“Yep. Got things to do, people to see,” Chris replied, leaning back to kiss her. “Going to visit a friend of Jonathan’s this morning. Apparently, the guy’s got a fancy set-up to edit and copy videotapes. I can probably get what’s important on one cassette.”
“Are you getting everything to Jonathan today?” asked Sandy, anxious for her husband’s spy adventure to end.
“Nah. More likely tomorrow,” answered Chris. “I want to review the whole thing one last time before I deliver. I want to make sure my face or name don’t appear anywhere in any incriminating fashion. What are you up to today?”
“Cathy’s picking me up and we’re heading downtown for lunch and a little bit of shopping. You need anything?”
“Nothing comes to mind,” Chris responded with a smirk. “Anyhow, you should start going easy on the spending. Don’t forget that I’m no longer permanently employed.”
“I promise to buy only what’s on sale.” laughed Sandy.
* * * *
“The bastard’s not coming in,” Wayne announced to Greg and Bryan.
They were standing in an open area of the shipping department, relatively comfortable that they were safe from bugs.
“Maybe he’s just late,” suggested Greg hopefully.
“No such luck,” Wayne sneered. “I spoke to Peterson. Barry called him earlier to say that he had some personal business to attend to. Maybe he’ll come in this afternoon but he said not to expect him.”
“So, now what?” asked a nervous Greg, sweat starting to trickle down his back.
“So now, Bryan and I will pay Mister Barry a visit,” Wayne replied. “I told Peterson that we would be visiting customers all day. Greg, you stay here. If anything strange happens or if Barry shows up, call us.”
“I don’t like this,” muttered Greg, wringing his hands. “It’s all gonna blow up in our faces.”
“Not if we move fast,” Wayne insisted impatiently. “Just stay calm and keep your eyes open. We’ll fix this. Let’s go, Bryan.”
* * * *
A few years earlier, Sandy had taken up oil painting as a pastime. Since, her easels remained installed in permanence in one corner of the sunroom, with never less than two canvasses in the making. It was a hobby which she truly enjoyed and she often picked up brush and palette as soon as five or more minutes of free time became available.
Cathy was to pick her up around 10 o’clock and it was only 9:45. With fifteen minutes ahead of her, she headed for the sunroom to pursue her latest masterpiece. No sooner had she entered the room than the doorbell rang.
“Cathy’s early,” she said aloud as she returned to the front of the house to greet her friend.
She opened the door and was startled to find herself faced by two gentlemen, both who looked vaguely familiar.
“Yes, can I help you?” she asked, trying to remember where she had seen these men before.
“Is Mister Barry home?” queried Bryan, pleasantly enough.
“No,” replied Sandy, suddenly wary of the two individuals standing before her. “Unfortunately he’s not. If you want to leave your names, I’ll be sure to let him know you dropped by.”
“Where is he?” demanded Wayne, not as pleasantly as his counterpart.
“He’s not here,” retorted Sandy, raising her tone. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m busy,” she added as she started to close the door.
With a swift gesture, Wayne straight-armed the door, slamming it open and causing Sandy to jump back in astonishment.
“Not so fast, lady,” he snarled, moving inside, followed by Bryan. “We ain’t done talking yet.”
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are,” screamed Sandy, regaining her composure. “But you better get the hell out of here.”
“Shut up, bitch,” growled Wayne as Bryan closed the front door behind them. “Now, where the fuck is Barry.”
“I don’t know,” Sandy coldly responded, hiding her fear. “He must be at work.”
“No,” replied Bryan in his annoyingly pleasant voice. “If he was there, we wouldn’t have had to come over here and bother you sweetheart, now, would we?”
“W-well, then I can’t help you,” stammered Sandy, suddenly recognizing her visitors. “If he’s not at work, then I don’t know where he is.”
“Okay,” sneered Wayne. “Then, here’s what we’re gonna do. Let’s the three of us go for a ride. Later, if you remember where Chris is, you can let us know. Get your coat Mrs. Barry. It’s cold out there.”
