Period of Adjustment Ch. 09-11

I phone Kayla on her cell.

"Good morning, Nathan." she answered brightly.

Surprised she knew it was me, it took a second to realize she had loaded my number into her cell and had caller ID.

"Hi ... good morning. How is your day going so far?"

"Oh ... same old, same old," she replied with what sounded like a sigh.

"Well then, I'll give you something to think about. Harold would like to interview you, just as I suspected he would. I'm going to give you his direct line phone number and he'll be expecting your call."

"Oh, Nathan, that's great. Thank you so much. I've been thinking a lot about a new start ... or at least ... another new start," she laughed.

"Glad to be of assistance," I said, pausing for a moment. "Kayla ... I'm going to take some time to get myself together. Too much has happened and I'm afraid I'm not very stable right now. I wanted you to know ... I'm still interested in seeing you. But I'd rather you got to know the real me ... not the oxygen burner I am right now. I think Cassie can explain it to you better than I can. I hope you understand." I finished on a hopeful note.

"Of course, Nathan. I understand perfectly."

"I'm not sure how long I'll be gone, but knowing me and my restless feet, it won't be too long."

"Get well, Nathan. I'll be here when you get back." I couldn't help but hear the serious tone in her voice.

Cassie and I drove out toward the Scarborough Bluffs. It was a cloudy and much cooler day than Sunday. We stopped at a restaurant and had a very nice light lunch before driving to a nearby shopping center and a branch of a national travel agent.

An hour later and loaded down with brochures, we walked across the parking lot toward her car. I was conscious of a loud truck engine nearby and turned to look at the unwelcome noise. It was a big, late-model pickup, jacked up a few inches and sporting oversize tires and a very heavy looking set of bars on the front. A macho rig, was my first thought. Someone trying to prove to himself he was a real man.

I tried to ignore it, but the sound was getting louder and I turned back to the source again. I couldn't see through the tinted windshield, but I got the impression he was headed my way. I took Cassie's arm and moved her off to the side as the truck rolled towards us. I took a quick look around and saw only one safe route between some parked cars. I hurriedly pulled Cassie toward it.

As I did so I heard the revs go up on the truck, and a quick look confirmed that it had picked up speed and was heading right at us. I no longer thought this was some show-off trying to impress us. This had the smell of a hunt, and I had to assume I was the hunted.

"Cassie, I want you to run to your car and get into it and stay there. Call 911 and report what's going on. Go!"

Cassie had been around Denis long enough to know that I wasn't overreacting or trying to be theatrical. With a worried look, she moved rapidly toward her car. The truck didn't turn toward her. It was after me. Now, I was going to have to find a way to avoid being crushed or run down by three tons of black sheet-metal and steel.

I was unarmed. I had only one thing going for me. I could move faster and turn more sharply than the truck. I was safer out in the open than I was trying to use other cars for protection. The truck could easily ram them and crush me in the same process. Of course, that assumed that the driver was alone and didn't have a gun. I didn't like betting against unknown odds.

I'm not sure how my brain picked up on it, but I noticed Quebec plates on the truck. Useless information? Probably. It's amazing how many thoughts can rip through your mind when you are trying to figure out how to stay alive. I was hoping for a stalemate until the police arrived, but first I had to avoid getting run over.

The truck made a straight ahead run at me and I held my breath, waiting until the last second before I ran diagonally toward the left side. My action was too quick for the driver to correct and he missed me by several feet. I got a quick glimpse of him as he roared past. The side windows were down and the man's face was turned toward me. A look of disgust? Too little time to evaluate that.

I moved around toward his turn, making it almost impossible for him to turn into me. He jammed on his brakes and put the truck in reverse, moved back a few feet, then charged at me once more. I was betting that he would expect me to make the same move again, so I moved the opposite way this time. He tried to correct his mistaken guess and snapped the truck around in my direction.

I'm sure he was confident in the invincibility of his machine, but almost every device has its weakness. As he gunned the motor in a futile effort to move in an ever tightening circle, the inside front wheel hit the concrete curb at the end of the sidewalk. It was like watching something in slow motion. The truck bounced once, both passenger side wheels slowly rising into the air as it rolled, first onto its side, then the roof, and finally slamming down on the passenger side.

I ran toward the now immobile truck, its engine still roaring in frustration as the wheels spun uselessly. I jumped up on the side of the box, making my way toward the driver's side door. I noticed movement through the rear window, but what captured my immediate attention was the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun as it poked out the driver's side window.

I could think of only one option. I grabbed the short barrel with both hands and yanked on it as hard as I could. The sound of the explosion was deafening. I felt the blast of shot moving past my face, missing me by inches. Possibly the noise or my pull on the barrel had loosened the grip the man had on the weapon. Despite the heat of the barrel, I held on and looked down into the cab. The occupant was reaching for the steering wheel to lever himself up and out, but I put a quick end to that when I smashed the pistol grip butt down, first on his fingers, then on his face.

He was out cold. The blood spatter from his face was evidence that I had rearranged his features fairly severely. I allowed myself to breathe again. I slid down off the side of the truck to the ground and laid the shotgun on the ground beside the truck. The next thing I heard was Cassie as she ran toward me, throwing her arms around me and hugging me tightly.

