Blood Lies (13 page)

He nodded. “And if I figure that out, how will I reach you?”

“I’ll call you,” I said. “But Kyle, remember your warning to me. Be careful with Maglio.”

“I will.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of multicolored bills, green, pink, and brown. He passed me the stack of Canadian money. “You’ll need some of this for your new home.”

I didn’t try to play coy. “Thanks.” I took the cash from his hand and stuffed it into my wallet. “Kyle, I wanted to apologize to you.”

He tilted his head, confused. “What for?”

“When you were diagnosed…” I cleared my throat. “And you asked me to get my blood tested to see if I was a potential donor. I shouldn’t have waited. I should have come back straight away from that course I was taking in Boston.”

He waved away the suggestion. “You were busy learning how to save more lives. Besides, it would’ve made no difference. We found a better match. Five out of six alleles.”

I knew that bone marrow donors were selected based on the compatibility of six alleles—or gene pairs—in the blood; four or better was enough to try the donor marrow in a transplant. “Still, I should’ve gone in for the testing sooner.”

Kyle sighed. “One benefit of my whole Bible-thumping shtick is that I’ve learned to let go of blame. For others and myself. It’s a toxic wasted emotion.” He smiled reassuringly at me. “Come on, Dr. Horvath, let’s go to Canada.”

Kyle reached under his dashboard and dug out a flashlight before climbing out of the car. I threw the knapsack over my shoulders and followed him to the padlocked gate in front of the house. He dug in his pocket and brought out a key chain. He chose one of the smaller keys, inserted it into the padlock, and twisted. The lock popped open with a loud click. “Let’s hope nobody’s home,” he said with a half-smile.

We hurried up the pathway to the farmhouse, weaving through a garden of overgrown vegetation. As I followed Kyle past one small tree, a branch snapped back and scratched my cheek. I suspected the denseness of the shrubberies had nothing to do with neglect and everything to do with camouflage.

We reached the house’s steel door. Kyle chose a different key, turned the lock, and opened the door. A high-pitched buzz greeted us. Kyle walked calmly across the stained linoleum floor to the alarm control panel. He typed in a five-digit number. The buzz held steady. He typed it again. No change.

Kyle turned to me, his face shrouded with concern. “They’ve changed the code.”

I swallowed. “Who?”

“No time,” he barked. “Come on.”

Kyle sprinted down a short hallway that smelled of mothballs. He yanked open a flimsy-looking door and raced down the concrete steps, flicking on his flashlight in the sudden darkness of the unfinished basement. As soon as we reached the cement floor, the house’s alarm erupted like a foghorn. “The cops will come,” I shouted at Kyle over the throbbing noise.

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “It’s not the cops we have to worry about.”

Before I could ask whom I had to fear more than the cops, he turned and scurried down the corridor. Rushing after, I almost ran into him when he stopped abruptly in front of an old refrigerator against the wall. “Now what?” I shouted.

He moved to the left side of the fridge, stretched out both arms, and began pushing the fridge to the right. “Help me!”

Frantic, I leaped beside him and shoved my shoulder into the cool metal. The fridge scraped against the floor as it reluctantly wobbled a few feet to the right. Behind the spot where it had stood, a five-by-three-foot passageway appeared. With the flashlight’s beam held in front of him, Kyle ducked down and angled his shoulders into the hole. I followed after.

The tunnel opened up a little wider and taller, but I still had to crouch to avoid hitting the wooden beams overhead. I fought to stave off inklings of claustrophobia in the dank, confined space that smelled of mold. A few steps deeper into the tunnel, and the jerky beam of Kyle’s flashlight barely lit the way ahead.

He ran the beam along the wall until it found a switch. He reached out, flicked the switch, and suddenly the tunnel was illuminated by a chain of overhead bulbs. Suddenly able to see ahead of me, I now appreciated the extent of the channel. Bolstered by a series of wooden supports and rebar, the tunnel ran as far as I could see, the length of at least two football fields.

Abruptly, the alarm went dead. Kyle froze. He glanced at me with an expression that was anything but relieved. Above us, we heard creaking noises. Kyle pointed upward. “They’re here,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”

Head tucked forward, Kyle sprinted along the uneven surface leading deeper into the earth. I raced along, clipping my shoulder against the occasional beam. After running about fifty yards, Kyle’s pace petered to a trot. By a hundred yards, he had stopped altogether. He was panting and wheezing loudly.

“You okay?” I asked.

