The Consultant

by Claude Bouchard

  He reached the door and gently turned the knob, praying for it to be locked but, to his dismay, it wasn’t. Barring a variety of bottles, jars and the like, the room was empty which meant that Sandy was upstairs somewhere.

  He’d just have to go up there and get her.

  * * * *

  “So? Have you come up with your master plan?” demanded Bryan.

  His patience was wearing thin following several minutes of pacing and two hefty scotches.

  “I haven’t really been planning anything,” admitted Wayne. “But I have been thinking about something.”

  “Well, why don’t you share those thoughts,” suggested Bryan, his sarcasm far from subtle.

  Ignoring his colleague’s tone, Wayne explained, “When we discovered that Barry was on to us, I was worried that he was working with the cops. Now, I’m really not so sure that he is.”

  “Why’s that?” enquired Bryan, vaguely interested.

  “Because the cops haven’t shown up here,” Wayne reasoned, “Even though Barry knows where we are. Because Matt and Greg are dead. I don’t think Barry would have killed them if he was working for or with the police.”

  “Yeah, but we snatched his wife,” reminded Bryan. “Maybe that made the guy go nuts.”

  “Maybe,” Wayne responded doubtfully. “But presuming that Barry is the one who’s been screwing with us all along, which we both believe he is, why did he kill Rick? Why did he set up Bob? Why did he switch the coke on us? We hadn’t grabbed his wife then. No. I don’t think the cops are in on this at all. I don’t know what motivated the bastard to screw with us, but I’m sure it’s just him and us.”

  “Okay, great,” accepted Bryan, puzzled. “So what’s the point?”

  “Point is, my friend, that I knew we would eventually have to deal with this guy and that his missus would serve as the bait. I just wasn’t clear on when because I didn’t know who was involved in this. Now I’m clear.”

  “And?” asked Bryan, still not quite following.

  “If the cops aren’t in on this, then the only problem is Barry,” Wayne explained with a pained expression. “If he’s gone, then nobody knows about our activities anymore.”

  “What about all these dead bodies?” questioned Bryan, not quite enthralled with Wayne’s thoughts.

  “What bodies? There’s really been only one body so far. George. Who says Rick and Bob are dead? They’ve simply disappeared. Maybe they’ve been ripping off Quality Imports. We could short the inventory to support that theory. As far as Matt and Greg go, one was murdered and the other committed suicide. Hell, we had nothing to do with that. We were up here since Friday afternoon. We’ve got people in the village here that could vouch for that. All we have to do once we’ve taken care of Mr. Barry is keep our noses clean for a couple of months. Then we just pick up right where we left off.”

  Both men stared at each other for a moment. Bryan had to admit, the way Wayne explained it made a whole lot of sense; definitely plausible.

  “Alright. What’s our next step, then?” asked Bryan.

  “We get that little bitch down here,” snarled Wayne, “And the three of us will call her husband to suggest he get his butt over here real quick.”

  * * * *

  From downstairs, Chris could hear the muffled voices of a discussion taking place on the main floor. As best as he could determine there were two people involved and both were male. The sounds of the conversation seemed louder when he moved towards the front of the house, leading him to believe that Bryan and Wayne were in the living room. That was good. The staircase leading up to the first floor was at the back of the house.

  He started up the steps, slowly, one at a time, a small can of WD-40 ready for the hinges of the door on top. He wondered where Jonathan was. Considering Bryan’s arrival without any evident panic, he figured that Jonathan had managed to make things appear normal. He hadn’t known Jonathan for long but was confident that the man would be there if he needed him.

  * * * *

  Jonathan kept watch on the front porch, glancing inside on a regular basis. Wayne and Bryan were in the living room, deep in conversation, with the former doing most of the talking. There was no sign of Chris yet and Jonathan had no idea what his most recent consultant intended to do. However, Chris had clearly established that he was quick on his feet, able to rapidly evaluate a situation and react accordingly. Whatever he determined to be the appropriate action, Jonathan would be ready to back him up.

