

The Ticket

D.G. Marshall

Published by Talon Lake Press at Smashwords.com

Copyright 2013 D.G. Marshall

Thank you for downloading this limited time, free eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please let the author know at Talonlakepress@gmail.com.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

*****

Please note that I use Canadian spelling throughout. You will see doubled letters (e.g. focussed), ou's (e.g. colour) and 're' (centre) as well as a few other differences from American spelling.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologu **e**

Chapter 1: Flora, Friday, May 31, 2013, 5 P.M.

Home Sweet Home

Chapter 2: AKA Frank, Friday May 31st, 6:23 P.M.

Homeless in Toronto

Chapter 3: Rakeesh, Tuesday, June 4th, 2:00 P.M.

The Testimony

Chapter 4: Flora, Friday June 7th, 5:20 P.M.

Grand Theft Auto

Chapter 5: Flora, Friday June 7th, 5:31 P.M.

Cut to The Chase

Chapter 6: Rick, Friday, June 7th, 5:35 P.M.

The Great Escape

Chapter 7: Flora, Friday June 7th, 6:30 P.M.

Secrets Revealed

Chapter 8: Rick, Friday, June 7th, 7:10 P.M.

Head West Young Man

Chapter 9: Flora, Friday, June 7th, 7:12 P.M.

The Wal-Mart Greeter

Chapter 10: Flora: Friday June 7th, 8:03 P.M.

On the Road Again

Chapter 11: Flora, Friday June 7th, 11 P.M.

Cottage is a Verb

Chapter 12: Rick, Saturday, June 8th, 4:02 A.M.

And Baby Makes Seven

Chapter 13: Rick, Saturday, June 8th, 6:12 A.M.

Beating the Dionnes

Chapter 14: Flora, Saturday, June 8th, 7 A.M.

Finding Things

Chapter 15: Rick, Saturday June 8th, 8:15 A.M.

Rules Are Rules

Chapter 16: Flora, Saturday, June 8th, noon,

A Boat Ride

Chapter 17: Greg, Saturday, June 8th, 2 P.M.

Hot Time in the Old town...

Chapter 18: Greg, Saturday, June 8, 3 P.M.

Out to Lunch

Chapter 19: Rick, Saturday, June 8th, 3:12 P.M.

Taking Care of Business

Chapter 20: Rick, Chapter Seven, Saturday, June 8th, 3:15 P.M.

The Word of God

Chapter 21: Herb, Saturday, June 8th, 3:26 PM

You Say You Want a Revolution...

Chapter 22: Flora, Saturday, June 8, 5 P.M.

Shootout at the Ok Cottage

Chapter 23: Flora, Saturday, June 8th, 6:17 P.M.

A Moving Experience

Chapter 24: Flora, Saturday, June 8th, 7:00 P.M.

Gorgeous George's

Chapter 25: Rick, June 8th, 7:30 P.M.

Home Sweet Home

Chapter 26: Greg, Saturday, June 8th, 9 P.M.

The Library

Chapter 27: Flora, Saturday, June 8th, 9:30 P.M.

Love and Other Things

Chapter 28: Flora, Sunday, June 9th, 6:00 A.M.

Captain Flora

Chapter 29: Rick, Sunday June 9th, 9 A.M.

'Board' to Death

Chapter 30: Captain Flora, Sunday, June 9th, 9:03 A.M.

The Best Laid Plans

Chapter 31: The Cavalry, Sunday, June 9th, 10:30 A.M.

Hold on. We're Coming

Chapter 32: Rick, Sunday, June 9th, 10:40 A.M.

I'm from the government and I'm here to help you

Chapter 33: Karly, Sunday, June 9th, 1 P.M.

Keep the Faith Baby

Chapter 34: Rick, Sunday, June 9th, 7:00 P.M.

The Hospital Cares

Chapter 35: Greg, Sunday, June 9th, 9:12 P.M.

Armageddon

Chapter 36: Rick, Sunday, June 9th, 8 P.M.

Charlie

Chapter 37: Flora, Sunday, June 9th, 2013 9:45 P.M.

The Cavalry

Chapter 38: Rakeesh, Sunday, June 9th, 10:20 P.M.

Love it When A Plan Comes Together

Chapter 39: Rick, Sunday, June 9th, 11:30 P.M.

The Hospital

Chapter 40: Rick, Sunday, June 9th, midnight

The Ticket

Epilogue

### $$$$$

Prologue: Friday, June 7th, 2013 9 P.M.

"So, do we know where he is now?" Gordon Erikson was more than annoyed at the much younger man that sat in the chair on the other side of his large oak desk.

"No sir," the younger man replied. "The last we saw of him he had left the 7-Eleven with another man and a woman. There was a police report that the woman's car was stolen so we are assuming that the three of them were heading out to look for it. About ten minutes ago a Constable Robert Peters," — the young man looked at some documents he had on his lap — "from the Peel Regional Police, located the stolen car and met the three of them at the GO station on Finch. We don't know where they have gone now."

"Who's the woman?"

The young man shuffled some paper until he found what he was looking for. "Flora Richmond. Fifty-five. Teacher at Macdonald Elementary. Husband Peter. President of the York Region Save the Earth Foundation. No record of anything out of the ordinary. There are some old surveillance photos of her at student protests in the seventies, but they didn't amount to much."

"The other guy?"

"We have a description that a clerk in the 7-Eleven gave us but we can't find any record of a name anywhere on file. No tax file. No driver's license. No health card. No SIN number. But we're checking it out."

Gordon Erikson had been the head of the Ontario Provincial Police—OPP— drug squad for ten years and this was the closest they had come to a major breakthrough and some major arrests. They had been gathering surveillance data for over a year now and had enough information on a major Russian crime family to understand the distribution network that they had established. The breakthrough came when Lottery Canada asked for a routine background check on a number of prospective owners of the hundreds of lottery kiosks spread throughout Ontario. On a case-by-case basis the buyers were not unusual. Many were recent immigrants to Canada and many were extensions of the already legitimate owners of the convenience stores that housed them. But a special data comparison algorithm run by one of the OPP analysts had uncovered something that wasn't disclosed on any application. Every kiosk buyer—man, woman, immigrant, citizen, whether wealthy or poor—belonged to the same health club on Dundas Street. The analyst checked further and found that the Gavrikov family owned the club. They had been under investigation by law enforcement agencies across the country for everything from extortion to prostitution and money laundering. And the word on the street was that they were trying to take over the north Toronto drug trade. It didn't take much surveillance to figure out that the lottery kiosks were simple and visible distribution points. One-stop shopping. Get your 649 ticket and your fix at the same time, Erikson ruefully thought to himself. After a year they had a lot of circumstantial video evidence but had not been able to get enough to make a charge stick to any member of the family. So they sent a man in undercover and he had now gone AWOL.

"Do you think that they took the bait?" Gordon asked the younger man.

"That could be the only reason for him taking off like that. Apparently there was an initial chase on the 401 before the 400 but it looks like he eluded them."

He paused. "But they will find him and try to kill him. They can't let him get to us."

Gordon smiled. When they realized they didn't have enough evidence they decided to flush out the family members. They purposefully blew the cover of their undercover man and leaked the misinformation that he had first hand evidence of the individual family –member's involvement in the drug trade. For a little extra insurance they leaked secret —incorrect as well—information that he had evidence of one of the brother's direct involvement in a recent drug related murder near the Queen's Quay. The plan was to catch them red handed when they tried to kill their guy. All had gone well until now.

"This guy has a pretty good record of taking care of himself," Gordon offered.

"He's a little old for this sort of decoy thing don't you think?" the younger man suggested.

At fifty-nine, Gordon was the same age as the undercover man and he gave the younger man a disdainful look over his reading glasses. "He volunteered. The whole thing was his idea. He'll retire after this one is over. And I can find him whenever I want."

"How? Do you have cruisers out looking for him? Where did he go after he left the GO station?"

Gordon held up his iPad. "With this. I have to use the 'Find My Phone' App. All he has to do is turn on his phone and if he is in GPS range it will be pinpointed on Google maps."

"iPad? Google maps? So we have millions of dollars worth of surveillance equipment and you are relying on Google and Apple?"

"They have a larger R and D budget than we do.

"So do it." The younger man implored.

"Can't. He has to turn on his phone and he won't do that until he has to. And the minute that he turns on his phone we won't be the only ones able to find him. He'll let us know when he needs our help. Just keep a task group ready for action. "

"Yes sir." And the man stood and left Gordon's office, closing the door behind him.

Gordon went over to the matching oak cabinet and took out a bottle of 21-year-old Dictator rum. It was a taste he acquired as a young field officer on assignment in Columbia. He decided that it was the only legal intoxicant to come out of that country. He sipped the amber liquid as he looked out his window over the Queen's Quay and Toronto Island beyond. If only his man hadn't involved some citizens. And a woman to boot.

He checked his iPad but there was still nothing. I hope the guy knows what he is doing...were his last thoughts before the phone rang on his desk and he returned to the daily business of catching more ordinary crooks than the Russian Mafia.

Return to Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Flora, Friday, May 31, 5 P.M.

_Home Sweet Home_

Flora Richmond really didn't believe that anything happened through luck. While she would acknowledge that circumstances of birth and geography certainly played a part, it was her view that you got in life what you worked for and what you deserved. It wasn't that she ignored, or was immune, to the plight of others. She contributed to several charities with her time and pocketbook, although on the salary of a grade five teacher, the latter wasn't exactly going to save the world. She was a flowerchild after all, and from her perspective she had not really abandoned the egalitarian, all for one, damn the military- industrial complex passion of her university days at the University of Toronto in the early seventies. She believed that material possessions and the money they sucked from the ordinary person were the necessary burdens of survival in a modern world. But in the end, what was hers was hers. She had earned it all and she was not ashamed of the stable social, family, love and financial life she had built over the past thirty-five years.

So why, she sometimes asked herself with a twinge of impishness, do I buy lottery tickets?

Every Friday for the past year she had stopped at the same lottery kiosk in the 7-Eleven on Upper Yonge, checked her ticket from the previous week and bought eleven dollars worth of 649 tickets for the Saturday night draw. She used the same five numbers each week, simply choosing numbers based upon her birthday, those of her three children and that of her husband Peter. She had to add the birth year numbers together since lotto numbers only go to 40. So based upon her birthday of March 25,1955, her numbers were 25 03 19 10 plus the last four digits of their home phone number, 16 30. Peter's birthday was November 13, 1952 so he was -13 11 19 07 16 30. And the children's became - 30 07 19 08 16 30, 04 08 19 10 16 30, and 05 02 19 15 16 30 respectfully. She thought it was actually quite numerically clever for a history major.

And every Friday night she had bought them from the same vendor.

"Good evening Mrs. Richmond," Rakeesh Muktar greeted her in his musical, Hindi distorted English. "And how were the little persons this week might I inquire?"

He always asked her the same question as he ran her ticket from last week through the computer. And she always answered the same wistful way.

"Oh, I love them all, but after thirty five years it gets harder and harder."

He handed her ticket back with a gentle negative shake of his head and she handed him eleven dollars for the draw the next night. "Well if you are winning the lottery this time then retiring would be standing out for sure. Maybe tripping to India would be dealt in the cards." he cheerfully offered, as he printed the next night's ticket.

Flora smiled as she always did. At his oddly revisionist English. And whimsically at the notion that she would win. For the last year she had won only the occasional ten dollar prize and with each win she and Muktar had high fived and assured each other that the next one would be the big one. As usual, she generously assured him that a trip to India would be lovely and that if she won the big one she would take her whole family to India. And him and his as well.

He always blushed and laughed in return.

"You are funning with me for sure Mrs. Richmond. But that would be most adoring I assure you."

In actual fact, Rakeesh Muktar had not the slightest intention or interest in going back to his homeland. He had left Gujarat over a decade ago and if he not heard the name again it would be too soon, much less go there. Selling lottery tickets and fondling the hopes and dreams of hundreds of Canadians that didn't realize how wealthy they were already, was better than remembering his family's hometown in India.

"Well, this ticket had better work because I gave my notice to the school board today."

"Oh. I am all happiness for you Mrs. Richmond." And he was. She was always polite if not a tiny bit solicitous, and she often took the time to help him with his English.

"That's 'happy' Rakeesh...not 'happiness'. But thank you all the same. I am feeling good about my twenty-five years in the classroom and I will get an unreduced pension so I think Peter and I will be fine. At least financially." She announced the first defiantly, and the latter hesitantly. She paused and Muktar made no effort to fill the silence. "But a win—just a little one—might help."

As she left the 7-Eleven she looked around for Frank. At least that is the name that she had given the homeless man who made this block of Yonge his territory. As she left the store every Friday for the last year, she gave Frank the amount equal to what she had spent on lottery tickets. She had this noble notion that such a concrete act offset the stupidity of wasting money on lottery tickets. She had not learned Frank's real name and, despite trying on many occasions, she had not engaged him in a conversation. Frank was there every week, apparently eager to get the ten dollars, but he never acknowledged the donation with anything more than a grunt and downturned eyes. Flora spotted him over by the subway entrance pushing his fully loaded shopping cart toward the store.

"Good evening Frank," Flora offered as she reached out the ten-dollar bill. "I hope that you had a good week?"

Frank quickly snatched the bill from Flora's hands like a wary dog –taking a treat from a stranger, kept his eyes to the ground and muttered something that Flora couldn't make out. And with the dexterity of a racecar driver twirled his shopping cart motor home around and limped back to the subway entrance.

With a sigh and a "See you next week..." to the truculent Frank, she left the 7-Eleven and went to her 1999 Honda CRV that was parked on the street. She stuffed the ticket in the glove compartment and, careful in the Yonge Street rush hour, attentively started the trip home.

Friday nights were a movie and a pizza for her and Peter. They started the ritual when the kids were younger and lived at home. It was a fun way to get together after their individual weeks at school and work. It gradually became her and Peter as the children hit puberty one by one and had better plans for the use of their Friday nights than a commiseration on the week's stress with their parents. And now as empty nesters they found that at the end of increasingly tiring workweeks a decompressing Friday night was the thing.

Peter liked a nice wine to pair with the cheap pizza from the strip mall a kilometre from their Brantford bungalow. His side of the pizza was embellished with double cheese, pepperoni, salami and bacon.

She preferred a good stiff martini. Maybe two. And a vegetarian pizza with banana peppers.

Not unusual for couples like them, they had different tastes in movies as well, he preferring more killing than kissing, she preferring more social redemption than unrealistic adventure. But over the years they had worked out a way of alternating choices and not choosing the extremes of either genre.

There was a time when the gourmet event would be topped off with giggles and 'shushing'—couldn't let the kids know after all—as they groped each other like teenagers on the recreation room chesterfield. As she pulled into the driveway she wistfully laughed to herself. "Those 'top off' events have been few and far between these days."

As usual, she arrived home first and opened an Argentinian Malbec for Peter. Then unusually, without waiting for him, she made herself a dry vodka martini. She stirred it in a grand and purposeful defiance of James Bond and with her first sip took half the drink and was on her second gulp when she heard the front door. The smell of the hot cheese and pepperonis wafted down the front hallway and smothered the taste of her good vodka.

She stood in the kitchen with the half empty plastic martini glass in her hand. The alcohol was already sending strange emotions and thoughts through her head. The first thing she realized was that she was nervous. While they had discussed her retiring at the end of the school year, she wasn't quite sure that they had totally agreed that it would be a good idea. Now she wasn't quite sure how Peter would react to the fact that she had done the deed and given notice to the school board.

He had been far more reluctant to discuss leaving his job. He was the Executive Director of a not for profit foundation that distributed grants to any group or individuals anywhere in the world who had a plan to— in some shape or form—"save the planet." The original endowment came from a wealthy oil investor who died eight years ago with no heirs and, to assuage his now dead conscience, simply left six hundred million to the poor, fledgling, but apparently principled, foundation. Peter and some university friends had established the foundation many years ago to soothe their own consciences for abandoning protesting against profit to take up post-university lives of chasing it. Peter had been in sales with a large drug firm for twenty-five years when he left at fifty to take over the foundation. She wasn't sure that retirement was as high on his agenda as it was on hers. He had left the routine of corporate sales for a life of giving money away all over the world and the generosity and travel had invigorated him.

Her other emotion was not so clearly sourced. As Peter yelled a greeting from the front door she suddenly realized that she couldn't analyze what she felt. Was she supposed to experience warm anticipation? Goose pimply love? The secure comfort of the routine she liked so much? She shrugged off her thoughts as she downed the rest of the Martini, suddenly guilty that she hadn't waited for him to start her drinking.

"Hey." was all he offered as he put the pizza down on the counter and reached for the bottle of wine.

Flora noticed two things right away.

The first was that the perfunctory peck on the cheek was missing. He always greeted her with a peck on the cheek and she always turned her cheek up to get the brush of his lips on her face. This time he went straight for the wine. This didn't significantly alarm her. The passion in their relationship had started to dissolve several years ago; probably around the time that menopause and his sporadic ED necessitated a revision of the approach to Friday night groping. He had tried the little blue pill with great success for him but great discomfort for her. She had briefly tried estrogen, but eventually refused to accept the health risks so he could have the old 'in and out' as he called it. Her explanation that she was more interested in making love than fucking was somehow lost on him. Besides, she firmly believed that the concurrent dissipation of testosterone and estrogen in aging bodies was a planned phenomenon by a higher order to keep the two sexes synchronized.

But while a small thing, tonight the missing peck annoyed her a little and she took it as an insult to her appeal as a woman.

And she knew that she had appeal. Sex appeal. She was still California girl blonde and at a slim five feet eight inches she still had the body of a twenty year old. Well almost. Maybe a slightly saggy twenty year old, she admitted to herself. The best you can have after fifty-five years of gravity and three children anyhow. But she left nothing about her body to chance. She ate right—lots of fruit and veggies. She drank moderately—tonight was starting to become an exception—and took copious quantities of vitamin D and calcium. She had her own personal yoga session every morning in the living room, went to the YWCA gym three times a week for the treadmill and weights, and since the last child had left for university she and a group of women teachers from the school took kick boxing lessons at the Y every Saturday morning. None of the women connected these sessions to the blood sport that was becoming so popular on TV. It was good exercise and a great way to smash out the week's frustrations on each other. Whack, went her foot against a pad that the instructor was holding. "That's for you Herb." she would announce to everyone's laughter. Herb was the Principal they thought was a misogynous jerk. Whack. A gloved punch went deep into the same pad. "That's for you Richard." They laughed again. Richard was Marian's husband and he had left her for a life with his twenty-five year old Executive Assistant.

But she knew she had appeal because even at fifty-five, every man between the ages of forty-five and sixty-five—even a few younger and a few older—tried to hit on her. Well, maybe flirt. The other male teachers. The jerk Herb. The bag boy at Loblaw's. The Canadian Tire mechanic who fixed her brakes that weren't broken. They sent out feelers to see what they would find. And they had all found a polite cold wall. Like everything else in her life, she took no chances and was in total control. The friskiest events she had ever allowed herself were some Internet-fueled fantasies when Peter was away on one of his many trips and she needed her own release. But in thirty years of marriage she had not even kissed another man on the lips.

But tonight she missed the perfunctory peck.

"What movie did you get?" she asked as she downed the rest of martini number two and started to prepare number two.

Peter took a sip of the Malbec and slid the pizza onto a serving plate. "I didn't get one. I thought we'd talk tonight for a change. Let's eat at the table." He carried the pizza over to the table and sat down.

Flora remained standing at the counter with her second martini in her hand. "Talk? Yes that would be a change."

In truth they hadn't had much in the way of conversation over the past while. It seemed once the kids had left they hadn't much to talk about. His job involved travel at least half the time and when he was in town he was usually off to a foundation dinner of some sort. She didn't begrudge him that since she wasn't a big traveller and was not comfortable with the uncertainty and lack of routine that came with travel, especially international travel. Routine and regularity and the order they gave to her life grounded her and gave her comfort, and travel disconnected her from the patterns in life that were important. So she left the travel to Peter. He had been the one that introduced any kind of disorder and uncertainty in their home, so at this stage in their lives, he was welcome to wear his Tilly hat, quick dry underwear and to live out of a MEC bag if he wished. She wasn't going anywhere.

Besides they weren't agreeing on much lately so conversation wasn't as much fun as it used to be. Politically he had left his corporate past far behind and now was an ardent and public supporter of the NDP party. She had found the fiscal conservatism of the new western dominated PC party fit her thoughts on life. They had argued for sure. He believed in handouts. She believed in a hand up. He believed in open immigration and multiculturalism. She believed in stricter immigration laws and assimilation. "They should leave their problems back where they came from," was one of her beliefs that she had shared with him often. He believed in Methadone clinics. She supported the Government's new bill that sent anyone with more than six marijuana plants to a mandatory six months in jail. He supported a guaranteed minimum income for all. She believed that in Canada everyone has access to the opportunities to be successful, and any form of welfare makes people indolent and dependent.

So when they had "talked" over the past few years it ultimately led first to a lively debate, then a yelling match and ultimately one of them sleeping on the sofa.

Talking made her wary. Especially one that didn't start with a peck, she thought to herself.

In grand defiance of this change in Friday night routine she made her way to the table unusually slowly, first putting her drink down at the IKEA bamboo place mat and then standing for a moment behind her chair with her hands on the chair back. "I was kind of hoping that you would get that Clooney movie about his family and his dying wife. It's up for some Oscars."

"Sappy, unrealistic portrayal of the realities of family life in the twenty first century. But I guess that sap sells. Come on sit down. Pizza is getting cold." He put half the pizza— the half with the veggies—on a plate and slid it across the table.

"There is nothing wrong with a little sap," she argued as she pulled out her chair and sat down. "There should be more stories and movies with happy endings. The news is full enough of bad things. We don't need it in our entertainment as well."

"His wife dies for Christ's sake. It's hardly happy," he shot back dismissively from a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.

"Well, how can we argue the meaning of a movie that we haven't even seen?" Her pizza sat untouched in front of her.

Peter put the slice of pizza he had in his hand down on his own plate and wiped his face with a paper towel. "We need to talk," he announced, "and not about movies."

Flora sat up rigidly in her chair; the effects of two martinis suddenly dissolved in her rising panic.

"I'm going away for a while."

"So what. You are always going away."

"With someone."

It took a few seconds for this comment to sink in.

She had trouble speaking but managed to ask innocently. "You always travel with someone."

He paused and looked at her with a look that suggested either exasperation or pity. She couldn't figure out which. Not that it mattered right now. But now that she was now well aware of what he was getting at, she was suddenly alert and had no intention of making it easy for him. She was now in kick boxing mode. Or dealing with a stupid mother on parent's night mode. Or middle finger Yonge Street at rush hour road rage mode.

"Someone I love."

"You don't love me _?"_ You will not cry, you will not cry, she said to herself over and over again.

"Of course I love you. And I always will." She silently gagged _._ _"_ But I need more than you can give me Flora and I've met—or reconnected—with someone I want to spend my growing old days with." She gagged again.

She leaned back in her chair trying not to let the emotional fight between revulsion, panic, fear and sadness show on her face. She decided she would control this conversation. Not him.

"So this is a joke right? Because the act is cliché. Leaving your wife of thirty years for a younger woman? Give me a break. That would be a bad novel even if your dialogue didn't suck."

"She's not younger."

Flora slowly and gently stood and walked over to the kitchen island. She poured herself a glass of water —the booze would come later—and brought over the bottle of wine. She sat down again and thought how pathetic he looked with the little boy guilt on his face. "Okay. Cut the mono sentences. Tell the story."

"Well, for a start, you and I haven't been exactly getting along that well over the past few years. We seem to have grown into different people. Different interests. Different views. Different needs. I guess we were always that different, but were too buried in our children and careers to really notice it. But lately I have been having difficulty with the prospect of growing old with you."

She didn't disagree with him but wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a conversation. "Okay. Ok. Get at it," she ordered impatiently.

"Right. Well briefly, I didn't go looking for anything Flora, but an old friend from University found my Facebook and we started emailing. A week later we met for coffee. A month later we started an affair. Without planning it we fell in love. And now we are going to travel and live together."

Flora wasn't sure that she was now hiding her shock and she suddenly wished that she hadn't hurried him to give the details. Pulling the needle out slowly might have been less painful in this case.

"Who?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Fuck yes it matters." Her voice was raised for the first time. "Who for Christ's sake."

"Delores Ferguson."

Now Flora was shocked. "That cow that you went out with at university...before we met?"

"Yeah. And she's not a cow. She is now a senior executive with the Canadian International Development Agency and one of the only people I know who actually followed their university ideals into their careers."

Flora ignored the insult. Peter knew that she had dreamt of being a concert pianist, but abandoned it for real life. "She's older than you. And much older than me. You're leaving me for an older woman?" She paused and tried to wipe the incredulous look from her face. "I can't fucking believe it. You're leaving me for an OLDER woman."

Peter was three years older than Flora and Peter was already in sales when she graduated from university with her history—with a music minor—degree and a year later her education degree. A mutual friend had set them up on a blind date. Ferguson had been his university sweetheart and Flora thought that they had actually been engaged at one point. Peter had not kept his past relationship with her a secret but her name hadn't come up in over twenty years. Let's hear it for social media _,_ Flora thought as this continued to seep into her consciousness.

"So are we getting a divorce? Is that what you are saying?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Well I think maybe it is an opportunity for us to spend some time apart. We've lived together for so long neither of us really knows what it will be like to be separated, so we could see this as a little experiment. I guess a trial separation is the common phrase?"

She didn't even try and hide her disgust. "So let me get this straight. You are going to go off with this old cow that you went out with thirty-five years ago and see if you like it. And if you don't, or if she finds you the asshole that I do, in a few months you'll come back and we'll take off from where we left it tonight. I'll buy that Clooney movie and it will be ready for you whenever you want. And give me your pizza; I'll put it in the freezer ready to warm up for you. And we can cuddle on the chesterfield."

Peter was at least smart enough not to try and argue. "Something like that I guess."

She pushed him a little further. "And what did you have in mind for me to do in the meantime?"

"You are busy; you're house, your job, your friends. You'll not even miss me."

Flora leaned back in her chair again and looked at him. What had started as anger at the fact that he was leaving her—even the anger at what she thought it said about her—was changing rapidly to something else. She was realizing that the sense of relief that he was going away was quickly overwhelming the initial sense of loss. What is it _,_ she thought, that caused me to not see what he had become _?_

Later, after she had a chance to think, she realized that their separation was an obvious next step in their evolving relationship. They had each certainly changed over the years. Neither were the individuals that they married and fell in love over thirty years ago. That on its own is not a bad thing for a relationship. Discovering a 'new' person in your bed every once in a while can be invigorating for a relationship. And she did have to admit to herself that she had become more attached to the comfort of routine and order in her life. And she also had to admit that little of what gave her that comfort in her life came from Peter. But most of all she slowly realized that it wasn't that they had grown into different people, it was that he had grown into someone she didn't like.

She realized that she simply didn't like the man she had been married to for thirty years.

"And you are so afraid of anything that takes you out of your routine," he continued. "When's the last time you took a chance on anything? Took a little risk of some sort? Did something that led to the unpredictable? I can't live like that Flora. I want more...more...excitement in my life."

She stared at him. What do you know asshole. I buy lottery tickets every week. So there. She had not told Peter about her weekly splurge and she had no intention to use it to defend herself now. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of either tears or a debate. Peter took her silence as agreement.

"I—we—will be travelling through Africa and Asia over the next three months. You and I can sort out the separation things when I get back. The kids don't even have to know anything until then."

"You can have them," she offered.

"What?"

"You can have the kids."

She laughed to herself as she remembered the old joke about the couple that couldn't get divorced because neither wanted the children. "You can remember their birthdays." He never did _._ "You can Skype with them every Sunday." Instead of watching Tiger Woods miss another putt. _"_ You can send them a few bucks when they run short." Tuition money came out of her paycheck _._ "You can tell them they are wrong." Disciplining the children had been her job _. "_ And you can worry about them every day." She did the worrying for both of them _. "_ Maybe the Cow will take over these duties for you. And you can explain this to them in any way you want, but I will be telling them that you and I are getting a divorce. Plain and simple."

"Look. We don't have to..."

Yes we do Peter," she ordered, now feeling much back in control of the event. "We need to take care of this now. You have made your move. Now I'll make mine. Find yourself a lawyer."

He surprised her. "I have one. Harold Philips."

She thought for a moment and remembered one of the guys who Peter played squash with on occasion. "Has he already advised you on how to dump your wife? Is this all scripted tonight?"

"He advised me to tell you as soon as possible."

"And then leave the country?" she smirked.

"And then let things cool before you make any rash decisions about the separation. So I think that we should..."

"I have a lawyer as well," she lied. "Sharon Williams."

She enjoyed the look on his face. Sharon was one of the women she kick boxed with and was known as one of the top divorce lawyers in town—from a woman's point of view. Her name sent fear into the pocket books of every male divorcee in the province.

"She has advised me otherwise."

The look on his face had shifted from surprise to shock. "You have a lawyer?"

"What? You think you are the only one unhappy with this relationship? You think that I have ignored the signs and the asshole things you have been doing over the past while?" She had, but she wouldn't admit it to him. "And here is what she has advised. So listen carefully" Actually it had been Marian, the woman whose husband had left her for his EA who Sharon had advised, but the group had listened.

"First of all," she announced, enjoying the control of the moment. "You will sign a statement that recognizes that you are leaving me and this house on your own accord. Despite your indiscretions I am not throwing you out." She went over to a drawer in the kitchen island, found a pen and paper and put it in front of him.

"Now do it."

Sharon explained that this, of course, was a stupid thing for a wayward spouse to do, but in their immediate guilt they might do anything.

To her surprise Peter wrote exactly what she said and signed it.

"Now. Give me your keys to the house. I assume that you already have the clothes and things you need?"

He nodded, took the house key from his keychain and handed it to her.

"You are not to come into this house unless by my invitation."

He nodded again.

"All future communication between us will be through our lawyers. Sharon will contact you when we are ready to negotiate the terms of the divorce."

The look on Peter's face told her that this had gone much further than he had anticipated and for a moment she weakened and wondered if maybe she was acting precipitously. But Sharon had warned Marian and told her to remember that this was his idea in the first place not hers, and it was important she strike quickly before his lawyer talked more common sense.

"And finally, I want you to agree to this tonight. From this point on every asset that I bring into this house— she was careful to say 'I' and not 'we'—will be mine and not part of marriage communal assets." Flora was surprised that she even remembered the term that Sharon used with Marion. But in Flora's case, she actually had a higher paying job than her philandering husband so it was important that he couldn't scarf off any of her future wages. And there was her hard earned pension. Peter wasn't going to get any part of her teacher's pension.

Peter nodded again.

"Good." She snatched the paper from him and stood up. "Now go."

"Flora...I..."

"Go." She pointed to the door and ordered him like she would a puppy that had chewed up her favorite rug.

He picked up his jacket and slowly walked to the front door, looking around at the kitchen, the living room and the collection of marriage memorabilia that lined the shelves and covered the coffee and end tables. At the door he stopped, turned around and leaned down to her cheek. She pushed him away hard, and with a step forward on her left foot she delivered a roundhouse kick with her right foot to his chest that sent a six foot, one hundred and ninety pound Peter crashing against the closed door.

"Peck that," she suggested as she turned and went back into the kitchen.

She didn't think Sharon would approve.

### $$$$$

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Chapter 2: Greg, Friday May 31st, 6:23 P.M.

_Homeless in Toronto_

"I wish she wouldn't call me Frank of all things," he mumbled as he pushed his cart towards Campdown Crescent and the strip of brownstone style town houses behind the Yorkton subway station. "Howard, Josh, Peter, Angus. Even David or Eugene for Christ's sake. But Frank? Fuck. Wasn't he the idiot on Mash? Frankenstein. I hate Frank. Someday I'll tell her my real name."

He continued limping along the crescent, checking recycle bins as he went. He followed this route at the same relative time every night and checked the same houses. Exactly fifteen minutes after the sun sets: 4:59 P.M. on December 22nd and 9:18 P.M. on June 22nd. Tonight it was 9:10 P.M. before he ventured down the crescent. Routine was important to him, as was the dark. He didn't pick up much, but that really wasn't the point.

And people sometimes left him things. Mrs. Hobart at 412 left a dozen empty beer bottles in her recycle bin on Thursday nights; although he doubted that at eighty-something she drank that much beer. They were a pain to drag around but since he knew she was watching at an upstairs window he appeared to be excited at the cache. Bob Hendricks at 545 placed a covered foil pie plate with a complete meal on top of the recycle bin on Sunday nights. Hendricks was no gourmet cook—as Frank was—but he usually took the food home for dinner anyway. The old lady —he didn't know her name—in 532 wasn't so nice. In his first month of doing the circuit she had called the police weekly describing a bum "in this nice neighborhood," as she accused. After a while she gave up and pulled her curtains whenever he walked by, although she waited at the open curtain for his cart to pass. Even the dogs and annoying children became used to him over the year. With dogs it took only a few scraps. And with the children only a few candy bars. But no one other than the inquisitive children ever asked him who he was, where he slept, or even what his name was. "Well it sure as fuck isn't Frank," he muttered again.

Just before Camptown merged with Yorkton he stopped and pretended to be looking in a recycle bin as a middle aged couple walked down the other side of the street. They ignored him and when they had passed he glanced up and down the street. He pressed a button on a small palm sized box in his pocket and the garage door for 832 Camptown Crescent opened.

All of the garages for this strip of town homes were under the units and accessed by a slightly down sloping driveway. He quickly rolled the grocery cart down the driveway and as he entered, he pushed the button to close the door behind him. He had been doing this routine for a year now and he felt a wave of relief and peace when the door closed behind him.

But the relief of taking off the trench coat and toque was even more intense.

The get up wasn't so bad—even welcome—in January, but on a hot June day the costume could be oppressive. The shorts and T- shirt he wore under the coat were sweat-soaked, and the moisture combined with the air conditioning made him shiver for a moment. He hung the grey wool toque and the WWI military style trench coat on their reserved hooks on the garage wall. He sat down on the bench by the door to the inside of his home and pulled off his well-worn Blundstones. They were incongruous with the rest of his attire and his only concession to comfort.

The cart was filled with the usual assortment of items to be expected of a homeless man. Several green garbage bags holding scavenged treasures. A tattered looking sleeping bag. A piece of rolled up plastic. Some water filled one-litre pop bottles tied to the edge of the cart. A clear plastic bag full of liquor and beer bottles. An old wooden cane hung from the handle. At the front of the cart there was an old shoebox. He left the rest, picked up the shoebox, entered a security code in the digital box attached to the wall beside the door and went into his house.

The townhouses along this particular street were large and expensive. This served his purpose since those with money to protect tended to keep more to themselves. He had chosen this particular brownstone for its location near the York Mills subway and for its relative privacy. It was across from a park and on the apex of a curve, so his garage door would not be immediately visible to the owners on either side or from across the street. It was larger than he needed. But the homes on this street were all more than four thousand square feet and were either three or four bedrooms depending upon the whim and design of the first owner. That owner had chosen the three bedroom plus den option. They had also chosen the showroom decorator to furnish the place. Frank had acquired it fully furnished and ready to live in and he had changed little in the unit. The colour-coordinated living room furniture and matching mass-produced Chinese artwork held little interest for him. And since he never had visitors, the finer details of china and other accouterments were wasted on him. The only thing the previous owners and he had in common was that they both went through marriage breakdowns. They had to leave this place. And he had to move into it.

He made his mark on the home in three places.

The first was the metamorphosis of the master bedroom into a complete home gym. His daily ritual included a two-hour workout every morning.

The second was the open area kitchen and living room area. While the previous owners built a gourmet kitchen that they rarely had the time to use, he fully stocked it. And he cooked. He was addicted to the myriad of cable TV provided cooking shows and he spent hours preparing exotic dishes from around the world. He ordered the ingredients and groceries online and had everything delivered. The day after he cooked he loaded the gourmet product in his cart and gave it to one of his homeless friends along Yonge. Tonight he opened the fridge and took out a cacciatore and put it in the oven to warm. He never used a microwave. He also selected an Argentine Malbec, opened it and left it to breathe. He poured himself exactly two ounces of a Highland Park 18 year old and, still in his shorts, T- shirt and socks, sat down in a lazy boy recliner oddly situated in the middle of the designer living room. He wondered what the designer would say about a lazy boy associating with the carefully selected imports?

He took a sip of the malt and touched a remote that was resting on the arm. The major change he had made to the living room enveloped his senses. It had been the rage with homes like this to put built in speakers all over the place. He imagined the previous owners listening to Canadian Idol while making love in the bedroom. Or maybe while having a crap. These speakers were inevitably the cheapest the builder could find and he had replaced them with the best that he could find. And every night after he came home, as he sipped the Highland and waited for his dinner to warm up, he escaped into the gifted imaginations of Brahms, Mozart, Sibelius and Beethoven. He had once dreamed of a life as classical musician, maybe even a composer. But now he satisfied himself with the vicarious pleasure of simply listening to those who were much better than he would have been allowed to be.

He was tempted to go for two more ounces, but he had several more rituals to perform before dinner and the search for some morsel of sleep. He pulled himself out of the lazy boy and padded towards the den. On the way he went into a small main floor bathroom, picked up a pill bottle from beside the sink and with a glance at the label and a shake of the contents, he opened the twist top and threw back one of the seven pills remaining. He closed the lid and looked up at the person in the small mirror above the sink. Long hair looks pretty good he thought. He fondly remembered a time long ago when he had long hair, even longer than now, although it was for reasons of vanity not subterfuge. Thinning out a bit, he observed, as he ran his hand through hair that at almost sixty was more straggly than fulsome. Maybe when this was over he would get an old-fashioned brush cut, he mused. But it was the beard he really didn't like; scraggly and speckled with grey. No one in his family had ever been able to grow a good beard. He promised himself he would lose that as soon as he could.

He left the bathroom and picked up the shoebox he had brought from the garage and continued down the hall to the den. This was the third change he had made. The original oak pedestal desk was replaced by a functional six feet by three feet sturdy looking worktable fronted by a desk chair on wheels. There were two twenty-seven inch iMacs on the table along with two keyboards and two wireless mice. The original leather easy chair and side table were replaced by wall-to-wall shelving. He opened the shoebox and removed a small camcorder, popped out the film cassette and placed it in a small receptacle attached to one of the iMacs. The computer sprung to life and a message came on the screen.

DIGITIZING

Then after only a few seconds:

DIGITIZING COMPLETE

He removed the cassette from the computer and labeled it with the date, time and location and placed it on one of the shelves with over three hundred similarly labeled cassettes. He knew he could use a digital camera these days and avoid the cassette process. But he also knew that digital material could be manipulated, but not the film. At his age he was entitled to a little whimsy, so he still did everything on film.

There was only one last ritual before food, wine and bed. He pulled down one of twenty photo albums from the shelf nearest his worktable and thumbed through the various photos. The album was on a shelf beside a large commercial, restaurant size, and empty mayo jar full of ten-dollar bills. With last Friday's donation, there were now over three hundred in the jar. The album contained printed digitized images from the cassettes. They were not of the highest quality, but they were good enough for him.

He had over one hundred photos printed. He took his time flipping through the folio, enjoying the smile, the change in clothes from one season to another, and her walk as she went into the store or to her car. He stopped at one of his favorites, a full eight by ten print of her complete figure as she walked away after giving him some money.

It's odd that as I get older I find older women so attractive, he admitted to himself as he reached down into his shorts.

### $$$$$

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Chapter 3: Rakeesh, Tuesday, June 4th, 2:00 P.M.

The Testimony

Over the next week, Flora and her difficulties were not front of mind for the man Flora knew as Rakeesh Muktar. He had challenges of his own to deal with.

On Monday morning the week after he sold Flora her lottery ticket, he dressed in his newly cleaned and pressed uniform. Unlike the Canadian military, the Indian military allowed retired officers to wear their old uniforms. He hadn't worn it for a while and wondered if the western lifestyle he had been living for the last decade would end up stretching the waistline of the pants. He was relieved when the pants buttoned up and laughed at the notion that his mother's oil soaked chicken Vindaloo was a healthier diet than the occasional Big Mac. He missed the food in India. The westernized version available in Canada was simply not as good. And he had avoided most places where the Indian diaspora would spend their time even though it would have been those places where he would have found the best meals.

But he didn't miss much else.

The shirt and tie were the first indication that he had indeed changed a little over the past ten years. The custom tailored, seventeen-inch collar was now tight enough to be uncomfortable. He had to struggle to get the top button done up and he felt it choke him as he put on the tie and pulled the perfect Windsor knot up to his Adam's apple.

At least his feet hadn't grown and the immaculately polished and well broken in boots felt like old friends as he pulled them on. He believed that shoes gave away the man.

The beret was next. As a Major he preferred the military style beret to the more formal peaked hat. He was glad that it would cover up hair that showed considerably more grey than the last time he had put on his uniform.

He had wondered if the uniform was the right thing for today. He could as easily have dressed in the new suit he had bought last December from Tip Top Tailors around the corner from his apartment. The owners of several 7-Eleven stores had thrown a Christmas party for employees and Rakeesh felt he should wear something else other than jeans and sneakers. It had felt good to dress up a little, even though he wondered why the store was called "tailors" when there weren't any tailors and everything was pre-sized. He was surprised when a regular forty-six with a thirty-four waist appeared to be a perfect fit.

But today he would be on display for India to see so he would look like his proud military self, not the policeman that was in exile. The twenty-five year string of campaign medals that he pinned to his now snugly fitting jacket would help, as would the colorful regimental lanyard and sash. After one last look in the full-length bedroom mirror and one last forceful tug on the bottom of the jacket, he turned, left the studio apartment and walked down the two flights of stairs to the street. The usual group of young men was loitering around the front door of the apartment building. He knew them and they were harmless, but they often made some comment about either his age or his ethnicity. If they had known he was a Muslim, even a Muslim with all sense of religion knocked out of him, they would have said more. But this morning they looked at Major Muktar and moved aside without any comment as he stood at the door and looked at them. He was pleased. He knew the effect of dress and deportment could have, and the reaction of the young men reinforced his decision to put on his uniform. If I only had my swagger stick whacking against my thigh, he thought to himself as he walked towards his car, the effect would even be greater.

Since Rakeesh already lived in the north end of Toronto the drive to CFB Downsview took less than fifteen minutes. He knew where he was going since he had been there several times over the past decade. CFB Downsview had been largely decommissioned over the years and only a few buildings remained under the control of the Canadian Military. After driving through the gates of the complex, Rakeesh now headed to a building that housed the Canadian Military Intelligence operation. He parked his Subaru WRX and after one last pull on the bottom of his jacket walked with his best military swagger though the front door of the building.

He missed the swagger stick.

"Good morning Major Muktar." The duty officer at the door showed no surprise at either Rakeesh's uniform or his swagger. "They are waiting for you in the conference room. Down the hall and second door on the left."

The conference room wasn't a typical boardroom. In fact it was more of a television studio. The "they" included a man with long blond hair that dripped over bored eyes and three days facial growth. He was pretending to fiddle with various knobs as he looked through the eyepiece of a camcorder. The camcorder was umbilicalled to the back of a large TV monitor with a box of some sort on top. A girl who to Rakeesh looked fifteen years old kept scratching her brush cut. He guessed that her hair had been recently cut and her body twitches hadn't yet caught up. Her tattooed hands concentrated on the dials on the box.

"Nice of you to be on time," she announced without looking at him. "We are on in three minutes. Sit down. I'll get you focused."

One chair was situated three metres from the flat screen television and the camera. Rakeesh sat down. It also faced another person in the room who stood behind the camera in the shadows.

"Are you ready for this Rakeesh? It will be difficult," the voice offered.

"We've gone over this many times Radhika. My only problem is that it has taken ten years for it to get to this point. And combined with my written and notarized statements this should be enough for any court."

"Ahh Rakeesh. We both know that the wheels of Indian justice grind slowly indeed. But the day is now here. And justice will soon be upon us as well."

He smiled at both her wonderfully lyrical Hindu accent. Years of British education had squelched any hint of accent from his speech. And he admired her remorseless optimism. She had been the representative of the Canadian government who had arranged his successful escape from India and had provided a new identity and a new job in Canada. And now she was the one who had set up this secure method of testifying. She had explained to him that the signal would be bounced around Canadian military bases around the world so no one could trace its origins. She had proven right in most everything so far. Her skill had enabled Rakeesh to escape India undetected. Despite worldwide efforts by diaspora members of the Bharatiya Janata Party and the Patel family, no one had been able to follow through on the threats to kill him before he could testify. And today he would. And today would start the process of sending many murderers to jail.

"Okay. We're on," Tattooed Hands announced.

The screen came to life and Rakeesh sat looking into a crowded courtroom in New Delhi. Apparently they didn't think it was safe to hold the trials in Gujarat. He would agree with that. Up in the top left corner of the screen there was a smaller screen where he now saw himself. A buzz of voices from the courtroom told him that his image had come on screen there as well.

"Quiet please." ordered a judge sitting at the far right of Rakeesh's screen. "Quiet." And he banged his gavel on the piece of wood in front of him. As the courtroom became quiet he started.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the court."

But all eyes were not on him. They were on the screen where Rakeesh sat immobile and unexpressive.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the court," he repeated. "We are here today to receive testimony regarding the unfortunate deaths that occurred on the first of March, two thousand and two when a house was burned down and its twenty-three occupants died"—he was careful with his words— "in the town of Ode in the Anand district. Forty-six individuals have been charged in connection with these deaths. A Red Coroner Notice has been issued against Manohai Patel, one of two of the accused who fled the country. Today we are to hear an eye witness testimony."

He turned from the courtroom to the camera. "Welcome Major Shah. Would you please be repeating your name for the court?

There was a slight transmission delay before Rakeesh responded.

"My name is Sunil Mehta Shah. Major Sunil Mehta Shah."

"Thank you. I'll now invite the prosecution to ask you some questions."

As a friendly witness, Rakeesh had been briefed on the questions that the prosecutor would ask. They even had a practice session a week ago by this same type of teleconference, so he was ready for the first question.

"Major Shah. Where were you on the afternoon of March second, two thousand and two?"

"I was in the town of Ode."

"What were you doing there?"

"I was leading a squad of six police officers from my home town of Ahmedabad to help deal with the riots."

"And what riots were these?"

"There was considerable violence between the Hindus and Muslims in the region."

"Why was there this violence?"

"Objection my Lord," the defense attorney interrupted. "This calls for speculation by the good Major on things that he wouldn't be witnessing."

"Overruled. I think it is speaking to the state of mind of this witness." He turned to the camera. "Carry on Major."

"It all started with the apparent burning by a Muslim mob in Godhra of a train carrying Hindu pilgrims."

"Apparent?" questioned the prosecutor.

"I wasn't there to witness it."

There was a loud snicker from the crowd and the judge banged his gavel again.

"What were you there to witness?"

"I witnessed a crowd of Hindus set fire to a house full of Muslim women and children."

A loud murmur spread through the crowd.

"Silence," the judge ordered and banged his gavel. "You will be silent please."

The prosecutor nodded his thanks to the judge.

"Can you describe what happened?"

Rakeesh cleared his throat. They had practiced this response many times and as he lay awake in the middle of the night he had said it over and over to himself. Now was the time for the world to hear it.

"The day after the rioting broke out I was sent to help out in one of the most difficult places, a town called Ode a few hours' drive from where I was stationed in Ahmedabad. By the time that I and the other officers from Ahmedabad arrived the rioting was well under way. The air was full of the smoke from the burning and ransacked houses of known Muslims. I was given charge of a small group of local police. My squad was ordered to follow one pack as it headed towards a small enclave of eight Muslim houses in a suburb of Ode. It appeared that as the mob attacked with stones and screaming, the frightened residents, mostly women and children, took shelter in one of the houses. Another group of local police led by a senior officer from the Ode police unit now joined our small brigade and took charge of the situation. At first we stood back and watched, hoping that the crowd would soon tire of throwing sticks and stones and yelling and move on to other prey. Then a man moved out in front of the crowd and, followed by several others, went to the door of the wooden house and blocked the entrance with some heavy timbers lying nearby. After they ran back to the yelling and chanting crowd another man came forward. We could see that he had a lit Molotov cocktail and to the strains of encouragement from the crowd he heaved it at the house. Soon others were joining in and throwing whatever flammable material they could find at the now burning wooden house."

The courtroom was silent.

"Why didn't you stop it?"

"I tried, but the local officer stopped us. He said it was too dangerous. I started to run on my own down the slight incline that led to the mob and the house but two of the local officers stopped me."

There was another buzz from the courtroom and someone yelled "Murderers."

The judge banged his gavel again and ordered the protester removed.

"Were you part of the military at this time?"

"No. I had been on the Ahmedabad police force for two years."

"What did you do before this time?"

"I was in the Indian Army for twenty-five years."

"Thank you. In fact you reached the level of Major before you retired?"

Yes."

"And you were injured and decorated for bravery for service in both Iraq and Afghanistan?"

Rakeesh paused as if he was trying to remember something he had put aside in his memory. "Yes."

"It is quite a feat for a Muslim to reach the rank of Major in the Indian Army is it not?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Did anyone in Ode know that you were Muslim?"

"Just my men. Not the local Ode police."

"Were any of them Muslim?"

"Not that I know of."

"Can you identify the individuals that set fire to the home with these women and children in it?"

One by one, photographs of Indian men were put on the screen in front of Rakeesh. He identified eight of them by name.

"And can you identify the police officers who stopped you from intervening?"

"Yes sir." And Rakeesh rhymed off the names of five police officers from the Ode detachment.

"What exactly did these men do to stop you?"

"Two of them tackled me and held me down as I ran to stop the burning while two others held guns on my men. The man in charge laughed and told us that good Hindus in this part of the country leave the Patels alone to do the real work."

The courtroom was eerily silent but Rakeesh could see that some people in the crowd were crying by the time he had finished.

"One final question Major. Why are you not here in person?"

"My life was threatened if I testified. I needed to leave India to be safe."

"And your family Major Shah?"

"All dead."

"Thank you Major."

The judge turned to the defense table. Any questions Mr. Singh?

"Only one Your Honour." He turned and looked directly into the camera.

"How do you like life in Toronto Major?"

### $$$$$

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Chapter 4: Flora, Friday June 7th, 2013 5:20 P.M.

Grand Theft Auto

The next week went by in a blur for Flora. Especially the rest of the weekend after Peter left. After she heard the door shut behind him she remembered going back to the Smirnoff bottle and making an iceless, vermouthless martini. Her momentary courage was quickly dissolving, and the first drink steeled her resolve again. The second dulled everything and she remembered feeling hungry and giddy so she sauntered over to Loblaw's two blocks away and bought a Sarah Lee frozen fudge cake. It was her favorite comfort food at university. She ate it in one sitting, washing it down with another of her special martinis. Everything was hazy after that until she woke up on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night heaving both cake and vodka. She wondered if this might become the latest way to purge your toxins. Purging was the latest health fad with the women in the staff room. She continued to retch until she was empty and fell asleep curled up on the bathroom carpet.

Saturday brought sobriety and the memory of what had happened. She called Sharon and they met for coffee at Starbucks next to the Loblaws. Flora wore dark sunglasses hoping no early morning shopper recognized her from last night. They found a corner table, away from the rush of Saturday brunchers.

"Okay," Sharon offered after Flora described the events of the night before. "You did most everything right—except for the kick. And the Sarah Lee cake of course."

They both laughed and it eased the tension of the moment.

"The good thing is that he hasn't pressed charges or you'd be in custody right now. Flora, that was assault and it was wrong," Sharon lectured. "It doesn't matter which sex does the hitting. Hitting your spouse is wrong and any court in the land would charge you with assault. But I understand your shock and anger and I suspect that he does as well. But that doesn't make it right."

Flora took a sip of her mocha, low fat, venti soy latte and nodded her head, trying to show all the guilt she could muster.

"So to start I have some questions. Most importantly, do you really want to end your marriage? Peter's lawyer was right in a way. It is good to have a cooling off period before making any rash decisions. I mean, do you really love each other? Is this just—and I hate to be cliché—'mano'pause? Some sort of late life crisis thing for him? Lots of couples have these events in their lives and go on to live long and satisfying relationships together."

Flora paused to think. "I guess I don't know that yet. Right now I'm too angry to see anything else other than revenge and I certainly can't imagine a future life with him right now. But I don't know. Maybe in a month I'll think differently. But whatever Sharon, I'm fifty-five years old. I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone." She was as close to tears as she had been so far in the meeting. "This isn't at all how I imagined my retirement."

"Well you don't have to figure that out right away. We can file the divorce papers and start the process, but the negotiations will take a long time so there will be lots of time to change your mind. That is, of course, if he ever has any intention of changing his."

Flora went to Sharon's office after school the following Monday and signed the papers, as well as providing a retainer cheque that almost choked her. She had spent her whole life clipping grocery coupons and now gave up thirty years of coupon savings with one payment to her lawyer friend. Sharon also clarified the "communal property" thing that Flora had made up on Friday night. To her disappointment she learned that Peter did have a right to any asset jointly acquired during their marriage. In principle, Sharon explained, anything acquired by either of them before the moment that Peter walked out the door on Friday would be considered a joint asset and, at the least, would be evenly split in a divorce.

"Even my pension?"

"Yes. Peter is entitled to half your pension as well," Sharon explained. "And you are entitled to half of his."

That was small comfort to Flora, since Peter took a payout rather than a pension when he left the company eight years ago.

"We used the cash from Peter's pension payout to buy a cottage outside of North Bay—a few hours north of here."

"I know where it is Flora. My dad was stationed at the CFB-NORAD there in the sixties. Why North Bay?"

"Peter used to spend some time up there when he was a kid going fishing with his father, so he had some romantic notion of teaching his grandchildren to paddle a canoe and swat blackflies. But we put the cottage in my name for some sort of tax reason I didn't understood," Flora explained to Sharon. "Does that mean it is mine? I have actually grown kind of fond of the place."

"No, it is still part of the marriage assets no matter whose name it is in. But like the house, if you actually want the cottage it would help your case if you spent some time there."

"Well school is over in a few weeks so maybe I will. It's safe and quiet, and a refuge, and I could use a little of all three right now."

Sharon said she would contact Peter's lawyer —"He's a real dickhead," she offered—and suggested that they meet again in week or so to talk strategy.

"Is there someone else other than your lawyer that you can talk to?" Sharon asked, genuinely worried.

Flora thought for a moment and was surprised that she didn't have an instant answer. "I'll be alright. See you next week."

As she left Sharon's office and walked to the parking lot, she realized that she really didn't have anyone to talk to. She had many acquaintances at work and at the gym. But she had not developed a real soul mate. That was supposed to be Peter. And now she needed someone to listen to her, someone who wasn't paid to take her side and, no matter how wrong they thought she was, to agree with her.

She went to school the rest of the week and told no one that anything was different at home. Her retirement was announced and she endured the congratulations and the endless, "What are you and Peter going to do?" questions. She only replied in variations of "We are still working it out." She was relieved when Friday came and she could leave the charade and go home.

She was almost past the 7-Eleven when she remembered her lottery ticket. She made an abrupt turn into a parking spot in front of the store. She was in no hurry to get home to a new and lonely Friday night ritual, and buying the lottery ticket gave her some unexplained sense of optimism. She viewed herself as a clear thinking and rational person—she blamed the vodka for her lapse of control last Friday—and she knew that the odds of winning anything were astronomical. About the same odds as your husband of thirty years leaving you for an older woman, she laughed to herself. But the ticket gave her a feeling that there was a possibility, even if remote, that something could change for the better in her life. There was a little tingling of anticipation every time Rakeesh put her ticket through the lottery terminal.

And there was the ultimate letdown when he solemnly shook his head.

She parked her car and as she went into the store she saw Frank start to push his cart over towards her. At least Frank and Rakeesh haven't deserted her.

"Hello, Mrs. Richmond," Rakeesh greeted her with a warm smile from behind the lottery ticket counter as she walked into the store. "And how were the little persons this week might I ask?"

"Oh they were fine, Rakeesh," she replied in a monotone. "They get a little more restless as the year end comes closer." It was the first week of June with only a few weeks left in the school year. And my career, she thought.

"Mrs. Richmond, if you do not mind me so suggesting, you do not look so strong today? Do you have an illness?"

She thought she had been covering up her current state quite well over the past week. She tried not to vary her routine of yoga and exercise and maintained her regular diet. Her only concession to her growing depression had been a mid-week drink or two, something she had not done before. Last night when she arrived home from school she felt particularly lonely and after eating her vegetable linguini she had poured an Absolut on ice and put some blues on the sound system. She laughed to herself as she hooked up her iPad to the system and punched in her favorite blues playlist. Peter could not figure out how to work this stuff and whenever they used the system she had to set it all up. Ever since her university days when she minored in music she had been fascinated with both listening and playing blues music of all genres. She had been a fair classical pianist in her day, progressing all the way to the ARTC level before abandoning playing for work and family. She discovered the blues in a music history class and had been hooked ever since. He rarely wanted to listen to any blues music. He said he couldn't understand her fascination with music that was inherently sad. Now, as she scrolled through her playlist she picked out McClintock's, "Better off with the Blues," a song that she used to like for the melody and now liked for the words. She sipped from her drink as she energetically sang along.

Since you've been gone, I've had time to myself.

I haven't even tried to find nobody else.

When you told me you were leaving, it almost came as good news.

It may sound funny but it's true.

I think I'm better off with the blues.

She poured herself another drink.

I must admit, that I miss you sometimes.

Not a day goes by that you don't cross my mind.

But at the same time, I think of all the hell you put me through.

And it's the less of two evils.

_I think I'm better off with the blues_.

She fell asleep on the couch with a blues guitar solo on repeat.

So on Friday her eyes showed some lingering fatigue and now she was a little embarrassed that Rakeesh had noticed.

"Well it certainly hasn't been the best of weeks Rakeesh, " she reluctantly admitted.

"I'm most sorry Mrs. Richmond. Maybe the weekend will harbinger better things."

"It's Flora, Rakeesh. Only my students call me Mrs. Richmond," she offered and she smiled once again at Rakeesh's English. She had given him a thesaurus a month or so ago and ever since he had been coming up with grammatically correct, but unusual words.

Then for no reason that she could come up with she started to quietly cry.

Other than Sharon she hadn't shared Peter's leaving with anyone and now something seemed to break. It wasn't a sobbing or mushy cry. That would not have been her. But they were uncontrollable tears and she quickly glanced around the store relieved to see that Rakeesh was the only witness. He looked confused for a moment and then came out from behind the lottery ticket counter and pointed to the small Hortons coffee counter at the back corner of the store.

"Come, Mrs....Flora. Let me be buying you a coffee and you can relax for a moment." He motioned to the other clerk in the store to take over the lottery kiosk.

She let him lead her over to the only table in the kiosk and she sat down while searching for a tissue in her purse.

"What are you taking in your coffee...Flora?"

In actual fact she would not normally drink a Tim Hortons. She had been a Starbucks customer for a long time and couldn't remember the last time she had a Tim's. Maybe, she thought, it was the time they drove across Canada with the kids and Tim Hortons was the only recognizable option in places like Kapuskasing and Moose Jaw. Suddenly she remembered what Peter ordered for her.

"Double double for me please Rakeesh."

Rakeesh ordered the coffee and put it in front of her and he sat down with a green tea.

"You don't drink coffee Rakeesh?"

"No. It is one of the few Canadian habits that I have to this particular time been avoiding."

