m fortunate to have many amazing people supporting and nudging me down the right path on this crazy journey.
Writing can be hard, but the phenomenal team at NeWest Press—Matt Bowes, Meredith Thompson, Carolina Ortiz, Christine Kohler, and Claire Kelly—makes the process of getting a novel from manuscript to print a joyful experience. What they do is considerable, and I am deeply grateful for all of it. Having Matt as editor means that there is little compromise in honing my vision into a finished product, of which I am truly proud.
I cannot imagine a better designer than Michel Vrana, and I feel honoured to have someone of that calibre working hard to prettify my babies. Seeing the cover magic he conjures up is one of the most exciting parts of the process.
To A.J. Devlin, my fratello and fellow crime author. If I somehow managed to get this far without him in my corner, it wouldn’t be half as fun—or as good. #bros4life
To Sylvia Leong, long-time friend, author, and photographer, who never hesitates to give me the straight goods, whether I want them or not.
To my friend Tony Leong, for his computer wisdom, and his unrivalled skill in utterly grossing me out via a simple text message.
To Nicole Rigler, for her help in giving Danko a new first name that sounded appropriately creepy.
To the perpetually enthusiastic Magnus Skalgrimmson, writer, and promoter extraordinaire. Massive thanks for all the support, and for introducing Noir at the Bar to Victoria!
In terms of author inspiration and support, a hearty shout out to Sam Wiebe, S.M. Freedman, Frances Peck, Dietrich Kalteis, Niall Howell, Tara Moss, Iona Whishaw, Erik D’Souza, Winona Kent, R.M. Greenaway, J.G. Toews, and William Deverell.
To friends and loved ones Jack Kilgour, Corrie Bownick, Andy Wilkens, Kevin Spode, Chris Gallardo-Ganaban, Craig Watson, Chris Wells, Jess Lynn, John “Buzz” Barrigar, Daniela Sosa, and Naida Bertelsen.
To my mom and dad, for always letting me read whatever books I wanted at inappropriate times.
To Pulp Fiction Books, Book Warehouse, 32 Books, Western Sky Books, Munro’s, and all independent book stores everywhere. They are the lifeblood of the book industry and deserve continued support in the same way that they support authors.
To Bill Selnes, Cozy Up With Kathy, Debra Purdy Kong, Mary-Ann Booth, Rosemary Keevil, and the book clubs that were so kind to host me.
My increasingly lovely and always supportive wife, Wendy, is the first to call out my many grammatical and punctuational blunders. Only with her approval does a manuscript go off to the publisher. Her attention to detail is unparalleled, and she never fails to bring out my best, as a writer, and as a man. I am forever lucky to have her at my side.
J.T. Siemens moved to Vancouver to become a personal trainer, but feels fortunate to have discovered his true love: writing crime fiction. After studying screenwriting at Capilano University, he followed it up with creative writing at the University of British Columbia and Simon Fraser University. To Those Who Killed Me, his first book in the Sloane Donovan series, was nominated for the Arthur Ellis Unhanged Award and won the inaugural Mystery and Thriller Book of the Year Award at the 2023 Alberta Book Publishing Awards. He lives in the West End of Vancouver with his wife and two cats.
Also by J.T. Siemens
To Those Who Killed Me
Praise for To Those Who Killed Me
“A scorching debut. Donovan is a sleuth to be reckoned with.”
—SAM WIEBE, award-winning author of the Wakeland novels
“An exhilarating white-knuckled thrill ride that blasts out of the gates and doesn’t let up for a moment. In his debut crime novel, Siemens brilliantly weaves together gripping tension and page-turning twists while showcasing a penchant for depicting the glamour and grit of Vancouver and introducing one of the most complex heroines I’ve ever read. Sloane Donovan is a compelling force not to be missed.”
—A.J. DEVLIN, award-winning author of Cobra
Clutch and Rolling Thunder
J.T. Siemens, Call of the Void
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“Quite the spiel, M.J. You take to the bottle again?”
“No, but you have. I could smell the booze on you from down the street. Not even noon yet.” She pulled out a pack of gum and offered me a stick. “Take it. You got company upstairs.”
“No more reporters, I hope.”
“Uh, no,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the black Escalade waiting down the block, Giller at the wheel.
Travis Benoit sat on the top of the stairs outside the door, wearing grandfatherly bifocals while reading an issue of Spy Gadgetry that had been delivered to our doorstep. He looked up at me as I climbed past. He handed me the magazine along with some bills and flyers that had been sitting by the door. I unlocked the door to the reception area and ushered him in ahead of me. No way was I turning my back on Travis Benoit.
“Interesting business you’re in,” he said, surveying the waiting room. “Once upon a time, I could’ve imagined doing something like this.”
“Tough to get a license with your record.”
“Therein lies the rub,” he said, glancing around. “Is this room secure? Any recording devices whirring behind some clock face or an electrical outlet? I was just reading about the gadgets you people use. Interesting stuff.”
