SLOW
RECOIL
SLOW
RECOIL
C.B. Forrest
Text © 2010 C.B. Forrest
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Cover design by Emma Dolan
Author photo by Stephanie Smith
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RendezVous Crime
an imprint of Napoleon & Company
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
www.napoleonandcompany.com
Printed in Canada
14 13 12 11 10 5 4 3 2 1
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
For Abby
–
Who never ceases to amaze me.
CONTENTS
July, 1995
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
JULY, 1995
A farm field outside
Kravica, Bosnia-Herzegovina
The men—although to say “men” is inaccurate, for many of them are just boys—stand in rows, stripped to the waist. Their flesh is stark white except on their faces and arms where the sun has touched. They are terrified of the unknown—or worse, the expected—their chests working like bellows as they try to sort out what comes next, how this works. As though the logistics matter. The bus ride offered time to think, too much time, and it seemed it was true after all, how your life really did flash before your eyes. Or at least these bits and pieces. Moments of happiness, tears, first sex and first cigarettes, the simple pleasure of a smile induced at a moment when needed most, a bottle raised in celebration. Sons, daughters, wives. Fathers, mothers, holidays, and smells of cooking, of home. All of the small gestures we take for granted across a lifetime.
Even as they are coming off the bus, they hear the gunshots. The crack that breaks across the skyline. Pungent cordite hanging in the air. The stink of death is unmistakable, sweet sickness wafting in the light summer breeze. For they all know what death smells like after these years of war, neighbour to neighbour, street to street, house to house. My god, the things we have done to one another…
This one thinks briefly of trying to make a run for it—perhaps there is something nobler in being shot while attempting to flee. But there is no time. Their captors are efficient, mechanical, managing this as though it were a line in a factory. Drill here, move the thing down the line. Drill. Next. Drill. Next…
The shots report, and the men jump, expectant. Tense. Blindfolded. They wait. Hear the jagged breathing of the men in front and behind, the whimpering of these big men you schooled with and lived with and drank with, and the shots make you jump, and there is no dignity to be salvaged in this place, not here, not now.
Hear the bodies folding to the ground like dropped bags of chicken seed.
You’re crying, too, and you don’t want to give them this final piece of your possession.
To face this chin up, shoulders back, is all you want to do. But it is hard, the hardest thing you have ever done in a life that has never been what you would call easy—though right now you would trade the worst day of your past for one more tomorrow.
Even to will your legs to move ahead takes energy, focus.
Crack!
And it will be your turn now to anticipate the slow recoil of the final shot.
I should be dead by now, but there is work to do.
- Czeslaw Milosz
PROLOGUE
He was sitting on a bench at Queen’s Quay watching the late-summer tourists stroll along the Toronto harbourfront with their cameras and their holiday smiles, just sitting there with a soft-serve ice cream cone melting down the side of his hand, when he heard the screams for help. A girl’s voice, shrill. He sat bolt upright, turning his head to decipher the location of the distress. A flash of movement, a commotion within a gaggle of people gathered on the dock beside one of those tourist charter boats that charged a fortune for a two-hour putter around the harbour. McKelvey dropped the cone, closing the distance in a dozen fast strides.
He came to the dock area just short of the Amsterdam foot bridge. Couples sat reading magazines on the decks of moored sailboats or were busy tidying ropes to set sail for a sunset cruise out past the quaintness of Toronto Island. Some of them stopped what they were doing and looked around, unaware of what exactly was taking place. McKelvey spotted a woman in her early thirties pointing frantically at the green-blue water.
“My daughter fell in!” she screamed. “I can’t swim! Please!”
McKelvey saw it, the flail of arms, tangled dark hair like a mess of seaweed out there in the water a few metres off the bow of a yacht painted blue and white. He beat a young man who was taking too long to kick off his sneakers and jumped feet first into the space between the boats. The water was colder than he would have guessed. When he broke the surface, he saw the girl had slipped under, likely having panicked and swallowed a mouthful. He took three or four strong strokes and reached beneath the water with both hands, raking the darkness. His own breath was coming short now. He took a long haul and let himself drop beneath the water line. He opened his eyes to the murk, the silt too thick to see more than a foot in front of his face. It stung his eyes like vinegar. The world shimmered above in the dull silver of muted daylight. His fingers made contact with a patch of hair, and he pulled the girl to himself, using his legs to propel them this last distance to the surface. He came up, vacuumed air into his lungs like life itself and coughed a little. He pulled them towards the dock with a one-armed breast stroke, his other arm locked in a V around her head to keep it above the water.
