They had spent the next several months roaming about, much like nomads, through Ontario, Quebec and into the Maritimes, setting up camp wherever and whenever Butch decided, sometimes in campgrounds, other times off in a field or woods somewhere. At night, Butch would send a few of the others off to find money and provisions in whatever homes or stores which could be found in the area. Regardless of where they stayed, Butch insisted they keep a low profile so as to not attract attention to themselves.
On one occasion, following an evening of heavy drinking, two of the crew members, Olly and Tops, had challenged their leader when he had ordered them to tone things down. Olly had suggested Butch should “loosen up and get that stick out of your ass” and Tops had stated, “You’re not our fucking mother, dude.” The two had then resumed their boisterous behaviour, shouting into the night, laughing loudly and generally being nuisances.
Looking bored and indifferent, Butch had remained still and silent for several moments before rising and strolling off into the woods, likely to go urinate. He had returned shortly after, a stout limb in hand and, wielding it like a baseball bat, had bashed it into the back of Olly’s head, knocking him out cold. He had then proceeded to beat Tops with it as the latter attempted unsuccessfully to scramble away in drunken fear. Following a half dozen blows, one which likely had cracked some ribs, Butch had tossed the limb onto the fire then returned to the unconscious Olly, kicking him a few times before finally settling back into his camping chair.
The incident had lasted little more than a minute from the first blow to the last during which time the three other crew members had remained silent and motionless, watching in awe, and fear. Not a word of the beatings was brought up subsequently by the victims or the others and, going forward, when Butch spoke, the members of the crew listened and obeyed.
As summer had ended and autumn rolled in, Butch had decided they would head to Toronto where they could settle for the winter and concentrate on making some substantial money in more stable surroundings. Since none of them had any steady, legal means of income or marketable skills, Butch had kept his crew members busy with daily robbery runs for the first several weeks in the Toronto area in order to accumulate a bankroll sufficient to rent lodgings.
An old, used Econoline had been purchased in Rat’s name to facilitate movement of larger stolen goods, particularly television monitors, computers and related equipment and Butch had established a number of contacts to turn the merchandise into cash. Selling drugs had been an excellent income generator back home and soon became a staple business line for the crew once again.
Within six weeks, they had moved out of the cheap motel in which they had been living and into an apartment leased by Rat, large enough to accommodate all six comfortably. Under Butch’s leadership and planning, their theft and drug business had continued to flourish. During the day, he and Rat would drive around, scouting the multitude of neighbourhoods in the Greater Toronto Area, selecting potential burglary targets for the others to subsequently hit.
It soon had dawned on Butch that a city the size of Toronto offered more potential than his five men could handle and he had started carefully recruiting additional crew members amongst the countless teens and young adults he saw living on the street every day. What he had to offer was a roof over their heads and a share of the proceeds they generated. In return, he demanded their utmost respect and compliance to his directives. By the time summer had come around again, his burglary team had increased by two, a drug savvy seventeen year old had come on board and a second apartment had been rented by Sean ‘Dibs’ Dibsdale, one of the original crew members.
Pleased with his crew’s performance after their first year, Butch had called for a road trip in July to allow them to repeat their nomadic roaming of the previous summer. Throughout the year, his men had complied with his demands without any argument, regardless of the risk, and Butch felt they deserved some time to unwind from their daily lives of crime. For this reason, the only thieving Butch expected of them during their vacation was to cover the crew’s needs. However, he had limited the summer break to four weeks to avoid adversely affecting his growing and profitable business too seriously.
The next few years had come and gone, each an improvement over the previous one with the Greater Toronto Area continuing to supply them with an increasing flow of goods for resale as well as an expanding customer base. In addition to sustained residential break-in activities, a growing number of retail and warehousing establishments had been added to the robbery target mix as had truck hijackings. Though not major players in the drug world by any means, their marijuana, cocaine and meth distribution business generated sufficient funds to be deemed worthwhile.
By the fourth year, Butch’s crew had grown to an even dozen, a number he had decided to subsequently remain at since, as he semi-jokingly suggested, it paralleled the number of the Lord’s apostles. The reference was not completely false as Butch had succeeded in gathering twelve young men who openly admired him and never questioned his demands, performing whatever duty was assigned to them. This had been made blatantly clear the previous year toward the end of their fifth summer trek on the way back to Toronto from Manitoba.
They had been camping near Espanola, Ontario, and, as he often did, Butch had gone off for a while, scouting the area for potential sources of food, alcohol and money. Upon his return, the crew members had fully expected him to direct a couple of teams to a few locations that night to gather whatever worthy goods they could find in their usual stealthy manner. However, much to their surprise, Butch had informed them they would all be going to party at a lovely, secluded home he had found.
Later that evening, the crew had piled into the E-Series wagon and the Suburban they had recently acquired and followed Butch as he led the way on his motorcycle. After ten minutes or so, he had turned off the deserted country road onto a dirt path leading into the woods, driving on until they reached a clearing where they left the vehicles.
