The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel (5 page)

I
moved in behind him, thankful that the television’s volume was up, though the
thick pile carpet under my feet certainly helped make my approach quiet. With a
heavy vase I had selected in the home prior to Pierre’s arrival, I tapped him
on the side of the head, just enough to put him to sleep.

When
Brault
awoke about thirty minutes later, he was
laying spread-eagled on the stylish brass bed in the master bedroom, his ankles
and wrists securely cuffed to the bed frame to hold him in a position.

“Wake
up, buddy,” I said in French, patting him on the cheek to help revive him. “I don’t
have all night.”

“
Wha’s
going on?” he mumbled in his native tongue then
started struggling against his restraints. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Hi,
Pierre,” I replied in greeting. “Didn’t that knock on the head ring any bells?”

He
shook his head and winced then did his best to glare at me. “Who the hell are
you?”

“Bah,
that’s not important,” I answered, “But, if you must know, I’m the guy who’s
been killing deadbeats like you lately. Heartless bastards who think they can
further themselves through violence and manage to sneak through the system.”

“What
are you talking about?”
Brault
shrieked though his
understanding showed in his eyes.

“Do
I really need to refresh your memory?” I asked, my tone sincere but my question
mocking. “Let’s start with Andre
Beaudet
who you shot
in the head. Next we can move onto Gabriel
Labrie
who
you and Jocelyne framed to take the fall. Did you know that he also woke up
handcuffed to a bed after you knocked him out? Unfortunately for him, the cuffs
belonged to the cops and he was under arrest for first degree murder.”

“Did
that little bastard send you here?”
Brault
demanded. “Is
that what this is about?”

“Explain
something to me, shithead,” I retorted, a little annoyed. “How does your
framing him for a murder
you
committed
make
him
a little bastard?”

“I’m
sorry,” he replied, contrite, changing tactics as he tried to hide his fear and
find a way out of this predicament. “You’re right. Both Jocelyne and I feel bad
about Gabriel but it’s just how things happened. If her husband hadn’t been
such an asshole, nobody would have got hurt.”

“But
you killed him,” I stated, showing my exasperation. “You can’t deny that. How can
you act like everything okay with Gabriel in prison while you’re eating filet mignon
and spending most of your days on the beach in the Caribbean?”

“Listen,”
Brault
pleaded. “I’m sorry about Gabriel taking the
fall for this but I can make it up to him. If he behaves inside, he can be out
in less than ten years now. He’ll still be young. I know I can convince Jocelyne
to put some money in an account for him, enough that he’ll never have to work
for the rest of his life once he gets out. What do you say? I really am sorry
about how this all turned out.”

“What
do I say,” I rhetorically repeated his question. “I say you just openly
confessed to killing Andre
Beaudet
. You confirmed
everything which I suspected but didn’t know for a fact. I say you just put
yourself in a very uncomfortable position, my friend.”

He
blanched upon hearing my words. “Who are you? Are you a cop? A lawyer? Did you
record what I was saying? I’ll just deny everything and say I was being
threatened, under duress. You attacked me and have me handcuffed to my bed, goddamn
it. You’re crazy and that little shit,
Labrie
, is
crazy if you think this is going to work. I’ll have you locked up when I’m done
with you.”

I
gazed at him and shook my head, my sadness sincere. “I can’t believe how
utterly stupid some truly intelligent people can be at times. You are amongst
the dumbest smart people I’ve ever met, Pierre. I wish I could say it was nice
to know you but I can’t.”

As
he watched me, not knowing how to respond, I pulled out my knife.

Just
ten days earlier, I had spent part of my Friday evening dealing with
Maxime
Leclerc, one of the three muggers who had viciously
attacked Gaston
Verville
in La Fontaine Park six
months earlier. Over the weekend, I had learned that
Verville
had committed suicide the previous Thursday, unable to overcome the depression
which had resulted from the physical and other consequences which had plagued
him following his attack.

