Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  But no one, least of all the military, had told them how to survive in the event that they did make it home.

  [59]

  “It’s me. I’m downstairs.” Static on the line, hesitation ­perhaps, but the door buzzed open and he went in. As he entered the corridor, she was standing on the threshold of her apartment in her pyjamas. Pale blue stripes on white, bare feet on dark hardwood.

  “It’s late.”

  “I know. I won’t stay long.”

  There were things they needed to discuss. The operation would begin in just over five hours. Aziz asked him to sit down while she put on a dressing gown. He was tempted to say, Please don’t. Stay the way you are, but he didn’t. His heart was racing, and while he hadn’t yet done anything other than showing up at eleven p.m., it was sufficient reason to feel guilty. He stood up quickly, as if he’d just sat down on a kitten. He went back to the door and waited.

  When Fiza appeared, she was still wearing her pyjamas. “I decided I was decent enough. My robe’s too warm.” Seeing him where she had left him, Aziz looked confused. “I wasn’t gone that long, was I?”

  “No. I want to tell you about the operation tomorrow morning. I’ll feel a lot better if I know you’re in the command unit.” He was aware that he was avoiding her eyes, and her pyjamas. He suspected that his face and neck were flushed and she’d notice.

  She did. A look of concern came over her face. “What are you not telling me, Mac?”

  He swallowed hard and then laughed, a short one, like a sneeze. He took a deep breath and told the truth about his concern for the operation. “We’re backup to Tactical. They’ll go in with two of their armoured units. Another will be on the road to the dam to cut off Venganza if he tries to make a run for it.”

  “He won’t.”

  “No, he won’t. I know that homicide detectives aren’t up to a battle with this man. We’re not warriors and we only have sufficient weapons to disable those who know less about how to use them than we do.”

  “I’m relieved to hear you say that, Mac.”

  “Tactical look like military, but they aren’t. They go home as we do. They practise tactics and unleash hellfire consistent with that practice. I wasn’t able to explain how different Venganza is from all of us.” He was looking at the window across the room, at her reflection in it. “I wanted an opportunity to talk to him, to save his life and that of the woman.”

  “You can’t, Mac. Short of dropping a fairy-dust bomb that puts them to sleep, Venganza’s the one in charge of this operation.” She reached out and touched his arm. “He wants to die, and he knows you’ll be there when it happens.”

  [60]

  Normally comforted by a sliver of lamplight spilling in from the road, MacNeice had overlapped the curtains to ensure he’d sleep. It didn’t work. After dozing off briefly, he woke up at 2:14 a.m. to wait for the alarm. He drifted in and out of sleep, never certain whether his eyes were open or closed. He realized it didn’t really matter, because anxiety made restorative sleep impossible.

  Dear man, what are those thoughts, and where do they take you?

  “I’ve seen too much, Kate. I feel like I’m on a parallel track, looking at the man I’m hunting as he looks back at me. We’re separated now, but in the distance our tracks come together.”

  Do they, or is that just an optical illusion?

  “I don’t know. I woke up thinking it was a simple trick of the eye.”

  Do you like him?

  “No, but I respect him. I’m attached to him on the same axle. He’s a monster, but in some ways our lives aren’t that different.”

  Except that he kills people while you try to save them.

  “I’m lost, Kate.”

  Remember what you said when I told you I was through with performing?

  “It was a quote from Yogi Berra. ‘When you come to a fork in the road, take it.’”

  Yes, and that was the best advice you ever gave me.

  “Except you died. I couldn’t save you.”

  But you tried, and oh, so mightily.

  “People are likely to die this morning, no matter how mightily I try to stop it.”

  Follow Yogi’s advice.

  * * *

  He didn’t know whether the puppet master had cut the strings and carried his waking conversations with Kate into his dreams, but when the alarm finally sounded, MacNeice woke up heavy with concern. Worse, he’d made a commitment to follow Yogi Berra’s advice, though he had no idea what that meant.

  A shower and a double espresso later, he was standing in the living room peering into the forest. Something flickered at the edge of his vision, an owl or a crow perhaps. MacNeice checked his watch: 3:19 a.m.

  Crows like company as they search for carrion or steal eggs from a nest. But to do that, they need light. In contrast, an owl hunts alone and often at night. It waits on branches, its head swivelling silently, looking for something to attack on the forest floor. Mice and voles and adolescent rabbits aren’t nocturnal; they’re just constantly hungry. Ever fearful, they move with caution and stealth. Lacking the night vision of an owl, they know they’re at a terrible disadvantage. The owl flies swiftly and silently to its prey. The lives of small creatures end before their senses have time to twitch, before they know what hit them.

  Venganza was an owl. A night raid, or one in the early hours of morning, wouldn’t bother him. The stage had been set a long time before, and far, far away. MacNeice smiled ruefully. He’d already compared Venganza to a shark and now to an owl. But sharks and owls kill to feed their hunger; the only animals that don’t are rabid. Venganza was many things, but he wasn’t rabid.

