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LAST TRAIN TO GASPÉ
By: Jim 'Old Guy' Hume Date: On the Road Again Hwy 132, near Rimouski Taz was driving. Stag slumped in his seat, cellphone pressed against his ear. As they reached the outskirts of Rimouski, he tucked the phone away and stretched. “The fat man is stopping at each little town and playing an impromptu concert for donations. He is reported to be at Amqui. We shouldn’t have any trouble catching up this morning. And HQ had some other good news. The train to Gaspé was held up for nearly three hours by some sort of demonstration that blocked the tracks near Saint-Hyacinthe.” “The QLF again?” Stag rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “No. An animal rights group, near as anyone can tell. Who cares! It means the train went through Rimouski only about ten minutes ago. HQ says it made a five minute stop there.” He leaned forward, eyeballing the road ahead. “I’m hungry. It’s coming up on six. Some place ought to be open.” “Look for a gas station,” said Taz. “We need to fuel up. Maybe someone can direct us to a good café. I’m about to starve, too.” “You ate everything in the car that was vaguely organic last night. How can you be hungry?” “You’re just upset because I didn’t share those cookies I found under the back seat.” “Right. I’m angry that I didn’t get a chance to share possible botulism with you. There’s a gas station. You fill the car while I empty my bladder.” Taz stopped beside the pumps and shut the car off. He rubbed his stomach and frowned. “Is bottlism fatal? I don’t feel so good. Do I look like I’ve got it?” “Botulism.” Stag spelled it out. He peered at his companion. “Well, your eyelids are droopy and your speech is slurred, but that’s normal. Is your vision blurred?” “No.” Taz blinked several times. “I’m not sure. Maybe a little.” Stag grinned. “Either you have botulism or you just spent most of the night driving a 1965 Checker Marathon from Montreal to Rimouski.” He left Taz puzzling over that one and headed for the men’s room. The sleepy station attendant directed them toward an eating place on the far side of town. Stag eyed the fellow with suspicion. “Le Nez Croche? Sounds like a rough joint.” “Pah! You want a bad place, try Bar Salon Ti-Quebec! The separatists hang out there. Besides, Le Nez Croche is the only place for breakfast right now,” insisted the man. “Maurice opens early so the cigarette smugglers can get a bite before going to bed.” “Smugglers?” Stag glanced at Taz, who was inspecting the candies. “Cigarette smugglers in this day and age! What do you make of that?” Taz’s fond gaze rested on a nutty chocolate bar. He couldn’t decide between that one and a block of dark chocolate. He spoke without taking his eyes off the candy. “Last year, according to estimates by Canadian and American officials, about $500 million dollars in cigarettes were smuggled into Canada from Maine. The average smuggler netted about $200,000 Canadian for his efforts.” The attendant smirked at Stag. Taz brought a handful of candy bars to the counter, including the dark chocolate. He’d never been one to resist the siren song of chocolate. Stag said nothing until he was behind the wheel of his beloved Checker. “Did you make all that stuff up? Or is there really that much money in smuggling?” “I read it in the Official Digest of the Official Synopsis of Official Reports. It comes out once a month. Don’t you read it?” “We’re in the wrong business, boyo. Imagine -- $200 grand a year!” “Smugglers also get shot on occasion and often spend considerable time in jail.” Taz stowed the dark chocolate in a jacket pocket. He’d have that one later. With coffee maybe. “We have the same risks in our business,” said Stag. “Not unless someone figures out our expense account strategy.” Stag herded the big Checker through town. “I’m not cut out for smuggling, I guess. I’ll stick with my bar. Although, I’ll have to admit it isn’t making the money I thought it would – even with the added prostitution and gambling.” “Nor will it ever,” said Taz. “It’s like a rabbit running a carrot stand.” ***** Le Nez Croche lay well back from the road, on the crest of a bluff with the back of the bar overlooking the St. Lawrence. Several late model four-wheel drive pickups and SUVs occupied the gravel parking area. Neon beer signs glittered in two windows facing the road. Stag parked the Checker off to one side. “Nice location,” said Taz, as they walked toward the entrance. “Yeah.” Stag took in the shabby exterior and broken shingles. “Needs a little repair work and a coat of paint, though.” “It’s a fisherman and smuggler bar. What do they care about siding and shingles?” Stag shrugged and pushed the door open. “I just hope the food is good.” They stepped into a dingy interior, lit