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  “Thanks, Keith. Looks like a busy time for you.”

  “You won’t hear me complain. It’s what we retailers hope for!” said Davis. “You see these vests. They aren’t selling. Don’t really know why. They’re top of the line. What am I going to do? The customer decides. I sell them what they want, or sometimes what they think they want, but they have to want it. Nothing I can do about that … ”

  Tom nodded out of politeness, though he was not the least bit interested in shoptalk. “If you hear from either of them, let me know. Okay? Millet’s wife is getting a bit antsy for news.”

  Davis gave him a thumbs-up. “Of course, Tom, count on it!” he said. Curious fellow, thought Davis, as he watched the policeman leave. Wooden personality. Seems like he doesn’t really give a shit about his job, or maybe he’s unhappy personally? Maybe that’s why some folks in Beaufort call him Brooder? Oh, well, not my problem.

  Davis’s phone vibrated in his hands. He brought it before him. A text message, from Jeff Lennox: “Keith, need your help. Carignan house. Now please.”

  Keith texted back, “What is it?”

  An instant later, an answer appeared. “Serious,” is all it said.

  “Hey, Marcel?” he shouted to Marcel, his assistant. “Can you handle things for a half-hour, maybe an hour? Something’s come up.”

  Marcel waved to him from the back of the store. Not a problem.

  Davis took his jacket and keys from behind the counter and walked out. He walked around to the parking lot beside the store. He checked his phone before getting in his Porsche Carrera, reading the text exchange again and seeing if any more information was forthcoming. It wasn’t.

  He turned on the ignition, the Porsche purred, and off he went, driving right by Brooder Doran, in his police pick-up, and heading toward the dusty twists and turns of Chemin Van Kleet. This better be serious, he thought, or Jeff will owe me a damn good car wash.

  Once out of town, coming into the woods, he pressed the accelerator. Dust billowed behind him.

  Noah saw the car arrive on his laptop screen. The boys had done two things since tying Lennox up again. One was to collect anything from his truck that might be of use to them, and they found ammunition, animal traps, camouflage gear, tools, knives, and a recent porn magazine that Zeph insisted on keeping.

  The other was to set up wireless cameras, pointing them from windows at strategic locations around the house. Five cameras in all, not enough to cover all approaches, but better than none.

  Keith Davis saw nothing out of the ordinary, as he drove his Porsche up the long gravel driveway. What was odd, if Lennox had texted him from this location, was how he got here. Where was his truck? The place looked uninhabited. Davis had never been here before, but had heard about the property, and it was even bigger and more imposing than he had imagined.

  He drove past the series of high-tech, industrial garage doors and stopped just short of the main entrance. There was no way to see inside from this vantage point; he would have to get out of the car to investigate. Something gave him a weird feeling about the whole thing. Lennox had texted that it was serious. Serious in what way? Where was he?

  He was surprised by a clunking sound at the back of the car. Tock! What the heck was that? He looked in the rear-view mirrors and saw nothing. He looked all around the car. Nothing.

  Tock! It was louder this time. At the rear, right side. He put the car in park and pulled the handbrake, then opened the driver’s door slowly. Seeing nothing, he swung it open all the way and turned to sit facing out. He took out his phone, dialled Lennox, but got his voice mail.

  “This is Jeff. Leave a message.” Beep.

  “Hey, bud, I’m at the Carignan place. Where the heck are you? I don’t see your truck. Did I miss you? What’s going on? Call me.”

  He stood up outside the car, leaving it running, and turned around.

  Noah was on the roof of the car, kneeling, a bundle of grey and green fabric in his hands. Davis was stunned. Noah didn’t move, just stared back.

  “What the Jesus-h-Christ are you doing on my car?”

  Noah said nothing. Instead, he flung out his arms, casting camouflage netting into the air above Davis, who was caught off-guard when it dropped down over him. Noah had done his job perfectly. He slid off the back of the Porsche.

