Middlemen, page 15
“I can’t talk, Elaine. I’m going home to get some things — I’ll call you.”
“Well then, I’ll meet you there. Like I said, I’m almost —”
“No! Stay away.”
“Arnie, you’re scaring me. Just let me call the police.”
“No. Fuck no. Go to your mother’s.” As he was barking commands he felt a wave of nausea and shame overtake him. “I love you . . . I’m so deeply sorry . . . forgive me.”
“For what?”
Arnie Garrick ended the call.
Elaine called back several times, but he didn’t answer. There was so much to say, and there was nothing more he could say.
Over the past week he had tried to reach the man he was indebted to, without success. Admittedly, he’d ignored the three warning calls, even as the threats left on his cellphone had increased.
Of course, the problem was much larger than he’d recognized. Lately he’d funded his betting habit from monies raised for his lab. They were provided by Germany’s Neurozietech, for the development of game-changing components that would — as all innovations in digital technology promised — provide more data, faster and more reliably, than ever before. The money came with an iron-clad stipulation of repayment coming due in October — roughly two months away — when the truth would come out. Not surprisingly, Arnie’s response to the impending deadline had been a desperate gamble on a very large win, which he had lost.
Turning onto Undermount Avenue, he looked to see if anyone was waiting outside his house, but the street was quiet. It was always quiet — that was its charm. That and the handsome homes set on well-cared-for lawns surrounded by trees and landscaping. The neighbours, most of them working professionals, weren’t home during the day unless they were down with the flu; judging by the absence of cars today, everyone was healthy.
He drove slowly, praying he wouldn’t see Elaine’s Prius approaching from the other direction. He reversed the Volvo into the driveway and waited with the engine running for something to happen; when nothing did, he turned the engine off and hurried inside.
Locking the side door behind him, he listened for any movement in the house. Hearing nothing, Arnie went upstairs to his office. He quickly retrieved his and Elaine’s passports and twenty-two hundred-dollar bills from the safe. He looked about the office like someone who knew he’d never return, and swung around to leave.
He might have believed it was a trick of the eye, that somehow the door’s shadow had moved without the door shifting . . . if he’d had time to think. It was so swift — something large, hard, and dark struck him squarely on the nose. Arnie’s head snapped back and he dropped in an instant, as if gravity had grown claws.
Before his torso had even touched the floor, Arnie was picked up, whisked downstairs, carried out the side door, and shoved into the back of his Volvo station wagon. Because it was a weekday and the neighbourhood was deserted, no one noticed the two men driving Arnie Garrick’s car away, or the Lincoln Navigator that trailed behind.
[39]
His hands were tethered to a large metal ring inside a stall. A blindfold covered his forehead and eyes. Clarence assumed from the snot, crusted blood, and bruising that his nose was broken. Professor Garrick had been deposited in stall number three, previous home to a thoroughbred named Wild Honey.
The man’s breathing sounded like someone sucking through a clogged straw. Clarence feared he’d suffocate if they didn’t remove the duct tape over his mouth. It wasn’t a question of whether he’d die — that had been decided. And if he did die from suffocation in three days, it wouldn’t matter — just not now.
One and Two stood at the entrance of the stall. Two was swinging on the stable door, his forearms resting on the crossbar and his chin propped up on his hands. “That man’s got no idea what just happened. Take that duct tape off, and the first thing outta his mouth will be, ‘This is an awful mistake.’”
“Nice house, wife’s a doctor, living the good life — till now.” One was sympathetic, but Clarence wasn’t swayed. It was, after all, One who’d flattened the man’s nose.
“I’m going to remove the tape so he can breathe. We can’t have him dying here; he needs to stay alive for three more days.”
“Golf ball in a sweat sock . . .” One took the sock from his pocket. “Give him a drink, Blow, tell him to flush out that nose — then put the sock in.” One no longer seemed sympathetic. “Out here, his screaming will sound like a wounded animal, and that gate won’t keep folks from pokin’ around.” With that and a nod, One and Two left the barn to smoke in the sunshine.
