Blindshot Page 6

  “Yeah,” said Tom, with distant interest.

  “When’s the last time you just had fun?”

  Tom had a blank look on his face.

  Gabrielle Bernier interrupted them, coming from the greenhouse entrance. “Art? Art?” she called.

  “We’re back here, sweetie. What is it?”

  “Sorry to disturb, but Lars is here.”

  “We’ll be right there.” Bernier turned back to Tom, waiting for some sort of response from him that would not come. They were two stubborn men, filled with mutual respect, but very different from one another. Bernier finally cracked a smile. “Saved by the bell, my boy, but we’ll talk again. We’ll talk again!”

  “No doubt,” said Tom.

  They left the greenhouse to greet Lars Korb, one of the weaker links in the Beaufort Police force, but a nice guy, usually the errand boy for Tom and Chief Bernier. They exchanged greetings and then the three men hoisted the dead buck onto Lars’s truck. They would bring it to Henley’s where it would be hung and skinned, very likely by Lennox himself. Both Bernier and Tom knew this. That was the conflicted, complicated nature of a small town.

  Tom leaned in to Bernier. “Can you talk to Lennox? Tell him to do his drinking and shooting away in the north woods. There’s game up there, and he could actually get out of his truck and track them like a real sportsman. Shooting from the road is stupid and lazy, we agree? He shouldn’t be anywhere near the Carignan house.”

  “He’s a complicated guy, but he’s no harm.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  Bernier gave Tom a hard pat on the shoulder and moved on with Lars toward his truck. Tom watched them rev up and leave.

  Tom considered the evening’s conversation. Bernier’s words always stuck with him, more than the Police Chief knew. He turned and stared at the glowing greenhouse. It went dark as Gabrielle shut the greenhouse lights from inside the main house. Tom stood alone in the pitch darkness.

  Damn that Bernier, he thought, always getting under his skin.

  CHAPTER 4

  DARK WOODS

  Jack and Zeph were enjoying their trek off Valhalla property, trudging in the blackness, swinging their flashlights before them, curiosity guiding them like explorers of an ancient world. They hadn’t followed Chemin Van Kleet, which would have been easier and faster, but preferred going through the denser, untouched woods. That’s where the animals were. Where strange creatures fought against one another. Where odd things grew. Where small and large insects crawled, ate each other and were transformed.

  “We’re getting pretty far now, aren’t we?” said Zeph.

  Jack wielded a stick he had picked up along the way, aiming the flashlight beam like a death ray.

  Zeph joined in. After covering a dozen metres jousting at the mystical Noofargs, snapping fallen branches under their feet, Zeph grew concerned again. “But we’re getting far, aren’t we? I mean, where exactly are we?”

  “No worries, bro, we’re coming up on it.”

  “Coming up on what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of!”

  Faint light grew through the trees.

  “Shut off your flashlight!” whispered Jack.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it! And not so loud! Ssshhh!” he insisted, moving his index finger to his lips. “Come!”

  The two boys turned off their flashlights, one after the other, and moved slowly to the edge of the dark woods. The faint light, coming from a lower clearing, became more intense, more yellow and orange. Firelight. They were staring down an embankment toward the Henley property, a large farmhouse with several accessory buildings surrounding it. They were positioned close to the front of the property, where a long front yard stretched to a barn. The boys looked at each other, in full enjoyment of their inconspicuous vantage on this higher ground, concealed on the edge of the forest. It was just the way it was with their video games, the moment of accomplishment when reaching a new level of a virtual world, a recon mission deep in enemy territory, on the brink of unleashing an epic battle against creatures of unknown powers. Chills of excitement crawled up their spines. Straining in the dark, they saw the world even bigger than it was.

  Down below, Brian Henley, a retired businessman, stoked a stone-based campfire. The boys watched him carefully. Henley was a strange creature in their eyes, even more haunting in the orange firelight and the wisps of smoke and floating sparks. A big man, tall, with wide shoulders and a remarkably small head, his sunken eyes stared out from above a nose that was like a clump of mushrooms. He had odd patches of skin, too, pale in spots and red in others, where the veins showed through the skin.

