Carter's Recourse - 11. Chapter 11

The Director-General of his section was in meetings, no doubt discussing the night's events, and frustratingly Andrew knew he probably wasn't going to be done in time. That left him to sift through the information on his own, and the sheer volume of forensic evidence from the crash the night before, most of it completely useless, made that extremely difficult.

He yawned, the lack of sleep catching up to him as he stared at the computer screen in front of him, reading the autopsy reports that had been flagged by a half-dozen departments. All of them had glanced over it and had come to the same conclusion: the driver of the Minister's car had died of a heart attack behind the wheel, the out-of-control car had hit the crash barrier, jumped the median and collided with oncoming traffic. Death for the Deputy Prime Minister had been instant.

He sighed as he looked for anything out of the ordinary; nothing struck him from the autopsy report except the elevated carbon monoxide levels in the driver's blood. He opened the attached notes, noticing a couple of other investigators had seen it as well, but had attributed it to the driver inhaling gas from the airbag when it had deployed.

Andrew shrugged and made to close the window when he stopped. Wasn't the driver dead before the airbag had deployed?

He scooped up the phone. "Get me the Director-General," he requested.

"I'm sorry, he is in a meeting with the..." the secretary responded by rote.

"This is important." Andrew switched hands and picked up a pen and some paper, jotting down some notes waiting while the secretary fetched the Director.

"This had better be important." The director's voice was tired--obviously the meeting wasn't going well.

"We missed something," Andrew said, turning in his chair. "The driver couldn't have inhaled gas from the airbag deploying if he was dead before the crash."

"I don't follow," the director said evenly.

"The autopsy," Andrew said turning back to his screen and calling up the exact details. "The driver apparently had lethal levels of carbon monoxide in his blood system, the coroner wrote it off as his inhaling gas..."

"But if he was already dead..." the director replied, his voice growing in concern.

"Exactly," Andrew responded standing up and beginning to pace his small cubicle talking into the receiver as he looked over the partition at Jane, laboring over her own facts and figures.

"Do you have a theory?" the director pressed hopefully.

"Not yet," Andrew said helplessly. "At least nothing that fits the evidence." He glanced at his watch, "And I need to be on a plane in thirty minutes."

The director hesitated, "Well, requisition one of the computers, take what you need and if you find anything call it in."

"I'm going to need everything you have on the crash," Andrew said leaning on his desk and jotting a few more notes down. "And I am going to need some time alone with Knowlan."

"The information you can have," the director replied, "but Knowlan isn't co-operating, and I don't know what you'll get from him."

"Let me figure out what's going on, and we'll see if our friend can confirm any of it," Andrew said, grabbing his jacket and slipping it on.

"Good luck, Mister Highmore."

* * *

Bob Hesston paced the foyer of Stornoway--it was one of the perks that came with being leader of Canada's official opposition. The house was well-appointed, and recent estimates put a market value of about two million dollars on the magnificent property. It was controversial, and some previous opposition leaders had complained that the residence was too extravagant, that the seventy-thousand-dollar-a-year maintenance cost was a waste of taxpayer money.

Bob had none of those reservations. He liked the house, he liked the car and driver and he liked his security detail. It made him feel important. And he was important, he had come very close in the last election to toppling the Liberal dictatorship of Canadian politics. The valiant effort to unite the Conservative and Alliance parties into the new conservatives had given the party the strength of unity to come very close. Close enough for him to taste it.

The government was teetering on the brink hanging on to power by their fingernails; the Liberals had already lost two seats, one to a fortuitous accident and the other to the kind of scandal that had dogged the Liberals since taking power nearly fifteen years before. Cronyism had become a common word tied to the liberal party, and the conservatives had used it to their full advantage to battle them back into a situation where they were once again accountable to the people that had elected them.

So far the only MP to make any kind of statement was young Mister Carter, touting the usual party line of everything will be investigated, delivered by a fresh face that was supposedly above such a scandal. The new face of a new Liberal party... pathetic. Hesston knew Carter's record--he was virtually a member of the New Democrats, a Liberal moderate only remaining with his party because they knew he could win and keep a vital seat, once they lost he too would be callously removed from his party.

Yet Hesston was distracted; he knew he should be at Parliament answering the questions of the reporters seeking his perspective on the latest situation the liberals had plunged them into. They wanted him to call for the resignation of the Prime Minister and rail against yet another scandal...

However Hesston's mind was elsewhere. His daughter hadn't come home from the gala. He naturally had the usual fatherly suspicions--young handsome guy taking her for a night out, applying liquor for an opportunity to take advantage of her in some musty motel room. But that was just one of his fears that morning; calls to the hospitals had turned up nothing, and the only accident was the one involving the Deputy Prime Minister.

At least he could be relieved about that.

