The Arx

by Storey, Jay Allan

  Chase had proved indispensable when the Coroner decided to perform a DNA test on the substitute baby in Gloria Hanon’s case. At first he’d pushed hard to quash the idea, but for some reason the Coroner had dug in his heels.

  Implementing ‘Plan B’, Chase had funneled the DNA work to a lab controlled by the Arx, who, after all, were deeply entrenched in many chemical and biological industries, including lab testing. Even if that option hadn’t been available, they could have ensured that the sample used for testing by some independent lab proved the identity of the child – they had the Hanon baby; substituting a sample wouldn’t be difficult.

  Stocker was about as subtle as a stick of dynamite. It was clear from his expression that the pig-headed Lead Detective had an axe to grind with Frank Langer and wasn’t going to let it go. Stocker had been moderately useful over the years, but the danger he now posed far outweighed his usefulness.

  “I need some more work done,” Chase said to someone at the other end of the line. “I’ll get the names and addresses to you by the usual channels. Yes – as soon as possible.”

  ***

  Early one morning in Burnaby, a black Lexus with tinted windows slid to the curb on a side-street, a few blocks from Frank Langer’s house. Two men exited and strolled casually along the sidewalk. Drivers were just beginning their long commute to the city for work. The smell of toast and of frying bacon still wafted into the street. The chatter of the morning TV news echoed from open windows.

  The men were dressed in black business suits. The taller of the two carried a briefcase containing, among other things, a bible and a dozen religious pamphlets. Each had a gun hidden in a shoulder holster. The man with the briefcase sniffed at the air as they approached Frank’s house. He nodded in silence toward the back. His partner nodded in response and headed for a path to the back door.

  The first man walked up and knocked on the front door. There was no answer. He unwrapped a set of tools and picked at the lock, unlatching it in seconds. He entered, removed his shoes, tip-toed to the back and let his partner inside. Both drew their guns.

  They split up and silently searched the house room by room, meeting again back in the living room. No one was home. They searched the closets and located a long orange extension cord. On the ceiling they found the safety hook for the living room fan, sturdy enough to hold a man’s weight.

  They returned to the car, parked on a side-street on a hillside overlooking the house, and waited.

  ***

  The day after his meeting with Deputy Chief Constable Chase, Grant Stocker was still fuming. After work he stomped through the door of his downtown apartment and slammed it behind him, rattling the fading photograph of himself and his ex-wife on a nearby side table. It had been years since she’d left him for another man, but nothing in Stocker’s place had changed.

  Even before the breakup his career had dominated his life; after her departure it had become everything. Stocker dropped the pizza box he was carrying on the dining room table and stood for a moment, his hand resting on the back of a chair for support.

  What angered him the most was that his mentor had been so quick to dismiss his request. After all the shit Stocker had taken, all the laws he’d bent, broken, torn up, doused with gasoline, lit on fire, and thrown in the trash heap… Somewhere deep within his brain he understood that the optics of the force appearing to deflect blame from itself by continuing to punish Frank for the Mastico affair were bad, though as far as he was concerned Frank deserved everything he got.

  With monumental effort, Stocker willed himself into a state of calm. He loosened his belt and his tie, fixed himself a drink, flopped down on the couch with the pizza in his lap, and started to come up with a plan. He could get Human Resources involved, force Frank to submit to yet another psychiatric evaluation; then, if Frank failed… Or he could go over Chase’s head to the Chief Constable himself, though that held its own set of risks.

  He’d just settled into a state of deep concentration when the doorbell rang. It completely disrupted his train of thought and his anger resurfaced. He was so preoccupied that it never occurred to him to check who was at the door before he opened it…

  Catch and Release

  It was dark by the time Frank approached his house after the trip to Mountain View, and he was exhausted. At first he’d been uneasy about going home, but after a careful drive around the neighbourhood and half an hour on a nearby hill watching, he’d seen nothing. He was relieved as he unlocked the door and walked inside, the familiarity offering a brief respite from the horror that his life had become.

  He’d decided to get a change of clothes, proper shoes, and most importantly, a gun locked in the night table by his bed. He was still feeling the ravages of his recent binge, and Ricky’s statement about both his own and Frank’s impending death had rattled his nerves.

  He scoured the front and back yards, double-checked that all the doors were locked and the curtains drawn, and staggered upstairs. He wanted to sleep, even if only for an hour or so, but first he retrieved a key from its hiding place in the closet, and reached to unlock the night table drawer. It was already open a crack. His body tensed; the lock had been broken. He pulled out the drawer. His gun was gone. He looked around. Nothing else had been touched.

  He ran downstairs and was reaching for the front door when he heard a metallic scraping sound on the other side. Through the peep-hole he saw a man in a black suit tinkering with the lock. Frank crouched as he made his way to the kitchen, which had a view of the back patio. Another man stood at the back door, waiting.

  Frank had taken a single step to run back upstairs when the front door opened and a voice yelled: “Freeze!”

  Frank spun around to see the man from the peep-hole holding a gun.

