A 10 year old child goes missing after school. Her frantic parents reach out to an old family friend with political ties who remembers hearing about an individual with no ties or legitimate background who has been known to help solve problems. His name is Tallon and he agrees to help find the girl. Enlisting the aid of an old friend, a hired killer named Spanish Mike Callahan and a foul-mouthed policewoman, Tallon searches the dark side of Toronto for the ones with the resources and desires to pull a child into the bleak and degrading world of human trafficking. What he learns makes him vow to get the girl back to her parents, whatever it takes and at any cost.
A 10 year old child goes missing after school. Her frantic parents reach out to an old family friend with political ties who remembers hearing about an individual with no ties or legitimate background who has been known to help solve problems. His name is Tallon and he agrees to help find the girl. Enlisting the aid of an old friend, a hired killer named Spanish Mike Callahan and a foul-mouthed policewoman, Tallon searches the dark side of Toronto for the ones with the resources and desires to pull a child into the bleak and degrading world of human trafficking. What he learns makes him vow to get the girl back to her parents, whatever it takes and at any cost.
ONE
Â
When I was a lot younger, a very wise person explained to me how anxiety and nervousness were simply milder degrees of true fear; knowing you're going to get a verbal rap across the knuckles from the boss for getting to work late, or from the wife for getting home late, for blowing the budget or forgetting a birthday, maybe getting caught in a little white lie - all these were worrisome events but not the end of the world. Simply the kind of apprehension the average person gets like when theyâre unexpectedly pulled over by the police for no apparent reason. Real fear is having to deal with a situation never foreseen or imagined, even in someoneâs worst nightmare. And the uncertainty and worry about if and how that situation was ever going to be resolved. Fear of the unknown.
Every person reacts differently to true fear.
And, like the man I was about to see, it didnât make things any easier that his situation might have to be resolved by a complete stranger. After all, who likes unexpected intrusions, no matter how serious the situation, into their personal life?
Iâd arranged to meet him at a Tim Hortonâs near his home, which meant that, with the standard cookie-cutter look that most Tim Hortonâs shared, we could have been anywhere in Canada, though this one was in a suburban strip mall in the east end of Mississauga. It was maybe half full, mostly older men and women, and the bits of conversation I overheard tended to run toward either illnesses, unappreciative children or wonderful grandchildren. Typical of a Tim Hortonâs mid-morning crowd and nothing that gave me pause.
He was sitting at a corner table near the little passage that led to the restrooms, and, if you knew what to look for, even from the entrance doorway you could see the minute twitchy mannerisms that set him apart from the rest of the customers. His hands were in constant motion, twisting his coffee cup, smoothing down the collar of his shirt, brushing back his hair, and those movements were echoed by his eyes, continually shifting from side to side, up and down, looking but not really seeing anything, a haunted look darkening them. Again, nothing too obvious unless you were expecting to see something of that nature. And I could tell that any surface calmness was barely holding real fear in check.Â
His name was Roy Anders, a marketing manager with a small manufacturing firm. Married almost twelve years, one daughter, and at one time the university roommate of a now highly placed government figure. And fortunately for the position Anders was in, his old roommate, an independent senator, had been around long enough and gained power enough to have heard that there were strings to be pulled that might help in a situation like the one Anders was in, and who might know how to pull those strings. But he hadnât been around long enough and hadnât garnered enough power to know who or what might be on the end of those strings. Or the consequences of pulling them.
           I moved further into the coffee shop, taking my time, letting Anders get a look, knowing he wouldn't see anything that suggested I was something more than an ordinary guy meeting a friend for coffee, maybe younger and in better shape than the regulars, but still nothing that stood out. Which was fine with me, ordinary was what he needed to see, until he and I worked out if and how we were going to resolve the unthinkable situation he was having to cope with. He half rose when he realized I was probably the person he'd been asked to meet. His smile was hesitant, and he didn't offer his hand, probably not wanting to embarrass himself in case I wasn't who he was expecting. Smiling easily to take the tension away, I introduced myself by the name I would be using for this effort.
"Mr. Anders, I'm Chris Chambers, hope I'm not late. And please, call me Chris."Â In truth, out of habit I'd been there two hours earlier than our ten oâclock appointment, wanting to see who, if anyone, might be interested in our meeting, before I entered the coffee shop. Anders had come alone, early enough to get a coffee and the corner table as Iâd suggested, and he hadn't been followed or used a phone since he got there; perfectly normal behaviour that wouldn't raise any eyebrows. Maybe the lack of phone usage wasnât completely normal, but given that most of the other customers were probably more than twice his age, and more used to talking than texting, not using a phone wasnât all that out of place.Â
Anders took my hand in a soft, sweaty grasp and shook it twice in a jerky motion before letting it go and dropping back down in his chair. A shadow moved on his face, a troubled look I'd seen before; now things were about to happen and he wasn't totally ready or comfortable with whatever might begin to take place. Then the shadow was gone, replaced by a weak smile that did nothing to mask the stress and exhaustion he must have been feeling.Â
"Good morning Mr., ah, sorry, uh, Chris, thanks for coming. Can I get you a coffee?" His tone was strained, he sounded like he was in his living room entertaining an unwanted guest, or maybe like he was about to let an employee go, a task he didnât want to handle, a position he wasnât comfortable with. I could sense the agitation barely held in check and could tell he was mentally poised to run, whether from me or the problem he was facing, I wasnât sure.