Clarence was angry about the process, even though he had enjoyed playing the heavy on the phone, bolstered by the professor’s panicked responses.
Garrick didn’t know what he’d done, or why he’d soon be dead. The dilemma for Clarence was that he enjoyed collecting or inventing stories. But not this kind of story.
Garrick shifted his hips and a dark plume spread from his crotch over his tan trousers. Shaking his head in disgust, Clarence kicked the man’s right foot. “Come on, wake up.”
Awake, Garrick moved his head from side to side and shoved his shoulders into the wall in an effort to sit up. Clarence observed these contortions, musing that it must be how animals feel when arriving at an abattoir. He kicked the man’s foot again. “I’ll give you some water. Make any noise and the gag goes on. Nod if you understand.”
Garrick nodded. Clarence ripped off the tape. Immediately the man began pleading, “Please, mister. We can work this out. Please, I beg you. Listen —”
“New rule: I don’t care about your story. Persist, and the gag goes on. Clear?”
“Clear — but —”
“No buts; no stories.”
“I recognize your voice — you called me.” Garrick shut up when he felt the sock touch his cheek.
“No talking.”
“Just two questions: Is my wife okay? Where am I?”
“Yes, she is, and you’re in purgatory.” Clarence opened the water bottle and shoved it in the man’s mouth. He gulped at first and coughed up what he’d taken. Clarence waited until he’d stopped before trying again.
When the man had moved his mouth away, Clarence told him to snort out the snot and blood clogging his nose. The first snort seemed painful, and it took several more wincing attempts. By the time Garrick had finished, he was able to breathe through his nose. Clarence put the sock-and-ball gag in his mouth and tied it tightly around his head.
Outside, One and Two were enjoying the sun, sitting with their backs against the barn wall. Two’s eyes were closed, his jaw slack; he was asleep.
One’s eyes were also closed, but as Clarence approached, he opened his right eye and whispered, “Purgatory . . . that was good. Don’t go bonding with that fella, Blow. He’s dead already. Don’t be givin’ him reason to hope for some other outcome.”
“Truly I tell you, you will not get out until you have paid the last penny,” Clarence said, sliding down beside him.
One dropped his head, swivelling it slowly toward Clarence. “Matthew 5:26. Now, tell me . . . how’d a sinner like you come to know the Bible?”
Clarence was going to say something about it being a great work of fiction, but he wisely decided not to. “As you’ve noted, I’m not religious. But I’ve always been a reader, and that was one of the books in my house — though I’m the only one who ever picked it up. I thought it was a good but complicated story.”
“Story . . .” One turned his head away and closed his eyes. “Mr. Blow, cast a glance beyond me to the right . . . Beyond that grassy hill there’s a row of trees . . . you see them?”
Clarence followed the berm to the end. At a right angle from it, there was a wall of five trees. “I see them.”
“Now, between the second and third tree from the left, look closely . . . There’s a man sitting on a tractor. It’s hard to see him for the shadows, but the tractor’s red.”
Clarence was hit by a sudden ripple of terror; he could just make out the silhouette of a man’s head and torso. His shoulders were square; he was as still as a statue, looking back at them. “Jesus.”
“Still just a story, Mr. Blow?”
“What do we do?”
“Nothin’ yet. He wasn’t there when we came. Probably workin’ his field, noticed the Lincoln. Maybe he’s just curious. In a minute we’ll walk along casual-like in his direction. You’ll say hello, ya’ know, howdy-do. He’s gonna ask what we’re doin’; you’ll say we’re working for what’s-his-name to check on the property . . . then we carry on checkin’ the property.” One noticed that the colour had drained from Clarence’s face. “Man’s just having a tea break, Blow, like folks up here likely do . . .”
Clarence ran through what had happened in the past two hours, worried that word was out about the torched Volvo on an old tractor path at a long-abandoned farm, miles from where they were sitting now. “The plates on the Lincoln, are they still the livery’s?”
