Cold Comfort (24 page)

Matchett, as it turned out, hadn’t left a decoy number on the handset. “Canadian Airlines,” a pleasant female voice said.

“Yes, when is your next flight to Freeport, the Bahamas?” asked Gilbert.

“We have two seats left on our six o’clock flight,” said the woman, “and five on our eleven-thirty flight.”

“Do you have the name Matchett on the flight manifest for the six o’clock flight?” asked Gilbert.

“One moment, sir,” said the woman. Gilbert heard the faint clicking of computer keys. “Yes, sir. A Mr. Matchett is on that flight. Is there a message for him, sir?”

Gilbert looked at his watch. Just past four. An hour out to the airport, an hour-and-a-half in rush hour. They might be able to shave time if they put the light on the roof.

“No,” said Gilbert. “No message.”

The three detectives got in Gilbert’s unmarked car.

They sped north on Parliament Street and veered right at Bloor Street past the St. James Cemetery, over the Prince Edward Viaduct. They continued east over the Bloor-Danforth Viaduct and spiraled down the steep on-ramp to the Don Valley Parkway. They headed north through the Valley, unable to move much faster than the marked speed limit of 90 kph through the thickening rush-hour traffic. At the single lane westbound feeder to the 401, traffic bottle-necked and they had to slow right down. But once they got onto the 401, with its six lanes of westbound traffic, Gilbert slalomed through the slower moving cars and deftly maneuvered into the express lanes. It was just past five when they passed the Allen Expressway.

“They’ll probably board a half hour in advance,” said Gilbert. “If we have to, we’ll take him in the plane.”

They roared under the Allen Expressway cloverleaf, where the 401 snaked around overpass pillars, the tires squealing as they took the banked curves in excess of 140 kph. Then traffic thickened again, and Gilbert was forced to ease up on the accelerator as the collector lanes ended and the highway narrowed from twelve to six lanes. After such high speeds, Gilbert felt as if they were crawling. They moved through a wasteland of suburban hotels and light industrial parkland. The sun was going down and hung like a big orange ball, shining through the chemical haze on the horizon. Square green airport signs dotted the highway every kilometer or so. They were getting close, but they still had to find the right gate, and then the right boarding lounge. And then they had to identify Matchett. Who knows what he had done to his appearance?

Jets swept low over the highway now, their nighttime landing lights piercing the encroaching gloom like laser shafts.

“We’re not going to make it if we go south on 427,” said Gilbert. “I think it might be better if we take the 409.”

“But that takes you to Terminal 3,” said Lombardo. “We want Terminal 1.”

Tightly packed red taillights moved bumper to bumper about a mile ahead.

“Look at that,” said Gilbert. “That’s stop and go. And the 409’s just up here. And there’s never anybody on the 409.”

But even the exit ramp to the 409 was still a considerable distance, and it was quarter past five now.

Gilbert gave Lombardo a gruff nod. “Put the light on the roof,” he said. “I’m going on the shoulder.”

Lombardo took the red light from under the dash, opened the window, and stuck it on the roof. A fitful scarlet flicker lit the surrounding cars and trucks. A DC 7 screeched low overhead. Gilbert swerved to the shoulder and stepped on the gas. The guardrail felt uncomfortably close, but that couldn’t be helped. They reached the exit ramp to the 409 in less than a minute.

Gilbert now had two lanes of traffic to himself. The unmarked Lumina, light still flashing, climbed to 160 kph; even over the most minute hump in the road the car felt as if it took flight. Up ahead he now saw the control tower. Jets were taking off and landing in every direction. He saw the Airport Hilton, the Sheridan, the Days Inn, the Holiday Inn, and the Four Seasons glittering on the horizon, modern buildings that caught and reflected the blood-red sky to the west. He eased on the brake as the Airport Road exit loomed ahead of them. He swerved to the right, taking the 50-kph ramp at 90 kph, ran the red light at the turnoff, and bolted left toward Terminal 1. They passed a barrage of signs—Departures, Arrivals, Parking, Customs—and finally swung into the giant covered portico of Terminal 1.

Gilbert looked in the rearview mirror at Telford. “You’re not going to look too great carrying that shotgun around inside.” Lombardo killed the light and clipped it under the dash. “You stay here in case he makes a try for it out this way.” He looked at Lombardo. “You ready?”

Lombardo’s face was hard. “Let’s do it.”

The partners got out of the car and marched in through the revolving doors.

