Blindshot Page 9

  Years ago, in Boston, when on night duty, Tom and his partner Ray Buchanan had brought their cruiser to the rear of Thunder Lounge, a hotspot for drug users and dealers in the rough Reinhold district. Something about it that night had intrigued the two hotshot young cops. There were usually no vehicles parked in the lane behind the building, especially long after closing. This particular night, there were three, and it looked like something would be going down at Thunder Lounge. Just to be sure, Tom and Buchanan stayed a fair distance away, observing. Two hours later, the two cops were getting impatient and wondered if their hunches were good. They could at least check the registrations of the vehicles in the lane, but that meant one of them would have to walk up close and read the plates.

  They had flipped for it. Tails!

  Tom never had any luck.

  “The Carignans are here, Brooder!” called Hanes.

  Tom brought his mind back to the present situation.

  “Don’t call me Brooder.”

  Two cars approached, headlights sweeping through as they turned into the parking area. Tom walked down through the sloping gardens to meet up with Hanes, and they watched as Catherine, Jack and Noah came out of one car and Anne from the second. Tom had never seen Catherine Martelle-Carignan before, though he’d heard of her. She was known as a serious woman, just strict enough with her kids, and with a good reputation as an architect. No one had mentioned her looks. He found her attractive and that caught him off guard. There was a look in her eyes that he liked in a woman. Her intelligence glimmered through, and he quietly watched her position herself to take control of the situation.

  “Hello,” was all that came from him, dryly. Then, after a long pause, he realized he ought to volunteer more than that. “I’m Tom Doran, Deputy Chief of Police,” he said.

  Catherine appraised him from head to toe before saying anything, intuitively considering whether friend or threat. She was unsure with Tom, feeling something cold or distant in him.

  “My ex-husband mentioned you. Brooder, right?” she said. Tom just nodded.

  Yet Catherine had to recognize his part in helping her boys get their father to the hospital. “Thanks. From what my son tells me, you helped them,” said Catherine.

  “No big deal,” said Tom.

  “We’re sorry for what happened here, Mrs. Carignan,” said Hanes. “Terrible circumstance.”

  Catherine didn’t much like the word ‘circumstance’ for what had happened, but she was too exhausted to talk much more. She was thinking of her sons, who were tired, hungry, and covered with her husband’s dry blood. She tried to offer a grateful smile but was sure it came off wrong. She turned away toward the house, pulling Noah with her. Anne followed, keeping a polite, if not shy, distance. Jack lagged behind and walked off into the gardens.

  “Come in the house, Jack,” called Catherine.

  “Be right there,” Jack promised.

  Jack walked off. Tom and Hanes watched everyone go, then Tom decided to follow Jack and met up with him at the woodpile.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jack.”

  “I’m Tom. Some people call me Brooder.”

  “I know. My dad knows you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I found my brother outside looking for my dad. I know how far it is to the hospital. I’ve seen the ambulance, always parked at the coffee shop. We had to get our dad there ourselves, or else.”

  “Listen, kid, I’m not here to arrest you for anything, okay. I’d have done it already. You had a rough night. I’ll come speak with you again soon, and your brother too, to try and piece this thing together. Don’t worry about it,” said Tom. The words seemed to appease Jack, though he still bit on his lower lip and toed at the grass.

  “How’s your father doing?” asked Tom.

  Jack shook his head. The answer was hard to let out. “I don’t know. They operated. He’s in a bed, sleeping, I guess. They’ll tell us more in the morning, they said.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be alright.”

  “Yeah, that’s what everyone keeps saying.”

  “Sorry, Jack, I’m not much good at this. I’m good at catching bad guys. At least I used to be.”

  “Then catch whoever did this,” challenged Jack.

  Feeling the boy’s seething anger, Tom chose to redirect him. “For what it’s worth, what you did earlier was really something. When he’s better, your father will be proud of you. It was also a really stupid thing to do, but you know that.”

  Jack stared at the moon above them. A faint, thin cloud seemed to slice it in half.

  “You did good, kid. Get some sleep.”

  Tom produced Paul’s key set and hung it out toward Jack.

