The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel

by Claude Bouchard

  From his kitchen, I borrowed a stack of plates which served as impromptu candle holders. These, I placed here and there about the room, on the dressers, nightstands and the bed itself, each with two to four of the small, flat candles which I would light shortly, once I believed my host was on the verge of rejoining me. I sat and watched him as I waited, not too long, actually, and when he started stirring and moaning a bit, I lit the tea lights.

  My timing could not have been more perfect and the lighting effect was better than I had imagined. With the vertical shades closed to block out the diminishing daylight, the room was cast aglow by the thirty-six tiny flames, a lovely, golden light which danced slightly as air currents caused the flames to waver. I had just managed to finish lighting the candles before settling back into the comfortable armchair in one corner of the room when Robitaille regained consciousness.

  “What’s going on?” he mumbled as his eyes flickered open.

  Becoming more alert, he tried to move to get more comfortable because, lying on one’s back with one’s wrists duct taped behind one isn’t necessarily a comfortable position, even when on a queen size mattress. Realizing that he was bound, his movements became more agitated, causing some of the tea lights to dance precariously on their plates.

  “Careful, buddy,” I warned him. “If one of those tips onto the bedspread, you could turn yourself into a human barbecue really quick.”

  He stiffened and froze then looked about him, taking in all the glowing flames before zeroing in on me.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  It dawned on me that a lot of these guys I had dealt with lately asked the same question. Maybe they all lacked imagination or, perhaps, it was a normal inquiry for someone who finds himself bound and at the mercy of some stranger. I selected the latter as the likely explanation and moved on to the subject at hand.

  “You really don’t want to know,” I replied. “It will just freak you out.”

  “I’m pretty freaked out as it is,” he shot back. “Are you one of the cops who screwed up and got fired?”

  I shook my head. “Nah, anyone of those guys would probably just have nabbed you, brought you in the woods somewhere and blown your brains out with an untraceable piece.”

  “Then who the hell are you?” he insisted.

  “Okay, if you must know,” I gave in. “Do you read the papers? Or watch the news?”

  “Well, uh, yeah,” he answered, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “Have you heard about this guy going around taking care of assholes like you?” I asked. “Dealing with killers who snuck out of the system because of legalese bullshit? They’re calling him the Vigilante.”

  His eyes grew wide as he stared at me. “You’re telling me you’re him?”

  “The one and only,” I confirmed, “At your service.”

  “I-I don’t believe you,” he stammered. “You’re just a copycat trying to freak me out to get some attention.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” I asked as I rose from my seat. “That’s rather inconsiderate, not to say stupid of you seeing as you’re lying there trussed up with just a damned towel to protect you.”

  “No, no,” he backpedalled, or tried. “It’s just that this Vigilante you mentioned, he’s been going after punks from street gangs or, or child molesters like that last one he got, not people like me. You can’t be him. It makes no sense.”

  “Philippe, it makes perfect sense,” I disagreed. “You burned people to death. That puts you right up there with the gang punks and the murdering child molester.”

  “The case against me was thrown out of court,” he argued. “I was acquitted, for Chrissake. I’m nothing like those animals.”

  “The case was thrown out of court,” I explained, “Because those cops screwed up. I can’t even say I blame them. The media tipped you off so these guys hustled to get the dirt on you before you cleaned it up. Unfortunately for them, the judge was ‘by the book’ instead of ‘by common sense’ so you won and they lost. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “I won my case fair and square,” Robitaille insisted. “It was by the book. Nobody got paid off. The system did its job. Case closed. This is ridiculous.”

  “Did you kill people?” I asked.

  “I saved people,” he countered. “I put my life at risk, going into burning buildings and carrying people out who would have died otherwise. I saved their damned lives.”

  I pulled the can of WD40 out of a side pocket of my jacket as I walked over to the nightstand to his left where three tea lights burned. Aiming just right, I had practised, I sent a burst of spray over the flames. The vapours ignited into a miniature ball of flame, over the bed and close enough to his head that he felt the heat.

  “What are you doing?” he shrieked in fear. “Do you want to set this place on fire? Do you know how many people live in this building?”

  “How many people lived in the buildings you torched, Philippe?” I asked. “In total, give me a ballpark.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he pleaded, another common question from this lot.

  “How many people did you kill?” I asked, sending another spurt of flame over his head.

  “Stop that,” he sobbed. “I saved hundreds of lives from those fires. You can’t condemn me because a few died.”

  I slipped the aerosol can back into my pocket and pulled out my knife before saying, “You’re useless…”

  #12 - Emile Jean - Friday, May 24, 1996

  Over three weeks earlier, on May 1st, to be precise, I had spent part of my evening with Etienne Jean, one of the two violent home invaders who had taken the life of Leo Gingras and ruined what remained of his wife, Isabelle’s life forever. Etienne’s brother, Emile, had yet to pay for his crimes and I honestly did not believe that grieving for his sibling’s passing was sufficient punishment for the horror he had brought on to a couple in their prime.

