Getting Even: A Vigilante Series crime thriller

by Claude Bouchard

  “Anyhow, Cathy won’t get any sleep if you go home and she’s keeping an eye on you,” Sandy added. “You should stay here and she should go get some rest.”

  “In fact, we were discussing this very subject on our way over,” said Chris, looking up at Cathy. “You haven’t slept all night and you need to take a break. Why don’t you go back with Sandy to the condo, have something to eat and go to bed. Jonathan is on his way over so he and I will make sure you husband behaves himself. Anyhow, he’s going to need sleep at some point too.”

  “They’re right, sweetheart,” Dave agreed. “You haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and there’s no reason for you to stay here now that we know I’m okay.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble,” was Cathy’s weak dispute, “And I didn’t bring a change of clothes or anything.”

  “We’re the same size, girl,” Sandy countered, “And you’ll get a brand new toothbrush out of the deal.”

  Cathy laughed. “That’s a hard one to pass up, and I guess I could use some sleep.” Looking at her husband, she said, “You’re going to be good?”

  “I’m going to get some sleep too,” Dave promised. “In fact, I’m already in bed.”

  Shaking her head, Cathy turned to Chris. “Can you make sure he doesn’t sweet talk his way out of here before the doctors decide to release him?”

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Chris assured her, “And, if he is released anytime today, I’ve got him covered. Now, you go get some sleep.”

  “Thanks, Chris,” Cathy replied, getting teary again as Sandy gave her another quick hug. “Thanks to you both.”

  “Come on,” said Sandy, hooking her arm into Cathy’s. “We’ll take your car so Chris has a ride.”

  They left the room, pausing briefly to greet and hug Jonathan as he arrived.

  “So, what the hell happened?” Jon asked moments later after having been brought up to speed on Dave’s condition.

  “The short version is, some bastard ran me off the road,” Dave replied, his face darkening with anger.

  “Do you think it was intentional?” asked Chris.

  “Hell, yeah,” Dave confirmed. “He pulled up next to me and slammed me into the ditch. Definitely not just negligence or accidental.”

  “I don’t suppose you got a look at the guy?” Jonathan questioned.

  Dave shook his head. “Only enough to say it was a male and he was alone. It just happened too fast and it was dark so I was mostly keeping my eyes on the road, especially when he came up alongside me. I let go of the gas so he’d pass faster and then he turned right into me. I felt the Rover roll and I knew I couldn’t pull it back. I crashed, the bags exploded and the next thing I knew, there were flashing lights, I was strapped to a gurney and being loaded in an ambulance.”

  “Not a vehicle you’re familiar with either?” Chris prodded.

  “Recent Tahoe, silver,” Dave replied. “Certainly not a rare truck.”

  “I got an update from François just as I was arriving here,” Jonathan interrupted, referring to François Duguay, the Regional Commander of the Quebec Provincial Police. “A silver Tahoe was found in the parking lot at the Kirkland Cineplex this morning. Banged up on the right side with traces of blue paint so it fits the bill. The QPP has it now and will be doing tests today to see if that’s your paint.”

  “Whose truck is it?” asked Chris.

  “Hertz,” Jonathan replied. “No word yet on who might have been driving it but I’m expecting it’ll end up having been rented with a bogus permit and credit card.”

  Dave offered a rueful smile. “You’re such a pessimist.”

  “Maybe,” said Jonathan, “But it’s not going to stop us from finding who did this.”

  “Could this have anything to do with our job last night?” asked Dave.

  “Impossible,” Jonathan disagreed. “Nobody from Castellini’s could have been onto us.”

  “You were more likely chosen at random by some psycho,” said Chris, “Unless it was someone from the past trying to settle a score.”

  “It’s possible,” Dave replied with a shrug. “I’ve certainly made my fair share of enemies over time but, why now? I’ve been off the force for two years.”

  “Perhaps whoever it is was detained until now,” said Chris.

