The Arx (28 page)

Ricky listed off a thirteen-digit number. Frank wrote it down.

“I suppose you remember exactly when he visited you?” he said.

“A…April 25
th
, 2012,” said Ricky. Frank shook his head. “2:07 PM,” Ricky added.

“You know,” Frank said, “I may actually be able to find this guy after all.”

“B…Better hurry,” Ricky said.

“What do you mean?”

“Man you’re l…looking for,” said Ricky. “V…Very sick. T…Think he’s d…dying.”

An Island in the Salish Sea

Frank stood in line for the cafeteria on the
Queen of Nanaimo
and watched out the window as the giant ferry lumbered away from the dock. He’d contacted BC Ferries with the number from Ricky Augustus’s amazing brain, and they’d used it to trace the start and end terminals for the ticket.

A hundred islands crowded between the huge slab that was Vancouver Island and the mainland, like flagstones on a gigantic walkway. They were of every shape and size, from the heavily populated Salt Spring, just off the big Island, to tiny specks of rock that appeared on the map but hadn’t even rated names.

Just inside a section of ocean known as ‘Active Pass’ lay one of the larger in the chain, Galiano Island, about an hour’s sailing from the mainland. Its main terminal, ‘Sturdies Bay’, had been Carson’s destination.

Frank believed what Ricky had said about them both being marked for death. He also believed Ricky’s claim that if the Arx wanted him dead nothing could ultimately stop them. He clung to the one thread of hope Ricky had offered: that if the Arx were exposed to the world they would forget about him. That they wouldn’t bother to take revenge.

He had only one option: find irrefutable evidence of the Arx’s existence and of the danger they posed. Even if he could convince Ricky to tell his story and keep the crippled man alive long enough to do so, he doubted the authorities would believe it. Frank had only one slim chance: locate Richard Carson, if by some miracle he was still alive, and pray that Carson could provide the proof he needed.

The labyrinthine route he’d followed to get to the ferry terminal took twice as long as he would have otherwise, but he was reasonably certain that no-one was tailing him. Anyway, if the Arx knew where he was, he would be dead by now. Just the same he continually glanced over his shoulder.

He grabbed a self-serve plastic-wrapped sandwich, filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee, and set them on the plastic tray he was carrying. He paid, found a table near a bulkhead, and sat with his back against the wall where he could watch people approaching.

After eating he wandered out on deck. He studied the crowd around him as he moved. A familiar face, a bump on the shoulder from a stranger, an unexpected glance – each ratcheted up his pulse rate.

An announcement came over the intercom that the ship’s horn was about to sound. Even though he was prepared, the ear-splitting blast made him jump.

I’m losing it again,
he thought.

The ferry took a sharp right and they sailed around a bend into Active Pass. The scenery was breathtaking: rugged, evergreen-blanketed cliffs plunging into the sea, separated by tiny gray scallops of gravel beach. Occasionally he spotted a home perched high on the surrounding bluffs.

Who lives in these places?
he thought.

He studied one magnificent home partially hidden behind a grove of trees.

People who can never get far enough away from the world,
he answered his own question.

Ten minutes later his destination was in sight.

Sturdies Bay was a small, quaint terminal that would have been dwarfed by the one Frank had just left on the mainland. He headed down the pedestrian walkway and off the ferry. There were no taxis on Galiano. He ended up renting a moped. Not knowing how long he’d need it, he put down a week’s deposit. He’d never ridden one, but after a few shaky starts, he was buzzing around the island confidently.

He hit the local library and talked the bored librarian into helping him research records of home purchases on the island. He half-guessed/half-hoped that Carson had purchased something around the time he disappeared. Luckily, it was a small island; there weren’t many entries. He found nothing in the records for 1999 that fit Carson’s profile. He looked at rentals and had no better luck. He tried 98, then 97 – still nothing.

He got to thinking. Carson had faked his own death. He would be running scared, searching out the most remote hiding place he could find. Galiano was out of the way and not heavily populated, but it was on the main ferry routes and easy to get to. It was off the beaten path, but not by much.

He returned to the librarian’s desk.

“I appreciate all your help,” he said. The library was almost empty. She seemed to welcome his interruption.

“This may seem like a strange question,” he said, “but hypothetically speaking, say I wanted to avoid contact with the outside world, but still wanted to be able to get supplies regularly. Say my starting point was here on Galiano – where would I go?”

“There’s a ton of islands out there,” she said. “Some of them aren’t even big enough to build a house on. There’s one right next door, just off Montague Harbour, called Parker Island. You can charter a boat. There’s no real community there, but there’s a few vacation homes. Is that the kind of place you’re talking about?”

The boat Frank chartered to Parker Island was for foot passengers only, but he convinced the operator to allow his moped on board.

Earlier, he’d shown Carson’s picture around to several of the dock workers on Galiano, and finally found one who recognized him. The man hadn’t been sure of Carson’s exact address, but said he lived on the northwest tip of the island, an area with few houses. The librarian helped Frank pinpoint the most likely house. It was little more than a shack, but had been bought in February 1999 by a Mr. David Fox.

Carson’s home was a long way from anywhere else on the island. There were no taxis, and few roads, on Parker. Frank wobbled along the gravel track on the moped, but within a few miles he ran out of road. He hid the moped in some trees and hiked the final stretch.

A house hidden away on an island that’s hidden away
, he thought.

As he came within sight of the cabin, a gunshot blasted a chip from a tree next to his head. He rushed behind another large tree for cover. He poked his head out and stole a look at the cabin. The morning sun glinted off the thin shaft of a rifle barrel protruding from a gap at the bottom of one of the windows.