  Insights come in their own time, and while that wasn’t much of an insight, MacNeice felt one coming into focus. He ran from the stone cottage to his car.

  * * *

  Dundurn’s two tactical tanks and the GMC Yukon that Montile referred to as the “Baptist van” were loaded and idling, their teams standing in clusters sipping coffee and taking final briefings from their senior officers. Behind them were Swetsky, Vertesi, Williams, and, standing on a hard cast, Maracle.

  “Aziz is in the command unit, boss.” Vertesi nodded towards the windowless black bus with the satellite dishes and loudspeakers on top. As he saw for the first time the never-used acquisition that had cost more than the salaries of the entire homicide division put together, MacNeice’s jaw dropped.

  Williams couldn’t resist. “It’s Dundurn’s state-of-the-art war on wheels, sir — WOW for short.”

  MacNeice nodded and made his way over. On closer inspection it looked like a slick makeover of a Dundurn Street Railway bus. He stepped inside, where the lighting was blue. Along the far wall were four men and two women sitting at large computer screens, all wearing Kevlar vests in the team colour — black.

  Sadler was at the end of the bus with his headset around his neck, talking on a cellphone. Aziz stood nearby, looking a bit like a student who’d been called to the principal’s office. Seeing MacNeice, she raised her eyebrows and smiled.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Lieutenant Sadler just woke up the DC to ask for my removal.”

  MacNeice smiled. “It won’t happen.” He led her away from Sadler. “I’ve had an idea. Maybe not much of one, but an idea nonetheless.”

  “A bit late, now that we’re on the magic bus. The show’s about to begin.” She cast a look around. “The tension’s building by the second in here —”

  MacNeice interrupted her. “Venganza didn’t come this far to engage in a slaughter. He’s been hunting prey with precision, killing for his art. Correct?” He waited for her to respond. When she agreed, he added, “DeSouza and Gary Grant provoked him, left him with no choice. The others, as far as we know, committed some transgression; it amounted to some form of natural selection.”

  “Okay?”
<
br />   “This . . . all of this” — he waved a hand at the computer screens — “the tanks outside and the men with assault weapons, stun grenades, smoke bombs, and God only knows what —”

  “God and Venganza know what.”

  “Exactly. This is provocation. I’m now convinced that Venganza is prepared to deal with whatever it is.”

  “And your idea?”

  “Like I said, it’s not much. But I think if I walk unarmed down that road to the house —”

  “Absolutely not, Mac. Sorry, but no. This man is everything you say, but he’s also a bona fide psychopath with a twisted sense of honour — and, for that matter, of art.”

  “I’m not saying he’s not. But all his victims have played a role in becoming his art.”

  “Father Terry?”

  “Right . . . that’s a problem. But what if he knew the old man was dying of cancer, that his eventual death would be extremely long and painful.”

  “An act of compassion?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Leaving conjecture aside, Mac, you’d walk up that road to do what, exactly?”

  Sadler came up behind them. “Wallace says he approved Detective Aziz being here.” He was addressing MacNeice as if Aziz wasn’t standing next to him. Turning to her, he said, “You’ll be behind me, over there.” He pointed to the upholstered bench that ran the length of the bus, like a bleacher seat for watching the big game. “One of my men will hook you up to a headset. You’ll be in touch with MacNeice and the rest of the team.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Aziz was at her most polite.

  “Your set is listen-only, so if you want to say something, tap me on the shoulder. Understood?”

  Aziz considered asking how she would be in touch if she couldn’t speak, but she realized there was no point. “Yes, sir.”

  “Lieutenant, I have an idea I want to run by you.”

  Sadler checked his big-faced watch. “Not now, MacNeice. We roll in ninety seconds.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “Detective Superintendent, I request that you return to your men immediately. Run your idea past me over the intercom.”

  “One on one, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind.”

  Sadler gave him a cell number to call, then nodded crisply and walked away.

  MacNeice turned to Aziz, hoping that all he wanted to say would travel silently between them. She was shaking her head. He put a hand on her shoulder, smiled, and left the bus.

  He hadn’t made it to the Chevy before the bus, two tanks, and the Baptist van were on the move. They began with such precision you’d be forgiven for thinking they shared the same chassis. Swetsky and Vertesi stood waiting, hands in pockets, watching the Black Marias motor out of the depot. MacNeice looked back to Williams and Maracle, who were standing next to the second car. He waved his hand in the direction of the exit and tossed the car keys to Williams. “You drive. I’ll sit in the back.”

  * * *

  While it was clear that Wallace had set Sadler straight about roles and expectations, his message clearly hadn’t been well received. And that, MacNeice felt certain, would come into play the moment he revealed his idea.

  He was right. While Sadler did answer the cell, he listened with considerable distraction until MacNeice had finished explaining his plan. He hadn’t had time to take a breath before Sadler said flatly, “Negative, DS. You are not authorized to do so.” And with that, the call ended.

  MacNeice looked up to see Williams staring at him through the rear-view mirror, jaw-dropped and speechless. In the passenger seat, Maracle was shaking his head slowly and looking out at the predawn landscape. In less than a minute MacNeice’s cellphone rang; it was Wallace.