           "Thank you, no, one cup with breakfast is enough for me, but if you want another one, go ahead." I smiled again, keeping a soothing tone of voice, projecting calm. Not applying any of the pressure I might have to at some point.
           "If youâre sure you donât want one, I think I could use one more," and he went to the counter. Standing up, he wasn't overly tall, maybe 5' 10" and with the thickening middle typical of his age and white collar occupation. He had played a serious game of tennis in his university days I'd been told, a doubles player with the senator, but it appeared that whatever athleticism he'd had was slowly dwindling, most likely replaced by marriage, career, fatherhood and the rest of the middle-age trappings that made up his life. A life I wasnât likely to ever know anything about.Â
And like a few other people with a problem, someone thought I might be best suited to resolve the ugly state of affairs he and his wife found themselves in.
           Anders came back to the table slowly, careful not to spill the cup he was holding slightly away from his body. His hand was shaking, but again, unless you were looking hard you'd probably not notice, and whether it was nervousness about spilling the coffee or his predicament that produced the slight tremor, it was hard to say but Iâd put my money on the latter. I waited until heâd sat down and blown gently across the cafe-au-lait surface and took his first sip.Â
"Your daughter has gone missing." It wasn't a question; Iâd been given a quick bare bones briefing, read the scant article in the local Toronto online news services, most of it things that were only as good as the minimal information the police had reluctantly doled out so far, so I needed Anders to tell his side of things, see whatever the police had left out or my short briefing hadnât covered. And the ambiguous Amber Alert that had been issued was more than likely to be ignored as an unwelcome alarm by most people; after all, it had nothing to do with them.
And now it was now time to be deliberately direct, I wanted to get the heart of this meeting without any unnecessary conversational sidebars; there wasnât enough time to be wasted on inconsequential small talk. Though I had the sense that Anders was completely focused, very much aware that time was too crucial to squander.
           However, it was clear he wasn't expecting my getting straight to the point, probably more used to a softer opening gambit, typical of the kind I was sure the police had used. He looked slightly taken aback, probably had something rehearsed he was going to use as a prelude that was now of no use. It took a minute for him to start, his voice strained.Â
"Uh, well, yes, I - we, I mean my wife and I, our daughterâs gone and we donât know what happened to her.â He rubbed his hand over his face and a quaver entered his voice, a silver glint of held-back tears in the corners of his eyes as his words spilled out. âItâs killing us, we donât know if sheâs okay or where sheâs gone and honestly I donât know how much more we can take - we just want her home, safe and sound. Neither of us know what to do, and we canât stand it much longer. Weâre going crazy here, you have no idea. Nothing like this has ever happened, weâre a good family, good parents, and oh God, we just want her back. None of this makes any sense and we donât know what to do, we need help understanding whatâs going on.â
           I only nodded, knowing that anything I could say would just sound trite.
           âYouâre sure? You know what itâs like losing your child?â His tone became a little more aggressive, the fear driving his need. âLook, I know youâre supposed to help, you were recommended by a friend we know we can trust, but I need to know why he thinks youâre the one thatâs gonna be of more use than what I - we - can get from the police. Itâs our daughter weâre talking about, you know? I mean, Jesus Christ.âÂ
Heâd asked a fair question, one Iâd been asked on more than one occasion. Unfortunately Anders wasnât going to like what I was going to tell him any more than any of the others usually did.
âWell, Mr. Anders, as I said, my name is Chris, Iâm an associate of a friend of your university roommate, the senator. When you reached out to the senator, told him what had happened, he talked to our mutual friend, and here I am. And Iâm here because there are people who know that one of the things Iâm good at is finding missing people.â I held up a hand. âBut just so weâre up front with each other, you only need to know Iâm a guy with the appropriate skill set doing a favour for someone who knows my capabilities, and leave it at that. Donât waste time asking for legal credentials, I donât have any. That may not be very reassuring, I know, but consider this: as a free agent Iâm not constrained by authority â I can get things done a lot quicker and go to a lot more places than the ones handicapped by laws and rules. Please, the senator should have given you all the assurances you need, so now we need to cut to the chase so I can start looking for your daughter. I need every piece of information about what happened, no exceptions or exemptions, and Iâll fix this mess. You have my word.â
           âThatâs it â just your word and nothing else? How do I know youâre not just feeding me a line, going to listen to me all serious like, then hit me up for some cash and disappear? Or maybe you're some goddamn pervert trying to get some kind of sick thrill.â The anger-fueled tension in his voice was almost a solid thing and it was underscored by a tone of desperation. The man was very frustrated and very, very frightened.