* * * *
“McCall, Homicide,” Dave answered the phone.
“Hi, hon,” said Cathy, his wife. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“Well, I’m parked outside at Sandy’s and Chris’ place,” Cathy replied with concern. “Sandy and I were supposed to go shopping together but nobody’s home.”
“You sure it was today?” asked Dave.
“Of course I’m sure,” answered Cathy. “I spoke to Sandy yesterday afternoon. I tried her cellular but it’s not on. Do you have Chris’ number with you? I’d call him to make sure everything’s all right.”
“Yeah, hang on a second,” her husband replied, digging into his briefcase. “Here we go. You can reach him at 668-1245 at work. I’ll give you his cell phone too; 352-3310. If anything’s wrong, let me know.”
“I will,” Cathy promised. “Thanks. Love you, and be careful. Bye.”
* * * *
Chris was quite impressed with the video equipment made available by Sonny, Jonathan’s acquaintance. In just over two hours, he had managed to edit a week’s worth of videotapes onto one cassette, thanks to Sonny’s miniature audio-visual recording studio.
He was rapid-viewing the final cassette, that from the previous night, when his cell phone rang.
“Hello,” he replied, his eyes glued to the images moving at high speed on the monitor before him.
“Hi, Chris,” he heard Cathy McCall’s voice on the line. “How are you?”
“Fine, Cathy, fine. Yourself?”
“Doing okay, thanks. Chris, do you know where your lovely wife is?”
“I thought you two were going to spend Dave’s and my hard earned money?” Chris jokingly replied. “Why? Where are you?”
“In your driveway,” Cathy answered. “Sandy doesn’t seem to be home.”
“That’s strange,” Chris responded, puzzled. “I know she didn’t forget that you were going out together because she talked about it this morning. Maybe she just went out to run a quick errand.”
“Probably,” agreed Cathy. “I’ll wait a bit. If you hear from her, you can reach me in my car.”
“Alright,” Chris replied, a little concerned. “Let me know if she doesn’t show up.”
“I will. Don’t worry. Bye.”
Chris flipped the phone shut and laid it down on the counter beside him, looking away from the video monitor for a second or two. As he returned his attention to the screen, he had the impression of having caught a glimpse of a face just before the image disappeared, to be replaced by the hissing snow of an unrecorded tape.
He pressed the rewind button and, sure enough, the face appeared again, but only for a fraction of a second at such a high speed. Curious and anxious, he hit the play button on the control panel before him and the tape began playing normally. He could see the deserted back lot of Quality Imports and not much else.
But wait. He detected a slight movement in the darkness at the bottom of the screen. He re-winded again and resumed his viewing at normal speed. He could vaguely make out two men walking in the dark towards Quality Imports, apparently coming from Bradley’s warehouse. As they moved into the light of the Quality building, Chris easily recognized Wayne and Bryan.
As he watched, he saw Wayne enter the building’s shipping area and return with a ladder which he handed down to Bryan. The latter hurried back towards Bradley’s building, followed by Wayne and soon, both men were out of the came
ra’s scope.
Several seconds later, a few dull, metallic clanking sounds were heard, followed by the sudden close-up appearance of Bryan’s pudgy face, inches from the camera lens. No more than another half-minute went by before the sound of breaking glass could be heard, after which, the image completely disappeared.
They had discovered him, or at least his camera. But how? Probably thanks to Tony Bradley, although Chris didn’t really hold the warehouse owner responsible. It was his own stupidity that had led to his being found out.
In the end, it didn’t really matter. He’d get everything together and make his delivery to Jonathan today. If required, he and Sandy would spend the weekend safely out of town.
Sandy? Where was she? It was not like her to be late for an appointment. She had too much respect for people.
His stomach tightened as he grabbed for his phone and speed-dialled their home number. No answer. He tried her cell phone but got the network’s message centre indicating that the user was currently not available.