There were several seconds of tense silence.

“What do you want?” a voice finally echoed from the window.

“I just want to talk to you,” Frank yelled back. “I’m a friend of Ricky Augustus.”

After a moment of hesitation the voice called, “You alone?”

“Yeah,” Frank answered.

There was another minute or so of silence. Finally the voice yelled nervously, “Come forward. I’ve got my gun on you. Put your hands up and don’t do anything stupid.”

Frank walked forward with his hands raised. He stopped a couple of meters away from the front door, which he noticed was made from heavy-gauge steel. Behind it, he heard a shuffling sound and the scrape of metal against metal. A small panel opened at chest height, and the rifle barrel poked out of it. Another panel opened a little higher and Frank could make out the silhouette of a face behind it.

The rifle was pointed at Frank’s head.

“Now who are you and what do you want?” said a low, rasping voice.

“My name is Langer, Frank Langer. I’m investigating the disappearance of several children.”

The face in the shadows flinched. “So you’re a cop?”

“Sort of,” Frank said. For once it didn’t seem appropriate to lie about his current status. “I was a cop,” he said. “I had a breakdown. I’m out on stress leave.”

To Frank’s surprise, the man started laughing. He laughed so hard he even lowered the gun for a few seconds. The laugh quickly degenerated into a fit of coughing.

“Sorry,” the voice said after fifteen seconds of hacking. “That’s just too rich – seems appropriate somehow.”

The voice turned serious. “Let’s see some ID.”

Frank lowered his right hand and reached for his only ID, the replacement credit card he’d gotten from the bank.

“Do it slow,” said the man behind the door.

Frank nodded. He took a step closer, and held the card up to the opening. The rifle barrel was almost touching his chest.

A few seconds later the rifle was pulled back inside. Several heavy bolts were released and the door swung open.

The Richard Carson that stood in front of him was barely recognizable from the picture he’d studied in the photocopied newspaper article. The pudgy middle-aged scientist from the photograph had been replaced by a gaunt and skeletal wraith who stooped like he was carrying a heavy burden. What little was left of his hair had turned white, and his skin had the pale, mottled texture of someone late in the process of dying.

Carson stared into Frank’s eyes, like he was trying to decide something. “How do you know about Ricky?” he finally said.

“I was staking out a mansion in Point Grey,” Frank said. “I thought it had some connection with a string of child abductions. A guy tried to kill me. He had a photograph on him with a couple of names on the back. I figured it was some kind of hit list. One of the names was Ricky’s.”

Carson picked up his gun again and eyed Frank suspiciously. “One of them came after you? So how come you’re not dead?”

Frank shrugged. “We fought and I got away.”

“You got away? Bullshit. You’re either some kind of genius or one lucky son of a bitch.”

Frank shrugged.

Carson’s eyes widened. “Nobody followed you here?”

“I was a cop for fifteen years,” Frank said. “I know when I’m being tailed.”

Carson seemed to relax a little. “Ricky’s still alive?” he said.

Frank nodded.

Carson tensed. “Am I on the list?”

“No, just Ricky and a reporter named Lawrence Retigo.”

“Never heard of him,” Carson said. “How did you find me?”

“The ferry ticket stub in your shirt pocket when you went to visit Ricky. He remembered what it said.”

Carson laughed again, and even more quickly lapsed into a coughing fit.

He finally recovered. “No matter how many times I deal with these people I never seem to appreciate what I’m up against. Let’s go for a walk.”

He slung the rifle over his shoulder and locked the door, then gestured to a thin path leading to the right.

“You go first,” he said.

They followed the trail to a bluff overlooking Active Pass, with a stunning view of the dark blue ocean below. They sat down on a rocky ledge. Carson wheezed for several minutes, exhausted by the exertion. The air was filled with the scent of salt spray and pine needles. Far in the distance a giant blue and white ferry steamed through the pass.

Carson sat with his rifle on his knees and both hands resting on it, gazing thoughtfully out to sea.

Frank picked up a small twig and twirled it between his fingers. “You faked your own death,” he said. “The others were murdered, but you beat them to the punch. You killed yourself off before they had the chance.”

Frank flicked the twig out over the edge of the bluff and watched it float to the rocks below.

“Have you ever watched a really talented actor up close?” Carson asked, his voice rasping and thin.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Frank said.

“When I was going to university I worked part-time at the PNE – you know, the fairgrounds.”

Frank nodded.

“They had a guy there, a professional actor, playing one of the early explorers in British Columbia. Simon Fraser, I think it was. He sat in front of a tent with a canoe beside him and went through a canned spiel about the life of an explorer.

“I found it fascinating. Not so much the story but the acting. I used to hang out and watch whenever I had nothing else to do, even after I’d seen it a dozen times. I was blown away by the transformation. I
believed
he was Simon Fraser. You watch actors, even good ones, in the movies or on TV and you really don’t get what it is they’re doing, the magic in it.

“But sitting a couple of meters away, looking into their eyes and listening to their voices – that’s when you truly appreciate the actor’s art.”

For a second Frank thought his host might be losing it, drifting into some obscure youthful memory.

Carson raised his head and looked over at him. “I think that’s why I was one of the few people who ever saw through them. Even people who’d worked with them for years had no idea.”

“Them?”

Carson’s hands tightened on his rifle. “The crowd at Kaffir.”

Frank stared at him.

“There’s still a lot you don’t know, isn’t there,” Carson said. “I’m talking about the researchers on the Olmerol project. You must be aware that there’s a connection between Ricky and Kaffir.”