Lights Out!--A heist thriller involving the Mafia (21 page)

‘What the hell happened?' the supervisor shouted.

Saison shrugged, flung his large hands into the air, and started to walk away.

‘You're not going anywhere,' his boss said.

‘Hey, why do you say that to me, huh? What do you think, I do something here?'

‘Don't let him leave,' the supervisor said as others poured into the room, the warning sirens wailing, multi-colored lights flashing, dozens of voices mingling.

Saison walked to a chair in a corner of the huge room, sat heavily, and lowered his face into his hands.

‘You crazy son-of-a-bitch,' Saison's supervisor screamed at him. He turned to the security guards. ‘Don't let him leave! Tie the son-of-a-bitch up. Shoot him for all I care.'

Saison looked up and extended his hands in a pleading gesture. He babbled in French, his voice rising and falling, cursing, invoking an unseen god, falling into a sing-song wail, twisting in his chair against the handcuffs that bound his ankles to the chair's legs.

And he cried.

I
t was four minutes past ten when the lights went out in Smythe's house, causing surprised shrieks and a few giggles from the guests. Moments later, the generator was automatically activated and a portion of the house's lamps, as well as its refrigeration unit, were given new, low-wattage life.

‘How long will the power be off?' people asked those who were wondering the same thing.

Cynthia Smythe instructed Mrs Kalich to bring candles from the pantry to augment the lamps. ‘Where is Mr Smythe?' she asked the housekeeper.

‘I don't know.'

She forgot about her husband as she busied herself entertaining guests. The pianist began a medley of Broadway show tunes, which prompted singers to join in.

As voices were raised in song, Cynthia's husband was upstairs debating what to do. Martone's anger over the phone was palpable. Would he come to the house looking for him? Smythe pondered. He decided he wouldn't, if only not to embarrass himself in front of Cynthia's friends from the opera company. But he knew that he had to be prepared for whatever did ensue over the course of the night, and the next day, too.

He hurriedly shoved clothing into the carry-on suitcase he used on his trips, and added a few items from his bathroom. Encouraged by the happy sounds of singing – others would be preoccupied – he went down into the kitchen where a single member of the catering staff worked. Smythe placed the carry-on next to the kitchen door and dropped a dish towel over it. He walked into the living room, forced a smile at those who weren't gathered around the piano, and stood by a window overlooking the front grounds and the circular driveway in which a number of cars were parked, effectively blocking access from that direction. His mind raced; bile rose from his stomach and burned his mouth. A vision of Paul Saison in a casket came and went.

‘Carlton, come and join in,' Cynthia called from where she stood behind the pianist, hands on his shoulders.

‘Oh no,' Smythe said, waving off the suggestion. ‘I'm not a singer and …'

His eyes went to the front of the house again. Headlights from two cars played off the others in the driveway. Smythe came closer to the window and narrowed his eyes. Dominick Martone and four men, including Hugo, got out of the cars and stared at the front door.

An agonized whine came from Smythe as his flight-or-fight instincts kicked into gear. For a moment he considered going to the front door and throwing himself on Martone's mercy:
‘It's not my fault, Dom … That drunken Frenchman Saison fouled up … You want to kill him, I'll go with you and pull the trigger myself.'

Instead, he quickly left the living room where the pianist segued from
You Light
Up my Life
to
I'm Beginning to See the Light
and went to the kitchen. ‘Be right back,' he said to Mrs Kalich as he grabbed the carry-on bag, pulled a set of car keys off a rack, went out the door and ran to where his car and Cynthia's were parked at the rear of the house. He looked down at the keys. He'd taken the ones to her Jaguar instead of his. He got in the Jag, started the engine, and drove slowly up the driveway until reaching where it intersected with the rear street. Everything was dark and quiet. He headed up the road, his eyes as much on his rearview mirror as on the street in front. He had no idea where to go or what to do. He just knew that he had to get away and find time to think.

