Vigilante

by Claude Bouchard

  “Give me five minutes and you’ll have them,” said McCall. “Thanks again, Chris.”

  “No problem. Later.”

  Dave hung up the phone, feeling a mixture of both relief and anxiety. Good or bad, they’d know about Frank soon enough. And, in the interim, he would be able to get some sleep.

  * * * *

  Although he knew that danger still lurked about, Carl’s excitement was growing on a daily basis. He was only $350,000 away from his goal and could practically feel the sun’s heat baking him on some tropical beach.

  His deeds were nearly done and retirement would be a reality in just a few days.

  * * * *

  Leaving the office for lunch, Frank Bakes strolled a few blocks away to McDonalds where he had a Big Mac, fries and a Coke. He then wandered around for a while, stopping at Sam’s to buy a compact disc, Led Zeppelin II, to add to his collection of old classics. Eventually, he headed back to work, stopping only to buy a pack of cigarettes at a convenience store along the way.

  When he arrived at the office, he had been gone just under an hour and did not have the faintest idea that he had been followed during that time.

  * * * *

  He had two prospects left to settle before quitting.

  He had promised Sandy that he would be done by Friday and he was a man of his word. There was therefore little time to waste.

  The first prospect was actually one of multiple proportions. His target would be a house, located in the quiet residential north-shore town of Repentigny, just east of Montreal. His goal would be to kill as many of the building’s occupants as possible.

  Built far back from the street, the large home sat on a 50,000 square foot lot. Mature trees bordered the sides and front of the property and, behind the house, the yard extended close to one hundred feet before dropping sharply to the L’Assomption River below.

  Passers-by were often impressed by this prime piece of real estate, with its driveway filled with expensive cars and motorcycles. Strangers to the area wondered who lived there, but local residents knew that it was occupied by several members of the local chapter of the Devil’s Delight. Once small and relatively unknown, the motorcycle gang had expanded over the years to become a powerful national force in the world of organized crime.

  This one would be easy. Gregory O’Shea had unknowingly made sure of that, for, among his impressive collection of weapons had been half a dozen state-of-the-art explosive devices. Similar to hand grenades, these had the added advantage of a timing mechanism. He had taken them from O’Shea’s cottage during his last visit, on the basis that the latter would no longer need them.

  He would handle this first prospect tomorrow night. That would leave him a couple of days to settle his final one.

  * * * *

  Frank Bakes headed directly for home at the end of his shift. Following dinner, he and his wife went for a walk, stopping at the local video store to rent a movie.

  Returning home, they watched the film after which Frank’s wife went off to bed while he watched a re-run of ‘Law and Order’ and about half of the 11:00 news before turning in.

  Outside, throughout the evening and night, eyes kept watch, alert for any move which might take place around the Bakes residence. If Frank decided to go somewhere, anywhere at all, he would not be going alone.

  Chapter 31 - Tuesday, July 30, 1996

  Ron Henderson had been a little uneasy when McCall had offered him the composite sketch for publication.

  Since the whole Vigilante saga had started, Ron’s articles had always leaned in favour of this ‘super hero’ killer, who had taken on a personal war against crime. This, in turn, had led to something of a relationship between the reporter and the Vigilante.

  However, having now met McCall, Henderson allowed himself to admit that the police were not the bungling idiots he had so valiantly attempted to portray them as. They were hard working men and women with a difficult task at hand, that of controlling crime at all levels of society. And, as McCall had so simply put it when they had recently met, right or wrong, the Vigilante was a murderer.

  Henderson had solved his dilemma by having the sketch printed on the second page of that morning’s paper under the caption Possibly the Vigilante. A footnote under the sketch simply mentioned that this was a police artist’s portrayal of what the Vigilante might look like, based on descriptions by several witnesses. There was no by-line.

  * * * *

  8:42 a.m. Whistling, Carl strolled into his office with coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other and the morning edition of the Gazette tucked under one arm.

  His usual routine, he set down the coffee, briefcase and paper on his desk then returned to the door to turn on the lights before heading back to his desk and booting his PC as he dropped into his chair.

  Removing the lid from the Styrofoam cup, he took a sip of his steaming coffee as he unfolded the newspaper and began scanning the headlines on the front page. Finding nothing of interest, he turned to the second page and suddenly froze. Staring back at him was a sketch of the elusive Vigilante. Although it was not a 35 mm photograph, there were some rather strong, obvious similarities to the facial structure.

  Beads of sweat sprouted on his forehead and his breathing became erratic. It was all becoming too much to handle. He just didn’t understand what was going on. First the Eazy-Com transmission records which kept reappearing and now, his portrait, or something damned close to it, in the morning paper. Somebody had to know about what he was doing but, if that was the case, why didn’t they just confront him? Why do this?

  Somebody was trying to drive him crazy.

  With trembling hands, he frantically folded the paper, spilling his coffee all over his desk in the process. Cursing under his breath, he hurriedly mopped up the brown puddle with the newspaper and threw the soaking mess in the trash.

  He leaned back in his chair, breathing deeply, intent on regaining control. The end was so close, now was not the time to start panicking. Whoever was playing these games with him would not win. He was quitting, retiring in two days, now, maybe sooner.