He turned back to me and nodded. “You go ahead…,” he gasped. “I can’t…I need to catch my breath…I’m gonna go back.”

I pointed behind me. “What about them?”

“I know them,” he huffed. “It will be okay.”

“You sure?”

Kyle began to reply but a harsh wet cough stopped him. When the spasm of coughs finally broke, he spat up a large wad of mucus. The chain of drool on his lip was bloody. He wiped it away with a hand. “I can talk my way out of this.” He panted rapidly and then cleared his throat. “The tunnel will take you to a farm outside of Aldergrove on the other side of the border. From there you can catch a bus into Vancouver.”

“What if they’re waiting at the other end?” I asked.

As Kyle was about to answer, we heard an unintelligible shout rumbling down the tunnel behind us. He turned sideways and leaned against the side of the wall to make space for me to pass.

I hesitated.

“Go!” he barked.

“Thanks,” I said as I squeezed past. Automatically, I broke into a run.

“If you see Aaron, say hi for me.” Kyle’s voice echoed behind me.

Without looking back, I sprinted the final hundred feet of the tunnel. I hit the end where a lopsided wood ladder clung to the wall in front of me. My chest thudded from more than exertion as I grasped a rung of the ladder and began to climb. Six feet above me, I saw light leaking through the edge of the wooden plank that covered the exit.

When my palm touched the splintering wood, I hesitated, wondering whether someone on the Washington side of the tunnel had called ahead to arrange for their Canadian colleagues to meet me. Turning back wasn’t an option, so I pushed up against the plank and met no resistance. Sliding the board further out of the way, I heard a hissing noise. I froze.

Even before I noticed the green glass panels, I could tell from the tinted light flooding the hole that I’d emerged inside a greenhouse. Listening intently, I recognized the noise as coming from an automatic watering system. I waited but heard no other sounds.

Tentatively, I stuck my head up and out and glanced around. The greenhouse was crowded with rows of plants and vegetables. Swiveling my head in either direction, I saw no sign of anything except plant life. I scampered out of the opening and slid the plank across the hole, trying to replace it as I’d found it.

Tiptoeing down a row of peppers toward the greenhouse door, I stopped to gain my bearings. The structure was located behind the farmhouse and in front of a row of crops. I saw a tractor parked outside the barn and a new silver pickup in the driveway, but there was still no indication of company.

I tightened the shoulder straps of my knapsack and took a couple of deep breaths. Then I pulled open the door and dashed for the driveway running beside the farmhouse. Though free of the claustrophobic confinement of the tunnel, I felt like an escaping prisoner hit by floodlights as my feet crunched on the dirt of the driveway. Without slowing, I raced by the house and toward the eight-foot fence guarding the house from the street.

Behind me, I heard the storm door whoosh open. “Hey, what the fuck?” an angry voice shouted.

I sprinted for the gate. Skidding to a stop, I yanked at the gate’s handle, but the latch didn’t budge.

“Where do you think you’re going, asshole?” the voice called out, moving closer.

I jumped up, grabbed for the top of the gate, and hoisted myself up, pulling with all my might. I vaulted over the top of the fence and landed awkwardly on the gravel. As soon as I regained my balance, I sprinted out into the open street.

“Wait!” But the voice was already fading behind me.

Running down the street, I heard the pickup truck’s engine fire up. I ran as fast as I could, but I was certain to lose this race in a hurry. I veered across the street, heading for the neighboring farmhouse. Grunting and gasping, I scrambled up the driveway.

The same people who had built the tunnel might have owned this farm as well, but I had no other option. I rushed to the front door and rang the bell. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the silver pickup from next door idling menacingly in the middle of the road. In a baseball cap, a young muscular East Indian man sat behind the wheel of the truck. He glared at me through the open driver’s window.

Bobbing from foot to foot, I rang the bell again. The driver revved his engine.

The door opened. An older man in a denim shirt and jeans stood in front of me with arms crossed over his chest. He could have stepped out of a Norman Rockwell rural scene, except he wasn’t nearly as welcoming as a Rockwell character. “I told you people a thousand times, damn it!” He scowled. “No soliciting.”

“No, no,” I said, searching for a passable lie but coming up empty. I pointed behind me to the truck on the street. “That man is trying to kill me.”

He waved his palm, agitated. “I don’t want none of your troubles!”

The old man began to slam the door in my face, but I wedged my foot into the gap between the door and the jamb. The door crushed the blisters that had formed on my toes inside my poorly fitting shoes, but I ignored the pain shooting up my legs. Though I knew I was getting nowhere with the old man, I pointed dramatically behind me to the man in the pickup.

