Blindshot

by Denis Coupal

  He lifted his laptop with one hand and a pad of paper in another and turned to approach his brother and Zeph. His pen fell to the floor and rolled away. The boys had been careful to respect a gap between themselves and their captives. Noah’s pen stopped rolling just inside the red tape marking the zone. Noah looked at it and hesitated, fearful of Lennox, the closest of the hostages. Still holding the laptop, he quickly reached for his pen. Lennox didn’t move. The unplugged power cord to Noah’s computer trailed behind him. He turned to present his findings to his brother and Zeph, and the power cord fishtailed into the marked zone, close to Lennox’s feet.

  Lennox stamped on the power cord with his roped boots, clamping it down. Noah was pulled back, destabilized, and fell toward Lennox.

  “Noah!” shouted Jack, who was metres away.

  Lennox brought his bound arms around Noah, scooping him into a firm and dangerous hold.

  Catherine dropped the phone and ran toward Noah and Lennox.

  “If you come close, I’ll break his neck,” said Lennox. “Your call.”

  Everyone froze.

  “I’m going to kill you if you hurt my brother,” swore Jack.

  “Let’s see about that,” dared Lennox. “Untie me!”

  Nobody moved, deferring to Jack.

  “Untie me!” shouted Lennox, squeezing on the defenceless Noah.

  Zeph and Jack exchanged a look. One of their rifles was metres away on a couch.

  “Let my son go!” said Catherine.

  “Untie us all!” shouted Millet. “Untie us now!”

  “Shut up, dickhead!” said Lennox to Millet. “Come on, untie me now!”

  Zeph got a reluctant nod from Jack. Zeph approached Lennox slowly and began untying the ropes. Lennox kept a careful hold of Noah, who was clearly in pain.

  When his limbs were free enough, Lennox stood. Jack charged at him fast. Zeph dived for Noah, ripping him from Lennox. Jack connected against Lennox, and the two of them went rolling on to the hardwood floor. Catherine screamed, running to Zeph and Noah.

  “Way to go!” shouted Millet, encouraging Lennox.

  “Get him!” shouted Davis.

  In the skirmish, the hunting knife was knocked loose from Zeph’s hands and fell on the couch. Jack and Lennox tumbled, intertwined. Lennox caught sight of the knife and tried to reach it, but Jack was back on him, punching him across the face. Lennox bled from his nose but came back with incredible force, slamming Jack against the floor, crashing into a wrought-iron table. Jack wriggled away, punching as hard as he could.

  Zeph ran to the knife and held it out.

  Catherine shouted, “Zeph, what are you doing? Put that down!”

  Zeph tossed the knife aside, and it clanged to the floor. He then dived in to help Jack with his bare hands.

  Jack, Lennox, and now Zeph fought viciously, punching and kicking. The three of them fell and rolled, over and over again, across the length of the living room, breaking sculptures, vases and furniture. The moving storm of swinging arms and legs ravaged the room.

  Catherine took Noah far across to the other end, in the kitchen archway. He seemed to be okay.

  “You stay here with me!” Catherine warned her son.

  Lennox somehow got his legs square down on the floor and pushed against the two boys with all his might, sending all three of them crashing into bookshelves that shook and splintered from the impact. The battle continued raging underneath the avalanche of books.

  Lennox stood out of it. Jack was next, but Lennox was prepared, kicking him square in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards. Zeph charged Lennox, but it was no use. Lennox clipped him across the head with his heavy arms. Zeph spun on his feet and fell toward Lennox, who let him drop to the floor with the books and pieces of furniture.

  Lennox turned away from them and strode to the other end of the room where Catherine protected Noah. He button-hooked suddenly and picked up the hunting knife with a sweeping arm, and then pulled Noah away from Catherine. She cried out, but it was no use. Lennox had a knife to Noah’s throat.

  “Jeff, untie us, man!” called Millet. “Untie us!”

  Lennox didn’t budge. He held Noah firmly. Noah squirmed but Lennox squeezed tighter and pushed the blade harder. Everyone froze.

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Davis.

  “First, we have to get our story straight,” Lennox said.