They had hiked for five minutes along a narrow trail before the woods had thinned then given way to an expansive, well-manicured, rolling lot in the midst of which sat a large, well-kept Victorian home. Butch had sent two of his men for a closer inspection while he and the rest of the crew waited in silence under the cover of the darkness and foliage. The scouts had returned after a few moments to report that three people, a man and two women in the mid-forty to mid-fifty age range, sat watching television in a den around the back.
They had stormed the house, quickly ascertaining that nobody else was there before launching into a five hour adrenaline fuelled orgy of violence and destruction. Under Butch’s direction, they had beaten and tortured the occupants, punching, slapping and kicking them, burning them with cigarettes, cutting them with knives and broken glass. The women had been repeatedly raped, while their male counterpart had been forced to watch his wife and sister go through hell.
As per Butch’s wishes, while some had tended to the captives, others had gone on a destructive rampage of the home, slashing couches, cushions and mattresses, smashing tables, chairs, glassware and dishes, punching holes into the walls and doors. In the kitchen, contents of the refrigerator and pantries were strewn across the floor, jars and bottles thrown against the walls. In the bathrooms, sinks and toilets were shattered, pipes broken, spewing water.
Though none had ever done anything remotely similar in the past, Butch had been pleased to see how all had participated with wild abandon, obeying his every command with neither hesitation nor restraint. They had left as quietly as they had arrived, energized by the death and devastation they had collectively created.
“Hey, Butch, when are we gonna do something like this again?” Dibs had asked as they reached the clearing where their vehicles were parked.
“Vacation’s over, boys,” Butch had replied with a grin. “Next one ain’t until next summer but I promise we’ll make it a doozy.”
It had certainly started off nicely over the weekend in Brighton,
Butch mused with a smile. He would relax for a day or two with the guys, maybe head into town to check out the bars and women then go cruising and scouting for someplace nice for a party next weekend. Yep, this would be their best vacation to date.
Chapter 2 – Friday, June 21, 2013
“Where to?” asked Rat as they pulled away from the dock at Knowlton Marina in the sixteen foot utility boat they had just rented.
“That way,” Butch replied pointing northeast toward the Lake Brome shore. “It’s around there somewhere. I’ll know the place when I see it.”
As planned, Butch had gone off cruising through the countryside for a few hours on the Wednesday, scouting for a potential target for some weekend fun. As always, selection criteria consisted of privacy, seclusion and obvious wealth and Butch had been close to giddy as he had spotted almost endless possibilities. One after another, huge, heavily wooded lots sheltered expensive homes from view and houses were so far from one another that someone screaming bloody murder, even outside, would likely not be heard.
With such a wide choice of targets, he had returned to the campsite undecided and actually somewhat confused as to which place was which. For this reason, he had opted to go for another cruise on the Thursday and had ventured a little further, ending up on
Lakeside Road along the eastern shore of Lake Brome. If anything, the properties in this area were bigger and more luxurious than the best he had seen the day before. Slowing to a more leisurely speed to take in the feast before him, he had come to a full stop on the side of the road when the entrance to one particular property caught his eye and piqued his curiosity. Directly across from him, a two lane wide driveway led onto a lot of majestic proportions, made evident by the field stone walls which paralleled the road for hundreds of feet before curving in to border the driveway on either side. Beyond the walls, a variety of mature conifers enclosed the property, assuring complete privacy from prying eyes.
Kicking his bike into gear, Butch had u-turned across the road, pulling up to the edge of the driveway where he had cut the engine and set the stand. Looking about casually to ensure no one else was around, he had then sauntered along the driveway, intent on getting a better view of what lay beyond the trees. Some thirty feet in, the barrier of junipers and pine ended where the driveway veered to the right toward a sprawling ranch-style home. Beyond, perpendicular to the house, a separate building housed a five car garage on the lower level with a complete second storey above. Part of an in-ground pool could be seen at the rear of the house and further on, the lake where a catamaran, a powerboat and two Sea-Doos were docked. To his left was a tennis court and, any golfer’s dream, a two hole chip and putt, complete with sand traps and pond as well as a driving net.
Having seen what he wanted and not wishing to be seen himself, he had returned to his motorcycle to head back to the campsite. As he had fired up the engine, he had gazed at the property’s entrance one last time and noticed a decorative cast iron post set in the stone wall on either side of the driveway. A plaque hung from each, one on which was the house number while the other read “The Barrys”.
As he had left, he had decided he would go scope out the place from the lake side with Rat the following day. However, he had already been pretty sure they would be partying at the Barry home come the weekend.
“There,” Butch announced as they slowly approached a wide cove on the eastern shore. “That’s the place.”
“Holy crap,” Rat replied. “It’s huge. Do you know who lives there?”
Butch shrugged. “Somebody called Barry who’s got major cash from what I can see. Go in a bit closer. I want to get a better look at this place.”
Rat steered the boat slightly toward the cove as Butch scanned the Barry property, familiarizing himself with the layout of the place as seen from the lake.
“Someone’s coming out of the house,” said Rat.
