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  “Why are you lying to us?” asked Noah, shocked at the nerve of this old man. His cracked skin and wispy, greying hair made him old.

  “I’m not lying. Look, just get me a phone, and I’ll get out of here!”

  “Why would you lie? We were there that night. I was there that night. I saw you myself!” shouted Noah, surprising Zeph more than anyone else. “You had a rifle and you walked off to go shooting with the other guys. Why would you lie?” Noah turned away from Millet with disgust, his eyes meeting Jack’s for an instant.

  “Guys, we can’t stop him from phoning who he wants! Come on!” said Zeph.

  Noah gave Zeph a look. There was a glimmer in Noah’s usually peaceful eyes.

  “Oh, come on!” Zeph was scandalized.

  “Wait here!” said Jack, “and don’t let him move!” He pointed to Millet, who tried to move off the couch, but slid down to the floor and just sat there, in pain. “I’ll get the files,” he said to Noah and ran down the long living room and up the stairs.

  Zeph pulled his hair out waiting for Jack, while Noah grabbed the rifle from where Jack had left it and moved it far away from Millet, sitting down with it in an easy chair, far from the couch, just to be sure.

  “Jack!” shouted Zeph, impatiently. “What are you doing?”

  Zeph looked at Noah. “What files?” he asked.

  Jack returned with a black travelling bag, dropped it on one end of the coffee table, unzipped it, and took out a pile of business-sized folders. Then he moved the bag to the floor and plunked the folders on the table.

  “What are you doing?” asked Zeph, deeply concerned with the overall situation.

  “These were my dad’s. He had a file on everybody he did business with, including many people here in Beaufort. There’s a whole cabinet of these in his office upstairs. They were locked up, but we found the key after he died. His whole career is in them.”

  Zeph came closer to give the files a quick look. Jack looked through them and found one he then opened.

  “‘Claude Millet,’” he read. “‘Born, August 3rd, 1958, in Lachine, Quebec.’ It goes on about how you hired our father at one point to help buy a business. To ‘obtain financing for purchase of the full assets of Tyrell & Shank Inc.’ is what it says here.”

  Jack looked at Zeph. “Before, when you’d gone for the computer, this bullshitter told me he didn’t know my father. My dad’s file is full of notes on this deal he helped him on. And the last note says a lot.” Jack looked again at Millet. “It’s written here that the deal fell through because you didn’t say that you previously had been in bankruptcy. My dad writes that he wasted hours and hours of work on a project that could never have gone through because you lied to him. He had to sue you for his fee. That’s what it says right here. But this bullshitter—” Jack pointed to Millet, “says he barely knew Dad except for a few hellos. He’s full of shit!”

  “He’s hurt, guys. We can’t not help him.” said Zeph.

  Jack smashed the inch-thick file back down on the coffee table. “My dad was hurt! He was hurt bad. It killed him! Nobody helped him but us! Not this asshole or any of the other assholes that were there that night who went out shooting in the woods!” Jack glared at Millet, then looked at Zeph.

  Zeph nodded back, gently, silently. He understood, but he was worried. “We don’t know that it’s any of them, it just sort of seems like it’s probably one of them.”

  “He must know what happened to my father!” said Jack. “He was in the group that went shooting that night. I know their names because all three of us saw them that night. All three of us! There were seven of them. There are seven files here. Five are from my father’s archives and the others are mine. We researched each one , whatever way we could. We’ve been doing this all year, me and Noah.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Zeph. “I thought you guys were doing extra homework all this time.”

  “We found everything we could on these dirt-bags. What they do, what they own, everything we could find,” explained Jack.

  Zeph turned over a few pages, then paced the living room, the rifle over his shoulder, thinking all this over.

  “Listen, kids, guys, you’re making a mistake. Just give me the phone and let me call my home. Okay? Please. I won’t tell anybody, okay? Just help me get home or anywhere? Okay? It’s all a big misunderstanding. You’re feeling bad because of what happened to your father. I understand!”