  “Have you lost your mind?” asked Davis. “Get us out of here, you idiot.”

  “Really, Lennox, come on!” added Millet. “We’re your buddies!”

  “Just want to make sure we have an understanding,” said Lennox.

  Catherine went to Jack and Zeph.

  “Alright, time to play the game my way!” Lennox declared, a maniacal grin across his blood-smeared face.

  In the middle of the living room floor, Catherine knelt down to her eldest boy. He was barely conscious. She kissed his bruised face and took him carefully in her arms.

  Lennox turned to Catherine, then pointed to the captives. “Untie them,” he said.

  Keith Davis, carrying Claude Millet on his back, came out of the house through the rear doors. Davis fell to the ground, doing his best not to drop Millet outright.

  Tom and Hanes ran to help him, as the dark glass sliding doors of the house shut again. Tom heard the steel bar of the locking mechanism slam back into place. They carried Millet to the parked ambulance, and Davis followed slowly, supported by two junior cops.

  Millet was placed onto a stretcher and an oxygen mask was fitted on his face.

  “What happened in there?” Tom asked Davis.

  “We were let out! Finally! No thanks to you!”

  “They just let you go?”

  “Yeah,” said Davis.

  He wouldn’t say anything more.

  Tom was left watching the paramedics take care of the two freed men and drive off. Hanes and Kearns were standing next to him.

  “Get somebody to take statements from those guys,” Tom barked. “I want to know what went on in there!”

  Hanes and Kearns nodded and got on their phones.

  Tom took out his phone, too, and dialled the house number again. He waited as it rang and rang.

  Lennox pulled the knife away from Noah’s throat just a little. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief, if only for an instant.

  “You did just fine,” Lennox said to her. He was still waving the knife close to Noah’s throat. “Now we’re going to get tied up. You and you,” he said to Jack and Zeph. Both were bruised and sore. “Let’s do it! Come on, I know you know how. Let’s go, kid, do it for me!” he said to Zeph.

  The boys obeyed. Zeph first tied up Jack, then Catherine.

  “Alright, sit down now!”

  Lennox proceeded to tie up Zeph, then Noah, and ran a long rope around each of them to anchor them all to the exposed steel structure of the house, just as Zeph had done to him and the other hostages. There was nothing Catherine, Jack, Noah and Zeph could do but watch.

  “Whatever your plan,” said Catherine, “please let the children go!”

  “There’re no children here! Children don’t kidnap people!” said Lennox, smiling at her, coming closer and looking her up and down. Catherine was disgusted. It showed on her face and he read it for what it was.

  “Leave my mother alone! What do you want with us, Lennox?” said Jack, struggling with the ropes and his pain.

  Lennox got up and walked to the fireplace. There were matches on the mantle.

  Across town, Gabrielle Bernier was taking her evening walk. She loved the silence of the country, the freshness of the air, a day done and the hopes for tomorrow. There had been a time when her husband would accompany her on these short physical and mental health expeditions, but he had done so less and less frequently over the last few years, preferrin
g to stay home and finish the day with a drink or two. His days were at times difficult, antagonistic, laden with complaints from many varied sources and incidents of all sorts. The work of a Police Chief did not often bring home happy news, quite the contrary. It was in their house that some of the worst circumstances and many of the toughest decisions in the county had been discussed and reflected upon by the one man who took them to heart. And there had been many.

  Though she hated his drinking, she took it upon herself to assure that he always had a good supply of his favourite drinks. She was his wife. She took care of her husband. Or so she thought.

  The booze soothed him. It was his reward. He had never abused it, no more than any other man his age, and never before this past year.

  There was something different about this past year. Gabrielle had found her husband more preoccupied than ever before, more irritable, maybe depressed. She was worried, but then she had always worried. He was her best friend and everything she had in the world. Their love had not produced any children. The entire county had become their adopted child, and it was a handful—a perpetual, rambunctious, juvenile of a place.