mostly by light filtering through three large windows on the back wall. Years of grime crusted the panes, reducing sunlight and the view to drab monotones. “I hope the food is safe to eat,” muttered Taz. To their right, five burly men occupied a table near one of the windows – and the back door. These worthies glanced at the two interlopers and went back to their rumbling conversations. At the other end of the room a bar lay athwart the room. Double half-doors at the near end led into what had to be the kitchen. Behind the bar, a man stood reading a newspaper. Steam drifted out of the kitchen along with the sound and scent of frying fish. Stag headed for a table near the far end of the bar. The barkeep folded his newspaper and ambled over. When he spoke, it was in the thick patois of the region, laden with strange stops and half-familiar words. Seeing their confusion, he laughed and said something to the men at the far table. Stag glanced at his sidekick. “You get any of that?” “Some. You don’t want to know.” Tossing a one-page, stained menu on the table, the man chuckled. “Never mind, friends. We like to have our fun with you city folk. I am Maurice. Welcome.” His words were still thick with oddities, but they were able to follow most of what he said. “Your bar was touted as a good spot for breakfast,” said Stag. Taz peered at the grimy menu as if trying to decipher hieroglyphics. “The only place for breakfast, at this hour,” boomed the barkeep. “We have coffee, fried fish, potatoes, and eggs. Those seeking dainty fare don’t stop here.” “That will do fine,” said Stag. “Never let it be said I turned my nose up at decent fish and eggs.” “I didn’t say they were decent,” muttered Maurice. He brought two chipped mugs brimming with coffee, then vanished into the kitchen, shouting something about bobble-head dolls, if Stag’s ears were to be believed. The coffee could only be described as formidable. Platters of fried fish, fried potatoes, fried eggs and grilled bread followed, served up by a slight woman who laughed and babbled as she laid out the food. Neither man understood a word of her talk. By upper-crust Montreal standards, it was an execrable meal, chock full of fried foods and laden with butter, grease and salt. However, once past a fashionable hesitation, it was delicious. As he ate, Stag noted that he could understand more of the low gabble emanating from the other table. He couldn’t decide if it was simply that his brain was scavenging among the vowels and syllables, fitting meaning with sounds, or if it was something in the food. Content, drinking their third cups of coffee, the two agents lingered over the remains of the meal, soaking up the friendly, if soiled, ambiance of the place. Even the coarse discussions of the alleged smugglers seemed a fitting accompaniment to the morning. Both men were lamentably relaxed when the four bearded gunmen burst through the entrance. Amqui, QC Looking for Calliope Badger huddled in the dining car, sipping a beer. He had just finished a complete circuit of the train and seen nothing of Calliope. There were compartments in only a single car. Breaking into each and every one to find her didn’t seem like a good plan. She could easily have gotten off the train at Saint-Hyacinthe, when that bunch of eco-freaks blocked the train. The Ami agent was staring out at the passing scenery as the train passed through a town. A sign flashed by: Amqui. Another place he’d never heard of. A group of people were gathered in a clearing not far from the tracks. Must be a sheep shearing contest, thought Badger, ever fair in his snap judgments of other peoples and cultures. But, of course, it wasn’t a sheep shearing contest. Such contests are held in September at the annual Amqui Oktoberfest, which has to be scheduled for September on account of all the rain and snow that falls in October. Anyway, the crowd Badger observed was not involved in shearing of any sort. The onlookers were listening to a thing only a few had ever heard of – and those uniformly considered it a baseless legend – until now. It was a calliope – a steam calliope. A buzz of conversation broke out in the car as passengers caught sight of the red and yellow rig. “It’s the fat man!” exclaimed Badger. Other passengers turned, eyeing him curiously. A waiter sidled closer, clutching a goblet for use if the Ami agent became violent. Everyone in the car, save for the other Ami passengers, knew the heavily-armed man who had eaten an entire apple pie by himself, was an American agent. All the other American passengers had that vacant stare caused by being away from their television sets. This one had a wild, confused look about him – ergo, he was an agent. Badger calmed down and pulled out his cellphone. Stag needed to know about