The Killer Trail (25 page)

“Take a guess at the name of my father, Ryder.”

No! Please, God, no! This can't be happening!
Chris was gripped by panic.

“Maurice Fucking Ryder.”

No! It can't be!
Chris tried to run through alternate explanations to counter what Ray was saying.
Please, God,
don't let this be true!

Ray's voice intruded. “It's like we were meant to find each other, Ryder. What do they call that? Fate?” He cackled. “I call it a fucking gift, and I'm gonna have fun with it. We'll talk soon. We have unfinished business...
brother.”

The line went dead.

In shock, Chris remained standing in the middle of his living room.
It can't be true. Ray could easily have uncovered
information about my father.
But he knew there was only one person who could set the story straight—his father Maurice. He'd have to see him. Tomorrow, he decided with trepidation.
I will survive this.

FORTY-TWO

Tuesday, February 21, 8:58 a.m.
Even after a few drinks, Chris slept fitfully through the night. His mind kept replaying the conversation with Ray, always returning to his pending visit with his father. Several times during the night, he considered aborting his plan to visit Maurice, but he knew deep down that he couldn't, that he had to know the truth about Ray.

Night gave way to a beautiful sunny morning and Chris woke to the joyful sound of birds chirping outside his apartment building. He lumbered out of bed and prepared for the drive ahead of him. His stomach still in knots, he skipped breakfast, figuring he'd grab a coffee once he hit the road.

The bright point of Chris' day would be visiting his Aunt Mary, whom he'd called the night before. She had heard about him in the news and was relieved to talk with him and know first-hand that he was okay. It had been several months since he'd spoken with her, and he felt guilty that he did so little to maintain contact. Mary confirmed to the best of her knowledge that Chris' father was still living in the same dilapidated house. She made Chris promise that he would drop in to see her before he went to visit Maurice.

Mary had become Chris' surrogate mother after her sister Fiona's death. She had always wanted children of her own, but life hadn't been kind to her in that regard. Never one to feel sorry for herself or to turn her back on someone in need, she moved to be near Chris after his mother's murder. She knew enough about Maurice's drinking to realize that she couldn't leave her nephew in his hands, so she raised Chris in her own home. She did everything within her power to nurture a bond between father and son. She invited Maurice to special occasions including birthdays and Christmas, and she sent regular updates on his progress in school. Her efforts were in vain; Maurice remained apathetic towards his son's existence and indifferent to the assistance Mary provided.

When she felt he was old enough, Mary told Chris about his mother—what a wonderful human being she had been and how she had lived her life helping other people. Mary had tried to spare him the details of the tragic way his mother had died at the hands of a cold-blooded killer, but the boy became obsessed with reading newspaper clippings about the hostage incident at the hospital where Fiona had worked, which had ended in her death.

Mary never talked disparagingly about Maurice, despite having ample opportunity to do so. As he grew into his teens, Chris tried to connect with his father, yearning for a bond. But his efforts, too, were in vain.

As an adult, Chris' only family connection was his aunt. He felt a combination of nostalgia and sadness as he pulled up to her street and into her driveway.

Mary greeted Chris with a big hug, then grabbed his hand and pulled him into her living room. He'd always considered her to be a strong woman in body and mind and was relieved to see that while her body looked fragile now, her fiery spirit remained intact.

As soon as they were seated, she began to cry. “Oh, Chris, it's so good to see you in one piece. I was so worried when I read about you.”

“It's good to see you too, Auntie. You're looking as young as ever.”

She laughed and wiped her eyes. “Silly boy, I don't feel young these days.” Then she smiled. “And look at you. You're no longer a boy. But enough about our age, let me get you something to eat.”

“No, no, Auntie, I'm fine.” But even as he spoke, his aunt was up and walking towards the kitchen. She returned with a plate of homemade cookies and pastries.

“These look great,” he mumbled. “Just like the old days. Thank you, Auntie.”

“I baked the brownies this morning. I remember they were your favourite.” Aunt Mary had always taken pride in her role as hostess. Chris wondered how many visitors she entertained these days. Probably not many—which left him feeling sad for her and angry with himself.

“Auntie, I'm sorry it's taken me this long to see you. I know Ann Marie would love to see you too.”

“Well, you're here now, and that means the world to me. Of course, that lovely daughter of yours is always welcome here.”

“I know, and I promise we'll both be in to visit you soon.” He took a bite of a brownie. “Wow. They taste just the way I remember. Maybe even better. Can I take a few for the road?”

