The Burden of Darkness Read online

  “Oh, that’s where I keep my car, so it don’t get covered with too much dust.”

  Strand thought for a few seconds before asking, “What kind of car is it?”

  “It’s an ’08 Malibu. Runs good. By the way, the place is heated with propane. Big tank in the back, and she’s full. Just topped ‘er up. Gets cold around here in the evenings.”

  Strand said, “I don’t want to buy the place, but I’m interested in renting for two years, and I’d like the use of the car too. Oh, and I’ll take the furniture. Everything as is. Just move your personal stuff.” When he told Sadie how much he wanted to pay in advance to cover both years, her eyebrows shot toward the ceiling, but she said. “I wanted to sell it. I’m tired of the hassle. And it means I’d have to buy another car.”

  Strand replied, “Okay, I’ll sweeten the pot a little.” He told her his new offer, and, wanting this transaction hidden from prying eyes, he peeled off enough cash from a roll of bills to cover the proposed rent. He counted it out, placing one large bill after another in the stunned woman’s hand. When she opened her mouth to speak, he added, “I don’t need a rental agreement. You can cancel the power and registration on the car. I’ll be away for quite a while and don’t want to pay for utilities when I don’t need them. A handwritten Bill of Sale transferring the car to me will do fine. Do me a favor and make your signature illegible.” Pulling two more crisp hundred-dollar bills from his wad of money, he said, “Buy something nice for the kids.”

  Sadie nodded as she scribbled on a piece of paper. “Not being able to read my signature won’t be a problem.” She couldn’t have been happier if she’d won the lottery. Owen thought she might just leave the place abandoned or set fire to it after he finished with it. She assured him she and her boyfriend would move the older cars, cut off the power and registration on the car, and clean out her stuff before his move-in date.

  Owen glanced at the Bill of Sale and noted it was full of spelling mistakes, and the signature was little more than a wavy line. It would do. He smiled to himself as he drove away. It’s the perfect place for my last stand. If it came to it, I could see someone coming when they got around the dunes and pick them off as they arrived. I should be able to hold them off until the news helicopters arrive to document everything for the world. That would be something!

  Satisfied with that part of the plan, he moved on to the next. Owen had always wanted to travel, and Canada was the best option since one of his targets lived in Calgary. People respected Canada, and he’d heard it was clean and friendly. He understood April was not the best time to visit. He grunted. What choice do I have?

  He sold his car and paid cash to a travel agent to book a flight from Phoenix to Buffalo, New York. A little extra cash upgraded his seat to first class. Next, he checked on buying a vehicle out of state. It disappointed him to learn that buying a vehicle in Buffalo meant a temporary registration valid for a few days until he could finalize everything in his home state. That wouldn’t do. He didn’t know when he would return home, and getting it across the border into Canada and back with a temporary plate could be a problem. He searched the internet for a Dodge dealership in Buffalo and made a call.

  The man who answered had a Middle Eastern accent. Strand wasted no time. “I want to buy a truck.”

  “We have just the truck for you, sir. When can you drop by to see it?”

  “You don’t understand. I’m in Arizona, and I want to buy it now. I’ll send you the money.” He glanced at the screen, scrolling down until he found one that appealed to him. “Are there any fully-loaded Rams available to pick up in a few days?”

  “We have some, sir, but you must want to see for yourself. When are you coming to Buffalo? Let’s schedule a meeting, and I’ll show you what we have in inventory.”

  “Just send me the photos of the ones you have. I’ll pick one and wire the money. I’ll need the Vehicle Identification Number so I can register it and get the plates.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, and Strand could almost picture the man rubbing his hands together in glee at not having to negotiate a deal. He concluded the transaction in the next few days, registered the truck, and carried the plates with him to Buffalo.

  On the day of his departure, Strand packed his essentials in a suitcase and stored the stacks of cash in a carryon. In Buffalo, he visited the dealership and picked up the luxurious Dodge that he drove now. He took it to Larry’s RV Sales and spent more of his savings on a high-end camper with a slide-out to fit in the short-bed truck. Like the truck, it had everything: LED lighting and tinted dual-pane windows, among other luxuries, and the slide-out allowed for a dinette. He used cash everywhere, and the expressions on the people whose palms he greased always amused him.