The gesture had the desired effect. The pickup revved its engine, squealed its tires, and then fired off down the road.

I freed my foot from the door and it slammed shut with enough of a breeze to rustle my hair. “I’m going,” I called to him, hoping the old man wasn’t on the phone to the police.

My right foot throbbing, I hobbled back out to the street and along it as fast as I could. I followed the side street for two blocks until it gave into a busier road. Keeping an eye out for the silver pickup, I met the sporadic but growing traffic with ambivalence. One part of me felt safe amid the protection of potential witnesses, the other part overly exposed.

A rusty red Honda slowed down and rolled to a stop beside me on the road’s shoulder. A bearded young guy with pierced ears and a friendly face rolled down his window. “Hey, buddy, you need a ride?” he called out. “I’m heading into town.”

Unkempt with a battered knapsack, I imagined I must have looked like a down-on-my-luck hitchhiker. I was tempted to climb in the man’s car, but I realized that his was the kind of attention I was desperate not to draw. “Thanks. I’m okay.” I smiled without making eye contact. “I feel like walking.”

“Okay. Happy travels, man.”

As he began to roll up his window, I yelled, “Hey, how far is it into town?”

He pointed ahead of him. “Seven or eight blocks down the road.”

I dropped my head to the ground and waved him away. Miserably, I wondered whether the old farmer or the young driver, if they saw the reports of me on CNN (or its Canadian counterpart), would remember the desperate-looking man who fit the fugitive’s profile.

I trudged on, eventually reaching “downtown” Aldergrove. I almost smiled when I saw the green Starbucks emblem among the fast-food joints and gas stations that dotted the main strip. I headed inside. I dug out the Canadian money Kyle had given me and ordered a coffee from the flighty young clerk whose attempts to engage me in chatter were in vain.

Passing by a woman in the line behind me who held a cycling helmet, I had a longing that bordered on hunger for a punishing bike ride. I found a stool in the back corner and wedged myself at the countertop. Maybe it was coincidence but as I drained the large coffee, the fog began to lift inside my skull.

I picked up copies of two Vancouver dailies,
The Vancouver Sun
and
The Province
. Scanning them from cover to cover, I found no mention of my story. The newfound sense of anonymity allowed me to relax slightly.

I dug inside the knapsack and found a pencil and paper. I scratched a few notes for myself and then stood up and headed to the bathroom in the back of the coffee shop. I hadn’t planned to make contact with Michael Prince yet, but the deserted pay phone in the hallway beckoned. I had two options: I could make the call collect or I could leave an indelible impression with the woman at the counter by asking for twenty dollars’ worth of coins. Reaching for the phone, I opted to the dump the charge on my attorney. I dialed the number from memory, and Prince’s hospitable assistant, Janelle, accepted the charges without hesitation. Fifteen seconds later, I heard Prince’s calm voice. “Benjamin, I have been searching high and low for you.”

“You’re not alone,” I said, keeping a furtive eye out on the coffee shop.

“For the record, fleeing isn’t what I would have counseled,” he said with veteran understatement.

“Duly noted. Have you spoken to Helen Riddell or anyone with the S.P.D.?”

“The S.P.D. is unaware that we have a professional relationship. I can’t think of any helpful reason to inform them yet that we do.”

The wisdom of his logic sunk in. “I imagine they’re looking pretty hard for me.”

“You might say that. How did you cross the border? At Aldergrove?”

I knew my collect call was bound to have tipped him off to my whereabouts, but it still jarred how quickly he was able to pinpoint me with technology as a basic as call display. “Michael, no one can—”

He cut me off. “Of course, they can’t. Our discussions are entirely privileged.”

My grip on the receiver relaxed.

“Ben, why don’t I arrange to meet you somewhere?”

“In Canada?”

“If you prefer,” he said. “I can bring you to the U.S. Consulate, and we can negotiate the terms of your…delivery…to the S.P.D.”

“No, Michael! They’ve got a strong case against me that I just made a hell of a lot stronger. I’m not going back without answers.”

He was silent a moment. “And if you can’t find your brother, or you discover that he really is dead?”

“Then I’ll find another explanation,” I said with an absolute confidence that I didn’t necessarily feel. “Something is going on in Vancouver. The anonymous phone calls. The drug smuggling. NorWesPac’s aborted condo development at Whistler—”

“What about Whistler?” he snapped. He cleared his throat. “You never mentioned anything about a Whistler development before.”