“Of course you can, dear boy.” But her cheery mood turned somber as she remembered the reason for her nephew's visit. “So you're here to see
him?”
It was obviously a rhetorical question, but Chris nodded anyway. “Just don't expect much from that man. He'll only disappoint.”

“It's okay. I'm not expecting much. I just have a few questions to ask him and then I'm on my way.” He smiled. “You, Auntie, are the social part of my visit.”

His aunt frowned. “What kind of questions would make you drive all the way out here to see a man who's never had the time for you?”

He didn't want to burden her with what Ray had said, but he also knew he couldn't lie to her. He sighed deeply. “I need to know whether I have any brothers or sisters.”

He watched her face turn pale. “You're the only child your mother had.”

“I know, Auntie.” He paused for an instant. “But I need to know whether my father had any other children... with... well, with anyone else.”

Mary sat back in her chair. Chris wasn't sure if she was confused or upset, but either way he felt bad for putting her in this position. Finally, she said, in a voice so soft that he had to lean forward to hear her, “That man has a history that you are far better off not knowing. Do you hear me?”

“It's okay. I'm not looking to know every little thing about him—just one detail.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“It'll help me with something I'm working on. It's not dangerous or anything like that.” He mentally crossed his fingers at his lie. Anything related to Ray was inherently dangerous.

Mary took a long, hard look at him as if trying to read his mind. A tear ran down her cheek, followed by another. “Your mother would have been so proud of you.” She wiped her face
.
“She only wanted the best for you, Chris, and I made a promise that I would do everything I could to help when she was... when she was taken from us.” She paused and took a deep breath. “If you ever want to talk about your mother, Chris, I'm here for you.”

For years, Chris had taken pains to block out memories of his mother. Yet he knew he would have to revisit that part of his life to prepare himself for battle against Ray.

“Auntie, you're responsible for any good that's in me, and I appreciate all the support you've given.” He took a breath and looked away from his aunt to keep from breaking down.

She smiled faintly at the compliment even as tears continued to stream down her face. “There were times when it was touch and go, when I thought I was going to lose you. You suffered such terrible nightmares. You wouldn't talk about them. All you'd say was that it was about the bogeyman.”

Chris didn't have the heart to tell her that the bogeyman did in fact exist.

“You'd retreat to some dark place in your mind. I couldn't follow you there. I'm so sorry, Chris, so sorry. I could feel you were troubled, but I couldn't do anything. You wouldn't talk to the child therapist.” Wiping her tears away, she paused for a moment. Finally, she said somberly, “Please, Chris, I beg you, stay away from those places. You have to fight the darkness.”

As he left his aunt's house, Chris braced himself for his visit with his father. As far as Mary knew, Maurice still lived alone. Chris hadn't seen him in nearly two years, and the last visit hadn't gone well: it had finally forced him to realize that his father had never cared for him and, despite Chris' efforts, never would. But now Chris was no longer reaching out to his father. He needed information from him, plain and simple, and once he had it, he'd eliminate the man from his life once and for all.

He was driving to his father's house when his cell phone buzzed. Stephanie. He desperately wanted—
needed
—to hear her voice, but he didn't want to burden her with his problems. He also knew she would try to talk sense into him to turn away from this newest confrontation. He ignored the call.

Chris knocked tentatively on his father's door, then more forcefully, then repeatedly. No response. The house was even more run-down than the last time. He suspected he could barge through the rotting doorframe with little effort and was contemplating whether this would be necessary when the door creaked open and Maurice stood before him.

The passing of time had not been kind to Maurice. His face was gaunt and covered with several days' worth of scraggly stubble. His sparse grey hair hung in lank, greasy strands. Disheveled, dirty clothes drooped loosely on his scrawny frame, and he reeked of alcohol.

He gave Chris a tired look. “Well, if it ain't the hero. You've come a long way here, boy, when a call could have done the same.”

Nice to see you too.
Chris contemplated how he was going to broach the subject of Ray
.
“Would you have answered the phone?”

His father gave a sly smile, exposing dirty yellow teeth. “Probably not.”

“Can I come in?”

“Suit yourself.” Maurice turned and shambled back into the living room. Chris followed. The interior of the house was much the same as he remembered from two years before. The living room stank of body odour and stale smoke. Papers and empty bottles littered a threadbare carpet of indeterminate colour. A small television showing the movie
Die Hard
blared in the centre of the room. Maurice retreated to his tattered recliner and, ignoring Chris, stared at the screen.
Yeah, just
like old times
.

Chris looked around the dim room for a chair that wasn't covered in debris and didn't appear too rickety. Finally finding one that he figured might hold his weight, he moved it next to his father. “You're right, I could have called. I did call Aunt Mary to make sure you were still here.”