Green eyed the muddy manure that surrounded them and was grateful at least for his vinyl Payless shoes. 49.99 on special. Langlois, he noted, sported spit-polished, black leather boots. His brown uniform blended perfectly with the mud and scrub of their surroundings, whereas Green’s shiny grey polyester was like a beacon. Terrific, Green thought, if there’s anyone down there lying in wait, I’m the one who’s going to get shot.
Seemingly oblivious, Langlois slung his rifle over his shoulder and strode off at a rapid pace that left Green scrambling to catch up. They slipped and slithered along the track as fast as they could, dodging the worst of the potholes and manure. As they reached the top of the hill, Green signalled Langlois into the trees at the edge of the track and crouched down to search the area ahead through the binoculars. The air was cold and dank with the smell of cedar loam. Fog still lay thick in the river valley and clung in patches to the hillside, but on the higher ground the sun was making some headway. Above him, crows flapped in the treetops and the chirps of early songbirds filled the air. In the distance Green could hear the sibilant rush of what he assumed was the river.
Apart from the sounds of wakening nature, the woods were still. He motioned Langlois to move forward, and together they crept down the hill under cover of the thick brush, all the time scanning ahead for signs of movement. Despite their best efforts at stealth, twigs snapped underfoot, and spiky branches tore at their clothes, so that by the time the first trailer materialized through the fog, Green feared that anyone hiding in the trailer park would be on full alert and waiting for them.
He stopped at the edge of the clearing to train the binoculars on the scene again. Still nothing. They ducked into the clearing and ran along the side of the first trailer. Green thought he heard a distant rattle, but when he strained his ears to listen, the rush of the river drowned out all other sound. They passed the second trailer and came upon a mud-splattered white pick-up truck tucked in between the second and third trailers, almost as if trying to hide from view. Green glanced at the license plate. Weiss’s truck.
He crept up to it, peering first into the cab, which was empty, and then into the back. His heart leaped into his throat, and for a second he couldn’t breathe. Bunched in the corner was a tattered garbage bag with its familiar contents spilling out. Twiggy’s bag.
So the bastard had her after all.
Anger settled in his gut. He unsnapped the holster of his Glock and crouched in the tall dry brush to survey the surroundings. Langlois followed suit. Together, pressed against the side of the truck, they listened. Heard a thump, so muted it could have been his over-active imagination. Or the beating of his own heart. His blood pounded in his ears. The next trailer was Weiss’s, and the moment they moved to the other side of the truck, they would be visible to him, and to anyone else who was lurking around.
From up ahead came a sharp snap followed by a hiss that sounded like a gasp. Now there was no mistaking it. Someone was sneaking around. Who? And where were they? Green hugged the side panel of the pick-up and slowly edged forward until Weiss’s trailer came into full view. It was faded to a blotchy silver colour and surrounded by dessicated raspberry canes that looked as if they’d been trampled numerous times. The windows and doors looked shut, and no lights shone in the window. If Weiss and Twiggy were inside, they were in the dark.
Somewhere in the fog ahead came a louder thump and a metallic squeak that sounded like a door opening. Yet the door to Weiss’s trailer, which was directly ahead, remained firmly shut. Something was wrong. Had Theriault been wrong about which trailer belonged to Weiss?
Green had only a split second to make a decision. He had no idea what was happening, but someone was prowling around, attempting to move soundlessly as he or she searched the area. Too soon to be Sullivan. It had to be the killer. Green knew he had mere seconds before the killer found what he was looking for. No time to wait for back-up or plan a coordinated attack. Jesus!
He took out his Glock and signalled to Langlois to stay put. “I’m going to Weiss’s trailer. Cover me.”
Langlois looked surprised and bewildered, but fortunately had been trained not to question a superior’s folly. Obediently, he crouched behind cover of the truck and took out his revolver.
