by Andy Maslen
Back at the Lac La Croix reservation, Ken drove the truck up to the side of his house. He invited Stella to come in with him. He led her through to the room with the rack of long guns and told her to sit on a battered leather sofa on the opposite side of the room. Kneeling in front of a tall bookcase, he reached under the lowest shelf and pulled out an olive-green metal trunk. The trunk bore faded stencilling on its side. Letters and numbers that Stella guessed were either a military service number or a serial number for whatever piece of kit the trunk had originally contained. Ken placed it on the coffee table in front of her then sat beside her on the sofa. She watched as Ken flipped open the catches and lifted the lid.
“This belonged to my dad,” he said. “He served in Vietnam. Brought it back, along with a heroin habit and a two-ounce piece of NVA shrapnel in his leg.”
He pulled out an olive-green hand grenade and set it on the table top.
“That’s had the fuse taken out, right?” she asked, every fibre of her being telling her to move backwards at high speed.
He shook his head.
“Still live as far as I know. But the pin’s in, so we’re OK.”
The next item out of the trunk was a folded olive-drab shirt with a name – White Crow – stencilled in black on a strip of material stitched above the pocket.
A thought occurred to Stella as she watched Ken unload more military souvenirs.
“I thought Canada didn’t fight in Vietnam. Isn’t that why all the US draft-dodgers came up here?”
“You’re kinda right. Canada stayed out of the war, at least officially. But thousands of Canadians went south to volunteer for combat with the US army. My dad was one of them. Mohawks volunteered, too. Fifty of ’em went down from Montreal.”
He’d carried on unloading the trunk as he talked. Now, the top of the coffee table was covered by an assortment of khaki and olive-drab items of clothing, identity documents, fading colour photos, and to one side, a dagger, its steel blade pitted with rust. Ken reached over and picked up a cloth bundle about the size of his hand.
He put it on his lap and unwrapped the covering, one corner at a time. When the final corner was opened out, the contents of the bundle were revealed.
The revolver was small. Ken picked it up and placed it on his left palm. The gun didn’t protrude over the edges of his hand in any direction. The grips were a shiny black material Stella thought must be plastic. The metal parts were a dull silver.
“Here,” he said, “Take it.”
Stella picked up the gun. It didn’t weigh much, not even a pound. She curled her fingers around the grip and pointed it at a stuffed deer head mounted above the fireplace.
“What is it?”
“Smith & Wesson Bodyguard Airweight. AKA Model 38. My Dad took it off a dead VC. You ever see that photo from Vietnam? This South Vietnamese general is about to execute a guy.”
Stella vaguely remembered seeing a black-and-white photo in a documentary on the Vietnam War. The man holding the revolver looking almost bored as he prepared to blow his captive’s brains out. The man about to die, flinching, his face a mask of terror and pain.
“Yes, I think so.”
“He used a Model 38. The gun you’re holding is the same age. It’s clean, oiled and ready to go. You sure you can use it on another person? Taking a human life isn’t as easy as shooting rabbits.”
She thought back to her shooting of Leonard Ramage. Of the Albanians in Marbella who’d blinded Yiannis Terzi’s daughter. Of Tamit Ferenczy’s brother, bodyguards and, finally, the man himself.
“When the time comes, I’ll do what needs to be done.”
Ken nodded, seeming not to need to know any more than that.
“You’ve got a five-round capacity,” he said, pointing to the cylinder. “It’s single-action-double-action, which means you can cock the hammer back and pull the trigger to shoot, or you can just squeeze the trigger when the hammer’s down and it’ll cock then fire. One’s slower but you got a lighter trigger pull. The other’s faster, but you need more strength in your finger.”
Stella turned the gun to look at the right-hand side. Read the engraved word: Airweight.
“I guess I’ll have to find somewhere to practise and figure out which suits me. Have you got some ammunition for it?”