The girl was limp in his grasp. She was light, maybe forty-five pounds, and McKelvey guessed about six or seven years old. A mop of thick black hair that for an instant, just a flicker, reminded him of his own boy’s head of hair. The young man who had taken off his shoes was already in the water, halfway down a wrought iron ladder. He accepted the girl as McKelvey held her up, the frantic mother already there. He pulled himself up the ladder just as the girl turned her head to expel a mouthful of Lake Ontario, then immediately started crying in a loud, shivering wail, teeth chattering, the mother threatening to crush the girl with her hugs. He heard the girl let out a belly-empty belch and knew that she’d be all right.
When it was done, he crouched on the hot pavement at the end of the dock to catch his breath, drenched clothes chilling his skin despite the strong sun. He could smell the stink of the lake on him, motor oil and algae, poison and piss. People were gathering in a large crowd now, tourists and passersby drawn by the current of human tragedy and excitement. The EMS workers came through with a folding st
retcher and black medical kit that looked more like a large fishing tackle box. A middle-aged man from one of the sailboats came over and handed McKelvey a bath towel. He dried his hair and cleaned out his ears and wrapped the towel around his shoulders.
“That was a quick response,” the boater said, looking over at the mother and the daughter. He was dressed in pressed khaki shorts and navy golf shirt, the tanned face of a Bay Street trader who had retired at fifty to a life of sailing and country club golf. “Let me guess, you were a lifeguard when you were younger.”
“Something like that,” McKelvey said.
It was the six hundred and twenty-third day of his official retirement. And thirteen hours. Not that he was counting; not exactly. But still, he missed it. Getting wrapped up in the details of the work, the drive. That was it mostly, the sense of purpose the work had provided in his otherwise meandering life. Once again his mind’s eye conjured an image of himself dressed in a blue smock, pushing shopping carts toward idiotic shoppers at the crack of dawn, a sickening smile plastered on his face. Have a nice day, asshole!
The Sun the following day carried on Page 5 McKelvey’s reluctant picture and a brief article with the headline: ‘Shootout Copper Pulls Girl from Harbour’. A young reporter intent on bringing McKelvey’s history into the story asked how it felt to save the life of a child, considering his own son’s life had been taken by the hand of another almost four years ago. It was a good question. But McKelvey didn’t have an answer. He could have told the fresh-faced scribe there were no scales at work in this conundrum. We trust in the laws of karma because we need to believe that what goes around does indeed come back around. In McKelvey’s experience, it was a line of thinking that had delivered disappointment more often than not. Not that he was keeping score; not really. Sometimes it came easy, sometimes it came hard. Life was just what it was; no exchanges, no refunds. Down here, your good luck charms hold no sway…
“You’re my hero,” Detective Mary-Ann Hattie said when she called the next morning. “You just can’t stay out of the papers, can you? Are the paparazzi camped outside?”
A little more than a year earlier she had presented him with the laminated front page of the Sun featuring news of the shooting at McKelvey’s house. ‘Shootout in the Beaches’. The tabloid had jumped at the opportunity to conjure images of the Wild West, gunslingers settling old scores. It made for good copy. At least in this instance it wasn’t too far from the truth. McKelvey and Duguay in that darkened hallway, pistols drawn. The smell of gunpowder, the ringing in his ears.
Reputed Quebec-based biker Pierre Duguay was shot and seriously wounded yesterday morning as he allegedly broke into the home of a recently retired Toronto police detective. Sources indicate Detective-Constable Charles McKelvey was conducting his own unauthorized investigation into the unsolved murder of his son, Gavin McKelvey, who was killed almost three years ago over alleged involvement with the now-defunct Toronto chapter of the Blades biker gang. Unconfirmed reports suggest McKelvey had fingered Duguay for the killing even after the courts dismissed charges against the Montreal native due to the suicide of star witness and fellow biker, Marcel Leroux.
The province’s Special Investigation Unit has opened an inquiry along with the force’s own Professional Standards Unit.
“They’re going to make a movie out of you one day, Charlie,” she said. “You know, like The French Connection. I wonder, who do you think should play you?”
He shrugged, standing there in his boxers in the kitchen of his small apartment condo, early morning light catching the dust in the air. Hearing her voice made him want to see her, for her to come and stay the night. It had been a week or so. He remembered what it felt like to be with her, how they seemed to lock together. But this was the bargain they had struck, and he had to stick to the conditions. “I love you to death, Charlie,” she had said finally, after trying for nearly a year to negotiate a space in the man’s life, within his stubbornness and his dual afflictions of guilt and grief, “but I can’t live with you… ”
“I don’t know,” he said now, “how about Steve McQueen.”
“Cool guy,” Hattie said, “but last time I checked, he was still dead.”
“I know,” he said. “Perfect.”
The truth was, the only thing McKelvey was thinking when he dove into the water of the harbour was the same thing he was thinking when he raised his pistol in that dark hallway to fire at Pierre Duguay: I am fully prepared to accept the consequences of my actions. It was about getting lost in the intent, within those seconds during which time slowed, wherein everything was brought into a sharper focus—life, in all its ragged promise… and yes, in that single instant, Charlie McKelvey had a purpose.
