The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel

by Claude Bouchard

  The First Sixteen

  The Vigilante Series Prequel

  A novella by

  Claude Bouchard

  THE FIRST SIXTEEN

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2014 by Claude Bouchard

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.

  Published by Claude Bouchard

  Dedication

  On June 28, 2014, a fine Saturday morning grew dark and dreary with the news of the passing of Jack Stevens. More than a talented musical artist, Jack was a gentleman, a caring, compassionate soul and a bundle of positive energy who left us far too soon.

  This book is dedicated to you, Jack… May you rest in peace, my friend…

  Jack Stevens

  November 3, 1965 - June 27, 2014

  Table of Contents

  Prologue - An Introduction

  #1 - The mugger - Saturday, December 23, 1995

  #2 - Chester Jackson - Monday, January 22, 1996

  #3 - Mathieu Masson - Tuesday, February 20, 1996

  #4 - Maxime Leclerc - Friday, February 23, 1996

  #5 - Gary O’Connor - Wednesday, February 28, 1996

  #6 - Pierre Brault - Friday, March 1, 1996

  #7 - Henri Castonguay - Monday, March 4, 1996

  #8 - Etienne Jean - Wednesday, May 1, 1996

  #9 - Rick Bourque - Thursday, May 9, 1996

  #10 - Ghislain Blouin - Tuesday, May 14, 1996

  #11 - Philippe Robitaille - Friday, May 17, 1996

  #12 - Emile Jean - Friday, May 24, 1996

  #13 - Nicholas Bertrand - Wednesday, May 29, 1996

  #14 - Edouard Racicot - Sunday, June 2, 1996

  #15 - Jean-Jacques Lalonde - Thursday, June 6, 1996

  #16 - Yvon Duhaime - Monday, June 10, 1996

  Epilogue

  Books by Claude Bouchard

  Prologue - An Introduction

  I guess I should start by telling you a little about myself though I really can’t tell you too much. You see, if I did, you might figure out who I really am, which could be devastating to my future… or yours. However, I can and should tell you enough so you can grasp what I am or, more specifically, what I did and why I did it.

  You see, we all have different morals and visions of life and justice so chances are you would never even consider taking the path I did. I fully understand that and certainly don’t hold it against you because I respect your opinion and your values. I simply hope you’ll respect mine in return, even if you don’t agree with how I’ve dealt, and still deal, with things.

  So, about me. I was born in Montreal in March of 1962. The actual day isn’t important. We do want to maintain some anonymity, right? Anyhow, I do and I’m writing this so I get to establish the rules. Moving along.

  I don’t remember my father much because he died when I was six but I do remember he cared about my mom, my sister, Donna, and me. We didn’t see him much during the week, except when it was really cold in the winter, because he worked at the port, unloading boats or something to do with cranes and forklifts. Even then, he’d usually find a temporary job in a warehouse somewhere, because he had to provide for his family which mom said he always did.

  He was up early in the morning and was gone to work when we got up. Sometimes he’d come back home in the afternoon and spend some time with me and Donna when she got back from school but, usually, he’d work some overtime and would only get back home once I was in bed. Mom often muttered about him being at the tavern which I later learned meant he was off drinking and not always working overtime. However, he did care for us and provide for us. Even mom said that for years after he died, actually until she passed away herself. He just had a weakness for alcohol, which is what killed him in the end when he drove a forklift off the pier and into the side of a container ship.

  After my dad died, mom found herself a job as a cashier with a major supermarket chain but the money wasn’t great with two growing kids and, let’s face it, she was lonely, so she started seeing some men. They came and went, some sticking around for a bit but, in the end, with Donna and me around, none of them stuck it out for very long as they were looking for mom’s full attention.

  That went on until I was eight or so, to my sister’s thirteen, when mom started seeing Jean. He was a machinist in some big automotive shop and he often smelled like my dad had… alcohol. I didn’t like him from the start and neither did Donna but mom seemed to and he was the first one who appeared to be willing to stick around. In fact, he was willing enough that he moved into the small house mom was renting in east-end Montreal within a couple of months. Before long, I started getting the impression that mom wasn’t completely happy with the situation but, as she mentioned from time to time, he did bring in a paycheque and money was never something to turn one’s nose at.

  My dad had been an alcoholic, I get that now, but he had been the gentle type who drank himself into oblivion and slept it off until it was time to get going for the next day. Jean, as it turned out, was the type who became angry and violent when he drank and, unfortunately, drunk was a state he got into on a regular basis. Shortly after moving in with us, he began beating mom, first when more intoxicated and then without even having too many belts in him. It wasn’t too long before he began taking swipes at me for no reason besides his mood and soon after, at Donna as well… But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  The problem with Donna was, she was going on fourteen by then and was starting to look more and more like a woman instead of a girl. I had noticed it myself and I was only nine, not to mention that she was my sister… Still, Jean had noticed it too and it started becoming a problem. When mom wasn’t around, he’d pat Donna on the butt sometimes or mention about how much she was turning into a little lady. As time went by, he became more assertive, making lewd or suggestive comments, but Donna kept to herself, never bringing anything up with mom, probably because she thought mom would never believe her over him.