  The man came inside and closed and locked the door. Keeping his gun trained on Frank, he crossed the room and opened the back door for his partner. The back door guy immediately headed for the hall closet, like he’d been there before. He returned with Frank’s own fluorescent orange extension cord, the one he used with his electric lawn-mower. Neither man said another word.

  The one with the gun held it on Frank while his partner climbed onto a chair, strung the cord around a hook in the ceiling, and tested it for sturdiness. Satisfied, he tied one end of the cord to a nearby stair banister and formed the free end into a loop large enough for a head to fit through. Frank swallowed. Their plan was clear; he was to join Lawrence Retigo and unnamed and unnumbered others.

  The one who’d fastened the cord took Frank’s arm, led him to the chair, and motioned for him to climb up. Frank mounted the chair and stood facing the orange noose.

  Frank’s executioner climbed onto another chair and grabbed the noose. His partner continued to hold the gun. Frank scoured his panicked brain for a way out, but came up with nothing. He started to shake and felt weak in the knees. The man with the noose reached out to slip it around Frank’s neck.

  His executioner paused and turned to listen. In the distance, the wail of police sirens approached the house. Frank’s two captors eyed each other. Seconds later headlights tracked across the living room curtains and two cars pulled into Frank’s driveway, sirens blaring. The man holding the noose climbed down to peek through the drawn curtains. His partner lowered his gun and took a step toward the front door. Frank saw his only chance. He leapt off the chair and dove for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  He glanced back. The man with the gun raised it and fired. The bullet whizzed by Frank’s head and tore into the wall beside him. He reached the landing and dove to his right as another shot blasted a hole in the hall closet. Footsteps started up the stairs but suddenly headed back down and Frank heard the back door slam.

  Through the bedroom window he saw his would-be executioners tear through the back gate, down the street, and into an alley. He checked the window on the other side. Two police cars, with lights flashing, blocked his driveway.

  A fist pounded on the front
door.

  “Police!” a voice yelled.

  Frank was confused. The men setting him up to die must either be Ricky’s ‘Arx’ or thugs hired by them, but who were these guys? Were they really cops? They had the cars, but who knew what the Arx were capable of?

  The pounding was replaced by a series of explosive thuds as Frank flew down the stairs, planning to follow his attackers out the back. As he hit the bottom step the front door crashed open and he was face to face with two policemen holding a steel battering ram.

  “Going somewhere?” said a cop just behind them, his gun drawn.

  Frank raised his hands.

  They were soon joined by two others from the back.

  “Frank Langer?” the one with the gun said.

  Frank nodded.

  “You’re wanted for questioning in the death of Detective Grant Stocker.”

  “What!” Frank said. He stood with his mouth open.

  Two of the men grabbed him, one on each arm. They took a cursory glance at the draped extension cord, then led him to an unmarked police cruiser, cuffed his hands, and shoved him into the back.

  Frank was relieved. It looked like they really were cops. One of them sat in the driver’s seat; the other went over and spoke to a pair at the front door. He returned and sat in the passenger’s seat.

  “Grant Stocker’s dead?” Frank said as they drove away.

  “Shut up,” said the passenger cop.

  Frank’s brain was still reeling with the shock of the news. In the rear-view mirror he spotted a black Lexus with tinted windows not far behind them. Several blocks later he checked again and it was still there. He mentioned it to the cops in the front.

  “Shut up,” the cop in the passenger seat said again, but he glanced behind him and confirmed that Frank was right. They continued on the highway into town, their shadow constantly in view.

  The Lexus stayed behind them until they reached the station, then turned a corner too far away to get the license plate. The police parked their car, and roughly shoved Frank toward the station door.

  For a long time Frank sat alone in a holding cell, struggling to piece together what was happening.

  Stocker dead? He ran the thought by again, still trying to comprehend it. One thing he did understand. In the eyes of the world, he had ample motive for killing his former colleague. Frank’s relationship with Stocker was well known, and his humiliation at the last visit had been witnessed by half the detectives in the squad room. He tried to sleep, but the events of the past few days hurtled through his mind like speeding freight trains.

  The place was eerily silent; as far as he could tell he was the only prisoner. Once in a while a male voice would drift in from his right. Frank recognized it as Sergeant Fisk, the officer who had supervised his incarceration. Frank couldn’t hear what was being said. Finally, exhausted, he passed out on the cot in his cell.

  Several hours later he was awakened by Fisk’s voice, rising in volume and echoing loudly down the hallway.

  “But this is a murder investigation!” Fisk shouted. “Stocker was shot with the guy’s gun!”

  Frank’s ears perked up at the conversation. He heard Fisk tapping his foot angrily as he apparently listened to a voice on the other end of the phone line.

  “You’re damned right you’ll take responsibility,” Fisk barked. “And I want the order in writing. I’m not going to take the rap when the shit hits the fan.”

  Behind it all Frank could see the workings of the Arx. He wasn’t sure why they’d wanted Stocker dead. They would understand the onslaught of publicity that would be unleashed with the murder of a senior police detective. They must have had a damn good reason.

