Torque

by Glenn Muller

  Clutch.

  Shift.

  Gas.

  The Challenger responded crisply to the pedal. From the tenor tone of the pistons to the throaty chorus of exhaust the Hemi’s song was in tune. Fenn needed no tachometer. He just listened to the hum and waited until the pitch was just right.

  Clutch.

  Shift.

  Gas.

  CHAPTER 39

  The reports coming in were like those good news/bad news tales that kids tell. Detective Inspector Lareault was prepared to reserve judgment until a clear pattern emerged but his higher-ups were not so patient. There’d been a development, and developments usually moved a case along, but the problem with today’s leap forward lay in the value of the return.

  The value of the return was a favourite catchphrase of Chief Superintendant Heatherington. Her ladder had been the academic route of business finance, economics, human resources and media relations. Lareault knew the top cop had to keep an eye on the bottom line but having to reconcile every cost to an end result was a pressure she passed to the lower ranks.

  The funeral home had been under observation for several days. Expensive days if he looked at it from both sides. However, the phone tap and undercover placement had provided tangible evidence that Harrowport & Dynes had links to a West Coast crime organization. The discovery of unregistered human glands at Simedyne had been a bonus and only needed a DNA report to match the organs to the funeral home’s clientele.

  Compelling elements, but there were still giant gaps that made the sum less than the whole. Gaps that Harrowport’s crew had driven a limousine through because Lareault’s department had been caught flat-footed in this morning’s fiasco. Attempts to talk with Bloomfield had turned into phone tag until the sergeant finally caught the inspector at his desk.

  “Evan. Frank here. I guess you already know it’s been a hell of a morning. We had to make a pre-emptive strike on H&D. Our inside guy called it in; said there was some commotion and that a young woman was being forcibly confined. She apparently climbed out a window and escaped in a souped up car …”

  Lareault gathered by the pause that Bloomfield was driving while talking to him.

  “Her escape appears to have been coordinated with two unidentified males. The getaway car then crashed, and we think the woman was retaken by a couple of funeral home employees driving either a limousine or a van. Current whereabouts unknown.”

  “Did we get anything from showing up at the Home?”

  “We weren’t exactly prepared. There’s the alleged kidnapping and unlawful confinement, but all we know is that she’s the daughter of Jack Klaasen. You know, Jackhammer Jack.”

  Lareault did know. Jackhammer Jack had enough money to hire the best lawyers in the province if the police department dropped the ball on this. As did the owners of Harrowport & Dynes. Alleged was not one of Lareault’s favourite words. The way the media used it put even more separation between the perpetrator and the crime. Lareault was all for innocent unless the jury said otherwise, but if it walked like a perp and talked like a perp …

  “Tell me that’s not the best that you have, Frank.”

  “I was saving the best for last. I’m just heading over to Flamborough to see Jack Klaasen’s son-in-law. He claims to have made a citizen’s arrest of someone involved with the kidnapping. Can I call you back?”

  “Soon as you can, Frank. I’ve got some spinning to do at this end and the more you can give me to work with, the better.”

  “Sorry we put you on the spot, Boss.”

  “Not your fault. These things happen.”

  They disconnected and Lareault went down the hall to the chief superintendent’s office. With the lid blown off the operation, he needed a search warrant to get into the funeral home as soon a possible. The press were clamouring for statements, and the chief super was already on the hook for two unsolved murders. If the department made headlines for wasting tax dollars on ineffective wiretaps and stakeouts she’d make damn sure that Lareault’s name was front and centre.

  And that would not be good news.

  == == ==

  For Kim, the journey to Muskoka in the trunk of the limo was one of semi-conscious pain interrupted by lucid periods of severe discomfort. She’d survived the crash of the Pontiac without broken bones, but the rollover had left her with nasty contusions and the symptoms of a concussion. As spacious as the trunk was, there wasn’t enough room to extend her legs. She changed position from time to time but after an hour her back began to spasm.

