by Glenn Muller
Asha and Fenn lingered a few minutes with Tony and Kim. It gave Fenn a chance to tell his friend he’d sent the GTO to a body shop for repair.
“It’ll come back looking like new, then you and I can rebuild the power train.”
“Thanks, Chas. It’s good to have something to look forward to.” Tony’s smile was as bright as ever but Kim scarcely responded.
Out in the parking lot Fenn slipped his arm around Asha’s waist. “I’m glad you wore your Doc Martens, today,” he said. “If you think Dieter and Carole can manage without you for the afternoon, I’d like to take you somewhere.”
“I neither care if they can or they can’t,” she replied, her arm over his. “Where did you have in mind?”
“Hop in the car. Let’s go for a ride.”
CHAPTER 54
Along with the other items in the attaché case, Fenn had also discovered the Challenger’s distributor rotor. He’d slipped that into his jacket before handing the bag to the police. It was the one item a smart detective could have used to connect Fenn to Jenner and the cash. Fenn had also made out like the car’s smashed side window had been broken for a while. He’d temporarily covered it with a clear plastic sheet and duct tape.
As they skirted Toronto and headed north, he and Asha discussed how the press coverage had focused more on Ex-Detective Rowan’s criminal connections than on the good work of the officers who’d successfully closed the case. Fenn had avoided much of that ballyhoo by quietly packing his cat and few belongings off to his new digs in Muriel Stafford’s basement.
He’d spent little time ruminating about his work situation—a subject that neither he nor Asha chose to broach. Fenn drove for about an hour then exited the highway and pulled into a gas station.
“This is the place where I talked to you until the cell phone died,” he said. “I didn’t know what you had heard and what you hadn’t.”
Asha smiled. “I think I caught it all, except maybe the last bit. What was it you said?”
Fenn pretended to think about it.
“I might have said I’d fallen in love with you.”
The smile widened. “Actually I did catch that. It’s just nice to hear you finally say it.”
He’d already informed Asha of their destination, and as they turned onto Little Chute Road they saw the burnt remains of flares where the roadblock had been. He pointed out The Retreat’s wrought iron gates then parked in the same lay-by as last time.
“And here’s where we enter the woods.”
It was a great day for a hike. They saw a deer, and since Fenn had travelled the route once before they were soon gazing upon Harrowport’s million-dollar cottage from the edge of the forest. Fenn pointed out a red Mercedes sports car parked near the front steps, and the strips of yellow police tape hanging from the doorway to the foyer.
“Someone is home but I don’t think we’ll stop in.”
Hand in hand they backtracked to the junction and followed the trail that went to the gorge. The motocross bike was gone from the gully but on the section of trail where the ATV had intercepted him and Kim there were still bloodstains in the dirt.
“Abes shot Rowan, and then he got shot by Jenner,” Fenn explained.
“Was that before or after Jenner tried to club you to death.” Asha gingerly touched the yellowed bruise on his cheek.
“After. The best bit is down here, though.” He led her to the warming hut.
Asha peered inside and said, “Explain again how you came to be wearing Kim’s kilt.”
“Nothing happened. Honest Injun. Come this way, we’re going to take the path to the beach.”
Fenn didn’t expect to see the ATV still in the river but there it was. This was also the spot where he’d nearly been shot by one of Canada’s best marksmen.
“If I’d known he was up there I wouldn’t even have picked up the shotgun. There was a bang and I hit the deck.”
“Those guys don’t miss. How did you survive?”
“He didn’t fire. The gunshot was from his partner. Abes heard the radio chatter and tried to call the sniper off. Now, depending on whom you talk to, there was either too much noise from the helicopter, or the chopper was interfering with the radio signal, or the sniper’s earpiece had dropped out. Anyway, he didn’t get the message to stand down so his partner ran up the hill and let off a round to get his attention. Poor Kim thought I’d been killed.”
Asha kissed him. “You are lucky to be alive, Chas Fenn.”
They continued on to the portage path and came to the narrow beach past the rapids. Here, the forest came almost to the water’s edge. Something scurried through the shrubbery. They walked another thirty yards then Fenn dropped his pack on the beach.
“Wait here a moment. I just have to nip into the bushes.” He was gone nearly a minute before re-emerging with a bundle of tartan cloth.
He was going to say, 'Check this out.' What he said was, “Oh.”
Standing behind Asha with his left hand over her mouth and his right hand holding a curved blade to her throat was a large man. He wore a balaclava that revealed only his eyes and a camouflage suit that was newly purchased if the starched creases were anything to go by. He’d probably bought that very shiny, very sharp, hunting knife at the same time.