Terminal 1 was a long corridor-like structure punctuated by plastic-chaired waiting areas, duty-free shops, and a multitude of various airline kiosks.

“Gate Five, wasn’t it?” said Gilbert.

“That’s way at the other end,” said Lombardo.

“Shit,” said Gilbert. “He’ll be in pre-boarding by now, if not already on the jet.”

The detectives began running, attracting the stares of the heavier-than-usual Friday night throng of international travellers.

At Gate Five, three dozen sun-seekers bound for the Bahamas crowded the entrance to the boarding lounge as a travel agent wearing a bright yellow blazer handed out complimentary travel bags. The detectives pushed their way through the crowd. Some of the sun-seekers grumbled. Gilbert flashed them his shield.

At the front of the line, behind the barrier at a high counter, a prim young Canadian Airlines representative said, “Sir, I’m sorry, but it’s passengers only beyond this point.”

He showed the young woman his badge. “Metro Homicide,” he said. “We have reason to believe a fugitive may be trying to board this plane. Please keep these passengers clear of the boarding area until we make sure everything’s safe.”

The woman gave him a stunned little nod. A murmuring swept thought the crowd of sun-seekers. Gilbert and Lombardo pushed through.

They followed a long corridor that angled periodically in segments out toward the runway area. At the end of the corridor they came to the pre-boarding lounge for Flight 237 to Freeport. Out the large windows they saw the nose of a Canadian Airlines 737 pressing close to the glass. An enclosed rampway right-angled toward the forward cabin door. Passengers were lined up at the beginning of the rampway, about thirty in all, some already in shorts, T-shirts, and sun hats. Gilbert scanned the crowd but he couldn’t see Matchett anywhere. A flight attendant came out and helped a man in a wheelchair through the barrier.

“They’re doing pre-boarding,” said Gilbert.

“Do you see him?”

Gilbert shook his head. “He’s going to wait until the last minute. He knows we can nail him easier here. This was just a long shot. He’s still out in the terminal. He knows he has to get rid of his gun before he passes the security checkpoint. He’s going to hang onto it as long as he can before he boards.”

“We can wait here for him,” said Lombardo. “Over there, behind those vending machines.”

Gilbert shook his head again. “Too risky,” he said. “He’ll be looking for us here.” Outside they heard the rise and fall of the 737’s jet engines as the turbines began to gear up for the flight. “I think we stand a better chance if we try and surprise him out in the terminal.”

Lombardo nodded. “Then’s let do it.”

They ran down the long corridor out past the barrier. Gilbert cleared things with the Canadian Airlines representative.

“Try and detain any last-minute passengers as long as you can,” he said.

They hurried out to the terminal.

Gilbert took one side of the terminal and Lombardo took the other, making a slow westward sweep of the modern glass and steel structure, maintaining eye contact with each other. They moved past all the airline kiosks and duty-free shops, the newsstands and drug stores, scanning the crowds, looking for a tall, slim toughly built man who had altered his hair in some way. A woman’s voice over the PA announced that Flight 237 was now boarding for Freeport, would passengers please proceed to Gate Five. And it dawned on Gilbert yet again just how much was at stake: if Matchett got away, it would mean Joe’s job, maybe his own, and most probably prison time for Jane Ireland. Worst of all, there would be no justice for Cheryl Latham and Donna Varley.

A baggage handler pushed a huge cart of luggage in front of him.

And when the cart moved out of the way…Gilbert stopped…and stared…

Stopped because he saw a tall man, completely bald, with a pair of sunglasses astride his nose. The tall man stood inside Lichtman’s Books, near the back, reading a gun magazine, his face nearly buried in the pages. Gilbert peered more closely at the man; he recognized the cleft chin, the tawny eyebrows, the prominent but narrow nose. Gilbert lifted his hand, signaling to Lombardo…and just as Gilbert lifted his hand for Lombardo, Matchett looked up. And saw Gilbert.

