Blindshot

by Denis Coupal

  He stood in front of the door and kicked it in. The frame splintered, and the door exploded inward. He pushed through and found Lennox jumping away from the kitchen table, where he was fixing a duffle bag and a backpack. A plate of cold pasta was almost empty, and the beer bottle he’d been drinking from flew to the floor and shattered.

  Tom ran inside and found Lennox reaching for a rifle, trying to load it. Tom whacked at the rifle with his balcony post. The rifle fell to the floor, and ammunition scattered in all directions. Lennox swung at Tom, hitting him in the shoulder. Tom reeled back, straightened, then swung his weapon again, hard, this time connecting with Lennox’s arm. Lennox yelled out in pain but managed to catch the post in his hands in the downswing. Lennox pulled on the post, Tom held onto it, and the two men fell together toward the main corridor of the small house.

  Lennox had fierce energy. He grabbed Tom’s arms and slammed them down. The post rolled away. Lennox punched at Tom’s torso and his head. Tom took these hits as though he were made of stone. Lennox kept hammering at him, but Tom pushed back, knocking Lennox against a wooden cabinet, and a large elk skull fell on the floor. Lennox picked up the skull and smashed at Tom. Concentrating on Lennox’s movements, Tom threw a punch at his face, hitting him square on.

  Lennox fell back and rolled away in pain, blood oozing from his nose. He forced himself on his feet again and charged Tom. They crashed against a wall. Tom pushed Lennox away and charged back. The two men wrangled through the corridor to the front door. Tom grabbed the doorknob, wrenched the door open and slammed it on Lennox. Lennox came around the edge of the door and kicked Tom.

  Tom went flying outside, down several steps of the front balcony and into the dirt and leaves. Lennox came leaping onto him, hammering him with his fists. Tom finally hit back, cracking Lennox on the neck. Lennox fell next to him. Both men squirmed in the mud. On his side, Lennox spotted a round boulder. Tom looked on his side and spotted a rock the size of a grapefruit. It would have to do.

  When Lennox reached for the boulder with his right hand, Tom grabbed the round rock tightly and slammed it across onto the boulder, close to Lennox, just as he placed his hand on it, crushing his fingers between the two rocks. Lennox screamed out in pain, wriggling in the mud. He appeared finished, out of fight. He moved very slowly. Painfully.

  Tom got up, walked up the stairs and back into the house. He found the rifle and some ammunition. Tom slowly loaded the rifle and cranked its bolt action.

  He was ready to kill Lennox.

  He walked outside, but Lennox was gone. Spatters of blood on the ground, but no Lennox.

  Tom turned with the rifle, his eyes sweeping quickly all around.

  Lennox charged out of nowhere, crashing into Tom, bringing both of them down to the ground again. Tom fell hard and took all of Lennox’s weight with him. The breath was knocked out of him. His head hit the dirt. Lennox remained on top, reaching for a thick branch a foot away. Wielding it like a weapon, he swung at Tom’s head. Tom absorbed the full shock of it. He couldn’t get up. Lennox steadied himself for another swing. He connected squarely with Tom’s head again.

  The pain numbed him. Tom’s mind drifted.

  On his back, on the hard ground, the world spun, the stars pulled back into a dark sky. This was the end of him.

  Maybe.

  Tom did not hear the footsteps coming closer. Nor the movement of the shovel that Catherine swung, with all the strength she could gather, coming from deep within her, and cutting through the air toward the worst evil that she had ever known. A guttural scream came from her and resounded in the night.

  “Aaarrrgggghhhaah!”

  Lennox fell. He didn’t move at all.

  This was a good thing, because Catherine had put everything she had into that one swing. She didn’t have it in her to swing again.

  The old, rusty shovel fell from her hands onto the grass.

  She moved down to Tom and felt his chest. He was alive. Blood oozed from above his ear. Tom and Catherine said nothing to each other as Catherine tried to bring him comfort, not sure what to do next. She held his head as he struggled to rise.

