At least Tommy understood recovery.
The next five calls were hang ups.
Brad stared at the answering machine and then the phone. A quick call to each of them, a quick chat, and they’d leave him alone.
Not now.
“Lobo, let’s head to the barn.”
Lobo jumped to his feet, tail wagging, and bounded to the back door. He sprinted ahead as they crossed the yard to the old-fashioned barn.
After the battle with Wolfe in Brad’s house, where Wolfe killed Maggie, Brad moved out. A month and a half ago, he found this farm for sale. On the outskirts of the city, the one-thousand-square-foot farmhouse with a garage, a barn, and ten acres was perfect. No neighbors close by. The road wasn’t on the way to anywhere. Brad bought it outright with some of his stock dividends.
The house was nothing special, but it worked. Eighty-years old and haunted.
The bonus was that Brad and Lobo could jog from the farm, down the hill to Bearspaw Dam, through a thick forest of Douglass Firs, then to the seventy-four-acre woods of Bowness Park. The park comprised two islands in the Bow River. They dammed a channel flowing on the south bank to create a lagoon.
In the middle of the park, surrounded by towering evergreens, was a large grass field. Brad grew up in Bowness and his friends played football on that field day and night.
There wouldn’t be a jog today. He slid the heavy barn door open and Lobo raced past. Brad had set the barn up as his gym. He’d cleaned out the moldy straw and manure and given it a thorough scrubbing. He’d replaced the dim lightbulbs with a string of fluorescent lights. Instead of the usual weights and stationary bike, he’d created his own workout plan. He used a large tractor tire he flipped over and over. He repurposed some bales for a bench press and curls. He attached a bale to the pulley over the loft and pulled the bale up to the loft, let it descend slowly, then pulled it up again. In one stall, he’d hung a heavy punching bag and a speed bag.
Lobo took on the role of gym supervisor and occasionally gave Brad a bark of encouragement, or maybe he was egging him on.
Through the hell since Maggie’s death, Lobo had been a constant companion. There when Brad needed him, and sometimes when Brad didn’t know he needed him.
Forty-five minutes later, Brad was soaked in sweat. Lobo was asleep and having a chasing-the-rabbit dream.
Brad did fifteen minutes on the speed bag until his arms and shoulders ached. He took a break, drank a bottle of water, and toweled off. Then he started on the heavy bag—quick jabs at first, then faster and harder punches. He felt the anger, felt it flow through his arms to his hands, and his fists flew as though he could punch through the bag.
The punches weakened, and his arms tired until he collapsed on the barn floor. His breath came in gasps and an unseen weight pressed down on his body. He rolled onto his side with his face against the cold floor. He glanced at the torn flesh on his knuckles and the dried blood. It wasn’t the first time.
Chapter Three
Thursday Day Two
Pittman and Hirsch huddled over a tray of draft beers in the nearly empty Drayton Valley bar. It was the class routine to head out for beers after the retraining classes. The bar had been popular among the oil workers in the area. Back then, most nights it was only standing room. Now, a year into the crash of the oil industry, you could get a seat anytime, any day. The jobs were gone and so were most of the oil workers. The few reminders of the thriving economy were the pictures on the wall of oil wells gushing with the workers covered in oil, towering derricks and pumping stations. The out of work oilmen sat at ten of the fifty tables.
Early that morning they had gone back to the transmission line. The sun was at their backs and provided perfect shooting conditions. With the new scope on the rifle, Hirsch lay on the ground and lined up the target. Then he fired five shots in rapid succession—a tight grouping.
Hirsch took a long pull of his beer. “The scope is fuckin’ amazing.”
“I thought that might help,” Pittman said. “At two-hundred yards all five shots were in the X.”
“Hard to miss.”
Pittman pointed his beer at Hirsch. “The five in the target’s nuts was mighty fine shooting. Remind me not to get you pissed at me.”
“If I were, you’d never hear the shot.” Hirsch grinned.
“If we do this, you’ve got to be all in,” Pittman said.
“I’m in.”
“Today, we leave this shithole behind. You’re accurate shooting targets, but it’s different with a face in the sights.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not worried. Well, maybe a little, but we need a test before we get to Calgary.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I have several possibilites.”
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t have much cash.”
Pittman nodded and finished his beer. “I’ve got enough to keep us going for a week or so. Leave that to me.”
That afternoon they drove the back roads in Pittman’s truck from Drayton Valley toward Rocky Mountain House. Along the way, they passed several oil pumping stations. Some still at work, others sitting motionless.
Hirsch popped two beers and handed one to Pittman. “That church thing your wife got tied up in … did you go to church?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just making conversation. I went to church as a kid, but as soon as I was too strong for Mom to make me go, I hung out with my buddies instead.”
Pittman drank some beer and nodded. “I was the same as a kid. But Marlene thought it was a good way to meet neighbors and make friends. I maybe lasted six months and then I stayed home, drank beer, and watched sports. That pissed her off. Religion did nothing for me. Some hypocrite was quoting Bible scriptures telling me I was a sinner. Screw that. I heard the same bullshit so many times I can still recite it. ‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—’”
“Yeah. I know that one, too.”
