Disposable Souls

by Phonse Jessome

  I shot him before he finished. His body fell into the pool. I offered the gun to my brother. This time he took the head shot. For Greg.

  Gunner was on his cell as we walked toward the door. A cleanup crew would be here within the hour. They’d burn the place, maybe take the bodies out in one of those fancy boats tied to Mapp’s dock. I took back the gun and wiped it clean inside and out. I popped the clip, emptying it of the remaining shells. I pocketed them and slammed home the clip. Then I looked for a serial number; it was gone. That didn’t surprise me, the name did. I looked at my big brother.

  “A Baby Eagle .45?”

  “Bought it for Cheyenne.” He shrugged.

  “Well, it’s got two bodies on it now. Maybe get her the nine,” I said as I tossed it into the pool.

  We left the door unlocked and headed out into the evening chill.

  I could smell disinfectant, fear, and death as I walked down the narrow corridor. The shining hospital floors accounted for the disinfectant. I wondered if the fear and death were coming from me. Kid Rock was singing about holding on through the tiny earbuds I wore. His raspy voice above Slash’s guitar licks. I heard him sing about seasons changing and memories. The song carried me to another place, another season. I wasn’t sure where that was, but I knew I’d never find my way back, not all the way back. The slow push of the music moved me forward in the wide hallway. I was disconnected, floating just outside the space and time my body filled. The ache in my right finger was my only anchor. I could still feel the pinch of the trigger break as the .45 spit death into Nicholas Mapp and Carl MacIntosh. I was used to the feeling. The phantom ache followed every kill back in Afghanistan. Now, like then, I knew the kills were justified, but, like then, I was lost afterward. I needed to find the anger again; it was the only way back.

  Up ahead, a door opened into the hallway. Sue stepped out. Her face lit up as she saw me. Her smile cut through the fog and brought me back to what was important. Maybe I don’t need anger anymore.

  “Cam, how are you?” She hugged me as I pulled the earbuds free.

  I flinched as she held me.

  “What’s wrong?” she stepped back. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just a flesh wound. I’m better now, Sue. Much better.”

  She looked at me and then hugged me again. More gently this time.

  “Go see him, he’s awake, Cam. It’s amazing. I am just going for tea. Can I get you something?” she asked.

  “No, I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Take all the time you want,” she said as she walked down the hall.

  Blair’s smile blasted away any doubt that lingered as I stepped into the room.

  “Man, you look like shit,” I said as I walked to the bedside.

  “Fuck you very much, partner,” he said through a broad grin.

  His skin was chalky and seemed to sag under his chin. His thick black hair was matted against the pillow. A yellowish stain showed at the centre of the bandage wrapped around his neck. I smiled. He’d never looked better.

  “Nice to see you out of intensive care.”

  “Yeah. Listen, Cam, I’m sorry about Greg, man. How are you holding up?” His smile was gone.

  “I’m okay. Funeral is Wednesday, that’ll be rough. Just glad I’m not going to two.”

  I put my hand on his. He didn’t ask about my suspension or my return to the club. I figured Sue was keeping it from him. He didn’t need the stress.

  “Tell me about it. You believe this shit? A Russian hit? Man, those guys are out of control. Gunning for cops. Well, this cop is going to do some gunning of his own. I get out of here, we find the triggerman. Get some payback for this, for Greg.”

  I didn’t say anything. Just looked at him. Didn’t know what to say.

  “What is it? You know something. Tell me, partner.”

  I thought for a moment. “It’s done. Don’t think about it. Nobody left to pay back. No shooters. No shot callers. You just heal, brother.”

  He lifted his hand out from under mine, grabbed my wrist and held tight. His eyes locked on mine. A tear rolled down the side of his face into the gauze.

  “Thank you, brother. You okay with it?”

  I nodded. I knew he’d never raise it again or ask any questions.

  “How are we doing on our case, anything new?” He changed the subject.

  “Long story, partner, but you were dead on with the stripper.”

  “Superior detecting skills. My people are natural trackers. We see the little things you white men miss.”

  “I see you weren’t shot in the ego.”

  We both smiled. It felt good.

  “So, just to restore your ego I will let you tell me exactly how she fit in,” he said.

  I thought about what Mapp told me.

  “Most of this comes from the club, so it’s not going to be in the official record. Apparently, they sent young or young-looking girls his way on a regular basis,” I looked at him. I could see he wanted to ask. I knew he wouldn’t.

  “Okay, officially I don’t know either. Fill me in,” he said.

  “It looks like Sandy Gardner was into a dangerous kind of auto-erotic asphyxia. We’ll never know for sure, but it looks like his own kink got him killed when his chair tipped over and things went too far. Can’t say I feel bad about it.”

  “Self-strangulation and kiddy porn? Guy was one sick bastard,” he said.

  “And then some. Seems he got off with his hands and feet cuffed to his favourite chair and a noose around his neck. He’d get Sam to hook him up nice and tight so he could watch that slide show. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he’d have his way with the stripper, or Sam, or both.”

