Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (40 page)

“Yes, Clayton. Walt and I will join the rest
of the family at your house, but you need to think about your
involvement with criminals. It’s not just your name being dragged
through the muck, now your family is being embarrassed by your
actions.”

Clay stepped through the doorway and pulled
the door shut behind him just as Margaret finished her tirade.
Instead of staying and arguing with her he had decided to leave and
ignore what had been said until later when he wasn’t angry.

Mickey called the shop and left a message in
mid January, 1976. His message said he just wanted to talk. Clay
knew exactly what it meant. It meant someone, somewhere, was
through talking and wanted action.

“I
had a personal
visit from the consigliere of a major New York family over the week
end. There’s a job if you want it. The pay is good, but it’s out of
the country; up in Canada. You want to look at the package?” Tony
slid a manila envelope over to Clay.

“Sure I’ll look at it, but this is a hell of
a time to go to Canada. It’s got to be colder there than it is
here, and it was only three degrees at my house this morning.”

“Before you open the envelope, let me tell
you a few things to tie together what’s you'll find.” Both men were
eating ham and beans and cornbread and Tony spoke between
mouthfuls. “This guy’s a banker, lives in Quebec and owns a string
of banks all over the Quebec and Ontario provinces.” Tony paused to
lick his lips and swallow, “He’s been laundering money for the New
York operations for several years. The major families pool their
money and send it to him monthly. He charged a fifteen per cent fee
and funneled the rest back to the families through fake
corporations he helped set up. Two months ago he announced he was
raising the fee to twenty five percent and he’s holding a million
dollars to ensure they go along. As you can guess the heads of the
families aren’t real happy with the new arrangement or the
cockiness of this guy. They prefer he die accidentally, if
possible. But it might not be possible because he’s got two full
time body guards with him at all times. The consigliere says the
banker fancies himself as a real tough guy. They say in business
he’s a cut throat bastard and he believes he can get by with
anything on anybody. After all, it’s not like the New York guys can
go to the cops and complain. But they’ve found a way around him.
His only son is a wimp and he’s the old man’s partner and main
heir. So if the old man croaks, the kid takes over and the
consigliere is sure he can be convinced to revert to business as
usual.”

“What’s the fee?”

“How did I know the money would be your first
question; what’s it worth? They want it done in the next three
months, and the fee is one hundred grand. The guy seldom ever comes
to the States, so you’ll have to go to Quebec to hit him. Another
problem is they all speak French, and you don’t. You don’t, do
you?"

Clay shook his head, “No, I don’t speak
French; hell I’m like you, I don’t even speak good English.”

Tony ignored Clay’s smart assed remark and
continued, “You’ll have to sneak your guns through customs and try
to find a break in the guy’s routine where you can hit him. Oh, and
the body guards; there’s four total, are all ex-Canadian Mounted
Police; I hear they’re good. Also, during the winter he fly’s out
to Alberta once a month and spends a week skiing, so you’ll have a
three week window each month to get him. The rich bastard has his
own plane and pilot and a big lodge someplace out in the mountains.
I’m jealous!”

Tony left to get a refill and Clay opened the
package in front of him. But he was preoccupied, thinking about
things he knew about Canada. He and Dan had gone there fishing the
previous year. It had been his first time on Canadian soil. The
fishing had been great; they netted bass, trout and walleye and
threw back more than they kept. What he remembered most about the
trip was how Dan had talked endlessly about a new thing he had
tried in Wisconsin; snow mobiles. Gas engine powered machines
designed for traveling on the snow. They allowed riders to travel
for miles into areas otherwise inaccessible during the winter. All
of his information and experience about Canada pertained to the
less populated areas west of where his target lived and wouldn’t be
of any use in a major city; especially a city where they spoke
French.

The report consisted of a five inch by seven
inch black and white photo of Charles De Grand, a personal sheet,
and long distance shots which were slightly blurred, of all four
guards. The paper listed his age as sixty one, his home and office
addresses, his lodge, etc. A twenty three page report, apparently
put together by a private investigator, gave a very detailed
account of a seven week period in the life of Mr. De Grand
beginning the first week of October 1975.

Tony returned and sat across the round table
from Clay, eating in silence.