  The ride was fairly smooth while the limo traveled at highway speed, and Kim had succumbed to short periods of sleep. Jarred awake when the car began to hit potholes, she could tell by the way she was rolled back and forth that these roads had more hills and turns. After stopping briefly the car proceeded at a slower rate and Kim could hear small stones pinging off the undercarriage. A couple of minutes later the car stopped again. The engine was turned off and doors opened and slammed shut. She heard male voices but they appeared to be moving away from the car.

  She only had a moment to ponder whether being left in the trunk was preferable to being released before there was a click and daylight flooded her space. She squinted against the sudden brightness and the guy that had put her in the trunk, she’d eventually remembered his name was Jenner, pulled her to a sitting position.

  “Enjoy the ride? My, that’s quite the shiner. Does it hurt?”

  He poked the bruise above her eye. It hurt but Kim didn’t respond. She moved onto her knees and put a leg over the sill of the trunk. From lying on her side so long she’d lost feeling in her left leg, and once her foot hit the ground she found it wouldn’t support her weight.

  “Whoopsie!” said Jenner, putting his hands under her armpits and pulling her up. “Looks like daddy has to carry you in.” With that he scooped her in his arms and carried her, bride-style, toward the house. Kim thought of struggling, scratching his face, but the numbness in her leg would prevent her from running very far. Besides, where would she go?

  She had only a vague idea of how long she’d been in the trunk but estimated they were either north of Toronto or west of the city in the Kawartha Lakes region. With stands of hemlock, spruce, and pine among the large angular rocks that poked up through the undergrowth, the landscape was typical of both. A lakefront property would have other cottages close at hand, but this place appeared to be inland and isolated. If she made an escape her choices were minimal; either back up the driveway to a country road, or along one of the trails that every dwelling in the woods seemed to have nearby.

  In these regions, a cottage was any habitable structure that one would consider a vacation home. It could be a one-room pine shack with a kerosene lantern on the beam, or a movie star’s mansion with a high-tech screening room. Kim, who’d been in both, appraised the A-frame that Jenner was headed for on the plus side of a million dollars.

  The front facade was a triangular wall of glass over two storeys tall. The giant supporting beams were oak, the roof shingles cedar, and the front steps were stacked granite blocks. Instead of going to the grand entrance, however, Jenner went farther along the driveway to the attached garage. This had three double doors of the raise and lower variety, and an access door, all closed.

  “I’m afraid the guest bedrooms are spoken for, Sweetcheeks. Besides, we don’t trust you with windows.” Jenner waited for his companion to open the access door then took her inside.

  “I’ll bet you’ve never been carried over the threshold, before. How about I come by later and we can consummate the relationship?”

  Kim, having regained some feeling in her leg, wriggled out of his arms and pushed him away. His buddy laughed and flicked on the light. It was a big space; only half of it taken up by a large boat, a couple of jet-skis, a motocross bike, and a four-seater ATV that looked like an extreme version of a golf cart. Along the back wall was a workbench with every variety of hand tool, as well as a drill press. On another wall hung a couple of
mountain bikes and an assortment of ski equipment. There was also an old office chair on casters that Jenner’s buddy wheeled to the middle of the empty part.

  “Sit down.”

  She obeyed. Sit down was safer than lie down with these two goons hovering over her. Jenner went to the workbench and came back with a roll of telephone wire.

  “This will do for now,” he said, using a pair of snips to cut lengths with which he fastened her wrists to the arms of the chair and her ankles to the casters. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. Kim was still in her raincoat, cashmere sweater, and kilt. Without shoes her kneesocks had become somewhat worse for wear and her general demeanour spoke of her recent tribulations. The roughed-up ragamuffin look seemed to turn Jenner on and he reached over to push the hem of Kim’s kilt a little higher on her thighs.

  “What d’you think, Tad?”

  “I think once we get everything sorted, we should come back and see how high that’ll go. We have to get moving, though. The boss’ll be here soon.”

  Jenner’s response was to put his lips close to her ear.