  Next, he rented garage space and got to work. Owen used the rented space to clean everything out of the camper he didn’t need. He tossed most of the items designed to keep the average camper happy in any kind of weather. Only a small living area with a bed in the space hanging over the cab of the truck, the tiny kitchen and cupboards for food, and his tools remained. He built a storage compartment under the cupboards where he put a compact safe with a combination lock purchased from Home Depot. No need for a bank now, so he withdrew all his savings and stashed it. He added a flat surface where he could work on his drones when he bought them. It still looked like a camper to satisfy any prying Customs officer, but it was more utilitarian than it had been when he bought it.

  From Buffalo, he drove to Niagara Falls, where he admired the beauty of the roaring water, then through Hamilton and around Lake Ontario to Toronto, where he bought his first two drones. They were commercial quality, sleek and fast. One could carry significant weight, so it would come in handy later. He didn’t want to buy them in the U.S. and carry them across the border into Canada. Answering questions from Customs authorities was not something he wanted right now.

  The next stop was a hardware store where he stocked up on more tools he stored in the various new drawers in the camper. A couple of hours spent poking through the junk at an auto wrecker produced valuable parts to contribute to his plan. That was followed by a visit to a grocery store to stock up on supplies. He was all set.

  He drove to the nation’s capital of Ottawa, where the pictures didn’t lie. He toured the Parliament Buildings and drove along the length of the Rideau Canal. A handful of tourists surrounded the awakening tulips dotting the boulevard by the canal. Warm weather had teased them into the possibility of waking up, but as of now, it was still just potential. He wished he had time to stay and enjoy them, but the clock was not his friend. He had the run-in with the young woman in the outskirts of the city, and he had to leave sooner than expected. The test run also established he needed more practice with the new drones, which were much faster and more agile than his hobby machines.

  “Want coffee?” It was the tired, curly-haired waitress again, startling him and bringing him out of his reverie.

  “No, I’m good. Just the bill, please.” He was curious about the tattoo but didn’t ask.

  It was time to find a Walmart parking lot where he could park the camper and grab a few hours’ sleep before continuing his journey towards his first victim.

  Chapter Six

  When she reached the bottom of the slope, Marcie watched the chaos on the hillside in stunned silence. A crowd gathered outside the chalet, and at five feet, six inches, she had to shove her way to the front to confirm her worst fears. Shouted questions from the crowd hung in the air, and each jolted Marcie. “What’s going on? Is anyone hurt? Who’s that crazy guy up there? What’s he trying to do? Did he hurt her?”

  Some brave soul, emboldened by one too many hot toddies, shouted in response, “I’ll kill him if he did.”

  The scene on the hillside had degenerated into a pushing match as Marcie saw Nathan throwing people aside to get near the victim. It looked like he swung his fist at a young ski patrol volunteer, knocking him backwards, which precipitated
others to pounce on him. He was a wild man, throwing people off his back like rag dolls and charging forward. A blended mixture of shouts, grunts, and murmurs drifted down the hill from the tangle of bodies with the randomness of a tumbleweed.

  Nathan reached the center of the group where a woman bent over the victim. He pulled the woman aside and leaned over. Just as quickly, he straightened. It was obvious to Marcie he now realized he had made a grave mistake.

  The wee-wah of sirens announced the emergency vehicles turning into the chalet entrance. Marcie shuddered when she realized someone called the police on Nathan. The lead vehicle, an ambulance, continued toward the bottom of the hill so the attendants could attend to the victim who was being loaded onto a sled. Marcie peered over her shoulder through the crowd to see a black SUV with a white diagonal slash across the side doors slide to a stop at the front of the chalet. The words “Eagle County Sheriff” crossed the front and rear passenger doors.

  The emergency lights stopped flashing, and a large-framed man exited the vehicle. He adjusted his Sam Browne nylon belt laden with the attachments carried by police officers everywhere. In seconds, he assessed the situation, glancing at the commotion on the hillside, analyzing the crowd on the ground, and zeroing in on a young woman in a ski patrol jacket. He was hatless, his graying hair and erect posture exuding professionalism. He removed his sunglasses from his tanned, rigid face as he strode toward the young woman.