  Davis grabbed blindly at the netting from the inside as Jack came out of nowhere and tackled him to the ground, keeping his weight on him, and pressing Davis’s legs together. Zeph appeared with a rope, winding it fast like a ribbon-winning cowboy.

  “Who the heck are you?” shouted Davis. “Let me go!”

  Noah tossed Jack a roll of duct tape. In one minute flat, Keith Davis was trapped in a giant cocoon of netting, rope, and tape. He was a strong man and tried to fight it off, continuing to wriggle after the boys got off him.

  The boys stood there, watching him squirm.

  “We’re really good!” boasted Zeph.

  “Goddam it, I know you kids! I know who you are!” shouted Davis, but the boys were caught up in their mission. Jack leaned over to Davis.

  “Ssshhh,” he advised, “be quiet now. Alright? Be quiet. Easy.”

  “What do you want? You want my car? Take it!”

  “No, we don’t want your car. Well, yes, we’ll keep it for now, but not really.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Ssshhh,” Jack said again. Davis was squirming less now. “Zeph, can you get him on his feet and over to the others?”

  “Others? Others?” Davis was in shock.

  Noah ran back into the house and called out, “Don’t worry, everyone’s okay.”

  “Who’s everyone?” Davis was panicking.

  Zeph pulled Davis to his feet using the ropes, and Davis cooperated, not sure how else to behave, and tried to balance himself on his roped feet. One of the garage doors stirred to life, rolling upwards to reveal Noah inside, at the ready with the wheelbarrow. He pushed it over to the back of Davis’s knees and held it steady as Zeph guided Davis into it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Best way to move you,” Zeph said.

  Davis let himself drop into the wheelbarrow, and Zeph pushed off with him to the main entrance to Valhalla.

  “I’ll be right there!” shouted Jack. He jumped into the driver’s seat of the car, intending to manoeuvre it into hiding with the other two vehicles in the garage, but what he faced surprised him. The Porsche had a standard transmission. He had only driven automatics. Shit.

  There were three pedals. He knew the left pedal was a clutch, but he didn’t know how to operate it. What to do?

  Jack peered at the gearshift. Neutral. That was probably good. The handbrake was pulled up, and he decided to disengage it. He got out, kept the driver’s door open, and leaned against the frame, pushing hard. The car inched forward. He thought the gravel might not be smooth enough to allow the wheels to turn easily, but the gravel was well compacted, and the wheels were turning. He guided it inside the garage and then set the handbrake again. Phew!

  Keith Davis was now lined up in his cocoon with the other two hunters and doing his best to answer the boys despite his own disbelief at the situation.

  “I don’t have a clue where I was September 23rd, 2012! You’ve got to be kidding me. Is that what this is about?”

  “Just tell them what you know!” said Millet.

  “I don’t know anything!” said Davis. “What are you talking about?”

  Millet tried again. “I mean just tell them what happened!”

  “September 23rd? That’s Art’s birthday. It’s the police chief’s birthday, so we threw a little party. Nothing special, what? What is it?”

  “They think one of us shot Paul Carignan!” said Millet, who then went into voluntary spasms, throwing all his force against his bindings, in every direct
ion, but without success. Davis, Lennox and the three boys stared at him until he gave in, sighing in defeat, panting from the futile effort.

  Zeph, lying on a couch with his feet crossed, playing a video game, threw Jack a role of duct tape. Jack caught it, ripped off a foot-long stretch, and slapped it over Millet’s mouth. Lennox’s mouth was already taped. Jack returned to the other side of the improvised gun turret and leaned on the rifle, looking through the sight. He levelled the rifle, aiming squarely between Millet and Lennox.

  “That isn’t loaded, is it?” asked Davis, growing nervous.

  Jack swivelled the rifle and aimed it straight at Davis.

  “It’s loaded,” Noah said in a matter-of-fact way, sitting on the kitchen counter, busy working at something on his laptop.