  “What are you doing?” she asked Tom. “You’re hurt. Don’t move. Just don’t move. I’ll get help.”

  Tom, stubborn ox that he was, kept crawling in the dirt. Every move was difficult but he kept going, scratching at the earth as if his life depended on it, until he felt the rifle’s butt.

  “What are you doing, Tom?” asked Catherine in complete dismay.

  Tom pulled the gun into his arms, leveraging himself as much as possible on the hard ground, but he remained on his back. It was too hard for him to rise. He aligned the rifle barrel, parallel to the ground, and aimed at Lennox, who was still breathing but didn’t move.

  “No, Tom!” screamed Catherine.

  Tom, with his bloody hands steadying the weapon, was ready to fire. With blood on his face and in his eyes, he could barely see.

  Another police cruiser pulled up, coming fast to the house, Sergeant Hanes at the wheel and Officer Kearns in the passenger seat. They bolted out of the car, drawing their pistols, then stopped in their tracks when they saw Tom aiming the rifle.

  “Let’s get some cuffs on him, Brooder!” said Hanes. “Come on, it’s the right thing.”

  “There’s no right thing,” muttered Tom.

  “What?”

  “Let’s finish this!”

  Kearns shouted at Tom. “The Carignan boys and their friend, they’re okay! We’re getting them to the hospital, but they’re going to be okay! You don’t need to do this!”

  “I’m okay too! It’s over, please!” pleaded Catherine, kneeling to Tom.

  “Brooder, come on, man!” shouted Hanes.

  Catherine slowly eased the weapon from Tom’s hands. He eventually let her, loosening his grip.

  Relieved, Hanes brought out a pair of handcuffs and worked them on Lennox, who didn’t protest, his broken hand burning him and his head bleeding.

  Catherine stayed close to Tom. He spat blood in the dirt.

  “Are you okay?” She wiped blood from his face and eyes, so that he could see. Tom couldn’t bring himself to look at Catherine, sensing he had let out a monster he could no longer hide within him.

  The monster was out. He was a killer too.

  Tom wiped more blood from his eyes. “I’m definitely not okay,” he said.

  Catherine smiled.

  Days passed in Beaufort County.

  Tom’s wounds and bruises were showing signs of healing. He had taken time for himself. He spent most of the time alone, brooding, as was his way. His project for the old church had not advanced much, but with all that had happened, Tom didn’t hold that against himself too much. He wasn’t discouraged by it either, as it gave him something peaceful, even meditative, to put his mind to. He needed that, whether he was the type to admit it or not. After all, he had watched his mentor, Arthur Bernier, one of the most important people in his life, fall completely apart.

  Lives had changed in Beaufort. Nothing would ever be the same again. Whether Arthur Bernier had killed Paul Carignan or not, and whether Jeffrey Lennox, Hanes and others in the town had played a part in covering it up, everyone had lost. Everyone had paid a price for the peace that now reigned.

  He was pleased that the Carignan boys and their friend were okay. They had cut it close in the fire, but they too would heal. And they would pay a price too. Their lives would forever be marked by the choices they’d made and the ramifications of those choices. There’d likely be charges coming against Catherine and the boys for what they had done. Brian Henley, Mayor O’Neil, and their influential friends would make sure of that, and they’d be leaning on Tom to efficiently dispense what they saw as justice. Whatever it took to assure their authority over the town.

  Tom figured Catherine and her boys had the strength and
resources to counter whatever was thrown at them, and he suspected they would not be alone. When they were brought in to the Beaufort police station for statements, there was no surprise when a sharply dressed Montreal lawyer named Eric Krajewski, of the firm Lapierre, Black & Krajewski, presented himself as their legal representative. He had handed over a crisp white business card and escorted his clients out quietly. He had clarified that any further arrangements for discussions with Catherine and the boys would have to go through him.