She wondered what the others were. She hadn't noticed before but he looked a little haggard himself today.

"I'm sorry to bother you."

She looked over as the door of the store opened and a young couple came in. Flora noticed that the young woman was pregnant—six months or more she guessed—and silently wondered if the woman knew what she was in for. They went to the counter where Rakeesh's replacement appeared to be checking their lottery ticket. They were arguing as they left the store and Flora turned her attention back to Rakeesh.

"Oh, no bother Flora. I was about to be breaking at any rate. But what is so saddening that a lovely lady like yourself would come to tears."

Perhaps it was his look of genuine concern. Perhaps it was his lack of knowledge or connection to anything else in her life. Perhaps it was because she hadn't talked to anyone other than her lawyer over the past week. But whatever the reason she wiped the tears from her eyes and told him everything. He showed genuine shock at her husband's behavior and laughed heartedly at her recounting of the roundhouse kick.

Two young men dressed in tailored business suits —one a double-breasted — entered the store and went to the magazine counter. Flora noticed that Rakeesh watched them out of the corner of his eye as they picked out a magazine, paid at the cash counter and, after scanning the store—including them—quickly left. They stood outside the door for a few moments looking up and down Yonge Street before getting into a black limousine parked at the curb.

"Oh that's a good one Flora," he offered. "You'll be reminding me to not be making you angry."

By the end of telling her story she was laughing as well. She sat back and finished her coffee. "Not bad," she announced," as she drained the cup. "Probably not on the Dr. Oz lifestyle diet. But a lot of good that has done me. And now I am an old retired lady with no husband."

He leaned forward in his own chair and touched her hand. "I am walking in your shoes Flora."

Her first impulse was to pull back her hand. Who was this man to think that he could touch her? But something in the gentleness in his touch and his look caused her to pause. She suddenly realized that she had seen him for five minutes a week for a year and she had never really looked at him. And she had been so absorbed in her own story over the past fifteen minutes she had paid no attention to him. Now he touched her and she saw some pain in his eyes. She wondered how old he was. He was tall and stockier than her stereotype of the East Indian immigrant in Toronto. His complexion was dark and his shiny black hair showed tufts of grey at the temples. She couldn't see his belly—she hated beer bellies on men—but he seemed to be fit. She guessed mid to late fifties.

"I don't understand Rakeesh?"

He quickly pulled is hand away like the touch was a moment he wanted back.  "I know what will cheer you. A big win in the 649." He stood and beckoned her over to the terminal.

She went to get the ticket from her purse so that he could put it through the computer. "Oops. How stupid. I left the ticket in my wallet, and my purse is in the car glove compartment. I always put it in there so no one could do a smash and grab at a stoplight. I'll go get it."

"Do not be bothering," he offered. "We are knowing your numbers by now." And he went to the terminal and started to enter the numbers.

"You know my numbers?" she asked astonished.

"Remembering five lottery ticket numbers after entering them for a year is not an amazing feat of brilliance Flora. Besides the ticket scanner on this computer thing does not to seem to be engaging properly. It has been recognizing the wrong numbers all week and the smart computer guys in the 649 head office are trying to fix it now. So entering the numbers is a better option." He continued to enter the numbers one by one.

First, her birth numbers. "Not you this week," he announced in a sympathetic voice. "No first class trip to India.

She laughed.

Then Mary. "Oh your lovely daughter is out of luck as well I fear. She will have to find a husband that doesn't want her money."

Then David. "Oh poor David," he laughed. "No fast car for him this week."

Then he entered Peter's numbers. He looked at the screen and entered them again. He slowly looked up at Flora with a sparkle in his eye. "It seems that Peter is the lucky one today. He is now rich for sure."

Flora started to panic. "What do you mean? Rich?" she ordered.

"He has won." He paused and looked again at the screen. "Six thousand four hundred and ninety dollars."

The two of them started to laugh so loud that the other clerk looked over with a scowl on her face. Flora mouthed a "Sorry" and put her hand over her mouth to stifle the next giggle.

"This is wonderful Rakeesh. And it is all mine to waste."

"Pardon my nose in your business Flora," Rakeesh had a more serious look on his face. "But I understand that your man Peter left you last Friday night?"

"Yes. Shortly after I got home"

"But you were purchasing this ticket before you got home? Correct?"

"Correct," she confirmed, not sure where he was going with this.

"Then half of this magnificence win belongs to him. You bought this before he left so the ticket belongs to both of you."

Suddenly she remembered the conversation with Sharon and realized that he was right. She didn't think to ask how he knew this tidbit of a divorce trivia.

"Then this is horrendous Rakeesh. There is no way that I am going to give him half the winnings of this ticket. He doesn't even know that I bought lottery tickets."

It was only a few thousand dollars, but somehow the principle was more important than the amount.

"I am understanding. But there is maybe a way I can be helping." He looked at her questioningly.

"I'm listening."

"If you are bringing me the tickets from the car I can run them through the computer and change the time of purchase to sometime after this man left you. Then the money is yours."

"You can do this?"

"Well it is very much illegal, but I can do it. And as long as your husband does not even know of the ticket...you haven't told him or anyone else?" She shook her head and he continued. "Well as long as no one even knows you have won, who is to ask a question?"

"You are brilliant Rakeesh. Let's do it."

Flora turned to go out the front door of the store in time to see her sixteen-year-old CRV race out into the Friday rush hour traffic on Yonge Street. She screamed and rushed out the front door closely followed by Rakeesh. Together they stood gaping at the disappearing car. "They've taken my ticket." Flora had no idea why the ticket was suddenly more important to her than the car.

"I'll call the police," Rakeesh offered and he ran back into the store while Flora stood in the middle of the parking lot watching helplessly as her car disappeared up Yonge.

### $$$$$

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Chapter 5: Flora, Friday June 7th, 2013 5:31 P.M.

Cut to the Chase

"I saw them." The announcement was mumbled.

Flora was standing at the side of the road, her arms flapping at her side in frustration, still watching the empty space left behind by her long gone stolen car.

"I said...I saw them." This time the voice was a little more forceful and petulant and it broke her trance. She turned around and saw Frank standing behind her with his grocery cart strategically placed to buffer the space between them.

"Shit," he mumbled, with some exasperation and his face staring into the cart. "I saw them. I was in the bushes beside the store and I saw them."

Flora was flustered. This type of thing wasn't supposed to happen in her life and with the events of the last week she was starting to wonder what was coming next to upset her established order. She had been standing for ten minutes after Rakeesh went into the store to call the police, staring down the road as if by some force of will she could transport the car and its new occupants back to the parking spot in front of the 7 Eleven store. It had taken that long for Frank to emerge from his place in the shadows of the building and approach her.

"Saw who?" She wondered what he was doing in the bushes.

Frank almost turned and went away except Flora suddenly realized what a stupid question that was.

"You saw who took my car?"

"Yeah." He turned his cart around and pushed it back to the alley beside the store.

Flora started to chase after him when Rakeesh rushed out the door clutching his cell phone. "I have called the police," he announced. "I am most sorry to have taken such time. I had an emergency call from the 649 bosses. But a policeman saw your car make the turnoff north on the 400. I am most sure that they will catch them soon. Come." He held up the cell phone. "We will take my car and go there and when the police call we will be ready to rightfully reclaim your vehicle."

Flora was quite willing to let Rakeesh take charge of the situation and he seemed quite comfortable to be giving orders, so she started to move quickly to the Subaru that Rakeesh pointed to. She stopped and pulled Rakeesh's arm.

"Frank says he saw who took the car."

Rakeesh looked puzzled. "Frank?"

Flora pointed to Frank who was busy sorting out his belongings in the cart, apparently to make sure that nothing had gone missing in the last ten minutes.

"He says he saw the idiots who took the car."

Rakeesh went over to Frank and they had a conversation that Flora couldn't hear. "He will be accompanying us. He can be witnessing for the police if they are catching the perpetrators or provide a description if they didn't." To Flora's surprise, he opened the door and a quiet and compliant Frank crawled into the back seat. Rakeesh opened the front passenger door for Flora.

"Let us go. Quickly now Mrs. Richmond."

No one said anything as they drove north up Yonge, but by the time they hit the multilane 401 it was the middle of slow moving rush hour traffic. The slow down in speed had given Flora a chance to pause and reflect on the last half hour. She had told a stranger her complete story. She had won some money in the lottery. Her car was stolen—with the lottery ticket and her purse she now realized. And she was stuck in Friday night rush hour traffic on the 401—she hated rush hour traffic—with a lottery ticket seller and a homeless man. And they were chasing a car thief. And she was oddly calm. Her life and the moment were now totally out of her control and she should be screaming at someone—anyone—right now.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Rakeesh's cell phone.

"Hello? Yes this is he. She is right here." He handed the phone to Flora as he silently mouthed, "Police."

She took the phone.

"Yes? This is Flora Richmond." A pause. "Oh that is good news. Where is that?" Another pause. "Thank you. We will find that. Thank you again." She closed the phone but kept it. "You know that you are not supposed to use a cell phone while driving Rakeesh. That is dangerous."

Frank snickered in the back seat and Flora turned momentarily to look at him and then back at Rakeesh.

"They have found the car. It is parked in the lot at the Finch GO train station. Do you know where that is?"

"For most certainly. That is off the highway 400 North. If the traffic ever moves we can be there momentarily. Maybe we'll be reaching there in twenty minutes. Did they inform you of other things?"

"No. Just that the keys were still in the car. And they had my purse as well. The policeman will wait until we get there."

"Ah. So much luck. Just joy riders and not real thieves. And we have this gentleman in the back that can identify the perpetrators. The police will be immensely pleased."

Frank snickered again and this time Rakeesh took a glance in the rear view mirror, but Frank's head was looking down at the floor again.

Flora and Rakeesh waited in silence for the traffic to ease up. It turned out that the problem was a minor traffic accident. Gawkers had caused the slow down and not any lane blockage, so by the time they approached the 400 North the traffic had thinned out and was moving again at legal speed.

"We should get there quickly now," Rakeesh announced as he glanced in his side mirror and suddenly accelerated. He started to weave between the four lanes of traffic. He sped up to 150 km per hour and moved back among all four lanes with cars honking and flashing angry lights.

Flora started to scream. "What are you doing Rakeesh? Slow down. You'll kill us all."

He kept taking quick glances in his mirror as he made sudden lane changes, putting the WRX through a road test that it was probably not meant to do.

"Stop Rakeesh. I think I'm going to throw up. Oh shit."

Frank snickered and rolled back and forth on the back seat as Rakeesh jerked the car to the right or left.

The _400 exit 1 km_ sign appeared and Rakeesh moved the car over to the far left of the four lanes and accelerated, all the while glancing in his rear view mirror. At the last moment in a squeal of brakes and blasting horns, he cut off four lanes of traffic and veered sharply to the right and up the ramp to the 400. Flora was too terrified to notice, but Rakeesh glanced back as a black Hummer attempted the same maneuver, missed the ramp and was swept away by the solid flow of traffic. Rakeesh slowed down to normal speed. Rakeesh smiled to himself. It would be another four kilometres before the Hummer could turn around and get back; and by then they will be off the 400 on Finch.

Flora had no such happy thoughts. "What were you doing Rakeesh," she screamed. "We could have been killed. And you were breaking the speed limit."

Another snicker from Frank.

"Ah Madam. This is nothing compared to the streets of Delhi in rush hour," he calmly offered. "One must be aggressive to get ahead in these streets. I thought it important to get to your car as expediently as possible to retrieve your possessions. I am sorry if I upset you."

"Upset me? Upset me? You're kidding right? This isn't Delhi. You can't break the law like that. This is Canada Rakeesh " —she was in full lecture mode— "not India. As an immigrant you can't bring these habits with you here. There could have been little children in the cars we cut off. Someone might have called the police."

Rakeesh appeared disconsolate. "My most abject apologies Mrs. Richmond. I will drive better now."

There was a long silence as they continued up the 400 at normal speeds, Flora sitting stiffly in her seat, Rakeesh checking his rear view mirror a little more than unusual, and Frank offering the occasional unprompted snicker. They were soon at the Finch exit and shortly after that they pulled into the GO station parking lot.

They immediately saw Flora's car and the police car parked in the far end of the lot. They parked beside the stolen car and Flora checked the glove compartment for her purse. The policeman got out of his car as well.

"Good day Ma'am. Are you Flora Richmond?"

"Yes I am." She offered him her hand. He took it and gave her a warm smile.

"Well here is your purse. And the keys are in the car. Would you check the purse please to see if anything is missing?"

Flora took the purse and looked inside. She immediately saw that both the money and the ticket were gone. "Yes. There is some money missing. I don't recall the exact amount. Maybe eighty dollars." She knew exactly how much money she had in her purse. She didn't mention the ticket.

"Anything else? Credit cards?"

"No. They are all there."

"Okay. If you'll sign this report you can take your car, and I'll be on my way."

During this conversation Rakeesh had left the car and moved around the front to where Flora and the policeman were talking. He came up from behind Flora and Flora saw was the changed expression in the policeman's eyes and his hand move to the handle of the handgun hanging from his waist.

"Can I help you sir? This is police business so I suggest that you step back."

Rakeesh stopped.

"Do you speak English sir?

Rakeesh nodded.

"Please put your hands on the hood of the car Sir."

Rakeesh complied.

Flora recovered from the shock of the dialogue. "It's alright officer. He is with me"

The policeman ignored her.

"Could I see your identification sir?

Rakeesh reached into his back pocket and with two fingers gave the officer his wallet.

"Is this your current address?"

Rakeesh nodded.

"Stay here and don't move." The officer ordered as he went into his car and punched some information into his computer.

Flora started to say something but Rakeesh held his hand and stopped her.

"Sorry to have troubled you sir," he announced as he returned and gave Rakeesh back his wallet. He turned to Flora. "You can't be careful enough these days. Have a good day," he offered and started moving back to his car.

"Wait a minute.' Flora called after him. "What about the thieves?"

"I checked in the GO station and the security cameras didn't show anything, so we have no description of anybody. Unless you saw the thief?"

Flora shook her head. Something told her it wouldn't be a good idea to put this guy and Frank together.

"Well, it was probably some kids after a joyride and a few bucks. Not worth our trouble."

Flora wanted to ask why Rakeesh was worth the trouble, but stood in silence as he drove away.

"Rakeesh that wasn't right. He shouldn't have done that to you."

"It's okay. He was doing his job. Some of my Muslim brothers have earned all brown skins a lifetime of suspicion."

"How would he know you were Muslim? I didn't know you were Muslim. Aren't most Indians Hindu?"

"That's truthful Mrs. Richmond. But the appearance difference is for certain too delicate for a Canadian policeman to ascertain. But what do we do now? Is the ticket now in your possession?"

Flora emptied the contents of her purse on the ground and carefully put everything back in its designated place. "It's gone. He took it."

"It isn't a 'he'. It is a 'them.' "

They had forgotten Frank. They both turned to the Subaru where Frank had opened the door was now sitting with both feet outside the car.

He continued.

"They were a young couple— late teens. She was maybe five four. Medium length blond hair. Slender build. He was six feet. Athletic—probably a hundred and eighty. Dark brown hair cut short. She was visibly pregnant. Unusually big. I'd guess seven or eight months."

Flora stood stunned at hearing more words from Frank she had heard in a year. But she vaguely remembered the young woman who had come into the store. Rakeesh stood beside her and said nothing. Frank didn't give either a chance to comment.

"They took what?"

"My lottery ticket," Flora explained. "I won over six thousand dollars."

"Hmmm," Frank responded. Rakeesh was still silent. "Are you going after them?"

Flora looked at Rakeesh. Frank's deep voice and normal conversational mode had taken her by surprise.

Rakeesh just shrugged his shoulders. "Certainly. If the lady wishes? But we would be needing you to identify them."

"You mean we would take this man with us?" She was instantly ashamed of the visible disgust in her voice.

"He is the only one that has seen them."

"But we have his description of them. And you and I saw them in the store," she argued. "That should be good enough. And they may be sitting in the GO station cafe right now. It shouldn't be hard to follow an overly pregnant white girl."

"Yes. But what if they are splitting up? An average height, young white gentlemen with brown hair might be excruciatingly difficult to ascertain. And we are not even certain they were the same young people we saw in the store. And them I only glanced at."

"Hey you two lovers," Frank interrupted. "I'll help you find them and then you find me a grocery cart and then you can drop me off at the nearest dumpster."

Flora blanched at the 'lover' statement. "We're not..."

"But first, go over to the Wal-Mart across the street."

An astounded Flora, and a strangely compliant Rakeesh, drove across the road and parked in the Wal-Mart lot across the road from the GO train station.

"I'll be back." And the bearded, straggly haired, homeless man in baggy pants and an old army coat that was too warm and too large limped to the entrance to the store.

After Frank left the car Flora and Rakeesh looked at each other and both broke out into spontaneous laughter.

"So what happened there?" Flora asked.

"It seems that Mr. Frank is something other than what appears to the naked nose," Rakeesh offered.

"It's eye Rakeesh. Eye."

"Not with him it isn't."

They both laughed.

"Is he safe?"

Rakeesh shrugged. "Perhaps as safe as an immigrant Muslim lottery ticket seller Madam?"

### $$$$$

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Chapter 6: Rick, Friday, June 7th, 5:35 P.M.

_The Great Escape_

Adi was angry and shocked. Her real name was Adriel, but Rick and her friends called her Adi.

"You stole a car. A car. Someone else's car." She started to cry. "Why did you do that? Now our baby will be a thief as well."

"What else could I do? We needed to get away quickly. Your father—probably the whole congregation— is chasing us right now. My truck is at the garage in Barrie and we don't have enough money to get there."

"You could have bought us bus tickets instead of a stupid lottery ticket," she derided through the tears.

"I bought it that last Friday night before I realized how much a week in Toronto would cost," he explained. "Besides, that eleven bucks would have gotten us as far as the 401. Then what? Hitchhike like I did after the truck broke? Until your parents and brothers pick us up?"

Adi didn't respond as Rick continued to maneuver the stolen CRV north through Yonge Street rush hour traffic towards the 401.

"Look. The keys were in the car. It was invitation to borrow it. We'll leave it near the garage in Barrie. I have enough money in my truck to get us to Fort McMurray. There are lots of jobs there for me and good places to live and we can get married there and you can have our son." He reached over and took her hand. "It will be alright Adi."

"A daughter Rick. A daughter," she admonished. "Have you ever stolen anything before Rick?" she cautiously asked.

"Not since grade four when I took a Snickers bar from the mini mart across from the school. And I felt so guilty I actually took it back."

They both laughed and momentarily forgot the awkwardness of the moment. In fact, theft, or any other form of illegal activity, was not a part of either of their histories.

"Sorry you're going to miss graduation, "Adi offered.

"You too."

"Yeah. But I'm not getting athlete of the year award. Or any academic prizes like you. How do you learn that physics stuff anyhow?"

"I like it that's all. How long do you think it will take before your father figures out that you are gone?"

"I don't usually come back until around dinner time. So it will be at least another hour before he leaves the Saviour's Hall and goes over to the library to see what I'm up to. But I don't think that my family will come after me Rick. They'll likely shun me. Running away with someone outside the church will be bad enough. But when they find out I've stolen a car..." She started to cry again. "But the baby might change that."

"My family will be upset as well Adi, but they will get over it. My mom might not speak to me again." He knew that wasn't true, but he felt he should share some bad family reaction with Adi. "But she and Dad could not ignore their grandson."

They didn't actually know if the baby was a boy since Adi's parents wouldn't permit an ultrasound.

"What is this shunning thing?"

"A granddaughter Rick. A granddaughter. My family believes the Bible teaches us that we are not to associate with anyone who doesn't believe in the teachings of The Savior. So when a family member leaves the church they are treated like they don't belong to the family. They will call me an Apostate—someone who hates The Savior. For the rest of my life I'll not be able to speak to my sisters or my mother, or any of my other friends in the congregation."

"Can you go back?"

"Sure. If I reject you. Reaffirm my commitment to The Savior. Raise our child in the congregation. And so on."

"It's not too late. I can drop you off at any Saviour's Hall and you'll not see me again?"

"I'm scared Rick," she offered through more tears. "I've not been away from my family for more than a couple of nights, much less a lifetime. But you know that I've been questioning my parents and the rules of our religion for a while now. I wouldn't be pregnant if I'd followed their rules more carefully."

They both laughed as Adi playfully punched him on the arm.

"But, no, I don't want to go back. I don't yet know how to go forward. But I don't think that stealing a car is the best way to start our life together."

They were now heading west on the 401 and the 400 North to Barrie was coming up on their right. Rick's stomach took a flip when an Ontario Provincial Police cruiser passed them going the other direction on the 401. But it didn't pay any attention to them.

"I'm sorry Adi. I didn't know what else to do. I'll pull off at the Finch exit. I have enough money for a GO train to Barrie and we'll start the trip over properly."

In a few moments they pulled into the Finch Go station and parked the car in the far end of the parking lot, away from the security cameras. Adi walked to the station to use the washroom while Rick opened the glove compartment to see if there was anything they could use. He found Flora's purse and took the eighty-five dollars that was in the wallet. He had lied. He didn't have the money for the train and this would cover the cost of two GO tickets to Barrie, to his truck and to the money he had left there. He wrote down Flora's name and address on a gas receipt that he found in the glove compartment so that he could send the money back. Like he had seen in a movie, he took a disinfectant wipe from a container in the backseat and wiped the inside of the car clean of any fingerprints. Then he followed Adi into the GO station.

He didn't notice the lottery ticket that was stuck between the twenties he stuffed in his pocket.

### $$$$$

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Chapter 7: Flora, Friday June 7th, 2013 6:30 P.M.

_Secrets Revealed_

"Do you get bothered by the police often Rakeesh?"

They were sitting in the Subaru parked in the middle of the Wal-Mart parking lot. Rakeesh had backed into the spot and they had a clear few of the entrance to the store where Frank had disappeared a few moments ago. He glanced out the driver window as a young couple in the car next to them struggled to load several bags of groceries and a toddler without dropping any of them. Children and groceries hadn't been on his mid lately.

"Enough."

The toddler—Rakeesh guessed three— didn't want to get into the car seat and was stiffening his body so his father couldn't connect the harness.

"Actually too much."

The father started yelling at the boy and the mother turned around from her seat in the car and offered what looked like a piece of licorice. The toddler took the candy and melted into the car seat. Rakeesh regretted every time he had yelled at Pradeesh.

"They have profiling you know. And ever since those idiots tried to blow up the subway with a ton of fertilizer it has been difficult in Toronto for anyone who looks Muslim—whatever that is. I apparently fit the general description of the trouble making radical Imams, so I usually get asked for identification."

"Maybe if you shaved off your beard you wouldn't look so suspicious?"

The Hyundai drove off and a minivan of some sort filled the empty spot. An elderly woman with pink tinged hair crawled down from the driver's seat. She stared at Rakeesh and scuttled quickly away.

"So I should change my appearance because Canadians are paranoid of everyone that doesn't look like they grew up in the Scottish highlands?"

"Is there some religious significance to the beard?"

"No. Unlike other brothers in my faith or the Sikh religion, my personal belief doesn't subscribe to the sanctity of face hair. I wear a beard because I like it. Besides, if people knew Islamist beliefs, they would know that the most common interpretation of the Prophet is that a man should shave his mustache and grow his beard. I have a full, neatly trimmed beard."

Flora was so taken aback by his sudden anger that she didn't notice the missing accent.

He went silent, instantly regretting his outburst.

"I didn't know," was all the comfort she could provide.

"It's okay."

But it wasn't. He had been in Canada for over ten years and with the help of a special agency of the Canadian government he was a full Canadian citizen. He had a passport, a driver's license and a personal digital file easily accessed by any law enforcement office anywhere in the world. The file provided detailed information on his legitimate immigration to Canada and his continued employment and tax filing as a small business owner operating a lottery kiosk. It would pass the most detailed scrutiny—unless someone was to ask how an apparently penniless and uneducated Indian received his landed immigrant papers and his citizenship in record time. But as long as he kept a low profile—and the beard—he thought that he was fairly safe. That is, until the videoconference this morning, the young men in the store, and now the chase by the Hummer. He assumed that Flora was simply too naïve to suspect that there was any other explanation than the one he provided. Up until a few moments ago he had thought Frank was also too out of it to notice or care. And every time that the profiling led to an examination of his data file on a police computer, he was both nervous and annoyed. Flora proved him wrong again.

"Rakeesh, I'm not stupid. You didn't race your Subaru all over 401 rush hour traffic like you did today so you could get me to my old CRV." She paused and continued. "Besides, Peter once had a Subaru Outback and it would not have handled that kind of driving."

Since this was more of a statement than a question, Rakeesh didn't know if he should respond at all.

Then she added, "And I saw the Hummer too."

Now he was surprised. Surprised firstly that this lady saw this, and secondly that he was so stupid not to have assessed her differently. She was correct on all accounts of course, but what could he say that could ever explain the series of twisted events that led him to this Wal-Mart parking lot?

He decided to start his lies with the car.

"Oh most perceptive of you Mrs. Richmond."

"Flora. It's Flora." she interjected in a serious tone. "Rakeesh we have had a near death experience together. You can call me Flora."

"Okay. Flora. Well you see, I was buying the car from my cousin Kalki. And he liked to drive so fast and had the dealer stew it up to be like the WRX which is the Subaru sports model that young people race on the street with those big sounding pipes that wake everyone." And he gave her a toothy grin. "And it does go fast wouldn't you agree?"

Flora looked over at him and smiled. "Okay. Thanks for the explanation Rakeesh." She twisted in her seat so she was facing him, crossed her arms and gave him her scolding-the-grade-sixer her look. "Now cut the crap. I'm not going an inch further in this car until you tell me who was chasing you and why. Or how you come to be driving a racecar?"

"So maybe we should take your car then?"

The look on her face suggested that she didn't appreciate the humour and wasn't going to be put off. After a short staring standoff he continued.

"I needed to get away and you provided a convenient excuse. There are people that want to hurt me and I thought that I had been well hidden away. And over the past couple of days I have noticed some suspicious customers to the store."

Flora thought for a moment trying to recall who else was in the store when she was there. She remembered the young couple but couldn't picture the other men that came in while she was telling Rakeesh her story.

"So your problem helped me let my escape look natural. I've always been ready to escape and thus the fast car."

"So you are not a lottery ticket seller?"

"What do you mean 'just'? That is a demanding and onerous job. Selling Canadians— who are already living the dream—their ticket to a new one."

Her look told him again that the humour was still not appreciated.

"No. I have been a ticket seller for the past year. And for the past ten years enjoying a quiet life as a responsible Canadian citizen. It was the couple of years previous to that which are the problem."

Flora realized for the first time that the Hindu accent was gone and even Rakeesh's demeanour seemed different. He seemed to be sitting taller in the driver's seat as he leaned against the car window with his arms folded. She suddenly sat up straighter in her own seat.

"What happened to your accent?"

"Five years at Cambridge did a remarkable job of whacking the Indian out of me."

"So you didn't need my English lessons?"

"I have two degrees in English literature. The first was on Elizabethan poets." He noticed the surprise on her face. "What can I say? It was a good way to meet girls."

He continued. "The second one–a Masters–was on the Indian traditions in nineteenth century English literature. Not bad for a poor Muslim boy from North India."

She didn't quite know how to respond. "It's a long way from Cambridge to a lottery ticket booth in North York?"

"Yes—" he mused, wondering how much to tell her. She had opened her emotions to him as a stranger. And it had been many years since he had shared his life with someone other than government officials.

"It has been a long trip,"

The description of the first twenty years after Cambridge was easy for him to to truncate.

"I was recruited fresh from my Masters into the Indian military and, after officer training at Sandhurst, I began a quick ride to the top of the officer echelons in the Indian armed forces. I was married at thirty-eight and, by forty-three Sandeep and I had four beautiful children under the age of five. At forty-five I was made a Major in the Indian Army. It was then I realized that, despite my obvious talents as a soldier, I had reached a glass ceiling for a Muslim man in the Indian military. Modern sensitivities required a token representation of Muslims in the military of a predominantly Hindu country, but those sensitivities had a limit and I realized that Major would be as far as I could go. So I left the military and took a position as a senior police officer in the region of Gujarat in the northwest corner of India. While the population was still ninety percent Hindu, it was a part of India where Muslims and Hindus by and large lived peacefully together as neighbours and friends. It was a place where a responsible Muslim official could do well. And we could raise our family in peace."

Flora listened intently. The mention of family caught her attention.

"Sandeep and I worked hard to be what the locals would call responsible Muslims. Neither of us visibly "wore" our religion and to the unsuspecting we appeared another local family and I appeared just another Hindu police officer. We didn't support the more radical elements of our faith clamoring for followers of Islam to return to Sharia law. And most of all, neither of us expressed, nor carried, any hatred for the infidels, especially those in the western world. I even spoke Hindi since I came from the Hindi speaking area of Western Uttar Pradesh. So life in Gujarat was good for me, Sandeep and our young family."

Rakeesh paused and looked over at the Wal-Mart entrance to check if Frank was coming yet.

"Are you aware of the lingering racial tensions from the partition of India in 1949?"

"More or less," she offered. "I understand that Pakistan was to be a Muslim state—and India proper a Hindu state. And I know that the two countries are still fighting over the borders of Kashmir. I have read a little of the tremendous dislocation for families of both beliefs over the first few years of partition. I have read a little of the challenges for the minorities left behind in each country. We know about the Mumbai attack for instance."

"Fair enough. You have the general idea. Essentially the tension between Muslims and Hindus in India has simmered—with the odd boiling over—for over sixty years. And it rarely took much of a flame over that period for the pot to boil over. At any rate, by 2002 I was probably the highest-ranking Muslim police officer in Gujarat Province. We were quite used to occasional religious-based riots. There were enough extremists on all sides to ensure constant tension and some violence. But we treated these as the by- products of multi religious life. Until 2002. There is still considerable controversy over exactly what happened. Some insist it was an engine fire. Others claim that it was arson by a mob of Islamic extremists. But whatever the cause, a train carrying mostly Hindu women and children pilgrims caught fire at the station. Fifty-eight women and children burned to death on those tracks. This horrific event set off one of the worst religious massacres in Indian history. Some today still refer to it as genocide. Angry mobs of Hindus searched every regional city for any Muslim person, shrine, mosque or school they could find and killed, burnt and destroyed with abandon. Muslim citizens fought back, of course, and when things settled down a month later the death toll sat at over eight hundred Muslims and over two hundred and fifty Hindus. Many of them women and children—murdered in the streets and in their homes."

Rakeesh paused and turned his face away to the car window and Flora could see that retelling the story was bringing back some painful memories. She reached over and touched his arm. "You don't need to go on Rakeesh."

"Yes I do." He turned back to Flora and she could see the tears in his eyes. "I don't know why."

Flora nodded and kept her hand on is arm.

"You have to understand that neighbours were killing neighbours. People that had lived beside each other for years. They shopped at the same stores. Got water from the same standpipe. Smoked and chewed Betel together while they complained about the government and the lazy civil servants."

"Nothing different here," Flora offered and their laugh broke the tension.

"The day after the rioting broke out I was sent to help out in one of the most difficult places, a town called Ode a few hours drive from where I was stationed in Ahmedabad."

He paused and took a drink of water from a bottle on the console. The van driver clamoured back into her seat and quickly left without a glance in Rakeesh's direction. A Toyota Camry filled the spot. The driver was a turbaned Sikh and he smiled at Rakeesh as he pushed the automatic lock button on his key fob and walked towards the store. Rakeesh watched him as he approached the store and noticed a security guard looking their way and talking into a walkie-talkie. Rakeesh wiped his eyes with his sleeve and smiled. The pink haired lady from the minivan he guessed.

Flora said nothing. She realized this was something that Rakeesh had to do and she didn't want to interrupt. She wondered for a second when Frank would come back and took a quick glance out the window towards the Wal-Mart entrance but didn't see anyone who looked like him. She didn't notice the guard.

"Let me describe Ode first. By the time that I and the other officers from Ahmedabad arrived, the rioting was well under way. The air was full of the smoke of burning and ransacked houses of known Muslims as a mob of over a thousand Hindus rolled like viscous oil over the back alleys and twisted roadways of the village. I was given charge of a small group of local police and we joined a larger phalanx of that confronted the riot. And we opened fire on the mob as it surged through a Muslim ghetto. This was no rubber bullet exercise. And no one ordered us to fire above everyone's head. Over two hundred rioters were killed by police during the riots throughout the state, but I figure, by the number of rounds fired in Ode that day, the number was much higher. At any rate, this firing certainly dispersed the mob. But not their passion and they broke up into smaller packs and continued their relentless search for anything Muslim to destroy. My squad was ordered to follow one pack as it headed towards a small enclave of Muslim houses in a suburb of Ode. It appeared that as the mob attacked with stones and screaming, the frightened residents, mostly woman and children, took shelter in one of the houses. The mob burned the house down and the inhabitants while we watched. From that point on, despite the din of the maddened crowd, all I heard was the screaming of the twenty three woman and children who were burned alive in that house."

He paused and took another drink from the water bottle. He watched as two other guards joined the first one and laughed inwardly as the three of them pretended to be looking elsewhere as they tried to look at their car with sideway glances.

"I tried to intervene but was stopped by the local police. Afterwards I was the only police officer of any rank willing to testify to exactly what happened at Ode and who the major perpetrators were. Unfortunately this put my life in danger. At first the families of those charged tried to bribe me. They had done this successfully with many of the other witnesses to atrocities throughout the state, but they quickly realized that this wouldn't work with me."

He paused again, turned away and looked out the driver's side window in time to see two of the guards fanning out right and left while the original guard stayed at the entrance with the walkie-talkie. Rakeesh wondered if this wasn't a little overkill to appease an old lady's racist imagination. Maybe they were looking for something else.

"Then they tried to kill me. Despite the fact that I was supposedly under police protection there were two clumsy attempts on my life. One with a bomb that went off before I was anywhere close to my car. And another when two thugs attacked me in a Delhi alley after I came out of a restaurant where I had met with some prosecution lawyers. My police protection had been conveniently delayed inside the restaurant. Unfortunately for the thugs I am quite well trained in hand-to-hand combat from my Sandhurst days and they quickly fled with at least one broken arm. After that the government thought it best to get me out of the country until they needed my testimony. And the Canadian government cooperated. Indian justice moves slowly and for the last ten years I have been Rakeesh Muktar, new Canadian citizen. For the last year I have been a lottery ticket seller by day and witness for the Indian government prosecution by night. And for ten years the Patel family has looked but not found me. Until this week. Ironically, the government doesn't need me. On Tuesday I gave a testimony by teleconference to a court in India. So I figured everyone would be finished with me and I could give up the charade and start to lead a normal Canadian life. I had actually sold the lottery operation and was trying to figure out where to start again. And today I learned that some nasty people knew where I was."

Flora wanted to gasp for breath. Too much information, she thought. She knew none of these faraway places and the details of the events were lost on her. But she sensed that it was as story that Rakeesh had to tell —outside of a courtroom.

"Is Rakeesh Muktar your real name?"

"No. But the old one doesn't matter now. This is the name on my Canadian passport so that is now who I am."

Flora laughed inwardly since he might know who he was, but she clearly didn't. She had met weekly with this man for a year and not saw past the accent or the deferential demeanor.

"I am sorry for you Rakeesh. This must have been an horrific experience."

"Well, it was supposed to be over now that I have testified. But I guess you never recover totally from such an event."

She had a jumble of questions and wasn't sure where to start.

"Where is your family now? And with this going on why did you jump to my aid and help me chase the car thieves?"

He ignored the first question. "As I said, at first it was a convenient way for me to make an escape from those that were looking for me. Of course everything changed after our coffee together. You are an attractive woman after all.

Flora felt the warmth of his tone and involuntarily responded by reaching over and taking his hand. It had been a while since a conversation with a man had sparked a relationship, and in the midst of his turmoil he had been touched by her and her story. She was moved.

"What changed Rakeesh?"

"Your number didn't win six thousand. It was over six million."

### $$$$$

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**Chapter 8** : **Rick, Friday, June 7th, 7:10 P.M.**

_Head West Young Man_

"Where did you get this money Rick?" Adi asked as she watched him pull a small rectangular tin from under the front seat of the old F150. They had arrived at Rick's truck after a short walk from the Barrie GO station to the gas station where it had been fixed.

"I've been saving this from my part-time jobs for over three years now. The bailing work at haying time paid pretty well. And the weekend work at the Alliston Esso station was okay too," Rick explained. "I'd been saving this for university next fall. I won't need it for that now. Should be enough to get us set up in Fort McMurray."

Adi watched as he opened the small, bill sized tin box and began to count the money. He knew exactly how much he had and had counted it many times, but handling thirty two hundred dollars in fifties and twenties gave him a sense of pride and security. He started out with the whole thirty-nine hundred that he had withdrawn from his savings account, but it had cost him seven hundred for the journey to Toronto to get Adi and to have the transmission fixed on the truck. He'd only taken two hundred with him to Toronto and that had not lasted as long as he had thought it would. But after his hitchhiked ride dropped him off the previous Friday evening at the Yorkton subway station, the touch of the two hundred dollars in twenties had made him feel quite rich and independent. After a coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich in the 7-Eleven he spent eleven dollars on a 649 ticket and headed out to find the Savior Hall where Adi was being held. After week in Toronto, even sleeping on the streets wherever he could, he was broke by the time they started the trip back to the truck a week later. Adi wasn't allowed to have any money and she couldn't bring herself to steal from her parents. So the eighty-five dollars from Flora's purse —not to mention the use of her car—saved them.

"Are you going to send the money back?" Adi demanded.

"Yeah. Here is her address. Go over to the Shoppers Drug Mart across the road and get an envelope and a stamp and you can send it right away. Write a little note and apologize for taking the car and let's send her forty to pay for some gas." As he pulled Flora's money from his pocket, the lottery ticket that had been between the bills fell to the ground.

"Your stupid lottery ticket fell out."

Adi was strongly opposed to gambling of any kind and was upset with Rick when he told her he had to check his ticket before they left Toronto. "I may have left my parents and the church. But I haven't left my morals," she solemnly announced.

"Which morals had anything to do with this?" he laughed as he patted her bulging stomach.

"Okay." She laughed as well. "So I have occasional lapse. But I thought you checked that thing at the 7-Eleven and threw it out?"

"I did check it." He pulled a wrinkled and well travelled 649 ticket from his back pocket. He reached down and picked up the ticket from the ground. "This is hers. I must have taken it when I grabbed the money." He looked carefully at the ticket as if he could somehow deduce if it was a winner from a serious scrutiny of the numbers.

"Should we send that back as well?"

"Sure." And with a small sleight of hand and no real forethought, he put the wrinkled ticket between the twenty-dollar bills. "Put this in the envelope as well. I'll go over to Tim's and get us some coffee and some sandwiches and we'll get going as soon as you get back."

That was stupid, he thought to himself as he walked over to Tims. It is no more likely that she won than he did. And if this ticket did win how would he explain to Adi that it wasn't his? She would probably make him give the money back. Rick put Flora's ticket in his wallet with a mental note to check it while on the road. He didn't know why he made the switch and he felt genuinely guilty. He looked around to see if anyone was looking when he put the stolen ticket in his wallet. He would erase the photo he had taken of his own ticket later since that ticket was a loser. His mom recorded—wrote them on her kitchen calendar— the numbers on her ticket. "In case they get lost or stolen," she would explain. He had simply taken a photo of the ticket with his iPhone. It was no good now.

He soon forgot the guilt and the ticket as he walked over to the Tims beside the gas station and bought their coffee and food. They had a long trip ahead of them. It was over thirty-five hundred kilometres from Barrie to Ft. McMurray and their new life together. He was hopeful and nervous at the same time. Neither he nor Adi had ever been out of Ontario, much less three provinces west.

And they had not travelled far to anywhere within Ontario without their parents or one of their brothers or sisters along. His family took a shopping trip to COSTCO and the Barrie outlet malls every year and sometimes they had to take two cars. He felt quite independent last year when his dad asked him to bring the F150 to carry the booty they bought. Once a year he and his dad, brothers, and the odd cousin or two, went down to watch the Blue Jays play. That was how he knew his way directly from Alliston to Barrie and his way around the Toronto subway system. But once he was north of Orillia he was in new territory.

After picking up the sandwiches he walked over to the Petro Can station and bought a Canadian Map Atlas. It shouldn't be hard to follow the Trans Canada, and he had Google maps on his phone, but Adi would be comforted with maps and knowing where she was at all times. He sat in the truck sipping his coffee waiting for Adi to come back from the drug store.

He had planned the trip for some time, in fact ever since Adi's parents had sent her away. Her parents wouldn't let her near a phone to talk to him, but she was able to go to the library near the Savior Hall and log into her Hotmail account. So she and Rick had cyber chatted whenever she went to the library. She was careful to bring back books that her uncle would approve of so she could go again. He was big into homeopathic medicine and conspiracy theories so she brought something home that was anti-vaccine or something similar. They had planned her escape carefully. She went with her uncle every Friday afternoon to the Savior Hall where he took part in some kind of Bible discussion and she went to the library across the street. And today, Rick had been waiting at the library for her. He was supposed to have had the truck, but the broken transmission meant that they had to escape on the subway. In hindsight that was probably better anyhow. No one would be able to identify the truck. She had left a long letter in her uncle's car telling him to let her parents know she was leaving them and the faith and that she would be in touch when she was settled. They met at the library and the librarian had given them a serious frown at the hug and her tears.

The first thing that struck him was how different she was than he remembered. There was a pleasant puffiness to Adi's face and her cheeks had a slight ruby tinge. He had discussed this with his mother and she had told him the changes that would be coming over Adi as her term progressed. She had told him the things to buy that an eight-month pregnant woman would need for the long drive. But it was the difference in her demeanor not her physical appearance that he noticed right away.

He was attracted to her in the first instance because of her strong spirit.

They hadn't planned on sex—at least the full thing— that night eight months ago. Despite her religion she was as interested in exploring the sexual side of their relationship as he was. And she was constantly questioning the orthodoxy of her family and refusing to participate in the Saturday proselytizing parade or wear the black and white clothing. She once lit a friend's cigarette with a burning copy of the Redeemer, the Saviour's magazine. But when he met her at the library, he saw little of that old spirit. She returned the hug enthusiastically enough, and he assumed that the tears were tears of relief. But she kept her head down and was uncharacteristically quiet on the subway trip to the 7-Eleven. And now she was lecturing him about what was right or wrong. It will be better when we are on the road, he thought to himself as he watched her crossing the street on her way to the parking lot where the truck was waiting.

"Hey. All set?" he asked as she climbed up into the bench seat of the truck.

"Yeah. I wrote her a note and mailed the letter," she announced. "And I bought us a treat. I was never allowed to have these." She chuckled as she handed Rick a child's PEZ container full of the tart candy. He popped the head open and laughed as he ate one and motioned for her to open her mouth and he popped one in her mouth as well. He smiled at the return of the old mischievous Adi.

"Okay. Let's go." He looked at his watch as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the access road to the 400 North. "It's seven now so we'll try and make North Bay tonight. It's three hours or so—all four lanes. And get an early start tomorrow."

In a few moments they were in the flow of traffic heading north, Green Day blasting on his two hundred watt truck sound system.

"Pass me one of those Timmy's sandwiches would you Adi?"

The traffic north of Barrie gradually eased as weekend cottagers dropped off one by one at the exits to their weekend retreats. By the time they were north of Huntsville they had the road to themselves. They hadn't talked much on the trip to that point. At least not about the adventure they were on.

"Did you see Josh and Glenda before you left?" They were two of Rick and Adi's best friends. They had all planned on going to university together in the fall.

"Yeah. Josh tried to give me a stash of his best homegrown to take but I told that wouldn't be the smartest thing to have if I was stopped for speeding or something. It's the RCMP out west you know, not the OPP. Besides you haven't had anything like that since you've been pregnant."

"Sure. But never can tell. I might need it afterward if we have a cranky baby like your mom says you were"

"No way. I was perfect. Here." He pulled his iPhone form his jeans pocket. "I told Glenda you would text her once we were on the road."

Rick picked a piece of chicken salad off his lap and reached for the coffee. The sun was setting to their left and the warm sunset glow seemed to ooze over the highway giving the black asphalt a purplish tinge. His dad had watched the sunset to figure out what the next day would look like. "Red sky tonight. Sailors' delight," he used to say. Rick wondered if his dad was watching it now and what kind of day this sunset suggested for him and Adi tomorrow.

"I doubt that your parents thought that you were perfect when you told them we were going west?" Adi suggested as she sent a text.

"They both tried to talk me out of it at first. They said we could move in with them and they could help look after the baby. But they really didn't argue hard. Once they accepted that we were in love and doing this they started being helpful. Mom telling me baby things and such."

Adi looked up from the iPhone at the love part.

"Maybe we should have left as soon as we knew you were pregnant. And then your family couldn't have sent you to Toronto."

"Sure. And neither of us would have finished high school. And I would have missed a wonderful six months of lectures on how only the Saviours would be saved from eternal hellfire." She finished her text and put the iPhone in the truck console. "Gag me."

He asked her what she did while she was in Toronto and what it was like to be pregnant. She said her uncle didn't let her out much without someone from the church with her so she didn't see much of Toronto's famed nightlife. And she peed a lot, but otherwise felt great.

And they talked names. They didn't even know the sex of the baby yet but that didn't stop a healthy debate. He preferred more traditional names like Mary, Helen, or David or George. She leaned to the unusual like Liam, Jayden, or Aria. In the end they agreed that they should call the baby Brooklyn if it was a girl and Charlie if a boy, since either was most likely to piss off Adi's father.

They both laughed when an hour south of North Bay Adi announced "pee time." Rick reached behind the seat and brought out the large peanut butter jar that his mother had given him. "Here," she had said to Rick as she handed him the jar. "Keep this in your truck. Save your relationship. When a girl has to pee —she has to pee."

"I'm not using that." Adi choked on her laughter and faked extreme shock.

By now the sun had completely set. The roadside was mostly dark with the shadows of pines and balsam with the occasional maple forest nudging the edge of a roadside farm.

"I could pull over?"

Adi gave him one of her chin down, eyebrows furrowed glares. Fortunately they were approaching a service centre and the jar could be saved for another time. But the laughter was real and they were having fun. They didn't have to talk about their plans since they had worked those out in their email exchanges. And for the moment both were carefully avoiding the emotional part of the adventure.

When they got back in the truck they drove the dark highway in silence while they ate their donuts. Adi took a bite and squeezed out a big hunk of jelly that dripped on her protruding belly.

"Oh nuts. This is a clean dress," she said as she grabbed a napkin and started to wipe away the jelly. And then started to cry.

Rick reached over and took her hand and squeezed it. "Adi I love you."

She cried harder and squeezed back and they drove most of the rest of the way buried in their own thoughts.

By the time they reached North Bay and the Comfortlodge on the highway it was eleven and both were tired. Adi waited in the car while Rick went in to get a key. If some cop hadn't found them during the four hours or so traveling up the 400 and 11, then no one was likely looking hard for them. But he didn't want to take any chances that there was some kind of notice, from the police or her family, to be on the lookout for a young pregnant woman so it was best for Adi to stay in the truck. Once he had opened the room they could park right outside the sliding doors and she could get into the room without being seen.

Soon they were both lying exhausted on the large bed. The clerk had asked him whether he wanted a queen or doubles and he had chosen the queen.

They had never slept together. And despite some playful evenings in his truck parked behind the empty warehouse in town, the only time they had full sex was the time that she got pregnant and that was quick and happened in the heat of the moment. So he was unsure of what to do when Adi stood and took of her clothes and stood before him. He sat up and could only stare. Her breasts were larger than he remembered. But then he had only felt them, not seen them in any light much less the kind of harsh, shadowy light provided by the motel bed lamps. But it was her belly that transfixed him. He didn't know what he had expected, but all he could think of was how beautiful it was. The skin was taut and smooth over a slightly bulging belly button. He reached over and ran his hand over the smooth belly.

"It's beautiful." Was all he could say in a husky voice as he clumsily took off his clothes as well and stood shyly before her wondering if he was supposed to feel guilty for finding a pregnant woman so arousing?

Adi looked down at him. "I can see that he likes it too." She pulled back the covers of the bed and turned out the lights. He wrapped himself around the back of her warm body, with one hand on her belly and the other cupping a swollen breast. "I love you too Rick," was the last sound he heard as they both fell into a warm and comforting sleep.

### $$$$$

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Chapter 9: Flora, Friday, June 7th, 7:12 P.M.

The Wal-Mart Greeter

"How much?" An astonished Flora almost yelled the question at Rakeesh.

"Over six million," he whispered.

"But how? Why? You told me it was six thousand."

Rakeesh opened his mouth to offer his explanation but was interrupted by the back door of the Subaru. Frank slid into the seat dragging two large Wal-Mart bags behind him.

"Okay. Drive back over to the GO station," he ordered.

Flora and Rakeesh looked at each other. Rakeesh shrugged as he started the car and put it in gear.

"The shopping was being successful Mr. Frank?" Rakeesh asked as he drove across Finch to the GO station.

"Cut with the accent asshole," Frank shot back. "I've been to Delhi."

The mangled English that Rakeesh had spoken to Flora sounded nothing like the accented English of a native Hindi speaker. Rakeesh could certainly parody such a speaker any time that he wanted, but the made up accent was a bit of entertainment he devised as he played with the reaction of his lottery customers to his fake persona. It was not hard to fool people like Flora. Now he was silent as they drove into the parking lot and parked the Subaru in the same spot where he had parked half an hour ago. The new Rakeesh was now on high alert as he put the car in reverse, glanced over at Flora and waited for Frank's next move.

"Wait here. I won't be long." He got out of the car and shuffled off towards the GO Station ticket counter.

As soon as he was out of earshot Rakeesh started again. "When I first ran the ticket numbers it did come up six thousand. But I had been having trouble with scanning tickets all evening. I would get different readings each time I ran a ticket through. The first time it showed the ticket didn't win anything. So I did yours a second and third time and the different number came up. That is why I took so long to answer you then. I didn't tell you right away because I wanted to actually verify it with the actual ticket. And then the car was stolen—and here we are."

"So you went with me to help recover the ticket? You get your cut as the seller no matter who cashes in the ticket don't you?"

Rakeesh ignored the question. "Shouldn't we be talking for a moment about this homeless guy?"

"Should we take off and leave him? He could be dangerous."

"If he was going to do something nasty he could have done it already. Let's wait to see if he comes out. But he isn't homeless I can tell you that. Did you smell anything?"

"Smell? No. Should I have?"

"I didn't either. And yeah. Someone who lives on the street, wears dirty clothes and sleeps on warm air grates would have a peculiar odor to them don't you think? And he didn't. And the clothes were old and worn and had some surface dirt on them. But they were clean. And the shoes. They were Blundstones. Well worn ones, but Blundstones nonetheless. Not the first choice of the homeless."

"You're still a cop aren't you? So what do we do?"

"Well he is still the only person who can identify who took the car and the ticket so I guess he could be useful for a while. Let's see what happens?"

"Does that mean you are sticking with me and we're going after the thief?"

Rakeesh reached over and took her hand. "Oh, Mrs. Richmond," he mocked. "We have been having such a long friendship I could not be leaving you alone now." They both laughed. But neither let their hands separate right away.

"Okay. But let's talk about the ticket again."

They were interrupted once again by Frank's return.

"Move everything to the CRV. They know the Subaru and will be looking for it."

Flora and Rakeesh stared.

"Move. We probably don't have much time before they find us."

They quickly moved their stuff— Franks' bags and Flora's purse—over to the CRV that was still parked where Rick and Adi had left it.

"You drive raghead. You seem to know what you are doing behind the wheel."

Neither Rakeesh nor Flora said anything although Rakeesh flinched visibly at the slur. He wasn't even a Sikh. But if someone was really trying to insult him he figured they would have used something more appropriate.

Frank continued. "The train left half an hour ago and they bought tickets to the Barrie GO station. If you push this pile of shit a little we might get there before they do."

No one said anything as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the 400. As they sped up into the flow of traffic, Rakeesh kept checking the rear view mirror and Frank kept turning round to look at the traffic behind and in front. It was Flora who took over. She turned around in her seat and looked at Frank who had taken the back seat as before.

"Frank," she asked in a quiet, soothing voice. "Tell us more about the people we are chasing."

"I'll tell you when I see them." And he kept his vigil on the cars behind and beside them.

"Okay then," she continued, quietly as if she didn't want to wake someone up. "What is it you are looking for?"

"Not sure if the assholes after me are in front now, or still somewhere behind us. By the way. Nice driving raghead. You didn't learn that driving bumper cars in Delhi."

Rakeesh ignored the slur again. "They were after you?"

"Who else in this car would anyone bother to chase?"

Rakeesh and Flora gave each other a quick glance. "But why are they chasing you?" Flora asked.

Frank didn't say anything, kept glancing out the rear window. He ducked down and reached into his waistband as a blue Hummer approached them on the left. He sat up visibly relieved when it sped past them.

Nobody said much else during the short trip to Barrie. Frank kept bobbing up and down in his seat as suspicious cars drove past. Rakeesh was constantly checking his rear view mirror. And Flora kept looking back and forth between the two of them wondering how, in the matter of a few hours, she gone from a mild mannered elementary teacher to the passenger in a pursued car on the 400.

They pulled into the Barrie GO station an hour later.

"Stay here," Frank ordered again, and in his trademark limp worked his way across the parking lot.

Flora watched him disappear into the station and tuned abruptly back to Rakeesh. "What if they say the ticket is theirs?"

"They could do that. We might beat them in court. I could say that you used those numbers every week for years. But they could say there is no proof that you did it last Friday and they picked those numbers for some lucky reason. But with my testimony we might win."

Flora noticed the "we" part of his observation but didn't say anything. "But this would certainly expose you to the public wouldn't it? So if someone wanted to find you this would guarantee it?"

"They may have found me already so it might not matter. But yes, this would certainly expose me to the world."

"Then the best strategy is for us to find them and get the ticket back. Maybe they don't even know they have a winning ticket."

"Okay. But for that we will need this homeless—or non-homeless— guy. He knows what they look like. There he is."

They both looked over at the entrance to the station and saw Frank sitting on the sidewalk beside a person dressed in a large ski jacket who appeared to be guarding a cart full of recycle bottles. Flora thought it was a woman but she couldn't be sure from this distance since despite the reasonably warm weather the person wore a large Toronto Blue Jays toque. She saw Frank offer her a cigarette —she didn't even know that Frank smoked— and light it for her. They talked for a while, he handed her the pack and walked back to the car.

"Auto repair shop," he announced. "One block east."

Flora looked surprised. "How did you learn this? Do you smoke? Who is that person?"

"The people of the street see everything. I keep some smokes handy for my friends." He paused. "And they are not as stupid as people like you think. Although that one could use a bath. Come on. Let's go. We're wasting time."

There was only one auto repair shop on the whole block so it wasn't hard to find. It was an old garage station from the days when there were such independently owned operations in every small town. This one harkened back to less prosperous times in Barrie, before the Toronto commuter discovered it was cheaper to spend your time and money travelling to the city than to live there. The large window for the service desk area was totally blocked by dirt and grime and the brick veneer was water and oil stained. The front eaves trough hung down over the garage doors like a wisp of unruly hair. A vehicle in some visible state of disability occupied almost every parking place around the garage. Several young men sat in plastic chairs on front of the garage, smoking and constantly wiping their hands on grey rags. Rakeesh pulled in front of a ten year old Malibu with its hood open like it was sticking out its tongue. A pair of greasy overalls leaned over the fender. They were surprised to find someone working on a Friday evening.

Rakeesh got out of the car first. "Hello? Excuse me?"

The Overalls ignored him and let out a loud "Fuck." as a wrench pinballed its way through the engine and landed with a thud in the dirt under the car. Then, with his elbow still resting on the hood, he twisted around squinted at Rakeesh. He went back to his work without saying anything.

"Excuse me?" Rakeesh offered in a louder voice. "Could I talk to you for a moment?"

"Fuck off. I'm busy."

"I want to ask you a couple of questions."

Overalls kept his head down in the engine.

"If you are not a cop fuck off. If you are a cop fuck off twice. Some politician says we have to let you into the country but I don't have to talk to you." He paused to let that sink in. "So fuck off."

Both Frank and Flora were out of the car by this time and heard the last exchange. At the same time they had caught the attention of the men at the garage door and all were slowly sauntering over towards them.

Flora touched Rakeesh's arm. "Let's go Rakeesh. They're not going to help us."

Frank shuffled over to the Malibu and looked for a second at the greasy overalls bent over the fender intently swearing at some uncooperative GM engine part. Then Frank knocked the support rod holding up the hood and the engine hood came crashing down, leaving Overalls with half his body screaming in the engine compartment and the other half as a pair of thrashing legs.

"Ask him now," Frank suggested to Rakeesh.

The three young men had now reached the car and the struggling pair of overalls. All three flicked their cigarettes away. One broke into a fit of laughter when he saw the trapped man. Another wasn't so entertained.

"What the fuck? What did you did you do?"

By this time Flora and Rakeesh were both standing in front of Frank who was casually leaning on the hood of the car while Greasy Overalls continued to scream and swear.

"We wanted to ask some questions," Rakeesh offered.

"Yeah. Well that's my old man under the hood there. So step aside and go somewhere else with your questions."

"Young couple. Her pregnant. Where did they go?" Frank countered.

"Someone get me the fuck out of here." An angry muffled voice came from under the hood.

"Move aside," the leader said again. He looked Flora and Rakeesh up and down. "The old folks' home is a mile down the road."

"Look," Flora pleaded. "We don't want any trouble. We want to know where those kids went."

Suddenly the man who had laughed made a run at Rakeesh. And he ran directly into a solid left hand jab. Rakeesh went into a classic boxing stance. The surprised young man put up his own hands and took another swing at Rakeesh. He lunged forward and he hit only air and Rakeesh landed another jab, this time on his nose. The man backed off with blood running between his fingers that were holding a twisted nose. Rakeesh bounced around on the balls of his feet with his fists up in the air in front of his face.

"Well I'll be damned," an amused Frank offered as he pushed a little harder on the hood and Overalls screamed again.

The second man made a move to go at Rakeesh's blind side. Flora stepped between Rakeesh and the man, took a kickboxing stance and landed a roundhouse kick to the man's thigh that sent him reeling backwards. The third man started to circle around them both to try and get to Frank.

"Shit. This is good," Frank laughed and yelled as he pressed again on the hood.

"We could use some help here Frank," Rakeesh pleaded.

"Doesn't look like it to me," Frank countered.

Then the leader reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding hunting knife and he opened it slowly as the other two circled around them.

"Look," Rakeesh offered. "Just answer our simple question and we're on our way. Do you really want the trouble that would come with cutting up some helpless senior citizens in your parking lot?"

Flora still stood in her kickboxing stance. Rakeesh stood balanced with his hands in front of his face. And Frank leaned harder on the hood and smiled.

The leader thought for a moment. "You let my old man up. And then we'll talk."

"Young couple. Pregnant girl," Frank countered.

"Just tell them Tony," the one with the bloodied nose offered. "We don't need this shit right now."

The leader moved the knife from one hand to the other and looked at Flora and Rakeesh. He turned to Frank.

"1998 F150. Green. Headed north. Now let my dad up and get the fuck out of here."

