Indiana Pulcinella

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 8
chapter 20

Accused Child Abductor Offers Information on Trafficking of Underage Girls

Alison Milton, accused of attempted child abduction in January, has offered to testify about the way young women are traded back and forth across the Canada-US border.

Joseph Lane, Alison Milton’s legal representative, says she has “damning” evidence that Efram Milton transported girls as young as thirteen to the United States with the intent of marrying them to men who were often in their fifties and sixties. Milton recently escaped custody and is being sought by police.

Lane says, “Alison also worked as a mid-wife. She delivered a baby for a girl who had just turned fifteen. Alison Milton is willing to testify the girl was coerced into marriage with Efram Milton.”

When asked if Alison Milton plans to plead guilty to the abduction charge, Mr. Lane said, “Alison’s defence may reveal more about the coercive nature of her marriage.”

“I wish we could take the espresso machine with us.” Andrew Pierce poured fresh beans into the stainless-steel coffee grinder. “I’m taking this grinder.” He turned on the machine. It growled, grinding the coffee beans into grains for the espresso machine.

“They said they wanted it furnished, so they get it furnished. We’ll buy new when we get there. I was getting tired of this stuff anyway.” Cori waved at the oak table and chairs. “I had my eye on a cocobolo table when we were last there.” She tucked her passports into the side pocket of the tan Prada bag she had bought in New York after one of their earlier trips.

“We’re ready to go?”

Cori snapped her purse shut. “All we need to do now is decide on where to go for lunch. Then I have a few things to pick up on the way.”

The professor left the coffee machine for a moment, picking up a green duffle bag with black straps. He zipped it open, lifted out items, and arranged them in a line across the kitchen table. The nine-millimetre handgun was on the far left followed by blue coveralls, surgical gloves, white booties, and hairnets. The FlexiCuffs were next, then a package of wipes and a spray bottle of bleach. “It’s all here. I’ll put it by the garage door so we don’t forget it.”

“Remember, I’ve got my eye on those shoes,” Cori said.

Lane and Nigel were dressed causally in clothing designed for warmth and freedom of movement. They listened while Lori checked off points on the fingers of her left hand. “McTavish’s team is in place. She let them in this morning. Phelps is already down at the caterer’s getting to know everyone, becoming part of the crew. The surveillance teams are in place.”

“She?” Lane asked.

Lori nodded. “The lady of the house.”

“What about the husband?” Lane asked.

“Out of town apparently.” Lori saw the frown on Lane’s face. “What?”

“They said five.” Lane looked at the screen on his desk.

“What?” Nigel asked.

“When I overheard the pair of them talking at the theatre, they said five.”

“You sure you don’t have these in a nine?” Cori handed back the red shoes with red musical notes inlaid in white soles.

The sales person, who might have been eighteen, shook her head, tucking back a wayward strand of black curly hair.

“I want you to go downstairs and check again.” Cori stuffed the too-small shoe into the box, thrusting the box at the clerk.

Andrew stood behind her, holding both of their winter coats and her purse.

“It looks like you may not have air cover tonight.” Harper stood inside Lane’s office. The detectives and Lori were going over the final details of surveillance and hostage scenarios.

Lane leaned back in his chair. He rubbed the muscles at the front of his rib cage. He looks worried.

Harper said, “The weather forecast is calling for rain, a wind shift to the north, freezing rain, then snow.”

Lane nodded. “We need to make sure we have the right ground vehicles.”

“I’ll make it happen.” Harper left.

Lane looked out the window. The normally sharp edge of the chinook arch was looking ragged. He checked a Canadian flag tugging at the pole. “The wind’s shifting.”

“Uncle Lane?” Christine’s voice was tense.

Is Indy okay? “What’s happened?” He drove south on Crowchild Trail, easing onto the right lane, taking the ramp to Marda Loop.

“I got another weird call from my half-sister Sarah. She said goodbye.”

Lane could hear Dan in the background. Milton’s making his run. “Call Lori and ask her to put you in touch with the RCMP. Tell them you have information that Milton is going to head south into the United States so he can disappear into one of the polygamist compounds. Also tell her it’s human trafficking.”

“What?”