  Tom watched them all leave the station without another word. And so far, no charges had been filed against any of them. Tom thought that Noah had perhaps obtained enough private information—the kind that makes grown men feel small and embarrassed—on Henley and his cronies that no one would dare press charges against his family. But that thought had fluttered away like a bird in the air as Tom was holding the door open for them to leave.

  In front of the station, Catherine, Jack and Noah climbed into a gleaming black Cadillac SUV. Krajewski had taken special care in shaking hands with each of the three Carignans, and had handed another business card to Jack and Noah, who both read it carefully. When the SUV door swung open wide enough, Tom had glimpsed Mohawk Chief Blake Pelletier’s hard-to-forget face.

  It occurred to Tom that a battle was brewing for control of Beaufort County. Perhaps it had been brewing for many years. Tom wasn’t sure why or what was really at stake in this quaint little region, but he was wise enough to know a power struggle was in the works. And to realize he was just a pawn, caught in the middle of it, whatever ‘it’ was or would turn out to be.

  Would Catherine rebuild the house they had called Valhalla? Who knew? For a time at least, whitetails would have free rein of the property. He hoped the Carignans, especially the boys—Tom had grown fond of those boys—could move on with their lives. He knew what loss was about and wished it on no one. The truth the boys and their mom had sought, or what they believed was the truth, had had its price.

  EPILOGUE

  SOME KIND OF PEACE

  As rumours and opinions flew throughout Beaufort County, Gabrielle Bernier, the soft-spoken and elegant matriarch of the Bernier household, and perhaps of the community, sat down for a hard talk with her newly sobered-up husband. Police Chief Arthur Bernier sat across from her, not like the long-standing authority of the county and representative of the law, but like a boy who had broken something precious they both knew he could never fix.

  “Art, my dear, we’ve lost control. Everyone’s talking, and that is very bad. Hopefully, word can be contained within Beaufort and everything will be the same once the dust settles. Let’s hope.”

  “Yes, sweetheart,” said Bernier, but he knew Gabrielle well and expected she had more to say. So, he remained quiet and waited.

  “You know,” continued Gabrielle, “I would respect you if you chose to take responsibility for your mistakes and turn yourself in. I would.” She looked at her husband with both sympathy and quiet anger. “But I would respect you infinitely more if you were to regain control of it all, stand up for yourself and fight. This is, after all, our community, our home. We’ve run it well together for how many years?”

  “Many,” said Bernier.

  “Yes, many. And so, this is no time to let go. We have so much to do yet, my dear. We have all that land in the north of the county. Much to do with that alone. Don’t you agree?”

  Arthur Bernier could only nod quietly in admiration and obedience before this calm, ferocious force of nature. She had been his rock. She had been the rock, however discreetly, of the Town of Beaufort.

  “What is it you want me to do, sweetheart?”

  Delicately, as always, Gabrielle took her husband’s hand.

  In the days that followed, Gabrielle Bernier visited each of the hunters wronged by the young Carignan boys. She asked, ever so politely—maybe even demanded, ever so politely—that each of them put aside any thought of pressing charges against anyone, either with the local or provincial police, and she extolled the benefits of sticking together, remaining quiet, and assuring their control of the town. The sacrifice would be her husband’s title. He would no longer serve as Chief of Police, she explained. Arthur Bernier would retire quietly, according to her plan, but face no charges. The land in the north that she and Arthur owned would be put up for sale, with first refusal going to their families. When the new highway was approved by her old friends sitting on the Town Council, they would have an extraordinary opportunity to build and develop property in the county—and to become far wealthier than they already were.

  “A little collaboration and patience are all I’m asking for,” she concluded, sipping her tea.

  Tom was driving along Chemin Van Kleet, on patrol, when he saw Catherine out for a walk, as the sun went down over the Carignan property.

  “You okay?” he asked, slowing his pace to hers. He was headed into that “small talk” zone he really wasn’t skilled at. “I know the legal eagles don’t want us to talk.”

  “Well, talking wouldn’t break any of my rules,” she said. “What are you up to?”