           âLook, Iâm not working for you, youâre not paying me anything, and you didnât ask for my help. So thereâs no fear of me running a scam. And ask yourself this - would the senator suggest my services if he didnât think I could help? Other than that, all I can offer is my promise to find your daughter and bring her home. And I donât make promises I canât keep.â
           Anders shook his head stubbornly. âI asked him, he said he heard about you from someone he has confidence in and that was all he would say.â
           âThatâs all he could say. He doesnât know me, never heard of me, didnât even know I existed until yesterday.â
           âThen how ââ
           âMr. Anders, your daughter is missing, and the more time we spend debating my abilities, the longer itâs going to take until sheâs safely back home. So we can keep dancing around my credentials or we can focus on getting her back. I need you to accept my help and provide me with everything Iâve asked for - no skipping of details, no matter how small or inconsequential you think they might be. Everything matters.â Iâd kept my tone calm and reasonable as I spoke, knowing from experience how hard it was for the Roy Anders of the world to put their faith in someone they knew nothing about and trust them with something that threatened their family and their familyâs privacy. Involving the police was bad enough for most people, having someone with my lack of real authority poking about was a lot worse, as Iâd experienced more than once.
âLook, the senator knows someone who does know me, and knows that that personâs judgment can be depended on. The senator wouldnât have told that person much, only whatever you told him, and because I can be trusted and Iâve got experience in this kind of situation, I was asked to get you and your wife out of the trouble youâre in. I agreed to do that, Mr. Anders, so you can ask me to leave, and I start looking without your help, which is going to take a lot longer, or you can accept the fact that Iâm going to find your daughter anyway and we can work together. Your call.â
           He looked at me for several moments, a war of emotions flickering across his face. Finally need seemed to win out over fear and doubt. He pushed his cup away decisively and sat up straighter. Letting out the breath he probably wasnât aware heâd been holding in, he said, âI donât know how much your friend told you.â
I could tell by his expression that he was hoping I already knew it all, probably because it was too painful to repeat.
âWhat do you need to know?â he continued.
            I smiled sympathetically. âEverything. Like I said, all I was told was that the daughter of a friend of senatorâs has gone missing and the family needed the kind of help I can provide.â
            He swallowed, took another deep breath and his words came out in a flood, the dam of his reserve finally broken. âSheâs been gone since yesterday. Her nameâs Belinda, weâve always called her Bel, she never came out after school. Sheâs only ten, Carla, my wife, always picks her up and she waited for over twenty minutes and Bel never showed. Carla checked by her locker and went to the principalâs office but Bel wasnât there and nobody at the school knew anything. The last time any of her teachers or friends saw her was on her way to the parentâs pick-up zone in the parking lot.â He stopped and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, a tired, resigned motion heâd probably been doing a lot lately. âBelâs a good kid, Chambers, sheâs doing good at school, sheâs never been a problem. Never done anything like this, always came straight out to meet her mom after school, she was never late, not once, she knows the rules. Weâve drilled it into her about talking to strangers and taking rides from someone else unless weâve set it up with a friend or one of the neighbours, like if Carla had to work late or was sick or something. I donât know what happened to her, Iâm scared something bad happened to her.â His eyes were brighter and I could hear the suppressed fear and anger and hopelessness in his voice.Â
           âOkay, just calm down a bi ââ
âCalm down? Calm fucking down? Jesus, youâre as bad as the cops â just relax, Mr. Anders, calm down and weâll do what we can. Well, so far thatâs been fuck all, Chambers, and Belâs still missing and I donât need some, whatever the hell you are, telling me to calm down too. I ââ
âWhat you need is to stop and listen to me.â I cut him off hard, needing him to focus. âI want you to calmly and succinctly give me the information I need to find your daughter.â I softened my tone. âLook, youâre upset and scared, I get that, and Iâd be feeling the same if I were you, but attitude isnât going to find Bel, co-operation is. Children sometimes donât want to be found, for all kinds of reasons, even as young as your daughter, maybe for something as simple as getting yelled at by their parents or their teacher or getting in trouble for something theyâre afraid to admit to, so they go into hiding for a while. Maybe she heard you and your wife having a fight and it scared her. For all we know Belâs camped out at a friendâs house, waiting for some perceived storm to blow over. The police get missing persons calls daily, theyâre very good at focussing on the serious ones; they put as much effort into checking those out as they can, but the truth, whether theyâll admit it or not, is that a child for only one day wonât be number one on their priority list unless they have a good reason to suspect something serious happened to them. Like I said, itâs possible Bel is just hiding out somewhere for a reason we donât know. Youâve got to remember, thereâs a lot of bad things happening in this city every hour, Mr. Anders, more than enough for the police to handle, so yes, theyâll follow the proper procedures, check the obvious things out, but their focus is going to be on more urgent matters unless they have reason to believe something really harmful may have happened to your daughter. Now, what have they told you so far?â
Anders cleared his throat and took a sip of what by now must have been a cold cup of coffee. âThey asked all kinds of stuff, was there a problem at home, how was she doing at school, what about her friends, did she spend a lot of time on the computer, what was her behaviour like the last few days, did she seem worried about anything. Almost like Carla and I did something to make her run away. Christ.â He rubbed the heels of his hands into worry-reddened eyes again.