the fat man! He flipped it open and stared at the instrument. Which button? Light purple or dark purple? Well, not really purple. He frowned, trying to remember the colors. A passing waiter leaned down and whispered, “Mauve. Push the mauve button to telephone Canadian Intelligence. No, not the burgundy. Mauve.” Badger nodded his thanks and mashed the light purple button. He huddled over the phone, wishing he’d gone back to the compartment before calling. “Central Message Center,” announced a computer voice. “Listen to the menu carefully. If you screw up your phone will self-destruct.” After a brief pause, a different voice began reciting the menu options. “Push one to report sighting a Conservative in Canada. Push two to report a violation of the Prohibited Words Act. Push three to contact Canadian Intelligence officer, even though we don’t have any. Push four . . .” Badger pushed three. A real person answered. “Button three.” “Um – this is Badger. I must speak to Stag.” “Sure, Major. You and about forty creditors. He’s off the line right now. I’ll pass a message.” “The train just passed through mauve – ah, no. I mean the train just passed Amqui. Amqui. You got that? The fat man was there with the calliope.” “A calliope in Amqui? Hey, that rhymes. I’m a poet and don’t know it.” The person snickered. “We already knew about the fat man, Major. Thanks for the call.” The line went dead. Badger closed the phone and put it away. He was sweating profusely. Phone conversations were always pure hell for him. As yet, his therapist had been unable to find the cause, though the Major’s memory of an extended period of toilet training was the principal suspect. Drying his hands and mopping his face with a napkin, Badger headed for the front of the dining car. His hastily formulated plan involved opening the door, climbing onto the roof of the box car and then entering said box car via the oversized vent present in every spy movie he’d ever seen. He paused at the door. After a moment, he turned back and entered the restroom. Might be a good idea to tinkle first. Soon he was in position in front of the stainless steel urinal, balancing as the train swayed along the tracks. Making water proved to be difficult, what with all the clackety-clack and movement. He closed his eyes and concentrated. It was easier than he expected, thanks to the gallon or so of coffee he’d finished along with the apple pie. “Aaaaaah . . .” “It’s about time you got here,” snarled someone behind him. It was Calliope. He craned around, quite unable to stop the coffee-pressurized stream. She stepped from a cramped linen closet, smirking as he wet the wall and his trousers. “Hey! You can’t – you can’t be in here! This is the men’s restroom.” He leaned against the wall, trying to shut out her laughter. “Sorry, Major. I thought you Ami super-spies were immune to the conventions of normal society. Shall I get back in the closet?” “Yes! No.” He sighed. “Just turn around, please.” He managed a shrill laugh. “You’ve confused us with the Brits. They have the imperturbable spies.” A few seconds more and he was finally drained. He regained a modicum of composure as he zipped his pants. “Okay, don’t tell me you’ve been in here all morning.” “But I have. I figured you’d be in here after the first couple cups of coffee.” “I have a strong bladder,” bragged Badger. “Why were you here at all?” “There are at least three men keeping an eye on the powder crates. They wander through the train from time to time, especially after stops. One of them knows me from a “Give Way to Your Inner Terrorist” conference I attended last year. “I heard about that one. Was it any good?” “It was fun. I got pictures of me with several of the biggies. A couple middle-grade types even autographed the photos.” “Good going! How did you get that close to so many?” Calliope’s face shaded to pink. “It involved a scanty costume and lap dancing. It’s not pertinent to our task here today.” Badger had no trouble imagining the murderous gents slobbering over Calliope’s attributes. With an effort, he pulled his brain out of the gutter. “Have you scoped out the box car?” “No. I’ve been stuck in this closet all morning. Did you?” “Yes. Well, not exactly. I checked out the passages between the other cars. It must be like that except that a box car has no matching doorway. So we’ll have to climb up on top.” He laid out his plan. “Sounds good,” agreed Calliope. “I saw those same movies.” She drew a silenced automatic from her shoulder holster and examined it. Satisfied, she holstered it again. “You ready?” Badger stared into space for a moment, then shook his head. “I was trying to think of something memorable to say – but nothing comes to mind. I’m ready.” The bathroom door popped open and a bulky man stepped in. He