Vantage Point

by Scott Thornley

  [65]

  Maracle was the first to notice the six men setting out from the command bus on the run. “Sadler’s rolled the dice.” The others craned their necks to see the heavily armed men sprinting single-file along Valens Road towards them.

  Vertesi tapped Swetsky’s shoulder. “Washburn’s out of his tank.”

  Washburn jumped first, followed by his team. They ran back towards the road, hurtling, climbing, and falling over trunks and branches until they were in front of the burnt-out tank. From there, they scrambled along the same tree, trying to avoid contact with the blistering hood of the T-2. When they were finally on the safe side, they stood with their backs against the tank, trying to catch their breath.

  * * *

  “DC Wallace. This is MacNeice. DC Wallace, come in.”

  Over the airwaves, someone yelled, “Sir, that set isn’t one of ours! It’s coming from inside the farmhouse.”

  Sadler responded. “You’re saying the perp hacked into our communication network? It isn’t fucking secure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir, he did or yes, sir, it’s secure?”

  “Well . . . both, sir. It’s supposed to be secure but he’s definitely on our channel.”

  Suddenly people were speaking over each other to such an extent that it was impossible to make sense of anything. Someone — MacNeice thought it might be Wallace — barked, “Everyone down the line, shut up. This isn’t the time for forensics. We’ve got two squads of men closing on that house, for fuck’s sake.”

  “DC Wallace . . . Come in, please.”

  “MacNeice, talk fast. There’s a situation developing here.” Wallace sounded distracted.

  “I’m well aware of that, sir. Venganza has been listening in from the start.”

  “Mac, you have one minute, forty-nine seconds.” Vennie’s voice was calm and measured.

  “Who the fuck was that?” Wallace shouted.

  MacNeice shook his head. “That’s Venganza, sir. Tactical’s heading for a booby-trapped hedgerow. The field and house are also rigged. You’ve got to call this off, sir.”

  In the static that followed, Venganza said, “I didn’t say you had permission to tell them that.” But he was smiling as he turned back to his downloading. “You have roughly forty seconds to get down to the basement, Mac.”

  Washburn’s voice came online. “Lieutenant Sadler, we have eyes on those men approaching. They’ll hit that hedge in twenty seconds. I respectfully request, sir, that you shut down this assault immediately.”

  “Understood, Washburn,” More chatter and crosstalk.

  At the computer, Venganza laughed and shook his head.

  “DC Wallace! Call this off!” MacNeice raised his voice above the din.

  “And what, just let that man escape?” Sadler yelled.

  “They’ll hit that hedge in ten seconds,” Venganza said.

  Wallace cut in. “Okay, call it off . . . CALL IT OFF!”

  Washburn screamed, “T-3, stand down! Stand down!” And in case the men on the other side of the hedge weren’t listening to headsets, he barked the order as loudly as he could. “T-3, stop where you are. Stand down. Do not approach. The hedge and the house are booby-trapped.”

  “Mac, come over here.” Venganza had finished downloading his images and was now looking at the surveillance video of six men standing around in the field beside the hedge. Some were looking back towards the command unit, while others were speaking to Washburn and his men through the hedge. He glanced at MacNeice and said mournfully, “There’s nothing sadder than warriors without a war.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Vennie. For me, this is a good day.”

  “Tell Washburn he’ll find three rakes in the garage. Before they go in for those injured men, they need to use the rakes to trigger the traps. Allow four feet around each man. And do not go any farther.”

  “Will do.”

  MacNeice gave Washburn the instructions and told him to have EMS standing by. He hadn’t even finished when Venganza pointed to the computer screen, which showed three men running to the garage and emerging with the rakes.

  Wallace broke in on the line. “MacNeice, what now? Please tell me that man is going to surrender.”

  Venganza took the receiver. “With respect, sir, I believe you’ve just surrendered to me.”

  “MacNeice!”

  Venganza handed the set back to him with a smile.

