Night Road

by Brendan DuBois

  Andre tried to talk but he couldn’t move his tongue around what was shoved in his mouth. He started breathing hard through his nose. Duncan stepped back. “Take a look to the left, on the floor.”

  He did as he was told. His breathing increased. Heart thumping hard. On the floor was Pierre, stretched out in an X-formation, mouth gagged. Chains leading from each wrist and ankle were bolted to walls. Overhead fluorescent lights flickered and hummed. Pierre’s face was bright red, his eyes were wide, and his nostrils were flaring like a horse running for its life.

  Andre started grunting against the gag. Duncan said, “Right about now is when you’re going to beg for mercy, or say it’s all a mistake, or that you take it all back. I don’t think that’s happening. So tell me this. You ever see The Godfather movie?”

  Andre frantically nodded his head up and down. Duncan said, “You ever read the book? Now don’t lie. I don’t like lying.”

  Even with his heavy breathing through his nose, Andre felt like he was suffocating. He shook his head, left to right, left to right. Pierre started moaning.

  “Fine, you didn’t lie, glad to hear that,” Duncan said, stepping behind Andre. He closed his eyes, thinking frantically, trying to think of what he could do, what he could say. Duncan came back in front and Andre opened his eyes. “Maybe you should have read the book. A great book. Maybe not particularly well written, but sweet Lord, the sheer force of the story. Mario Puzo really knew how to grab you, right from the start. But only about eighty percent of the book made it into the movie.”

  Duncan stepped away and Andre started howling against the gag. Duncan held an axe in his hand, the head shiny and sharp looking. “Remember Luca Brasi? He was that heavy-set fellow, looked like a wrestler who could tear your head off. He was Don Corleone’s enforcer, a loyal soldier who’d do anything for the Godfather. He played a much more prominent role in the book, the twenty percent that didn’t get filmed.”

  Duncan tossed the axe from one hand to another. “You see, part of the book described Vito Corleone’s rise to power. As he was expanding his criminal activities in the New York City area, Al Capone in Chicago sent two of his associates east to seize control from Don Corleone. As you might imagine, the Don didn’t appreciate the attention. So Luca Brasi took care of business for him.”

  Andre started screaming, tugging at the chain, as Pierre started grunting again, making oomph, oomph, oomph noises. Duncan went over, raised up the axe, and Andre looked away.

  Thump!

  Through his gag, Pierre let out a muffled scream. Andre started yelling himself against his own gag, so he couldn’t hear what was going on next to him.

  Time passed.

  Pierre mercifully fell silent. A rubber-clad hand was on his face. Andre opened his eyes. Duncan stood there. “Well. You’re still alive. That’s impressive. You see, in the book, when it came time for the second Chicago hood to be attacked, he was already dead. Poor son of a gun had swallowed his gag and had choked to death when his pal fell under the axe.”

  Andre slumped down, legs fluttering, chains cutting into his wrists. Duncan shook his head. “Mistakes, my Lord, the mistakes you made, right from the beginning. First, thinking I owed you and your fellow bikers a single dime. Or a loonie, depending on your point of view. Second, to think I’d invite two of you fellows to be on in my next major shipment, serving as bodyguards. Please. A nonstarter. Why not send up flares as the delivery’s moving south, announcing to any law enforcement officials what was going on? Then, to wrap it all up, you insulted me by coming an hour late. Plus, you were stupid. Oh, so stupid.”

  Andre suddenly realized his crotch was wet, started sobbing. He had just pissed himself. “You see, Tiffany, my sweet waitress that your recently deceased companion insulted, reads lips quite well. So when you and your friend came up to my place, she saw what you said through one of the windows. About clipping me after you tugged your ear. So here we are.”

  Andre lifted his head, tried to put some sort of emotion, pleading, anything in his eyes. Duncan said, “To quote someone you know quite well, this is how it’s going to be. I’m going to take your gag out. You answer a few questions from me, the axe stays in the corner. Deal?”