  “You understand shit,” said Jack. “If you did you wouldn’t dare lie to my brother and me, right to our faces. You would be too afraid.”

  Those last words rang in Millet’s ears like a fire alarm. These weren’t three ordinary young boys he was looking at, but a pack of demons. Wild, angry, and vicious.

  Out of desperation and fear, Millet leaped onto his feet. To do what, he wasn’t sure, he just knew he had to get away. Pain shot up from his ankles like hot irons poking outward from his bones. He tried to run. Unclear in his thoughts, he tried for the kitchen, but slammed into a wall and then a table, crashing into a decorative lamp. Jack and Zeph ran after him. Millet was flailing. His thin arm caught Zeph hard in the face.

  Zeph reeled back, but rather than cry out in pain, the hit lit up his fury. Zeph grabbed the broken lamp, ripped off the electrical cord and came at Millet. Jack had a hold on him, kneeing him in the chest and putting pressure to keep him down. Zeph grabbed Millet’s arms, clamped them together, wound the cord around both wrists and knotted it securely.

  Inspired by this, Jack stepped away to the kitchen and returned with a twenty-foot rope, which he threw it to Zeph. Jack held Millet’s knees together and Zeph wound the rope around twice, keeping it loose enough not to slow his circulation but tied so that only he knew how to undo it. He threw the other end of the rope to the wall where the steel structure of the house was exposed, and tied the rope around a post.

  Millet cried, tears crawling on his flushed face as he rolled on the floor.

  Zeph and Jack backed away from him, both proud of themselves and aghast.

  Noah watched it all happen in amazement. There was something deeply satisfying, even if somewhat frightening, about confronting Mr. Millet, who for a year had been on their list of possible suspects. And to Jack and Noah, it was undeniably a murder, not an accidental shooting. Nobody with any sense of right and wrong would have accidentally shot their father and then not reported it or called for help. No, it was cold-blooded murder. They felt it in their bones.

  Zeph walked to an oval mirror, framed in twisted wrought iron. Below it, two leather chairs were set on either side of a round, mahogany table with a large grey and white soapstone chess set at its centre. Zeph looked at the damage. He had a bruise fattening on his right cheek. He sat on one of the chairs, catching his breath.

  “I look like you did last year, Jacky-boy,” he said.

  “Nah, that’s nothing. Mine was worse than that,” taunted Jack. Then pointed at Zeph accusingly.

  “Yeah,” said Zeph, “he got to me okay. He got to me. And he paid the price, the lunkhead!” The boys looked at Millet, lying in a fetal position on the living room floor, tied like a hog and unable to roll away due to the rope Zeph expertly linked to the building.

  The Valhalla house phone rang.

  “Crap!” said Jack.

  “It’s Mom!” yelled Noah.

  “What?” said Zeph.

  Millet heard this and began yelling, but was so traumatized and tired of his pain that he could barely get his words out. “You shits are in so much trouble! Do you realize what you’ve done? You little shits!”

  The phone rang again. Noah popped on the widescreen TV using the remote and clicked on other pieces of equipment in the cabinet below it. He worked quickly as the phone rang again. “We have to answer,” he yelled at the other two. “That’s the deal!”

  “What? Don’t take the call! Come o
n! Not now! Phone her back!” said Zeph, in utter panic, sweat breaking out instantly over his brow, leaking down onto his colourful bruise. Then, he realized Noah was in the process of turning on the video call functions on the television screen. He bolted out of the path of the camera and went to sit on Millet, using a pillow to keep him relatively quiet. There were still occasional syllables that barked through.

  Noah stood squarely in from of the camera and Jack ran to join him, just as Catherine appeared on the large wall screen, her face six feet wide. Behind her magnified image, the valley beyond, seen through the windows of Valhalla, were lit by a red sun. Catherine tried to smile.

  “How are my incredible boys doing?”

  “Hi, Mom!” said Noah, beaming, genuinely happy to see her and forgetting the scene around him.

  “What’s all that noise?”

  “It’s a video game on the other computer! No worries,” said Jack.

  “Oh, sounds horrible.”