  With fingers flying expertly, he started working the keyboard of his PC. He had only $350,000 to go and he was determined to make it. There was no way he would go down for this. Not after all of his efforts and hard work.

  * * * *

  3:42 p.m. “Dave, what was that guy’s name at CSS?” asked Tim Harris as he sauntered into McCall’s office. “The one who traced those messages?”

  “Denver. Carl Denver,” replied McCall. “Why?”

  “Well,” answered Harris. “I’ve been going through this list of Chevy Astro owners and I ran into his name. I thought the name looked familiar, that’s all.”

  “Do you think he has something to do with this?” McCall asked slowly, starting to think.

  “No, not really,” shrugged Harris. “It’s just that we’re looking for an angle with this mini-van thing and I’ve now run into two names of people involved in the case. Denver and Frank. Frank, I’m not worried about. Denver? Hey, I don’t even know the guy.”

  “Tell me something,” McCall ventured thoughtfully. “Do you remember what Denver looks like?”

  “Sorta, I guess,” replied Harris. “About five-ten, 180 pounds, good shape, dark curly hair, sort of a square jaw.”

  McCall pulled out a copy of the composite sketch.

  “Could this be him?” he suggested, sliding the document across the desk to Tim.

  Harris studied the drawing for a moment. “From what I can remember, this would need some refining but, yeah, this could be him. Why? Do you know something I don’t?”

  “No,” McCall admitted. “It’s just that the sketch reminded me of somebody but I didn’t know who. When you asked about Denver, it clicked. Now, you tell me the man drives an Astro, and we already know that he’s a computer wiz.”

  “It ain’t very tight, boss,” Tim doubtfully replied. “Don’t you think?”

  “Chris also ment
ioned a similar murder which took place while he was in Vancouver three weeks ago,” Dave added. “Denver was there with him. I know it’s farfetched, but it’s possible.”

  “I guess,” Harris slowly replied. “Have you spoken to Chris about this?”

  “No. Until now, I had never even thought of Carl Denver. But I will speak to Chris.”

  * * * *

  At 5:15 p.m., Frank Bakes left work and headed for home.

  He was breathing a little easier in recent days. As time had passed, he had convinced himself that there was nothing wrong with McCall, at least not anything which concerned him. The pressure and frustration of the Vigilante case was probably just getting to Dave.

  His wife wasn’t home as she was spending the evening with an old friend. He made himself a quick microwave dinner with leftovers he found in the refrigerator, after which he worked a little on the computer and watched some television.

  He’d be going out a little later in the evening, but in the meantime, he had some time to kill.

  * * * *

  8:22 p.m. Chris was busy at the conference table in his office, a multitude of computer reports scattered before him across the mammoth table. These constituted the complete record of the activity which had taken place on PC number 427 since he had started his monitoring four weeks earlier.

  Although Chris had not yet completed his analysis, it was clear that Carl, number 427’s user, had been extremely busy in recent weeks, his activities questionable, to say the least. There had been repeated unauthorized access to Eazy-Com in addition to frequent unwarranted programming and systems modifications.

  His mind was starting to grow foggy and Chris decided to call it a night. He gathered the numerous reports into a thick, orderly pile which he stored in the safety of his small office vault. Tomorrow, he would complete his analysis, after which he believed it would be time to speak to Dave about Carl.

  * * * *

  For the tenth time in twice as many minutes, Frank Bakes checked the time on the antique grand-father clock which stood in the corner of the living room; 8:54.

  “Good enough,” he decided aloud, tired of waiting and anxious for the evening’s coming events.

  Turning off the television and VCR, he eagerly started preparing for the night ahead.

  * * * *

  9:25 p.m. He was ready, it was time to go.

  Picking up the small canvas bag he had packed earlier containing everything he needed, he headed into the garage and was once again faced with having to choose a vehicle. The Vette rarely met the requirements for these expeditions; it was simply too obvious.

  Sighing, he tossed the bag onto the passenger seat of the mini-van, climbed in and started the engine. He slid Pink Floyd’s ‘The Wall’ into the CD player as the garage door quietly rumbled open and rolled out to the opening notes of ‘In the Flesh’.

  * * * *

  To describe what Willy Cobourne felt as boredom as he drove east along Sherbrooke would have been a grave understatement.

  The Astro which he had been assigned to tail was two cars ahead of him and easy to keep up with. It was clear that its driver did not have a clue that he was being followed, for Willy had been behind him for roughly fifteen minutes without detecting any sign that his assignment had noticed him.

  The mini-van turned north on St-Laurent, as did Willy, staying close enough not to miss any lights but far enough not to be specifically spotted. Shadowing this guy was a joke, offering no challenge whatsoever. The man even respected the speed limits.

  The only reason Willy had agreed to do something this routine was because Chris had requested him to. Barry was a very intelligent individual, a man who knew what he was doing and for whom Willy had the utmost respect. If Chris wished to send his most experienced investigator on such a mission, it had to be important.

  Stifling a yawn, Willy continued to obediently tail the mini-van.

