The Evil That Men Do

by Michael Blair

  “Easy,” Lefebvre said. Although he seemed full of macho self-confidence, he was sweating and jittery, and the muzzle of his pistol wavered.

  “How did you know they were here?” I asked him.

  “I didn’t. I followed the little tattooed freak.”

  “You were following Nina? Why?”

  “Just playing a hunch.”

  “You’re not still working for Frank Gendron, are you?”

  “Naw. He fired me. Thanks to you. I’m what you might call an independent operator.” He gestured with the pistol. “No more talk. I’m kinda running short o’ time.”

  “Are you sure you want to do it this way?” I said. “You weren’t part of Ms. Jardine’s abduction. If you let me take her and her daughter home, I’ll put in a good word for you. It might go a long way toward helping you get your job back.”

  “Assuming I want my job back,” he said, smiling his shit-eating smile. “Personally, I’d rather have money.”

  “It was worth a try,” I said, shrugging.

  “Cuff yourself to your friend here.”

  “You know, I don’t think I will.”

  Lefebvre licked dry lips and perspiration beaded on his forehead. “Then I’ll just have to shoot you both,” he said, but his voice wasn’t as steady as it had been.

  “Riley … ” Gil said.

  “Oh, don’t be such a pussy, Gil.”

  Lefebvre laughed, as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

  “He’s not going to shoot anyone,” I said. “He may be a drunk and a degenerate gambler—”

  “Hey!”

  “—but he was a cop once. Maybe even a good one. And a lot of cops go through their entire careers without ever firing their weapons outside of the practice range, let alone shooting another human being. Isn’t that right, Mr. Lefebvre?”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Lefebvre said, levelling the pistol. “Fuck it,” he said. He slipped his finger inside the trigger guard. Oops. I’d gone too far. “I don’t need either of you assholes,” he said, as his finger tightened on the trigger.

  With a twist of my wrist, I flipped the cuffs at his face. As he blinked, I feinted to his left, so he would have to shoot across his body. The pistol went off with a loud, hard bang, shockingly loud in the confines of the kitchen. I then stepped to his right, closing in, forcing him to bring the pistol back across his body. As he turned, I drove the folded knuckles of my right hand into his throat, not holding back, following through, ignoring the clamouring awareness that if the blow landed properly, he would very likely die from a crushed larynx.

  With a strangled squawk, Lefebvre dropped the pistol and fell to his knees, clutching his throat, face turning scarlet as he fought to suck air through his paralyzed larynx. He toppled on to his back, chest heaving, face paling and lips turning blue as his blood was deprived of oxygen. I kicked the pistol away and knelt by his side.

  “Relax,” I said. “Don’t fight it. Just try to breathe normally. You’ll be okay.” Maybe.

  Lefebvre wheezed, still struggling for breath, but his colour improved. The thickness of his neck had saved his life. Thankful I wouldn’t have to watch another man die, I rolled him on to his side, levered his arms behind his back, and fitted the plastic handcuffs to his wrists. I pulled the tabs, tightening the cuffs, then looked around for the pistol. I didn’t see it.

  “Shit, Riley,” Gil said.

  I’d forgotten about him. “Are you all right?” I said, getting to my feet, worried that he’d been hit by Lefebvre’s wild shot.

  “Yeah,” Gil said. “But you aren’t.” He pointed to my right side.

  I opened my travel jacket. Blood soaked my shirt below my ribs. I shrugged out of the jacket. There was a ragged bloody hole where the bullet had ripped through it after exiting me. I handed the jacket to Gil and gingerly pulled my shirttails out of my jeans. I hadn’t felt a thing, but the pain began as I examined the wound. The bullet had scored a deep groove in my side, midway between my lower ribcage and my hip. Some of Addy Shay’s luck had rubbed off on me.

  “Fuck,” Gil said.

  “Yeah,” I said, looking around the kitchen for something to staunch the blood. I found a roll of duct tape in a drawer. I handed it to Gil. In another drawer I found some dishtowels that appeared to have been recently laundered. I wet one at the sink and wiped away the blood the best I could. I then folded another towel into a thick pad and pressed the improvised bandage over the wound.