"Easy, Cass. I'm just catching my breath," I pleaded. She didn't let up right away. She was coming down from being very frightened too. I noticed a crowd as I could hear sirens in the distance. The engine had finally quit and was quiet at last.

It took an hour to deal with the police. Fortunately, there were several credible witnesses to what happened, and any suspicion that Nathan Poirier had been other than the intended victim was alleviated. Cassie identified herself and gave one of the officers a complete description of what happened. We were both requested to come downtown to Metro Police H.Q. We agreed to be there later that afternoon.

Now, I had a problem. Was I Nathan Poirier, or Colin Stewart? The officers at the scene had called a forensics team to go over the truck and the gun. My prints would be on both. Colin Stewart's prints. It was probably too late to try and explain without ending up in a cell waiting for someone to verify who I was, so I would try to brazen it out.

Cassie and I drove to her home, discussing the situation.

"I'm sure they'll want my prints to match up with the gun and the truck. That may screw up everything, Cassie. But ... I can't keep running. Sooner or later, I have to be Colin again. It might as well be now. There's nothing about what I've done that will put me back in prison unless they connect the shooting at Natasha's with me. Even then, that was self defense and the case was set aside."

"You know it's always easier to tell the truth than remember a lie, Colin. But for now, let them decide who you are. Don't volunteer anything you don't have to. Just wait and see what happens. You know Denis and I will always be here to help if you need it."

"Yeah. Thanks. I think I'm really going to enjoy that vacation now, assuming I get a chance to take it," I grinned. She took my hand and squeezed it, smiling as we drove along.

The interview at Metro H.Q. was in a relaxed atmosphere. I was asked to voluntarily submit to fingerprinting to establish whose prints were on the truck. I reluctantly agreed, knowing that sooner or later it was inevitable.

Meanwhile, Cassie had phoned Denis in Montreal to apprise him of the day's events. By fluke, she had taken a picture of me and the truck after the fracas had ended. Happily, it showed the Quebec license plate. Denis carried the ball from there.

Two hours of polite but intense interviewing ended with a summary by the detective assigned to the case.

"Mr. Poirier, can you think of any reason why a notorious Quebec biker gang would want you eliminated?"

"No sir. I have no dealings with anyone involved in Quebec, much less a biker gang. Perhaps I look like someone else?"

"Perhaps. The man you were up against is Philippe Turgeon. He's a ranking, full patch member of the River Riders. They are the largest of the gangs in Quebec and have been a constant target of both the S.Q. and the RCMP. Can you think of any connection with any of those organizations?"

"No sir," I lied.

"Well, we have no record of you on file, Mr. Poirier. Either this is a case of mistaken identity, or you are a very skillful liar," the detective smirked.

"Fingerprints don't lie, I'm told," I snapped back. "I don't appreciate the insinuation that I'm involved with the criminal element ... in Quebec or here. Perhaps you should be asking yourself what this guy was doing in your territory."

"Oh we'll be doing that all right, Mr. Poirier. You can count on that. We're going to have to wait a while, though. Mr. Turgeon isn't able to communicate just yet. You did quite a number on his jaw and teeth. But don't feel too put upon, sir. There are several warrants out on our Quebec friend. He's going to be behind bars in one place or another for quite some time. I just want to make sure that this little episode is at an end. The last thing we need is a biker gang war like they have in Montreal. Naturally, I'm suspicious. That's my job. Don't take offense if it isn't warranted."

I nodded, saying nothing.

"Thank you for coming in today, sir. I have your cell number, so if anything further comes up, I'll get in touch. I gather neither you nor Mrs. Simard was injured, so you're free to go with our thanks for your cooperation."

I walked out of the Metro station with Cassie and I think we simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief. Then we laughed. "You can't say we didn't have an interesting day, Cassie."

"No ... God no! I'm not sure how much of this I want to tell Denis. As far as he knows, I was just a spectator and I think I want to leave it that way. But I won't forget what I saw. That was as amazing as it was frightening. I didn't think you had any chance against him. Did you know he had a gun?"

"No. I was hoping he didn't. Luckily his driving skills weren't up to his ambition. To tell the truth, though, I didn't have time to be thinking about anything except survival until the cops arrived."

"I need a drink," Cassie announced. "Come with me."

I followed her into a local bar near the police station, and despite the crush of people headed home from work, we found a small table for two. A waitress appeared promptly and we ordered our drinks.

"I think we should have dinner in town tonight, Colin. I'm too shook up to cook."

"Absolutely. Tell you what, I'll buy and we can go over the brochures at dinner and decide on my getaway."

We did just that. We had a second cocktail, then walked to a nearby hotel featuring a good restaurant. The travel brochures took our minds off the mayhem of the afternoon and by the time dessert was served, I had pretty much decided on two weeks in the Caribbean, probably on St. Maarten. A couple of thousand dollars would get me a flight and an oceanfront room for two weeks. I could afford it, I reminded myself.

I slept well that night. Tension and fear take a lot out of a person, and I was exhausted by the time we got back to the Simard home. My plan for Tuesday was to contact the travel agent and book a trip to St. Maarten. Then, I would get on the Internet and find out what I could about the destination. I was hoping I wouldn't be bored since I planned on two weeks on the small island.