Torque

by Glenn Muller

  A low stone wall to his left meant that the only other escape route was across Muriel’s lawn, and directly in front of the limo. Not a good option. With the confidence of one used to intimidating others Brick walked up to the Toyota’s passenger door and grabbed the handle, rocking the car. Fenn looked at him passively. A meaty hand tapped on the window with the barrel of a handgun, then swung in the direction of Muriel who, oblivious, was unlocking her front door. Fenn reached over and let him in.

  The little import sagged appreciably when the big man’s weight hit the seat. Fenn turned the ignition key and the limo backed up.

  “Turn right and make your way to New Street,” said Brick. “And don’t get smart. I’m done fuckin’ around.”

  Fenn checked his mirror and saw the limo following a few car lengths back. He and Brick were touching shoulders and Brick’s large knees were up against the glove box, the gun resting on his lap. He noticed Fenn glancing at it. He grinned and poked it playfully into Fenn’s ribs.

  “This peashooter making you nervous, Teacher?”

  “Lots of potholes on this road. Perhaps you could point that elsewhere.”

  “Why, sure I could,” said Brick. “How about here?”

  He raised the gun to Fenn’s temple.

  “Bang.”

  Chuckling at his own wit he lowered the gun back to his lap. Fenn didn’t react outwardly but his rational being devolved into a state of cold calculation. Nobody had the right to decide how he would live or when he should die. Least of all Jenner and this oversized jackass. Fenn’s cardio-vascular system began to quicken as his sole focus became the annihilation of the threat beside him.

  Brick ordered a left turn at Walker’s Line. Fenn took the corner and habitually moved into the curb lane. Empty garbage bins lined the roadside, and a little ways ahead a sanitation truck was blocking his lane. Fenn checked the mirror. The limo had stayed in the left lane and was about fifty metres behind. Others cars were also well back. Brick, feeling comfortably in control, appeared to be sightseeing. Fenn had to get his attention back.

  “You should have let Jenner do this. He wouldn’t have made three mistakes.”

  With only mild interest Brick turned his way. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  Fenn continued to scan ahead. The garbage truck had moved up to a townhouse complex where a small mountain of bags surrounded a collection of bins.

  “I’d say your first mistake was getting into my car.”

  Brick smirked. “Yeah. I did, didn’t I.”

  The garbage truck’s driver descended from the cab to help out his partner.

  “Your second mistake was not putting your seatbelt on.” Brick thought about this for a second then said, “I thought you guys knew how to drive.”

  They were closing on the truck. Fenn checked the mirror again. The limo had dropped further back anticipating his lane change. He accelerated slightly and put on his left signal.

  “So what’s the third?” Brick was saying.

  Fenn accelerated a bit more. The garbage crew was on the sidewalk trying to extract the bins from the bags.

  “Your third mistake,” said Fenn, “was assuming the airbags work.”

  “Huh?”

  Fenn began to drift toward the left lane, holding the deception for a moment longer, then mashed the gas pedal to the floor. He faced Brick with a dark look of retribution and pulled the wheel hard to the right. The rear of the truck rushed at them. Fenn pushed back into his seat until all slack had gone from the shoulder belt. Comprehension hit Brick’s face like a shock wave as the open maw of the garbage crusher loomed large in the windshield.

  Panicked, he raised the gun in desperation and pulled the trigger. But it was too late.

  CHAPTER 30

  Fenn instinctively shut his eyes milliseconds before impact. The tympanic crescendo of the crash was punctuated by an ear-splitting report. The Toyota hit the rear left corner of the truck, its momentum pushing the twelve-ton vehicle up onto the curb. The rest of the energy swung the Toyota’s back end into the adjacent lane.

  The car’s radiator and engine took the brunt on the right-hand side and were shoved back into the passenger compartment. The wreckage pinned Brick’s feet and lower legs while the rest of him came off the seat and hurtled at the windshield. Luckily for Brick the gun led the way, it’s weight increased ten-fold by G-forces generated by the sudden stop. Voluntarily, or involuntarily, his trigger finger curled and the bullet weakened the windshield an instant before his arm, shoulder, and head made contact. It probably saved his life.