  “I think these are yours?”

  Tom realized that there was dried blood all over the keys and on his hands as well. He tried to wipe them quickly, but Jack didn’t flinch and took them anyhow. He inspected the key set, fingering a small penknife attached to it.

  “Thanks,” said Jack weakly.

  “No driving until you’re licensed, okay?” said Tom.

  They walked down the gardens together, without a word, back to the front parking area. Tom watched the boy enter the house. Hanes approached Tom.

  “Tough day for this family, eh, Brooder?”

  “Don’t call me Brooder.”

  “Fuck’s with you?” said Hanes.

  “Nothing. Shut up for a while.”

  They got in the police truck and drove off, sirens silent, police lights dark.

  Tom couldn’t help but think of the time, so long ago now, when he had been shot. It had burned like fire under his skin.

  After losing the coin toss to his partner, Tom had walked slowly and softly into the dark alley, armed with his police-issue .38 holstered at his waist, a pencil and a small pad of paper. He wrote down the licence number of the first car, then moved on to the second car, staying low and quiet. He wrote down the second number. As he moved toward the third car, he heard voices and footsteps. Staying behind a fender of the car, he watched the rear doors of the gang hangout burst open. Three guys, with two large, black duffle bags, each wielding a weapon, came through.

  “Hey, Dee-man, what a night! What a night!” said the tallest one.

  “Yeah, I gotcha,” said Dee-man, laughing. “That’s where the hammer falls, man! The truth-hammer, falling right here and now!”

  “What the fuck are you saying,” said the third. “There ain’t no motherfuck’n truth! No fuck’n truth at all! Just freaking nothingness, man! But with that, we are the masters, my man! The masters of our own destiny and nothing to stop us!”

  “Shut it!” said Dee-man.

  “What? I’m on fire here, and you’re tell’n me to shut it? Are you kid’n me?”

  “Sssh …,” said Dee-man, pointing to the police cruiser he had spotted through the alley, across the road, unmoving, with only one cop inside. “Fuck’n cops,” he said softly to the others, propping the duffle bag onto the car and spinning his weapon, ready to kill.

  Tom moved toward the mouth of the alley, behind the hoodlums’ parked cars. But they came around too quickly, spotted him, began firing. With the first sound of gunfire, Ray, back at the cruiser, barked into his microphone for backup. After a couple of terse exchanges on the microphone, Ray pulled the gearshift into reverse and swung the cruiser backwards into the alley, slamming into the first of the hoodlum’s cars. Ray hoped Tom could then easily jump in to the passenger seat and they could be off, but Tom was pinned by heavy gunfire from an assault rifle. The bullets were flying by the dozen, and Tom was too exposed to run up to the side of the police cruiser. Instead, he dived under the second vehicle, a black SUV, and squeezed underneath. This gave him the chance to drop the paper and pencil and draw his gun, instead. He fired at the feet that were chasing him, hearing g
uttural grunts and screams in response.

  “I’m hit, Dee! I’m hit! Motherfucker shot my leg, man!”

  In that instant alone, under the SUV, Tom felt a strange burning in his right buttock, but he had no time to dwell on the pain. He squeezed through to the opposite side of the SUV, rolled out and came face to face with Dee-man himself, who was holding Ray by the neck with a gun against his temple.

  “Whatcha wanna do, cop? Eh?”

  Dee-man pulled Ray back into the building through the same doors the hoodlums had come out. Tom could do nothing but watch them go inside. Obviously scared, Ray could do nothing to free himself.

  “Get the fuck outta here!” said Dee-man, “or else I’ll put a slug in little blue man’s brain, you get’n me! Now, fuck off!”

  Tom didn’t move. Not one bit.

  Dee-man continued yelling at him. “You want to try coming into our fuck’n house? Eh, cop? Come in our fuck’n house, I dare you!” Dee-man disappeared inside the dark interior, clenching his gun hard against his partner’s brow. The rusty metal doors shut behind them.

