 |
| Teddy: all calm, like a cucumber. |
Chapter Twenty-Three
They had Gagnon tied to a chair…
They had Gagnon tied to a chair, and it was about to get ugly.
“Okay, Frenchie, where’s the money?” This was Two, (Ted Hiltz.)
Gagnon tried to shrug in answer. While he couldn’t quite do it, they got the idea.
“We don’t want to hurt you.” Two smacked Frenchie across the face.
The prisoner was bound and blindfolded, but not gagged while under interrogation.
“Ah, yes, Sergeant Pepper’s lonely hearts club.” Gagnon had a cool that took the breath away. “You guys are the only ones in town that call me that.”
“I’m not taking your shit, man. I’m the one with a gun and you’re the one that’s tied up.” That was One, (Jeff McCabe.)
“So fuckin’ do it.” Gagnon gave them a grin. “Don’t just stand there running your dirty cunt mouth off about it.”
“I’ll pound your head in with a rifle butt, you fucking frog…fuckin’ froggie.” One again.
“We’ll burn you with cigar butts.” This was Three, (Morden.)
“Ah. I knew it, I smelled the shit in your pants when the cat dragged you in.” Gagnon had nothing but contempt.
Morden chuckled in spite of himself. He sipped at his whiskey, which seemed appropriate for the occasion. He had nothing personal against the stranger. It was his third double. He sat there with his thirty-odd-six across his knees. He was careful to point it at a blank wall. There was nothing out there but trees and grass. He decided not to lean over backwards, onto the back legs of the chair. Alcohol and firearms were not a good mix, after all.
“Who do you think you are?” This was the one known as Four, (Slick Wilson.)
“Get me a beer, punk. Who the fuck are you? A gutless piece of shit.”
“Are you drunk, Mister Gagnon?” Four inquired politely enough.
The other three raised their eyebrows but then Ted nodded vigorously. Good stuff, keep it up, he pantomimed.
“So, you would like a beer, eh, sir?” Four chucked a cold one all over the man.
“Thank you, that’s very refreshing.” The prisoner was still smiling, albeit ruefully.
“I never would have expected that from you.” Gagnon spoke in the direction of Wilson.
Wilson flushed beet red.
“What do you mean?”
Gagnon guffawed at that but made no answer.
“Well, listen, mister, all we want is the money—it don’t have to become personal.” Three speaking up again.
“It don’t?”
“No, it don’t.” Three kept on. “All we want is the money. We would much prefer not to have to kill you. We will if you give us any trouble.”
“Then why not do it now, and save yourselves a lot of grief? No, it is because you are too professional.”
“You don’t have to draw us a picture, Gagnon. Until we get the money, you’re relatively safe. It’s just a matter of pain, I guess, and sitting in the chair pissing yourself, and shitting yourself, and doing without food and water and heat.”
“So it’s just a matter of time, then?”
“Yup.” One, McCabe again. “Just a matter of time.”
 |
| Jeff: just a matter of time. |
“And you’re not going to put me out of my misery? You’re going to make me go through all that? Fuck, that could take weeks. The human body can probably go two weeks without food, and at least a week without water.” Gagnon paused to consider the facts, of which he was perhaps more cognizant than the conspirators, due to his military training, the basic boot-camp survival course. “Now, I admit the cold can be a problem. But in your favor is the fact that we are in a shed or a barn, out of the wind, stuff like that.”
He exhaled, taking another breath.
“Time is definitely on your side. You left my coat on so I wouldn’t freeze? Well, there’s a lot of money at stake, eh? Two hundred fifty thousand, right?”
“What do you mean?” Slick Wilson, Four, didn’t get it at first.
“Well, what do you think I mean?”
They all looked at each other, trying to silently communicate their excitement on the one hand, and disappointment on the other.
“He’s lying, he’s lying.” Ted mouthed it in silent, feral frustration.
“What do you mean, two hundred fifty thousand?” Morden, in a menacing tone.