  “Oh, really?” said Noah, innocently.

  “Why can’t you boys play nice games for a change? You know, something positive? Something creative?”

  “We do. Sometimes,” said Jack.

  “Are you okay? Really?” asked Catherine.

  “Yeah, Mom! We’re good! Don’t worry!”

  In the background, muffled sounds of Millet screaming for his life continued. Zeph kept pressing with the pillow.

  “Okay. Well, don’t enjoy it too much. This is punishment, you know.”

  “We’ll get our work done, like we promised,” said Noah.

  “I know you’ll do it, Noah. It’s your older brother I’m mainly concerned about. He’s not a little worker like you!” said Catherine. “Maybe I should punish myself and come and hang out with you boys at Valhalla?”

  “No, no, really, Mom! You need to stay on track with your project. Don’t let us ruin that! You know how bad we’d feel if you did?” said Jack, pleading. Jack glanced over at Zeph, off camera, realizing Zeph couldn’t stay on Millet for much longer.

  “Okay, Mom, we’ve got to go! We’re losing points in the game! We have to go now or else, well, we’ve got to go!”

  “Okay, okay,” said Catherine. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Go to bed early. You hear me?”

  “Yeah, absolutely, Mom! Early! We will,” affirmed Jack.

  “Bye, Mom. Love you!”

  “Love you too, sweetie. Love you, Jack.”

  “Love you, Mom!” said Jack. “Bye!”

  Noah clicked at the remote and Catherine’s face snapped away, replaced by blackness.

  Zeph released Millet, stepping away from him.

  “Christ, you guys better be right about this,” said Zeph. “You know, this lunkhead is telling us the truth about one thing. We’re in a deep pile of shit!”

  The boys talked about their options for what to do with Millet a few moments longer, then decided they were hungry and thirsty. They moved into the kitchen, and while Millet lay on the floor, miserable, scared and embarrassed, the boys made themselves ham sandwiches and poured themselves tall glasses of chocolate milk. Jack and Noah looked at each other while chewing and drinking. They were excited and not at all afraid of what they had begun, even if there was no clear plan for what was to come. They were kings of their domain that afternoon, fearless and empowered, taking back a piece of what was lost a year before. They felt brave, excited, and completely in agreement to press their captured prey for all he was worth. Inching closer to the truth about their father’s death was immeasurably satisfying.

  They were wolves, behaving as wolves behaved, biting into scarce, fresh meat. Zeph, the third wolf in the pack, joined them for the feast. Claws ready.

  Millet screamed, from the gut, terrifyingly loud. “Aaaaaaaagggggh”!

  No sound left Valhalla’s massive walls.

  The wolves concentrated on their meal.

  CHAPTER 9

  HARD TRUTH

  Through thickening dust and wind, Noah saw seven hunters approaching, rifles slung over their shoulders. They walked on a higher plane than Noah, on the top crest of a dune. Though they saw Noah, who was stuck, the hunters merely walked by, one after the other, smiling at him, sickeningly, waving with blood-soaked hands, blood up to their elbows, that flowed to their feet, into a rising pool.

  Noah bolted awake, sweaty and tense.

  It was one of many nights, like other nights in the previous year, that he had spent searching on the Internet, along with his brother, for details, information, anything, on the seven hunters that had trudged, that last September, into the forests of Beaufort County and likely shot his father.

  Deliberately or not, the shot had been taken.

  Noah shook off the nightmare. The hunters faded into dawn.

  One of them was a killer. All of them were guilty.

  Noah went down to the living room, in his pajamas, and stood barefoot before Millet, who remained securely tied to the couch. Noah stared at him silently, unmoving. Millet stared back. He looked away from the boy, then eventually looked up again. Noah hadn’t flinched.

  Tom didn’t have much patience for the procedural aspects of official gatherings, especially City of Beaufort council meetings. He thought to attend this one to see if the matter of re-zoning his church would indeed be tabled. Henley wasn’t there, which didn’t surprise Tom, but Henley and Mayor O’Neil were close friends. Tom was sure that Henley’s point of view, so clearly expressed to him, had already come to Mayor O’Neil’s attention.