  “MacNeice here. I don’t believe Venganza will be surrendering, sir. Nor, as I understand it, will he attempt to escape.” He turned to see Vennie nodding slowly. “I understand that Chanel Bourget and I will be allowed to leave.” Again Venganza nodded. “Any further attempts on this house will be explosive, sir.”

  “Affirmative,” Venganza said, reaching for the handset. “This is ‘the perp.’ What I need from you, sir, is one hour to prepare.”

  “Prepare for what?”

  Venganza shook his head at Wallace’s pretence of control. He smiled. “I need one hour to prepare, after which it’ll be safe for your men to enter. Once inside, no one will come to any harm. You have my word.”

  “Jesus Christ. Your word? Why should I trust you?”

  “Don’t trust me. Trust Detective MacNeice.”

  Venganza handed the receiver back to MacNeice. “Carry her into the bathroom and put a cold towel on her face. She’ll wake up. Get her dressed, then both of you leave. Do not come back.”

  “Understood.” MacNeice spoke for the last time into the handset. “Sir, I trust him. I’ll be out with the woman shortly.”

  Venganza handed him the memory stick and offered his hand. At first MacNeice hesitated, but then he took it. “Vennie, why all of this? What was worth the lives of all those people? What can I learn from what you’ve done?”

  Vennie chuckled and looked over at Mary in her underwear. He shook his head and smiled. “I’ve nothing to teach you, Mac. If I have to explain art, I’m doomed, and it wouldn’t be art.”

  MacNeice put the listening device on the stool and said, “Thank you for letting it end this way, Vennie.”

  Venganza nodded but didn’t reply. The conversation was over.

  * * *

  MacNeice lifted Chanel off the stand and carried her over his shoulder. As he approached the door, Venganza was making final adjustments to the three small brass V’s on the floor. They formed a precise equilateral triangle, roughly ten feet between the points. At its centre was the stool.

  MacNeice sat Chanel on the toilet and, as instructed, covered her forehead with a cold, wet face cloth. When that didn’t work, he smacked her cheeks several times. He was worried that whatever Venganza had given her had been too strong. He was tempted to go back and ask but realized that would be tempting fate, so he smacked her cheek again.

  Seconds later, her right arm lifted from her thigh and waved drunkenly about before falling limp at her side. He smacked her again and her eyes flickered open. She looked at MacNeice but didn’t see him. He said her name several times, until her forehead creased, her eyes opened, and she focused on him. “I’m Detective Superintendent MacNeice from Dundurn Homicide. You’re safe, Ms. Bourget. Nod if you understand . . . you are safe.”

  She nodded once, but her head didn’t look like it was tethered to her body; it fell sideways with a dull thud against the wall. Her eyes opened wide as she made an effort to focus on him. It took time for her to work out why he was sideways, but when she did, she pushed against the wall and sat upright.

  MacNeice smiled. Her dress was neatly folded next to her shoes on the counter. “I’ll help you get dressed. Then we’ll leave. Can you stand up?”

  She appeared to be deciphering the question. When she did, she shook her head.

  “That’s not a problem.” MacNeice helped her with the dress and, with some difficulty, her shoes. He swung her around
on the toilet so she was propped up between the sink and the corner of the wall. When he was certain she wouldn’t fall, he went into the pantry to retrieve her purse.

  Switching on the light, he was confronted by an arsenal of weapons and ammunition. He picked up the purse, turned off the light, and closed the door. Only then did he realize his breathing had returned to normal.

  He returned to the bathroom, where Bourget was on her feet, hanging on to the sink. Though her legs threatened to buckle, she didn’t fall.

  “Put your arm around my shoulders. I’ve got your bag. We’ll walk out together.”

  “Where is Venganza? What has happened to him?”

  [66]

  Standing on the stoop, Chanel was blinded by the daylight. In an attempt to shield her eyes, she lost her balance and fell against MacNeice, mumbling something in French. Once she was stable, MacNeice lifted her gently down to the stone walkway and together they staggered towards the laneway.

