by Don Easton
* * *
The first thing Giuseppe saw was Yakov, sitting with his back slumped against the table. Beside him he saw Roche, face down on the table in his own vomit. Across from him, Anton was slumped over, his head and arm on the table. Wolfgang was on the floor under the table with his arm stretched out toward the door.
Giuseppe called to Carina for help, then rushed inside and tried to drag Wolfgang out by the arm.
Carina reached the kitchen in time to see Giuseppe drop Wolfgang and collapse on top of him. “Giuseppe!” she screamed. “Get out of there!” He did not respond and she stepped back in horror. Then a flicker of movement near the bunkhouse caught her eye. She turned and saw Jack, looking like he was wearing a brown dress and staggering into the bunkhouse like he was drunk.
“You!” she screamed.
Jack had barely made it to his bunk when Carina raced in and fired a wild shot in his direction. As she paused to take aim, he fell forward into the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind him. She heard him stumbling and trying to get to his feet as she reached the door. “Not this time!” she yelled, then fired a shot through the door.
Jack’s plan was simple. He stood beside the sink with the idea that when Carina opened the door, she would look to the window over the toilet, thinking he had escaped through it again. Then he would slam the door into her, knock her over, and grab the gun.
Perhaps if he had not been suffering from hypothermia it might have worked, but his breathing had become slow and shallow, and what his foggy brain told his body to do was not what he could accomplish, at least not with the speed he needed.
Carina opened the door and a glance at the mirror behind the sink revealed Jack’s whereabouts. She swung the pistol around for another shot when he lurched against the door. She stepped back, but was struck by the door and pinned with her chest against the door frame. Her left arm and head were still inside the bathroom and she turned her head sideways to look at him.
“Drop, drop,” Jack managed to gasp.
Carina struggled to get her other hand with the pistol past her body for a shot, but Jack used his weight to keep her pinned.
“I shed drop it,” he slurred.
Carina glared at him from eyes encircled with blackened bruises from her broken nose. “Fuck you,” she seethed. “I killed one cop in a bathroom, so watch me do it again.”
Jack realized she was about to fire a shot backward over her shoulder and ducked as a bullet came through the door where his head had been. She squirmed to adjust her aim as he took a step back, still pushing on the door with one hand, before swinging the hatchet.
The sound of crunching bone and a gurgling noise told him he had succeeded. He’d aimed for the top of her head, but instead struck her on the side of her face below her left eye. Despite hearing the gun fall to the floor, he kept his grip on the hatchet and stared at her face.
Her mouth gaped open and she coughed, spraying blood. Her left eye was distorted, but her other eye remained fixed on his face.
“Welcome to the Bates Motel, bitch,” he said, barely containing his rage. He then stepped back as she fell into the room. He watched her body shudder and convulse with a few more bloody coughs, then become still. He looked out the window toward the kitchen. The generator was still running and the vacuum-cleaner hose was still feeding exhaust from the generator into the kitchen window. It can wait.
Leaving the burlap sack on, he wrapped a blanket from a bunk around his head and torso, hobbled back and forth in the bunkhouse until he felt his body start to warm. He knew that warming his extremities immediately could cause him to go into shock. It was a slow process, but eventually he headed for the shower.
Chapter Fifty-Six
It was eleven o’clock in the morning when Jack drove around a bend in the road and was finally at a place where he could make contact with Laura’s phone.
“Hey, it’s me,” he said. “I’m free to talk.”
“It’s Jack!” he heard her call out, then say to him, “Where the hell are you?”
“Settle down,” he said. “I didn’t shoot any little pigs. Neither did anyone else.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m driving Giuseppe’s truck and am guessing I’m about fifteen minutes out of Sant’Agata del Bianco. Are you still in Reggio?”
“I’m not upset about the pigs,” she spluttered. “We’re in the Aspromonte Mountains looking for you! We found out that Carina is the Ringmaster!”
“Yes, I figured as much,” Jack said.
“She saw Maurice last night and we were afraid she recognized him,” Laura went on. “She took off soon after with … You figured as much? Did she show up there?”
“Yes, and she wasn’t happy.”
“What did she say to you?”
“It was more the body language that caught my attention. I’ve been around long enough to tell by a woman’s hands when she is angry.”
“By her hands?”
“Yeah, like when they’re holding a gun.”
“Damn it, Jack, this is no time for jokes.”
“Sorry, I feel giddy,” he replied in a high-pitched voice.
“Giddy? We figured you were dead. Paolo is driving like a maniac along icy roads. Hang on.” She paused. “He says we’re also about fifteen minutes out of Sant’Agata del Bianco.”
“On the opposite side from me,” Jack said rapidly.
“What’s going on with Carina?”
“She has what I would call a split personality. Mind you, it might’ve been me who gave it to her. I split her head open with a hatchet.” His voice was still high-pitched.
Laura realized the reason for Jack’s odd-sounding voice and black humour. He was fighting to maintain control. For undercover operatives, maintaining control in a conversation became a natural habit, but in this case, she knew he was fighting to control his own emotions. Often, when you’re fighting for your life you’re too busy to think of the consequences. It’s after the event is over that shock and the what ifs set in as your mind tries to cope with the horror you endured.
“Wolfgang, Roche, Anton, and some guy called Yakov are dead, too,” Jack continued in a shaky voice. “I’m still alive, though. Damn near froze my balls off, but I’m still alive. Don’t know why anyone would want to join one of those polar bear clubs. I gotta go. I wanna phone Natasha. Let her know that … well, that everything’s over.”
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t phone her yet. Wait an hour. You need to calm down.”
“What do you mean? I’m fine.”
“Hey, tough guy, it’s me you’re talking to. Don’t lie. Carina may be dead but it’s not over until —”
“Yeah, the fat lady sings.”