  Gesturing to the duct tape in his hands, I told Gil to tear off a couple of strips about eight inches long and tape them over the towel. “Tight.”

  “You need a doctor,” Gil said.

  “Not yet.” I gritted my teeth as Gil applied the strips of tape over the wad of towelling. “Not tight enough,” I said. “Wrap a couple of turns around my waist.” I held my shirt out of the way as he did as I’d requested.

  “Jesus, Riley,” he said. “It must hurt like a son of a bitch.”

  “About eight,” I said.

  “What?”

  “On a scale of one to ten.” I lowered the blood-soaked shirt. I didn’t tuck it in.

  I checked on Marc Lefebvre. He was conscious and breathing with less difficulty. He glared at me with palpable hatred as I wrapped a couple of turns of tape around his ankles. “We’re even,” I said.

  He tried to speak. All he managed was a rusty wheeze, but it sounded like “Fuck you.”

  I stood, grunting at the twinge in my knee to go with the pain in my side. I turned to Gil. He was nowhere to be seen. He’d gone, taking my jacket with him, it appeared, along with my new phone and my wallet.

  “Shit,” I said, limping into the front room as Gil’s Audi sped away, fishtailing and spitting gravel.

  I returned to the kitchen and lifted the phone off the hook. There was no dial tone. Lefebvre glowered and growled at me as I went through his jacket pockets, looking for a cellphone. I found one, but it was locked, and he just glared at me when I asked him for the passcode.

  I looked around for the pistol. I couldn’t find it. I gave up, figuring that when I’d kicked it, it had gone into the gap under the base of the kitchen counters. I went out to the back porch and down the steps. As I crossed the yard toward the horse barn, the pain in my knee subsided but the bullet wound in my side stung like the dickens, as though I’d been jabbed with a red-hot poker. The sun was low over the roof of the barn, casting a long shadow across the yard. Lefebvre’s rusting Pathfinder was parked beside the barn, out of sight of the driveway. Terry’s car was tucked into an equipment shed opposite the barn, next to a tractor.

  The barn doors were open. Sweating and queasy with delayed shock, I breathed deeply, hyperventilating, oxygenating my blood. I felt better as I went into the barn. I stood just inside the entrance as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. The horse stalls were empty, but the interior of the barn was warm and humid and smelled of horses,

  manure, mouldering hay.

  “Mr. Strom?” I called as I moved down the rows of empty stalls, keeping to one side so I wouldn’t be silhouetted against the entrance, in case Strom had a weapon of some kind, a gun or—I shuddered—a crossbow. “Fred? Where are you? Nina?”

  “Riley!” Nina cried. “We’re in here.”

  Chapter 33

  Her voice came from a room at the far end of the rows of stalls. A tack room, I guessed. It had an oversized doorway, at least four feet wide. I approached with caution, peered through the doorway. Fred Strom was brandishing a formidable-looking knife at Terry and Nina, both of whom stood between Strom and Rebecca. Nina held Strom at bay with a length of one-by-three inch pine or spruce lath. Not much of a weapon.

  “Strom!” I shouted.

  Fred Strom spun around. In the light of the bare bulb dangling in the middle of the room his eyes were wide and wild, irises surrounded
by white. He tried to speak, but all that came out of his mouth were wet gobbling sounds. Was he even sane?

  “Fred, put the knife down,” I said.

  He slashed at me. I dodged, ignoring the flare of pain in my side.

  I doubted Strom was an experienced a knife fighter. I wasn’t, either, but I had once been attacked by a drunken dockworker wielding a gravity knife, intent on doing me serious harm. I knew I could probably disarm Strom if I was willing to risk being cut—as I had been by the dockworker, earning some of the stitches I’d told Marie-Claire Cloutier about. Better to try talking him down.

  Before I got the chance, though, Nina shrieked and threw herself at him, swinging wildly with the length of lath. Strom struck out with the knife, hacking a large splinter from the lath. Nina retreated, but tripped, landing on her backside. Strom kicked at her. She rolled away. Strom made a grab for Rebecca, caught her by the arm. Wrapping his left arm around her shoulders, he held the tip of the blade against her throat.