  * * * *

  He pulled alongside the curb on a quiet residential street and cut the engine. Slowly, carefully, he surveyed the area to ensure that it bore no witnesses and, after a moment, he was satisfied that the street and its adjoining properties were deserted.

  Not far from where he had stopped was a lot which, for some reason, had always remained vacant. Covered with knee-high weeds near the street, it became somewhat more wooded as it sloped down to the river below. A dirt path, created by the passage of countless neighbourhood kids, cut through the lot and led down to the water’s edge.

  Stepping out of his vehicle with canvas bag in hand, he headed for the path while continuing to casually scan the surroundings for signs of life. However, thanks to a slightly cool evening and prime-time television, everybody appeared to be inside.

  He quickly made his way down the path and was by the river’s edge within a matter of minutes. Heading west along the waterway, he continued to glance around occasionally to make sure he had no company. He was alone.

  After three or four minutes, he reached a long wooden staircase which led from water level to the higher ground, some thirty feet above. He checked the time; 10:03; right on schedule. He started up the steep slope, not using the staircase but rather climbing alongside it, using its railing for occasional support. Using the steps would have made the ascent easier, but would also have left him exposed in full view if someone on top happened to come by. He preferred a slightly more difficult task in exchange for the cover offered by the tall weeds and brush growing on either side of the stairway.

  As he neared the end of his climb, he slowed his pace, being additionally careful not to make any noise. He reached the top and leaned against the embankment to rest while he mentally reviewed his plans. Especially tonight, there was little room for the slightest error if he intended to fully succeed.

  After a moment he was ready to press ahead and carefully raised to a standing position. Peering over the edge of the incline, he slowly scanned the property’s rear yard for signs of activity, and suddenly froze. Off to the left, some twenty-five feet away, was a bench which faced the house and seated on the bench was a man.

  Although he could not see the gang member’s face, the back of his leather vest gave away his identity. Embroidered there was the gang’s logo, a smiling devil amidst the flames of hell, above which the words ‘Devil’s Delight’ appeared in a semi-circle of silver. Emblazoned in gold over the gang’s name, was another; ‘Scorpion’.

  Dennis ‘Scorpion’ Roy was the head of the ‘Devil’s’ local chapter and unofficial leader in the province, this since Henri ‘Serpent’ Savard had been assassinated several months prior. Rumours were that Roy intended to become ‘Grand Chief’ for Canada before the year was out, whether the current incumbent liked it or not. This, in turn, had created much violent conflict within the gang in recent months as leadership support varied among its members.

  And now, there sat the ‘Scorpion’, just seconds away from him, relaxed, unguarded and unaware that he was about to die. He scanned the yard again, needing to be certain that he was alone with his prey; nobody.

  Silently, he stored his canvas bag securely down amongst the weeds, ensuring that it didn’t tumble down the slope. Then, without a sound, he sprang onto the grassy surface, pulling out his knife as he closed in on the man relaxing, without a clue, on the bench.

  The last sound which ‘Scorpion’ heard was the click of an opening blade, a fraction of a second before his life poured out through the massive gash in his neck.

  Hoisting the gang leader’s lifeless form over his shoulder, he hurried back to the top of the incline. He quickly examined the ground below and then heaved the body over the edge, sending it tumbling halfway down the steep slope where it came to rest, well concealed by the unkempt overgrowth.

  Climbing down to where he had left his bag, he took a moment to savour this sudden unforeseen stroke of luck with which he had been served. He would have never expected such a satisfying opportunity, especially not with ‘Scorpion’. Even if the house was empty when he d
estroyed it, he could consider tonight’s mission a success. He seriously hoped however, that the house would be occupied. The more of these assholes who died, the better.

  He crawled back over the ridge and swiftly made his way along to the west side of the yard where he crouched among the trees while searching for any signs of activity. Although all remained still, he knew that he had no time to lose. He had no idea if ‘Scorpion’ had some fixed routine which would send someone searching for him when he didn’t return.

  He crept towards the house along the property’s perimeter, taking advantage of the cover offered by the trees which bordered the lot. The lack of security around the place surprised him but he realized that this area really was not gang-war territory.

  Once close enough, he scrambled to the rear corner of the house, peering towards the windows for signs of detection, but no-one was in sight. Rushing across the yard, he quickly crawled to relative safety under the home’s large elevated wooden terrace.

  Wasting no time, he opened the canvas bag, removed a small hand shovel and proceeded to dig alongside the wall of the house. Within a minute, the hole was ten inches deep and large enough to accommodate the first of his six grenade-like devices. He set the timer at ten minutes and pressed a switch, arming the bomb before carefully placing it in the hole. The actual countdown would be activated by radio control once all the explosives were in place. Seconds later, the hole was refilled and he was ready to move on.

  He climbed out from under the terrace and hurried to the opposite side of the house. A sunken window well provided an excellent location for his second device and it was in place in no time. He continued on towards the front of the building, peering carefully around the corner for any signs of trouble; still nobody. A number of bushes growing alongside the front wall offered sufficient cover to allow him to set yet another explosive near the main entrance.