A Cold White Fear (23 page)

I
t
took less time than it took to take a breath for me to connect the dots. “The judge” could only be one person, The Honourable Richard Meilleur, one of the most senior and well-respected judges in Quebec, known for his impartiality and fair-handedness. He was heading up a commission on organized crime and had vowed to unravel every last tentacle organized crime had interwoven into the judicial and police systems of Quebec.

He was indeed a man a gang like the Black Devils would want to silence.

He was also the judge who sent Larry to prison for life. So this hit would be more than a business arrangement for Professor. It would also be personal.

The judge's cottage was a rambling timber building like mine, though not as old, dating from just after the Second World War, when the first cottages were built on the lake. A couple of summers ago, Eric and I spent a delightful evening over dinner with him and his wife on their expansive deck overlooking the lake. But I'd heard that she'd died from cancer in the spring, and the judge hadn't been near his cottage since.

It seemed highly improbable that he would be there in such wintery weather, particularly in a cottage intended only for summer usage. But these gangsters were here, so they must be very certain of his presence. After all, they'd gone through a lot of effort springing their assassin from jail, though I couldn't begin to guess why they would take such a risk for an outsider. Surely there were more than enough gang members walking free who wouldn't hesitate to put their hand up to do the job.

Any thoughts I harboured that their intelligence was wrong were quashed the second I saw that the road into Lake Robinson had been cleared of all snow but for the latest dump. Designated a summer road, it could only mean someone had asked the municipality to keep the road open because they were staying at their cottage.

I looked up the main road toward where the police were supposed to be. A matter of a few kilometres and yet so impossibly far. If only one of them would decide to drive this way. A useless thought, I realized, since there was little I would be able to do squeezed between these two thugs with a gun poking my ribs.

Bébé Jean lowered the blade into position and aimed the truck straight at the mound of snow blocking the entrance to the road. The plough crunched through with ease and continued down the road, sending plumes of white into the air. The judge's property lay at the end of the road, a couple of kilometres away. Another five or so minutes. Thank God, the snow was light, otherwise it would take more than double that amount of time to plough our way in.

Still, the time was accumulating. Twenty-three minutes since I'd been forced to leave Jid behind. That left only thirty-seven before we had to be back at the house. It was still possible, but I had no idea the length of time it would take the tattooed man to complete the job.

What was I saying? I couldn't let him kill the judge. How could I? There had to be something I could do to stop it.

A bump in the road caused the blade knobs to knock against my leg. Maybe I could do something to render them inoperable? If the plough couldn't continue clearing the road, Professor wouldn't be able to reach the judge. But what was I thinking? They had the snowmobile. And worse, it would mean we wouldn't get back to Jid in time.

It took a few minutes for me to realize we were passing cottages. With their driveways filled in with snow and their roofs hidden under the heavy load, they'd merged into the surrounding forest. If I hadn't noticed the flickering red of a wind chime, I would've missed them.

“Christ, how much farther do we gotta go?” Freddie asked. “I thought this was going to be quick.”

“There are at least five cottages. We've passed two,” I replied. “We have to go through a long stretch of forest before we reach the judge's driveway. He owns all the land at the end of the lake.”

“God, I hate this fucking snow,” he continued. “It's screwed up everything.”

“Why are we not doing it in Montreal, where the guy lives?” Bébé Jean asked. “That was the original plan.”

“Too much security. And Jo caught wind that the judge was coming here for Christmas, far away from anyone.”

“There will still be bodyguards.”

“Maybe one or two guys, but Professor can handle them easy. And the beauty is no one will know the judge is dead until well into the New Year. By then Professor will be long gone with his bitch to his romantic getaway.” He snickered.

“It's Costa Rica, isn't it?” Jean asked.

“Nah, the Seychelles. Can't be extradited back to Canada from there. No way the cops will figure it's the Viper. They never do. He leaves the kill site squeaky clean.”

As if remembering my presence, he shifted his eyes in my direction. I tried to disappear into the seat. He shrugged. “Guess it don't matter.” Which left me feeling decidedly queasy.

