Carter's Echo - 10. Chapter 10

ACT XI: The Quizmaster

The cedar grove smelled of damp rot and cold pine. Andrew sat in the driver’s seat of the MULE, the engine a faint tick-tick-ticking as it cooled in the late afternoon air. He wasn’t hiding. The raw, brushed-aluminum car was parked off a disused logging spur, its colour a nondescript grey against the grey-green scrub. He was a mile from the McCready woodlot, watching through a pair of Peter’s old birding binoculars.

This wasn’t espionage. It was logistics. Andrew was applying a method. He called it the “Calculus of Patterns.” It required patience, a notebook, and the suppression of all feeling. He noted the time the white Econoline van arrived: 16:42. He noted the mud caked in a specific, repeating pattern on its rear tires—clay from the east riverbank, not the gravel of the county road. He noted the driver, Gary ‘Brick’ MacReady, who stood outside the van for a full minute, scanning the empty tree line with the paranoid vigilance of a man moving product, not groceries.

Andrew wrote in the steel notebook. 16:42. Transfer likely. Duration: 14 minutes. Exit weight visually increased. Driver behavior: security-conscious.

He was so focused on the vanishing taillights of the van that he missed the first sign. It wasn’t a sound. It was a vibration through the MULE’s chassis, a subtle thrumming in the seat of his pants. Then the sound arrived—the jagged, potato-potato-potato lope of a large-displacement Harley Davidson, poorly tuned and aggressively loud.

Andrew didn’t startle. A cold, flat clarity washed over him, the same focus he used to find gaps in a defensive line. Observe, don’t engage. Tanaka’s first lesson. But the valley had its own curriculum.

The bike, a blacked-out Fat Boy stripped of anything superfluous, crested the ridge behind him. The rider was Donny Masterson. No helmet. His face was wind-raw and set in a permanent sneer, bisected by the thick, pearly scar on his jaw—the lasting signature of Thomas Highmore’s pry bar. He saw the MULE. His eyes, small and mean, narrowed. He saw Andrew.

Donny didn’t shout. He revved the engine twice, brutal, blaring roars that shattered the woodland quiet. He pointed a gloved finger directly at Andrew, held it like a pistol, and mouthed a single, unmistakable word. Then he dropped his hand to the throttle.

Andrew didn’t wait to see if it was a bluff. He turned the key. The MULE’s starter whined, and the 4.6 V8 caught with a shuddering cough that immediately settled into a deep, angry idle. He slammed the shifter into first. He didn’t turn toward the safety of town. He turned deeper, into the warren of washboard-gravel backroads and abandoned logging trails that clawed their way toward the Rideau River.

The chase was not a duel. It was a demolition derby scored by physics.

Donny Masterson knew these roads in his marrow. He’d grown up racing them drunk on moonshine and spite. He leaned the Harley into the tight bend of Old Ferry Road, his boot scraping gravel, his body a fluid part of the machine. He was herding, trying to force the weird, silent car toward the soft shoulder, toward a ditch, toward a stop.

He did not understand what he was chasing.

Andrew drove. He didn’t fight the wheel. He steered. The MULE’s suspension, engineered in a Detroit lab to simulate the Autobahn, treated the valley’s frost heaves and potholes as minor irritants. The car stayed planted, its wide tires digging into the loose surface. When Donny pulled alongside, close enough for Andrew to see the fraying stitching on his vest, Andrew didn’t swerve. He downshifted.

The sound was a physical blow—a sharp, concussive BANG from the short headers. The car didn’t accelerate; it launched, the torque shoving Andrew back into his seat. The Harley, suddenly outmatched, wobbled in the turbulent air as the MULE pulled away, leaving Donny eating a thick plume of dust and exhaust.

Andrew wasn’t fleeing. He was navigating. He knew this map better than Donny ever would. He knew where the paved county maintenance ended and the wild began. He led the roaring bike past the skeletal remains of the mill, past the ghostly foundations of the tannery, and finally onto a narrow, rutted track studded with limestone outcrops—the old access road to the Vicker’s Quarry.

The quarry was a silent, sheer-sided pit of stagnant water and shattered rock. A dead end.

Andrew didn’t slow. He aimed the MULE’s blunt nose at the sagging, rusted chain-link gate, already hanging open on one hinge. He punched through. Gravel sprayed like shotgun pellets. He drove straight for the black maw of the water-filled pit, his senses hyper-alert, counting down in his head. At the last possible moment, he yanked the hydraulic handbrake and cranked the wheel.

