CHAPTER ONE
Ontario Provincial Police Constable Terence Maynard never saw it coming.
At 10:23 am on Monday, May 1, he was patrolling King’s Highway 7 westbound, between Carleton Place and Perth, when a vehicle passed him in the eastbound lane in a big-assed hurry.
Maynard’s radar lit him up at 124 kilometres an hour in an 80-kilometre zone, so he moved over onto the shoulder of the road, hit his roof lights, and pulled a U-turn in pursuit.
The vehicle was a white Volkswagen Jetta. Having worked traffic for more than twenty years, Maynard knew that white cars actually drew more speeding tickets than red ones, for whatever reason. On top of that, Jettas were one of the top targets, even more so than other cars you might think of as speeders, such as Lexuses, Beamers, and Audis.
Maynard didn’t really care. They were all grist for the mill, as far as he was concerned. Pull them over, write them up, and move on with your day.
This one must be in a big rush to get home, he thought, approaching close enough that the driver couldn’t help but see his flashing roof rack in his rear-view mirror. He gave his siren a quick tap, just to emphasize the point.
The Jetta’s brake lights fluttered briefly, and its speed dropped a little, but the pursuit continued for another half-kilometre before acceptance of the inevitable seemed to sink in and the driver slowed down. Instead of pulling over onto the shoulder, however, the car turned right onto a side road, which happened to be West Shore Drive, Drummond Township.
The Jetta rolled on for about fifty metres before coming to a stop, just across from the entrance to a long driveway leading up to an old brick house. The house was set back maybe thirty metres from the road, with trees and lilac bushes around it. The car’s lights flickered in front of him as the driver shifted into park.
After informing dispatch that he was leaving his vehicle, Maynard grabbed his hat and slid out. Approaching the Jetta, he stooped a bit for a quick visual but couldn’t see anyone inside the car other than the person behind the wheel.
The driver’s window slid down.
“Licence and registration. Insurance.”
“This is fucking ridiculous, man. I’m just trying to get home.”
“Yes, sir.” Given the surly attitude, Maynard decided to write him up instead of letting him off with a warning.
“I’m just going to open this,” the driver said, pointing at the centre console.
Maynard watched him raise the lid and retrieve a blue plastic pouch, from which he passed over his vehicle registration and his insurance slip.
“Just a sec.” The man lifted a haunch to remove a fat wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He fished around in it and tweezered out his driver’s licence.
Maynard compared the photo on the licence to the man in front of him and nodded. “Please turn off your vehicle and remain here.”
Maynard went back to his cruiser and ran the licence plate, which confirmed the information on the registration form—the Jetta was registered to an Earl Avery Black, DOB 03/04/63, with an address on Radford Road, Ramsay Township, a gravel strip just below Almonte.
This information jibed with Black’s driver’s licence. A quick check revealed that Earl Avery Black had no wants or warrants against him, that he’d received three previous tickets for traffic violations in the past two years, and that he’d paid all his fines.
Bitching about it the whole time, no doubt.
Maynard wrote up number four for him and walked it back to the Jetta.
“Try to stay within the speed limit next time, sir.” He passed the ticket in through the open window.
“Yep.” Black tossed it on the passenger seat, his contempt for the law and its unfair limits on his personal freedom obvious in his sour expression and stiff body language.
Maynard returned to his cruiser and, tossing aside his hat, took out his notebook. Since Black was probably the type to complain about his treatment, Maynard decided to make notes on the stop right away, rather than put it off until later. He’d learned through long experience that it was always a good idea to get it down on paper while the details were still fresh in his mind.
Black turned into the driveway, backed out, and drove away.
Maynard half-listened to the radio as he wrote, following the exchanges between the dispatcher and various units patrolling in the area. Everything sounded routine. As a law enforcement lifer, he found the voices comforting: a normal part of his everyday world.
As he continued to write, he became aware of a vehicle coming down the driveway from the house. It sounded like a pickup truck of some sort, one of the bigger ones. Its tires popped gravel as it approached.
He looked over his shoulder in time to see the truck stop at the end of the driveway. It was large and black, the kind that farmers liked to have around for the heavy work.
The driver got out and walked across the road toward him.
Maynard lowered his window, notebook still in his lap, to see what the guy wanted.
The man stopped an arm’s-length away from the open window, raised a gun, and shot Maynard twice in the head.
© Michael J. McCann 2026