“You sure the cops won't connect the killing to us?” Jean asked.

“Nah, no way. That's why we use Viper instead of a Devil for a job like this. I suppose they might suspect, but they'll never be able to prove it.” He turned his eyes fully on Jean. “Unless one of us squeals.”

Jean stomped on the brake, sending us crashing into the dash. “You accuse me?”

I heard a loud honk from behind as the pickup slid to a stop.

Freddie drummed his fingers on his knee while he kept his eyes fixed on his fellow biker, then he snickered. “No need to get your balls in a knot, Bébé. Just making a point.”

The two men continued to stare each other down until Freddie broke it off.

Jean hissed, “Don't you dare accuse me again.”

He jammed the truck into gear, and down the road we rumbled.

We passed the last of the cottages and were heading down the narrow, tree-lined stretch of road that ended at the entrance to the judge's cottage. The minute I saw the banks of ploughed snow continuing to line the road, I knew with a sinking feeling that the judge was there.

Snow-laden boughs brushed against the truck on either side, while overhead, several fir trees had collapsed against each other, creating a winter arbor. One had fallen across the road. The plough moved it aside as if it were a matchstick.

Both men were quiet, lost in their own thoughts. I sensed a tense wariness in both.

We rounded a bend and were immediately stopped by another tree blocking the road, a massive spruce with its snow-enmeshed boughs rising a good three or more metres off the road. Jean pushed the plough against it but only dislodged snow. He reversed and tried again. More white powder came loose, but not the tree, while the truck's wheels spun with the exertion. He tried one more time.

“Fuck!” Freddie cursed. “How far away is the cottage?”

“I don't know.” I tried to look for markers that would give me a sense of distance, but with everything transformed by the snow, it was impossible to tell. “Maybe another kilometre.” I guessed on the far side, hoping that it would persuade them to change their minds about killing the judge. But I'd forgotten about Jo's determination.

She rapped on the window. “Why in the hell are you stopped? Move the damn thing.”

“Too big. Did you bring a chainsaw?”

“Hell, no.”

I knew Gerry likely had one stowed in his truck. But I wasn't about to tell these guys.

“Try again,” Jo ordered.

“Move your truck back so I can get a good run.”

I heard the whine of the truck reversing behind us.

“Okay!” Jo shouted.

Jean raised the blade and backed up until Jo shouted, “That's enough.”

Then he lowered the blade onto the ground, slammed the truck into gear and moved forward, increasing the speed as the distance to the tree narrowed. The blade rammed into the spruce with a thud. The cab rocked. The tree rocked. The gears groaned. Branches broke sending snow, twigs, and needles flying. The tree moved until it stopped with a crunch and the whine of spinning wheels.

I noticed at the same time Freddie said, “Fuck, you slammed it against another tree. No way we're going to move it now.”

I glanced at my watch. “Look, guys,” I piped up. “We're running out of time. Only thirty minutes remaining. Why don't you forget the judge for the moment and get back to my place? You can pick up a chainsaw there. I have two.”

“S
hut
the fuck up!” Freddie jammed his gun back into my side.

“Easy, Freddie,” Jean said. “We don't want to damage the goods before we need to.”

Though I felt the pressure ease, I could still feel the hardness of the metal through the layers of clothing.

“Is there a chainsaw on this truck?” Freddie asked.

“How should I know?” I answered.

“Don't play smartass with me.” Freddie jabbed harder. “I bet trees fall all the time around here. There's gotta be a chainsaw on this fucking rig. Now tell us where it is.”

“I don't know. I've never been in the truck before. But like I told you, I have two saws at home.”

“We're not going back, so start looking.”

There was no space behind the bench seat. The glove box was far too small. That left under the seat. I bent over and felt around but only encountered a greasy rag and an empty fast food carton that had held something sticky.

“He might keep one on the outside of the truck,” I suggested, wiping my dirty hands on the seat's cracked vinyl.

“Freddie, go outside and check,” Jean ordered.

But the man refused to budge. Instead he rolled down his window and hollered, “Jo, Viper, see if you can find a chainsaw somewhere on the outside.”

