Connie glanced at her cellphone and saw an incoming call from Jack. “Give me a sec,” she said apologetically to Bob.

“We’re on him,” said Jack. “Westbound on 99 in a black pickup.”

Connie smiled and turned to Bob and said, “No, I don’t want to wait. I want this son of a bitch!”

Connie got her wiretap order signed that afternoon. She immediately called Jack who told her that Varrick simply went to a bottle recycling depot and dropped off several dozen cases of empties, along with a few boxes of liquor bottles before going to a liquor store and restocking the booze supply at Headstones.

“If they’ve got him doing menial chores at Headstones when he is a cook for a meth lab, it is costing them money,” noted Jack. “They’re worried and are laying low.”

“How long do you think they’ll keep him on ice?”

“I’m surprised he isn’t back to work already,” replied Jack. “Although trained lab rats are valuable, they’re not club members and are still expendable. My guess is they’ll wait a week or two to make sure there is no heat before putting him back to work. Maybe they’re looking to rent a new place for a lab.”

“Hope so. The clock is running,” added Connie ruefully.

“Did you hear the news on Faith?”

“Who?”

“Gabriel’s kid … cancer.”

Connie paused to let out a sigh before asking, “How bad?”

The pause gave Jack time to feel the rage simmer through his veins — his tendons and muscles going taut. For a brief second he allowed himself to fantasize that his hands were around Varrick’s neck, choking the information out of him.

“Did you hear me?” asked Connie.

“I heard you,” sighed Jack. “It’s bad. Could be terminal but they don’t know yet.”

“I really, really want to nail these guys.”

“Trust me, we will catch them. Justice will be served,” he said coldly.

Connie’s emotions were in turmoil when she hung up. She was saddened over the news about Faith, but at the same time, knowing Jack’s reputation, she believed the culprits would somehow be identified. Identified, perhaps. But with what evidence? And Jack’s definition of justice … hope to God it is not Jack whom I have to testify against.

The next month dragged by without any progress. Varrick continued to do menial chores around Headstones. Occasionally other men helped him and Jack and Laura photographed any of them who were new faces. Connie showed the photos to Gabriel and Noah, but none were recognized.

Sixteen days after Faith’s cancer had been identified, she underwent surgery. Phyllis called Jack to let him know that the surgery was partially successful.

“Partially?” asked Jack.

“They got most of it, but some wrapped around her spinal cord had to be left. The doctors are optimistic that radiation will get what they missed.”

“Think it would be okay if I paid Gabriel and her children a visit?” asked Jack.

“Give her a little more time,” said Phyllis. “She put her house on the market last week and it has already been sold. There’s a quick possession date. She has a lot on her plate right now. Don’t worry, I think she is starting to accept and even forgive the men responsible.”

“Forgive!” stammered Jack.

“It’s her belief in the Bible. She’s not as angry as she was. It’s a good thing.”

After Jack hung up, he thought about what Phyllis had said. Forgive? I’ll never forgive! His knuckles, still sore, made him realize he had unconsciously clenched his fists at even the suggestion of forgiveness.

Chapter Seven

Another couple of weeks rolled by without identifying Varrick’s accomplices. Connie called for a meeting with Jack and Laura at their office. She got right to the point as soon as she walked through the door.

“Okay, Jack. What’s going on? The wire expires on April third! That’s in two weeks! After that, Varrick goes to trial for the meth lab. You said the bikers would have him back in business soon. You call this soon?”

“Sorry, Connie. In the past they would have.”

“Yeah? So what’s changed?” asked Connie, violently shaking a chair to straighten the rollers before shoving it closer to Jack’s desk and sitting down.

“I’ve been trying to figure that out, as well. To take this long … the bikers are afraid of something. Maybe they’re protecting someone. Someone a lot more valuable than Varrick.”

“So what are you telling me?”

Jack shrugged and said, “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Maybe the bikers are protecting that dirty narc you told me about,” suggested Connie.

“Don’t think so,” replied Jack. “Two years ago we had a good informant in Satans Wrath who warned us we had the dirty narc. The bikers didn’t slow down after the last arrests. I think they’re protecting someone else.”

“Your informant didn’t know the narc’s name?” asked Connie.

“No. The narc was recruited by a biker in the club who goes by the name of Pussy Paul. Runs lots of hookers and strip joints. We’re looking for someone new. Someone who connected with Satans Wrath within the last two years.”

“Speaking of the earlier labs,” said Laura, “we tried to locate the lab rats from the other six labs that were busted. One is an unsolved homicide in Vancouver. He was found tortured and dropped in an alley.”

“Who would do that to a guy connected with Satans Wrath?” asked Connie.

“Satans Wrath would,” replied Jack. “Maybe they thought he was an informant, or perhaps got caught with his fingers in the till.”

“What about the other lab rats?” asked Connie.

“They’ve disappeared, as well,” replied Laura.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they’re likely running labs someplace else,” said Jack. “Makes you wonder how many other innocent people are breathing in fumes from something they aren’t even aware of.”

“Then how can you be so damned calm?” asked Connie, as she glared at Jack. “Think about Gabriel’s kid —”

“You don’t have to remind me about Faith,” said Jack, quietly. “I think about her every day. If I hadn’t busted Varrick, she wouldn’t be sitting in a hospital with her hair falling out.”

Connie looked at Jack and caught the sombre reflection in his tone. I was wrong to think he is calm — cold and calculating is more like it …

“Don’t you have any other leads except Varrick?” interjected Laura. “Seems like we are putting all of our eggs in one basket.”

Connie sighed as she picked up a pen and unconsciously started slapping the edge of the desk. Staring blankly down at the pen, she didn’t look up to reply. “Nope. I’ve tried to get a description from anyone in the neighbourhood about what these other two look like. Nobody had anything of value. Talked to neighbours, delivery people … nothing.”

“What about the winos?” asked Laura. “If they were hanging around they might have seen people coming and going.”

“Already tried,” replied Connie. “I identified seventeen and we located all but three so far.”

“Pretty good, considering most of them are homeless,” noted Laura.

“Tell me about it,” continued Connie. “I found one who was asked to leave by Father Brown. He said Father Brown was a nice guy and wasn’t mean about it. I think the wino, as much as his soggy, drunken brain would allow, did his best to help. Unfortunately, he couldn’t even remember what day or even what week he had been there. He only knew it was Father Brown in the photo because of the small birthmark on his forehead. He never saw anyone else connected to the house except when a kid came out and threw some garbage in the can.”

“Probably Noah,” said Jack.

“You used to have an informant in the Satans Wrath,” said Connie, as she looked up and tossed the pen down. “Can’t you get another one? Or maybe talk to whoever used to help you?”