  He nodded, up and down, up and down. Duncan stood the bloody axe in the corner and poked his rubber-gloved fingers into Andre’s mouth, pulled and tugged. Andre nearly vomited and then spat, as the rag was taken out. He moved his swollen tongue and whispered, “Please, for the love of God …”

  “Shhh,” Duncan said. “First question. How did you find out about my shipment?”

  Tears came from his eyes. Andre quickly said, “A contact in the Quebec provincial police. I swear to God, I don’t know his name. All I know is that our president or his deputy, they’ve got him by the balls. So he came to them with the tip about the shipping container. Then we found out the Security Services were sniffing around so we knew it had to be worth a lot.”

  “You know what’s in the shipment?”

  “Only that it’s coming from one of the docks on the St. Lawrence Seaway. That’s it. And that it’s worth a fuckload of money.”

  “Your president’s name?”

  “Francois Ouellette.”

  “You related?”

  “He’s my uncle.”

  “What was the plan for the shipment?”

  Andre coughed. “We find out what’s in it and where it’s going, and then we’d hijack it, kill your crew.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” Duncan said. “Not a very friendly business arrangement on your part. So where do we go from here?”

  “Please … let me go … I swear to God … I’ll leave here, I won’t go back to Canada, I won’t bother you or—”

  Duncan said, “Shhh, you keep on insulting me like this, and the axe comes back. You know and I know, I can’t let you go. Oh, maybe if your little visit had gone a bit more politely, I would have considered it. But no, Andre, that didn’t happen. You threatened my family. That’s the beginning and the end. The alpha and omega. I’m sure you understand. My family comes first, last, and forever. After you made threats like that, I can’t risk having you out there, no matter how many promises you make.”

  Andre closed his eyes, knew with ice-cold certainty that it was over. Duncan said, “No more agony for you. Questions answered.”

  There was a click-clack as a pistol’s action was worked, chambering a round. Andre opened his eyes. Duncan held up a familiar object: his own 9mm Sig Sauer pistol with extended magazine. Duncan said, “Your deceased friend over there was carrying the same piece. Good thinking. You both get in a firefight, you can pass each other magazines without worrying about the caliber of the other fellow’s rounds. But your last mistake?”

  Andre said, “Please …”

  Duncan stepped forward. “You underestimated us. From the start. Thought we were backwoods idiots, making moonshine and humping each other’s cousins. Far from it. So now your mistake bites you back. Hard.”

  “Witnesses … lots of people saw me and Pierre back there.”

  Duncan shrugged. “Man, you just don’t get it, do you. We knew when you were going to show up. Everybody back in the Flight Deck either works for me or is related to me. People around here, they take loyalty real seriously. So I’m not going to stay up late tonight, worrying that some cop from away is going to ask questions about whether or not the two of you came to my pub.”

  Andre coughed. “My Uncle Francois … I don’t come back, he’s coming down on you like a fucking load of bricks.”

  Duncan said, “Thanks for the warning. But I sort of figured that out on my own.”

  Andre’s last sensation was feeling the cold barrel press up against his forehead.

  two

  Duncan Crowley pulled the Sig Sauer’s trigger and Andre’s head snapped back, a blossom of bone, blood, and brain spewing out from the rear. The chains squea
ked as his body slumped, and he looked at the Sig Sauer. A fine weapon. A pity he couldn’t keep it. He dropped it to the floor and got to work.

  He first unlocked the chains to Andre and to Pierre, and from a storage locker in the far corner, took out two rubberized body bags. Working by himself took some effort, but in an hour he was done. The bodies of the Quebec biker gang members were bagged, with the chains and the Sig Sauers in each of the bags, along with the axe, which Duncan placed in next to the biker named Andre. The floor was stained with blood and fluids, but somebody else would clean it up.

  He then stripped off his soiled paper trousers, jacket, and booties, and crumpled them into a Shaw’s Supermarket paper bag. The plastic gloves joined them, but only after he took a cigarette lighter and melted the palms and fingers so any trace evidence was permanently destroyed. That bag also went with one of the dead bikers. Overhead one of the fluorescent lights flickered again. He’d have to tell his older brother, Cameron, to get it fixed.