The world became a roaring, skidding vortex. The car pivoted around its front axle, tires shrieking, throwing up a blinding storm of white limestone dust. It slid to a stop, perfectly positioned, facing the gate he’d just entered.

Donny Masterson shot through the dust cloud a second later, blind and committed. He saw the MULE waiting, a grey spectre materialized in front of him. He saw Andrew’s silhouette behind the wheel. Panic overrode instinct. He grabbed a fistful of brake and front brake lever. The heavy Harley’s front tire locked, then tucked. The bike lowsided in a grinding shriek of metal and a yelp of pain, sliding to a stop in a heap ten feet from the MULE’s bumper.

The sudden silence was absolute, broken only by the ping-ping-ping of the MULE’s cooling exhaust and a low, ragged moan from the dust.

Andrew got out. He moved slowly, methodically. The adrenaline was a high-pitched hum in his ears, a chemical fact to be managed. He was wearing his work coveralls, stained with grease and now powdered with white dust. Donny was struggling to untangle himself from the fallen motorcycle, his right leg clearly injured, his face a mask of rage and shock.

“You little shit,” Donny gasped, pushing himself to his knees. He fumbled at his back pocket and pulled out a police-style telescoping baton. He flicked his wrist. It snapped open with a sinister shuck-click. “I’m gonna fold you into a fuckin’ mailbox.”

Andrew didn’t answer. He assessed. Donny was bigger, hurt, armed, and furious. Andrew was sober, mobile, and currently running on a cold, clean burn of necessity. He walked toward him, not away.

Donny lunged, leading with a wild, overhead swing of the baton. Andrew didn’t retreat. He stepped inside the arc. The baton whistled past his ear. He drove his left fist, not into Donny’s face, but into the soft, unguarded hollow just below his sternum.

The air left Donny’s lungs in a sickening whoosh. He doubled over, gagging. Andrew grabbed the wrist holding the baton, pinning it against Donny’s own thigh. He used his other hand to grip Donny’s vest at the shoulder. Then he executed a simple hockey move—a reverse hit into the boards. He used Donny’s own stumbling momentum to slam him backwards, spine-first, into the MULE’s aluminum driver-side door.

The impact was a dull, metallic thunderclap. Donny’s eyes bulged. A choked scream was smothered by the agony of the impact. Andrew didn’t let go. He held him there, pinned against the car, and drove his forehead forward.

It wasn’t a headbutt. It was a tool. The hard ridge of Andrew’s brow connected with the bridge of Donny’s already scarred nose. The cartilage gave way with a wet, crunching pop. Blood instantly sheeted down Donny’s chin and throat.

Andrew let go. Donny slid down the side of the car and crumpled into a groaning heap on the quarry floor, clutching his face, blood seeping between his fingers.

Andrew stood over him, breathing hard, his own knuckles throbbing where they’d connected with vest leather. He looked at his hands. He looked at the man at his feet. He felt no triumph. He felt a grim, surgical satisfaction. A problem had been assessed and neutralized.

“The law’s a broken pump,” Andrew said quietly, the words for himself, not for Donny. Walter’s phrase made sense now.

He couldn’t leave him here. A body in the quarry would bring the wrong kind of attention. He opened the MULE’s rear hatch—a shallow, unfinished space over the fuel cell. He bent, hooked his hands under Donny’s armpits, and dragged. It was awkward, heavy work. Donny was semi-conscious, moaning and limp. Andrew wrestled him into the space, folding his legs up. He had to shove to get the hatch closed. It latched with a solid, final thunk.

Andrew leaned against the car, his breath fogging in the cold air. The quarry was preternaturally still again. He pulled Will’s burgundy tie from his chest pocket. The silk was cool. He wiped the smear of Donny’s blood from his knuckles, staining the expensive fabric a rusty brown. He looked at it for a long moment, then tucked the soiled tie back inside his coveralls, against his heart.

Reopening the trunk, he reached into the car, quickly searching through Donny’s pockets, startled when he drew a gun. A black beretta, Andrew handled the gun a moment before tossing it into the glove box. Going back to search again. He found Donny’s cell phone—a heavy Nokia—on the floor of the trunk where it had fallen. He scrolled through the recent calls. Boss. Brick. Sharlene. He didn’t call Denton. He dialled the number on Tanaka’s white card.

It was answered on the third ring. “Yeah?”

“It’s Andrew. I’ve, uh… I’ve got Donny Masterson. He came after me. I had to put him down. He’s in the trunk.”