In McKelvey’s evaluation, if modern history were a book, things were whittled down to the last few chapters. There was little left for the human race to turn against except itself, and a quick scan of the headlines proved that’s precisely where they had come to as a collective multitude; like a bunch of half-drunk tourists, too ignorant to ask for directions or consult a map, they were lost and stumbling in the hills beyond the safety of the resort complex. The morning the twin towers fell to dust in New York City, McKelvey sat and drank beer in his boxer shorts watching the anchors on CNN grapple with the enormity of the moment, the sheer unspeakableness of it, and he knew something had shifted within the entire mechanism of the western world. This was the coda of the modern times, the epilogue of all the great wars fought without final resolution; the simple and unalterable fact remained that mankind was incapable of leaving the scab alone.
It was this vein of morose talk that finally caused Hattie to shake her head and step aside for a breath of fresh air. Cops grew cynical as a matter of course, and given his personal history of loss, she did not expect smiles and giggles from McKelvey twenty-four seven. But it was his inability or refusal to meet somewhere in the middle that finally pushed her to lease an apartment, to regain some of her independence after their year-long experiment of co-habitation. McKelvey had sold his matrimonial home with its memories of his son and his wife and the shooting of Duguay, and he’d taken a nice little apartment condo on the top floor of a converted warehouse in Olde Town on the edge of the so-called “Distillery District” between The Esplanade and Front Street. He settled into the new neighborhood with its little pubs and cozy restaurants, the bustle of the St. Lawrence Market just up the street—those busy stalls with their hanging meats and bags of cheeses, varieties of fish he’d never heard of, these slippery reds and yellows on beds of ice. It was about the old bricks, the way Front Street split at King Street in a “V” that defined the whole bottom of the city with that vista of the Flatiron Building set against the golden, shining bank towers, the CN Tower a spire among the clouds beyond. The unique mix of old and new made him sometimes feel he was on the set of a movie featuring a borough in some other city like Boston or Chicago.
There was a pub called Garrity’s right next door to his place, and it was all a man could ask for with its good bartenders and dark wood. Hattie kept her frayed toothbrush and a drawer full of clothes at his place, jeans and sweaters hanging in the closet. They were together, she supposed, no more or no less than any other modern couple. She loved him, and she knew that as much as Charlie McKelvey was capable of it, he loved her right back. She looked into his eyes, those blue eyes, and she saw something that was beautiful and broken all at the same time.
ONE
Toronto
Thursday evening before Labour Day weekend, the school teacher left a message on McKelvey’s answering machine— something about a missing friend. Had McKelvey known this message would ultimately propel him towards a foreign brand of darkness, something beyond the experience of his thirty years on the force—had he known what this one call would bring into his life—well, he certainly would not have checked his messages that night or any night thereafter. He could live without a phone, it was true. In the very least, he would have been more careful in w
hat he wished for; retirement was a killer, to be sure, but it wasn’t deadly in any literal sense.
As it was, his friend the school teacher, Tim Fielding, left the message while McKelvey sat in Garrity’s drinking a pint of Steam Whistle pilsner, scanning the classifieds for a used vehicle. McKelvey’s beloved Mazda pickup, the little red machine, had shuffled to its earthly end. That fateful day, his trusted mechanic had put a hand on McKelvey’s shoulder—understanding something of the man’s loyal if illogical commitment to the vehicle—and he had simply shaken his head. Like a surgeon standing before an anxious family huddled in a waiting room, the mechanic relayed the long odds at play, the parts and the labour required. There had been a good run in there, oh yes, a few years where McKelvey did little more than perform oil changes, spent a few hundred here and there on brake pads, a muffler. Despite the spread of malignant rust along the wheel wells, and the clouds of pungent dark smoke that belched from its rear-end upon ignition, McKelvey had never really prepared himself for this eventuality. Now it seemed as though the machine’s entire organ system was shutting down in succession: transmission, timing belt, radiator, water pump…
McKelvey’s rested his elbows on the dark wood of the bar, grooves worn deep. He circled a few promising listings. There was a Honda Civic alleged to have been driven solely by an “elderly female”, as though that explained everything or anything. Another promoted the mind-boggling economical merits of a Suzuki. He said the word aloud—“Suzuki”—and asked the bartender, a former minor league hockey enforcer named Huff Keegan, about the specific model mentioned in the advertisement. The young man was a trunk of solid muscle, thick-chested like a farmer’s son, and his face, at just thirty, looked as though it had been put through a grinder both frontwards and backwards. There were incalculable scars, grey and white flecks peppered across his eyebrows and the bridge of his crooked nose. He shook his big head and laughed.
Slow Recoil Page 1
