The Arx (36 page)

His captors had left Ricky alone for almost a day, probably fearing they would kill him before he told them all they wanted to know. Twenty minutes ago, Ricky had heard a woman screaming in a room down the hall, but now the screaming had stopped.

His torturers had returned momentarily. They’d been about to start in on a new round when they’d gotten a phone call and rushed away.

The drip feed of his pain-killers had run dry long ago. He was in excruciating agony, but he wanted to know what was happening. He rolled his chair up close to the window and peered through the slats of the blinds.

In the distance, the front gate had opened and two figures were walking down the laneway towards him. The gate closed again and as they moved closer Ricky recognized the men as the gatehouse guard and Frank, the other man who’d come to see him. The two approached and he saw that the gatehouse guard had a gun pressed into Frank’s back.

Ricky reflected that, apart from his own mother, Frank was the only person who’d ever shown him any real kindness. With monumental effort, he swiveled his chair around and inspected the room. He wondered if there was any way he could help Frank out.

He stared for a moment at the electrical outlet in the eastern wall. It was at a height he could reach. With difficulty, he moved his head and inspected the chair in which he sat. One of his drug delivery tubes was held in place by two twist-ties – the old style ones, consisting of a metal wire sheathed in paper. He remembered a trick for lighting cigarettes he’d heard some inmates talk about at Mountain View.

A box of tissues sat on one of the side tables. He wheeled his chair up next to the table and managed to knock the box into his lap. He turned and moved his chair as close to the outlet as possible.

It took several minutes to untie both of the twist-ties, and several more to strip the ends of each to bare metal, using his teeth.

With painful slowness, he manipulated the wires with his good hand, working one into each side of the electrical outlet.

He removed a tissue from the box on his lap and worked it into a ball, then held the ball next to the bare end of one wire as he moved the other to touch it and make a spark. It took several tries, but finally a spark landed on the tissue and it caught fire.

Ricky set the flaming tissue on the blanket on his lap. Soon it was burning as well. He added some more tissues, then the entire box. An alarm began to echo throughout the building and an automatic sprinkler in the ceiling across the room began to spray. As the flames engulfed his body, Ricky smiled. The Arx would never know whether he had anything more to tell.

A Battle Begins

Terry Hastings gazed out the passenger window as the unmarked police car in which he was riding toiled up the hill on Belmont Avenue, drilling ever deeper into the realms of the super-rich, rolling past the most prestigious addresses in Point Grey. The vistas of English Bay and the North Shore Mountains grew ever more stunning as each block rose in altitude. The team was headed for Arthur Dogan’s stupendous mansion hidden away in the most distant reaches of a meandering lane-way.

There were four of them in the car: driving was Sergeant Reid, the head of the unit. Reid didn’t normally do field work, but had made an exception this time. Beside him rode Art Crawford, Frank’s old poker buddy. In the back next to Terry was Charlie Hunter, a seasoned detective Frank trusted.

Terry wished Frank could have been with them, but that was impossible. Not only was Frank no longer officially on duty, he was now wanted on kidnapping and weapons charges, not to mention still a person of interest in the murder of Grant Stocker.

In fact, though the evidence from Carson was compelling, they were risking their careers intruding on the home of one of Vancouver’s wealthiest citizens when by the book they should be combing the city to pick Frank up on his outstanding warrants. They’d be lucky to hold onto their badges if Frank was proved wrong.

Frank had warned them about the danger of confronting Carson’s ‘Savants’, and based on Carson’s evidence they believed him, but they’d all signed on anyway. Backup was in place should it be required.

They stopped the car at the gatehouse guarding the entrance and were surprised to find it empty. Sergeant Reid got out and pushed a button on an intercom on the outside wall. Terry listened through the open car window.

“Police,” Reid said, holding up his badge to the camera. “We’d like to speak to Mister Arthur Dogan.”

A female voice answered. “What is this regarding?”

“Just routine,” Reid said. “We’re investigating the death of a reporter named Lawrence Retigo.”

Terry smiled.
That should get a rise out of them,
he thought.

“Mister Dogan is not here,” the deadpan voice said.

“Then I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge,” Reid said.

“You can’t come in here without a warrant,” the voice answered.

“Look,” Reid said, “at the moment we’ve just got a few routine questions about a suspicious death. We can come back with a warrant if necessary.”

There was a long silence.

Finally the voice returned: “Mister Dogan is unavailable.”

Reid headed back to the car. He was reaching for the door handle when a siren erupted from inside the mansion. Reid rushed to the massive gate and peered through the bars. He ran back to the car.

“There’s smoke pouring out of an upstairs window,” he shouted. “Looks like we’ve got probable cause.”

He raced over to the gatehouse. “Open the gate!” he yelled into the intercom. Nothing happened. He ran inside the gatehouse and released the gate, then jumped back in the driver’s seat.

They tore down the laneway, skidded to a stop in front of the main entrance, and rushed toward it. One of the giant wooden doors swung open and a young woman appeared.

“It’s a false alarm, officer,” she said. “Please leave the premises.”

Reid glanced up. Smoke continued to billow out of a second storey window.

“Then what’s that?” he said, nodding at it. “You better let us in.” He started to climb the steps.

“Please leave,” the woman insisted. “Everything’s under control.”

“We need to see for ourselves,” Reid said. He stepped up and onto the sweeping portico.

“You have no authority!” the woman shouted. “Do you know whose property this is?” A man appeared behind her.

Reid continued on.

Terry drew his weapon when he noticed the man’s hand move under his jacket.

The hand emerged holding a gun.

