Vigilante Season

by Peter Kirby

  The security man turned the corner and tried to leap over the walker lying across the hallway, but his foot caught, and he went face down. When you’re a minimum wage security guard, it doesn’t take much convincing to give up the chase.

  Star kept running, retracing her steps through the hospital’s labyrinth of corridors until she knew she was close to the main exit. Then she slipped her jacket back on and walked slowly, trying to blend in. It worked. Two security guards came running towards her, forcing everyone to move out of the way. She did the same, backing up against the wall, and they kept running.

  Seconds later she was outside, looking for a taxi. Taking one from the stand would be too obvious, so she walked half a block and hailed one on Côte-des-Neiges.

  Seventeen

  Vanier had got Desportes’s message late. His phone was shut off most of the day when he was in the committee hearing, and later, trying to forget the hearings at the Blue Angel. When he remembered to switch the phone back on, he had called back, but kept going straight to voicemail. So he decided to pay a visit.

  He was about to lean on the buzzer when he noticed the thin space between the door and the jam. He went back to the car to get his gun, the unofficial one he kept hidden in the trunk. Then he pushed the door lightly and it swung open, revealing a dark hallway with a light coming from a room at the end. Two doors gave off the hallway, and both were closed. He tried the handle of the first door, a laundry and storage room, neat and tidy. He pulled the door closed and continued down the hallway. Then he heard the click of cutlery against crockery coming from the room at the end and moved towards the noise, the gun pointing to the floor.

  The room was a brightly-lit kitchen. A black and white cat was sitting on the counter, licking a dinner plate. It looked at him but made no move to jump down. The computer on the kitchen table was lit up as though it had just been in use. Vanier heard a click behind him and turned to see a girl sneaking towards the front door.

  “Police. Stop.”

  She didn’t. She ran and was pulling the door open when he caught up with her. He kicked it closed with his foot, and she turned into him. That’s when he saw the knife and backed off, pointing the gun at her.

  “Jesus, I hate knives. Put it down. I’m a police officer. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “It is. I was looking for Desportes. He called me. Where is he?”

  She looked at him. “Why?”

  “He said there was a problem and he needed my help. He said it would help me with my own problem.”

  “You have a problem?”

  “It’s me should be asking the questions.”

  “Okay,” Star said. “Walk backwards into the kitchen and sit at the table. Put the gun on the table.”

  They walked together. Vanier walked backwards, glancing over his shoulder from time to time. He lowered his gun, but she kept the knife pointing at him. When he sat at the table and put the gun down, she sat down opposite him.

  “You have a badge?”

  “Actually, no … ”

  “What kind of a cop doesn’t have a badge?”

  “A suspended cop.”

  Then it clicked. “Oh, you’re the cop that was supposed to have beaten Barbeau.”

  “Yes. And I’ve been looking for him.”

  “And we found him.”

  “How so.”

  Star explained, how she had discovered Barbeau had been murdered and how they were trying to get $50,000 for his mother. Then she explained how she had been lifted and forced to give him Desportes’s address. Then she told him about Kyle.

  “Do you know where they held you?”

  “No. But I think I know where they took them. They took them both. They’re not going to kill them, are they? Not for $50,000.”

  Vanier knew people that got killed for a pack of cigarettes, but he said, “Probably not. It wouldn’t make sense. They let you go, didn’t they? Scared you, but let you go.”

  Vanier and Star agreed to a truce of sorts: she kept her knife, and he kept the gun. Now they were driving to an industrial park in Anjou. He was taking directions from Star, and she was reading them off the laptop.

  They were homing in on the GPS tracking device that Desportes had set up for Kyle when Star worried that he would wander off and get lost. Star had braided string and hung it around Kyle’s neck like a necklace. Now it was a blinking light on a map on the laptop, but it hadn’t moved since she had checked it last at the apartment.

  “Can’t we go any faster?”

  “Not if we want to get there.”