He paced again, knowing he should be getting ready. This was probably one of the most important days of his life; he didn't have time to worry about his teenage daughter. But as he turned on his heels again, he knew full well he wouldn't be able to concentrate till he knew she was safe.

"Sir, the car is ready," his aide reported, stepping into the hall from outside the house.

Hesston looked up at the young man, worry etched onto his face, "Has there been any word?"

"I contacted the RCMP," the aide reported, helping Hesston on with his coat. "They're looking for both of them now. Apparently they didn't get to the gala last night, the young man is also missing..."

Hesston searched his aide's face, looking for hope, "Do they have any leads?"

"They are looking into it, sir," the aide reassured. "For the moment you're needed up on the hill..."

"Of course." The Leader of Canada's official opposition straightened his tie and marched down the steps of the mansion to the waiting car.

* * *

Captain West Harding took the call, mildly surprised that he had received one so early into his leave in a country no one knew he was in. He frowned as he lifted the receiver and pressed it to his ear.

"Yes, hello?" he asked cautiously.

"Captain Harding, this is Major Wessex." The clipped tones were unmistakably English, and West wondered who on earth Major Wessex was and what he wanted.

"Yes, Major?" instinctively West felt himself drawing to attention.

"I'm sorry to call you on your holiday, my boy, but I regret to inform you that we have to cut your little sabbatical short." The Major paused, and West felt his heart sink, back to Iraq...

"I understand, Major..." West turned from the window, feeling the weight of the phone, and wondered when he would get a chance to finish what he'd started there.

"Good lad; now, you're to report to Catterick Garrison as soon as you can, you're being transferred to my unit."

West's brow furrowed, was he serious? He was transferring him away from Iraq? To another unit, one far from the front lines? His jaw worked as he tried to digest that, he didn't have to go back to hell. That ordinarily should have made him jump for joy, but there was still so much he had to tell the Colonel's son... And he had men out there waiting for him to return.

"I.. don't know what to say," West managed. "When am I due?"

"Monday morning, lad," the Major said sounding enthusiastic. "Be as quick as you can, we're expecting you."

"Yes sir," West replied, hanging up the phone, glancing up at his reflection in the mirror, the rumpled uniform and his hollow eyes. He had so little time left, he needed to find Carter, finish what he had to say...

He grabbed his hat and set out.

* * *

Will entered the quiet town house in Toronto. His 'home' when he was in the city. There were a couple of local reporters camped outside when he had arrived. Lisa effectively shooed them away, allowing him to go inside unhindered.

Andrew, a near constant shadow lately, entered behind him as Will set his briefcase down and walked through into his study to check his messages. He sat behind his desk staring at the wall quietly for a while, aware that everyone was sensibly still giving him his space.

He felt comfortable in that town house, it was his own; unlike the house in Ottawa, this one held more of his tastes. Really, he barely stayed there--only when he was visiting his constituency--but he had still strived to make a home for himself there.

It had been a long day. He rubbed his temple settling into the heavy leather chair as he turned to look out of the window to where Lisa was busy on the doorstep feeding the press the party line on the death and the scandal. It should be him out there, saying something, but there was just too much going on for him to give them any kind of answers. He had none, all he had was questions.

Andrew was lurking in the doorway, hands in his pockets looking concerned. Will glanced up and offered him a weak smile, "Hey, thanks."

Andrew blinked, "Huh?"

Will waved around him, "For sticking with me today, I appreciate it." He rested his chin on his fingers as he turned to look back out the window.

"Anytime, Carter, you know that," Andrew replied, walking into the room and sitting down on the small leather sofa tucked into a corner. "It's all part of the service."

Will sighed as he leaned back in the chair and pivoted the seat so he could put his feet up on the edge of his L-shaped desk, looking over again at his former boyfriend, "You've gone above and beyond today. I really needed someone there for me today."

Andrew read something in Will's eyes and he sat forward on the sofa, cocking his head to one side, "Are you going to be okay? I didn't think all this had hit you that hard."

Will closed his eyes and shook his head, "It's not that, well, not just that. There's a lot going on right now," he tapped his head, "up here."

"You're worried about Peter?" Andrew asked, concern in his voice. Concern for how Will was holding up under all the pressure that was bearing right down on his shoulders.

"Among other things," Will replied, his mind shifting from event to event, from Peter's irresponsibility and his relationship with Marc to the bigger crisis--he rubbed his jaw--even the conversation with Captain Harding the day before. Was that really only a day ago? It felt like an eternity, a different lifetime. He felt so much older.

"It'll all work out," Andrew reassured locking eyes with Will's, hoping to lend him a bit of his own strength. "You'll see."