  Tom pressed himself against the wall next to the doors. The other hoodlum came crawling from around a car, unarmed. Tom gave him a mean look and a brief wave of his pistol and the guy froze, then slowly took the arrest position, putting his hands behind his head, staying on the ground.

  “How many buddies you got in there?” he asked the hoodlum.

  “Hey man, I don’t know. I ain’t from around here. I’m just visit’n!”

  Tom didn’t much like his answer, which left him completely in doubt as to what he might face if he dared go inside after his partner.

  He had to go in. He raised his pistol to his face and checked his ammunition. Three bullets. He took his time, reaching to his belt and fitting three more bullets into the pistol’s barrel. For good measure, he bit down a seventh round, keeping it there in his teeth, ready to load if need be. He took a deep breath, checked that the wounded hoodlum hadn’t moved or become a bigger liability than he already was. It was clear he couldn’t move. He appeared to have passed out from the loss of blood. Tom braced himself, then pushed off the wall, spun toward the door handle, yanked it wide open and moved briskly into the darkness, gun ready.

  Tom found himself in a sombre lounge, his shoes sticking to a dirty, booze-grimed floor as he stepped. Seeing no one in this section of the bar, he walked carefully past darkened stripper stalls.

  “Ray? Ray? I’m coming to get you partner!”

  “You’re some cocky son-of-a-bitch! Ya, you come and get your partner!” Dee-man called from the back of the empty club. “Let’s see if that’s a good idea!”

  Tom used the yelling as a clue to where the hoodlum might be hiding in the club. He adjusted his position. He took an empty beer can off a table and tossed it across the floor, making a racket. Gunshots went off immediately, from several different directions inside the club. Tom rolled to the floor forty-five degrees from the direction from which he had thrown the can, coming up near a hoodlum with an assault rifle in his grip. Tom hit him in the crotch with his pistol. The hoodlum seized up, and Tom smashed him across the face, but the hoodlum could take it. He fell on Tom hard. Another appeared and joined the fight, then another. Tom fought off the three the best he could, then lost his grip on his pistol. It slid across the floor, right to where Dee-man held his partner. Dee-man smashed Ray with an assault rifle. Ray fell to the floor, while Tom took a beating from the three men. Tom was soon covered in his own blood and could barely move. The three men stood back and joined Dee-man, and they stood over the two broken, bleeding cops with pride, like hunters in the field, preening, next to their kill. They put their guns down, victorious. Tom stirred, barely at first, then mustered enough strength to slowly stand up again. He was covered in his own blood from head to toe.

  Tom smiled.

  “What the fuck you smiling about?” Dee-man said, then turning to his cronies. “Look’it this fucker. Doesn’t know when he’s lost the fight!” Then, to Tom, “So, what the fuck you smiling for?”

  “I swallowed my extra round,” said Tom, thinking of the spare bullet he had bitten down on.

  “Extra round? What da fuck?”

  They looked at Tom with disbelief. He brought a hand to his face and moved it over his eyes to clear the blood oozing there. Tom brought his arm down onto a wooden cocktail table, tipping it over hard. The four hoodlums went for their weapons. Tom snapped a metal leg off the table and lunged at the closest one, swinging the bar into the side of his head. The hoodlum fell aside. Tom grabbed his rifle and dropped down. A second hoodlum opened fire, but Tom was already in position to swipe at his legs with the metal bar, knocking him off his feet. Tom dropped the bar and fired the rifle into the man’s gut. He was down. Tom grabbed his limp body and used it as a shield between himself and the one called Dee-man. A few rounds from Dee-man went into the fallen hoodlum, assuring he was dead. Tom rolled away and came up firing, hitting Dee-man in the face. The fourth hoodlum tried to run, but Tom fired at his legs. The man fell. Tom went to him fast and yanked his weapon away. The man struggled against Tom, but Tom, beyond fury, crashed the butt of a rifle down on the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe. He stopped moving.

  Tom went to his partner Ray and rolled him over to see if he was alive. He was, but having trouble coming out of a daze from the blow to his head.

  “Hey, Brooder,” said Ray.

  “You okay?” asked Tom.

  “Yeah, I think so. Yeah. Are you?”

  “Never better.”

