The Killer Trail Read online

  OTHER NEWEST MYSTERIES

  BASER ELEMENTS by Murray Malcolm

  BEYOND SPITE by R.F. Darion

  BODY TRAFFIC by A. Domokos & R. Toews

  BUSINESS AS USUAL by Michael Boughn

  THE CARDINAL DIVIDE by Stephen Legault

  THE DARKENING ARCHIPELAGO by Stephen Legault

  A DEADLY LITTLE LIST by K. Stewart & C. Bullock

  GUILTY ADDICTIONS by Garrett Wilson

  A MAGPIE’S SMILE by Eugene Meese

  MURDER IN THE CHILCOTIN by Roy Innes

  MURDER IN THE MONASHEES by Roy Innes

  NINE DEAD DOGS by Murray Malcolm

  PLANE DEATH by Anne Dooley

  REUNIONS ARE DEADLY by D.M. Wyman

  UNDERCURRENT by Anne Metikosh

  WEST END MURDERS by Roy Innes

  and Garry Ryan’s

  DETECTIVE LANE MYSTERIES

  QUEEN’S PARK

  THE LUCKY ELEPHANT RESTAURANT

  A HUMMINGBIRD DANCE

  SMOKED

  MALABARISTA

  FOXED

  THE

  KILLER

  TRAIL

  D.B.CAREW

  COPYRIGHT © D.B. CAREW 2014

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Carew, Derrick, 1969-

  The Killer Trail / Derrick Carew

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-927063-52-1 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927063-53-8 (epub).-- ISBN 978-1-927063-57-6 (mobi)

  1. Title.

  PS8605.A737K55 2014 C813’.6 C2013-906955-0

  C2013-906956-9

  Editor For the Board: Don Kerr

  Cover & Interior Design: Greg Vickers

  Author Photo: Tanya Carew

  NeWest Press acknowledges the financial support of the Alberta Multimedia Development Fund and the Edmonton Arts Council for our publishing program. We further acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $24.3 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.

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  No bison were harmed in the making of this book.

  We are committed to protecting the environment and to the responsible use of natural resources. This book was printed on 100% post-consumer recycled paper.

  1 2 3 4 5 15 14 | Printed and bound in Canada

  FOR

  TANYA

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ONE

  Tuesday, February 7, 4:13 p.m.

  He approached James Carrier’s body, not so much to ensure he was dead—the gaping hole in the chest pretty much confirmed that—but because Ray Owens always liked to inspect his handiwork. He had done his job, and he had done it well. He’d studied his target—knew where he lived and worked, what church he attended, even where he bought his cigarettes. Most importantly, he knew James Carrier walked this trail every Tuesday. Ray had waited patiently for the right time, the right shot. Now he congratulated himself on a job well done.

  The only blemish on this otherwise perfect job, he thought, was the fucking crows. They cawed in annoying unison, as if to give away his cover. For a moment, he considered using his Remington M24 to shred a few feathers. Nothing ever stops me from enjoying my kill, he scowled. But he lowered his rifle, not wanting to waste bullets on a few pathetic birds. Besides, he knew he wouldn’t stop at one; he’d kill them all.

  Ray emerged from his cover in the bushes, slapping snow from his clothes as though swatting away flies. He deftly disassembled the rifle, stowing it away in its case, where it would remain in preparation for the next job. He reached into his tattered trenchcoat and pulled out his cell phone to call his client.

  “It’s done.” No response; he didn’t expect one. He dropped the phone into his pocket and grabbed a cigarette. He didn’t know much about his client, and this suited him just fine. All he needed to know was who, when, where, and how he was getting paid.

  Nor did he care about the why when it came to his targets. He remembered his foster mother always asking those stupid why questions: Why, at age ten, had he severed her cherished lovebird’s head? Why, at twelve, had he punctured his foster sister’s eye with a pellet gun? Why, at fifteen, had he set his principal’s car ablaze? His answer was always “Why not?”

  Ray didn’t waste his time trying to understand his actions. All he knew was that a kill gave him a rush unlike anything else he had ever experienced. Even sex was no match for the euphoria that came from inflicting pain and sorrow on others. He left the whys for others to worry about: the school counselor who had told Ray’s foster mother that he had difficulty forming attachments and didn’t interact well with others; the child psychologist who had diagnosed Ray with conduct disorder; the head shrink at the Institute of Forensic Psychiatry who had diagnosed him three years ago with antisocial personality disorder. None of it meant squat to Ray. The only thing that mattered was that he’d been able to carve out a nice little niche for himself: Have gun, will kill.

  Leaning down, cigarette dangling from his thin lips, he brushed his greasy, thinning hair away from his forehead and drawled, “Are those crows bugging the shit out of you too, J.C.?”

