by Ted Wood
I led the way into the next room and switched on the light. It was a dining room. That was unusual for a summer cottage—most of them are less fancy—but Corbett's wife came from a family with money. She had inherited the house, a big old place like they don't build anymore. But now it was wrecked. The fine walnut table was split across, the pieces tossed aside, scarred with the crescent-moon indentations of kicks from steel-toed boots. All the plates had been pulled out of the antique breakfront and thrown against the wall, shattering a mirror and a picture of the Corbetts as they had been thirty years earlier.
Kennedy looked over my shoulder. "This looks deliberate," he said. "Look at that table. That was worked over by somebody with a lot to prove."
Carl was standing behind him, camera poised, but instead of taking pictures, he stooped and picked up a fragment of broken plate and turned it over. "Genuine Quimper. Antique, too. Beautiful. Just smashed, like that." He dropped the fragment and raised his camera to his eye as if it were a gun and the vandals were in his sights. I stood back, and he quartered the room, then stooped and did the same at floor level.
We spent five minutes checking the room, making sure nobody had left anything more substantial than fingerprints there. They hadn't. The contents of the drawers were strewn around, and someone had used the carving knife to slash the seats of all the antique upholstered chairs, but only the damage remained.
"What's upstairs?" Werner asked.
"Bedrooms. I hate to think what they've done up there," Carl said.
Werner nodded to me. "Let's see." I clicked on the hall light and climbed the open stairway. It led to a landing that divided the house from side to side. A picture had been torn off the wall and broken, and the little rug was scuffed into a corner, but nothing else had been done. I opened the front bedroom door and looked in on a snowstorm of feathers, which had drifted down over everything in the room, all the rubble of broken furniture.
Kennedy said, "They must've had a duvet in here." We stood and looked around while Carl photographed everything. Then I spent a few moments checking around the ruins. The empty shell of the duvet was lying in one corner, and I picked it up and looked it over. It was white and fine, some kind of satin material. There were no noticeable stains.
Kennedy was staring around the room, and suddenly he said, "You notice something funny?"
"What?" Werner and I asked together.
"The drapes are still drawn," Kennedy said. He went to the window and lifted them. "They're heavy; insulation drapes by the feel of it. I'll bet it was black as hell in here without the lights on. Even if they did this in daylight."
"Maybe they put the lights on," Werner said.
"That means they knew where the main switch is," I said.
Werner played devil's advocate. "Hell, they had all the time they wanted in here. They'd have found the switch. And even if they didn't, this room faces the water. There'd have been plenty of light."
"Not through these things," Kennedy said, rubbing the fabric of the drapes between his fingers. "This room must've been black as night."
"It was when I found the back door open," I said. "And that's something else. I didn't mention it, but there's no sign of a break-in. It looked to me as if somebody found the door open. But what you say could mean they knew the place well, maybe even had a key."
"Maybe the bikers, or whoever it was, opened the drapes while they were here," Werner suggested, but when we glanced at him he shook his head. "Naah—they would've torn them down if they wanted light."
He and Kennedy were staring at one another blindly, the locked eyes of longtime partners mulling over the same idea.
"You put that together with somebody probably knowing about the lights and it comes up grandson," Werner said, and Kennedy nodded.
We traipsed through to the other bedroom. For some reason it wasn't as badly damaged as the first. There was a three-quarter-width bed, but it had only been thrown aside. Nobody had slashed it. We took our pictures and looked it over. There was a Blue Jays pennant on the floor and a torn poster of some rock singer.
"I guess this is the grandson's room. I'm pretty sure it was him hanging out at the biker's camp," I said.
Werner snorted out a short laugh. "Takes all sorts. Why'd he want to hang out there unless he was a real little rounder?"
The only room left to examine was the bathroom. Kennedy opened the door and whistled with surprise. "Ugly bastards," he said. "See for yourself."