Was it possible that they had gotten hold of Sandy? He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her, especially if it was a result of his own carelessness.
He decided to call Cathy back, hoping that Sandy had since arrived. As he flipped open his phone, it rang, startling him.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Hi, Chris,” Sandy’s voice sounded strained.
“Hi! Where are you? What’s the matter?” he asked, both relieved and concerned.
“She’s with some friends, Mr. Johnson,” Wayne’s familiar voice chided, making Chris feel nauseous.
“You’re making a serious mistake, Wayne,” Chris responded, his voice deadly quiet.
“No. You made a serious mistake, Barry,” Wayne shouted into the phone. “We weren’t looking for any trouble. This is your fault. You fuck with us, you pay.”
“Listen to me very carefully, Wayne,” Chris continued softly. “Take very good care of my wife. It will make your death much less painful.”
“Chris, Chris, Chris,” taunted Wayne in a soothing tone. “You’re really not in any position to make threats right now. Don’t worry about your dear little wife. She’s just collateral. Nothing’ll happen to her as long as you’re a good boy. Now, I just wanted to let you know that she was with us. I’ll call you back later. In the meantime, be a smart boy. Got it?”
With that, the line went dead.
Chris stared at the phone in his hand, breathing deeply to ease the churning he felt inside. After several moments, having somewhat regained his composure, he punched in Cathy’s number and waited impatiently for her to pick up.
“Yeah, Cathy? Chris. Listen, Sandy just gave me a call. She wasn’t feeling well and decided to go to the clinic. No, nothing serious. Don’t worry. Yeah, I’ll have her call you. Sorry you drove out for nothing. No, I don’t think we can make it this weekend. I’m gonna be really busy. Listen, I have to go. I’ll ask Sandy to call you later, okay? Once again, sorry. Bye.”
* * * *
At 5:26, Dave McCall pulled into the driveway of his Dorval home, trying to remember the last time he had left work at a reasonable hour. Smiling, he climbed out of the car and headed into the house, looking forward to a complete weekend off with Cathy.
“Hi, hon,” he called from the foyer as he peeled off the apparel necessary for Montreal winters.
“Hey there,” exclaimed Cathy, coming down the stairs. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Yup,” replied Dave. “And if all goes well, nobody’s gonna kill anybody over the weekend and you’ll have to endure me for the next two days.”
“I think I can manage that,” she murmured, placing her arms around his neck and kissing him.
“So, did you and Sandy have a good time?” asked Dave as they moved into the kitchen.
“Actually, we didn’t go. Sandy wasn’t feeling well and was gone to the clinic when I got there. Chris got back to me to let me know after I called him.”
“Anything serious?” enquired Dave, concerned.
“I guess not,” Cathy shrugged. “At least Chris didn’t think so. He said that Sandy would call me back but I haven’t heard from her. I’ll give her a shout tomorrow.”
“If they’re up to it, maybe we can get together.”
“Well, I suggested that to Chris but he said he’d be really busy this weekend,” Cathy replied. She hesitated a little, then added, “Chris sounded strange when I spoke to him, Dave. He seemed distant and anxious to get off the phone. I had the impression something was wrong.”
“You just worry too much, Mother,” Dave kidded. “He was probably just worried about Sandy.”
“I guess,” Cathy doubtfully replied. “I just had a feeling that there was a problem.”
“We’ll talk to them tomorrow and you’ll see, everything will be all right. Now, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
* * * *
He pulled on some black jeans and a sweat-shirt, also black, found his running shoes and put them on. He moved downstairs to the hall closet where he pulled out his black leather jacket. Black leather gloves and a baseball cap completed his outfit.
He headed into the dining room where the apparatus required for the evening lay on the table. As he reviewed the items one last time, he wondered if his true intention had ever been to retire from his violent activities. If so, why had he kept all this equipment? Souvenirs?
