Outside Forces

by R E Swirsky

CHAPTER 16

  Saturday 22:15 Oyen, Alberta, Canada

  “Okay, Garrod…”

  Willard pointed to the sickly looking motel across the road. “…I want you to book us a room.” He handed him six twenties.

  Shaw’s eyes rolled slowly down. He stared at the bills as if they were an illusion. “Here?” he asked gruffly. He was no longer soaring. The winds had shifted, pushing him back earthward. “I thought we were going to Saskatoon.”

  “We are. But not until morning. It’s late and I’m not driving all night.”

  Shaw grunted and his head bobbed to one side. His eyes closed for a moment before one opened and focused on Willard. “But.…” One arm lifted loosely into the air and hung there.

  “No buts. Having those extra two beers at the pub was a mistake. We wasted almost six hours back there in Carbon. It was supposed to just be lunch.”

  But it wasn’t a mistake and was exactly what Willard had planned for Shaw from the beginning. It started with the arrival of the white lady in the parking lot when they stopped for lunch. Shaw was allowed to needle up prior to entering the bar. The effects still lingered but were fading. He was itching for another.

  Shaw took the bills from Willard and folded them over twice. His faced soured. “You were playing pool, that’s why we’re only this far.”

  “Yeah, maybe so. But I’m tired now, Garrod, and I’m not driving any further. Now go.”

  They were barely halfway to Saskatoon, near the Alberta-Saskatchewan border. Shaw shrugged and stared up at the row of doors and stairs lining the front of the run-down motel. The units were old, and only four of the units had lights on inside.

  “Move your fucking ass already. I’ll meet you inside the room. The office is at the end.”

  A frown crossed Willard’s face. He pulled the handle and pushed open the truck door.

  “…and just one room, Garrod.” He lifted one finger up into the air to make his point. “If the room has only one bed, that’s fine.”

  “One bed? We’re not sleeping in the same bed.”

  “You can sleep on the fucking floor. I really don’t give a fuck,” Willard replied and glared at him. “Who’s been paying for all this?” He shoved a finger into his own chest. “I have. I also paid for your lunch and your fucking beer this afternoon.”

  “You’re a fuckhead,” Garrod replied, his expression deadpanned.

  Willard laughed. “And you’re a prick. You already had one dime today, and I can see you’re itching again, so get your sorry ass off the fucking seat, waddle the fuck over there and book us a room. And tell ’em it’s just you for one night—just you.”

  The vacant expression remained on Shaw’s face. He yawned. His eyes remained glassy and he shifted and twitched frequently—sure signs he was coming down. “Maybe I do want another,” he said and paused.

  “I know you do.”

  “You really are a fuckhead.”

  “Just go,” he said and chuckled again.

  “One room…” Shaw said and stepped out. He paused before he closed the door, swaying slightly. He placed one hand atop the door to stabilize himself. “Do I use my real name?”

  “Use any fucking name you want, just not mine.”

  He remained standing with the door open. His eyes were bloodshot and danced around manically. He ducked his head back inside. “Why don’t you go and book it?”

  “Damn it, Garrod. Why do I have to explain everything to you? I’m almost out of smokes and my lighter’s about done. I don’t know if there’s even a store in this town that’s still open. I’ll probably have to zip back out to the main highway to that Co-op we passed on the way in. It’s always open. You just get us a room and I’ll meet you back here in about fifteen.”

  A puzzled look crossed Shaw’s face. “How will you know what room I’m in?”

  His lack of comprehension was almost humorous—a child in a man’s body. “For fuck sakes! How many lights do you see on over there?”

  Shaw turned towards the motel and stared for a few minutes as if wondering what lights had to do with anything. When he turned back he was smiling. He lifted a finger up at Willard. “You’re smart. I never would have thought of that.”

  “Yeah, I’m smart. Now move those fucking feet of yours.”

  The grin widened on Willard’s face, but only for a moment before it turned sour once again. “I’ll turn the light on when I get in the room.”

  “You do that, Garrod. And remember, if anyone asks, you’re all alone.”

  The truck door groaned once as Shaw slammed it shut and he wobbled his way across the road.

  Willard watched Shaw until the office door opened and a small, middle-aged man with a tiny pot belly in a white muscle shirt let him inside. He left Shaw to complete the transaction and drove down and around a few blocks, finally parking on the side street in behind the motel. He pulled out a cigarette, rolled down the window halfway, and lit up. He had plenty of smokes and his lighter was fine. He just wanted Shaw to wait a while on his own before he returned.

  His breast pocket contained two special packages of the white lady. He plucked both out and fondled them as he checked the time and went over his next steps. He smiled. Being the one chosen to eliminate Shaw was equivalent to winning some monstrous lottery—except there was no one to share the experience or reward. The cash payment at the end was just a bonus. Helping to terminate the deadbeats and slimeballs of our culture was the reason he joined up, and as awful as it sounded to end someone’s life, it was something that filled a void in his life. He felt no remorse for what he was about to do.

  Willard had scouted out the Antelope Motel in Oyen shortly after accepting the job. The location was discreet enough, backing onto an industrial zone. The irony of the location was its proximity to the local police detachment. Directly across the street was a large bungalow that had been renovated a dozen or more years ago and now served as the local police detachment that served the tiny town of a thousand residents.