  Speaking of Cameron, the outside door opened and his older brother came in. He had on the same rig he was wearing from before at the Flight Deck Bar & Grill: boots, jeans, and dungaree colors that announced W.C.M.C.: Washington County Motorcycle Club. But his long hair was now tied back in a neat ponytail and he nodded to his younger brother

  “Fucking bloody mess,” his brother said, shutting the door behind him, glancing down at the stained concrete floor.

  “Had to go medieval on their asses,” Duncan said. “I didn’t have time to take the usual interrogation route. I needed the second guy to answer questions in a hurry, and that he did.”

  “Didn’t think the axe was too much?”

  “Not at all,” Duncan said.

  “You sure?”

  “They threatened my family,” Duncan said.

  “It was just business, bro. Not personal. You know that.”

  “No, I don’t know that,” he said, walking over to a waist-high metal sink, where he washed his hands in the cold water. It felt good after being tucked in the rubber gloves.

  Cameron said, “I know it’s your family, but—”

  Duncan wiped his hands on rough brown paper towels. “Cam, m’boy, the time you stop boffing waitresses and lonely housewives, get married, and settle down, then I’ll listen to you when you talk about family. And not till then.”

  He tossed the paper towel into an empty metal wastebasket, turned, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. Uncalled for. A long day. You and Lenny did good, ambushing them after they left the pub. Nice to know ether still works for knocking out folks.”

  Cameron said, “What do you want next?”

  Duncan gestured to the two body bags. “Get them into their Lexus, take them up to … let’s see, what quarry would be good this time of year?”

  “Walker Quarry, I’d guess.”

  “Not Palmer? That’s closer. Less chance of something getting screwed up. Bored State Trooper pulling over a Lexus with Quebec license plates, that sort of thing.”

  Cameron said, “Palmer’s getting kinda of crowded, bro. We had two dumps there last year, remember? The guys from Boston and their friends from Providence. We could try Palmer but I’d hate to have the tail end of the Lexus poking out and bobbing in the breeze this time tomorrow. Bird-watchers might find it. They’re pretty damn focused on working on their lifetime sighting list, but I think even the densest birder would notice a half-sunk Lexus sticking out of a flooded quarry.”

  Duncan said, “Good call. You got the right guys to do it?”

  “Yeah,” Cameron said. “Dickie Leighton and his cousin Tom.”

  “You sure?” Duncan said. “I don’t want them taking the Lexus for a joy ride, or have them root around in the body bags, take out the pistols or wallets. Crap like that we don’t need. You understand?”

  “Heard you twice the first time.”

  “Glad you did. When they’re done cleaning in here, I want you to come in and I don’t care if you can eat off the floor, I want them to clean it again.”

  “Take some time.”

  “Time we got,” he said. “But half measures will put us in Concord, with long time on our shoulders.”

  Cameron’s eyes narrowed and Duncan was angry with himself. Cameron was a good sort, a bit too quick with the fists and a lousy dresser, but boy, what an older brother. Cameron always had his back, except for a couple mistakes years ago, one of which sent Cameron to prison and another that had derailed Duncan’s first career choice. But still, he had to stop pushing the poor guy. Duncan cleared his throat. “Sorry again. Getting cranky today.”

  Cameron smiled slightly. “What did you find out?”

  He sighed, looked down at the body bags. He didn’t have regrets, didn’t have any deep philosophical debate over what he had just done. They had threatened his family, had insulted him, and before they even came into his place—one of the several pieces of property he owned in Washington County, the northernmost and emptiest county in New Hampshire—they had plans to put two rounds in the back of his head. He didn’t think his head was particularly better or handsomer than other heads, but it was his and he liked it. As it was, they were in the body bags and he wasn’t, and that was just fine.

  “Some snoop up in Quebec found out about our shipment. Word went to a provincial cop and then to the Iron Steeds. From there, they decided to come down to get a piece of the action.”

  Cameron gently nudged one body bag and then the other with a booted foot. “Iron Steeds took some heavy shit from the Hells Angels, back when they tried to take over their turf. So I’d give them a day before their organization realizes their two guys ain’t coming back. Add another day or two as they check hospitals or cops down here, see if their guys are hurt or in custody. When they come up empty, then they’re gonna come back at us with some heavy shit.”

