The next morning at work, Rawle Powder used the internet in one of the hotel suites to check his email. There was an email from Cst. Keith, sent two days ago:
“Rawle, I don’t know where you’re going, but Kelloway says you’re not going down to her place, you lying cocksucker. I called her because I picked up your car, stupid. Whatever. Your dog’s fine. The car got towed. I paid your fine (yeah right), in case you’re wondering where your car is. It’s at my place. Hope your ok, bud. Send me an email when you touch ground. Matt.”
Rawle smiled and deleted the email. His luck seemed to be holding out.
The bloody clothes were safe, unless Cst. Keith rummaged the spare tire well of the Golf, for some reason.
He pulled up the Gazette website to read the online edition of the paper.
There was a huge photo of Kyle Verryn right on the front page.
“Valley man shot dead.”
Kyle Verryn had been shot dead.
Technically, the story said he had been shot two days earlier, during a shootout with a police officer, then was airlifted to Halifax and listed in critical condition at Victoria General. Shot in the neck and lung. Then he died yesterday at two in the afternoon.
Rawle was just dumfounded. He read the story over again three times. It had Elnora Redden’s byline on it.
What the hell?
There was no explanation for the shooting, only that police had recovered an unidentified firearm from Verryn’s body. No other details.
Jesus Christ.
Rawle Googled the name ‘Kyle Verryn’ in Google News and read every news story he could find. There was no more real information, only the promise of a police investigation into the shooting, which would be conducted by an outside police force.
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