  “Oh, Jesus-h-Christ!” Davis yelled. Jack pivoted the sight to where he had aimed before, braced himself against it, and squeezed the trigger. Bang! Millet and Lennox jumped, tried to scream. The cartridge ejected out of the rifle, falling hot on Jack’s chest. He backed away, a bit surprised, but satisfied his point was made.

  Zeph almost fell off the couch, and was relieved to see Jack was responsible for the shot. Noah, still on the kitchen counter, just kept working, tapping away at his laptop, fully concentrated, lifting his head to look at Jack only for an instant.

  “You’re nuts, kid!” said Davis.

  “Maybe,” said Jack. “Or, I understand the seriousness of what happened on September 23rd, 2012, when my father was shot and left bleeding right outside here by one of you—or all of you fucking weekend hunters? What do you think? Does anything come back to mind when you hear a rifle shot? Eh? Does the little hunting party come back to mind?”

  “Yeah, yeah, alright, it does. Don’t shoot anymore.”

  “What happened that night, after the drinking and eating? I want your version. We know you broke up into groups. For a shooting competition, right? And the groups changed? First, there was Mr. Lennox, on his own. Second group was Morrison, Bernier, and Korb. Third group was Mr. Henley, on his own. Fourth group was you and Millet!”

  “If you say so. That’s a long time ago,” said Davis.

  Jack aimed the rifle straight at him. Davis wriggled and then froze, waiting for the worst, which didn’t come. Jack sat down next to the rifle, looking at the three captive hunters.

  “Mr. Davis, what happened to my father that night?”

  “I don’t know. What I know is what I saw. We all went to Brian Henley’s clearing, first of all. Then somebody thought of having some fun. A little competition. You’re right about how we broke off into groups. I think Rob Morrison and Chief Bernier stuck together because of the new rifle—that was our gift to Art for his birthday. I think Lars was with them. I went off with Claude, for a while, then Claude went off on his own.”

  Millet shook his head.

  “Or, he met up with Jeffrey, maybe?”

  Millet nodded.

  “And I just kept on going on my own,” continued Davis. “I was dead set on winning this. Nobody thinks I’m a good shot, and with everybody together like that, I wanted to get some notice for once. I am a good shot! And I didn’t shoot your father. I walked and walked, quite far, and then felt a little ill at one point because I drank so much, which isn’t like me. I didn’t see any buck. I never fired my rifle once, the whole night. I did hear some shots, a couple different times, but I thought nothing of it. We shoot all the time here, all year round. No big deal. The whole night was no big deal to me. That’s the truth.”

  Jack listened to every syllable coming from Davis and never moved, not a twitch. He waited for Davis to add more, but when it didn’t come, he turned toward Noah.

  “How’s it coming, Noah?”

  “Almost done,” he said, with a finger in the air, as if trying to hold his train of thought and didn’t want to be interrupted.

  “Good,” said Jack. “I think we’re going to go with it, Noah! Let me know.”

  Noah nodded, continuing to type on the laptop.

  Jack motioned to Zeph that he wanted to talk, and Zeph removed his headphones and dropped the game controller onto the couch. He and Jack walked along the window wall together.

  “Zeph, bud, I’ve got to bring this to the next stage. I’m not getting what I need from these guys. They may be telling the truth, I can’t be sure. I know they’re involved, and it seems impossible to me that they aren’t holding back. They know more.”

  “You think they all got back together after the accident?”

  “If it was an accident. But yeah, they would’ve regrouped. And if anything out of the ordinary had happened, they would’ve all talked about it. They’re buddies.”

  Zeph thought. Nodded.

  “So, this is when you’ve got to go,” Jack said.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Zeph, you’re like our third brother, always have been, but this isn’t your fight. Okay? It’s not your fight. And this is your window of opportunity. Time to go. It’s up to me and Noah now, to do what we have to do.”

  “Your fight is my fight, always has been,” said Zeph, looking Jack in the eye. And Jack knew he would not convince his friend otherwise.