“I only learned about it after we last spoke.”

“Oh,” he said. I could picture him leaning back in his chair, his hands locked behind his silvery mane, patiently waiting for an explanation.

I gave him the rundown on what I knew of the ill-fated NorWesPac development at Whistler and Emily’s involvement. “Hmmm,” he said. “If I was a juror listening to that, I’m not certain I would see any relevance to the question of your guilt.”

“There’s more to it. I’m certain. I just need time to sort it out.”

“All right,” Prince said with slight disappointment in his tone. “Ben, how do I reach you if I need to?”

“I’m going into Vancouver but I don’t even know where I’ll end up.”

“Are you using an alias?”

I hesitated.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s probably for the best that you don’t tell anyone.”

A woman approached the bathroom across from me. I turned inward, cradling the phone more tightly against my ear as if using a seashell to listen to the ocean. “Why can’t I tell anyone?”

“Ben, let’s assume you are being framed. The conspirator would have to know so many intimate details about you to pull it off convincingly.”

I leaned tighter into the wall. “Are you suggesting I shouldn’t trust my friends and family?”

“I’m saying you should be
very
careful whom you trust.”

“Even you?”

“Well, technically, my membership in the state Bar depends on me maintaining a confidential relationship with you.” He sighed. “Hell, Ben. I’m not even sure you should trust me with your whereabouts.”

I wondered if he was joking, but I didn’t have time to ask. Suddenly, a tall man with a professorial demeanor hovered over me, his body language demanding the phone. “Okay, Michael, I’ll be in touch.”

I hung up, brushed past the professor, and headed for the door. Stepping out into the cool fall breeze, I tucked my hands in my pocket and walked toward the bus station that I’d noticed earlier.

Inside, I approached the desk and bought a ticket for the first bus to downtown Vancouver, leaving in forty-five minutes. I asked the disinterested fat man behind the counter for change for the phone, and he reluctantly broke a two-dollar coin into eight quarters. From a vending machine, I bought two chocolate bars I didn’t want in order to get another six quarters in change. After locating the nearest pay phone, I dialed a Seattle number and deposited eight quarters as instructed by the automated operator.

“St. Jude’s Emergency,” Anne barked.

Recognizing the veteran nurse’s voice, I almost hung up, worried that she might pick up on mine as easily as I did hers. Instead, I roughened my voice as if suffering from laryngitis. “It’s Dr. Horvath calling. May I please speak to Dr. Lindquist?”

“Hang on,” Anne said, and the phone clicked.

After thirty seconds, the phone clicked again. “Ben?” Alex whispered.

At the welcome sound of her voice, I relaxed a little. “Yes.”

“Where the hell did you disappear to?” she snapped.

“I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t feel it was safe.” I paused. “For either of us.”

When she spoke again, her tone was more tender. “Are you okay?”

“Kyle helped me. I’m fine.”

“Where are you?”

I hesitated, remembering Prince’s warning, but then I dismissed the thought. “I’m in Canada. I should be in Vancouver soon.”

“Good.”

“Alex, did you find my cell phone?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s traceable with the power on, so make sure you leave it turned off until we need it.”

“When will that be?”

I wavered. “I was hoping tomorrow morning. Would that work for you?”

“No problem. Tacoma, right?”

My feet began to cool. “Alex, maybe you should drop the phone off with Kyle. He would do this for me, too. And the risk—”

“No,” she cut in. “Your plan will work better with a woman.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

An automated operator’s voice broke onto our line to demand more money. I deposited the last of my quarters.

“Ben, Marcus called me earlier.” She sounded apologetic.

“Oh?” I said, confused as to the relevance.

“He was asking a lot of questions about you.” She cleared her throat. “You see, he took Talie to school today…”

Suddenly, I understood. “And Talie told him I was there last night.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

I wanted to hug her. “I had no business showing up without warning last night. Of course Talie would tell her dad! She’s only five.”

“Going on fifteen.”

“Do you think Talie will tell anyone else?”

“She hasn’t heard the news reports. She doesn’t know that the police are looking for you. But I’ll have another talk with her.”

A dark thought dawned on me. “What about Marcus?”

“I don’t know.” She paused. “He was very interested. Asking a lot of questions.”

“Questions?”

“Like what shape you were in, where you were going, did you kill Emily, and so on,” she sighed. “I told him you were innocent and the rest was none of his business, but I don’t know if he was satisfied.”