Lane said, “Call Lori and explain she needs to talk with Harper. He’ll get in touch with the RCMP. It’s a suspected case of human trafficking. Then tell Lori about Sarah and Milton. Okay?”

Christine’s voice shook. “Okay.”

Lane sipped coffee at Phil and Sebastian’s at Marda Loop between Crowchild Trail and Mount Royal. He watched the cars going past. Their wipers shuddered back and forth, pushing the mist away. White and purple globes hanging on a nearby tree bobbed in the wind.

“Climate change.” Nigel looked at the coffee shop’s cubbyhole wall stocked with clear glass jars of coffee beans.

“Fucking weather,” a man said as he paid for his coffee. “Can always count on Calgary. The weather is shit.”

“What do you think?” Nigel sipped from a paper cup. He wore dark clothing so he would be less conspicuous if they needed nighttime camouflage.

Lane wore a black shirt and pants. A black parka hung off the back of his chair. “If the temperature drops all of a sudden, the soupy stuff on the roads will freeze, and the rain will make the driving more like skating.”

“Icy roads are always fun.” Nigel looked at his phone. “It’s almost nine.”

“The party will probably break up soon because people will be worried about the roads. This place is closing. We’d better get refills.” Lane’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. “Hello?”

McTavish said, “The suspects have left the party, headed north.”

“Got it.” Lane pressed End, stuffed the phone in his shirt pocket, put on his coat, and grabbed his coffee. He stepped outside into a north wind turning his breath into smoke, carrying it south as he walked across the street to the Jeep. His ears began to freeze. When he reached the other side of the street, he threw the coffee in a trashcan, zipped up his jacket, lifted the collar around his ears, and tucked in his chin.

Nigel got in the driver’s seat, started the engine, and turned the wipers on. They swiped at the ice on the windshield, doing nothing to clear the opaque surface. Lane climbed in the passenger side, turned the heat to defrost, grabbed the scraper out of the back seat, got out, and began to chip away at the ice on the windshield. His phone rang. He opened his jacket and pulled the phone out of his shirt pocket, turning his back on the wind. Nigel tried to clear the front glass with windshield-washer antifreeze. The smell of alcohol hung in the air.

McTavish said, “They’ve stopped at their home. I’ll keep you informed.” He hung up.

Lane tucked his phone away and opened the door, stuffing the scraper behind the seat. He looked at the expanding half moons of clear windshield. His phone rang again.

McTavish said, “They’re on the move again, heading your way along 33rd. They are wearing dark clothing and driving a grey BMW X5 with licence plate DR DETH. Got that?”

“Confirmed. The tail?” Lane asked.

“Black Ford pickup. Licence RUF-4387.”

“Got it.” Lane hung up, turning to Nigel. “They’re headed our way in the grey SUV. The tail is a black Ford pickup.”

Nigel nodded, alternating between the side mirror and the rear-view. “Here they come.”

Lane caught a glimpse of the X5 and Cori’s platinum-blonde hair. She held a phone against her right ear. Seconds later, a black Ford pickup passed them.

Lane checked the Ford’s plate. Nigel pulled out, following. “Glad they gave us the Jeep with the studded winter tires.”

They drove west on 33rd, crossing over Crowchild Trail as the rain fell, freezing against the top half of the Jeep’s windshield. Nigel leaned right to see through the bottom half of the windshield. Lane crouched to watch out of a spot the size of a dessert plate, slowly expanding as the engine warmed and the heater caught up. By the time they approached a Co-Op grocery store on their right, the heater was winning the battle against the freezing rain.

Lane’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. “Lane.”

Lori said, “A 911 call just came in. A report of shots fired at Cori and Andrew Pierce’s address.”

Lane looked ahead, seeing the taillights of the pickup light up. He turned right. Nigel took over the lead tail on the Pierce BMW. It turned north on Sarcee Trail and into the teeth of the wind.

Lane asked, “Was the caller female? Did she identify herself?”

Lori said, “Yes and no.”

Lane turned to Nigel. “Remember those Pierce blog titles?”

Nigel nodded.

“Was one of them about creating a diversion?”

Nigel said, “Yep.”

Lane felt a gust of wind push against the Jeep. “Send two units to the house and get back to me as soon as possible with what they find.”

Lori said, “Will do.” She hung up.