“Nope. But I can go into town and buy some. It takes Smith & Wesson .38 Special. How about I get you a couple hundred? You can do some practising on our land and save some for your friend in Chicago?”
Stella nodded.
“Sounds perfect.”
Then a worrisome thought flitted across her mind.
“The gun. It can’t be traced back to you can it?”
He smiled grimly and shook his head.
“Whoever that VC got it from’s long dead. It was probably military issue to the South Vietnamese Army. It’s been sitting in that trunk since my Dad got back from the war in ’73. You know, you never told me what you do for a living back in England. Or what you used to do before you decided to go travelling.”
“No,” Stella said, with a smile. “I didn’t. It doesn’t matter now, because I’m not going back to it.”
He shrugged.
“Fair enough. Listen, let’s take a run back into town. I’ll pick up some ammunition and drop you at your hotel. You get the cash, I’ll come find you and we can do the exchange. Then I reckon we ought to seal the deal with a beer or two. OK with you?”
“Sounds good.”
Two and a half hours later, Ken swung the pickup off the highway and onto the town road that led into the centre of Lac La Croix. He pulled up outside the house where Stella was renting the room. Swivelling in his seat, he handed the cloth-wrapped revolver to Stella.
“See you in about twenty minutes,” he said.
She nodded and climbed out, slammed the door and watched as Ken pulled away.
Inside, she stuck the revolver at the bottom of her daysack then repacked it with her waterproofs on top. She pulled back the worn, blue carpet in the corner behind the wardrobe and eased up a foot-long piece of floorboard. In the dusty space between the joists sat a plastic bag, wrapped into a neat rectangular package. She pulled it free and replaced the board and carpet. Sitting on the bed, she unwrapped the package and withdrew the paperback, a much-thumbed copy of a Michael Connelly novel, The Brass Verdict.
The book’s title referred to criminal slang for a gangland execution. Now she was on the way to delivering her own, final brass verdict on Collier. Like a lot of cops she knew, Stella loved Connelly’s Harry Bosch novels. He was one of the few fictional cops who thought, talked and acted like a real cop, warts and all. Plus, in a pleasing coincidence, Harry had been a “tunnel rat” in Vietnam. She let the book flop open to reveal the razored-out recess in which the $12,800 nestled. Snug as a bug in a rug, she thought, falling back on something her Mum had always said as she tucked her little daughter in for the night. Something Stella had said to her own daughter, during the all-too brief time she’d been able to share with her. Soon, Lola. Soon he’ll be dead. Then Mummy can come and join you and Daddy, and we’ll all be together again.
51
Goodbye, Stella
Annie’s Tavern was one of two bars in town. The other, La Croix Tap, was on the rough side, according to Ken, and they’d be better off meeting in the more salubrious surroundings of Annie’s. After retrieving the cash, Stella walked down the main street and pushed through the black-painted door. It was just before six, and about half the tables were occupied. A row of early-evening drinkers lined the copper-topped bar, nursing beers in frosty mugs. All men, about half Ojibway, half white guys.
Weaving through the other tables and nodding hello or shaking hands with other drinkers, Ken found them a corner booth. He signalled one of the waitresses for a couple of beers. She brought two bottles of Moosehead Pale Ale a few minutes later and departed with a smile after leaving a till receipt under Ken’s bottle.
Ken handed Stella a plastic carrier bag
under the table. She took it from him noting its heft, and placed it by her left foot.
“You got two hundred rounds of Winchester .38 Special, Silvertip Hollow Point ammunition in there.”
Stella handed Ken the copy of The Brass Verdict.
“You get much reading time?” she asked with a grin.
He flipped through the pages and grinned back.
“I guess I’ll make time. Looks like a good book.”
“Ten grand says you love it.”
They clinked the necks of their bottles and drank.
“How am I going to get to Chicago, Ken?” Stella asked, signalling the waitress for another two beers.
“You mean, given what you’re planning to do when you get there?”