The silence on the line lasted five full seconds. “I told you not to engage.”

“Wasn’t much of a choice. He saw me. It was either that or let him run me off a cliff.”

“Every moment is a choice. You chose direct force. Predictable, given your father. Where are you?”

“The old Vicker’s Quarry.”

“Don’t talk to him. Don’t give him water. Just wait. We’ll be there in forty minutes. Consider this your first practical lesson. See if you can handle the reality of the work.”

The line went dead.

Forty minutes in a darkening quarry, with a beaten man groaning in your trunk, is an eternity. Andrew didn’t sit in the car. He sat on the cold limestone ground, his back against a front tire. He watched the sliver of sky between the quarry walls turn from violet to black. He didn’t think. He let the cold seep into his bones, let the reality of what he’d done settle into his muscle memory. Donny’s muffled sounds from the trunk were just data. Pain data. Regret data.

He held the short barreled police baton, turning it over and over in his hands. The weapon that would have splintered his skull if it had connected. He hadn’t thought about it, just acted. Will would have called it stupid, Andrew called it instinct. Somewhere they were both right.

Right on time, a set of headlights appeared at the gate. Not blinding high beams. Normal, low lights. A grey, four-door Toyota Camry, so common it was invisible, rolled silently over the gravel and stopped twenty feet away.

Tanaka emerged. He wore the same beige raincoat, same pressed trousers. He looked like a surveyor arriving for a night shift. Two other men got out of the back. They were big, but not in a bodybuilder way. In a load-bearing way. They wore dark, nondescript work clothes. Their faces were bland and closed.

Tanaka didn’t greet Andrew. He walked to the rear of the MULE and examined the hatch. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to one of the men, who produced a small, hooked tool from his pocket. He inserted it into the latch, twisted, and the hatch popped open with a soft click. No violence. Pure mechanics.

Donny Masterson blinked blearily into the beam of a small, powerful flashlight held by the second man. The arrogant biker was gone. In his place was a bloodied, frightened animal cornered by something he didn’t understand.

“Donald Masterson,” Tanaka said, his voice calm. “Your brother’s a Police Officer. Your friend Denton’s a businessman. And you… you’re a problem that keeps costing everyone money.”

“Who the hell are you?” Donny croaked, trying to push himself up. A large hand settled on his shoulder, not pushing down, just resting. The message was clear.

Tanaka ignored him. He looked at Andrew. “He’s alert. Scared. That’s when people are most honest. Watch. This is how you get answers from someone who doesn’t want to give them.”

The two men helped Donny out of the trunk. He stumbled, his injured leg buckling. They didn’t hit him. They supported him, moving him with a terrifying, impersonal efficiency to a folding aluminum chair they produced from the Camry’s trunk.

One searched him, pulling off the leather vest and tossing it aside, stripping off the empty shoulder holster and holding it up for Tanaka to note. He glanced at Andrew and gave a tut-tut, as he nodded to his men.

They sat Donny down. One man held his shoulders. The other took his wrists and secured them to the chair’s cold frame with two heavy-duty plastic zip-ties. The sound—a crisp zzzip-zzzip—was obscenely loud in the quiet.

Tanaka stood before Donny. He removed a small, black leather case from his inner coat pocket. He unzipped it. Inside, nestled in foam, were a few simple items: a slim digital voice recorder, a pair of thin latex gloves, a small bottle of clear liquid with no label, and a clean white cloth.

“Alright, Donny,” Tanaka began, his tone conversational. “We can do this easy, or we can do it hard. Easy means you talk now. Hard means you sit here in the dark until you’re ready to talk. Your call.”

“Screw you,” Donny muttered, but his voice trembled.

“Suit yourself.” Tanaka turned to Andrew. “Watch his eyes. The mouth lies. The eyes give it away. Tell me what you see.”

What followed was not an interrogation. It was a deconstruction.

Tanaka asked a simple question. “Where does the van go after the woodlot?”

Then he stopped. He stood perfectly still, looking at Donny. He didn’t repeat the question. He didn’t threaten. He just waited.

One minute. Two. Five. The only sounds were the wind over the quarry rim and Donny’s increasingly ragged breath. The pressure of the silence became a physical weight, crushing. Donny’s eyes darted left, toward the gate, toward the road out.

“He looked to the exit,” Andrew said, his own voice sounding strange. “He’s thinking of the route.”

“Good,” Tanaka murmured. “The body talks first.”

