The Killer Trail

OTHER NEWEST MYSTERIES

BASER ELEMENTS by Murray Malcolm

BEYOND SPITE by R.F. Darion

BODY TRAFFIC by A. Domokos & R. Toews

BUSINESS AS USUAL by Michael Boughn

THE CARDINAL DIVIDE by Stephen Legault

THE DARKENING ARCHIPELAGO by Stephen Legault

A DEADLY LITTLE LIST by K. Stewart & C. Bullock

GUILTY ADDICTIONS by Garrett Wilson

A MAGPIE'S SMILE by Eugene Meese

MURDER IN THE CHILCOTIN by Roy Innes

MURDER IN THE MONASHEES by Roy Innes

NINE DEAD DOGS by Murray Malcolm

PLANE DEATH by Anne Dooley

REUNIONS ARE DEADLY by D.M. Wyman

UNDERCURRENT by Anne Metikosh

WEST END MURDERS by Roy Innes

and Garry Ryan's

DETECTIVE LANE MYSTERIES

QUEEN'S PARK

THE LUCKY ELEPHANT RESTAURANT

A HUMMINGBIRD DANCE

SMOKED

MALABARISTA

FOXED

THE

KILLER

TRAIL

D.B.CAREW

COPYRIGHT © D.B. CAREW 2014

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Carew, Derrick, 1969-
                    The Killer Trail / Derrick Carew

Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-927063-52-1 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927063-53-8 (epub).-- ISBN 978-1-927063-57-6 (mobi)

                    1. Title.

PS8605.A737K55 2014       C813'.6        C2013-906955-0
                                                                    C2013-906956-9

Editor For the Board: Don Kerr
Cover & Interior Design: Greg Vickers
Author Photo: Tanya Carew

NeWest Press acknowledges the financial support of the Alberta Multimedia Development Fund and the Edmonton Arts Council for our publishing program. We further acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $24.3 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.

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No bison were harmed in the making of this book.

We are committed to protecting the environment and to the responsible use of natural resources. This book was printed on 100% post-consumer recycled paper.

1 2 3 4 5 15 14 | Printed and bound in Canada

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ONE

Tuesday, February 7, 4:13 p.m.
He approached James Carrier's body, not so much to ensure he was dead—the gaping hole in the chest pretty much confirmed that—but because Ray Owens always liked to inspect his handiwork. He had done his job, and he had done it well. He'd studied his target—knew where he lived and worked, what church he attended, even where he bought his cigarettes. Most importantly, he knew James Carrier walked this trail every Tuesday. Ray had waited patiently for the right time, the right shot. Now he congratulated himself on a job well done.

The only blemish on this otherwise perfect job, he thought, was the
fucking
crows. They cawed in annoying unison, as if to give away his cover. For a moment, he considered using his Remington M24 to shred a few feathers.
Nothing ever stops
me from enjoying my kill,
he scowled. But he lowered his rifle, not wanting to waste bullets on a few pathetic birds. Besides, he knew he wouldn't stop at one; he'd kill them all.

Ray emerged from his cover in the bushes, slapping snow from his clothes as though swatting away flies. He deftly disassembled the rifle, stowing it away in its case, where it would remain in preparation for the next job. He reached into his tattered trenchcoat and pulled out his cell phone to call his client.

“It's done.” No response; he didn't expect one. He dropped the phone into his pocket and grabbed a cigarette. He didn't know much about his client, and this suited him just fine. All he needed to know was who, when, where, and how he was getting paid.

Nor did he care about the
why
when it came to his targets. He remembered his foster mother always asking those stupid
why
questions: Why, at age ten, had he severed her cherished lovebird's head? Why, at twelve, had he punctured his foster sister's eye with a pellet gun? Why, at fifteen, had he set his principal's car ablaze? His answer was always “Why not?”

Ray didn't waste his time trying to understand his actions. All he knew was that a kill gave him a rush unlike anything else he had ever experienced. Even sex was no match for the euphoria that came from inflicting pain and sorrow on others. He left the whys for others to worry about: the school counselor who had told Ray's foster mother that he had difficulty forming attachments and didn't interact well with others; the child psychologist who had diagnosed Ray with conduct disorder; the head shrink at the Institute of Forensic Psychiatry who had diagnosed him three years ago with antisocial personality disorder. None of it meant squat to Ray. The only thing that mattered was that he'd been able to carve out a nice little niche for himself:
Have gun, will kill.

Leaning down, cigarette dangling from his thin lips, he brushed his greasy, thinning hair away from his forehead and drawled, “Are those crows bugging the shit out of you too, J.C.?”

Ray grabbed his rifle—his constant companion—and began his retreat from the trail. During the hours he'd spent waiting for his target, snow had accumulated around his scraggy body. Now, a sudden snow squall ripped through the woods, ravaging branches like so much dead wood. He wasn't sure where his next job would take him, and for now, he really didn't care. He just wanted to leave this godforsaken place for a warmer, drier spot, where he would wait for his next call.

TWO

Tuesday, February 7, 4:43 p.m.
On a scale of one to ten, Chris Ryder figured this run would rate a dismal three. He had long ago taken to rating his runs: ones were horrid and tens life-altering. He lived to run, but on this cold and blustery day, it hurt to breathe, and each step he took trapped him under inches of unforgiving snow. Today's run would certainly reach no higher than a three.

Well, Ryder, you've got yourself into a fine mess now.
He knew that it was stubborn routine that had taken him to this trail. It was Tuesday, and Tuesdays were running days. So run he would, come hell or high water—or, in this case, a wintry hell.

Woodland Park, outside Vancouver in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia, was an area Chris usually loved for its natural beauty. On most days, he also loved the thrill of the unexpected. He'd seen deer, coyote, and the occasional black bear. On most days, the terrain's steep inclines and winding switchbacks provided a decent challenge for his athletic thirty-eight-year-old body. On most days, he cherished the adrenaline rush and the clarity of thought that came from running on these trails. This was not one of those days.

This was one of those days Chris wished he'd charged his iPod. The sounds of shrieking guitars and pounding drums would have been a welcome distraction.

It occurred to him that running and music remained the only constants in a life that had become foreign to him. The past six months had been memorable, despite his desperate efforts to forget. “
Chris, I think it would be best if Ann Marie
and I moved out for a while.”
The words of his wife, Deanna, played over and over in his head, no matter how hard he tried to erase them. He had trouble grasping this new reality where he was reduced to being a visitor on Tuesdays and Saturdays with the two most important people in his life.