Vigilante Season

by Peter Kirby

  “Got you. It’s probably nothing, and you don’t need to make a big story out of it. Why don’t I drive by and check things out?”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure. It’s not far. Give me half an hour, and I’ll call you back.”

  “That would be great.” She gave him Vanier’s cell number in case he started answering his phone.

  “Half an hour, forty-five minutes. I’ll call you.”

  Star was sitting between two bushes, invisible in the shadows, watching the man holding Kyle by his collar and calling for her to come and help the kid. She still clutched the knife in her hand, but had dropped the gun on the ground beside her, after she realized that it wasn’t like in the movies. She had tried aiming it at the man, holding it steady in two hands, but every time she squinted to shoot, she saw Kyle’s blank face staring out into the night. She needed help.

  When the man dragged Kyle back into the building, she stood up and ran to the back of the next building. Against the back wall, there were two steel containers on wheels, one overflowing with garbage, the other emblazoned with the recycling logo. Further along the wall were small piles of cut lengths of pipe. The recycling container was full of cardboard and paper, and she pulled a disposable lighter from her pocket. She hesitated before setting fire to the container. Instead, she pushed the garbage container a few feet along the wall until it was directly under a window, then she collected as much cardboard and paper as she could pile onto the garbage container. She grabbed a length of pipe, climbed onto the container, and used the pipe to smash out the window. Then she began lighting the folded boxes and paper. Each time she got a good flame going, she pushed the burning cardboard and paper through the window, letting it drop to the ground inside the building. The boxes and paper must have been falling on something flammable, because after a few minutes she saw more flames through the window than would have come from the boxes. The alarm went off.

  She jumped down from the container, picked up the gun and the knife, and sprinted across the parking lot to where they were holding Kyle. She found two more containers at the back of that building.

  Richard Wallach pulled into the parking lot next to the three trucks and killed the lights. He was wearing his usual off-duty outfit, leather jacket and jeans. He was careful about how he dressed. He walked to the door of the building and turned the handle. Everyone looked up as he walked in, including Vanier.

  “About time you showed up,” said Prévost, “Things are going pear-shaped in a hurry.”

  “Don’t worry. Everything’s under control.”

  He turned to Vanier, as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Inspector. What a surprise. You really have fucked up this investigation, haven’t you?”

  “You’ve thrown your lot in with this scum? Didn’t have what it takes to be a real cop?”

  “A real cop? Like you? Don’t make me laugh. I’m doing more for controlling crime than you’ve done in a lifetime. We’re close to making Hochelaga a crime-free zone.”

  “You should know that the cavalry’s on its way, and you’re fucked big time.”

  “The cavalry? You mean Detective Sergeant Saint-Jacques?”

  Vanier said nothing.

  “Maybe the only friend you’ve got on the force. She got your messages. And she’s concerned about you. Not concerned enough to leave her little love nest in Tremblant, but, you know, concerned. She called to tell me. I offered to go look for you. I’ll call her back in half an hour and tell her the place is quiet and you weren’t around. You must have had the wrong address.”

  Prévost was pacing. “Wallach, we don’t have time for this. We need to close this down right now. Get the other two out here. We’re leaving.”

  “What about the girl? I thought she was here.”

  “She’s still out there,” said Denis. “I’m sure of it.”

  “We don’t have time. We’ll come back for her.”

  Wallach nodded in the direction of Lecroix. “What happened to him?”

  “The bitch stabbed him and ran off,” said Denis. He looked at Prévost again. “We need to get him to a hospital.”

  “I fucking know that, but it has to wait.” Prévost was irritated. “We need to get rid of the baggage.” He turned to Vanier. “You like flowers, Mr. Vanier?”

  Vanier said nothing.

  “Because that’s where you’re going. They’re still fixing up the Alpine Gardens. Nice soft sand for a burial, and when they put the rocks in place, it will be a thousand years before they find you.”

  He turned to Denis and Brasso. “You two, get Joe into the truck, and come back for the others.”