  Marcie pushed her way to the back of the crowd and ran to the officer as fast as her ski boots allowed. She frowned at the tail end of the conversation that greeted her. She overheard the young woman’s staccato delivery. “This crazy person stole one of our snowmobiles and just about ran over some skiers as he drove up the hill. He’s fighting people up there. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I hope he doesn’t have a gun.”

  Marcie’s thighs burned from running in the heavy boots, and she announced with a wheeze as she arrived, “I... I’m the man’s wife. His name is Nathan Harris. He assumed that was me up there.” She paused to catch her breath. “The injured woman’s jacket’s the same color as mine. I’m sure Nathan will come down now he’s seen he’s made a mistake. He’s been suffering from anxiety and he overreacted. He heard a loud noise, and that’s a trigger for his anxiety.” She looked up the mountain. “See, he’s coming down.”

  Nathan left the snowmobile where he parked it and was descending the mountain with shouted threats trailing after him. Despite his stature, he was a small, lonely figure silhouetted in the sunshine against the glistening snow, his shadow trailing along behind. His head drooped on his slumped shoulders, and he trudged as if he carried a thousand-pound weight, his boots slipping as he attempted to gain traction in the fresh snow. The policeman advised the young woman he would speak with her again in a few minutes. Marcie tried to match his strides as he walked to the bottom of the hill to meet Nathan. He said to Marcie as he walked, “We’ll sort this out, ma’am. Your husband will have to answer for taking the snowmobile and endangering peoples’ lives if the young woman’s story is true.”

  Marcie responded breathlessly, “I understand, but my husband needs help more than anything. We’ll take whatever consequences there are and address the cause of his actions. He’s a consultant for the FBI. Or, at least, he was. He hasn’t worked since we were in an explosion and fire at a hotel in Florida. Since then, he hasn’t been himself. He wakes up with nightmares and has zero enthusiasm for anything. I heard a sudden bang a few minutes before this started.” She hesitated to allow her breath to catch up. “It was a garbage truck that made the noise, but it’s the kind of thing that will cause Nathan to have flashbacks to the fire. He worries something will happen to me somehow, and that’s why he reacted the way he did. He needs professional help, and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  The policeman stopped, his rigid countenance lightening. “Wait, did you say FBI? It was you in the papers about the fire at the hotel? You’re the woman who saved the president and his guests? I read about that. Your fiancé was an FBI consultant, and he cracked the case. I can’t remember the names. Was that you? And him?”

  Marcie seized on the opportunity to convince the officer to go light on Nathan. “Yes, we were there. Nathan figured out that the assassin was in Tampa and how he would try to kill the president. I was inside the room in the hotel when the explosion occurred, and Nathan was working on getting the door open from the outside. If it hadn’t been for Nathan’s deductive skills and quick action, the attempt would have succeeded, and more people would have died, including the president of the United States and his wife.”

  The officer glanced up the mountain, watching Nathan plod toward the bottom. A lump caught in Marcie’s throat. Nathan looked so dispirited. Marcie suspected he was questioning why he reacted the way he did and what was happening to him. The only positive result would be if he realized he needed help.

  Nathan reached the bottom where Marcie ran to him and threw her arms around him. He returned the hug, clutching her for support. The officer maintained a respectable distance for a few minutes.

  Finally, he approached. “Mr. Harris, I’m Patrol Deputy Kastor. This area is my responsibility. We call it District One. First, I would like to thank you for your service in helping to save the president. That was outstanding work.”

  Nathan stared at the ground without acknowledging.

  The deputy continued, “I need to take your statement about what happened here. I’ll be talking to others, of course. Unfortunately, I have to put you in handcuffs and read you your rights. I’m sure a man with your experience will understand. If you’ll turn around, sir, I’ll make this quick.”