  * * * *

  Sandy was seated on the brass bed, her right wrist securely handcuffed to the railed headboard. Although she had no idea what fate the coming hours reserved for her, she felt strangely calm. Regardless of what happened to her, she knew that her captors would pay. Pay and suffer. Her husband would see to that. Her husband was the ‘Vigilante’.

  The door to the second floor bedroom suddenly swung open and Wayne strolled in, keys in hand.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” he smiled, unlocking the cuff at her wrist. “It’s time to call hubby.”

  “Fuck you,” she calmly responded. “I’m not doing anything to help you.”

  His smile turned to a nasty grimace as he spoke.

  “You’re not in any position to make decisions, bitch. Now, get your sweet ass downstairs or I’ll throw it down.”

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her roughly from the bed, propelling her from the room and down the stairs. Into the living room, he pushed her onto the couch before picking up the cordless phone which he shove in her face.

  “Call,” he ordered.

  She gazed at him with a slight smile then spit at him in response.

  “You little cunt,” Wayne screamed, raising a hand to strike her.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” warned Chris, his voice a deadly monotone.

  Both Wayne and Bryan spun around in surprise to find Chris standing at the entrance of the hallway which led to the back of the house. The hole in the barrel of the .357 Magnum he held seemed large enough to walk into. Bryan threw a glance at his jacket, hanging far away on the peg by the side door, thinking of his gun in the pocket.

  “Don’t try anything stupid,” Chris ordered, turning his attention to the man for an instant.

  Wayne, taking advantage of the slight diversion, pulled a revolver from behind his back and pressed its barrel to Sandy’s head.

  “Who’s gonna shoot first, Barry?” he growled. “Who’s the first to die?”

  “My guess would be Mr. Barry,” came Jonathan’s voice from the front door, where he stood with his rifle trained on Chris’s chest. “Put down that cannon real slow, Mister Barry. Real, real slow.”

  “Who the hell are you?” blurted Wayne, somewhat confused by the sudden appearance of this stranger.

  “Ice,” replied Jonathan as he took a step forward, his unblinking eyes fixed on Chris. “Jimmy’s best, Mr. Mackinnon. Now, Mister Barry, I ain’t gonna ask you again. Get that gun down on the floor or I’ll blow your fucking heart out.”

  He took another step into the room as he raised the rifle butt to his shoulder, assuring better precision of his aim. Chris stared at him for a few seconds and then, slowly began lowering the gun, admitting defeat.

  “Well, Chris,” Wayne smugly taunted, lowering his revolver from Sandy’s head. “Guess you’re not that bright after all.”

  Turning to Jonathan who now stood no more than three feet from him he added, “Kill him.”

  Chris froze, his gun now down to waist level, as Jonathan grinned. “You got it, boss.”

  With an unexpected swing, Jonathan whipped the barrel of his rifle into Wayne’s face, sending the man reeling and his revolver clattering across the floor, safely out of reach. Losing his balance from the blow, Wayne fell and immediately found himself pinned to the ground by a rifle barrel leaning heavily into his throat.

  “Everything okay?” Jonathan called out as he stared down at Wayne.

  “Fine,” replied Chris, his heavy handgun aimed di
rectly at Bryan who, stunned by the sudden turn of events, remained very still.

  “Good,” said Jonathan, stepping back a few feet from Wayne. “Mr. Mackinnon, please roll over on your stomach and spread your arms and legs wide. Don’t try anything stupid or I will kill you.”

  Wayne silently obeyed.

  “Good boy,” Jonathan continued. “Now, Mr. Downey, please come over here and lay down on your stomach next to your friend, same position.”

  A nervous Bryan abided by the request without a word.

  “Thank you,” Jonathan politely said.

  He reached into a pocket of his leather jacket, extracted a small aerosol can and crouched down near the two men’s heads.