  When thinking of street punks and gang members, one thing which had never come to mind for me was die-hard athlete. Sure, we can easily associate many of these people with pumping iron in the prison yard and huge tattooed biceps but devoted cyclist and disciplined runner just didn’t jive with gang banger, at least in my mind. Regardless of my misconceptions, that is exactly what Emile Jean was.

  Most mornings, from early spring to late fall, this violent, thieving thug was on his bike by five-thirty, pedalling from the Rivière des Prairies sector where he lived, to the eastern tip of the island of Montreal, which remained a mostly undeveloped and wooded area, a bit of pristine nature unblemished by urban chaos.

  Once there, Emile would park his bicycle, not even bothering to lock it, so few were the visitors in the area this early in the morning, and run his set course through the labyrinth of trails carved out through the foliage by nature lovers over time. I had followed him on several occasions, starting in late April just when the trails had become fairly usable, to learn the course he ran, and to see if he varied, which he generally didn’t.

  I hadn’t tried to hide my presence, in fact, I had purposefully let him see me, my intent being that he become comfortable with my being around once in a while. There’s just something about familiarity which gets people to let their guard down. We had even ended up running the course together a couple of times, exchanging a smile and a nod when we encountered each other and a wave at the end as we went our separate ways. The earphones and Walkmans we both sported made conversation unnecessary and avoiding it easy.

  The course he ran was a cross-country challenge of varying terrain which included flat, open areas, narrow, curving paths as well as upgrades and downgrades. Though sunrise by this date was just around five-fifteen, much of the run was through denser foliage amidst tall trees which reduced the natural light, even on a bright, cloudless day. As it was, variable skies were upon us that day, reducing the light that much more, which was fine by me.

  I waited for him, well hidden behind a tall copse of bushes along the path, check
ing my watch, knowing at what time he would run by almost to the minute. As expected, he was on schedule. I gave him a fifteen second lead as he disappeared around a bend – I had chosen my spot along a zigzagging part of the trail – then sprinted off, as if I had been closing in behind him. He came into a straight section and, seconds later, glanced behind him, saw me appear and grinned, probably having heard my steps between two beats from his earphones.

  Just ahead was a downslope, which happened to run through a particularly densely wooded area, one of those spots which never saw much sunlight. He raced about twenty feet downhill, the grade helping his acceleration then his feet seemed to catapult off the path. He continued downhill, literally flying through the air feet first for a few of seconds before crashing to the ground and tumbling into a shallow ravine to one side.

  An explanation, if I may. Upon my arrival that morning, I had strung a length of quarter inch nylon rope, a taut clothesline, across the path from one tree to another, some twenty feet down the slope. Having soaked it in muddy water a few days earlier, the once white rope was barely visible in the dim light, even if one knew it was there. Emile didn’t and had raced right into it, catching it hard, right in the throat. I had correctly estimated we were of the same height.

  I hurried down to join him and found him gasping for air but failing dismally, his neck a bloodied mess, his eyes already bulging somewhat as he choked. I guess he had crushed his larynx or something but, hey, I’m not a doctor. All I can say is he had certainly hurt himself pretty badly.

  “Are you okay, Emile?” I asked, feigning concern.

  He shook his head in panic, trying to breathe but not succeeding, at least not to his satisfaction. The fact that I knew his name didn’t seem to register.

  “Damn, you can’t breathe, can you?” I enquired.

  Again, a head shake in response as his skin took on a bluish tinge.

  “I’ve never done this before but I’ve heard about it,” I said as I pulled out my knife and locked the blade open. “I’ll do a tracheotomy so you can breathe, okay?”

  I saw doubt in his eyes but he nodded after a few seconds; he was running out of options.

  “Close your eyes and try to relax,” I said, bringing the blade to his neck as I added, “And if I screw this up, tell Leo, that guy you and your brother killed, that Isabelle misses him.”

  #13 - Nicholas Bertrand - Wednesday, May 29, 1996

  Nicholas Bertrand’s number had come up. The third attacker of Gaston Verville, the life-loving art teacher whose only crime had been to cycle through a park one night, had overrun his time amongst the living and had to pay for his mistakes.

  Over three months had gone by since I had dealt with Maxime Leclerc and just under three months since Henri Castonguay had paid his dues, Bertrand’s two partners in the horrendous crime. That Bertrand had been given an extra trimester or so to eat, breathe and sleep had not been a calculated move but rather, simply luck of the draw for him because of my busy schedule. However, all good things come to an end and that was a definite for Nicholas.

  His two close buddies getting murdered within weeks from each other had certainly shaken Bertrand up and he had gone into overdrive to clean up his act and stay out of trouble. Through some connections with an uncle, he had managed to get himself a grounds keeping job at the Meadowbrook Golf Course in west-end Montreal.

  The job consisted of a lot of manual work, prepping the fairways and greens as of five in the morning to satisfy the critical lot who played the course as of seven every day but, it was a paycheque, honestly earned without the fear of getting busted by the cops or confronted by some idiot from another wannabe gang.

