Image Decay

by Mark Lisac

  He dialed Ostroski’s number and arranged to pick him up in a few minutes. He asked Adela to go home and stay there just in case Roberto showed up again. Then he found Harry Asher in the office. Asher had just finished articling. He was solidly built, strong and young. Rabani thought he would be cool under pressure, and would provide muscle if needed. He made it plain he was asking something that was probably dangerous. Asher said he was used to frozen hockey pucks flying around his head and big bruisers trying to knock him around.

  They were on their way to the acreage within minutes. Rabani explained what the Morales boy might be doing and why. He drove fast but stayed within twenty kilometres an hour of the speed limit to cut the chances of being stopped. At the acreage, they stopped at the driveway entrance to check the number on the gate and discuss whether to drive in or walk in. They quickly decided they were likely already visible if Morales were on the property. They pulled up to the three-car garage, and stepped out. Gravel gave way slightly under their shoes. The dogs started barking behind the wire fence surrounding their long run.

  Rabani called out “Roberto” twice, loud the first time and as loud as he could the second time. They stopped moving and listened through the barking for any sound breaking the silence of the chilled night air. Rabani noted there was more light than he had expected. He looked up and saw a full moon looking as white as winter snow and thought, “Full moon, great. It’s crazy time.”

  Now Ostroski called out: “Roberto, it’s me, Jack. If you’re there, come out so we can talk to you.” No answer. “Or stay put if you want and we can talk to you where you are.” More moonlit silence broken by sporadic, less frenetic barking.

  They discussed what to do. No lights were on in the house. The doors were locked with no damage indicating forced entry. They were sure a cabinet minister would have better locks than the kind that could be opened by a credit card. There was no sign that Roberto was nearby. Leaving did not seem like a good idea. Calling the police was a sensible option but Rabani and Asher both had reservations. They knew about the recent formation of what were called SWAT teams. Ostroski told them heatedly it was out of the question. Too many rifles. Too much darkness in which a random gesture might be taken for a threat. Then there was the stress the appearance of what looked like paramilitary might put on Morales, who was not only extremely agitated but probably having flashbacks to his days as a child soldier in the Central American jungle.

  “He’s still just a kid,” Ostroski said. “They’ll kill him. God knows that may even be what he wants. I’ve seen enough kids killed. You call the police over my dead body.”

  They decided to wait. They stood at one side of the car, keeping it between them and the dogs. The barking died down although the animals were still pacing around their enclosure.

  Several minutes later they heard engine noise and the crunch of tires on gravel and saw headlights glaring at them. Not knowing whether it was Morales or the Beckers or someone else, they stayed where they were.

  “Roberto wouldn’t have a big sedan like that,” Ostroski said as the dark vehicle pulled to a stop a few car lengths from them. Becker and his wife opened their doors slowly and stepped out onto the gravel. Becker started to ask who they were but recognized the lawyer and his troublesome client.

  “What are you doing here? What’s the meaning of this?”

  The three men were already closing toward the couple, loosely arranging themselves in a protective triangle. Rabani said, “You have to get into the house, Mr. Becker. Mrs. Becker. Please. You could be in danger here. I’ll explain. But first get into the house.”

  “The only danger here is the one you’re in,” Becker said, glancing at Asher, whom he did not know, and turning back to the others. “Trespassing. Coming close to using force to push us around. What the hell is going on?” He spoke to Rabani but looked at Ostroski.

  They heard a loud, percussive pop from the woods and then howling from the dog run.

  Roberto Morales’s voice came out of the darkness: “I know you like your dogs, gringo bastard. You have time to say goodbye to them. First the dogs, then you.”

  “We have no choice now,” Rabani told the others. He turned back to the Beckers and said, “Get in the house. Now. We’ll try to talk him into giving up his rifle. But call the police in case we can’t handle it.” He looked at Ostroski, who was looking into the woods and breathing harder.