"Get in the car," Frank ordered Flora and Rakeesh, while he stayed holding down the trunk. They cautiously moved to their respective car doors. Rakeesh made a feint with his right hand at Bloody Nose and the man backed off further. When they were in their seats and Rakeesh had the car started, Frank let go of the hood, opened the door and and jumped in the back seat. "Go. Go."

The car was pointing the wrong way in the lot so to get out to the road, Rakeesh had to make a U turn and head back past where they had been parked. By the time he had turned around the men had helped Overalls get out from the engine of the Malibu. As they raced past the four angry men, Overalls threw a big wrench at the CRV and a crack spread across the rear window like a fast moving river. Then others joined in, throwing rocks and tools and anything else they could quickly get their hands on. Flora saw the knife that the leader was holding go flying past her window and then they were out on the road, racing past the GO station and heading once again towards the 400 north.

No one said anything for a moment as they gathered speed and joined the flow of traffic on the highway. Frank nonchalantly pushed the broken window to see if it would hold. Rakeesh continued scanning the road behind him while Flora sat rigid and trancelike, still breathing heavily after several minutes had passed. Finally Frank broke the silence.

"Pullover at the next service centre," he ordered. "I'm hungry."

"Hungry?" Flora suddenly screamed as his comment broke her trance.

"Hungry? You are hungry? We could have been killed back there. I don't pick fights with greasy men in derelict garage parking lots. I'm a teacher. Tonight is Friday night and I have pizza and a martini or two. Maybe a movie. Then I go to bed knowing exactly what I'll do the next day. My check book is balanced, my children call once a week, and I take vitamins and do yoga. That is the way normal people lead their lives. They don't pick fights with greasers." She paused. "And you are hungry?"

Frank kept craning his neck to see behind the CRV. Frank and Rakeesh waited to see if she was done while Flora looked at one of them and then the other. Rakeesh broke the silence.

"Me too."

And suddenly all three broke into laughter that threatened the stability of the old CRV. Rakeesh more sputtered than laughed but the intent was clear. Frank had a deep baritone laugh. And Flora was laughing so hard the tears were running down her cheeks.

"I've not done anything like that in my life," she choked through fits of laughter. "Did you see the look on that old guy's face as we drove by? And that Tony guy? I think he was going to pee his pants when you feinted at him Rakeesh."

"English army?" Frank asked.

"Indian. But Sandhurst trained."

"Oooh. I say old chap." Frank did his best fake upper crust English accent.

"And you killer?" He looked at Flora.

"YWCA Saturday kickboxing for women."

"Did you ever kick anyone before?"

Flora paused, suddenly sober. Rakeesh gave her a quick glance.

"My husband."

"Well good shot this time. But next time go for the balls. Speaking of which, I have to piss as well. There's the service centre up ahead. It's after eight o'clock. Well after my feeding time—unless you are in Indjia la di da. Let's get some food."

The 400 service centre was busy at eight on a Friday night. It had a small collection of fast food outlets —a McDonald's, a Subway and a New York Fries—so every family in a hurry to get relaxing at their Muskoka cottage could find something to satisfy their various culinary tastes.

"Wait ten minutes and order me something with lots of trans fats and caffeine. I'll join you shortly." Frank ordered as he headed to the truck stop gas station and rest area with his Wal-Mart bags.

Flora and Rakeesh looked at each other at the ten minute comment, but Frank was gone before they could ask him to explain further. "Should we leave him now?" Rakeesh asked as they stated to walk into the restaurant outlets area. "We know what we are looking for now so we don't need him?"

"I don't know. He seems strange for even a homeless man. But he has helped us. To leave him here wouldn't seem appropriate in some way," she mused. "I don't think he's dangerous or anything like that. Maybe even the opposite. And maybe we aren't done needing each other yet. The pregnant girl is obvious enough, but the description of the boy is pretty vague, so we still need him to spot the couple. Besides, I'm more interested in our story than his. Let's get some food. I'm hungry as well."

"Okay. Let's keep him around for a while. But I wonder why he wants to be with us. And I wonder which of these is halal?" he asked with a grin as they scanned their food choices.

Flora punched him on the arm. "I'll have the prime rib—medium rare with a touch of English horseradish—some asparagus tips and let me see. Garlic mashed potatoes. And a Merlot would be nice to go with that."

"Please have a seat Madam." He took her hand and led her to one of the tables and twirled the seat fixed to the table leg open so she could sit. He picked up a crumpled Toronto Star from the next table and bent over at the waist as he presented it to her. "Please. Enjoy some reading. I'll be back with your repast shortly." He walked backwards grinning at her before he turned and headed towards the lineup at the MacDonald's counter.

Flora found herself alone for the first time since she had entered the 7-Eleven. So much had happened since that moment that she had lost all sense of time, only her hunger telling her that it was past her usual Friday night pizza time. She checked her watch and saw that it had only been three hours. During which time I have totally lost control of my life, she thought as she watched Rakeesh in the Macdonald's lineup. But the only feeling of panic or remorse she had was that she was going to eat some fast food. And from McDonald's no less. She did most of her shopping at the organic grocery over on Davenport and didn't buy anything elsewhere without carefully checking the label. She warned her students about the evils of fast food and especially the meat products provided by the meat processing industry that were made from the 'red slime'.

But no one else but her seemed worried.

Rakeesh was playing with a couple of toddlers in front of him in line and their head-scarfed mother laughed as Rakeesh made funny faces at the toddler and the toddler ran behind his mother's long skirts. She wondered for a moment what her children were doing right now and laughed to herself at what they would think of their mother on a dinner date at MacDonald's with a lottery ticket seller from India. She watched a young black couple in the line in front of Rakeesh as they held hands and gave each other frequent kisses and she briefly wondered where Peter was tonight. She was surprised how little she had actually thought of Peter over the past week and now her thought of him was only fleeting and only came with the observation that his mother would not have approved such public displays of affection. But she was momentarily jealous of their affection. The line wasn't moving quickly and Flora craned her neck to look around Rakeesh and the others in front of him. She could see that an older couple, she with a walker and he with a cane were having trouble sorting out their order and now that it had arrived they were struggling with the two trays of foil wrapped food and some hot drinks of some sort. Unlike at Starbucks when some neophyte tried to sort out the combinations and permutations of caffeine that were offered, there was no impatience in the line. And the only person absorbed in their cell phone was the young black girl who gleefully texted between kisses. Perhaps a "play by play" to her best friend somewhere, Flora thought with an envious smile. Then a tall Sikh left the lineup and went over and picked up the trays and took them over to an empty table and went back and helped the older man to his seat. The woman seemed quite an expert with the walker. And no one in the line up took any notice as the man went back into the line where he had left it.

Rakeesh turned around and flashed her a pointer finger and mouthed "just a moment." Then he was distracted as the two-year old tugged at his leg and he complied with an ugly face that sent the child screaming in mock horror behind his mother's skirts, only peeking out to ask with his grin for more. Rakeesh made a fake lunge at him and the boy burrowed farther into the safety of the skirt. With a few harsh words from his mother in a language Flora didn't recognize, the boy took her hand and they started to place their order. Rakeesh gave the little boy a finger wave as he and his mother walked away with their tray.

Peter wouldn't have done that, she thought to herself. He would have been checking his phone for messages that weren't coming and fidgeting at the long line up. She watched as Rakeesh made their order. It took a long time and he pointed at things on the large menu on the wall behind the clerk. He turned again and smiling held up his one finger again. She smiled back. She couldn't remember the last time that someone actually took care of her. He didn't even ask her what she wanted. Then he started to pay and suddenly she thought of money. She reached for her purse and remembered that the thieves had taken her money. Fortunately they had left her her credit cars and her debit cards, so unless Peter had somehow frozen their accounts, she could get some cash. She looked around for an ATM but didn't notice one. And then Rakeesh was standing over her with a tray loaded with foil wrapped food and two steaming cups of coffee.

"Will that be the chicken masala or the beef bourguignon madam?" he pompously offered as he placed the tray on the table next to theirs. He took a napkin, ceremoniously flapped it open with a flick of his wrist and spread it over her lap.

"The masala if you don't mind sir."

"Shit. I wanted that," he deadpanned as he returned to his normal voice and they both laughed too loudly.

"Tough," she responded. "The red slime is yours tonight. Next time you get first choice." And she suddenly became aware of how hungry she was as she unwrapped what Rakeesh now told her was the McChicken BLT. His was simply the classic Big Mac and the various unrecognizable sauces were dripping down his fingers as he held it up for the first bite.

"I see that you have nothing against a good cow treat," she observed between bites of chicken and tomato.

"Those are Hindus. We Muslims are much too practical to let prospective food wander unharvested allover the place. But then, I'm not totally sure that this is beef. How is your chicken?"

"Delicious."

And she had to admit that it was. Whatever they put in this stuff, she had forgotten how good it tasted, especially when you were starved. The BLT was gone before she had a chance to remonstrate herself for the sodium she consumed and she was left with a quickly dissipating sense of guilt at having enjoyed it. "What's for dessert?" she asked, sipping her coffee and eyeing the packages remaining on the tray.

"Apple pie a la mode," he tossed her a package. "Help yourself while I get something for Frank. What do you think he would like?"

The voice came from behind them.

"Spicy Thai Entrée Salad. Green tea. And apple slices with the caramel dip."

Both of them looked up at the same time. And both stopped chewing and were speechless as they looked up at the man standing over them.

"And get it to go. We have some time to make up."

### $$$$$

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Chapter 10: Flora: Friday June 7th, 2013 8:03 P.M.

On the Road again

If it hadn't been for the voice, neither Flora nor Rakeesh would have recognized Frank from any distance. The baggy clothes were gone and he was dressed in the best of Wal-Mart style; beige pleated cotton pants and a white long sleeved oxford shirt with a button down collar with the sleeves partially rolled up. Over these he wore a black fibre sports jacket, and he wore a pair of brown penny loafers. Flora briefly wondered if the underwear was new as well. But as transformative as the clothes might have been it was the rest that left them gaping and speechless. The long tangled matt of straggly face hair was gone and in its place was a perfectly trimmed salt and pepper goatee, perhaps only a centimetre long. His long hair had been shaved down to a few centimetres in length and was fashioned in what Flora's hairdresser had called the 'bedhead' look. Flora had once tried to get Peter to try this new style for men but he had dismissed it as inappropriate for a man of his position. And now she was looking at a homeless bum that took her breath away. Sean Connery—with hair—was the only comparator she could think of as this man sat down in the seat that Rakeesh vacated as he went to get Frank's order.

It was certainly he. She could tell from the eyes. They were the same turquoise blue and as piercing as they had been the first time she had seen them. She thought that maybe now he looked a few years younger than the early sixties she had guessed when he was hunched over pushing a shopping cart. His beard and hair were sprinkled with grey, but not totally white. And he was lean. And taller looking—at least six feet—than he appeared when hunched over. He didn't say anything other than when he had placed his order and Flora felt suddenly shy and awkward as they sat across from each other at the table.

"What happened to the fat and cholesterol?"

"Doesn't go with my new pants."

"You shop often at Wal-Mart?"

He paused and looked at her and started to laugh. She waited a moment to assess the intent of the laugh and then joined in. Given the circumstances it had been a funny thing to say.

"Only when I am running away from people that are trying to kill me, with a ticket seller who isn't one, and a beautiful woman who doesn't know who she is or what she is after."

"That's pretty profound and presumptuous of you. I know who I am."

"I've watched you come to that 7-Eleven for a year and in that time you never smiled. Tonight you laughed. Which one of those people are you?"

"Why can't I be both of them?" she responded defensively, reflecting on the absurdity of having this discussion with a homeless bum no matter how cleaned up and attractive he was. "No one should go through their life laughing all the time."

"True. But you should know that you have both the capacity and the will to do so. You should laugh to be happier, not for relief from sadness. The humour of a moment can turn to bitterness and regret if you are not in a state of contentment before the wonderful relief of mirth. Like the morning after a good piss up."

Flora sat back in her chair suddenly defensive, wondering where this man came from and if she liked him better when he was pushing a shopping cart.

Frank said nothing more, sat with his arms crossed looking at Flora as if waiting for her response. Within a few moments, Rakeesh was back at the table with the bag of food. He showed little surprise or attention to Franks' transformation.

"Okay folks. Let's go."

Frank had also picked up a roll of duct tape in the gas bar and on the way to the car he rummaged in a dumpster and found a piece of cardboard

"Dumpster. I guess that's his specialty."

Rakeesh gave her a sideways glance as he and Frank taped the cardboard over the broken back window. "Did I miss something?"

"It's nine now," Rakeesh announced when they were on their way again on the 400 North. "With some stops along the way to see if anyone has seen them we should make North Bay by midnight."

"Yeah," Flora announced. "I would guess that a pregnant young girl will have to make some frequent pit stops so we should be able to pick up their trail somewhere along the way. Wouldn't want her to be unhappy after all."

They drove in silence for a while and both Frank and Rakeesh resumed their frequent checks of the cars behind and those that passed them. Finally Flora broke the silence. She turned around and looked at Frank.

"So tell me Frank. What is your real name? What is it that would cause anyone to want to kill an old homeless man?" The sarcasm was almost cruel. "So basically who the fuck are you and why shouldn't we let you off at the next dumpster?"

She rarely swore, but this seemed a good occasion.

Frank ignored the sarcasm and the tone. "They want this." He opened up his jacket to show an older micro tape type model video camera slung from his neck.

Rakeesh quickly twisted around to take a look. "That's an old camera. Who would want that?"

"Not the camera. All my tapes." And he opened up is jacket further and pulled out half a dozen small micro cassettes from the inside pockets of the new sports jacket. "These are what they want. And they'll go to any lengths to get them."

Rakeesh and Flora gave each other astonished glances as Frank continued.

"Look. I didn't jump in the back of this junkpile for the joyride. And I couldn't give a fig about your lottery ticket. They were on to me and I had to make a quick getaway and you guys were leaving in a hurry so I joined for the ride."

"Who is on to you?" Rakeesh and Flora asked in unison and even Frank laughed.

"I guess you deserve a little explanation," he reluctantly offered. "I've been on undercover as a homeless man for the past year. No one takes notice—or cares to take notice—of a smelly old man pushing a grocery cart. In fact most people try their hardest to ignore someone like that. Probably think they'll catch something. You lady," he nodded to Flora, "were one of the few that ever gave me anything. Thanks for that."

"Undercover?" Rakeesh was surprised. "Undercover for what?"

"Well, my assignment was to establish a wandering strip between the York Mills Station and the Yorkdale Station and look for drug selling activity. I saw lots. And I have it here on these tapes. A high school kid meeting a minor supplier. I taped politicians, preachers, businessmen—and women—and community leaders." He paused and held up a tape. "And cops."

Rakeesh raised his eyebrows and frowned. "All of this around the 7-Eleven stores?"

"Yeah. At any rate, I made a preliminary report to Headquarters and was told to abandon the homeless façade and appearance. I was looking forward to shaving off a year old beard I can tell you that. And to bring in my evidence. I was going to do that tonight when I noticed that I was being followed so I jumped in your car to see what would happen. And I was right. That Hummer was after me for sure."

Flora interjected. "Well we can take you to the nearest police station and then you can —what is it that they say in the movies—come in from the cold?"

"I don't think that it's a coincidence that they came after me after I contacted Headquarters. Right now I don't know who to trust. But I do have a friend who is a judge in North Bay. If I can get to her I can give the information to her and get protection. So since I can't go on public transit or use any of my own ID, for now I'll tag along with you guys if you don't mind. Besides, I can help you catch the thieves. Those folks after me won't recognize the CRV. And you will have to agree that my appearance has changed."

Flora nodded too vigorously.

"So it will be a while before they can put it together and come after me again. By that time we should be in North Bay and I'll have handed this over to the judge. I'll be finished in the police business, of course, but it was time to retire at any rate."

Flora thought that he was quite believable as a cop. Tough and cool. Clint Eastwood like.

Rakeesh interjected. "So who are you? I mean what's your name? Where are you from? Where do you live? Why should we believe this cops and robbers stuff?"

"Alright," Frank sighed. "My real name is Greg—Greg Halbert. My last wife left me a year or so ago after too much of the wrong type of undercover activity and too many late nights after the bad guys. Three kids—which I know of. Believe me? What does it matter? I'll help you two chase down your thieves. You help me get to North Bay in one piece. And we'll all be happy." He paused to look out the back window.

"Okay. That's me." Greg smirked and turned his attention to Flora. "And you. You have your car and purse back. Why are you chasing this couple down for a few bucks? Even the cops have dropped it. And you haven't made a single call to anyone to let them know where you are and what you are doing. Who is waiting for you at home?" The last comment was more rhetorical than question.

Flora glanced at Rakeesh and started to tell Greg her story, starting with last Friday when she came home to Peter's announcement. She left out the ticket.

"Well remind me to not get you pissed off on a date," he observed, even though he had already seen her in action. "But that still doesn't explain why a prim and proper, beautiful, teacher housewife —even a cuckolded one—is racing off to Northern Ontario with two slightly tarnished old men."

Flora blushed a little at his comments, but Rakeesh answered, taking up where he left off hours ago in the parking lot at Wal-Mart when he was alone with Flora.

"The number is worth over six million. Actually six million, four hundred and thirty-four thousand."

"Phew. No wonder you are after them. But even if you find them how can you prove that the ticket is yours?"

"That would be tough," Rakeesh admitted. "But she played the same numbers every week for a year so she would have a good case in court that this was her number."

"So what's the problem then? Just wait until they cash it in and take them to court?"

"Several problems actually. First, they might not know what they have and they might throw it out. Secondly, with the publicity that would come with such a trial, Flora's soon to be ex-husband would learn that he is entitled to half the winnings. She bought the ticket an hour before he left. It's communal property now."

Greg laughed. "I like the last reason best. Stiff the bugger I say. So, now that we know who we are—and aren't—let's go find that ticket. The next service centre is ahead. Pull in and we can ask some questions. This will help." And he pulled a gold detective shield from his pocket.

When they arrived at the service centre Greg jumped out of the car and grabbing his cane limped over to the entrance to the centre, leaving Rakeesh and Flora to ponder his transformation.

"Do you believe him?" Flora asked.

Rakeesh hesitated. "Hmm, I knew he wasn't a crazy homeless guy. No stink. Good shoes. His hair and beard were disheveled but not dirty. And I never saw him delve into the dumpster by the store for food or bottles. But there is something I can't put my finger on. Like why would a sixty-year old gold shield detective with a limp have to spend his days undercover pushing a grocery cart? And I have trouble believing that there is no one in the Toronto force that he can trust. And while all police forces are financially struggling, even the Indian police would use digital tape recorders today. I'd also like to look at that badge a little closer. And why is he helping us?"

"For that matter why are you helping 'us'?" Flora asked.

But before Rakeesh could respond, Greg was back at the car. "They were here an hour ago. Gassed up. Bought some food. Peed and headed north. The clerk heard them say they were going to spend the night in North Bay."

Flora took charge. "It will be too late to find them tonight and even if we did we don't want to confront them in the middle of the night. Peter and I have a retirement cabin on a lake outside of North Bay. There are two bedrooms and a couch, and some food basics such as coffee and peanut butter. We can pick up a little more on the way in. Let's stay there. And in the morning Greg you can find your judge, and Rakeesh and I can find the ticket."

Rakeesh and Greg looked at each other and shrugged.

"Okay Ma'am," Rakeesh saluted. "Give me the directions."

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Chapter 11: Flora, Friday June 7th, 2013 11:48 P.M.

_Cottage is a Verb_

It was close to midnight when they arrived at the cabin.

Peter had a notion of self sufficiency on a northern Ontario Walden Pond; someplace where he could ponder life, love, and nature, and let the great book smoldering in his brain explode onto the pages in his notebook computer. Of course he needed electricity for the notebook and close proximity to the agency liquor store for the pondering part. So while the cabin on ten acres of lakefront was fairly private, it was neither isolated nor off grid. The lane to the cabin was only a ten minute drive down a gravel county road off the Trans-Canada highway twenty minutes east of North Bay. The lane itself was three hundred metres of two tracks with a growing hump between the tracks. The CRV scratched her bottom several times on the emerging spring grasses as they drove down the lane.

The cabin was a thirty-year old Panabode cottage that the original owners had built for retirement. They had lived there for the lifetime of the building until the man died and Peter bought the property from the widow. She had not returned to the place after he died and the cupboard and shelves had been full of thirty years of lakefront living. On her first trip to the cabin Flora had boxed up the personal items—photographs, mementos, medicine cabinet items including his shaving kit—and delivered them to the couple's lawyer. But Peter and her had bought the place fully furnished and there were still many parts of the place that had more of the previous owners' character than hers or Peter's. She still sometimes felt she was a visitor to this place. As they drove up to the clearing where the cabin and the lake joined together, she wondered what the next lady of the lake would feel. The cabin would likely be a victim of their divorce.

It was pitch black as they drove into the clearing and it was only the scanning of the car lights as they turned to park that showed them the cabin.

"Quickly guys. Before you wake up the blackflies," Flora admonished as she grabbed the bag with the groceries they had stopped to buy—some bread, milk, bacon and eggs for breakfast.

Greg brought the bag with the two bottles of wine he had bought.

"The what?" Rakeesh asked as he picked up the groceries from the backseat.

As they approached the cabin door, a sensor turned on a floodlight over the door and Flora lifted a ceramic pot full of dirt and picked up the key.

"That's creative," Greg offered as Flora glared back at him and unlocked the door.

The cabin was cold. She turned on the lights and turned up the thermostat that directed the baseboard heaters.

"Rakeesh, take this flashlight and get a couple of buckets of water from the lake." The cottage had been shut down for the winter, so there was no running water. "Greg." She threw him a small box that was above the fireplace. "Start a fire in the stove." She pointed at the large cast iron wood stove in the corner of the living room. "It will heat this place up in no time. I'll pour us some wine." She took the bag of bottles from Greg and went over to the kitchen island, retrieved a corkscrew, opened the wine, grabbed three glasses and sat down at the kitchen table. She had finished her first glass by the time that Greg and Rakeesh had finished their duties. Both were rubbing their hands together from the June night-time chill and Greg had turned up the collar on his microfiber jacket. Rakeesh was scratching something behind his ear. "Shit. I'm bleeding," he grimaced as looked his blood stained fingers.

"Guess you woke them up. At least the mosquitos aren't a bother at this time of night. There are sweaters and jackets in the closet over there. You are both close to Peter's size."

When they came back her second glass was empty. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry when she saw Rakeesh dressed in one of Peter's favorite wool cardigans. He used to say it made him imagine he was Hemingway when he sat before the fireplace nurturing a scotch. Greg had picked out a plaid hunting jacket that the previous owner had left. It was warm although a little small for Greg. She poured each of them a full glass and replenished her own.

"Okay you two." They both seemed quite compliant. "One of you on the couch. The other in the kids' room over there. I'll make coffee and eggs in the morning and you can flip a coin to see who goes into town in the morning to find the pickup. If I remember pregnancy she won't have had a great sleep so they won't likely be rushing it. You'll just have to drive around the most likely motels until you see the truck."

"Why wouldn't we all go?" Rakeesh asked cautiously as if he knew the answer.

"She's got it right," Greg interjected. "Whoever is chasing us doesn't know about the CRV yet. But they do know there is a brown guy driving a blond and a bum around. Even with my change in appearance we wouldn't be hard to spot. Better if one of us goes."

They agreed and Flora poured some more wine. They were tired, but no one made a move to go to bed. Greg asked Rakeesh to tell them about being a cop in India and they traded cop stories and Flora listened while two sixty-year old boys tried to outdo the other with stories full of both horror and pathos. Greg and Flora laughed at Rakeesh's Hindu accent-laded account of one of his Sergeants who was caught with his pants down—literally—at a women's rights political rally in old Bombay. Greg matched it with an account of a certain female politician who attacked a security guard in an airport with her umbrella when he told her she had to put her purse through the x-ray. Police were called and the contents of her purse dumped out and she had to explain to her 'snipped' husband why she had a box of Trojans in her purse.

Flora had not really met or known men like these in her life. Other than the fact they were both good looking men—for any age, not just sixty or so—they had a certain character. She didn't quite know what she meant by that, but she knew that these were men who would do the right thing when necessary. They were both obviously bruised and matured by life but she didn't sense even a hint of pessimism or disillusionment in either of them. She couldn't help comparing them to Peter. These guys would probably rescue cats from trees, help little old ladies across the street, stop a bully, tell a clerk that they missed charging them for an item, feel badly when they hurt someone else's feelings, not complain about their circumstances, and give a bum a handout. And do it all without thinking. Peter would first try to figure out whether his intervention was helping or enabling. And likely rationalize himself into inertia.

The wine and fatigue were starting to get to her.

And like her, she thought, these men are apparently alone at this stage in their lives.

"Okay. You win." Greg announced with a laugh after Rakeesh play acted another story about when he had to arrest an eighty year old Caucasian woman for stepping on an equally old Indian woman's sari who had pushed her way past everyone in the line up for the woman's washroom in a Delhi Mall. "I can't match that one. Now go to bed everyone so I can stretch out on this antique chesterfield."

Nobody had any toiletry items, so Flora rummaged through the bathroom cupboards to find the bag of the freebies that Peter had gathered from his many hotel stays over the past thirty years. She gave Greg and Rakeesh each a cellophane wrapped toothbrush and soap. There were even some disposable razors if either of them had the notion to shave in the morning. She went first, washed her face and brushed her teeth with the water from the bucket Rakeesh had brought in earlier. She took a moment to look in the mirror and smile. This is fun she thought, wondering if the Flora of a week ago would have thought the same. She dried her face and went to her room with a slurred "good night" to the men patiently lined up outside the washroom door.

The beds didn't have any sheets on them so she lay on the bed in her clothes and pulled the duvet over her shoulders and tried to go to sleep. At first the noise of the two men getting themselves ready for bed kept her awake. The walls of the cottage were thin and she marveled at the relief one of them must be feeling from a long, steady and noisy stream that splashed into the water in the toilet. She chuckled to herself. I wonder if he put the lid down. Soon the quiet was only accompanied by the steady buzz of a mosquito filled bush. The sound always made her feel gratefully cozy and safe under her cottage quilt, but tonight she couldn't sleep as her mind raced through the events of the past seven hours of her life. She rolled over on her side and concluded it was it was too complicated, she was too tired, too full of wine and she wanted to sleep.

But her mind wouldn't co-operate. After half an hour of constantly turning she suddenly she got up and walked over to the door and peeked out into the living room. She could hear from his breathing and the odd snort that no item of conscience was keeping Greg awake. She carefully opened her door wider and tiptoed the eight feet to the door to the children's room and opened it, hoping that Peter had W5ed the persistent squeak. She closed the door behind her and stood slightly swaying in the room lit only by the moonlit night. She stared at the dark form of Rakeesh sleeping on his side in one of the double beds, fully clothed with the duvet pulled over his body. She moved cautiously over to the bed and lay down behind him, pulling the duvet over herself and matching her body to the contours of his back. She put her hand over his waist. Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure that the sound would wake him and for a moment she panicked as the reality of what she was doing hit the sober part of her brain. No fifty–five year old woman of her education and stature would ever do something like this. And what if Greg had heard her? She was about to get up and run back to her room when his hand found hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. Then every sense of panic and concern dissolved and she snuggled closer and smiled as she drifted off to sleep.

If she had been a little more aggressive in matching her legs to his she might have felt the ankle holster that was strapped to his leg.

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Chapter 12: Rick: Saturday June 8th, 2013 4:02 AM

And Baby Makes Seven

The sharp pains began at three.

He thought for a moment that the screams were part of a bad dream. He rolled over in the dark and noticed that the motel alarm clock read 4:02 A.M. And suddenly he was fully awake as he realized that the screams were coming from Adi who was sitting up in the bed panting like an out of shape runner.

"There's something happening Rick. There's something happening," she kept repeating between spasms of pain that caused a constant moan interrupted by periodic screams. Sweat was pouring down her forehead and neck, and running down between her swollen breasts.

He jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom to get a wet cloth. She lay back in the bed while he gently wiped her body with the cool wet cloth. That seemed to help for a moment and she lay on the bed breathing heavily. He didn't know what to say.

"The folks next door are going to think that we are having some seriously wild sex in here." They both laughed, he nervously and she with a pained look on her face.

"Are you okay?"

She gave a pained laugh again. "You stupid boy," she gently offered. "The baby is coming. We need to get to the hospital."

And the pain came again and Rick was shocked into action. He pulled on his jeans and the T-shirt he had thrown on the floor earlier. He helped Adi get into a pair of loose sweatpants and the sweatshirt that he had bought for her. She was having trouble walking on her own and he wondered for a moment if he should call an ambulance. She said she was fine. She could make the truck that was outside the sliding doors to their ground floor unit. Getting her up into the truck proved a challenge but between spasms she pulled and he pushed and they made it.

"Okay. Let's go."

The minute he put the truck in gear he knew something was wrong. It made a large 'clink' as it settled into reverse and he had to jiggle the shift to get it to go in drive again. When he accelerated the car went forward but in a speed not consistent with the engines revolutions. He stopped and after manhandling the vehicle into neutral he got out and looked under the truck. Transmission fluid was running down the drive shaft and when he looked back at their parking spot he could see a big puddle of the greenish fluid. "Shit," he muttered to himself as he got up from his knees and climbed back in the truck.

"Look. There is a problem with the truck. I'm going to go the lobby and call a cab."

"I thought you had it fixed?" She started to cry.

"I think I've been ripped off. But don't worry. You stay here and I'll get it a cab."

"Where do you think I'm going to go? Please hurry."

The hospital was only ten minutes away. The cab pulled into the emergency entrance and Rick ran inside.

"It's my...my wife." he lied. He didn't really intend to, but he didn't know what else to say. "She is having a baby in a cab."

A sleepy young man that Rick figured was an orderly of some sort, and a grey haired, middle aged woman grabbed a gurney and Rick followed them out to the cab. Adi was moaning and screaming while the nurse listened to places all over her body with a stethoscope. "Hmmm," she kept saying. "This will be interesting." She helped the orderly get Adi onto the gurney and into the hospital and turned to Rick. "Go do the paperwork." She motioned to the admitting desk. "And then go sit down in the waiting area. Someone will come and get you."

"Is she gonna be okay?" Rick asked.

"Not likely," the nurse shot back. "She's going to be a mother the rest of her life."

In seconds she and the orderly were gone through some double swinging doors and Rick was left standing feeling alone in the quiet waiting area of a hospital in a city he had not been in. He walked over to Emergency Admissions and sat down at the chair beside the desk. The nurse appeared to be intently studying some paperwork in front of her.

"Hi. My wife is having a baby and I was sent over here."

The nurse didn't look up. "Health card," she ordered.

There was a sign on her desk that announced **TIME HEALS ALL WOUNDS** , and someone had added in magic marker _it had better at this hospital._ Rick fumbled in his wallet and pulled out his Ontario health card.

The nurse looked at it. "Well this will make North Bay history. A man giving birth." She looked at him for the first time. "Her health card?"

Rick thought for a moment. This was going to be a challenge. Adi's parents didn't believe in modern medicine. He knew that she had not been vaccinated. They had some health issue arguments and now it struck him as one that they would have again with the baby. But right at this moment he didn't know if she even had a card.

"We left it in the motel room. Sorry."

"Okay," the nurse continued. "Name and address?"

"Her name is Adriel Butler. Her father is big into the biblical names. But I call her Adi. And we stayed last night in the Comfortlodge at the edge of town. We're on our way to Ft. McMurray to work."

"That's nice. Give me your driver's license."

Rick pulled it from his wallet and the nurse wrote something down.

"Home phone number?"

Rick thought quickly and gave her his parent's number.

"Cell phone? E-mail address?"

Rick had an iPhone his parents had given him for Christmas and he pulled it from his front pocket and showed it to the nurse. "Yes."

He gave her the cell number and both his and Adi's email address.

"Doctor?"

"What?"

"Who is her doctor? Who has she been seeing during her pregnancy?"

Another challenge. She hadn't seen any doctor since he snuck her into his family doctor in Alliston when she was only a couple of months pregnant. And that doctor only took her vitals and confirmed the pregnancy. He told her to get regular checkups with her own doctor. Shortly after that her family had whisked her away to Toronto and the only doctor they used was a homeopathic one. All that lady ever did was sell herbal things with strange names. Adi had told him this during their brief email chats but had not mentioned a real doctor.

He gave the nurse the name of his doctor in Alliston.

"Okay. Wait over there and someone will call you when they need you."

Rick went over to the waiting area and sat down.

There were only three other groups in the waiting room. A woman in her eighties was sitting in one corner of the room, staring out the window, as if the reflections from the dark night could offer her a glimpse of something past. A middle aged man dressed in a sweat suit, runners and baseball cap sat a row over from Rick. He was intently studying his iPad and the cap said 'I love North Bay', only the 'love' wasn't written, it was a drawing of a heart. The woman closest to him was dressed in a tight red dress. A necklace with the largest pearls that Rick had ever seen reached down a stretch marked and tanned cleavage, and her fingers were covered in rings of various sizes, shapes and glitter. Her shoulder length hair had been in place at one point in the evening, but was now tousled and strands of hair hung over her face. She kept shoving them back over her head. Her matching red high heels were lying empty on the floor in front of her. She was his mother's age but he had never seen his mother dress like this.

He slouched down in the uncomfortable waiting room chair. They had not planned on this. Now, how were they going to drive west with a new baby? And how long would his money last staying in a Motel in North Bay? What would it cost to get the truck going again? And would her family find them?

The red dressed woman sitting three seats away interrupted his melancholy.

"Having a baby are you honey?" she quietly asked.

"Yeah." Rick sat up. "Well at least she is." He nodded to the double doors.

"On your way west are ya?"

He looked surprised.

"I overheard the conversation with miss friendly over there," she explained and moved over to the seat next to him.

Rick squirmed a little at her approach.

"My husband and me lived out in Edmonton for a while. Then he lost his job and the kids came so we moved back here where there was family. Been back here twenty-five years now. Not a bad place. If you don't mind bugs and ice fishing."

Rick laughed.

"Naw. Just kidding. This is great little city. Where you from?"

"Alliston."

"Oh. Never knew anyone from there."

She was silent for a moment.

"Burt had a heart attack."

She started to quietly cry and her mascara spread even farther down her check and she wiped it away with the Kleenex she squeezed in her hand. "We'd come home from the bar and we were both feeling a little frisky —if you know what I mean. Well I guess you do since you're having a baby. And he went and took one of them pills he uses and 'wham'—he's on the floor and I called an ambulance. He's been in there for two hours." She started to cry again and but abruptly stopped and wiped her face and eyes. She reached over and took Rick's hand. "But you look awfully sad for a young man that is soon to be a new father. What's so sad?"

Rick didn't know if he was lonely and tired. Or that this older woman holding his hand was somehow motherly and he desperately wanted his mother right now. Or that if he talked she might stop. But whatever the reason he proceeded to tell her everything. From the time that Adi became pregnant to her family's cult to the truck breakdown to the car theft and escape and the drive north and now the emergency room. He told her his troubles and concerns; money, religious and marriage concerns. He told her that they weren't married yet. And that he had no idea what they would do now with their money running out and a new baby.

She listened patiently and intently and only made the occasional interjection to encourage him.

He wasn't sure how long he would have kept talking, but the nurse who came over to where they were sitting interrupted them.

"Mrs. Cameron? The Doctor would like to see you now. Please come with me."

The lady fumbled in her purse and pulled out a pen and paper. "When your Adriel gets out of the hospital you call me. Me and Burt have lots of room and you can stay with us as long as you want."

They both stood and the woman gave Rick a warm hug. The nurse looked at Rick and gave her head a small shake. And with another brush of the hair off her face, the woman was gone.

Rick sat down exhausted. Amazing, he thought to himself as he looked at the information on the piece of paper. He told some stranger his whole story, including the car theft, and she still offered him and Adi place to live. He hoped that her husband was alright.

His thoughts turned back to Adi. He'd been at the hospital for two hours and hadn't heard anything about her either. He thought that fathers were supposed to cut umbilical cords or something. He'd seen that on one of the hospital shows. But no one was coming out to get him so he guessed that Adi was wrong and the baby wasn't coming yet. It wasn't due for another month anyhow. There was probably some other explanation for Adi's pain.

After a few moments he walked over to the coffee machine. It was now close to seven and he could see the morning sun was starting to lighten the waiting room windows. Must be facing east, he thought as he fumbled for some change in his pocket. Dad will be getting up to feed the animals. He glanced through the pile of change in his hand and saw that he didn't have the correct change for the machine.

"Here let me." Rick hadn't noticed that a man had come up behind him. The man put the correct change into the machine. "Pick your poison. It's all bad. Hospitals don't want you to enjoy yourself here. You might come back too often."

"Thanks. But here," Rick grinned as he dumped the remaining change in the man's hand. "For the next victim."

"Sure," the man replied as he took the money. "Hope it works out with the baby and all."

Rick hadn't noticed the man before. He must have come in while he was talking to the red shoed lady. The man had a thick black beard speckled with grey. He was tall and dark skinned—maybe Asian Rick guessed.

"Thanks," Rick offered again as the man went towards the exit. Great, Rick thought. Soon everyone in this city will know I'm a car thief.

Rick took a sip from the hot coffee and he felt the warmth and the caffeine spread through his chest. He hadn't had anything to eat or drink since the truck stop an hour outside of the city. He went to sit down again when a young woman dressed in green scrubs came through the swinging doors.

"Mr. McLeod?"

Rick put up his hand.

"I'm Dr. Monk, your wife's surgeon. It was touch and go for a while, but they are doing fine. Your wife and all five of them. Come with me and you can see them now."

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Chapter 13: Rick, Saturday, June 8th, 2013 6:14 A.M.

Beating the Dionnes

Rick wasn't sure what caused his stomach to rise up faster in his throat, the "all five" or the "touch and go." He decided to focus on the latter for now.

"Adi?" he implored the young doctor. "Is she alright?" Rick didn't think that the doctor was much older than he was. As they walked to the elevator, he wondered how she is a doctor and he hardly has enough money to fix the old truck and get west.

"We can talk about that later. Let's go up to the maternity ward and you can see the babies."

"Babies?" Rick turned to the "all five" comment. "There is more than one?"

Monk looked surprised. "Surely the ultrasounds would have shown that she was carrying quintuplets? I'm surprised her doctor let her travel, even if she did have a month to term. Four boys and a girl."

"Quint...? You mean there are five babies?" Rick asked astonished. And all sorts of random thoughts went through his head. I'll have to get a bigger truck, one that will hold five baby car seats. Good thing you can buy diapers in bulk at COSTCO these days. Buy. Shit. Buy with what. He hardly had enough money for gas much less diapers for five babies. And the hospital bill. What will happen when they find out Adi doesn't have an OHIP card? And the Comfortlodge won't likely let them stay there with five babies.

Monk interrupted his panic. "Yup. Five. This is the biggest birth news for North Bay since the Dionne quints. The press will love this one."

"The Dionnes?"

"The Dionne's had quintuplets here in North Bay back in the thirties and they became media and national sensations. It was sad in a way. The province made the five little girls wards of the province and took the babies away from the couple. They grew up with government appointed nannies and teachers. I gather they were a real tourist attraction for North Bay in those days. People travelled from all over the country and the world to see them. The house they were born in has been restored and is at the edge of town by the new Holiday Inn. But this was before fertility treatments made multiple births a more common thing. Didn't some woman in California have eight babies a year or so ago? Still. Quints in North Bay will be a big story."

Up until the last sentence Rick hadn't heard much of what the doctor said except the "ward of the province thing." Could the government take away their children?

"What do you mean by big story?"

The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor maternity ward.

"Your family will be headlines in the Nugget tonight and the lead in the CTV and Global news for sure. You might put on some clean clothes," Monk suggested as she looked at the jeans and t shirt that Rick had been wearing for two days. Before Rick could respond they were at the glass wall overlooking a room of tiny beds on raised platforms. Some were covered in glass domes like the kind his mother had used over some flowers she wanted to protect from the frost. But front and centre to the glass were five of these dome-covered beds with tubes and wires running in and out. Each bed had a small person not much larger than Rick's fist.

"Are they all right? They are awfully small," he asked astonished. "I've caught brook trout bigger than them. Which are the boys and which is the girl?"

"It is quite a miracle actually for such preemies, but they are all doing quite well. Their vitals are strong. They are breathing on their own, although in an oxygen rich environment. And of course we are monitoring every vital sign for any change. But so far so good and nothing that you wouldn't expect under the circumstances. Of course since they have come out into the world a little earlier than they should have they have a fair bit of growing and developing to go through before we let them leave that little cocoon they are in right now. I think the girl is the one on the far right."

"What do you mean? How long before I can hold them."

Rick started to cry. He didn't remember crying for any reason since he was ten years old. And that was more from anger and frustration when a much larger and stronger Will James had pinned him to the ground in a playground fight. But since then, nothing had made him cry. Not even a broken leg when he fell of his quad when he was twelve, or a concussion at football. And now as he looked at his five children he started to blubber like the babies he was watching.

She put a comforting hand on Rick's shoulder. "You can hold them in a week or two. We have to be cautious of any type of infection. And they will probably be in the hospital for a month or so."

"Where is Adi? I want to see Adi." Rick wiped his eyes with the sleeve of the dirty T-shirt. The doctor is right, he thought. His mother would be horrified at his clothes.

"Lets go to the lounge over there and sit down first." She pointed to a small room down the corridor from the baby viewing area. "We should chat a bit before you see her."

Rick continued to wipe his eyes and he kept glancing back to the window as they walked in silence to the small lounge. There was a chesterfield, two arm chairs, a coffee table with old donated magazines scattered over the top. Rick noticed with interest that one was a fishing magazine. There was also a Tassimo coffee machine. Rick recognized it since his father had given his mom one last Christmas but she took it back because she thought that the little coffee doodads, as she called them, were too expensive. I guess hospitals have more money, he thought.

"Want a coffee?" The doctor asked.

"Sure. Triple. Double."

"A Timmy's man I can see." They both had a brief laugh.

Rick sat on the chesterfield and the doctor in one of the chairs. She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees.

"So look, Rick. Your wife had some heavy weight surgery. We had to do a caesarean under full anesthesia to get them out quickly. You know what that is?"

"I think so. You cut into the belly and take the babies out. My aunt had that."

"Well not exactly. But close enough. In Adriel's case five babies and a small woman made for a little more cutting than normal." Monk paused to take a sip of her coffee and announced as if she was giving the punch line to a bad joke.

"And she lost a lot of blood."

She stopped and looked at Rick waiting for a reaction.

Rick didn't know what he was supposed to say. "But she is alright isn't she?"

"She needs a transfusion or she might die."

"Aren't you giving it to her?"

The young doctor looked surprised.

"We can't. She has this bracelet that says no blood transfusions. You're Church of the Savior's Salvation aren't you." It wasn't a question.

Suddenly Rick understood the doctor's approach and questions. "The damn bracelet," he exclaimed more to himself than the doctor. "Sorry. Her father made her wear that. He's a nutbar. But she doesn't really believe that crap and I'm not Saviour's Salvation. Give her what she needs for God's sake."

Monk looked quite relieved and handed Rick a clipboard and a BIC pen with the top broken off.

He took the pen. "I guess hospitals aren't that rich after all."

She ignored him. "That's good to hear. We'll get on it right away. She is still asleep and, as her husband, you can sign and authorize us to ignore the bracelet and start the transfusion."

He didn't think to question why they didn't wake her up and ask her. The signature place was highlighted in yellow marker and he quickly signed and handed the form back.

"Stay here for a while Rick. I'll have a nurse come and get you when you can see Adi."

Rick picked up his coffee and leaned back on the chesterfield, suddenly tired. Adi's father had the bracelets made for every member of her family so that they would not be given a transfusion if they were in an accident or something. He had forgotten that Adi still had hers on when they left Toronto. Now he had lied to ensure that she had the transfusion that the bracelet was to protect against. He shuddered at what her father's —and the other members of the church and her family's— reaction would be. But she said she was leaving the church so this shouldn't be a problem for her. He had a fleeting thought he should have asked her first and he momentarily panicked and started to get up and go after the doctor to stop her. Then he sat back down again and resigned himself to the fact that it was done; he did it to save her life and that life was more important than any stupid religion with its made up rules.

He glanced up at the muted TV, picked up the remote and started to surf. The hockey playoffs were on but he hadn't had much time to follow them over the past couple of weeks. Normally he, his father and brothers would not miss a game during playoff season, but this year he didn't have the interest. He remembered his family dinners full of arguments about which goalie was the best in the playoffs and which coach should be fired and the penalties that were not called. He laughed to himself. He could argue each of their parts without even being there. His father defended the referees and his mother always said there was too much fighting. His brother argued that they should introduce 'no touch' icing and his sister always said that the players were paid too much. He wondered who had taken up his argument that Don Cherry was ruining hockey.

He left TSN as soon he learned that the Leafs had lost again. He surfed past a news channel and instantly went back to it when he read the headline, "649 WINNINGS UNCLAIMED". He turned up the volume.

_"Our final story of the day is about the confusion surround the June 1st_ _6_ 49 _draw. It appears that the 6_ 49 _computers had some sort of glitch in the communication with 6_ 49 _terminals across the province and for a week after the draw the terminals checked tickets against the previous weeks draw numbers rather than the actual winning numbers. The result was a week of people who thought they were winners and week of people who were winners and didn't know it. 6_ 49 _officials remain tight lipped on how they will deal with the people who thought they had won and bought cars and quit jobs. Brenda Millard is one of those non-winners."_

The TV went to a clip of a crying middle aged woman who explained how she had thought she had won over six million dollars and had told her boss at a fast food restaurant to 'take this job and shove it.' She also bought a new car and gave some money to her children. And now she can't get her job back, the dealer won't take back the car and her rotten kids won't give her the money back.

_"I'm sure we'll learn more about this as the story unfolds, but in the meantime we can tell you that neither of the two big winners—real winners of more than three million each— of the 6_ 49 _draw over a week ago have yet to come forward."_

It seemed that two people had chosen the same six numbers and they would split a six million, four hundred and thirty-four thousand dollar prize. The announcer talked with her partner about how many tickets go unclaimed and they had the usual banter on how big winnings could ruin lives. "Bullshit," Rick announced to the TV. "Try being broke, with a busted truck, a wife in the hospital and five new babies and see how a lottery win would ruin your existence, asshole."

_"So,"_ she offered looking into the camera _. "If you aren't one of the unlucky ones who threw your ticket out you might want to check it again."_ Then the winning number was flashed across the bottom of the screen.

He suddenly remembered the photo on his iPhone and how he had given his ticket away. But he still had the ticket he had stolen so he grabbed the pen that the doctor had left and scribbled _$3.2 mill_ and the numbers on the cover of the fishing magazine that was on the coffee table. Then he turned off the TV and laid his head back on the top of the chesterfield. I'll check the photo and the ticket later. I wonder if money from a stolen ticket is stolen money, he mused. And within seconds he was asleep before he could even decide to fight it, the half filled coffee cup still in one hand and the broken BIC in the other.

### $$$$$

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Chapter 14: Flora, Saturday, June 8th, 7 A.M.

_Finding Things_

Flora woke with a start.

It took her a moment to return from the dream she was having where Peter, Greg and Rakeesh were sitting around the dining room table in her house laughing, telling stories and drinking wine. She was serving them plates of food—turkey, mashed potatoes, a bowl of peas —and she was in the nude and none of them seemed to notice. Then her father came into the room and she woke up. That event told her it was only a dream since her father had been dead for over ten years, although as a Philosophy professor at Ottawa University he would have enjoyed the banter among the three men. And he would most certainly have ignored her as well. Except when she did something teenage-like—which she rarely did—he ignored her and usually focused his attention and wisdom on her younger brother. But she had shown them both, she thought to herself, as she lay warm under the large duvet. She sat up with a start remembering where she was in the non-dream world.

"Shit," she muttered to herself, looking at the gently snoring form of Rakeesh beside her. She looked over her body and was relieved that she still had her clothes on and she could see that Rakeesh was still fully dressed as well. She gently rolled out of the old double bed and quietly padded out the door, closing it softly behind her.

She was surprised to see both the chesterfield empty and the wood stove stoked. The latter was taking the edge off of a cool June morning. She pulled back the curtain from the large living room picture window and could see from the growing red at the eastern end of the lake that it was still early. As she let her eyes drift from the magnetic sunrise, she was startled to see Greg. He was sitting motionless at the end of the sixteen-foot dock, facing the water and the sunrise sitting in a lotus like position she had never seen before. She wondered how he stretched an apparently bad knee into such a position. She had no idea how long he had been there, but it couldn't have been long because as far as she could tell he didn't have any clothes on. She watched as he stretched his arms out to the side like a moth emerging from a cocoon. He stood up—"Yup," she mumbled to herself. "No clothes."—and dove into the lake. The air was sucked out of her lungs as she sympathetically remembered how cold the lake was in June. She couldn't see the water on the other side of the dock from the window and almost ran out to see if he had survived the plunge. Then his head emerged from the edge of the dock as he climbed the dock ladder.

Whatever air was left in her body was soon expelled by the gasp she gave as she watched him agilely climb onto the dock, grab a towel from the pile of clothes nearby and begin to dry his body. She was sure that she could see the goose bumps on his chest. But she saw more than that. His body belied his age. As far as she could tell there was only a hint of a volleyball around his waist and some small love handles above his hips. Other than that he was lean and fit with a body proportioned in the right ways. If this is what he looks like at sixty, she mused, I wonder what he looked like at thirty. Then she corrected herself for the age sleight and concluded he looked good for any age.

Her eyes drifted uncontrollably to the space below the volleyball and she was surprised at what she saw; or didn't see. But then she remembered how the cold lake water would cause a hasty retreat of the male parts. Peter used to joke after a cold spring swim that he was now, "Maimed for wife." Or "Good thing we already have the children we need." Then Greg looked up and saw her at the window and with a big smile waved to her as he picked up his cane and his clothes and limping again, started to shuffle to the cabin. Embarrassed, and feeling guilty for her voyeurism— not to mention her thoughts—she gave a small wave and turned back towards the cabin's kitchen. But not before she noticed that the effects of the cold water were starting to subside.

"Sleep well?" he asked as he went into the bathroom without waiting for an answer.

Flora took the eggs and bacon from the fridge and lit the propane-fed burner. By the time Greg was back in the room the bacon was starting to cook in the centimetre of boiling water in the frying pan. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he dressed in his Wal-Mart clothes. The underwear is indeed new, she chuckled to herself. Then she watched as he took a container from the jacket pocket. He threw back and swallowed what appeared to be the last pill and put the empty prescription bottle back in his pocket.

"For a bum knee," he offered to Flora's back. "An anti-inflammatory."

"You like Yoga?" Flora changed the subject. "I didn't recognize what you were doing on the dock."

"I learned the Kundalini form of Yoga many years ago while in India and have practiced it ever since. It's fairly strenuous but good for the lower back. And old men need help with their backs."

"You lived in India?" Rakeesh had come out of the bathroom and heard the last of the conversation.

"Souprabaht Doost. A long time ago. In a previous life."

Rakeesh couldn't hide his shock at Greg's attempt at Hindi. It actually wasn't far off and he understood the 'Good morning friend.' He was impressed.

"What did you say to him?" asked an equally surprised Flora.

"I told the raghead he was ugly without his shirt on. Your bacon is burning."

Soon the three of them were eating a cabin breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast. Greg made what he called 'camp' coffee for them, which was coffee grounds tossed into boiling water for five minutes, and tea for himself. They sweetened all of their drinks with some tinned milk that was in the cupboard and Flora thought it was the best coffee she had ever had.

"So what do we do now?" she asked as she drank the last of her coffee. "Close up here and head to town and find them?"

"Sure. But we don't know where they stayed, whether they have left yet or even what they look like," Rakeesh offered. "We only know that they are a young pregnant couple driving a green eighties-era Ford pick up."

"I know what they look like," Greg interjected.

"We don't even know where they are going," Flora added. "Not to mention that you two think that there are some nasties looking for us as well."

"You might not remember it, but last night you suggested that one of us go into town to do a sort of recognizance? Do a circuit of the motels and find out if they have left yet and maybe even find out where they are headed," Greg suggested, more as a statement than a question. "And you were right. Only one driver of an old CRV is not liable to attract much notice."

"It's not old. It is in great shape," Flora protested.

The men ignored her.

"Good plan. So who's going to town first?" Rakeesh asked. "Shall we flip?" He pulled a looney from his jean's pocket. "Heads I go. Tails you go."

"I know what they look like so I should go," Greg insisted.

Rakeesh ignored him and flipped the coin. "I'll take heads."

They craned their neck to see how the coin landed on the carpet.

"Heads. I'll go this morning and see if I can find them. Greg you can go this afternoon and find your judge."

Greg acquiesced. "Sounds fair. I think we're pretty safe here from anyone finding us, but keep an eye out for that Hummer."

Rakeesh nodded and then he was gone and Flora and Greg were left sitting at the table, silently toying with the food on their plates and fingering their coffee cups.

"Had a little cross cultural cuddling last night did we?"

Flora blushed and moved a piece of uneaten bacon from one side of the plate to the other. "I guess I was lonely." Then she added defensively, trying to figure out how she could explain that she had not done anything like that before and how she believed that it was unfitting for a woman of her age and character to be so forward. "But we just slept you know."

Greg laughed. "That's to bad. Sex can do wonders for a lonely spirit. Even when you are on your own. But admittedly as I get older the warmth of a human body starts to appear as comforting as a quick tumble. Young people leave their partners for the prospect of better sex. People our age leave their partners for prospects of better companionship."

"You are an expert on this are you?"

"I've been left," Greg quietly offered. "Why did your husband leave you? Sex or companionship?"

Flora hadn't yet determined the answer to that question. Neither had been stellar in her marriage. Peter's sexual reaction to her lately had made her wonder if she still 'had it,' as the girls at the Y said. On several occasions she had purposefully walked into the bedroom naked to test the reaction and watched while Peter rolled over and went to sleep. The only time they had sex was when he initiated it and most of those times she wondered if her body was a convenient substitute for his hand.

Ironically, and to her surprise, as she grew older she felt her sex drive not only grow but become less inhibited. The sight of Peter's stiff penis aroused her and so she used him as well. In their early years his tongue had been the weapon of choice, but over the past few years it had been his finger and KY that brought her to orgasm. She missed that tongue. After menopause she had avoided energetic intercourse since she rarely seemed to get aroused enough to provide the lubrication that was needed. It was a difficult when Peter found the magic pill and she couldn't easily fulfill his rediscovered libido.

And she discovered that she didn't need him either.

The first time was by chance and curiosity. A misspelled Google search for "corn soup recipes" one night when Peter was out of town brought up a list of porn sites and her curiosity led her to double click one that promised 'young hunks and stiff cocks'. As the images of young, attractive and well-built men paraded stiff and large cocks across her computer screen, and masturbated as they looked right at her, she touched herself and had an instant orgasm. She quickly turned off the computer in case someone was lurking in cyber space watching her. "Pornography is bad; it's exploitive. What an idiot I am," she said out loud to the computer with some guilt as she undressed for bed and put her panties in the laundry.

The next day the thoughts of what she had done the night before couldn't leave her. She had always railed against pornography as exploitive of women and would not allow Peter to have men's magazines in the house. And while she had pleasured herself on occasion like most young woman, she had thought that sex was meant to be done between cooperating partners, preferably of the opposite sex. But now in her mid fifties, with an inexplicably growing libido and husband that didn't seem to get it, she was confused. How does the sex drive work that it would bring her to climax from some impersonal videos when it doesn't happen weekly with a live naked husband? Why is the body designed so that her desire for some sexual freedom happens to come at the time when she is less capable of attaining it?

All of this seemed unfair to her and became the rationale for frequent visits to that and other websites over the past couple of years. It wasn't regular. The best was one of men in their fifties. Why she should be attracted to older men was beyond her at this point. She only did this for those occasions when Peter's unresponsiveness or his uncooperativeness left her hungry. She sometimes wondered how many women did the same thing and was comforted by the idea that there wouldn't be so many websites catering to her demographic if there weren't a lot of woman out there using it.

So the sex part of Greg's question was fairly easy to answer but she wasn't going to share it with him. She went directly to the second part of the question.

"Good question," she pondered. "I think it is fair to say that Peter figured I wasn't going to provide him with the companionship that he wanted as he grew older. For example, he had visions of world travel and adventure and I've been more content to enjoy my house and gardens. I was not even that enthusiastic about this cabin, although over the years I have grown to enjoy the solitude and the comfort of the permanence of the wood and lake around me. I wonder if I can keep it after the divorce. I think he just started to find me boring."

"No one is boring. Just either misunderstood or not yet discovered."

Flora looked at him and wondered if there was anything left to discover in her life. She couldn't even imagine what was buried in his.

"So what about your marriages?"

"Three times. They all left me. Two divorced and one wife still out there somewhere."

"For someone they thought better? Like in my case?"

"No. For anyone they thought better. I wasn't great husband. My job was much more my life than were a wife and children."

"Being a cop you mean?"

He paused. "Yeah...that."

"Any kids?"

"Two from the first marriage. One from the second." He paused and looked out the picture window. It was the first time she had heard him speak in a sad way. "I haven't seen them in some time. I don't think they want to have much to do with their old dad."

"I'm sorry." She thought how painful it would be if she didn't see her children again. "My kids are dutifully attentive, but lead their own lives now. So in the final analysis children are going to do their own thing. Maybe as life rolls along it is our friends and partners that become the only thing to save us from whatever loneliness is inevitable? Did you ever pay appropriate attention to your parents as you grow up?"

"Good thought. But mine were both dead by the time I was a teenager and could really hurt them. Car accident. I was raised by my Grandparents."

Flora decided to switch directions. The conversation was getting too maudlin. She poured them each another cup of camp coffee, adding a significant amount of Carnation to her own. He did the same and added some brown sugar as well.

"So how did you learn Hindi? That was Hindi you spoke right?"

Greg laughed. "Yeah. It was. And it was almost my complete vocabulary, but I couldn't resist surprising Rakeesh a little."

"Did you really live in India?"

"Wife number two was from Hyderabad. We shared an interest in technology and the Kama Sutra, but not much else it turned out. Don't think I was enough 'Kama' for her. But we parted friends although I haven't heard from her in years." He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. "Maybe Starbucks does have something to it."

"Well I don't think you are supposed to brew any coffee for twenty minutes." she laughed and took his cup and her own and dumped them down the sink. "I'll make some fresh stuff."

"Kama Sutra?" she asked. "That's the sex thing, right?"

"Well right and wrong. The nineteenth century British, bless their hearts, viewed anything that involved close proximity of human bodies as illicit sex, so the western view of the Kama Sutra is pretty much restricted to sexual titillation. For example, bookstores are full of graphically illustrated books on the Kama Sutra showing every conceivable sexual position; most require a tenth degree black belt in yoga to even get close to doing. The original Sanskrit text was in prose and, while Kama does mean 'sex' and Sutra could be literally interpreted as 'manual'. The Kama Sutra is not a sex manual. Rather it is simply an ancient poetic reflection on the aesthetic and erotic aspects of life that led to pleasure. The dirty old Brits ignored both the aesthetic and the fact that Kama is one of four philosophical goals of life."

"Do you know the others?" Flora was now fascinated. Both by this brief lecture on Indian philosophy from an undercover Toronto cop and homeless man, and by the philosophy itself.