Pittman grinned. “Not my version. ‘I will fear no evil, cuz I’m the meanest son of a bitch in the valley.’”
“I like that version.” Hirsch tilted his bottle to Pittman, and they clinked bottlenecks.
“Amen to that.”
Hirsch rubbed his chin as he stared out the window. “I like that. I’m tired of being at the bottom. I’m fed up with people looking down at me or thinking I’m stupid.”
Pittman glanced over to Hirsch and smirked. “Not anymore, Hirsch. We’re the meanest sons of bitches in the valley and any other place we want to be.”
Just outside Rocky Mountain House, they passed several abandoned pumping stations. Then Pittman spotted one of their former company’s pumping stations with a worker on site. Pittman slowed and stopped a few hundred yards past the pump.
“No better time than today,” Pittman said. “You ready.”
“I’m not sure,” Hirsch said. “He’s a grunt, just like us.”
“Sure, but a grunt still employed. We’re gonna have to make some tough decisions. If we want to make our point, we can’t get emotional. This is about sending a message. This is war. There’ll be collateral damage.”
Hirsch nodded. “Okay. Back up to about a hundred yards.” He stepped out of the truck, jammed his beer bottle under the seat, and slid the rifle out of the case. He chambered a round, leaned against the side of the truck, and focused the scope on the worker.
The worker’s feet lifted off the ground, then he fell backward, unmoving. The air echoed with the sound of the shot a moment after.
Hirsch stared at the unmoving man, then at the rifle. He tossed the gun aside like it was on fire. He rubbed his hands on his jeans and fought back a dry heave. His hand covered his mouth and his jaw clenched. What have I done?
Chapter Four
Friday Day Three
Brad glared at Dr. Keller as he entered the room, then he flopped into the recliner. Keller was flipping throug
h a file folder, so Brad’s glare was wasted. He pursed his lips and glanced around the room. The artwork still sucked—the shrink was still a pompous ass. Brad felt he was in the right frame of mind to get through the next hour.
“Glad to have you back,” Keller said.
Brad’s eyes drifted from the kindergarten art to the shrink. “Like I had a choice. You ratted me out to Deputy Chief Archer.”
“When you stormed out after our last session, I needed to let him know we weren’t progressing.”
“All the stuff about ‘you can talk to me, it’s all confidential’ is bullshit.”
Keller held out his hands. “Oh, no. I didn’t give details, merely said we would need extra time.”
“It seems to me he knew more than just that you wanted additional time.”
“I may have mentioned you were somewhat volatile.”
“Volatile? Because I called you out on your bullshit? I don’t need your textbook theories.”
“What happened to your hands?”
Brad tucked his hands into his lap. “Clearing dead bushes on the farm.”
“No gloves?”
“Nope. I forgot.” Brad’s glare was back. “Too lazy to get them.”
“So, you endured the pain.” Keller rubbed his chin with his index finger. “I see. Any other pains you are dealing with?”
“How can you relate when you have no experience with death?” The heat rose on Brad’s neck, and his shoulders tensed.
“I’ve had friends and relatives die.”
Brad bent forward, his fists tight at his side. “Big difference between people dying and getting murdered in front of you. When you’re helpless to stop it from happening. When you fail the woman you love and your unborn child. Absolutely helpless.”
Hans reclined in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Tell me about this helplessness.”
Brad slid back into the recliner. His mind drifted to Bowness Park and strolling along the lagoon with Maggie and Lobo. Watching Lobo fetch rocks in the river, then sleep and dry off in the sun. His happy place.
His voice slid into a monotone story he’d told Keller dozens of times. So many times, he could recite it without being mentally present.
Brad had no clue how much time passed. He was sitting next to Maggie, then suddenly he was staring at Keller.
“Brad, are you okay? You zoned out for a minute.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay.” Keller closed the file folder. “It was a good session. We made some progress today.”
Brad’s eyes darted around the room. “It’s over?”
“Yes. Time flies when you’re having fun.” Keller stood. “I’m away for about ten days. We leave for Hawaii tomorrow. You have the numbers to call if you have an emergency. If not, I’ll see you when I get back. Make an appointment with my receptionist.”
Brad nodded and headed out the door. He heard it close. He stopped at the reception desk to make another appointment, but the receptionist wasn’t there. He waited a couple of minutes, then decided to leave. A stack of letterheads on the desk caught his attention. He glanced around the room, then grabbed a handful of the letterheads and a few envelopes and headed out the door.
Chapter Five
Pittman braked, veered off Highway 2, and cruised through the City of Airdrie. Only ten minutes north of Calgary, but the RCMP did the policing here. That was important. During the drive, they’d discussed a plan for the second shooting. The problem was that if Hirsch had to get out of the truck every time he shot, there were sure to be witnesses. And those few seconds needed for Hirsch to get back in the truck might be too long. People would turn toward the sound of the shot. If the timing was wrong, they’d see Hirsch. To do the shooting and make a clean getaway, they needed a better system.
They drove through an industrial area until Pittman found what he was seeking—a dealership with a used car lot. He pulled in, and they wandered among the vehicles. In the back corner, they found what they needed: a nondescript sedan.
