Free A Dream of Death by Harrison Drake

International Airport awaiting the OPP Cessna 206 Turbo used primarily
for traffic enforcement. With a top speed of just over two hundred and sixty
kilometres per hour it was also a highly effective means of transport.
    Takeoff was nice and smooth for such a small plane, my first
experience with anything other than a passenger jet. It was a nice view and the
pilot and copilot regaled me with some of the highlights of their careers.
    We touched down after only a few hours in the air, landing
on a private airstrip not far from the meeting place—a small hotel well within
the confines of the park and an hour from the remains. Chen greeted me by
holding the hotel door open as I rushed in and out of the pounding, pouring
rain.
    “What are tomorrow’s lottery numbers, you son of a bitch?”
    A pleasant greeting. “Check your horoscope, ass-hat. How the
hell should I know?”
    “Link ‘Nostradamus’ Munroe predicted the weather just fine.
I figured he’d be able to give me a leg up on the lotto as well. Looks like you
left him back in London and brought boring Link along.”
    I slugged Chen in the right shoulder before lacing into him
with a tirade of expletives. Old friends and college buddies have a unique way
of communicating. Chen and I were no different.
    “Seriously, how’d you do it?”
    “I don’t know, Chen. Just a feeling.”
    “Alright, who killed the bastard then?”
    Another punch to his shoulder. “For all I know, Chen, it
could have been you.”

—10—
     
     
    I woke bright and early the next day to the sound of Chen
doing his morning calisthenics in the adjoining room. There was an old Chinese
proverb he often reminded me of: no one who gets up before sunrise
three-hundred and sixty days a year will fail to make his family rich. Chen
seemed to live by this. He was the first to rise every day at college, a five
kilometre run and forty laps in the pool done before the rest of us even
stirred. Not being a morning person, it was one of the few things I hated about
Chen.
    Without my calendar I had to think for a moment; June fourteen—I
wondered what the word of the day had been. I didn’t dream again last night,
which surprised me; the proximity alone should have been enough to trigger
another entry into my own private hell. But my sound night’s sleep may have
been the aftereffect of a mickey of scotch split between Chen and I—Glenlivet,
a good specimen yet still affordable.
    I showered, shaved and got dressed; my black suit packed
carefully in my overnight bag. I only brought one shirt and tie—Chen made it
clear that I would only be here two days. Despite the terrain we would be
facing protocol remained and I had no choice but to wear a suit.
    Downstairs Chen and I met in the lobby of the hotel. It was
7:15 a.m.; Chen was never late. “Any new predictions?” he asked as he
approached.
    “Yeah, you’re paying for breakfast.”
    Chen laughed and nodded. I was right of course, but Chen
wouldn’t drag me all the way down here then expect me to pay for my meals.
    “Obvious,” he said. “Any others?”
    “Keep asking questions like that, and you’ll regret it.”
    Chen took a fighting stance. “Big words, tough guy.”
    “Let’s go. Those other guys took my plane away. Hopefully
you have a car?”
    “SUV. We’ll need it to get as close to the scene as I’d like
to.”
    We walked out to the parking lot and got into the vehicle,
Chen taking the wheel of the black and white Chevrolet Tahoe. The crime scene
was a short distance as the crow flies, however the terrain required a more
deliberate path and a reduced speed. The conversation was stagnant both during
the ride and our early morning meal at a small and out of the way family run
restaurant. It amazed me that even here in the midst of what seemed to be a forgotten
world, wilderness lost in time, one could still find a good bacon and egg
breakfast.
    We spoke little and as is often the case it was the words we
never said that formed the