Thirteen to None

by Claude Bouchard

  Thirteen to None

  A novel by

  Claude Bouchard

  THIRTEEN TO NONE

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2013 by Claude Bouchard

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.

  Published by Claude Bouchard

  Dedication

  It seems strange, even somewhat surreal to say it but, I have fans, or at least my books do. As a writer, there is little more gratifying than having someone tell me they enjoyed my book, loved a character I created or are impatiently waiting for my next work. These same people help spread the word about my writing, simply out of the goodness of their hearts because they liked what I had to offer.

  That said, I dedicate this book to my fans which include fine folks like Mark Aaron Carlisle in the U.K., Maria Hoffer in Germany and Norway’s Janne Olsen. Obviously, I’ve gained my fair share of American supporters with the likes of Gracey Castro, Leigh Dudenhoeffer, Ann Doherty Jurmain, Yvonne Taylor, Lee Carey, Eric B. Thomasma and Amber Norrgard, to name but a few. And no fan base would be complete without Canada’s Catherine Croix or France’s Anne de Forsan.

  So, to all my fans, I thank you because without you I’d just be a guy who writes stuff instead of being an actual author.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue – Sunday, June 16, 2013

  Chapter 1 – Monday, June 17, 2013

  Chapter 2 – Friday, June 21, 2013

  Chapter 3 – Saturday, June 22, 2013 - 1:55 p.m.

  Chapter 4 – Saturday - 2:21 p.m.

  Chapter 5 – Saturday - 3:02 p.m.

  Chapter 6 – Saturday - 3:33 p.m.

  Chapter 7 – Saturday - 3:50 p.m.

  Chapter 8 – Saturday - 3:57 p.m.

  Chapter 9 – Saturday - 4:32 p.m.

  Chapter 10 – Saturday - 4:49 p.m.

  Chapter 11 – Saturday - 5:24 p.m.

  Chapter 12 – Saturday - 5:41 p.m.

  Chapter 13 – Saturday - 5:49 p.m.

  Chapter 14 – Saturday - 6:02 p.m.

  Chapter 15 – Saturday - 6:47 p.m.

  Chapter 16 – Saturday - 7:10 p.m.

  Chapter 17 – Saturday - 7:19 p.m.

  Chapter 18 – Saturday - 7:32 p.m.

  Chapter 19 – Saturday - 7:44 p.m.

  Chapter 20 – Saturday - 7:58 p.m.

  Chapter 21 – Saturday - 8:18 p.m.

  Chapter 22 – Saturday - 8:24 p.m.

  Chapter 23 – Saturday - 8:42 p.m.

  Books by Claude Bouchard

  Prologue – Sunday, June 16, 2013

  Butch Kincaid turned off the shower, grabbed a thick towel on the rack by the glass door and got busy drying himself off. The others had already left but he had been unable to resist taking advantage of the expansive marble shower before heading back to the campground at nearby Presqu’ile Provincial Park. His delay wasn’t a bad thing as it would give his crew time to take down the campsite and load up their gear. After all, he wanted them to hit the road early to get some decent mileage out of the day and get to their next location.

  Done with the towel, he dropped it to the floor as he stepped out of the shower then searched for and found a deodorant stick which he was certain his hosts wouldn’t mind his using. He took a couple of minutes to brush back his long, damp hair before tying it into a ponytail then slipped into his jeans, boots and a new golf shirt he had found in the adjoining bedroom.

  His bathroom activities completed, he left the master suite of the lavish home and strolled down the hallway to the kitchen. Amidst the jumbled array of mostly empty liquor bottles on the granite-topped kitchen island, he noticed that the bottle of Grand Marnier – Cuvée de Centenaire which he had favoured the night before still had an inch or so of liqueur in it.

  Smiling, he ambled over, pulled the cork top out and drained the last few ounces in one hearty swig before heading down the stairs to the spacious den in the basement to join his hosts.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he announced as he entered the room. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bathroom as fancy as yours and when I saw that shower, damn, it’s bigger than most of the hotel rooms I’ve ever stayed in. Do you realize you have four showerheads in there? Anyhow, I couldn’t help myself and once I got in, I kind of lost track of time a bit. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Fred Copley, the sixty-something year old owner of the home, peered up at Butch with his remaining good eye and shook his head before rasping, “When are you leaving?”

  “I have overstayed my welcome,” Butch admitted, “But don’t you worry, I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

  “Are you planning to leave us like this?” asked Copley, gesturing to the duct tape with which his wrists and ankles were bound to the armchair.

  Butch shrugged. “I can’t really set you free, can I? You just might find it in you to go get some help before me and my crew get out of the area. I don’t want any trouble so I can’t take that risk.”

  Fred turned his head slowly, his neck stiff, and gazed at his unconscious wife, her naked, bruised and battered body spread-eagled on their central coffee table, her wrists and ankles securely taped to the legs.

  “Can you at least get a blanket to cover my wife?” Fred asked, “Just to keep her warm?”

  “Don’t worry, good buddy,” Butch replied. “I’ll make sure you both stay nice and warm.”