wore a really bad, off the shelf suit and had on a bushy fake beard. Badger started to push his way into the corridor just as the gentleman noticed Calliope. A foreign-sounding word burst from his beard. The woman’s pistol plonk-plonked twice. With each plonk, a round hole appeared in the man’s forehead. His eyes went wide, then fixed straight ahead. “Catch him,” said Calliope, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Drag him into the stall and put him on the toilet. He’ll be out of the way there.” Since he couldn’t stand there holding the large, deceased gentleman, Badger did as instructed. He tried to get a better look at the man’s face by pulling the beard off. It wasn’t fake. He came out dusting his hands. “Who was that?” “One of the bad guys. That’s one less to deal with. We better see about the others before they find this clown.” “See about? I was under the impression they’d be given the opportunity to surrender to proper authorities.” “They can.” Calliope laughed. It was the coldest, cruelest laugh Badger had ever heard. She nudged him with an elbow. “I’m not a proper authority and neither are you. They can avoid us by surrendering to one of those proper types. As for us – we’re just gonna shoot ‘em.” “It’s irregular,” said Badger. “But I like it. Less paperwork.” “Paperwork?” sneered Calliope. “The only paperwork I do is in the bathroom. We hire interns to take care of forms and such.” “Really?” Badger was stunned. “What a novel idea.” He shook his head. “I hope it doesn’t catch on in the States.” “Come on,” muttered the woman. “Let’s assault us a box car.” Things went swimmingly for about four steps. Badger stopped in the flexible corridor connecting the dining car to the next one in front. There was no blank box car wall. Nor was there a handy ladder leading up to the roof. Instead, the corridor led to another door. “That isn’t a box car,” observed Calliope. “Well . . .” Badger could feel his face flushing. “I – ah, I couldn’t see any windows in it, from the dining car, so – ah, I figured it must be a box car.” “It’s a car for general freight and baggage. Hadn’t you ever seen one before?” “Sorry. I’m not an expert on railway cars.” Calliope peered through the small window inset into the baggage car door. “There’s a short hallway then an open area. I can see boxes and baggage, but no people.” “There’s bound to be one or two in there.” Badger started to draw his weapon, then did not. Once pistols were drawn, it would be difficult to back out. Calliope drew her automatic. “Let’s go. At least we don’t have to climb all over a greasy box car. I didn’t say anything before, but this isn’t the right outfit for that sort of thing.” Badger smiled and ran an appreciative eye over her low-cut blouse, short skirt and matching jacket. “A terrorist’s dream. I suppose this one is suitable for frontal assaults?” She gave him a suspicious look. “I’m not sure what you mean, but it will do. It will do. Get out that cannon of yours. We’ll go straight down the hall, then I’ll go left and you go right. Shoot anyone who looks like our friend from the bathroom.” “Right.” Badger drew his pistol. “Where do they get such bad suits?” Calliope pulled the door open and slipped through, stalking forward in a crouch. She’s giving the terrorists a nice look up her skirt, thought Badger. Shaking his head to clear the instant mental picture of him as a terrorist, ogling the sexy western woman, the Major rushed down the hall and dove to the right. The darkened baggage car exploded with muzzle flashes and deafening explosions. Badger fired three times toward a shadowy figure at the far end of the car. Wad-cutter, armor piercing, high explosive, he thought. Though nearly blinded by the muzzle flash, he was able to see the shape jerk twice, then vanish in a bright explosion. He had a glimpse of body parts bouncing across the floor. Firing ceased. “Good going, Major,” called the woman. She was crouched behind a heavy crate on the other side of the car. Voices babbled downrange. Calliope fired toward the sound. Badger saw her pistol jerk and heard the now-familiar plonk-plonk. He triggered two rounds in the same general direction. The muzzle flash was awesome, but the only noise was a sodden squdge-squdge. Not very impressive. A rifle, probably the old reliable AK-47, answered back. Bullets ripped overhead. The sound seemed about to tear Badger’s scalp off. The bad guys had the edge in acoustics. Calliope ejected a magazine and slammed in another. She screamed something Badger didn’t understand, then stood up and plonked away. More to put an end to the horrid enemy gunfire than for any other reason, Badger raised up and fired until the pistol action locked open, smoking, magazine empty. They both knelt in position, waiting for return