“Are you guys still wearing masks? Yes, that makes sense. That way if your wife comes looking for you, you can tell her it’s like a club, or a lodge, or something.” Gagnon, seemingly muttering to himself. “You’re like, ah, hazing a new member…shit like that. It’s always good to have an excuse, like, eh, boys?”
“Shut up, Frenchie.” Ted Hiltz, provoked by the whip-like cracks of sarcasm from the prisoner, snapped suddenly.
He smacked Gagnon back and forth across the face, Jean’s head whipping left and right from the impacts.
“But I thought you were trying to make me talk?” Jean groaned in feigned confusion. “Now you want me to shut up. You are confused then. You don’t know what you want, eh?”
Gagnon’s blindfold swung around to regard Slick Wilson square in the eye. Poor Slick was pacing back and forth and standing by the door.
“I thought I told you to get me a beer, punk, you fuckin’ goofy piece of shit.” Gagnon snapped it out with authority.
Slick had a gut-wrenching shot of adrenalin go through him. It straightened him right up. This whole thing wasn’t working out. He was damned tired of all this shit, staying up all night to follow the guy, three hours sleep, and then watch the guy some more. It was taking its physical toll. He was learning the rest of everyday life doesn’t just quit and go away when you’re distracted. It was like working while you had the flu.
“I’m going out for a piss. I think I will get the man a beer. It’s the least we can do. You know what? I’m going into town and get a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. And you’re not getting any, Frenchie.”
“The Taliban got nothing on you.” Frenchie spat sideways, not really trying to hit anyone or anything. “That’s just fuckin’ ruthless.”
The prisoner shook his head in disgust.
“You really know how to hurt a guy.” Frenchie was going on, and Teddy howled in delight.
“So you’re going to make me sit here all night and smell that stuff.”
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| Harry's 30-odd-six. |
“It may come to that.” Morden kept talking to the prisoner, as Slick went out the door to get some more beers from the snow and beer-filled cooler in the bed of his pickup.
“Give the man a drink.” Morden suggested it as Slick returned in a couple of minutes.
His bladder had been relieved as well.
“You do it—Three—I have to get the truck out of here. And I really am hungry.”
“Which one of you is tarrying the night with a poor stranger?”
“What difference does it make?” Slick’s patience had just about run out.
“Don’t leave me with that fucking queer, because honestly, I just don’t think I could stand that. Just kill me, okay? Make it easier on all of us, and disappoint his perverted lust.”
“Who? Which one?” Slick spoke disjointedly, his exhaustion creeping up on him, making him half loony, not quite caring anymore.
His hypoglycemia made him crash pretty hard when he hadn’t eaten or rested.
Gagnon was giggling pointedly, determined to make things real for them.
“Who fucking cares?” Wilson finally muttered, turning and leaving with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Your buddy’s going to call the cops.” Gagnon gloated at them or tried to.
Slick heard it out of the corner of his hearing, but he just kept going. Let them boys have him…Slick had had a long day.
***
In cases like this, the best thing to do is not to panic, and keep hope alive, Sergeant Cournoyer knew. It was a cop’s worst nightmare, a child missing. So far there was no hint of abduction. Too many of those were left unresolved, with mystery children scattered all over North America, and the rest of the world, for that matter.
No eye-witnesses, no clear time frame, no suspicious persons or vehicles in the neighborhood. There was a certain window, perhaps forty minutes to an hour. The Sergeant understood that people really didn’t live their lives by a stopwatch, but this incident could have easily been prevented. He must be careful not to let any blame or resentment show to the victim’s family.
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| Cops on scene. |
According to the child’s mother, Kiera Isaacs, her husband had abandoned her about six years ago. So, she threw him out and he had just kept on going—an old story, perhaps a conclusion that wasn’t justified, but. She had quite a lot to say about him, including the fact that he was never around. The woman was clearly under the effect of anti-depressants, which in the opinion of Sergeant Cournoyer actually did more harm than good in a lot of cases. He wasn’t particularly startled when she told him her ex-husband was the father of Caitlynn, her age about four and a half according to her grandmother. She had shown up several minutes after the first units were on scene. While the mother’s mind tended to wander all over the place, the grandma was tightly focused, and pretty tightly-wrapped as well.