  Speed and avoiding the springtime harvest of potholes were mutually exclusive. The constant freezing and thawing buckles the ground and creates deep holes in the asphalt, turning roads into obstacle courses of water-filled traps that can swallow a tire or smash an axle. You can’t see them at a distance, and when you do see them, you have to gauge size and depth and decide if it’s more dangerous to swerve around the trap and risk getting hit by a truck in the other lane or just wait for the shudder of a wheel dropping into the unknown. Sometimes they weren’t that deep. It was the other times you had to worry about, when the wheel stays in the hole, and the axel snaps like a dry stick.

  Vanier had decided that all he needed to do was to confirm that Desportes and Kyle were being held, and he could call it in.

  “We’ll be there in about five minutes. Anything changed?”

  “No. It’s still blinking on Rue de l’Innovation.”

  He dialled Saint-Jacques again. She still didn’t pick up, so he left another message.

  “Sylvie, I got a lead. I’m on my way to a building, I think it’s an industrial site, on Rue de l’Innovation. Call me back.”

  He checked again to make sure his phone was on vibrate.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “No plan. I look around, and if they’re in the building, I’ll call the police. You’ll stay in the car.”

  “Yeah.”

  Vanier knew he was going to have problems even with the simplest of plans. The girl didn’t seem to take orders well.

  He turned left onto l’Innovation, and Star jabbed at the window with her finger.

  “That’s it.”

  She held the notebook up so he could see the blinking light on the map. They cruised slowly by a one-floor industrial building that was pretty much the same as all the others in the neighbourhood, and the same as millions of other warehouses in industrial parks across Canada. A box with doors, a garage door for trucks in front, and a small door for people on the side. Three pick-up trucks were parked side by side near the back of the parking.

  Except for the three trucks, the place was deserted. If he parked on the street, the car would stand out like an ice cream truck, so he pulled into the next lot and parked on the far side of the building, shielded from sightlines.

  He told Star to stay put, but she got out and followed him, both of them trying to accustom their eyes to the shadows. The three trucks were off to the side in relative darkness, but a window set high in the wall of the building threw a pool of light on the asphalt. They moved towards it. Underneath the window, Vanier bent slightly and laced his fingers together, offering Star a step up. She grabbed his shoulders, put one foot in his hands, and hauled herself up the wall to peer into the window.

  “What do you see?”

  “Hugo’s there,” she whispered. “He’s tied up to a chair. Bleeding. I can’t see Kyle.”

  “How many other people?”

  “Two. No, three.”

  “Okay, that’s enough. We’re calling for help.”

  As he was letting her down, he felt a pressure between his shoulder blades. “Don’t move. Hands against the wall.” Vanier froze, and Star l
ost her balance and fell. When he bent to help her, the gun pushed against his head.

  “Don’t move, I said. Joe, get the girl.”

  The shotgun stayed pressed between Vanier’s shoulder blades, while another man came from behind Vanier carrying a pistol in one hand. He reached down to Star and grabbed the neck of her jacket with his free hand. When he pulled, Star rose into him and he grunted. His legs folded, and he collapsed, dropping the gun on the asphalt. Star grabbed the gun and ran in a crouch across the concrete, gun in one hand and the knife in another.

  The guy holding the gun on Vanier said, “Shit.”

  Vanier felt the pressure in his back ease, as the man pulled back for a shot. He kicked back into where he thought the guy’s knee would be and felt him buckle, the shotgun blasting into the sky as Star disappeared into the darkness. Then Vanier spun and grabbed for the gun, bringing his knee into the guy’s stomach. Vanier connected, and the guy fell, grabbing Vanier and pulling him down with him.

  Vanier rose up on his knees and head-butted the gunman in the face, and they both heard the crack of breaking bone. Vanier snatched the gun, but before he could get to his feet, they were both bathed in light as the back door opened. Vanier froze at the sound of a safety catch being released.