“Had I expected you, maybe I’d have installed something ahead of time. With my voyeuristic partner, however, all bets are off.” Opening the door to my office, I gestured him in. Once again, he appraised the surroundings before taking a seat facing the desk. I took a beer from the fridge and offered him one and he nodded. I sat down, and we opened our beers and sipped in silence. The evidence board to the right was stripped bare, all our case evidence turned over to the police. If Uncle Trav had paid a visit ten days prior, he’d have seen his face up there.
From the window came sounds of the street: trucks rumbling, horns, sirens screaming. It all seemed far removed, like I was living life through someone else’s eyes.
“You’re famous,” he said.
“Hoo-rah,” I said, gulping my beer.
“Pretty sick stuff up in those woods, that business of keeping those girls all those years, having babies with them.”
“The drugs you supplied were instrumental in their abduction.”
He just looked at me.
“Same stuff was also used to kill inmates at Kent,” I said. “Before that, Mountain. Not merely inmates, but rivals of yours. I wonder why that didn’t make the news.”
Travis Benoit took another sip, crossed his legs, and picked a speck of lint off his jeans. “I was just glad to see justice done.”
“Paul Danko came out of a coma a few hours ago,” I said. “I just found out, but you probably already knew that. He isn’t able to speak yet, but the doctors say his brain function is just fine. He’ll stand trial, and given the nature of his crimes, it’ll be a lengthy one. A great deal will come of it. No matter what investigations are under way, names will be named. This is too big.”
His eyes didn’t leave mine as his mouth gave the faintest of smiles. A contented smile of one who can see not just several chess moves ahead, but the entire game. “At the end of the day,” he said, “everyone gets what’s coming to them.”
“Is that what you came here to say?”
He shook his head. “When you risked life and limb to talk to me in my home, I couldn’t figure out if you were doggedly tenacious, or a couple cans short of a six-pack. Either way, you impressed me. I could use someone like you from time to—”
“You’re offering me a job?”
“Strictly under the table.”
“Of course.”
“Does that mean you’ll accept my offer?”
“Are you fucking kidding?”
He shook his head, then leaned forward and grabbed a tissue from the box on my desk. Holding it in his right hand, he reached inside his jacket. I grabbed the desk drawer that held my extra Enforcer, but he already had the gun out. The pearl-handed pistol he had relieved me of the night I showed up on his doorstep.
“Thought I’d return this,” he said, wiping it down with the tissue before placing it carefully on my desk. “No bullets. Man in my position can’t be walking around with a loaded firearm.”
I placed the weapon in the drawer. He checked his watch and stood. “You did a good thing up there,” he said. “You ever need anything—”
“Never going to happen, but thanks.”
He smiled. “Never say never.”
I followed him from my office and opened the frosted glass door. Travis Benoit turned to go down the stairs, then stopped and moved sideways to let someone pass. “Ma’am,” he said, nodding politely to the diminutive figure of Dee-Dee Sebastian hobbling up the stairs. Her wizened face beamed a hard-earned smile, as two of the most incongruous people imaginable crossed paths, neither of them knowing how their lives were connected.
He nodded back to me, then turned and continued down the stairs.
“Dee-Dee!” I said, holding out my arms.
We embraced and Dee-Dee kissed me on the cheek. Tears streamed down her face. “You brought her back to me,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “You brought my baby back.”
I couldn’t speak. We remained in a silent embrace. At first, I thought the wetness on my cheeks was from Dee-Dee’s tears, but it was from my own.
VANCOUVER SUN – OCTOBER 3
By Jerry Fifer, Staff Reporter
Former prison guard Paul Danko, charged with the murders of two women and the abduction and confinement of five women over a forty-year span, was found stabbed and beaten to death in a pretrial infirmary, where he was recovering from wounds sustained prior to his arrest on August 24. A trial date had been set for early next year. Danko’s murder occurred when guards were mobilized during a fire alarm. Corrections Canada has announced that a full investigation is being launched. Authorities say that there are no suspects, though sources say that it is likely Danko made enemies during his eighteen-year stint working at Kent Institution.
Meanwhile, excavations are still underway in and around the Danko property outside Mission, to find possible remains of other potential murder victims. VPD Inspector Pryce Davis of the Serious Crimes Unit says, “Due to the scope of this case, the investigation will go on for some time, even despite Mr. Danko’s demise.”
CHAPTER 69
One month later
Number 129, a tall brunette, bombed past me on the steep downhill of the final stretch. Rocks and roots were slippery from torrential morning rains. The only thing I could hear was my own breath in my burning lungs. My hands and feet had been numb for the past hour.
Another runner passed me, a young, petite blonde. The bitch actually flashed me a smile that I read as: nice try, old-timer.
Pissed off, I cranked up my pace, passing the blonde and hurdling a fallen tree. Now I was flying, finding my stride. It had taken only sixty-five kilometres to do it.