“Exactly.”
“This guy who killed your family – Collier. He knows you’re after him, right?”
“No. He thinks I’m dead.”
“How come?”
“Friends in England put the word out, and we’re sure one of his foot soldiers got the word to him.”
“And these friends, of yours.” Ken said. “They in the same line of work as you?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Law enforcement?”
Stella hadn’t wanted to reveal any more than she had to about her background. Not because she didn’t trust Ken. Quite the reverse. But she felt it would be better for him if he knew the minimum. But now he’d asked a direct question and she owed him an honest answer.
“Yes. Law enforcement.”
“OK. That’s good: you got friends on the inside. And Collier’s working for the FBI?”
“Yeah, and— Oh, thanks,” Stella said to the waitress, who’d just placed another two bottles of beer on the table and snagged the long-necked empties between her knuckles. “And I guess that means he’ll be armed.”
“I guess it does. Plus his partner will be.”
“So?”
“Even if he thinks you’re dead, he’ll still be vigilant. Watchful. I would be.”
“But why? If he believes the threat’s gone?”
“Did he see your dead body?”
Stella saw immediately where Ken was going. She played along, interested in how the interrogation would turn out and what she’d learn.
“No.”
“Visit your grave?”
“No.”
“See your death certificate?”
“No.”
“He ran a death squad under the radar in the middle of London?”
“Yes.”
“Guys like that, they don’t survive long without being what you might call super-cautious. Let’s say there’s a rattlesnake in your cabin and you rush outside and call for your neighbour to kill it.”
“OK.”
“Your neighbour, who you never really trusted, goes in with a gun. You hear a shot. Then he comes out and says, ‘Yeah, I killed it. You’re all good.’ He walks off whistling a happy tune. You gonna go in and take a bath or a nap or whatever?”
Stella smiled, and took a pull on her beer.
“Nope. Nuh-uh. I’m going to push the door open with a broom and stand well back. See what comes slithering out. I want to see a dead snake.”
“So does your man, Collier.”
“What do I do, then?”
“Like I said. Take your time getting there. No flying, no rental car, nothing that’d leave a trace.”
“What then, walk?”
“You could. It’s about six hundred miles. If you covered ten miles a day you’d be there in two months. You look pretty fit. You jog or whatever? Work out?”
“I run. When I can.”
“So that’s option one. Option two is you ride your thumb.”
“No paper trail like there would be with a rental.”
“No. And if the cops did pull you over, it’d be the driver whose papers they’d want to see.”
Stella took a sip of her beer, weighing up the options. Walking six hundred miles didn’t sound like a whole lot of fun. But then, as Ken said, if she took her time it would be manageable. Maybe take a couple of days off here and there if she needed to recharge her batteries. And he was right about hitch hiking. It was the only way to travel by car without risking appearing on Collier’s radar. Who knew if he’d be exploiting his newfound access to FBI databases or police surveillance logs?
“What about trains?” she asked. “I could pay cash for my tickets.”
“You could if there were any.”
“Greyhound bus?”
“I guess so. You could go from Duluth. Probably do it in under a day.”
“But then I’m arriving too soon. I need to let Collier unwind. Lower his guard.”
“So, how about this? Mix it up a little. Plan on arriving mid-November. Walk the first part of the journey. Maybe take a break along the way. Then, when the weather gets colder, catch the bus or get a lift with someone driving to Chicago.”
Stella picked up her beer and tilted the neck towards Ken. They clinked bottles.
“That,” she said with a smile, “sounds like a plan.”
The following day, Stella was back out on the reservation with Ken. He’d driven them to a patch of woodland a couple of miles from his house. Killing the engine, he turned to her.
“Ready for a little target practice?”
She nodded, feeling a buzz of excitement in the pit of her stomach. It was getting closer now. It was getting real.