fire. None came. Sunlight streamed through several new, ragged holes at the front of the car. When his flash-deadened vision returned, Badger slipped forward around a pile of crates in the middle of the compartment. The woman crept along, matching his move on the other side. There was no reason for stealth. The bad guys were reduced to a loose collection of parts. Blood dripped off everything visible. Calliope kicked an anonymous piece aside. “Looks like we got ‘em.” She grinned at Badger. “I want one of those cannons. Do you suppose they make it in a smaller caliber with a cut-down frame and barrel? Something suitable for a thigh holster or to carry in a bra?” The American agent, low-life that he was, marveled at the instant image he had of Calliope tucking a powerful handgun into her bra. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised smoothly, even though his influence on R&D was laughable. If he could get her the gun she wanted, she might let him help with the fitting. Hope springs eternal – especially vain hope. Le Nez Broche Rimouski, QC Each of the intruders had a heavy beard and wore a cheap overcoat, not unlike the duster of Old West fame. Two carried pistols and two were armed with AK-47s. They stopped inside the doorway, blinking in the poor light. For long seconds, no one moved or spoke. The sound of frying fish wafted out of the kitchen. Taz made the first move. He sighed and folded up, unconscious before he hit the floor. One of the terrorists swung his pistol toward the sound, but didn’t shoot. He laughed and said something harsh and guttural to his companions. A man at the corner table stood up and uttered his own version of harsh and guttural. Tension ratcheted up several notches. Stag eased his hand toward his pistol. Taz broke the stillness with a bubbly fart. Even out cold his gaseous emissions were works of art. Two of the terrorists made embarrassed laughing sounds and shifted position. Stag began sliding his weapon free of the holster. Anyone could have started the shooting. Triggers were drawn tight. The tableau couldn’t hold, yet no one fired. It was as if some vagrant angel of mercy were staying the fingers of all in the room. Could the situation be defused without gunfire? Stag pushed his pistol safety to ‘off’. The cook, no angel of mercy, fired over the kitchen half-doors. Both barrels were loaded with double-O buckshot. Her first blast shattered one of the pistol-packing bad guys, blowing a good portion of his skull and brains onto his compatriots and splattering the balance across the wall. Worse, for the terrorist’s prospects, his mortal remains were flung, flailing and dribbling piss, into the heart of their compact formation. An old hand with shotguns, although not much to look at, the cook swung back on line and put her second round into a man in the act of swinging his rifle in her direction. He executed a very nice backflip and slid along the wall, greasing the floor with blood, lung tissue and rib cartilage. Stag brought his pistol to bear, but couldn’t find a target. One of the terrorists had fallen backwards through the doorway, taking out the screen door. The other went down in a welter of blood and brains, none of which was his own – yet. Stag ducked to the side as this man rolled and fired, more or less in the blind. His mental picture of the room was good. Two rounds shattered Stag’s now vacant chair. Two of the alleged smugglers rotated in their chairs and fired together, one with a large pistol and the other with a heavy revolver. Both fired three times and only one round missed its mark. It lodged in the wall, just behind where the terrorist’s head would have been if an earlier slug hadn’t knocked his twitching carcass aside. No sooner had the weapon roar died away amid a universal ringing of the ears than two more shots split the air. These were fired outside. Stag crouched and moved toward the door, pistol forward, in the classic shooter’s stance. A man in a black beret peeked around the door frame. “One dead out here,” he announced. “All clear inside?” Whoever the stranger was, he obviously wasn’t a terrorist. With shaking hands, Stag put his pistol on ‘safe’ and laid it on the table. He lurched to the bar. Maurice grinned, turned a page in his newspaper and nodded toward the heap of flayed carrion. “Friends of yours?” ***** Later, after a stiff shot of brandy, the man in the black beret took Stag aside. “Call me Geg,” he said. “Never mind who I represent. My job is to help you find the fat man with the calliope and get to Gaspé in time to help stop whatever might be going on there. An associate of mine is traveling with the American.” Stag wasn’t sure how to take this helpful stranger. They turned to watch the alleged smugglers carrying the bodies to a nearby