  I froze. Terry screamed and started to go for Strom, but stopped when he flinched and pricked Rebecca’s throat, drawing blood. Rebecca was rigid, back arched, eyes wide with fear. She clawed at Strom’s forearm, her fingernails gouging his flesh.

  “Stop that,” Strom said, pricking her again, drawing more blood. She stopped clawing at his arm, but held on to it, as if trying to chin herself. Blood ran down her neck, soaking the collar of her blouse.

  “Mr. Strom,” I said. “Take it easy, okay. Just relax.”

  I backed up as Strom dragged Rebecca out of the tack room.

  “You can take them,” he said, waving the knife at Terry and Nina. “But I’m keeping the girl.”

  “No!” Terry cried.

  “Fred,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, conversational. “You know that’s not going to happen. As soon as we leave here we’ll call the police. You won’t be allowed to keep her.”

  The police were undoubtedly better than I was at hostage negotiation, but I couldn’t imagine Terry leaving her daughter alone with Fred Strom while we went to summon help.

  “Lawrence and Mr. Maxwell promised I could keep her. To help look after Mother.”

  Did he really think he could keep Rebecca as his slave? Frank Gendron had said that Strom was unstable. Three-legged chairs are unstable; Fred Strom was deranged. I was going to have to tread carefully.

  “Where’s your mother now?” I asked.

  “In her room,” he said. “She doesn’t get out of bed much these days.”

  “Is she alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s not good,” I said, shaking my head, trying to sound sympathetic. “My mother isn’t well herself and I wouldn’t like it if she was left alone for too long. Why not let Rebecca go and check on her while we wait here? Would you do that, Rebecca?”

  “Uh, sure,” Rebecca said.

  “How about it, Fred? Will you let Rebecca check on your mother?”

  “She’ll just run away. Do I look stupid?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. So much for Plan B.

  “What about Mother’s money?” he said. “They told me I’d get it back if I did what they said.”

  “You might get some of it back,” I said, “now that Chaz Brandt is in custody. But you’ve got to let the girl go. If you do that, we’ll put in a good word for you. Under the circumstances, you’d probably get off pretty lightly, perhaps even with probation or a suspended sentence. But if you hurt anyone, it will go a lot worse for you. You’ll go to prison for a long time. I don’t think you’d like prison.”

  “I can’t go to prison,” he said. “Who’d look after Mother?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Where’s Lawrence?” he said, looking around, frantic with fear.

  Rebecca cried out as the knife blade bit into her neck again. Terry sobbed. Nina held on to her, restraining her. But Nina was so much smaller than Terry that if Terry lost it and went after Strom, Nina would not be able to hold her back. In all likelihood she’d only get her daughter badly hurt, if not killed.

  “I told you, Fred,” I said. “Lawrence is dead. He can’t help you. Look, you don’t want to hurt anyone. Just put the knife down and let the girl go. Please.”

  “No! I need her to help look after Mother.”

  “Fred,” I said. “Would your mother want you to do it this way? No, she wouldn’t. She’d be very upset with you. Now tell me how we can end this without anyone getting hurt. We’ll do what we can to help you get some of her money back. In the meantime, just take the knife away from Rebecca’s throat. You’ve already cut her. You don’t have to let her go, just take the knife away from her throat.”

  Strom moved the knife away from Rebecca’s neck, but he shifted his left arm so that his forearm pressed against her throat, an inadvertent chokehold. Rebecca stood on her toes, gasping for breath. He lowered the knife until the point was an inch or so from Rebecca’s lower ribcage, angled upward. I wondered if I’d improved the situation or worsened it, as I calculated my chances of getting the better of him before he could drive the knife into the girl’s heart.

  “What are we going to do now, Fred?”

  “All’s I want is the money so I can take care of Mother,” he said.

  “If we promise to help you get your mother’s money back, you’ll let the girl go?”

  “I dunno. Maybe. But you gotta do more ’n just promise.”

  “I understand,” I said. Not stupid. Just crazy. “How much are we talking about?” I asked, to keep him talking.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Mother never told me. A lot.”

