Vigilante

by Claude Bouchard

  “Work on this with me, Ron,” replied McCall as he stood to shake the reporter’s hand. “And when we get the guy, I’ll make sure you have some advance warning.”

  “Sir, you can count on my support,” Henderson jovially responded.

  He liked exclusives.

  Chapter 28 - Friday, July 26, 1996

  The verification of the messages sent to Henderson had proved fruitless.

  Dave had contacted Chris on the previous afternoon to bring him up to speed on their most recent leads. Chris had already been aware of the mini-van thing; Eileen had told him when he had got home.

  He had been happy however, to learn of the messages to the reporter. Maybe their man would have been less cautious when contacting someone other than the authorities.

  He had contacted Henderson, who had proved to be quite cooperative and extremely knowledgeable about PCs and networks. Since it was routine stuff and Carl was not in the best of moods lately, Chris had decided to look after these messages himself this time. But the verifications had yielded nothing; the Vigilante had taken no chances. It was clear in Chris’ mind that they were dealing with a very intelligent individual.

  * * * *

  The Cayman account was up to $4.3 million.

  ‘$700,000 to go,’ thought Carl. ‘Then we are gone!’

  They could look for him all they wanted after that. The world was a big place with many comfortable, sunny little corners in which to relax incognito.

  He had informed his wife that they would have to leave soon as things were becoming a little tense. She was worried that he would get caught but he had reassured her that this would not, could not happen. As he had told her many times before, the fear kept him much too alert for anyone to ever catch up with him.

  He still hadn’t managed to figure out who was on to him but it didn’t really matter anymore. Whoever his antagonist was, by the time he showed up, Carl Denver would be long gone. The remaining $700,000 would be collected by the end of next week.

  * * * *

  Harris was amazed at how many people owned Chevy Astro and GMC Safari mini-vans. He had asked Reynolds at DMV for a list of such vehicles registered in the province. However, what he had received was more of a book than a list.

  Since he had no idea of the plate number or of the year of the vehicle, the best Reynolds had been able to do was a sort by geographic region. Unfortunately, close to half of the province’s population lived in the greater Montreal area. Adding to his pleasure was the fact that Harris had no idea what he was really looking for.

  With these discouraging bits of information in mind, he slumped down at his desk and commenced the arduous task of reviewing the long alphabetical list of mini-van owners, searching for God knew what.

  * * * *

  For more years than he could remember, Gregory O’Shea had dreamt of owning a cottage in the wild and, with time, the dream had become an obsession. In fact, his wife had left him several years earlier because he refused to undertake the slightest activity which had a cost attached to it. No vacations, few restaurants, never a show. He had to save for the future. He had to save for his castle up north, his retirement home. She had finally left him, out of frustration and boredom.

  Ironically, her departure had marked the beginning of O’Shea’s illegal moonlighting activities. He had been sitting in a bar, a real dive, drinking up a storm and had gotten to talking to a couple of rather crude characters about life, his ex, his dreams and his job.

  Although simply amused at first by this plain looking man’s drunk blabbering, his audience had become quite interested in his job, or more particularly, in the products his employer manufactured. Soon, they had started asking questions about security, ease of access to merchandise and inventory controls. To their surprise and joy, O’Shea had quite openly informed them that, contrary to popular belief, security and control were very low. Sure, the plant was surrounded by barbed wire fences and roaming guards. But like all systems, his employer’s had its flaws; many of them.

  Pleased to have someone to talk to, O’Shea had gone on to brag about his rather impressive collection of automatic and semi-automatic weapons, none purchased, all simply taken from work. Pulling these out, he had explained, was easy and, balancing inventory numbers in the system was even easier.

  When one of his new ‘friends’ had suggested that they might be interested in buying such weapons, O’Shea had become uneasy, realizing that maybe he had talked too much. But then, the second individual had started highlighting the value of arms on the street and how there was money to be made. Sophisticated weapons such as those O’Shea had described would be worth a fortune. Just his small collection alone could buy him several acres of woodland and probably even cover some of the building costs of the second home he longed for. It was something to think about.

  He had thought about it, practically day and night, for a week. He had to consider that, at the age of forty-nine, he was not getting any younger so, the sooner he could build his castle, the more he would benefit from it. In addition, although he already had a fair amount of capital put aside, it was nothing compared to what he could have if he sold a few guns.

  In the end, he had reasoned, if he didn’t do it, somebody else would. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if some of the people he worked with were already doing it. The plant had more than its occasional inventory short.

  He had made his decision. He would fulfill his lifelong dream as well as assure his comfort for his golden years. He had returned to the bar, managed to track down his new ‘friends’ and, he was in business. His initial clients had introduced him to new ones, and so on and, within no time, the cash had been rolling in beyond his wildest expectations.

  Now, three years later, his second home sat on the edge of Lake Sawin, a couple of hours north of the city, nestled among the trees of his 10 acre private wilderness. With its 4,500 square feet of living space, the open-air cottage, equipped with all the possible modern conveniences, was much larger than O’Shea actually needed. But this was his dream, his place.