  Getting to work was something of a hassle since Nicholas lived near La Fontaine Park, just off Papineau, while the golf course was in Cote St-Luc, south-west of N.D.G, an area not easily accessible for one without a car. The commute, which lasted an hour twenty minutes when all was on schedule, consisted of an initial walk, two bus rides, the second lasting close to half an hour and a final foot trek of over twenty minutes.

  As with all my prospects, I had been keeping an eye on Nicholas Bertrand so I was attuned to his timetable, even impressed by how well he had been sticking to it. I had even noted how, if he had the minute or two required to grab a cup of coffee at an early-bird corner store near his first bus stop, he went for it zealously, coming out with a large cup to spark him up. He was running a bit late this particular morning so he had to forego his cup of joe. My good, his bad…

  He caught his bus, the 359 heading north on Papineau, a bit before four, right on schedule and I zoomed ahead in the barely existing traffic, knowing he would be getting off at Rosemont for his next connection with several minutes to wait. I got there first, obviously, and waited a few minutes until I saw the bus arrive, Nicholas get off and cross the street to wait for the 370, his next ride heading west.

  I watched him from a block away, a lone figure in the dark of early morning then headed around the corner to where the minivan was waiting. A minute or so later, I approached the intersection on Rosemont with my bullshit all lined up, slowed and lowered the passenger window.

  “Salut,” I called to him. “Nicholas?”

  “Oui,” he replied with uncertainty, though he approached.

  “You work at Meadowbrook?” I continued in French, a statement more than a question.

  “Oui,” he replied, visibly relaxing. “Do I know you?”

  “We haven’t met,” I replied with a smile, “But I’ve seen you around. I’m Marcel Brisson, Tournaments Manager. Are you going to work?”

  “Yessir,” said Nicholas. “Just waiting for my bus.”

  “Well, that’s where I’m going,” I said. “Get in, unless you rather take the bus.”

  “Non, monsieur,” he replied as he opened the door and slid in. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” I said, stepping on the accelerator while our light was still green. “Like I said, that’s where I’m going.”

  “I’ve never seen you there,” said Nicholas, not questioning me but more so to make conversation.

  “I’m mostly in my office on the phone,” I explained. “Dealing with corporate clients for company tournaments, that kind of thing. But, it’s part of my job to make sure the course stays in shape for the events I book so I like to keep an eye on things.”

  “And you knew my name?” he asked, impressed and curious.

  I laughed. “Nicholas, every year we get young people like you coming to work on the course to keep it in perfect condition. Within the first week, some stop showing up, because they just can’t handle the job. Others keep coming to work, arriving late, missing days, leaving early and smoking joints while they’re on the job. However, a few understand the importance of what they’re doing and they just do it. I remember the names of those few.”

  He remained silent for a few seconds, digesting what I had just told him then said, “Merci. I have been doing my best but it’s nice to hear it, especially from someone like you.”

  “You guys, the good ones, just don’t hear it enough,” I replied. “I think I need to have a chat with your boss.”

  “Don’t get me in trouble,” he joked, though nervously.

  “You have nothing to worry about, buddy,” I assured him as I pulled off to the curb in front of a tiny diner on the nearly deserted street. “I need my morning coffee and this place is the best in the city. How do you take yours?”

  “M-my coffee?” he spluttered in surprise. “Uh, milk, one sugar.”

  “Coming up,” I said as I climbed out of the minivan and slammed the door.

  I returned within two, maybe three minutes with two small coffees, mine with just a bit of milk and his with milk, one sugar and… Okay, I need to tell you a bit of a story here…

  In case you may have forgotten, back on February 20th, I had dealt with Mathieu Masson, the driver in the drive-by shooting which had taken the life of Sylvie Theriault and her unborn twins. Now, you may r
emember that when I hooked up with Masson, he had a gym bag loaded up with goodies he intended to sell that evening to anyone looking for a high, a buzz or a low. I had told him I had no use for the crap in his bag but I had gone through his inventory after the fact, just out of curiosity.

  Within his portable drugstore, I had found several boxes of 20 mg Normison, a brand name for Temazepan, a potent drug used to treat insomnia… Yep, good old sleeping pills… Since Masson had been in no condition to ever sell drugs again once I was done with him, I had kept the Normison, along with other products which might prove useful at some point in the future. Always plan ahead… Now, back to our story.

  After getting our coffees, I went into the tiny bathroom and took a moment to stir in three Normisons into Nicholas’ cup which I had crushed into powder beforehand. I was banking on the fact that he hadn’t had his caffeine fix yet so he’d hopefully slurp it down quickly enough. I doubted the drug would sufficiently distort the taste for him to notice and, as I mentioned, I had got us small coffees so he would likely ingest the whole dose within a short time.

  “Here you go,” I said as returned to the minivan and handed him his coffee before sliding back into my seat.

  “Thanks,” he replied, busying himself with the plastic lid separating him from his morning brew. “What do I owe you?”

  I laughed. “Get outta here. A small token of appreciation for your hard work.”

  “Cool. Thanks again,” he said before taking a healthy swallow.

  “Whoa, it’s hot,” I cautioned. “Don’t burn yourself.”

  He grinned and replied, “All I drink is restaurant coffee which is usually almost boiling. I’m used to it.”