When the Killing Starts

by Ted Wood

  "This one you can. He saved my ass," I said.

  I must have come across irritable, because he immediately backtracked. "Ah, well. I don't know this particular guy. Some of them's okay, I s'pose."

  "Thanks for the help," I said, and backed out, leaving him wondering how such a bleeding heart had managed to become chief of police.

  It took me half an hour to get up as far as the northern lock, but I didn't cross at the bridge there. Instead, I kept on north, stopping at the town dump to drive in and around the side of it over the flat field that had been the site of one of my most notable battles against some bikers. But the car wasn't there.

  And then, a hundred yards farther on, I saw a car parked at the entrance to a cottage. The cottage itself lay down the slope toward the lake, fifty yards in behind a stand of spruce. I didn't stop but drove by at the same speed, glancing at the car. It was a 1987 model, and I didn't recognize it. I know by sight the cars of most of our longtime residents, but maybe these people, their name was Bull, I remembered, had visitors in from the city. Or maybe this was the car Dunphy had come north in.

  I stopped my own car a hundred yards down the road and got out silently, carrying the shotgun. Sam was behind me half a pace, and I kept him there. If it was Dunphy, he would shoot Sam on sight, and I figured I could find him myself before that happened.

  I reached down and patted Sam, then gave a quick jerk on his choke chain. That's his command for silence and attention, and he stood up very straight when I let go of the chain. I saw his nose moving as he sniffed the air. He would bristle if he sensed anything.

  Now I left the road and took to the trees, moving as if I were on patrol. It was full daylight by this time, and I could see where I was stepping, avoiding sticks underfoot, moving in total silence through the trees.

  The house had a driveway running down the north side of it, ending in a graveled area big enough to turn a car around in. As I edged through some birch trees, fifty yards from it I saw a car there. The police car.

  I stood behind a tree and looked at it carefully for almost a minute. It was facing me, as if George had driven in and prepared to back up and drive out. The windows were all wound up as far as I could tell, and there were no bullet holes visible in them. That much was good. He hadn't been bushwhacked in the car. But where was he?

  I glanced down at Sam. He was still on duty, sniffing the air alertly but not bristling. The wind wasn't making it easy for us; it was out of the north, behind me, carrying away any scents he might pick up on the air. I stayed where I was, scanning every bush, every tree as far as I could see, out beyond the house on its west side. To the right, the lake side of the house, the ground dipped away to water level, but I didn't think Dunphy would be down there. As a soldier, he would take the high ground. I could see nothing, but I was uneasy. The scout car could have been here for hours. George wouldn't have left it all this time.

  Finally I stepped out from behind my tree and moved on, as carefully as if this were a patrol in enemy territory, stepping from tree to tree, shielding myself from the house.

  I was twenty yards closer when I heard the click of a lock, and I froze. Then the side door of the house opened, and George stepped out casually. He had a smile on his face, and behind him I saw pale blue nylon and then the pink face of the daughter of the house, Eleanor. I grinned and relaxed. So that was how George spent his nights. Good for him. Eleanor was a pretty girl, a medical student at Queen's, I'd heard. I watched as George kissed her and then stepped out toward the car, deciding I would backtrack and josh him later. I didn't want to embarrass him or his girl.

  Then a ruffed grouse exploded out of the bush in a whir of wings up close to the road on the far side of the drive from where I was standing. I looked up sharply, seeing the bird and following its trajectory back down to the ground, and there, crouching with a rifle in his hands, was a man.

  I roared, "George, down," and the man whirled and fired at me, but I'd rattled him, and the triple burst of bullets was yards off the mark.

  I fired back, missing him, tearing a chunk from the side of a tree inches above his head. If he'd been a soldier, he would have stayed put and fired before diving away, but he wasn't. He dived and rolled before firing again, and once more he was wide of the mark, but this time my return shot hit him. He flew backward, his rifle tumbling away out of his hands. Then he lay still. I pulled tighter behind my tree, heart racing, checking left and right for other men. If this was Dunphy or Wallace, he would have backup, and now that they had a man down, the other would stay in hiding, waiting for our first mistake.