“No, sir. Ghost plates.” One leaned forward into a squat and with little effort he was on his feet, stretching. “Let’s take a walk, Clarence. Two, if you’re listening, stay where you are.”
Two didn’t give any indication that he was listening, so they walked off toward the tree line. One kept bringing Clarence’s attention to features in the landscape that weren’t there, acting the part of a big-picture man spending an afternoon in the country. Clarence picked up on it quickly and laughed and nodded like it was all very fascinating.
Using his arms to suggest a vast expanse, One said, “He’s still there, so he doesn’t feel threatened . . .” He pointed back to the stables and Clarence swung around and appeared to be agreeing with whatever the gesture suggested.
As they drew closer, One whispered, “Okay . . . in ten steps you’ll look up, spot the man, and smile. Greet him warmly and we’ll continue on, unless he engages us. If he does, it’s showtime. But keep it short.”
As they approached the turn, Clarence noticed the man was drinking from a Thermos and eating a biscuit. A peaked cap shaded his eyes; he was watching them. His hair was silver and poked out beneath the cap.
“How you doin’ over there?” Clarence called. “Hot enough for you?”
“Doing just fine. This is growing weather, so I’m happy.”
“Oh yeah? What do you grow?”
“Corn, mostly; some soybeans. Say, what’re you boys doing over there?”
“Ah, right, probably been a while since you’ve seen anyone.” Clarence put his hands in his pockets and let his hips swing forward slightly, thinking that’s what country folk did when they wanted to chew the fat. He heard One chuckle. “Mr. Cameron — C.C. — asked us to check on the property.”
“Gonna sell it to developers, is he?” The farmer finished drinking and was screwing the cup onto the Thermos. “Heard that, anyways.”
“Oh really . . . well, we have no idea. We’ve just been walking and talking about how this would make a terrific farm . . .”
“Farm for what?”
“Well . . . as you’ve probably guessed, we’re not farmers, but what about hemp or cannabis? There’s a big market for that now, eh?”
“Maybe.” The man stuffed the Thermos into a small vinyl bag. “Maybe in a few years we’ll all stop growing food and switch to dope.”
“Or condominiums . . .” Clarence quipped.
“Might be right . . . Okay, boys, I’ll get back to the beans; they ain’t gonna grow themselves.”
“But they do . . . don’t they?” Clarence said.
“Back off, little man,” One said under his breath.
“Son . . . every little thing on earth needs help growing. Without it, they grow up all twisted and such.” The farmer pulled the brim of his hat down. “You fellas have a good day now.” He started the tractor and rolled off out of sight.
“A lesson, Blow. Not from the scriptures but from life. You gave that farmer something to think about . . .”
“That’s not a bad thing, is it?”
“Your job — our job — is to be forgettable. You gave that old man something to be vexed by; that makes you, and us, unforgettable. You don’t want that farmer thinking about you, ’cause he’ll be hooked. You see, little man . . . our fates are entwined.”
As he started walking again, he took hold of Blow’s shoulder and squeezed hard. From a distance it would appear an affectionate gesture between pals, but Clarence’s body curled forward from the numbing pain. When his knees began to buckle, One let go.
“You’ve got an education, Clarence. But underneath the show-off remarks and class clownery is the angry, unsettled punk you’ve always been.” One returned to pointing out features in the landscape that weren’t there.
“I think . . .” Clarence didn’t know what to say next; he just needed to say something.
One stopped and turned on him. “Point is — you don’t think. You react.” He squatted down and pulled out a tall weed with a small yellow flower. “My ancestors were princes and kings, not just cotton-picking slaves, sharecroppers, and train porters. That’s recent history — it doesn’t shape my conduct.” He tossed the weed. “I know the risks we take and I will not allow your smart ass to jeopardize Two and me.” He turned his gaze on Clarence. “Now . . . you got it?”