Theyâd asked all the right questions, like I knew they would have, and if they suspected the Anders, we wouldnât be having this conversation, heâd still be talking to the police. âOkay, donât get mad at them, theyâre just doing what they have to. And theyâre not going to say anything to give you any kind of false hope - youâll get facts when they have some to give you. Now, if youâre good with me helping, do you want to go through everything I need to know while weâre here or do you want to do it somewhere with a little more privacy?â
Anders looked around, almost like seeing where he was for the first time. He shook his head and when he spoke, his voice was steady again. âSorry for losing it like that â itâs just that everythingâs so, so messed up. Nothing like this has ever happened to us before and weâre a little, I donât know, nuts, I guess. Weâre both scared and we need to know whatâs happened to our daughter, Chambers, can you understand that?â
âYes, I can, and whether you believe it or not, I will find your daughter. Now, are we staying here or going?â
He looked at his watch, the kind of habitual unconscious gesture people made when they had a decision to make. âYeah, I donât feel comfortable talking about private things in public. My boss gave me the time off, so did Carlaâs, until we get Bel back, so Iâve got all the time I need. And Carla wanted to meet you before we made any kind of final decision so I can go pick her up and we can meet at your office if that would be okay.â
I smiled to take any sting out of my reply. âI donât have an office, Mr. Anders. Like I said, Iâm helping you strictly as a favour to a friend, I work out of my home, so wherever we go, itâll be a place you choose. I havenât even booked into a hotel yet.â A lie that came easily, I never shared information I didnât have to. Habit.
He pushed the barely touched cold coffee away and gave me another weak smile. âSorry, this is all new to me. Can you come over to the house?â
âOf course, and thatâs probably best anyway. Iâve got a car, so give me the address and Iâll meet you there.â I already had it, but I never shared information I didnât have to.
The Anders lived in one of the earlier sections of Mississauga to be developed, judging by the address, about ten minutes north and west of where we were. I had a couple of things I wanted to do, so I declined his invitation to lunch and we agreed to meet at one thirty. After assuring him Iâd have no trouble finding his home we stood and shook hands, his grip a little firmer, less hesitant than when heâd introduced himself. He left the coffee shop without looking back and I watched him cross the parking lot and get into a two year old Accord that he drove away cautiously, as I suspected he had done most things in life until recently. I felt bad for him and his wife, the apprehension and uncertainty, the shock of suddenly being yanked out of their calm, structured existence, the realization that there was a dark underside to the world that theyâd known nothing about. It wouldnât matter to them how many assurances I or the police could offer, they had one focus, one anchor they were clinging to and that was the return of their daughter, and their sanity. And now it appeared Roy Anders was trusting me to get both back.Â
Which wasnât the hardest thing Iâd ever been asked to do. At least I thought so then - and it had been quite a while since Iâd been that wrong.
I made a couple of calls, one to arrange a meeting with someone after the Anders and I parted company, and the other to make an appointment with the cop handling the case for later on that evening. I was still waiting for a response to a question Iâd asked last night but at that point it wasnât all that critical, so I was comfortable with what knowledge I had for the meeting with the Anders. There was a small Mediterranean sandwich shop in the same plaza as the Tim Hortonâs, so I grabbed a quick bite there, careful not to spill anything, not wanting to leave any more evidence of my presence in a rental vehicle than I possibly could.
The Anders home was probably fifty years old or more, a red brick and white vinyl siding sidesplit on a gently winding crescent in what was designated the Applewood Hills development, according to the ornamental brick half-wall at the corner of Bloor and Dixie. The trees were old and stately, branches arching gracefully over the street, the early afternoon sun through them creating random shadow patterns that a soft wind drifted across the road. A little way down the street, on the other side, a small person was walking a dog of indeterminate lineage, otherwise there was no activity I could see. All the driveways seemed to be well maintained, the uncluttered lawns regimentally trimmed and well-watered, the street-facing gardens showing typical suburban weekend care, some more than others. The Anderses street was clean and neat and would not have been out of place in hundreds of other suburbs in hundreds of other North American cities, a quiet, mildly affluent area. At least on the surface; I had seen too much in my life not to believe there wasnât an underside to the community most residents wouldnât want to know about.Â
I pulled into the double car driveway behind Anders Accord, next to a newer model Lincoln with Ontario plates that was parked behind a white Toyota Rav4 that I guessed belonged to Carla Anders. I got out, making sure the rental was locked, again out of habit. A daylight vehicle break-in on that street was highly unlikely, but it wasnât in my nature or experience to assume there couldnât be a first time. And Iâd packed a few things the residents of Applewood Hills wouldnât be comfortable seeing.Â
When I rang the doorbell, the chimes had barely faded before the door swung inwards and a woman I figured to be Carla Anders stood framed in the doorway. Her face carried the weight of her situation, the circles around her eyes so deep a shade of purple as to be almost black, the lines creasing her forehead and bracketing her mouth unnaturally deep, her thin lips drawn tight, all underscoring the anxiety and fear I knew she must have been feeling. A little shorter than her husband with what was probably a trim figure when theyâd met, but like her husband, had gradually thickened under the weight of family and the responsibilities of adulthood. She introduced herself and stepped aside to let me in, smiling out of mannerly habit but it was a reluctant, forced smile, obviously she was confused and curious at my presence given what little her husband would have been able to tell her about me or my ability to find their daughter.