During
our chat, Leclerc had readily confirmed what the police, and I, had suspected,
that Gaston
Verville’s
two other attackers were Henri
Castonguay
, unofficial leader of this crew of misfits
and Nicholas Bertrand, one of his closer lackeys. I had already pencilled
Castonguay
into my schedule but, with Gaston’s recent
suicide weighing on me, I was driven to deal with him with extra zeal.

A
bully since childhood,
Castonguay
had earned himself
a number of run-ins with the law as early as the age of ten and, unfortunately,
attaining adulthood had not changed his views of the world. He was a big man
who likely had been solidly built even at a younger age and he worked hard to
keep himself in a high muscle/low flab composition. He liked to train at home,
which I had learned during a recent visit to his dingy, one bedroom basement
apartment, where the small living room had been furnished with a workout bench,
hundreds of pounds of free weights and bars and a stationary bike.

Though
Castonguay
was a mugger and small time pot/hash
peddler, he wasn’t very big-time at either profession so he worked part time as
a stock boy in a local grocery store. I knew he stocked shelves until nine or
so Monday nights then generally went home for a late dinner, likely consisting
of pilfered goods, so I was waiting for him in his apartment when he arrived.

As
I mentioned, he was a big, strong guy so I knew I’d have to subdue him quickly
once he came in or the situation might turn ugly for the wrong party. When he entered
through the front door, I was waiting off to one side in the living room. In my
martial arts training over the years, I had learned a thing or two about
joints, how they bend normally and how they can bend otherwise though not
specifically as designed to do.

Castonguay
walked by me to
my left and as he moved forward, I did as well, half a step behind him. I
kicked at his right leg with my left foot, below the calf, just enough to
extend his step a foot or so then spun to my right, dropping my butt and full
weight onto his right knee while swinging my right elbow into his jaw.

A
gut-wrenching crack and snap was heard as his knee took the impact and he
shrieked. Instinctively, his left fist smashed into the back of my head – it
hurt – but I delivered another solid elbow into his right temple and rolled off
as he tumbled to his left, dazed and moaning. I went back at him, pummelling
his face, his stomach,
his
ribs. His arms came up
defensively for a few seconds then fell limp to his sides. He had passed out.
Excellent, he was subdued… but I would need to refine my techniques.

When
Castonguay
regained consciousness, not too long
later, he was saddled up on his stationary bike, so to speak. I had laid the
bike sideways and positioned him appropriately then duct-taped his feet and
ankles to the bottom, horizontal base. I had then solidly taped both his
forearms to the handlebars before raising the bike back to a vertical position.
Once I’d had him in balance, it had been no major feat to secure his trunk to
the seat and support post beneath it. It should be noted that this field of
endeavour can require a lot of duct tape on occasion.

As
he came to, he was a bit wobbly but the forward leaning position encouraged by
his forearms taped to the handlebars helped him stay up.

“
Tabarnaque
,”
Castonguay
cursed, shaking his head and wincing for his
efforts.

“Don’t
hurt yourself, my friend,” I replied in French. “We have some things to discuss.”

“
Té qui
toé
?”
he
demanded
.

I
shrugged. “You wouldn’t know me even if I told you.”

“You
broke my leg, you bastard,” he said. “It hurts like hell.”

“Actually,
I kind of destroyed your knee,” I corrected, “But I doubt any bones are broken.
It’s more a question of torn ligaments. Sorry but you’re bigger than me so I
had to immobilize you as quickly as possible.”

“Huh,”
he grunted, unimpressed. “What’s this shit with taping me onto this bike? Are
you some weird faggot or what?”

“I
don’t see how you come up with faggot,” I replied, “But let me reassure you I
have no intention of taking advantage of you sexually. You just aren’t my type.”

“So
what’s this all about?” he insisted. “What the hell are you up to, breaking in
here, busting my leg, knocking me out and taping me up to a goddamned bike?”

“Gaston
Verville
is dead,” I replied in explanation. “He
committed suicide a few days ago.”

