Authors: Anthony Bidulka
car-length distance behind Hugh on the straight
and narrow road. We were on Highway 219, that’s
all I knew. I wondered what the heck was out here.
Where was he taking me?
As we drove in a southerly direction, a pitiful
parade of two, my headlights cut a slender swath
through the night. Drifts of snow passed lazily
over the pavement before me like feathery ghosts.
The sky was black. No streetlights or traffic lights,
farmyards were few and far between, and the
moon had gone into hiding. There are times, driv-
ing at night, when abandoning the noise and glar-
ing brightness of the city for the countryside
brings me comfort; darkness and silence envelop
me like a protective blanket. At other times, the
same setting seems ominous and threatening, as if
something is out there, lurking behind the curtain
of night, something…not good. And tonight it
was the latter knocking at the door of my brain.
Funny how things can turn around so quickly. A
slightly elevated pulse and body temperature,
along with a general creepy feeling, slowly over-
took my tough PI guy bravado.
I began to notice the distance between our
vehicles growing. Hugh was speeding up.
Eventually, my only guides were the two red
lights of his rear end. And every so often, as the
Anthony Bidulka — 11
Intrepid sunk into a dip in the highway, I would
lose sight of him completely. Was he trying to lose
me? Just as I accelerated in an effort to catch up, I
saw the brake lights of the Intrepid flash once,
then twice, his right turn signal blinked its inten-
tion, and then…he was gone.
I sped up to 120 clicks.
I followed his right turn onto an intersecting
gravel road identified by a sign that simply read
Landfill. I made the turn and soon found myself
idling past the entrance of the South Corman Park
Landfill site. The Intrepid was nowhere to be seen.
I came to a stop and took a quick glance around. A
chained and padlocked gate blocked access to the
property and I could see no other obvious way for
Hugh to have gotten in unless he’d had the key,
which I doubted. So I put the car back in gear and
kept on rolling. I topped a hill and about a kilome-
tre later came to a full stop. My headlights had
fallen upon the unmistakable yellow and black
checkered pattern of a dead-end sign. Next to it
was another sign telling me that I was at the “T”
intersection of Twp 354 and Rge Rd 3055. Okey
dokey. Right or left? Which way did he go?
It was as dark outside as I’d ever seen it and
even with my headlights on high beam, there
were no obvious telltale signs of recent travel. The
snow on the road had been worn into the gravel so
there were no tracks to follow. Over the sound of
my engine, I could hear the lowing of the wind
that every so often built itself into a powerful blast
and rocked the body of my little car. For a moment
I sat there, wondering yet again what madness
12 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
had brought me here. It was never a good idea to
be caught in the countryside, late on an ice-cold,
winter night, perhaps a little lost. Had I taken the
wrong turn off the highway? Or was my future
client somewhere nearby, waiting for me, wonder-
ing where I was? But which way? Right or left? I
had no obvious clue. But I had an idea. I couldn’t
see anything, but maybe I could hear something.
I rolled down the window, but the wind and
car engine were still too loud. I turned the ignition
key to silence the car but the wind was blowing
right into my ear. I’d have to get out. I buttoned the
top buttons of my coat, readjusted my scarf, pulled
on a pair of lined, leather gloves, opened the door
and pulled myself out of the Mazda. (I seldom
wear a toque, preferring a hooded coat or ear-
muffs—the damage to my hair just isn’t worth it.)
I rounded the car to the north side for protection
and bowed my head against the wind, listening
for anything that would give me a clue as to
where Hugh had gone.
It was then that I heard it.
It was all the more surprising because, despite
my actions, I hadn’t really expected to hear any-
thing except perhaps the distant howling of a hun-
gry coyote.
But it wasn’t a night creature that I heard. It
was the sound of an engine.
There was someone else out there.
The engine rumbled and grumbled as some
engines do, sounding not unlike an animal…bid-
ing its time until it could…attack…
From the cadence I could tell the vehicle was
Anthony Bidulka — 13
idling. Whoever was in the car was just sitting
there, lights extinguished. Waiting. Watching.
But why? Was it Hugh? Was it someone else?
How far away? It sounded…close. Or was this just
a trick played on my ears by the wind?
My eyes strained to cut through the night, as
black as a flock of crows, but to no avail. I could
see nothing. I could feel my heart begin to race
faster. And even though it was bitterly cold, a thin
line of perspiration trickled from my forehead
towards my neck, almost freezing on its way.
This wasn’t good. Something wasn’t right here.
And just as that thought entered my head a set of
headlights illuminated, appearing suddenly, like
two bright orbs, two-hundred metres down the
road to the right of me. I shielded my eyes in a
useless attempt to get a better look, but I couldn’t
tell if they belonged to the green Intrepid or some
other vehicle. And then, two-hundred metres to
my left, another set of headlights flashed on.
Shit.
There were two of them.
An ambush.
Beating my own hide by several seconds, I
skidded around my car and jumped into the dri-
ver’s seat, battling the wind to pull the door
closed. I glared at the two lighted sentinels, each
the same distance away but in opposite directions.
Cripes! They began to move.
They were coming after me!
I turned the key in the ignition and, despite
every movie I’ve ever seen, the rotary engine of
my sweetheart of a car turned over on the first try.