  A man stood over them pointing a handgun. He said, “Drop the gun.”

  Vanier recognized the voice of Brasso. He did what he was told and stood up slowly.

  Brasso said, “You move, you’re dead.”

  He bent down and picked up the shotgun. Then he turned to the guy who was trying to stem the blood pouring from his nose. “Denis, stop fucking around and stand up.”

  Denis rolled over slowly and got to his feet. “Fucking bastard,” he said, wheeling a vicious kick into Vanier’s groin.

  Vanier dropped, bent double, his forehead touching the floor.

  “What’s the matter with Joe?”

  Denis walked over to the body. “Shit. He’s bleeding bad. I think she stabbed him.”

  Vanier was still on his knees. Brasso said, “You. Get on your feet and put your hands on your head.”

  Vanier obeyed, and said, “Still playing soldiers?”

  “Shut the fuck up and lean against the wall. Legs apart and hands up high.”

  Brasso pushed him against the wall, did a pat-down search, and took Vanier’s gun.

  “Oh, Christ, Paul.” Denis was leaning over the body. “Joe’s losing too much blood.”

  “Get him inside. Drag him if you have to.” Then Brasso turned to Vanier. “Inside. No trouble. And keep your hands on your head.”

  Brasso stood behind Vanier while Denis pulled his buddy through the door. In the light of the doorway, it was clear that Joe was in bad shape. His shirt and pants were covered with blood, and he seemed barely conscious. It looked like the knife got him low in the belly and sliced. Vanier figured he wouldn’t last long without help. As soon as Joe’s boots crossed the threshold, Vanier felt the pressure of the shotgun between his shoulder blades and followed them in.

  Inside, Desportes was tied to the chair, bleeding heavily with his head drooping. His face looked like it had taken a pounding. Vanier could smell the stink of sweat and blood. Before he could see anything else, a bag was dropped over his head and someone plastic-cuffed his hands behind his back. When the cuffs were on, Vanier got a kick in the back of his knee, dropping him to the floor. Seconds later, he was hauled to his feet, and he heard another voice. Vanier was trying to keep track. Joe, injured. Denis who held the shotgun first. Paul Brasso who held the handgun on him. Now there was a fourth guy. The fourth guy said, “Put them both in the fridge. I need time to think.”

  Then Vanier was being pushed forward. He could only shuffle in the blackness beneath the hood with his hands cuffed.

  “Stop.”

  He did. Then he heard a padlock being removed and the creaking of a door.

  “Okay, move.” Again the pressure of the shotgun between his shoulder blades.

  Vanier shuffled forward, but his foot caught on a step, and he pitched forward, hitting the floor face first.

  “Mind the step.”

  He felt a foot push at his shoes to move them out of the way, and the door closed behind him. He heard the padlock being slipped into place and pulled himself up onto his knees. Then he bent forward and shook off the hood. It didn’t make a difference. It was pitch black inside the fridge, but at least he didn’t hear a refrigerator motor running.

  A few moments later, the door opened, and Brasso and Denis dragged Desportes into the fridge and dropped him on the floor.

  Joe Lacroix was lying on a table bleeding out his life into a pile of red gauze and bandages, while Denis tried to stem the flow of blood and stomach juices. Knife wounds in the stomach are the worst. There are too many unprotected tubes behind the skin. The knife had entered cleanly – Denis found the tiny opening just below his rib cage – but Joe must’ve twisted on the way down, pulling his innards against the sharp blade.

  Joe had stopped moaning once the morphine kicked in, but Denis had seen enough wounds to know that if they couldn’t stop the bleeding, it was only a matter of time. In a hospital he might have a chance, hooked up to a never-ending supply of blood, while a surgeon opened him up and repaired the damage piece by piece. That wasn’t going to happen on a dirty tabletop in an industrial park in Anjou.

  Vanier’s phone started to vibrate next to the gun they’d taken away from him. Brasso leaned over to look at the display. He said, “It’s his partner, sir. Saint-Jacques.”