“Who
the hell are you talking about?” he asked, actually demonstrating annoyance. “Some
shithead I don’t know kills himself and you come in here and attack me?”

“The
name doesn’t mean anything to you?” I asked, staring at him, incredulous.

“No
clue what you’re talking about,” he stared back in defiance, “But you’re going
to regret having done this shit. You won’t have to kill yourself like your
buddy
cuz
I’ll do it for you.”

“Gaston
is the man you attacked in the park six months ago,” I said, remaining calm in
appearance.

“Oh,
shit man, that’s too bad,” he mocked but his eyes finally showed some unease. “Anyhow,
nobody proved I had anything to do with that crap. That’s why I’m here, a free
man, well, at least until you got here.”

“You’re
a heartless son of a bitch, Henri,” I replied, “And that’s why I’m here. I know
you did it because
Maxime
told me before I killed
him.”

“You
killed Max?” he asked, suddenly flustered.

“Yes,
that was me,” I confirmed as I picked up a roll of duct tape, “But not before
he sold you and your buddy, Nicky, out. He told me everything. I think he was
hoping I’d let him go.”

“And
now, you’re going to kill me?” he stammered.

“I
knew you were a smart one,” I replied as I pulled a six inch length of tape off
the roll.

“What’s
that for?” he demanded in panic, the full realization of what was taking place
finally catching up to him.

I
responded by slapping the strip of tape across his mouth but he shook his head
from side to side, hindering my efforts. I punched him in the kidney then
wrapped another length of tape over the first one and completely around the
back of his head.

“You
see, Henri, going forward, you might be inclined to scream,” I explained, “And
I certainly don’t want to bother your neighbours.”

I
retrieved the baseball bat I had brought with me and returned to him.

“Remember
when you batted Gaston
Verville
off his bike last
September?” I asked, rhetorically, of course. “Let’s re-enact the scene, shall
we?”

The
Gazette
’s top crime reporter, Ron
Henderson, had earned himself an above the fold front page by-line following
Henri
Tousignant’s
demise, creating a palpable buzz
that a vigilante was taking care of justice in Montreal and that told me it was
time to take a break. I wasn’t done yet, I had others already on my list but,
if I intended to deal with them according to my rules, I needed to step back
and plan my actions carefully or I could easily end up rubbing elbows with some
similar sorry beings behind bars.

That
said, I went into passive mode, still actively pursuing my research on
potential prospects, planning how to go about settling their accounts and
tentatively scheduling settlement appointments but all as part of a future
business plan. This went on for almost two months, at which time, I knew I had
to get back to business.

I
abhor crime and believe that people who depend on it for their livelihood are
lazy, gutless slugs who deserve every punishment they are awarded when the
system catches up to them. I however despise violent crime with a passion and
feel that those who partake in such action never get what they rightly merit,
even when punished to the full extent of the law foreseen in the society we
live in.

It’s
fairly simple to state that murder and rape can be considered amongst the most
heinous of violent crimes. However, it becomes more complex to qualify or grade
the multitude of other violent crimes we are faced with daily in our supposedly
civilized society. In my opinion, one of the worst is home invasion.

Imagine
being in the safety and comfort of your home, be it the small apartment you
rent as a roof over your head, the cottage you’ve obtained a mortgage for to
call your abode or the mansion you’ve acquired with your hard earned capital.
All is fine in your haven, the place where you rest after your day of toiling
and occupy your time with your leisure activities when suddenly, your space is
violated by evil.

This
is not something you have brought on to yourself. This is not punishment you
deserve for horrendous actions you have committed elsewhere. This is you being
the victim of despicable souls who have selected you as their prey to satisfy
their malicious desires. This is wanton abuse of your life, your dignity… of
you.

