He had it! He could feel the ground. The skimmer’s nose tilted forward awkwardly, scraping briefly along the asphalt, and then it righted itself and Mitch opened the throttle.
At the same time, three large field-lights erupted to life, bathing the yard with glaring illumination.
Mitch accelerated across the yard, heading straight for the fence. It had been his intention to slow if possible and burn his way out with the skimmer’s laser. But there was no time for that now. There was no time for anything.
He revved it to maximum. The skimmer screamed across the asphalt. When he got to within twenty meters of the fence, he pumped the corner thrusters with a sudden, wrenching spurt, then turned them on full, and the revs whined far past the red line as the skimmer rose off the ground, higher, higher, straining at three meters, groaning at four, shuddering violently at five—
—and then floated over the top of the fence, and angled down toward the ground, until it was back in touch with its normal physics and capabilities.
Mitch risked a glance at his watch: 2:34.
But how many seconds?
The skimmer was running full down Commercial Road when it began.
Mitch executed a horizontally sliding right turn onto Laird as the second explosion went off. Then the blasts rocked the night at one-second intervals for the next ten seconds. At Eglinton Avenue, Mitch stopped, got out, and watched the volcano of orange and blue and white and red flames as they roiled upward, howling with crackling rage at the cold night sky, belching clouds of expanding, boiling black smoke with the fury of a sleeping giant suddenly awakened.
Within seconds, the night was alive with the sounds of sirens. Karoulis, he thought, had kept them off-stage nicely, until just the right moment.
He glanced at his watch: 2:36.
There was still something left to do.
He got back in the skimmer and headed east along Eglinton toward the Don Valley Parkway.
38
About five minutes passed before Mitch realized that Mario had been gone unusually long. Not too unusual, he thought. Just unusual.
He wondered whether to turn the engine off or continue to let it idle. Everything you read, he thought, contradicts everything else. I’m glad, he mused, that it’s the department’s gas I’m idling away, and not my own.
Immediately, he began to ponder the fate of his family automobile—the Chev—with its balding tires, its pitted grille, and its weather-faded paint job. He snorted to himself as he imagined the inevitable dialogue with the Firestone dealer: “Naw, it doesn’t need steel belts for just toodling around town. Glass belts will do her fine...” And then he began adding up the cost.
Another two minutes passed. He fidgeted.
Still no sign of him.
In fact, thought Mitch, there’s no sign of anyone, now that I think about it. No one’s come in or out of the store since we pulled in here.
He watched intently for the next thirty seconds.
Still nothing.
The first warning signals shivered up his spine. Most of what flashed through his mind was the stuff of nightmares—cops’ nightmares—the paranoia that was part of their survival mechanism. He dismissed it as nonsense, but it would not go away. Everything felt wrong.
Mitch cut the engine, stepped out of the cruiser, pressed the lock button, and closed the door. He was standing in the lot, still puzzled by the lack of movement surrounding the store, when he heard the shot.
It was as though he had been shot.
His bladder gave, ever so briefly, and he wet himself for less than a second down his leg before his reflexes could be controlled. Then he ran across the lot, unstrapping his Smith & Wesson as he went, tears of fear springing to his eyes. He saw Mario dead, he saw himself dead, he saw Angela and Elaine and Barbie and Tony standing at their gravesides, saw himself looking up from the oblong pit as they lowered the two of them down, felt himself reaching blindly across to Mario, but unable to find him, unable to touch him.
He ran faster, his eyes blurring.
Thinking about it afterward, he wondered how and why he hadn’t acted sooner, why he hadn’t read the telltale signals properly, how he could have been daydreaming so carelessly.
How? Why? The words paraded through his brain relentlessly, beginning in midflight across the parking lot. It was, he came to understand, the same process of inattention that was the culprit in the case of nearly every speeding motorist he had ever pulled over. If they hadn’t been daydreaming, they wouldn’t’ve been caught. It was that simple. There was no why about it.
Somehow, he knew that this was the biggest radar trap of all.
Gun in hand, he barreled through the glass door, ignoring any subtlety or caution. None of it was planned; his body was acting for him now, and he felt himself being dragged along, his brain afire within his skull.
The place was empty.
A door slammed, back in the kitchen.
Mitch stood frozen.
A car screeched to life from behind the store, plowed through an array of plastic garbage cans as it spun out of the laneway behind the store and careened onto the street. Another two shots rang out and Mitch suddenly found himself showered with broken glass as the front window collapsed in slow motion at his feet.
He dropped to the floor automatically; lying there, his mind reeling, he knew what had happened.
He knew.
“Mario!” The word screamed out of him by itself, shocking him.
Silence. Only his heart pumping, pounding in his ears.
“Mario!”
Frantically, he stumbled to his feet. Blood ran into his eyes. Wiping it off with his sleeve, he stared at it uncomprehendingly. The glass, he thought. I’m cut.
But there was no pain accompanying it, no fear for himself. He was all right. He could sense that.
“Mario!”
The room echoed.
He stood, shaking.
He knew.
The gun slid back into the holster and he walked behind the counter, through a door, and into the kitchen.
