The Devil's Breath

by A. Nybo

“Yes,” she said sombrely. “He says the phone numbers were given by one of his team to Constable Stephan Theroux, who was on my team.”

  “Was?”

  “He was the policeman Russell Andrews killed. Stephan’s wife has identified Mr. Andrews as the man who called by their house looking for Stephan and asked his wife to pass on the message that their son, Jaydon, was a very attractive kid.”

  “Shew,” breathed Mike. “A phone number is a small price to pay in exchange for the safety of your kid.”

  “Not so small when it cost the kid his dad,” mumbled Henri. Mike looked at him as though Henri had just killed his favourite hamster. “What? Did you think that wasn’t included?” Hearing his own inflection, he was reminded of the adverts for battery-operated toys where the batteries needed to be purchased separately.

  Mike glanced at Sergeant Mathews with a hint of discomfort. “A little compassion wouldn’t go astray, Henri.”

  “If we ever get Birch back, remember that when you see what Russell has done to him.” Henri’s face burned with rising anger. “A quick death is Russell’s mercy.”

  “It’s all right,” Sergeant Mathews said to Mike.

  “No! It’s not fucken all right!” Henri shot to his feet. The sergeant, Mike, and Nate sat gaping at him. “Birch hasn’t the luxury of being left for dead. He’s in that fucker’s grasp.” He threw a hand out to encompass the wilderness outside. “God knows what the hell Russell has planned for him. He does shit that normal people can’t dream up in their fucking nightmares!”

  “Henri! Henri.”

  He spun around to face the owner of the nasal voice. Jason was fresh from the shower, his red-rimmed eyes swollen. “We know, Henri. We’re doing our best, but it takes time.”

  Seeing the consequences of the tear gas in Jason’s puffy features deflated his anger. “You know what time means to Russell, don’t you?” he asked.

  “We’re trying. We’re not going to leave Birch with him for one minute longer than absolutely necessary. You have my word.”

  “Why don’t you guys take Henri and settle in at the cottage.” Mike reached for Sergeant Mathews’s notebook and raised his eyebrows in question. When she nodded, he tore a page off and wrote on it before handing it to Nate. “I’ll pack Birch’s things, collect the salvageable electronics, and catch up to you when I’m done.”

  “Phones?” asked Nate. “It would help if I knew where this was.” He waved the piece of paper Mike had given him. “One with a navigator would be good.”

  “The phones you handed in to Sergeant Sayer are actually in the vehicle. Except Henri’s.” Mike turned to him. “Sorry, but they’re still examining your phone.”

  “By that I take it they haven’t found anything,” said Henri.

  “They did find some trackerware, but they’re trying to figure out how he was routing the numbers.”

  Henri grunted. “Tell them they can keep it. I don’t want it back.”

  “ARE YOU Anishinaabe?”

  Awareness came to Birch as the question was asked. “Yeah, Oji-Cree.” Why was he talking? And why was he talking about his heritage?

  “Ever lived a traditional life?” The voice came from behind him.

  Birch moved slightly and realized he was sitting at a table, his top half sprawled along it, his head resting on his outstretched arm. “Yeah, having modern conveniences is a hassle. I got so sick of having a fridge, I threw mine out.” His mouth was dry, his limbs were heavy, and he was so very, very tired.

  The chuckle was a deep throaty sound. “I can see why Henri likes you.”

  Birch blinked several times, trying to clear the blurriness in his eyes and the murkiness in his head. He tried to remember how he got here. And who was this he was clearly in the middle of a conversation with?

  His last memory was of running down the hallway after Henri and Nate as he supported Jason, but the voice talking didn’t belong to any of them.

  They clearly weren’t still in that house as there wasn’t a hint of luxury. The green Formica table he was sprawled across was reminiscent of his childhood, and the aged kitchen cupboards, with their flat green paint and cream trim, was like something out of a ’50s TV show.

  His gut felt bloated and uncomfortable.