  “Night, boys,” he pleasantly chanted as he quickly sprayed them to sleep.

  Standing, he turned to Chris and Sandy who were already in each others arms.

  “Why don’t you two take a break and get reacquainted. I’ll entertain our hosts in the meantime.”

  * * * *

  Wayne and Bryan awoke within seconds of each other, their state of mind, a bit foggy. Each was propped up against and securely taped to one of each of the two oak support beams which ran from floor to ceiling between the living room and dining area.

  As they regained their senses, they became aware of someone standing before them. Looking up, they recognized Chris, which quickly brought them completely back to reality.

  “Gentlemen, nice to have you back,” said Chris, his smile charming but his gaze deadly. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

  The two stared up at him but uttered no reply. The several layers of tape covering their mouths prevented them to do so.

  “While you were sleeping, I had a chat with my wife,” Chris continued. “I was quite interested in knowing how you gentlemen had treated her during her stay. Although she was understandably frightened by the whole ordeal, she has assured me that you did not harm her and, for that, I extend my thanks.”

  He paused for a moment, looking from one man to the other, before pursuing.

  “Over the years, I have earned the reputation of being honest and straight-forward, a man of my word. I promised you no pain if you didn’t harm Sandy and I will keep my promise.”

  Turning towards the dining table behind him, he pointed to a small digital clock which read 10:43.

  “At precisely eleven, this clock will transmit a signal. We have placed explosives in strategic locations in the house, armed with detonators which will be triggered by the signal. The explosion will be so massive, gentlemen, that your death will be instantaneous. I promise you will feel no pain.”

  With these as his final words, he stepped through the front door to join Sandy and Jonathan, who waited in the Jeep Grand Cherokee which Jonathan had conveniently obtained for the day’s activities. They drove off, heading south for home.

  As they embarked onto the Laurentian autoroute, they heard and felt a sudden rumbling in the distance behind them. The clock in the Jeep’s dashboard read 11:00.

  Chapter 20 - Sunday, February 2, 1997

  Dave McCall awoke at 6:15, which was considered sleeping in by his standards. He quietly climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Cathy. They had gotten in late the night before, following a lovely dinner and an evening of dancing which Dave had proposed in order smooth over the previous morning’s silly spat.

  He padded to the kitchen to get the coffee going, used the bathroom and then headed to the front door for the morning paper. Due to their evening out, he had missed the news and he liked to keep abreast of current events.

  He returned to the kitchen to get some coffee before settling down to read. As he dropped the paper on the table in passing, the front page headline caught his attention. Any articles related to crime naturally piqued his interest and he forgot about his coffee as he started to read.

  RCMP CRUSH DRUG IMPORT RING

  AND "ACES OF DEATH"

  by Ron Henderson

  Following months of intense investigation, the RCMP, assisted by officers of the QPP, closed in on a major narcotics importation and distribution ring yesterday, announced Nicholas Sharp, Director of the RCMP detachment for the Province of Quebec.

  Thanks to tips from informants and a series of surveillance operations which spanned a period of some eighteen months, an undercover team, headed by Sharp, was able to confirm cocaine and heroin imports from Colombia and Thailand.

  The masterminds behind the complex import network are suspected to have used their employer, Quality Imports of Laval, as the cover and means to their operation. Unbeknownst to Charles Peterson, owner and president of Quality Imports, the drugs were allegedly included within regular shipments of merchandise brought into the country by the company.

  Also suspected to be involved in the drug import scheme were two customs officials, one employee of Rapid Forwarders, a local customs broker as well as legal counsel to the infamous "Aces of Death" motorcycle gang which is also alleged to be involved, handling the distribution of the narcotics.

  Having accumulated sufficient evidence to crack the network, the authorities proceeded with a series of raids yesterday morning during which dozens were arrested and sizeable quantities of illicit drugs and weapons were seized. Two died, including Diamond Jimmy Sanchez, head of the Aces of Death.