  “No, Detective. Better still, now that I’m truly fucking awake, no goddamn way. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I think you’re making a mistake, sir.”

  “I don’t doubt that you do.” Wallace slammed down the phone.

  The radiophone connected to the tactical team and the command bus was quiet for some time, after which there were brief communications between them.

  “EMS following, sir. One mile behind.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Tactical Three, turning off to the dam road in ten seconds.”

  “Roger, carry on. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Will do, sir. Good hunting, One and Two.”

  MacNeice looked out at the passing homes, a few with porch lights on, still waiting, perhaps, for someone to come home. Dew-covered cars and pickup trucks sat in driveways, and every once in a while he’d see someone jogging along the road wearing fluorescent gear that lit up in the headlights or someone walking a dog. Dog and owner would turn to watch as the mysterious convoy passed by.

  Long, ropy clouds were collecting in folds along the horizon, waiting for the sky to warm up. It was still clinging to night, more turquoise than the red-orange of morning. It was the sign of a reluctant sun. MacNeice let his head fall back on the headrest and closed his eyes. He didn’t know how long he slept, but when he woke up, he saw Montile looking at him through the rear-view mirror.

  “Sir, were you seriously going to walk up that road alone and unarmed?” Williams turned his eyes back to the road.

  “Yes.”

  The silence that followed left no doubt as to the opinions in the front seat. As they made their turn onto Valens Road, a great blue heron lifted off from the drainage ditch. It flew beside them for several seconds before peeling off and returning to the ditch. MacNeice watched it, and so did Maracle.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it,” MacNeice said. “A wingspan of six feet. It always seems like they’re lifting a massive weight.” He recalled that when he’d shared that thought with Kate’s father, the old man said. “Hmm, so it seems. And yet they weigh only five or six pounds.” MacNeice smiled at the memory. Everything he knew about birds, he’d learned from him.

  Maracle said softly, “It’s a good sign, sir.”

  “A good sign, Charlie.”

  [61]

  Tactical’s plan was to block traffic from crossing Valens Road by parking the command vehicle two hundred metres north of the driveway, roughly fifty metres from the entrance, obscured by the trees and cedar bushes lining the lane. At that point, like flight crews getting ready for takeoff, the tactical team would be taken through a final checklist, during which two drones would be launched to observe the farmhouse and its surrounding grounds.

  As the Chevy came to a stop, MacNeice slowly removed his headset and laid it on the floor under the front seat. Leaning forward, he said, “I’m leaving the car. Follow Tactical’s instructions and stay here until you’re called for.”

  Williams snapped his head around. “Sir, don’t do this.”

  Maracle had his hand on MacNeice’s forearm. “You were given a direct order not to interfere with this operation, sir. If you’re wrong, there’s a lot more than your life at stake.”

  “And if I’m right, Charlie?” He removed Maracle’s hand.

  MacNeice stepped out of the car, took off his jacket, and threw it on the seat. Williams rolled down the window. “Sir, this is insane.”

  MacNeice tapped the roof and walked slowly towards the tanks. To anyone observing, he was going forward to ask a question. But he was fairly certain they were checking switches and gear and watching what the drones were watching.

  He pulled the holster off his belt and carried it at his side. As he passed T-2, the driver simply nodded at him, as if it was natural to see him walking along the road minutes before an operation began. Someone must have radioed Command, however, because the door of the first tank flung open. Washburn was waiting for him.

  “What are you up to, DS?” He towered over MacNeice. Behind him, inside the vehicle, several men were trying to see what was going on.

  “Following a
hunch, Wash. If I’m wrong, I’ll pay for it. Stay inside and follow Sadler’s commands.”

  “I am. Sadler told me to stop you, to cuff you if necessary.”

  “You could, but I hope you won’t. I’ve been told those headsets are frequently affected by static.” MacNeice smiled and kept walking.

  “With all due respect, sir, you are one crazy motherfucker.” Washburn closed the door.

  MacNeice stood for a moment at the driveway’s entrance. He bent down and slowly placed his service weapon on the road. The sun was inching skyward, laying warm bands of light onto his back. As he stood there, he could see the shadows of his lanky legs stretching farther down the driveway.

  He took his first step towards the farmhouse and felt warm for the first time that morning. Somewhere behind him, a blue jay called.

  * * *

  “What the fuck is your commanding officer doing to my operation?” Sadler’s voice came over the headsets. Williams and Maracle weren’t sure if he was speaking to anyone specific. A second voice came online: “That’s one grandstanding cop.”

  Someone else was yelling at Washburn. “Wash . . . Wash . . . Respond, goddammit!”

  It wasn’t Sadler or Washburn that answered. “Sir, Wash’s headset is on the fritz. I’m going to give him mine.”

  “Roger. We move in two minutes.”

  “Copy that.”

  Someone spoke up. “Lieutenant Sadler, what do we do about Detective Superintendent MacNeice?”