"Sure. There is _Dharma_ or virtuous living. _Artha_ or material prosperity. And _Moksha_ or liberation." He rhymed them off on his finger. "You can see why the British weren't too keen on fostering these life goals in their Indian subjects, so they preached the horrors of the sex part of _Kama_ in pulpits from Devon to Liverpool and ultimately painted the Indian citizen as a sex crazed heathen devil."

"What happened to wife number two as you call her?"

"Her name was Abha; means lustrous beauty and she was. She left me for someone who was far more attuned to the _Artha_ than the _Kama_. I wasn't rich enough at the time to fund her aesthetic happiness."

The water on the stove started to boil and Flora poured it over the coffee grounds in the enamel coffee pot. "And wife number three? What happened to her?"

"She's still around," was all he offered, "just not much around. But what about you? Are you finished with this guy Peter?"

"I don't know. It's only been a week or so and my judgment is pretty clouded by anger right now so I'd better not answer that definitively. But if I had to answer right now it would be not on your life. Besides, it doesn't appear to be my choice anyhow. He's the one that left me."

"He must be a very stupid—or very blind—man."

"You don't know me. I'm petulant, stubborn and boring. I'm phobic about disorder and change and I get all of the excitement necessary from my grade five class. And I'm a menopausal fifty-five year old." She paused and smiled. "So don't piss me off."

"I see. And that is why you have run off in your old CRV with a lottery ticket seller and a homeless man chasing some young couple you don't know for what reason I don't know. Oh...money right? And let me see. Last night you slept with the ticket seller."

He paused and stood and gently took her face in his hands. She thought that his hands were smooth for someone who was outside all day. "And now you're going to sleep with a homeless man."

Flora suddenly had trouble breathing. "I haven't had sex with anyone but my husband for over thirty years."

"Who said anything about sex? I hardly slept a wink on that damn chesterfield last night. I need a nap. I thought we might grab a wink or two before Rakeesh gets back."

"You rotter." She picked up one of the chair cushions and started beating him over the head with it and he covered his head with his hands and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"You are a beautiful woman and someday I would love to teach you the _Kama_ positions that I'm capable of at sixty. But right now I'm not capable of any kind of love, erotic or otherwise." He looked into her questioning eyes. "So let's forget the nap and go fishing. It's a beautiful June morning. I saw the aluminum boat by the shore. You got a motor to go with that?"

They dressed to go out on the lake. Greg put on one of Peter's sweaters and fleece jacket and she wore an old winter coat that she kept in the cabin for such adventures. It could be cold on the lake in June. She took Greg out to the beach shed and showed him the old 9.9 they used on the boat and he even found some gas left over from last year. They grabbed a couple of fishing poles and Greg seemed to know which lures to take from Peter's tackle box. After a little fiddling the motor started and they headed out onto the lake. In a few moments their lines were in the water and they were quietly trolling the shoreline, the old motor spitting out the occasional puff of smoke.

Flora sat in the bow and watched while Greg alternately adjusted the fuel mixture on the motor and the tension in his line. He had obviously done this before and was enjoying himself. She wondered if she actually would have had sex with him if he had continued. He was good looking, charming and worldly. And she was angry and lonely. She suspected he could easily have taken advantage of her and she would have been a willing victim. But she was also relieved to be out in the boat instead of in the cabin. Despite the stories of Canadian proclivity for sex in a canoe, she figured she was safe in an aluminum boat from a man in four layers of clothes.

But the thing that most surprised her was that she was relaxed and unstressed by everything that was going on around her. She didn't like the unknown. She made lists and plans for everything she did in her life from shopping to teaching. Ever since her teacher education days, her lesson plans had been the most detailed and predictive of any other teacher. She didn't like leaving anything to chance or whimsy and nothing stressed her out more than things out of order and out of her planning sequence. So the past week should have put her over the edge. But now she leaned back against the bow gunwale, the fluffy winter coat protecting her from the sharp edges of the aluminum and she admitted that right at this moment she had no idea what would happen next in her life. She didn't even care if she went to work on Monday. In fact for the first time she remembered she didn't give a shit what came next—or for that matter what happened a moment ago. She was truly content in the moment.

"So you are chasing these kids for money?"

"So what's wrong with money?"

"My second wife left me because of not enough _Artha_. The third because of too much." He gave his line a little tug. "Why is Rakeesh chasing it? Does he own half the ticket? Are you guys partners or something?"

Flora hesitated because she wasn't sure what to say. Rakeesh had told her the story of Gujarat and she had accepted it, but she wondered how much she should tell Greg.

"Rakeesh isn't who he seems to be."

"Ha, who is my dear? If you mean he is something more than a ticket seller that is hardly news. What do you really know about the woman who does your hair? Or the teller at the bank? Or the shoeshine lady at the airport? Or the young lady who brings you and your friends some sort of pink drink at the bar? We meet and interact with people in the big city everyday, but we never really know them do we? So wow. Rakeesh is more than a ticket seller who boxes like he was taught by a nineteenth century army sergeant?"

Flora ignored his sarcasm and thought for a moment that she really doesn't know him either.

"So who is HE running from?"

"You know?"

"Well, he checked his rear view mirror more than I did. He didn't learn to drive like that in Bombay driving school. And I think that he went into town to do more than look for a green pickup truck. There is no cell service in the cabin."

She told Greg the whole story about Rakeesh and Gujarat. She finished with the observation, "So he is like you. He has another motive for helping me and looking for the ticket, but he is helping me."

"Aren't you lucky. I wonder if two half motives make a whole?" He checked his new Wal-Mart Timex. "It's noon. I think we should probably head back in. He should be back soon."

They pulled in their lines and, put their lures back in the tackle box that Greg placed under the driver's seat. He opened the throttle and expertly docked the boat with the bow facing outward to the lake, ready for the next expedition. He helped Flora out of the boat and they walked up to the cabin in time to see Rakeesh pull into the parking spot at the back door. He came in the back door at the same time they came in the lakeside door.

"I found them," he said, as he closed the door behind him and put several brown paper bags on the dining room table. "And I brought some lunch."

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Chapter 14: Rakeesh, Saturday, June 7th, 2013 7:14 AM

Town and Gown

It didn't take him long to find the pickup.

The Comfortlodge was the first motel on the edge of town and the truck was parked half in and half out of a parking spot mid-the way down the row of rooms. He pulled into a spot beside the truck and instantly saw the puddle of green hued transmission fluid that was slowly seeping down the sloped parking spot to the drain in the road. He looked at the unit in front of the truck and noticed that the sliding glass door was open and wondered if he should take a look inside. He thought it better to first check with the front desk.

The clerk was a sitting on a stool behind the counter staring intently at the computer screen and energetically tapping the space bar.

"Angry birds? You winning?"

He guessed that the woman was in her early thirties. She had probably not looked bad at midnight when he assumed she started her shift as night clerk. But after eight hours of Friday night boredom, much coffee and 'Angry Birds', her streaked blond hair had lost its lustre and its shape. Her eyes were bloodshot and clearly yearned for a rest.

"We're full," she offered without looking up from her game.

Rakeesh slammed his hand down on the counter. "Look at me," he ordered.

The shocked woman jumped off her stool and Rakeesh almost laughed when he saw that she was hardly five feet tall. She leaped on some kind of footstool that was intended to allow her to look over the counter.

He tilted his head to read her nametag that was pinned to her dress at forty-five degree angle. "Brandy?"

"Yeah." It was a 'so what' kind of 'yeah.' Not a customer service 'yeah.'

"Brandy. That's a lovely name."

She brightened up and smiled. "My dad wanted to call me Coors Light. But Mom won that fight."

"I'm happy for you. So, Brandy." He emphasized the name. "There is a pickup truck parked in the middle of your driveway."

"That's the kid's." She was less defiant.

"The who?"

"The kid that I called the cab for."

"Cab?"

"Yeah. She was having a baby."

"In the hotel room?"

"Hope not. That would make a big mess." She tried to laugh and Rakeesh saw that she was missing most of her molars. "Boss wouldn't like that for sure."

Rakeesh didn't laugh. "Brandy, why don't you consider me your boss right now and tell me what happened."

"Nothin' to tell. They checked in last night. She had pains in the middle of the night. His truck broke. And I called a cab for him. Told him he had to get that truck out of the way too."

"Where is the hospital?"

"Other side of town. Stay on the by-pass. You can't miss it."

"Thank you. That wasn't hard was it?"

"You a cop or something?"

"Something."

"You'll tell everyone I cooperated won't you?"

"Send in a report to TripAdvisor as soon as I get home," he assured her as he went out the door.

The hospital was only a ten- minute drive away and at a little after seven on a Saturday morning he had no trouble finding a parking spot near the emergency entrance.

The emergency waiting room was quiet as well. The waiting room of any hospital in India would be full of humanity in the full range of distress. He remembered when his daughter had broken her arm at school and he carried her over people lying in the corridors and families sitting in groups inside and outside the doors. Some had small burners where they cooked some food since waiting for their turn for a doctor could take days. His police uniform got them quick service that time. He knew that didn't work in Canada.

He noticed the boy right away.

He was as Greg described him. Around six feet. Athletic build. Strong looking. Clean shaven. Short hair. Complexion a little darker than he was used to in most Caucasians he knew. But Canada is a multicultural country. Lots of mix ups in the gene pool.

The boy was sitting by himself staring at the floor with a concerned look on his face. There was no girl so Rakeesh guessed that she had been admitted. He was going to go over and sit next to him but one of the other three people in the waiting room went and sat beside him first.

The woman could have been the boy's mother. She was dressed in what Rakeesh assumed was what a Canadian woman her age would wear out for a Friday night party. Indian women dressed in colourful saris, but the material covered all parts of their bodies. This woman's dress barely kept her amble breasts from popping out and hanging down the front. He chuckled. The edges of her nipples must be meeting the edges of the dress. He sadly remembered that there were places in India where a woman risked being stoned to death for such a display.

But she had a warm smile as she sat down beside the young man. She put her hand on his and they started to talk and neither noticed as Rakeesh moved into the room and took a seat down the row of seats that backed onto the ones that the woman and the young man occupied.

And he listened intently as the boy told his story.

Then a nurse came and took the woman away and the young man was left alone again. He walked over to the coffee machine and searched in his pockets for some change. Rakeesh followed him.

"Here let me," he offered as he put the correct change into the machine. "Pick your poison. It's all bad. Hospitals don't want you to enjoy yourself here. You might come back too often."

"Thanks." The young man had a warm genuine laugh. "Here," he grinned as he dumped a pile of change in Rakeesh's hand. "For the next victim."

Rakeesh took the change, "Sure. Hope it all works out with the baby and all," he offered as he walked to the exit.

This makes it a little more complicated, he mused as he drove out of the parking lot. I wonder how Flora will react.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the grey Hummer that pulled out of the Tim Hortons and followed him three cars back. Not very subtle, was his first thought. Every person on the street will remember a grey, maybe silver, Hummer with gun metal grey bumpers and a strip of fog lights on the roof. There wouldn't be many of those in North Bay but every male child under sixty would fantasize about owning one.

He had to find out if he had been spotted. He was driving in the left lane and quickly cut across the right and pulled into a McEwan gas bar. The Hummer couldn't make the quick turn but pulled off into the Wal-Mart parking lot a little further on. He pretended not to have noticed them as he put in five dollars worth of gas and went into the office to pay.

The Hummer didn't move.

He paid the clerk and stood looking over the candy rack.

I can't lead them to Greg and Flora, he thought to himself. At least not yet. I have to at least get Flora out of the way. He picked up a Mars bar and paid the clerk with the change the young man had given him.

He drove back towards the hospital and pulled into the same emergency parking lot he had left fifteen minutes before. His previous spot was gone and the lot was considerably busier than earlier in the morning and he had to drive around for a few moments before he could find a place to park. Without looking back, he sauntered back into the emergency waiting room. He noticed that both the young man and the older woman were both gone but there were now many more emergencies than even a short time ago. Maybe people only get sick in Canada when they get up in the morning. He took a seat near one of the large windows, between a woman with a crying baby and a man he guessed was over three hundred pounds holding an ice pack to his head. Neither paid him any notice or tried to talk to him.

The Hummer parked in a handicap spot near the exit and two men got out and started to walk towards the emergency room entrance. Neither looked in the least bit physically disadvantaged. Quite the opposite. Rakeesh guessed there was at least one more man in the vehicle acting as a lookout in case he tried to leave. Maybe he was disabled. Neither man looked Asian. They were Caucasian, medium height—police talk for under under six feet —stocky, probably in their twenties and both waddled like they had too little space between their thighs. Weightlifters he guessed. He noticed that they both wore custom suits—he guessed they needed them to fit over those bodies—and shirts open at the neck. With similar haircuts they looked either like brothers or clones. Like their car, they stood out in a northern Ontario town more used to Mark's Work Warehouse than Harry Rosen. People stared at them as they approached the emergency room doors and entered the waiting room.

Rakeesh had gotten up from his seat and left before they arrived. He realized that a six feet tall East Indian man couldn't easily go incognito in a city like this either, so it would only take a few questions for the men to find his trail. While the admitting nurse was dealing with a screaming child with a broken arm, he went through the swinging doors leading to the treatment area. He grabbed a white coat from a rack, a stethoscope and clipboard from a trolley and walked deeper into the bowels of the hospital. He assumed that it would not be unusual for the hospital to see an Asian looking doctor and he walked unchallenged through several corridors until he found a map of the hospital.

"Can I help you doctor?" a young nurse walked by as he was studying the large map on the corridor wall.

"Oh yes. Most definitely please," he replied in his best accent. "I am exceedingly new here and seem to be losing my bearings. Where is the front entrance please?"

She glanced at his name tag. "Dr. Hoschhild? That is a strange Indian name?"

"Oh not to be confused. My father was a Professor from Israel teaching in Delhi. So I am half Jewish and half Hindu. I can not remember whether I am not supposed to eat pork or beef." He laughed like it was a funny joke he told everyday.

The nurse grimaced. "Next hallway and then third hallway on your right. You can't miss."

"I'm thanking you so much Miss," he offered as he motioned a 'Namaste' with his hands while walking backwards down the corridor.

At the front entrance he glanced through a crack in the swinging door to see if the weight lifters were there but there was no sign of them. He was surprised to see a television truck parked on the sidewalk at the front door, and a reporter and cameraman leave the truck and hurry into the building.

Must be a big accident or something, he thought.

But it only took a moment for him to see what he wanted. A taxi pulled up and a woman got out as he rushed up to the cab and jumped into the back seat before she could close the door.

"Thank you ma'am."

She ignored him and walked into the hospital while the driver asked, "Where to buddy?"

"Airport please."

The airport was a fifteen minute cab ride from the hospital and Rakeesh checked every minute or so out the back window, but it didn't appear that anyone was following them. And if asked, the cab driver would report that his fare had gone to the airport to catch the ten-thirty to Toronto.

Once he was inside the airport he sat in the waiting room watching the parking lot for a half hour. Then he went to the Budget booth and rented a Ford Explorer. He had to use his VISA card but that was unavoidable. If they wanted to track him it wasn't going to be difficult. There are not many tall East Indians hiring cabs and renting cars in North Bay. At best his subterfuge would give them a day or so reprieve.

He figured that a day should be enough as he pulled out of the airport parking lot and headed downtown to pick up some food to take back to the others.

### $$$$$

Return to Table of Contents

Chapter 15: Rick, Saturday June 8th, 10:15 A.M.

Rules are Rules

"Mr. McLeod," a gentle voice intruded into a mixed up dream of fishing the Boyne with his grandfather as the two of them were chased through the water by a group of women waving Bibles. "Mr. McLeod. You can see your wife now."

As he blinked his eyes awake he momentarily forgot where he was and what was happening to his life. The nurse was even younger than the doctor. And prettier. She smiled and gently put her hand on his shoulder. He glanced at the wall clock and saw that it was a little after ten so he must have slept two hours. He noticed that both the coffee cup and the BIC were on the coffee table.

"Uh, thanks, Delores," he offered as he glanced at her nametag trying not to appear to stare at the breast that was below the tag. "Can I see Adi now? The babies? Are they okay?"

"Yes. As I said you can see your wife now. She is awake. But pretty tired so you can't visit for long. And the babies are adorable."

"Okay. Is there a washroom handy? I'd like to clean up a little before I see Adi." He stood and stretched his back.

"There's one on the way to the maternity care ward. You can use these." She handed him a small plastic package with a little toothbrush, some paste, a bar of soap and a disposable razor." You're not the first new father to sleep on that God-awful couch. It's a wonder you can walk."

"Was it you who moved the coffee and pen?"

"Yeah. Although I should have let you spill the coffee and then maybe this cheap hospital would have had to replace the couch. I'm not a real nurse yet," she offered. "I'm in the nursing program at the university up the hill. The maternity ward is my first field placement. And you and your wife have made it an exciting one for sure."

He took the package and they started to walk down the hospital corridor. He had thought that she looked a little young to be a fully-fledged nurse.

"Is Adi okay now?"

"I'm not supposed to say anything," she admitted in a conspiratory whisper. "But she almost died you know. If Dr. Monk hadn't given her a transfusion during the birth last night she surely would have and that would have made a big story." She abandoned the whisper for the word 'big.' "Do you really think that taking a transfusion is against God's will or something? Like I mean like I'm a good Anglican and I've been going to church all my life and I never read anything like that in the Bible."

Rick wasn't in the mood for a discussion on the foolishness of man's various interpretations of what was reputed to be God's word. He wanted a shave and another coffee. A shower and a clean shirt would be good as well but he guessed that was asking too much. "I don't. I'm a Presbyterian. We have our own set of weird notions, but that isn't one of them. It was one of the beliefs of Adi's family. But we don't follow that stuff."

"Well it's a good thing that you signed that form. They had quite a meeting about it."

"What do you mean meeting? Who?"

"Well—I wasn't there of course— but the rumour was that they called in the Chief of Staff, the hospital lawyer and the hospital President, none of whom was apparently happy to be called into the hospital before dawn on a Saturday morning. Let them see what it's like to be on night shift." she chuckled. "It would have been a real shitstorm for the hospital if she had died I can tell you that."

"Yeah—and it would be too bad for her as well."

"Sure. That too. But those babies were big enough news. They didn't need the Church of the Savior's Salvation thing on top of it. So they gave her the emergency transfusion during the operation. Boy, they were some relieved when you signed that form later. I heard the lawyer say that without the husband's signature they might have had a big lawsuit on their hands."

"I don't understand? They gave her the transfusion during the operation?"

"Yes. Or she would have died. I told you."

"But I didn't sign the form until a couple of hours ago."

The maternity ward was a busy place at seven thirty in the morning. Staring orderlies pushing empty gurneys passed them, and carts full of electrical stuff and bottles on hooks lined the walls. As they passed the nursing station a half dozen nurses glanced up. One pointed him with her chin and they smiled as he walked by.

"Yes," she responded a little exasperated. "I told you that as well. That was what the big meeting was about. Here's the washroom. I'll wait outside here until you are done."

"Sure you don't want to come in with me?" He paused and smiled at her shocked look. "A joke Delores—a joke."

Before either could laugh, a man rushed up to Rick with one hand outstretched and another hand grasping a royal blue golf shirt.

"Mr. McLeod," he offered his hand and Rick took it. "I'm Harry Furlong, the hospital President. Welcome to our hospital."

Rick thought the man could be a good Wal-Mart greeter. He was probably as old as his father but not in as good condition. He was big. Not tall big, big with a Santa Clause girth and jowls that bounced when he talked. His hair was a wispy grey comb over.

"My pleasure, sir. Delores here is a really great host."

"Well we are delighted that your little babies choose to grace this hospital with their entry to the world. I assure you that you couldn't be in a better hospital. We're taking great care of them." Apparently suddenly remembering the golf shirt, he handed it to Rick. "Here. I know it's been a long night for you so you could probably use a change of clothes. I don't have much lying around in my office that would fit you." He patted his tummy. "The burdens of the office don't leave much time for the gym you know." He laughed at this self-deprecation. Delores laughed as well until a stare from Furlong told her that wasn't supposed to be funny to her.

"Thank you, sir." His dad told him to call people like this 'sir'. "I'll go into the washroom now and clean up a little." He took the golf shirt and left the two of them in the corridor.

He was glad of the solitude of the washroom. He had to think. After he used the toilet he took off his T-shirt, filled the basin full of hot water, pumped the soap container and washed his face, his chest and his armpits. On an impulse he stuck his head into the sink and with more soap from the pump he washed his hair. He dried himself the best he could with the paper towels. The package included a small comb with sharp tines that scratched his scalp as he combed his wet hair back over his head. Finally he put some new water in the sink and shaved. He looked at himself in the mirror and thought he didn't look that bad for having been up most of the night.

He picked up the golf shirt. The front was covered in some sort of logo and the words _"Aim for the Top 2010 Hospital Charity Golf Tournament."_ His dad would get a kick out of this, Rick thought as he pulled the shirt over his head. Rick hated the game but his dad was obsessed. He belonged to the local nine-hole course and had a closet full of golf magazines and various teaching aids he had ordered from the golf channel. Straps for around your arms. Weights you hung from your neck. Special shoes that you couldn't walk on but which angled your knees inward. Rick's mother concluded that some torturer designed them during the Spanish inquisition. She said she rued the day that they bought the golf channel on satellite.

Rick agreed with his mom, and here he was wearing a golf shirt two sizes too large. "What's one more change in my life?" he muttered as he pulled himself up on one of the sink basins and sat down. He needed to sit for a moment. There were no seats in the washroom and it didn't seem dignified to sit in a stall if all you wanted to do was think. So the basin would have to do. He hoped he wasn't too heavy and it broke. He wondered what jolly Furlong would think of that.

Delores's comments about the transfusion circumstances had not gone by him. He had heard the "during the operation", and the "later" when she referred to his signature. He had to think things through a bit before he saw Adi. She will want him to tell her what they were going to do. He hadn't planned on testing her break from the cult so soon but they would have to have some conversation now regarding her beliefs and the transfusion. He would also have to reassure her that they had enough money to take care of the new babies. They didn't, of course. His remaining stash wouldn't get them past the first month here in North Bay, but he wouldn't tell her that. He wondered how he would be able to keep this from her family. He would call his mom and dad for sure, after all they supported them heading west in the first place. And five babies? Who has five kids at the same time? He mulled all of this over in his mind and kept coming up with more questions and concerns but no answers. All he knew was that he would have to tell Adi that everything would be alright and not to worry; he would figure it out and they would be together with their new family. He jumped down from the sink and picked up the used razor, tooth brush, stuffed them in the plastic bag and walked out the door.

"Ah, —Mr. McLeod. We were worried that you might have fallen in." He laughed at his own joke. Rick noticed that Delores was still there, standing well behind the administrator but didn't laugh this time. "But you look quite refreshed. Let's go and visit your wife."

As they walked down the hall, another half dozen people joined them. He recognized the surgeon he had talked to early. Another called herself the 'Communication Officer'—Helen Portman he thought she said. Another woman was apparently the Chief of Staff although he didn't catch her name. And there were at least two other nurses who were apparently more senior than Delores since they had pushed her to the back of the crowd. Rick walked beside Furlong. He glanced behind, a little confused at the entourage. He was relieved there didn't appear to be a cop. That would have topped off everything.

After a half dozen doors they stopped at one that had a sign ordering everyone to wear gloves and a mask. There was a little box at the entry with a pile of each and Furlong handed both to Rick. "Don't want to risk infection do we?" he offered as he started to put on his own mask and gloves.

Rick reached over and grabbed his arm. "I'd like to see my wife alone if you don't mind?"

Furlong looked over at Monk.

"Rick, she will still be a little groggy from surgery," Monk offered. "So you'll only have few moments."

He paused and Furlong blurted out. "And she doesn't know about the five babies. Or the transfusion."

Rick looked over Furlong, Monk and the hospital entourage.

"I see. Thank you. Give me five minutes."

He was impressed at his own firmness with these important people and even more surprised that they didn't argue. His mom would have given him a hard time. He went into the room and closed the door behind him.

The room surprised him. It was not only a private room, but it was a comfortable one, furnished like a bedroom in a private home. He had been to visit people in the hospital in Alliston and he had not seen a room like this. He knew this cost extra money and he added that to his money worries. He was also shocked at the array of wires and tubes connected to the body lying peacefully in the bed. There were things on her fingers, things attached to her arms and tubes stuck into her wrists. They were umbillicaled to a bank of greenish displays that emitted a beep every few seconds. There was a chair beside the bed so he went over and sat down and touched a bare spot on Adi's arm. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

"Nice room you got me. Adding robbing banks to car theft now are we?" she offered in a weak voice. She smiled and dragging a collection of tubes reached over and held his hand.

"You okay?" Then he added, "Adi, I love you." She gripped his hand harder. They both started to cry through their smiles.

"Back at ya," she offered in weak voice.

Rick wiped his face with the sleeve of the new golf shirt. "The doc says you're going to be fine."

"Yeah. The nurse told me that they had to do a caesarean. Can I see the baby now?"

He didn't know any other way to tell her other than straight away.

"Adi is there any history of twins and such in your family?"

"My grandmother was one of triplets."

"Well. You bested your Grandma."

"What do you mean—bested my Grandma?

"We have five healthy little babies—four boys and a girl. They are too small and premature for us to hold, but I saw them Adi." He started to cry again. "And they are beautiful." He stood and kissed her on the forehead and some tears dripped on her face. "As beautiful as you."

"Five? We have five babies?" It was only starting to sink in to her what Rick had told her. "Are they okay? When can I hold them?"

"They're fine. Just a wee bit small so we can't hold them yet. But don't worry they are getting good care here."

"Rick, I was worried about how we would mange one. How will we ever manage five?"

He squeezed her hand again. "Don't worry about that either. I have it under control. We'll be staying here for a while until you recover. Doc said you would be out in a week. The kids have to stay in the hospital for a month or so. So I guess this town is where we'll settle for a while. By the time you get out of the hospital I'll have good job and a nice little place for us to live while we wait until we can head west. So don't worry. I'll take care of it all." He hoped that she was still too groggy to catch his lie. He could not lie to her. She always knew, but as she squeezed his hand and smiled it looked like he had gotten away with it this time.

"I love you Rick." She closed her eyes, clearly running out of energy.

"A couple of other things Adi." He spoke with some urgency and she opened her eyes. "I told them we were married."

"Why Rick?"

"Well it seemed the right thing to do at the time. And we are engaged so it is only a little white lie."

"Hmmm. Mrs. McLeod. I like the sound of that," she mused.

"And they wanted me to sign some forms as your husband. You know. Like surgery approval forms and such. You weren't in any condition to approve anything on your own so I did it."

"Did what?"

"I approved a blood transfusion."

Adi closed her eyes again and didn't say anything.

"Adi? You still awake?"

"The bracelet right?"

"Yeah."

She started to laugh. "Ohh—that hurts." She tried to not laugh but she couldn't. "Wouldn't that really piss of my dad?' She looked over at Rick and nodded to the bracelet. "Take that fucking thing off, Rick. I told you. I have left that life behind me and all I want to do now is live. Live with you. And Rick, we have to come up with five names."

She started to laugh again and one of the buzzers went off in one of the machines. The room door opened and Dr. Monk and a nurse raced into the room. They looked at Adi still laughing and the nurse reached over to the machine and pushed a button and the buzzer stopped.

"What is that? A happy warning?" And she laughed again.

Dr. Monk was clearly relieved. "I think that Mrs. MacLeod should get some rest now. Rick leaned over and kissed her again. "See you soon, babe." And they left the room while the nurse checked and fiddled with some tubes.

Back out in the hall the crowd had grown a little larger. Everybody wanted to talk to him at once. Furlong asked if he had talked to her about the transfusion. Some mousy young man with a clipboard asked for his OHIP card again. He saw Delores in the back of the group and she smiled at him. Then the Helen lady intervened.

"That's enough everybody." She took Rick by the arm and started to lead him away. "You can all have your time with Mr. McLeod later. Right now I suspect he could use a little breakfast." She looked questioningly at Rick and he nodded enthusiastically. He was suddenly very hungry. "Roger," she spoke to the mousy young man, "go to the cafeteria and get Mr. McLeod a good northern Ontario breakfast. Two eggs easy over, Toast. Sausages. Pancakes—make sure they give you the real maple syrup—and a glass of orange juice to dissolve the cholesterol. Put it on Dr. Furlong's's tab. And bring it to my office. That sound alright, Rick?"

"Just what my mom would have made me. And sure, I'm fine with him paying."

He smiled at Furlong who shrugged his shoulders. At this point anyone that would pay for anything was welcome in Rick's life. He knew that the Canadian health care system was free. Well, not free exactly since, as his dad reminded everyone at least once a week, good taxpaying citizens like him paid for it. But it was universally accessible so he didn't have to worry about Adi's medical bills. But it didn't cover that fancy room. And it didn't cover breakfast. So with his limited funds he was glad there was an emerging trend of other people paying.

"You have coffee in your office?" he asked the Helen lady.

"Yup. And none of that Tassimo crap either." With one glance back at Furlong and the others she took Rick's arm and led him over to the elevator. "My office is on the lobby level. We can chat there."

Rick wondered what they would chat about. Maybe the extra cost of the room. Maybe they found out that he and Adi weren't married. But he instantly liked this lady. He guessed her to be in her forties although he wasn't good at guessing women's ages. She had a wedding ring—a big one with lots of diamonds. She was a little shorter than Adi and certainly a little heavier. Her brown, blond streaked hair covered her ears. The boys back home wouldn't have called her beautiful. But he found her oddly attractive. It wasn't a sexual kind of attraction. More like that for a big sister or an aunt that you trusted with your secrets. She had a wide smile that accented her green eyes and showed off white teeth. She walked with a bounce, not a swagger. And she appeared to be able to boss everybody else around including the hospital President. Right now he needed a little bit of leading by someone else.

"We'll go down to two and walk to my floor by the stairwell. I want to avoid the hospital lobby for now," she announced as they entered the elevator. Neither of them spoke for a while, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. She smiled at him and made a comment about his new golf shirt. He told her it would be the closest he would ever come to a golf game. She laughed and told him she hated the game as well. They reached the second floor and went down the stairwell. She took a peek out into the lobby corridor before they went into the hallway. Rick wondered what she was looking for. Her office was only a few feet down the corridor and they quickly entered and she closed the door behind them.

The office was large so Rick decided that she must be someone important. He remembered something about communication but he had no idea what that meant. Her desk was in one corner of the office and it was covered from front to back with paper of all sorts. There were newspapers, magazines and even what looked like posters spread in a disorganized fashion across the desk. Rick thought how his mother would not approve of such visible disorganization. There were three coffee mugs sitting on top of some papers as if they were holding them down from the wind. An empty jar—Rick recognized it as a Kraft peanut butter jar—sat on the front edge of the desk full of pens and pencils and markers. At least she doesn't pee in it, he chuckled to himself. The front edge of the desk was also lined with things; a small stuffed bear, a clear plastic penholder, and a glass-like paper weight with the model of some building inside. But there was a small, tidy, cleared space in the morass of paper and paraphernalia where a laptop computer sat with its top angled for action. There was a credenza behind the desk covered with even more paper; with enough space cleared for a printer and a phone with a bank of flashing numbers.

"Welcome to my second home Rick." He was glad she dropped the Mr. "My husband claims it is the first, but I haven't started sleeping here yet. Let's sit over at the table." There was a drip coffee maker and a tin of Tim Hortons coffee on top of a small fridge in the far corner of the room. Other than that, a large boardroom table and eight high backed leather chairs took up most of the office space. Unlike the desk, the top of table was clear of everything except for another phone and another laptop computer. Rick picked a chair and sat down. She went over to the coffee maker and turned it on and sat in the chair beside him.

"So how are you doing with all of this?" She reached over and gently placed her hand on his arm.

He stared at the top of the table. It was smooth and shiny but someone had put a drink where he was sitting and had left a glass ring on the table. That would really get his mom going he thought. She hated such carelessness.

"Which 'this' would that be? A wife who almost died? Five babies? Or the other stuff?"

"Is there other 'stuff' I can help you with Rick?" Her voice was gentle and concerned.

He didn't know how much to tell her. "So who are you? Miss... Porter is it? What do you do? Why am I in your office?"

"First of all it is Helen. I haven't been a Miss for a long time. I'm what they call the Director of Communication for the hospital. I deal with external communication issues—government—patient complaints—fundraising. But mostly I am the one who deals with the press about anything that happens here. The reason that you are with me now is that you, your wife and your babies are going to be a big media story. It is still early on a Saturday morning, but the news of five babies being born in the hospital will leak out soon and this will be a big story. Probably go national. So we —you and I—need to get ahead of the press and issue some sort of press release that contains the story we want the press to tell, not what they might make up."

Rick hadn't thought of the press 'making up' stories.

There was a knock at the door and the mousy young man came in with a tray of food that he silently started to spread out on the table in front of them. Rick's breakfast was as ordered. A cup of yogurt and a fruit cup were placed in front of Helen. Then the man went over to the coffee machine. "Double double, right?" he announced and prepared a large mug of coffee for Rick. He wondered how the man knew what he wanted. The man didn't ask Helen, just poured her a mug of black coffee and headed for the door.

"Thanks Roger. Check the lobby for any reporters and let me know if anyone has discovered this event yet." She turned back to Rick. "So dig in. It's not often I get Furlong to spring for a meal."

He was surprised how hungry he was and had no trouble finishing the food. "Not bad," he announced. "Hospital food has been getting a bad rap." They both ate in silence and it gave him time to think. He hadn't thought about the press thing. He had to call his parents and let them know they were grandparents. His mom had said that she would come out west when the baby was due. He wondered what she would do now. And then there were Adi's parents. If there was press coverage and they read it or saw it on TV they would know where he and Adi were. They would either come after her with a vengeance or shun her. He wasn't sure which. They weren't supposed to know where they were until they were settled out west, married and the baby was born. Then Adi was going to contact them and tell them that she had started a new life. He popped the last of the sausage into his mouth and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee. He took a napkin and wiped his mouth.

"So Helen, how long does it take to get married in this city?"

Helen had long since finished her fruit and yoghurt and was sipping her coffee. She was waiting for Rick to finish his food before starting the conversation again. The marriage question took her by surprise.

"Ahh—I'm not sure." She tried to remember how she and her husband went about getting married eighteen years ago. "I think you have to apply for a license and then there is some sort of waiting period and then you get someone official—a judge or a minister—to marry you." She paused. "Does this mean that you and Adi aren't married?"

"We were going to get married when in Fort McMurray. Before the baby was born. But it looks like it would be a good idea if we are married here as soon as possible."

"Indeed. This will change the press release." She made some notes on a pad in front of her. "I'll have Roger check into the marriage process. Anything else I should know?"

Rick didn't see any purpose in keeping anything from her.

"Adi's parents don't know where she is. They are devout Savior's Salvations and she ran away. With me."

"Is she eighteen?"

"She was nineteen two weeks ago. She doesn't have a health card. Her family were homeopaths and don't go to normal doctors."

Helen looked up at him and made another note. "We'll get her one. No problem."

"I only have enough money to get us west and start a job. I can't pay for the private room and all that stuff."

"Well you're not going west quite yet. And don't worry about the room or any other extras. The hospital will pick up those costs."

Rick looked at her with raised his eyebrows. "Why would it do that?"

She put her pen down and leaned back in her chair. "You still don't understand what a big deal this is for North Bay and the hospital, do you? Has anyone ever told you the story of the Dionnes?"

"Yeah, Delores, the student nurse, mentioned them. Five babies born here in the thirties. Big media and tourist deal."

"Right. Well this is the biggest thing in the birthing business here since then. The press will be all over it. And the way the hospital treats you and Adi will be open for public scrutiny. That transfusion thing almost sent Furlong and the lawyer into apoplexy. They may still go bananas when they find out you aren't married and that a consent form you signed is worthless. Anything else?"

"Not really." He didn't think she needed to know about the stolen car.

"Well let's go down to the lobby to see if there are any reporters hanging around and we'll get this story out. Ready?"

"Sure," he responded, although he had no idea what she meant by ready. "Can I use the washroom first?" She pointed to a door at the end of the room that led to a washroom attached to the office. When he came back his hair was neatly combed and his face washed.

"Nice. You'll look good in the photos," she offered as she opened her office door and they went out into the corridor.

They didn't even get to the lobby. After the first flash Rick was seeing stars and after the continual click, click and multiple flashes he was almost hypnotized. There was a constant blinding light. He could vaguely make out the person behind a large camera that was perched on his shoulder.

"Mr. McLeod. How is your wife doing?" from a female voice.

"Have you named the babies yet?" from a man.

"Have you been in North Bay long?" from another.

"Where do you live?" from the cameraman.

The questions came all at once and Rick stuttered as he started to answer, but Helen saved him. "Come on folks. One at a time. Let's start with questions about Adi, the mother."

Together Helen and Rick assured the reporters that Adi was doing fine. Dr. Monk had shown up and she explained the operation and how Adi had lost a lot of blood, but a transfusion had been successful and she was now resting quietly. No one mentioned the religion thing.

Helen took control. "No. She wouldn't be available to the press for several days. And no, there would be no photos of the babies. The hospital will issue a press release with some photos later in the day."

Monk also ensured everyone that while the babies were premature and small, they were doing well. They would be in the hospital for at least a month.

Then the reporters turned to Rick. He explained that he and Adi were heading west and his truck had broken down and they were at the Comfortlodge when Adi went into labour.

There was a lot of scribbling on notebooks.

"Did you know there would be five?" the female reporter asked.

"No. Adi hadn't been to doctor since early in her pregnancy."

"Why not?" the astounded reporter asked.

"Where are you living while you are here in North Bay?" the cameraman asked and allowed Rick to skip the last question.

Rick didn't know what to say. It didn't sound quite right to say he was living in a Comfortlodge. Helen was about to answer when he remembered something and pulled the paper from his pocket that the lady in the waiting room had given him.

"Until we can take the babies with us we'll be living with our friend, Janis Cameron." He glanced at the paper again. "She lives out on Trout Lake Road."

Then Helen intervened again. "Okay. That's all for now folks. Maybe after Mr. McLeod has had a day of rest and made some more plans you can talk to him again, but that is all for now. Amidst a flurry of additional questions she led him and Dr. Monk back down the hallway to her office.

"Well that went well don't you think?" Rick offered as they entered her office.

Helen looked at him with a warm smile as he sat down in the same chair he had left a moment ago.

"Don't know much about the press do you Rick? I suggest we find a Minister quickly. Then you call your parents. And hope that her parents shun the media with the same vigour that they shun sinners. And who is this Cameron person? Come on. We'll sneak out the back way and get you checked out of the Comfortlodge and moved to a more home like environment where a young couple could spend their honeymoon. And I don't think that the press will be your biggest problem."

### $$$$$

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Chapter 16: Flora, Saturday, June 8th, 2013 noon

A Boat ride

"I might have missed them except for the truck," Rakeesh admitted.

He took another bite of the ham sub that he had brought home along with three cans of diet Pepsi and two other sandwiches. He would have preferred the chicken but that was Flora's first choice and Greg had said he was a vegetarian and took the veggie. Rakeesh didn't remember Greg turning down the bacon this morning, but he didn't say anything. He continued his story between mouthfuls of bread and lettuce.

"I spotted the truck in the middle of the parking lot driveway. They stayed in that cheap motel on the highway as you go into town. So we know that they are watching their money and haven't checked the ticket yet."

Flora noticed the 'we' again in Rakeesh's observations. "That's great Rakeesh. Shall we go into town now? I can go talk with the couple, Greg can drop off his tapes and you can...well you can do whatever it is you were planning to do?"

Rakeesh didn't reply.

"Did you see any signs of the Hummer, or anyone else that looked suspicious?"

"No," Rakeesh lied. "We must have given them the slip back on the 400."

He had seen the Hummer and more. In fact the reason he was gone so long was that he had driven the rental car around town following the Hummer until he was certain that they were on to his trail to the rental car at the airport. It would take them a while to track him from there, but they would eventually figure it out. But the game was on. By tomorrow he would be ready to put his past behind him. The fact they didn't have to chase these kids to Kenora to get Flora's ticket was a bonus.

"And I don't think these kids are going anywhere soon," he announced. He proceeded to tell them the full story as he had heard it from Rick. "Even if they did want to go somewhere they have a busted truck so that will take a while to fix."

"The middle of the night? Is she alright? Did the baby come? What is the boy going to do now?" Flora was transfixed. "He sounds the same age as my Gordy."

"Sorry. I only know what I overheard when he talked to that other lady."

"Okay then. I need to get to town and find my judge," Greg announced as he picked the keys. "Who is coming?"

"One other thing," Rakeesh continued. "Just to be safe I ditched the CRV and rented another car—SUV actually. It will make it harder for anyone to spot us."

"You ditched my car? What do you mean—ditched?"

"Don't worry. It is resting in a safe parking lot. You may have to pay a big parking fee but you'll be able to retrieve it after we get the ticket."

Rakeesh wanted Greg to go by himself. They might trace the rental, but no one would do anything with Greg driving. It was him they had to get, not Greg. But they might do something if Flora was in the car.

"Look," he played along with Greg's cop story. "If those thugs are after you it might be safer for Flora if you go alone. We can go in and check on the ticket later tonight, or even tomorrow."

"Good thinking. You okay with this Flora?"

"Sure. Go do your thing. We'll worry about the ticket later."

"Okay. Take care of this young lady, Raghead." And then he was out the door and limping towards the SUV.

Rakeesh and Flora were left at the table with their half eaten sandwiches.

"Doesn't that make you angry?" Flora asked as she took another bite and washed it down with a mouthful of Pepsi. She didn't eat white bread and hadn't had a diet pop in years. She considered the aspartame was worse for her health than sugar.

"What?" Rakeesh mumbled between his own chewing.

"Him calling you Raghead?"

"Not really. When you are a visible minority you quickly learn to distinguish between the affectionate jab and the cruel one. I could tell that Greg's was the former the first time he said it. I don't even have a turban. It would be like me calling him a gimp because he has a bad knee. It would be a good-natured jab. It is only you Caucasians who worry so much about labels and names. Homosexuals call each other fags. Native Canadians call each other wagon burners. Most of us—non-Caucasians that is—still have our sense of humour. You've lost yours. Eradicating any such colorful descriptors from every text and reading material that any young person will ever read hardly prepares them for being able to make the distinction between affection and cruelty. And they will experience both. Greg is 'funning' me, as my kids used to say."

Flora was surprised that kids in India used the same phrases as North American children.

"I disagree."

Flora had been on the parent's committee at her school that had forced the board to remove a number of books—Huckleberry Finn was one — not only from the curriculum, but from the library of the school as well.

"There is no place in our modern society for books that children read that encourage derogatory—even racist—descriptors."

"So which do you think is worse? Someone who good-naturedly ribs you about who you are? Or someone who is shocked at the label but still assumes you are an uneducated and largely unwelcome immigrant? I take that back. Quite welcome as long as we sell lottery tickets, run 7-Elevens, drive taxis, nanny your kids, pick your fruit and clean your bathrooms. Or someone who solicitously corrects an accent that really isn't an accent at all?"

Flora was hurt but still defensive. "At least we don't slaughter women and children with different religions than our own."

"No. At best you provide those who are visibly different with the slow, painful death of societal marginalization. At worst you assume they are going to eat your babies or at best take advantage of your social safety net. The latter would likely bother more Canadians than the former. Have you ever tried to go through airline security as a dark skinned Muslim?"

"White Christians haven't vowed to wipe every heathen off the map," her voice was rising.

"The victims of Oklahoma would be glad to know that. Or the abortion doctor in Philadelphia. Or the thousands of heathen devils murdered in the Crusades. How about the millions killed today for the sake of profit, the West's new religion? Iraq. Afghanistan. Do you think the Vietnam War was about saving the wonderful Vietnamese people or about halting Chinese expansion into South East Asia?"

His voice level matched hers.

"It wasn't Christians who bombed the hotel in Mumbai."

"No, but it was a good Christian committee that decided India should be arbitrarily partitioned into Muslim and Hindu states. People of all castes, colours and beliefs are still dying from that decision."

Then they were both silent and avoided each other's eyes. Rakeesh carefully wrapped up the remaining part of his sandwich in the wax wrapper and Flora shook her can of Pepsi to see if there was anything left.

"Is this our first fight?" Rakeesh looked up and asked with a grin.

"Fuck off, Raghead." Flora laughed and threw the empty can at him. He ducked and the aluminum rattled across the wooden floor. She couldn't remember the last time she had said 'fuck'.

Rakeesh showed mock surprise at her response. "Oh you racist." he exclaimed as he reached for his coat. "It's a nice day outside. Let's go for a walk down the lane."

Flora agreed. She liked the walks at the cabin. It was a warm June afternoon and impromptu ponds from spring rains and the bursting buds of waking deciduous trees would frame the walk down the long lane. And the cool air drifting over the lake would be a refreshing break from the warmth of the smoldering wood stove. And it might clear some other air as well.

As they walked down the lane she picked up a stick and poked at the dead leaves floating on the miniature ponds.

"Why did you come with me Rakeesh? The ticket isn't yours."

"Oh Mrs. Richmond, please be forgiving me. I am only wanting to be helping you."

She hit him on the arm with the stick. "Be serious. I need to know."

"Well it is true that you provided a convenient way for me to get away. And it is true that I will soon be out of the lottery business. But I guess your story got to me. Being suddenly alone at our age is tough and the lottery ticket seemed to be revenge of some sort for the circumstances you were in. So as hokey as it sounds I genuinely wanted to help."

"But you are with me now for more reasons than the ticket?"

He thought for a moment and answered quite seriously. "Yes. I like your company."

She splashed her stick in anther pond in the ditch. Peter hurt his back every year shovelling the leaves and stuff out of these ditches so the water would drain away from the road.

"That's nice Rakeesh. But it isn't what I meant. You are running away from people. Do you think they have given up now that the trial is over?"

"Maybe," he lied. "But it is probably still best to lay low for a while. And this..." he gestured to the woods and the cabin, "seems a good place to hide away. At least until we get the ticket back and you have to go back to the city."

"I've been thinking about that. You don't have to fiddle with the purchase time on the ticket computer. I'll give Peter his half. I feel guilty enough about kicking him. I'd not enjoy spending his money."

"That's noble of you considering what he did to you. You don't want vengeance?"

"Not anymore. I did at first for sure, but now I guess I understand why he might have wanted to find another life. I wasn't very interesting."

"Those guys at the Barrie auto place might disagree. You were awesome. A regular Kung Fu housewife." He paused and took her hand as they walked. She stiffened and then wrapped her fingers around his hand in response. "And I would disagree as well. You are a special lady."

They walked to the end of the lane holding hands. Flora broke the hold once to reach down and pick up a large mottled red maple leaf that had been buried in the snow all winter. But she reached for his hand again when she had the leaf.

"The spring is special for sure, but I think I like the fall in the woods better. It seems to me that leaves are more abundant in the spring and summer, but become more radiant as they reach the end of their life. What are you going to do now that you don't have to hide anymore and can retire from the lottery business?"

"I'm not sure. Stay in Canada for sure. I've become quite used to you rednecks...eh? Maybe do something related to police work? Start my own private detective agency. You know. Taking pictures of wayward husbands, insurance fraud, maybe some industrial stuff. And some missing persons would be good. I would enjoy helping people find lost loved ones. But you are right. I would be done with hiding. And with my ten percent of the ticket, I would be all set."

"What do you mean ten percent?" She laughed as she stopped and faced him. "Ten percent of Peter's not mine."

And without either of them planning it or initiating it they were kissing. Flora hadn't kissed another man in thirty years. It was a quiet kiss and while they held the kiss for what seemed like a long time, their lips hardly touched as if each was afraid to try harder. When they broke the touch it was Rakeesh who spoke.

"I have dreamed of doing that for the past year. I looked forward to your visit each Friday you know. And I guessed you were married but it didn't stop me from fantasizing. And it hurt me that all you could see was a slow witted ticket seller."

Flora was at first taken aback that any man, much less one as vibrant and worldly as Rakeesh would have fantasized over her. She still viewed herself as a sagging fifty-five year old, not an object of either fantasy or passion. But then she was the one who came to his room last night so she had her own dreams. And she wondered if she would have kissed Rakeesh the ticket seller. She said nothing and they continued to walk down the laneway towards the gravel county road. When they arrived at the end of the lane they turned left and continued to walk along the shoulder of the quiet county road.

"What will you do with the money from the ticket?" he asked.

"Interesting question. If it were twenty million or something of that scale I would have lots of life altering fantasies. But this amount? I'm not sure that would disrupt my life in any big way. But right now I don't know what my life will be like without the money so I don't know what I'd be disrupted from when I get it. My pension is reasonable. It won't provide a lifestyle of the rich and famous, but it will give me a secure future. If Peter and I split everything then I guess I would have to come up with some cash to buy half the house—if I want to stay there. And I would like the cabin. Peter wants to travel all over the world but I'd be happy to spend more time here. So I guess I want enough cash to come out of this divorce with the things that will give me comfort."

"What? No Harley Davidson? No trip to a Caribbean spa? No villa in Tuscany? Retirement is being comfortable? Maybe I'd rather hear about the twenty million dollar fantasies."

"Okay," she laughed. "I'll tell you my fantasies; then you tell me yours?"

"A deal."

"Well. Let me think. Once I had done the usual taking care of my family thing, and giving to some charities I support, I think that I would want to do two things. I would go back to school and study music again—piano. And when I thought I was good enough I would hire an orchestra—heck I'd buy one— and make a CD of me playing Sibelius in concert. I would then buy enough of the CDs myself so that it would go platinum. My orchestra and I would do free concerts all over the world in places where children would not have heard good piano or good classical music. I would also build something that would last years beyond me. A house I mean. Not a big one, one that I designed and built without worrying about the cost or someone else's needs. I think those two things would take care of the twenty pretty quickly."

"What charities?"

"A shelter for battered women in Scarborough and an orphanage in Cameroon," she answered. "Now, what about you?"

"Okay. I would certainly do the charity thing. I can't afford to give much now on my lottery business income, but with twenty mill? I would establish a foundation for the orphans of Gujarat. A lot of kids lost their parents in those riots, both Hindu and Muslim. The foundation would provide good schooling. Education will be the only antidote to the hate that has grown out of that disaster. Then I would start that detective business. But I wouldn't have to do the insurance investigations or photos of wayward spouses. I would help families search for missing relatives. For example, do you have any idea how many kids go missing each year in Canada that the police have given up on?"

Flora shook her head.

"Thousands. A relative kidnaps most, but some are actual disappearances of children who have not been found. And if you think there are many of these in a place like Canada imagine the situation in a place like India. I'd like to help these families—no matter what they can pay. You could be my secretary."

"Secretary? You think I'd be your secretary?" she pulled her arm away from his. "You think that because I'm a woman I would be your secretary. Let me tell..." she noticed the grin on his face and tried to recover. "Let me tell you. I think I should be the lead detective. You know, like the ' _No.1. Ladies Detective Agency'_. I'll be the Precious Ramotswe of our business. You can be my driver."

Flora wondered how he knew this about missing children and why it was such a passion for him. "Other than your sexism, that sounds noble," she offered and put her arm through his as they continued to walk down the road. "Isn't it strange that it is only money that stands between our plans for the mundane and our dreams of the unattainable? I wonder what either of us would do if we started from the assumption of living the fantasy and then went to the money part rather than the other way around?"

Rakeesh thought for a moment. "Maybe our fantasies are so fun and exciting because they aren't real enough to be scary. Even if I had the money I don't know if I would have the guts to start a business like that. So lets take the lottery ticket winnings and go buy a couple of rocking chairs. And maybe a couple of those motorized scooter things. We could get a pair of his and hers and race each other down the corridor of some Sunset Villa somewhere."

"Okay. I'm in," she agreed with a laugh. "I want mine to be pink with a Canadian flag on a big antenna."

The road made a sharp left turn three hundred yards from the laneway entrance. As they turned this corner Rakeesh stopped. "What's that?"

Flora looked up and saw an old pickup truck. It was rusty with holes over the fender and was of the vintage that Peter would have told her would be fun to restore. He did that with every old car they passed, but never made the effort to acquire one. She guessed that while this one was old and needed restoration it wasn't quite old enough to be vintage. Just old enough to be derelict.

"Looks like someone abandoned their old truck. All of the farms around here still have old trucks like this in their yards. Most of them have grass growing through their smashed windshields."

"Actually it is a 78 GMC. Looks like C3500, maybe a Sierra. You could get them with a 350 CI V8. Hot trucks in their day for sure," Rakeesh offered as they got closer. "But I didn't notice it when we came in last night."

"You're full of surprises. They teach that in Bombay shop class?"

"No. The magazine rack at 7-Eleven."

"Let's go back," Rakeesh suddenly ordered as he took her arm. "It's tea time. I need a pick me up. Someone kept me awake last night."

### $$$$$

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Chapter 17: Greg, Saturday, June 8th, 2 P.M.

Hot Time in the Old town...

He needed to find a pharmacy not a judge.

And he was sure he was being followed during the five kilometres from the cabin to the Trans-Canada. Once he pulled the SUV off the road onto a dirt track and hid in the trees to see if something showed up behind him, but after five minutes it was safe to try again. That was just as well because now he had a bad feeling about where the dirt track led. It would be a perfect place for anyone wanting to keep an eye on Flora's place and the other cottages on the dead end road.

His 'spidey' sense, as he called it, was tingling as he pulled the big Explorer back onto the gravel road. He kept his eye in the rear view mirror as he reached the highway and turned towards town. He decided that if they haven't tracked him by now it wasn't likely they could pick him up in the steady traffic on the Trans-Canada. He relaxed a little, but kept a steady lookout in the rear view mirror as he drove the twenty minutes to the edge of the city. He considered for a moment that he might have been better to keep his long hair and beard, but then remembered it was his current appearance, not his old one, that was now the disguise.

The Trans-Canada bypassed most of the commercial area of this city of fifty thousand, but there was a collection of stores in a mini mall on the edge of town closest to the cabin that had the usual assortment; an all day breakfast diner with half its neon sign missing, a video rental store for those who haven't discovered iTunes and Netflix, a tackle and bait shop, a 24-hour convenience store and a Shoppers Drug Mart. They were across the road from a Comfortlodge with a sign that flashed NO VACANCY even though there was only one car—actually a pickup—in the parking lot. Greg had noticed the pharmacy as they drove in last night. He went directly to the entrance and parked in front of the pharmacy. He paused to take one last look around to make sure that he hadn't been followed, pulled one of Peter's baseball caps over his eyes and entered the store.

"I'd like to renew a prescription," he announced over the counter to the collection of white-coated workers who were busy counting pills and pouring them into prescription bottles. A young woman looked up and smiled as she capped a plastic bottle. "Just a second sir." She put the bottle in a bag and stapled the top.

She was short, maybe only a little over five feet. She had a petit figure and short blond hair. But it was her face that caught Greg's attention. Her eyes were too large and too blue for the rest of her face. And the smiling lips were full and red. He found himself automatically looking at her hand for a wedding ring although she was at least thirty years younger than he was.

"She should be in the movies," he muttered to himself. "My movies."

"Sir?" she was standing in front of him at the counter. "Are you okay?"

Greg re-focused and handed her the empty bottle.

She read the label and looked up at him.

"When did you take your last one?"

"This morning after breakfast."

"Is that your usual time?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Well these are two a day pills so you should be taking another." She looked at him again and asked in a cautious voice. "So are you feeling any effects of missing a dose?"

"You mean other than the conversation I had with Captain Picard at your front door? Nope."

She frowned and glanced over at her colleagues.

"Just kidding. I'm fine. Luc Picard isn't there." He paused and smiled.

She gave a nervous and relieved laugh.

"Besides—the Cardassians in the parking lot would not permit it."

This time he laughed out loud and she joined him. The others looked over at them but continued their work.

"Look—" She glanced at the bottle again. "Mr. Halbert. Two things. First, we have to contact your pharmacy in Toronto to verify the repeat. And secondly, we don't have Aripiprazole on hand so we'll have some sent over from one of our larger stores in town. So this will take a couple of hours. Can you manage until then? And can you leave me an imprint of a credit card?"

"Sure to both questions." He glanced at his watch. "I'll come back at four. Two questions from me though?"

She looked up from scanning his card.

"Where is the local library? And where is the best computer store?"

"For the library, head towards town and take a right on First Street...the second intersection. The library is six blocks or so down. You can't miss it, but if you get to the lake you have gone too far. For computers? There is a Source and an Apple Store in the mall, a kilometre down the bypass on your left."

"Thanks. See you in a couple of hours."

The library was exactly where she said and that endeared her to him even more. Not many people could get directions correct, even in their hometown. No one glanced in his direction as he entered and after a quick scan of the space, headed straight for the bank of public computers along a far wall. He took one with the screen facing away from the flow of patron traffic. The computer was already turned on. The screen displayed the home page of the library, announcements of a bake sale at the local United Church and a 'run for fun-ds' for a women's shelter that afternoon. A banner ad for a financial investment company ran continuously along the bottom of the screen. Greg took a data stick from the side pocket of his khakis. He shoved it into the USB port and within seconds the emulator software that he had developed transformed the North Bay Library computer into to the Apple Pro sitting on his desk at home. Just the appearance of his home screen gave solace to his increasing concern over who was watching him and following him. He had confidence in his ability to control the electronic-type surveillance but not the real people who crowded the public library.

The twelve computers were on a large old-fashioned oak library table that was placed along the back wall of the room, directly across from the entrance. The computers were placed back to back and umbilicalled to a junction box under the table. Greg had taken one of the end computers with his back facing the windowless wall so no one could see his screen, but he could scan the room. Keeping his eyes on the screen, he took millisecond glances around the room. To the uninformed it would look like he had a twitch. But each glance gave him an image that he could paste in his mind with others to create a detailed snapshot of the room.

There were seven others at the computers: two senior citizens both typing intently with two fingers; three elementary school age children—two girls and boy; a long haired and dirty looking, young man resting his head on one hand as he occasionally typed something with the other; and a middle aged woman who appeared to be crying as she typed. Several quick glances told him that these people were intently focused upon their own issues and had no interest in him.

He increased the radius of his scan. There were two female librarians at the front desk and checkout counter. Neither even looked his way during four twitches. Six people had come in after him. Four had gone directly to the stacks and were out of his sight. One was the female senior. The other was perusing the card catalogue drawers that were situated between the computer table and the front desk. He didn't even know these still existed. The woman was on the side of the card catalogue drawers that gave her a clear view of the computer table. She was middle aged and dressed in a blond toned fur coat that she hadn't yet opened or taken off despite the heat of the library. He wondered why a woman would be wearing a fur coat in June? And twice during his twitches he caught her looking over at him. Then the woman closed the card catalogue drawer she was looking at and walked over to the checkout counter without a glance at Greg. She said something to one of the librarians and they both laughed as the woman turned on black high heels and left the building.

Greg breathed out in relief. Five minutes of twitching glances didn't turn up anything that might look like either Moonstar people or his wife, so he turned his attention to the screen.

The software on the memory stick turned any computer into a powerful search engine. This search engine was one that he had developed but had not yet been commercialized. For good reason. It didn't use search algorithms to provide the 'Googler' with a list of public web pages or password unprotected data that closely matched the search terms. This search engine did two additional things.

First, it had an embedded program that overrode—actually cracked—any password protected site. This included the Canadian government and banking sites that he had been able to beta test.