Clarence’s shoulder was throbbing, but he managed to say — he hoped sincerely —”Yes . . . I got it.”
“Then dig this: there won’t be a second lesson.” One laughed briefly from his gut. “But that isn’t saying there won’t be other lessons, ’cause you’re one twisty little fish.”
They continued in silence, passing the boarded-up house and aluminum bleachers with a skirt of weeds swallowing the bottom row. The training field had probably been sod when the centre was active, but now it looked like the farmer’s seeds and passing birds had colluded — there were patches of bright green plants scattered in no discernable pattern.
As they approached the stables, Two was busy scuffing the dust from his boots. The windows of the Lincoln were down to let what little breeze there was cool the interior. Two had the look of a man ready for a beer.
“How’s our friend inside?” One asked.
“Well . . . his nose is broken. He’s pissed himself, he’s scared as hell. Probably would make any deal he could just to go home.” Two’s tone wasn’t sympathetic. “Gag’s on, rope’s secure, he ain’t going anywhere.”
“Give him some more water, Blow; there’s another bottle in the Lincoln. Then we’ll leave him — but make sure the gag is on tight.”
Clarence agreed, then added, “He recognized my voice from the phone call.”
One stopped, put his head down and nodded slowly. “In a few days that won’t matter. But . . . once again, this wasn’t part of our deal.”
“I know. I’ll talk to the client.”
“No doubt . . . but the thing of it is, we could have snatched him anywhere — and that way he wouldn’t have had time for phone calls. The moment you hung up, that man panicked; he probably called someone. The police, his wife, his preacher? That call increased our risk; by how much depends on who he called.” One massaged his jaw. “We know he didn’t call from the university — ’cause we’re still here. If you hadn’t thrown his cellphone into that burning car, we mighta checked those calls. Point is, you best be clear-headed when talking to your client.”
Clarence didn’t have an answer. He took a water bottle from the Lincoln and, as he stepped toward the barn, One added, “Don’t talk to him. Not a word.”
[40]
“You’re sitting next to me, Mac, but you seem far away . . . where are you?” Aziz spoke under her breath, looking up from her notes.
MacNeice smiled. “In the middle of a city on the edge of the world.” He shook his head to lose the thought. “Sorry, that sounded cryptic.”
“Cryptic, or mystic.”
MacNeice’s laugh was loud enough that Ryan turned around, shoved his headphones off his ears, and asked, “Sir?”
“Sorry to interrupt what you were doing . . . actually, what are you doing?”
“Researching the restrictions on industrial incinerators and crematoriums.”
Impressed, MacNeice responded, “And?”
“Here’s a few factoids: Incinerator operators must maintain a manifest of what they burn based on the limitations of their equipment to comply with environmental regulations. They’re checked quarterly. Crematoriums have restrictions too, mostly for the operating time, based on location. Both industries also have to comply with government maintenance standards.”
“Sounds like an honour situation rather than actual oversight . . .” Aziz said.
“Have you found any cases where the operator was caught cheating?” MacNeice asked.
“Yes, sir, but so far, the only one I’ve found is that incinerator homicide a few years ago. Nothing on crematoriums.”
Ryan was putting his headphones back on when two phone lines rang. Picking up the first, he listened and then turned to Aziz, “Sergeant Evanson for you.” The second call was from Colin Gleadow.
MacNeice picked it up. “How are you?”
“Not a hundred percent . . . but better.” He sounded breathy. “The fog’s lifting.”
“That’s good news.”
“A week ago on Power Line Road, I saw two men leave the forest. I’d parked there because the community centre lot was full. I was getting ready to go in when they came out.”
“What about them?”
“They didn’t look like the day hikers or the cross-country cyclists you see up there. They were smoking and kept looking back along the path as if they were waiting for someone. Then one of them went back in while the other lit another cigarette. Basically, it didn’t look like they were there to enjoy nature. I sat in my car until I saw them leave in a van.”