I was directed down a hall into a family room at the rear of the house. It was done in warm cream and beige tones, the furniture looked well-worn and comfortable, with a newer big-screen TV and surround sound system taking up most of one wall. This was obviously the most lived in room in the house. Afternoon sun through a sliding glass door and a large picture window brightened it but did little to lighten the atmosphere. Roy sat on the couch, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clenching and releasing, or rubbing together in the same nervous movements Iâd seen in the restaurant. A short glass filled with ice and something dark sat on an end table next to him, within easy reach but appearing untouched. Sitting at the opposite end of the couch was a person who looked quite at home there, a hesitant smile shadowing his face when he saw me.
Standing up he probably wouldnât be much taller than Anders but it looked like the manâs weight to height ratio was tipped quite favourably toward the former. His fashionably cut hair was showing grey at the temples, his tan looked like it came from a salon rather than the sun, a webbing of reddened veins showed faintly around his nostrils, and age lines scored a wide mouth and the corners of eyes that were a hooded grey green. Eyes that seemed to be probing me; taking stock of some exotic specimen the person had never seen before. He was dressed somewhat formally for a midweek afternoon in the suburbs, sharply creased dress slacks, bright white shirt open at the neck, with a jacket that matched his pants folded carefully on the back of the couch.
Anders had looked up as I came into the room and nodded, his face clouded with the same mess of emotions Iâd seen earlier. He glanced quickly at their guest and then at me, an expression I couldnât interpret moving across his face. I stood still, waiting for the introduction and the questions to start, though I had a reasonably good idea about the well-dressed manâs identity and what his role was going to be. I didnât see him as a neighbour, he was dressed too formally to be a family member in my estimation, and I couldnât see him as being a cop or a member of the clergy given the fancy Lincoln in the driveway, so it appeared there was only one other explanation.
âPlease, come and sit down,â Carla said, pointing me toward a leather recliner angled toward the couch. She crossed in front of me and sat between her husband and their guest, her right hand automatically reaching out to rest on her husbandâs left arm, a gesture that seemed ritual in its familiarity. The three of them were obviously comfortable with each other, and I had no sense of the Anders being concerned at the manâs presence. Anxiety, and what I understood to be the fear of not knowing hung in the air as did what seemed to be a strong sense of futility and near hopelessness. Apart from those understandable emotional signals given off by the Anders, the biggest vibe I caught was indecisiveness about my role, a feeling reinforced by the troubled looks in my direction they both tried hard not to let me see. I knew Roy couldnât have told his wife anything reassuring about me, only that I was someone without any legal authority to help with their situation. Which is where, I hoped, their other visitor would be of some use.
I wasnât wrong. He didnât bother to offer his hand, simply nodded once more and said, âMr. Chambers, Chris if I may, welcome, Iâve been wanting to meet ever since I heard about you. Few people come with such an, ah, interesting rĂ©sumĂ©. Though I must admit you look a lot younger than your reputation would suggest.â His voice was low and sombre, as befitting this particular situation, and I would have bet his laugh would be just as heartily appropriate if the circumstances warranted. I found it odd that he spoke as if we were in his home and we were his guests, but given who I now knew who he was, I wasnât entirely surprised. âI should introduce myself of course, I am Benjamin Crandall, an old friend of Roy here, and a member of the Senate.â He waited for me to acknowledge this pronouncement, and when I nodded, probably less dutifully than he expected, he continued. âWhen Roy called me yesterday evening, I couldnât believe what he was saying. Belinda is my godchild and as sacred to me as if she were my own. Of course I immediately promised Roy I would do everything in my power to help, and after I got off the phone and was trying to figure exactly what I could do, I remembered some of the rumours floating around Parliament Hill. I reached out to a colleague whom Iâd heard seemed to know of someone who could handle delicate situations. Iâm sure you know to whom Iâm referring and that he is not relevant to our problem, other than his knowledge of your capabilities, and I assume that what he told me is probably less than he would ever publicly admit to knowing. Anyway, he suggested that if there was anyone who could find Belinda quickly, it would be you. I didnât want to waste any more time than was necessary, and as your abilities were affirmed by a reliable associate, I took your number and called. Thanks very much for responding so quickly, Roy said you two met this morning. I should advise you that after you and I spoke, I did some more digging around the Hill, and as vague as the little bits I could garner from the few willing to admit knowing anything about you were, they were enough to reassure me Iâd made the right move.â He settled back into the couch, a self-satisfied look on his face, obviously pleased with how heâd handled a delicate situation.Â