pickup truck. “They shouldn’t move the dead until the police arrive,” protested Stag, although only loud enough for Geg to hear. “There will be no police,” said Geg. “These men have their own reasons not to involve the legal authorities, but we don’t need the distraction of filling out reports and making statements, either. There isn’t time. Not if we’re to catch the fat man.” “What will become of the bodies?” Geg steered Stag toward the waiting Checker. “They will lie on the sea bottom in a few hours. Food for crabs.” “Crabs?” “Of course. Crabs will reduce a large man to bones in a few hours. Then other little eaters finish off what remains.” Stag loved crab meat. Loved it with a passion. But, somehow he knew there would be no crab in his future – for a few months, at least. He climbed into the Checker. Geg got in the passenger side. Taz was in the back, still asleep, still farting. “Maurice will take my car back to the rental agency,” said Geg. “We need to head north until we reach Hwy 198, then follow it until we catch up with the fat man and his calliope.” One of the alleged smugglers walked by with a bucket full of odd bits and pieces. He grinned at Stag and said one word. “Chum.” Gagging, Stag gunned the Checker out of the parking area and onto the highway. Taz woke up about five minutes later. He sat up and looked around. “Where are we?” Stag grinned at Geg. “Just outside Pittsburgh. We’re headed down to Quantico to report for Marine boot camp. It’s a good thing you woke up. You’ve been drunk for three days.” Geg played along. He reached back and shook hands with Taz. “I am pleased to meeting you, Senor Taz,” he said in a thick Spanish accent. “We join Marines, kill communists.” “I think all the communists have turned into capitalist pigs,” said Taz. “Not in Cuba,” snarled Geg. “Soon Marines and Airborne Rangers take Cuba from Fidel. We kill plenty communists.” “Why don’t I have a headache?” asked Taz. “I always have a sick tummy and a headache when I come off a drunk.” Stag began snickering. Geg held out for a few seconds, then dissolved into laughter. “You two are complete bastards,” observed Taz without heat. The man in the black beret introduced himself again, this time with the ‘call me Geg’ line. Taz shrugged. He was only a sidekick. Stag handled all inter-agency contacts. “Where are we really? And what happened to those heavily armed lads with the beards and cheap overcoats?” “We’re a few kilometers north of Rimouski,” said Stag. “The terrorists are soon to be crab food.” He snickered. “You slept through the whole thing.” “Good. Excitement is bad for my complexion. What next?” Geg held up a hand. “We’re being followed. At least two men in a camper van.” Stag studied the van in his mirrors. “It’s probably just a tourist.” He didn’t believe it himself. “Speed up,” said Geg. “Surely your car can outrun a camper van.” “I’ll try, but this thing was built as a taxicab. Hell for stout, but not fast.” The van fell behind for a short while, then began creeping closer. Any doubt that the occupants might be innocent tourists evaporated. Stag pushed the Checker to a touch over 120kph. “That’s all she’s got.” He hunched over the wheel, concentrating on driving. Geg stared at the road ahead. The highway paralleled the coast, with mixed forest on the right and a steep drop to the water on the left. “There is a sharp turn ahead,” he cautioned. “Take it as fast as you can. They’ll have to slow down a lot, with that big van.” A solid thunk shook the car. Stag kept his eyes on the road. “That was a bullet,” said Geg. Taz passed out. A second round whined off the back glass, leaving a spider web of cracks. Two more bullets hit the trunk. None penetrated to the passenger compartment. “She is built tough,” said Geg. Stag pushed the Checker a little faster. He could see the camper van wallowing and rocking along behind. Twice he saw it fishtail back and forth. Each time the driver fought it back on course. “Those guys are crazy! They’re barely maintaining control.” The turn is coming up,” warned Geg. He had his pistol out. “If they hit something and we have to stop, try to put it into the brush. Then follow me out this side. There will be more cover and we’ll need to stick together.” “What about Taz?” Geg shrugged. “If we lose, they’ll toss him over the cliff – asleep and farting or not.” Stag saw the corner, less than a kilometer ahead. “I’m going to push it until we’re close! Then I’ll hit the brakes and try to make the corner!” “Don’t miss. It’s a long drop to the water.” The Checker rocked and shuddered, engine roaring. In Stag’s mirrors the van crept closer – no more than fifty meters behind now. He saw an occasional muzzle flash, but both vehicles were careening around too much for accurate shooting. “Get ready,” he shouted. The