  He headed down a hallway to another staircase which led to a side entrance and returned shortly with two five gallon canisters of gasoline which he proceeded to splash on furniture, throw-rugs, wood paneled walls and pine flooring in and around the den and down the hallway, ignoring Copley’s whimpering pleas as he went. After all, he prided himself in being a cold-hearted son of a bitch.

  Within minutes, he was back at the side door, pouring the last of the second canister onto the pine steps. He threw the empty container downstairs then pulled out a full book of matches, striking one with which he lit the others. As the matchbook flared, he tossed it onto the gasoline soaked steps and watched the flames quickly rise and spread.

  In no time, the fire was progressing to his satisfaction and he left the house, leaving the side door open to ensure sufficient air for his growing inferno. Without looking back, he climbed onto his motorcycle, cranked the engine to life and headed back to the campground to hook up with his waiting crew.

  Chapter 1 – Monday, June 17, 2013

  Captain Dave McCall shook his head in disgust as he read the National Police Information Network’s new activity report, a compilation of data regarding recently committed crimes across the country. Though he concentrated mainly on the goings-on in the Montreal area, he generally scrolled through those in other regions, particularly elsewhere in Quebec, in the neighbouring province of Ontario and in other major Canadian cities, to keep abreast of present-day criminal activity.

  The entry which currently outraged him related to a double homicide in Brighton, Ontario, a small, quiet town with a growing retirement population some four hundred kilometres west of Montreal. A motorist driving along County Road 64 had noticed flames and smoke billowing from a large, wooded property outside of town and called 911. Several hours had been required to extinguish the blaze which had seriously damaged the lavish ranch-style home.

  Inside, the bodies of sixty
-six year old retired business executive, Fred Copley, and sixty-four year old Denise Copley, his wife, had been found. Though the fire had not spared them, it had also not succeeded in completely eradicating the bruises, burns and lacerations which marred their bodies, nor their duct tape bindings. Foul play was blatantly obvious. Broken dishes, glassware and pottery, slashed paintings and smashed furniture made it clear their home had been trashed and authorities suspected a number of people had been involved based on the vast quantity of empty beer, wine and liquor bottles and hundreds of cigarette butts which littered every corner of the once luxurious home. The absence of any cash and jewellery as well as a variety of missing entertainment and computer equipment suggested that theft could be added to the list of committed crimes.

  McCall’s mobile phone trilled and his mood brightened some as he glanced at the call display, noting the caller was his long time friend, Chris Barry.

  The two men had met seventeen years earlier, shortly after McCall, then a lieutenant, had started heading Montreal‘s Special Homicide Task Force. Chris, who at the time ran the operations of a major computer security firm, had provided invaluable assistance to McCall, resulting in the solving of the high profile Vigilante serial murder case.

  Already financially comfortable, Chris had literally made a fortune a few months later when the firm he worked for, of which he owned twenty percent, had been acquired at a premium in a friendly takeover. Though only thirty-five at the time, he had not undertaken any search for subsequent employment, wishing to take a break and spend some time with his wife, Sandy, while he considered his options. His hiatus, however, had been of short duration.

  No sooner had Chris ceased working than he had been approached by Jonathan Addley, a former military officer who ran Discreet Activities, a little known division of the Ministry of Defence, involved in covert operations. Particular talents Chris had demonstrated while involved with the Vigilante case had attracted Addley’s attention and he had urged the former computer security executive to embark on a new career path, that of clandestine government operative. Chris had agreed and neither had ever regretted their decisions.

  Throughout the years since, Chris had remained active in the business community, sitting on the board of directors of various firms. Three years earlier, during a meeting at a branch of the Imperial National Bank, he had suddenly found himself in the middle of a bank heist turned hostage taking. Thanks to his efforts and with the assistance of others, the robbery attempt had been thwarted and the culprits eliminated.

  Amongst those who had helped take the robbers down was bank employee, Leslie Robb, a bright, gorgeous redhead of the lesbian persuasion and well versed in martial arts. Jonathan Addley and another operative had also been involved in bringing the ordeal to an end and once it was all over, Leslie had begged Jon to allow her onto his elite team. Jonathan had agreed and Leslie had since proven to be a valuable asset on numerous occasions.

  As their fields of endeavour somewhat overlapped, all had had opportunity to deal with McCall professionally over time. Though the captain, who had prided himself in being a ‘by-the-book’ cop throughout his career, did not always approve of their less conventional methods of dealing with criminals, respect and friendship had ensued nonetheless.

  “Good morning, Chris,” Dave answered. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Jon, Josée, Leslie and Dominique are spending the weekend with us for the Fête Nationale festivities,” said Chris, referring to the June 24th holiday in Quebec, “And we’d love it if you and Cathy joined the party.”

  “A long weekend at the Barry residence in Knowlton?” Dave replied. “How could I refuse?”

  “There’s no way in hell you could,” Chris agreed. “The weather is looking good and Jonathan and Josée will be bringing their new Murphy Moose.”

  “Moose?” Dave repeated. “Couldn’t they just get a dog?”

  Chris laughed. “It’s their latest flying toy, a five passenger seaplane.”

  “Ah, that ‘build it yourself’ kit they bought,” Dave remembered. “Will we have to go for a spin?”

