The Killer Trail (26 page)

“Mary, huh. So the cow's still kicking around.” He turned to look to Chris. “What're you doing here, anyway?”

“Yeah, I guess I'll get right to it.” Chris hesitated. He wasn't sure he'd like the answer to the question. But he needed to know. “Is the name Ray Owens familiar to you?”

He watched for a reaction, some recognition of the name. Nothing. His father simply shrugged. “No. Should it be?”

Chris wished desperately that this meant that Ray had lied, that there was no blood connection between the two of them, but he knew he had to dig deeper.

“The last name ‘Owens' is an adopted name. But he was named Ray or Raymond when he was born.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Maurice said with annoyance..

“He says you're his father.”

“Well then, he must be right. There, mystery solved.”

Chris could feel himself losing patience. “It's a simple question, Maurice.” He couldn't bear to call this excuse for a man “father,” not to his face. “Is Ray Owens your son?”

Maurice paused for a minute, and Chris saw what looked to be a small flicker of recognition in his face. “Yeah, I guess he could be.”

“Look Maurice, I'm not trying to put words in your mouth. I just want to know whether he's your son or not.”

Maurice scowled. “What's it to you, anyway?”

“I'm trying to see if someone is messing with me or telling the truth.”

“Oh, I get it. This is connected to your little adventure in that park, isn't it?”

Chris clenched his hand into a fist. “So you're not really sure whether you had another child, other than me?”

“I didn't say that.” Maurice took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and took a drag. “Yeah. I had a boy before you. A little runt, as I recall. They named him Ray. I sure as hell didn't name him that. His mother disappeared, and I wasn't prepared to take him, so Social Services took him. That's all I know.”

It's true. Ray is my half-brother.
Chris felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. He struggled to breathe. Oblivious to Chris' discomfort, Maurice placed his cigarette on a makeshift ashtray overflowing with butts, reached down the side of his chair, and pulled up a bottle of Captain Morgan
.
He poured a generous amount into a glass sitting on the table next to him. He reached for his no-name cola and, seeing that the bottle was empty, looked to Chris.

“Do me a favour, will you? Grab some pop for me. There should be one in the kitchen.”

Some things never change.
Chris picked his way through the mess to the kitchen. Food-encrusted dishes littered one counter, while several grocery bags were strewn along another. He searched through the bags before finding a bottle of cola. He made his way back to the living room and slammed the bottle down on the table next to his father. Maurice splashed some cola into his glass of rum.

“Are you working these days?” Chris asked, sure he already knew the answer. Maurice had always had a spotty work history with only brief stints at the local sawmill.

“What? No, no. I'm on disability for my back. It needs rehab.” Maurice turned back toward the television.

Liquid therapy, most likely
. “Well, I'll be on my way.” It was obvious his father wasn't interested in talking any further, and neither was he.

“Suit yourself.” Maurice took a swig from his glass, indifferent to Chris' presence.
The story of my life.

“I'll let myself out. Don't worry about me.” He was almost through the front door when he felt a massive rage building in him. He couldn't leave yet. Storming back into the house, he planted himself in front of the television set, ensuring he had Maurice's attention. “You don't give a damn about anything, do you?” Chris could feel his anger rising, but he knew he was desperately close to breaking the one cardinal rule his father had instilled in him as a child—never cry in front of another person. He fought to hold back the tears, but it was a losing battle. And now he was furious with himself too, for exposing his vulnerability in front of his father.

Maurice sat silent and motionless.

“Goddamn you, Maurice, you're the reason I feel ashamed to cry, the reason I'm emotionally fucked up. You told me I was weak to cry. That's the one thing from you that's lasted with me all my
fucking
life.”

Maurice listened impassively to his son's tirade. Chris took a deep breath and said in a calmer voice, “You really don't feel anything do you? You're a ghost. That's all you've ever been to me.” Angrily wiping away his tears, he looked his father in the eye and said with disgust, “You don't have anything at all to say, do you?”

Maurice took a long drag on his cigarette and, without looking at Chris, said, “Cry me a river.”

Chris clenched his fists, wanting to pound the shit out of his father. He stopped himself at the last instant. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “The next time I see you will be at your funeral
.
And I promise you, I won't shed a tear. You'd be proud.” He slammed the door behind him.

Not looking forward to the monotonous drive home, Chris thought about booking a room at a local motel, but decided against it. He had an even greater desire to get as far away as possible from Maurice. The filthy state of his father's house had repulsed him, but he was more sickened at the sight of his father's baneful existence. For too many years, he had turned a blind eye to who and what his father was. He'd always given Maurice the benefit of the doubt and had even made excuses for him. Today, however, he saw the man for who he really was. And it disgusted him.

What he found even more profoundly disturbing was sharing DNA with Maurice. And Ray. Two men he despised. This sickening revelation changed the way Chris even looked at himself. His biggest fear had always been that he was not that different from his father.
I even drink the same brand of
rum. But I'll never, ever treat Ann Marie the way he treated
me.

Chris' thoughts turned to Ray, his half-brother.
The same
blood runs in me.
He shuddered. He wondered if the rage he felt inside him might make him capable of the same horrific acts as Ray.