  They lifted Joe off the table and struggled with him through the door. He was unconscious. Denis nodded to Brasso to look at his stomach. Joe’s abdomen was swelling, a sure sign that the bleeding hadn’t stopped, it just had nowhere to go. They put him in the back seat of the truck’s cab and went back inside.

  This time Brasso tried to intervene for Joe. “He’s in the truck, sir. He’s in bad shape. He’s bleeding like crazy internally. Needs to get to the hospital.”

  “How many times do I have to say it? We get rid of these three first. Then you take him to the hospital.”

  He grabbed Vanier by the hair and pulled him out of the chair. “Brasso, you take the kid. I’ll take this fucker. And you two – ,” he pointed to Denis and Wallach – “get Desportes. Let’s move it.”

  The procession shuffled out of the building towards the three trucks. Denis and Wallach were half-carrying, half-dragging Desportes across the lot. Brasso was frog-marching Kyle, and Prévost was bringing up the rear with Vanier.

  Vanier smelled smoke and heard the sound of a fire engine, then two.

  “Move it,” yelled Prévost. Vanier watched them bundle Desportes and then Kyle into one of the trucks and slam the door. Prévost held a gun on him and gestured for him to climb up into the last truck. Vanier looked up. The bottom of the door was level with his waist.

  “Can’t be done like this,” said Vanier, gesturing with the handcuffs behind his back.

  The advance van from the fire station cruised past the driveway, its lights flashing.

  “Get in the fucking truck before I kill you.”

  “Then take off the cuffs, I can’t climb in with my hands tied behind my back.”

  A fire truck went noisily past the driveway, the noise from its air brakes indicating it was slowing down. The smell of smoke was everywhere, and Prévost reached into his pocket. He pulled out a knife and cut the plastic cuffs. “Get in the fucking car.”

  Vanier climbed up into the cab, and Prévost kept the gun trained on him as he walked around the front of the truck. Vanier heard the second fire engine pump its brakes and squeal to a stop. He looked out towards the street, and it was still clear. The fire must be in the next building.

  Denis’s truck was the first to start. Vanier watched as the reverse lights came on and the truck backed out to turn towards the street. Then it stopped. The driver’s door opened, and Denis jumped down, turning to look at the tires. The truck was riding on the rims, and hanging shards of rubber showed where they had been slashed. He ran to Brasso’s truck, and it was the same thing. Then he ran over to Prévost’s truck, waving. Prévost lowered the window.

  “Jan. She slashed the tires.”

  “Fuck,” said Prévost. “Okay, everyone back inside.”

  Prévost turned to Vanier, “Any fucking problems, I’ll kill you right here. And I’ll kill you quietly.”

  Denis ran to Brasso’s truck to tell him of the change of plan. Wallach was still sitting in the passenger’s seat of Denis’s truck, with Desportes and Lacroix bleeding in the back seat.

  Brasso jumped down from his cab and was going around to the passenger side to remove Kyle. He heard a noise and looked back to see a flaming garbage co
ntainer cruising towards him. He raised his gun and got off a shot just before being hit full-on by the steel container. Vanier saw Star move around the container, grab the gun that Brasso had dropped, and run off into the shadows. Prévost was walking around the front of his truck to pull Vanier from the passenger side. Prévost was distracted by the gunshot, the flaming garbage container, and the imminent threat of firemen appearing to douse it. He reached up and pulled the door open. Shouted, “Out, fucker. Now!”

  Vanier swivelled in his seat as though he was going to jump down, then leaned back and brought his foot up powerfully under Prévost’s jaw. He felt it connect with bone, but it didn’t have much effect on Prévost, except to make him drop his gun. Prévost bent down to retrieve it, and Vanier launched himself out of the truck, stomping Prévost’s head into the asphalt. They both reached for the gun, and Vanier was faster. He stood up with the gun aimed at Prévost. Then Prévost rolled and grabbed for Vanier’s leg, pulling him off balance. The gun went off and half of Prévost’s face exploded in a mist of blood.