And secondly, it didn't search for websites; it actually went into the sites and the databases to search for data. So, for example while a typical Google search of "RBC John Smith" would provide various RBC websites, his would provide direct access to John Smith's bank accounts and records. It meant, of course, that he had to be much more precise in his search terms to actually get what he wanted, but he had been using Boolean search techniques since the early seventies, so this was no challenge for him.

It also meant that he had to be quick before he was detected.

And there were still some serious problems with the software so it wasn't yet ready to move from his hard drive to a commercial possibility.

For example, the search was so extensive that the amount of data transferred could quickly bankrupt the normal commercial Internet user. In one experimental search early in the development he had used three hundred gigs— the equivalent of two hundred Friday night movie downloads for the ordinary citizen. While he had made some progress, he hadn't totally fixed this bug yet so he had to be careful, especially when using a public service such as this library.

Also, governments and banks weren't thrilled with anyone who drilled into their data in this way and had their own methods of detecting such incursions. So he had to make sure that his software didn't stay attached to a site but rather took millisecond "snapshots" of data in random time events. Even if their security software detected his incursion it would be gone before they could trace it and they could not predict the next incursion. He had not done this in another early test and had sent a wave of panic through CSIS when they thought a foreign power had accessed Canadian state secrets. He mused to himself at the time whether Canada really has any state secrets. But he now knew that at least CSIS was on the lookout for any intrusions into their system.

Conscious of these bugs, the software also connected through an emulator to the MacBook Pro on his desk in the condo. That way any data spikes wouldn't immediately show up on the library system. His Internet connection at home was also faster, although through the emulator he was limited to the speed of the library connection. He decided to do a simple and safe test of the connection he had to his system at home before he did some more serious searching. He thought for a moment and remembered the diner that was beside the pharmacy and typed in the full name "Herb's Diner + North Bay". If the software worked this search should simply give him access to the financial and health records of Herb and the diner.

The search took a few seconds. Due to the emulator, the connection speed wasn't as fast as he was used to. The screen filled with data and he started to read.

"Holy shit." he said out loud and instantly mouthed a mute "Sorry," to the student across from him that looked up. He scanned through the pages and pressed "save as" and copied several pages of data to the memory stick.

He returned to his original search intention and typed in "Rakeesh Muktar."

Within seconds the screen filled with data.

He laughed out loud as he started to read the information and mouthed another mute "Sorry," to the two seniors across from him who looked up from their screens.

Rakeesh Muktar didn't exist in any government or bank database. That was understandable since all he had turned up was a nineteen fifty two-newspaper article from the archives of the Indian Times. It appeared that Rakeesh Muktar had been a star "spin bowler" on the first Indian cricket team to win a test match against Pakistan. There would likely be government and banking files for Muktar but since they weren't digitized in the fifties he didn't have access to them.

He did another few moments of twitching, sideways glancing around the room to make sure that he was still safe. He typed in "Gujarat+trial+army officer." These were part of the description he had heard from Flora.

The screen filled with all sorts of data on the massacre, the trial transcripts, Indian government reports stamped TOP SECRET, and he was still downloading when he hit two gigs. He immediately aborted the search. Too much information. He needed to do a more precise Boolean search. He should have known better. If someone was monitoring the library's download, even with the emulator they would surely notice the spike in downloaded data. He twitch glanced around again but no one seemed to be doing anything out of the usual.

This time he added "Canada+Toronto+7-Eleven" to the search and hit enter.

He found himself in both the CSIS and the RCMP protected files. This time he silently raised his eyebrows as he read about the 2012 Rakeesh Muktar. He saved the additional information to the stick.

He glanced around again. Everything seemed normal, he assured himself. He did one more search. The easiest one. He typed in the license plate number of the Hummer that had followed them on the 401. The search went directly to the Ontario DMV and the ownership details of the Hummer. He was surprised that they didn't even use a rental.

Next he typed in the name of the owner, although he had to be careful to type the unusual name—he assumed Russian—into the search. Once again, his search engine went directly to CSIS, police and bank files. Then he did another search for the women's shelter charity that was sponsoring the " _Run for Fun-ds_ " later in the day. He went back to the previous search result for the Russian's bank account and created a new account for the charity and transferred two million dollars from the Russian's chequing account to the charity account.

He then accessed Flora's chequing account. She really is a public servant, he realized as he glanced at her financial life. He added her account to the Russian's transfer account and transferred another two million. He left the guy ten dollars.

Once the transfers were confirmed he deleted Flora's and the charity account from the Russian's account and signed out.

That was fun; he congratulated himself as he pulled his data stick from the USB port and returned the computer to its home screen. He erased the cookies and the search history from the computer and got up from the table.

He nodded to the librarian as he left the building and walked briskly back to the Explorer parked in a lot a block from the library. If his mind hadn't of been so full of the information he had gathered, his paranoid mind would have noticed the brown Malibu as it pulled up in front of the library, parked in a handicapped spot and two able bodied people—a tall, middle aged woman in a blue suit and a short, stocky man in a baseball jacket and running shoes—casually walked into the library.

Their inquiries about an "older gentleman with long hair, a beard and a limp" would be fruitless.

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Chapter 18: Greg, Saturday, June 8, 3 P.M.

Out to Lunch

Greg glanced at his watch as he started the Explorer and saw that his stop at the library and a visit to the Apple Store in the mall had taken only an hour or so. It was still too soon to go to the pharmacy to pick up his prescription. He decided to check out Herb's Diner in person.

The door of the diner had a small bell that hung over the door frame and announced to the patrons that a new guest had opened the door and was joining them. The diner consisted of a half dozen booths along the right side of the room and a long lunch counter on the left that faced the open grill and food preparation area. The sizzling bacon and eggs fulfilled the promise of an all day breakfast as a man stood facing the grill threatening the eggs with a large spatula. As Greg entered the diner the chef turned around, nodded and pointed with the spatula to a stool at the bar. Greg could see at a glance that the booths were occupied.

The cook turned his attention back to the eggs apparently waiting for that perfect moment to enact a sunny side down maneuver.

"Help ya friend?" He didn't divert his focus from the grill. His spatula was held in his right hand twitching for action.

"Coffee. Black. Please."

The spatula dove to the grill and flipped four eggs. The cook didn't say anything for thirty seconds as he intently watched the grill. Then he added the eggs to a bed of white buttered toast that was waiting on the table beside the grill. He threw on a few strips of bacon and rang an antique palm bell that was beside the plate. Greg watched as a young —maybe mid thirties he guessed— came over and picked up the two plates. She didn't acknowledge Greg or the chef.

"Sorry we don't have thirty-six flavours like you folks have at 'Fourbucks'. Just one type—a fair trade dark roast. None of that industrial, exploitive crap you are used to in Toronto," he preached as he poured a dark looking brew into a cafeteria-style mug.

The man was large. Greg guessed over six four. He was clean-shaven and his grey brushcut was covered in a hair mesh. A hand-wiped apron covered his basketball paunch. A blotchy and wrinkled face suggested to Greg that the man was sixty-something, but it was hard to tell if the facial effects were from age or lifestyle.

"Don't let him snow you." The female voice came from the booth directly behind Greg. He turned to see a young man, not much beyond a teenager, sitting across from two middle-aged women. The two women were dressed as professionals. Maybe a lawyer or a school principal Greg thought. It was the school principal dressed one that had spoken up. "That's an excuse to overcharge you for a cup of chicory infused black mud. One day he'll enter the twentieth century and get an espresso machine."

They all laughed except the young boy and Greg who were both not part of the apparent joke

"Hey lady," the chef retorted. "You can go get a Timmy's anytime you want to."

"Nah. I figure if I eat here enough I don't have to get vaccinated for the flu shot—or salmonella."

They laughed again and the women went back to their conversation with the young boy. Greg thought the boy was familiar and wondered what kind of trouble he was in.

Greg sipped his coffee as the chef continually wiped his hands on his apron.

"Hmmm. Not bad. Does it really have chicory in it?"

"Nah," the man laughed, and suddenly turned serious. "But it is fair trade. We believe that the international mega industrial conglomerates are exploiting the poor of the world and keeping them in subservience to keep their profit levels high. We only buy our beans directly from the farmer."

"How did you know I was from Toronto?" Greg had noticed the 'we' in the short tirade.

"Well you aren't from around here or we'd know. And no one has said 'please' to me in forty years. So it's Sudbury, Timmins or Toronto. You don't have a French accent and you don't look like a mine person. So that leaves Toronto."

"So who is the 'we' you talk about?" Greg knew the answer. He was curious as to what the man would say.

"You a cop?"

"Nope. Do I look like one?"

"Nah. You ask questions like one."

The bell above the door rang.

The expression on Herb's face changed. He smiled and wiped his hands again.

"Enjoy your coffee friend. Excuse me," he offered as he walked around the end of the lunch counter to greet the three men and one woman who came into the diner. He bear hugged and greeted each in turn.

Two of the men were of Herb's vintage and style. They were both over six feet tall and both heavyset, although Greg could not tell with their coats on whether it was muscle or fat. One had a three-week beard and wore tinted granny glasses. He had a green army style great coat, like the one that Greg had hanging in his garage. A Neil Young type fedora covered long grey hair held back in a ponytail similar to Herb's. Herb greeted him as Robert. Greg recognized that name from some of the emails he had read. The other was clean-shaven; he didn't wear a hat and his hair was cut in a military style. He wore a bomber jacket. The hug was perfunctory.

The two young people received their respective hugs with more respect than warmth. The young man was dressed in what Greg had read was a Gothic style. His high leather boots were covered in chains, as was his black leather jacket. A large chain to his belt attached a trucker's wallet. There were rings from every face orifice. Greg wondered where else he had rings attached. And his long hair was spiked, dyed black and shaved on one side of his head. If this group was trying to go incognito this was not a good choice for their team. The woman in the emails he had read appeared to be the one in charge of the operation and her demeanor confirmed this. She was not an attractive woman. Her long hair was mousy and had that not -washed sheen. Her eyes were close together making her appear cross-eyed. Her lips were thin and her cheeks pockmarked. All of this was on top of a pear-shaped body cleverly hidden by a heavy cotton kaftan.

"Enough of the greeting shit," she ordered. "Where can we talk?"

Herb nodded towards the back of the diner and started to lead them there. "Lavender," he yelled to one of the two young women who were serving. "You're in charge for a while." And the group disappeared into the back of the diner.

Greg smiled to himself as he finished off his coffee and left a fiver on the counter. The bell rang as he opened the door but no one looked up.

He realized that something was wrong as soon as he entered the pharmacy next door. There was no bell to announce his arrival but every clerk, cleaner, shelf stocker and Pharmacist momentarily looked up from their duties and then as quickly looked back down to whatever had their previous attention.

He sauntered over to the prescription counter. He was a half hour earlier than the time he was told that the prescription would be ready, but the young pharmacist was polite and formal as she handed Greg the prescription bag with the receipt stapled to the closed lips of the bag.

"You can pay me here or at the front Mr. Halbert."

"Thank you..." He glanced at her nametag. "Melissa. I hope you didn't have any trouble confirming the prescription?"

"No." She paused. "Your pharmacy in Toronto was helpful."

She glanced at the door to the pharmacy as she answered and suddenly Greg understood. His pharmacist in the York Mills Plaza was paid enough to keep quiet so he doubted that she had said anything. And since his prescription was filled on an annual basis he knew that Moonstar was not interested in him the last time he picked it up. But they did know he needed the drugs. And since their drug plan had paid for the pharmacy costs in previous years, it wouldn't be hard for them to have some kind of digital flag put in place for any order of Aripiprazole at that pharmacy. But it was now clear that someone other than his pharmacist or his wife number three had been in touch with this pharmacy. Whatever they had been told had clearly spooked them and the pharmacist, at least, appeared to expect a savior to come through the front door at any moment.

He tried to figure how much time he might have as he walked to the front cash. Moonstar would send someone—or a team—by corporate jet as soon as they knew. He calculated thirty minutes to activate a team and two hours of airplane readiness and flying time. Another half hour after landing to get to the pharmacy. So maybe three hours at the minimum from the time their flag went off until arriving at the pharmacy.

He glanced at his watch. Three Fifty-four. He had left the pharmacy at exactly two.

"Shit," he announced as looked up from his watch and paid the bill in cash. "Sorry Dear. Not you," he explained to the startled sales clerk.

He quickly glanced around the parking lot as he walked to the Explorer, but there didn't appear to be anything out of the ordinary. He realized that the thugs Moonstar would send would not be subtle. He started the SUV and raced out of the parking lot onto Trout Creek Road. He thought it was fortunate that the road to the cabin did not go past the road to the airport so he wouldn't risk being seen by anyone coming from that direction. As he drove the highway he put his hand in his pocket and fingered the flash drive. Just its presence in his hand gave him both comfort and some fears: comfort that he was the one who had developed the algorithm; but he shivered at the thought of a company like Moonstar getting this technology. He glanced in the rear view mirror to make sure he wasn't being followed and turned off the highway onto the seven-kilometre road to Flora's cottage. That would be as good a place as any to hide out as he considered what to do next.

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**Chapter 19** : **Rick, Saturday, June 8th, 3:12 P.M.**

_Taking Care of Business_

The truck was first.

It was early June and the rainy weather could be as predictably bothersome as the blackflies that magically appeared on the Sunday afternoon of the long May weekend. It was a good day for fishing—and a drive west, Rick thought as they parked Helen's Jeep next to the truck.

He tried the truck again, wondering if it miraculously fixed itself while he was at the hospital. But it made the same 'clink' as it settled into reverse and, once again, he had to jiggle the shifter to get it to go into drive. Transmission fluid was still running down the drive shaft and the puddle under the truck was growing. "Shit," he muttered to himself as he got up from his knees and climbed back in the truck.

Asking Helen to follow him, he started the truck and jerked his way to the garage he had noticed down the street. **"** _Hogan's Repair. All Makes and Models. Free Estimates_ **,"** the large sign had promised. The news wasn't good. Hogan himself looked it over and concluded that he needed to put in a rebuilt transmission. The next day was Sunday so he couldn't get it until Monday. And the total bill would be around fifteen hundred.

"What's the news?" Helen played with her iPad while she waited in the car.

"Needs a new transmission. He can have it done by Monday. Maybe Tuesday."

"Have you got the money to pay for it?"

"Sure. No problem. Can we go back to the hotel while I shower and checkout?"

Rick showered and stuffed their clothes back into the two gym bags he had brought when he picked up Adi at the library. Adi could not explain to her uncle why she would take extra clothes to the library, so she had only the few essentials that he had brought for her. They intended to stop at a Wal-Mart somewhere along the way and buy her some new clothes for the trip. And for their new life.

"That all you have?" Helen asked as he threw the two bags into the back seat of the Jeep.

"We travel light," Rick offered. "Now what? Can we go back to the hospital to see Adi?"

"Look Rick," she checked her watch. "She had major surgery ten hours ago. I think you were lucky that she even talked to you this morning. Why not let her rest today? You can see her and the babies again tomorrow."

What most interested Helen was keeping Rick away from both Furlong and the press.

"What do I do now?"

"Maybe you should call your mom?" she suggested as she handed Rick her iPhone. "Before someone else does?"

"I have my own," he offered as he pulled his own phone from his jeans pocket. "I'll be back in a moment." He got out out of the car and sat at the smoker's picnic table beside the parking lot.

"Everything okay?" she asked when he returned half an hour later.

He had talked to both his parents on a speakerphone. His mom cried for most of the call and kept asking about the babies. "Five?" she kept repeating. "There are five?" His dad wanted to send money. As he had assumed, they both wanted to rush up to North Bay and take charge. He had assured them everything was alright, and that he had enough money for now, and they could come up in a week or so when they could see Adi and the babies. But there was nothing they could do to help right now. That was a lie. He needed the kind of group hug they used to have when one of them had a problem. "We love you Rick," was the last thing they said in unison before he hung with his own, "Back at ya."

"Hunky. Let's go."

They drove away in silence. She pulled into a strip mall and parked in front of a small diner. There was a flashing neon light in front that announced _H rb's All D y Br akfast._

"Let's have some lunch. There are some things to talk about." She shut off the engine. "Don't worry. The food works better than the sign."

A bell situated above the door jingled as they entered. Everyone in the diner looked up. Even thought it was after lunch hour, the place was almost full. An older man in a large, greasy, hand wiped, apron stood facing the grill armed with a bottle of something in one hand and a flipper in the other. Open cartons of eggs were scattered on the unheated parts of the grill and a huge slab of bacon was on a small shelf above. The man wore a hair net over a raggedly shaped brushcut. He was a big man and the back of his T-shirt that wasn't covered by the apron proclaimed, " _N_ _o Religion or politics. Keep your opinions to yourself and give your tips to me."_

He turned and glanced at Helen as she walked in the door. "Mornin' Helen."

He glanced at Rick without losing his concentration on the mass of eggs and bacon frying in front of him. "This the kid? Five babies. Man, must have been eating my special Habanero sauce. I've told the boys it works better than that little blue pill. And lowers your cholesterol at the same time."

"Herb here figures that everything has to be served hot and spicy," Helen explained. "After he fried his brain on some noxious plant in Mexico he decided that the Habanero pepper is the magic elixir of life. Moved to North Bay from Vancouver and started this diner. That's his own brand that he has in his hand. Unless you order him otherwise, you'll get a Huevos Ranchero that will clean last night's tarter off your teeth. Seems to work," she nodded to the room. "It is the only place in town that can compete with Hortons all day."

One of the two waitresses came scurrying to the warming rack from the back of the diner, expertly balancing in one hand and her arm two steaming plates of something that Rick concluded must be made out of eggs. She carried a carafe of black coffee in the other hand.

"Yous want something?"

"Yup. My usual. For the young man as well." They slid in across the shiny vinyl seats of an empty booth opposite each other. "They are Herb's twin daughters. Or so he says. They came back from Mexico with him but as far as I can tell they don't speak Spanish and I figure that he would have to have been seventeen when he fathered them. But possible. Look at you after all."

"I'm nineteen. What did you order me?"

"Tuna and baby spinach salad. A Soy latte, a shot of vanilla no caffeine, French blend espresso. You'll love it."

Rick looked around the room at the other tables and all he saw were plates piled with some sort of wrap with eggs dripping out the end. No one had anything that looked remotely close to a salad. The only coffee he could see came from her apparently bottomless carafe. "Soy what?"

Before she could reply the middle aged couple in the next booth slid across their seats. Rick guessed from their Carhartts and steel toed boots that they were likely in construction of some sort. The woman ignored Helen and reached out her hand to Rick.

"Glad to have you around here kid. Hope the Missus and the babies are doing fine. And don't worry about them social worker pricks—we won't let them pull a Dionne."

Rick shook her hand and said "thanks." He noticed that the half dozen people at the breakfast bar had turned around and were facing the booth as the woman spoke. They were a mixture of ages and dress. One man was in a pinstripe suit, and one girl was hardly in her teens and was dressed to impress her Chemistry class. Another man, apparently the girl's father, was in the kind of red checkered clothes that his dad wore when he went hunting in the fall and didn't want to be mistaken for a deer. Two other young men dressed in leather chaps must have had some motorcycles out back somewhere. They all nodded to him as the woman spoke to Rick.

"Right on Mary," the man in the suit offered. "This isn't nineteen thirty-four."

And then one by one, as people got up to leave they came by the booth that Rick and Helen were sitting in, nodded to Helen and shook Rick's hand. All wished him well and most said if he needed any help to let them know. To his surprise one of them was Hogan, the owner of the garage that was fixing his truck. The man told him that he didn't have to worry about the bill, the truck would be ready on Monday, no charge. "Take the money and buy the babies some toys or something," the man suggested. Rick wondered what had changed since earlier.

A woman dressed in the business attire of an office worker came by on her way out and stopped in front of Rick.

"So, you have no money, hardly out of high school, unmarried and have run away from home. Nice. And everyone thinks that you're responsible enough to raise five precious little babies? How stupid —if not immoral—was it for you to get this young woman pregnant in the first place?"

The woman was getting wound up.

"Then there is the young woman, what's her name, Adi? Is anyone congratulating her on having her guts ripped out all on account of some horny kid who couldn't keep his zipper done up? That young girl and those babies deserve better than you can obviously provide them. Just maybe the social workers have it right?"

Except for the hissing of frying bacon on the grill there was complete silence in the diner. Even Herb and one of the daughter waitresses stopped and turned around. Helen and Rick were both about to respond when the other daughter waitress elbowed the woman out of the way. "Out of my way, Ruth. I got food to serve." The woman took one last look at Rick and the room, shook her head in disgust and walked out.

"Don't worry about her," the twin offered. "She's got history." She placed the egg wrap along with a bottle of ketchup and hot sauce on the table, refilled their coffee cups and went to the counter to pick up another order.

Helen remained silent.

It happened so fast that Rick could only shake hands and say thanks. He was especially grateful for the truck. That would save a ton of money. Now his food was untouched as he looked questioningly at Helen.

"Eat your eggs first. Then we'll talk."

It was six hours since the last breakfast and he was hungry again. He thought briefly how his mother would not approve of eggs twice a day. The first bite of the scrambled egg mixture—there were also red and green things in it— told him that it didn't need any more hot sauce. Helen expertly rolled up the egg mixture in a flatbread and started to eat it like a hot dog. He tried to do the same, but they both laughed as most of the egg fell to his plate before he was to take a bite, so he reverted to knife and fork. Once you got used to the initial bite, Rick decided that it was delicious. And the coffee was the best he had since the coffee his dad used to make on their fishing trips. He washed down the last of the egg with a sip of coffee.

"My mom gave me the same lecture as that last woman." He wiped his mouth with a thin paper napkin. "Where did they get this information? And what's this about social something?"

Helen didn't say anything, put down on her plate and what was left of the corn tortilla wrapped eggs, wiped her hand and reached down into her purse beside her. She pulled out an iPad, swiped her finger across the screen and turned it towards Rick.

"Watch this. The mid-day news from CTV national. A similar story is all over the local radio stations. I downloaded it while you were checking out and talking to your mom and dad."

The scrolling banner under the video read, _Kidnapped_ _Unmarried Teen has quints in North Bay._ Above the banner, Peter Mansbridge addressed the viewer.

" _California has its octuplets,_ _Egypt has its septuplets, Trinidad and Tobago their sextuplets, Ireland their quads and now North Bay, Ontario has the latest set of quints. Those of you, who are old enough, might remember that North Bay was also the birthplace in 1934 of the first set of quints in the world to all survive infancy. We have Annabelle Manitou live from North Bay. Hi Annabelle."_

"Hello Peter. Yes, that's right. I'm standing in front of the original, log cabin where the Dionne Quints were born in 1934. And, while it now stands restored as a tourist information centre, a whole new multiple birth scenario is unfolding at a more modern birthplace, the North Bay General Hospital."

The video switched to a panning shot of the front of the hospital as she continued.

"At 04:02 this morning, eighteen-year old Adi Butler gave birth to five babies, a girl and four boys."

"That's a wonderful story Annabelle. So what is it about North Bay that makes these multiple births? Fertility clinics? Something in the water?"

The camera returned to the Annabelle and the Dionne cabin.

_"Well there was apparently no clinic involved. In fact no doctor at all. And I don't think they had much time to drink the Trout Lake water. I had a chance to interview the father."_ She checked her notes. " _Rick McLeod. This is what he had to say."_

Rick watched a video clip of his media scrum from earlier this morning.

The camera returned to her.

"So they aren't from North Bay and they aren't married?"

"Right Peter. They were on their way out west to work. We have learned that they are both from Alliston and both are recent high school grads. We couldn't find much information on her, but he was a straight A student and a star on the football team. His parents are both active in the local Presbyterian Church. His father operates a small mixed produce farm outside of town. And his mother is a town councillor and a status Mohawk."

It seemed that the reporter had managed to call both sets of grandparents.

Rick audibly groaned when she played an audio clip from Adi's father claiming that Rick had forcibly kidnapped Adi from the middle of a church service. And then he said something about this being The Saviour's will and clearly Rick and Adi didn't have the resources to raise these babies so they, with the help of their church, would adopt the babies.

There was a short clip from his parents who made it clear that they knew Rick and Adi were going west to get married. With their support. And they were looking forward to seeing their grandchildren.

To his relief there was nothing about the theft of a car.

The final audio clip was from an interview with some big official in the Ministry of Social Services in Toronto. Ricks' stomach went up into his heart. "... _they would have to investigate whether or not the babies would receive proper care with these young people. And yes, if they deemed it necessary after an investigation they would do what they did in the case of the Dionnes. For their own protection, they might make the babies wards of the province_."

"So this is quite an evolving story Peter. I'll update you as the story unfolds. For now this is Annabelle Manitou reporting from North Bay, Ontario."

The video finished and Rick turned the iPad back to Helen. "I don't understand? Can they do this? Can they take our babies away from us?"

"I don't know. If it isn't the government intervening, it looks like you'll have trouble from her parents. But some reporter did a lot of work over the past six hours and has stirred up a lot of controversy. I won't even show you the twitters and other responses to this newscast. I can hardly wait to see the Nugget this evening. Are you really half Mohawk?"

Rick nodded. "Yeah. And my father is half Presbyterian."

She ignored his sarcasm. "Well quite frankly I don't know what will happen. But I think you're going to have to be careful what you say to the press from now on. And it would be wise to get a lawyer."

As if on cue, the bell above door jingled. Everyone in the diner looked up as a woman dressed in a large fur coat walked through the door. Rick wondered why she was wearing a fur coat in June.

"Hi Herb," she greeted the cook. "Still breaking the health code I can see. Just a coffee this morning please," she said to the waitress.

As she slid in beside Helen she shucked the fur coat off her shoulders. "Folks in North Bay appreciate a lawyer that likes fur," she laughed.

Helen rolled her eyes.

"Rick. I'm Gwen Hartwell," she offered her hand. "Enjoy the food?"

"You two know each other?" Rick asked.

"I called her Rick," Helen explained.

"Small town Rick, there aren't so many professional women in this city that we wouldn't run into each other on occasion. And besides, she kicks my butt on the squash court every Tuesday."

"That. And the fact that she saved my driver's license one time after I failed a check stop," Helen explained.

"So you're babysitting young Rick here? Protecting the hospital's interests? This must be a big story for you guys?"

Rick was surprised that they knew each other. Everyone knew everyone else in Alliston, but North Bay was a big city compared to it. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing, and he couldn't quite make out from their manner and banter if they were friends.

"Let's get the formalities out of the way here. Do you want a lawyer and do you want me to represent you?"

They looked up as the bell rang again. Rick studied the man who came in, if only to give him some time to think. He guessed the man was his father's age, although his dad would not wear his hair mussed up like that. The man sat at one of the bar stools. He heard Herb say something about cop and his stomach turned again. "Cops aren't that old and have brush cuts," he consoled himself. He turned his attention back to the lady in the fur coat.

Rick had not had a lawyer before. The only lawyers he knew were on TV. This lady would fit into any episode of _Law and Order_. When she took off the coat, Rick could see that she was a petite woman and dressed in what Rick guessed was the female version of the blue pinstripe suit. Her blonde hair was short and styled like a man's, except there wasn't any part.

He thought that people only needed lawyers when they had broken the law in some way. And other than the car theft, he didn't think that he or Adi had broken any law.

"Do I need one? We haven't done anything wrong. As far as I know there is no law against out of wedlock births. And we are both over eighteen. As we were when the babies were conceived." He also knew that lawyers cost money. "Even if I needed one I can't afford one."

"Look, if you were rich then you wouldn't need anyone's help. So don't worry about the money. Herb here pays me in free breakfasts to solve his problems. We'll find some way to work out the payment. And lawyers do more than deal with criminals you know. We actually help people in trouble. And as you probably know by now, yours and Adi's circumstances are far from clear. So yes, you need a lawyer—me or someone else."

Rick took out his wallet. He extracted a ten-dollar bill and put it on the table. He had seen someone do this in a movie once. "Down payment. You're hired. What now?"

Gwen laughed. "That's more than my usual retainer." She picked up the bill. "Well for a start, there's communication. Helen here does the talking for the hospital side of this thing. I do the talking for your side. So except for your parents, Adi, the two of us—you don't talk to anyone. Especially the press or someone from Social Services."

"What about Adi's parents?"

"Depends upon whether they are 'friendlies' or not. From news stories," she picked up the iPad and waved it in Rick's face. "I'd suspect not."

"Okay." Rick looked over at Helen. "What now?"

Helen and Gwen slid out their side of the booth. Helen picked up the bill and went into her purse to get some money as her phone rang. She glanced at the display. "Just a sec. I have to take this"

Rick grabbed the bill and went to the cash register. Herb wiped his hands on his apron and came over to the register. "Hers is eight fifty. Yours is free young man. There's always a meal for you and your family at Herb's. I had a hard enough time with two." He nodded to the women alternately grilling and serving. "Good luck with five." He reached out his hand. The grip was strong and friendly and Rick nodded a thanks. He gave Herb a ten and waved away the change.

Thanks Roger," Helen spoke to the phone. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"The word of God awaits," she announced. "We have an appointment with a minister who will marry you."

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Chapter 21: Rick, Saturday, June 8th, 3:15 P.M.

The Word of God.

There were no Ministers like Karly Portman in Alliston, Rick thought to himself as he and Helen were greeted by a large—actually obese—woman dressed in an equally large kaftan.

Karly Portman was severely overweight and she knew it.

She was one of those fat persons who waddled when they walked down the street and whom others said they hoped to not sit beside on one of those cramped little airplanes that made the forty-five minute flight between North Bay and Toronto. She usually managed to squeeze herself uncomfortably between the two armrests of the little seats but felt the hostility of the person beside her as they pulled in their arms close to their body, as if touching a piece of her fat forearms would make her obesity contagious.

She knew that her fat was ugly and repulsive. Huge globules of belly body fat rolled over thighs the size of a normal man's waist. Sacks of it hung under her armpits like little hammocks of skin. Even her face was fat, with at least three chins folding over each other as they cascaded from her jaw. She joked with her parish that at least she exercised her mouth enough to lose the fat there. But in truth she really did not do much to try to lose the extra body mass that had controlled so much of her life. As a teenager, when her classmates were enduring the agony of how to cover up their acne for their next date, she was enduring every obesity remedy known to mankind—at least those that her thin and embarrassed parents could find. They starved her. Bought her exercise equipment. She had hypnosis. Herbal remedies that made her throw up twice a day. She even had her stomach stapled once. It was all to no avail. Karly kept growing bigger and bigger like the monster pumpkins their neighbor was trying to grow in his garden. The result was that she never had a date in high school. At fifty-six she was still a virgin, although she had discovered early in her teens that fat girls had as many hormones as thin girls, they just had to take care of it themselves.

She also discovered that when she didn't obsess about her weight, she did have some other special talents. She read once that blind people had extra acute hearing—and the other way around for deaf people. So God compensated people for their particular handicap with some other gift. They only had to find it. Over time she discovered that she had three of those gifts.

She was smart. The academic kind of smart. The subject didn't matter. English, History. Chemistry. She could get A's in any area she chose and do it with little effort. All of the other kids figured she did well because she was so fat she couldn't do anything else but study while they were out having a good time. But that wasn't true. It took her a while to realize it, but she gradually realized that fat Karly was smarter than most other people. And eventually she turned that smartness into a double Ph.D. in Political Science and Divinity, although it could has easily been Physics if it wasn't for her other gifts.

She discovered over time that was a good listener. Or more precisely, people liked to talk to her. It probably started when the other girls in high school found someone that they could talk about their social problems who was clearly not the competition. But for some reason, everyone seemed to think they could dump their worldly concerns on her and she would somehow absorb them in the folds of fat. Her gift was to be able to ask the right question and make the right observation at the right time. Her fellow classmates, teachers, the check out girl at the local Food City, the Vet who looked after their family dog, and even the doctor she went to for help, all ended up telling her their problems. Some thought she was a good listener simply because she had nothing to say. But listening taught her much about the nature of the human spirit. She thought over the years how much better place the world would be if people spent more time listening than talking.

But when she did turn to talking it was to considerable effect. Her special gift for rhetoric surfaced in grade eleven when the school Principal banned T-shirts with any logos on them. Apparently he wasn't a Grateful Dead fan. Karly was. Much to the surprise of both the principal and her fellow classmates they discovered that a Karly roused by a cause was a formidable speaker and organizer.

Unfortunately she soon discovered that there was not a clear career path for a rabble rousing fat girl who was smart and appeared to go around looking for trouble. After degrees in English and Political Science she chose Divinity as part of her Ph.D. She was curious as to why so many smart people actually seemed to believe this Jesus hocus-pocus. Her parents had been atheists and she had never had much interest in anything religious. But she was curious. Most of the religions she had seen or studied in her life suggested to her that religion had been at the root of human suffering for most of human existence. It maybe even caused more wars than greed. She wondered if organized religion wasn't a truly great opponent for her talents. So she decided to study it. For her it was the Sun Tzu—'Art of War' thing—learn as much about your potential opponent as possible. Her studies didn't do much to change her mind about the horrors of organized religion, but she did concede that maybe the human need for some spiritual safety net was not much different than their need to dump their problems on her. But man made doctrine aside, she discovered that the church was one area where her rhetorical, organizational and listening talents were appreciated.

So she became a Unitarian Minister.

This was enough of a religion to be legitimate, but not enough to taint her brilliance with the mystical assumptions of the incense waiving clerics. It gave her a pulpit of sorts, and a vehicle she could manipulate for her causes. Most importantly, no one cared that she was fat. So for the past twenty-five years she and her flock had been the core of the North Bay protest scene. Gay rights—her opponents claimed incorrectly that she was gay. Unrequited maybe. But not gay. Aboriginal causes —she figured there was a lifetime of protest there. Tuition fees— she didn't really think that they were high but it was a great way to get new recruits to her other causes. Gun laws— she was sure that someone was gong to shoot at her one day. With one push of a key on her Apple PowerBook she could activate a Facebook and Twitter network that could paralyze Blackberries and iPhones throughout the province's bureaucracy.

"Please come in," she warmly greeted Helen and Rick at the front door of the small house attached to the church. "Good to see you Helen. And you must be Rick." She offered him her hand. "I am so glad to meet you young man. Have a seat in here." She directed them to a small parlour to the right of the front hallway. "I'll make some tea and join you in a moment."

Rick thought the room was decorated much like the one in his grandparent's house in Alliston. There was a fireplace facade on the opposite wall. It might have been a working fireplace at one time, but now its main purpose seemed to hold up the mantel covered in framed photographs. An antique love seat of some sort was on their right and two similarly ancient and delicate living room type armchairs were on the left, both facing the glass topped coffee table that was between them. A decanter half filled with some brownish liquid and surrounded by four glasses sat on a side table in the corner of the room. Unrelated knickknacks were sprinkled around the cluttered room. A small Inuit carving of a hooded man holding a harpoon. A dancing china doll. Lonely pieces of china. All evidence of a lifetime of memories and gifts.

There was one anomaly. Situated with its back to the fireplace was the largest chair Rick had ever seen. He remembered watching an old episode of the show _'Laugh In'_ with Lilly Tomlin, as Edith, sitting in a huge chair. He would look like that if he sat in that chair. Gwen sat on the love seat.

"I hope you like a good puer," Karly offered as she worked her way into the room holding a tray with three small cups, a tiny teapot and a carafe.

Rick wondered what a puer was and if the door had been widened.

"It really isn't best until the third or fourth steep."

She put the tray on the coffee table and filled the tiny cups with a smoky looking liquid. She immediately poured more water into the teapot. She took one of the cups and sat down in the over sized chair with a thud. Somehow she managed to not spill tea over her kaftan.

Rick looked at the strange cups and wondered what he was supposed to do. It was the size of the teacups that his sister had with her play kitchen set. His mother served tea in mugs. This cup had no handles. He watched as Helen reached over and picked up her cup and took a sip. He did the same and was surprised at the pleasant smoky taste. He wondered what third or fourth steep meant.

"So you want to get married, Rick?" Karly started the conversation.

She had watched the CTV news story and been filled in by Roger, so her questions were just to get Rick talking.

"Yes. But sorry Ma'am, I'm engaged to someone else."

Karly laughed and her stomach wobbled, spilling a small amount of the tea. I'm going to like this guy, she thought. "Too bad. I'll have you know that I'm one of the most desirable bachelorettes in town." She laughed again at her own joke. "And it would be awkward for you to have to change your name to Jack Spratt." She spilled a little of her tea this time. She didn't get to use that joke often these days. "So maybe we should find you someone else?"

Rick wondered who Jack Spratt was but he laughed anyhow. "Sure. We were going to wait until we got settled out west, but it seems appropriate now that we have to stay here for a while.

"Why do you want to get married by a minister?"

"We are in love. That's what people do who want to spend the rest of their lives together."

"I mean the minister part. Why not live together? Common law marriage is legally recognized."

"Adi comes from a traditional church family. They would not view us as married unless it was a church type one. And we would want our children to know that their parents were married, not living together."

"What about you? What do you think?"

"I love Adi and I want to make a commitment to be with her the rest of my life. My mom told me that it is too easy for people who aren't married to give up when something goes wrong. I will not give up on Adi or our kids."

"What role does God have in this?"

Helen reached down to the teapot and poured them all a cup of the second steep. She filled the teapot again with water from the carafe.

Rick hesitated. He had been brought up as a Protestant but he had not really embraced any type of religion. He decided that honesty was the best route.

"I am willing to consider the possibility of some kind of spirit that is greater—or better—than the rest of us. But it comes from the earth around us, and not from any person. Maybe it is the accumulation of all human —our ancestors—spirits in the world. Animals have spirits too. I really don't know for sure. But I don't believe that there is any supernatural God out there somewhere waiting to answer all our prayers to save us. Religion as I have seen it is greedy mankind's way of controlling an ignorant population."

Karly chuckled. Her belly wobbled and some of her tea dripped on the kaftan. She recognized his views as a simple form of animism common to most traditional North American Aboriginal belief systems. Sophisticated coming from a nineteen-year-old who drives a pickup truck, she thought to herself.

"Why don't you tell me what you really think? Where did you come up with this?"

"My grandfather and I used to talk about these things when we were out fishing or hunting. The animals—and the fish— they talked to him."

"He was a Presbyterian?"

"No. A Shaman."`

Karly motioned with her teacup to Helen. Helen poured them each some of the third steep. She had learned from the news story that Rick's mother was a Mohawk. She knew immediately what this could mean to any social action she might lead.

"What else did he tell you?"

"He had dreams. Visions he called them. About the earth and animals and fish and such."

"Did you believe him?"

"He didn't ask me to. He told me that I was to find my own spirit, not borrow from someone else. But many in the community came to him for interpretations of their own dreams."

"So did you ever find it?"

"Find what?"

"Your spirit?"

Rick paused. No one had ever asked him this. Not even his grandfather. It wasn't a question people asked.

"Still looking I guess."

"What do you think of Adi's religion?" Karly was now curious about how the mix of traditional aboriginal spiritualism and fundamental Protestantism would manifest in this boy's views.

"I didn't really pay any attention to them until I met Adi. My dad says that it is not a religion. It is a cult. I don't really know the difference, but I don't like the way they bully people like Adi to follow their beliefs. Some of those beliefs are plain silly. I'm sure that someone simply made them up one day. And I think some are pretty dangerous. Like their views on blood transfusions and vaccinations and such."

"What does Adi think?"

"You should ask her. She tells me that she doesn't believe any of that garbage anymore. But I think she is looking for something to replace it."

"Are you?"

"I think that I can be spiritual without being church—or cult type—religious. But I will support Adi in whatever she wants to believe in. As long as it doesn't physically hurt her or our children."

"Rick, can I suggest that you keep your Grandfather's views between us for now?" She was secretly thrilled at what Rick had said. She wanted to learn more but this wasn't the time. The local media and the churches wouldn't appreciate animism. She also knew that the hospital Board Chair was a Saviour's Salvation.

Rick agreed that the third steep was better.

"Why?"

"Are they Adi's parents' views?"

Rick laughed. "I don't think so."

"How do you think a court would react to children being raised by family that has Shamanism in their heritage?"

"All my cousins were. It didn't hurt them."

Karly and Helen looked at each other.

"So Rick," Karly abruptly announced. "Once you have the marriage certificate, I will come to the hospital and marry you and Adi." She put her hands on the reinforced arms of the chair and pushed herself up. "Helen and I can set up the time once the hospital is ready."

As she let them out the front door, she chuckled, and as her three chins flapped against each other, she decided that she had her next cause.

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Chapter 21: Herb, Saturday, June 8th, 3:26 PM

You say you want a revolution...

"Did you get the canoes in place?" It was more of an order than a question and the young woman delivered it with a scowl that Herb had now decided was a permanent part of her demenour.

"Hid them there last weekend."

"Paddles?"

Herb was a patient man but this lady was starting to piss him off. "Two in each canoe."

"Anyone see you?"

A resounding 'fuck off' gurgled in his throat. "The farm is abandoned. No one saw me."

"Alright then. Let's go over the rest of the plan."

Herb smiled. She didn't even ask about life jackets. "Ever been in a canoe before Letisha?"

"No. Not many fucking lakes in Etobicoke and my family was never into that nature stuff. How hard can it be? And I ain't fucking in it like all of the summer camp browners I went to school with."

She turned her attention to the map spread out on the steel-legged kitchen table in the backroom of the diner. Herb had cleared the table of the usual piles of coffee cans, flour bags and pop cases and a 1:50000 topographic map now covered the whole surface.

"Hendricks." She turned to a tall, heavy-set man that leaned over the table with her. "Your job is to take care of the mercaptan. That damn cylinder weighs a ton. You'll have to carry it from here," —she pointed to a spot on the map with a felt marker—"to here. That's about half a kilometre. I'll carry the other stuff."

"That is no problem," he answered in an accent that Herb guessed was European of some sort, but he couldn't place the country. "I have made a sling so I can take it on my back."

"Don't supposed that you've ever been in a canoe?" Herb interjected.

Hendricks and Latisha looked up for second and then went back to the map.

"And then you'll have to carry it about another half kilometre to the vent."

"Not a problem."

"Dorian. You will paddle—or whatever it is called— in the canoe with Hendricks."

"Cool." He looked at Herb. "I had a blow job in a canoe once? Does that count?"

Since Dorian had piercings through every part of his visible skinny six-foot frame, Herb wondered how a blowjob with rings through a foreskin would work. "Not sure. Did it tip?"

"Have you got what you need to take out the security camera?"

Dorian reached down and put a small suitcase on the table. He unsnapped the clasps and they all crowded around and looked at some sort of machine gun.

"Whoa there," the other man interrupted. "Herb said no violence. No guns."

The man stood with his back to the wall by the kitchen door with his arms crossed. He was about the same age as Herb. His had a grey-flecked beard and his similarly grey hair was held back in a pony tail. He had taken off his overcoat but still wore a faded brown, Neil Young, fedora.

"Yeah. Well it seems to me you old men weren't afraid of a little violence forty years ago. Now you've just gotten soft. You should leave the heavy lifting to those of us who haven't lost the fire." Dorian paused and picked up the weapon. "But don't worry, Robert. This is called a paint gun. No bullets. Just paint. That should sooth your corporate polluted conscience."

"Enough." Latisha scowled at both of them. "The camera is about thirty feet above the ground. Can you hit the lens from that distance?"

"Can I give a blow job in a canoe?"

Latisha turned back to Robert. "Where's the tubing?"

"Fifty feet of garden hose in the van. Enough to get down the air vent to the first security screen block. From there the gas will easily be sucked down into the whole complex."

"Okay. I have the wire clippers for the fence. Looks like we are ready to go. Any questions?"

"What time are we going?"

They all looked at Herb.

"Gets dark around nine this time of year. I'd say you should plan on being at the farm around 9:30 PM. Leave here about nine. You should be able to catch the four to eleven shift."

They all looked at their watches.

"Stay here for a while. Later I'll have the girls set up a table in the diner with some drinks and dinner. Try and be quiet if you can. I have a business to run."

Herb glanced back as he left the backroom and went into the diner, wondering how he had become mixed up in this.

Robert and he had been students together at Polkington State in the late sixties. Together they had led protest rallies all over the country. Until one went very wrong. It had all seemed so clear in those days. The USA was waging an illegal war in Vietnam and killing a generation of young men and women. They needed to be stopped. Clear and simple. Some of his fellow protesters raged on about the military industrial complex. Others used terms like hegemony. He remembered how he had to go to a dictionary when he first heard that term. He and Robert had needed no such vocabulary.

Mike was only a year older than him, but Herb always seemed older from the time that they were toddler brothers in a Polkington suburb. Herb seemed to understand from birth that actions had consequences. Mike had to take the action first and learn the hard way. Herb was only five years old when he saved a six-year old Mike from drowning in the family pool when he jumped in "just to see what would happen." Mike fought their parents—their mother a dentist and their father a high school chemistry teacher— on everything. What he would eat. What he would watch on TV. How long he would play video games. How late he would stay out with the car. Whom he would date. And what and when he would study at school. Herb just said yes all the time and then did what he wanted.

But the two boys were inseparable. Through the ying and yang of brotherhood they had worked out a symbiotic relationship that didn't need explanation or analysis. Herb always got Mike out of the trouble. Mike gave Herb a life of vicarious adventure. Herb excelled at school primarily so he could help Mike do the same. Mike rebelled so that Herb wouldn't have to. Mike shoplifted Snickers bars. And he and Herb sat by the small river in Polkington and giggled over the forbidden fruit. Meek and gangly Herb was a target for bullies. Until Mike broke a kneecap with a two by four and got the first entry on his juvenile record. Double dating was sometimes a challenge since they had divergent tastes in female company, as well as different appeals to the same company.

Herb was a geek before the term was invented, filling his non-school time with collecting butterflies and home made chemistry sets. He was a captain of the school chess team and a leader of the philatelist club. He went out with the same girl all though high school. He had known her since kindergarten and they shared a common interest in good grades, politics—they were members of the young Democrats club—and classical music.

Athletically shaped Mike chased any girl with a reputation for the adventurous—sexual or otherwise. Sex became one of those vicarious experiences for Herb, as Mike would recount in imaginative detail the events of a previous night. Mike was the star quarterback, point guard and joined the high school ROTP club when he heard that they shot rifles. He figured that the girls he wanted to date also liked uniforms. In the month before graduation in 1966, an eighteen-year old Mike got picked up DUI in a stolen car. Before Herb or their parents had a chance to intervene, Mike chose enlistment over jail. And within six months he was in Vietnam.

For the first time, Herb had to deal with life's challenges alone. And for the first time he paid serious attention to the war. He was desperately afraid for Mike. Mike would never survive without him. He thought of enlisting himself and then going to find Mike and make sure he was okay. But even his rudimentary knowledge of things military told him that the odds of actually being posted in the same place as Mike would be astronomical. In the end, teenage hormones gave him the answer. Much to his chagrin, his long term, and up to this point, very chaste girlfriend had discovered the concept of free love. She was starting to dress in weird outfits; beads, long cotton dresses, flowers in her hair all the time. And to his pleasant surprise one night as they sat in his dad's car parked behind the local supermarket—no underwear. Herb joined the protest movement and lost his virginity on the same night.

Ultimately his girlfriend left for California in an old school bus crudely painted with colourful flowers. And a still sensible Herb headed to Polkington State University on a scholarship. He had chosen Political Science as a major although he wasn't quite sure what that meant. But nineteen sixty-seven was special year on university campuses all across the world and he would soon have a real world lesson on what that meant. Dorms were full of the sounds of the Softley, Ochs, Dylan, Buffy Sainte-Marie and Joe Macdonald. Dingy apartments were full of smoke of all origins, scratchy albums, and the anachronism of free love and expensive protest. Both cost Herb his innocence. The free love part resulted in a pregnant Mexican exchange student who was sent back in shame to wealthy parents in Hermosillo. The expensive protest part resulted in confusion for Herb. On the one hand he agreed with the substance of the protests; the illegality of what he agreed was a commercial war, not a moral one. But he was pained when his protest friends called soldiers in Vietnam criminals and murderers. He never told anyone that he had a brother there. The fog cleared on the day he received his last communication from Mike.

As young boys they— actually Herb— had worked out a code so they could send each other notes and their parents or teachers would never know what they said. A ten-year old Herb had just read a book about the Second World War and the enigma machine and he figured that he and Mike should have a code a well. He learned that codes were usually very simple and just need a 'key' that both the sender and the reader could use. Mike chose "The Mystery of Cabin Island", one of their favorite Hardy Boy books. Herb made up the code. The first letter of the first word in a message told the reader the page. So if the first word was "Dear", then the page of the book was page four. The first letter of the second word told the words to use. So "idiot" told the reader every ninth word on that page. Then the first letter of each subsequent word referred to a letter in every ninth word. So "Dear idiot, Chew on your cud braniac." was page four, third letter in ninth word, fifth letter (for the final digit in twenty five) of the eighteenth word, third letter of the twenty seventh word and second letter of the thirty sixth word. It was too onerous a code to do long letters but they had much fun sending themselves encrypted messages. No one ever asked them why, even as teenagers, they carried their dog-eared copies of a Hardy boy book with them all the time.

And no one in the military figured that a simple private who read Hardy Boy books at twenty would be sending coded messages. But that is what Mike was doing. Every month Herb would get a very brief one sentence note telling him where Mike was and what he was doing. At first they were fun. "Got laid in Saigon. Wow" or "Sergeant an asshole." Gradually they started to change; "horrific firefight lost best friend" or "don't think they want us here". And then things like "stop sending young men here" or "too many children."

His final note came on March eighteenth, nineteen sixty eight. "God help me. My Lai forgive me."

Herb had no idea what Mike was saying, but a week after he got this note his parents received a visit from the army. Mike had committed suicide; with his Colt after a night of booze and drugs at a Saigon. And shortly after that they all learned about My Lai.

And then Herb wasn't confused anymore.

He paid enough attention to his classes in order to keep his student card. It was useful for campus protests. And protest he did. It began as placard waiving marches in front of the ROTP offices. It progressed to late night trashing of a chemistry laboratory that was funded by the chemical company that made napalm. He became part of the underground road to assist dodgers in their journey north to Canada.

He and Robert met in a paddy wagon after they were forcibly removed from a four-day occupation of the office of the university president. Robert was the first professional protester that Herb had met and, like Herb, he had lost an older brother in Vietnam. Soon after they discovered their shared grief, Herb's expulsion from Polkington became meaningless.

At first he and Robert were part of the peaceful protests like the Sheep Meadow draft card burning, or as background organizers for events like the Rankin women's walk in Washington. But by the late sixties they had grown increasingly inpatient with government response to the protest movement and they joined the more radical Students for a Democratic Society. And then at Robert's insistence in June of sixty-nine they joined the more violent Weatherman.

Herb always insisted that no one should be hurt in the bombings. For the bombing of Washington capital buildings in seventy-one, they issued a pre-bombing communiqué saying it was "in protest of the U.S. invasion of Laos". For the bombing of the Pentagon in seventy-two, they sent a warning that it was "in retaliation for the U.S. bombing raid in Hanoi." In both cases—sometimes under the protest of their Weatherman colleagues—it was Herb that issued the warnings so there could be an evacuation before the bombs went off. Then in September of seventy-three, Robert decided to take on Polkington again and he planned a bombing of the ROTP recruitment centre on campus. Robert had told Herb that he would call in the warning, but four ROTP students playing bridge on a quiet Friday night on a quiet campus were destroyed along with the office and half of the building that housed it. Suddenly Herb and Robert were on the FBI most wanted list. To Herb's surprise Robert showed little regret. "They were probably on their way to killing innocent citizens. We saved lives by killing them," he argued.

Robert chose to go underground and continue his involvement in the anarchist movement. But a disillusioned Herb abandoned the protest movement and made his way to Mexico. He found his now five-year old twin daughters who had been unsuccessfully put up for adoption by the mother's wealthy family and were under government care. With the help of his underground colleagues he 'bought' the girls and they made his way to Canada with new identities. In nineteen seventy three, Herb Simmons from Vancouver moved to North Bay with his young daughters and the diner became their home for thirty years. Herb had done everything he could to forget his past.

And now Robert had found him.

"How did you find me?" was the first question Herb asked when Robert showed up at the diner late one evening.

"I was one of the ones that originally set up your new identity. Knowing your new name made it easy."

"Does anyone else know?"

"Not likely. I'm the only one left active from the old days. And the only one that would know, or care, what happened to you."

"What do you mean you are 'active?'?

"I still organize. Protests. Walks. Those sorts of things. I live in Canada now with a new name and identity as well. First name is still Robert, but you don't need to know the rest."

"Do you still kill people?"

Robert stared at him. Glanced up as Lavender poured some fresh coffee.

"That one of the girls?"

"What do you want?"

"We have a little action planned. We need your help."

"Who is 'we'?"

"A new generation of young people with the social conscience that we used to have in the old days."

"We were stupid children in the old days. Anarchists you mean?"

"That's just a label the media gives us."

"I moved on from that life a long time ago Robert—or whoever you are—and I have no interest in your social conscience."

"Like your life here do you? And the life your daughters have? What would the wonderful citizens of North Bay say if they knew a murderer was serving them their Vindalo?"

That was over a year ago and now he was hosting four of the type of people he had left behind many years ago. And he was afraid. Afraid for his daughters. And afraid that he was once again involved in something where people would get hurt. He didn't trust Robert. And he certainly didn't trust the others.

"Lilac," he called to one of the girls. "There are four people in the backroom that will need some dinner. Set up one of the booths furthest back and let them know when you have biryani ready. I've got to go out for a few moments."

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Chapter 22: Flora, Saturday, June 8, 2013 5 P.M.

_Shootout at the OK Cottage_

Rakeesh led her back to the cabin at a much faster pace than when they came out. When they were back at the cabin Flora started to fill the kettle.

"Forget that," he abruptly ordered as he took out his iPhone and moved around to different places in the room.

"There is no cell service in here if that's what you are looking for. The hill at the back of the cabin blocks the cell tower out by the road. Peter went out in the boat to get service. Who are you calling?"

"Just thought I'd call Greg and see how he was doing. I'm a little worried that those guys who are after him might find him in town. Let's go out in the boat."

"Okay. Just let me grab my coat. It will be cool out there."

"Do you have any guns here? Any hunting guns or anything like that?"

Flora looked puzzled but answered. "Down in the crawlspace under the cabin there is a metal chest. We got it when my dad died. It has a gun or some other stuff that Dad had saved. Peter wasn't much into hunting or guns or anything so he shoved it under the cabin. But why do we need a gun?"

"Get your coat. I'll get the chest and meet you at the boat. I'll explain when we are out of here."

Before she could respond he was out the door and running around the side of the cabin looking for the small door that led into the crawlspace. By the time she had picked up her coat and was out the back door and heading down the dock to the boat, Rakeesh was running towards her with the metal gun box under his arm. She figured he would hardly have had time to look inside it. He put the box in the bow and started to untie the boat.

"You drive. Let's go. I presume you know how to work this thing?"

She gave him stern look, started the motor with the first pull and fully throttled the motor to planing speed. Rakeesh had to hold the gunwale to stop falling back off the bow seat.

"How far do you want to go?

"Just far enough for cell service," he ordered as he took his iPhone out of his pocket and checked the signal strength. They were about four hundred yards off shore. "Okay. We're good. Cut the motor please."

Flora hit the kill switch on the handle of the old Merc 9.9. "Who are you calling?"

"I should get ahold of Greg. He can contact the right cops and get some help."

"Help for what? What are you talking about?"

Rakeesh held up his hand for silence. "Hey." He spoke into the phone. "Looks like they have found me." He paused as he listened. "Okay..." He hung up and reached for the gun box.

"Greg will help us out."

"I didn't know Greg even had a cell phone. And I never saw you get his number. And who's found you? The Patel family? I thought you said they wouldn't likely go after you now?"

He ignored most of the questions except the 'who' part.

"Them."

Flora turned around in time to see two men run around the side of the cabin and another come out the lakeside door. Even from four hundred yards she could see they were holding some sort of gun in the classic double-handed grip she had seen on TV police shows. But these men were dressed in what, even from a distance, she could make out as expensive suits. By the time she turned back to Rakeesh he had opened the rusty latch on the box and was holding up the rifle he found inside.

"Well I'll be damned," he exclaimed as he admired the weapon. "I haven't aimed one of these in forty years." He recognized the rifle as standard issue for Indian soldiers from WWI forward. This particular model was made in the early forties and with the fully wooden stock was probably intended for jungle fighting. He continued to look through the box and gave a satisfied grunt when he came up with a box of shells and clip.

"My dad fought in Burma in the war. How did you know these guys were coming?"

"Derelict trucks don't usually have new Bridgestone radials. Your dad must have been pretty proud of this thing. It is well oiled, cleaned and in great shape. Even the stock had been oiled."

He placed the Lee Enfield carefully down on the box while he stuffed the clip with old .303 shells. "I hope these things are still good," he muttered more to himself than to her.

All of a sudden she heard some faint 'pop...pop' sounds from the shore and turned around to see two of the men on their knees firing at them while the third man aimed binoculars at them.

"Oh my God." Flora instinctively ducked down behind the motor. "They are shooting at us. We've got to get out of here."

"Don't worry," he offered as he calmly shoved the clip into the rifle and adjusted the sight. "We're out of their accuracy range. But they're not out of ours. This thing will hit its target at thousand yards. Give me your coat, take the paddle and aim the bow towards the cabin. And don't look so worried. They are after either Greg or me. Unless of course you severely pissed off Peter's lawyer."

Flora handed him her coat. He rolled it up and placed it on the bow of the boat He laid the rifle on the coat as he squatted down in shooting position. Then she took the paddle and manoeuvred the boat so the bow was pointing to shore. There was no wind and the lake was as smooth as glass so she had no trouble controlling the direction of the boat. Then she suddenly realized what he going to do. "You're not going to kill anybody are you?" It was more of an order than a question.

"They are trying to kill us," he offered as he adjusted the sights and shifted into shooting position.

"I don't care what they are doing. I'm not going to be part of you killing anyone. How long before Greg and the other cops get here? Why don't we start the motor and get away? We can go to the other side of the lake and call the police."

"You think Greg is a cop do you?" He squinted down the barrel of the old .303.

"Don't you? That's what he said. And you called him for help." She ducked again as the men on shore kept shooting at them.

"Is that a valuable birdfeeder hanging from that tree in front of the cottage?"

"No. Peter's mother gave it to us. I've always hated it. But what...?"

The noise of the rifle was louder than she had expected and the sound echoed across the lake as Rakeesh fired a shot towards the shore. The birdfeeder was in a tree and hung directly above the two men who were shooting at them. Even from this distance she could see that the bullet had gone through the squirrel proof cage that never worked and smashed the plastic feeding cylinder. Both men got up and started a crouched over run towards the cabin.

"How about those wind chimes?"

"Always hated em..."

Rakeesh's second shot sent the chimes off in a clanging that she could hear from this distance. The two men dove in the front door of the cabin.

Flora was enjoying this. "The stained glass above the door."

"What?"

"That ugly piece of stained glass shit above the door of the cabin. One summer Peter thought he would find his inner artistic self and bought the stained glass stuff and made a bunch of ugly flowers and birds and things. He insisted that we hang that one over the door. Shoot it."

"Yes ma'am." And the large stained glass of an unidentifiable bird disappeared in shower of glass. "Anything else you want to get rid of?"

"Can you hit that teapot on the counter in the cabin? Peter bought it in China. I don't even drink tea."

Rakeesh turned and looked at her. "You have issues lady."