  Tom didn’t expect the question to come right back at him like that, but he was learning to expect the unexpected from Catherine.

  “Oh, um, my usual patrol. Nothing special,” he said, feeling dumb about his answer somehow. “Will you rebuild?”

  Catherine let the question hang. She was thinking it over. “No, I don’t think so,” she finally answered. “I could. Make it just like it was, or even better. But more likely I’m taking my boys back to Montreal to make sure things go right for them.”

  “Guess Beaufort wasn’t such a good influence,” said Tom.

  “My boys are my priority. I’ve quit Mulroy Arsenault.”

  “Striking out on your own?” asked Tom.

  “Yup, building my own consultancy, maybe a whole firm one day. Who knows?” Catherine smiled. “Long overdue.”

  “Good for you,” said Tom. “Guess you’ll sell the land, then? You should get a pretty penny for it. It’s an amazing property.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “If you have any problems selling, let me know.”

  “Should I expect any?” asked Catherine.

  “Don’t know. Council is very particular about who moves into town, and they have a lot of influence. I still don’t have my renovation permit, and I’m the new Chief of Police.”

  “You get a promotion, but you’re technically not allowed to live here? Yeah, this is a funny kind of town. But I’m not worried.” Catherine stopped walking. She looked at the sun playing through white clouds crawling over the valley.

  Tom stopped the truck and came out to her. They gave each other appraising looks, quietly, calmly, like two stray animals in the wild, taking in each other’s scents and wondering if they could trust each other before taking next steps. Much had happened in both of their lives in recent times.

  “You’re renovating that old church, aren’t you?” she asked. “Guess this town could use some spiritual leadership.”

  “I’m re-purposing the building,” said Tom. “Isn’t that the term? I’m in no position to preach.”

  “Too many sins?”

  He shrugged. “Probably. Comes down to it, I police people’s actions, not what they believe.”

  “And what do you believe, Chief Doran?”

  “Working on that one. There’s no harm in you calling me Tom, though. If you want?”

  “Or Brooder? Isn’t that what they call you around here?”

  Tom nodded. “Doesn’t mean I’ve ever liked it.”

  “Fair enough … Tom,” said Catherine, trying it out. She paused. “Well, I can help with your plans and renovation. What you do inside that old church is nobody’s business.”

  “Just trying to make it livable,” said Tom. “That’s it. Just livable.”

  “I understand
,” said Catherine.

  They talked for a long while, growing more familiar with each other’s plans, fears and aspirations. They agreed to keep talking, now and again.

  Catherine started on her path back to what remained of Valhalla as Tom climbed back into his pick-up.

  “You know what I’ve always wondered?” asked Catherine, looking up at the trees hanging over the road. “Why are there so many black crows in Beaufort?”

  “You noticed that too, eh? Guess they just like the place?” offered Tom, watching Catherine move off down the road. He turned on the ignition.

  The crows in the trees didn’t budge.

  Caw! Caw!

  Jack, Noah and Catherine walked through the old iron and stone gateway to Beaufort County Cemetery. Their new black Labrador puppy led the way, in a not so straight line.

  “We need a name for him,” said Catherine. “We can’t just call him ‘Doggy’!”

  “How about Max?” Jack suggested.

  “That was your great-grandfather’s name,” said Catherine. “It’s a bit common.”

  “We need something cool,” said Noah.

  They made their way up an aisle of tombstones. Jack tossed a short stick he had been toying with. The nameless puppy took off after it but quickly reached the end of his leash, tumbling.

  “Don’t do that, makes him choke!” said Noah to his older brother.

  “How about Rocky?” asked Jack. Noah and Catherine shook their heads.

  “Hawk?” suggested Noah.

  “Too hard to say,” said Jack. “Come here, Hawk! Nope, doesn’t work.”

  “Something current, like Wi-Fi,” said Catherine. Both her boys pulled a face.

  “Won-ton!” said Jack.

  “Who names their dog after soup?” asked Noah.

  Jack laughed. “I’m hungry.”