Vigilante Season

by Peter Kirby

  Eddie pushed another button, and the garage door closed. They went back out to the parking lot through the blasted doors and were gone in seconds.

  Serge Barbeau lay dead on the concrete floor.

  Eleven

  Saint-Jacques had received her copy of the Statement of Claim, freshly stamped by the Superior Court and served on her by a bailiff. She’d never been sued before. She scanned it to make a copy and put the original in an envelope. Then she spent three hours reading and re-reading it, using a yellow marker to highlight whole passages, and writing notes in the margin. She felt like she knew it by heart, word for word. Then she called Vanier.

  “Yeah, I got it this morning. But I haven’t read it yet.”

  “You haven’t read it?” She didn’t understand how he could not have read it.

  “What’s to read? It’s not true, and I’m going to show them it’s not true. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “They say I was complicit. That I knew or should reasonably have known that you were assaulting Barbeau,” said Saint-Jacques.

  “Don’t worry, Sylvie, it’s bullshit, it’s not true,” said Vanier.

  “Oh. That’s it. The truth will out. What if it doesn’t?”

  He didn’t have an answer. They both knew of the tenuous connection between truth and justice. The justice system was as unpredictable as a horse race, and there was no such thing as a sure thing.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe I’m overreacting,” she said, trying to ignore the nagging doubts. She hadn’t seen Barbeau leave the station, and she knew Vanier was capable of getting rough.

  “No. Don’t apologize. I’ll read the damn thing and then we can talk about it.”

  “Okay. Call me.” Saint-Jacques hung up the phone.

  Sitting in his Volvo in the driveway of Anjili’s apartment building, Vanier checked the time. He had promised to be on time, and he was five minutes early. A miracle. He had even remembered to make the reservation, a table for two at Le Sel de mer. He was trying to make amends, trying not to screw things up. He punched her number in his cell phone.

  “Hey.”

  “It’s me. I’m downstairs.”

  “Already? Wonders never cease. I’m running late. Luc, can you come up? I’ll buzz you in, and you can let yourself into the apartment. I’ll be in the shower.”

  “Sure.” He grabbed the flowers, another peace offering. She didn’t say anything when he rang the intercom, just buzzed the door open.

  He could hear the shower as he walked in, slipping off his shoes. He put the flowers on the table and dumped his coat over the couch. Then he sat down. He got up again to put the coat in the closet, poured himself a whiskey, and relaxed into the couch. The bathroom door opened and the flowery shampoo and soap smell wafted down the hallway. He was tempted to follow the scent, but didn’t; he was walking a tightrope and didn’t want to fall. It was 6:30, and the dinner reservation was for 7 p.m.

  “Luc,” she called from the back bedroom. “Don’t worry about the time. I called and they said as long as we get there before nine, they’d feed us.”

  “Okay,” he called back. Too loudly, because she was walking towards him down the hallway in a white lacy bra and panty set, the kind that felt as good as they looked. She leaned down, took his glass, and put it on the table. Then she took his hand and pulled him up.

  “They’ll feed us as long as we’re there by nine.”

  “I heard.”

  “Nice flowers by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  She led him back down the hallway into the bedroom, then let go his hand and turned towards him. Slowly, she unclasped the front hooks on her bra, and Vanier watched, ready to accept anything she had in mind. Her panties followed. Then she walked into Vanier and kissed him, but not for long. She stepped back and started undressing him with determination. There was no question, no hesitation, just get the damn clothes off as quick as possible, and Vanier wasn’t arguing.

  The sex was rough. She wanted to fight and he let her, he wasn’t even close to resisting. He let her hit and scratch and claw and grab handfuls of him, and squeeze like she wanted to cause him pain. Vanier kind of understood what she was doing. She was in a hurry and quickly started climbing those women’s peaks, the kind where you think okay, this is it, but it’s not, and he just kept climbing with her. All the time, she said nothing, moaning to herself while punching him, solid punches, one after the other into his ribs, while she played with his tongue in her mouth. Then, out of nowhere, she started to laugh. Without losing the rhythm, she burst through the anger into the kind of laughter you never hear from adults. An innocent laughter that means nothing but having fun. And Vanier realized that making love to a woman who’s laughing because she’s having fun is the greatest; you can pretend a lot of things but you can’t pretend you’re having fun. Then the laughter stopped and she held on tight and continued climbing. To Vanier, it felt like they were completely naked for the first time.

  She was slick with sweat and his hands glided into slippery crevasses as she pushed into him. When she was ready they made eye contact. It wasn’t one of those rest on the shoulder, dig your head into the pillow, and explode kind of things. They stared at each other for the final moments and connected. It was the most personal sex he’d had in years. Then she hit the top, and he followed into the fireworks and overloaded circuits as best he could.

  They lay there, and he could feel her heart pounding, quickly, and then slowly settling down.

  “Holy shit,” she said finally, with a smile.

  “Yeah,” he said, feeling her heartbeat against his chest.

  He was almost dozing off in the afterglow when she said, “I wanted you to know.”

  “Hmm.”