Green scurried through the ten feet of scrub that separated the truck from Weiss’s trailer and pressed himself against the back wall of the trailer, trying to stifle his panting. His heart pounded and sweat slicked the gun in his hand. What the fuck am I doing, he thought in a brief moment of clarity. Who am I, Rambo? I’ve never done anything like this in my life. Twenty years on the police force, and I’ve never pulled the trigger on this thing outside the qualifying range. Here I am in my polyester grey suit and Payless shoes, ass deep in fog and mud, without a plan or even a clue who the bad guy is.
But then from somewhere up ahead came a soft thud, and a duck burst from cover with a flurry of wings and squawks. Through his own panic, Green heard again the soft hiss over the rush of the river. This time it sounded like a curse. Green pressed his ear against the wall of the trailer but could hear nothing from within. He was about to reach under the step for the door key when he noticed that the padlock on the door hung open. The door was unlocked.
Cautiously, he reached up and pushed it open an inch. Nothing. Another few inches. It rattled. He froze. Waited a few seconds, expecting a volley of gunfire through the gap. When nothing happened, he readied his gun and peered around the edge of the door. The interior was dark and musty, but a faint odour of cooking oil hung in the air. A quick glance into the Spartan interior was enough to tell him it was empty.
Too much time, he berated himself as he ducked back outside. People would be dead by the time he found this guy!
Beckoning to Langlois to follow him, he raced along the side of Weiss’s trailer and looked around the far end. Nothing but more raspberry canes. Further away, light footsteps swished through the dry grass. Jesus! He needed another pair of eyes! Where the hell was Sullivan?
He and Langlois dashed through the raspberry bushes to the back of the fourth trailer. It was a much larger one and its door gaped open. Inside, Green could make out at least two rooms. He hesitated. He thought he heard stifled breathing. Was someone hiding in there? On the other hand, the prowler might be outside, and if he and Langlois went inside, they would both be trapped. Sitting ducks. Nowhere was safe, but on balance they had more escape routes outside.
He gestured to Langlois to check one side of the fourth trailer while he inched over to peer around the other. He nearly gasped aloud, for barely fifteen feet in front of him, huddled against the side of the trailer, were Weiss and Twiggy. Their backs were to him, and their attention was riveted on the fifth trailer, which loomed fuzzily in the fog ahead. Weiss held his Glock in one hand and to Green’s surprise, Twiggy’s hand in the other. They were tiptoeing backwards towards Green as slowly and silently as they could.
Suddenly the door to the fifth trailer slammed open and a figure stepped out, dressed from head to toe in black from his cap to his steel-toed boots. He held a massive semi-automatic pistol in his hand and he stood on the top step, his feet apart, unafraid.
“Well, well, the birdies are flushed,” he said and raised his pistol to sight along the barrel.
Jesus H. Christ! Green thought with no time to react. I’m dead, Twiggy’s dead, we’re all dead in seconds with that weapon. He thrust himself into the open with his own gun outstretched, screaming a distraction.
“Police! Freeze!”
Weiss whirled around, but the gunman didn’t flinch. Green saw his finger squeeze on the trigger, and barely registered Twiggy’s move as gunshots exploded the silence. One, two, three. Then from behind Green a different sound. Five shots in rapid, disciplined succession. Green hit the ground, Weiss screamed. The gunman on the porch hurtled back against the trailer door and toppled sideways off the steps to fall face down in the tall grass.
Green scrambled to his feet and spun around to see the
SQ constable still in a shooting stance with both hands on his gun and shock on his face. Weiss uttered a guttural wail and when Green turned back to check the damage, he saw Twiggy sprawled on the ground, blood pumping from a wound at her neck. Weiss flung himself at her side and pressed his bare hands over the wound in a futile attempt to stem the flow.
Green raced to the killer’s side, snatched his gun from the grass where it had fallen and pulled out the clip. Weak, choking sounds caught in the man’s throat. Green was about to check his pulse when Langlois laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. The young SQ officer swayed on his feet, his eyes huge and his face grey with shock, but he nodded towards Twiggy bravely.
“You take care of the woman. I’ll deal with him, okay?”
Green’s French deserted him. “Thank you. And thank you for . . .” he nodded to the downed gunman.
“Is okay,” replied Langlois in fractured English, pointing to his SQ badge. “Better I do.”