“No, until the nightmares stop. Which from my experience of working with you might be never.”
Jack’s sigh was audible, then he said, “I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. I can hear it in your voice. Natasha knows you a lot better than I do. If you don’t want her to worry, wait until you’ve calmed down.”
A few seconds passed in silence, then Jack said, “Laura?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Laura smiled grimly. His voice sounded tired, but she knew he would be able to cope with the reality of their world. He always did. So did Natasha, for that matter.
* * *
It was Monday morning in Vancouver when Staff-Sergeant Rose Wood walked into Assistant Commissioner Isaac’s office and took a seat. He was reading a report, but looked at her over the top of his glasses. “Anything further to add to what you told me on Friday?” he asked.
“Yes, Corporal Taggart was cleared to go by the Italian police. Forensics verified everything happened the way he said it did. He acted in self-defence.”
Isaac leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “What about the men he gassed with carbon monoxide?”
“They ruled that as self-de
fence, too,” replied Rose.
“I knew this would happen,” replied Isaac, shaking his head. “I wasn’t the least surprised.”
“Sir, it really was self —”
“I’m sure it was, but to kill all of them?”
“Not all,” Rose said. “Bojan Buchvarov was arrested in Bulgaria.”
“The fellow who was shipping the drugs and stolen jewellery to his parents’ address?”
“Yes.”
“Lucky for him,” said Isaac dryly. “I also have a question concerning the story Carina Safstrom told Taggart about some Russian philanthropist whose wife died of cancer and was connected to the theatre and the arts. An original report from you indicated he might have been the Ringmaster. Could he have some of the stolen paintings? Or was he just someone Safstrom made up to deceive Taggart?”
“That has since been checked out. That man does exist and was someone who Carina Safstrom had restored paintings for. He’s a well-known philanthropist and his only connection with Saftstrom was that he hired her do some restorations for him. The man is said to be totally honest. Safstrom did lie to Jack about him, but only by saying that was how she met Roche Freulard.”
“I see. So where are Taggart and Secord now?”
“Laura arrived home last night. Jack put in a leave request and went to Paris to —”
“Paris! After all this? I want him back here immediately, and tell him to make sure he pays for his own ticket!”
“Sir, he went to pay his respects to Gabrielle Bastion. She was Kerin’s wife. He thought he should —”
Isaac put up his hand for Rose to stop, then said. “I’m sorry, I should have clued in. Do you know when her baby’s due?”
“She had it Friday night. A girl.”
“Tell Taggart to take whatever time he needs.” Isaac’s voice sounded gruff, but his eyes were moist. “Consider it official business. You may go.”
* * *
It was ten o’clock Monday morning in Paris when Maurice dropped Jack off at Gabrielle’s apartment building.
“Aren’t you coming in?” Jack asked.
“I saw her Saturday night while you were still in Italy,” Maurice replied. “She asked if she could talk to you alone. She feels she would get to know you better that way.”
“Her English —”
“Is better than mine.” Maurice smiled. “Call me when you want a ride.”
Moments later Jack was buzzed into the apartment building. Gabrielle stood waiting for him in the doorway holding her baby, swaddled in a pink blanket. She invited him inside, where she offered him a coffee. He accepted and tried to hide his discomfort when she passed him the baby to hold while she made the coffee.
“Her name is Camille,” Gabrielle said.
“Beautiful name for a beautiful baby,” Jack said, fighting to overcome the anguish he felt.
Gabrielle looked at him. “Are you married? Do you have children?”
“Yes. My wife, Natasha, and I have two sons. Mike is nine and Steve is eight.”
“Then you should be used to babies,” said Gabrielle, “but I can tell you don’t feel comfortable, so tell me why.”
Jack nodded. “I’m sorry. Your husband died trying to save my life. I don’t know what to say.”
“You seem like a nice man,” Gabrielle said. “Mind you, I know it would not have made any difference who you were or what you did.”
“I don’t understand.”
Gabrielle looked surprised. “You should. You’re a policeman. So was Kerin. He would have risked his life to save a wino in an alley if he thought the person was in danger. Isn’t that what police officers do? Serve and protect us? All of us?”
Jack nodded.
“That was what Kerin was doing — the same as you. I loved my husband and respected what he did. I want you to know that I respect you, as well, and do not blame you for what happened. I know you would’ve done the same for him. From what Maurice told me, I know you already have.”
“Thank you.”
Gabrielle paused, looking at Camille. “Her eyes are open. I think she’s smiling.”
Jack gazed down at Camille and felt Gabrielle rest her hand on his shoulder, as she stroked Camille’s chin with her other hand. Somehow the weight of her hand on his shoulder alleviated the weight he felt in his heart.
Available at your favourite bookseller
Dundurn.com
@dundurnpress
Facebook.com/dundurnpress
Pinterest.com/dundurnpress
Copyright © Don Easton, 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
All characters in this work are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Project Editor: Shannon Whibbs
Editor: Maryan Gibson
Design: Laura Boyle
Cover Design: Laura Boyle
Front Cover Image: © Littleny | Dreamstime.com
Epub Design: Carmen Giraudy
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Easton, Don, author
Art and murder / Don Easton.
(A Jack Taggart mystery)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4597-3069-4 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-4597-3070-0 (pdf).--
ISBN 978-1-4597-3071-7 (epub)
I. Title. II. Series: Easton, Don. Jack Taggart mystery.
PS8609.A78A78 2015 C813’.6 C2015-901264-3 C2015-901265-1
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and Livres Canada Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.
Visit us at: Dundurn.com | @dundurnpress | Facebook.com/dundurnpress | Pinterest.com/dundurnpress