I looked at the Anders for some kind of acceptance of my help now that Iâd been vouched for in person and there was an expected moment of silence that I was quite comfortable with, before Anders spoke. âCarla and I have talked, Chambers, and we discussed our feelings with Ben before you got here. No offense to either of you, but we still donât have any real assurances that you can be of any help. Even Ben doesnât know anything more about you than rumours or hearsay. The police have all the information, theyâve got the resources and manpower. Nobody has made it clear why we need your help,â his wife nodded, it was obvious she shared the same logic, âor how much of it you can offer.â
It was easy to be patient with them, Iâd experienced the same reticence with others, but I needed a decision before any more valuable time passed. âOkay, look, I understand your concern, and I truly feel very bad for whatâs happening to you both, but weâre wasting precious time. Provide the information I asked for or like I said, I walk out the door and start looking on my own, which Iâm more than willing to do even though itâll take longer without your help. I donât mean to sound abrupt or insensitive to your situation - I honestly canât imagine how either of you feel right now. But neither do the police, and like I told your husband, Mrs. Anders, as much as youâd like them to, and maybe as much as theyâd like to, their resources are limited, and they can only work so hard on this. Right now theyâre doing all the basics, checking with the school, Belâs friends, your neighbours, all -â
âWhat do you mean, our neighbours?â This from a visibly outraged Carla. âWhat business do they have accusing our neighbours, they canât just -â
It was my turn to interrupt. âThey can and they already have, Mrs. Anders - not accuse, just ask some questions. Itâs what they do. How else are they going to eliminate possibilities? Once they clear the obvious and easiest things to check, they can focus on other avenues of investigation.â I didnât add the word âuglierâ, the Anders didnât need to hear that, not yet, and not from me. âThe police are following standard procedure in a missing persons situation, and theyâre going to make sure theyâve covered all the bases. I know itâs hard to be objective when itâs your own daughter, but if you could just take a step back for a moment, you would see Iâm right about this. Theyâll give Bel some time to show up, but if she hasnât come home in a reasonable period, by tonight probably, theyâll kick things into high gear and ramp up their search. I know how they work and I have faith in their abilities - as far as those abilities go. But waiting any longer is waiting too long, which is why Iâll be devoting all my time to finding your daughter. For the police sheâs a priority of course, but sheâs not the only one they have to be concerned with, so their attention isnât going to be totally focused on her, they just donât have the manpower - and thatâs not a criticism, just a reality.â
âGreat. And just what the hell does that mean - as far as their abilities go?â
âMr. Anders, let me give you a possible scenario. Suppose, hypothetically, someone needed money, maybe someone you knew, or maybe someone whoâd tried the same thing before with some other family, and figured they could kidnap your daughter and demand a ransom. Now, the cops can suspect that person based on prior activities, or their relationship to you, and can pick them up for questioning, but without reasonable proof they canât lay a charge or make an arrest, and getting proof takes time and getting proof of any kind means they have to follow the rules - they canât just grab the suspect and beat a confession out of them, as much as they might like to, and believe me, a lot of cops would like to do just that, but they canât. So finding your daughter means methodical, time-consuming and, most importantly, legal methods. Do you understand? And again Iâm not being critical, just realistic.â
The senator had been nodding while I spoke, and leaned forward when he was sure I was finished. âAs much as I hate to admit the facts, Roy, both you and Carla have to accept that what Chris is stating is the truth. The police are well-equipped to search for Bel, but theyâre forced to play by the rules our society has bound them to. Which is where the Chris Chambers of this world come in.â
Anders sat back and reflexively reached for the glass beside him, but hesitated and then pulled his hand away. He looked at his wife and then at me and then back at his wife. She nodded slightly, as if some message had been telepathically transmitted and agreed upon. âAre you suggesting you can, ah, sidestep the law, Chambers? We want our daughter back, safe and sound, as quickly as possible, but we donât want to get in any kind of trouble with the police over -â
I cut him off. âThere wonât be any trouble for either of you, trust me, and you wonât need to know anything about what I do or how I do it. Provide me with the information I ask for, holding nothing back, no matter how trivial you might think it is, and Bel will be home, unharmed, before you know it. Again, that is my guarantee, to both of you.â
âRight now thatâs only a word. You still havenât given us any assurances that you can do anything any better than the police - legal methods or not. My wife and I canât afford to put our faith in someone just because they say they can do something.â
I shook my head and when I spoke it was harshly. âCâmon Anders, why am I here? Why am I bothering to offer my help? Look, weâve danced to this tune long enough, but Iâll say it one more time - I donât know you, never met either of you, Iâve got no ties to you or your daughter. Iâve got absolutely no investment in your situation, so thereâs nothing stopping me from just walking out your front door right now and never looking back. Except that I promised someone Iâd help and whether you believe it or not, I honour my promises. And yes, my methods might not always fit your concept of conventional behaviour, but they get results. So decide now, trust me and whatever the senator told you about me, trust my experience, and give me what I need, or say no to my help and Iâll go it alone. And you can hope to hell the police can bring your daughter home faster.â