  Duncan said, “Chance we’ve got to take. Shipment’s coming in less than a week. Something that will set us up for life. If we’re lucky, by the time the Iron Steeds send down another, uh, negotiating team, delivery will be made and they’ll be out of luck.”

  “Hell of a chance.”

  “Didn’t see any other choice.”

  Cameron said, “Surrender, but I guess that’s not an option.”

  “Nope.” He checked his watch and said, “Damn. Running late. Don’t want Karen chewing my butt when I get home.”

  He walked outside and Cameron followed, closing the door. The concrete shed was set adjacent to a fake log cabin building that was Washington County Weapons & Surplus, another one of Duncan’s businesses. A sign dangling from outside the shed said it was Seasonal Deer Butchering: Best Prices Guaranteed. With the concrete floor, sinks, cleaning equipment, and drains inside, it was a good place to take care of challenging business without the fine State Police CSI guys getting all excited about finding blood trace evidence, if anything up here ever did get their interest.

  But Duncan doubted that. The State Police were based in Concord, the state capitol, a very long way down south.

  He walked to his maroon Chevrolet Colorado pickup truck with an extended cab, parked next to his brother’s own dark green Honda Pilot. It was still too cold in April for bikes, though he and his brother would take out their own Harleys soon enough. His right leg ached as he walked.

  Duncan pulled out his keys and suddenly stopped. His brother almost bumped into him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He stayed quiet, looking at the shed and the darkened windows of the gun store. There was nothing else here except a wide dirt and gravel lot, and beyond that, tall pine trees and a few oaks, and farther away, the near range of the White Mountains. He knew the back roads and trails and logging cuts through all of these woods and peaks, and he never tired of looking at the wooded mountains.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Duncan said. “Everything’s wrong. I just got the fe
eling we’ve gotten some people’s attention.”

  “Sure we have,” Cameron said. “A fucking motorcycle gang from Quebec.”

  “No, more than that.”

  Cameron said, “Who, then? Local? County? State? Federal?”

  “Don’t rightly know,” Duncan said. “But I want everything smooth tonight, okay? In fact, make sure Dickie and Tom clean the place a third time. Take out the drains, give ’em a good steam bath as well. You do that, all right?”

  Cameron put his right hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. “You can count on me.”

  “Damn, that’s the truest thing I’ve heard all day.”

  The drive home took forty-five minutes, about thirty minutes longer than it should have. But Duncan took a couple of side roads, turned around in the dirt lot of the American Legion Hall outside of Turner, and sat and listened to the truck radio for a few minutes while parked in front of Jackson’s Old Town Deli and Service Station. He picked up a National Public Radio station from Vermont with an earnest discussion about the current recession, the longest and deepest in American history. Next to him on the truck’s leather seat was the Styrofoam container with his leftover salad. Karen was nagging—she would say gently reminding—about his weight again, and he wanted to show her that at least in this, he was listening to her.

  He shifted the truck into drive, got back out on Route 117. Clear. Nobody following. Nothing in the air.

  Time to go home.

  Home was a simple country-style two-story structure up on the crest of a hill off Old Mill Road, with a wraparound farmer’s porch and attached two-car garage. On the front lawn were a bicycle belonging to his son Lewis and a tricycle belonging to his daughter Amy. Their home was stained dark brown and as he went up the driveway, he recalled the home of his first real boss. Ronnie Gibbons, down near Milan. Ronnie was the biggest weed dealer in this part of the state and had a sprawling McMansion with a big pool and a collection of ATVs, snowmobiles, and bass fishing boats on trailers scattered around the yard. Even one year out of high school, Duncan knew that Ronnie Gibbons was an idiot. His day job was working as a janitor at Turner Regional High School—where Duncan had attended—but he was suddenly rich because of his expertise in setting up light systems to grow weed in abandoned barns around the county and finding scores of willing customers, some who even moved the stuff to Montpelier, Manchester, and Portland.