A flash of white to my right. Glancing over, I expected it to be a white nightgown, but it was only morning mist lingering amid the trees. When my feet left trail and hit gravel road, I nearly stopped cold. The finish line was a hundred yards ahead. A cheering crowd, most people huddled under umbrellas. Panic surged in my chest and I felt the sensation of leaving my body.
Just kick and breathe, kick and breathe.
I felt myself slow.
“Sloane! Go, Sloane, c’mon, move your ass!”
Fuck off, Karin. I narrowed my vision to the road five feet in front of me. Lead seeped into my legs.
“C’mon, Donovan!” Wayne’s deep voice. Of course, the one race he shows up to and I bomb out at twelfth place.
“Go, Sloane!” A shriller voice, almost a scream.
A child’s voice.
No. I can’t see them now. Not now.
Don’t look.
Kick and breathe.
“Go, Sloane, go!” Familiar.
I looked up, saw Karin, Wayne, Sally, cheering and clapping.
My breath caught in my throat as I saw Sadie, clapping and waving her arms.
Sitting atop Jim’s shoulders.
He smiled and shouted my name.
And I ran.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
An author without people in their corner probably wouldn’t be much of an author at all, and I’m fortunate to have many amazing people supporting and nudging me down the right path on this crazy journey.
Writing can be hard, but the phenomenal team at NeWest Press—Matt Bowes, Meredith Thompson, Carolina Ortiz, Christine Kohler, and Claire Kelly—makes the process of getting a novel from manuscript to print a joyful experience. What they do is considerable, and I am deeply grateful for all of it. Having Matt as editor means that there is little compromise in honing my vision into a finished product, of which I am truly proud.
I cannot imagine a better designer than Michel Vrana, and I feel honoured to have someone of that calibre working hard to prettify my babies. Seeing the cover magic he conjures up is one of the most exciting parts of the process.
To A.J. Devlin, my fratello and fellow crime author. If I somehow managed to get this far without him in my corner, it wouldn’t be half as fun—or as good. #bros4life
To Sylvia Leong, long-time friend, author, and photographer, who never hesitates to give me the straight goods, whether I want them or not.
To my friend Tony Leong, for his computer wisdom, and his unrivalled skill in utterly grossing me out via a simple text message.
To Nicole Rigler, for her help in giving Danko a new first name that sounded appropriately creepy.
To the perpetually enthusiastic Magnus Skalgrimmson, writer, and promoter extraordinaire. Massive thanks for all the support, and for introducing Noir at the Bar to Victoria!
In terms of author inspiration and support, a hearty shout out to Sam Wiebe, S.M. Freedman, Frances Peck, Dietrich Kalteis, Niall Howell, Tara Moss, Iona Whishaw, Erik D’Souza, Winona Kent, R.M. Greenaway, J.G. Toews, and William Deverell.
To friends and loved ones Jack Kilgour, Corrie Bownick, Andy Wilkens, Kevin Spode, Chris Gallardo-Ganaban, Craig Watson, Chris Wells, Jess Lynn, John “Buzz” Barrigar, Daniela Sosa, and Naida Bertelsen.
To my mom and dad, for always letting me read whatever books I wanted at inappropriate times.
To Pulp Fiction Books, Book Warehouse, 32 Books, Western Sky Books, Munro’s, and all independent book stores everywhere. They are the lifeblood of the book industry and deserve continued support in the same way that they support authors.
To Bill Selnes, Cozy Up With Kathy, Debra Purdy Kong, Mary-Ann Booth, Rosemary Keevil, and the book clubs that were so kind to host me.
My increasingly lovely and always supportive wife, Wendy, is the first to call out my many grammatical and punctuational blunders. Only with her approval does a manuscript go off to the publisher. Her attention to detail is unparalleled, and she never fails to bring out my best, as a writer, and as a man. I am forever lucky to have her at my side.
J.T. Siemens moved to Vancouver to become a personal trainer, but feels fortunate to have discovered his true love: writing crime fiction. After studying screenwriting at Capilano University, he followed it up with creative writing at the University of British Columbia and Simon Fraser University. To Those Who Killed Me, his first book in the Sloane Donovan series, was nominated for the Arthur Ellis Unhanged Award and won the inaugural Mystery and Thriller Book of the Year Award at the 2023 Alberta Book Publishing Awards. He lives in the West End of Vancouver with his wife and two cats.
Also by J.T. Siemens
To Those Who Killed Me
Praise for To Those Who Killed Me
“A scorching debut. Donovan is a sleuth to be reckoned with.”
—SAM WIEBE, award-winning author of the Wakeland novels
“An exhilarating white-knuckled thrill ride that blasts out of the gates and doesn’t let up for a moment. In his debut crime novel, Siemens brilliantly weaves together gripping tension and page-turning twists while showcasing a penchant for depicting the glamour and grit of Vancouver and introducing one of the most complex heroines I’ve ever read. Sloane Donovan is a compelling force not to be missed.”
—A.J. DEVLIN, award-winning author of Cobra
Clutch and Rolling Thunder
J.T. Siemens, Call of the Void