âOnce again, if I may interrupt,â Crandall said in his deep, sincere politicianâs promising tone, âChris is right - you two are going to have to make a decision, one way or the other. Now, weâve been friends for too long to not trust each other, and so I need you to listen. Neither of you, or me for that matter, have ever been involved in anything as terrible as this, and we have absolutely no way of knowing how to deal with it. The first reaction is to go to the police, and that is the right one, but as Chris has pointed out, and I agree, that may not be the quickest way to get your daughter back safe and sound. I have been made a party to things about this man that, even though Iâd never heard of him before last night, allows me to trust and have faith in him as being the right person to help. I wish I could share some of the incidents I was told heâs been involved in, but it isnât my place to divulge some of the adversities he has resolved satisfactorily for people in situations like yours. And most importantly, he can be trusted to do what he says he will do. It is of course your decision to make, but every minute we do not do something is another minute lost before Bel comes home.â
The Anders hadnât been willing to risk their daughterâs safety on something as unsubstantial as a strangerâs promises. Now however, I could see them weighing the senatorâs words, which showed me just what an important figure in their lives he was. I knew heâd never heard much, if anything, about either of the things Iâd done for the one who gave him my name, or for anyone else, and wouldnât have gotten any more information no matter how much he asked, it just didnât work that way. Most of what heâd just said was simply a politicianâs flowery oratory, but it seemed to work in my favour. The room went still then, as I suspected it would. Two ordinary people, normal middle-class people whose normal middle-class world had been ripped away from them for reasons beyond their comprehension;Â their life wasnât supposed to be like this. Their daughter wasnât supposed to be missing, she was supposed to be playing at a friendâs house or in her room on the computer or in the backyard reading and working on her tan or getting cleaned up so the three of them could go out for dinner. Strange men should not be in their family room making promises there was no guarantee they could keep. There was a lot for them to absorb and accept and to them, I knew, none of it seemed real.
The Anders kept looking at each other, their eyes full of pain, frustration and the ever-present worry, and it seemed there was some kind of silent conversation going on behind their eyes, the kind of telepathy that went with people that had lived together for a very long time and knew how each other thought. And after a while the other emotions gave way to looks of resignation, like an agreement had been reached, though one neither of them was truly happy with.
âOkay.â It was Roy who spoke and Carla nodded slowly, almost to herself, giving him silent permission. âI admit we donât know how to deal with this, hell, weâre barely coping, and the whole damn thing is too hard to accept, but Ben here feels comfortable with your, ah, reputation, so I guess weâll trust you.â He held up his hand, palm out, like he was trying to stop a punch. âBut only for two days - no results by then we want you out of our lives and weâll let the police do their job. Plus, I want you to talk to them and have them let us know theyâre good with you doing whatever you think you can do to help. Understand?â
âNo problem. Youâve got my number, call me any time. Iâm hooking up with the detective in charge a bit later, Iâll get them to call you once he and I are done and if they give you a green light, Iâll want the information I mentioned before, names of neighbours, friends, business contacts, employees where both of you work. For now, if youâve got a recent picture of Bel, Iâll start with that and see where it takes me.â
Carla Anders looked at me for the first time in several minutes. âBut we gave all that to the police already, canât you get it from them?â
âI can and I will, but you may have given them information youâll forget to give me or vice versa, so itâs a matter of cross-checking to make sure nothing is missing or overlooked. Plus, like I said, the police will be following proper procedures. There are shortcuts I can take with whatever you provide that they canât. Thatâs one of the reasons the senator here suggested my help.â I stood up. âCall me, doesnât matter how late or early it is, and Iâll give you an update on what Iâm doing. And if you hear anything else, let me know right away. Now please, I know it sounds impossible right now, but try to relax a little and get some rest. Your daughter will be back with you in no time, I promise.â Senator Crandall solemnly nodded his agreement from the corner of the couch.
Roy got up and disappeared down the hall, his steps slow and heavy, the weight of the situation appearing almost a physical thing. While he was gone, I shifted to talk to his wife. âCarla, Roy impressed me with how much you both have instilled in Bel about what to do and not do, so why didnât she come straight to the car after school?â
Carla shook her head wearily, it was probably something sheâd asked herself hundreds of times in the last little while. âShe always does, and if Iâm running late, she waits inside the doors until I get there. And I was a bit behind yesterday, there was an accident on my way over from work, and it took me maybe an extra ten minutes getting to the school. She should have been waiting but she wasnât there.â Tears were sliding down her cheeks by this point and I donât think she was aware that she was crying.