  Gabrielle missed her husband on her evening walks. Sometimes, he’d held her hand, but only when they were alone. She missed that too. What she missed most was how they’d talked. About anything. About the people in the county, or their land, and the flowers Gabrielle loved to nurture. That had been her best talent. The flowers certainly, but she’d had a positive influence on many non-profit organizations, as well. As a lawyer, she’d been able to guide community organizations through myriad legal and regulatory issues, mostly related to food distribution, for which there was a staggering need. She had spent her working life, and now her retirement, doing her best to help those around her, including her husband.

  Gabrielle had less energy this evening than usual. She felt drained before she even set out, so she cut her route short by a few minutes, though she wasn’t sure by how much. Her walks were always slightly different, depending on the conversations she would have with friends and neighbours who happened by. On this night, there were no such welcome interruptions.

  She got home to a dark, cold house. She took off her coat, sweater and boots, and changed into a housecoat and slippers. She went to the kitchen to make herself her requisite post-walk lemon chamomile tea, and there, on the kitchen table, she found a box of rifle bullets, though Art was meticulous about storing his rifles and ammunition properly.

  The box was open.

  She put the shiny bullets back in the box and closed it. She turned toward the inner corridor of the house. Arthur must have gone downstairs and shut the basement door. Retreating to the basement was normal for him, but he rarely closed the door.

  Gabrielle went to the basement door.

  CHAPTER 11

  SEPTEMBER 23RD, 2012

  The soft bed of leaves, spread throughout the woods and into the clearing, absorbed the footsteps of the hunters as they made their way. Their boisterous voices and drunken belches were the only sounds in the night. The seven friends, each with a rifle and various hunting equipment, gathered at Henley’s firing range, set in the middle of a clearing, where he often tested the many guns and rifles that he owned. They huddled at a shooting table made of green pressure-treated posts anchored in the earth.

  “Hey, put that Morrison rifle up here, Birthday Boy!” said Henley to Chief Bernier. Henley dropped boxes of fresh rounds and two rifles on the table. He took a last gulp from a beer bottle he had brought along with him, then slammed it on the table.

  “Whoa,” said Millet to Henley. “Those things break you know!”

  “Fuck off, Dweezle,” said Henley, muttering through the blur of his drunkenness, “and help me load these up.” Henley took ammunition boxes from his pockets and dumped them on the table. Bernier, Rob Morrison next to him, put the new handcrafted rifle delicately on the table. Henley grabbed it and loaded it. Morrison squirmed at seeing his new piece being handled in such a cavalier way.

  “Easy now, Brian,” said Morrison.

  “Took a lot of polishing time to get that finish!” Lars added.

  Henley finished loading it and Lennox grabbed the rifle from him, then swung it around to brace it on his shoulder, aiming it out to the edge of the clearing and the black woods. “Nice feel,” said Lennox. He lifted the rifle up again and tossed it up in the air toward Keith Davis, who responded just quickly enough for a catch, almost missing the expensive rifle. Davis checked out the feel of the rifle and handed it back to Bernier.

  “Who’s coming with me?” asked Lars Korb, stepping away from the group, rifle ready, going west from the table.

  The others all hesitated. Lars feigned a sheepish look.

  “Hold up, I’m coming with you, Lars!” said Bernier, stepping toward him. “Rob, coming with us?”

  “We’re not equipped for a night shoot,” said Morrison, joining them, with evident reluctance.

  “It’s a terrific night. What are you, too pro for us! Fame’s made you soft?” teased Millet.

  “Not equipped?” contested Henley. He took several flares out of his shoulder sack and tossed one to each drunken friend. He took out a flashlight and tossed it to Morrison. “Here!” he said, and clicked on his headlight, strapped to his forehead. He looked like a coalminer beginning his shift.

  “I didn’t bring any goddam lights!” complained Millet, looking like he was about to throw up. The others gave him room, just in case.

  “Well, I’m winning this contest right now, and I don’t need you fat asses cramping my style!” said Lennox.

  “Don’t hold back there, Jeff, tell us how you really feel!” said Davis.

  “Well, you can come,” said Lennox, “but not these assholes.”

  “Nope, going with Claude, up this way!”

  “Why did we invite this turd?” said Millet, about Lennox.