Lane’s phone rang again. He looked at the face, recognized McTavish’s number, and put the phone to his ear. “Yes.”

McTavish said, “Tell us where we can back you up. We’re headed parallel along 45th Street. The suspect took a long look at us in his rear-view. Keep this line open and update me.”

“Okay.” Lane watched the BMW surge ahead. Nigel put his foot to the floor, still losing ground.

Lane blinked, shaking his head, tapping Nigel’s right arm. I hope I’ve got this right. “Hang back. I know where they’re going. Andrew said it’s a two-fer. Cori said the total would be five. The woman in Mount Royal is one.” And Donna has an envelope full of hundred-dollar bills to pay the contractor tomorrow. Cori must know about it. Lane spoke into the phone. “They’re headed for Cougar Ridge.” He gave McTavish the address.

Lane squinted to keep the taillights of the grey BMW in view. The rain turned to snow; visibility dropped to less than one hundred metres. The wipers worked at full speed, the detectives staring into the white headlight glare, searching for the BMW. Above them they saw faces in windows as the LRT flashed overhead. They passed under the 17th Avenue Bridge. Momentary calm. They came out from under the bridge and back into the blizzard’s breath.

“I can’t see them.” Nigel shifted into a lower gear. The engine roared.

Lane hung on. They reached the lights at Bow Trail. The light was red. The Pierce BMW wasn’t in sight. Nigel waited for a break in traffic, turning left against the red and up the curve of the hill. The Jeep’s traction control kicked in and out.

Less than five minutes later they pulled up in front of Donna’s house. Across the street a thin layer of snow coated the roof and rear window of the BMW with the DR DETH licence plate. Nigel parked in front of it.

Lane saw fresh footprints in the snow. He got out and followed the trail to the back of the house. There was a hole smashed in the glass of the door to Donna’s shop. Lane tried the handle. It opened. He turned to Nigel, bringing the thumb and pinky finger of his right hand to his ear, handing him the phone. Nigel nodded, taking Lane’s phone. He stepped inside, seeing the open door at the back of Donna’s salon. He slipped on the floor. He looked down at his snow-covered shoes and patches of wet on the linoleum. I need quiet, and I can’t slip. He placed the right toe on the heel of the left foot, pulling his left foot out, then freeing his right. He padded to the bottom of the stairs, noting the carpet, pulled out his Glock, eased the slide back, and put a round into the chamber. He felt his way upstairs.

He heard the professor’s voice. “Let’s make this easy. We’re here for the money.”

Lane reached the top of the stairs, turning right along a hallway leading to the kitchen. It was on his left with the family room on the right. Beyond that, a door led to the deck. Andrew and Cori wore matching blue overalls, standing side by side with their backs to Lane. Both wore white hairnets and booties. Beyond them Lane could see Donna and her husband in kitchen chairs. Both had their waists, wrists, and ankles wrapped with silver duct tape. Cori moved away from them with the roll of tape in her right hand. Donna spotted Lane, then looked to her left. She’s telling me her boys are to my right.

Lane tapped his index finger on the trigger guard of his Glock.

Cori said, “I’ll ask once more. Then someone will die if you don’t answer. Where did you stash the cash?”

Lane moved forward, seeing the handgun in Andrew Pierce’s right hand. He stood to the right and about two metres from Donna and her husband. Pierce raised his weapon, holding it in both hands, aiming at Donna.

Lane felt his arm bringing the Glock to bear on the professor. Remember to breathe.

“Kill the oldest boy,” Cori said.

Lane took in the scene, his training making the moves automatic. He cupped his left hand under his right. I have a clear line of fire.

The professor began to swing the handgun to his right.

“No!” Donna said. “It’s in the upstairs laundry closet!”

Pierce hesitated.

“Kill him anyway.” Cori smiled.

“Police!” Lane forced himself to take a long, slow breath while aiming for the professor’s torso.

Andrew Pierce turned toward the detective. Lane noticed the man’s eyes were wide with wild excitement. The detective moved his finger onto the trigger, centring the sight on the man’s sternum.