  Interestingly enough, of the six Q.I. employees suspected to be overseeing the narcotic imports operation two have not been seen for several days while the bodies of the other four were found yesterday at various locations.

  Data obtained from the personal computer of Q.I.'s Greg Pierce, who was found dead at his Laval home from an apparent suicide, indicates that relations with the Aces of Death had grown more than tense following several shipments of phoney cocaine to the bikers. It is suspected that a war may have developed between the two groups. This is supported by the discovery of six bodies in St-Sauveur late yesterday morning following a powerful explosion at a cottage, owned by Matthew Roth, also employed by Q.I., whose badly mutilated body was found in his Laval home.

  Of the six bodies found in St-Sauveur, four were known members of the Aces of Death. The other two were Wayne MacKinnon and Bryan Downey, both employed by Q.I. and allegedly involved in the narcotics import scam. Police suspect that the deaths were the result of an attempted settling of accounts between the two groups.

  A neighbour to the Roth cottage in St-Sauveur informed police that he saw a black Jeep Grand Cherokee leave the residence shortly before the explosion occurred. Police suspect that the vehicle was that of Robert Rivard, also employed by Q.I. and presumed to be involved in the drug operation. Rivard, according to Peterson of Q.I., is on vacation in Mexico since Thursday, although authorities have not been able to locate him to date, nor find any record of his leaving the country. Police suspect that Rivard may still be in the area, accompanied by Richard Beauchamp, also of Q.I., reported missing since Tuesday.

  Dave put down the paper in a daze. Maybe Cathy had been right. Maybe something had happened to Chris or Sandy. He swore to himself for not having listened as he rushed to the phone. Frantically, he punched in the Barrys’ home number, waiting impatiently as it rang.

  “Hello?” answered Chris’s sleepy voice.

  “Chris! You’re home,” exclaimed Dave, surprised, but pleased.

  “Where else would you expect me to be this early in the morning?" mumbled Chris. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly six-thirty,” Dave sheepishly replied. “Listen, I’m sorry if I woke you. I was just worried about you guys since I learned what was happening at Quality Imports.”

  “What? What’s happening at Quality Imports?” asked Chris, still sleepy and obviously confused. “What are you talking about, Dave?”

  “You can read about it in the paper. Sorry I woke you, Chris,” Dave apologized. “Go back to sleep and give me a call later, okay?”

  “I will go back to sleep,” Chris agreed with a yawn. “But since I have you on the phone, why don’t you people come over
for dinner tonight?”

  “Well, if Sandy’s not feeling well,” Dave started.

  “Sandy has never felt better,” Chris interrupted. “See you later. Goodnight.”

  Dave replaced the receiver in its cradle as Cathy padded into the kitchen, yawning.

  “Who are you talking to at this hour?” she asked, squinting in the light.

  “Chris,” replied Dave, grinning. “And for your information, he and Sandy are fine, just like I told you.”

  * * * *

  Chris and Sandy were comfortably seated in the den watching television when the doorbell rang.

  “You sure you’re okay with this?” Chris asked as they headed towards the front door. “You have your story straight?”

  “It’s a little too late now anyway, wouldn’t you say?” his wife replied sweetly before opening the door to greet their dinner guests.

  “Hey there,” they chorused as they ushered Cathy and Dave in from the cold.

  A round of hugs and kisses took place during which Cathy complimented Chris on how elegant he looked wearing a turtle-neck sweater.

  “It’s to hide the hickeys Sandy gave me,” he kidded, thinking of the bruises left by the gorilla’s attempt at strangulation less than thirty-six hours earlier.

  “So I guess you’re feeling better?” an ever-concerned Cathy asked Sandy as the latter took her coat.

  “I’m great,” reassured Sandy. “It was just a temporary thing, something that didn’t agree with me. Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen and let these two catch up on sports and stuff.”

  “I was worried about you,” Cathy persisted as they walked off, “Especially when I couldn’t reach you yesterday.”