  Ray grabbed his rifle—his constant companion—and began his retreat from the trail. During the hours he’d spent waiting for his target, snow had accumulated around his scraggy body. Now, a sudden snow squall ripped through the woods, ravaging branches like so much dead wood. He wasn’t sure where his next job would take him, and for now, he really didn’t care. He just wanted to leave this godforsaken place for a warmer, drier spot, where he would wait for his next call.

  TWO

  Tuesday, February 7, 4:43 p.m.

  On a scale of one to ten, Chris Ryder figured this run would rate a dismal three. He had long ago taken to rating his runs: ones were horrid and tens life-altering. He lived to run, but on this cold and blustery day, it hurt to breathe, and each step he took trapped him under inches of unforgiving snow. Today’s run would certainly reach no highe
r than a three.

  Well, Ryder, you’ve got yourself into a fine mess now. He knew that it was stubborn routine that had taken him to this trail. It was Tuesday, and Tuesdays were running days. So run he would, come hell or high water—or, in this case, a wintry hell.

  Woodland Park, outside Vancouver in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia, was an area Chris usually loved for its natural beauty. On most days, he also loved the thrill of the unexpected. He’d seen deer, coyote, and the occasional black bear. On most days, the terrain’s steep inclines and winding switchbacks provided a decent challenge for his athletic thirty-eight-year-old body. On most days, he cherished the adrenaline rush and the clarity of thought that came from running on these trails. This was not one of those days.

  This was one of those days Chris wished he’d charged his iPod. The sounds of shrieking guitars and pounding drums would have been a welcome distraction.

  It occurred to him that running and music remained the only constants in a life that had become foreign to him. The past six months had been memorable, despite his desperate efforts to forget. “Chris, I think it would be best if Ann Marie and I moved out for a while.” The words of his wife, Deanna, played over and over in his head, no matter how hard he tried to erase them. He had trouble grasping this new reality where he was reduced to being a visitor on Tuesdays and Saturdays with the two most important people in his life.

  He wondered how things had gotten to this point and if he’d ever again experience the wholeness and contentment he was searching for. Since the separation, he’d had offers for dating, but he just wasn’t ready to try love again.

  He felt alone here on this desolate trail where the only other living creatures were the crows incessantly screeching in the distance. Damn, I’m pathetic, he thought even as he welcomed the companionship they provided.

  Chris tried to shake the depressing thoughts from his mind and focused on his struggle with the snow-covered trails. He knew that time, like the weather, was working against him and estimated he had twenty minutes before the last traces of daylight surrendered to the night.

  He hadn’t wanted to be running this late in the day. He had planned to skip out of work earlier, but had been delayed. Paul Butler, a despondent patient at the Institute of Forensic Psychiatry where Chris was a social worker, had pleaded with him to talk just a little longer. Chris had found himself spending an inordinate amount of time at work lately. Helping others with their problems seemed a lot easier for him these days than resolving his own.

  He tried to remove thoughts of work from his head, to focus on getting through his run and keeping to his schedule. Chris and Deanna had worked out a plan where their daughter would stay with him on Tuesday and Saturday evenings. This meant he had less than two hours to get to the house he had once called home to pick up Ann Marie.

  Reaching the crossroads area of the park, a familiar point in his run where three trails intersected, he noticed another set of footprints. He wondered whether a foolhardy routine had driven another victim like him to this frigid trail.

  His eyes caught an object jutting out from the snow. Curious, he reached down to pick it up: a cell phone case. Yanking off his snow-encrusted gloves, he opened it to find a cell phone inside. Chris reckoned it had been dropped only minutes before, judging by the snow accumulating on the trail. With no one in sight, he flipped the cover open and scrolled through a variety of features on the phone, hoping to find a number that would put him in contact with the owner.

  No luck. Chris tried the redial button, congratulating himself on figuring out a way to reunite the lost phone with its owner.

  After three rings, a commanding voice answered. “Yes, Ray?” The man sounded mildly annoyed.

  “This isn’t Ray. I have his phone.”

  A brief silence was followed by a perplexed “Who are you?”

  “Chris. I was running the trails in Woodland Park and found this cell phone. I wanted to let the owner know I found it, but there weren’t any numbers except yours.”

  More silence. Then: “All right. Ray will want it back. Wait where you are, and I’ll have him meet you.”

  Chris sensed this guy was used to barking orders for others to follow, and he didn’t feel like playing along. “Listen, I’ve got to be somewhere. It’s almost dark and the weather is turning out here. I’ll leave the phone at the gas station on Cumberland Street, across from the entrance to the park.” A tree branch smashed to the ground with a thud, distracting him.

  “Chris, I understand the inconvenience this creates for you, but I’ll have Ray there in a matter of minutes.”

  Chris picked up a sense of urgency in the man’s voice. “Listen, here’s what I’ll do. I’m heading back—” The phone lost reception. Chris shook it, and the signal returned. “Are you still there? I’m heading back to my truck at the park entrance. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. If Ray is there, I’ll give him the phone. Otherwise, I’ll leave it at the gas station.”