  Through all of this, I had been a witness to much but, I was just a kid, what could I do? I was only nine years old and he had already slapped the crap out of me often enough by then, just for the hell of it. I wasn’t too keen on goading him to beat on me any more than he already did. Then came the day when he got home drunk and raped Donna. I was ten, she was fifteen…

  I saw it happen. I witnessed the whole thing from my secret place up in the attic through the ventilation grate. I never told anyone about what I saw back then but something changed in me that day… something told me I would have to correct those wrongs. Donna never spoke about it to me, nor did mom, but I’m sure they talked about it together because a lot of screaming went on that night and Jean was gone when I got up the next morning. Still, his being gone just didn’t make things right. It just wasn’t enough.

  A couple of quiet years went by after that. Mom stopped seeing anyone even though some guys she worked with or met somewhere showed some interest. Donna and me kept on going to school and were doing quite well. Some martial arts courses became available after class and just attracted me so I started to train. It made me feel good to work out a
nd let out some energy, all while keeping control inside. I asked Donna to come a few times but she wasn’t interested. In fact, she seemed interested in less and less as time was going by.

  By the time she was seventeen, she didn’t seem to care about much at all. She was doing drugs, I know because I saw her using them. She smoked pot and hash but also took pills and snorted stuff, maybe coke but who could know for sure. I had even found a syringe in her dresser once so she was into all kinds of crap. When I had tried to talk to her about it once, she had just laughed then told me not to worry, to mind my own business and to keep my damned mouth shut.

  She left home a couple of months before turning eighteen and, though I heard from her a few times over the next two or three years, she eventually simply disappeared, without a word, without a trace. That forever left me with a deep sense of frustration and despair since Donna had been a smart, beautiful person with so much promise but her life had been ruined because of the senseless, selfish actions of an evil person.

  Life went on, I grew older, finished high school and found a job as an office clerk with a computer consulting firm downtown because I didn’t like depending on mom for money. She didn’t earn that much with her cashier’s job to begin with and needed everything she had to keep a roof over our heads. I had to argue with her along the way to let me pay room and board but she finally relented and admitted she could use the extra cash.

  I worked hard, did what was needed to get ahead and moved forward professionally. Along the way, I was fortunate enough to meet the woman who would become my partner for life. With her, I could share my frustrations and anger, just as she could share hers with me. We had both suffered a loss due to senseless violence so we each fully understood how the other felt. The overall problem, we both agreed, was there seemed to be nothing we could really do about it besides endure the pain.

  More time went by and we continued to console one another, often simply by drawing strength from other’s presence in silence as compared to discussing the issues which plagued us. I never planned what would eventually happen and I know she certainly didn’t either since she was never involved when these events took place.

  However, she was fully aware of what was going on because I told her everything and she agreed with what I was doing because it served as a therapy as much for her as it did for me. Once the process had started, purely by accident, as it was, we both knew the day would come when our wounds would be sufficiently healed and this therapy would no longer be required. That day did come, our final day of reckoning, after which all remained was our invisible but endurable scars… We were at peace.

  #1 - The mugger - Saturday, December 23, 1995

  As I mentioned before, none of this had ever been planned. It all started by accident though it was likely much more a question of destiny, of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or, perhaps I should actually say, being at the right place at the right time.

  It was two days before Christmas. A couple of years earlier, problems with her knee had led my retired mother to require a cane to get around without having to worry about finding herself sprawled out on the ground somewhere. When the problem had arisen, one of her friends had given her a cane leftover from a deceased parent, an ugly, battered aluminum thing, which she had been using since. I never liked that cane so, for Christmas, I had a wood sculptor my wife knew make her a worthy one, a hand-carved hickory affair, a true work of art which I knew my mother would love.

  I had gone to pick up the finished piece at the sculptor’s apartment and was heading back to where I had parked the car when I was suddenly grabbed from behind and shoved into the alley I was just walking by. My attacker shoved me forward, deeper into the alley, taking no chances with possible witnesses though there was no foot traffic on the street to begin with. Starving artists don’t generally live in the nicest neighbourhoods so residents tended to stay indoors after dark.