  He spent all of his free time there with never the danger of getting bored. During the summer, he fished from his twenty-four foot boat and roamed the woods on his four-wheeler or mini-bike. When winter came, it was time for the snow-mobile and cross-country skiing on and around his property. Best of all however, he could practice his favourite hobby year-round; shooting his precious firearms, in his private shooting range.

  Though not an evil man, Gregory O’Shea did not regret what he had done. He realized that distributing the weapons for profit as he had done was both legally and morally wrong. However, he had come to believe that, in the selfish world we live, one had to look out for oneself. This, he reasoned, is what he had done and it had given him his dream; he had his castle.

  * * * *

  “When are you going to stop?” she questioned with concern, watching him as he dressed.

  Sandy was becoming more anxious as time went by. Although she agreed with her husband’s activities, her fear that he would get caught had become constant and she could not bear thinking of living without him. She knew that, one day, he would have to quit, but was no longer certain if he actually realized it.

  “Soon,” he quietly replied. “Real soon.”

  “You know how worried I get,” she insisted. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Nothing will,” he stated. “That, I promise.”

  She sat in silence for a moment, wondering if she should persist or let it go. But she knew that his mind was not easily changed. He would stop when he decided no matter how hard she tried to convince him otherwise. They had had this discussion before, many times.

  “Will you be back tonight?” she asked hopefully.

  “Absolutely. I could never let you sleep alone on a Friday!”

  He reached for her, pulling her into his arms to kiss her.

  “It’s 7:30. I should be back by midnight.”

  “Be care
ful, okay?” she pleaded, her concern still present.

  “I will. I promise,” he responded and she knew he meant it. “Time to go.”

  He walked to the door, then stopped and turned to where she still sat on the bed, staring blankly at nothing in particular.

  “Sandy,” he called softly.

  “Yeah?” she looked up at him.

  “I’ll stop next week. I just have a few more things to do, for me and for you. Next week, I’ll be done. Then, I’ll retire.”

  Without waiting for a reply, none was expected, he turned and headed downstairs.

  A moment later, she heard the rumbling of the garage door followed by the mini-van’s engine and, he was gone.

  * * * *

  Watching Frank’s house, a half a block away from where he was parked, McCall crouched low in the driver’s seat of yet another rental. He still wasn’t sure if he should be amused or disgusted by the clerk’s suggestion at Thrifty’s to open a commercial account to avoid tying up his credit card.

  He had followed Frank home at the end of the afternoon, and had been sitting there, and accomplishing nothing, for close to two hours. It was now 7:05 and he was growing angry and frustrated, having no idea how long he would have to wait this time. For all he knew, Frank might be planning to stay home all night, again, but he had to settle this, once and for all.

  He started reading a magazine to pass the time, glancing up occasionally. He hoped that none of the residents would report his presence to the cops as he did not want to have to explain what he was doing there. Not yet. He dared to check the time again; 7:28 and still no sign of Frank. He was becoming more and more uneasy with each passing moment. He couldn’t stay there all night and began to wonder if he should simply give up and go home. He had already wasted two and a half hours.

  Immediately, his thoughts strayed to the previous Friday, the night the slumlord had been murdered. He had been watching Frank that night and had decided to leave, perhaps too early, and had since regretted it. Anyhow, he had told Cathy that he might be late; Cathy, his ever-understanding wife, who never said a word about his long hours, who never complained about all night stakeouts.

  Such thoughts of Cathy led him to once again reconsider his plans for the evening. What the hell, maybe he should surprise her and show up at a decent hour for once. He was quite aware that he neglected her too much and someday, if he wasn’t careful, he might end up losing her.

  His mind made up, he reached for the ignition to start the car. He was going home. As he touched the key, he saw Frank’s mini-van roll out of the garage and onto the street, heading north, away from him. Swearing, yet relieved, he started the engine and went after Bakes.

  * * * *

  Frank Bakes drove across the city in a north-easterly direction while McCall, who had no idea where his subordinate was going, followed blindly along.

  With half a dozen vehicles separating them, they were rolling along Bernard Street and approaching Park Avenue. As Frank reached the intersection, the traffic light turned yellow and he stepped on the accelerator, racing across Park as the cars behind him came to a halt.

  Not wanting to lose his man, McCall quickly pulled into the right lane but a taxi-cab ahead of him did the same, effectively blocking his path.

  “Jesus Fucking Christ!” Dave swore angrily, pounding the steering wheel in frustration.

  Helpless, he watched in silent disgust as Frank’s Astro made a left turn a few blocks away.

  Following several long minutes of impatient waiting, the light was green again and the traffic started to move.

  Cutting back into the centre lane, amidst several blasts of angry horns, McCall turned where Frank had and slowed down, desperately searching for the mini-van. As expected however, the vehicle was nowhere in sight. He circled several blocks in the area, in vain, before finally giving up.

  He would have to try again another night, he acknowledged, as he headed for home to pay some attention to Cathy.

  * * * *

  Evenings at his castle were Greg O’Shea’s favourite time, especially in the summer.