Butch turned his gaze to the rear of the home where an attractive woman in shorts and a tank top was walking across the expansive paving stone patio toward the pool. As he looked on, a man appeared in the open sliding door and called out something undecipherable to the woman, causing her to turn and laugh as she retraced her steps toward him. When she reached him, he gave her a hug then took her hand as they strolled toward the lake where they settled on two of the half dozen lounge chairs scattered on their private beach.
“Well, aren’t the Barrys a pretty couple?” Butch murmured.
“She’s going to be a lot more fun to party with than that old broad last weekend,” Rat agreed. “She’s hot.”
“Yep, she’s a fine looking lady,” Butch replied, gazing at the couple as the boat slowly slid by. When both the man and woman waved, he waved back and added, “Friendly too. We’re in for a good time this weekend. A real good time. Let’s head back to camp. I’ve got a good picture of the layout in my head and I want to line up how we’ll cover this tomorrow.”
Chapter 3 – Saturday, June 22, 2013 - 1:55 p.m.
“Will you guys be ready for a break soon?” asked Dave as he strolled up to the tennis court with his golf bag slung over his shoulder. “I’ve now honed my golfing skills to perfection and will kick your butt tomorrow, Mr. Barry.”
“If his golf is half as good as his tennis,” Jon called from the far end of the court, “You might as well cancel your round right now, Captain. Our illustrious host just beat me in five straight matches.”
“You won some sets,” Chris countered. “It was pretty close throughout.”
“I won one set in the first match,” Jonathan replied. “You beat the crap out of me the rest of the time.”
Chris grinned as he spoke. “So, what? Now you don’t want to play anymore?”
“You’re damned right I don’t want to play anymore,” Jonathan confirmed. “What I want is a beer.”
“Well, you’re in luck because we’ve got a fridge full,” said Chris. “Let’s go.”
As planned, Jonathan and his wife, Josée, had flown in on their new seaplane the previous afternoon, arriving minutes before Leslie had driven up with her partner, Dominique. Dave and Cathy had not been far behind the two women and the long weekend party at the Barrys had gotten underway.
Swimming and drinks by the pool had preceded a late dinner on the terrace which had been followed by a later evening of after-dinner drinks and non-stop conversation, banter and laughter. All had slept in come the morning then gathered for a sumptuous brunch with Chris, Dave and Jon manning the kitchen.
After the meal, the five women had boarded the plane and flown to nearby Magog for a few hours of strolling and shopping. Jonathan and Chris had headed for the tennis court once Dave, not a tennis aficionado, had assured them he wished to take advantage of Chris’ golf installation to practice his drives, chips and putts. Dinner was to be a variety of Italian fare which the ladies had promised to prepare upon their return.
“Want to sit outside or in?” asked Chris as they reached the terrace.
“I’d say out,” Jonathan replied, eyeing the pool. “I’m going to change so I can jump into that thing.”
“Sounds good to me,” Dave agreed.
“Sure thing,” said Chris. “Go on while I get us some beers and something to munch on.”
They headed into the house through the sliding doors to the kitchen where Chris got busy filling a few bowls with chips, pretzels and mixed nuts while Jon and Dave went off to change. As Chris was getting the beers from the refrigerator, the front doorbell rang. Setting the beers down on the counter, he made his way to the entrance foyer to see who was calling.
“You want me to get that?” Jon asked as he came down the hallway clad in swimming trunks and a t-shirt.
“I got it,” Chris replied as he reached the door a few steps ahead of Jonathan.
He opened the door to reveal a tall, good-looking man is his twenties. Of wiry build, the visitor wore a Harley Davidson tank top, blue jeans and black biker boots. Sunglasses perched atop his light brown hair whic
h was pulled back in a ponytail.
“Mr. Barry?” the man inquired with a smile, glancing briefly at Jonathan in the background.
“Yes,” Chris replied. “How can I help you?”
Butch pulled out his S&W .357 Magnum from behind his back and aimed it directly at Chris’ face before replying. “You can start by taking a couple of steps back and hope your friend doesn’t do anything stupid or you’ll be a dead man. Move.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Chris asked as he stepped backward away from the door.
“I’m always sure of what I do,” Butch replied, moving forward as two other men, both armed with pistols, appeared from either side of the doorway and entered, the second one kicking the door shut behind him.
“What’s going on?” came Dave’s voice from down the hall where he had been busy in the bathroom.
“Tell him to come here,” Butch ordered, his tone low.
“We’re in the front foyer, Dave,” Chris called out. “We have company.”
“Oh, yeah? Who’s that?” asked Dave as he entered the spacious foyer. “Whoa, what the hell is going on here?”
“Get against the wall with your friend so my buddies can keep an eye on you,” Butch ordered then returned his gaze to Chris. “Anyone else here?”
“No,” Chris replied, “Just the three of us.”
“Have a look around, Rat, just in case our new friend is bullshitting me,” Butch ordered one of the others before again addressing Chris. “Where’s that cute little wife of yours? I’m really looking forward to meeting the lady up close to see if she’s as hot as she looked from far.”
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