  Gathering all his energy, he sat up and pushed his chair back. A little disoriented, he remained still until his world stabilized and then rose. He leaned on the table as he wavered, and then he turned around. The guy leaning with his hips propped against the cabinet was at least six and a half feet tall, and he looked equally as broad. He was familiar, but Birch couldn’t place him.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Washroom,” said Birch. His voice sounded oddly flat. His mind reeled, trying to think what he’d done to sound and feel so strange. He’d have to have drunk a hell of a lot to reach this state.

  It was only after he’d decided it was safer to sit on the toilet than stand that he wondered how he’d known where the washroom was situated in the house, as he’d never been here before. His mouth was dry, but it didn’t taste like he’d been drinking. The only other thing he could think was that he’d been knocked out, but then he’d never before woken from unconsciousness to find himself in the middle of a conversation. It was unlike him to take drugs, but he could think of no other explanation.

  And whoever the guy was, he knew Henri.

  Realization sent an icy chill spearing through him. Birch placed the guy in the kitchen as the man in the alley who had hospitalized him. Russell Andrews.

  Had Russell drugged him? Given what he’d done to Henri, there was certainly no moral compass to keep him from doing such a thing.

  Heart hammering in his chest, Birch tried to come up with a plan of escape, but he was highly conscious of spending too much time in the bathroom. He tried to remember how he’d behaved and spoken between the time he’d become aware and coming to the washroom. He’d noted that his speech had been flat, and that he had seemingly answered any questions put to him. He hadn’t recognized the guy either.

  Since he wasn’t tied, it was clear Russell considered the chemical restraint to be more than adequate. Could he trick him into believing he was still drugged? Jesus, if he’d spoken so openly about his heritage, what the hell had he said about Henri?

  The banging on the bathroom door nearly caused Birch to fall off the toilet in fright.

  “Have you slipped in?” came the gravelly voice from the other side of the door.

  Struggling to come up with a plausible answer, Birch went with basic. “I can’t go. Nothing’s happening.”

  That low chuckle came again. “Didn’t think it would, mate. You’ve been breathing the devil’s breath my friend, and it’s as hot and dry as a fucken desert. But you’ve tried, so it’s time to come out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It doesn’t matter, mate. Just c’mon out.”

  A glass on the bathroom vanity was a welcome sight. He rinsed it and then bolted the first glass of water down and refilled it. When he was halfway through the second, the thought struck him that if the furnishings of the house were anything to go by, he could well be drinking out of Uncle Larry’s denture glass. Revulsion hit him with such power that his stomach rebelled instantly and the water came back up. He continued to retch until his eyes watered. Finally, he washed his mouth out. He’d never previously had such a weak stomach that a fleeting thought could set him off.

  The bathroom door swung open, and Russell stood with his shoulder leaning against the doorframe. Birch looked up, his face dripping with cool water. Russell’s cold gaze ran down over his body and hands as if searching for something.

  Needing to present drugged so he could maintain the mental faculties to formulate a plan of escape, Birch looked away and began searching for a towel to dry his face. He turned and reached for one hanging over an ancient towel rail. Just as he brought it to his face he stopped. What if Uncle Larry had been drying his butt on the towel? Who the he
ll was this uncle his brain kept throwing at him? He’d never heard of Uncle Larry before.

  Russell chuckled. “What’s so interesting about the towel?”

  Birch realized he had been bent looking at the towel while his mind had been off wandering. “Who’s Uncle Larry?”

  “A figment of your imagination, probably. Now are you going to dry your face?”

  Birch grunted and dropped the end of the towel. He’d air-dry. He didn’t want to be rubbing his face on a cloth Uncle Larry had used to dry himself.

  Russell directed him back to the seat he’d been sitting in and moved about the kitchen as he made toast and heated beans. Birch searched for something he could use as a weapon, but clearly there was a reason Russell had chosen this seat for him to sit in. He was stranded in the middle of the kitchen, with nothing in reach except the chair sitting next to him—not exactly something he could hide and whip out at an opportune moment.

