Blood Sports (22 page)

The back of the house had a greying, mouldy deck. Leo grumbled while he dragged chairs out from the kitchen. Firebug lit a citronella candle in a galvanized pail. Leo disappeared inside and came back with three sweating bottles of Kokanee.

“You don’t get to party,” Firebug said. “I don’t want you drunk on the job. Take your shift.”

Leo spat before he gave Firebug the beers. Firebug put them down. He picked Tom off the deck and sat him in a chair. He put a beer in Tom’s hand. They stared at the setting sun like they were old friends catching up.

Tom couldn’t remember which way the sun set. Japan was the land of the rising sun. And that was in the east. Time zones went east to west. So they were looking west. Front of the house was east.

Which told him nothing. He still had no idea where they were. Tall trees and the logging road. Where did they log? He had been outside Vancouver once or twice since he’d moved here as a kid. Put him anywhere in Vancouver and he could tell you where they were.

“Hey, boss,” Glock Man said, knocking on the door frame. “Need anything?”

“We’re good,” Firebug said. “Get some shut-eye, Neil.”

“Night.”

“Night.”

The sun flared behind the trees. The sky faded milky blue. Tom dropped his beer as the drug hit. Heard the bottle roll across the deck. Heard the fizz of the beer. Firebug didn’t seem upset. Tom swallowed hard. He had to … he was supposed to … get Paulie and Mel. Go home.

Firebug sipped his beer. Tom watched the citronella candle burn. The cold left him; the shakes and the sweats left him. The
sky was Creamsicle orange, electric and sweet. A jagged black line of trees circled them like a fort.

“I helped a friend build this place,” Firebug said. “He believed in the End of Days. But his wife got sick of milking cows and plucking chickens while they waited for the Apocalypse, so she took his three kids and moved back to Surrey. My friend turned the basement into his own little prison. Snatched his kids first. Caught his wife in the parking lot when she came to pick up the kids. Not one person noticed they were gone.

“Then one day he went out to get some firewood just over there beside the stream. Tree fell on him. He died. By the time I dropped in to ask him a favour, his wife and the three kids were puddles of fat and piles of bone. Took forever to get the stink out.” Firebug turned his head to watch Tom. “Rieger’s going to take care of you, Tom. You’re never leaving the basement, so to speak.”

The orange faded into pink, and the pink faded into dusty white and then grey and it seemed to take a second but it must have been longer. He had put his fear down and forgotten where he’d put it.

“What would you give me to let Paulie and Mel go?”

“You wouldn’t let them go,” Tom said.

“Paulie’s a good woman. I was sorry to see her mixed up with a slacker like you. Rieger’s going to give me a lot of money for you. But if you have anything on Rieger, I’ll drop Mel and Paulie in the Metrotown parking lot. Paulie’s ex-con sobriety buddies’ll make Jer a priority. You’ll keep them occupied while I make a run for it.”

It sounded good. But all the cold, thinking parts of his brain were occupied by the colour of the sky and the way the shadows fell and the memory looped in his head of Paulie in the yellow
sundress and Mel’s frustrated expression as she tried to run and couldn’t.

They ended up in the kitchen. Firebug killed his bottle of beer, laying it on the butcher’s block and rolling it under his palm like he was making a pie crust. Tom pretended to sip his, hefting the weight of the bottle in his hands. It wouldn’t do much damage. But it might make a temporary distraction. They swayed in sync on their stools like drunks at closing time. Tom leaned his elbows on the butcher’s block and rested his head in his hands.

“Why are you protecting him?” Firebug said. “Tom? Why do you care what happens to the shitbag?”

Tom raised his head and stared at Firebug. He was holding them hostage, but Tom doubted Jer would give Firebug the spare change in his pocket in exchange for them. Firebug wanted the goods on Jer. The second Tom gave him what he wanted, Tom didn’t see why Firebug would want them around. And once Jer knew for sure they had his videotapes, what would he do? Would he believe they hadn’t watched them, hadn’t told anyone about them?

“He’s a cheating, lying, homicidal son of a bitch who wouldn’t let go of his toothbrush if his life depended on it. You have something. Or you know something. The cops think so. Rieger thinks so.”

“I don’t know anything and I don’t have anything.”

Firebug sighed. “Do you want to take a break? Get some shut-eye?”

Tom studied him, waiting for the punchline. “Sure.”

“I didn’t want to do this,” Firebug said, “but you aren’t leaving me with much choice. We’re going to take this to Paulie.”

Tom covered his face with his hands, pretending to cry to buy time. Firebug kept talking while Tom judged the distance to the stove. Four feet behind him. Take Firebug out. Get Betty. Take Leo out. Deal with Neil. One of those things that looked good on paper. Doing it was something else. But the thought of Firebug going at Paulie made him cold.

Tom threw his beer in Firebug’s face. He pushed himself off the butcher’s block with both hands, tipping the stool over to give Firebug an obstacle. He spun as his foot hit the floor so he faced the stove. He spotted the cast-iron frying pan turned over on the back burner. He lunged for it, brushing the handle of the pan with his fingertips a moment before Firebug punched him on the side of the head and sent him sprawling across the kitchen floor.

