The Consultant

by Claude Bouchard

  He crept along the shovelled patio and up the steps leading to the elevated terrace from where he had a view of the kitchen inside. As he watched, he saw Matt sitting at the dining room table beyond, apparently preparing a line of coke.

  “I better get in there soon,” he muttered as he crawled back down the steps. “Bastard’s gonna kill himself without any help.”

  He headed for a pair of french doors located at patio level and peered inside at what seemed to be a game room of sorts; pool table, bar, big screen T.V. A quick examination of the lock confirmed that this would be his point of entry. As long as Matt remained in the upper section of the split-level house, he wouldn’t hear a thing.

  He got to work on the lock and, within ten seconds, felt the bolt slide back. Pushing the door in no more than half an inch, he reached into the gym bag, pulled out an aerosol can of lubricant and quickly sprayed the hinge areas of the door. He’d been careless enough in recent days; no more.

  Moving soundlessly into the dark room, he headed toward a dimly lit corridor atop a short flight of stairs. Upon reaching the top step, he looked down the hall to his left, towards the kitchen and dining room. He could see Matt, back to him, still sitting at the table, still playing with his little pile of white powder.

  He crept slowly, silently, one step at a time, praying for the floorboards to remain quiet under the thick carpet as he approached his unsuspecting prey. He reached Matt just as the latter bent forward for a snort. As the young man regained his original position, he felt something cold and hard press into the back of his neck.

  “Do not make any sudden moves, Matt,” Chris ordered in a gentle voice. “If you do, I will blow your throat out. Nod slightly if you understand.”

  The nod was barely perceptible.

  “Good. Now, I want you to bring your arms down along the sides of the back of your chair. Slowly, that’s good. You and I are going to get along great, Matt; real rapport.”

  He proceeded to heavily tape Matt’s wrists to the top of the chair’s rear legs.

  “Now, your feet, Matt. Great. I don’t even have to tell you what to do. You’re a natural. There you go. All taped up.”

  He walked into the kitchen and closed the vertical blinds.

  “Wouldn’t want the neighbours peeking in on us,” said Chris, winking at Matt as he pulled out a chair and sat down. “Now, let’s you and I have a little chat, okay?”

  Matt nodded, his eyes uncertain.

  “I guess you know who I am, Matt? You’ve seen me around the warehouse, haven’t you?”

  Matt nodded again.

  “You can answer me, Matt,” encouraged Chris, lightly patting the young man’s cheek. “You can talk. I want you to talk. Understand?”

  “Y-yes sir,” Matt mumbled.

  “Good, Matt. Good. And you can call me Chris. None of this sir bullshit; I don’t function well under formality. Now, what should we talk about? Do you have any ideas?”

  “N-no, Chris.”

  “No? Well, here’s something we can talk about. Why don’t you tell me where you cocksuckers are holding my wife. Let’s start with that, Matt.”

  “I-I don’t know where she is. They didn’t tell me. They just said that I should stay home and wait til they called.”

  “Wrong answer, Matt,” Chris barked, his tone much colder. “Try again.”

  “I swear, Chris,” Matt insisted, suddenly feeling strangely sober. “Wayne called me and told me that they had grabbed your wife and that he’d call me later. That’s all I know.”

  Chris leaned across the table, his face inches from his prisoner’s. “Are you sure you don’t know anything else, Matt?”

  “I swear, man. If I did, I’d tell you.”

  “Let me think about that, Matt,” Chris mused as he picked up his roll of filament tape, cutting off a six inch strip.

  “W-what are you doing?”

  “I need a bit of peace and quiet while I think,” Chris explained as he applied the tape firmly to Matt’s mouth.

  He paced around the room for a moment before turning back towards the young man.

  “Maybe you’re telling me the truth, Matt. But, maybe you’re not. You see, I have a hard time believing little, motherfucker, drug pushing, murderer, pricks like you. So I have to be convinced that you’re not lying to me.”