  “I’ll have someone look into released inmates you were involved with,” said Jonathan.

  “And escaped convicts,” Chris suggested.

  “It should be a short list,” said Dave. “The folks I dealt with usually went in for a long time.”

  “It only takes one, my friend,” Jonathan replied. “I’m also wondering if your attack might be related to the shooting incident with Frank last week.”

  “Really?” Dave questioned in surprise. “Why? Frank wasn’t shot at. His neighbour was. Frank just found the guy.”

  “Yep, Frank found him,” Jonathan replied, “Right after the shooting took place and along a trail Frank runs daily. It’s not unreasonable to think he could have been the intended target, especially when you get run off the road less than a week later.”

  “It is one hell of a coincidence,” Chris agreed.

  “If that’s the case, Tim and Joanne could be in danger as well,” said Dave. “So could others on the homicide squad. I’d better warn them.”

  “What you need to do is rest and get better,” said Jonathan. “I’ll call Tim and let him know. I’ll also line up some security for you, at least until we have a better handle on what’s going on. If someone actually wants you dead and missed, there’s a good chance he’ll try again.”

  “Well that’s not good,” Dave muttered. “This bastard may know where I live. That could put Cathy in danger too.”

  “Until we figure this out, you could stay at the condo,” Chris offered. “Sandy and I spend most of our time in Knowlton and even if we’re in town, there’s more than enough room for the four of us.”

  Dave nodded. “It’s certainly more secure than our house in Hudson. I just don’t want to be a bother.”

  “And I don’t want you dead,” Chris replied. “We’ll get whatever you and Cathy need from your place and get you settled in at our place. Now, get some rest so we can get you out of here and start searching for this guy.”

  * * * *

  Montreal, Quebec, 10:12 a.m.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” William muttered as he turned off the tablet and fought the urge to fling it across the room. “That’s what you get for acting on impulse. Nothing! A goddamned idiot is what you are.”

  He tossed the tablet onto the couch to one side, rose to his feet and began pacing to work off some frustration. Though reports on the web about the previous evening’s incident in Hudson were few and vague, they had been sufficient to confirm that he had once again failed. The victim of the mysterious collision was in hospital and expected to fully recover from his injuries.

  William was enraged with himself, ashamed of how easily he had lost control and let his emotions take over and dictate his actions. His intention had simply been to gather more information on McCall, such as where he lived, to properly plan the man’s eventual demise. Following his failure to eliminate Bakes, he had vowed to take the time required to make each subsequent hit a success, to leave no room for the slightest error. However, as they had cruised along that dark, desolate stretch of road, the urge to destroy the ex-captain who had sent him to hell had taken over.

  He had literally screamed with delight when he had plowed into McCall’s vehicle and seen it crash as he sped away. Panic had soon pushed his euphoria aside as numerous possibilities of what could go wrong had begun to crowd his thoughts. Had the crash killed or seriously injured McCall? Perhaps the airbags had saved him. Was the police being notified while he, William, was still in the immediate vicinity? How badly damaged was the rented Tahoe he was driving? Where could he go to abandon the vehicle?

  Soaked in sweat, he had made the fear-filled drive back to Montreal, fully expecting to be
swarmed by police at any moment along the way. Twenty minutes had brought him to Kirkland where he had thankfully left the highway and ditched the Tahoe in the Cineplex parking lot. From there, a cab ride followed by the subway had served as his means to get back to his rented apartment downtown for several nerve-numbing scotches and a fitful night of sleep.

  In the end, his irresponsible behaviour had turned a worthwhile fact finding mission into a foolish fiasco which had only served to warn his target of danger in the midst. McCall was now on the alert which would no doubt make any further attempts on his life that much more difficult.

  He ceased his pacing and leaned on the glass-topped dining room table, glaring at his reflection for a moment before shaking his head and sighing.

  “Are you going to beat on yourself all day?” he asked aloud. “So, you fucked up. Get over it and move on. There’s work to be done so stop whining and get busy.”