“Hello, Jenner.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
Fenn shrugged. “What are the odds? Besides, your new anklet gave it away.”
“Then you know why I’m here. Hand over the kilt.”
“It’s just a kilt.”
“So, why did you leave it in the woods?”
“I didn’t want Kim to know I’d ruined it—do you know what she’s like? What am I saying, of course you do, she kept getting unkidnapped.”
“Cut the crap, Fenn. Where’s the cash?”
“You went through those rapids just like I did, Ronald. Where the hell do you think the cash is?”
“I think it’s wrapped in that kilt. Now hand it over.” Jenner put pressure on the blade at Asha’s throat. It nicked the skin. She tensed and a drop of blood appeared at the cut. Fenn could see how this was going to end and slowly shook his head.
“Alright. Have it your way.”
He tossed the kilt but before it hit the ground, Asha had grabbed Jenner’s wrist and twisted under his arm. She thrust the knife hand up, dislocating his shoulder with a sickening pop. Jenner bent forward, his cry of agony muffled by her knee smashing into his nose. The knife fell from his fingers. Asha rose up on her toes then brought her elbow crashing down on the base of his skull, just behind the earlobe. Jenner dropped face first to the ground and lay still.
Asha retrieved the knife and kneeling on Jenner’s back nicked his throat to precisely match her own cut.
“Now we’re even, Creep.”
Fenn simply smiled. “I guess he came to DriveCheck sometime after you’d won the Provincial Martial Arts Championship.”
“Yeah. Somehow I never got around to mentioning that.”
“How long do you think he’ll be out for?”
Asha shrugged. “Until he wakes up.”
After tending to her cut, Fenn propped Jenner’s inert form against a tree. They used his bootlaces to secure his hands behind the trunk, and his ankles together, and then swiveled the balaclava to blindfold him. Blood dripped from his crushed nose and ran past the nick on his neck.
“Do you think he came out here by himself, Chas?”
“That red Mercedes we saw probably belongs to Harrowport’s wife. I still don’t get that connection but he either borrowed the car or she drove him up here. From what I’ve heard about Marjorie Dynes-Harrowport, though, I doubt she’ll risk breaking a heel searching the woods for this guy.”
Fenn stuck the hunting knife in the ground out of Jenner’s reach.
“If the cops don’t pick up the signal from his monitor, we’ll call in an anonymous tip.” He pulled Asha to him and kissed her. “You were great. Now where were we?”
; “Well, you were in the bushes.”
“So I was.” He went back in. “What I said about Kim being pissed off was partly true, but I also left the kilt for a marker. I didn’t want to leave my jacket because it was off-white and too obvious.” He re-emerged and handed Asha a partially-filled plastic bag. She reached in and pulled out a damp bundle of hundred dollar bills.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Fenn nodded.
“How much is in here?” Her voice now a whisper.
“Over two-hundred large,” he whispered back with a grin.
“I feel like an outlaw. It’s kind of exciting.”
“It’s off the books, and it’s all ours. So, Miss Fabiani, what does the lady think about a Caribbean wedding?”
“A Caribbean wedding? Why, mercy, Mr. Fenn. This gal hasn’t even heard a proposal, yet.”
“A proposal. Yes. Right. Wait here.” Fenn went to his backpack. When he returned he looked steadily into her dark eyes for a moment, then went down on one knee and opened a small box.
“Miss Fabiani, would you do me the extreme honour of becoming my wife?”
He watched her lips part and her eyes start to moisten.
“Oh, my. That is the most beautiful ring.” She took the box for a closer look. “Mr. Fenn, I will marry you on one condition.”
“Condition? I thought love was supposed to be unconditional.”
“My love is, but my wedding is not.” She gave him a coy look.
“All right. What is your condition?”
Asha picked up the kilt and held it out. “You have to wear this.”
His look of dismay made her laugh out loud.
“Tell me you’re kidding. C’mon, Asha. Surely you don’t mean that.”
She slipped on the ring and made it sparkle in the sun.
“Oh, but I do, Mr. Fenn. I most certainly do.”
CHAPTER 55
Bloomfield signed the checkout form and left it on the desk.
“Keep the box handy, Bob,” he said. “I’ll be right back with this.”
The Property Clerk responded by going back to his newspaper. Senior to Bloomfield in years if not in rank, he was no longer fazed by the bizarre and gruesome relics of crime. Bagged or boxed they were simply items to be logged, and Basement Bob was content to clock his time in the cage until the pension kicked in.