I am not my past.
But the doubts lingered.
Am I really that
different from Maurice? From Ray?

FORTY-THREE

Wednesday, February 22, 3:54 p.m.
Ray sat in his cell, fully alert. It had only been a few hours since he'd been discharged from IFP and admitted to the Pre-Trial Correctional Centre to await his court date, but his instincts told him that something big was about to go down. He saw it in the way the other inmates looked at him and went out of their way to keep a safe distance. He'd seen this reaction when he'd been incarcerated before. It signaled that someone was about to be shanked. And he sensed that someone was him.

He was not being targeted because of the crimes he'd committed; guys in this shithole were charged with way more heinous crimes. Nor was he marked because his case had been in the media. He recognized an inmate he'd read about just recently—a gangbanger who'd killed a six-year-old girl during a botched drive-by shooting. No, Ray figured there was a price on his head for an altogether different reason. He was certain C.L. was behind it.

Ray didn't know who C.L. was, and he'd never given a second thought as to why his marks needed to be killed. Now that he was almost certainly on the receiving end of a hit, he had to admit he'd underestimated C.L. He would definitely make a point of researching his bosses in the future. Right now, however, he had to deal with the present danger.

He didn't know when the attack would occur, but he planned to be ready for it. He casually walked over to the toilet in his cell, dropped his pants and sat down as if to take a shit. He was careful, though, as this “shit” involved extracting a foreign object from his rectum. When he was through, he was the proud owner of a sharpened half-toothbrush he had secretly removed from IFP. It would serve nicely as a makeshift weapon. Sitting back down on his bed, he smiled broadly, trying to anticipate his unknown opponent's next move. He liked this game.

The attack went down as the inmates were gathering for supper. Ray didn't recognize his attacker—just the telltale parting of the crowd making way for a lone assailant who rushed him with something concealed in his left hand. Ray deftly shifted his position, averting a stab wound, and as the two men clashed, Ray thrust his weapon deep into his foe's neck, snarling, “Better luck next time, asshole.” He had wanted to target the eyes but would settle for a neck wound any day. His would-be attacker writhed in pain on the cold prison floor, helplessly clutching at his neck as blood pooled on the floor. Alarms sounded, additional guards rushed in, and the cellblock was locked down. Ray was thrown into segregation, but he didn't care. C.L. had tried to send him a message, and Ray had sent a message of his own.
Nobody
fucks with me.

FORTY-FOUR

Wednesday, February 22, 3:54 p.m.
Driving back home, Chris mulled over what he'd discovered about Maurice and Ray. Ray had gleaned
his
information about their family history from the Social Services records collected by his probation officer. Now he too needed to see those records to learn as much as he could about his connection to Ray. Getting access to the files, however, would not be easy. Not only would Chris be breaching ethical and professional standards, but there could also be legal consequences if he was caught. Nevertheless, he felt he had no choice in the matter. Every fibre of his being told him that Ray was determined to go after not only him but also those close to him. Chris was equally determined to prevent that from happening.

He thought briefly of asking Gerald to request Ray's records, but no, he didn't want to involve his friend in his clandestine ploy. Next he considered his contacts at the Ministry of Child and Family Development and at the Adult Community Corrections Branch. Yes. It would probably be easier to get the files from a probation officer at the corrections office.

Pulling over to the side of the road, he dialed a familiar number. Mason Jean, a probation officer who had worked with Chris on many cases over the years, answered the call. “Hey, Chris, I keep reading about you in the
Sun.
Talk about work hitting close to home. How the hell are you?”

“Oh, I'm fine. Never a dull moment around me, you know.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“Well, you probably know that Ray Owens has been at IFP for assessment, right?”

“He's been hard to miss. It's like the two of you are competing for airtime.”

Chris ignored the wisecrack. “I understand he's had some past involvement with your office. It would be great if you could send me what you've got—pre-sentence reports
,
probation orders, even records from MCFD that you have on file. That would help us out a lot.”

There was a moment of silence as Mason checked his computer to locate Ray in his system before responding. “Sorry, man, his file is closed with us right now. It looks like Mildred worked with Owens last. I can let her know you called and have her get back to you.”

“Actually, Mason, I was hoping you could help me. If I talk with Mildred, she'll ask me for a signed consent from Owens, and we both know he'll never give us that. We're seriously under the gun to finish our assessment in time for his court date. Are you sure you couldn't help me out?”

“Gosh, Chris, you're putting me in a bit of a bind here.”

“I know, and I'm sorry.” Chris felt a pang of guilt at what he was asking Mason to do, but pressed him anyway. “But it works both ways. I've helped you out in the past. And in the end, it's about getting the job done, right?”

Mason paused. “Let me take a look at what we've got and I'll get back to you. I'll fax you a copy of whatever I find.”

“You know what? I can make it easier for you. I'm going to be in your area in about an hour. How about I meet you at your office?”

“Wow, you must really want this information bad. Sure, I'll be here.”

“Thanks. And Mason, I owe you one.” Chris hung up his cell phone and pulled his truck back on to the highway.
I can't
get rid of you, Ray; but you sure as hell won't get rid of me
either.