  Oyen was dependent on the surrounding farmers and some sporadic oil and gas business. Business was tough in Oyen, but there was one business in town that could always be counted on during boom or bust: the drug business, and it was the reason Willard chose this particular backdrop.

  Two more cigarettes later, the stars were out in full. Willard carefully wiped down the two packets with a damp tissue to remove all prints and then wrapped both in a dry tissue. He stuffed the tissue with the two dimes back into his shirt pocket and stepped out of the truck. In behind the seat was a plastic grocery bag he had placed there last night. He grabbed the bag and headed towards to the motel.

  He knocked softly on the door.

  “You were gone long,” Shaw said as he opened the door.

  “Yeah,” Willard replied. He stepped inside and pushed the door close with an elbow.

  “What took you?”

  Shaw’s agitation was clear. He wanted another hit and he wanted it badly. His eyes dropped down onto the grocery bag.

  “I wasn’t gone that long, was I?”

  “Sure seemed long.” He sat down on the bed, still staring at the bag.

  Willard chuckled and sat next to him. “Here,” He said and passed over the bag. “I picked up a few things.”

  Shaw took the bag, opened it with both hands and stared inside. His eyes lit up. It wasn’t the nacho chips or colas that caused the change in demeanour; it was the ziplock baggie with the tin foil, lighter, Q-tips, and needles.

  “Can I?” he asked.

  Willard smiled and plucked the white lady wrapped in tissue from his pocket and handed it over. “Be my guest.”

  “What’s this?” he asked, curious about the tissue.

  “Just tissue. I usually wrap them like this when I carry.”

  The explanation seemed to satisfy Shaw and he meticulously removed all the items from the bag and placed them spread out on the bed—his focus intense and poignant.

  “Pass me one of the colas.”


  “Huh?” Shaw mumbled. “Oh.…” He reached back into the plastic bag, pulled out the two colas and handed one over. He quickly resumed his task and tore away a piece of foil and began shaping it.

  Neither said a word as Shaw prepared the solution. His hands shook and he spilled some of the drug from the first baggie onto the bedding. “Oops.” He glanced up at Willard for a reaction, but Willard gave him none. He was behaving exactly as Willard had hoped—almost in a state of panic as if trying to quench an insatiable, bottomless thirst.

  In the tiny washroom, Shaw dribbled some water into the powder from the bathroom tap, and soon had the lighter under the foil, heating it until it began to sizzle on the edges. He yanked the cotton off both ends of the Q-tip, squished them up hastily, and placed it in the liquid—nowhere near the expert preparation Willard had displayed earlier. Seconds later, the syringe was filled with the potent drug.

  He returned to the bed and plunked himself down. His eyes seemed illuminated with relief as he gave Willard a half smile and jabbed the needle into a vein. His head rolled back as he pressed down on the plunger of the syringe and sent the liquid rushing deep into his body.

  A grimace erupted and his eyes shot wide open.

  Suddenly Shaw was sent flying, soaring back up to the place he thought he knew so well the past few weeks. But in less than one second, he was up higher than he had ever been before—strapped to a rocket ship that carried him upwards—and it wasn’t stopping.

  He tried to catch a breath but the air up this high was thin.

  And the air got thinner.

  He continued to press down on the plunger, and higher and higher he soared.

  Shaw’s chest tightened up as a blast of pain-filled euphoria cut through his body. Something was terribly wrong. But before he could pull the syringe from his vein, his heart fluttered rapidly and then slammed once to a full stop. He blinked once. His eyes moved about frantically until they caught Willard’s and froze. And then he fell backwards onto the edge of the bed and rolled off onto the floor.

  Just that quickly, Garrod Shaw was dead. The deadly needle lay protruding from one arm.

  Willard had seen the aftermath of an overdose by fentanyl before, but had never witnessed the overdose himself. He heard it was fast, but the speed with which it killed Garrod Shaw was frightening.

  There had been a huge spike in fentanyl overdoses in the past few months in Vancouver. No one would be surprised when it was revealed that the same potent drug had caused Garrod Shaw’s sudden death. Oyen was well known for its heavy drug problem. Shaw had descended into the drug world long ago and had now crossed over, becoming one more statistic.

  The grocery bag and bottle of cola were the only two things Willard had touched since he entered the room. He picked up the cola, shoved one hand inside the plastic bag, and used it as a glove to open the door. Once outside, he closed the door, removed the bag from his hand, and strolled back to his truck. He twisted off the cap, and slugged back a mouthful of the cola.

  By this time tomorrow, he would be in Costa Rica. And now that he was done, there was not even a need to call anyone. In a day or two, Garrod Shaw’s body would be discovered and his employer would know the contract had been completed. A few days after that, the agreed-upon fee would be deposited into the pre-arranged, multiple accounts.

  Willard started the truck and drove away.

  “Mitchell,” he said as he pulled the truck onto the road heading out of town.

  “No. Not Mitchell; just Mitch. Yeah, I like it.”

  And just like that, Willard had vanished, and Mitch was born.