  “How do you think Pinhead made so much money that he could buy a big spread like this?” asked Zeph. “Ever see his boat? It looks like a rocket. Sick! I heard he has a Ferrari in his

  garage.”

  “Yeah, he does. I’ve seen it. Not the boat, the Ferrari. It’s cool. My dad told me Pinhead made his money from a hotdog stand in Granby.”

  “Really? Hotdogs? Way to go, Pinhead! I thought he inherited it or was a lawyer or something.”

  “He was a lawyer. According to my dad, he bought the hotdog stand from this murderer he was defending. The murderer got put away and couldn’t pay him. And then Pinhead made so much money from the freaking hotdogs that he bought a couple more restaurants and bars. Kept making money. Horseshoe up his ass, my father said.”

  “Sick!”

  “Yeah, he really is.”

  “What?”

  “Sick! He’s really sick. Not sick-cool, but sick-sick! Got a bad heart. He’s on all these meds. Makes his face all spotty.”

  “How do you know this shit?”

  “My dad! He knows stuff about everybody. Calls it his business intel.”

  “Your house is way bigger than Henley’s. Your dad’s a lawyer?”

  “Nah, a business advisor. Helps people buy and sell companies. It’s pretty cool, but I never tell him that.”

  “Why not? Sounds cool to me. My dad’s a dentist. Sticks his face in other people’s mouths all day. He hates his work. It’s gross, and he works like a dog. He’s always working, never doing anything cool. Your dad is always up to something. Why wouldn’t you tell him? He’s way cool!”

  “I don’t know. Just never walked up to my dad, and said, hey you’re cool! I don’t know. We don’t talk like that.”

  “But he is, he’s really cool. I’ve been around enough to know. My parents don’t even know where the hell I am, and they’re not phoning the police about it either. Their idea of fun has nothing to do with home. When they’re there, they’re so tired all the time. That’s if I can find them. I don’t even know what they do. They’re out with friends, they tell me. How normal is it for a kid my age to tell his parents they stay out too late all the time? Should be the other way around, no?” Zeph’s speech was rapid-fire.

  “I think you’re having a panic attack,” said Jack.

  “It’s true, though! At least if they played video games, that would be cool. Then we could be on multi-player mode and it might count as quality family time!” Zeph punctuated his sentence by throwing a small rock out toward the campfire below. Jack watched the rock sail off and exchanged a look with Zeph, who reciprocated with a truly panicked look, eyebrows way up. Zeph and Jack ducked down fast into the brush, scoping down below. The rock, thrown with more gusto than Zeph had meant, zinged off the campfire boulders, striking the end of a wooden board in the flames. Glowing embers popped out from the campfire. Henley reeled back gently, surprised by the popping sound and a puff of flying embers.

  Up on the ridge, in the bushes, the boys could barely contain their laughter. They giggled all the more because they might be found out. They hushed each other and kept watching below.


  Jack saw a familiar grey, two-tone pick-up truck arriving and Jeffrey Lennox climbed out. The urge to laugh was replaced by another type of chill travelling along Jack’s spine. The earlier confrontation ran through his mind with an image of Lennox standing over a half-gutted deer, bloody knife in hand. And here he was again, smiling and shaking hands with Brian Henley, bringing out a box from his truck filled with bottles of whiskey and beer. As Henley accepted the booze, another man came out of Lennox’s truck. Jack’s eyes widened.

  “What’s the matter? Who’s this guy?” asked Zeph.

  “That’s Robert Morrison.”

  “Just who is that, anyway?” said Zeph.

  “He makes rifles by hand. He started by making flintlocks, these super long rifles like back in the Civil War. He makes all sorts of rifles now, I think.”

  “So what?”

  “So, he’s pretty famous for it!”

  Zeph still didn’t seem impressed.

  “So, it costs something like ten or twenty K for a Morrison rifle!” That raised Zeph’s eyebrows.

  “How do you know all that? How do you know it’s even him?”

  “He came to our house. My dad helped him with some business proposal. I think it went really well, and he was pleased. He came by to give my dad a book he wrote about how to make rifles. His picture was on the cover.”

  “Think they’d shoot at us if I threw a rock at them?” asked Zeph.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Don’th bwee thtoopid,” Zeph joked.