Green peeled off his suit jacket and hurried over to Twiggy. Weiss was still bent over her, cursing.
“She took the bullet for me,” he said over and over. “She said she was slowing me down.” He struggled to hold her together but Green saw at one glance that it was futile. The bullets had blown off half her neck and chest. Blood from her carotid artery shot high into the air, drenching the trailer wall.
“Twiggy,” he murmured, pressing his jacket over the spray. “What the hell? Why the hell?”
In the distance, he heard running footsteps and Sullivan’s frantic call, but his throat constricted and he couldn’t answer. He looked down at Twiggy and saw the light fading from her eyes. Between tremors, she managed a final quirky smile.
“Debt repaid, Mr. G.”
September 19, 1993. Medak, Sector South, Croatia.
I have become them. Not an animal, because an animal doesn’t kill for revenge. A savage.
I could blame the Croats. Three days of guts and maggots and bodies so burned they fall apart when you try to get them in body bags, but not a single villager to save. They are gone. Hundreds. Where? Buried in mass graves? Carted away to hide the evidence of their slaughter?
Yesterday all day long Reggie and I bagged bodies and lugged them down the mountain to HQ for autopsy. This morning at parade the captain told us we aren’t going home for another month because our replacement unit—called Operation Harmony, for fuck’s sake—isn’t ready yet. Four more weeks of hard rations, maggots and mud. I’ll never get the stink of bodies out of my combats. The captain can see we’re down, so he gives us a pep talk. He says even if there aren’t any villagers to rescue, we’re going to find all the bodies and make sure we document every single crime the Croats committed. Let’s make sure the bastards pay, he says.
So this morning I’m covering the grid behind a burned out barn, looking for bodies, and I find this pair of draught horses. One’s dead and just beginning to bloat, and its mate—a big bay mare—bends over to nudge it. I get goosebumps all over. Finally a live animal. I’m going to get her to bring her back to camp when suddenly I hear laughter and these two Croat soldiers step out from the barn. One of them sees the horse and stops. Raises his brand new American-made assault rifle and shoots her five times in the head. When she falls, the other one leans over to check if she’s dead, presses the muzzle to her head and fires again.
I tackle them. Smash the first guy in the face with my rifle butt, then rip the other one’s rifle from his hands and throw him to the ground. It’s like I have the strength of ten men, like the spirit of that mare poured into me. I shove the rifle in his face. The bastard’s so freaked I can see the whites of his eyes. I pump six rounds into each of them. Turn their heads into a bloody pulp.
TWENTY-NINE
Green looked up through a mist of tears as Sullivan and his SQ sidekick burst onto the scene, guns ready. He struggled up from Twiggy’s side and raised his hand in a restraining gesture.
“It’s over.” He jerked his head at Weiss, who was sitting back on his heels in stunned disbelief. “Search him and cuff him.”
Sullivan waved his gun and pulled out his handcuffs. “Palms against the wall. You know the drill.”
“I need to explain,” Weiss began.
Anger billowed up in Green’s throat like bile, burning him. “You bet you do, but not right now.”
Weiss stumbled to his feet, cast one last look at Twiggy and bowed his head in resignation. Once he was safely cuffed, Green turned his attention to Langlois, who was still bent over the gunman. To Green’s astonishment, the gunman was gasping for breath and struggling to sit up.
As Green drew closer, he saw some blood spreading from a wound on the man’s shoulder, but across his chest there were only a few telltale nicks in his flak jacket. The SQ constable had pulled the black cap from his head, revealing a bristly grey crew cut. As Green looked into the man’s blue eyes, defiant even in pain, he felt not the disgust or rage he’d expected, but sadness.
“So, Colonel,” he said. “I’d say the battle is over.”
Hamm fought back pain and snarled at him. “You don’t know what you’ve done!”
Green looked at the carnage. At Twiggy sprawled on the ground and Weiss slumped against the trailer. He shook his head in wonder. “Do you?”
“John Blakeley could have saved thousands, soldiers and civilians alike! He could have changed the face of peacekeeping across the globe!”
“You may be right. But he also killed a man.”