  He spied a note jammed at the front of a wire letter holder. Some of the writing on the front was obscured by the wire, but the name scrawled on it appeared to be Uncle Larry. That must’ve been where he got the name from. If Russell didn’t know who Uncle Larry was, how did they come to be in this house?

  Birch wondered where Uncle Larry was now, and the thought that Russell might have done something to the man caused Birch to glance at Russell as an automatic response. Their eyes met, and the Machiavellian stare felt as if it were reaching into his mind.

  Turning, Russell took a glass and half filled it. The small resealable bag he took from his pocket held a brown-tinged white powder. He dipped the tip of a teaspoon into the bag and examined it as he tapped the majority off, looking as if he were counting the number of powder particles remaining on the spoon. Satisfied, he sprinkled the measured amount into the water and mixed it before setting it on the table in front of Birch. “Drink.”

  “What is it? What does it do?”

  “Devil’s breath.” Russell smiled. “As to what it does, well, that’s different for you and me. For you, it makes you forget. For me, it makes you compliant.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  Russell examined him with a strange kind of respect. “Asking that makes you a very smart man. If you had gone ahead and knocked it off the table or something, then we would have had to have done this the hard way. As it is, we can talk it through. Just hang on. Don’t drink it until I get our plates, or I’ll have to assume you got rid of it somehow.

  “That drug can be delivered in several ways.” Russell dished up the beans. “One of the reasons I like it so much is because I can give it to you like I did the first time, by blowing it straight into your face.” He set a plate and cutlery in front of Birch and settled down to eat his own toast and beans. “However, that tends to be a hit-or-miss affair and is a bit of a waste. This way, I can give you an amount that is suitable to both of us without wasting it unnecessarily, or overdosing you.”

  Birch’s mind reeled at the indifference with which Russell regarded the drugging of someone. But then, he only needed to think of what he’d done to Henri to put it into perspective.

  “Eat,” Russell prompted.

  “How do I know there’s nothing wrong with it?” asked Birch as he looked down at the meal.

  “Like what? Like it’s drugged?” He tapped the glass with his knife. “The drugs are in the water. You saw me put them in there. If I wanted to hurt or kill you, mate, I’ve had plenty of opportunity for that. I’m good with being straight up with you. Fuck me around, and you’ll either get hurt, or you’ll get killed. Behave and we’ll get along as fine as we can.”

  Birch couldn’t argue with that. It had been laid out for him in an irrefutable manner.

  Russell ate several mouthfuls of food before speaking again. “Anyway, your choice. You can either drink that—” He pointed his fork at the glass. “—or I can pour some up your nose, which will be very uncomfortable for you. And may end up in overdosing.”

  Without a sliver of a doubt as to Russell’s intentions, Birch picked up the glass and drank.

  Chapter 12

  HENRI WALKED into the open area of the cottage for the first time that morning just as Jason snarled into the phone. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.” His tone, as much as the frantic gesturing he directed at Nate, alerted Henri to the very real possibility Russell was on the phone. The stutter of Henri’s heart caused a feeling of breathlessness.

  Nate was already quietly speaking into his phone, trying to get the call traced. He closed the door of the cottage as he exited.

  Never before had Henri wanted to talk to Russell, and now he was desperate to speak with him. Walking into Jason’s view, Jason winced as Henri signalled for him to hand the phone over. Henri’s heartbeat escalated.

  If there was any chance of getting Birch away from Russell, he would take it.

  The coolness in the room only emphasized the sweat that had already formed under Henri’s arms. He flapped his shirt a few times to get air circulating as he reached out a hand for the phone. Jason reluctantly handed it to him and gestured to keep him talking for as long as possible. Inwardly bracing himself, Henri took it with a trembling hand.

  He wanted to find out if Birch was alive, how he was, but he thought better of rushing into that line of questioning. It would hand more power to Russell. Schooling himself to bide his time, he went and sat on the three-seater—far enough away so Russell’s side of the conversation couldn’t be overheard.

  “What do you want?” Henri asked.

  “Henri,” Russell drawled. “I knew you’d speak to me.”