After several minutes of watching the two of them through the side-view mirrors scanning every inch of the truck, Jo finally called out, “Found it.”

She held up an orange and white Stihl chainsaw with a blade that was almost double the length of mine — actually of Eric's. I was too unnerved by the whirring blade to own one myself.

“Anyone know how in the hell to use it?” she asked.

“
Oui
, I do,” Jean said, jumping out of the cab.

Not wanting to remain alone inside with Freddie, I lifted my feet onto the bench seat and scooted past the blade knobs after him.

“Hey, get back here,” Freddie shouted.

“You better climb out too. Your friend's going to need help clearing the tree away.”

With the minutes ticking off in my head, I was desperate to get this tree removed. But I was afraid to do the math, for deep down inside I knew my buddy was running out of time.

I jumped down onto the firmness of a freshly ploughed road and hurried after Jean. He began severing the massive boughs from the trunk, sending wood chips flying. As each came loose, I pulled the branch free from the tangle and handed it off to Freddie, who tossed it over the snow bank. I had no idea where Jo and Professor were. I only knew they weren't helping.

Once Jean had exposed about a metre-and-a-half section of the trunk, he began cutting it into manageable lengths. As they dropped to the ground, he rolled them away with his boot. Once finished, there was more than enough room for a person to walk through, but not the plough. He was starting to cut into the next layer of branches when I felt more than heard a presence behind me. I turned to find Jo astride the Ski-Doo with Professor sitting behind her.

She was shouting. But with the combined noise of the chainsaw and the Ski-Doo, I had no idea what she was saying.

Professor jumped off, pushed me out of the way, and walked up behind Bébé Jean. “Stop,” he yelled into his ear.

The saw jerked in the man's hand and almost fell to the ground, narrowly missing his foot. He pushed the brake to stop the blade's action and whirled around, yelling in French at the tattooed man. “Don't you dare do that again,” followed by a string of “
tabernac, calice”
and other unique Quebecois swear words.

He turned off the saw.

“What do you want?” he shouted in French.

“Stop sawing. There is enough room to take the Ski-Doo through. Jo and I are going on ahead. You and Freddie wait here for us.”

“But I'm supposed to take care of the bodyguards.”

“The only person going near the cottage is me. I won't even let Jo near it.”

“What happens if they surprise you?”

“They won't. Look, you guys brought me in to do the job without a trace, and that's what I'll do. Though with the mess you've made at the woman's house, I don't know how you'll be able to keep the Devils out of any of this shit. But that's your problem. I have a job to do, so let us through.” He pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on with a climactic snap.

He returned to the Ski-Doo and climbed on behind Jo. As he slung himself onto the seat, his jacket flapped open to reveal several knives in long slender sheaths attached to his belt. The tools of his trade. They were too slender and deadly looking to be Eric's. Jo had brought them with her.

Jean continued to block the opening. Jo lurched the Ski-Doo forward and screamed at him. The man barely sprang away in time.

“Hell, what did you do that for?” Freddie said, walking up to him.

Jean's response was to wrap his arm around Freddie's neck and jam his gun into his back. “Throw your gun onto the ground,” he ordered.

“Hey, buddy, what are you trying to do?” Freddie's voice wavered. “We're on the same side. Remember?”

“No, we're not. I'm a police officer with the Sûreté du Québec. I am holding you for questioning in the murder of two prison guards and the escape of three incarcerated convicts.”

“Fuck.”

“I repeat. Throw your gun onto the ground.”

“Always knew there was something not right about you.”

The gun bounced off Jean's boot. He winced and kicked it out of the way.

“Meg, pick it up.”

I did as told and almost let it fall back to the ground, so startled was I by the weight. Never having held a loaded pistol before, I wasn't sure what to do with it.

“Point it at him, and fire if he moves, okay? But try not to hit me.”

“Sure,” I said with considerably more bravado than I felt.

I was terrified that I would accidentally kill the man who had become my saviour. Grasping it with two hands, like they do on TV, I pointed it at as best I could at the captured man.