“An accident,” Hamm replied. “And in the scheme of things . . .”
Green had squatted down by Hamm’s side to check his injuries. Belatedly disgust and rage bubbled up inside him. Even now, the man didn’t grasp the significance of what he’d done! Green turned away to look at Langlois. Colour was beginning to return to the young officer’s face. It’s always nice to know you haven’t killed a man, Green thought, even one as inhuman as the one before us.
“Put the handcuffs on him and read him the Charter warning,” he said. “We have him dead to rights on Twiggy’s death at least.”
Fortin arrived when it was all over, strenuously rowing against the spring-swollen current of the river. So much for my carefully coordinated tactical response, Green thought in a moment of absurdity. He was grateful to hand over the operation to Fortin, who radioed his superiors to get the wheels of justice in motion. Since Weiss’s crimes, whatever they might prove to be, had occurred on the Ontario side of the river, Green and Sullivan were eventually able to bundle him into the back of the Malibu and head back to town, leaving Fortin to deal with the removal of Twiggy’s body, Hamm’s evacuation to hospital, and the mountain of paperwork facing them all regarding what had transpired.
Sitting in the back of the Malibu on the ride back, Weiss seemed to retreat into shock, and Green hadn’t the strength to browbeat him. All he wanted to do was crawl home to bed. Once they’d delivered Weiss into the duty sergeant’s custody, with a promise to return later to lay formal charges, he dragged his exhausted body toward the parking lot.
Where he ran smack into Kate McGrath, leaning against the side of his Subaru with a triumphant smile on her face and two steaming cups of Tim Hortons coffee in her hands.
“I heard a rumour you were in the building,” she said.
“A woman after my own heart.” He plucked the coffee from her hand and unlocked the car. “I thought you’d gone home.”
“I postponed my flight. After I heard the excitement you had this morning, I wanted another go at Blakeley.” She circled the car and slid gracefully into the passenger seat. Her triumphant smile broadened.
He put the keys in the ignition but didn’t turn it on. “And?”
“He didn’t know about Hamm. He suspected someone was committing murder in order to conceal his old crime, but he was afraid it was his wife.”
“Well, she was certainly high on our list, too. What made him think it was her?”
“Because she knew something was wrong that night when h
e came back from the meeting with Patricia, and he said he may have let something slip. The poor man’s been beside himself.”
“Poor man!” Green snorted as he ventured a cautious sip of the hot liquid. “The asshole started this whole damn mess.”
“Anyway, he finally sang like a bird when he realized it wasn’t her. Hamm always scared him a bit. Too dedicated a soldier, too determined to succeed. Not ambitious in the usual sense like most up-and-coming commissioned officers, but for the good of the corps. Blakeley always figured that Hamm backed him up that night in the Lighthouse Tavern not so much because of their history together, but for the sake of the army’s reputation. Another Somalia-style scandal might have destroyed the entire force.”
Green thought of Hamm sitting in the grass that morning, ranting about the lives Blakeley could have saved. For Hamm, the army came before all else. “I wonder how much Hamm will be willing to talk once we finally get him into our custody.” He glanced across at her. In the confines of his little car, she seemed uncomfortably close. A mere finger touch away. “Are you going to stick around to talk to him?”
A faint pink tinged her cheeks before she shook her head. “No. The case is over. Blakeley’s given a formal confession, and I expect he’ll plead. I’m going to make arrangements to have him transferred to Halifax court. Less of a media circus for him to contend with.”
“Don’t count on it.” He paused. An unspoken feeling hung between them “I’m sorry I had to handle it the way I—”
“You were an asshole.” Her eyes twinkled as she looked at him. “But you were probably right, and in the end I did get the confession.” She glanced at her watch. “But now I’ve got to hightail it. My flight is in an hour.”
“Oh!” He was surprised at his disappointment. And his relief. He started the car. “Then let me drive you to the airport.”
“That was the general idea. And if you’re ever down east again . . .” She stole him a mischievous side glance. Despite his fatigue, his senses tingled. “I’ll take you to the Rock and treat you to the best cod tongues in the world, bar none.”
Honour Among Men Page 29