  On Fridays, he would head north directly from work and was usually there by 7:30. After a couple of beers, he’d fire up the barbecue, cook himself some ribs or a big thick steak and dine on the terrace. By then, nightfall would settle in and he would get a fire going on his small private beach. He could sit by the fire and just listen to nature and watch the stars for hours. That was his routine and this evening was no exception.

  With dinner out of the way, he finished loading the dishes in the dishwasher and went back outside, heading down the steps which led from the terrace to the beach.

  While the ribs had been cooking, he had prepared the fire and all it now lacked was a flame. Settling into his beach chair, he scanned the lake and woods which surrounded him, taking in the wondrous natural beauty which never ceased to amaze him.

  After a moment, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and extracted one, lighting it with a match. Rather than extinguishing the match afterwards, he flicked it, still lit, into the middle of the carefully assembled pile of wood. The crumpled newspaper caught and the flames quickly began to rise, drawing a satisfied chuckle from O’Shea. He played this little game every week and, most of the time, he succeeded. Once in a while, he had to light another match.

  He leaned over to one side and grabbed a fresh can of beer from the cooler. Popping it open, he took a long sip and then stretched back into the chair, sighing in contentment.

  “This is the life,” he said aloud. “I could stay here forever.”

  * * * *

  Although it was getting quite dark, he found his way easily, having made the trip on several occasions in the past.

  It was 9:20, which meant O’Shea would be on the beach, relaxing by the fire. He knew this to be Greg’s usual routine, having confirmed it during previous preparatory visits. O’Shea was a very methodical person, a creature of habit, who did not seem to easily deviate from his set sequence of activities.

  He pulled into a small natural shelter off the side of the road which he had found on his last trip to the area. It offered the perfect camouflage for his vehicle from anybody who might happen to drive by, although passers-by were few and far between at this time. Turning off the engine, he disembarked and starting quietly making his way through the woods, towards the beach.

  * * * *

  O’Shea sat by his fire, lost in his thoughts when the snap of a branch in the woods to his left caught his attention.

  “Who’s there?” he called out loudly, rising from his chair.

  He could see the beam of a flashlight glittering through the thick brush.

  “Sorry if I scared you,” apologized a man’s voice. “Just let me get out of these damned woods.”

  Picking up a piece of firewood which he held as a club, O’Shea took a few steps towards the light.

  “This is private property, you know,” he informed the approaching intruder.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the voice answered. “I got lost.”

  O’Shea, his guard up, waited nervously for the man to emerge. Following a minute or so of additional crackling, the stranger stepped out from among the trees and onto the beach.

  “What are you doing here? This is private property,” O’Shea sternly repeated, as he examined his unwelcome visitor.

  The man definitely didn’t look like a common criminal. Although his clothing was casual, it was obviously of fine quality. Clean cut, he wore a baseball cap and appeared to be in his thirties.

  “I-I didn’t mean to intrude or trespass,” the man sheepishly explained. “I got down here early, when it was light. Came to see some land which is for sale. Started walking around a bit and I lost my bearings. Then it got dark and I was really in trouble.”

  He glanced nervously at the club in O’Shea’s hand. The latter noticed the look and relaxed a bit.

  “Whereabouts were you looking at land?” he questioned the stranger, wanting to en
sure the veracity of the man’s story.

  “Down around the Tremblay’s place,” the intruder replied. “Mr. Tremblay has quite a bit of acreage he wants to part with.”

  O’Shea knew where the man was talking about; a couple of miles south of his place, along the lake. Old man Tremblay did in fact have a parcel of land he was hoping to sell off, if the price was right.

  “Well, you’re a little ways off,” O’Shea snickered as he tossed his club back onto the woodpile.

  “I-I’ve been walking for,” the man glanced at his watch, “Close to two hours,” he sheepishly admitted.

  “Well, you’re safe now,” O’Shea reassured him with a warm smile. “I’ll make sure you get back okay. Name’s Greg O’Shea.”

  He walked towards the man, extending a friendly hand which the stranger grasped firmly as he introduced himself.

  “Ted, Ted Bailey. I’m really happy to meet you Mr. O’Shea.”

  “Call me Greg, Ted. Listen. Now that you’re back to civilization, can I offer you a beer?”

  “Sure,” Ted gratefully accepted. ‘But I don’t want to impose.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” snorted O’Shea. “My pleasure. I spend most of my time here alone. Divorced, ya see. A little company will do me some good if it doesn’t hold you up.”

  “No, that’s fine,” Ted answered. “Now that I know I won’t be spending the night in the woods, I don’t mind staying up here a bit. It’s beautiful country.”

  “It sure is,” agreed O’Shea wholeheartedly. “Have a seat.”

  Gesturing to his chair as he handed Ted a beer, he added, “I’ll just get myself something to park my keister on. Be right back.”

  He strolled onto his dock and unlocked the door of the boathouse. Inside, he moved a few cartons and a cooler to get to the beach-chairs stored behind them. Selecting one, he came back out into the warm night to rejoin his unexpected guest.