He drove with care. There were no traffic lights; a few citizens stood at intersections directing traffic. Without thinking about it, he found himself in the parking lot of the building in which he rented space. Cynthia always kept a flashlight in the glove compartment, and Smythe used it to navigate his way into the building and find his way to his office. He placed the hundred thousand dollars he'd kept there in the suitcase along with various papers he thought he might need. He also decided to take the new laptop he'd purchased and placed that in the suitcase along with the money. As a last thought, he removed a stack of hundred dollar bills and shoved them in his pants and jacket pockets.

What to do next?

He had no idea what was happening with Saison. He'd obviously created the blackout, albeit too late to be effective. Was he now on his way to the pool house to collect the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the box with his name on it? The thought of him having that money caused Smythe to growl.

The possibility that Saison had been caught in the process of flipping the switches was chilling. If he had been, he'd be grilled about why he'd done it, and Smythe didn't doubt for a moment that he would tell them that he, Carlton Smythe, had been behind the plan, and
that
would mean that they would be looking for
him
.

The flight he'd booked to Buenos Aires left on Sunday. He'd have to lay low until then.

‘No,' he said aloud. If they were looking for him, they'd check all the airports and airlines. He couldn't run the risk. It also dawned on him that if they were seeking him, they'd be canvassing for Cynthia's blue Jaguar.

It was all too much to process at that moment. A wave of exhaustion swept over him. He had to get some rest.

He pulled from the lot and headed for a small motel a few blocks from the office building. He'd noticed it a few times and thought it looked seedy. It wasn't part of a large chain, and he wondered whether it was one of those hot sheets places used by prostitutes.

He pulled up in front and saw that there were lights on, which meant it had an alternative source of power. He grabbed his carry-on and suitcase and entered the front office.

‘Good to see that you have power,' he told the older woman behind the desk.

‘Generator's working,' she said. ‘Not sure for how long.'

‘I don't want to continue driving in these conditions,' Smythe said. ‘Do you have a room?'

‘Yes, I do,' she said and handed him a registration form. ‘Credit card?'

‘No, no credit card. I'll pay cash.'

Did she view him suspiciously? If so, she didn't say anything to indicate it. He handed over the cash and she gave him a key to a room at the far end of the one-story, ten-room complex.

He drove the car to a secluded spot at the rear of the motel, hoping no one would spot it during the night. He entered the room in which a single table lamp on a small desk provided dim illumination. There was the powerful smell of disinfectant; he'd become sensitive to odors after living with Cynthia's keen nose for so many years. He examined the bedspread, which seemed clean enough, and looked in the bathroom where a leaky faucet had created a rust stain in the sink.

Over the next hour he parted the drapes a dozen times in search of anyone who might be looking for him. Finally he sat at the desk, pulled blank sheets of paper from its drawer, and started to write:

Dear Cynthia,

As I write this, I know how angry you must be and how much you must hate me. I know that I haven't always been the husband you'd like me to be, and I apologize for anything I've done in the past to hurt you. When you get this note I'll be far away and out of your life. While we have had our problems over the years, I don't view our marriage in a negative light. Maybe if we'd had children things might have been different, although I don't think so. Looking to something else, someone else to solve problems never works. The problems were between us, and I'm sorry for those times that I've let you down, as I certainly have now.

I've done a bad thing and hope it won't reflect badly on you. I have to live with it, too. I wish you nothing but good things in your life without me, and would be pleased if you found a great guy and got married again. I'll sign off now.

Love, Carlton

P.S. Sorry I took your car. I didn't hurt it in any way.

He didn't undress for bed. He lay on top of the bedspread and dozed off a few times. Once, the sound of the door being slammed in the next room woke him, and the sounds of a couple having sex penetrated the thin wall. It lasted only fifteen minutes. The door slammed again and a car pulled away.

He thought of Gina.

At six the next morning he left the motel and drove to a small diner. The blackout was still in progress and a large, crude sign in front read:
Gas Grill & Fridge Working
. Smythe noticed as he pulled behind the building that a Rent-a-Wreck lot was next door. As he paid his bill, he asked the owner what was new with the blackout.