  Bent at the waist, hips across the dash, Brick now lay motionless on the crumpled hood. A shattered sheet of bloodstained glass lay beneath him.

  Dazed, Fenn sat with ringing ears behind a steering wheel that seemed oddly out of round. His wrists hurt. He turned the key to the OFF position to reduce the chance of an electrical fire then reached down to release the seatbelt. Any attempt to open his door, however, sent pain lancing through his chest and shoulder.

  There was movement to his left and he saw the limousine rolling past. It slowed to a crawl, the tinted passenger window down. Jenner was leaning forward, obviously bewildered as to what he should do. Fenn forced his grimace into a spiteful smile and raised his left fist, middle finger extended. He lowered it just as his view became obstructed by one of the sanitation workers. The man spoke to him through the shattered windshield.

  “It’s okay, buddy. Help is coming. Just sit tight.” The worker moved around to see what he could do for Brick. The limo was no longer in sight, other cars were now slowly creeping past.

  A woman brought a blanket and placed it tenderly over Brick’s prone form. “Kind of strange to see a driving instructor not wearing a seatbelt,” she was saying.

  “Yeah. Especially with that guy at the wheel,” replied the worker as if Fenn couldn’t hear. Or maybe hoping Fenn could. This mess would put the sanitation team way behind schedule, and all routes had to be finished before knocking off.

  At least they could finish their shift, Fenn thought. He was about to lose a whole week, and for the second time in three days there were sirens coming his way. He wasn’t sure why but he could taste blood. He closed his eyes to wait for someone to get his door open. It would probably be the only rest he would get for a while.

  == == ==

  Fenn’s door creaked as the fireman pried it away from the car’s body. Brick, still on the hood, was hooked up to an oxygen tank and an intravenous bag while another emergency worker unbolted the seat to free his legs. A pair of paramedics standing next to a stretcher chatted to the crew from the ambulance that had come to pick up Fenn.

  He was being ushered into it when Joe Posada tapped him on the shoulder. Joe had seen the wreck and quickly parked in a nearby driveway. Now he was gesturing at the scene with an incredulous look on his face.

  “What the hell happened, Chas?”

  “The gentleman on the hood wanted to play Bang. I won.”

  “Play what?”

  Fenn wanted to explain but the ambulance crew was being insistent. “I’ll tell you later. Do me a favour and have Asha cancel the rest of my day. And tomorrow, too. I’ll check in as soon as I can.”

  Joe, still clearly concerned, said okay and jogged back to his car. The ambulance doors closed and Fenn was driven, with lights flashing, to Joseph Brant Memorial Hospital.

  The JBMH triage workers admit two kinds of patients; the unconscious and everybody else. Heart cases rank somewhere in the middle. Fenn’s class of injury was way down on the priority list and when finally called for X-rays he was surprised at how stiff his knees had become.

  In the examining room the doctor noted that both legs had contusions from hitting the steering column, and the left knee was somewhat swollen around the anterior cruciate ligament. There were also abrasions on his shins. The other trauma was seatbelt related; damaged shoulder tissue and torn ligaments which merited a sling, and a cracked rib that needed to be taped. His wrist
s were just achy, only strained.

  The doctor left and a nurse entered to tape and sling him. When she left to get some ointment for his shins the constable that had attended the accident scene came in. Having previously taken Fenn’s licence and ownership information, the officer was ready for details.

  “Witnesses say your car appeared to accelerate and lose control. Is this what happened?”

  “Accelerate, yes. The collision was intentional.”

  The officer raised an eyebrow, pencil poised above his pad. “I should caution you that if you admit to this, and your passenger dies, the charge could elevate from involuntary manslaughter to murder. As it is, we’re talking aggravated assault with a vehicle.”

  Fenn shook his head. “Before you go that far, you should get the whole story.”

  The officer pulled a chair from the corner and sat down. “Which is?”

  “I was being car-jacked.”