  Given that, it was an excellent plan. Kill Stocker, pin the blame on Frank, who had ample motive and was known to be on the edge already, then arrange for Frank to commit suicide at home, out of remorse, by hanging himself with his own extension cord.

  It was ironic that what had probably saved his life was his several days of binge drinking. He hadn’t been at home, or anywhere the Arx could find him, when Stocker was killed.

  He shuddered as he pieced together the meaning of Fisk’s phone conversation. Someone – someone with a lot of clout – was pushing hard for him to be released. A move like that would be highly unusual and hard to explain. Whoever was behind it must be desperate enough to risk their reputation and career.

  He lifted his head and stared at the camera installed on the ceiling, then walked to the front of the cell. He could just make out the forms of the guards stationed at either end of the hallway.

  Suddenly he understood. The invisible hand of the Arx was unable to touch him here at the station, where he might divulge their secrets and eventually find someone to believe him. They needed him outside, out in the world where he could become the victim of an unfortunate ‘accident’ or convenient suicide.

  Right now he was actually much safer in jail. Problem was, it didn’t sound like he was going to stay there for much longer.

  A couple of hours later, as he’d expected and dreaded, a grumbling Sergeant Fisk ordered him released, and the bewildered desk cop handed over his personal belongings and told him he was free to go.

  On the Run

  Frank staggered from the front door of the police station, blinking and shading his eyes against the morning sun. He stood for a moment, staring at the empty street. He guessed that the number of minutes he had left on earth could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

  He’d tried to convince the police that he would be killed if they forced him to leave.

  “You should be jumping for joy,” one of the cops had said. “Walking away from a jam like that? Somebody up there’s looking out for you, big time.”

  Frank reminded them about the Lexus. To humour him, they followed him outside and checked, but it was nowhere in sight. They patted him on the shoulder and told him he was imagining things. They even tried to call Rebecca but there was no answer.

  It occurred to Frank that if they decided he was delusional, they might call for outside psychiatric help. That help might, in fact almost certainly would, turn out to be someone connected with the Arx. Avoiding that possibility was more important than staying inside, so he finally just stumbled down the stairs and hit the sidewalk running.

  He glanced back over his shoulder, down the street where the Lexus had disappeared. As he’d expected, it reappeared a few blocks away, and moved up fast.

  Once he was out of sight of the station, the Lexus stopped. The doors opened. Two men in black suits got out and started to jog after him at a distance. There wasn’t much traffic. He sprinted past a few staring pedestrians.

  They’re waiting until there’s no witnesses around, he thought. They still want to make it look like an accident.

  The men moved closer. Frank was gasping for breath, slowing down. He checked the buildings on either side of the street. Maybe if he could dash into an open doorway he could lose his pursuers. But none of the doors looked open. If he stopped to try one and found it locked he’d be trapped.

  He crossed the street. The two shadows followed. The Lexus stayed on the other side, but kept up with him. His pursuers were quickly closing the gap. He looked ahead and saw nothing, not even a door to duck into.

  His cigarette-scarred lungs burned and he gasped for air as he ran. He wouldn’t be able to keep this up much longer. Just ahead, a wire mesh fence blocked access to a lot-sized pit where a building had been demolished. The public had been using the pit as a dump; it was full of garbage and standing water. A stink rose as Frank approached it.

  Someone had pried open a gap in the fence, just enough to squeeze through. He glanced further up the street. A cross-alley lay less than a block away, a perfect ambush opportunity for his pursuers. They were gaining quickly now; they would be on him in seconds. They split up, one continuing directly for him, the other moving across the street to block his escape. The Lexus raced past him and skidded to a stop next to the cro
ss-alley.

  He had only one chance. On reaching the empty lot he pulled out the mesh flap on the fence and pushed through. There was a narrow lip of earth surrounding the pit. He tried to balance along one side but slid down and ended up knee-deep in the stinking water. He slogged through the sewer-like sludge, past a rat swimming a few feet away.

  He glanced back, expecting to see his pursuer right behind him. To his shock, the man was still outside the fence, prowling along its length like an animal pacing its cage. The man finally pulled out the mesh flap and started to squeeze through. As soon as he found himself inside he recoiled, like he was about to vomit, and fled back through the opening.

  What the hell? Frank thought.

  Frank reached the far edge and had only to climb up the other side. His pursuer signaled to the other, and pulled out a gun. In a panic, Frank leapt onto the far bank. He clawed his way to the top and hunted for another break in the fence at the back.

  On the street, the second pursuer, also reluctant to enter the pit, steeled himself and pushed through the flap. He slid down into the stinking water, a horrified expression on his face. His partner pointed his gun at Frank.

  A third man appeared, the driver from the car. Frank dove into the mud as a shot whizzed over his head.

  I guess they gave up on making it look like an accident, he thought.

  He found another gap in the fence and desperately shoved through it as a bullet tore a chip out of a brick beside him.

  He emerged in a filthy alley, out of sight of his pursuers. He stared back behind him at the fence and the rotting garbage and his throat constricted. Darkness began to descend. The shadows of the buildings pressed in like the jaws of a vise.