He completed his inventory check and was comfortable that he had everything he might need. The two handguns went on his person, the .357 Magnum in the holster strapped under his right arm, the other, a tiny .22, into a small discreet pocket within his jacket. The switchblade went into a zippered pocket on the left leg of his jeans. The rest; tape, rope, wire snips, and a few lock picking devices, went into a small gym bag.
He knew that he wouldn’t have to worry about an alarm system. He had checked that afternoon and the home he was planning to visit was linked with Pro-Tek Systems. A little computer hacking had ensured that the system would be properly dysfunctional.
He headed towards the garage, pausing only to pick up the new baseball bat he had purchased that afternoon, cash.
He started up the Pathfinder and rolled down the driveway, heading for his destination. As he reached the street, the phone rang on the seat beside him.
“Hello?”
“Chris,” greeted Jonathan’s voice. “I hadn’t heard from you today so I was wondering what was going on? Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“No,” was Chris’s blunt reply.
“No? What do you mean, no? What’s the matter, Chris?”
“This thing has become personal, Jonathan.”
“Personal?” exclaimed Jonathan, angry and bewildered. “Chris, what the hell is going on? Have you lost it? I thought the ‘Vigilante’ had retired?”
“They found me out and took Sandy, Jonathan,” Chris stonily replied. “It’s become personal.”
“Ah Jesus,” Jonathan muttered in disgust. “I’m sorry, Chris. When did this happen?”
“This morning around ten. They called me and told me to lay off. They’re supposed to call me back but I don’t know when.”
“Why didn’t you call me, Chris?” Jonathan reproached. “I can help. You know that. I’ve got a whole team if we need it.”
“This is personal and I intend to make these bastards pay, Jonathan,” Chris coldly stated. “You’ve got to understand that.”
“I understand, and believe me, they’ll pay. I’m not suggesting that you let us take over, Chris. I’m telling you, let us help. Let me help.”
Chris was silent for a moment before responding. “I’ll think about it. Right now, I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll give you a call when I get back.”
“Are you sure, Chris? Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’ll call you, Jonathan,” Chris promised. “Some time tonight. Maybe late but I’ll call.”
“All right, Chris,” Jonathan sighed. “Be
careful.”
“I will. Thanks, Jon.”
* * * *
Matt poured himself another healthy dose of vodka, splashing some on the counter in the process, but not caring. What was this? Drink number five, number six? It didn’t matter. What mattered was the numbness. At least the nausea was gone and the buzz felt good. But he still wished he had never gotten into this.
Sure, at first, and for a while, it was a blast. He was important, he had money, his friends admired him and he was respected at the clubs and restaurants he frequented; life in the fast lane, Mister Big Shot. That was all fine and nice until they shot George. And everything had turned to shit since. Now it was kidnapping on top of the drugs and murders. And Wayne, the genius, had no idea who Chris Barry even was or what he knew. The guy might be a goddamn cop. And to top it all, they were now holding Barry’s wife at his, Matt’s, cottage in St-Sauveur.
Feeling another bout of nausea coming on, Matt went for the vodka again, not bothering with a glass this time. The burn felt good and his stomach settled once more.
As he put the bottle back down, the phone rang, startling him. He hoped, prayed, that it wouldn’t be Wayne. At least, with half a bottle of vodka and a few snorts of coke in him, he’d have a good excuse not to go if they asked him to head to the cottage that night.
“Yeah?” he mumbled into the phone, the drugs and alcohol really starting to take their toll.
“Hello, Mister Shaffer, please,” asked the voice on the phone.
“Listen, bud,” slurred Matt. “This is the third time I tell you. There’s no fucking Mr. Shaffer here. Understand?”
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, sir,” the voice apologized. “I promise I won’t call again.”
* * * *
Outside Matt’s house, Chris flipped his phone shut and pulled the wire snips from his gym bag.
“Just wanna make sure that you won’t call anybody either, you little piece of shit,” he breathed as he severed the home’s phone line.
The Consultant Page 12