  “Jon assured me we had nothing to worry about,” Chris replied. “He had the head mechanic at HeliPro assisting him every step of the way.”

  “In that case, I’ll give it a go,” said Dave. “When would you like us to get there?”

  “The others are coming over late Friday afternoon. We’ll grill some steaks for dinner and figure out our plans for the weekend.”

  “That works fine for me,” said Dave. “I’ll check with Cathy but I’m sure she’ll be game. It’s been a while and it will be great to see you guys. Thanks for brightening my day.”

  “You know you can always count on me, buddy.” Chris replied. “See you on Friday.”

  * * * *

  Butch strolled back into the clearing after having gone to relieve himself and smiled as he noted that someone had already hung his hammock chair from an overhanging limb of a giant maple tree. Next to the chair stood a cooler on top of which a cold open beer awaited him. He dropped into the chair and raised the bottle to his lips, draining half its contents in one swig. Letting out a satisfying belch, he gazed at the disciplined activity around him as his crew set up camp. As he watched them go about their tasks, his thoughts drifted back to when it had all started, six years earlier, when he had left his home town with a handful of devoted followers.

  Named Ronald at birth, Butch had demonstrated zealous interest at an early age in the butchering activities which followed his father’s occasional hunting trips. His insistence on helping skin and cut up whatever game his father brought home had soon earned him the nickname Butcher. With time, this had been shortened to Butch and stuck while the name Ronald had become little more than a vague memory.

  Home had been a run-down farmhouse near Exeter, Ontario, rented from a farming family who still exploited the land but had no use for the tiny dwelling once the grandparents had passed. Life there had been rocky with his father, a violent, two bit, low-life criminal and his mother, a drunk and a whore. Beatings had been frequent when his father was around though the old man’s uncanny ability to get arrested and imprisoned had provided regular breaks from the violence. Money, food and other necessities had consistently been scarce so shoplifting, B&Es and other means of producing illegal gains had quickly become common survival activities for Butch.

  By the age of fifteen, Butch had determined he shared two traits with his father; a defiance of authority and a propensity for violence or, more specifically, inflicting pain. However, in Butch’s mind, that was where the similarities had ended. Where his father had spent more than half of his thirty-six years on the planet in various jail cells due to his stupidity, Butch had never had any run-ins with the law, always carefully thinking out and planning any crime he committed.

  His attendance already sporadic at school, he had ceased going altogether at the age of sixteen when he and his mother had moved from Exeter to Dresden shortly after his father had died, the victim of multiple stab wounds while in town one night. With no clues or witnesses and in consideration of the victim’s past dealings with the authorities, the case had quickly gone cold. More so than ever, Butch had been particularly careful in the preparation of his father’s murder.

  If possible, their new home in Dresden, another dilapidated abandoned farmhouse, had been even smaller and more decrepit than the one they had left in Exeter. While his mother entertained various men from the rural area in the ramshackle hovel for booze and cash, Butch had spent his time roaming the town, fields and woods, continuously honing his survival techniques.

  It was then he had discovered his instinctual talent to provide for himself, regardless of his surroundings. He had soon put together an adequate shelter in a seldom frequented wooded area where he had spent as much time if not more than at his mother’s shack. Anything he’d needed, he found in homes, barns and garages in the area or in stores in town. Local farms had provided a variety of food, ev
en in colder months, thanks to an abundance of greenhouses. As for meat, which he enjoyed, he had quickly become adept at catching small local fauna to satisfy his carnivorous needs. Dealing with his prey had been his first ventures in making other creatures suffer although his first true urges would only surface a few years later.

  Though somewhat of a loner, he had met and become friends with a few other boys in town as the months went by, whom he eventually allowed to visit his quasi-permanent home in the woods, once they had gained his trust. Impressed by the particular lifestyle Butch had created for himself, his friends had started looking up to him as their unspoken leader and had soon begun to bring him gifts, generally stolen goods, as a show of support and admiration. Not one to overlook an opportunity when he saw one, Butch had quickly taken to suggesting desired items as needs arose to further improve his living conditions.

  More time had passed and, under Butch’s guidance and directives, his crew, as he called them by then, had begun to generate a steady flow of income through the theft and resale of a variety of new and used merchandise as well as drug distribution. By the time Butch had turned eighteen, he had enough cash amassed, and then some, to buy himself his first means of transport, a Harley Davidson Sportster. The purchase had been made by and the motorcycle registered to Ratcliff ‘Rat’ McKeown, his most trusted friend, as Butch had no driver’s license and no intention of getting one.

  That evening, amidst drinks and joints to celebrate his new acquisition, Butch had informed his crew of five that he would be leaving town to make his fortune with no plans to return. When they had expressed dismay, he had told them they were welcome to join him, as long as they abided by his rules and followed his orders. He intended to build an empire and to do so successfully would require firm leadership on his part and strict adherence to his plans by all members of the crew. Three days later, they had left Dresden, Butch on his Harley followed by his five subordinates piled into Rat’s old, rusty Westfalia, on a quest to explore the world and find their destiny under the guiding hand and iron fist of Butch Kincaid.