  He turned and moved into the kitchen where he began opening drawers from which he selected several cooking utensils. Matt watched, his terror mounting, as Chris turned on the two front burners of the gas range and proceeded to place the variety of knives, forks, spatulas and other cooking tools in the flames.

  “This,” said Chris approvingly, holding up a potato masher before placing it on the burner, “Can be a lot of fun. You’ve got some nice stuff here, Matt. Nothing like heat resistant handles on cooking utensils. I hate burning myself. Don’t you?”

  He examined his lay-out on the stove and, satisfied, returned to his chair facing Matt.

  “We’ll let those heat up for a few minutes, get them nice and hot. In the meantime, you might want to think real hard about where my wife is.”

  * * * *

  As Chris approached his home, he noticed a dark Acura Vigor parked in the driveway, close to the house and facing the street. He slowed and watched, waiting for the signal. Two quick flashes of the headlights, followed by a pause; then three longer flashes. As he pulled into the driveway, he activated the automated garage door and signaled the driver of the Acura to back into the three car garage. He followed, pulling in between the Acura and his Lexus.

  “Greetings,” said Jonathan as he got out of his car. “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay so far,” Chris somberly replied. “I’ll be a lot better when Sandy’s back and I’ve taken care of these bastards.”

  “Don’t worry, Chris,” Jonathan responded in a determined tone. “That’ll be real soon. Have they contacted you again?”

  “Nope. Not yet. And that’s got me worried.”

  “Don’t be,” reassured Jonathan. “They’re still trying to figure out their next step which I’m sure is not real clear in their minds right now.”

  “Well, let’s get going,” replied Chris. “Because I’m pretty clear what my next steps are gonna be.”

  They moved into the house from the garage, pursuing their conversation as they went along.

  “So, how did your errand go?” Jonathan asked, not knowing exactly where Chris had been but certain that it was linked to the whole affair.

  “Exactly as planned,” responded Chris with fire in his eyes. “Now I know where they’re holding her and I have a pretty good idea who’s there.”

  “Who’d you visit?” enquired Jonathan.

  “Matt, one of their gofers,” answered Chris, “The one who was still alive.”

  “Was?” Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Nobody saw you?”

  “No. Being careless is what got Sandy involved in this thing. I’m not careless anymore.”

  “Good,” said Jonathan. “What’s next on your agenda?”

  “Greg Pierce, the accountant,” Chris replied. “I’m gonna visit him to make sure we have his complete journal. Then I’ll make sure that he doesn’t interfere with the rest of our week-end plans.”

  “When are you going to see him?”

  “Early in the morning,” answered Chris. “After that, you and I head up to Matt’s chalet in St-Sauveur.”

  “Who’s going to be there?”

  “As far as Matt could tell me, Wayne and Bryan are up there,” replied Chris. “They’ve also asked their friend, Diamond Jimmy, for some help. They should have four members of the Aces of Death guarding the place. Matt was supposed to drive up there in the morning but, unfortunately, he’s not gonna be able to make it.”

  “So we’ll have to move quickly,” stated Jonathan. “Before they find out what happened to Matt. Are you sure that Matt told you the truth about where they’re holding Sandy?”

  “Yeah,” Chris nodded. “I convinc
ed him that if he didn’t play straight with me, I’d hurt him really bad. He even gave me the blueprints of his St-Sauveur place. I’m sure that he told me the truth.”

  He stood up and stretched as he looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s quarter to one. I’m going to catch a couple of hours of sleep. Make yourself at home and holler if you need anything. The guest room is the first door to the right upstairs when you want to get some sleep.”

  “I’m fine for now,” Jonathan replied. “I treated myself to a little nap while I was waiting for your call. I’d like to see the information you collected, if you don’t mind, and I might have a few calls make.”

  “Second door to the right upstairs is my study,” offered Chris. “There’s a phone, PC, fax and anything else you might need. You’ll find two boxes on the table in the corner. Everything’s in there, including seven kilos of cocaine. Enjoy yourself. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  Chapter 19 - Saturday, February 1, 1997

  Greg turned over in his sleep, trying to escape the annoying sound, but it persisted. He awoke to realize that the phone was ringing. As he sat up in his bed, he squinted at his watch and swore.