  Jack smiled at his friend’s silliness. They were good buddies, and making each other laugh was easy. Their attention turned to the activity below once again.

  Mrs. Henley was coming out with a tray of burgers, followed by Keith Davis, who owned the sport and hunting shop, and Claude Millet, who was a chartered accountant and town councillor. Davis carried a tray loaded with chicken wings and French fries, Millet plastic glasses, a stack of napkins and a plate of sandwiches. Mrs. Henley went back to the house, chomping on a barbecued wing. They were all talking, but Jack and Zeph could only just make out their words.

  “I’m hungry,” said Zeph, practically drooling. “All we’ve got up here are acorns!”

  A police pick-up truck approached the Henley property from the road, sirens and lights blaring, breaking the quiet of the evening. Lars Korb was at the wheel, and Chief Arthur Bernier smiled from the passenger seat as the truck barrelled toward the table of food. Lars pressed on as if he wasn’t going to stop the truck, the siren still wailing and the blue and red lights swirling. Everyone near the table, staring at the oncoming truck, stopped chewing and froze, fearing for their lives.

  Lars slammed the brakes.

  “Fucking idiot,” said Lennox.

  “Lars, you dickhead! You scared the crap out of us!” said Davis.

  Chief Bernier and Lars came from the truck, slammed the doors and joined the group. Davis and Millet pelted Lars with chicken wings. Henley’s multi-coloured Australian Shepherd snatched a wing. Lars shook off a wing that had stuck to his shoulder, licking the barbecue sauce from his fingers.

  “Don’t throw wings! My dog will choke on them!” said Henley.

  “Well, if it isn’t birthday boy! Late to his own party!” said Millet. He was so skinny you could see the veins in his neck pulsate when he talked.

  “I’m never late! Never! When I show up, that’s when the party officially begins!” affirmed Bernier. Henley handed him a beer.

  “How old are you, Art? Fifty-two? Eighty-two? What?” shouted Davis.

  “I’m sixty-five, you morons!” said Bernier.

  “No need to get sensitive there, Art!” said Millet.

  “It’s how you feel that counts,” Davis threw in. “So how do you feel, at sixty-five?”

  “Like I’m getting badgered way too much on my birthday! Today, I still feel sixty-four!” said Bernier, smiling. “There! Now, let a hungry man eat!”

  Henley turned to Lars and signalled for him to move off. “Bring it out for him.”

  “You’re not waiting for the cake?” asked Lars.

  “There’s no cake, Lars. Now get his rifle,” said Henley.

  “No cake? There has to be a cake. What’s a birthday without a cake?” asked Lars.

  “There’s no cake!” said Henley.

  “There’s no cake?” asked Davis, shocked.

  “There’s no cake?” echoed Millet.

  “Talk about a bunch of bitchy old farts,” said Henley. “Get a grip!”

  The old friends were laughing away as Lars returned from the Henley house with a narrow wooden box. The sight of it hushed the group.

  Jack and Zeph, up on the ridge, were carefully watching.

  “What’s that?” asked Zeph.

  “Morrison rifle, I bet,” said Jack.

  The box was brought to Arthur Bernier like bounty salvaged from the depths of the ocean.

  “Is that what I think it is? Huh, guys? Is it?” said Bernier, sounding like an excited twenty-two-year-old seeing his first car. Bernier shot a look at Morrison, whose demeanour revealed nothing. Lars moved the box to the table before Bernier, pushing aside some of the food. A plate of sandwiches teetered on the edge of the table, and several sandwiches went over into the dirt and grass. Henley’s dog swooped in again.

  “Look what you did, Lars,” said Davis.

  “I’ll clean it up.”

  “There won’t be anything left to clean up,” continued Davis.

  “Happy birthday, Boss!” said Lars.

  “Happy birthday, old man!” shouted Millet.

  “It’s from all of us,” Henley said, pleased by the obvious shock in Bernier’s face and the excitement of the group.

  “Yeah, and me too,” added Lars.

  “Yeah, that’s what ‘all of us’ means!” said Davis.