  Arlene Becker walked quickly to the back door, reaching into her purse for the key. She opened it. Ostroski told them to turn on only what lights they absolutely needed and to stay away from the windows. Another explosive puff of noise popped from the woods. They heard more howling and now saw two shapes lying in the dog run. Ricky barked repeatedly and strained at his leash. The two remaining dachshunds darted back and forth. The Beckers hurried into the house, Asher going with them rather than leaving them on their own. He waited until the brief phone call to the police ended. Then he explained that a young man named Roberto Morales had snapped after being told that Becker had arranged to have him and his sister kicked out of the country.

  “What? I never did any such thing. Where would he get an idea like that? What makes you think that’s why he’s out there shooting at us?”

  Rabani and Ostroski slowly moved toward an area they calculated was between Roberto and the dog run. Rabani felt more alive and more afraid than he could remember ever feeling. He was glad someone closer to Morales was with him.

  Ostroski called out loudly, but avoided shouting and tried to keep his voice as calm as possible: “Roberto, this is no way to solve anything. Please stop this. Come to the edge of the woods where we can see you, put the gun down, and come out to talk to us.”

  The voice in the woods came back. “Time to talk is over. That cockroach is trying to ruin our lives—me and Adela. I do not even know why. Only that he wants something from you. Why don’t you give him what he wants?”

  “I think I’ll do that, Roberto. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it might come to him using Adela and you to get to me.”

  “He’s talking to us even if he says he doesn’t want to,” Rabani said quietly. “See if you can wear him down.”

  Ostroski began talking again. He tried the obvious points first. Nothing would be solved with more shooting but he could probably get Becker to back off the immigration complaint by giving him what he wanted. Adela should be remembered; she was going to get dragged into a police investigation and things would be worse rather than better. There was still time to stop before anyone got seriously hurt. The dogs were just dogs. He held off warning that police were on the way.

  Inside the house, Asher said, “At least the shooting has stopped for now.”

  “There’s going to be more if the police show up while that boy is still out there with a gun,” Arlene said.

  “Can’t be helped,” Asher said. “All we can do now is hope George and Ostroski can talk him into coming out before they get here.”

  “No,” she said. “That’s not all we can do. I know what’s behind this. I can guess with a high probability anyway. And I know he won’t hurt me. I’m going out to talk to him.”

  John grabbed her by an arm. “No. That kid is crazy. You’re not going out there to get shot.”

  She fixed her eyes on his. “He won’t hurt me, John.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s a boy looking for someone to accept him. He’s still hoping I will. I won’t. But he doesn’t know that. There’s no reason to see him hurt or possibly killed. Especially when I think Frank Jeffries caused this mess. He’s capable of setting someone up to die.”

  “Jeffries?”

  He loosened his grip. “Frank has his own reasons for squeezing the photographer,” she said. “Have you forgotten? Didn’t you realize how much it meant to him and what he is capable of doing? Let me go. I won’t stand by and watch blood shed when I know I can stop it.”

  Asher moved between her and the door. “I don’t know
who you are,” she told him, “but if you stop me from putting an end to this, I will make your life a living hell. And if that means nothing to you, ask yourself what living hell you will be in if that boy and maybe some other people die and you have to live with knowing you stopped me from preventing a tragedy.”

  John said, “Arlene.” She looked at him and saw tears welling up.

  Asher hesitated but moved aside. “Be careful,” he said. “If the situation breaks down, get behind the biggest tree you can find out there. If he starts coming for you, run as fast as you can and stay in as much darkness as you can.”

  She opened the door and walked into the driveway.

  The two men outside heard her footsteps behind them. “Get back inside,” Rabani hissed. “Why are you out here?”

  “I’m going to bring that boy out here before he kills someone or gets killed himself.”

  “What? You have to get back inside. He may be here to kill your husband. He may be just as happy to shoot you.”

  “You’re standing here and he hasn’t shot either of you. And get your hand off me. How do you suppose he will interpret your trying to manhandle me? He likes me. Maybe not as much as he once did, but I’m sure I’m safe with him.”

  “A hundred per cent?”