  “Suit yourself! I’m going to win this thing,” said Lennox to Davis. With his rifle on his shoulder, Lennox strode off into the black woods.

  “Hey, what does the winner get?” said Davis.

  “A fuck up the ass from Jeff!” said Millet.

  “Winner gets to borrow my car for a week!” said Henley.

  “Deal! Those are some wheels!” said Lars. “If you win, we’ll each wash it for you!”

  “No, none of you are touching my Ferrari.”

  “But you just said!” added Lars.

  “I have no intention of losing this!” Henley said.

  “You guys aren’t making any sense,” said Millet.

  “The losers, you guys, will each owe me a bottle from Bob Theriault’s winery! That’s what I get if I win!” said Henley.

  “That’s not fair. It’s cheaper to rent a Ferrari! Hey, anybody brought a tag to fill?” asked Millet.

  “Fuck that,” said Davis.

  “Come on, Rob! Lars!” said Arthur Bernier, “let’s track us a winning buck!”

  “Okay, let’s do this,” said Morrison.

  Bernier walked off, flanked by Lars Korb and Rob Morrison. Bernier slapped Rob on the back to encourage him.

  “Well, me and my Winchester are going this way! North! We don’t need anybody either! That’s where the winning buck’s hiding. I can hear him scratching his horns on a tree from here! Yep, that buck’s calling me to go kill him! It’s that easy! You guys are fucked!” Henley strode off north of the clearing, pockets full of ammunition, and swinging his rifle like a walking stick. At the edge of the clearing, he stumbled, catching himself, and turned back to shout.

  “Whoever gets a whitetail lights a flare to call the others!” said Henley, disappearing northward as Davis and Millet headed northeast.

  The clearing, under the pale light of the moon, was left empty and quiet as the hunters dispersed in the surrounding Beaufort woods.

  Millet and Davi
s walked slowly in the dense forest, a few paces apart.

  “See anything?” asked Millet.

  “I would tell you, wouldn’t I, knucklehead?” said Davis.

  “Hey, I’ll remind you I won our last night-shoot, knucklehead!”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

  “I did!”

  “You ran down the whitetail with your ATV! Doesn’t count!”

  “No, I didn’t! I shot it, then when I got close, it ran into my wheels!”

  “Come on!”

  “It was a good kill! Right in the neck!”

  “Shut up for a while, or we’ll spook anything that’s out here!”

  “Boo!” said Millet.

  The two buddies skulked in the dark without another word. Davis tripped on a tree root and dropped to the ground. “Shit!”

  Millet chuckled in the dark.

  Lennox moved steadily to the place where he knew whitetails loved to roam. He had explored these woods so often, from so many paths, and in so many different times of the day or season, that he felt like they were his woods, his forest. He felt he knew how the whitetail thought, how animals thought, the fierce ones. He imagined himself as a wolf or coyote, thin and hungry, on the edge of survival, roving the wild for its prey, a burning desire to sink its teeth in warm flesh.

  There it was. He saw the moonlight flicker in the yellow eyes of a buck, fifty or sixty metres away. Lennox lined him up in his sight. He stopped breathing. Tightened his arms, then his hands. The pale light brought just enough definition around the buck to make out its shape. It was a big male, lots of points, too dark to tell how many. But before he could shoot, the buck braced itself, startled by the sound and light of a flare in the sky.

  Poof! A smoke trail sparkled and faded.

  Lennox was pissed. His buck ran off fast. He brought his rifle down. It wasn’t possible that one of the others had already shot a buck. He would’ve heard the shot from this distance anyway. What the hell was going on?

  Lars Korb, drunk as a barroom idiot, watched his flare go up in the night sky. He had been toying with the pull-tab on the flare while Bernier and Morrison were walking ahead, looking for whitetail. The flare had shot up straight, right past his nose. He’d felt its heat and wondered if his eyebrows had been singed. He’d done that once with a propane barbecue, starting it up wrong. It gave him an empty, expressionless look for a month until the hairs grew back. He felt his face for damage, then got a strong urge inside himself and up came the evening’s liquor. He bent to the earth and leaves, and let the sour liquid spew.