  Wallach and Denis were propping up Desportes, staring at Vanier. Vanier raised the gun and pointed it. Wallach took a step back and ran off into the darkness, leaving Denis bearing the load. Denis lowered Desportes to the floor and held his arms out, like he was waiting for crucifixion.

  “Lie down. Hands in view, and don’t move.”

  Denis obeyed the instructions.

  Then Brasso appeared from behind one of the trucks. He was pushing Kyle in front of him, holding a sawed-off shotgun to his head.

  “Vanier, I’m walking, or the kid’s dead. Put your gun down.”

  Vanier saw movement behind Brasso. Star emerged from the shadows with a gun aimed at Brasso.

  Vanier yelled, “Star. No!”

  Brasso spun around with the shotgun, and Star froze. Vanier aimed and fired. The bullet hit Brasso between the shoulder blades, and he slumped to the ground.

  Star rushed over, grabbed Kyle, and pulled him over to the grass at the edge of the parking lot.

  Vanier heard a motor start, and saw Wallach accelerating towards him. He raised the gun again and aimed at the driver’s seat. At the last moment, he spun out of the way and let the car speed by.

  Star was back in the parking lot, helping Desportes to his feet and leading him over to where Kyle was sitting on the grass.

  Seconds later, the lot was full of squad cars. A spotlight bathed the scene in light, and a speaker from one of the cars ordered, “Everyone. Put your weapons down and lie on the ground. Now! Everyone put your weapons down and lie on the ground.”

  Vanier was the only person standing. He made a show of holding his arms up and slowly getting down onto his knees and then lying flat out. He tossed the gun. Star watched from the grass, keeping her arm around Kyle.

  The lot was still, except for the hum of engines from the squad cars and the boots of the officers approaching. Four of them walked cautiously up to Vanier. The lead officer dropped down on Vanier’s back and started punching him in the head. Two others stared kicking him.

  Vanier yelled, “I’m a police officer.” It took a while before they got the message. “DI Vanier. I’m a police officer.”

  They cuffed him anyway.

  Richard Wallach figured he had, at most, fifteen minutes to grab what he needed from his condo and clear out. He called Eddie Pickton on the way.

  “Eddie, shit’s happening. I need help.”

  “What kind of shit?”

  “It’s over, Eddie. The Patriotes are finished. Jan’s dead, shot by a cop. Lacroix’s dead. Brasso’s dead. It’s finished. I need to get away.”

  Wallach was doing his best to drive so as not to attract attention, but still gunning the accelerator when he could.

  “I need a place to hide out for a couple of days. I need to arrange a new passport. Just a couple of days.

  “Sounds like you’re finished too, Richard.”

  Wallach sensed the hesitation. Why should Pickton help him if there was nothing in it for him?

  “I’ll pay, Eddie. I got cash in the condo. Eddie, come on. A favour. Remember, I’m the one helped you get where you were. Remember that.”

  Pickton remembered. And he knew what Wallach could do with that knowledge.

  “OK, Richard. Meet me in half an hour. There’s a parking lot behind the Pain Doré factory on Rouen Street. It’s quiet. If I’m not there, wait for me.”

  “Sure, Eddie. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Half an hour, Richard.” Pickton pushed disconnect.

  Wallach took ten minutes in his condo to dump cash and some clothes into a gym bag. His heart stopped beating wildly only when he was back in his car and turning out of the condo parking lot. He knew the bakery on Rouen Street and the lot behind it. It was only accessible by a laneway, bordered on two sides by old maples, and the fourth by the embankment for the train tracks. It was empty at night, and dark.

  He pulled in and parked in a corner, almost invisible in the shadows. Ten minutes later, he saw headlights approaching up the alley and recognized Pickton’s SUV as it turned into the lot. It cruised to a stop behind him, and Pickton got out. He gestured for Wallach to come.

  Wallach grabbed the gym bag and walked towards him.