  She thought for a second. “Close enough to that.” And she began walking toward the trees.

  “Goddamn,” Ostroski whispered. “I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

  Arlene walked past the first few trees and stopped. The two men could still see her despite some branches and slim aspen trunks in the way. Her head was a pale halo above her black coat.

  “Roberto,” she said, “I’d like to talk to you.”

  There was no answer.

  “I know you’re angry and I know why. I can tell you there is no reason to hate my husband. He is not trying to get you and your sister deported.”

  He spoke now and she tried to place his voice in the trees. It sounded nearby: “I did not come here for lies.”

  “It’s true. My husband is not doing this to you. I know who is. It is someone else in the government.”

  “Same government. Why should I care? And why should I believe you? Anglo bitch trying to save her gringo husband so he can keep buying her nice things. Go back. I did not come here to hurt you but I will. After I kill your husband’s precious dogs.” A shot filled the quiet of the night. The dogs barked as a bullet pierced the wooden wall of the shed. The men in the driveway and in the house gasped and started. She turned quickly and shouted, “It’s all right. He’s not shooting at me. Stay back.”

  She turned back to the dark trees and said, “Roberto, are you doing this only because the immigration people are making trouble for you? Or because I sent you away?”

  “You? Why should I care about you? You are too old and too stupid.”

  “You’re right. I’m old. Maybe I’m stupider than I think. But I never lied to you. Did I? I never gave you a reason to believe I cared for you. Only that I appreciated the way you did your work. And when you asked about more I gave you an honest answer.”

  He made no reply.

  “Isn’t that right? I never lied to you.”

  “You don’t think I am worth a lie. I am just an immigrant making your property look better and worth more money.”

  “You’re a human being with a sister who loves you and a life still before you. You have a friend behind me in Jack Ostroski. He doesn’t want to see you hurt. I don’t want to see you hurt. And I have never lied to you and am not lying now. My husband did not set the immigration people after you. Please. Put down your gun and come out. People care about you. All you’ve done is create a disturbance and kill some dogs. You will be charged with crimes, but we will make sure you have a very good lawyer. I will pay. Please, it’s not too late.”

  Long moments of silence answered her.

  “Roberto?”

  She heard a rustle of dry leaves. Twigs cracked as he walked out from the trees, only about ten metres away. He had a rifle in his right hand. He dropped it as he came closer. Rabani and Ostroski walked slowly toward him.

  “If you are lying ...” he told her.

  “On my mother’s grave,” she said, “I am telling you the truth. My husband is not persecuting you. We will all help you.”

  Becker and Asher had watched from a window. They came out the yard door and walked deliberately up to the group at the edge of the driveway. Asher placed himself, as unobtrusively as possible, in a spot where he could tackle Morales if the kid changed his mind and went for the rifle. Roberto glanced at him. Asher did not move further. He saw a boy, but a boy used to fighting and aware of the importance of positions.

  Rabani told him, “Roberto, you know you can’t just walk away from this. Police are on their way. Please co-operate. With all of us here to watch, you will be safe. I’ll get a friend who’s a top criminal lawyer in the city to speak for you tomorrow and begin work on your defence.”

  Morales said nothing. He looked around at the group, one by one. Staring at Becker, he said, “I killed two of your dogs. A third one got lucky. I am not sorry.”

  Becker said, “They’re dogs. They are not as important as my wife, or you.” Arlene’s breathing stopped for a second. She resisted an impulse to look at her husband.

  Flashing lights pulsed from the end of the driveway. The police arrived. They emerged from their two vehicles with rifles pointed. It took a minute to assure them all danger was over. They handcuffed Morales somewhat roughly but he was apparently used to such treatment and did not object or try to pull away from them. The officer in charge had one of his men pick up the rifle from the edge of the woods and said a forensics team would arrive at first light to search the grounds and complete the investigation. One of the police stationed at the end of the driveway came up and spoke to the officer. He said two television news vans had been stopped just up the road. They would be kept away until the investigation was complete.