  Chapter 9 – Wednesday, October 7, 2015

  Lakeshore General Hospital, Pointe-Claire, Quebec, 10:22 a.m.

  The door to the bathroom opened and Dave stepped out, moving stiffly. “I’m ready to go.”

  “It’s about time,” Chris teased. “Have a seat and I’ll take you for a ride.”

  “I can walk,” Dave protested. “Moving around a bit will do me some good.”

  “Get in the damned chair,” Chris ordered. “We can play some tennis after lunch if you want to move around.”

  “Smartass,” Dave muttered as he carefully lowered himself into the wheelchair. “You know I don’t play tennis. Let’s get out of here.”

  * * * *

  William felt his heart accelerate as the door at the hospital’s main entrance opened and Dave McCall appeared in a wheelchair pushed by none other than the mysterious Chris Barry.

  “You’re lucky the rifle’s in the trunk,” he murmured from where he was parked, barely over a hundred feet away.

  His gaze followed Barry as he trotted off, leaving McCall in the company of a uniformed policeman who had accompanied them outside. Presumably, any attempt to get at the ex-cop while he had been hospitalized would have been met with some resistance. A minute or two passed before Barry returned behind the wheel of a grey Porsche Cayenne and pulled up to where McCall waited. Another minute or so and McCall had transferred from the wheelchair to the SUV, his hospital stay officially over.

  Unable to concentrate on intended internet research the previous morning, William had decided to further shadow Frank Bakes, a decision which had turned out to be a wise one. Shortly after noon, the detective had left with another man and unknowingly led William to the Lakeshore General. A telephone call to the hospital, under the guise of a news reporter, had confirmed McCall’s presence. No, the patient’s room number was not being given nor was he available for an interview. Visitors were limited to a select few. With a bit of insistence, William had learned that McCall was in satisfactory condition and was expected to be released the next day.

  With no worthwhile reason to hang around the hospital any longer, he had returned to the apartment, satisfied with having determined McCall’s whereabouts. He had spent the rest of the day on the Web, searching for whatever tidbit of information available regarding the elusive Chis Barry. Though the man’s name appeared on the websites of various organizations, where he was listed as a member of their boards, nothing concrete could be found to help locate him. Persistence, however, had paid off with a two year old article from the Brome County News highlighting the fifteenth anniversary of Taylor’s, a small but prestigious art gallery in Knowlton. A photo depicted the gallery’s proud owner, Sandy (Taylor) Barry, accompanied by her husband, Chris.

  Pleased with his progress for the day, William had spent a quiet, relaxing evening in and retired early, wishing to be well rested for the following day. Where that day would lead, he’d had no clue but he fully intended to be present when McCall left the hospital in order to discover where the man would go.

  William let the Cayenne roll by and waited a moment before cranking the engine of the five year old Sonata he’d purchased the previous week. He would keep his distances and trusted the common automobile would not get noticed as he tailed the two men to wherever they were headed.

  * * * *

  Nuns’ Island, Montreal, Quebec, 11:47 a.m.

  Though Chris and Sandy Barry’s principal residence was a spacious lakefront property in Knowlton, both spent sufficient enough time in Montreal, some sixty miles to the west, to warrant a secondary home. As their pied à terre in the city, they had opted for a five thousand square foot penthouse which crowned a twenty storey condominium tower on Nuns’ Island and offered spectacular views in all directions. With four bedrooms and three and a half baths, there was plenty of room for guests and the private elevator accessible from the lobby and underground parking made for increased security.

  William slowed then stopped as he watched the Cayenne disappear into the building and the automated door glide down behind it. Unaware if either man lived there or where they were going but intent on finding out, he turned into the property’s drive and parked in the visitor’s area which spanned the front of the building. He cut the engine then climbed out and walked the short distance to the main entrance. As he stepped into the entrance foyer, he casually glanced though the glass doors leading to the lobby beyond and was relieved to note the absence of any security desk or personnel.

