The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel (7 page)

“You
ask a lot of questions,” I replied. “Just shut up, wait and you’ll see soon
enough.”

We
rode the short distance remaining in silence and were soon on the site of the
future Montreal Island Golf Club near the eastern tip of the island.
Construction had begun but was in the early stages with the opening of the
first of two courses planned for 1998, in two years’ time. From a recent visit,
I knew that security was non-existent which meant there would be nobody around
for miles, barring traffic on
Autoroute
40 some
distance from the location I had selected. I parked the car facing north, away
from the highway, and turned off the engine but left the headlights on because
I needed to see and it was dark.

“We’re
here,” I announced.

“Now
what?” Birks asked, his tone shaky, not surprising considering he figured
things weren’t looking up for him.

“Now,
we’re going to get out,” I replied before opening the door and getting out.

I
went around the car and opened the passenger side door then crouched down and
sliced the tape which secured his right ankle to the seat brace.

“You
can stretch your legs now,” I said as returned his seat to the upright
position.

Moving
to the rear door, I pulled it open and, with a couple more strategic cuts, the
tape holding Birks head and arms to the head rest was no longer an issue.

“Okay,
you can get out now,” I said as I slammed the rear door shut.

“No,
I can’t, goddamn it,” he whined. “I’m still fucking taped.”

Reaching
in behind the head rest, I got hold of one end of the cut tape and yanked it,
taking some of his hair out as well.

“Jesus,
are you crazy?” he shrieked as he struggled, successfully freeing himself. “You
ripped my fucking hair out.”

I
reached into the car, grabbed the front of his denim jacket, yanked him out and
slammed his back against the closed rear door before slapping him on the side
of the head.

“You
have memory problems, buddy?” I asked as I stepped back. “Didn’t I tell you to
watch your mouth when you’re talking to me?”

“Yeah,
yeah you did,” he replied, whining again as he rubbed the side of his head on
his shoulder, “But that hurt like a bitch.”

“I
thought you were a tough guy,” I replied. “Big tough guy who goes around
killing innocent, pregnant women.”

“Aw,
come on, you said that already,” he argued, “And it only happened once.”

“That’s
right,” I agreed, “But once too many.”

“Look,
I’m sorry but it was an accident,” Birks replied. “What’s done is done. You can’t
bring the lady back and, anyhow, they said on the news she died like, instantly,
so she didn’t suffer or nothing.”

I
stared at Birks for a moment then took another step back as I pulled out the
revolver and aimed it at his face.

“Holy
shit,” he exclaimed, raising his taped hands up in defense then relaxing a bit.
“Aw, crap, that just a BB gun, you bastard.”

“Pellets,
actually,” I replied. “Powered with compressed CO2.”

“You
fucking kidnapped me with a pellet gun?” he stated more than asked.

I
responded by pulling the trigger and shooting him in the face, just below the
right cheekbone. He howled in pain as he grasped his face as best he could then
stared at me with panic in his eyes as he noted he was bleeding.

“What’s
the matter?” I asked as I shot him again, this time in the shoulder. “It’s just
a pellet gun. You said so yourself though the manufacturer does specify that
this is not a toy. Did you know that those pellets shoot out at four hundred
thirty-five feet per second? That’s almost two hundred ninety-seven miles per
hour. Pretty impressive if you ask me, even though it’s just a pellet gun.”

“You’re
crazy, man,” he shrieked. “You broke some fucking teeth.”

“Aw,
damn,” I replied as I shot him in the ribs, causing him to gasp, tense up then
fall to the ground.

“So,
not so cool to get shot at?” I asked as I yanked him back up to his feet and
leaned him up against the car again. “Even with a pellet gun?”

“What
do you want from me?” he sobbed. “Why are you doing this?”

“If
you still don’t understand why I’m doing this, you’re a sadder bastard than I
thought,” I said. “As for what I want from you, it’s simple… retribution,
payback, the punishment to fit the crime.”

“So,
you’re just
gonna
kill me?” he asked, his voice
quavering in pain and fear. “You’re no better than I am.”

“Get
out of here,” I said.

“W-what?”
he asked, not comprehending.

I
gestured to the north, away from the highway and said, “Go. Get away from me.”

“I’m
all taped up, man,” he whined. “How can I go anywhere?”

I
nudged his foot with mine and said, “You’ve got some loose there. You can’t run
but you can certainly walk. Move.”