  “And then work on the Sunday sermon?”

  “Something like that, yeah,” I said.

  I left Blair’s room when Sue returned. I knew she’d have questions, and I didn’t have any answers. A slender, white-haired man in creased pants and a cardigan stood in the hallway outside the room. Superintendent Wilbur Cage was a familiar face, although I’d never seen him out of uniform. Cage was a fast-moving, buttoned-down cop, who ran the patrol division like an army general.

  “Detective Neville? I ran into Constable Christmas’s wife downstairs. She told me you were here.” He reached out to shake my hand.

  “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes locked with mine. They seemed heavier, slower somehow, than the fast-moving, decisive eyes of the man I’d seen in patrol briefings. Cage was a second-generation cop who knew the risks of the job. Seeing his daughter fall victim to the biggest risk of all weighed heavier than the usual burden of command. A wave of panic rolled across my chest as I realized I had no idea if Carla was alive or dead. I was so lost in my own hatred I hadn’t even bothered to check.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “She’s going to be fine, thanks to you.” The warmth of his smile was a physical thing.

  “No, sir, I got there too late to help,” I said.

  “No, you risked your life to clear that scene. Going in without backup so paramedics could get to her. I was fully briefed on what happened, Detective. You saved her life, son, and I won’t forget that.” The smile beamed as he touched my arm. The same way Carla did it.

  “Is she awake? Can I see her?” I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to see her. It was fuelled by guilt. I had not even followed her to the hospital. I just watched the paramedics take her away and then went chasing vengeance like every asshole I ever locked up.

  “You sure can. She’s sleeping now, but come on. She’s in ICU. I’ll tell them you are family.” He had me by the elbow now, leading me toward the elevator.

  He spoke softly as we walked.

  “Detective, I know you are going through something horrible right now. What happened to your brother, your partner. The chief is concerned, as well.
You have to know, you are valued in this department. You are exactly what the HRP needs. Don’t throw away everything you’ve gained these past few years.”

  There was no command in his voice, no anger. I could feel his concern, and suddenly felt sad. It was nice to think I was his idea of a good cop, but then, he didn’t know I was also a murderer. I was glad I’d left my leather with Gunner. Superintendent Cage might be offering an olive branch out of gratitude, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be leading a full-patch Stallion to the ICU to visit his daughter.

  Wilbur Cage left me in the hands of that same ICU nurse I’d met before. I don’t think she bought me as family. She did still think I was a cop, and that was enough to get me to Carla’s bedside. Carla was surrounded by the same array of equipment that had kept Blair alive after the shooting. A soft yellow glow played across her face, reflecting the steady flickering from one of the monitors. Somehow, she looked stronger than Blair had, like she was just sleeping peacefully. There were no bandages on her face or neck, maybe that was it. Maybe I just felt good seeing her.

  The ICU was still and dark, a lamp above the main nursing station the lone exception. The clicking and hissing of life-saving machines seemed to come from every angle. I reached for my phone and my earbuds. I didn’t want to hear the rhythm of a hospital, didn’t want to be in one. I needed to think about what I’d done, where I was heading. I selected the original Skynyrd live album and listened to Ronnie Van Zant call me to a simple life. I wondered how mine had gotten so twisted. I’m not sure why I pulled that album from the list. Maybe it was the guilt over leaving Carla. That guilt was familiar; it was like my feelings about Glenda. We’d spent the better part of a summer hiding in Grease’s shed making out to Skynyrd live. It’s why I don’t listen to the album much anymore. Yet, here I sit in the dark, watching the cotton sheet rise and fall above Carla’s chest and listening to Glenda’s music. I felt a tickle on my cheek as I watched the sheet and thought of my wife.

  Wednesday morning

  I prayed hard during the funeral, the same prayer I used when I was being tortured. God, if you are real, get me through this. It worked in Pakistan. I hoped it would work again. The basilica couldn’t hold the crowd. Gunner and a team of Stallion patches lined the sidewalk outside. They wouldn’t enter a church filled with cops. At least Greg finally managed to fill it. I tried to be happy for him, to feel something other than the hole in my chest. A lot of people said a lot of things I didn’t know about my kid brother. He liked cooking, the blues, practical jokes, and old movies. Every new insight into the kid in the box drove the pain deeper. He was in that box because of bullets sent my way. I would never get past that. Blair managed to get paroled from the hospital for a couple of hours. He was in the aisle in a wheelchair at my side. Sue sat with me. Carla didn’t make it, she was still in the hospital. At least she wasn’t in a box beside Greg.

  The true hell that was the Church of Salvation didn’t make any headlines. Solid chance it never would. I knew Greg would like that, so I wasn’t going to do anything to change it. The truth about Sandy Gardner was buried with him. There were damaged kids out there, and no one was going to avenge them. Nothing could undo the damage. What was the point in trying?