‘You'd think those clowns at Power-Can would have it fixed by now,' the owner said.

‘Is that where the trouble started?' Smythe asked.

‘Yeah. I heard on my battery-powered radio this morning that some crazy Frenchman at the plant deliberately caused it. Seems he wasn't the only one involved.'

‘That's really interesting,' Smythe said. ‘Did they say who the other people were?'

‘Not that I heard. They ought to toss the bastard and whoever else was with him in jail and throw away the key.'

‘I agree,' Smythe said, a lump in his throat. ‘Thanks for the breakfast. Hope the power comes back on soon.'

He got in the Jaguar, started the engine, and checked the gas. Almost a full tank. He turned on the radio, annoyed with himself that he hadn't thought to do it earlier, and tuned to CFTR-680 News, Toronto's twenty-four-hour news station. After a pod of commercials, the newscaster returned.

‘The massive blackout that has crippled all of Eastern Canada and the East Coast of the United States was caused, according to authorities, by the deliberate work of one man, Paul Saison, a French-Canadian engineer at Power-Can where the blackout originated. We've been told by reliable sources that Saison has admitted to having sabotaged the plant, and has named others who were also involved, including a former employee, Carlton Smythe. Smythe's whereabouts are unknown at this point. Stay tuned for further updates on this breaking story.'

Smythe slunk down and emitted a long, slow, painful whine. ‘Oh my God,' he said. ‘What have I done?'

As he wallowed in self-pity in the luxurious leather seat of the Jag, he looked across the lot at the Rent-a-Wreck one-story building. Its large neon sign had been unlit when he'd arrived. Now, it was glowing. The sign in front of the diner had also come on.

The blackout was over.

Buoyed by that realization – he actually felt proud of those who'd fixed the problem – he got out, took his suitcase with the money and carry-on bag from the trunk, left the key halfway inserted in the ignition, placed the note he'd written to Cynthia on the front seat, and walked to the car rental lot.

‘I see that the power is back,' he said to the middle-aged man behind the counter.

‘It's about time,' the man said gruffly. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘I need a car,' Smythe said.

‘Not a problem.' He looked at Smythe's luggage and frowned.

Smythe picked up on it. ‘I had a taxi drop me at the diner next door,' he said. ‘They had the grill working. I thought I'd have breakfast before walking over here to pick up a car.'

The man nodded and pulled out a list of available vehicles. ‘Where are you driving to?' he asked.

‘Oh, just local. Some business calls I have to make.'

Smythe chose a car.

‘Credit card?'

Smythe forced a smile. ‘Never use them,' he said, ‘but I'll be happy to give you a returnable deposit in cash.'

The man's face mirrored the calculation he was doing. ‘Have to be five hundred,' he said, ‘plus the daily rental fee.'

‘That will be fine,' Smythe said.

‘Driver's license?'

Smythe had deliberately not used a credit card for fear that the rental agent had heard news reports on which his name had appeared. But he couldn't refuse to show his driver's license, not to a car rental company. He held his breath as he handed it to the agent – who dutifully noted information from it on the rental form – and exhaled when it was given back to him.

‘How long do you want it?' Smythe was asked.

‘Oh, just one day, maybe two.'

Keys in hand, Smythe accompanied the man to a pea green Chevy sedan.

‘Nine years old but in tip-top shape. We may rent wrecks but every car has been carefully inspected and serviced.'

‘That's good to hear,' Smythe said. ‘Thank you.'

He drove to a Starbucks parking lot where he pulled his laptop from the suitcase and went inside. He ordered a latte, found a seat, and turned on the computer, accessed information he needed from the Internet, and sent Gina a short email:
My darling, I am on my way but will be delayed for a week or so, and will be out of touch. Do not worry. I am fine. I love you mi bella amada. I count the minutes until we are together again.

Afraid that any further emails might be traced, he decided that it would be the last email he would send until reaching South America.