"Yeah. Well no one is trying to kill me. What now? Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

"Well, we have enough ammunition here to keep their heads down for a long time. And we can stay well out of their range unless they get some other kind of weapon. I was in the army cadets. We wait for the cavalry to arrive I guess."

"Who are they?" She gestured towards the shore.

"Bad guys by the look of it." He continued to squint down the barrel of the rifle.

"Would you have killed them?"

"Maybe one."

"That's disgusting. That would be someone's son. Men always want to solve things with violence. There would be no wars if women had any say in it. You don't see any women out there shooting at us do you?"

"You're right. Let's start the motor and go in and reason with them. We can explain to them that violence is not the way to resolve our differences. And when we finish with them let's go to Afghanistan and see what we can do there."

"A good case in point. The Taliban aren't women. Women would not send their children off with bombs strapped to their bodies. That was some guy's idea."

"I agree. Let's start a movement. How about 'Make love...not war" for a slogan. That would be catchy."

"Jerk." She moved to start the motor. "Let's get out of here."

"Shit."

They both looked toward the cabin as the door opened and a man was shoved out the door. He had a rope around his neck and they could see the barrel of a handgun that was held by some hidden body pointing at his head.

Rakeesh put down the rifle. "Damn. They have Greg. Looks like you'll get your chance to reason with them after all."

"Look," Rakeesh offered as Flora yanked the starting cord on the engine. "They don't want you. So drop me off at the dock and go out into the middle of the lake as fast as this tin can will go. Better still go down the lake to someone else's cottage and stay there until this is over."

"Until what's over?" she yelled above the sputtering of of the two-stroke motor as it decided if it wanted to start. "Who are they? Are they from India? They didn't look Indian?"

"I'm not sure. But they don't seem to be after Greg. They already have him. So drop me off."

Flora continued to struggle with the motor but all it would do is sputter for a moment and instantly quit.

"It always does this," she lamented." Peter and I once had to row home from the middle of the lake."

"Keep trying," he ordered as he moved to the middle seat and started to row. "But when we get there you turn around and row away."

"It's no use. I know this engine," Flora announced as she slumped on the boat seat and let her arms rest. "We have to let it sit for ten minutes before it will start again."

"We'll be at at the dock by then," he grunted as he pulled hard on the oars. "Move up to the bow and pick up the rifle like you know what you are doing. You can shoot can't you?"

Flora scowled as she climbed over him and moved to the bow. She picked up the rifle and expertly removed the clip and glanced at the shells inside and slammed it back into place. With one continuous movement she pulled the bolt ejected the last spent shell and put a fresh one in the chamber. She lifted the rifle to her shoulder and with a perfect shooting position aimed at nothing in particular as she looked down the sights. Then she put the rifle down on her lap and looked at him.

"Well soorrry." he laughed as he continued to row. "You're full of surprises."

Despite her mother's protests, Flora's professor father had shown the children how to load and shoot the old .303. "You never can tell when an old bear might wander through your front door," he used to announce. Her two brothers took great pleasure in shooting at old tin cans in the quarry up the road from their hobby farm, but the thing frightened her and while she endured the lessons she refused to pull the trigger. Every time she held it she shuddered as she absorbed the rifle's memory of some young Japanese soldier—someone's son—at the other end of the sights. And she would not let her own children near any such weapon.

"What do you want me to do with it now?" starting to panic at the thought that he might actually ask her to shoot someone.

"Just keep aiming it at the cabin door and look fierce," he grunted. "That should keep them inside for a few moments at least. Give you time to get away when we dock." He looked around to check their progress and glanced at the cabin door "Just don't shoot Greg."

She turned around from her position in the bow. "Very funny." Suddenly her finger inadvertently pulled the trigger as she turned her body back to the prone position and twisted to get more comfortable on the aluminum seat. The loud retort of the firing blocked the sound of breaking glass, but even in her shock she clearly saw the large picture window in the front of the cottage shatter. If she had been closer and not deafened by the gunshot she would have heard an anguished scream. After her bullet destroyed the expensive and carefully installed custom window, it had grazed the shoulder of an older man standing in the kitchen helping himself to some of the wine left over from last night.

Flora dropped the rifle as if the heat in the barrel was so intense it burned the stock and her hands as well.

"Shit. Nice shot. You really are full of surprises." Rakeesh turned around and looked at the carnage as they pulled into the dock. Neither of them yet knew that anyone had been hit, but all of a sudden they saw Greg yank the rope around his neck and pull it free from his captor behind the door. Staying close to the building he ran as fast into the woods beside the cottage. Flora noted that he didn't limp.

"Give me the rifle," he ordered as he jumped out of the boat. "Carefully."

"Why aren't they shooting us?"

"Not sure, but I suspect they think some sharpshooter will take their head off if they show it at a window."

As if to answer his question, someone stuck a hand and a machine pistol out the crack in the cottage door and started to fire wildly toward the dock. Flora and Rakeesh both jumped down on the small beach six feet below the bank while the bullets sprayed the dock, the boat and the grass at the edge of the bank. Flora watched as one bullet went into the motor. "Good riddance," she announced in a calm she didn't understand. Suddenly the shooting stopped.

"New clip," Rakeesh observed as much to himself as to her.

He put a new shell in the chamber and handed her the rifle. "Shoot at the front door," he ordered. "You can't miss."

She scowled at him, brought the rifle up to the edge of the bank and put a shell through the middle of the door. This time they both heard the grunt that came from the cabin only thirty yards away. Rakeesh pulled a snub nosed .38 from the holster at his ankle and fired four times at the same door. They waited for the return fire.

Flora threw the rifle onto the beach and with her back to the shore tried to wiggle into the bank as far as she could get, horrified that she might have shot someone. There was no sound from the cabin. The gentle sound of the lake's ripples on the sand at her feet was deafening. An angry red squirrel lectured them both from the top of the birch tree by the shore. Then the silence was broken by the sound of a car —or truck—gunning its engine and the tires spitting gravel. "Did you hear that?" she asked in panic.

"Yeah. I think they've left." Rakeesh didn't get up from his shooting position, but continued to scan the front of the cottage with the .38. "But stay down until we are sure."

Then Greg emerged from the trees. "They've gone," he yelled. "All of them.'

Rakeesh scanned the area once again as Greg walked over to the door and cautiously pushed the door open and looked inside.

"It's clear. No one's here."

Rakeesh holstered his .38 and reached down to help Flora get up. "It's over now. You're alright Nice shot by the way."

She started to cry and went into his arms. "People were shooting at me. I don't even like guns. And I taught my kids that violence doesn't solve anything. I wanted my ticket back. That's all, just my ticket."

Rakeesh was silent as he helped her up the bank. He picked up the rifle and the pouch of ammunition and together they walked over the grass lawn to the cabin.

"My window. My door. A gun on your leg. Who _are_ you?" Flora cried as they stood in front of the cabin. "Who were _they_?"

Suddenly Greg appeared at the door.

"Nice of you two to join me. You'd better come in and see this."

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Chapter 23: Saturday, June 8th, 2013 6:17 P.M.

A Moving Experience

When Flora saw the blood on the floor she threw up.

The half digested lunch that Rakeesh brought from town earlier in the day ended up splashed over the carefully crocheted shawl— that Peter's mother had given her on her wedding night— draped over the back of the chesterfield. Flora thought that Dora had given it to her to put on the wedding bed so that Flora would be reminded off her mother- in-law every time she and Peter had sex. Peter never noticed even though once she had purposefully put it under them while they fucked. It was especially exciting for Flora to have rubbed her bare ass into the rough cotton while Dora's son did his thing and not thought once about his mother.

Like their sex life it was now relegated to occasional use at the cottage. And now like her life it was covered in puke.

It wasn't the actual sight of blood that turned her stomach. She had a strong stomach—except when she mixed vodka and Sarah Lee. Even when Peter would have the occasional conversation with the porcelain telephone after too much wine, her stomach would endure the spinning room and usually let her go to sleep. But this time? It wasn't even the small congealing pool of dark red that was slowly oozing is way down the linoleum hallway and out the door to the parking area. It was the notion that she had actually shot someone —maybe killed them— that did it.

"You alright?" Greg had his arm around her as she leaned with both hands on the back of the chesterfield looking down at the half digested sub sandwich.

Flora took a clean corner of the shawl and wiped her mouth and chin. Rakeesh handed her a wet towel and a glass of water. She sipped the water and stood straight.

"Okay? You are asking me if I am alright?"

Her voice was almost a whisper.

"Ten days ago I was a happily married elementary teacher about to retire to life of travel, relaxation—no stress...no..."

Her voice started to get louder.

"I had a husband...a car...a nice cottage...friends...a job..."

She started to yell.

"I had routine. My big distraction in life was a lottery ticket every Friday. Even the chance of winning was largely predictable."

Screaming.

"I was gentle. Caring. Monogamous."

She paused and took another sip of water while Greg and Rakeesh slowly backed away.

"I was safe, "she whispered.

Her voice turned firm, but not loud. Like the tone she would use with some grade sixers caught throwing snowballs at the school windows.

"Then you two fucks came into my life. Forty-eight hours ago I was content to be the whining cuckolded wife. Since then I find out someone has stolen my car, tried to run me off the road, picked a fight with me in a parking lot, and shot at me. I have actually shot a gun—at a person no less—and now I've probably killed someone. Not to mention the masquerades the two of you have been putting on."

Rakeesh and Greg glanced at each other but didn't say anything.

"And you ask if I am okay? 'Okay' implies a state of some kind of normalcy and the question implies that 'okay' has been disrupted. What for fuck's sake has been normal about the last twenty-four hours?"

She stood and stared at the two men as she gathered her thoughts.

The first thing she realized was she quadrupled her lifetime 'fuck' quota. The second was she hadn't even thought of Peter in the last day. She didn't add in her tirade the fact she was spending time with two attractive and exciting men. Or that she had actually kissed one and had confessional level thoughts about the other. Quite simply, she hadn't felt so aroused in twenty years. She couldn't tell them that and she didn't expect these feelings to manifest into anything. But she had to admit she was enjoying the attention of two men.

The second thing was that she was actually pumped by the adrenalin rush of mystery, intrigue, and even risk and danger. She wasn't supposed to be that kind of person. She had spent most of her life chasing the comfort of predictability and routine. She had hated it when the school board implemented new curriculum or new textbooks. She was comfortable in the same house she had lived in all her married life. She only bought a new car when the old one was declared unfit for the road. She had not thought of changing husbands. Of changing cities or jobs. Of buying a different laundry detergent or shopping at a different grocery store. She bought new fashionable clothes for work, but wore the same comfort clothes all weekend at home until they couldn't be washed anymore. And now nothing was predictable. Whether or not she would be at work Monday morning—or ever again. Whether she would ever have sex again—or with whom. Whether she would shoot someone. What would happen in the next ten minutes?

But the thing was— she liked it.

"You forgot to mention winning several million dollars," Rakeesh quietly offered.

Flora's thoughts returned to the moment and she moved her eyes from Rakeesh to Greg and then back to Rakeesh. Then she started to laugh. Greg and Rakeesh looked at each other and clearly relieved, they laughed as well. Soon all three were doubled over with laughter. Tears ran down Flora's cheeks and she wiped them away with the back of her hand.

"I want you to know that if either of you two gets me killed, I will be severely pissed off."

Rakeesh was laughing so hard he had to rest his arm on the kitchen counter to stop falling over.

"Do you think that I really killed someone?" Flora turned quite serious. "And who were these guys and why were they shooting at me?"

"They were shooting at me. Not you," Rakeesh offered.

"No. It was me they were after. Not either of you," Greg interjected.

"No. Me," Rakeesh insisted.

"You're wrong Rakeesh. I don't know who you think they were but these were my bad guys not yours."

"Stop you two," Flora commanded. "It looks like there are lots of bad guys to go around. Greg, why do you say that these guys were after you? You're a cop right? Were they after the tapes you said you had?"

Rakeesh rolled his eyes. "I've got to hear this story."

"Look. There is lots of time for explanations from us, including Raghead here who can explain why the Indian bad guys who are supposedly after him wore blue Armani suits from a clothing store in New York. But I think we should get out of here before someone—who they are after doesn't matter right now—comes back here with reinforcements. Nice shooting by the way lady."

Flora gave a demure smile and curtseyed. "Nice limp by the way."

"We can't drive anywhere. They'll be watching the road and they know the Explorer," Rakeesh offered.

"I'm confused," Flora interjected. "These are bad guys that shot at us. This is Canada not a Mexican border town. Why don't we call the police?"

"Can't do that yet," Rakeesh offered. "I'll explain after we get out of here and get you safe."

Greg nodded but didn't say anything.

"Flora," Rakeesh continued. "Is there anywhere else on the lake that we can get to where we can hide out—at least for the night?"

Flora thought for a moment.

"I don't know any place on this lake, but there is a portage trail that leads to the next lake in the chain and Peter and I have a friend with a cottage there. He doesn't come up until the summer so Peter would check in on his place for him so we have the key here."

"How far?" Greg asked.

"It's about a kilometre to the start of the portage and another two kilometres to the cottage. We walked it all the time."

"Did Peter have any topographical maps of the area around?" Greg asked.

"No. Peter wasn't into the canoe tripping and exploring. But George—the guy who owns the cottage—was. And he has maps all over the place."

"Okay. Let's get out of here." Rakeesh ordered. "I'll carry the rifle and the ammunition that is left. Flora, can you pack a knapsack with the food we have? Greg, can you carry that?"

"Sure. But what about the SUV? "

"Let's leave it here for now. Maybe after we get settled into the other place I can sneak back here and drive it away to make it look like we have gone somewhere. But right now let's get this lady to a safe place."

Flora loaded a pack with the fresh food they had bought as well as some canned soup and beans. She knew George had a kitchen well stocked with staples, so she kept the load as light as possible. Finally she went to the bedroom and stuffed some clean clothes, some toiletries and cosmetics into the pack. She could be on an adventure, but she didn't have to be dirty or unattractive. She handed the pack to Greg and led the men to the back door stepping around the pool of blood. She glanced back at the bullet-shattered picture window and the hole in the cedar door and shrugged.

"Okay. Follow me boys."

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Chapter 24: Flora, Saturday, June 8th, 2013 7:30 P.M.

Gorgeous George's

"You didn't answer my question about killing someone," Flora asked as the men followed her down the portage trail that led to the next lake and George's cottage. They had been walking in silence for half an hour.

"Nah. If he was dead they would have left him," Greg offered.

Flora stopped walking and gave him an icy stare.

"Just kidding. Look there was some blood in the cottage but none outside so whatever the injury it didn't bleed for long. It was likely a flesh wound of some sort."

"I agree. Don't worry Flora," Rakeesh added.

"Isn't it time you told me who they were and why we can't call the cops?"

They both spoke at the same time. "Not now. At the cottage."

"Let's get you safe for now," Rakeesh offered.

"Sure. Who cares about me anyhow," Greg whined.

"We already saved your ass. It's her turn."

"Be quiet. Both of you. Unless you want to announce our arrival to every cottager on the lake. It is ahead."

After a few moments they emerged from the woods and the portage trail to a narrow dirt road that ran along the back of a strip of cottages that faced the lake. There was still enough light for them to see that the cottages were on large, well separated pieces of land.

"It is the third place on the left," Flora announced as she turned on the road. "There are only eight cottages on this road and it's a dead end at George's place so pretty private. But everyone watches out for each other so if someone is around I'll have to drop in and tell them it is me checking out George's place. I can make up something about having to stay there because my place has some broken windows." She stopped and turned around and glared at them. "Oh...wait a minute. My place does have broken windows."

As they approached George Calvin's cottage, there had been no sign of anyone at any of the cottages, so no explanations had been necessary as they approached George Calvin's cottage.

"Pretty nice," Greg exclaimed as they walked onto the back deck and Flora opened the door.

"Yeah. George is some kind of software guy from Cleveland so he apparently has money to burn. His parents owned the original place since the fifties. He has been coming up since he was a boy. When he struck digital gold he decided to rebuild the place. Spared no expense."

"Post and beam. Right?" Greg asked.

"Yes. I guess that's what they call it. The beams came from B.C. The pine from somewhere in the states. He didn't want any dry wall in the place so everything is pine, cedar or fir."

Rakeesh walked over to the kitchen and ran his hand over the three feet wide marble counter top. The whole kitchen was situated so it looked over the open area living room and through to the lake. He opened the double door stainless steel refrigerator."

"He likes to cook does he?"

The fridge was largely empty except for condiments that would last the winter.

Greg opened the liquor cabinet.

"Phew. There are twenty rare single malts here. And there are rums that I have not heard of. I guess he liked to drink too."

"He is a teetotaler. But he sure entertains in style. It is a real treat to get invited to one of his dinner parties."

"His wife? She cooks and drinks?" Greg asked.

Flora gave him a disgusted look.

"Hmmm—cooks, decorates, parties? Buff? Best dressed guy on the lake I'll bet?"

"You got it. He and his partner Glen moved up here from Toronto. Glen was a big time chef in the city and decided to start a quieter life by opening a restaurant in Morris, the small town twenty kilometres down the highway. It was an incredible place. Within a year people were driving from Ottawa to have a dinner in Morris of all places. Put the place on the gastronomic map. Unfortunately there were a few locals who couldn't get used to a gay couple in their community. They received some nasty threats. Someone paint bombed the restaurant late one Friday night. One prominent Morris citizen wrote to the local paper that he would not eat there because you 'never knew what these guys were doing to each other in the kitchen.'"

Greg continued to look over the liquor cabinet. "Right. Jerking each other off into the green curry chicken I'll bet."

Another disgusted look. "So they gave up and moved to Cleveland. And Morris went back to 'Chicken Delight' and Bertha's Cafe and Bakery. But enough of George. You can explore his place all night. Let's have some explanation."

"Can we have a drink?"

"Sure. George won't mind."

"Yeah, Rakeesh. Maybe he has some of that Indian scotch in there."

Rakeesh ignored him and picked out a bottle of Glen Fiddich twenty-three year old Gran Reserva. Greg found a thirty-year-old Macallan. Neither asked what Flora wanted as they each took a tumbler from the cupboard and poured himself three fingers. Straight up.

"Vodka Martini. Very dry. Extra olives," she announced. "Please."

Between the two of them they made Flora her drink and they sat down at the round breakfast table. After they had each had a large swallow Flora started.

"Okay. Let me see who is first? Eeeny meeny miney moe. You lose Rakeesh. Cough it up."

Rakeesh took a sip of his whiskey. The story I told you about Gujarat is true. And it is true that I was sent to Canada to hide from some people that I was to testify against. And I did testify last week by videoconference. And the trial is over and the murderers have been put in jail."

"So there aren't bunch of mad Hindu's chasing you all over Northern Ontario?" Flora asked.

"Not likely. There are still a couple of brothers—the Patels—who left India and were not caught. But no one has heard from them for years so they are probably in hiding somewhere in the Middle East or Africa."

"Weren't there other witnesses to the Gujarat crimes? Why was it so important for you to testify? And why ten years later?"

Greg stared at the top of the table, twirling the glass of scotch in his hands.

"It was important to me that I testified. For personal reasons."

Greg looked up at Rakeesh as he continued.

"And the wheels of Indian justice grind slowly. At any rate that tells you why I came to Canada and why the last ten years of my life have been on hold while I waited for the trial. That doesn't tell you why I ran away with you Flora, and why I said we couldn't call the police."

Rakeesh reached down to his right leg and pulled the snub-nosed .38 from its ankle holster and put it on the table. Then he reached down to his left leg and pulled the Gold shield from its holder and put it on the table.

"This is what a real gold shield looks like," he announced as he glared at Greg. "When I came to Canada I joined the OPP. I did mostly routine police work for the first nine years and then I was asked to go undercover to help break a large and growing drug distribution ring being operated by the Russian mafia. It was supposed to last only a few months, but it stretched to a year. I didn't really mind as long as the Gujarat trials were pending. The 7-Eleven ticket seller job was my cover. I have spent the last year gathering evidence to put a lot of important people in jail. To try and lure the Russian mafia bosses out of hiding we let it leak last week that I had this evidence with me. We were supposed to trap them in a place north of the city, but I was warned that they were on their way to get me at the store. You came along at the right time to get me out of there."

"You risked my fucking life." Flora was getting comfortable with the adjective.

"Look. We didn't think they would find me until I wanted them to—when everything was set up to trap them. But I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry about that. But you'll be safe now."

"You weren't wrong." Greg had been silent through Rakeesh's story. "The Russians have not found you. They aren't far away, but they haven't found you yet."

"What about that pick up on the road?" Rakeesh challenged.

"Don't know." Greg didn't remember seeing a pickup. "But it wasn't them. I guess it's my turn."

"Wait a minute," Flora interrupted. "You said 'we'. Who is 'we'?"

"I was undercover but not alone. I was supposed to activate a GPS signal by turning on my iPhone when the Russians showed up and the cavalry would swoop down and arrest them. I thought the guys at the cabin were the Russians."

"Right.' Flora announced. "You used your cell phone to call Greg. On the phone he doesn't have. Where are the 'we' now?"

"I sent an abort signal when I realized that the attackers had left. But as soon as I use my cell phone the Russians can track it as well. So they will soon be at your cottage. But I can call the troops in anytime I want now. They will be hunkered down somewhere near North Bay waiting for my signal."

"But you won't signal them until the Russian mob bosses are there?" Greg asked.

"Right. But I don't know how I can do that now."

"Okay. Listen to my situation and then we can strategize together. You guys should get another drink." Greg passed his glass his empty glass to Rakeesh.

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Chapter 25: Rick, June 8th, 7: 35 P.M.

_Home Sweet Home_

When they got to the Cameron's later that evening Rick was hesitant.

There was a dozen or so cars parked on the driveway and the yard was already full of machines in various states of repair and function. Rick recognized a couple of old three wheelers, which were resting on stumps under their axles. A couple of trail bikes looked like they might even work. A 4x4 truck on monster wheels and shocks was parked closest to the side door of the small bungalow. His eye caught an old rusty Chevy pickup with brand new high performance tires on it. Very strange, he thought to himself as he got down from the Jeep.

"Are you sure you can live here?" Helen asked as she manoeuvered the Jeep behind a four wheeler parked on the road in front of the house.

"Sure. She invited us."

Now that he saw the house he wasn't so sure, but it was too late to back out so he walked up to the porch door and knocked. A lot of people were milling around inside. One man holding a can of Coors Light noticed Rick outside the porch.

"Can I help you?" he asked as he walked from the main part of the house to the porch door.

"Hi." Rick put on his friendliest smile. "Is Janis Cameron here please?"

"Who wants to know?" The man wasn't unpleasant but was clearly not in a good mood either. He was a bit older than Rick and taller and heavier. He had a day or two growth on his face, a _Smith Lumber Yard_ baseball cap on his head, and his heavy work boots had made a hollow sound on the porch floor as he had approached the door.

"Ah—I'm a friend of hers. From the hospital."

"The hospital? You were there when my old man died?"

"He died?" Rick tried to hide his shock. He immediately realized that was a stupid thing to say to a son who announced his father was dead. "Yeah. I guess I was. I'm so sorry. Please give my respects to your mother and the family."

As he turned to walk away Mrs. Cameron came to the door.

"Who's there Burt?" she squinted through the screen windows on the porch. "My God it's the kid. The one that I told you that I met in the emergency room. The one had five babies. Let him in for Christ's sake. He's a car thief. You and he have much in common."

Burt scowled at her but opened the door and Rick cautiously went into the porch, glancing back at Helen who was standing beside her car by the curb. He hoped she hadn't heard the car thief comment. Janis rushed up to him and gave him a big hug. "You poor boy. Travelling through town and have this happen to you and your lovely lady. Not that havin' babies is a bad thing after all. Its that their comin' is more fun when it is planned for that's all"

Rick looked at the lady and could see that she had spent a good part of the last twelve hours crying. No amount of Cover Girl or face powder could hide the redness. "I'm sorry about your husband Mrs. Cameron. I can see that you are having a family gathering so I won't bother you anymore. My condolences to your family."

"Nonsense. You're here because you need a place to stay. And maybe a little mothering at the same time. I saw the news on TV. The press already called me to ask how I knew you. Told them we were friends of your family from way back so if they ask, you say the same thing. Thanks for your kind words about Henry. He was a wonderful man and husband and we'll miss him a ton. But there is no better way to get over the loss of a loved one than to celebrate the arrival of some new ones. So come in and meet some family and friends and give them something to be happy about. And tell your lady friend she can come in as well. No one will take the parts off her car."

She took Rick by the hand and as they passed people on the way to the kitchen she introduced him as the son of a friend of hers from the old days. He met two other sons and a daughter and their spouses, at least six grandchildren and an assortment of friends. There were two of Henry's fishing buddies who seemed more broken up over his demise than Janis. One of Henry's sisters and a brother of Janis were also there and welcomed Rick to their private mourning without hesitation. When they got to the kitchen at the back of the house Janis introduced him to a well-dressed, middle-aged woman.

"This here is my ne'er do well sister Gwen," Janis laughed as the woman offered her hand. "While the rest of us were out contributing to better world she was wasting her life going to university and getting a law degree. And now all she does is get bums and crooks out of jail."

"The odd one of them is innocent you know. And it's a good thing this family has a lawyer in the clan," Gwen shot back at her sister. "Nice to see you again Rick."

"You never told me that Janis was your sister. Or that her husband died, "Rick quietly accused her, surpised to see his lawyer.

"And you didn't tell me either," Helen announced as she came into the kitchen. "I didn't know your sister lived out here. Or that her husband died last night."

Gwen ignored her comment. "Nice to see you again as well, Helen."

Rick wondered if they weren't the best of friends they made out to be.

"I told you he was a nice polite young man. You should help him Gwen," Janis ordered as she turned to Rick. "Miss Goody-Two-Pants here don't think I should offer strangers my house to stay in. But I'm a good judge of character. And I told them you were a well brought up young man. I could tell. So you and your young wife make yourself at home here as long as you like. Gwen? Show the young man the spare room. But excuse me now. I'd better go back and make sure my grieving guests have enough to drink."

At this point all he wanted was a bed. Other than the time on the hospital chesterfield he hadn't slept since the middle of the night. Janis must be in the same shape and he wondered where she got her energy at her age. He was exhausted.

"Look. I'm beat," he explained to Gwen as he picked up his gym bag he had put down by the kitchen door. "Mind if I crash? I want to be at the hospital first thing in the morning."

"Sure. Follow me." Gwen put her beer down on the kitchen counter and started to lead Rick down a short hallway to the back of the house. "Call me when you get up Rick."

"Will do. And thanks again for agreeing to help me and Adi."

The spare bedroom was small room with a double bed. The bed was already made up with grey flannel sheets and a multi-squared and coloured quilted bedspread. The bed shared the space with a large table covered with various fabrics and a complicated looking sewing machine. There were framed prints on the wall above the bed. One of mountains somewhere. Another of a waterfall. Rick guessed they weren't local scenery. Adi will like this room, he thought.

"Washroom is down the hall. Janis is quite a quilter. Sells her stuff at the local flea market and the fall fair. Her stuff is pretty good actually." Gwen rubbed her hand over the quilt on the bed. "Okay. So sleep well young daddy. You should have your wits about you over the next few days."

After she left, Rick went to the bathroom down the hall, washed his face and brushed his teeth. His mom told him how important it was to wash your face before you went to bed. Especially if there were clean sheets. Soon he was undressed and in bed. The last thought he had was that the flannel sheets reminded him of sleeping at his grandmother's house. She had flannel sheets. Even in the summer.

He slept for ten hours without a dream. He couldn't remember if that meant that he had a good sleep or not. But he felt refreshed. The house was quiet as he tiptoed in his bare feet to the bathroom and then came back to the room and got dressed. He carefully made the bed and repacked his toiletries in his bag and shoved it under the bed. He jammed his cell phone into his jean's pocket and quietly made his way out out to the front porch and to the road at the front of the house. He pulled out his phone and saw that it was only a little after seven, but he decided to call Gwen anyway. He suspected that she was an early morning person. He was right and she answered after the first ring.

"Morning Rick. Where are you?"

"Hi. Good morning to you. Outside on the road in front of your sister's house."

"Stay there. I'll pick you up in ten."

Rick sat down on a small concrete bench beside the road. He assumed it was for kids to sit on while they waited for the school bus. His dad had built a little hut about the size of an outhouse at the end of their farm lane for Rick and his sisters. This must be something like that. It was chilly this early in the morning near the lake and he pulled his jacket up and hunched down inside it as he waited for Gwen. Several pickup trucks and a school bus with _Lakeshore Baptist_ painted in large letters on the side went by, confirming his suspicions about the original purpose of the bench. As he lay in bed last night he had tried to review in his head all that had happened over the past day, and formulate some plans for the next, but had fallen asleep too fast. An early morning in June could be cool in North Bay. He blew some visible breath on his hands, sat shivering on the cold concrete bench and tried to think.

He was going to have to find some work. He wouldn't spend much money while Adi and the babies were in the hospital, but he would need a lot once they were out. It was the start of construction season here so he should be able to get something. He'd have to give Mrs. Cameron a little rent, but other than that he could live pretty cheaply over the next month. And when he got a job he could find a place for them to live until the babies were old enough to travel west. He would have to trade in the truck for a van of some sort. And they couldn't camp their way out west now. Probably have to stay in hotels and such. His parents would visit before they went west. He suspected they wouldn't wait long before they were up here to see their grandchildren. He hoped he had things under better control by then. Or maybe if a new van was up to it, he and Adi would take the babies down to Alliston for a visit before they left. It gave him a combined sense of panic and warmth as he thought about going back to the farm with his new family. Today he would get his truck and start looking for a job. After visiting Adi and the babies of course, he announced out loud to himself.

Then he remembered they had to get married as well. "Had to," wasn't the right tone he thought. Adi wouldn't have anything to do with a "have to." They had not planned a big wedding or anything. They knew that running away killed that notion. But he knew that it still needed to be a romantic event. One they would talk about all their lives. So even though he knew they needed to get married as soon as possible, he needed to make it a "want to" for Adi. He remembered his meeting with Karly and chuckled out loud. He wondered what Roger had arranged for them?

He thought of her family. Despite their religion, they meant well. They loved Adi and she loved them. He wondered how he would react if it was the other way around and she was asking him to leave his family behind forever?

Rick didn't even recognize the type of car that Gwen Hartwell was driving when she pulled up in front of the bench. It was so low to the ground that he had to lean down to look through the window.

"Good morning Rick. Come on. Let's go." She reached over and opened the passenger door. The inside of the car smelled like the leather jacket his team got when they won the district football championship. At least before a summer of sweat and fishing gave it a smell more suitable to its athletic origins. He wiggled his way into the little seat. He imagined this was what it was like to sit in a space shuttle.

"Put your belt on," she ordered as a buzzer sounded. She revved the engine, did a quick U-turn on the semi-asphalted road and expertly slid the short stick through three gears as they headed back towards the town and the hospital. Rick thought the sound of the engine was more like his mother's blender than his truck.

"Interesting car," he offered. "Bet it's a real kick up here in the northern winter."

"I have an SUV for that. This is my toy. Bought it for myself after my husband went out and bought himself a Harley Fat Boy. It's called a Lotus if you are interested."

Like most farm boys his age, Rick did like cars and engines. He could do most anything with an engine and with his dad he had rebuilt a 64 Chevy long box. So he would be interested to see what made this thing tick. He had heard the name Lotus but only in reference to racecars, not as a licensed road car.

"I am. I like cars and this one sure is different from anything I've worked on. Is it fast?" They had hit a fairly straight stretch of the road before the busy part of the city and although the speed limit was still eighty, she had the car at one twenty before he finished his question. The acceleration was indeed like the space shuttle. "Okay. Now I see why you need to be a good lawyer."

They both laughed and she slowed down to the posted speed as they entered town.

"You have any breakfast yet?"

"No. No one seems to be awake in the house so I snuck out quietly."

"Yeah. My sister isn't an early riser. The party was still going on when I left at eleven. And this wasn't even the wake. They'll have that in a couple of days after the funeral. But she is a good woman Rick. She is rough around the edges but raised four kids mostly on her own— Dad like many northern Ontario husbands was big into the hunting and fishing provider role— and she would embarrass a lot of more wealthy citizens with how much time and energy she devotes to various charities in town. How many people would invite a stranger they met in an emergency room in the middle of the night to stay with them? And while their husband is wheeled into intensive care?"

My mother would, Rick thought. His father was always complaining —not vigorously of course—about the money she spent helping out in the community. They once had a whole family of immigrants from somewhere in Africa live in their basement for a month waiting to get their own place. Mother, father, and three kids under ten. He was only eight himself so he couldn't remember where they were from, only that they were black, were sponsored by their church, were hard workers, extremely polite and ate his family out of four months of its food budget. Another time she brought home a young woman who was in bad shape. She had been beaten up. He remembered that she stayed in her room for a week and slept while his mom brought her food. So, yes, he guessed that his mom would have done the same thing. Maybe that is why he wasn't surprised or shy about Cameron's offer.

"Well I certainly appreciate it. She is a real nice lady. That's too bad about your brother-in-law though."

"Thanks. Let's go get some breakfast at Herb's and then go to the hospital." Gwen paused to answer her cell phone. "That was Helen. There is a meeting we have to get ready for."

Rick looked puzzled.

"Furlong is being a real asshole."

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Chapter 26: Greg, Saturday, June 8th, 9 P.M.

The Librarian

"Right. Well to start with these guys are after me. And after this," Greg announced as he took the data stick from his pocket and put it on the table. "I can explain what is on here later, but accept for now that it is valuable enough for people to kill for. Like Raghead here I jumped in your car because I suddenly realized that I had been found out and I needed to get way quick. I used you like he did."

By now the third Martini was starting to have its usual effect on Flora and she giggled and threw her hands up in the air. "Glad to be of service."

"And as you might have guessed, I'm not a cop."

"Yeah. We didn't think the Toronto cops bought their badges at the Wal-Mart toy department," Rakeesh confirmed.

"Gee. I guess I can't fool a big OPP guy that's for sure."

"Just tell the story."

"Well I went into town to go to a pharmacy. I don't know any judge. You might want to read this." Greg pulled a copy of the front page of the Saturday North Bay Nugget from his back pocket and spread it out on the table. "The TV is full of the baby story as well. This kid is really fucked. Five new babies. At least they don't yet know about the car and lottery ticket theft. And given the fuss I'm sure that he hasn't checked the lottery tickets yet so if you can get to him he'll probably give you the winning ticket if you don't charge him with car theft."

"Ah. They are sooo cute," Flora slurred as she looked at the photo of the small babies. "Rakeesh let's let them have the ticket? We don't need the money do we?"

"Hmmm. 'We' now is it kids?"

"Just tell the fucking story Greg."

"Nice talk Raghead."

"Muslims can swear. Just not blaspheme."

"Okay. I stopped at the pharmacy on the highway into town. While I was waiting for it to be filled, I went over to the library to do a little Internet searching to pass the time. After that I was still early so I went and had a coffee at Herb's diner next door to the pharmacy. That was my mistake. Somehow Moonstar had tracked me by my prescription and followed me to North Bay. I thought that I had lost them but when I turned into your laneway I saw them coming after me. I ditched the data stick under that big pine tree before the parking area—I picked it up as we left the cottage."

"Yeah. I saw you lean down at that tree. Wondered what you were doing."

Well, they caught up to me as I got out of the car. They were armed as you know and wanted the stick. I told them it was in the boat with you guys and the rest you know. But now we have new problems."

Rakeesh and Flora said nothing for a moment.

Flora shook her head. "Whoa. Too much information."

Rakeesh interrupted. "Back up there. Prescription? Moonstar? Homeless man? Data stick? Too many gaps in this."

"It's simple really. Prescriptions? I need my meds or no telling what I might imagine. Moonstar? They are the worlds largest software company and I was on contract to them until I left a little over a year ago. I have been a software developer for over forty years. Started on the Franklin. Most cell phone or computer manufacturers use my patents. You have several on that iPhone of yours. Collectively the royalties support my fancy lifestyle. Or I should say the lifestyle of three ex partners. Homeless man? Since Moonstar was looking for me I bought a new house under a false name and I could only go out in disguise. The limping, homeless guy was fun. Besides, it let me practice my hobby. Data stick? I was hired by Moonstar to develop specialized data mining software. You know what that is?"

Rakeesh and Flora looked at each other and both shook their heads.

"Well there are variations of it. The most benign is for commercial use. Every time you use your credit card, fill out a survey or especially when you use one of those loyalty cards—air, grocery, gas or whatever—the data you provide simply by using the card is piled up somewhere. Over time, your information—for example your buying habits—combined with that provided by the other people putting information into this pile, could provide considerable information regarding consumer trends and tastes. The problem is there is so much data—too much data actually—for any normal search or organizational software to make sense of it. The 'data mining' software I was working on would allow a company like Moonstar to sort through this huge amount of unorganized consumer data. It would be quite valuable to them actually. In a less benign way, data mining is of interest to governments all over the world who want to access and make sense of huge amounts of digital data sent by their citizens—phone, computer, Internet, social networking sites and so on—for security purposes. Essentially they would like data mining software which would monitor cell phone calls, emails, twitter or Facebook conversations and pull out specific data that might have a security use. Of course, this means that governments have to have access to every digital message their citizens send and you trust them to use the data mined for security reasons not political ones. Good luck. At any rate, while at Moonstar I developed a piece of search engine software—you might call it the ultimate data mining software— which no one, especially Moonstar should control. They disagree and want it badly. The software is on that stick and that was what the bad guys were after."

He paused.

"That's it. What about you Flora? Any secrets you want to divulge?"

"Hmm. Let me think. I pee in the shower."

"I thought only men did that?"

"It's a new world of gender equity Greg. Get used to it."

"I've got another one," Rakeesh announced.

"Another what?"

"Another secret."

Greg and Flora looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

"Okay, give it to us Raghead."

"There are two winning tickets."

"Sure we know that. We heard that on the news. It's not unusual for there to be two or more winners. " Flora interjected.

"Well, I sold them both."

"You sold two tickets with my numbers?"

"Right. I remembered when I saw the kid at the hospital. I recognized him from the Friday before, when I sold him his ticket. He came in a few hours after you—maybe around eight or so. He asked for a quick pick. The machine wasn't working right so I gave him your numbers."

"So now he has two identical tickets each worth over three million?"

"Yeah. But he would have to explain why he bought identical tickets three or so hours apart."

Nobody said anything further as they each sipped on their drinks. Greg poured another three fingers of Macallan.

"How bad is your schizo?" Rakeesh gently inquired.

"Not bad. I don't hear voices or anything. Unless, of course, I drink too much of this stuff." He lifted up his glass to the light and took another sip. "But without my meds I do get a little confused sometimes about what is real and what isn't. You'd be surprised how many apparently normal people are kept on the straight and narrow with a prescription or two."

"Arrgh." Flora suddenly jumped up from her seat. She waved in the air and spilled half her Martini. "You're a cop." She pointed her glass at Rakeesh and spilled more. "And you are a rich, nutbar." She spilled the rest of her drink as she turned to Greg. "And people are looking us to kill us. And you're chatting about society's problems?"

"You're right Flora," Rakeesh offered. "But this isn't your issue any more. I'm sorry we got you involved, but the OPP can handle everything from now. You'll be safe here and I'll get someone to drive you back to Toronto. And Greg, you need police help on this as well. We can provide protection."

Flora scowled at him and walked over to the wall phone. She dialed a number from memory. Greg and Rakeesh could hear the answering machine message. She waited until it was finished.

"Yes. This is Flora Riiiichmond, grade siiix, at Macdonald School. I won't be in on Monday. Or the next day. Or the whole week. Or actually the rest of my whole fucking life. I'll be shooting at bad guys and helping two lying idiots get their lives back together. Have great day. Thanks."

She hung up and crossed her arms. "What's the plan?"

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Chapter 27: Flora, Saturday, June 8th, 9:30 P.M.

Love and Other Things

"I can't have the OPP involved, "Greg announced. "No one can know that this software even exists. If I get the authorities involved then the world will know and it would quite literally shut down the Internet. All e-commerce. All twittering, Facebooking. Bank cards. Amazon and every other on-line retailer would die in a day. Essentially the world would be forced back into nineteen-sixties mode for any digital activity that required privacy."

Rakeesh and Flora looked at each other. Even Flora was sobering up a little.

"What the hell is this thing?" Rakeesh inquired.

"While the code—algorithm—process—whatever you want to call it, is extremely complicated and technical, what it does is actually quite simple. I'll show you."

He picked up the stick. "Flora I assume this software guy has a computer and an Internet connection?"

"For sure. He actually paid big bucks to have some sort of cloth line or something brought from the highway. The computer is in the den upstairs."

"Fibre optic," Greg suggested as the three of them walked up the winding pine staircase that leading to the upstairs bedroom and the den.

"Yeah. That's it," she replied as she steadied herself with the railing.

"Phew. Impressive," Rakeesh offered as they entered the den and turned on the light. One whole wall was a computer workplace. A twenty-one inch iMac centred a laser printer on one side of the desk and what appeared to be a scanner on the other. There was also a large external hard drive visible under the chair at the desk. An eight foot brown leather chesterfield and matching chair were situated to face the computer. A coffee table with a glass top resting on a multiple-point moose antler was between the chesterfield and the desk. The lamps, prints, paintings and photos were western themed. "This place is right out of a magazine."

Greg sat down and turned on the computer. It flashed the user name and password.

"Don't suppose you know these Flora?" He pointed at the screen.

"Sure. He shared them with us over dinner conversation."

She leaned on the desk. Rakeesh stood silently behind Greg.

"No matter."

He turned the iMac off again and inserted the stick in a USB port on the back of the computer and pushed the start button again. Within seconds the screen came alive as it ran various application checks and settled on a screen saver photo.

"Shit. I recognize that outfit. That's me," Flora exclaimed, as she looked at a photo of a woman's body from the neck to the knees. What is a photo of my body doing on George's computer?

"It's not on George's computer, Flora," Rakeesh explained. "It's on Greg's stick."

"I told you I had a hobby. Not my stick. My computer at home."

"Hobby? What hobby? Taking photos of my boobs?"

"Well not you. You were my Friday girl. I had someone at a different location every day."

"And you took photos of their boobs as well?"

"Crotches too. I like the odd crotch shot."

"And how many of these photos do you have?"

"About three thousand at last count. And they are actually videos. On micro cassettes. Remember the ones I showed you in the car?"

Flora was too shocked to have a quick reply.

Rakeesh interjected. "Okay. This is quite entertaining. But you didn't turn on the computer to show us your peep show. What kind of software can bypass the sign-in protocols on a personal computer?"

"Many actually. That is no big deal. This is."

He typed in 'Ontario Provincial Police Muktar assignment photograph'.

Within seconds a photo of Rakeesh in uniform was flashed on the screen and a compete history of his undercover location and function. At the bottom was 'last known location' giving some coordinates.

"I assume those coordinates are Flora's cottage."

"I don't understand. How can you get into the confidential OPP files?"

"That's the point. Give me some web place very secret. Some place you would have to have an encrypted password to access."

"Gloria's email." Flora announced. "I want to read the email conversation between my husband and that cow he is fucking."

Greg and Rakeesh looked at Flora who was now sprawled out on the couch.

"Okay Greg. Access the Indian Intelligence file for a Halvindar Patel."

"Within seconds pages of scanned material came on screen."

"Go to the last entry there."

' _Patel has been given a new identity and relocated to New York city, USA. It is paramount that he is not found by the judiciary."_

"Damn. I thought it was too convenient for him to be in Gujarat and then disappear."

"Okay...how about..."

"No more," Greg announced. "This isn't a toy for your amusement. But the reaction of you two shows why this software should not exist. Nothing in the digital world—good or bad—would be private again."

"You mean the world would know what a fucking pervert you are?" Flora interjected from the coach.

"That's a conversation for another time. I didn't mean for you to see that. But I did pick you for my screen saver."

"Oooh. I'm so flattered."

"Do you remember when we played truth or dare a few moments ago and I said we had another problem? Well here is the problem."

He typed in Herb and diner and email and North Bay and NORAD. Flora got up from the chesterfield and joined Rakeesh as they read the material.

"Christ," Flora exclaimed.

"Holy Ganesha." Rakeesh countered. "They are going to attack the NORAD base. Who are these Citizens for A Democratic Society?"

"That's a Hindi curse Raghead. I looked them up. They are a relatively unknown anarchist group whose founding members were SDS —Students for a Democratic Society —members in the late sixties. Those were the ones who instigated the violent side of the campus protests at that time. They disappeared after the Vietnam War ended and the more violent leaders—at least the ones the police could catch—went to jail. Sometime in the nineties some old SDSers regrouped as the CDCers. For a long time there wasn't any evidence they engaged in anything more than rhetoric. But that changed when they linked up with some violence promoting, environmental activists on at least one university campus. It appears one of the grand daughters of an original Berkeley SDSer wanted to do something in the memory of her departed granddad and has been promoting some action to back up the speeches."

"And they are in North Bay?"

"Old Herb of Herb's diner is actually William Cranston. He was charged with participating in the bombing of the ROTC office at Polkington University in 1968. But they never found him. I can show you his life story since he escaped to Canada if you want, but Herb and his twin daughters are now hosting some CDC nasties. They are good old Canadian anarchists."

"And now they are going to attack the NORAD base in North Bay?"

"Attack may not be the correct word. Inconvenience is more like it. It seems they have learned over the years that it is better to embarrass than physically hurt. The latter doesn't get much public sympathy. So I looked up the chemical they are bringing to North Bay. Methyl Mercaptan. It is the stuff they put in natural gas and propane to make it smell so you will know that you have a leak or have left your gas on. I would guess if we investigated further we would find a gas company somewhere is missing a cylinder of the stuff. Unpleasant, but it won't kill you. In her e-mails, the woman mentions another cylinder of some sort, but never mentions the name, so I assume it is more Mercaptan. Add the fact they also bought a hundred feet of rubber tubing and you can get an idea of what they have in mind. Can you get me those maps you said George had?"

Flora went to a cupboard in the corner of the den. "I think that they are in here."

She pulled down a larger roll of topographic maps. "What are you looking for?"

Greg and Rakeesh spread the maps over the coffee table.

"In their e-mails they mention an air vent somewhere near the air base. I wonder if it is on a map?"

Flora pushed them aside and pulled out the topographic map showing North Bay and the airbase. "I know where that is. We used to cross country ski around there."

She spread the map out on the table and used her finger to orient herself.

"It is right there." She tapped the map. "The map doesn't show the air vent but it does show the clearing where the vent is located."

"I don't get it." Rakeesh interjected. "Air vent?"

Flora explained. "The complete NORAD operation is a kilometre underground and is secure. They monitor the airspace around North America, but they need fresh air down there so I guess they have vents to circulate fresh air from above ground. I remember that the vent is surrounded by a barb wire topped twelve foot high fence, and I imagine there are surveillance cameras as well."

"Yeah. I can pull up a live satellite view of the site, but I would assume you are right Flora."

"And tomorrow night this group is going to try and drop something down the air vent?" Rakeesh exclaimed. "I've got to contact headquarters and they've got to get CSIS in on this."

"Can't do that," Greg exclaimed. "I would have to explain how I know this. Don't you imagine CSIS might be interested in my software? I don't trust them anymore than I trust Moonstar."

"Look. Why don't we jump in the Explorer and get out of here? Go back to Toronto," Flora suggested, suddenly quite sober. "I don't care about the lottery ticket anymore. The kids and their babies can have it. Greg, with those computer smarts you could send an anonymous message to CSIS about the CDC, or whatever you call it. And Rakeesh you can catch the bad Russians some other time?"

"No." Both Rakeesh and Greg answered at the same time.

Greg looked Rakeesh and nodded. "You first."

"I agree that you should go Flora. We'll figure some way to get you out of here in the morning. But I have been working on this sting for over a year. I can't let it slip now. Greg can do what he wants but I have to see this through."

"Well, first of all," Greg added. "CSIS has one of the best hackers in the world working for them. She would trace my message in minutes no matter where I sent it from or how I tried to digitally cover my tracks. But most of all, I have to settle this thing once and for all with Moonstar. The homeless gig was fun for a while but I have to get back to a more normal existence. I have an opportunity here to do that."

"Also," Rakeesh continued. "If we tell anyone about the CDC plans they will arrest them at the diner. And charge them with what? Having Methyl Mercaptan in their basement? A restaurant health violation? They have to be caught in the act of some terrorist activity and CSIS would be too risk aversion to wait for that."

"This is great. Russian mobsters. Crooked software companies. And now stink bomb terrorists. So we have three sets of bad guys. Three sets of law enforcement folks, if you count the North Bay cops. I think it would be fun to put them in the same room and watch." She paused. "And if you think I'm going anywhere forget it. Doesn't look like I have a job to go to anyway."

No one said anything.

"Look. It's late," Greg offered, glancing at his wrist. "None of this is going to go away before tomorrow. Lets' sleep on it and work on a plan in the morning?'

Rakeesh and Flora nodded.

"Rakeesh you still have to go and move the Explorer as you suggested. That will make anyone who checks, think we have driven somewhere else."

"Right, I noticed a laneway that left the road before the portage started. Flora do you know where that goes?"

Flora went over to the topographic map. "Yes. Here it is. I know it. It goes to the abandoned Bergeron farm. Peter and I drove in there once when they were trying to sell it. It's three hundred yards up to the old house and barn. You might even be able to put the Explorer in the barn. I don't know."

"Okay. That's perfect."

"I think George still keeps a couple of mountain bikes in the garage. They will handle the portage trail. Take one of those and you can get there and back faster. And you had better take this." She picked up the discarded head net from the counter. "And check the cupboards for some DEET repellant."

"You should have something to eat before you go," Greg suggested. "Actually we all should since none of us has eaten since lunch. I'll make some sandwiches."

Greg left Rakeesh and Flora leaning over the table and the topographic map. Rakeesh's hand moved over on top of Flora's.

"You alright?"

"Other than having had two too many martinis without any food I'm fine." She squeezed his hand back. "In fact I haven't felt this alive for a long time Rakeesh."

"It's the adrenalin Flora. Probably not the kind of rush you're used to from an exciting grade six class."

"I don't know. Those parent teacher meetings can be pretty fierce."

"I'll bet, "Rakeesh laughed. "I'm still sorry I got you into this. It's turned out far more complicated than I anticipated."

Flora stood straight and touched his cheek with hand. "I agree. It has."

"Sandwiches ready," Greg yelled from the kitchen. "The finest PBJ—on whole wheat of course—this side of the other side of the road."

When they got to the kitchen there was a plate of peanut butter and jam sandwiches in the middle of the counter.

Greg had found a bottle of wine. "I wonder what the pairing is for peanut butter?" he mused as he unscrewed the cap and poured them each a glass.

"Great sandwich Greg," Flora announced as she wolfed down the second one. "You'll make someone a great wife one day."

"Well I was a fuck up as a husband so I guess it's worth a try."

Rakeesh passed on the wine and after two quick sandwiches got up to leave. "Okay. See you in an hour or so."

Flora and Greg nodded with mouths full of peanut butter.

"Unless of course I get shot—or lost —or mauled by a bear..."

Flora threw a sandwich at him, which smacked the door as it closed behind him.

They were both quiet as they finished the sandwiches and sipped the Chilean Merlot. "Want some more food?" Greg asked. "I think I saw a tin of sardines in the cupboard?"

"Very funny. Although it would probably suit the wine more than PPJ. But no thanks. This was enough."

They both sipped their wine.

"You know I'm not letting you off the hook for the peeping tom, porno stuff."

"It wasn't peeping tom stuff. Taking some videos of fully clothed women is hardly on the leading edge of legality or pornography. I'm a fashion aficionado."

"Sure. Only the fashion that covers breasts."

"I told you I have crotch shots too."

"Ugh. That's gross. Don't you realize it is a gross violation of someone's private space to film and ogle her body? Besides it is plain creepy. What do you do with these videos anyhow?"

"I look at them once in a while."

"Just look at them?"

"They give me pleasure. I look and I imagine and I admire. Don't you ever imagine things about men?"

Flora knew that she was blushing.

"Of course. Women are as sexually curious as men."

"I didn't say anything about sex. Just imagination. And how can you imagine anything without a reference point? So you see a hunk walk down the street do you not use that as a reference point for your imagining?"

"Maybe. But I don't photograph them and put a poster size photo on the ceiling above my bed. I never looked at anything that wasn't available with consent."

"Good point. Guilty as charged. How about naked men swimming at the end of the dock at your cottage?"

Flora blushed again. "Yeah. Well with the cold water I needed my imagination to see anything there."

They both laughed and sipped some more wine.

"Maybe you would like to see the real thing?" Flora suddenly announced. She got off the counter barstool and pulled the sweatshirt she was wearing over her head. She reached behind and undid her bra and let it fall to the floor. Even in her martini and wine distorted senses Flora knew that she looked good—at least for someone in her fifties. She flicked a few strands of her blond hair over a breast for effect."

"Christ," Greg announced.

She thought for a moment that nice woman didn't do this sort of thing. At least none of the nice women she knew. But she wasn't about to stop now. That would give him too much satisfaction. "How's this for your imagination buddy?"

Greg stood at the other side of the kitchen bar and pulled off his own sweatshirt.

She scanned his toned upper body and felt a stirring in her groin. Damn, she thought. This is supposed to be my show.

Neither of them moved. And both of them stared.

"Show me more," she shocked herself into ordering.

Greg walked around the end of the counter and stood six feet from her. He undid his belt and in one movement lowered his pants jeans and underwear to the floor.

"What do you imagine now?" he asked.

Flora had not seen a naked man's body other than Peter's for over thirty years. She had seen photos of course, but nothing in person. She was no prude and had seen her share of penises before she got married. And she did remember that they came in all shapes and sizes. The one she stared at now was the largest she had ever seen. Not in length. She had learned early in her sex life that length wasn't such a big deal. In breadth. Greg's stiff cock was the fattest she had ever seen in person or in photos. She stared. And she started to imagine touching it.

"Your turn,'' he ordered.

Flora quickly pulled off her jeans and panties and stood in front of him.

"Better than I could ever have imagined," Greg announced in a husky voice as he scanned her tall athletic body. There were signs of growing cellulite, a hint of a bulge at her waste and the breasts, while still firm were gently responding to a lifetime of gravity. He had always realized that there was something arousing about a mature woman. And Flora was the best of this maturity.

Flora could sense her own growing arousal.

Neither of them moved.

"What now?"

"Your call, Flora. What do you want?"

"I want sex and I want to be loved." She started to quietly cry.

"Are they different? Isn't that why it is called making love?"

"I've had sex over the past decade. I'm not sure it was making love."

"Do you want to make love to me?"

"No. I want to have sex with you."

"Wine and Martinis lead to sex. Emotion leads to love. I think you have had too much wine. What you need is a hug."

Greg moved over to Flora and took her in his arms. She felt his stiffness against her belly, but for some reason the urge to have it inside her had gone. She hugged back and laughed. She thought how it would have been a compromising scene if anyone had been watching. Two aroused, naked people holding tightly to each other in the middle of the kitchen. Laughing.

"The peanut butter must have been in the cupboard too long," she offered as she gently pushed Greg back until they could look at each other's faces. She reached up and wiped the dripped tears from her cheek. "Can we be friends?"

"I don't have too many of those. It would be an honour my lady," he offered as he bowed from the waist.

They stood for a silent moment, still naked. She watched as his arousal withered and felt her own heat subside. He reached down, picked up her sweatshirt and handed to her with a smile. She took it and reached down and picked up his underwear with two fingers and gave it to him.

"Thanks," he offered. "It's more fun taking it all off, but thanks anyhow."

They both picked up the rest of their clothes and started to dress.

"Friends. But no more home movies."

"Can I keep the ones I have?"

Flora threw her panties at him. "Seriously. That is creepy Greg."

"Okay," he agreed, suddenly all business. "Let's clean up here and get some sleep. I think we have a long day tomorrow. I'll take the bedroom on the main floor. You and Raghead take the two upstairs. But there is something you should read before you welcome him home." He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a folded sheet of paper he had printed at the library. He held both her hands as he gave it to her. "Only love can beak your heart—only love can mend it again."

"Nice," she laughed as she took the paper. "That would make a great song. I'll send it to Gene Pitney."

Greg went to the main floor washroom. Flora sat down at the kitchen table and unfolded the paper. It was a photocopy of part of a 2013 news story from the Hindustan Times. The headline was _Gujarat Riots Hits Home_ _for Local Policeman._ Her tears dripped onto the document as she read the story that reported on the recent Gujarat trials.

... _the main prosecution witness was Major Shah, a Muslim police officer from Ahmedabad. He provided graphic testimony_ _of the Ode Massacre. However one of the most emotional parts of the trial occurred when Major Shaw was asked his motivation for testifying. He described how, in his absence, his wife and family had found shelter in the basement of neighboring Hindu friends. They were apparently hiding from the wandering gangs that were attacking known Muslim homes. Someone betrayed the family members and one of the gangs found them. Major Shah described it this way. "When I returned to Ahmedabad and went to find my family I discovered one of my good Hindu friends had told the mob where to find my family. My wife and children were dragged out into the street. My wife was repeatedly raped and strangled. My children were stoned to death. The Hindu family that had sheltered them was also murdered. There were many atrocities perpetrated during the few days of rioting. My family and my neighbours were some of probably close to fifteen hundred people either killed or missing—Hindu and Muslim alike. And two hundred police officers lost their lives as well. This was an ugly time with no clear villains or heroes. I certainly wanted vengeance for my family, and other than taking up violence myself, the only way was to be an eyewitness to for the various prosecution activities set up to indict those responsible."_

There was more in the story about the other witnesses but Flora stopped reading. She folded the paper again and put it in her hip pocket.

The house was dark and quiet when Flora heard Rakeesh come back. She heard him go to the downstairs bathroom and heard the tap running as he brushed his teeth. Then the flushing. Then the tap again. "Good boy. Wash your hands," she muttered. Then some voices as she guessed he tried the downstairs bedroom and was told to get lost. The stairs creaked a little and she felt her door open as he checked to see which room was hers. For a moment her heart quickened as she thought he might come in. Then all was quiet again.

"It's not the wine," she told herself as she got up half an hour later and walked to the bedroom across the hall. The door was mostly open and she peeked around the edge. She saw his jeans draped over the chair beside the bed. He was lying on his side facing away from her covered with the bedspread. She carefully walked over, pulled her nightshirt over her head and got under the bedspread. She wrapped her body around his back. She smelled the DEET on the back of his neck.

"Cold again?" he mumbled.

"Not exactly," she offered as she reached around started to undo the buttons on his shirt.

Rakeesh rolled over, realizing for the first time that she was naked.

" Flora... I haven't had sex since my wife died."

"It's okay Rakeesh. I haven't made love for years either."

### $$$$$

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Chapter 28: Flora, Sunday, June 9th, 2013 6:00 A.M.

_Captain Flora_

The sun was just rising when Flora carefully slipped out of bed and tiptoed to her own bedroom across the hall. Each room had its own ensuite. She went to the washroom, showered, washed her long, thick hair, and brushed her teeth. She put on the dirty jeans, but had brought clean underwear and a T-shirt from her cabin and she borrowed one of George's flannel red checkered shirts. He called them real man shirts. She was as tall as he but much slimmer so the shirt hung on her shoulders like a coat. Finally she applied her makeup. She never used a lot of makeup. She was genetically blessed with smooth skin and warm colouring. But as she aged she realized that a little eye shadow, and maybe some eyelash touch-up gave her an air of sophistication and power. The key was to use it without looking like you used it. This morning she wanted it to be perfect.