  George was on the ground, squirming toward the scout car. The girl was in the open doorway, screaming helplessly. I shouted to her, "Get indoors," and then ran toward the downed man, crouching and jinking as I ran. I stopped ten paces from him. His gun was lying four feet beyond him, and he was still, his left side a pulpy mess of blood.

  I checked around and then told Sam, "Seek," and he ran up the slope toward the road, nose to the ground. I watched him go. He was following the man's track back to the car, I guessed, but then I heard an engine start, and the car roared away. There was a second man, and he'd gone.

  I stood long enough to hear which way it turned on the road, back down toward the town. Then I ran down to the scout car, whistling for Sam. He bounded after me, and I tugged at the door as George stood up. "It's locked," he said.

  "Gimme the key. There's a man down in the bush. Call the emergency people. Tell them we need a chopper, if they can get one; he's hurt bad. Take this gun and watch yourself."

  He gave me the key, and I tossed him Guzman's gun, then unlocked the car and whistled Sam inside. As soon as he was in, I jumped behind the wheel, backed up, and roared up the driveway, bouncing almost to the ceiling on the ruts.

  The car was gone from the driveway, but there was a trace of dust in the air where it had headed south, and I raced after it, reaching for the microphone. I called the station, but there was no answer. Damn. We had only one channel on the radio. We needed two, a second straight through to the OPP, but we didn't have it. The world was deaf to my emergency.

  The road winds behind all the cottages, and I didn't see the car again until I got almost to the bridge. It was across it, turning south on the road on the other side. I squealed into the turn, grazing the side of the car against the abutment, and pelted after him. Automatically I flicked on the emergency switch, and the siren cut in, sawing the morning quiet to shreds as I rocked down the road behind him.

  The other driver was good, and the car he was in was small and maneuverable. I didn't catch sight of him again all the way down the west road and out to the highway. I stopped at the intersection and checked the dust on the road for wheel tracks, but they didn't tell me anything, so I moved instinctively, turning down the highway toward Toronto, hammering as fast as my big six would take me, siren screaming. There is a good straight patch a mile down the road. You can see for three-quarters of a mile, but I didn't see the car on it, so I wheeled into a gas station on the side of the road. It was still closed, but the owner was out unlocking his pumps. He looked up in astonishment as I slammed to a stop beside him.

  "Did a red compact go by a minute ago, speeding?" I shouted.

  He was stupefied and slow. Then he said, "No, nothin' like that. Just a couple trucks."

  "Thanks. Can I use your phone? I'm the police chief, Murphy's Harbour."

  "Help yourself." He waved me on but bustled after me, mouth open. Not many of his days started this excitingly.

  I dialed the OPP. A new man was on duty, crisp and efficient.

  "Bennett, Murphy's Harbour. I'm looking for a red compact, could be a Mazda, license REN 111. It must be heading north from our side road. The guy in it is armed and dangerous. Approach with caution."

  He repeated the number and said, "Right, I'll get it on the air, but we've got only one car out, the shift's just changing."

  "Ask the sergeant to turn the guys out right away, and a
lert the rest of your people, could you, please?"

  "Sure. Hold on." He turned away from the phone and after thirty seconds was back on. "This connected with the shooting down at the Harbour? We just got a call from your deputy there."

  "Yes, that man's hurt bad. He could be dead. But send an investigator if you can. He's tied in with two homicides that happened in Toronto, Beatty and Michaels, two women."

  "Shit. What's he doing up here getting shot?" Even hardened policemen have the curiosity of washerwomen.

  "Let me talk to the guy in charge, please. I'll fill him in."

  Another pause and I was talking to their inspector. His name is Anderson. He's an officious bastard. I've had trouble with him in the past, but now he was cool and efficient."

  "Chief Bennett? What's happening?"

  "It's those men Dunphy and Wallace, Inspector. They're involved with the Freedom for Hire hassle I had a couple of days back in Quebec. They're wanted for a number of offenses and suspected of two homicides in Toronto. One of them swore he would kill the kid who helped me, George Horn. He was waiting for him, only I beat him to it. He's got a rifle slug in him."