  Mayor O’Neil didn’t mince her words, and she hated surprises, good or bad. She sat on a tall-backed, ornate chair at the end of the council table, waiting. She hated waiting. The meeting should have been called to order at 6:30 and it was now 6:40. Mayor O’Neil rapped her long, carmine nails on the lacquered table repeatedly, which irritated everyone in the room far more than the delay itself.

  The Beaufort City Council was made up of the Mayor and four councillors. To declare a quorum, and the meeting officially open, the Mayor and at least two of the councillors had to be present.

  Councillor John Caldwell was sick, home with a bad case of labyrinthitis, a chronic malady that brought on dizzy spells. Caldwell had a habit of missing council sessions.

  Councillors Edgar Roy and Suzanne St-Pierre were present and ready, seated at their usual places. Edgar Roy, an affable man in his seventies, was well loved in Beaufort, and often sought out for advice, though he had never run or owned a business of any kind. Roy had inherited his money and lived off the interest on family investments made long ago. He had an air of disengaged royalty about him and was a close friend and supporter of the Mayor.

  Suzanne St-Pierre wasn’t so friendly with Mayor O’Neil and was not well liked in Beaufort, but she was powerful. Her family owned the largest asphalting and roadwork company in southern Quebec. For years, Laforge & St-Pierre Inc. held a monopoly on everything a car rolled on—and most landscaping work, whether private or public—in the Eastern Townships. There was never any question whose hands any road-related work in Beaufort County would go into. That was the kind of easy, uncontested corruption that made Beaufort tick.

  Councillor St-Pierre was often a wrench in Mayor O’Neil’s wheels, criticizing her on multiple issues. It was clear she thought she herself should have been Mayor, but her volatile personality worked against the relationships she needed to build for that to happen.

  The missing councillor was Claude Millet. There had been no word from him, and what was strange about that—and the reason Mayor O’Neil had not started the meeting on time—as that Councillor Millet had never missed a council meeting in the five years since his election. In addition to the regular meetings, every second Thursday of the month, there were also special meetings on specific issues that were held as often as once or twice each month. Claude Millet had not missed even one, nor had he ever been late. Mayor O�
�Neil was growing concerned, and efforts to reach him on his cell phone were not working.

  The townspeople in attendance were waiting quietly. There were ten or twelve of them, including Tom, not a bad turnout for their little county. Most of the faces were familiar to Tom. He nodded at each one who acknowledged him across the council room and watched, out of the corner of his eye, as Mayor O’Neil discreetly called Robert Korsky over to her. Bob was the Director General of the town and the Mayor’s right arm. He was an MBA in his early thirties with a friendly demeanour, but he lacked leadership experience, having spent most of his career in middle management. Tom found there was something extremely naïve about him. Mayor O’Neil whispered to Bob, and they both glanced at Tom. As the Mayor called the meeting to order, Bob walked to where Tom was sitting at the back of the room.

  “Hey, Tom,” said Bob, whispering. “How are you?”

  “Terrific,” said Tom, letting out the best of his dry wit. “You? What’s up?”

  “We haven’t got word from Councillor Millet. The Mayor’s a little worried. We’ve tried reaching him on his cell. His family expected him home for supper and he didn’t show. It’s a bit unusual—he never misses a meeting.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?” asked Tom.

  Bob was taken aback by Tom’s response and stuttered slightly as he answered the brash policeman. “Well, uh, well, maybe you could, uhm, check into it?”

  “You know, Bob, I’m here for my own case.”

  “Oh, yeah, a re-zoning request.”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, uhm, I don’t think it’s on the agenda anyway.”

  “No, really? Again? That just isn’t right, Bob.”

  “Look, I can tell you the Mayor did have a conversation earlier about it.”

  “Henley, right?” asked Tom.

  “Uhm, yeah, Brian Henley was there, and Councillors St-Pierre and Roy.”

  “Anyone planning to tell me the outcome of that conversation?”