 We sat in uncomfortable silence until Roy came back a minute later with a 4 x 6 colour photo of a cute blonde haired girl that I recognised as having been taken in a classic school photo pose, the kind no one had ever taken of me. He handed it over without saying anything. Carlaâs sobbing increased in intensity when she saw the picture, shaking her head in denial of something only she could feel. Anders took her hand and squeezed it gently. There didnât seem much to say that would be of any comfort at that point so I left them like that and let myself out. I nodded goodbye to the senator who smiled and wished me good luck.
The appointment Iâd made earlier with the cops wasnât until 7:00 pm so I headed into Toronto to meet up with someone who might be able to answer some questions the police couldnât or wouldn't. I took Dixie down to the QEW and headed east over to the Gardiner Expressway. Almost three in the afternoon and traffic was already building, by four it wouldnât be moving, and westbound would be even worse. I settled back, the rental car couldnât move any faster than the vehicles in front of it and there was nothing I could do to change that. It took forty-five minutes to get into downtown proper and the exit off the Gardiner onto Spadina Avenue north. Another crawl up to Queen Street and then thankfully it was just a couple of blocks west. There was a parking lot on the north side of Queen that was only charging $15.00 an hour so I pulled in there. I paid at the automated ticket machine and crossed over to the south side and the short walk to where weâd arranged to meet.
The name Last Call was engraved in weather-tarnished raised metal letters bolted onto a piece of cedar planking, the wood faded with age, above double oak doors whose brass push plates had lost their sheen through years of constant contact with a thirsty clientele. There was one large window to the left of the doors, badly in need of cleaning, with the name etched on it in a lusterless gold script that belonged to another era. There were no neon beer signs in the window, no menu posted on the door, just the Health Department rating. Inside, you could see why it considered itself a tavern, there were no big screen TVâs, no chrome or glass, no faux British decor, no potted plants to add a spot of colour, nothing that remotely suggested a sports bar or upscale wine bistro. There was a plain mahogany bar down the right as you came in, its original surface gloss dulled by decades of rested elbows, and a row of booths along the left, separated by a small area only big enough to take three high top tables. The kitchen was housed behind the back wall, the double swing door entry located at the end of the bar. Everything was clean, though worn with years of use and abuse. The array of bottles behind the bar wasnât extensive or expensive, running mostly to a selection of middle of the road whiskies, bourbons, and scotches, with the odd bottle of rum, vodka and red wine thrown in, there were no brandies or liqueurs, no cocktail mixers, just no-nonsense drinks for serious drinkers. The bottles reflected dully in the mirror behind them, giving the illusion of there being more than there actually were. The beer selection appeared equally mundane; four pumps set halfway down the length of the bar, three showing the same uninspired brands seen everywhere, only the last handle blank. That one was the only nod to individuality the owner allowed, a craft beer tap that was frequently changed at his whim. The Last Call was a place for righteous drinking only; there would never be a Karaoke Thursday or an Open Mike Tuesday. The bar owner didnât want or need that kind of clientele.
Two men who looked to be in their mid to late sixties were sitting in the booth farthest from the door, regulars I vaguely recognized, paying no attention to anything other than the glasses in front of them, including each other. There was a small black-haired man with a lean build sitting at the bar, a pint of amber coloured beer half empty in front of him. Behind the bar a blonde-haired man in his mid-thirties had his head down, polishing glasses and setting them up. Nobody had bothered to look up when I came in.
I moved up quietly behind the guy at the bar and he must have gotten a signal from the bartender or seen my reflection in the mirror because before I got close enough to reach out and tap his shoulder, he spun around, a gun pointing at me. It had appeared as he swiveled on the stool, coming out of nowhere as he turned, faster than most people could react, and he had it aimed directly at my heart. His hand was steady, his finger was tight on the trigger and there was absolutely no expression on his face.ï»żï»ż
Tallon: At Any Cost by Bruce Verge is a crime and mystery book ripped from today's headlines. A 10-year-old girl named Belinda goes missing one day after school, every parent's worse nightmare. Who can Roy and Carla Anders turn to in their time of need? Enter Tallon and his team. Tallon is described as an individual without a legitimate background. However, he has a history of solving problems. His team includes a hired killer named Spanish Mike Callahan and a foul mouthed police woman (definitely not the A-Team). Together they search for clues and that one ray of sunshine that can lead them through the proverbial darkness to find the missing girl before the world of human trafficking swallows her alive.
I really enjoyed reading this book. It reminded me of the movie Taken with Liam Neeson. What makes this book special isn't just the action packed into each chapter, it's also the character descriptions. Not only of their background but even their mannerisms. Verge has created flesh and blood characters that readers can empathize with and root for. A background story can make a character seem larger than life or unappealing and lifeless, even if the plot is good. The little details that the author adds to even the actions of his characters, (show don't tell), have you feeling as if they are so life-like that they can literally walk off the page. I give Tallon: At Any Cost by Bruce Verge 5 out of 5 stars.
Warning, this book is written for mature audiences due to language and mild explicit content.
Tallon vows that he will not fail and he's prepared to do whatever it takes to bring the missing girl safely home to her parents.
Tallon: At Any Cost is the first in a series (hopefully of many more).