  "Was that necessary?"

  "Better him than George Horn," I said firmly. "He had an army automatic rifle, and he was there to kill."

  "I hope for your sake you're right," he said. "You certainly overreact to threats."

  "We'll see. For now, see if you can get an investigator to the scene to check the guy's rifle and if possible to take a statement. I'm not sure he'll be in time."

  "A rifle slug?" Anderson repeated. "That'd stop a train."

  "It stopped him," I said. "I'm going back to the scene now, if your men come to the Bull house, half a mile north of the north lock, east side of the lake, I'll leave my car on the road, a blue Chev."

  "I'll come myself," he said.

  I hung up and stood for a moment gathering my thoughts. There was nothing more to do here. The only other people to be alerted were the Toronto detectives. I picked up the phone again and phoned Metro Toronto homicide office, getting through to Inspector Burke.

  "Bennett here. I found a guy with a gun in the Harbour. I put him down and chased another in a red compact, REN 111. Could be a rental. He hasn't come south, so he could still be in this area, maybe contacting a plane for a return to Toronto."

  "Is it one of the suspects?" Burke sounded slow. He hadn't had much more sleep than I had, which was none.

  "Didn't stop to check. My deputy's up there at the Bull house. The guy's name is George Horn. The daughter's there; maybe she'll answer the phone and put George on. He's a smart kid. This guy was waiting for him."

  "Waiting where?"

  "In the bush. Horn's got something going with the girl there. He was inside. The guy had an automatic rifle, military model. He was going to kill Horn for what he did up north, getting me away from them."

  Burke didn't answer for a moment. I guessed he was puffing at the first of the day's Old Ports. Finally, he said, "What the hell, it's a nice day for a drive in the country. I'll come up and talk to the guy. Is he gonna make it?"

  "I'm not sure. I took off after the car. Like I said, it didn't come south. He could be flying back to the Metro area or out of the country. All we can do is look for his car."

  "Nice work," he said. "Just hope the bastard'll hang in till we can take a statement."

  "Did you get anything more from the guy I handed to Elmer last night?"

  He paused again and then spoke carefully. "Sergeant Svensen had occasion to talk to a visitor from the United States last night. But unfortunately he didn't give us anything useful to our investigation into the homicide of Mrs. Michaels."

  "Pity," I said. "I'll be up at the Bull house, or if they've cleared the guy away by then, I'll be at the police station in Murphy's Harbour."

  "I will see you there, Chief. Thank you for your assistance on this matter."

  I hung up, wondering how long the department had been monitoring the phone calls from the homicide office. I couldn't think of any other reason for Burke's formality.

  The gas station guy was anxious for more information, but I thanked him for his help and told him to call me if he saw the wanted car. Then I drove back to the scene of the shooting.

  George was still there with his girl, who had changed into blue jeans and a sweater. She was calmer now, kneeling beside the wounded man, trying to stop the bleeding with a blood-soaked sheet. I could see that much from twenty yards off as I walked down through the trees.

  George turned when he saw me. "He's bad, Reid, bleeding like a stuck pig. You got him in the gut."

  "You haven't touched the rifle?"

  "No, it's where it fell." He pointed. "Something else you should know as well."

  "What's that? You recognize this guy?" I was still walking toward the man on the ground, but the girl was between me and his face. I wasn't prepared for George's news.

  "Yeah, I recognize him. It's Jason Michaels."

  TWENTY

  "Jason Michaels?" I couldn't believe it. "You sure?"

  "See for yourself." He stepped aside, and I ran the last few steps and looked at the man's face. It was Michaels, all right, gray faced. All the boredom and arrogance gone now. A sorry casualty, like a hundred others I'd seen, like I'd been myself, twice.

  George was nervous. "This is bad, Reid. His old man's rich. This means trouble."