A salesman—dark dress pants, a white shirt, a loose tie, and a toothy grin—wandered over. “Can I help you, boys? It seems like you’ve something special in mind.”
“You the only one here?” Pittman asked.
“Yeah. I’m here until nine. Can I help you?”
Pittman pointed to the car. “This one.”
The salesman put his hand on the hood. “Oh, you’ll like this one. We don’t get many like it. Ford LTD. Only four-years old. Low mileage.”
“I’m interested,” Pittman said. “Would you get the keys?”
“No problem. I’ll be right back.”
Pittman glanced at Hirsch and jerked his head toward the building.
“Hey,” Hirsch said. “We’ve been on the road for hours. Mind if I use your restroom?”
“Sure. Follow me.”
Less than five minutes later, Hirsch and the salesman were back. As the salesman handed Pittman the car keys, Hirsch mouthed, We’re good.
Pittman unlocked the car and popped the hood. He spent a few minutes examining the engine and then the tires. He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. He revved it a few times, shut it off, and stood. “How much?”
“I’m looking to make a deal today. Let’s say three grand.”
Pittman laughed. “That’s hardly a deal. This vehicle saw some hard miles, even if the mileage is low. Who knows what the undercarriage is like?”
The salesman held up his hands. “Hey, I gotta start somewhere. What price range are you thinking?”
“I’ll trade in my GMC truck,” Pittman said. “I used it in the oil business, so it’s seen some rough driving, but I took care of it. I didn’t want to get stranded miles away in the backcountry. Take the truck and five hundred.”
“No, that’s a little too low. I can call my manager, but he’ll never accept it. I can convince him to go with the truck and seven-fifty.”
Pittman glanced at Hirsch, who shrugged.
Pittman held out his hand. “You’ve got a deal.”
As the salesman reached for his hand, Pittman raised a pistol in the other hand and shot the salesman in the chest.
Hirsch jumped at the sound and staggered backward. “What the hell?” His words came in gasps and he stared blankly at the salesman.
Pittman slid the gun back into his coat pocket. “Back my truck in here, clean it out and put the truck plates on the car. No one will notice the switch for weeks.”
Pittman lifted the salesman over his shoulder and headed to the office. He dropped the salesman behind the desk and opened the cash drawers. He tossed the credit card slips on the floor. In another drawer, he found a few thousand in cash. He searched the salesman and pulled out a set of keys with the dealership logo. On his way out, he flipped up the ‘We’re Closed’ sign and locked the dealership door .
Pittman slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. Hirsch threw their gear in the back seat and jumped in. At the hardware store across from the dealership, they picked up everything they needed, headed north out of Airdrie and back onto the highway. Pittman hit the gas and the front of the car rose slightly as the speedometer climbed.
Pittman pulled off the highway and headed east and then north on a narrow gravel road. After a few minutes, they spotted a barn surrounded by large pines on an abandoned farm. The grass was brown and overgrown with no signs anyone had driven there in the last year.
Hirsch jumped out and opened the barn’s ancient doors. Pittman pulled in, then Hirsch closed the doors.
Pittman opened the trunk and pulled out a toolbox and a few two-by-fours. He opened the toolbox, selected a hammer, saw, and nails, and went to work.
Hirsch removed the back seat and adapted it so when he was shooting, part of it could be removed, thus allowing his legs to extend fully into the passenger compartment. After the shooting, they’d replace that section, cover the seat with blankets, and no one would be the wiser.
Hirsch struggled to get
the seat out. Once he’d manhandled it out the door, he used a box cutter to slice through the cloth and foam, and then a hacksaw to cut through the frame. He reinstalled the larger portion of the seat on the passenger side and bolted it to the floor. He unrolled thick foam and laid it in the trunk, with one end extending to the back seat. Next, he set a sleeping bag on top. He climbed into the trunk and lay down.
Still too low. He pulled the sleeping bag out and placed another layer of foam on the first, then the sleeping bag. He climbed back into the trunk. Perfect height and comfortable. He had a flawless view through the scope with the trunk slightly open. Then he went to work, creating the hole for the rifle barrel just below the trunk lid.
Pittman set a wooden stand in front of Hirsch and handed him the sniper rifle. The short tripod sat level on the wooden stand and lined up perfectly.
When Pittman lowered the trunk lid, claustrophobia bore down on Hirsch. No way he’d ever tell Pittman, though.
Hirsch added the last piece, a green sock that matched the car’s paint. From the trunk, he stuffed the sock in the hole for the rifle barrel.
They stood outside the car, admiring their work. Unless you knew what you were seeking, and in precisely the right spot, the hole was invisible.
“A test?” Hirsch asked.
Pittman slowed as he drove past the pasture. A herd of cows grazed on the dry fall grass. He pulled off the road with the back of the car facing the cows. Hirsch climbed into the back seat and got set. Pittman watched the cows through his side mirror.
“What’s happening?” Hirsch shouted.
“Not much,” Pittman mumbled.
“What?”
“I said, not much.”
13 Days of Terror Page 2