She was shouting and screaming and berating the cops more than the child’s mother.
A strong smell of alcohol wafted from her gaping maw, rimmed in brilliant magenta lipstick and all wet-looking. It was all you could do to be patient sometimes. After thirty-two years on the job, you became pretty objective. Professionalism was all that kept you from going postal on the victims, sometimes. But that was harsh. People who were upset behaved differently than when the very same people were on their best behavior.
Ricketts was handling the half-crazy, fat old woman pretty well, he noted with some satisfaction. The constable was making careful notes and not allowing himself to be rushed.
Bursts of radio traffic emanated from their monitors, and the Sergeant kept an ear peeled on them. This was only one incident. He had to keep situational awareness on a number of other calls as well, and filter out what was insubstantial.
“So, the little girl is a bit over one metre you figure?” He tried the grandma again. “She’s blonde, brown-eyes, about thirty kilos? And she’s wearing a pink and white snow-jumper kind of thing, with white boots?”
The old woman was being gently restrained, by Constable Mary Puslinch who stood at her side, with the woman’s left arm in a careful, restrictive yet unobtrusive hold. She beamed at the woman every time they made eye contact, and seemed sincere and reassuring, and above all else, very, very gentle. Respectful.
“Nine’s clear.” The sergeant heard this from his belt radio speaker.
He stepped back from the interview process and clicked on his microphone.
“Nine, I want you to take a drive by Macdonald Park, and then Bill Davis School. There’s a little toboggan hill out back there. You’re looking for a little girl in pink and white snowsuit, and white boots. The mom says a red hat, but then she got confused.” Cournoyer waited.
“We’re at the school now. We’re going to talk to some kids here. We’ll come back in a minute or two.” Nine reported. “We’ll get to the hill in Macdonald Park in five or six minutes.”
“Thank you, Soupy Two out.” Cournoyer acknowledged.
For a moment he listened to other chatter on the radio, requests for information from an auto accident, talk between the officer and dispatcher, some other units just finishing up and clearing out from other incidents. Soupy Two referred to his status as shift supervisor number two. As long as nothing else came up, he could spare a couple more cars for a bigger sweep. Sergeant Cournoyer looked at his Rolex. The call came in at nine forty-two a.m. It took six minutes for a unit to respond, and eight minutes had elapsed since that time. While there wasn’t much snow left on the ground, there were still wide, flat drifts that were taking on a grainy, settled look, and the kid probably just wandered off in search of some other kids and a toboggan run.
“Steve is working out in Fort McMurray.” The older woman was telling Ricketts.
“When was the last time he was around here?” Ricketts, patiently taking notes.
“He visited Caitlynn about a year and a half ago.” The grandma was at least lucid when she had calmed down. “It was in the summer. June, I think. It was a supervised visit. The Children’s Aid was here.”
“But you don’t think anyone took the child?”
“No, we were on the phone, and then I asked her where she was, and she said outside, and then when she looked, Caitlynn was just gone…”
“Four?” Cournoyer back on his radio.
“Go ahead, Four here.”
The Sergeant stepped back again.
“I want you to get down to Alvin Street and start canvassing a few of the neighbors.”
“Two minutes away.”
“Thank you.” The sergeant spoke calmly, by force of habit, discipline, and training.
It was enough to make you weep, sometimes, and it struck the sergeant that all the creeks were running high. A mental map of the neighborhood sprang up unbidden in his mind.
“Three, are you clear yet?”
The child had disappeared during a forty-minute to one-hour time frame. Fuck.
His heart started to thump a little heavier. Fuck.
“Three?” This wasn’t looking good.
Either Caitlynn was with a friend, at a neighbor’s, or it was already too late.