Another question. “Who does the money for the Montreal guys?”

Another endless silence. Tanaka’s patience was a weapon. Donny squirmed. He tried to spit, but his mouth was too dry. A tear of pure frustration leaked from his eye, cutting through the blood.

“The… the accountant in Smiths Falls,” Donny finally gasped, breaking just to make the silence stop. “The PO box. It’s… it’s just a drop.”

“The address,” Tanaka said, not missing a beat.

And so it went, for over an hour. Tanaka dismantled Donny Masterson layer by layer, not with pain, but with an inexorable, patient pressure that found every crack in his defiance. He learned about the repurposed furniture factory in Carleton Place. He learned the rotation schedule of the complacent O.P.P. officer on the night shift. He learned the date and window for the next major shipment: Thursday night.

When Donny was empty—a husk of shivers and mumbled answers—Tanaka finally moved. He pulled on the latex gloves. He uncapped the small bottle, wet the white cloth with a few drops of the clear liquid, and carefully, almost clinically, wiped the blood from Donny’s face. The liquid had a sharp, medicinal smell. Donny flinched but was too broken to resist.

“There,” Tanaka said, stepping back. “Done.”

He nodded to the two men. They cut the zip-ties. Donny didn’t move. They pulled him to his feet and guided him, shuffling and docile, toward the open door of the Camry. He went without a sound.

Tanaka walked to Andrew, who was still leaning against the MULE’s tire, his body cold and stiff.

“You did alright,” Tanaka said. “The fight was messy, but it worked. Calling me was the right move. It means you’re thinking about the mess, not just making it.”

“What happens to him?” Andrew asked, watching the Camry’s dark interior swallow Donny Masterson.

“He gets a choice. A quiet room far away, or a prison cell closer to home. He’ll pick the room. His own people will think he skipped town. Denton will feel the hole he leaves. He’ll know something’s up. You understand that?”

Andrew nodded. He understood. The quiet war was loud now.

Tanaka reached into his coat. He pulled out a small, sealed envelope. He handed it to Andrew. “Names. Businesses in Smiths Falls and Carleton Place. Legit fronts. Cross-reference them with the municipal tax registry at the library. Look for weird stuff—cash payments, power bills that don’t match the business. Build a money picture. That’s your job now.”

Andrew took the envelope. It was weightless and heavy with implication.

Tanaka pulled a slim phone from his pocket and tossed it over to Andrew. “This will be how we speak from now on. We will take Donny’s phone.” He paused looking to where the shoulder holster sat on the hatch of the MULE. “That,” he said with a nod to the empty holster. “Is a choice, decide well, be smart, and learn.” He paused, “I don’t need to tell you to not get caught with it. But the way things are… escalating, you should keep your options… handy.”

Tanaka turned to go, then paused. “That tie, Andrew. The one in your pocket.”

Andrew’s hand went to his chest.

“It’s a link,” Tanaka said, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. “To the life you’re trying to get back to. Don’t get so comfortable in the dirt you forget what clean feels like. Sometimes that’s all that keeps a man from coming apart.”

One of the men with Tanaka righted the bike, starting it up as Tanaka got into the passenger seat of the Camry. The engine started with a near-silent hum. The car reversed, turned, and its red taillights vanished into the night, the bike in tow, leaving Andrew alone with the MULE and the crushing silence of the quarry.

He stood for a long time. Picking up the holster and it’s spare magazines he tossed it into the passenger seat. He got into the driver’s seat and took a moment to stare at it. What it represented. He was going to need to learn how to shoot, how the hell was he going to explain that to Walter?

He didn’t start the engine immediately. He took out the steel notebook and his pen. In the glow of the dome light, he wrote.

Entry: 21:07, October 5, 2001. Location: Vickers Quarry. Subject: Masterson, D. Intercepted following aggressive pursuit. Contained. Transferred to Tanaka for processing. Intel Gained: - Distribution hub: Old furniture factory, Carleton Place. - O.P.P. schedule compromised (Officer Jenkins, night shift). - Financial conduit: Accountant in Smiths Falls (PO Box 448). - Next major shipment: Thursday, October 8, between 2300-0200. Action Required: Financial cross-referencing per Tanaka’s list. Continued surveillance on Carleton Place location. Note: The conflict is now active. Expect escalation.

He closed the book. He started the MULE. The engine’s roar was a familiar, comforting violence in the silent stone bowl. He drove out of the quarry, the headlights cutting a path through the absolute dark.