Ken had brought a carrier bag full of empty soft drink cans. He arranged half a dozen along the trunk of a fallen tree. Thanks to its huge root ball and a couple of thick branches, the top side of the trunk was about five feet off the ground. He walked back to Stella, who was standing about ten feet back from the fallen tree.
“You want to load the revolver?” he asked, from a position just behind and to her right.
“Sure.”
She thumbed the knurled release switch to drop out the cylinder. Five of the hollow point rounds slid home into the chambers. Then she snapped the cylinder back into the frame.
Stella adopted a classic shooter’s stance. Feet apart, face-on to the target, both hands curled round the revolver. That was as far as she got before Ken intervened.
“You look great. Like you stepped straight out of a safe shooting manual. Maybe you better try something more true to life.”
“What do you mean?” Stella asked, turning to him.
“I mean shoot one-handed. And don’t aim, point. That’s a close-up weapon. Effective range’s only maybe fifteen yards. Guys in competitions can do pretty good out to fifty, but I’m thinking you’re most likely to be up close and personal with your guy. Tell you what. Keep the gun down by your side. I’ll shout ‘go!’ and you bring it up and fire two shots. Like I said, don’t waste time on all that target acquisition crap they put on the forums. Just shoot it like you mean it. OK?”
Stella breathed in and let it out in a sigh.
“OK.”
She looked at the centre can, which had once contained twelve fluid ounces of Coke. Tried to summon up Collier’s face and superimpose it onto the red and white livery. Beyond the fallen tree, a few birches were swaying in the light breeze that had sprung up.
“Go!” Ken shouted, startling her momentarily.
Automatically, she brought the gun up, keeping her arm straight and pulled the trigger twice. The little revolver bucked in her hand but the recoil was mild compared to some of the other firearms she’d been wielding recently. She frowned. All six of the soft drinks cans were still standing in a row. The burnt propellant got up her nose and made her sneeze.
“Again,” she said, not turning away from the cans.
“Go!”
Up went the arm.
Back went the trigger finger.
Bang-bang went the Model 38.
“Fuck!” went Stella.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Ken smiling at her.
“Relax,” he said. “Maybe try aiming after all. S
ee if you can hit one of ’em with your next shot.”
Stella rolled her shoulders, then shook herself like a dog after a swim.
“Fine. And if I can’t, maybe you can drag a barn door out here with that truck of yours.”
She brought the revolver up, slowly, deliberately, and extended her arm. She closed her left eye and sighted down the barrel, lining up the front and rear sights on the Coke can. She visualised the rest of Collier along with his face. With gently increasing pressure, she squeezed the trigger.
“Yes!” she yelled, with the noise of the shot still echoing away through the trees.
The Coke can had disappeared, flying backwards as the round hit it amidships.
Ken was laughing. He clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“All right! Now reload, then we’ll start again.”
She reloaded. And they began again.
With Stella reliably hitting the target four times out of five, Ken told her it was time to go back to the point-don’t-aim style of shooting.
Her right hand was aching, but she was enjoying the sensation of power each time the little gun jolted in her hand. And even though she could feel that somewhere not too far away, another version of herself was enjoying the shooting too, she didn’t mind. Out here, with no enemies to kill, Other Stella surely wouldn’t have enough to occupy her.
She looked up into the tree canopy, inhaling the smell of gunsmoke deep into her lungs. Sun was filtering through the blue-tinged air in narrow spears. A stronger gust of wind blustered its way through the woods, dispersing the smoke and driving a branch above her to one side before it snapped back. The unobstructed sunlight hit her full in the face, dazzling her and making her whip her head away.
And when she looks back, she is here, and she is gone.
— No. I am Stella Cole. I am holding the gun.
— Oh, really, babe? Because from where I’m standing it looks like I’m the one holding this ridiculous little pea-shooter.
— No, please. Not now. Not yet.
— Fuck off. I need to get the feel of the gun and your aim is, frankly, shit.
— I hit four out of five!