  His fingers slid up and knotted into the hair above his forehead.

  “You know when—” Russell began.

  “Quit it! This is how this conversation is going to go.” Henri’s heartbeat escalated a little more. “It stays in the present. Anytime you want to take a trip down memory lane, I put the phone down. I’ll keep the line open, but I won’t pick the phone back up for thirty seconds. Do it more than three times, and I hang up.”

  “Has anyone ever told you how controlling you are?” laughed Russell. “And they say I don’t do irony.” His tone suggested he was amusing himself rather than having a dig at Henri.

  “That wasn’t irony, arsehole. That was hypocrisy.”

  “Are you giving classes in comic relief now?”

  “Was there a purpose for this conversation, or are you simply ringing to offer bullshit no one wants to hear?”

  “I like your boyfriend. He’s a real nice guy.” Henri waited for the kicker. “But, as you know, nice or not, he’s dispensable. He does have a compelling presence about him, but it’s not for me. He doesn’t spark like you do, Henri.” The intimacy in Russell’s tone as he said the last slid beneath Henri’s skin and caused a shiver of revulsion to echo through him.

  “So,” Russell started anew. “The plan is to swap you out. That way you get what you want; that is, a living, breathing Birch. And I get what I want—you. Simple plans are always the best, aren’t they? And just be aware that others are in the room listening to you, Henri, so be careful what you say. We don’t want to fuck with the plan, because that would result in a dead, breathless Birch. Similarly, if you try to pull one over on me and I have to start again, we’ll end with the dead version of Birch. Even if it takes me months to hunt him down. All righty?”

  Silence lay heavily between them, and then Russell chuckled. “That there wasn’t a rhetorical question, Henri. I want an answer on that one. So let me try that again. All righty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. So here’s what’s about to happen. You and I are going to run through the real plan, and then you’re going to pretend you’re sneaking me onto speakerphone where I’ll lay out the plan that Freaky Jason and his mates are to follow. Okay?”

  Henri grunted.

  “I’ll give directions on how they can find Birch.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “He wasn’t when I last saw him. I d
on’t know about now, though. Those drugs can fuck with your head.”

  “What drugs?”

  “Devil’s breath, medically known as scopolamine. But since he’s on street instead of medical grade, that’s how I’m calling it. So anyway,” Russell said. “Your friends will go off to do their duty, but you will stay behind. This is where your acting skills come in, because you’ve got to do the perfunctory ‘I’m going too’ bullshit, but the thing is, you’re staying right where you are. I’ll come and pick you up, and then we can be on our merry way. Understand?”

  “No.”

  “Did I go too fast for you there, mate?”

  “I understood. I just don’t believe it.”

  Russell’s throaty chuckle threatened to send Henri back through the years to a moment when he was tied to a chair, a white-hot rod of steel so close to his leg he could feel the searing heat. He closed his eyes and focused on the sensation of his breath as it funnelled out through his nostrils.

  The sound of the cottage door opening drew Henri’s gaze, and he watched as Nate reentered.

  “It doesn’t really matter whether you believe me or not. What matters to you is that there is one fucking thirsty Anishinaabe waiting for Freaky Jason to give him some water. The devil’s breath is as dry as the Simpson Desert. It really soaks up the body fluids.”

  Henri didn’t know what Anishinaabe meant, but that he was referring to Birch wasn’t in question. “Just give him some water!”

  “I’m fucking miles away from him. I’m on my way to you. Just having a little pit stop. So prepare yourself for your acting debut, and when you are about to put me on speakerphone, say alulae.”

  Henri couldn’t see any option other than to follow Russell’s plan. Wanting Birch rescued as soon as possible, he rose to his feet and put his finger to his lips to signal the need for silence. He nodded as if in answer to an unheard question. “Alulae.” Pulling the phone from his ear, he hit the speakerphone button and held it aloft so Jason and Nate could hear.

  “…how it’s going to go. Get yourself a pen and paper because I’m only giving these instructions once. Tell me when you’re ready.”