  “All right,” I said. “So, how are we going to manage that? Terry?”

  “Uh?”

  I looked her in the eye, trying to think a wink, afraid that if I actually winked Strom would see or Terry might give the game away. “Do you still have some of the money Chaz stole?”

  She blinked, looking confused, frightened. I tried a different approach.

  “I mean, if you had any of the money, you’d give it to Fred, wouldn’t you? So he could take care of his mother.”

  “Oh,” she said, catching on. “Yes, of course, but … ”

  She wasn’t much of an actor. She wouldn’t have made a very good con artist.

  “Where is it?” I said. “Is it hidden somewhere?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s … it’s hidden.”

  “At your house?”

  “Yes, at the house.”

  “How about it, Fred?” I said. “We could all go to Terry’s house so she could give you the money.”

  Strom shook his head. “They stay here,” he said. “You go get it.”

  “Okay. I can do that. But before I do, you’ve got to do something, too. I give you my word we’ll do everything we can to make sure you get your money, but you have to let Rebecca go. Will you do that, Fred? You can keep the knife, but let the girl go. Lock them up in the tack room till I get back.”

  The pressure of Strom’s arm against Rebecca’s throat eased and she lowered herself from her toes. He seemed ready to let her go. I dared not speak. Slowly, Rebecca extricated herself from his grasp and moved away from him. He still had the knife in his hand. I stepped toward him, reaching for the knife, slowly, cautiously.

  “Why don’t you give me the knife, Fred?” I said. “If you do that, I promise I’ll go to Terry’s house and get the money.”

  Fred looked at the knife in his hand, as if surprised to see it. Then lights swept across the door at the far end of the barn. Strom looked around wildly, suddenly realizing he no longer held Rebecca. A car door slammed. He reached for the girl.

  With a shriek, Nina sprang, swinging the piece of lath at Strom’s head. It broke across his shoulder. He slashed at her with the knife. She fell back, hand to her throat.

  W
ith a bellow of rage, I charged, reaching for the knife. Pain speared through my leg. As my knee buckled and I staggered toward him, Strom drove the knife into my left side, below my ribs. I wrapped my hands around the knife as the blade slid into me. There was no pain at first, just a strange hollow sensation, a spreading coldness. Then the pain came.

  “Riley!” someone screamed. Nina?

  “Go,” I gasped, holding Strom’s hand with both my hands, trying to immobilize the blade, prevent him from withdrawing the knife and going after Rebecca and the others. “Go. Hurry. Go.”

  The room began to tilt and slide away and I heard a distant rushing sound. I took my right hand from Strom’s wrist and gripped his throat, squeezing, trying to pinch off his carotid artery, shut down the flow of blood to his brain. But I didn’t have any strength left in my hands and my grip on Strom’s knife hand was weakening. Shifting both hands to the knife again, I staggered forward, forcing Strom back. I felt the blade slice into my palms. Then my knee gave out and I fell, carrying Strom with me to the floor, the knife still embedded in my side.

  “Go,” I rasped, trying to keep the knife blade from tearing me up inside as Strom struggled beneath me. “Go.”

  I heard footfalls, someone running, and someone crying, calling my name.

  Then I slipped through into the darkness. The troublesome part was over.

  Not yet, said a voice in my head.

  Chapter 34

  I woke up. One moment, I was asleep and dreaming about swimming through a dark, metal labyrinth, trying to catch up to—someone—and the next moment I was awake. I was in a hospital room. There were bad smells and strange, unidentifiable sounds: bleeps and bloops, hisses and wet gurgles. Why was I in a hospital room? Had I had another accident, crashed my toboggan into a tree again? I turned my head and saw a woman with dark hair and tattoos, sleeping in a chair beside the bed, chin propped on her hand, elbow resting on the arm of the chair. Her arm would go to sleep if she stayed like that too long, I thought. I should tell her.

  I tried to sit up. A sharp pain in my left side made me gasp and fall back. I felt pain in my right side, too, but it wasn’t as bad. There were bandages on my hands as well. Christ, what have I done to myself this time? I wondered.