  “Eddie,” Wallach smiled, “I owe you big time for this.” He reached out to shake Pickton’s hand, and Pickton reached too. That’s when Wallach noticed the gun.

  “Ah, no, Eddie. Don’t do this.”

  The screeching of a freight train slowly rounding a tight curve drowned out the noise of the shot. Pickton leaned down to pull the gym bag from Wallach’s hand, placed the muzzle against Wallach’s forehead and shot again. The body flinched slightly with the force of the bullet and lay still, blood pumping from the wound.

  “The boy becomes the man, Richard.”

  Pickton opened the door to the SUV and threw the bag in. Then he climbed in after it and drove off.

  Eighteen

  Vanier sat alone in a dark corner of a semi-basement refuge for serious afternoon drinkers. He hadn’t eaten all day and was rotating between beer and whiskey. The place smelled of years of spilled beer and damp carpeting, and there was a hush that had settled over the room like low cloud. Two television monitors were tuned to the evening news, one in English, the other French, and both were on mute. He didn’t need sound to be able to follow the story.

  The video they found at Prévost’s place showed a convention of suppliers to Hochelaga’s drug trade drawn together in a warehouse to celebrate their new business arrangement – where the hard men of the Patriotes would control the neighbourhood but permit business to continue under new rules. The deal was consummated by everyone participating in beating Émile Legault along the slow path to his death. It was meant to show they were all in it together. And the video was the Patriotes’ insurance that people would respect the new rules. With the evidence of the video, the police had raided the homes and businesses of the leaders of the four crime factions that had joined the Patriotes in a show of solidarity. The television images switched back and forth from one group to another, handcuffed, sullen, and walking to cruisers and police vans. The Colonel wasn’t among them. His face didn’t appear on the video, and he claimed to know nothing about what Prévost and the others were doing. He said he had been betrayed.

  Vanier didn’t care about those who were arrested. Their places in the community, if they ever had to give them up, would quickly be filled by others, maybe even more brutal. He thought instead of the Patriotes and the work they had been doing. That side of the organization would collapse, and the whole edifice would crumble back to its nucleus of disaffected men with guns playing soldiers. The loss of the programs would create the same gaps that had allowed the movement to grow in the first place.

  He knew that Hochelaga would go back to what it had been, decades before, an ab
andoned, dirt-poor neighbourhood that nobody cared about except for a few weeks leading up to elections, when promises flowed like honey.

  The door opened, and Alex walked down two steps, scouted the gloom and walked over to Vanier.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hey. Want a beer?”

  “No. Not today.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “You’re pretty predictable.”

  Vanier smiled. It’s good that someone knows you well enough to know where you go to get numb.

  “How are you feeling, kid?”

  “Okay. There’s good days and bad days.”

  “And this is a good day?”

  “It’s not a bad day, Dad.”

  “Sometimes that’s all you can hope for.”

  “I’m beginning to understand things. The moods, the flashbacks, the anxiety, the fear, even the good days. Talking to other guys is good. There’s a group of guys that get together every week. That’s good. Stress is bad. Alcohol’s bad. The pills are bad. But just knowing that stuff, it’s a start.”

  Vanier had done enough interviews to know when to talk and when to shut up. He waited, letting the quiet settle.

  “I’ve been thinking about good times. You know, unless you go looking for them in your memory, you don’t remember. I mean, you remember shit day after day, even when it hurts to do it. But you have to make an effort to remember good stuff. Like fishing. Remember when we used to go fishing, Dad?”

  Vanier looked up and smiled. He hadn’t thought about fishing with Alex in years.

  “Remember that spot in Vermont? The Missisquoi River, fishing off the rocks. We caught bass, but that was only part of it. I still remember how hot it was that day, and how cold the water was when you put your feet in, and the glint of the spinners in the water.”

  Vanier remembered the day, and wondered why he hadn’t thought about it in years. He said, “Yeah. And there were about twenty cows downstream that had waded into the water up to their knees.”

  Alex smiled. “We should go fishing this summer, Dad.”