***
 |
| Survival of the best adapted... |
The coyote sniffed around, learning everything it could about the household and its immediate environs. Being the trickster that he was, he made sure to leave signs of his passing, which included knocking a plastic garbage can over, and spraying urine all over the door frame by the back patio. The dogs in the kennel were restive, sensing a presence.
The trickster snuffled around behind the barns and the sheds, more out of curiosity than any real hunger or need. He had dined well on mice earlier that day, although that’s not to say he would turn up his nose at a particularly odiferous tid-bit if one should be offered. He always enjoyed the stinky, fishy taste of a badly-rinsed tuna-fish can or salmon-tin. Right now he was confirming the source of an amazing smell that could only have come from one place. Sometimes he caught a hint of the ineffable aroma of lightly-spiced deep-fried chicken from kilometres away. He resolved not to miss out on the opportunity. Sooner or later he would find it in the garbage. The thing was to beat out all the competition. That meant sticking close, and using all of his skills, such as anticipation and problem-solving. Patience and flexibility were the keys to success.
All but invisible in the fog, with his thick, soft winter coat of mouse-grey fur, three inches deep at the blackened tips of its silky guard hairs, the mischievous one stalked around behind the sheds. The animal momentarily put his paws up on a low window ledge and looked into the room, lit by a single bulb hanging on a wire pigtail from a roof truss. He moved on. The coyote stopped from time to time to lightly run his tongue under a leg, grooming himself constantly as well as making a very unpredictable target. It allowed him time and attention to listen, tuning in with his tall, tapering ears, tufted with a lighter paleness on the inside. Impulsive at best, his erratic wanderings were his best defense against surprise and ambush. The key to his survival was a constant awareness of his surroundings. This creature of the shadows could find his dinner with his nose to be sure, but his ears, and to a lesser extent his eyes, were formidable tools indeed. And the coyote had a very good brain, while his morals were of the expediency school of philosophical thought.
From time to time the rumble of voices could be heard inside one of the buildings, which towered above the trickster. It was of timber and plywood construction, painted orange and evidently purchased at auction from some bankrupt contractor’s closing sale.
The shed sat on wooden girders as thick as railroad ties, but they weren’t tarred. The smell of creosote was missing, which the ghost-grey coyote would have scented from three hundred metres away. The coyote was familiar with the ways of men, and familiarity breeds contempt. He watched and listened as one went up to the house. Ah--a bathroom break. Now he had three sets of sounds and smells inside the shed.
Because of the untutored nature of his mind, his ability at mathematics might be underestimated, but the coyote could count fairly well. The days and the nights were all the same over the short term, but a mother coyote wouldn’t lose one of her pups, and if three rabbits go into a hole and only two come out, that should tell you something.
Coyotes can dream. They can lie there and twitch, gamboling in half-remembered fields of their youth, tongue lolling out, white-rimmed eyes partly-open but rolled back in a languid sleep that can be snapped out of in a heartbeat.
Fifty kilograms in weight and over half a metre high as he bounded along as silent as a ninja, he had a big silly grin on his face that could not be mistaken for foolishness. The coyote has a sense of humor, a remarkable indicator of his overall mind-power. By keeping varmints and rodents down, he makes a surprisingly valuable contribution to society. With his occasional friend and ally the owl, the pair made a pretty good team.
He had one major character flaw.
A prankster, he knew how to take advantage of a situation in order to extract the maximum of entertainment.
***
 |
| Molly: children will do that to you... |
When Molly called, Janet was blessed to have a free minute available. Jason was off with a couple of friends to see a Saturday matinee movie downtown, and Ashley was down for what looked like at least a two-hour nap. These were infrequent but welcome. A red blush on Ashley’s left cheek was a sure sign that she was over-stimulated. The doctor had told Janet it was a birthmark and nothing to worry about.
“Oh, Molly. I can’t believe how tired I am.”
“Children will do that to you.” Molly sniffled, having picked up a cold from her kids.
Any parent of school-age children suffered the same fate. They picked up every bug that came to town.