She hadn't slept much. Her mind had been a confusing jumble of where she was, what she was doing and where she was going. It had taken her most of the night to sort things out. She crept downstairs and stood at the front picture window watching the morning shadows consume the lake. But despite the lack of sleep she couldn't remember when she had felt such a combination of calm and invigoration. Her skin tingled with the anticipation of the day, yet she felt in total control. She smiled to herself. She liked to be in control.

As if aroused by the same clock, Rakeesh and Greg both emerged at at the same time. Both came straight from bed to the kitchen, although Flora had heard the upstairs toilet flush.

"Good morning gentlemen, " she cheerfully greeted. "Coffee?"

The breakfast table in the kitchen had been carefully set, a glass of juice at each plate, a jar of jam, the peanut butter, a plastic container of honey and a large bowl of granola were in the middle beside the litre of milk they had bought the day before. There was a slight smoky smell wafting from the toaster. The Bodum coffee press had been filled.

"Sorry it's not Starbucks. George apparently likes the Kirkland brand."

"Coffee. Yes thanks," Rakeesh mumbled as he sat down.

"You look ravishing this morning Flora," Greg announced. He turned to Rakeesh. "Aren't you supposed to say that Raghead?"

Flora enjoyed Rakeesh's blush.

"Yes. You look...look better than Greg does."

They laughed as Flora poured them coffee.

"Eat something boys. We have some planning to do," she announced still standing behind the kitchen counter.

Rakeesh and Greg looked at each other and shrugged. They each poured some granola and took some toast. Greg spread his with jam. Rakeesh with peanut butter.

As soon as their mouths were full Flora started.

"Alright. Let's sort of summarize where we are so we all realize that this isn't some stupid, fucking dream."

She paused and sipped some coffee. I'm starting to like that word, she thought.

"First, you Rakeesh..."

The ringing phone startled them all.

"Can anyone know we are here?" Flora asked in some panic.

Both men shook their heads.

Flora lifted the receiver on the kitchen phone. "Hello."

The relief on her face was visible.

"Hi, George."

Rakeesh and Greg couldn't hear what was said at the other end.

"Yes it's me. How are you?

"Well there was a heating problem at our cottage. Some broken windows." She stifled a laugh. "We came over here to spend the night. Knew you wouldn't mind."

"Peter? No. He has run off to Africa with his lover."

The laugh from the other end was so loud even Greg and Rakeesh could hear it.

"What do you mean you aren't surprised?"

Flora listened for several minutes.

"The fucker."

"Yes, I've learned to say that word. And No. I'm not alone."

"You can meet him this summer. He'll cook dinner for you."

"Well, let me see. I suspect that it will be Indian."

Rakeesh blushed again and Greg reached over and punched him on the shoulder.

"Okay. Thanks George. See you this summer."

"How did he know we were here?" Greg asked.

"Someone across the lake saw the lights on last night and called him in Cleveland. He didn't get the message until this morning. He's cool with it all. Don't worry." She smiled at Rakeesh. "But someone will have to cook him an Indian dinner this summer."

He blushed again and concentrated on his granola.

"Okay. Back to where I was. Rakeesh, you and your OPP buddies want to catch the bad Russians all together in a sting. As soon as you push the send button on your iPhone the cavalry will converge on you and will trap these bad guys who you haven't been able to catch in years. Right?"

"That's basically it."

"Okay. Greg. Some techies who want your software are chasing you and will keep doing so until they get it. And as we have seen they have guns. Right?"

Greg nodded.

"Okay. Let's leave Herb and his kooky friends for a moment. Rakeesh. You have to pick the time and location when you push that send button carefully. You have already done it once so I would imagine both the OPP and the Ruskies are all over my cottage looking for you."

"Not the cavalry. I told you. I sent an abort message before we left the cottage. The Russians will see that I sent a second text message. They will know where I sent it from but not the contents. So they might be looking around the cottage. But not my colleagues. That's why I moved the Explorer. To make the Russians think we have gone somewhere else."

That makes sense," Greg interjected. "It is relatively easy to hack into a cell phone's signal location, but tough to actually read a text message sent."

"Okay. Both the troops and the bad guys are waiting for your message to swoop in."

"Right," Rakeesh confirmed.

"Greg. To solve your problem one of two things has to happen. Either they learn that you have destroyed the software or they think you are dead. Both would probably be best. Right?"

"I guess so. But I don't want to do either. The latter is particularly unattractive."

"Seems to me that if the software will do what you say, then it should be destroyed anyhow, "Rakeesh interjected. "As you said, in the wrong hands it would destroy the Internet as we now know it."

"That assumes it would be a bad thing," Flora observed. "But we could kill you."

She reached down and pulled a snub nosed pistol from under the counter.

"This is for taking pictures of my body."

She pointed it at Greg's chest and before either man could react she fired. The sound reverberated in the small kitchen. Rakeesh knocked his chair on the floor as he stood up. Greg turned white and looked down at his chest.

"Fuck," he exclaimed as he started to pat his hand over his chest looking for a hole.

Flora aimed at the kitchen window and fired again.

"Blanks." Rakeesh announced as both men internalized that the window didn't break.

"That wasn't funny."

Flora scowled at Greg. "We're even—sort of. Yeah. I knew George had this around somewhere. He used it to scare the geese off his lawn in the spring. So I—or Rakeesh—will shoot you with this at the right time and Moonstar will think you are dead. Easy peasy."

"Easy?" Greg yelled. "Is this before or after those thugs shoot both of you? And why would I ever let them get that close to me again? "

Well, I think I have it worked out. A way to take care of them I mean. The Russians. The Moonstar thugs. And even Herb and the CDCers. Finish your breakfast. Go shower and get dressed. I'll lay it out for you when you are done."

Neither man argued with her as they each silently ate the food Flora had prepared.

By the time they were back Flora had the topographic map of the area spread out on the coffee table. One of the two curled edges was held down with a coffee table photo book of Tanzania and the other with a biography of Steve Jobs. They each poured a fresh coffee.

And Flora laid out her 'lesson plan' for the day in front of them.

### $$$$$

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Chapter 29: Rick: Sunday June 9th, 9 A.M.

'Board' to Death

Furlong, the hospital lawyer, and two other women he hadn't seen before were waiting for them in Furlong's office when they arrived at the hospital. They had been sitting at one side of the conference table and all got up from their chairs as Rick, Helen and Gwen entered the office.

"Good morning Rick, Helen." Furlong offered his hand to Rick. He looked at Gwen. "Good morning Hartwell." And then back to Helen. "Why is she here Helen?"

"She's my lawyer," Rick announced.

Gwen had filled Rick in on the gist of the meeting as they drove to the hospital and he now realized why he needed a lawyer. And he was pissed off. So far most people had treated him either kindly—or solicitously. Being treated in the latter way always pissed him off. Adi's father treated him that way; assuming that since he hadn't "seen the light" he was not really worthy of serious attention or discussion. A couple of his teachers had been like that as well. They assumed that a half Mohawk farm boy who liked to hunt, fish, fix cars and throw a football, would be dense as well. The only way he could get back at them was to prove them otherwise. There were more than those teachers who were surprised when he won the gold medal for the highest graduating marks in both Physics and History. Furlong was making the same mistake.

"I know we met before," Rick offered as he walked over to the lawyer and shook his hand. "But you'll excuse me if don't recall your name."

Gwen snickered as the small man introduced himself as Harvey Fingster, the hospital lawyer.

Rick wondered what kind of hospital did so many things wrong that they needed a full time lawyer.

"And ladies," he turned to the two women. "I don't think I've had the privilege?" He turned his attention first to the younger one standing closest to him. She was tall, had long blond hair rolling in waves over he shoulder. He guessed in her mid-thirties. She was dressed in a suit more like his father would wear than would his mother or sister. And he couldn't help but stare at the string of pearls around her neck, instantly averting his eyes, hoping she didn't think he was staring at her breasts.

"Monica Johnson, Mr. McLeod." She offered her hand. Rick thought the grip was firm for a woman. She used the whole hand as well, and not the fingertips like most women. "I'm from North Bay Social Services. Hello Helen. Gwen."

The other woman was the oldest person in the room, probably in her late sixties. "And I'm Judy Hathaway. Chair of the hospital board. Nice to meet you, Mr. McLeod." She had more makeup on than Janis Cameron did the night her husband died. He wondered how long it took her each morning to fill in the cracks of age in her face, and how regularly she dyed her hair so no sign of grey appeared anywhere. He knew a woman this age had grey hair like men because his Aunt Mabel had refused to use hair dye and had let her hair grow naturally grey. She and his mom used to debate this topic for hours. Rick didn't think men had this problem since most he knew went bald. There was no smile as she gave Rick one of those wimpy, fingertip handshakes and turned to Furlong and abruptly announced as she stood behind a board table chair. "Shall we sit down?"

Rick added immensely to her obvious discomfort when he walked over and pulled out her chair for her to sit down. He faked a slight southern, country boy drawl and announced, "My ma always told me to respect my elders, Ma'am."

Helen suppressed a laugh. Gwen stood there with a grin. Then he stayed standing in the middle of the office. It was clear that Furlong and the others expected Rick and Helen—they hadn't planned on Gwen—to sit opposite them at the table. But Rick's football coach had told him that a good quarterback always surprised the opposition with a trick play once in a while. Even if it didn't work it kept them on their toes.

"I don't think there is a need for me to join you at the table right now. You can talk with Ms. Hartwell if you wish. But I'm going up to see my Adi. And then I'm going to stare for a long time at our little babies. You all have a good meeting. Let me know how it goes Gwen."

And he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Helen had told him what they wanted to say. The hospital had a policy that only relatives could visit the intensive care recovery area and since Rick wasn't related to Adi he wouldn't be allowed to visit her until she was in a regular ward. He was the father of the babies so they couldn't stop him from seeing them—at least through the glass. But Adi was another matter. Helen guessed that someone—probably Adi's parents, or maybe social services — had put the fear of the law into Furlong and he had reacted in what he thought would be the best interests of the hospital. She also told him that local social services had been told by the Ministry in Toronto to investigate and do whatever necessary to protect the welfare of the babies. Rick didn't know what that meant since he couldn't see that their welfare was in any jeopardy. But now he had three threatening defensive lines to deal with: Adi's parents, the hospital, and the government. He needed to talk with Adi right away.

He left the hallway where Furlong's office was located and started towards the elevator. He quickly pulled back as he saw the security guard at the elevator. "Shit," he muttered. "Furlong must have called security."

There was a hospital layout map behind him on the wall and he quickly located the cafeteria. It was on the second floor and he could reach it by the stairs a few feet away. He ran up the stairs and when he got to the cafeteria he looked for the kitchen. Once, when he was ten, his uncle Frank had been in the hospital with a heart attack and Rick and his three cousins the same age had to go with their parents to the hospital. The hospital said they were too young to visit their uncle so they amused themselves by playing hide and seek all over the small Alliston Hospital. That was when they discovered —to Uncle Franks' delight—that there was a service elevator from the kitchen to each floor for meal delivery. The three boys could use it at their whim to sneak into see their uncle without being seen by anyone but the kitchen workers. And they never seemed to care.

This hospital was no different. He quickly found the elevator. Some white-coated and hair-netted people preparing trays of food at a counter looked up as he pushed the elevator up button and, after one of them said something to the rest, they looked up and smiled. One of them gave him a thumbs-up as the elevator opened and he punched five on the pad. When he peeked out the opened elevator door the hallway was empty. The nursing station was thirty yards or so to his left and he recognized Adi's room as the second on his right. Her door was open. He quickly ran out into the hallway and into her room.

Adi was alone and sleeping. He closed the door, locked it and went over and sat down in the chair beside her bed. He guessed that he didn't have a long time before they would be pounding at the door. He had a lot to discuss with Adi, but he wanted to look at her for a moment. Even after what she had gone through he thought she was beautiful. She was not much for a lot of makeup so her naturally smooth skin shone even when asleep. Her long auburn hair was tussled and probably dirty. She hated having dirty hair and it was a good thing she had washed it the night before they came to the hospital. Maybe if they sorted out the visitor thing he could come and wash it for her. She would like that. As he watched her sleep he wanted to burst into tears he loved her so much. And now they had children together—one—three—five—it didn't matter since they had each other and everything would be alright and then he did start to cry a bit. She was lying on her side facing him and a sudden she opened her eyes and saw him and she smiled.

"I was dreaming of you." She reached out a hand. "Crank me up a bit."

There was an electric remote, like a remote control for your TV, at the end of the bed and he pushed a few buttons until he found the one that raised the tip of bed so she could sit up a bit.

"Dreaming of me might not be good for your health. How are you feeling?"

"I'm sore and I sleep a lot. But okay I guess. The nurses are real kind and bring me anything I need. They told me I'd be here for a week or so Rick. They put in a phone, so you can call me when you want. How are you doing? Have you seen the babies? They told me I might be able to get in a wheelchair tomorrow and go over to the nursery. Did you know they are called babies A, B, C, D and E? So I was thinking we would give them names that started with those letters. Like Alice, Bobby, Charles, David, Eugene—or something like that. What do you think? Have you talked to your parents yet? Do you think mine know where we are? Oh Rick." She started to cry softly. "What are we going to do for money?"

She would have kept going but Rick leaned over and kissed her. "The babies are beautiful. Just like you. The naming idea sounds great. We can chat about that. But if you are feeling up to it I have to talk to you about a couple of things."

He didn't have much time. Once they found the door locked they would either get a master key or the security guard. Or the head nurse might even carry a master. So once they tried the door he figured he might have two or three minutes.

"I can only stay a moment. They are insisting only relatives can visit you and since we're not married they won't let me see you. I snuck in this time but it won't likely happen again. So how do you feel about getting married?"

"Of course—we're engaged." She didn't quite follow his story about sneaking in.

"No I mean now. Maybe tomorrow. As soon as I can get a license and a minister."

He didn't tell her about Karly.

"In the hospital room? I must look dreadful? I can't get married looking like this."

"It would be a legal type ceremony. We could have the big ceremony—the flowers—the bridesmaids —the music—all the stuff you talked about. We could have that later when you get out and I've made some money. But we should get married so our babies have legal parents."

He got down on one knee beside the bed. "Adi Butler. Will you marry me?"

She gave a weak laugh. "Rick McLeod you goof. I'd marry you anywhere—any time."

He stood up.

"Okay. I'll arrange it. Get ready to be a married woman." As he stood he noticed the clipboard with a pen attached on a string hanging at the end of the bed. He grabbed the clipboard and turned the paper that was on it over to the blank backside and wrote on the paper. Just as he finished he heard the door handle turn and shake. He put the clipboard in front of Adi. "Adi when those people come through the door I want you to wait until they are looking at you and then sign this paper."

She looked puzzled.

"Just trust me on this. Okay?"

She nodded.

The door burst open. Fingster and Hathaway followed Furlong closely as they charged into the room. A security guard pulled his keys from the door. Johnston, Gwen, Helen, the security guard and a couple of nurses hung back near the door. Rick raised his hand.

"Stop," he ordered. The lawyer and the Board Chair were following Furlong so closely they crashed into his back when he stopped in the middle of the room.

"Now, Adi. Do it now."

He kept his eyes on Furlong.

"Did everyone see what she did?" He turned to Adi. "Adi are you feeling alright?" He guessed there was a legal term for what he was after, but saying 'are you of sound mind and body' like he heard on TV didn't sound right for the occasion. "Do you know what you signed?"

"Yes I do."

"Okay then." He took the clipboard from Adi. "Who wants to sign that they witnessed her signing this?"

So far no one knew exactly what 'this' actually was. No one spoke up.

The little lawyer felt he should take charge in some way and he stepped forward and put out his hand. "That clipboard and paper are hospital property. You have defaced hospital property. Give it to me."

Rick held the clipboard out of the lawyer's reach. "Oh I will. After someone signs that they witnessed it." And he looked around the room again.

"I will."

Everyone turned to the back of the crowd at the door as Delores pushed her way through. "I'll sign it Rick. Whatever it is, I saw Adi sign it a moment ago."

Fingster stood in front of her and looked up and down her nurses uniform. "If you sign that you will be fired Miss...?" He squinted over his glasses at her nameplate. His face came up to her chest level so he had to look up as he read it. "Miss Klinger. Sign that and you will be fired." He crossed his hands over his chest with a smug sense of finality. "And that goes for anyone else here, whoever wants to have anything to do with this hospital," he announced as he scanned the other faces in the room. His gaze stopped at Gwen and she smiled. Hathaway was vigorously nodding her head. Furlong had a pained look on his face.

Delores walked up to him until she was standing looking down at him and her chest was less than a foot from his nose. "You little turd. You can't fire me or bully me. I don't work here so fuck off and go practice your little man syndrome on some other poor employee."

She pushed past him and took the pen and clipboard from Rick. She quickly read it and signed the paper under Adi's signature. She leaned over Adi and gave her a little peck on the forehead. "Hey girl. These assholes give you any trouble give me a call. I know about three thousand university students who love a good cause." She brushed past Rick, took off her nametag and handed it to Furlong. "Here. I guess this is hospital property as well."

Rick held onto the clipboard and looked at Furlong. "I think that Adi needs some sleep now. Why don't we go back to your office and continue that discussion we started earlier?"

He gave Adi one last kiss. "Love ya babe."

"Right back at ya," she smiled.

He walked briskly towards the door and out into the hallway without turning around to see if Furlong was following. When he got out into the hallway he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Think maybe I should have a look at that?" Gwen asked as she nodded at the clipboard. She had a notion about what he had done and was impressed. Since his little show in the boardroom she had a growing respect for the boy. And now this. "Nice show in there," she offered as she took the clipboard and read what was on the paper.

"Thanks."

He was glad she couldn't see the sweat running down his armpits. He had not done anything like this in his life. His parents had taught him respect and trust for those in important positions. But he had already stolen a car in the past week so standing up to some administrators didn't seem that bad.

"Hmmm. Not too bad. Where did you learn to do this?"

"Saw it on _'Law and Order'_ once." And they both laughed as she read the document out loud for Helen and the others that were now gathered around them.

_I hereby authorize my fince, Mr. Richard McLeod_ —"I think you mean fiancé. Richard—that's a nice formal touch,"— _to make all decisions regarding the good of our children and me._

Adi and Delores Klinger signatures were at the bottom of the paper.

Gwen turned the paper over and read what was written on the other side and frowned. "Helen, is there a photocopy machine handy?" One of the nurses answered that there was one at the nursing station she could use. Gwen left Rick, followed the nurse and was back a moment later with several photocopies of the signed document. The original was tucked away in her purse.

"Okay—let's go have that meeting in the boardroom."

"Can I see our children on the way?" Rick asked.

The nurse again interjected. "This way Mr. McLeod. Gwen you'll have to stay here." And Rick followed the nurse through a set of swinging doors into the nursery area. Rick was surprised to see a man standing at the window with an expensive looking camera on a tripod apparently taking pictures of the babies on the other side of the glass. Suddenly he was angry again. "What are you doing?" Rick demanded. Those are my children and I didn't say anyone could take their pictures."

The man was flustered and moved the tripod away as if he thought Rick was going to damage his camera. "I work for the hospital and they asked for some photos that they could give to the press."

"I'll let you know when you can take photos of my babies. So tell ' _them_ ' to ask _'me'_ first."

Rick was feeling confident after the event in Adi's room and felt proud of the firm but polite way he handled the photographer. When the man had left Rick walked over to the window and looked at the five small incubators that housed his new family. Once again he was shocked at how small they were. They were the size of the chipmunks that they used to feed on their back deck at home. He noticed that some index cards with the letters A to E had been taped above each of the separate glass tops. He couldn't tell which of the babies was the girl so they couldn't use these alphabet names to come up with real ones quite yet. He was surprised by the morass of tubes and wires that were hooked up to the glass rooms they lived in. There were clips on two of their little toes and tiny little masks over their mouths. Behind each incubator there was a collection of flashing screens with numbers that Rick didn't understand.

"What do these flashing numbers mean?" he asked the nurse.

"Well, one gives us the baby's heartbeat," she patiently explained. "Those are the big numbers on the largest monitor. Then there are the monitors that show the atmosphere of the incubator. Essentially the objective with preemies is to recreate as closely as possible the environment of the mother's womb. The small tubes attached to their arms are the umbilical, feeding the babies. The little clamps on their toes tell us the babies are getting enough oxygen in their blood. There isn't much of anything about these babies that we're not constantly monitoring."

"Are they doing alright? "

"So far. Baby C—the girl— doesn't seem to be absorbing the nutrients as well as the others. They should truly have had another month inside Mrs. McLeod before joining us in the real world. So it will be touchy for a while yet." Her tone was concerned yet comforting.

"Baby C," Rick thought. "That would be Charles according to Adi's scheme." He guessed that a girl could be called Charlie if necessary.

As they watched, baby B kicked out with tiny feet. He figured B was their football player. He was becoming totally engaged with every detail of his children. Even at this size and this stage of development he determined that they were starting to show different traits. D looked like a musician. Or maybe an artist since he was waiving—well not exactly waiving, but certainly moving both arms in a rhythmic fashion. And baby A actually yawned. "Maybe a hospital lawyer" he chuckled to himself. E had the most hair. Clearly movie star potential. Only C had yet to give him a clue as to her potential future.

"When can I hold them?" He wanted to go into the room and pick up each one and hold them close and whisper to them that he was their daddy and he and their mom would take care of them. He felt helpless and not fatherly having to stand behind a wall of glass to view his children.

"That's up to the Doctor—Dr. Monk. There is a debate between those who believe that early touching and holding by the mother—or father—" she added with a smile, "is important to babies, even preemies, and those who believe that the risk of infection in such premature babies is too high for public contact, even with the parents. But I'd guess if we got you gowned and masked up you might be able to pick them up in a week or so? Depends on how they progress."

"Do you have children?" The nurse was probably as old as his mother.

"Yes. Three. All grown up now and starting families of their own."

"Next time you are in there tell them that their mom and dad love them will you?"

The nurse touched his arm in a kindly fashion. "I will. I will. Come now and I'll take you down to the boardroom. You can come back and watch them anytime you want."

When they got to the boardroom Gwen was waiting outside the door and he guessed that the others were inside waiting for him.

"So—can you tell me before we go in there what they want with me?" he asked.

She laughed. "Well, the lawyer wants you to be banned from the hospital. The social worker wants to take your babies. Helen wants to make you the biggest story since the Dionnes. And that warm and fuzzy Board Chair wants you sent straight to hell for having sex out of wedlock. Furlong wants everything to go away so he can retire in peace. So before we go in there. What do you want Rick?"

" I want to take my wife and children home with me."

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Chapter 30: Captain Flora Sunday, June 9th, 2013 9:03 A.M.

The Best laid plans...

Rakeesh watched as Flora spread the map over the coffee table and he wondered where this person had come from. He had been in the combined military police for over forty years. And Greg didn't appear to be the type of man who took orders from anyone. Yet the both of them were willingly waiting for a schoolteacher—ex schoolteacher maybe—to give them their next order. Only a few days a go she was a silly woman who patronized him as an Indian ticket seller. This morning she was his lover and partner. Was it her environment that had made her what she was? Now that she was free, and clearly in a different setting away from the routine that her job and marriage provided, did a different person to emerge?

One of his old military instructors—both old and former, he remembered with a chuckle—had told their class of recruits that the battle experience brings out the best and worst of people. It overrides any previous effect a person's living environment might have had on shaping their behavior. As Rakeesh remembered it, the instructor expressed it in a decidedly more crude fashion. And the reference was to men, not persons. There weren't many women in combat roles in the Indian military forty years ago. But the comment had sparked considerable debate amongst the recruits about the role of environment in shaping personality. There were many who still believed strongly in the caste system in India. You were what you were born to be. Many of the young recruits were at boot camp because their families were members of the _Kshatriyas_ or military caste yet anyone could see that they were more suited for the _Brahmin_ or academic caste. Rakeesh thought that some of them should be in the _Shudra_ caste and relegated to cleaning out the latrines. But the instructor turned out to be correct. Over his career he had seen the most pompous turn coward and the most obsequious turn hero.

He wondered if gender was a modern sort of caste. The western world piously ridiculed the Indian caste system while at the same time enforcing stereotypical roles for men and for women. Not to mention the racial profiling he had faced since he came to Canada. Ticket selling and cab driving were the expected place for those like him with darker skin and accents. This didn't make him angry or bitter. He was comfortable with who he was and he understood that in a country like Canada such views were the minority. But a woman like Flora might not even be aware she had been playing a role scripted by society rather than one that spontaneously emerged. The expected marriage—within her caste. The requisite children—she would probably have had two and a half if it were possible. The comfortable job—can't get much safer than a grade six class. The predictable friends—all playing the parts in _Sex in the City_. And now she was in a different environment. No husband. Likely no job. People shooting at her. And now sex in the country. He wondered which Flora would emerge from this as he leaned over the stretched out map.

"First let's deal with Herb and his friends. So here is where we are." Flora pointed with a fork she had brought from the kitchen. "And here is the NORAD base air intake vent."

She paused while the two men oriented themselves with the map.

"As you can see there is no road between here and the base. If we wanted to go there we would have to drive back through town to get around this big lake that is between here and the base. Also, you can see there is only one way into the vent location. It is a one kilometre dirt track used by the occasional hunter or fisherperson I guess, but mostly only used for periodic checks on the vent."

"That's probably true," Rakeesh offered. "They probably have a manual that indicates when they have to inspect it. And they probably have a security camera somewhere watching the road."

"Right. So that is why the CDC gang won't come in that way," Flora proudly announced. "They will come this way." She pointed to the forest side of the vent location. "I told you before. We used to cross country ski in there and there is a trail that runs from the vent down to the lake here. One of Herb's emails mentioned a boat didn't it?"

"Bugger. Yes it did. "Greg answered.

"So. Look at this map and tell me if you were them and wanted to come in by this trail what would you do?"

Both men studied the map. Rakeesh drew the trail with his finger to the lake and then to various places around the lake.

"Well it would have to be private," Greg offered. "They wouldn't want to be seen. It would have to be reasonably close to the far shore. They probably wouldn't want to use a motor, so they would paddle. And this gang didn't look like the 'courier de bois' type. So I'd say somewhere along here." He pointed to an area of the shoreline on their side of the lake."

"Wait a minute." Rakeesh interjected as he pointed at several locations on the map. "We are here. On Cross Lake. Your cottage is here on Jones Lake. Here is the road to your cottage and there is the portage between the two lakes. Here is the larger Pike Lake between the vent and us. And here is the closest shoreline on our side."

They stood and looked at each other. Flora stood smugly with her arms crossed.

"That's Bergeron's farm. Where I put the Explorer. They're going to launch from the farm and paddle over to the other side, walk to the vent, cut through the enclosure fence, come back to the abandoned farm and be home before the military figures anything out."

"Okay Sherlock and Watson. This is all wonderful but what does it have to do with us? We still can't call CSIS, the RCMP or anyone else without exposing me or the software."

"Sure you can," Flora retorted. "There is a payphone—remember them? — in Morris, another twenty kilometres down the Trans-Canada. They can trace that one all they want. And I'll make the call if you want and they won't even hear your voice. But I'm getting a little ahead of myself here. First let's talk about the Russians and the Moonstar guys."

For the next two hours Rakeesh and Greg listened to Flora's plan. They asked questions and they clarified, but in the end they agreed it was a good plan. Flora outlined what each of them had to do the rest of the day.

"What about your lottery ticket Flora," Greg asked when they had finished the planning. "If he cashes it in won't it will be difficult for you to claim ownership? Shouldn't we go get that first?"

"It will have to wait Greg." She glanced at Rakeesh. "If he hasn't cashed them in by now then he probably doesn't realize they are winning tickets. And it seems he has been a little preoccupied with other things lately. And right, you and I have more important things on our minds now than money. So let's do this thing first and go after the kid tomorrow?"

"Fine. But you know this is crazy don't you?" Rakeesh offered as he poured his fourth cup of coffee. "I mean, not only could we all get killed, but I'll probably be fired, the Internet could be destroyed, and your children will probably disown you. And that thief could walk away with over six million. No one would even think this plan up in a bad novel or movie."

"Greg's the only one who will get killed. And if any of you have a better plan let me know?"

"Nature or nurture?" Rakeesh muttered to himself as he watched Flora roll up the map and clear the coffee cups off the table.

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Chapter 31: The Cavalry, Sunday, June 9th, 2013 11:18 A.M.

_Hold on. We're Coming_.

"Did you read this story about the babies?" Frank Tinsdale asked as he pulled his chair back from the small round table and tossed the front section of the Nugget to the man sitting on the chesterfield rubbing his pointer finger over an iPad.

"Yeah," Gil Harbour responded. "Five fucking kids. All at once. At least we spread our three over five years. But they were still a shit load of work."

"How old are they now?" Frank knew the answer but he liked giving Gil an opportunity to talk about his children. He had none of his own.

"Twenty-seven, twenty-five and twenty-two," Gil offered. "First two girls. The last a boy. The last one was a Labatt's mistake."

Frank and Gil had known each other before, but this assignment had given them time to become better acquainted. While Gil was a cyber specialist, Frank was an assault planner. While Gil had an iPhone strapped to his hip and an iPad as constant companion, Frank had a Glock and a vest. They had been in this Holiday Inn hotel room since Saturday night. The full squad of the ten similarly uniquely skilled OPP SWAT team was spread over the other five rooms on this floor of the hotel.

"Well I think that these kids—the parents I mean—are in for a shit load of trouble."

"No kidding," Gil offered. Two of mine are still living at home.

"No. I mean now. Like what the paper said about the last time this happened here. Those five babies born in the thirties. The government taking over and all that. That Dionne story sounds kind of sad."

"I wish the government would help Sally and me. I want to retire next year."

"I mean look out the window there." Frank pointed out the large window beside the table. "The city is still exploiting the poor fuckers. That old log cabin there was where they were born. Paper says they moved it here to get tourists to stop here. In 2013 for shit's sake."

"Yup. Children are a lifetime of grief," Gil observed. "But I'd not give them up to the government."

"Paper says these kids might not have any choice. Broke. Not married. Perfect fodder for government do-gooders."

"Yeah. Well you are a government do-gooder so I would be careful who I shoot in the foot."

"So where do you think he is now?' Frank asked, changing the conversation.

"I don't know. He hasn't turned on his phone since yesterday afternoon or contacted us since the abort text. But the Russians are gathering here, so I'm guessing he is around here somewhere as well."

"How many Russians now?" Franks tactical mind was staring to work.

"Of the ones we can track. Three. But those are minor thugs. The brothers haven't shown up yet. We think they will put some kind of surveillance on Rakeesh and then wait for the brothers to get here before taking him. They want his information not his body. But they would have received the iPhone signal as well and sent someone to check out that cottage like we did."

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Frank instinctively moved his hand over the Glock.

"Yeah?" Gil yelled through the closed door.

"Officer Morrel sir."

Gil went up and opened the door.

"Come in Wendy."

Officer Wendy Morrel was dressed in the best of Mountain Equipment Co-op. Her pants were tan, quick dry, zip offs and her top a taupe fleece pullover. She wore a green Tilley hat, and muddy Timberline hiking boots bottomed off the outfit. She looked every bit the thirty-something, five foot six, adventurer that she was on her weekends off.

Gil looked her up and down and wondered if it had been a good idea to bring in some resources from the local police force. She seemed capable and they needed someone who knew the local terrain. The local police Chief said she was the best. The rest of Gil's team was trained SWAT and he was concerned about how she might react under fire. But that wasn't why she was part of the team.

"Have a seat Wendy," Gil gestured to one of the chairs around the table. "There's still some hot Timmy's here if you want some?"

"Thanks. Don't drink coffee," she offered as she sat at the table.

"Okay. What did you learn?"

"Well. Very strange. As you ordered, I went incognito to the cottage last night after you arrived from Toronto. I put on my civvies and rode my mountain bike in from the Trans-Canada. It was still light so anyone who saw me would think I was out for an evening ride."

"Were you armed?" Frank inquired.

She gave him a disgusted look and pulled up her pant leg to show the ankle holster.

"Cool," he replied as he looked at both the gun and the leg.

She shot him another look that suggested he might not want to tangle with her.

"So when I got to the cottage laneway I hid the bike and walked through the bush to the cottage. There was an Explorer parked in the driveway. After checking to see if there was anyone around I went into the cottage. The door was open. And here is the first strange part. There had been some kind of fight. The picture window had been shot and it looked like a bullet had gone through the cedar door leading to the lakeside. There were shell casings all over the cottage floor. Then I walked down to the lake and found a bunch more on the beach. It looked to me like someone attacked the cottage from the beach."

She pulled a handful of shell casings from her thigh pocket and put them on the table.

"Well the ones from the cottage are nine millimetre. Probably from a Glock. These are thirty-eight casings. Police issue. But these," Frank observed as he fingered the other casings, "are 303 casings. And probably forty or fifty years old. Here. Look at the numbers on the bottom. But old or not, they would certainly go through a thick door. A window for sure."

"So what happened there?" Gil asked?

"I don't know sir. But a second strange thing. There was a small puddle of blood in the cottage by the back door. Someone was hit. Maybe by the assault from the beach."

She paused.

"Should I call my Chief to get a crime scene team in there?"

"Fucking Russians. Not yet. If we do that then it will be public knowledge that we are here. The scene won't go away. Any more to report?"

"Yes sir," Wendy continued. "You ordered me to take up a surveillance position so I did so."

"How did you do that?"

"There was an old outhouse sir. There was indoor plumbing now so I didn't think anyone would bother with the outhouse so I took up position there. It was set back in the woods slightly and gave a wide field of vision. I spent the night there sir."

"You spent the night in a shithouse?" Frank was impressed. "In a bush full of mossies and blackflies?"

"Yes sir. I only left an hour ago after I was sure there was no more to be learned at the cottage. I wore a head net and gloves, but no DEET. Stinks too much and would give me away."

"You said there was more?"

"Yes sir. At ten thirty two—" She pulled out her notebook and checked it. "A single male approached the cabin from the woods. He was pretty careful. I'd say some sort of professional. He also had a thirty-eight in his hand as he checked the place out. Then he got into the Explorer and drove off."

"Description?"

She checked her note again. "One hundred and eighty-five centimetres. Athletic build. Eighty kilos. Dark complexion. Maybe East Indian. Hard to tell since he had a head net on as well. And he really stunk of DEET."

"Did you say East Indian?" Gil interrupted her.

Gil ran his fingers over the iPad. "Is this him?"

He showed a photo of Rakeesh standing behind the lottery counter.

"Yes sir. That's the man."

Gil showed the full screen photo of Rakeesh to Frank.

"Well at least he is still alive. But he will be real pissed that he let this young lady—officer—watch him."

He turned back to Wendy. "You didn't see where he went?"

"No. He drove down the laneway pretty fast and would have been long gone before I could have chased him to the road. Besides I didn't think it appropriate for me to be seen."

"Okay. Good thinking. Anything else?"

"Yes sir. About an hour after that three other men approached the cottage through the woods. They were dressed in black leather jackets and carried weapons in their hand as they stalked the cottage. It was dark but I would guess that the weapons were some sort of machine pistol. One guy went within three metres of the outhouse. They searched the place like I did and when they were done gathered in the parking lot and talked before they left."

She paused.

"They cursed constantly at the bugs. Sir they spoke Russian."

Gil and Frank exchanged glances.

"Anything else?"

"Only one small thing sir. As I rode my bike in from the highway I noticed an old pickup. It may not mean anything but I recognized it as belonging to one of the city's well-known bad guys. Drugs. Assault. That sort of thing. It might not be related to this case at all but I thought I would mention it. Other than that there was nothing else. I stayed there until this morning and nothing else happened so I figured it was safe to come back and report to you."

"You've done well Wendy," Gil responded, thinking that he had to figure out a way to get this young woman permanently assigned to him. "Go back to your room in the hotel, have a shower, something to eat and maybe a nap. But be ready to move quickly."

"Yes sir."

After she left, Gil and Frank sat for a moment with their own thoughts.

"That's some woman there, "Frank offered.

"That's some policeperson there," Gil corrected.

"Okay. Okay. What now boss?"

"Well he's still alive. The Russians are certainly here and looking for him. But why did they comeback? And if they weren't the ones in the shoot out at the cottage who was?"

"What should we do?"

"Wait until he calls us I guess," Gil answered. "Maybe you should go get us some more Tim's. Might be a long day."

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**Chapter 32** : **Rick, Sunday, June 9th, 10:40 A.M.**

### I'm from the government and I'm here to help you...

Rick and Gwen stood outside the Boardroom door.

"I appreciate your urge for a family life Rick. But at this point you don't have a wife and you don't have a home. So domestic bliss isn't exactly in the cards right away. Let's go in and listen to them. We'll work on strategy later. Let me do the talking this time?"

The boardroom scene was a replay of the earlier encounter. All except Helen were sitting on one side of the board table and two chairs were placed opposite. Helen was standing with her arms folded across her chest at the end of the room. The only surprise was the addition of a uniformed policewoman who stood beside Helen, her left hand resting on the top of a holstered revolver as if she was about to make a quick draw. Nobody got up as they entered the room. Gwen was as surprised as he was at the presence of the policewoman. Rick noticed that she nodded at the woman and the woman nodded back.

Rick looked at the chairs and remembered the time he and Roger Barlow had been sent to the Principal's office in grade eight for fighting. That time, he thought to himself, I was wrong. This time I'm not. He was relieved when Gwen stayed standing as well and touched him on the arm to stop him from sitting down. He pushed the chairs aside and stood with his large quarterback hands palm down on the table. Furlong started to speak but Gwen wouldn't let him.

"Thank you for taking the time on a Sunday to meet with us," she announced as if it was she and Rick who had called the meeting. "I'm sure you would rather be with your family or at your church. If you don't mind I would suggest a short agenda. My client—" she nodded at Rick. "— has other things to do today as well. So I suggest we stick to the following: the health care of the mother and the babies; the access to both; media coverage. And then there is the small issue of government involvement in this family's life." She paused but didn't give anyone else a chance to speak. "And I'm glad to see Constable Paquette here today. My client and I are close to laying charges against the hospital."

Constable Paquette smiled. Furlong's mouth dropped open and turned to the hospital lawyer with a questioning look. Again Gwen didn't give them a chance to reply.

"Let's start with this." She handed them photocopies of the page that Adi had signed.

They each read it quickly. The lawyer spoke up.

"Where is the original? And this document was signed under duress. It is meaningless."

"I have the original in a safe place. I'll be glad to produce it in court. And I think there were six witnesses—other than those of you at the table right now—who would be glad to testify that Adi was fully capable of signing this. And by the way, I represent Delores Klinger as well so if you are thinking of any punitive action against her, please give me a call and we can chat about it."

There was silence for a moment. Rick could see that Furlong and the Board Chair were squirming a little in their chairs. The young social worker smiled. The lawyer stared at the paper as if studying it would change the content and meaning.

"So, I guess we are agreed that all decisions regarding the care and welfare of both Adi and the babies will be made by Rick?"

No one answered. "I'll take your silence as concurrence. Now then. Visiting rights. Rick will be the only non-medical or hospital person who will be allowed to visit Adi."

Hathaway interrupted. "You can't do that. Her parents are on their way to take charge of this abomination. I've talked to them and they understand the need for these babies to be under good Christian care and not looked after by a fornicating teenager."

Rick had been wondering what the big fuss had been about and why the hospital was taking such a hard line on him and the babies care. And now he understood. Somehow Adi's parents had managed to get to the Board Chair and maybe Furlong as well. Adi's father could be forceful and persuasive.

The Chair continued.

"Her parents will be bringing kidnapping charges against you as soon as they arrive this morning. Constable Paquette will be here in case you try and run. And to make sure that you don't go near their daughter ever again. The Savior will judge you young man." She sat back in her chair feeling quite proud of herself.

"Hmmm. I see," Gwen quietly responded. "We'll consider your suggestion. Now to the media."

"Helen." She looked over to Helen who was still standing at the back of the room with Constable Paquette. "I presume you are preparing a press release quoting Madam Chair on this?"

Helen stood silently with her arms folded.

"Well, I'll leave that for you to ponder. But we do have a few suggestions regarding the media. First. No photos of the children without my client's permission." She looked over at Helen and she nodded concurrence. "Secondly, I will be the media spokesperson for my client from now on. I'll do for this abused and bullied, upstanding young man what Helen does for this hospital." She looked at Furlong and Hathaway. "Any problems with that? And since"— she waved the signed paper in the air—"he speaks for Adi and the babies, then I am their spokesperson as well."

So far Monica Johnston, the social worker, had sat back and smiled. Rick remembered he had met her earlier and had seen her in the background up in Adi's room. Gwen walked the length of the table and turned to face her.

"And now for our government. Is it true the Minister has ordered you to take custody of the children?"

The Board Chair interrupted. "Yes he has. I have talked to him personally and explained the circumstances. And he agrees this is an horrendous event and that it is our duty as a Christian province to step in and save these babies."

Furlong put his hand on her arm. "Judy. Maybe we should let the young lady respond for the ministry," he gently suggested. Gwen wasn't so kind.

"Protect them from what?" Gwen glowered at the Board Chair.

"If we were to let this young girl keep her children it would send a message to every other teenager in the province—maybe in the country—that it is morally acceptable to have sex before marriage. "Don't worry," we will be saying to them. "Fornicate away and we'll give you flowers and private hospital rooms, and whatever else the hospital can't afford. And then we'll support you while you raise your children in a Godless environment so that they will do it themselves when they get older."

"Sort of like why we took the young First Nations children away from their parents and put them in Church schools?" Gwen suggested.

"I'm sure it saved many young people from a heathen existence," she earnestly replied, totally missing the sarcasm in Gwen's question.

"Gwen. It's about the money. Nothing else," Johnson offered in a calm voice. "Mr. McLeod, I'm sure that you love Adi and the babies and you have nothing but good intentions. But with all due respect to Mrs. Hathaway—and the Minister—this has nothing to do with anything else but the resources needed to properly look after and raise five newborns. It was no different in nineteen thirty-four when the Province made the quints wards of the province. The parents were even married with a home, but didn't have the resources to raise five babies. Welfare and child support payments wouldn't be enough."

Rick had been listening to this intently and for the first time was starting to realize what was happening. They were trying to take their babies away. "Not welfare," he interjected in a loud and firm voice. "Or any kind of government money. My family has not taken any money from the government they didn't earn and Adi and I won't start now. I can support my family."

"How Rick?" Johnston asked, not unkindly. "You have only graduated from high school. I know that Adi's pregnancy got in the way of you going to university and that you have always worked in some way or another. Are you going to troop five new babies in an old pickup truck to Fort McMurray hoping for a job and a house when you get there? For that matter where will you live and how will you survive while you are waiting here in North Bay? Do you have any money? A job?"

"I can give him one."

Everyone turned their gaze to Furlong, the Board Chair with a shocked look and the hospital lawyer with a frown.

"A job I mean. Rick, if you are good with machines and such, we have an opening in the hospital maintenance department. It's shift work and doesn't pay much, but it will let you see your babies and Adi anytime you want. It will give you some money while you wait to see what you'll do later."

"Thank you sir. I'd be appreciative of that opportunity right now." Rick reached over and shook his hand. "And Miss," he addressed Johnston, "Adi and I have a good place to stay in town with some old family friends. We'll figure out our next step once the babies are out of the hospital."

"I'm happy things might work out for the next month or so Mr. McLeod. But it won't change the Ministry's current position that you will not have the appropriate resources to care for these babies once they are out of the hospital. I have been ordered to commence proceedings for the Province to take over their care. The process will require a court order and take a week or so, but it will happen Mr. McLeod. I'm sorry."

Gwen, Rick, the Board Chair and the lawyer all started to speak at once and Furlong stood and took control of the meeting as his Blackberry and his desk phone rang at the same time.

"Thank you for coming. I think that is all we can do for now. Rick, you can see your —your girlfriend— whenever you want. And Helen can tell you how to report for the job when you are ready. There will be no photos or any statement from the hospital without your or Gwen's approval. He glowered at the Board Chair and the lawyer. "Monica and the Ministry can do what they think they have to do, but for the next while the only thing that this hospital will focus upon is the care of Adi and the babies. Thank you." He picked up his Blackberry, answered the call as he walked over to his desk and turned back to the group as they got up to leave.

"Time to make your first decision Mr. McLeod. Baby C went into cardiac arrest."

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Chapter 33: Karly, Sunday, June 9th, 1 P.M.

_Keep the faith baby_

Karly's Angels were organized into squads. Most of them were members of her congregation and ranged in age from budding twelve year old revolutionaries to several raging grannies. The latter were mostly women whose husbands had abandoned them for moose hunting, or the golf course, or both. While in the minority, there were also several young men whose emerging social conscience renewed her lagging faith in the minority gender. As different as they were in many ways, they were united by a passion to change the world in their own little way. Once any of them had nibbled at the power of even the smallest protest, like a sugar addict, they were hooked on the taste. Karly's calls to action were the highlights of the their lives and they usually dropped everything —jobs, spouses and children—to go into action.

She had them organized into action squads of a half dozen.

One, led by the twelve-year-old, was the "Twitter" squad. Another led by a seventy three year old grandmother did the web page and Facebook updates. One group, led by a local graphic artist, was in charge of placards. A student in Journalism at the university had a team that prepared press releases and wrote any 'manifesto' type documents that they needed. Finally, a young officer from the Canadian Forces Base—NORAD Base— nearby handled the logistics of the actual protest. Transportation, food, drinks, security. Karly thought that he had a similar job in the military but never understood the military jargon. He treated each protest as an "engagement" as he called it, and the targets of their engagement not had a chance against his "personnel deployment" strategies. And he called everyone 'sir'—even the twelve-year-old and her.

All it took was one email to each of the squad leaders—she wondered if it was church-like to use such a military term—and each of them sprung into action. And that was the email she was now preparing on her new MacBook Pro.

Hey gang.

Hope you are all well and ready to go to work. As you have probably read in the paper or seen on the news, a young woman had quintuplets in the North Bay Hospital early yesterday.

She typed in the URLs for the CTV and Nugget websites, and continued to type.

Normally, this would be a wonderful story and hardly the venue for our work, but there are some interesting complications that scream out injustice and call for immediate social action. Briefly, as I understand it, the complications are that they are not married, the mother is aboriginal, and neither have any money.

She wanted to add that the girl was from a Saviour's Salvation family but that was her own personal issue. She had a serious problem with Saviour's Salvations ever since as a teenager candy striper she had helplessly witnessed as a five year old child die because The Saviour had told the parents that blood transfusions were not allowed. That experience actually started her on the road to religion as she tried to find out what God would ever tell parents to prompt them to let their child die. She had learned, of course, that it wasn't a God, but man who made such bizarre pronouncements in Her name, and even more bizarre humans who believed it. Her God would not ask such a thing of believers.

The issue, of course, is that this prig of a Minister of Social Services has immediately responded by telling his staff here in North Bay to begin the legal process to make these children wards of the province. They did that eighty years ago with the Dionnes and everyone has paid for that—the babies, the parents and the city.

Actually she had read a fair bit about the Dionne case since living in North Bay and it was probably a good thing the Province stepped in and took over the raising of the children in those days. But that isn't really relevant to this case.

So here is the pitch.

_Ronnie, we'll wait until you and your team craft the wording of a press release, but the gist of our intervention—_ She never used the word protest— _is three fold._

First, discrimination against the poor. The state shouldn't be able to step in to a family life because the family isn't wealthy. You can work on this one Ronnie—reeks of a creeping two-tier system.

Second, we should work the unmarried angle. Today being born out of wedlock doesn't mean born in sin. These are two responsible young people starting out in life in love and in control. The state should help them, not abuse them.

And most interestingly, one grandmother is actually aboriginal, raised on a reserve outside of Brantford. I'll leave you to imagine the public response to the spectre of another residential school magnitude fiasco.

She paused for a moment to think how long it would take for the journalism team to write the press material and how long for the others to get their work done. She looked at her watch. The press release needs to be done by four this afternoon to make the next day's Nugget and she wanted to make the Sunday six o'clock news.

Let's aim for a 3 P.M. press release. Then, a 10 P.M. candle light vigil gathering at the entrance to the hospital. Mary, you can start working on the placards right away. Ben prepare for an all night vigil.

Okay gang. Let's do it. Let's save these babies.

Love ya all—

Karly

She reread the email. Made a couple of small corrections and hit "send". She was well aware that at least one member of her team would send a copy of the message to Helen Porter at the hospital. That was fine. A few extra security guards made for good news copy. She would send a copy to Gwen. She groaned as she stood from the extra large custom chair that actually fit her body. Her joints were increasingly feeling the effects of a lifetime of extra duty. Knee and hip replacements were inevitable and she wondered if it was a good idea to piss off the hospital. "Christ," she blasphemed to herself. "Maybe I'm getting too old for this crap."

She waddled into her bedroom to get dressed for another "intervention."

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Chapter 34: Rick, Sunday, June 9th, 1:12 P.M.

_The Hospital Cares_

By the time they got to the maternity ward earlier that morning, the crisis was over.

At least in the short term.

Baby C had been separated from the other three babies and was so covered in wires and tubes and other pieces of equipment that Rick could hardly see her in the crib. One nurse was standing staring at the wall of screens behind the baby and another was standing beside the incubator staring intently at what looked like a large iPhone. Dr. Monk had looked up and saw the delegation at the large window. He picked up a clipboard from another nurse as he took off his surgical mask and came out into the hallway.

"Mr. McLeod, Furlong," he acknowledged, ignoring the others in the group and not waiting for a question "Baby C's heart stopped"— he glanced at the clipboard— "at 12:36 P.M. We intervened and the heart started again less than thirty seconds later. She is now stable, although we are essentially keeping her heart beating for her." He was careful not to be technical in the description. He wanted Rick to understand exactly what was happening

"So she is alright? There is no problem?" Rick held back panic.

"She is stable. But there is something going on we don't know about. We are doing some testing now and should have more answers in a few hours."

Gwen touched Rick on the arm. "Rick. There is nothing you can do here right now. Let's go and take care of some other things. We can come back later this evening when Dr. Monk has more information. And you can see Adi then as well."

Gwen wanted to get Rick away from the hospital. She sensed correctly that he had been close to the breaking point in the boardroom, and now this crisis with the baby could send him past the tipping point. She had no idea how stable he was, but a meltdown in front of Furlong or the Social Service people would hardly serve him well in the custody discussion. Rick kept his eyes on the morass of tubes and wires that was baby C. He nodded in a vacant way and started to walk with Gwen down the corridor to the elevator.

"We'll call you if there is any change," Furlong offered as the elevator door closed on his anxious face.

Gwen and Rick were alone for the first time since they arrived at the hospital early in the morning. Rick started to say something.

"Not now," she gently ordered. "Wait until we are in my car."

Neither of them talked until they were both squeezed into Gwen's car and were out on the Trans-Canada Highway, which ran beside the regional hospital.

"Where are we headed?" Rick asked.

"To City Hall. Helen's assistant has talked to a friend who works there and she is going to come into the office today and give you a marriage license."

"If we are married will that stop them from taking our babies?"

"It won't hurt. But no. The Ministry will make their argument strictly on financial grounds. Unless you can manage to come up with a job that pays you more than minimum wage then they will have a good case. No. The marriage thing is largely to make sure that you are in charge of Adi and the babies' care. Helen told me that Adi's parents will be here tonight. Some Toronto lawyer—probably from their church— has applied for a custody court order for the babies for the grandparents. They have also applied to be granted all decision-making powers regarding Adi. Apparently they went berserk on the phone with Furlong about the transfusion. I guess the Board Chair doesn't understand patient confidentiality. But Adi is over eighteen so as long as she is lucid it is doubtful they will get that. But the baby thing is another matter."

"You mean they could get custody of our children?" Rick was incredulous.

"Courts make decisions that they perceive are in the best interests of the children. If the court decides that you and Adi do not have the resources to properly care for the babies then they will consider other options. Adoption by the grandparents is one. Being made wards of the province is another."

They drove in silence for a while as Rick thought about this. He knew that if he told his parents they would do anything they could to raise the money. They were property rich, as the saying goes, since their farm was worth a fair bit. But like most farm families they lived from crop year to crop year. They had a small debt from some equipment purchased a few years ago so they could easily access funds with another mortgage on the farm. He winced at this thought. He remembered the big party they had when they burned the mortgage a few years ago.

"How much money would we need?"

Gwen thought for a moment. "It isn't the one-time cash that will make a difference, it is the long term resources. So, for example, having enough money to get through the next month—even the next six months— wouldn't be enough. You would need to show evidence of a stable income over the long run, either from a steady salary or an endowment of some sort."

"A what?"

"A big bank account that would generate enough interest for you and Adi and the kids to live on. I haven't seen their court application yet, but Helen told me that Adi's parents have offered a stable home life and an endowment for the babies of over half a million dollars."

Rick thought of the two thousand seven hundred and sixty-five dollars he had left from his travel money and slumped in the cramped Lotus seat. His parents could provide a stable home life, but could not come up with that amount of money even if he wanted to ask them. "Shit."

"Right," Gwen responded as they pulled into the City Hall parking lot. "But let's deal with one thing at a time."

By late afternoon when the call came from the hospital they had covered a lot of ground.

Rick had the marriage license. They confirmed with Karly that she would perform the ceremony in Adi's hospital room. Gwen felt that a religious rather than a civil ceremony was important. They set the wedding date for four the next afternoon. Gwen and Janis would be witnesses. Gwen asked Rick if he wanted a best man but he wished his dad was here. His dad was his best friend.

They had picked up Rick's truck and true to his word the garage owner wouldn't take any money. He had even replaced the cracked windshield and done a complete oil change and service along with the transmission repair.

"We are all rooting for you kid," he offered with a smile and a firm two-handed shake as he gave Rick the keys. Rick was starting to realize what people meant when they were wishing him good luck.

They went to the courthouse—another clerk had agreed to give up some of his Sunday afternoon— and filed a 'counter' something or other to Adi's parent's claim. Rick didn't know exactly what it was, but it would mean that the judge couldn't decide quickly on the custody of the children. They would have a little breathing room to figure something out.

Rick checked with the hospital every half hour. Finally the shift nurse on the maternity floor promised him she would call immediately with any news so he didn't have to call all the time. Adi called once when she woke up. She was getting stronger and Rick knew she was definitely improving when she asked him to bring her a Timmy's Ice Cappuccino when he visited later that afternoon.

They talked about the wedding. Adi had asked Delores to be her Matron of Honour so he guessed he needed someone. Maybe Herb. He liked him. Other than the garage guy, he was the only sympathetic male Rick had talked with since arriving in town. One of the nurses had a dress she thought would fit Adi and wouldn't look bad on someone lying in bed. Apparently she wouldn't be able to get up and walk around for another couple of days.

They talked about the babies. The nurses had wheeled Adi and her bed to the window to see them and Adi cried and said she could hardly wait to cuddle them and love them. So far no one had told her about the Ministry initiative to take them away, so he told her to not worry they would all be together soon.

She told him her parents had called, but he was relieved to hear she had decided not to talk to them. She had wondered how her parents learned where they were. Rick explained that the babies were a little bit of a media event so they must have seen something on television.

They always finished off their chats with 'love ya' and kisses and Rick felt a little self conscious kissing his cell phone in front of Gwen.

Late in the afternoon Rick and Gwen stopped at Herb's again for an early dinner. They hadn't taken a break for lunch. Gwen spent the first ten minutes over her coffee reading things on her iPad while Rick chatted with Herb and his daughters. The place was quiet in the afternoon as most people had their daily caffeine and saturated fat quota by then and wouldn't start coming in for dinner until after six.

Rick noticed one group sitting at a back booth. He noticed them more for the intensity of the argument that they were having rather than their appearance, although the latter was not North Bay normal. A young man in the group was totally covered in chains. They hung from his belt, his shoulders and, Rick noticed, smaller chains hanging from his ears and nose. Rick wondered what people with chains and rings in their noses did when they had a cold. A young girl dressed in what Rick recognized as Goth sat opposite the young man. An older man Rick guessed to be Herb's age sat beside the girl. Maybe her father, Rick thought. Another man his dad's age sat beside the man in chains. To his amusement they were debating his own circumstances.

"This is a perfect example of why we simply do not need government at all. The threat to this family from social services shows why the state is undesirable, unnecessary and harmful," the young woman proclaimed as she tapped the fresh issue of the newspaper on the table.

The other three nodded vigorously at this apparently well-practiced speech.

"Fucking right," the boy in chains smugly announced. "We must oppose all hierarchical organization in the conduct of human affairs. There should be no such thing as the state. Only the individual."

Gwen rolled her eyes as she and Rick slid into the booth next to the group.

"Nice speeches kids, "the older man admonished. "But are you ready to stop talking and start causing shit?"

"We have," the girl responded. "G20 protests. The Glebe bombing. We're not afraid to back up our beliefs with action. Anarchists have changed the course of history. We're changing the course of Canadian history. And I've got the gas."

"We'll see," the man exclaimed. "Just don't tell Herb." And the three huddled quietly and Rick and Gwen couldn't hear the conversation any more.

"Herb is a little bit of a leftie," Gwen whispered. "Harmless really. But he does provide a gathering place for some strange people once in a while."

"Do they really want no government?" Rick didn't know much about anarchists or protests.

"Apparently. I only know them from the G20 protests south of North Bay in Huntsville and the occasional chat with Herb. I defended a university student who had been arrested there for not much more than being dressed in black. He was actually part of a group that Karly organized to protest at the G20 as well. But Herb insists that they were just trying to raise the profile of poverty and other social injustices, not anarchy."

"Maybe I should get their help to deal with social services?"

"Right. And get some piercings through your lips and nose. That will get you public sympathy for sure—not," Gwen offered. "Let's eat something."

Herb and his daughters served the only genuine Indian food in town. Herb apparently spent time on an Ashram a decade or so ago. So his clientele shifted from truck stop caffeine and cholesterol to North Bay's enlightened gentry, but the atmosphere was still strip mall plastic. Rick had what Gwen called a 'Butter Chicken' though he couldn't see any butter. Gwen had a Lamb Vindaloo. He actually liked his but when she gave him a taste of hers, he burned his tongue.

"Geez, I won't taste anything for a month." He shoved a piece of the flat bread in his mouth to absorb the heat.

"You actually get used to it. I kind of crave it once in a while now."

Rick glanced around through watering eyes at the assortment of fashionably dressed clientele. "Looks like people in North Bay are addicted to pain if you ask me."

After they ate, Rick asked Herb to be his best man and Herb was visibly moved. He came around from behind the counter wiping his hands on the clean apron he put on for the dinner crowd and gave Rick a hug. "I'd be honoured. I got a suit right for that," Rick wondered what suit would go well with the hairnet.

"Okay Rick," Gwen broke the emotion of the moment. "What job do you want?

"Job?" Rick looked up from his conversation with Herb.

"The media reported you as unemployed and looking for work and my office has been deluged with job offers. Having a job will help your case. So what is it? Cook at the golf course? Dry wall installer? Electrician's helper? Custodian at the town recreation centre? Car salesman? Hotel receptionist? Technician at the muffler place?"

"I could use another line cook here?" Herb lied.

"I thought the hospital offered me a job?"

"True. But unless Furlong makes it a permanent position, it looks a little like a temporary patch on your employment circumstances. To convince a judge you have to have a stable position of some sort."

She paused as she read more messages.