  When the preliminary questions were over, John took his wife’s hand. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Shaky,” she said, “but I’m relieved that no one had got hurt. I’m sorry about the dogs.”

  She paused as if remembering something and said, “I heard the police say the TV vans will be held away from the property. You’ll certainly have to face cameras in the next day or two. You know you can’t comment on any criminal proceeding. But you can present a calm and authoritative face. The image is what counts. You’re not just a cabinet minister anymore. You’re going to be a recognizable person on television, someone people know is important and know they can probably trust. Being energy minister is important. This is when you really become part of the province.”

  He was at a loss what to say to that. Years of work had built up to a few hours at Broken Pines that made him a presence in people’s living rooms and dens. Now a few minutes of fear would make him an even bigger personality, a constructed personality that had little to do with how he felt as a real person. And he was not sure that being better known made people inclined to trust him.

  “I want to go check on the dogs,” he said.

  He found Gretchen and Heidi dead on the ground, thankfully both shot in mid-chest and likely dead within seconds if not immediately. The others slouched in a corner of the pen, looking at him inquiringly. He thought about finding a shovel and burying the two dead ones immediately but could not bring himself to it. He stroked their heads and carried them one at a time into the shed, covering them with a tarpaulin. Rabani and Ostroski, finished with the police, came to express their regrets.

  Ricky the Doberman paced over to them hesitantly, sniffing. Mitzi, the dog Ostroski had kidnapped, waddled up and looked at him. He wasn’t sure it was the same dog, and he wondered if she were looking to be petted or sizing him up as an enemy. Then she approached and lay down beside him. The other dog hung back and then approached him in short steps, stopping at each move forward to snarl at him with intermittent
barks. Becker told her to quiet down. She stopped moving and resorted to a low growl.

  The two men left through the gate and walked toward their car, where Asher was waiting for them.

  Ostroski said, more to himself than to Rabani, “Goddamn dachshunds.”

  25.

  RABANI DROPPED OFF OSTROSKI AND ASKED IF ASHER WOULD mind stopping several blocks away on the north side so that he could tell Adela Morales what had happened and what to expect from court proceedings. Asher said that would be fine. “Sounds like it’s close to Dominic’s. Care to stop in for a brandy and coffee? I could use a little calming down before going home.”

  Rabani said that sounded like a good idea. He found the building and went in alone to knock on the Morales apartment door. Adela opened it but he could see another Latin-looking woman standing several steps behind her.

  “Roberto is in police custody but he’s safe,” he said.

  “Thank God.”

  “He didn’t hurt anyone although he did shoot two dogs. He’ll face some charges related to firearms. I’m going to line up a very good defence counsel. It will be hard to avoid a conviction but a relatively light sentence is possible. There will almost certainly be no evidence of intended harm to humans. Plus there are the mitigating factors of the immigration ploy and of Roberto’s psychological stress stemming from being a child soldier.”

  Adela took it all in. Then she introduced the friend who had kept her company through the harrowing night, Rosa.

  “Rosa has a friend named Ginny Radescu who might be able to explain some of what led to this.”

  Rabani took Ginny’s name and phone number and drove off for a drink with Asher at a bar across the street from the Italian grocery store. He did not normally go to a bar with anyone. They spoke about hockey and cars and the variety of their clients. Rabani talked about the couple he had met with a parrot. Then he talked about a thoroughly unexpected experience he’d had while waiting in line late in the summer to renew his driver’s licence. A Sikh with a turban and a white beard trimmed to a sharp point had struck up a conversation with him. He had initially expected talk about the weather but the old gentleman began talking about literature. He admired Thomas Mann and asked if Rabani had read The Magic Mountain. Rabani said no and the gentleman said it was a true masterpiece. Then the line moved forward and Rabani picked up his new licence. “That’s one thing about this place,” he said. “You never know what could happen here. Sometimes it’s nothing like what you’d expect. People surprise you.” They talked about anything except what they had seen and felt earlier in the night. Their mutually unspoken understanding of what not to talk about would prove to be the beginning of a long friendship.