  “So you didn’t know your passenger.”

  “I don’t even know the man’s name.”

  The officer made a note. “The man’s name is Byron Evelyn Rupnick. He’s still in surgery so I won’t be able to interview him for a while.”

  “I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that chat. And who calls their kid Byron Evelyn Rupnick? No wonder he was mean.”

  “If we can get back to the alleged car-jacking, Mr. Fenn, exactly how did Mr. Rupnick happen to be in your vehicle?”

  Fenn recited from when he dropped off Muriel, and the officer began jotting notes on his pad. He looked up at the first mention of the gun.

  “Gun? There was no sign of any gun at the accident scene.”

  Fenn replayed the crash in his mind. His eyes had been shut when they hit the truck but he was familiar with the physics involved.

  “Don’t let them dump that truck,” he said.

  The officer was young and sharp. “I’ll get dispatch to contact the sanitation company. I have to go outside to use my radio, so you wait for me here.”

  Fenn pulled on his jeans then grabbed his jacket and followed the policeman down the hall. The cafeteria was conveniently located near the exit doors and he sat within until the officer returned through the lobby. Crossing the parking lot to Lakeshore Road, Fenn walked east a few blocks to a gas station that had a payphone. Tony was just having breakfast.

  “Cereal in the afternoon, eh. I guess you’re on night shift, this week.”

  “Yeah, I just got up. What’s happening?”

  “I need a ride.”

  Twenty minutes later Tony pulled up in front of City Hall. He was in the Black Mariah, a 1967 Pontiac GTO that had once belonged to a North Carolinian bootlegger. Tony had bought the car for a song at a local auction and had changed nothing but the oil and plugs. It had flat black paint on all surfaces except the windows and the lights, and a 400 cubic inch motor tweaked for performance beneath the hood.

  The interior had been stripped to reduce weight and increase cargo capacity. With neither passenger nor rear seats it had been able to carry a lot of moonshine. Where the rear seat used to be there was now a thick slab of sponge foam. Not ideal transport for Fenn, in his present condition, but he lay on his back and made himself as comfortable as possible. While Tony drove he relayed the whole affair, start to finish, and when he was done his friend let out a short whistle of amazement.

  “Okay, let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” said Tony. “There’s a chic called Reis who’s pissed at you. Jenner, who you used to work with, is pissed at you. That dude in the hospital, if he ever wakes up, will be really pissed at you. Kim is pissed at you, and your landlord is pissed at you. You’ve ruined DriveCheck’s insurance rating, so Dieter and Carole will be pissed at you. And, having left the scene of an accident, you’ve now got the entire regional police force pissed at you.”

  “I didn’t leave the scene. I just left the interview.”

  “Oh. Well. That’s okay, then.” Tony looked in his rear-view mirror but could only see the tops of Fenn’s knees. “So, Superfly, what’s your next brilliant move?”

  “Did you get that rack and pinion set installed in the Challenger?”

  Tony shook his head. “One of the ring teeth had a flaw so it had to be returned. I put the old 3:55 set back in it.”

  Given the circumstances, ‘the old 3:55 set’ was ideal. With the Challenger’s powerful engine, that gear ratio would provide decent off-the-line acceleration, and a top speed close to 250 kph.

  “I need Kim to look up another licence plate, so I should see if she’s ready to accept my apology. What time is it?”

  “Quarter to five.”

  “She gets off work in fifteen minutes. I’d rather catch her at home but I need to clean up a bit and do it properly. We’ll go to the barn so I can pick up the Challenger, then I’ll head back to my hotel room. What are you going to do?”

  Tony grinned. “See that box in the trunk?” Since there was no back seat, Fenn only had to peer through the metal body supports to see a cardboard container with NOS stamped on the side.

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did. This time tomorrow, The Black Mariah will have a nitrous oxide system under the hood. An instant boost in power with the push of a button.”

  Fenn laughed. Nitrous systems, while not legal for street use, often found their way into muscle cars. The injection of nitrous oxide into an engine allowed for more fuel to be burned in the cylinders. The result is higher piston pressure, which translates into more power.