He
glanced at me then started shuffling away, as quickly as his duct tape shackles
allowed him to go. When he had gone about ten feet, I shot him in the back and
he went down with a moan. I walked up closer and fired the two remaining
pellets at him then holstered the gun and pulled out my knife.

My
dealing with Birks the previous Thursday had gotten me another headline with
Henderson at the
Gazette
, a front
page spread in the Saturday edition, in fact, which covered what details were
known, a recap of the
Vigilante
murders to date and the highlights of Lieutenant Dave McCall’s press conference
held late Friday afternoon. Montreal’s top murder cop clearly recognized he had
a serial killer on his hands, he obviously didn’t like it, even if the victims
were all scum, and he promised the public that resolution in the ongoing case
would soon be the final chapter.

I
felt for the guy and wished I could help him. In fact, I was, in my own way,
though he obviously didn’t share my opinion. I’m sure he would have preferred
that I turn myself in or, at the very least, cease my activities but I had my
things to do with an established schedule to respect. As they say, you can’t
please everyone.

Next
on my ‘to do’ list was
Ghislain
Blouin
.
I had mentioned earlier that among the more horrendous crimes was home
invasion. However, there are few crimes, if any, more despicable than those
which involve the abuse or exploitation of children. For an adult to take
advantage or prey on others incapable of defending themselves because of their
lesser size, physical and mental capabilities makes me sick to the core with
anger. Anyone who seeks to personally benefit at the expense of children, for
personal gratification or any type of gain, deserves a punishment more severe than
death itself.

Succinctly
stated, fifty-two year old
Blouin
was a pedophile, a
child pornographer and a killer. Not only had he satisfied his sick thrills on
countless occasions, he had also filmed some of these activities and
subsequently distributed them for financial gain as technology had permitted
him to do so. Though he had been arrested and even served six months of prison
time for indecent exposure and soliciting juveniles, the authorities and the
courts had never succeeded in proving his guilt for his more serious, hideous
aberrations of human life.

The
molestations he was responsible for which he himself had documented in video
format, their distribution through illegal networks of child porn, the
sickening harm and trauma he had instigated… he had never had to pay for. At
least four of these children had gone missing, never found, which acquaintances
had sworn had been videotaped in his home, based on decor, wall colors,
furniture and so on… Walls had been repainted, even wallpapered, furniture
changed, paintings discarded and replaced… Just to hide what had happened.

The
court’s decision had been one of ‘not guilty’, due to lack of sufficient
evidence. Some of his neighbours, seated in the courtroom audience, had
screamed revolt… They had seen these children on several occasions, two girls
and two boys, aged from seven to ten, at
Blouin’s
previous home in the North Shore town of
Legardeur
,
before their disappearance. The judge, a man encompassed by the letter of the
law, had threatened to clear the court and arrest all malfeasants at this
outcry then dismissed the case.

I
had seen those four children… countless times on milk cartons on our breakfast
table every morning… My wife, bless her heart to this day, had even offered to
empty the milk cartons into a plastic pitcher so I wouldn’t have to see them
daily, but I had said no, those photos were there for a reason… She had understood
and told me she agreed, then never brought it up again.

As
a registered pedophile without employment, a bit of difficulty had ensued at first
to find himself lodgings upon leaving prison for his lesser wrongdoings.
However, with the help of the law and a government subsidy,
Blouin
had managed to rent himself living quarters in the form of an upper duplex
townhouse in an east-end sector of Montreal, at the end of a cul-de-sac along
the train tracks. It worked for him, a relatively comfortable apartment with
government assistance, away from the limelight and the media. In terms of
location, it definitely worked for me.

Access
to information via computer systems, thanks to my day job, was a big help. Just
as I could get into police and court records to conduct required research, I
could also find other bits of useful information. For example, thanks to postal
records, I knew that the lower level of the duplex
Blouin
lived in was currently unoccupied because all mail to its occupants was being
forwarded to another address until early June. A couple of visits, for
additional confirmation, had resulted in no answers to my calls and visual
scans through windows had left me with the comfortable impression that nobody
was currently living there.

A
good old-fashion
For Rent - Immediate
Occupancy
sign on the upper balcony of the neighbouring attached building
told me nobody presently resided across the wall from
Blouin’s
apartment as well. With a bit of digging, I had discovered that the owner, who
lived in the lower level, was an elderly widow who was brimming with health
with the exception of a hearing deficiency. Things were definitely looking good
from my perspective.