His old partner from patrol looked at him through his sunglasses. Gilbert saw regret, bitterness, exhaustion, sadness, but most of all, determination. Matchett dropped the magazine, and, abandoning his luggage on the floor of Lichtman’s, bolted from the bookstore and ran westward through the terminal. Gilbert and Lombardo ran after him. Matchett dodged in and around stunned travellers, knocking a couple of teenagers to the floor. He pulled his gun and fired a shot toward the ceiling. Everyone panicked, dove, ran, jumped for cover, creating a multitude of obstacles for Gilbert and Lombardo. Gilbert had to shove several people out of the way. He stumbled into an elderly man, knocking him down, but kept going, never losing sight of Matchett. He glanced to the other side of the terminal. Lombardo high-jumped over a prostrate young couple; at thirty-two, Lombardo had the better pair of lungs. Gilbert did his best, but in seconds Lombardo was way ahead of him. And he didn’t like that because he didn’t want Joe to face Matchett one-on-one, especially when Matchett practiced so vigorously at the range once a week. So he turned on as much juice as he could, pushing his forty-eight-year-old heart to the limit, glad he had at least kept up with his swimming.

Matchett took an aborted turn at the terminal’s center doors, but he must have seen their unmarked car, so kept running. Lombardo ran diagonally from his side of the terminal, taking two rows of chairs like an Olympic hurdler, veering back on course when he got to Gilbert’s side of the terminal. Gilbert had never seen Lombardo run like that before; his legs and arms were a blur; he was quickly gaining on Matchett. A mother pulled her small children to the floor as Lombardo ran by. Gilbert drew his gun. He dreaded the prospect, but he might actually have to shoot Matchett.

Matchett finally ducked out the far doors of Terminal 1. A moment later Lombardo did the same. Gilbert was breathing hard, wanted to stop, but kept a steady pace.

Fifteen seconds later, he himself exited out the far doors.

The sky was dark now. Down a hill past the terminal’s drive-through was an outdoor parking lot. Beyond this there loomed a multi-level indoor parking lot. In the glare of the overhead lights it was hard to see. He ran across the drive-through and stood at the top of the hill. He saw tracks in the snow. He thought he should get Telford but then decided there just wasn’t time. About a hundred-and-fifty cars were parked in the lot below.

And now he heard gunfire. And saw a figure, crouched over, running, trying to hide between the parked cars. He heard answering gunfire, and a windshield shattered. Now he saw Joe, crouched low over the trunk of a BMW, arms extended, taking aim.
Blam!
A muzzle flash brightened the trunk of the BMW. He could hardly believe this. His old partner and his new partner were firing at each other.

“Alvin!” he called. “Please…we’ll work something out. We’ll see about a plea.”

But he got no answer. Lombardo ran crouched over to the next row of parked cars. Gilbert descended the slope to the parking lot, his shoes slipping on the snow. He had just reached the Pontiac at the foot of the slope when he saw Matchett dart out from behind a Ford Windstar and dash toward the multi-level parking garage. Lombardo stood, arms extended, clutching his weapon in both hands, but couldn’t get a clear shot because Matchett kept crouching, moving from car to car, keeping himself well covered. Matchett climbed a small incline, pushed through some ornamental cedars, and jumped over the railing onto the first level of the multi-level parking garage. Lombardo bolted through the cars after him. In five seconds, Gilbert’s young partner was up and over the barrier, chasing Matchett down the ramp that led to the underground sub-levels.

Puffing hard now, Gilbert ran across the parking lot and pulled himself over the railing. He hated multi-level parking garages; in a multi-level parking garage there were simply too many places to hide. Over the whine of an incoming jet he heard retreating footsteps from the switchback down-ramp. As he reached sub-level one, he again heard gunfire. He lifted his revolver and descended the ramp with caution, trying to get his breathing under control. He saw a series of Air Canada luggage vans parked all in a row. And at the end, lit by the pale glow of the fluorescent lights, he saw Lombardo crumpled on the concrete, as still as Cheryl, as still as Donna, as still as poor Paul Varley all those many years ago, arm extended at an unnatural angle, clutching his revolver, trench coat thrown open, a pool of blood that looked purple in the fluorescent light spreading in a huge delta from the top of his head.

Gilbert felt his legs suddenly weaken. He gripped the ramp railing for support, stopping for a moment, knowing that none of this was worth Joe’s life. But then he grew angry, and with anger, his training returned, and he lifted his gun, and moved slowly toward Lombardo.

“Stop where you are, Barry.”

Gilbert stopped. He couldn’t see Matchett but his voice had come from behind one of the Air Canada vans up to the left.

“Throw your weapon aside,” said Matchett. “I don’t want to do to you what I did to Joe.”

“Alvin, you’ll never get away,” said Gilbert. “You think I haven’t phoned the authorities in Freeport? Give it up. You’ve killed a police officer. There’s no way you can get away now.”