The Harrowport Case as the media had dubbed the whole affair was a major coup for the Department, and the effect on staff morale was palpable. The tsunami of paperwork that came with it had been taken in stride, and the sergeant grinned at the new wrinkle he would now add to the mix. He bypassed the elevator in favour of the stairs, paused briefly at the top to catch his breath, then made his way to Lareault’s office.
The door was open and Bloomfield rapped on the frame as he crossed the threshold. Lareault, intently writing a report, acknowledged the big man’s presence by ignoring him. While he waited, Bloomfield scanned the storage boxes and spotted the Durrell file that he had dropped off a few days, or was it weeks, ago.
The detective’s hand stopped, pen poised, but his eyes remained on the page.
“Yeah, Frank. What’ve you got?”
Bloomfield waggled a thick wad of cash wrapped in plastic film and placed it on the desk. “Bob Beamer dried and catalogued the currency that our friend, Fenn, fished from the river.”
Lareault ran a line through several words and replaced them. “Okay. And?”
“And it’s counterfeit.”
The pen tilted down as Lareault looked up. “Say that again.”
“Tainted. Queer. Sourdough. Funny money. Whatever you want to call it. It’s well-made but not worth the paper it was printed on.”
“All of it?”
“Every bill that we’ve got; so the odds are the two hundred G’s that got washed down the river were also bogus.”
Lareault began to smile. “Alleged.”
“Eh?”
“The alleged two hundred G’s that were alleged to have washed down the river.”
“I thought you didn’t like that word.”
“It’s starting to grow on me. Who all knows about this?”
“Just you, me, and the guy in the lock-up who never speaks.”
Lareault looked at his notes and flipped back a page. He scratched out another line. “I’m going to document this, but for the moment I’d like to keep it quiet and let nature take its course.”
“Would that be Mother Nature or human nature?”
“Either one. Now spell counterfeit for me?”
“F A K E.”
Lareault sighed theatrically but wrote it down anyway. It was only the first draft of a preliminary report, and both he and Bloomfield knew that the Harrowport Case was far from being closed. The new Millennium was going to be most interesting.
THE END
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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Contributions to this book were of a direct and indirect nature. Leading the first category is my wife, Gail, for understanding that a writer needs his solitude, and that a manuscript is a boxful of loose-leaf pages. After Gail checked the work for content, the next version was posted on the writer's forum, Authonomy, where some talented folk brought inconsistencies to my attention and made suggestions for improvement. Especially helpful was T. Donna Robison, who scrutinized every chapter to root out the spelling, grammar, and punctuation gaffs.
I'm grateful to Tina Massey, Dean Lombardo, Jim Robison, Mindy Haig, Richard Langridge, Patricia Laster, and L. Andrea Mosier for reading the completed MS and providing positive comments. And many thanks to Susan Finlay for keeping me in the loop. Such support is invaluable to a debut novelist.
Indirectly, a fair bit of TORQUE's horsepower came from many hours spent around a hot engine in a cold garage with Mike, Dave, and Steven Robinson, Dave and Tony Maunder, Andrew Martin, Thurlow Park, and Fraser Weir. Add to that, my brother, Keith Taylor, who rode shotgun until old enough to get his own licence - best student I ever had!
And, on that note, I must acknowledge the thousands of underpaid instructors who literally go the extra mile to ensure safer roads for us all. If you see these educators at work, please be a good example.
Finally, I wish to thank YOU, for giving this novel life by reading and recommending it to your friends. For without the end-reader there is little point in writing.
I hope you enjoyed the ride.
GM
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Glenn Muller was born in New Jersey, USA, then spent his early years in England before emigrating to Canada where he would attain Canadian citizenship.
After high school he enrolled in community college courses for hotel administration, driver education, computer applications, and bookkeeping. These led to related occupations, the variety of which Glenn feels has been an asset to his writing.
TORQUE was inspired by the twelve years he spent as a driving instructor, and influenced by the social group of muscle car owners and racers he knew at that time. While the darker characters and situations in the book are pure products of imagination, the police procedurals were culled from Glenn's experience as a witness for a murder trial.
Other writing credits include book reviews for Astronomy Magazine, a specialized sports-column for a local newspaper, and articles and presentations for amateur astronomy clubs and conventions.
TORQUE is Glenn Muller's debut novel.
For questions or comments, the author may be contacted by e-mail via:
talkabouttorque at hotmail dot com
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