14 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
They were coming, from either end of the T. I
had to somehow get turned around and get the
heck out of there. I tried a U-turn but only made it
half way. The road was too narrow. I stopped,
backed up, frustrated at losing the time, and
pointed myself back in the direction I’d come
from. In my haste and growing anxiety, I was hav-
ing a difficult time getting the stick shift into first
gear. My eyes flew to the rearview mirror. They
were coming. They were coming! Both vehicles
had arrived at the intersection and were turning in
my direction. They were coming!
I think I swore and grimaced and somehow
managed to get into first, second, third and fourth
within the next few nanoseconds. My car fish-
tailed wildly as I accelerated and caught tufts of
roadside snow and gravel under my churning
wheels. If only I could get to the highway, I would
feel safer.
The reflection of the chase car’s lights in my
rear-view mirror became blinding as they caught
up with me. Holy Moses Boat Builder! They were
right on my tail. We were all climbing to speeds in
excess of one hundred kilometres per hour on a
gravel road and the highway was coming up fast.
How would I make the turn? Suppose there was
oncoming traffic? Should I signal? Should I signal
left but then go right? Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Not so stupid.
I had one advantage. I was in front. I could pay
attention to where I was going rather than whom
I was chasing. I only had time to make, consider
and carry out one plan. So it had to be a good one.
Anthony Bidulka — 15
I slowed down to just below ninety, took a good
look at where I was heading, then extinguished
my headlights, making it seem—I hoped—as if I’d
disappeared. In the next few seconds I was either
going to (a) end up in a ditch, (b) be rear-ended by
one of the other cars, or (c) make a left turn onto
the highway heading back towards Saskatoon
before the bad guys behind me realized what was
happening.
I was shooting for (c).
It sort of worked. I made the turn, just barely
missing a collision with the snow banks of the
opposing ditch and, after a bit of an amusement
park ride, was firmly on the road facing north. I
turned my lights back on and dared a look in the
rear-view mirror. As hoped, car number one had
been totally bamboozled and sailed right through
the intersection. Car number two, however, had
been far enough behind both of us to have figured
out what I was doing. He too made the turn. I had
gained some distance but he was still on my tail.
My only hope was to reach city limits before he
caught up with me. I didn’t know what he’d do
with me if he did—shoot out my tires or try to
force me off the road?—but I was not about to find
out and become an action-flick cliché. I floored it
and aimed straight ahead like a rocket bound for
the moon.
About halfway to town I noticed the lights
behind me getting smaller and smaller and finally
I lost sight of them. Had he turned around to
check up on his buddy? Did he want to avoid the
revealing lights of the city? Didn’t matter, at least
16 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
he’d given up on me.
It was not until I was back in Saskatoon and
slowed to city speed that I noticed my hands. I
watched them on the steering wheel, as if they
weren’t my own, twitching crazily like bags full of
jumping beans. My head felt odd, as if I was in the
cabin of an airplane that had just lost pressure.
Was it going to implode? I pulled into the bright-
ly-lit lot of a Petro-Canada gas station. I craned
my head over my left shoulder. I had to confirm
they weren’t coming up behind me. Who were
those guys? What would they have done if they’d
caught me? Was it a coincidence this had hap-
pened while I was following Hugh? Probably not.
So then the question was, who the hell was Hugh
and why had he set me up?
My skin shifted as the cellphone on the seat next
to me began to jangle. I eyed it warily, the normal-
ly innocuous ring now ominous. I reached for it as
if it were a stovetop that might be hot, finally grab-
bing hold of it and bringing it to my ear.
“Hello,” I croaked.
The voice that answered was Hugh’s, but a dif-
ferent Hugh from the smiling ski instructor I’d met
on Broadway Avenue. In a menacing, flat tone he
said, “Drop the case, Mr. Quant. Or next
time…we’ll catch you.”
My name is Russell Quant. I’m thirty-two, a for-
mer police constable for the city of Saskatoon,
Saskatchewan and I have had my shingle out as a
private detective for over two years. I get to set my
Anthony Bidulka — 17
own hours, answer to no one and indulge my
active extrovert or solitary introvert as my mood
dictates. Now that being said, the life of a private
detective can certainly be a capricious one. So to
balance everything out, I crave and maintain a
certain level of calm, steadiness and predictability
in my day-to-day routine.
Enter Kay Quant, nee Wistonchuk.
Mom.
Mom is a sixty-two-year-old who speaks with
a heavy Ukrainian accent replete with rolling
r
’s
and wailing
oi
s. Even so, I’ve never considered
myself half-Ukrainian. Not because I didn’t want
to be, but because my mother rarely mentioned
the fact and my father, a very proper Irishman,
ignored his own heavy brogue and my mother’s
penchant for garish colour combinations and told
us we were Canadians, plain and simple. My
mother is just shy of five feet tall and, although
leaning towards stocky, she has generally kept the
same dress size since giving birth to her last child,
which was me. She sports a tightly permed head
of dark hair with the occasional sproing of white,
horn-rimmed spectacles and a face that can alter-
nately scowl away a pirate ship or warm the heart
of its captain.
For the first time since knowing her, which is