Giles Blunt: Crime Machine

The Chinook parking lot was busy for a Thursday night. People outside, huddled over their cigarettes. A guy was poised to pull out on his Harley, but there was no way she was going to let him. She blasted by and totally ignored the stop sign at the intersection. He yelled something-hurling his outrage into the night.

Then the smooth road and the lights of town in the distance. She patted her pockets again for her cell. Definitely gone. She must have lost it when she jumped. Moonlight on the flat white surface of Trout Lake, the road itself in the deep shadows of trees and hills. The speed limit was 80 kilometres, but she pegged it at 120. You couldn’t go faster on these curves. It was a perfect speed trap, of course. The cops often staked it out, hoping to lasso the drunks weaving back to town from the Chinook.

The steering wheel was sticky with blood. Her knee was hurting, and not in a way that was going to fade any time soon. The blood had soaked down nearly to the cuff of her jeans. That was probably going to need stitches. You are in trouble ten different ways, she said, and if you’ve got some plan for getting out of it, I’d really like to hear it right now-preferably before Mr. Murder decides to come after me.

When she got home, Sam parked the car in the garage and inspected the damage to the rear end. The left signal light was shattered and there was a bullet hole in the trunk. Three inches higher and her brain would have been all over the windshield.

She went into the house and removed her coat and boots in the dark. Her mother always slept with her bedroom door open. Sam had to be silent moving down the hall and into the bathroom. The right leg of her jeans was stiff with blood below the tear in the knee. She opened the cabinet above the sink and found a bottle of Tylenol with codeine left over from a tooth extraction. She shook two into her palm and swallowed them, scooping water from the faucet to wash them down.

Her left hand was cut, a two-inch gash at the base of her palm. It wasn’t bleeding too badly now. She got some gauze and tape and an old face cloth from the closet by the toilet, then had to go back for the rubbing alcohol. Tremors shook her thighs as she got into the tub. She peeled her jeans down halfway and sat on the edge of the tub to extract her left leg.

She took a few deep breaths and held the last one and rolled her jeans off the cut in her knee. Tears sprang to her eyes and she started to sob but managed to keep it quiet. She pulled her jeans off the rest of the way and rolled them up. Blood welled from her knee. She ran water over it and watched the red and pink swirl into the drain. She washed her cuts with soap and water and dried them with the old face cloth. The alcohol was cold and it stung, but it felt clean.

The cut in her knee needed stitches, but there was nothing she could do about that. A trip to the emergency room would require an explanation, and she might run into someone who had been shot or had done the shooting. She dried her feet and went back to the linen closet and dug around and found an ancient box of Kotex that her mother had got a couple of years ago for some medical reason she hadn’t cared to discuss with her children. Sam taped one tight to her knee.

It took some effort to clean up the mess and she kept expecting her mother to tap on the door the whole time, but she didn’t. Sam turned off the bathroom light and limped past her brother’s bedroom door into her own room and shut the door. She hid her rolled-up jeans and the box of Kotex under the bed. She switched on her bedside lamp and sat on the edge of the bed with her left leg stretched out straight. Pootkin was curled up on the end of the bed. She raised her black head and blinked and went back to sleep.

The top of the bandage was already showing red. Every time Sam bent her knee, that cut was going to open.

The tremors had subsided, the codeine beginning to work a little. It’s going to take a roomful of scientists, she thought, to calculate exactly how much trouble I’m in. If Mr. Gun saw the licence plate on my car, it’s probably game over. But it was dark, he was far back and he was trying to shoot me, so maybe he didn’t catch it. Presumably, when you’re shooting people, you have other things on your mind than licence plates.

And you don’t know, she told herself, you don’t know for a certainty anyway, that the man shot anybody at all. Uh-huh-then why was he trying to annihilate you?

Sam’s bedroom was tiny. She could reach her desk from the bed. She got her laptop and opened it and checked a couple of news sites, ABdaily. com and algonquinlode. com. Of course, it was too soon. They had stories about the fur auction and the winter carnival and nothing about any shootings.

She looked at her alarm clock. Call him now, she thought, wake his wife, catch him off guard, and you can kiss him goodbye. The earliest she could call would be after eight in the morning. He said his wife was at her office from eight until six every day. Randall didn’t have to be in until ten.

Lights from a passing car swept over her bedroom wall and she held her breath until they passed. She switched out the light and moved the cat over so she could lie down. Her knee throbbed. When she closed her eyes, she was right back at the Trout Lake house, crashing to the snowy ground, running through the woods. What are the chances of him finding that phone? He’s running through the dark with a gun, is he really going to notice it-probably buried in the snow? She opened her laptop again and lay on her side, checking the Web for articles on what to do if you lose your phone. There were some phones you could sync up to your computer so you could wipe out the information the moment a thief tried to access the Web with it. Not a feature that came with Sam’s. She had never even set up the password. Calm down, Sam, she said, he didn’t find it. Which means the police probably will.

The codeine was really taking hold now. She was thinking of what to say to the police and couldn’t seem to keep it straight in her mind.

–

Sam woke up in the morning with her laptop on the bed beside her. Her alarm clock said 8:30. Her mother and brother would have just left. She called Randall on their house phone. He did not sound happy that it was her, but she ignored that and spilled out the whole story.

“Randall, I’ve never been this scared in my life. I never knew what terrified meant until now. I really thought I was going to be dead, and I’m pretty sure there’s going to be dead people in that house.”

“You didn’t see him actually shoot anybody, though.”

“No, but he came after me, and he tried to kill me, and why would he do that unless he’d just killed them?”

“I’m just saying it’s not like you can report a murder. All you could say was that you heard shots.”

“And that some bastard tried to kill me. There are bullet holes in my car.”

“And you said he was talking real estate? He was trying to sell them on the house?”

“He was showing them the bathroom and talking about the view.”

“That makes no sense at all. I’m the only agent on that property.”

“I wanted to call the cops soon as I got home, but I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Hold on, Sam-you can’t be telling the police I was out there. Do you realize what that would do to me? How am I going to explain to Larry what I was doing on that property with an Indian girl in the middle of the night?” Larry was Lawrence Carnwright, owner operator of Carnwright Real Estate.

“Indian girl?”

“First Nations. Stay out of it, Sam. You’re talking about the destruction of my career and my marriage.”

“I can’t just not report it. What if there’s someone wounded out there? Someone slowly bleeding to death? What kind of person would that make me?”