  Ray laughed, but it hurt him to do so. “You’re a madman, Brooder! A madman.” Tom tried to bring his partner to his feet.

  “Let’s go,” said Brooder, “before the rest of them show up.”

  “Good plan,” said Ray. “Hey, you’re fucking shot, Brooder.”

  Ray motioned to Tom’s backside. “I was just thinking, either you’re gonna get a medal for this or a serious kick in the ass!” laughed Ray.

  “You think it’ll help my case if they see the fucker shot me in the ass?”

  “You are one sick motherfucker, Brooder,” said Buchanan.

  The two partners laughed through their pain, helping each other back to their cruiser to call in that night’s disaster. One of so many Tom had lived through in those Boston years.

  Catherine helped her sons take showers before going to bed, getting them clean towels and bathrobes. They didn’t protest, and each one in turn got under the hot, comforting stream and watched the dark dried blood turn bright red, pooling on the shower’s smooth, grey ceramic floor and draining away. Once in pajamas and in their beds, Noah was in deep sleep the moment the blanket wrapped him, but Jack lay awake.

  Catherine came to Jack’s room and sat with him. For a long moment, neither said anything. They listened to each other breathe.

  “I wanted to stay with Dad at the hospital,” said Jack.

  “Oh, Jack, that wouldn’t be any help. I understand, I do. You are the sweetest thing. Your dad would love you for what you just said, never mind all that you did today, which is maybe nothing short of saving his life.”

  “Still, we should’ve stayed with him. He’s hurt so bad, Mom.”

  “He’s tough. He’ll get better. We did the right thing. We’ll go back in the morning. Now sleep. You need it.”

  Catherine kissed her boy.

  “Love you, Mom,” he said softly, from within his thick blankets, pulling them to his chin.

  “Love you, my boy. Good night,” she whispered.

  Catherine walked toward the master bedroom, as though she still belonged there. As she approached, she heard Anne’s movements coming from within. It reminded Catherine she was a guest in her own house now, and Anne was in her rightful place in the master bedroom, with clothes, personal items and toiletries already in there. Catherine turned away, realizing she would ha
ve to sleep in one of the guest rooms, as Anne came to the door and called after her, softly.

  “Caty, Catherine, uhm … wait,” she called.

  Catherine offered her a genuine, though tired, smile. “It’s Caty,” she offered.

  “Caty … Thanks. Just want to say thanks for letting me stay.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a good night.”

  “What’s left of it.”

  “Yeah. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Catherine headed toward the guest room, but then went downstairs instead. She made herself a tea. She found a blanket in the linen closet and headed to her comfortable couch in the living room. This was where she always did her best thinking. On this couch, in this great room that she had designed and built. She snuggled with a pillow. It smelled of Paul’s favourite

  vanilla-scented soap.

  The smell drew her back into the past.

  She saw herself clearly. She had been a vigorous, driven student, but never standing out amongst other talented students at McGill University’s School of Architecture. She had, however, been lauded by even the toughest professors for her tenacity, especially in defending her designs. To her youthful chagrin, her designs themselves, born of her heartfelt artistic craft and vision, were never recognized as anything more than satisfactory responses to architectural assignments. In the summer after graduating, Catherine, always grabbing the bull by both horns, had approached the most artful, highly-regarded professor of the McGill staff, Brenda Anderson, for a job in her top-rated firm.

  The challenge would prove formidable.

  Catherine had worked just over a year in the firm of Anderson & Roth, though it had felt like a century. Mrs. Anderson, as she preferred being called, never Brenda, left everyone sour in her wake and insecure over their creative attempts. Working late nights for low pay was the norm. The experience had left Catherine ambivalent about the business of architecture. Always considering her options, and operating naturally on multiple fronts, Catherine had applied to the Building Engineering Department of Concordia University, receiving prompt acceptance. She had left full-time work for full-time studies once again and dived into this next phase of her life with abandon. She had dropped the worries and insecurities that had reigned in the subjective world of visual design and architectural style, and had found refuge in the clear, hard facts of advanced maths and physics. Her move had opened a new world of possibilities.