  “You’re a stubborn ox, Zephmeister.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  Jack looked over at Noah, still typing away.

  Jack threw his jacket on and took a solitary walk into the woods just west of Valhalla, listening to every step over leaves, dirt and branches, following the path he had often taken with his father. He thought of him, how tall he had seemed for most of Jack’s life, as tall as the tallest trees, as big as the sky. That was his father. He was Jack’s world. His dad reserved the biggest smile for Jack, and Jack would never forget that smile.

  The path curved and sloped into the deeper forest. Jack followed it around a cluster of evergreens, reaching into a clearing where water trickled from a jagged crevice, a delicate flow snaking over rock after rock, building into a rivulet, swirling around large and tiny stones, then streaming out in the open over a straight stretch before entering another crevice and working its way into the earth, where it disappeared in the undergrowth.

  Jack stopped where the brook was at its widest, where he had stopped so many times with his father. He was alone now. He thought about what his father had meant to him, what he meant to him now, about all that he had inherited and learned from him. He leaned back and looked straight up at the white sky. No sun, no bright rays of light.

  He saw his father’s face in his mind’s eye as though it was right there, in flesh and bone. He felt him breathe. He felt like a small child, protected and loved.

  Oh, Dad, thought Jack, I don’t know if you can hear me. I wish you could. Me and Noah, we miss you. I can’t tell you how much. We can’t change what they did, how they hurt you, but I promise we’ll do what we can do about it. We’ll be brave and honour you. You deserve at least that.

  And don’t worry, everything people are saying about you, we don’t care, we know what kind of father you were. We know how you lived. I remember your heart. How you fought, with everything you had, all the time, for what you believed was right. How many times did you tell me how important that was in life? To live true, with integrity. I didn’t understand at the time, Dad. I didn’t, but I’ve spent nearly a year since you’re gone now, reading about it, trying to figure out everything you tried to tell me. Every bit of it. Every word. I’m trying to remember and understand. I don’t want to let you down. I’ve never wanted to let you down. Never. Though I know I did sometimes and that hurts really a lot. It hurts that I won’t have you around to ever try to make that right, to show you I was listening. I was, Dad. I hope you can hear me.

  But now, these monsters took you out, and that, I believe, was wrong. It’s wrong that they didn’t take responsibility and that in this town, no one did anything at al
l. So, your sons will do something about it, something that’ll make you proud, I hope. You raised us to care about right and wrong, about that line these guys know nothing about. Please, Dad, if you can protect us, wherever you are, that would be good, cause we’re about to do something and we’ll need your help. We want to do something, something meaningful.

  Jack smiled to himself, to his father, his face caressed by the soft light of the overcast sky. “Time,” he thought, “for a butt-kicking, soul-lurching, piss-and-vinegar, mold-shattering, game-changing fight back!”

  Millet peed until empty, and the boys got him back to his designated chair, binding him down in it again.

  Lennox signalled that he wanted to speak, and Jack pulled the tape off his face, which caused him to howl.

  “I have to pee, too!” said Lennox.

  “Go right ahead,” said Jack.

  “Fuck you,” said Lennox, defiantly.

  Jack went into the bathroom and came out pulling a reel of garden hose, equipped with a spray gun. He unravelled it until it was five metres from Lennox. “You know, one of the cool features of this house, that my mother designed and built, is the floor. She explained it to me. It’s actually the same as a laboratory floor, made to be washed out. It’s called a cleanroom concept. This place can flood and all the water will go over there to those drains. Pretty cool, eh?”

  “Fuck you,” said Lennox.

  “You say that too much, it loses its meaning.” Jack squeezed the spray gun. A jet of water shot out at Lennox. Jack guided the jet up and down over Lennox, soaking him. He screamed from the cold.

  “What do you want me to say? What do you want?”

  Jack stopped the spray. The water flowed quietly from exasperated Lennox, over the concrete, following the expansion joints to the drains.