“Still, you’d a thunk you might have gotten used to it by now. No, I sense more.”
“Jean was here last night.”
“Ah-ha.” A not unexpected reply. “Does he have a big, hairy chest?”
“We just watched TV. You have a filthy mind, girl.”
“Just watching TV can get pretty intense, pretty physical.” Moll, going on old memories.
Janet was having another of her moments, a kind of flashback, or more accurately, a flash-forward to what the relationship might become. These frankly pornographic thoughts were quite a fixture in her mind lately. Did Jean un-dress her in his mind? Did he lust after her body? She assumed that surely he must, and this thought alone was disturbing, in a purely physical way. You couldn’t argue with the logic of the glands, she was learning. The thought of him thinking of her naked body, tortuous as it was, was definitely stimulating.
“Janet?”
“Mmn, yes. It can.”
This brought a moment of stunned silence from her friend.
“What happened?” Molly breathed, waiting.
Janet’s ear was beginning to hurt, and her arm ached from being all crooked up like that, so she quickly changed sides.
“You’re never going to believe it, so I’ll just tell you anyway.” Janet began. “When he squeezed in a little closer, and I knew he was going to put his arm around my shoulders…he kind of accidentally put his hand on my breast.”
“What? Really? So he’s coming along then?” There was hope for the man yet. “It’s his third time over there, for Pete’s sakes.”
“I think he meant to get my shoulder, actually. I gave a funny little cough and cleared my throat or something, and when he looked over he just went beet red and snatched his hand away so quick.” Janet’s deprecatory chuckle was as nothing to the roar of laughter that convulsed Moll. “It’s just that he’s so tall. I’m almost sure it was an accident.”
“What did you do?”
Janet was only five-foot-three.
“I reached up, grabbed his arm, and put it around me again.” Janet didn’t mean to brag, it was just a fact. “Oh, God, Moll, I thought I was going to give myself a heart attack, but I did it.”
“Good for you. You go girl. I’m proud of you. You know, when you’re ready, you’ll be able to grab his hand and put it on your boob.”
“Damn it, every time I look at Jean, I think of Don. The thought gives me the shakes, it really does.” It was a confession, but one that needed to be made…
As for the forbidden thought of putting out her hand and grabbing something on her own initiative, she didn’t think she dared.
“I know.” Moll was quiet for a moment. “This too shall pass. What you need to do is submerge yourself in something new.”
Janet had no response.
“Don’s ghost right there with you and all.”
Janet grimaced, and thought about that one a bit. The great thing about Moll was that she could always make you laugh at yourself.
 |
| Enough time goes by, you get your virginity back. |
“I guess if enough time goes by, you get your virginity back.” The observation brought fresh peals of laughter from Moll.
“Janet Herbert, you are just priceless.” Moll was apparently in hysterics.
She grimaced at the thought of Janet looking over Jean’s shoulder and seeing Don’s ghost while they made love. There were a few seconds of silence from Janet. Moll waited.
“I’m always comparing them, you know?” Janet’s voice was low, quiet and Moll strained to hear.
Molly reflected that women who divorce their husbands rarely have much good to say about them, while widows often idealized their deceased loved ones. It made you think sometimes. Janet was suffering survivor’s guilt, or something. She’d seen it in Cosmo.
There but for the grace of God go I, thought Moll. It’s one reason why she had to help her friend. Janet was such a sweet person, and it was time she got out there again. Sooner or later the ghost of Don would fade away.
Janet sat on an angle with her knees drawn up around her, hugging them with one arm. She couldn’t help but notice that the white floral couch that she had taken such pride in, the first new item of furniture purchased by Don and her when they first got married, now had greasy dark stains all along the top. The slanting winter sunlight somehow magnified and highlighted all the little flaws, with glittering dust-motes hanging in mid-air.
“What you need to do is get him over, pour a couple of drinks into him, and then disappear into the bathroom for a while. When you come out you’re wearing that little red negligee of yours.”
The audacity of it.
“Moll.”
END
Images. Louis.
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