road dipped and the van loomed closer. They rocketed out of the dip and over a slight rise. The Checker strained upward on its springs, then crashed back down. “Now!” Stag began pumping the brakes. No fancy anti-skid in the old relic. As the car slowed, he braked harder, tires screeching. He caught a glimpse of the camper van, squatting in a cloud of tire smoke, sliding closer and closer. Their bumpers were only a few meters apart when he got off the brakes and whipped the car into a hard right turn. A quick downshift and he managed a creditable power slide, blasting gravel into the guard rail. Once he risked a glance back. The van was up on two wheels. A single face peered in his direction. He saw a wink-wink-wink that had to be muzzle flashes. Stag horsed the Checker around and got it straightened out. He looked back again and the van was gone. Just gone. Geg holstered his pistol. “One roll, my friend. I could see black wheels and then there was much dust and pieces of railing, but no van. One roll and they went over the edge.” “I saw someone,” murmured Stag, “just for a moment.” He glanced at Geg. “I think he was shooting at us even as the thing started to roll.” “He was. These people do not stop at half measures.” “No. They don’t.” Stag let the Checker cruise along at moderate speed. All the gauges were okay. The steering and brakes worked fine. He patted the dash. “Good job, old girl.” Taz sat up. “Where are we now?” “Halifax,” said Stag. “Don’t you remember? We’re AWOL. We should have been back aboard ship last night. We had to stay for the ceremony.” “Last night? What ceremony?” Taz frowned. “I can’t – was I drinking?” Stag grinned at Geg. “Don’t worry. She’s a nice girl. You’ll be very happy together.” Silence. Geg looked around. “He’s passed out again.” Down and Out Matapedia, QC Badger resisted an urge to toss his cellphone into the trees. “Still no signal!” Calliope uttered several earthy words and stuffed her phone back in her jacket pocket. “Same with mine! They told me the thing would work practically anywhere.” Their benefactor, a graying old farmer, spat over the side of the wagon. “Them fancy phones don’t work out here in the sticks.” He shook the reins and urged his horse to make haste. “These folks is in a hurry, Sobie. Git along now.” Sobie flicked her ears and plodded on with no discernable change in pace. Badger turned to Calliope. “What did he say? I thought I spoke French, but . . .” “He said the phones won’t work. It’s a localized version of Quebecois.” “Well, that’s just lovely. And you speak this jargon?” “Enough to get by. You’d have to live here to really know it. Most of the locals can understand English – they get lots of tourists here from the States. It pays to know what they want.” She laughed. “Mangling English and confounding Americans is a popular pastime.” The conversation made Badger tired. “I wonder how far it is to the road junction?” The farmer was taking them to the main highway. They hoped to catch a ride toward Gaspé. “Just around the bend, lad.” The farmer glanced up at the darkening sky. “Hope you don’t get rained on.” Calliope translated. The threatening rain made Badger’s spirits sink even lower. “That station master was a little upset about all the damage to his precious baggage car.” Calliope chuckled. “If we’d found anything in those crates it might have mollified him a little. Too bad they contained nothing but sand.” “That sand bothers me. I was disappointed when it turned out not to be itching powder or instant holy water, but why put sand in the boxes at all?” “And every box was half-full,” mused Calliope. “Almost as if something had been taken out of each one. What would anyone pack in sand?” “I don’t know. This is the first chance I’ve had time to think. The train crew and station master kept shouting at me – in French, of all things. I’m not sure they believed our identification.” “They didn’t. That’s why they tossed us off the train. I’ll bet they’ve alerted the RCMP.” “Well, that might not be so bad. They might have a working form of communications.” “True. But they’d also have a lot of questions. We left four dead bodies back there.” “Not to mention all the property damage.” Badger sighed. “If the boxes had contained explosives or some other dangerous item, it wouldn’t be so bad. But – sand?” The farmer dropped them at the main highway. No sooner had Sobie and the old man plodded out of sight than the first drops of rain fell. Calliope opened one of her tan leather overnight bags and brought forth a red and white striped umbrella. She popped it open and flipped a tiny switch, activating an orange rotating beacon at the tip. In a moment she slipped one bag on like a backpack and pulled the handle out on the other one. Umbrella in one hand, luggage handle