Firebug dragged him back to the living room, where he rummaged through the tackle box until he came up with a pair of handcuffs still in their plastic bag. He stepped on Tom’s neck to hold him still. He ripped the plastic open and caught the keys as they fell out of the bag. He struggled to open the cuffs as Tom grabbed a leg of the coffee table and yanked it close.

“Fuck,” Firebug said as the coffee table hit his shin. He took his foot off and Tom rolled over and scrambled for the hallway. Firebug caught him by the arm, snapped a cuff on one wrist. Tom kicked and punched and twisted. Firebug sat on him, grabbed his arm and pulled it down, tightening the cuffs until Tom’s hands tingled. Firebug caught his breath, and then stood and hauled Tom up by his arm. He turned Tom around, bringing his face so close he went cross-eyed.

“Not funny,” Firebug said.

Firebug pushed him into the couch. He took a wad of rags and shoved them in Tom’s mouth and then wound a roll of duct tape around and around Tom’s head. He put the duct tape down and picked up the lighter. He sat beside Tom, a friendly arm over his shoulders. Firebug flicked the lighter open and closed, open and closed, watching Tom. He brought the lighter to Tom’s left nipple and flicked the lighter open. He held Tom still while he burned the skin around his bleeding nipple until the flesh was blackened and bubbling.

Tom’s head bounced against Firebug’s back as he tried to hold himself up, tried not to let his seared skin touch Firebug’s shirt. Firebug carried him over his shoulder. They went down the hallway and into the master bedroom. Firebug pushed the bed aside. Beneath it was a trap door. The unpainted wooden stairs creaked as Firebug brought him down.

Bars to the right, lit by a night light. Paulie and Mel curled together on the bed. Paulie lifted her head. Leo lay on the floor, tapping his fingers on his stomach as he listened to a Walkman.

“Finally,” Leo said.

Firebug dropped Tom. He turned him by the shoulder and then unsnapped one cuff. He shoved Tom face first into the bars and pressed on his shoulders until he knelt. Paulie sat up, pushing her hair out of her face.

“Tom?”

Firebug forced Tom’s hands through the bars, hooking the right one on top of a vertical bar and the left one below so Tom couldn’t stand. Firebug snapped the cuffs closed on the other side of the bars.

“Paulina,” Firebug said. “Could you come to the bars, please?”

Paulie checked Mel before she reached for a bathrobe over a chair and put it on as she walked toward them.

“Tom?”

He shook his head, trying to speak through the duct tape, trying to warn her away from Firebug, but she came, frowning, tightening her bathrobe belt.

“God, look at you,” she said, touching his face and kneeling in front of him.

Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, but he couldn’t see any bruises. She held his hands and kissed them. She was still whole and he’d fucked that up. He’d fucked up. She was in trouble and she didn’t know it and he couldn’t tell her.

“Go get my gear and my rig,” Firebug said.

Leo sighed heavily before he trudged up the stairs and out of sight.

“How did a cokehead like you end up with a pothead like him?” Firebug said. “That has always mystified me, Paulina.”

“Firebug, please,” Paulie said.

“Tom is currently enjoying a pain patch they give end-stage cancer patients. A quarter patch to be exact. One tiny quarter patch and he’s flying. I bet it wouldn’t even tickle you, would it?”

Paulie touched Tom’s face, testing the duct tape.

“Leave it,” Firebug said.

She glanced at Firebug before she touched Tom’s cheek.

“You clawed your way back,” he said. Firebug kicked Tom’s foot. “Cupcake here, he’s a different story. I don’t know if he’ll come back. We’ll start him off on a quarter gram of smack and work our way up.”

“You’re going to kill him,” Paulie said.

“I know about Rusty,” Firebug said. “Rieger collects his debts. He would make you pay. You and Tom know something or you have something and I’d like you to share.”

Paulie’s hands tightened on his as Leo came tromping down the steps. Leo handed Firebug a rolled towel. Firebug pulled a chair to the left of Tom. He carefully unwrapped the contents, some needles still in their original packaging, carefully folded paper packages, rubber tubing, a spoon.

“Hold him,” Firebug said.

Leo wrapped his arm around Tom’s neck and pulled him back until the cuffs clanged against the bar. Paulie covered his arms with her own. Firebug flicked the side of Tom’s neck, tapping like a carpenter searching for studs in the wall.

“You chased the dragon,” he said. “But you never injected. Why is that, Paulie?”

“Guy, let’s talk about this,” Paulie said. “Let’s stop for a minute. And talk about this.”

“Did you have rules? No continuous use. No injecting. Only on weekends. Just a nice, lovely come-down from coke. Like a beer after a long, hard day.”

Tom heard the click of the lighter and swivelled his head around, alarmed. Firebug held the lighter under a spoon, moving it back and forth until the liquid turned golden like caramel.

“He can’t take that much,” Paulie said. “Guy. Listen to me. You can’t give him that much. You’ll put him in a coma.”

“Talk to me, Paulina,” Firebug said. “Tell me a story.”