BOOM! Pierce fired. One hundred sixty decibels were confined to the kitchen and family room. Lane didn’t hear the bullet hit the wall twenty centimetres from his head. He squeezed the trigger of his Glock, feeling the shock of recoil. BOOM! One of the boys screamed. Pierce looked surprised, touching his chest with his left fingertips. His right still held the gun, pointing to the ceiling, then lowering. Is he wearing Kevlar? Lane aimed at the hole in the professor’s chest, squeezing. BOOM! The spent shell casing bounced off the wall, hitting the back of Lane’s right hand. His nose filled with the musky stink of burnt oil and powder. He saw two holes in the centre of the man’s coveralls, yet the professor was still standing. Pierce aimed at the detective. Lane squeezed the trigger.

BOOM! A hole appeared where the professor’s right eye had been. His body folded, flopping onto the floor.

Cori moved to her left. Lane saw the box cutter in her right hand. “Drop the knife.” He levelled his gun at her chest.

She dropped the yellow knife, pointing at the professor. “He forced me into this.”

“Bullshit!” Donna leaned forward to stand, falling back into the chair. “Cut me loose! I’ll kill you, you fucking cow!”

Lane heard a child crying.

He stepped further into the room, looking to his right. Hansen sat on a black leather couch. His eyes were open wide as were his younger brother’s. Both boys had their hands tied together with white plastic cuffs. The younger boy wailed, staring at Dr. Pierce’s twitching right foot. Blood stained the carpet. The boys lifted their feet up onto the couch. One had a dark wet stain in his crotch. Lane walked into the room, picking up Andrew’s weapon.

“Cut me the fuck loose! She’s getting away!” Donna said.

Lane looked left, seeing Cori stepping out the door to the deck. Then he heard her feet pounding as she ran. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?” Nigel stepped up beside him. Lane looked left at his partner.

Donna said, “We’re okay! Get Cori!”

Lane holstered his Glock, ejected the clip from Pierce’s handgun, then the round from the chamber, setting the gun on the counter. He experienced an instant of absolute clarity as he made eye contact with his partner. “You got this?”

Nigel nodded, holding his phone up in his left hand. “Backup is almost here. I’ll phone for an ambulance.”

“Give me the keys.” Lane felt them being placed in his palm, detached from the touch of metal and plastic against flesh. He turned and went out the front door, then walked down the front steps and to the front edge of the garage. The BMW’s starter whined. The engine caught. He saw Cori behind the windshield, the wipers swiping snow away from the glass. The V-8 engine roared. Cori pulled away.

Lane ran for the Jeep. It wasn’t until his right foot wrapped its toes onto the accelerator that he remembered where he’d left his shoes.

He followed Cori south, then west. She has the advantage on performance. The snow and ice will even things out.

Cori slid around a corner, driving over a stop sign, heading west along a straight stretch of road. Lane rounded the corner, pressing the accelerator. The BMW pulled away.

Blue, red, and white lights flashed ahead. Cori’s brake lights came on. Lane heard a siren. A black-and-white police SUV passed them going in the opposite direction. Cori turned left. He caught a glimpse of a road sign: Old Banff Coach Road. He remembered being eight or nine in the back seat of his father’s black Cadillac, feeling sick after a series of sharp turns. He pressed down on the accelerator. The Jeep skidded, swaying, skipping, and gripping over patches of snow and ice. The plows and sanders won’t hit this stretch of road for hours. He backed off the pedal while Cori accelerated.

A radio or television tower rose on his right, its guy wires stretching up into the storm. Then it was gone. Cori’s taillights disappeared. A sign appeared in a world turned white: Artist Viewpoint. Then he saw a yellow sign warning of an upcoming turn and eased off the accelerator. The Jeep’s headlights focused into a cone where white snowflakes were illuminated, sweeping out of the dark on one side, into the night on the other.

Another yellow warning sign. Another turn. The Jeep skidded. One tire found a patch of gravel. Lane steered out of the turn. Up ahead, another ninety-degree turn and a pair of red eyes staring back out of the white and the night. He eased his foot off the accelerator. The Jeep skidded, then recovered.

The BMW brake lights came closer. Lane put his right foot on the brake pedal. He pulled off onto the edge of the road, turning on his four-way flashers, shifted into neutral, pulled the emergency brake, and reached to pick his phone out of his pocket. Nigel has it!