  He turned his attention to the entry panel to one side and was pleased to see the accompanying building directory. Scanning the alphabetical list, his gaze settled on Barry, C. - PH-20. Bingo… As he continued to run down the list, intent on being thorough, the outside door opened and a man appeared at his side.

  “Excuse me,” said the man before reaching up and punching a button on the entry panel – PH-20…

  William turned to glance at the man – Bob – and, containing his astonishment, stepped back as courtesy dictated.

  “Yes?” a woman’s voice asked via the intercom.

  “Hey, Sandy,” Bob replied. “It’s Jonathan.”

  “Come on up,” the woman replied.

  The door buzzed and Bob, or Jonathan, pulled it open then paused to nod and smile at William before entering the lobby, ensuring the door locked behind him. He crossed the marble floor but, to William’s surprise, walked by the two elevators to stop at a steel door further along the wall. He pressed a button on the small panel by the door and another buzzer was faintly heard as a green light shown. Jonathan pulled the door open, a second door beyond slid aside, granting him access to the private elevator within and, seconds later, he was gone.

  * * * *

  Nuns’ Island, Montreal, Quebec, 12:09 p.m.

  “– the paint matched so, yes, the Tahoe found in Kirkland was the one which ran you off the road,” Jonathan reported.

  “Any word on the driver?” asked Dave, settled comfortably in a recliner.

  Jonathan shook his head. “As I expected, we can forget about identifying the driver, at least from the rental records.”

  “Damned animal,” Cathy muttered, perched on the arm of her husband’s chair.

  “We’ll find him,” Chris promised then turned to Jon. “What else do you have?”

  “The names of seven cons out on parole,” Jonathan replied as he consulted his tablet, “Though none of them look promising based on preliminary information. Two are in convalescent homes, one with Parkinson’s and the other with Alzheimer’s. A third is in the hospital fighting a losing battle with cancer. The fourth on the list is in fine shape barring his having lost both legs in a car accident the day after his release last year. The remaining three have steady jobs and clean reporting records with their probation officers. One is actually a fulltime counsellor with the youth services in Ontario.”

  “Hmm. How many are in the area?” asked Dave.

  “The Parkinson’s and cancer patients,” said Jonathan. “The one with Alzheimer’s is in Quebec City and another is in Rimouski, working in the fam
ily auto parts business. The remaining three are in Edmonton, Toronto and Halifax. I’m emailing you the report so you can see if any of the names grab your attention but, like I said, I doubt any of them ran you off the road.”

  “One of them could have hired somebody to do it,” Sandy suggested. “I don’t think you should forget about any of them too quickly.”

  “Of course not,” Jonathan agreed, “And it’s also possible someone still in prison set this up. We’re going to find who did this and anyone else involved. We’re on it and so is the provincial police as well as Dave’s old crew.”

  “Yeah, Tim and Frank dropped by hospital yesterday,” said Dave. “Frank bought into your theory about being the intended target a lot more quickly than I expected he would and Tim doesn’t seem to be taking it lightly either.”

  “He certainly isn’t,” Jonathan confirmed. “He told me this morning he, Frank and Joanne will be officially working on this as well as the Summit shooting. They’ll be liaising with us and with the QPP.”

  “That’s good although we really don’t have much to go on,” said Dave.

  “That’s all we’ve got for now,” Jonathan replied as he closed his tablet, his update complete, “But we’ll keep digging until we find what we need. On that note, I’m out of here and wish you all a lovely afternoon.”

  “Do you want to stick around for lunch?” Sandy offered. “We’re ordering pizza.”

  “Thanks but I have a lunch meeting at one,” Jonathan replied as he glanced at his watch, “So I’d better get going. See you all later and get better quick, Dave.”

  * * * *

  Nuns’ Island, Montreal, Quebec, 12:16 p.m.