  “Thank you, Chris. Now, how will Ray recognize you? I assume you are alone?”

  “Yeah. I’m alone. You won’t find too many other fools out here tonight. And I’m wearing a yellow jacket. I’ll be the one freezing his ass off.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll see you in a short while and take care of this.” The line went dead.

  Chris’ thoughts suddenly shifted to his daughter, and he groaned. Her mother would be sure to give him grief for messing up her night. Realizing he’d left his own cell phone at work, he decided to use Ray’s to call Deanna. Ann Marie answered.

  “Hey, sweetie, how are you doing? It’s a lovely night out there, isn’t it?” He surveyed the broken branches littering the trail around him.

  “Where are you, Daddy? Mommy’s been calling you.”

  “I got caught out on my run. Can I talk to Mommy, please? I love you—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, a flustered Deanna was on the phone. “Chris, where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour.”

  “Sorry, Dee, I decided to go for a run at Woodland before picking up Ann.”

  “You’re joking, right? It’s a blizzard out there. Are you crazy?”

  “I wish I were. Joking, that is.” He wiped snow from his head. “No, I’m out here and I found a cell phone. Someone’s coming to pick it up, so I’m going to be a few minutes late coming over to get Ann.”

  “That’s what I was calling about. I think it’s best Ann Marie stay here for the night. It’s getting too stormy for her to go out tonight. Is that okay with you?”

  Chris knew she wasn’t really waiting for an answer, that she’d already decided what was best for the both of them. He also knew she was right, but he would try to salvage something from the night.

  “Would it be okay if I came over to see Ann after I finish with this phone business?” While he knew there was no longer any hope of reconciliation in their marriage—they’d been down that road to nowhere in the past—he hadn’t given up on trying to reach common ground with Deanna, if for no other reason than the health and well-being of their daughter. The product of a broken marriage himself, he was determined not to make the same mistakes as his father.

  “You’re welcome to drop by. Ann Marie would love to see you. And Chris... Be careful. This sounds pretty dangerous, meeting someone you don’t know, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of a storm.”

  “Well, Dee, what can I say? I’m a sucker for punishment. I guess I should go. It’s his phone I’m using, and the battery looks like it’s about to die. I’ll see you soon.”

  Silence at the other end. The call had gone about as well as he’d expected. Deanna’s tone told him that she was not happy. He wondered if the change in weather had resulted in a broken date for her. Chris shook the thought from his head and resumed his exit from the trail.

  THREE

  Tuesday, February 7, 4:53 p.m.

  C.L. slammed the phone onto its base and glared out the window
of his three-million-dollar estate, trying to suppress his rage at Ray Owens. The one time he’d asked him to do a job, and the bastard had messed it up. Now Ray’s stupidity threatened to expose him. C.L. had heard the stories about Ray and knew he was a loose cannon, but he’d needed someone who would carry out the job of eliminating James Carrier without asking why. More important, he’d also needed someone who could not be connected back to him. Ray had fit that bill on both counts. Now that bloody phone was joining them at the hip.

  This would be the last job Ray would do for him—the last job he would do for anyone. And C.L. was going to have to clean up the mess Ray had made. He lumbered his potbellied body into his home office where he unlocked his filing cabinet. His eyes scanned his private Rolodex until he found the card he was looking for. Punching the numbers with his fingers, he stared at the windblown snow outside the window, relieved to be snug inside.

  His call was answered on its first ring. He wasted no time in idle chitchat. “You in town? Good. I need you to take care of something for me. I’ve had a job go sideways on me today. I want you to put it back on track.” He disclosed the details of the assignment. Pouring a glass of Glenfiddich, he slammed the bottle down on his oak desk. “I know it’s snowing!” he roared. “I don’t care what it takes or what it costs. I need this done tonight. Can you handle it?”

  Receiving the answer he wanted, C.L. picked up his glass and took a generous sip. “It’s at Woodland Park, near the gas station on Cumberland. The guy’s wearing a yellow jacket. The name’s Chris. Do him, and Ray. Yes, Ray Owens. And bring me that bloody cell phone.”

  He hung up, a grin spreading over his face. Money talks, he thought with a smile, and took another swig.

  FOUR

  Tuesday, February 7, 4:57 p.m.

  Ray carelessly drove his truck with one hand on the steering wheel, the other frantically searching his pockets for his cell phone. “Fuck!” he shouted when he realized he must have dropped it at the park. He knew he was in a race against time to retrieve his phone before anyone else found it. He thundered his rusted Cherokee down the snow-filled road, his eyes scouring the area for the nearest pay phone. Spotting one a half-block ahead, he careened his truck into the inside lane, bringing it to a screeching halt before jumping into the phone booth. He dialed his cell phone number. “Don’t answer,” he snarled. As much as he hated the idea, he’d rather retrace his steps all through the dark, snow-covered trails than hear a voice answer on the other end of the line.