  “Running nitrous is gonna be a blast! I can’t wait to meet Cheevers in his Camaro.”

  “Careful what you wish for,” Fenn warned. “All that heat and extra pressure will blow your motor if you run it too long.”

  “Yeah. I figure ten seconds will be good. That’ll be enough time to win, or lose, any race.”

  == == ==

  Knee socks now sufficed to cover Kim’s wound so she’d opted for one of her favourite Fall outfits; a kilt and a V-necked cashmere sweater. Brogue-style loafers, of course, and a lightweight overcoat because October in Southern Ontario was often cool and usually damp.

  Jess was waiting at the door when she got home. As she put on his leash, the crunch of gravel alerted her to a vehicle in her driveway. It was a white van. The driver was a tall guy wearing grey slacks, windjammer, baseball cap, and sunglasses. He slid open the van’s side door and produced a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers wrapped in plastic.

  Jess was always ready to greet company and pulled at his leash. Kim made him sit then stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her.

  “Can you accept a delivery for Kim Klassen?”

  Kim wondered if they were from Chas Fenn, and if so should she refuse them? But that wouldn’t be fair to the delivery guy.

  “Uh, sure. That’s me.”

  “Great. I just need your signature.” Still holding the bouquet he walked back to the van with Kim in tow. Then he did something strange. He tossed the flowers inside, reached down, and turned back to her with a roll of duct tape in hand.

  Startled, she was slow to react. The man moved quickly and wrapped his arms around her waist. Kim cried out and a hand went over her mouth. A second man had jumped from the rear of the van and another set of hands grabbed at her legs. The two of them were trying to get her through the side door.

  Kim squirmed and twisted in desperation. Kicking out, one of her loafers came off and knocked the driver’s sunglasses to the ground. She caught a glimpse of his face. It was familiar. Jimmy? Jonas? What the hell was his name? He used to bring students into the Ministry. Why was he doing this?

  Tape was being wound around her ankles. Now her wrists. The hand on her mouth was replaced with another strip leaving only her nostrils to supply the vast amount of oxygen her lungs now demanded. They put a cloth bag over her head, increasing the sense of suffocation. Her frantic resistance seemed to do nothing more than wear her out. Now she was on the floor of the van and the side door banged shut.

  “Lie s
till and you won’t get hurt,” she was told, and the van started to move.

  == == ==

  Inside the house, Jess, with his acute hearing, heard the commotion outside but couldn’t understand the meaning. He listened to the van drive away until the sound of its motor intermingled with others passing on the main thoroughfare. The visitors were gone. He tried to pick up the sound of Kim’s footsteps. Had she gone for a walk without him? The hall clock ticked. His leash was on so he must be going out soon. The house grew dim. Still no Kim. The dog sighed and lay down on the rug. When it became dark in the hallway he went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 31

  Fenn left Tony at the barn to tinker with his new toy. He’d removed the sling to drive. It wasn’t a comfortable experience, and neither was depressing the clutch pedal with his swollen left knee, though piloting the Challenger along country roads somewhat made up for it. With a big motor and a small chassis the 1970 Hemi Challenger was one of the fastest pony cars to come out of a Detroit factory. In stock trim, only the Boss 429 Mustang and the Chevy 427 Camaro could rival it for straight-line acceleration.

  Fenn was the Challenger’s third owner. He’d rebuilt it from the ground up, adding after-market parts to improve the handling and increase the horsepower and torque. Horsepower referring to the power output of the motor, torque being the application of that force to spin the drive shaft, which in turn rotates the wheels.

  He didn’t run nitrous but with close to 450 horsepower under the hood, translating to nearly 500 foot-pounds of torque, he really didn’t need it. The only thing the car did need was the pearl white paint job it had been prepped for. Tony had removed all the paper and tape from the glass and chrome so the car looked close to normal with only a coat of grey primer. Driving at speed with the engine growling through headers and dual pipes was like flying low to the ground. A Spitfire without wings.