  Henley helped Bernier turn the lid open on the narrow box, revealing the handcrafted Morrison rifle sitting on a purple blanket. Bernier wiped his hands.

  “Yeah, don’t get barbecue sauce all over it!” said Millet.

  “I don’t plan to,” said Bernier, reaching into the box and lifting out his new prized possession. Morrison moved closer.

  “These guys barely gave me enough time to build it, when they finally decided to do this for you,” said Morrison.

  “It’s unbelievable. I don’t know what to say guys,” said Bernier, truly touched. “Look at the wood. This is a beaut! Incredible.”

  Some in the group patted Morrison on the back like a football hero after a game-winning play. The huddle dispersed into a wider ring as Bernier held the rifle up, nestling its butt into his shoulder, and aimed as if to shoot. Bernier thanked his friends one by one, shaking their hands passionately. Henley took the rifle and ran his hands along it. The rifle made the rounds, each man admiring it.

  “I might be next to get me one of these,” said Henley.

  “Would be my pleasure, Brian,” said Morrison.

  “Better order now! Rob’s got a long waiting list!” said Millet.

  “You guys really shocked me,” said Bernier. “You really got me. It’s too much, but I’ll take it!” He laughed. His friends laughed too.

  It was Lars’s turn to inspect the rifle. His friends were on him immediately. “Don’t drop it in the fire!” said Davis.

  “I won’t!” retorted Korb, taking it all too personally, but then stepping back from the campfire, just in case. The rifle gleamed in the firelight.

  The friends continued to eat and chat. Bernier returned the rifle to its protective box, leaving it open for all to admire. He stood next to the box, along with Davis, asking Morrison about its design and fabrication. Meanwhile Lennox, Millet and Korb began the process of skinning the buck Bernier and Lars had brought with them, the same one shot earlier by Lennox. They
lifted it off Korb’s truck, brought it into the light of the tool shed. While the three of them chewed on chicken wings and sandwiches, Lennox efficiently sawed off the buck’s head. Millet took his turn, sawing off the legs at midpoint. There wasn’t much blood left in the animal.

  Above, on the ridge, Jack and Zeph watched in horror at the skilled ease with which the men carried out this ritual. Between the three of them, Lennox, Millet and Lars must have killed and skinned hundreds of prey. They were not looking for new ways to make it interesting or more efficient. They roped the buck’s headless carcass to the frame of the toolshed, and Lennox hoisted it up, pulling on a thick rope that grew tighter. The carcass dangled and twisted in the air, slowly coming to a stop.

  “Hey, let’s try the golf ball on this one!” said Millet.

  Lennox nodded his approval and strode to the side of the toolshed, where a purple ATV was parked. Lennox jumped on and fired it up. Millet produced a golf ball and wrapped it in a fold of skin of the carcass. He then tied a rope and hook around the carcass, stabbing it into the fold, then yanking on it to tighten it. It was ready. Lennox moved the ATV, engine purring, into position.

  “What the hell are they doing?” asked Zeph of Jack. “Let’s not watch this, eh?”

  “Ssshhh. Quiet,” said Jack, fascinated by what he saw. “You want to get your head cut off too?”

  “They wouldn’t hurt us!”

  “They would kick our asses for sneaking up here. This is Henley’s property.”

  “What is he, a Colombian drug lord?”

  Jack didn’t laugh. He was focused on the events below. Lennox was revving the ATV engine and moving it very slowly forward, inching it. The rope around the buck’s torso tightened and kept on tightening. The other friends began cheering as the rope became a straight, taut line. The skin molded smoothly around the golf ball. As the ATV moved forward, the golf ball rolled under the skin, helping to leverage the furry wrapping from the fatty white insides of the buck. Lennox moved the ATV forward continuously. The buck’s pelt peeled away smoothly, separating almost entirely from the buck’s body until it was attached to it only by the back legs. The strong force of the ATV brought the peeling skin and the buck’s legs to a breaking point, shredding the skin and yanking the leg bones. The rope snapped away from the buck, the carcass swayed in the air, denuded, and the golf ball went flying, smashing into the side of Lars’s truck with a noise so loud, everyone, including Jack and Zeph on the ridge, ducked down in response, afraid of being hit.