Forty-two
year old Leo
Gingras
and his wife, Isabelle, had been
such victims. One warm Friday evening in July of the previous summer, someone
had rang the doorbell at their comfortable riverside home in the
Ahuntsic
sector of Montreal. When Leo had opened the door
to see who was calling on them, he had been met with a solid punch in the face
followed by a kick in the groin from a well-muscled Haitian in his twenties.

Collapsing
from the unexpected blows as his wife watched in horror, Leo had been kicked
back into the home by his aggressor while an accomplice, another young man of
Haitian origin, had closed and locked the door behind them before going after
Isabelle. What had followed had been almost two complete days of hell on earth
during which time the couple had been repeatedly beaten, tortured and sexually
molested.

Following
a particularly vicious pummelling in the late afternoon on Sunday, Leo had lost
consciousness and his assailants had grown worried when their efforts to revive
him failed. The two men had hurriedly ransacked the house for cash and items of
value then left the premises aboard Leo’s 1994 Mustang. The couple had been
discovered just over two hours later when Isabelle’s brother and wife had shown
up, concerned because calls made over the weekend had gone unanswered. The
victims had been rushed to the hospital where Leo had succumbed to his
injuries.

The
Mustang had been found abandoned less than twenty-four hours later and police
had found the prints of Etienne and Emile Jean, two brothers who both happened
to have criminal records. However, what should have been a slam-dunk case for
the prosecution had turned into garbage when a traumatized and terrified
Isabelle
Gingras
had refused to lay charges or
testify against the two men after recounting the whole ordeal and identifying
the attackers in photos and line-ups.

Enraged,
the police and prosecution had tried to pressure
Gingras
but had given up when her brother, a successful attorney, had threatened legal
action for harassment. The Jean brothers had been charged with breaking into a
vehicle and released upon payment of minimal bail pending a future court
hearing. The trial date had yet to be set but it soon wouldn’t really make any
difference whatsoever.

I
would have loved to give Etienne, the next on my list, a taste of his own
medicine and attack him as he answered my knock on the door. However, he lived
in a four storey, eight apartment building in Montreal North and punching him
in the face from the second floor open landing as he greeted me seemed a little
risky with residents of seven other dwellings as potential witnesses. I
therefore had decided to wait for him inside his home while he was out,
figuring I had invaded his home, in a sense.

Etienne,
I had come to learn by keeping tabs on him, liked to dabble with heroin on
occasion, particularly when he visited a female friend who lived a couple of
blocks away from his place. A stripper by trade, she depended on the opiate to
help her get through her night shifts at a local club with often less than
desirable clientele and Etienne was more than happy to supply her with an
occasional fix in exchange for a romp before she left for work.

On
such evenings, Etienne generally walked her to the strip joint less than ten
minutes away then headed back home to crash while watching some television.
Tonight was such an evening and I was waiting patiently for his return though
watching television was not quite what I had in mind.

From
the sliding door in the living room, I saw Etienne approaching on the sidewalk
and I took position in the corner by the entrance door. The door would hide me
when he opened it and, once he was in, he wouldn’t have the reflexes to deal
with me even if he saw me. As it turned out, he didn’t even see me.

The
door swung open and he sauntered in, swinging it shut behind him and not even
bothering to lock it as he moved further into the apartment.

“
Salut
, Etienne
,” I said softly from behind
him.

He
turned, quickly by his drug-induced standards but slowly by mine, and I swung
the baseball bat, satisfied to see the look of surprise and fear in his eyes
immediately preceding impact. He plummeted to the cheap carpet and I let him go
then watched him for a moment to make sure he was out. He was.

Taking
no chances, as he might come to more quickly than I hoped, I duct taped his
ankles and wrists together, slapping a strip across his mouth for good measure
then pulled him up, slung him over my shoulder and headed to his bedroom. While
I had been waiting for Etienne to return to his apartment, I had tied a length
of yellow nylon rope to each of the four corner bed legs so, within minutes, I
had him securely tied down in a spread eagled position. I considered cutting
his clothes off to make him feel further violated, as he had done to his
victims, but there were limits to what I was willing to do.