  “That I want you in my bed, Luc. If you know that, the rest is manageable.”

  Vanier knew enough to continue with the non-verbal. “Hmm.”

  “I know it’s hard on you. You drive me home and we sit outside in the car while you try to decide: do I come in and leave after a few hours, or just not come in, and avoid the pain.”

  “It’s hard.”

  “I’m not saying I like it when you wake up at one o’clock and go home. But I understand. And if that’s the way it has to be for a while, I can live with it. We just need to be honest. And I want you in my bed as often as I can.”

  He rolled up on his arm and leaned forward to kiss her, his hand roaming over her stomach, caressing the undersides of her breasts.

  “No time, Mister. I’m starving,” she said, breaking the kiss and rolling away. “And you’re going to buy me a big hunk of meat. Rare.”

  Then she disappeared into the bathroom.

  The only light in the Botanical Gardens came from a pale moon that disappeared behind scattered clouds for minutes at a time. The Alpine Garden section was being expanded, and huge boulders from Saint-François-de-Salle were dumped around the site, waiting to be arranged into place by cranes. The workers had finished putting in the soil, a mixture of clinker and fill to provide good drainage. After the heavy rain, it was damp and muddy, tough going for the two men digging a grave.

  “You really think they had to kill him? He was only a kid. He was a stupid shit with only half a brain. But still, he was only a kid.”

  The other guy didn’t answer. Conversation was becoming too much work. They’d been digging for almost an hour and were over four feet down. They were both sweating.

  “We’re going to have to retaliate, right?”

  “Assuming we know who did it.”

  “Come on, man. We all know who did it. It was Garguet. The container was his.”

  “I thought he was under control. You know, being cooperative.”

  “Joe, you can’t trust scum like that. But shit, if we have to take out the Hells, that’s going to be messy.”

  “Well it
’s not our problem. We just follow orders. That’s the way I like it. Not complicated.”

  “It’s not complicated. But it could get very ugly.”

  “Nah. If you ask me, Denis, the Hells are a bunch of pussies. If it comes to a fight, it’s no contest.”

  “You know, personally, I couldn’t stand the little fuck. This deep enough, you think?” said Denis.

  “I guess so. Once they put the boulders in, that will be the end of Serge Barbeau. He’ll be pushing up daisies.”

  “Edelweiss, you mean. It’s an alpine garden.”

  “Edelweiss?”

  “Yeah, they grow in the Alps. Didn’t you see The Sound of Music?”

  They both laughed and began singing about blossoms of snow blooming and growing forever.

  After another half hour of digging, Joe grabbed the makeshift ladder at the top of the grave, propped it against the wall of the grave, and climbed out. His partner followed, and they both walked to the truck and let down the flatbed hatch. They dragged the dark blue body bag to the edge and grabbed the handles at each end. Then they carried it over to the hole.

  “Skinny bastard. Hardly weighs anything,” said Joe.

  “All mouth. That was him. Fuck all else.”

  They dropped the bag into the hole with a wet thud and began shovelling the earth back in. It took half an hour. When they were finished, you couldn’t tell the soil had been disturbed, and Serge Barbeau lay peacefully under five feet of soil. Soon to be five feet of soil and a six ton granite boulder.

  “A beer would go down well.”

  “I’d kill for a beer.”

  They threw their mud-caked overalls and rubber boots into the bed of the truck and took off, remembering to replace the padlock on the gate as they left.

  Vanier was driving home, listening to Etta James and feeling good, like he was going to be able to hold it all together. Like there was hope. He thought of stopping off at the Blue Angel for a nightcap. Then he thought of Alex and decided against it.

  He pulled out his keys as he walked down the hallway. He looked down to check the shoes outside the door. It was a habit now, checking the shoes. Alex had two pairs, and unless he had bought new ones, he was at home. Vanier turned the key and pushed. The door moved two inches before it was stopped dead by the chain.

  “Shit,” he cursed, under his breath. Then he yelled through the crack, “Alex. Come and open the door. The chain’s on.”

  He put his ear to the crack and listened. Only silence. No television, no music, and the lights were off. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone and punched in Alex’s number. The call went straight to voicemail. He yelled again through the crack in the door, “Alex. Come on, open the door.” Then he fist-pounded the wood. There was only silence from inside.

  Vanier stood back and then leapt forward, shoulder first into the door. The chain remained in place. He tried twice more and realized that it wasn’t going to work, so he turned and ran back down the hallway and took the elevator to the basement garage. The janitor had a plywood workroom in the garage where he kept tools and paint. It was locked, but one kick was enough to open it. He scanned the small room and saw a crowbar on a hook. Vanier grabbed it and rushed back to the elevator, cursing it for taking so long to get back to his floor. Then he ran down the hallway and used the crowbar to force the door. This time the chain gave with the sound of screws being pulled out of wood. He was inside and went through the apartment, flicking the light switches to bathe the place in light. In seconds, he had checked every room. Alex wasn’t there. But you can’t put a chain on the door from the outside. Then he thought of the balcony. He crossed the living room, pulled open the balcony door, and stepped out. Security lights along the building illuminated every spot where Alex would have landed. Vanier walked the length of the balcony peering down to the ground. There was nothing.