  Though he’d seen the downed trees when it happened, he could now appreciate the brilliance of Venganza’s battle plan. Both tanks were rendered useless, one crippled and smoking, and four men lay scattered and wounded — all without firing a shot. It was elegant and efficient. Sadler’s attack had been doomed before it began.

  Through the maze of trees and men and smoke, MacNeice could just make out the ambulances and fire trucks, but only because their lights were still flashing. Washburn’s men were closest to the house. They were crouched down with their assault weapons trained on the door and windows, expecting that any second Venganza would burst through the door with guns blazing. Washburn wheeled about and told them to lower their weapons until MacNeice and the woman had passed.

  MacNeice walked her a few steps more before realizing there was nowhere to go. The path was blocked and the hedge and field still booby-trapped. In the field were four EMS teams in fluorescent green jackets. MacNeice noticed that the medics, firefighters, tactical team, and city cops were all wearing gloves, and certainly not because it was cold. He asked Washburn, who smiled ruefully. “Someone found a small sign Venganza’d placed against the ditch on Valens. In big, bold letters it said: ‘Warning. Poison ivy field. Enter at your own risk.’” Watching MacNeice’s face while he processed the information, he added, “Seriously, sir, you can’t make up this shit. Goddamn, it’s humiliating.”

  “It could have been worse, Sergeant. Much worse.”

  “True.” When he stopped smiling, Washburn asked, “You think this man is done?”

  “I do. By his choice.”

  One of Washburn’s men arrived with two folding lawn chairs from the garage. He set them behind the line of men with weapons, looking towards Valens Road.

  Washburn nodded to MacNeice. “Ringside seats, sir.”

  Two tactical team members stood near the triage teams, holding rakes at the ready. “Turning weapons into ploughshares,” MacNeice said quietly. And, while they were difficult to see through all the foliage, medics were portaging old-style canvas stretchers over and through the downed maples.

  Four firefighters with chainsaws were getting into position to deal with the trunks, while others were dousing the burning tank with foam retardant. Luckily, or perhaps by design, the fire was contained to the engine compartment. MacNeice watched as the black column of smoke danced elegantly upward.

  As one of the chainsaws came growling to life, the noise startled Chanel. Her body stiffened and she opened her eyes. MacNeice put a hand reassuringly on her forearm. In quick succession the other saws kicked in, and soon plumes of wood chips were flying from the branches. Once sawn off, they were thrown into the field, where they triggered more traps.

  MacNeice turned to Washburn, shouting over the noise, “Where’s my team?” Wash frowned and shook his head. He pointed in the direction of the road but shrugged to indicate that he really didn’t know. That left MacNeice wondering if the entire First Division homicide team had been dismissed on the spot. He was fairly certain he’d be suspended, possibly even demoted to DI. But the funny thing was, he didn’t care.

  He glanced at the woman beside him. She was staring at the smoke column as it gradually changed from black to grey to white. Soon she’d be examined by medics, questioned extensively by the police, and later interviewed by French consular staff, but Chanel Bourget would likely be back in Paris within a week or two. He wondered what she was thinking. He assumed she was reflecting on her choices, her acumen as a curator, her brief appearance as the Virgin Mary with a dead soldier Jesus on her lap.

  * * *

  MacNeice looked at his watch. Twenty-three minutes until the end of Venganza’s hour. He was concerned about what was going to happen. While he thought he could take Venganza at his word, the man was a serial killer. Who in his right mind trusts a serial killer?

  One by one the chainsaws fell silent. The tree canopies and trunks had been reduced to firewood in a minefield. A three-foot path had been cleared from where he sat to the road, where a large and ever-changing cast of uniforms stood milling about.