Clay made a cursory review of the paperwork
and promised to give Tony an answer by Friday, four days later.
When he left the saloon he went to the club for his afternoon
workout. He learned it was not a good idea to workout after a big
bowl of Mickey’s hams and beans. Midway through his third set on
the stair climber Dan stopped by to chat. Clay mentioned snow
mobiles and Dan instantly launched into the same dissertation Clay
had endured the year before. Dan had been to Wisconsin three times
in the current season and was hoping to get away at least twice
more while the snow was on. He was eager to enlist another convert
to the new sport and gladly provided the name and phone number of
the lodge where he stayed and rented the machines. Clay also
learned he could rent all the cold weather gear for riding, or buy
it onsite.

Back at the office he phoned the Tri Lakes
Lodge in northern Wisconsin and spoke with the assistant manager.
She was sorry to inform Clay lodge was booked solid for the
upcoming weekend, but was pleased to convey the fact there were
vacancies until then. He reserved a standard room for Tuesday
through Thursday and a snow mobile for Wednesday and Thursday. A
travel agent was used to reserve a round trip seat on a regional
carrier from O’Hare to Wausau and a rental car for the sixty plus
mile drive on to the lodge.

Tuesday afternoon he walked down the
motorized stairs onto the tarmac at the Wausau, Wisconsin Regional
Airport, zipped his coat tighter around his neck, picked up his
rental car, and drove north on Highway 51 to Hazelhorst.

Snow covered the entire landscape all the way
to his destination. North of Rhinelander he got a taste of what he
was in for. Along a ridge to his left he caught sight of a blizzard
of snow thrown up by three people on snow mobiles. Finally he
understood Dans’s love affair with them as the trio changed course
and drifted down a hill to the road and ran along side him for half
a mile before they swerved to the left and followed a trail up and
over a ridge, out of sight. The sounds of oversized bumble bees
slowly faded from his hearing until they were gone. The machines
looked too fragile to be running at the speeds at which he clocked
them, but he was game to try it.

The following Friday afternoon Clay sat down
beside Tony with a beer in his hand. “I’ve been looking at maps and
I have a loose plan forming in my head. Call your contact and tell
them I’m in for the fee plus all expenses, which will probably run
ten to twelve thousand dollars.”

“So you’ll be going to Quebec soon. Take some
time to enjoy the sights, you might even pick up a French
girlfriend while you’re there; I hear they give great blow
jobs.”

“Thanks for the advice Tony, but I’m not
going to Quebec, I’m going to Montana. I heard Montana girls give
even better head.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Clay laughed out loud at the confusion he had
caused Tony. He was completely baffled and the expression on his
face begged for an explanation. “I’m going to hit Charles at his
ski lodge. It’s about thirty miles north of the border near the
town of Crowsnest Pass. The town is in Alberta Province, near the
British Columbia border. When he goes there Charles only takes two
of the four guards along; two less for me to deal with. I can get
to him from the Montana side by crossing where there’s no legal
entry point.”

Ignoring the skeptical look on Tony’s face he
continued, “I just returned from Wisconsin where I spent two days
playing in the snow on a machine called a snowmobile. It’s like a
motorcycle only it can run on top of the snow. I bought one and a
trailer to haul it on. And I’m getting all the clothing and
everything else I’ll need to be out in below zero weather for more
than a week. I’m driving back up to Rhinelander next week to pick
up the machine and other stuff. There’ll be no record of me
crossing into Canada to give anybody a clue as to who hit the
banker. I have a small building rented for furniture storage and I
can leave everything there in a back section until I head out. Then
on my way west I’ll detour down to Kansas City, rent a motel room
for three weeks on my own credit card, and go on up to Montana to
do the job. I'll have an alibi for where I was when he gets
hit.”

“I’m glad this is a plan for you Clay,
because you wouldn’t get me out in those damn mountains by myself
on something like you’re describing. You’ve got balls kid. Just be
careful and don’t get yourself killed up there.”

Three weeks later Clay drove into Polson
Montana on his way to Polebridge. He had been staying in motels and
paying cash along the way but would switch to camping when he left
in the morning. His driver’s license identified him as William A.
Scones, from San Francisco, California. His two year old, white,
three quarter ton, four wheel drive Ford truck had been stolen in
Pennsylvania and carried Iowa plates. A camper shell over the bed
would provide his next night’s lodging as he approached the
Canadian border. The truck had new mud/snow tires, and food and
water for two weeks had been bought and packed, just in case there
were unanticipated problems and delays.