  “You get some rest, Sugar, I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

  He flicked her lobe with his tongue then spun her around to face the workbench. The light went off and Jenner shut the door as he left. Kim let her head droop forward and fought back the sobs that wanted release from her tired frame. She mainly succeeded. Only a couple of tears squeezed past her eyelids.

  Just those two. No more.

  CHAPTER 40

  Fenn roared through the Holland Marsh alert for a sudden change in the flow. Highway 400 dropped and curved left here but it was the visual impact of dark organic soil on both sides of the road that slowed motorists the most. For many, the black earth of the reclaimed farmland was a demarcation line between city and country, and Fenn knew that once he was past the distraction the traffic would begin to thin out.

  He checked the gauges for the umpteenth time. Oil pressure, water temperature, alternator, and tachometer were all within the expected range. The only thing that changed noticeably was the gas gauge. The Hemi’s power came at a price.

  He’d top up the tank in Barrie and maybe grab some snacks, something to maintain his energy level for whatever lay ahead. So much had happened in the last few hours that his breakfast at Mount Nemo seemed like a distant memory. His weariness blanketed the pain in his shoulder, the pain in his ribs, and the pain in his knee, but the drone of the road had begun to sedate him to the point of inattention and he cracked open the window and took a few deep breaths.

  Reis’s cell phone had been a silent passenger on the seat beside him since he’d left Eileen’s. The attaché bag was in the trunk. He’d put it there before Larry arrived with the tractor. As with everyone else, Fenn had been selective with the information he’d passed on. In Eileen’s case he’d withheld the discovery of the cash. Eileen wouldn’t filter what he’d told her, and a quarter-million dollars was serious paper. Serious enough to be a trump card, one to be held close to the chest, though Fenn wondered if he’d even get to play it. The sun continued to sink on his left and clouds were rolling in. An accident or unexpected detour would be a disastrous delay.

  Most vehicles were moving the usual 30 kph over the posted 100. Fenn read the flow, watched for potential speed traps, and passed cars whenever he could. The first exit ramp for Barrie was coming up when the cell phone began to buzz. He lane changed to the right and picked up the phone. The number displayed was one he knew well. Surprisingly well.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh. Hi. Is Brittany Reis there, please.”

  He recognized the voice but didn’t let on. “Reis; well, she’s tied up at the moment. May I ask who’s calling?”

  The caller paused and Fenn, sensing she’d hang up, said, “Asha. It’s Chas.”

  More silence.

  “Asha?”

  “Chas? Really? Chas, talk to me. What’s going on?”

  “Some unbelievable craziness. I guess Joe told you about the collision with the garbage truck.”

  “Yeah. You might want to avoid the office for a while. Dieter’s pissed because it will affect the group insurance coverage. And Carole; well, she just wants to hang you by the privates from a flagpole. It was only a few minutes ago that she deigned to tell me that Brittany Reis had called here at lunchtime.”

  “Reis called the DriveCheck number?”

  “Yes. Looking for you. She left this number. That’s why I was confused when you answered. A policeman also called here, looking for you. He said you’d disappeared from the hospital. Are you okay?”

  Was he? A bit battered and bruised but otherwise still in one piece. Could have been worse.

  “Yep. Absolutely. I’m fine.”

  “Oh, really. You’re fine.” It was the same tone his grandmother had used when a hockey puck cut his forehead open in peewee league and he wouldn’t go for stitches. He still had a faint trace of that scar.

  “Yes. Let me bring you up to speed. The police are on their way to Eileen Tillart’s—Kim’s sister is holding Reis on her farm in Flamborough. Perhaps you could check on them for me.”

  “Sure, I can do that. And where are you?”

  “The outskirts of Barrie; just pulling into a gas station.” Fenn drew alongside the pumps and shut the motor off. Everything was at rest but he felt like he was still moving, out of synch, as if the world had stopped but he hadn’t got the memo: Should the Earth stop spinning, all instructors are to confess their sins before disembarking.

  “Listen, Asha, I don’t know how this will turn out so I want to get something off my chest.” He put his head back and closed his eyes. If he was going to do this, he needed the right words.