  "Trouble, hell. He started this. He was lying in wait for you, going to drop you, and the girl as well, probably. If I hadn't been here, you'd be dead. Don't waste any pity on him."

  "His old man's rich," George said helplessly. "We're going to need a lawyer real bad."

  "Not as bad as he needs a doctor. Did you call for the chopper?"

  "They said it was on its way." George was nervous; he wanted to say more, probably to ask me not to mention the girl when the statement came out.

  I bent close to Jason's ear, speaking slowly. "Can you hear me, Jason?" He didn't answer, but a muscle twitched in his face. I took it for assent and went on. "Did Wallace send you?"

  He didn't answer, but his eyelids flickered, and I could tell there was still somebody in there. "The helicopter's coming. You'll be in hospital in a few minutes. You're going to be okay."

  Now his eyes opened for a moment, and he whispered. I bent and caught the word. "Dunphy," he said.

  "Then you're clear," I lied. "He's the guy who'll go down. Just hold on." I moved the sheet aside and looked at his wound. It was bad, but it could have been worse. The slug had almost missed him, catching him within an inch of his side, tearing him open but missing most of the internal organs. The hydrostatic shock of the impact was his worst enemy. It had slammed everything in his body with enormous internal force. Heart, brain, everything, was jolted. That and the loss of blood would kill him if this were the boonies, but with help he would recover.

  I stood up, and the girl replaced the sheet, pressing gently but firmly. She was calm, used to the sight of blood in operating theaters, I guessed. She would be a good doctor. George was looking up and behind him, and I raised my eyes and listened and heard the faint whup-whup-whup of a helicopter approaching from down the lake. "Go flag him down," I told George, and he ran down the driveway and out onto the dock.

  The girl looked up "He's luckier than he looks," she said. "He's torn up, but you missed the spleen. His intestines are going to need putting back together, and there's the risk of peritonitis, but that's all. An inch higher and he would have bled to death before we could get him to a hospital for a splenectomy."

  "Thank the Lord for that. I didn't want to kill him, just to drop him. And thanks for the first aid."

  Behind me I could hear the helicopter lowering itself to the dock. Then the engine note slowed, and within seconds two men came up past the house with a litter. One of them was in plain clothes. The other one was an ambulance attendant. They ran to the downed man, and the attendant stuck a needle in his arm and held up a bottle of plasma.

&
nbsp; "Help me get him on the stretcher," he said, and he raised the bottle while the other man and I lifted Jason, cradling him under the waist, trying to prevent any more strain on his wound.

  I took one end of the litter, and George took the other while the attendant walked beside us, holding up the bottle of plasma. We walked carefully over the rough ground and onto the driveway. Jason groaned as we moved, a good sign. As long as he could feel, he was reacting, fighting for life. I didn't want his death on my conscience, but I was glad he was on the litter and not George Horn, probably with a sheet over his face.

  I spoke to the other man as we walked. "His name is Jason Michaels. He was with the mercenary force, Freedom for Hire. George here and I got him out. Now he was back trying to kill George."

  "That all you got?" the man grunted. His jacket was smeared with blood, and he was angry at the mess. Blood was something only other people got on them.

  "Got a tape recorder with you?" I asked him.

  "Yeah, in my pocket."

  "Get everything down," I said. "He's ready to talk." We had reached the dock, and as the detective turned to look at me, I could see contempt in his face.

  "You're a bastard, Bennett," he said.

  I didn't answer. Excuses wouldn't help. "Just get the statement. George, go with this officer, witness Jason's statement, and give them the story. I'm waiting here for the OPP investigation team."

  "Right." We crouched automatically under the downdraft of the chopper and shoved the litter inside. The ambulance man stepped up, still holding the plasma bottle. Then the detective and George got in, and I backed away and stood watching as the pilot lifted off and swung away north, ignoring the line of the lake now, heading straight for the hospital.

  I walked slowly back up the drive. Eleanor was standing at the top beside the house, rinsing the blood off her hands, rinsing and rinsing as if the action would wipe out all that had happened here. She looked up dully as I approached. "What was that man trying to do, Chief?"