in the other, she poised there on the side of the road like a tourist heading for baggage check-in. “Well? Shall we start toward town?” Badger, already wet and more miserable than usual, nodded. He picked up his tattered canvas bag and turned up his collar. “Let’s go. What town is it?” “I’m not sure. With any luck we’ll get a ride before we go too far.” The Ami agent grinned and shook his head. No truck driver was likely to miss a chance to pick up a mini-skirted woman walking in the rain. Whether he, Badger, would get to ride was another matter entirely. Sure enough, not five minutes later a long-nosed Pete pulling an empty flatbed came rolling down the shallow decline, jake-brake rapping a steady tune. Calliope stopped and posed with her cute umbrella and long legs, waving at the truck. Badger looked to be imitating a soggy shadow. Air brakes were applied. The jake-brake popped louder. The big conventional rolled to a stop beside the two agents and sat idling with a low rumble. Badger slopped forward, opened the passenger door and looked into the face of a middle-aged, portly woman with gray-brown hair stringing in her face. She eyed him with a strange intensity. When she smiled, he noticed extensive gaps in her teeth. “Howdy, sugar,” she rasped, in a voice calculated to remove paint. “Climb aboard. Sit right here next to me. Name’s Lilith, like that broad in the Good Book, y’know? What’s yours?” “Sam Smith,” said Badger. “What about my friend, here?” Calliope stepped forward. Lilith frowned. “Well, I suppose she can come along. There’s room in the sleeper, honey. Mr. Smith can sit up front with me.” She spat into a paper cup. “Either of you chew?” With Calliope ensconced in the sleeper and ‘Sam Smith’ strapped into the passenger seat, Lilith eased the Pete back into motion, rowing the thirteen-speed with easy grace. She tucked a wad of tobacco in her cheek and smiled at Badger in a way that might have been fetching – when she was twenty. He shivered and scrunched down in the seat. “Too bad your friend can’t drive this rig,” said Lilith. “You and me could get in the back and have us a time.” She cackled like a hen over a brand new egg. As they drove through the night, she crooned to herself, cackled at odd intervals and groped Badger with savage fingers. Badger hoped for two things. One – that Calliope didn’t know how to drive a big rig. Two – if she DID happen to know how, that she keep the knowledge to herself. Lilith, unwillingly, let them off at a truck stop in Campbellton. She dismissed Calliope with a pat on the arm, then wrapped Badger in a fierce hug. “Look me up if you come back this way, Sam,” she croaked, pawing him with intent. He twisted away and ran after Calliope. She was inside standing at a pay phone. “God! What an outrage! I feel so – so violated!” he whined, flinging himself into a nearby chair and pouting. “Welcome to the club. Did you break any nails?” He examined his hands. “No. Why?” “It doesn’t count as a violation unless you at least broke a nail getting away. An outrage requires that you draw blood.” She patted his arm. “Buck up, honey. You’ll survive. Now go get us some coffee while I try to contact someone back in civilization.” Civilization was wondering where the hell they had been. Calliope reported the circumstances of their gunfight on the train and the empty state of the crates. No one had heard from Geg. The situation as Gaspé was being watched, but no evidence of terrorist activities had been discovered. She was of the opinion that the crates had been a red herring, a ruse designed to draw them away from – from something. Something bad. Her contact agreed. But what? She had no answers. Badger returned with coffee and sweet rolls. Maybe he could learn something from the spy guys back in Montreal. Calliope sipped her coffee and listened as Badger reported to Spy Central. He also described the violence on the train and related the sad tale of the crates. Central was not happy, but they also had news. Badger listened for a long time, then hung up. “Geg and Stag tangled with a group of bad guys near Rimouski,” he reported. “The terrorists are done for. Our lads were last known to be headed north, on the trail of the fat man.” “Let’s hope they have better luck than we did,” said Calliope. “Is that all?” “No.” His eyes took on a haunted look. “A small ship has been spotted northwest of Point Saint Peter. It fired on a patrol boat and its headed into the bay leading to Gaspé.” “How long before it gets to Gaspé?” “Four to five hours.” Calliope made another call. This time she repeated a single word three times, then hung up. It was a word of power. A word to make strong men blanch and fall silent. Badger cringed as she spoke the cantrip. “Commitment, commitment, commitment.” (next page) |