  “It’s hard to describe, but when I saw you and Joe at the theatre I felt that my life had suddenly been detoured and I hadn’t seen the sign. You were going one way and I was going another, and it didn’t feel right. I think we should be going together.” He realized how that had come out, and paused. Asha didn’t interrupt.

  “We both know that things have gone south for me, lately, and my situation has caused all kinds of trouble for people in my life. But it’s something I have to finish, and hopefully resolve. What I’m trying to say is, if you don’t want to commit to a relationship, I’ll understand, but …”

  But what?

  But I might get my head blown off. But they might toss me in jail and throw away the key. But I won’t have a job, or even a licence to drive when this is all over.

  What? Just say it.

  “It would help if I knew that you have some feelings for me, Asha Fabiani, because …”

  Say it. “… because I’m in love with you.”

  Of all the times he had looked into her eyes and been tempted to stroke her hair, had wanted to nuzzle her neck, or kiss those luscious lips. Of all the times he had turned away and told himself it was the gallant thing to do but knowing that being gallant was just an excuse. All of those times had finally come down to this—a phone call at a gas station.

  That’s probably what she’s thinking, too, he thought, as the silence on the line continued.

  “Please say something, Asha. The suspense is killing me.”

  Nothing. Asha was no longer there. He’d pushed his luck and scared her off. He held the phone in front of him and spoke to it, as if to her.

  “I’d run, too, if I were you.”

  The plastic box didn’t answer back. Or even glow back, which was odd because he hadn’t turned it off. At some point in the past few minutes it had powered down.

  The battery was dead.

  == == ==

  Bloomfield was beyond taking no for an answer.

  “Don’t let Lareault say another word to those newshounds before he speaks to me,” he yelled into the mouthpiece. “Get him on the line, now!”

  The staff sergeant paced about the yard outside the Tillarts’ barn. He had no doubt that the person cuffed in the back of his car was the prime susp
ect in the murders of Marty Durrell and Stanislaw Svoljsak. All he needed was a female PC to peel off the wig to prove it, to his satisfaction at least. The couple’s statement that Reis had come to their property looking for Charleton Fenn was plausible once they’d told him of Fenn’s connection to Kim and the kidnapping. A little odd, perhaps, but a minor detail considering he’d just made the biggest collar of his life.

  Eileen and Larry Tillart were sitting on their back porch watching him. They were nice folk. Reis had claimed they’d attacked her with bees, but Mr. Tillart showed him where Reis’s BMW had crashed into one of the hives they kept on the property. If she’d been swarmed, it was her own fault. Apart from that, the only thing he’d got out of the suspect was a demand for legal representation.

  “Okay, Frank, what’s so important that you had to interrupt my being burned at the stake?” Lareault sounded as if he could use some good news so Bloomfield got right to it.

  “I’ve got Reis, and possibly the murder weapon. I’ve also got a lead on the Klassen kidnapping, and you know what that means.”

  “You’ve got Reis? Great work, Frank. Now, tell me about Klaasen.”

  “One of the guys who allegedly helped Miss Klassen escape from the funeral home is called Charleton Fenn. Klaasen’s kidnapping is the result of a deal gone sour between Reis and Fenn. Fenn helped the Tillarts restrain Reis and is now on his way to a country retreat near Port Severn where he believes the funeral home employees have taken Miss Klaasen. If this information stands up, Operation Second Life just might get one.”

  “Yeah. About that. We were apparently on the verge of nailing a West Coast crime boss. Nicolas Wray landed in Hamilton yesterday and we’ve got him on camera leaving John C. Munroe Airport. The intel is that his schedule included a meeting at the funeral home. Not sure if we’ll get another go at that.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Evan. We’ve been spinning a lot of plates, lately. Let’s take the pieces we’ve got and see how they fit together.” Bloomfield waved to a patrol car that had stopped at the bottom of the driveway. “It looks like my backup has arrived, so I’ll let you get back to your press conference.”