  “Hello,” he growled into the phone.

  “Greg, where the fuck is Matt?” shouted an angry Wayne on the other end of the line.

  “Jesus, Wayne, how am I supposed to know?” retorted Greg. “It’s not even goddamn five o’clock. I was sleeping.”

  “Yeah, well, get up,” ordered Wayne. “I told that little bastard to stay home until I called him. Now there’s no answer. I want you to get over to his place and make sure everything’s okay. I don’t trust that little scumbag. I think he’s really starting to lose it and I don’t want him running to the cops. Call me back once you know what’s going on.”

  With that, the phone went dead in Greg’s hand.

  “Goddamn Jesus fucking Christ,” Greg shrieked as he climbed out of bed and started getting dressed to go to Matt’s place. “This is gonna have to end soon.”

  * * * *

  Chris approached Greg’s residence which was located just a few blocks from Matt’s, where he’d been the night before. As he turned onto the accountant’s street, he spotted the latter’s Buick Roadmaster pull out of the driveway and speed away. He accelerated a little and proceeded to tail the large car. It quickly became obvious that Greg was on his way to Matt’s, where they arrived within a matter of minutes, Greg parking in the driveway while Chris stopped half a dozen houses away to watch.

  Greg climbed out of the car and hurried to the front door of the attractive home, clearly unaware that he had been followed. He rang then pulled a key from his coat pocket, unlocked the front door and went inside, closing the door behind him. Less than a minute later, the door was thrown open and Greg rushed out, barely managing to make it down the five steps leading to the driveway before falling to his knees and vomiting what was left of his prior evening’s dinner.

  He remained on his knees for a few seconds, breathing heavily, before standing up again, unsteadily. With an air of panic, he glanced wildly about, trying to determine if anyone had seen him. Barring an unoccupied Pathfinder parked further down the street, the area was deserted.

  He stumbled hurriedly back up the steps to close the door, not bothering to lock it, and rushed back to his car. He backed out of the driveway and headed back for home as quickly as he could without squealing the tires. In his frenzied state, he did not notice the Pathfinder leave the curb to follow him.

  * * * *

  The small conference room at the RCMP Quebec Division office in downtown Montreal slowly and quietly began to fill at 5:25 a.m. Ten people had been summoned and there was no doubt that all would show up.

  There was little conversation as they arrived. Most were not scheduled to work that day and those who were, were only slated to start somewhat later. The eve being Friday, some had barely had time to fall asleep when the call had come.

  Although the meeting had been called for 5:30, three of the participants had still not arrived at 5:35. At 5:37, one rushed in, looking like he had not even had the chance to get to bed from the night before. They had stressful jobs and liked to unwind on their nights off. Another arrived a moment later, the dishevelled hair indicating that some slumber had been attained, but the dark glasses highlighting that the previous evening had been demanding.

  As was always the case when such a meeting was called, the last arrival was Nick Sharp, Director of the Quebec Division, RCMP, and caller of the meeting. Such tardiness was not of his usual nature and only occurred at these special meetings. He recognized that in such circumstances, these people were doing more, much more than they had signed up for when joining the force. They were the best he had and all dropped their personal schedules and lives without a word whenever required. He therefore always made sure that everyone was present before joining them at these meetings, allowing them the impression that none were late.

  At 5:39, he entered the small conference room, greeting the ten seated around the cigarette scarred table as he closed the door.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I thank you all for being here on such short notice.”

  An array of nods, mumbles and grunts were offered in response.

  “Good,” Nick continued with a smile. “I can see that everyone’s fully rested and raring to go.”

  This time, a medley of grunts, chuckles and mutterings emanated from around the table.