There were three bodies. One was the girl who waited on the counter and manned the register. One was a man—the baker. The other was Mario.
All had been shot in the forehead. Mario had been badly beaten first.
Mitch’s bladder gave way again for a second. He couldn’t move.
And then he realized that a lump in one’s throat was much more than an expression, as he felt his gorge rise and settle, and his breath catch as he struggled for air.
Folding up on himself, he sat down on the floor, with the three of them, and let the grief wash over him in vast, aching waves.
That evening, alone on his balcony, he took a quarter from his pocket and flung it, spinning madly, far out into the night.
39
“Where’s Daddy?” Barbie asked. She chewed her cereal and watched her mother carefully.
“He...he went to work early today.”
Barbie continued to chew her cereal, thinking. It was not true. She knew that. Daddy hadn’t come home last night. There wasn’t the shaving lotion smell in the bathroom. She could see his work boots on the tray in the hall, near the door. And Mommy looked terrible.
“Is Mrs. Chan going to make me dinner again tonight?”
“No, dear. No, she isn’t. I’ve made arrangements for you to sleep at Lottie’s. I’ll be at Jan’s till late this evening.”
Barbie stirred her cereal idly with her spoon. Her mouth twisted. Then she asked it. “Has Daddy left us, Mommy?”
Elaine’s face looked haggard as she stared at her daughter. “No, dear. Of course not.”
Barbie made tunnels in her cereal, then made a dam. She looked at her mother, but said nothing more.
40
Mitch elicited some attention as he cruised up the Don Valley Parkway in the prototype skimmer. But at this time of the morning, traffic was light, only a handful of other vehicles. Gliding along at one hundred kilometers per hour, York Mi
lls was only minutes away. Mitch used dashboard control and set the gas-dynamic CO2 laser embedded in the front hood on preheat, readying it.
The run along York Mills took mere minutes more. He looked at his watch: 2:52 a.m.
He turned right. Just a bit farther.
There.
He maneuvered into the driveway, pulled up beside the north wall of the luxurious house, and swiveled the skimmer sideways, so that the hood faced the stylish brick.
The preheat indicator on the dash blinked off. It was ready.
With a flip of a switch, the laser rose up out of the hood, like a submarine surfacing for battle—the sixty-millimeter cannon—poised, stoked, and ready.
He backed the skimmer up a bit more, jockeying it into optimum position. Then, even with the night-goggles, he squinted for protection.
You fucker, you.
His right thumb hovered over the activator.
It was only logical, he knew, that the doors and windows would be wired and motion-sensored. Any assault on them would undoubtedly alert him. Mitch didn’t want that. Not at all. That left only the roof or the walls themselves.
His thumb pressed down forcefully.
The blinding shaft of light burst onto the wall, melting within seconds a hole its own diameter. Moving the directional shaft in his right hand, Mitch ate a circle two meters in diameter. The only sound was a hissing and bubbling, as the brick returned to its natural chemical elements, and beyond.
He let his thumb up.
The light blinked out and the instant darkness was blinding. Mitch let his retinas accustom themselves to the change. A cloud of smoke was billowing out of the hole in the wall, carried away into the night.
Reaching into his duffle bag, Mitch withdrew the Sanyo with the folding shoulder-stock, remembering what it had done on the island. Unfinished business, he thought. Then he took out the thirteenth RDX bomb, the one he had put aside for this later use—if the first mission worked. He slipped it into his pocket, carefully. Just like the thirteenth apostle, he thought. Always an unlucky number.
For someone.
The hole started at about waist height. With a running tumble, he could somersault through and land on the floor, without touching the edges.
In theory.
All he had to do was execute the plan.
He cut the engines and stepped outside. He hadn’t realized he was sweating until he felt the cold air on his skin. Walking up to the simmering hole, Mitch peered within.
Nothing. And it had worked. It was where he wanted it to be—into the front hallway.
He reached gingerly into his pocket and lifted out the RDX brick, leaned over, and placed it carefully inside, and to one side. Then he did the same thing with the Sanyo, also shoving it off to one side so that it would not hinder his entrance in any way.
The heat at the opening was almost unbearable.
I’m not, thought Mitch, as young as I used to be. This better work.
He backed across the full width of the driveway, inhaled deeply twice, and started. From a crouch, it took only three long strides at top speed, and then he launched himself through the hellhole, landing on his right shoulder, and somersaulting awkwardly onto his back. His feet hit the thick carpeting with a muffled thud, and he lay there, breathing gratefully. I made it, he thought. Into the Archangel’s maw.
Rolling onto his hands and knees, he crawled to the RDX explosive. He pulled back his sleeve and checked: 3 a.m. He took the bomb into the ample living room and set it on the floor in the center. Then he returned to the hallway and retrieved the Sanyo hand-laser, composed himself, and gazed up the winding flight of stairs.
Adjusting his goggles, he started up.
Such a big house for one man. He thought of his apartment in Thorncliffe, of Barbie in her tiny room, of their storage locker in the basement that had been broken into twice, so that they now did not dare leave anything of value there. The irony was not lost on him.