I moved past him and checked. The porcelain sink had been shattered, and somebody had tried to do the same with the bathtub, smashing ugly gouges out of the enamel. The towels had been thrown around, but a laundry hamper was still standing. I opened it and checked inside. There was a towel inside it, but it didn't feel damp. It might have been left there since the Corbetts' last visit.
I held it up without speaking, and Werner grunted. Then we stood and looked at one another. "What next?" I asked at last. "Are we going to move in on the bikers?"
"Sounds like sense to me. I'll call from the car, and we'll drive back to Carl's place and wait for reinforcements while he works," Kennedy said. "We'll leave this place. There's nothing more to do until the C.I.B. can get here."
We went out, turning off the main switch under the stairs. Carl was already outside, standing beside my car. He was winding the film off his camera, and he didn't look at me. I said nothing, and we got into the car, Sam in the backseat.
We drove for a minute or so in silence, then came within earshot of the bikers' campground as we approached a bend. Carl spoke for the first time. "Listen to that. Led Zeppelin. Nobody listens to that garbage anymore."
"It's not my style," I said, just to be friendly. Then I froze as a scream rose above the rock music, the terrified scream of a woman in real trouble.
Chapter Fourteen
I goosed the car around the corner and angled in over the field, my headlights picking up men frozen in the postures of drinking and laughing, still as statues for a moment as the scream pealed out. Then a woman ran out of the main tent with a man chasing her. The bikers all cheered and roared, bending from the waist, laughing and pointing as she sprinted for the road.
One of them moved out to cut her off, and she shoved at him and ran on until the man behind her caught up and dragged her off her feet by the hair. His boot swung back to kick her, but my shout stopped him. "Police. Hold it right there."
He turned toward me, crouching to peer down the beam of my headlights. The other gang members ran for their bikes, two or three more of them tumbling out of the door of the tent. The guy with the girl snatched her up with one hand and sheltered behind her, one hand still on her hair.
By now I was out of the car, Sam at my heels. The headlights of the OPP car played over us like lightning flashes as Werner and Kennedy bumped over the uneven ground behind me. I was ten paces from the biker when I heard their car doors open behind me. I had backup.
The biker shouted again. "Stand back or she's gone."
Werner and Kennedy were on each side of me now, guns drawn. "You do, punk, an' I'll shoot your goddamn leg off," Kennedy said.
The biker swore again and dropped his hand to his belt. But it came up again in an instant, holding a knife. "You take me, she dies. Then you die," he said. His voice was flat. He was bracing himself, knowing his brothers would expect him to do what he said no matter what happened. He was in over his head now.
Sam was prancing in front of him, out of range of his feet, waiting for my command. I didn't give one. The odds were still against the girl. One of the motorbikes started up, and Kennedy spun on his heel, covering the shadowy gang of men who were all on their bikes, revving, shouting.
"One of them's got a sawed-off shotgun," I hissed at him. "Don't let them get close."
Werner was still covering the biker with the girl. It was a Mexican standoff. I knew the man would kill her and do his ten years for it sooner than lose face. And I couldn't disarm him quickly enough to stop him. Even Sam c
ouldn't, and I doubted if Kennedy or Werner were good enough with their guns to take him out before he could cut.
I moved away to my left, trying to get behind the biker but leaving Werner a clear shot. But I knew he wouldn't if there was any chance of cooling the situation out. We couldn't risk the chance that the biker would stab the girl, even with a bullet in him.
He shouted at me, "Where you goin'?" But his eyes were locked on the hypnotic shape of the detective's .38. I ignored him and the roars of the other bikers, moving slowly back and around, behind him.
Now he glanced back quickly, as if he were checking traffic, and edged around slightly, torn between fear of me and fear of giving Werner an unscreened shot at him. His voice was hoarse.
"You grab me, I shiv her right in the throat, copper. Back off." Maybe he still thought the others would come roaring to his rescue, but Kennedy was standing in front of them, armed. They knew they would be the first casualties if they interfered. So they did what people do the world over. Spectators at the show, with nothing personal on the line, they laughed and roared encouragement to the biker.