Will softened a bit as those eyes looked deep into his own; after so many years Andrew still had that affect on him, the ability to make him feel protected. And he again had an urge just to let Andrew wrap his arms around him and make the world go away, but life didn't work like that. He had to face his problems, overcome them; you just couldn't hide from responsibility.

He took a deep breath and booted up his computer, checking over the mountain of emails, other party members that had caught his statement on the news that afternoon, offering him advice and words of encouragement. All of them glad it was him in the public eye and not themselves. Typical party games; when something good happened, they were all willing to step forward and grab credit, but the moment something went wrong they fled to their constituencies and hid there, holed up until it blew over.

The problem was Will's constituency wasn't remote; his was smack dab in the middle of Canada's largest city, spitting distance from several news stations, radios and newspapers. There was nowhere for him to hide, so he knew he might as well show he wasn't afraid of the scandal. After all he wasn't involved in it, his reputation ran counter to the Prime minister and his 'old guard' cronies, and that gave him a certain amount of credibility, at least for the time being.

* * *

Alicia looked up from her pot noodles, a wonderful invention in her mind. Ramen noodles--you just added hot water too and voila, you had soup. It saved her having to risk life and limb running the gauntlet of the press mod clustered outside the office building.

Her computer trilled as yet more email for the MP streamed in; it seemed between the computer and the phones, Will was proving to be popular. There were a large number of people trying to get a few minutes of the MP's time just to get some answers to the myriad of questions that the events of the past night had brought up.

She shook her head, drumming her black-painted fingernails on the worn wood desktop. Will's office had to be one of the oldest on the block, but they made do the best they could. At least the press were wise enough to stay outside the building. Apparently one of the other secretaries had been mobbed by overenthusiastic photographers who had mistaken her for a Member of Parliament. It was stupid; there wasn't a Member of Parliament within a mile of the building. They'd all had the common sense to get the hell out of Dodge. But the press wasn't renowned for thinking beyond its mob mentality.

Alicia stirred her noodles and went back to staring at her monitor, noting that Will had logged in remotely and was collecting the mail she had flagged for him as important. With him there that mean she would be able to head there after them. It was a simple matter of following him an hour or so later, but Will liked to make sure there was someone always able to answer the phones or emails in case something important happened.

She was looking forward to going home; she'd grown up in Toronto and with Will safely out of town back in his constituency, she was clear to go get her car and drive to Toronto; it wasn't that she had drawn the short straw, it was more the fact that she hated to fly. Will often let her follow at her own pace.

She got up and sandwiched a couple of files into her backpack; she still hadn't gotten used to the idea of carrying a briefcase, even though she worked up on Parliament hill. That rebellious streak that Will seemed to appreciate so much was still very much alive and well, desperately battling all the red tape that at times threatened to tie her up and stuff her into a boring suit.

She started when she realized she wasn't alone; she looked up at the nervous-looking soldier from yesterday, holding his boonie hat and looking about uncertainly. She smiled politely as she sat down again in her chair.

"Hi, can I help you?" she asked politely, remembering that Will had said something about him being an old friend.

"Umm, I was wondering if I could see Mister Carter?" West asked, craning his neck a little to see past her into Will's empty office.

"He's not here right now," Alicia explained, switching off her computer and turning out the desk lamp. "He had to go to Toronto."

"Oh," West said quietly. "Damn, it's just I go back in a couple of days and... well I need to finish telling him about his father." He looked at her desperately; knowing there probably wasn't much she could do.

Alicia felt for the man standing in front of her, she could sense something dark troubled him and she glanced up at the small television showing the mob outside the office. They were all caught up in the mess and she knew that she really had no choice.

"Look, I'm supposed to drive to Toronto tonight." She stood up and began to shut down the copier and checked that the fax machine was on, "If we leave a little early we can probably catch him before he goes to bed." She reached out to touch his arm in understanding.

West glanced down at the touch, then up to Alicia's eyes, and smiled with gratitude, something unspoken between them. She knew how important it was to him, she just needed to look into his eyes for that.

"Come on, there has to be a back way out of this place," she murmured, leading the way out of the offices, careful to lock up after her.

Her VW beetle wasn't the most spacious of cars, but it did her well and naturally she had bought a black one, the black fuzzy spider hanging from the rearview mirror spoke volumes about her personality.

West stared at it uncertainly as he climbed in beside her, looking over at the strange girl and shaking his head. "Cool car," he said with a smile.

She smiled as she adjusted her seat and dug through her CD's to find something a little lighter than her usual death metal, and slid it in. "Do you have a particular favourite?" she asked looking up at him.

"I'm good with whatever," he said, shrugging.

"'Doors' it is," she said, sliding the CD in. "Jim Morrison always gets me in the mood." She started the car and they began the trek to Toronto, the stereo blaring Paint it Black at full volume.