“Freddie, I'm going to let go of your neck very slowly. But I still have my gun on you.”

Bébé Jean released his hold.

“Now, step away very slowly.”

Freddie started walking.

“That's far enough,” the cop ordered. “Turn around and reach down very slowly, and remove the gun from your ankle. If you so much as make any other movement, I will shoot. Meg, keep pointing the gun at him.”

I was so worried that Freddie might overpower Jean that I forgot I was holding the gun and let it point away. I aimed it back at the gangster.

Once again he dropped his pistol beside his feet.

“Walk backward until I tell you to stop,” Jean said. Keeping his gun trained on the retreating man, he followed him until he reached the gun.

“Okay, that's far enough.” He kicked the gun in my direction. “Meg, get this one too.”

I now had two guns in my possession that I didn't have a clue how to use. This second pistol was even heavier. There was no way I could aim both guns properly, so I slipped the new one into my jacket pocket and hoped I didn't accidentally shoot my foot.

“Now, Freddie, I remember you bragging about the knife you hid on your other ankle. You used to say, ‘A man never knows when he will need backup.' So reach down and pull it out very slowly and throw it on the ground.”

Freddie threw it at his captor in an attempt to stab him, but Jean easily dodged it.

Not wanting to let go of my two-handed hold on the gun, I kicked the knife out of reach into the snowbank. I was still trying to digest the fact that this man who epitomized the stereotype of a biker was an undercover cop.

“Now, what are we going to do with you, Freddie?”

“The boss is gonna kill you when he finds out.”

“I don't think he'll get a chance to do that. He'll be in prison by the time he discovers his golden-haired boy set him up.”

The cop reached into the inside pocket of his leather biker jacket and pulled out some plastic zip ties. “My backup is to keep a couple of these handy. Never know when you might need them.” He grinned. “Now walk nice and slow to the other side of the truck.”

Jean kept a good couple of metres behind Freddie as the two of them squeezed between the snowplough and the pickup truck. Not sure what I was supposed to do, I decided to return to the front of the truck and meet them on the other side. That way I would be facing Freddie head on and not aiming the gun at Jean's back.

Perhaps it wasn't the smartest move, for when I inched past the wing plough, I found the two men scuffling on the ground, frantically trying to reach Jean's gun lying half submerged in the snowbank a few feet away.

I had a clear shot of Freddie's back, but when I tried to pull the trigger, I froze, afraid I would accidentally hit the cop. By the time I summoned up my nerve, the opportunity was gone.

The two men continued to flail at each other. At one point Jean's fingers were within inches of grasping the gun, but Freddie kicked his arm away. With the two men blocking the way, it was impossible for me to retrieve it.

Petrified of shooting the wrong man, there was little I could do other than watch and pray for the right outcome. Then it came to me. I could fire into the air and startle them into stopping. Maybe it would give me a clear shot at Freddie.

I gingerly placed my finger on the trigger, pointed the gun over their heads and fired into the forest. A grouse exploded from his roosting spot under a tree. Snow tumbled off branches. But the men kept fighting.

Then Freddie stopped, raised his head, and looked in my direction. Blood streamed from his nose. Before I could pull the trigger, Jean grabbed his jacket collar and smashed his head against a tire. The gangster collapsed into a senseless heap.

“
Merci
,” Jean shouted.

He dragged the unconscious man over to the wing blade. Placing him in a sitting position, he pulled the man's hands behind his back and attached him to one of the metal arms with a zip tie. For extra measure he zip-tied his feet together.

“There, that should hold him,” Jean said between gasping breaths. “Give me the Glock.”

“The what?”

“The big gun.”

I passed him the heaviest gun, which he tucked into his waistband. He walked over to where his own had sunk into the snow bank and pulled it out.

“Stay here and keep the Smith & Wesson pointed at him until I get back.”

He turned to leave.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“To stop them from killing Meilleur.”

“But what about Jid? The hour is almost up.”

He gave no indication that he'd heard me as he disappeared through the gap in the sawed tree.