I edged forward an inch at a time, talking to him in a voice I would have used on a frightened animal. "Come on, now. There has to be a better way to handle this. Let her go."
There isn't any procedure written for occasions like this. You're expected to act as you see fit to protect victims. This means talking calmly to the guy with the hostage and hoping he won't freak out. Sometimes it works, after hours in which you build up some kind of rapport with the guy. But that only happens when you've got him isolated inside a building somewhere with no distractions. Here we had a dozen men as high as he was shouting for him to go for it. I was afraid he might.
Werner was perfect. He played the good guy. "Come on, now, let her go. We can sort this out, no trouble."
One of the others shouted, "Don' take no notice. That bitch got no right runnin' out."
I inched to within a yard of him. The girl was struggling, screaming, and he hissed at her. "Keep still, bitch. You started this." She stopped squirming, and he glanced over his shoulder again, showing a gap-toothed grin that would have been cute if he'd been six years old. "Back off. She's cool, long as you go away. We was only havin' fun, wasn't we, honey?"
The girl screamed again. "Don' go. Don' leave me here."
Then Werner said, "Okay, don't worry. We're just having a nice talk with the fellah here. You just keep quiet a minute and everything's gonna be fine."
I didn't think so. The biker was outlined against the headlights of the police car. He was big, barrel-chested, and his arms were flinching almost convulsively. I judged he was high on something other than beer, speed, possibly, or angel dust. He was unstable. We would never talk him down. He would slash first, reacting to the tension and the extra adrenaline in his system. If we didn't neutralize him, the girl was dead. I had to take him.
I moved in, swinging both hands up from my sides and slamming the palms on both of the biker's ears simultaneously in a double ear box. He fell down, not even writhing. The girl shrieked, then ran, on past Werner toward the lights of the OPP car.
I prodded the biker with my foot, and he rolled face-up, but his eyes were closed, and he made no sound. I stooped and picked him up, throwing him over my back like a sack as the roar of motorcycles filled the night, drowning out the rock music. Werner and Kennedy both dropped to their knees, aiming their guns at the bikes. One of them roared forward, and Kennedy fired, low, not trying to hit the machine, just for effect, and suddenly the camp emptied. Bike after bike, and then the van roared away from us toward the side of the dump, through the gates and out the other side toward town.
Kennedy and Werner stood up shakily. Werner put his gun away, and Kennedy trotted to the scout car. I heard him calling the dispatcher as I staggered toward him under the weight of the unconscious biker. Kennedy turned and saw me and hooked the back door open as he spoke. I rolled the biker into it and straightened up.
"Now we've got real trouble," I said.
Werner laughed. "What's this 'we,' paleface? This is your goddamn town. An' anyway, where'd you learn a trick like that?"
"I went to a school where that was all they taught."
Werner grinned and Kennedy said, "Help's on its way. Should be a mess of guys arriving within half an hour. In the meantime, check the story with this girl. She's in your car. We'll check the tent."
The girl was in the back, wearing a light jacket but still shuddering as if she were cold. I opened her door and crouched to be at her eye level. "Hi, what's your name?"
"Wendy Gauthier." She drew a deep breath and slowly stilled her trembling. I waited. Then she said, "Like, they said it was gonna be a party, Louise an' them. They said there'd be guys, but they didn't say nothin' about bikers."
"Where did you meet Louise?"
"Where I work, the Pasha's Tent, T'ranna."
I knew the name. It was a clip joint with table dancers, every legal flavor of porn, anything to pull in the young studs down the Yonge Street strip. If she worked there, she was no angel.
"So what happened tonight?" She didn't answer me, and I rephrased the question. "What made you run?"
Now she turned and looked me full in the face. She was pretty, a little spacey but nothing that would make the patrons at the Pasha's Tent object to her taking her clothes off. And her figure was good. "They said there'd be guys. Like, you know, a party's a party, but there was three o' them, an' one o' them pulled a knife."
"Who threatened you? Was it the guy who caught you, the one who had you when I got here?"