  Halifax reporters were locked on some bullshit Romeo-and-Juliet saga. In the age of entitlement, the modern star-crossed lovers skipped the suicide and killed everyone else. The preacher’s son and the stripper. His father forbade it. Church leaders Thelma Waters and Bobby Simms tried to enforce the will of Gardner, if not God. Samuel and Lolita killed them all and went out, guns blazing. More Tarantino than Shakespeare. No truth in it, but a great story that just kept on giving. Fuck it, let it be.

  As for Greg’s murder, everyone with a badge was accepting the Russian-mob theory. Greg was collateral damage in an unsuccessful hit on Blair. They believed the gunmen were either dead and dumped offshore, or hiding in some Russian back alley. Close enough.

  Couple of major-crime guys told Blair they were looking into a fire that destroyed Nicholas Mapp’s house. No bodies found, and his cigarette-hulled speedboat was missing. Guess the cleaner took a souvenir. Inspector MacIntosh wasn’t missed at the funeral. Everyone figured he was avoiding me. Too late for that.

  I slid into the back seat of the black Lincoln behind the hearse. I was alone. A booming roar filled the air as we left the basilica. Two motorcycle escorts guided Greg to his grave. Six traffic cops rode in close formation on identical white Harleys up front. Six full-patch Satan’s Stallion members followed behind the family car. I looked back and saw Gunner in front, Grease beside him. I listened to the rumble from the front and rear.

  Snake missed the funeral. He was in Montreal raising hell about the Nomads torturing kids on his turf. Laroche would have to die. The Stallion members ride under a patch. It stands for something more than brotherhood. It stands for a code where a man’s word means more than any written law or contract. The club could be brutal, but the Stallion code forbade what was happening at the ranch. If it allowed the kiddy porn, the patch would lose its lustre in the dark shadows where it shone brightest. Especially there. The places where violence is expected and respected. Where rules are clear, and those who break them know death is coming.

  The soothing rumble of the bikes rolled around the interior of the Lincoln as the city slid past the window. I watched it go by, wondered where I fit in it. Shooting Mapp and MacIntosh was right, but it was still murder. I was a cop-killer, not a cop. I didn’t regret it, but those bodies stood between the badge and me. They also cemented my status in the club. I was a blood Stallion now. Blood in. My past was washed away in their blood. I wasn’t sure I could stand under the patch any more than I could behind a badge, but only my death could remove it now. Blood out.

  Greg’s funeral procession was a spectacle. The sound stopped people on the sidewalks. They watched the bikes and the hearse but looked away as they caught a glimpse of the family car. Sometimes, turning away is the best we can do.

  Acknowledgements

  I'd like to take a moment to thank those who helped this book make the journey from a vague idea in the back of my mind to the story you have before you. First. Nat Sobel—so much more than an agent—who saw something he liked in the earliest draft and then patiently guided the project through several drafts until he felt it was ready. Nat’s partner Judith Weber brought a fresh set of eyes and her considerable skill into the mix in the final stages of our journey. Adia Wright handles rights, and had my back all the way.

  At Nimbus and Vagrant. Thank you to the Yoda of editors—that good she is—Elaine McCluskey. She took a veteran journalist’s eye to the project and proved to this reporter that not all desk editors are created equal. Senior editor Whitney Moran, thanks for giving Elaine and me all that rope.

  On the law and disorder side, hundreds of police officers have generously shared their time, feelings, and thoughts with me at hundreds of major crime scenes over the past three decades. You are all in here. Thank you to RCMP Staff Sgt. Scott Warnica and Const. Sandy Matharu for reading through and pointing out errors in legal and police procedure. Those that remain are left for story-telling purposes and do not reflect on the considerable talent of those two men. Cam was a Mountie in one draft, but then Scott laughed and said, “Not in this lifetime.” The story beats up on the RCMP, but that’s Cam’s payback, not mine. Halifax Police Sgt. Sandy Johnston became an unknowing participant as she and I routinely met at late-night and early-morning crime scenes. Watching her work a scene brought Carla Cage to life and to this story.

  Thank you as well, to those one percenters who reluctantly and slowly let me enter their world and their clubhouses over the years. They shared the stories behind their choices and even took me along on a few rides. Thanks for taking the pencil along, guys; yes, I know what you are saying. Remember, this is fiction; your clubs are still clubs. Mine is a gang.

  A quick note on PTSD. I believed it marke
d the end of the line for me. It didn’t. Thank you to Vanessa McColl for guiding me, slowly, back to the keyboard. Dr. John Whalen, thank you for playing hardball with me when I was finally ready. Dr. Jonathan Fox, thank you so much for knowing what to say and when. This book, and its author, are here today in no small measure thanks to each of you.

  This book has a soundtrack, and I’d like to thank the many talented artists who helped me block out the PTSD noise and focus. Where songs appear in the story they were playing as I worked. If you enjoy listening as you read, this book goes well with Lynyrd Skynyrd, Slash, Kid Rock, and Metallica.

  To Mowgli, the world’s worst PTSD dog and best office manager, thanks pal.

  Finally and most of all, thank you so much to my loving wife and family for holding me up and believing.

  PJ

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