  Nathan co-operated without a word, and the three of them walked to the police car. Marcie hated seeing Nathan in handcuffs, but she hoped, as the sound of their footsteps crunching in the snow disappeared in the din of the shouting group of skiers, the optics might quiet the crowd. The worst was the humiliation Nathan must be experiencing. She appreciated the deputy for letting her walk side-by-side with her husband with her arm around his waist and her head on his shoulder. Nathan bowed his head, his shoulders sagged, and his face bore the look of wide-eyed bewilderment. He was a shell of the man she met in Africa who had stolen her heart enough to make her forget about the horrible experience of her previous marriage.

  Marcie thanked Deputy Kastor again for allowing her to sit in on the interview in the car. Nathan mumbled responses to the questions from the officer, offering little explanation for his actions as there was none to give. He spoke in a whisper forcing the deputy to strain to hear that the injured woman on the hill looked like his wife, and he had taken action to save her. He didn’t remember nearly wiping out two skiers on the way up the hill, and he didn’t mention hitting the ski patrol member or throwing people aside as he tried to get to the victim. Marcie was sure that part had also disappeared from his memory banks.

  After Deputy Kastor completed his questioning, he said, “The two of you will have to stay in town until I take statements from the others. My investigation should be completed by tonight. I’ll write up the report and get back to you tomorrow. I expect you to take care of your husband, Mrs. Harris, and make sure he causes no more trouble. Unless a member of the ski patrol wants to press assault charges, I see no need to take further action.” When Marcie raised her eyebrows in surprise, Kastor added, “There was no intent to steal the snowmobile. Your husband borrowed it to take him up the hill. Just tell me where you’ll be staying, and you can go.”

  Marcie gave him the information, and they exited the car. To make sure there was no trouble from the crowd, Kastor walked with them to their rental car, where he removed the handcuffs. Kastor strode away, and Marcie felt a tug on her hand. She turned to face her husband. The tears on the face of the usually strong man shocked her. He held both of Marcie’s hands and said simply, “Marcie, I’m scared. I need help.”

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning Owen Strand woke early, made egg
s and toast in the camper’s kitchen, and opened the door to the sun rising over the Walmart building. He threw on a jacket to combat the crisp, damp air, but the thin layer of snow deposited on the ground overnight already melted into puddles in the parking lot. Owen took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air inflating his lungs.

  Nausea crept into his throat, so he sat on the bench at the kitchen table. When it subsided, he filled a glass with water and downed another pill. He hated medication, but he needed the pills to keep going on his mission.

  He looked back at the rumpled bed, clear evidence it had been another restless night. As if he needed evidence. Even after he finished breakfast, his eyes still felt like someone had sprinkled grains of sand into them overnight. He couldn’t recall a good night’s sleep since Doctor Young pronounced his death sentence. He pulled the bed covers back over the bed in a half-hearted attempt to make it more inviting for the next time he tried to sleep.

  The nasal Canada geese calling to each other in the park carried through the thin walls of the camper. Their sound reminded him of someone blowing the horn on a car as the battery died. It gave him an idea, but first, he turned on the small TV over the sink to a news channel. He wondered what it would be like when he was the lead item. Sadly, he might not be around to enjoy it, but he would go down knowing that everyone would recognize his name. Today, the talking head blathered on about some typhoon that wiped out hundreds of people somewhere in Asia.

  Owen shut off the TV and powered on the laptop on the counter. Just for fun, he checked the regulations applicable to drones. He didn’t care because he didn’t plan on getting caught. He would constantly be on the move, so it didn’t matter, but he was curious. A scan of drone regulations on the internet in both Canada and the U.S. told him that the laws were still evolving, although they were tightening.

  There were many rules about flying drones in Canada – don’t fly it over 90 meters above the ground, only fly in the daytime, don’t fly it in the clouds, don’t lose sight of it, and don’t fly it within 5.5 km of an airport. He didn’t understand metric, but he guessed at what the numbers meant. A drone pilot even needed to take a knowledge test, and the owner must mark the drone with an identification number. There was something about the Federal Aviation Association developing a system to track drones in real-time. He sniffed. He wouldn’t be around to see the results of that project. It all reminded him of the cartoon dog listening to his master yelling instructions. All the dog heard was “blah, blah, blah.”