  “Don’t answer,” said a bald-headed giant in green fatigues, looking like he was dressed for war. He was standing next to Denis, watching him work.

  He turned away from watching the work on Joe. “Paul, get Vanier back out here. I want to know how he found this place, and who he told. Right now.”

  Brasso moved to the fridge door and unlatched the padlock. Denis was winding a bandage around Joe. When he finished, he said, “What about the girl, sir?”

  “She won’t have gone far. If she came back, it was because of the dumb-fuck kid, her brother. She obviously doesn’t have a phone, or she would have used it already, and we’d be finished. She’s outside somewhere. Take the kid out and point a gun to his head. Tell her to get the fuck in here.”

  “But she has Joe’s gun.”

  “So be careful. Stay close to the kid, and she won’t shoot you. She won’t take a chance of hitting him.”

  Brasso led Vanier out of the fridge and dropped him onto a chair. He had the hood on again. Denis went back into the fridge and returned with a blinking and shivering Kyle. He pulled out his gun and pushed Kyle out the door, shielding himself behind the skinny kid.

  Vanier could hear the shuffling of people moving around, but he could see nothing under the hood.

  The fourth voice, the one he couldn’t identify, said, “Now, Mr. Vanier. Let’s make this clear. You’re a dead man. The only question is whether it’s going to be easy or hard. And I can make it harder than you can imagine.”

  Vanier knew it wasn’t the Colonel. Now he was wondering who was in charge. He said, “It’s over. You’re finished. Best you can do is …”

  He was cut off with a punch to the side of his head that sent him to the floor.

  “Like I said. You’re dead, Mr. Vanier. Make it easy on yourself.”

  With the hood over his head, he couldn’t anticipate the blows. He could only tense and wait. When the boot hit the soft skin of his side he had no defence, the air exploded from his lungs, and he felt the pain. He thought, maybe his kidney.

  “Stand him up, Paul.”

  Brasso pulled Vanier to his feet. Vanier wondered where the next blow would hit. He didn’t have long to wait. It was straight to his groin, and he dropped to the floor again. Then someone pulled the hood off and grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to look up. V
anier didn’t recognize him.

  “I’m Jan Prévost. And I’m in charge.”

  “Where’s the Colonel?”

  “Home in bed. If you’ve studied your history, Mr. Vanier, you would know that every political movement needs a small group of dedicated people who’ll do what’s necessary to move things forward.”

  “The dirty work.”

  “Whatever is necessary. The Colonel is the acceptable public face of the movement. He’s the leader. We just make sure that nothing stands in the way of progress. We’re the hard men. And you’re an obstacle that has to be removed. Now tell me, Mr. Vanier. How did you find the address?”

  Vanier didn’t see any point in lying. “GPS. The kid has a GPS on him.”

  The man looked over to Brasso. “I thought you’d searched them both.”

  “We did, sir. No GPS.”

  “Well do it again. And this time, find the fucking thing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brasso opened the door and yelled at Denis to bring the kid back in.

  Constable Richard Wallach reached into his pocket for his cell phone and checked the display. Then he held it to his ear. “Detective Sergeant Saint-Jacques. How are you?”

  “I told you, call me Sylvie. I have a problem. I’ve had a couple of messages from DI Vanier, and I can’t reach him.”

  “And how can I help?”

  “I’m up in Tremblant. I took a few days off. If I was in town, I’d go looking for him. I was wondering – ”

  “If I would? Sure, but where do you think he is?”

  “That’s the thing. The last message said he had a lead and was going to look at a building on Rue de l’Innovation in Anjou. That was about an hour ago.”

  “I know the street. But why didn’t you just call the local station and tell them he’s gone missing? They could send a car to do a look around.”

  “Richard, we’re in enough shit already. That’s why I’m calling you. I don’t need to make things worse. I just thought – ”