Since
I didn’t have all night, I wanted to get things moving but I needed him to be
awake before starting because, after all, the main purpose of the exercise was
to make him realize he was being punished for his actions. Proceeding while he
was unconscious would defeat the purpose so, using an already proven wake-up
procedure, I went into the kitchen, found an empty pot in the sink, filled it
up with water and returned to the bedroom where I dumped it in his face.

He
spluttered and attempted to sit upright but my restraints did their job so he
remained flat on the mattress. Opening his eyes, he stared at me in confusion,
no doubt partly due to his drugged state but likely more so because he was
wondering who the hell I was, why I was in his apartment and, perhaps his point
of greatest concern, why he was tied down on his bed.

I
smiled at him and said, “
Bonsoir, Etienne
.”

He
responded with only a stare but I didn’t take it personally because, after all,
I
had
duct taped his mouth.

Continuing
in French, I said, “You don’t know who I am but I want to have a discussion
with you. I can take that tape off your mouth but if I do, you have to promise
to be quiet. Do you promise?”

He
nodded blankly at me.

“Okay,”
I said. “I’ll remove it but remember, you promised. If you break your promise,
there will be consequences. Do you understand?”

He
nodded again and I proceeded to remove the tape, being careful to cause as
little discomfort to him as possible. He remained quiet, eyeing me until I was
done. Once I moved back, he screamed. However, it was a scream of short
duration because I brought my doubled-up fists down in a solid jab to his solar
plexus, effectively knocking the breath out of him. Obviously, he stopped
screaming, concentrating on trying to breathe instead.

As
he gasped for air, somewhat unsuccessfully, I said, “I asked you to stay quiet,
Etienne, and you promised you would but you didn’t. Are you going to stay quiet
now?”

He
nodded once more and I said, “Answer me, tough guy. Otherwise I’ll just tape
your damned mouth shut if all you can do is scream.”

“
Oui
,” he rasped,
finally getting a bit of air into him.

“Good,”
I replied as I picked up my baseball bat which I’d brought into the room after
tying him up, “Because if you scream again, I’ll really hurt you.”

“What
do you want from me?” he asked with sincerity, obviously concerned but also curious
about the predicament he found himself in.

“I
want you to explain to me why you did what you did to Leo and Isabelle
Gingras
,” I answered because I really was intrigued by what
made such an animal tick.

He
looked at me with a calculating gaze, as if trying to determine what the
correct response to my question might be. Finally, after a moment, he did his
best to look dejected and said, “It was all Emile’s idea. I didn’t know what he
was planning to do. I thought we were only going to steal money and stuff. I
didn’t even know anyone was home.”

“So,
this was all your brother’s idea?” I asked for confirmation.

“Yeah,
it was,” Etienne reasserted. “Like I said, I thought it was just to steal
stuff. I wasn’t expecting things to get rough. I don’t do that
kinda
crap. It
kinda
freaked me
out.”

“I
can imagine.” I replied then asked, “What was it that freaked you out? Was it
seeing Emile beating on Leo when he opened the door or was it watching him
simultaneously run after Isabelle?”

“Uh,
yeah, when, uh, he went after the lady,” Etienne confirmed with uncertainty. “She
was screaming and running and Emile went after her like crazy.”

“And
what were you doing while he was running after her and beating her husband at
the same time?” I questioned, purely out of curiosity.

“Well,
I was, uh, I was –”

“You’re
full of shit is what you are, Etienne,” I said as I slapped the tape back
across his face before pulling out the roll for a fresh strip. “And to try to
blame it on your little bro on top of it all? I’m very disappointed…

“Here’s
what we’re going to do. First, I’m going to read you Isabelle
Gingras
’ statement which she made to the police a few hours
after you left. I found it to be a clear, believable recounting of events and I’m
sure you’ll agree with me once you’ve heard it, since you were there. Then,
once we’ve agreed on what actually happened, we’ll deal with things accordingly…”