  I lost my balance and began to pitch forward which resulted in my assailant losing his grip on the back of my coat. Rather than trying to regain my footing, I continued with my fall, bending over and tucking my knees up into an often practiced roll. A second or two later, I was standing again, a few feet away from and facing the surprised thug.

  “Gimme your wallet,” he ordered, the blade of his knife glinting briefly in the dim light coming from a second storey fire escape landing.

  I don’t know what it was but at that moment, I knew this sorry mugger had made a serious mistake by randomly selecting me as his would-be victim. Years of anger and frustration with no possible escape, coupled with sustained martial arts training fused together, giving me the pressure releasing solution I had been seeking for the longest time without even knowing.

  I smiled at him and said, “You’re going to regret having run into me but only for a short while.”

  “Gimme your damned wallet and that thing you’re holding,” he snarled, referring to the plastic wrapped hickory cane.

  “You want this?” I asked, raising the cane in the air, my left hand wrapped around the handle, the tip pointing at him.

  “Give it to me,” he insisted, taking a half-step toward me, looking for his opening to lunge with the blade.

  Bringing my right foot forward, I grasped the cane at its centre with my right hand and jabbed it at his face, my left arm acting like a piston and driving the tip into his right eye. He emitted a strangled, gasping gurgle as he dropped the knife and raised both hands to his face.

  “What… the… hell?” he muttered in pained shock, not comprehending that he had just been very seriously injured.

  I shifted the cane in my left hand, I’m a Southpaw, taking a firm hold of the shaft about six inches from the tip. As he dropped to his knees, still not seizing what was going on, I reared back then swung forward smashing the solid, ornately carved handle against his right temple. I heard the dull thud created by the impact and watched in satisfaction as my assailant toppled like a rag doll to the gritty pavement and lay motionless.

  A quick survey of the area confirmed the absence of any witnesses. After all, we had remained rather quiet and, as previously mentioned, folks didn’t roam the area in the evening just for fun. I also had my mugger to thank for leading me into the alley. Leaning down, I picked up his knife, a very well-honed, five inch locking blade number, and looked at it then at him.

  “You were going to use this on me, you little shit?” I murmured, my breath steaming in the cold night air. “Not a good idea at all.”

  I prodded him with my foot but he remained motionless. Perhaps he was already dead but I had no intention of taking any chances. A kick to his abdomen yielded absolutely no reaction, confirming I didn’t need to worry about any retaliation for a while, which was more that I needed.

  Crouching down, I glanced up and down the alley one more time but we were alone, just me and my attacker.

  “I’m sorry it had to end this way but you brought it on to yourself,” I said before easily slicing his throat. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas.”

  #2 - Chester Jackson - Monday, January 22, 1996

  Almost a month to the day had gone by since that unfortunate incident on December 23rd. There had been no hemming and hawing, I had told my wife exactly what had happened as soon as I had gotten home and her reaction had been tears of joy and relief because I had not been harmed. The story of a young man, known to the police and found dead in an alley in St-Henri had been a passing blip on the news at the time, soon to be forgotten. By the way, my mother loved the cane.

  Anyhow, earlier on, I had mentioned finding my first full time job in the computer industry and this had quickly become my career field of choice, mainly because I enjoyed the logical and analytical challenges it presented. I apparently had a knack with zeroes and ones and bits and bytes and had turned out to be very good at what I did. I bring this up, not to boast in any fashion but rather, to segue to the subject of my employer, or more specifically, its clientele.

  Among
st a number of high profile clients the company I worked for had secured, one was the Montreal police department, for which we had completely revamped its computer systems security, including all databank management processes. I don’t need to tell you that this opened a door to countless opportunities, if I were inclined to ensure some nasty individuals out there got what they justly deserved. After what had happened to Donna, and my recent foray with a lowly mugger just before Christmas, I was so inclined.

  I knew that I would eventually branch out but, for nostalgic reasons, my first database searches led me to Chester Jackson. Chet, as his many drinking buddies called him, had been accused of molesting his daughter years earlier. However, laws and regulations being what they are, Chet’s lawyers had succeeded in convincing the court that statutes of limitations, as they were, made the case against their client ‘past due’ if, of course, there ever had been a case to begin with. Subsequently, his daughter, Janie, had taken her life.

  Chet might have even passed unnoticed under my newly activated radar, if I hadn’t seen him shrug at a TV camera in a ten second late night news clip saying, “That little girl of mine should’ve checked out her time limits if she wanted to nail me. All she managed to do was make life difficult for us and then killed herself in the end. She shouldn’t have tried to make a story about nothing.”

  That, in itself, was an admission of guilt. However, I took the required time to dig into the case further – I did have access to a lot of confidential information – and came to the conclusion that Chet Jackson was guilty as charged though, unfortunately, that had not been the official verdict – he would have lasted longer in prison.