“Drop it!” Reid yelled, reaching for his own weapon. The man raised his gun. Terry fired and the shooter collapsed to the ground, his shot tearing a chip out of a wooden pillar beside Reid’s head.

“Art, call for backup!” Reid shouted.

The woman moved aside and another man appeared at the door with an automatic weapon. Terry lay down covering fire as Reid rushed down the stairs and the team dove behind the nearest trees. Terry peeked from behind his tree. Charlie Hunter lay on the pavement. He wasn’t moving.

The man at the door stepped out and sprayed the area with gunfire. The three of them returned fire, but the shooter was hidden behind the jamb.

“I’m going for Charlie!” Terry shouted. “Cover me!”

The other two showered the front door with bullets as Terry ran out and dragged Hunter behind a tree. He was still breathing.

“We’ll get you out of here, buddy,” Terry said.

“Backup’s on its way,” Art yelled.

Another man appeared on the balcony with a weapon in his hand.

Rebecca and Carla

Rebecca and her captor reached the bottom of the narrow staircase they’d entered after her encounter with Ralphie. She was still stunned by the confirmation that her nephew was alive, and haunted by his animal stare. She was shoved down a short passage and emerged in a cavernous foyer. A curving staircase curled up to the floor above.

Ahead of them, waiting in front of a pair of ornately carved wooden doors, and flanked by two dangerous-looking men, was Rebecca’s coffee companion, Carla De Leon.

Her captor took Rebecca’s elbow and guided her toward her friend. Rebecca barely recognized Carla. The self-effacing, quiet, thoughtful, scientist persona had disappeared so completely she could hardly remember it had ever been there. The woman standing at the center of the palatial building was intense, charismatic, confident, and indisputably in command.

As they reached her, Carla and her bodyguards fell into step with them as they turned right and headed toward an open doorway. Rebecca scoured Carla’s features for any trace of her friend, but saw nothing. They passed through the doorway and into another corridor.

In a few minutes they reached another pair of French doors, leading into a room bathed in green light. The interiors of the beveled glass panels were fogged with moisture. Carla motioned to her bodyguards and they moved deferentially to either side of the doors.

With her own hand on Rebecca’s elbow now, Carla led her into a spectacular metal and glass Victorian-style conservatory. Rebecca’s guard followed and stood just inside the entrance.

Rebecca stared up in bewilderment at the vaulted glass roof far above her head. The air was thick with humidity and the odour of earth and decay. The late afternoon sun traced prisms of light on the floor, and on the variety of tropical plants and flitting birds surrounding them. They strolled down a stone walkway and over a stone bridge straddling a babbling stream and sat on a bench beside the walkway.

“Do you like my home?” Carla said, with only the tiniest hint of the voice Rebecca used to know.

“So the apartment in Kerrisdale…?” Rebecca said.

“Merely for show,” Carla said.

“It’s magnificent,” Rebecca said sincerely, gazing around her.

Carla smiled. “I’m glad. You can understand that I would be very unhappy if all this was taken away from me.”

“Why would that happen?” Rebecca asked, though she was pretty sure she knew the answer.

“You,” Carla said. Her face hardened and her smile faded away. “You and your little friend. The one you refused to reveal to me. The one that was investigating your sister’s death – tell me about him now.”

“I told you,” Rebecca said, “I can’t. It wouldn’t be…”

Carla put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed until she winced in pain. “Let me make it easy for you. It’s that lunatic detective, Frank Langer. You see, I don’t need his name. All I want to know is where he is.”

“You’re hurting me,” Rebecca said.

Carla loosened her grip, but maintained a hold on her shoulder.

“Who else knows about your little project?”

Rebecca kept silent.

“It’s alright,” Carla said, suddenly reprising the comforting friendly voice Rebecca had come to know so well. Even her facial features seemed to soften into the familiar expression Rebecca remembered.

“You can trust me,” Carla continued. “It’s just important that I know – you understand, legally. Remember, I’m the injured party here. It was you who lied to me and betrayed my trust. That hurt me deeply. I opened my heart to you thinking you were my friend. Maybe you can redeem yourself by telling me. See, we already know about Frank Langer. Is there anyone else?”

Rebecca shuddered at the reference to
we
. She looked up but remained silent. Carla’s expression reverted to its original darkness and menace as she stood up and faced Rebecca. Somehow she seemed much larger than before.

“Do you think this is a game?” she shouted.

Rebecca stared up at her but said nothing. Without another word Carla swept back her right arm and backhanded Rebecca in the face.

They were interrupted by the piercing wail of a siren throughout the building.

Carla looked to the guard by the door. He texted someone. “They’re looking into it,” he said.

They all froze, trying to comprehend what was happening. Rebecca hunted around her for an escape route. There was nowhere to go.

The guard got a call and his fingers moved quickly over the phone keyboard. “Fire,” he finally said matter-of-factly.

There was a gunshot, followed by shouting and a flurry of heavy footsteps in the hallway.

Seconds later, gunfire crackled in the distance. All stood waiting while the guard texted again. “Police,” he said.

Carla nodded to the guard. He grabbed Rebecca’s arm and they rushed out the door.

Inside Dogan's Mansion

Frank craned his neck and gaped at the ceiling ten meters above his head as he was prodded across the cavernous foyer of the Dogan mansion. When he’d appeared at the gate, the gatehouse guard had frisked him and taken Carson’s gun, then trained his own on Frank and propelled him down the winding laneway to the entrance and inside.

Now they stopped and waited as the guard talked to someone on his phone. A few minutes later a new ‘escort’ appeared and the guard handed Frank over. The new man shoved him towards a door on their left.