  He went back into the apartment and started opening closets. In Alex’s bedroom he pushed back the sliding doors of the built-in closet and saw him, sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up tight to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs.

  Vanier got down on his knees and reached for him. Alex didn’t react. He was shaking, as though he was cold, and his teeth were chattering, but there were beads of sweat on his face and his T-shirt was dark, stained with damp at the armpits and on his chest. Vanier crept closer and put an arm around his shoulder, pulling himself into the closet to sit beside him.

  “Hey Alex, it’s okay. Don’t worry. Things are fine.”

  He put his hand on Alex’s neck and felt the pulse racing. His body was tense, as though he could spring up at any second, and Vanier knew there was nothing to do but wait, so he mumbled the meaningless platitudes, a familiar noise to convey his presence, and he squeezed Alex’s shoulder from time to time. After half an hour, Alex rested his head on Vanier’s shoulder and seemed to relax. Later still he said, “I’m sorry”.

  “Don’t be …. It was a panic attack, that’s all. I’ve read about them. They seem real, Alex, but they’re not.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Dad.”

  “Okay.”

  They sat in the dark in silence. Vanier looked down at his son’s face and saw tears caught in the light of the moon. He squeezed his arm around the boy again.

  Twelve

  Star was ushered into the office of the lawyer Pierre Dufrene by a young girl in heavy makeup. Star didn’t use makeup, she wouldn’t know where to start, and she looked pale by comparison. She was wearing an outfit that Desportes had helped her choose from Village des Valeurs. He had said it made her look like a poor student trying to look professional. Until she saw the receptionist, she had thought the outfit made her look good.

  “Clara Furlow,” the girl said to Dufrene, as she ushered Star into the office. Star had chosen the name herself and was enjoying the change of identity. She reached out to shake Dufrene’s hand, but he looked at his watch instead. He gestured for her to sit on one of the chairs in front of the desk. “I understand this isn’t for a consultation.”

  “No, sir. I’m with the Commission scolaire de Montréal. Well, actually I’m doing a three-month work-placement with them. I’m a student in social work at UQAM, and work-placement is part of the program.” She handed him a card that Desportes had made up yesterday. Dufrene barely glanced at it before dropping it among the piles of paper already on his desk.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I was given three kids to work with. Kids who were slipping in school and in danger of dropping out. I’m supposed to work with them, one-on-one, to get them back on track.”

  “And?”

  “One of the kids is Serge Barbeau. He seems to have gone missing. I was wondering if you could help me track him down.”

  “And why do you think I can help you?”

  “Mr. Frechette at the school told me you were his lawyer. He recognized you at the press conference after the incident at the police station.”

  “You’re not the only one looking for him. The police would love to talk to him, too.”

  “I suppose.” She pulled her chair closer to the desk and rested her notebook on top of a pile of folders. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s easier to write on a flat surface.” Star gripped the notebook tightly in an effort to stop her hands from shaking.

  “You’re nervous.”

  “I’m not used to this. I’m supposed to act professional. Maybe that’s why they give us work-placement.”

  “Anyway, there’s nothing to write. I can’t help you. I have no idea where he is. Even if I did, it’s confidential,” he said, getting up.

  “Okay. But I thought, he’s your client, maybe you could get a message to him.”

  “Was my client. If I can’t find him, I guess he’s no longer my client. Tell you what, if you find him, tell him he still needs a lawyer. Tell him he sh
ould call me.”

  As he finished his sentence, Star leaned her chair forward to write in the notebook, balancing it on a pile of file folders. They began to lean.

  “Watch out.” Dufrene jumped up as the folders slipped to the floor, emptying themselves on the way. He reached out to try to stem the flow of paper and then bent to stuff them back into folders and pile them back on the desk. He didn’t notice Star place a small plastic box on the underside of the desk’s lip.

  “I’m sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry.” Star didn’t bend down to help him.

  “You should go now. Practice is over.”

  She stood up. “I’m really sorry.”

  “You should be more careful. Don’t they teach that in university?”

  Star had no idea what they taught in university. She backed herself to the door with a final, “I’m sorry. Listen, if he wants to call me, my number is on the card.” She looked at the mess on his desk and handed him another. “I’ll give you two. If you lose one, you’ll have another.”

  Three blocks from Dufrene’s office, Star walked into Atomic Café and ordered an espresso. Desportes was working on his laptop at a small table wearing headphones. She carried the espresso over.

  “Wonderful, Star,” he said as he handed her the headphones and set up the audio again. “Listen.”

  She put on the headphones and heard a crash of papers and her mumbled apologies. Then a static and a slap, which she assumed was the device being attached. She heard more of her muttered apologies and wondered why she sounded so stupid. Desportes pushed some buttons, and she listened to the fast-forward noise for a few seconds and then the sound of a telephone keyboard being punched.

  Desportes lifted the left ear pad cushion and leaned over. “This is about two minutes after you left.”

  “Colonel. It’s Dufrene.”