  MacNeice stood up to get a better view, and that’s when he saw them. Vertesi was the first to wave. MacNeice waved back and looked for Aziz. Swetsky came into view, pulling Williams, Aziz, and Maracle to the front of the cluster so MacNeice could see them all standing side by side. Swetsky made a fist, pounded his left chest, and pointed at MacNeice. Aziz had her hands in front of her mouth; she looked like she might be praying. MacNeice nodded slowly, hoping she’d know he was nodding at her.

  Minutes later, Sadler, Wallace, and a black-clad entourage walked in front of them. Sadler still had his headset on and was communicating to someone, but it wasn’t Washburn, who was silent, his attention remained on the farmhouse. Wallace led the way, his hands driven deep into his pockets. Chin down, he was focused on the path. He looked grim.

  As they approached, MacNeice noticed that both men were determined to avoid eye contact with him. He stepped out of their way and looked beyond them to find the homicide team. With the mass of black uniforms blocking his view, the only face he could identify now was Swetsky’s.

  Without warning, Sadler turned on MacNeice. “You were out to sabotage my operation from the start. Are you happy with what you’ve done?” He gestured vaguely to the men in the infield but he was looking at the smashed tanks. He pushed a clenched fist hard into MacNeice’s chest. “You’re lucky I don’t —”

  MacNeice quickly stepped back from the fist and, planting his left foot, pitched his body forward, landing a hard right to Sadler’s jaw. It sent the lieutenant’s black cap and headset flying into the brush. The furious Sadler lunged for MacNeice. Members of the tactical team grappled with their commanding officer to hold him back.

  Wallace screamed, “Stand down! Christ almighty, Sadler, if MacNeice hadn’t gone in there, your whole team might have ended up like those men over there” — he pointed in Baker’s direction — “torn up for good.” His face was purple with rage. Then he lowered his voice, aware of the many eyes watching him, and pointed at Sadler and MacNeice. “Aw, fuck it. You’re both up on charges.”

  Around them, the tactical team exchanged glances but remained silent. MacNeice’s hand throbbed with pain, but he was breathing normally. Washburn broke the uncomfortable silence to say there were six minutes left before they entered the farmhouse.

  Behind them, Baker and two of the wounded were being carried out to the ambulances. The one with the injured arm walked slowly behind them, wrapped tightly with bandages and accompanied by a medic to keep him from falling.

  One of the medics came over to check on Chanel Bourget. He shone a flashlight in her eyes and asked her to follow his finger as he moved it from side to side. He took her blood pressure and heart rate before turning to MacNeice. “She seems okay, sir. It looks like she’s coming off something, but whatever it is, it must’ve left her system. Her vitals are fine. If you want to have her checked out at
Emerg, we’ll take her.”

  “I do, but not now. Please stand by.”

  Everyone seemed to be looking at their watches. There was one minute to go, give or take a few seconds. Washburn made it clear that he’d give it a few more seconds after that before going inside.

  Sadler and Wallace and several members of the tactical team made their way towards Washburn’s men, with Swetsky and the homicide team close behind. MacNeice suddenly realized how vulnerable they all were, walking in single file towards the farmhouse. Venganza could easily wipe out the whole lot.

  Wallace’s face was still flushed. He glanced briefly at MacNeice and Chanel before turning his attention to Washburn. With his team behind him, Sadler stood angrily at the side of the house as Washburn and his men approached the door. On the hour — plus thirty seconds, as a margin of error — the screen door was propped open with a sandbag. One by one they filed through and were swallowed by the darkness inside.

  No one outside said a word. MacNeice was dreading the sound of heavy gunfire, fearful that a devastating explosion would end it all. He wanted to believe that Vennie could be trusted, but still . . .

  * * *

  Five minutes felt like an hour before Washburn’s large frame filled the doorway. “It’s over, sir. Best you see for yourselves, though.” He stepped aside as his men came out and walked back towards the tank to rack their weapons. No one said anything about what they’d seen, but several of them looked ashen.

  Turning to MacNeice and the homicide team, Sadler said, “Give us time to secure the site, MacNeice. Stand down for now.”