He looked in the first bedroom. Empty. The second one consisted of an office of sorts—desk, computer, handmade Chinese rugs and English leather sofa, elaborate bookcases replete with glass doors and leather-bound volumes. Mitch found himself wondering if the man was as well read as it might appear. An educated bastard, he mused. Or just a showy one. Or just a bastard.
There were three more bedrooms down the hall. Two of the doors were shut, the third slightly ajar. Mitch decided to try the third one.
He eased it open and peered into the gloom.
The Archangel. With a woman.
Mitch opened the door wide and stood there, staring. They were both asleep.
Extending the telescopic shoulder-stock, Mitch shrugged the Sanyo into the nook between his shoulder and chest, his hand gripping the barrel, his finger resting on the plastic trigger. Then he flipped the wall switch beside the door, and a Tiffany-shaded ceiling fixture lit the room.
Even through the goggles, he could see that the sheets on the bed were pink. And satin.
The woman awoke first and sat up. Mitch’s eyes were drawn to her lush, naked breasts, to her stunning blond beauty.
“Angel!” she said, shoving his sleeping figure. “Get up!”
There was a moment’s lag as he came to, then he too sat bolt upright. With his hair unkempt and his belly sagging perceptibly over the edge of the pink satin sheets, he failed to seem either formidable or threatening.
Mitch felt his hate rising.
“Who are you?” the Archangel demanded.
Mitch didn’t answer right away. His hand steadied the laser rifle. “I’m your fucking nightmare.”
The woman cowered back into the pillows and sheets.
“You,” Mitch said to her. “Get out of here before I kill you.”
She seemed paralyzed.
“Get out of here!” Mitch screamed.
She vaulted out of the bed and stood there naked. “My clothes. They’re downstairs.”
“Put on a pair of his pants. Put on one of his shirts. Then get out of here. Now!”
She ran to the closet and pulled a shirt from a hanger. A pair of pants, far too big, followed. With one hand she held the pants up while she gazed down at her bare feet. “I need shoes,” she said.
“Is that your Corvette outside?”
“Yes.”
“Then get the fuck into it now, before I solve your problem by taking you off at the ankles.”
She hurried for the door.
“And,” he said, stopping her in her tracks, “you never saw me. You never saw anything. You know nothing. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Go.”
She left.
The Archangel sat watching the scene, gathering his composure. “I can give you money,” he said.
“Yes. You can.”
A spark of hope leapt into the Archangel’s eyes. His faith in the corruptibility of his fellow man had been confirmed once again. “Put that thing away,” he said, indicating the laser.
“No.”
“Very well then. If you insist. But there’s no need to hurt me. I’m much more valuable to you alive.” He essayed bravado, hoping to win this man, somehow. “I have friends, people who would be upset if anything happened to me.”
Mitch smiled.
The Archangel didn’t like the smile.
“Who are you?”
Mitch continued to smile.
“You’re Helwig, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
A flicker of fear jumped in the Archangel’s eyes. “Where are Otis and Purdon?”
“Your protection?”
“If you wish.”
“Dead.”
“How did you get in here?”
“I’m your fucking nightmare, scumface. I burned my way in.” He jerked the laser menacingly. “Just like I’ll burn your fucking face off if you don’t do what I say.”
“I can assure you—you have my full attention.”
“The problem with assholes like you, Scopellini,
is that you have no vision.”
Mitch smiled as the Archangel’s face blanched.
“You think you see the future, but you only see a cable TV version of it. You only watch bad formula shows, and gaze down sewers at your own reflection. You want to see the future?”
The man in the bed said nothing.
“If you bend over and look up your own asshole, you’ll see your future.”
“Let’s talk money. Let’s talk big money.”
“You have no vision, Scopellini. But money—yeah—that’s worth talking about. How much have you got, right here, on the premises?”
“Seventy—eighty thousand.”
“Where?”
“In a safe. In my office. Down the hall.”
“Let’s get it.” He motioned for the man to get out of bed.
“What about...my clothes?”
“A man with vision would have a pair of pants at his bedside, in case of emergency. Especially a man with your dubious lifestyle. I’m surprised at you.”
The Archangel got out of the bed and stood naked before him.
“Get a pair of pants. I don’t think my stomach can take that.”
Scopellini went to the closet and took a pair off a hanger, slipping into them wordlessly.
“The money. Let’s go.” Mitch waved the laser at him.
The Archangel led the way, out the door and down the hall, stopping and turning at the entrance to his office. “You can have more than what’s in my safe, you know. I’ll take you to the bank tomorrow.”
“How much can I have then?”
“Millions.”
Mitch smiled. “Just open the safe.”
They went into the room. The Archangel walked ahead of him to a corner of the room, stopped, and motioned to an easy chair. “It’s behind here.”
“Move it.”
He moved the chair aside. At floor level, embedded in the wall, was a safe, about a meter square.
“If there’s a gun inside, or anything like that, I’ll kill you while you’re only thinking about it.”
There was a gun inside, the Archangel knew. But now he had decided against trying for it. His options were closing off. He didn’t like what was happening—didn’t like it at all. Helwig. Goddamnit! He had known this man was a headache. He had just underestimated how big.
Barking Dogs - A Mitch Helwig Book Page 19