"I di'n really see him," she said. "Like, he pulled my hair'n that, but I never seen him, not his face."
That's the trouble with being a knight on a white horse. Nobody notices. Three policemen had risked their necks for her, and she took it for granted. I noticed now, as my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness of the car interior, it was Carl's jacket she was wearing. She'd taken that for granted too. Ah, well, if you want applause, go into show biz. You don't get much of it doing police work. The important job now was to get her away, safely and quickly, so we could check on the bikers in case they were tearing up the town just to show we hadn't impressed them.
"Where do you live? You live with somebody or on your own?" I tried.
It took her about half a minute to reply. "I gotta room, eh. In town, T'ranna."
"Is there somebody there who can give you a lift home?" The bus had passed our entrance to the highway a couple of hours ago. If she couldn't scare up some wheels, she would have to wait in the station until morning.
"My boyfriend, I guess," she said.
I straightened up. "Wait here. I'll be right back."
I set Sam to keep the area around the cars, so he would raise a racket if anyone sneaked back while I was away. Then I trotted over to the tent I'd gone into earlier. I could see the glow of the police flashlights inside. I ducked into it and saw Kennedy leaning over a partly dressed girl who was lying on the ground, snoring. Another girl was standing beside her. She was in her late twenties, blond, with a vivid black streak across her scalp where the roots of her hair told the truth. She swore.
"That goddamn Wendy. Whad'd she expect? Paul Newman?"
Kennedy flicked his light away from her and onto the girl on the ground. He crouched beside her, feeling for the pulse in her throat. "Takes a licking and keeps on ticking," he said. He stood up again and turned to the other girl. "Put her clothes on," he said.
The girl swore again, and Kennedy repeated his order. "Put her clothes on. We're not taking her anywhere like that."
The girl flounced aside. "Fer Crissakes, what's the big deal? That's all she wears all day at work."
Kennedy snapped, and I realized how tense he had been out there in the showdown. "Look, lady. It wouldn't take me more than thirty seconds to book you for prostitution," he said. "But I'm feeling generous. So cover your buddy up and we'll go. Now cut the crap and do it."
He shou
ted the last two words, and the girl reacted. I guessed she heard more shouts than pleasantries at work. She picked up a blouse and jeans and stooped to work on her friend, muttering.
Werner was looking about him. "Which bag would you say might hold the illegal substances this young lady's been ingesting?" he asked conversationally.
I shone my light on the bag that had contained the videotape. "That one there looks promising."
"Now why didn't I think of that?" he asked. It was all a show for the girl's sake, but if she heard him, it didn't register. She just went on muttering and tugging at the blue jeans, which were going on as tight as a second skin.
Werner shone his light into the bag. "Well, what do we have here? A video camera."
"Anything else?" Kennedy asked.
"Nothing of any importance." Werner pulled out all the contents. There was a denim jacket and a pair of jeans. "Maybe we should impound these to see if these young women have to be charged with performing a lewd act in public."
This made the girl turn, blazing. "Listen, Mac. You may impress Wendy with that crap. But I know better. I didn't expect no coppers to come crashin' in on me an' my boyfriend."
"What's your boyfriend's name?" Kennedy asked her.
She was so angry she answered without thinking. "Ronnie," she said.
"Ronnie what?" Kennedy asked, and she roared back at him.
"How would I know, fer Crissakes. I just met him."
Kennedy chuckled. "Love's young dream," he said.
She had finished dressing the other girl and stood back. Kennedy and I bent and took the girl's arms, then lifted her up and walked her out to the flap of the tent. It was difficult getting her out through the narrow flap, but we managed it and started across the field, with Werner and the other girl following.
Werner delivered the girl to the car, then said, "I'll check out the other tents and the van, make sure there's nobody around."
"Good idea," Kennedy said.
Werner turned away, then stopped and drew his gun. He held it down toward the ground, and I could see he was checking the load. Then he laughed. "Hey, good job they didn't get violent. I forgot to load this goddamn thing."