The next morning he got up early and was
driving north on Highway 93 before six thirty, on two inches of
fresh snow. Light to heavy snowfall continued all morning to
Kalispell where he fueled up with diesel and turned east on Highway
2 for sixteen miles. At Columbia Falls he manually locked the
truck's front hubs and turned north on County Road 486. The dirt
and gravel road was completely snow covered. Old snow was packed
hard, making a solid surface to drive on, and the fresh snow simply
slowed him down. On both sides of the road there was evidence snow
plows had hit the back road intermittently, probably only when
heavy snow fell. Running in four wheel drive he pushed the truck up
past thirty mile an hour and felt comfortable in the handling on
the treacherous surface.

He had never been as deep into mountainous
terrain as the back roads of Montana drew him. The view from every
rise in the road was more thrilling than the last until his
amazement finally ran out. Instead of thinking nothing could be
more beautiful than the present panoramic view, he began to
anticipate what lay ahead and expected it to be even more
exciting.

Since leaving Columbia Falls he had been
looking at the Whitehead mountain range on his right and the
Flathead National Forest to his left. On the east side of the road
the North Fork of the Flat Head River could be seen, the surface
frozen from bank to bank in the ten degree temperature.

By the time he passed through the tiny town
of Polebridge the snow had accumulated to eight inches thick, and
deeper where drifted by the wind. Numerous times he had been forced
to stop and knock packed snow out of the trucks grille, away from
the radiator.

Nine miles north of town he found a scenic
pull off parking area the snow plows had cleared before turning
around and heading back toward town. The stop provided a breath
taking view of 10,000 foot high Mt. Kintla and he supposed the area
would be full of tourist in the summer. The area had a slight
upward slope and he backed the truck and small trailer as far up
into the packed snow as he dared, hoping the slight grade would
help him get back out. The road ahead had not been plowed since the
start of the winter season; who but he would want to go any further
toward the Canadian border in the dead of winter.

He ran the snow mobile off the trailer and
secured the equipment he would take, except for the rifle. Before
dark he used a propane stove to warm food bought in Poison the
evening before, and sat in the truck cab where it was warm and ate.
A weather forecast predicted the next three days to have a thirty
percent chance of light snow flurries with temperatures ranging
from highs of twenty degrees to lows of minus ten. Fog was to be
dominant in the morning, with overcast skies but allowing for the
slight possibility of sunshine late on the third afternoon. To the
west a storm was brewing and in four or five days it could dump a
foot or more of new snow. Afterward, while watching the sun
disappear, he sipped a half glass of bourbon before shutting off
the diesel engine, and then crawled into his sleeping bag inside
the camper shell. There was nothing else to do in the dark but
sleep. But, before dozing off, he spent several hours reviewing his
preparation as well as thinking about a tentative plan for the
upcoming days. So far everything was proceeding satisfactorily.

The white snow mobile and trailer had been
bought for cash with fake identification different from the name
used to rent motel rooms en route to Montana. The arctic gear he
would wear had been special ordered out of New York for him; the
Rhinelander dealer didn’t stock white. From the dealers stock he
had selected a second set in navy blue. The equipment dealer had
also suggested he should think about installing twin heavy duty
batteries and electric block heaters in his truck if he was
intending to stay long in cold weather spots; so he did. While the
truck was in a mechanic friend’s garage he also had a second diesel
fuel tank installed to double the fuel capacity. Before leaving
Chicago the truck, machine and trailer had been washed and every
inch wiped down. Since leaving he had not touched any of his
equipment without wearing gloves. Even the $200 Canadian money he
had picked up at a bank in Billings had been wiped down with a damp
rag to remove prints. Only in the sleeping bag did he remove the
brown jerseys covering his hands. Dried and concentrated food and
supplies for his Canada run had been bought in Kansas; each
individual item had been washed and wiped to remove all prints
before being stored in the truck. If the job turned out bad he
didn’t need authorities to pick up a store clerks fingerprints who
might possibly remember him. Nothing could be traced back to him.
Even the illicit guns had been disassembled and wiped clean, and
all ammunition wiped down.