Read The Canadian Civil War: Volume 5 - Carbines and Calumets Page 20

  Chapter 20 –

  It gets personal

  I finished dinner and started up to my room. But I had barely taken ten steps when I noticed a commotion at the front entrance. The largest man in North America was at the door. Three security guards had him surrounded, although that term seems a bit comical when you are talking about a man who weighs well over four hundred pounds and stands six eight or so. The guards were big men too, but in a completely different league than Tilden Foster.

  "He says he is here to see you." One of the guards told me as I approached.

  "You have my permission to shoot him." I replied. I stood just inside the door, looking at Foster. He tried to smile at me. I can't tell you how odd it looks when a man with four or five chins tries to smile. It reminded me vaguely of a halibut I had landed one weekend. We ate halibut fillets for over a week. I think Foster steaks might last months.

  "I am unarmed." He opened his white suit jacket to show he had nothing inside. One of the guards did a pat down. Was he really unarmed? With all those rolls of fat he could have hidden an arsenal on his body and we would never have known.

  "Good. Then I can shoot you without fear."

  "I would like to tell you some things -- things you will want to hear."

  "There should be a tattoo on your forehead that says "I deserve to die." If ever it was true, it's true for you."

  "Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?" My mind was screaming "NOT." The thought of hearing a single word from this man was abhorrent. But some part of my mind caused my head to nod. The lead guard pointed to a small office in a corner of the lobby.

  "Sir, if you wish to use the security office, we will be right outside." My head nodded again, and the five of us walked to the office. I walked into the office first, and then turned and watched as Foster had his usual problem with doorways. He turned sideways while ducking his head, and still just managed to squeeze through. Whatever was going on in his life, it hadn't caused him to miss any meals.

  The office had a small desk, and I sat behind that. As I came around the desk I pulled my pistol from my pocket and put it on the desk, pointed at Foster.

  "I had two chances to shoot you in Dakota. Good people would be alive today if I had. Don't give me another reason to shoot you." Foster largely ignored me and the gun. There were two other chairs in the office and he was lining them up next to each other so he could sit on them. Both were steel, but they still squealed as his massive bulk settled on them and strained every weld.

  "The good thing about your attitude is no one would ever suspect you of helping me."

  "That's because it would never happen."

  "We shall see." He settled himself onto the two chairs and tried to find a place to rest his back. He was also trying to catch his breath. There was also a sheen of sweat on his face. Moving four or five hundred pounds around was not easy. Too bad.

  "I suppose you expect me to begin this conversation with an apology," he began. "I won't. You cost us a great deal of money when you blocked our mine up north. And I know it was your idea. Don't ask me how I know, but I know. Government salaries are small. You would be surprised how little cash it takes to buy friends. So you were already on a list. Your trip out to the Gulf just moved you to the top of the list. Sorry, but when billions of dollars are at stake..."

  "Really? That's your justification for murder? You killed a guy with a family, and a man who worked for the U.S. government -- your government. Just because we took some pictures? You need to be put away - you and your brothers."

  "That might happen, or it might not. But first you would have to get me back to the U.S. for trial."

  "Or I could shoot you right here, right now."

  "Please top threatening. We both know you won't shoot."

  "I might surprise you."

  "You might, but you won't. What you will do is call a Murphy Manufacturing truck currently making a delivery on the west side of town, and have it make a pick up here. It will take me to Georgia. What happens there depends on many things."

  "You live in a fantasy world. If you want to get to Georgia, hire a cab, or take a plane."

  "Two days ago I would have done that. I should have done that. Today, that is not an option."

  "The border is not closed to Americans."

  "It is closed to me."

  "Pay them off. As you say, government salaries are low."

  "Sometimes things get personal." He looked at me and let that comment hang in the air. What was I to make of it? Personal?

  "This is about yesterday. You were part of that?"

  "Yes. You will call your delivery truck and have it here in eight minutes. If you do, I will explain yesterday to you. Once safely in the U.S., I will make a public statement about yesterday, and the Heritage Party will cease to exist. You want that, don't you?"

  "How is it personal?"

  "Call the tuck, and while it is on its way, I will tell you." I shook my head. "What do you have to lose? If you don't like my story, you can send the truck away." There was lots I already didn't like, but I did want to hear the story. I called Philadelphia. Yes, there was a truck on the other side of town. I asked that it come to my hotel for a pick up. It should wait by the back entrance. They told me it would arrive in eight minutes.

  "Now the story," I said as I ended the call.

  "The Heritage Party wanted an emergency. The Canadian army was not charging down the highway. The fight at Camp Biloxi didn't build to anything dramatic. They wanted drama. So they hired me. I found some men. Their job was simple - roll past the building and fire some shots into the delegates. If a few get wounded, that's good. If one or two die, that is not a problem. It was a simple drive by shooting. The men went well past their orders. Trust me on this, there was never supposed to be so many deaths."

  "And this is personal?"

  "Seventeen deaths didn't matter. They would have been forgiven. One did matter. She was supposed to be upstairs, still on camera. She finished early, or rushed to the scene when she heard shots, who knows? She was out on the plaza and... well, now I need to leave the country. Get me to Georgia and I will tell all this on camera. The Party will be finished, this whole Southland nonsense will be over."

  "You killed Margaret." I wasn't sure I could still breathe.

  "It wasn't supposed to happen that way."

  I put my hand on my pistol. I picked it up. I put it down. I stared at it. It really was time to use it. Instead I picked up my phone and called Philadelphia.

  "Cancel that pick up at my hotel. I am sorry I troubled you."

  "You have the power to punish all the people who did this, and end a civil war. Think what you are doing." The sheen on his face was even heavier. It looked like he was melting.

  "Get out." I stood, pointing the gun at him and motioning toward the door. "Get out."

  "You will never have this chance again." He stood, but made no move toward the door.

  "You are right. This is personal." I motioned again with my pistol. He squeezed himself back out the door. I put my gun in my pocket and followed him across the lobby. At the front entrance he turned and looked at me one more time. I looked back at him. I had nothing to say. He turned and walked away. As he got to the corner two white government cars rolled up next to him. It takes a lot of bullets to kill a four hundred pound man.