  “Alright. Let’s get rolling. A friend has supplied me with some very interesting information,” Nick informed them, using the opening line he always used at such meetings. “In summary, we’re dealing with some people who’ve been importing smack and coke from Thailand and Colombia using an honest import company as their means and cover. The Aces of Death have become their main client in recent weeks so we’ll finally have a chance to get a crack at those bastards.”

  Murmurs of approval were pronounced from the rapidly wakening group.

  “As in the past, we’ve been lucky enough to have a shit-load of data dumped onto us,” Nick went on, “Without having to spend months following, investigating and tracking down a bunch of low-lives. So now, we have to shake our asses and put together some solid case files and investigation reports real quick. I trust that none of you had any major plans for the week-end?”

  A combination of shrugs, moans and blasphemies came as response to the rhetorical question.

  “No wonder I like working with you guys so much,” Nick exclaimed. “As usual, the information that’s been supplied is in its raw form. Some of it will have to be modified a little to make it stick. This story has to stand up when we’re done with it if we want to cover for my friend out there. I’ve already got some points that we’ll need to fine tune and he’ll be getting back to me with some last minute details over the next day or two; Andy, John, Sue, Lisa and Gary, everything’s in those two boxes.”

  He paused to light a cigarette before continuing.

  “There’s a dozen pages of notes in the top box that map out quite nicely how this whole thing might have taken place. Base yourself on that. If you have any questions, let me know. Now, go and write me an incredible story. Arty and the rest of you, stick around. We’ve got some visits to coordinate.”

  * * * *

  Greg sat in his study, working feverishly on his journal. He’d had enough with the whole thing and had made a decision. Everything was falling apart and, in addition to possibly getting busted soon, his dying had now become a real possibility.

  As soon as he completed this final entry he would take his precious journal, go hide somewhere and contact the cops. Once they promised immunity, he’d deliver, testify and disappear. He could definitely afford it financially and, since his wife had left him, he had no ties to hold him back.

  He completed his entry and proceeded to save his document. Following the usual crunching of the hard drive, he was surprised to see the screen suddenly go completely black for a couple of sec
onds before turning bright red.

  “What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath, dumbfounded.

  He hoped that nothing was wrong with his computer. He hadn’t backed up his data in quite a while and now was not the time for his journal to become inaccessible. He tried hitting a few keys but generated no reaction from the machine. As he was about to attempt to reboot the system, bold black letters began to appear on the red screen.

  IT'S OVER GREG. YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS HAVE GONE TOO FAR. DON'T THINK YOU CAN DO ANYTHING WITH YOUR JOURNAL. IT'S GONE. NOW, YOU MUST DIE. YOU SAW WHAT HAPPENED TO MATT. THAT WAS NOTHING. HE WAS JUST A JUNIOR IN YOUR OPERATION. NOT YOU. YOU'RE ONE OF THE BIG BOYS. THAT MEANS YOU REALLY GET TO SUFFER AS YOU GO. IN A VERY SHORT WHILE, YOU WILL WISH THAT YOU HAD BEEN ARRESTED AND THROWN INTO PRISON FOR LIFE. GETTING SODOMIZED EVERY NIGHT BY A DIFFERENT SLIME BAG WOULD BE PARADISE COMPARED TO THE TORTURE I WILL MAKE YOU ENDURE. I WILL TEND TO YOU SOON (SOONER THAN YOU THINK).

  As each word appeared, painfully slowly, letter by letter, Greg read the message with growing terror. Although he had emptied his stomach in Matt’s front yard, he found himself retching uncontrollably. Sweat poured out of every pore of his body and within a matter of moments, his clothes were soaked through. Glancing down for an instant, he had the faint realization that he had urinated in his pants.

  The message finally finished printing itself on the screen, glaringly taunting the accountant. Greg stared back, in a daze.

  After a minute or two, he reached down to the lower drawer of his desk, pulling it open in a slow, mechanical fashion. He absently pulled out the .38 Special which Wayne had given him two years earlier, stuck the barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  * * * *

  After making sure that he had in fact copied the final version of Greg’s journal, Chris snapped his notepad closed and slipped it back into his duffel bag.