Lane opened the door, pulling the Glock out of its holster. He looked left and right, then into the white. Seeing no halo of approaching headlights, he crossed the road. He slid down into the ditch, balancing with his left hand, holding the Glock high. His right foot stepped on a walnut-sized piece of gravel and he winced. Shit!

The BMW was on its roof, hung up in a barbed-wire fence, its passenger side against a tree. He pulled a flashlight out of his pocket, shining it on the driver’s door. His Glock followed the light. Airbags hung down from the steering wheel, obscuring half the shattered driver’s window. The driver’s door began to open. Cori tumbled out on her hands and knees. “Who are you?”

“Lie face down. Put your hands on the back of your head.” Lane aimed the light in her eyes.

“I’m the victim here. Andrew told me he would kill me if I didn’t do what he said.”

“Lie face down!” He held the Glock out front of the light so she could see its lethal black silhouette.

Cori did as she was told.

“I am a police officer. You are being placed under arrest.” Lane came closer, crouching, putting a knee in the small of her back, holstering the Glock, grabbing her left wrist with his right hand, reaching for his handcuffs. He locked her right hand first, then her left, lifting her to her feet.

“I’m cut.” She wiped her chin on her shoulder.

I don’t give a fuck! “Walk to the road.”

“I think the airbag broke one of my ribs.” She walked ahead. Lane saw she still wore her white booties over a pair of lace-up boots.

He put his right hand in the small of her back, pushing her up out of the ditch and onto the road. She slipped on the black ice, falling to her knees. “You made me fall.”

Socks are better on this. “Get up.”

He pulled her up by her right elbow. They walked across the road to the Jeep. “Stop.” He held the cuffs with his right hand, pushing her up against the side of the Jeep, and opened the door with his left. “Back up.” He grabbed the chain joining the cuffs, pulling her backwards so he could sit in the driver’s seat. He pulled his feet in, then felt for the heater control. He turned the hot air onto his feet. He switched hands with the cuffs, pulling out his Glock with his right hand.

“I’m cold. Let me sit inside,” Cori said.

Lane heard the pleading in her tone, but he also heard the calculation. You remind me of my siblings. “You’ll be inside soon enough.” He watched the snow gathering on her shoulders and hair. Then he remembered her face – that smile of anticipation, that tone of command – when she told her husband to kill one of Donna’s boys. He looked at the Glock. He looked at her, remembering the bodies in the Randall home. She might be able to get away with this. I could put this gun to the back of her neck, and she will never hurt another person.

“I want a lawyer.”

Lane flashed back to the startled look on Andrew Pierce’s face when the bullets hit his chest. He felt the weight of the weapon in his hand, the power of it. “You have that right, and you will have the others read to you momentarily.” I could put the gun to the base of her skull, angle the barrel up into the brain, and squeeze the trigger. I already killed the husband. It was easier than I thought it would be. I’m a killer because of this one. Lane stared at the gun in his hand, seeing his forefinger across the trigger guard. Blue-and-white lights flashed, illuminating the inside of the Jeep’s cab in an eerie alternating dance. Lane looked left over his shoulder. The headlights of the approaching vehicle flashed on and off. Then another vehicle’s flashing lights approached. The first vehicle stopped. The headlights were almost a metre off of the ground. McTavish is here.

The driver’s door opened. “Everything under control?” McTavish asked before he stepped out in front of his headlights.

“She’s cuffed. She needs her rights read to her. Take her, please.” Lane watched as McTavish took hold of Cori’s elbow. Another officer stepped into the glare of the headlights.

Cori said, “This man shot my husband.”

McTavish turned to the officer beside him. “Wait for a moment. I want to be a witness as you read her rights.”

Lane saw the officer was wearing his blues underneath a nylon jacket. The officer looked at Lane, then took Cori by the elbow, reading her rights. McTavish nodded when the officer was finished, and took Cori back to the pickup.

McTavish held out his hand. “ASIRT is on its way. So is Harper. I need your weapon.”

Lane pointed his Glock at the dash and ejected the clip, then the round in the chamber. The slide was open. McTavish pulled a bag out of his pocket. He took the bits of the Glock one by one, placing them in the bag. “What can I get you?”

Lane tried to smile. He shrugged instead. He heard a voice. “A cup of coffee and my shoes.” His voice sounded vague, unfamiliar. “Someone needs to give the Randall family a call.”