"Hey here's a good one. The local university has offered free tuition for you and Adi. Apparently both your applications were on file with the provincial application centre. Did you apply for university?"

Rick nodded. He had, but not this one.

"Well the university is impressed enough with yours and Adi's high school marks that they have offered you program admission and free tuition and a sizable bursary. Nice thought. Being a full time University student would impress the judge. But they don't say what you are supposed to do with five babies while you're getting 'gazongoed' during frosh week."

It was this offer and Gwen's last comment that caused Rick to realize again what a predicament he was in. He and Adi were indeed kids. They had planned on university next fall. Even with a baby they had planned to save their money in Fort McMurray so Rick could start Engineering in a year or two. It was a bold plan with one baby. Now it was a stupid dream. He didn't want any of the jobs that Gwen described. It wasn't that he was lazy or a snob or anything. He had always worked and he genuinely liked the people he worked with in the lower paying jobs that young people filled. And it was people like the garage owner, Janis and Herb and their families who were helping him now, not the board chairs and corporate lawyers. He knew that the job offers were coming from people who couldn't afford another employee but wanted to help.

His mother had told him that a person can not avoid their purpose in life. When he didn't want to play football—or slacked off on his studies—or tried to ignore his heritage—she would tell him that the "hounds of heaven will nip at your heels until you make use of whatever gifts God has given you." She was right. He had an athletic gift and he felt empty when he didn't use it—football was the venue in high school and he knew he would eventually find another athletic outlet in his new life. Math and problem solving was another. He had a gift for mathematics and the application of numerical spatial relationships to real life problems. His dad shook his head at the various contraptions around the barn Rick had designed that had made their work easier on the farm. Rick knew that while car salesman or linecook were wonderful professions, they were not his particular destiny. Gwen could offer him her job and he wouldn't want it. But now he was stuck in North Bay running out of money, with a high school education, and a soon to be new wife and five babies. He wondered where that 'hound of heaven' was right now.

The call from the hospital interrupted his thoughts. He thought it was Adi again but it was Furlong's secretary asking them to come to his office at seven this evening. The test results on baby C were back. The secretary said she didn't know anything about the results. Rick knew it was a lie. Secretaries knew everything. Sometimes more that the bosses they took care of. But he didn't press the matter and he and Gwen slid out of their booths.

Rick insisted they take his truck this time. He chuckled a bit as Gwen had to lift her skirt to climb up to the cab of the slightly raised pick up. She grunted as she climbed in.

"Beats your sardine tin," he laughed as he pulled out of the mall parking lot.

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Chapter 35: Greg, Sunday, June 9th, 9:12 P.M.

_Armageddon_

Greg had not had many close friends. He had been what later generations would call a nerd. As a teenager he suffered— as he once drunkenly described to his wife, "... in the days before they made movies about geeky, unpopular, peach fuzzy, boys who could halt nuclear war, hack into the evil Pentagon and ultimately win the heart or virginity of the blonde cheerleader." No one ever saw him as a hero. Not ever. While other fourteen-year olds were gorging their emerging libidos on stolen Playboys, he kept a pile of Popular Mechanics beside his bed.

He was enthralled with the history of computing. He gave himself the nickname Greg "Turing" Halbert, insisting that everyone call him by the name of the recognized father of modern computing. He visited the University of Pennsylvania in 1969 when he was fifteen, not to protest the war like the others on the bus, but to see the original parts of ENIAC that were stored there. While most of his generation drank, smoked and protested their way through university, he spent his spare time building his own Franklin. After completing his Computer Science degree at Western Ontario he turned down offers from IBM, Compaq and Hewlett Packard and joined the fledging Osborne Computer. Before they went bankrupt in eighty-three he had learned some important life lessons.

He got married. His first wife was as nerdy as he was, but her hobby was sex. After four exhausting months she left him for a California producer of porn movies. She and her new toy eventually became quite wealthy from her development of the first listserv for California porn.

He discovered his body. He had not been into the sweating pastimes. It wasn't that he was a physical wimp. At just under six feet and a latent mesomorph he could pass for a beach bum anytime. It was just that he had not paid any attention to his body before. At twenty-seven he discovered that exercise—cardiovascular and weights—gave him more stamina. Not in bed or the sports field. At the computer.

He discovered that the money in computing wasn't in the hardware but the software. While his colleagues at Osborne were trying desperately to come up with the next hardware design to follow up from their success with the first portable computer, he was designing software and the languages that wrote the software. By the time Osborne went bankrupt, he was already selling his software inventions to major computing companies around the world. He specialized in sub-algorithms, which allowed companies to develop their own software.

By the end of the Millennium he had patents on a dozen sub-programs that were used in everything from cell phones to super computers. He was rich. He had travelled the world. Wife number two was a singer he met at the annual Las Vegas Technology show. She soon left him with enough of his money to start her own record label.

And he was sick

By the time he joined Moonstar in 2011 to help design their data mining software he had been independent for twenty years. He married again. This time to a Computer Science Professor at the University of Toronto. She was relatively normal by the standards of his previous women and the first to recognize his syndrome and urge him to get proper diagnosis and treatment. His delaying to do so cost him the company of an exceptional woman, although they had not divorced and, except for the past year, still kept in touch.

It was a little over a year ago when he made his discovery of what he called the "Turing." It was accidental. He was experimenting with different algorithms to mine the large amounts of data that a large reward card operation gathered and kept confidential, when he discovered that he wasn't reading the protected data, but internal company e-mails. Then he found he was into their financial and personnel records. Even more astounding he found he was able to read password protected personal accounts. He then tried the software on a state bank. To his astonishment, with careful Boolean searches, he was able to access individual accounts and do anything he wanted with their money. He had quickly shut his computer down, walked over to his liquor cabinet and poured a tall Macallan.

He knew what he had. But he didn't yet know how he did it. That would take hours of pouring over code to see what he had done differently this time. But right now he wanted to share this exciting discovery with someone, and for the first time in his life he regretted that he was alone. He had no family. No wife—at least who lived with him. No friends.

Until today. Now he had two friends. He had only known them for three days but he had shared everything with them and it had felt good. He was even glad that Flora had rejected him. He liked having her as a friend better than as a lover. The fake shooting at the cottage was childish for someone like her, but so was his videoing. He decided he would erase the tapes and not do that again. He liked Rakeesh as well and was happy they would be a couple.

He had time to think about this as the three of them lay silently in the loft of the decaying Bergeron barn. Flora's plan was a good one and he had agreed to go along although he knew there was really only one solution to his problem with Moonstar. He had to either give them the software or destroy it. He knew the people there and they would not give up as long as they thought some other company might get it before them. He had known Ralph Billings, the CEO of Moonstar, since their days at Western together. He had made the mistake of thinking he was a friend so he had told him about his discovery. He had been immediately ordered to turn his work over to Moonstar. He refused and after a late night visit a year ago by two thugs who were surprised at a computer geek's strength and ability to defend himself, he disappeared. What Moonstar knows, and what he hadn't told Flora and Rakeesh, is that he has not yet determined how the algorithm works or how to copy it onto a computer. Maybe with a little more time he would figure out all of this. But for now the program only existed on the one data stick. Without the stick no one could use the program.

Moonstar doesn't want him. Just the stick.

And now he was depending upon the timing of Flora's plan. And on several assumptions.

The first assumption was that the CDC gang was actually using the farm route and would wait until after dark. He had not been able to find any mention in Herbs' emails of the timing of the act, only the date. Flora and Rakeesh had checked the shoreline that afternoon and found the two canoes that had been stashed for the trip across the lake. He didn't think the desperados he saw at Herb's looked like Mountain Equipment Co-op folks. It might have been entertaining to watch them try to paddle across a fairly rough lake in the dark. Rakeesh had taken the butt of the .303 and smashed a hole in the bottom of the cedar strip canoes, so no matter what happened at the farm the gang would not be getting over to the NORAD base vent.

It was also based upon the assumption that the Russians, Moonstar and Rakeesh's cavalry friends from the OPP were approximately equal distance and time from the farm. The anarchist chasing CSIS, and military arrival in time to help, would be a bonus. Greg had made the call to CSIS from a pay phone in Morris, but he had no idea if it was taken seriously or how long it would take CSIS or the NORAD contingent to react. When the person at CSIS had asked his name he had said "Turing...Mr. Turing."

"Thanks for your call Mr. Turing." Greg could almost hear the tracing wheels turning in the background. "We will investigate this information and take appropriate action."

Now the three of them lay on some old hay. Rakeesh had called it straw as he spread it out and Flora had corrected him. "This is hay not straw," she had lectured, explaining the latter was just the stalks of things like wheat, while hay was an actual grass that was good animal food. Flora once again surprised Greg.

"Is straw more comfortable?" he asked, sifting his body from one side to the other, slapping at a stray mosquito that risked exposure to the DEET that was spread over every exposed part of his body. "I'm too old to lie in a dusty barn on mouldy whatever you call it."

The barn boards at this level had separated enough from age and weather to give them a good dusk view of the Bergeron property. The cleared area was two acres, with the old house in the middle and the barn along the western edge. The lane from the cottage road entered the property from the south and the trail to the lake left from the north. From the vantage point of the barn loft Greg could see the sun setting over the remnants of a garden behind the house and some farm fields off to the East. He recognized gone-to-seed rhubarb and asparagus, and an uncontrolled morass of raspberry bushes. He wondered about the history of the place and why anyone would leave a home— where there probably had once been kids and laughter—to simply rot.

He watched as Flora lay prone on the hay, the binoculars she borrowed from George scanning the property through the large crack in the wall. With her hair tied up in a black scarf, the starter pistol tucked in the back of her jeans, and the old .303 lying by her side Greg thought it reminded him of a scene from an old war movie where the French resistance heroine lay waiting for the evil Huns to arrive. He thought she suddenly looked much younger than fifty- five.

Rakeesh had tried to commandeer the rifle, but Flora would have none of it.

"Have you ever purposefully shot at someone?" he argued, side stepping her anticipated argument about her shooting back at the cottage.

"No. And as long as I have the rifle, neither will anyone else."

"You shouldn't even be here," he retorted. "This is police business."

"You should have thought about that three days ago buster."

Greg laughed and they both turned to him like they had forgotten for a moment that he was there.

"Are you sure they saw you?" Rakeesh asked for the third time.

Greg had taken the Explorer to Morris while Rakeesh and Flora checked the property out. The plan was for him to make the call to CSIS from a pay phone and drive into town until he determined that the Moonstar men had seen him. Then lead them back here. As soon as they saw the Moonstar gang arrive Rakeesh would send a text to his colleagues and fifteen minutes later the Russians would arrive followed five minutes later by the cavalry.

They still had no idea when the CDCers or CSIS and the military would arrive, or even if they would. But that wasn't integral to their plan, only to the public cover up later. Rakeesh figured the OPP wouldn't want a news story on what they would do to the Russians. And Greg certainly didn't want to explain to Peter Mansbridge what the 'Turing' did. So apart from the fact the military might be of help in some kind of show down, they could be a convenient cover up for the rest of the plan.

"I'm sure. When I drove back from Morris, that old pick up you saw before was sitting on the edge of the highway where it could see the cottage road. There was a guy with long hair in it, smoking and listening to thumping music, but we made eye contact before I turned into the road, so I know he saw me."

"Well it would probably take Moonstar fifteen minutes or so to come from town. We still have a few moments," Rakeesh suggested as he fingered the iPhone.

"Not fucking likely."

The voice came from the ladder that led to the loft. They turned as a man dressed more appropriately for a corporate boardroom than a barn loft pulled himself up into the loft. He waived a Mac10 machine pistol at them. Rakeesh wondered if had been modified to be automatic. His black hair was gently slicked back. He was dressed in a double vested blue suit and he rubbed each of his shiny black shoes against the back of his pants as he stood in front of them. Greg guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties.

Rakeesh fingered the iPhone in his pocket.

Flora reached for the .303.

"Don't do that lady," the man ordered. "What the fuck is that thing? You gonna to start world war two over again? And what the fuck is that smell? All of you. Get up and let's go down and chat with my friends. Pick up the rifle carefully lady. Boss will get a laugh out of that."

He stood over them as they went down the steep barn ladder one by one. Flora had the .303 slung over her shoulder and went first. There were two more men dressed in dark blue pin-stripped suits. The men were the same age vintage as Double-Breasted and stood in the dark barn at the bottom of the ladder. One had some strange looking goggles in one hand and a machine pistol in the other. The other had one arm in a sling and the same Mac 10 pistol as Double Breasted in the other.

"Damn," Rakeesh mumbled as he saw the goggles. "Infrared."

"You think we were going to march in after the last little shootout?" the Sling asked, as he slapped a mosquito on the back of this neck. "An inch either way and I'd have been toast." He looked at the rifle Flora had brought down. "That the thing that shot me? Christ maybe I'll get some ancient disease or something."

"Shut up Luke."

They looked to the double door entrance to the barn leading out into the yard.

"Bring them out here where I can see them."

Double-Breasted motioned with his pistol and they went out the door into the darkening evening.

"Lady, put that blunderbuss on the ground before you hurt someone."

Flora carefully laid the rifle on the grass at her feet.

"So where the fuck have you been for the past year Greg?"

While they were coming down from the loft, a fourth man had brought a van to the front of the barn from its hiding place down the lane. The lights from the van were suddenly turned on and aimed at the barn door. Greg was temporarily blinded. The speaker was leaning against the front fender smoking a cigarette.

"I told you those things would kill you Ralph," Greg replied. "Rakeesh. Flora. Meet Ralph Billings, the CEO of Moonstar and once my best friend. I'm honoured that you would come in person Ralph. You usually leave the dirty work to others."

"You never had any fucking friends Greg. After the last fuck up at the lake this was too important to leave to these yokels. Smoke keeps the bugs away."

"Yeah. Where did you rent these friends Ralph? A movie set? You should get out more Ralph."

"I want the drive Greg."

Greg and Billings stared at each other.

"Search them."

Goggles put the infrared glasses in the van and started with Greg. First he frisked him and found nothing. Then he told him to take down his pants and bend over.

"Don't bother," Billings intervened. "Even he isn't a big enough asshole to hide a data stick there. Check the others."

Goggles professionally frisked Rakeesh while the others watched. When he found the ankle holster he stood and held the gun for Billings to see.

"Hmmm. Police issue. 38? An old Paki cop? You bring the police into this Greg?"

Goggles moved to Flora and Greg could see Rakeesh bristle as the man took extra liberty and time with his hands. Once he rubbed his hands over her crotch.

"Oooh. Nice touch," she announced to the twenty-something man. "I bet you're a big hit with all the grandmothers. Do you grope your mother this way?"

She was rewarded with a rough squeeze of her left breast. She stared into his eyes as he reached behind her and found the pistol tucked in her jeans.

"Well this gang of senior citizens is full of surprises," Billings offered as he took the pistol from goggles. "A .22? What were you going to do with this peashooter?" He stuck the pistol in his own waistband.

"None of them have the drive, Mr. Billings."

Billings pulled some blue nitrile gloves from his pocket and snapped them on. He went over to the barn and picked up a rotting four-foot length of two by four. He banged it against the ground like a baseball player testing a bat, walked over to Greg and without warning hit him across his back.

Greg went down on his knees. Rakeesh made a move but was stopped by Double-Breasted.

"Lift him up," Billings ordered. "The stick Greg. The stick."

"I'm impressed Ralph," Greg replied through clenched teeth. "You finally did something yourself."

The next hit was on his forehead and blood spurted as he fell forward to the ground.

The blood was running down into Greg's eyes but he was still conscious.

"The stick Greg," Billings repeated.

"I destroyed it," Greg rose to his knees as he squinted though the blood at Billings. "This is a technology that a world full of people like you is not ready for."

Billings stared at him. For a moment Greg thought Billings might have believed him.

Billings moved over to Rakeesh and took a full swing at his knees. Flora screamed as Rakeesh fell to the ground moaning and holding his left knee.

"The woman is next. Bring her over to me."

Double-Breasted moved over to Flora, grabbed her roughly by the arm and brought her over to where Billings was standing with the two by four. He lifted the wood up to swing.

"Stop." Greg wiped the dripping blood from his yes. "I'll give it to you. Just leave her alone."

Billings kept the two by four in hitting position. "I'm waiting."

Greg stayed on his knees and spoke to the ground in front of him. "It's in the Explorer parked behind the barn. Duct taped under the battery cover."

Billings nodded to Goggles. He pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment of the van and walked briskly around the edge of the barn.

"Can I help wipe the blood off his face?" Flora asked, still in Double-Breasted's grip.

"No," Billings snapped. "Stay where you are."

Greg was touched at the concern in Flora's face. Whatever happened now his only concern was to protect Flora and Rakeesh. This was not going at all to Flora's plan, although he had known all along that Billings would not stop until he had the software. His back ached from the first hit of the two by four. He wondered if the second one had concussed him. He had a blinding headache so he closed his eyes to ease the pain. No one was saying anything while they waited for Goggles to come back. Rakeesh was silent now. He could hear the tick, tick of the hot radiator of the van. There was a gentle tapping on the ground in front of him and he figured that Billings was tapping the wood while he waited. There was a constant mosquito hum from the woods around them. He wondered how many Cicadas it took to make the night-time symphony that surrounded them.

They heard the closing bang of the Explorer's hood. Goggles came around from behind the barn holding a data stick.

"Found it Sir."

Billings threw the wood on the ground, opened the passenger side door of the van and pulled out a thirteen inch MacBook.

"Give it here," he ordered as he opened the notebook and turned it on. "Let's have a little test drive."

The software fired up within seconds.

"So, if this thing works I should be able to find things about myself that even I don't know," he chuckled as he typed in his own name into the search engine. He stared at the screen for a moment. Then shut the lid. "Fuck."

"Okay. You got it. Now go. Get out of my life and leave us alone."

"Oh I'll get out of your life alright Greg," Billings agreed as he pulled the pistol they had taken from Flora, walked a metre closer to Greg and shot him point blank in the forehead.

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Chapter 36: Rick, Sunday, June 9th, 7 P.M.

Charlie

They parked in front of the hospital door in a spot marked "Vice President Operations," but the four security guards on duty smiled and ignored them. Rick helped Gwen down from the truck as she mumbled something about being too old for 'rodding' around with good looking men in souped up pickup trucks. Rick looked at her as they walked into the hospital and tried to envision her thirty years younger. He smiled as he imagined a young Gwen on the bench seat of a new truck like his.

Furlong's secretary was waiting for them at the front door, along with a small collection of reporters. Rick had also noticed a small group of people gathering in the corner of the parking lot holding what appeared to be signs of some sort, although they were mostly facing the ground and he couldn't see what they said.

"What do you think about the government taking your babies?" one reporter yelled at Rick as large flashes from small digital cameras temporarily blinded him.

"Did you grow up on a reserve?" another asked.

"Will you raise the children as a Saviour's Salvation?"

Rick said nothing. Gwen stood in front of him and in the midst of the barrage of flashes announced that there would be no comments at this time. She pushed her way into the corridor that led to Furlong's office. Two security guards stopped the reporters from following them. One guard at Furlong's office opened the door for them. Rick figured he had seen more security guards since they got to the hospital than were on the whole Alliston police force.

The same people had been in the boardroom for the morning meeting were there and seated in the same seats. The only addition was Dr. Monk who was standing at a white blackboard. He seemed to be giving a lecture of some sort when they arrived. Furlong stood up.

"Hi Rick. Gwen. You know everyone here. Please take a seat. Dr. Monk has started to fill us in on the test results."

Rick and Gwen sat down opposite Furlong. Ruth Hathaway was seated on his right. Harvey Fingster on his left. Unlike last time both seemed subdued and quiet. Rick wasn't sure this was a good sign, or a bad one. Helen sat at the end of the table and Constable Paquette looked like she hadn't moved an inch from the morning.

"Good afternoon Rick." Monk ignored Gwen. He walked away from the white blackboard. "I can give all sorts of detail and draw you all sorts of pictures, but the bottom line is that baby C—"

Rick interrupted him. "Charlie. The baby's name is Charlie."

"But it's a girl," Hathaway interjected. A look from both Furlong and Monk shut her up.

"Sorry. Well Charlie has some serious problems. It appears that her heart hasn't fully developed. This isn't unusual in preemies such as your babies. That is why we keep them in such womblike conditions for so long. They need time for their organs to fully develop. In Charlie's case it wouldn't have mattered if she had ten months inside Adi instead of eight, she would still have had this heart problem. In simplest terms, a ventricle is not properly formed and unless it is repaired she will die."

"Which one?" Rick asked.

"The left one," Monk replied.

"So the main pumping ventricle is the problem?"

Everyone looked at each other in surprise. Helen openly smiled.

"I once thought I might try for medical school," Rick explained. "So I paid particular attention to human biology in the science curriculum. And my uncle had a mitral repair so I learned something about it from him. So tell me more. What caused this problem and what is needed to fix it?"

"Okay." Monk went back to the whiteboard. With some simple diagrams she enthusiastically described in medical detail Charlie's heart problem.

"The clinical name is hypoplastic left heart syndrome. Essentially a combination of defects result in the left ventricle—the main pumping ventricle as you said— being too small to support life. In Charlie's case she also has a transposition of the great aorta." He drew a crude diagram of the heart showing how the two major arteries of the heart are reversed. "Combined, these two problems are serious for Charlie."

When Monk appeared to be finished Rick spoke again.

"Cut to the chase now Doctor. Can they be fixed?"

"Yes. The hypoplastic syndrome must be fixed immediately. The transposition could wait until she is stronger, but that isn't likely to happen unless we fix the syndrome. So the syndrome has to be done within hours. Only a few years ago such a premature baby would not survive. But we do have some modern surgical techniques to deal with this."

Furlong interjected "Not here. Not in this hospital I mean. There are maybe three hospitals in North America set up to do such microsurgery and maybe half a dozen surgeons would ever try it. The problem for the medical community is that the chance of success with such an operation is so slim that no Doctor wants to have such a failure on their record. In addition, few hospitals will want to face the public relations, and possible legal, repercussions of trying it and failing."

Hathaway added her observation. "Not only that, but this is an expensive operation and no medical plan— private or public—will agree to cover something with such a slim chance of success."

"Dr. Monk?" Rick looked at Monk, still standing at the whiteboard with a felt pen in her hand. "What are the chances of success?"

Everyone turned to her and Monk paused for a moment to think. "The only unit in North America that I know that might take this on is in Houston. If you got her there within the next twelve hours and the surgery was done right away? Maybe a fifty-fifty chance?"

"What about Sick Kids in Toronto?" Gwen asked.

"They are the best in the world at many things, but this is a complicated event and with the cutbacks of the last few years they are stretched pretty thin. They could certainly do it, but I doubt that they would agree to take this on. And I'm sure, as the Board Chair suggests, OHIP—provincial health care— will likely say, at least initially, that they won't pay for it.'

"What would it cost?" Rick dreaded the answer.

Furlong interjected again. "All in? Travel. Surgery. Recovery. Accommodation. It might cost close to a million when all is said and done."

"And no insurance will cover it?" Rick asked.

Helen spoke for the first time in their meetings. "The Government will say no the first time for sure, but public pressure might force their hand in this case."

"If they were wards of the province, the province would have to pay."

Everyone turned to look at Johnston as she continued.

"The government would do everything possible for the babies if it was in loco parentis. Even if the case was mostly hopeless."

She looked at Rick.

"Sign over wardship right now and I guarantee baby C—sorry, Charlie— will be on a Lear to Houston within the hour. As Helen suggested, I think it is probable they might eventually pay for everything if you keep the babies. The public pressure would be huge, especially if the operation was successful. But it would be a decision a long time coming. You would have to pay for everything up front and try and claim it back from OHIP."

"Or you could let the grandparents adopt the babies. I think they would put up the money," Hathaway smugly suggested.

Fingster picked up the copy of the document Adi had signed and waved it at Rick. "Seems you're in charge, kid. Dr. Monk says that you have five hours to decide and then it will be too late."

Rick stood up. "I need to talk to Adi." He looked over at Monk. "Make the arrangements in Houston and do whatever you have to do to get Charlie ready. We'll decide which route to take when the plane is ready to take off."

He paused, looked around the table.

"But Charlie is going to Houston."

He turned around and left the room without waiting for Gwen, Helen or anyone else to come with him. The fact was he needed time to think. He wasn't sure that Adi was ready to think about these things or even sure that this wouldn't damage her recovery. It had seemed easy to make the decision that Charlie would go to Houston and he felt good about having at least made that decision.

When he got to Adi's room, she was awake and partially sitting up with a tray of food in front of her. He went over and kissed her and sat down beside her and held her hand. "You okay?"

"Just tired. And they won't let me get up and walk yet. I probably couldn't anyhow. My legs are still pretty numb. From the anesthetic I guess. But I saw the babies today. They wheeled the whole bed up to the glass and raised it so I could see. I want to hold them so much Rick." She gripped his hand harder as the tears started to flow down her cheek.

He took her hand in both of his. "Don't worry. They are getting good care and we'll be able to hold them the rest of their lives. Did they tell you that Charlie has some complications?"

"Yeah I could see that she was getting some extra attention. Do you think it is acceptable to call a girl Charlie?"

"Sure. Someone will probably write a song about her—you know—like "A Girl Named Charlie.""

They both laughed. His father loved to sing the 'Boy named Sue' song at their family hootenannies. "Well as long as you don't sing it." Musical talent was one thing that Rick had not acquired from his father's gene pool.

She paused. "Is it serious?"

"Yes. She needs a difficult operation to survive. She has a heart problem."

Adi started to cry. "Oh Rick. I haven't even had a chance to hold her."

"The doctors tell me that Charlie needs to be sent away to another hospital—maybe the States—to get special treatment for her heart. You okay with that?"

"Of course. Rick let them do whatever is necessary to make sure our babies are healthy and strong. I told you. I have left the beliefs of my family behind me. It isn't God's job to take care of our babies. It is ours."

They were interrupted as the floor nurse and Gwen entered the room.

"Time for your meds and a nap, young lady. Those babies are going to need a strong and healthy mother. Out you go young man."

Rick gave Adi another kiss. "Call me when you wake up babe—love ya."

"Back at ya."

Gwen was waiting outside the room. She took his arm and led him down the hallway into the small waiting room he had been in before. He looked around the room expecting some change. It had only been two days since he waited here the last time but so much had happened it seemed much longer. He glanced at the coffee pot and wondered if it was the same coffee. "Let's sit for a moment, Rick."

She sat down in the chair and he sat on the chesterfield where he had slept such a short time ago.

"Rick, I know you have a big decision to make. Someone your age should be deciding which university to go to. Or which beer to pick up for Monday night football. But not the life and death of someone. I'm not going to advise you or even give you my opinion, but you should have all the information available before you decide. And the hospital isn't telling you everything."

She handed Rick the original consent form that Rick had made Adi sign.

Rick looked at the words he had written on the page and Adi's witnessed signature. "What's this? I have seen this. I was the one that scribbled on it and gave it to Adi. Remember?"

"The other side. The side that is Adi's medical chart."

There was a lot of writing on the page —chart, Gwen called it—but it was what was scrawled across the bottom in larger lettering that caught his attention and made him gasp.

Possible paralysis of lower extremities due to extreme trauma of spinal cord during operation. Under no condition is patient to be moved.

It was signed with a scrawl that Rick could make out — _Monk._

"She is paralyzed?" Rick was shocked. "Why didn't they tell me?"

"I imagine they thought you had enough to think about. And early on I suspect they didn't think you were that important. I've done a bit of investigation with some of the nurses and I guess everyone was hoping that the paralysis is temporary. But now they think she might require some special surgery to relieve pressure on the nerves leading to her legs. But the prognosis is good Rick. She should recover, but it will likely take a long time."

Rick's head was swimming. "I needed to know this."

"Well you do now. I'm sorry Rick." She got up to leave. "I'm going to leave you now. I suspect you could use some time on your own now. You have some decisions to make. Would you like a coffee or anything?"

"No. Thanks. There is coffee here." Actually I'd like my mother, he thought as he sat back on the chesterfield suddenly feeling exhausted and defeated.

"I'll close the door and not let anyone disturb you. Let me know if you want anything. I'll be in the cafeteria for a while."

He knew he had to think and he knew he had to make some decisions but his brain was too full to process everything properly. If he had something to sort out back home he would go for a run along the banks of the Boyne River that snaked along the back of the farm. He would run for a kilometre or so. Then walk for a while and then run some more. There was one place where the river made a sharp bend and created a wooded peninsula of sorts where his mother and he used to pick puffballs and fiddleheads in the spring. But most of the time it was a place where he could sit and watch the river go by and let his brain sort things out. But he had never had to sort out such complex and serious issues as faced him now. And the waiting room on the fifth floor of the North Bay hospital didn't provide the same karma as the bubbling Boyne. He sat down and laid his head on the back of the chesterfield. It had been another long day. He closed his eyes and saw the river and the woods. I'll relax for a moment, he thought to himself.

He woke with a start and a glance at the clock told him he had drifted off for almost three hours. He went over to the Tassimo and made himself a coffee. His mom had Starbucks with hers. "Beats this 'no name' stuff," he said to himself. He walked over and stood with his coffee looking out the waiting room window.

The window overlooked the entrance of the hospital and it looked like there was some sort of protest march going on in the parking lot. From what he could see there were probably a hundred people gathered outside the entrance, yelling and waving placards of some sort. Although he couldn't see what it said, two people were holding up a big banner. There was a line of security guards standing between the protesters and the hospital entrance and even from here he could see that the crowd was being led by the largest—fattest—woman he had ever seen. Then he recognized her as Karly. There can't be two women that large in North Bay, he thought to himself. He wondered what she was doing, marching—waddling—back and forth in front of the crowd like Mel Gibson in Braveheart, waiving her own banner like a broadsword and yelling something to the walls of the hospital. As far as he could tell, no one was responding.

Must be something important to get so many people pissed off, he thought to himself.

He looked at the horizon and could see a large lake and he wished that he was out there fishing with his dad and brothers. But he wasn't there, he was here alone and he started to think things though. "Not so alone," he muttered. I have Adi. And in only a few days I have made many good friends. But none of them is the one who is broke with a sick wife and five new babies. One who needs expensive help. One who is being sued. One whose babies the government wants to take.

He paced around the room painting different scenarios in his mind.

They could all live with Janis, he thought to himself. She seemed to have lots of room and would probably help with some babysitting. Maybe he would get Herb to teach him how to cook and he could open his own restaurant? The picture of him as a cook would make his mother laugh. He'd not been great in the kitchen. The mechanic job sounded interesting. And if they didn't want to live with Janis there were reasonably priced houses in North Bay. His parents would probably help with a mortgage. The truck was running well now so he didn't have to worry about that. But then Charlie's problem and Adi's circumstances kept creeping into his options. And there was the government's action.

The more he kept mulling things over in his mind, the clearer it became that the only solution was to hand the babies over to the government. He consoled himself that it would be a legal, formality kind of thing. He and Adi would still be the parents. Nothing could change that. And Charlie would be taken care of. Hell, all the babies would be taken care of. Who was he kidding that a job in the maintenance department would make enough money to provide for five babies?

And Adi will likely require wheelchair accessible accommodation.

He wandered back to the window and watched the protest. A police car with flashing lights followed by an SUV—Rick guessed an Explorer—pulled up to the front door of the hospital. "Wonder what their problem is?"

His thoughts were interrupted as Gwen charged back in the room. "You had better go down to the lobby," she announced. "Adi's parents are here."

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Chapter 37: Flora, Sunday, June 9th, 2013 9:45 P.M.

_The Cavalry_

Flora screamed as Greg fell backwards and rolled over onto his face on the hard ground in front of the double barn doors.

"Let her go and let's get out of here," Billings ordered. He dropped the pistol on the ground and ripped off the nitrile gloves and threw them into the van. "Leave them. The gun will have her DNA on it so the cops will figure that Greg attacked her Paki boyfriend and that she shot him. We've got what we came for."

The van left them in the dark in a spray of gravel.

Flora quickly moved over to Greg and gently turned him over. His face was covered in blood and gravel. Rakeesh threw her a bottle of water that he had in his pocket when they were ambushed. She used her shirt to wash his face and wipe away the blood. His forehead was starting to swell from the two by four hit. The first signs of a large bruise were growing.

"Nice plan lady," Greg chided through clenched teeth. "What's next? The rack?

Are they gone?"

"I would guess that by now they are on the Trans-Canada heading south," Rakeesh offered.

"How are you doing Raghead?"

"I might be out of competitive tennis for a while. But I'll live," Rakeesh offered as he stood with the help of a tree branch he had found on the ground nearby.

"Maybe."

The voice had an accent and came from the dark somewhere to Rakeesh's right.

"Maybe you will live. And maybe you won't. It depends."

The accented voice stepped out of the shadows and Flora saw a large, over six feet, muscular man. He wore a black leather jacket. Black gloves and his long, grey streaked hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He was apparently unarmed, but the four men, also large and dressed in black, who followed him out of the shadows, were armed with what she now knew were some sort of machine pistols. She wondered how these weapons could exist in a gun-controlled society like Canada.

"Hello Sergei. How did you find me?"

Flora could sense that Rakeesh was stalling for time.

"So asshole," she yelled at Rakeesh as she walked over to him. "Is this the cavalry that was supposed to arrive at the same time as the Moonstar thugs? These were the Russian jerks that were supposed to save us?"

Rakeesh yelled back at her. "Okay. Okay. The timing was a little off. I didn't know that the other guys would get here too early."

"Both of you." Sergei pointed at Flora and Rakeesh. "Shut the fuck up. What's this Moonstar shit? And who are you?" He looked at Flora. "And who is that? And what's wrong with him?" He gestured over to where Greg was lying on the ground.

"I'm Flora. I teach grade six at Macdonald Elementary School in York Region. But now I'm retired."

"And I'm Greg. A homeless man from Toronto."

"I don't care who the fuck you are." He turned his back to Rakeesh and towards the four men spread out in the dark behind him. "Kill them all and let's get out of here."

It was the thumping music that Flora heard first. Then dim headlights emerged from the lane as a sixties vintage Volkswagen van emerged from the lane and pulled up in front of the decaying house. Sergei and the four men immediately went down into a firing crouch.

"I told you to turn that garbage down," a woman's voice ordered. "Sound travels a long way at night and we don't want anyone coming around snooping. Unload the packs and cylinders and let's get going."

Flora watched in the lights of the van as four people emerged. One shouldered a large military style backpack. Another men had a gas cylinder in some sort of sling over his back. The woman had a smaller cylinder in a similar sling. The final man to emerge held what looked like a machine gun.

The men looked over to Sergei for instructions and he held his palm up to tell them to wait. Then he pointed to two of his men, pointed to the van and formed a gun with his hand. The meaning was clear and the two men nodded and began to creep closer to the old house. He pointed to the other two men and pointed to Rakeesh and that meaning was clear to Flora as well.

The .303 was lying in the grass where it had fallen after Billings had left. Flora was sure that Sergei or his men couldn't see it in the dark. She knew there was a shell in the chamber and a full clip. If she could get to the rifle all she had to do was flick off the safety. She saw the two men start to stand up and approach Rakeesh. As Sergei momentarily looked at them, she dove to the ground, rolled over to the rifle, and in one movement flicked off the safety and fired.

She watched to her surprise as Sergei fell.

Then the man closest to Rakeesh crumpled to the ground.

Then the second man.

She looked at the rifle. "One hell of a shot," she muttered to herself as the night sky exploded in a splash of light and noise.

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Chapter 38: Rakeesh, Sunday, June 9th, 10:20 P.M.

_Love it When a Plan Comes Together_

"Nice of you to join the party Gord," Rakeesh sneered. He shaded his eyes as they adjusted to the bright light behind the man standing in front of him. Four assault vehicles with large floodlights had created daylight around the around the barn and the house.

Unlike the forty men who were scurrying over the Bergeron farm, Gordon Erikson was not dressed in either military fatigues or SWAT regalia. Rakeesh figured his blue pinstripe would have been more at home in a Toronto boardroom than the northern Ontario bush. He wondered if the red tie was a political or fashion statement.

"Sorry about that. But we had to wait for the feds so we could coordinate the assault. At the same time we got your text and determined your coordinates, we got a red alert from CSIS and the RCMP about a possible terrorist action. It was Wendy there," he nodded to the police officer kneeling beside Flora, "who figured out that they were the same place."

"Help me walk over to that lady will ya?" Rakeesh motioned to Flora who was sitting up drinking from a water bottle held by the young policewoman. Rakeesh put his arm around Erikson's shoulder.

"Look, Rakeesh. No one told you to take care of anyone but the Russians. This terrorism thing added a whole dimension of complexity to this thing."

"You don't know the half of it," Rakeesh mumbled.

"But it will be great media cover for our operation. And who is the guy over there with the bashed in head?" He gestured to Greg who was sitting leaning against the barn door being attended to by a military medic.

"Just a friend." Rakeesh looked over to Greg and nodded. "A good friend."

When he reached Flora, she pushed aside the officer and stood to face Rakeesh.

"Is it over?"

"It's over Flora."

He dropped his stick cane, Erikson's support, stood on one foot and they hugged until Rakeesh started to fall over.

"Ma'am," the woman officer interrupted. "I think that we should get these men to the hospital. I'll call for an ambulance."

The medic attending Greg nodded. "This guy will live, but he might have a concussion. And he is sure to have one hell of a headache."

"I'll drive them," Flora announced. "It will be faster. We have a vehicle parked behind the garage."

"Okay," Officer Morrel agreed. "I'll radio ahead that you are coming in so the hospital will be ready and I'll lead you in my car with some lights so you can get there quickly."

The medic helped Greg to his feet. He looked over at Erikson.

"You look like somebody important. So tell me. Did you pass a white Dodge Caravan on the highway on your way to being late to save us?"

Erikson looked at Wendy.

"Yes. About a mile before the Trans-Canada turn-off to the cottages. Heading towards North Bay. Why?"

"No reason. Just curious," Greg offered.

"Did you arrest the Russians?" Flora asked.

"Not sure that we ever wanted to, Ma'am, "Erikson replied. "But they will be out of action for some time thanks to Rakeesh here."

"What about the terrorists?" Flora looked over at the burning hulk of the van.

"One of them made the mistake of pointing a machine gun at the Feds. It looks like there will be few less protesters at the next G20. None of you would happen to know how an anonymous tip to CSIS from a phone booth in Morris knew that these folks would be here at exactly the same time as you, us and the Russians?"

"Coincidence I guess," Greg suggested.

"How about the call with the same tip from a phone both in North Bay to the OPP?"

Flora, Greg and Rakeesh looked at each other and shrugged.

"And I don't suppose you want to tell me how your head got bashed in?"

Greg said nothing.

"Or Rakeesh here had his knee rearranged?"

"You can write it up as more evidence of Russian mob brutality," Rakeesh announced. "Come on Flora. Let's get out of here."

"Right. I'll bring the Explorer around. You and Greg wait here."

"I'll meet you at the road with my squad car," Wendy announced as she walked away.

Flora drove. Rakeesh sat in the passenger seat and Greg in the back as they weaved their way through the collection of military and police vehicles spread over the Bergeron property. At the old house, four black body bags where being loaded into a large van. No one was near the burnt out Volkswagen van, but he could see a soldier pointing a scanner of some sort at the vehicle. One soldier was working a remote control robot of some sort. And another person was dressed in what to Rakeesh recognized as a 'hazmat' suit. He noticed two more black body bags halfway between the barn and the house.

Then they were out of the flood-lit yard and driving down the access lane. As promised, Morrel was waiting at the cottage road in her North Bay Police squad car. Flora blinked her lights and the policewoman turned on her flashers and led the Explorer back to the Trans-Canada.

"How's the knee?" Flora asked.

"Feeling better. It was good thing it was a rotten piece of wood instead of a new one."

"And you Greg? Rakeesh turned to the back seat.

Greg's head was wrapped in a large white bandage.

"A fuck of a headache. But I'm not seeing double anymore."

"Sorry you guys got hurt. And your stick, Greg," Flora offered. "None of that was part of the plan you know."

"I need to talk to you guys about some things before we get to the hospital," Greg announced. "Actually the plan worked perfectly. Rakeesh, pull out the ashtray and look behind it."

Rakeesh pulled out the ashtray and extracted a data stick, identical to the one that Billings had taken.

"I'd like you to take care of this for a while. There are some folks—including a wife— who think I'm a pretty sick guy and they will likely want me to go away for a while."

"What folks? A wife? How sick?" Flora interrupted. "Greg, we know about your condition. It's no big deal. Easily managed."

"I've been hiding from more than Moonstar. There is still a concerned wife—concerned for my money or me I'm not sure. And a commitment order. I did some unusual things a while back. Even more unusual than creepy videos. Sometimes my judgment isn't so good. I suspect that your OPP will have connected with them by now and I'll likely have a greeting party by when we reach the hospital. So keep this drive for me for six months or so will you?"

"Does this have your program on it?" Rakeesh held up the drive.

Greg nodded.

"What did Moonstar get?"

"They got a dummy program. One that appears to emulate the software in everyway except it isn't the software. The program only works from this drive. I don't know why and maybe I'll never figure it out. So I downloaded a collection of searches that Billings likely would do to verify the authenticity of the software and copied them to another drive."

"So when he did his search he wasn't actually doing a live search?" Flora asked.

"No. The search was already on the drive."

"But how did you know what he would search for?"

"I didn't. I made a guess at the twenty most likely things he would search for to test the software. With his ego, his name was my first guess. That's what he did. He saw things he wouldn't want anyone to ever know."

"Won't he soon figure out he didn't have the real software? Then what?"

"Well it is a bonus that he thinks he killed me. I honestly didn't think he would do that. So Flora, although the plan was to have you shoot me, the starter pistol turned out to be genius. He will soon figure out that I am not dead, so I needed to so something else. The minute that he connected that drive to the Moonstar system a wee bug—a Trojan horse the media likes to call it—will spread through the Moonstar network and e-mail to the IRS every minute detail of both Moonstar's and Billing's financial records for the past ten years. By the time he learns I am still alive he will have far greater concerns than me."

Flora was silent for a moment. "Wait a moment, "she blurted. "You wanted Billings and his gang to get away. The whack on Rakeesh's knee. The whack on your head. The threat to me. They were necessary to convince Billings that you were giving in. You never had any intention of following my plan to have the Moonstar jerks and the Russian slobs arrive at the same time and shoot at each other. You used us."

"I would not have let them hurt you, Flora. Sorry Raghead. I thought they would only hurt me."

"Forgiven Greg. I guess I used you—and Flora —as well."

No one said anything until they approached the city limits.

"What about the lottery ticket, Flora?" Rakeesh broke the silence. "We can find this kid at the hospital when we get there and put some closure to this little adventure?"

Flora kept her eyes on the road as she reached over with her right hand and squeezed Rakeesh's. "I think that ticket has already changed my life enough Rakeesh. I'm not sure it needs to do anymore. But let's worry about that after we get you two fixed up."

"Ahhh. I think I'm going to cry." Greg mimicked. They broke into laughter as the police car led them through a large crowd gathered around the front of the hospital. They parked by the front door.

Flora put the vehicle in park, and turned to Greg.

"We'll look after your stick Greg. Do whatever you have to do and then find your friends again."

"Now I'm really going to cry."

Rakeesh went over to the cruiser and talked with Morrel.

"She says that hospital staff will meet us in the lobby and take us to some examination rooms," Rakeesh announced. "It shouldn't take long. She will follow us and wait in the lobby."

Greg nervously scanned over the large crowd and their large leader and started to walk towards the front door.

Flora waited for Rakeesh and took his hand as they followed Greg.

Officer Morrel got out of her car and followed as well.

As they got closer to the doors Flora could see that there was a group of a dozen people waiting ten metres inside. Some were dressed in what she guessed were the white lab coats of medical personnel. Others wore the kind of casual business attire that non-medical staff might wear to work in a hospital, despite the fact that it was late Sunday night. She guessed that the man standing at the front of the group dressed in a blue pinstripe suit was someone important, maybe a hospital executive. Behind the group she noticed a mixed assortment of people wandering through the lobby, all curiously glancing at the reception party and the three of them coming through the front door.

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Chapter 39: Rick, Sunday, June 9th, 11:30 P.M.

The Hospital

"That is my daughter up there and I demand to see her."

Adi's father was a large man, over six feet tall and heavy set. He had bushy eyebrows that Rick assumed he let grow so he could look even more fearsome. And he was a bully. A bully to his family and anyone else who stood in his way. The receptionist in the hospital lobby was now feeling the brunt of his righteous attack.

"I'm sorry sir, but no one is allowed to see your daughter without"—she glanced at a paper in front of her—"a Mr. Butler's permission."

"And Mr. Butler will not let you see his fiancé," Rick interjected as he walked to the counter. Rick was one of the few people in Adi's father's world that could stand up to him. The man was heavier, but Rick was as tall and his swarthy complexion, deep blue eyes and mature, gentle confident manner garnered instant respect. Now he stood nose to nose with Adi's father.

"She is through with you, your religion—cult. So go back to your Saviour's Hall and wait for the end of the world."

Furlong and the others had been told of the Father's arrival. They heard the commotion and joined the discussion. Adi's father turned his attention to Furlong. "We will sue this hospital for everything it is worth. We have been told you have already given my daughter a transfusion and that you are keeping these babies— that were born in sin— artificially alive. I hereby order that they be removed from any process, which injects unnatural substances into their bodies. God will decide their fate."

"Is she alright?"

Rick noticed Adi's mother for the first time. She rarely spoke and it was always in deference to something her father said or ordered. Rick had often felt sorry for her and he knew that caring for her children was not some proselytization strategy.

"She is still tired, but recovering." He had a thought and turned to the receptionist. "Nora. This lady has my permission to visit my fiancé. This man does not. Come with me Mildred." He took her arm and started to lead her over to the elevator.

"Mildred. Come back here. You do not have a daughter anymore. I announce her to be an apostate and shunned in the eyes of The Saviour."

Rick didn't know if he could really do that, but he knew what it meant. He and Adi had talked about it and she was ready for this inevitable pronouncement by her father. But he saw the effect on Adi's mother as she stopped and took her arm away from him. "Wish her the best for me Rick." She walked back and stood beside her husband.

Adi's father stood as tall as he could, squinted to enhance the effect of his eyebrow, puffed out his chest and addressed the group as if he was delivering a Saturday sermon. "We can't save her, but we can save those babies. We will see you in court."

A security guard came up to Furlong, said something Rick couldn't hear and motioned to the front doors of the hospital with his arm. Furlong, Helen and several doctors and nurses headed toward the front door of the hospital. Probably going to deal with the protesters, he thought. Curious, he followed them and for once they didn't notice him.

Three people, followed by a female police officer, were approaching the hospital door. Rick thought they must have been in the Explorer he saw pull up to the front door. One man was a few paces in front of a couple that were holding hands. The man was older— at least his father's age—and his head was swathed in a white, blood-seeped bandage. The couple was the same age, although the woman looked younger. She was apparently unhurt, but the man walked with a limp. Rick thought that the man looked familiar. When they opened the door the chanting from the crowd invaded the quiet space of the hospital lobby. For a second the attention of reception party and the others in the lobby was drawn to the protest.

No one noticed the Asian man in the long white lab coat standing behind the reception group. The public would have assumed he was a medical staff member. And the staff —even two orderlies pushing wheel chairs towards the door— were all looking towards the door and not behind. Furlong was more annoyed than surprised when someone pushed him aside. The annoyance turned to shock as the man reached the front of the group and pulled a high powered hunting rifle from under the coat and aimed it at the people and the trailing police officer as they came through the open door.

Rakeesh's brain and voice worked before his tired body.

"Patel," he yelled. "No."

His voice was smothered by the loud sound of the high velocity shell as it exited the muzzle, missed Rakeesh's right ear by half a centimetre, passed through the loose flesh on the officer's right arm and through the open door she was holding.

Then it lodged itself in the middle of the forehead of the large protest leader. Karly Portman crumpled to the pavement like a melting ice cream cone.

The shooter struggled with the rifle's bolt, inserted another shell in the chamber and aimed the rifle once again in Rakeesh's direction.

Rakeesh pulled Flora to the floor and covered her with his body.

Greg jumped in front of them both.

Patel carefully aimed at Rakeesh's head.

Rakeesh watched as a man hit Patel with a high tackle as he pulled the trigger.

The hit caused Patel's second bullet to enter the left side of Greg's chest instead of Rakeesh's head.

At the same time that Patel was tackled, Morrel fired two shots with her left hand from a prone position. Both shots entered the shooter's chest before he crashed to the hard terrazzo floor with man—who Rakeesh now recognized as the ticket thief— on top of him.

Rakeesh heard the man in the pinstripe suit yelling orders. Officer Morrel stood over the boy and the shooter, pointing her service revolver with her left hand, blood dripping down the right sleeve of her shirt. One hospital security guard lifted the boy while another pulled the rifle away from the immobile shooter. Two of the white lab coats in the reception group knelt over the shooter and two more rushed over to Greg who was lying on his side facing away from Rakeesh and Flora.

Rakeesh remained on top of Flora as he looked around and, after deciding the shooting was over, he helped her up. "You alright?"

"What happened?"

"It looks like Gujarat found me."

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Chapter 40: Rick, Sunday, June 9th, midnight

The Ticket

In the confusion that followed the shooting Rick just slipped away. Two hospital security guards had taken over the watching of the obviously dead man with the rifle. The police would soon be all over the lobby and he didn't really want to talk to them right now. He considered going to the truck and driving back to Janis' but he guessed that the parking lot and the roads leading to the hospital would be chaos for a while. And he certainly didn't want to have anything more to do with Adi's parents. The fifth floor waiting room was as good a place as any.

No one was in the hallway to see him as he slipped back into the room. He sipped his cold coffee and returned to the window and looked over the entrance and the hospital parking lot. He could hear multiple sirens. As he looked to the road coming into the parking lot he could see a stream of police cars racing to the hospital, with lights flashing and sirens blaring. The protesters had dropped their placards and were still running off in all direction. He was shocked to see Karly, lying on the ground at the edge of the parking lot. He hoped she was okay. He walked away from the window, sat down on the chesterfield and turned back to his own problems.

He wondered if anyone had sat here since he last fell asleep on this chesterfield two days ago. He looked at the coffee table and it seemed that the TV remote and the stack of magazines was exactly where he had left them. The two year old issue of "Field and Stream" that promised to show him how to catch pickerel in the summer was still on top and he pulled it down in front of him on the coffee table. He could see where he had hurriedly scrawled _$3.4 mill_ and then the numbers 13 11 19 07 16 30 on the cover and suddenly remembered the ticket in his wallet and the photo in his iPhone. His mom bought a ticket every week. His dad laughed and reminded her of the astronomical odds that she would win. But she said that lottery tickets and the fantasy of winning were momentary breaks for ordinary people like them from the real problems of their everyday lives. That momentary, weekly fantasy was well worth the eleven bucks.

"I could use some fantasy right now," Rick announced to himself as he took out the ticket and his phone.

***

The Foundation was Helen's idea.

Naming it the Karly Portman Natal Care Foundation was Flora's. Although she thought it up at a different time.

Helen's idea was an instantaneous solution she proposed to Rick on that Sunday night — it might have even been early Monday morning by then, she wasn't sure — almost six months ago when he dragged her away from the phalanx of reporters and cameras and pushed her into her office.

"What the hell are you doing Rick?" she had said, "I'm in the middle of handling the communications on a shootout in a hospital. We have two dead, a hospital full of police and news networks all over the place. I don't have time for you right now."

"I remember you told Gwen before about a fund or something?"

"Yeah. An endowment that generates revenue every year."

"If I gave you some money for a funs like this could the hospital make sure that Charlie goes to Houston? And that all the quints are taken care of?"

"Sure if it was enough."

"Would three million four hundred and thirty thousand dollars be enough?"

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Epilogue: Toronto Dec 14th, 2013 10 P.M. No. 2 Ladies Detective Agency

"Does it bother you that we are living in my old house?" Flora probed as she pulled herself up on one elbow in bed. She checked the bedside alarm clock and reached for the TV remote. "I mean Peter and I once—well more than once—made love in this bed and in this room."

"Does it bother you?" he retorted as he moved his left hand under the covers.

"Stop that. You've had your treat for the night."

"But we are only on page twelve of the Kuma Sutra. We need to get moving before I'm too old to twist my foot behind my neck."

"Kuma will wait," she protested as she moved his hand away. "I'm serious. Are you okay with this?" She waved her hand over the room. "And I don't mean the sex. We could live anywhere you know."

He turned serious as well.

"Flora, I have found love at a stage in my life when I thought it was gone forever. Sex is a bonus at our age. The place isn't that important."

The CTV evening news came alive on the screen.

"Quiet. I think they are going to do the story now."

For our lead story tonight we take you once again to North Bay for a story with a happy ending —or perhaps I should say beginning— to an old tragedy. Annabelle Manitou has been covering this story since the start six months ago. Annabelle?

The screen flashed to a woman reporter standing at the entrance to the North Bay Regional Hospital.

"Good evening Peter. I'm standing in the spot where six months ago a woman was tragically shot dead by a terrorist from India in one of the most unusual circumstances the police say they have ever seen. Viewers might remember that story six months ago when an assassination attempt on an undercover OPP Officer resulted in the accidental shooting death of Karla Portman, a local Unitarian Minister. She and many of her followers were outside the hospital protesting the treatment of the new set of quints born that weekend in the hospital. She was standing in this very spot Peter, when a stray bullet killed her."

The screen went back to the studio and a split screen of Peter and Annabelle.

"Annabelle, wasn't that also the night that the combined forces of CSIS, the RCMP and the OPP thwarted a terrorrist attack on the NORAD base?"

_"Yes. It was quite a night for this usually quiet northern Ontario city. In fact the OPP officer arriving at the hospital was there for treatment of some minor injuries—_ "Minor be damned," Rakeesh corrected. "I'm still hobbling around." "Quiet," Flora ordered. "There is more." — _was part of that operation_. _But now, six months later the city has come together to honour Karly Portman and this afternoon I attended a launch of the Karly Portman Multiple Birth Care Foundation."_ She glanced at her notes. " _The idea of the foundation came when Helen Porter, the hospital's Director of Communications received an anonymous donation of a winning lottery ticket worth over three million dollars with the only instructions to take care of the quints so they could live with their parents."_

"Those were the quints who were born that weekend?"

"Right. We did a story on it back then. A young couple passing through town ended up with a surprise family. And here is the strangest part of many strange parts to this saga. Shortly after the foundation was announced a few months ago, the hospital received another anonymous donation of a lottery ticket for the same date for exactly the same amount. The note with this one apparently asked that the Foundation be named after Karly Portman. And here we are today with the launch of the foundation named after her. Here is what the hospital President had to say."

The video turned to a clip of Furlong standing at a podium. On the stage behind him they could see Helen, Fingster and the Board Chair.

"We are pleased to announce today the launch of the Karly Portman Foundation for Multiple Births. As you know she was a tireless champion of the poor and the disadvantaged. There are many of us here today who have had our consciences pricked by her sense of rights and equity. So it is fitting that the resources of this foundation be directed to the motivation for her last intervention—support for families who experience multiple births. With two anonymous donations and some others since then—I see that Herb Simmons from Herb's diner is here today and, Herb we thank you and your daughters for your generous donation— with these and other donations, the foundation is now at over seven million dollars. The return on this endowment will generate enough money to establish a natal care centre at the hospital and the establishment and operation of a special day care to aid the multiple birth families. So today I am pleased to announce that Dr. Claudia Monk will be the new Director of the North Bay Premature Natal Centre. And Mrs. Janis Cameron will be the operator of the special day care for multiple births. And the first residents will be the Macleod quints. They are all with us today."

There was loud applause and much cheering from the members of Karly's army who had turned out to honour their hero. The camera panned to the back of the room where Monk and Janis waived. And where five baby carriages were lined up against the wall.

The screen went back to Annabelle and Peter.

"So that's it Peter. The two parents are now attending the local university. The quints are healthy and well cared for—one you will remember needed life-threatening heart surgery and special care. The hospital gets a new centre. And Karly Portman is immortalized. A happy ending—or start as you said—to a sometimes sad and complicated story."

Flora turned off the TV.

"That's enough of that. Complicated right. They don't know how complicated."

"You didn't have to give the lottery ticket away you know? It was even time dated for after nine o'clock that night so you wouldn't have had to split it with Peter."

"Tempting. It would have been worth it to see Peter's lawyer trying to figure out how the time on the ticket got changed from five to nine. But no. With the money from that mysterious bank transfer, and our pensions we are pretty well off I'd say." She smiled and reached her own hand under the sheet. "And it was our fault that Karly was killed. We needed to do something for her."

His hand shifted place again.

"Stop that—in about half an hour. Yeah. It was something of a bonus you didn't have to share the bank transfer with Peter. Are they still trying to claim you are hiding something with that bank transfer?"

"For sure. But the bank decided the two million dollars was legitimately transferred to my checking account. They agree that I must have given my account number to someone or the bank couldn't have made the transfer. So the money is ours. We don't have to share it with Peter since the transfer came after he left me. And no one has gone looking for it in six months so even Peter and his lawyer have closed the file. So the money is ours wherever it came from."

Rakeesh did have his suspicions as to where the money came from. A forensic audit of the Russian's bank account by the OPP had turned up two, two million dollar transfers the day before he died. But the bank couldn't find any details of the transfer accounts. But he had an idea how one of those transfers ended up in Flora's account.

"Wouldn't it be better for us to invest the funds in our new business than a new house?"

"Do you really think that someone will want us to be detectives?"

"Well with the back-up of our pensions and this money we can be selective. Only do the things we want."

"Like what?"

"We've talked about this before. Things that will help people who can't get any help from the system. Missing people for instance? I don't know. We'll simply advertise and see what comes up? And Greg said he might be able to help. He does appear to be good at finding information."

"Speaking of Greg, where is he now?"

"His last email said he was recovering well in his shopping cart and not to worry. He would get in touch soon."

"Did he ever say who those people were who came and whisked him away from the hospital?"

"His 'keepers' was all he said. He asked if I still had the 'deck of cards' he gave us."

"Do you?"

"Yeah—it is in the safe below the computer. Maybe he has more movies of you on it."

"Stop it. That was harmless..."

"We could make better movies than that?"

"You're bad."

He moved his hand back. "I'm in love."

"Right answer."

She left his hand in place and leaned over and kissed him.

"So exactly what is on page thirteen?"

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Note To The Reader

Thank you for choosing to read "The Ticket." I sincerely hope you were entertained. Whatever your experience with this book, you could entertain me in return with your feedback. It is only through learning about the experiences of readers like you that I can improve my efforts at story telling. You can send comments to:

Talonlakepress@gmail.com

Thank you in advance for your help.

D.G. Marshall

Other books by the author:

" **The Sand Trap" (**www.smashwords.com/books/view/228747 **) or download from Amazon, iTunes and other eBook sellers)**

About the Author

D.G. Marshall was born in Canada in 1949 on a farm just outside of Horning's Mills, Ontario. Recently retired after a long career in post secondary education, Dr. Marshall has lived and worked in Ontario, Manitoba, Alberta, the Northwest Territories and St. Lucia. While a published author of academic articles, this is Marshall's second full-length fiction. Marshall has been married for forty-two years —to the same wonderful, kind and necessarily patient lady—and together they have two sons and four grandchildren. He spends part of the year at a cottage near Rutherglen, Ontario, and the rest of the year in Calgary...and various warm places.

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