I’ve
mentioned before that humans are creatures of habit and, though
Blouin
barely qualified as human in my book, he did share
sufficient traits, including the habit thing. From observation, I had noted
that his routine included going for a walk in the early evening, generally from
about seven to eight, before settling in for whatever he occupied his time with
in private. A visit or two to his apartment in his absence had made it clear to
me that he had not lost his addiction to child pornography, unless he kept his
collection of illicit video cassettes solely for nostalgic purposes. A little
past surveillance from the outside once he returned had allowed me to see the
familiar bluish-white glare televisions emit so my guess was the tube was his
thing in the evening.

Shortly
after he left for his evening stroll, I entered his home – people really should
get better locks for their doors – and prepared for his return, which was
really rather simple. First, I hammered a six inch nail, right behind the
sliding door in the kitchen through the bottom track, leaving a couple of
inches sticking out to serve as a stopper. No way he’d get out through there
unless he smashed through the glass
 
Next, I went about the apartment, scattering my props as I went, on the
kitchen table and counter, a couple on the bed and dresser, a few more in the
living room, on the couch, the centre table and the recliner. “What are these
props?” you ask? Let me tell you.

You
may remember the milk cartons I mentioned earlier. Rather than discarding them
once empty, I had rinsed and saved them, specifically the ones with the photos
of those four missing children from
Legardeur
who had
met their fate at the hand of
Ghislain
Blouin
. I had ended up with about three dozen which I had
preciously safeguarded for my moment with their killer. I had known I would
eventually deal with him and wanted the faces of those children to be that last
thing emblazoned in his mind before he went to hell. I admit that I can be a
little twisted… Anyhow…

My
stage set, I settled into a small room which
Blouin
had furnished as a reading spot or sitting area and waited for his return,
keeping track of time as he usually didn’t deviate from his routine. Tonight
was no exception. I heard the front door open and close, followed by his
footsteps as he climbed the long staircase leading to his apartment. He wasn’t
a big or heavy man, maybe five-seven and a hundred sixty pounds but he walked
with a heavy step which made it easy for me to track his approach.

At
the top of the stairs, he headed towards the back along the hallway to where
the kitchen and bedroom were, walking right past the spare room where I was
hiding in wait. A moment of silence ensued followed by an unintelligible
muttering though the tone conveyed confusion and shock. Time to get busy…

I
left the spare room and headed toward the back of the apartment, just catching
a glimpse of him as he hurried out of the now lit bedroom and into the kitchen.

“What
is this?” he questioned aloud in French, obviously referring to my milk
cartons.

I
reached the entrance to the kitchen to find him standing near the counter, a
milk carton in each hand, staring at them, stupefied.

“You’re
not saying you don’t remember them, right?” I asked softly.

He
spun around toward me, dropping both cartons to the floor as he clutched his
chest with one hand.

“W-what
the… Who are you?” he gasped, staring at me with eyes wide open in fear.

“I’m
your worst nightmare,” I replied then grinned. “Damn, I’ve always wanted to say
that.”

“W-what
are you doing in here?” he demanded, not catching my Rambo humour. “Y-you have
no right to be here. This is my home.”

“Well,
if you want to get down to business, fine,” I said with a frown. “Answer my
damned question.”

“W-what
question?” he asked in return, still frozen in shock.

“I
asked you if you were saying you didn’t remember them,” I replied.

“Remember
who?” he asked.

“The
children on the milk cartons,
Ghislain
,” I almost
whispered. “The four children who disappeared because of you.”

“W-what
is this?” he repeated. “Why are you here? Who are you?”

“Answer
my question,” I demanded. “Do you remember them or not? I suggest you give me
the right answer.”

“Look,
whoever you are, you just better get out of here,” he said, failing to get the
shake out of his tone. As he spoke, he took a subtle step back and dropped his
right arm, not only to the side but back a little, towards the countertop
behind him.

“The
knife block is empty,” I said conversationally. “Did you think I’d leave all
those sharp blades around so you could attack me with them?”

He
stared at me then turned to look at the knife block behind him. Empty, just
like I’d said. He turned back and suddenly sprinted forward directly at me. In
the time it took him to cover the six or so feet which separated us, I was able
to note that he intended to try to head butt me in the chest or stomach area so
I raised a knee at the appropriate moment and broke his nose, not to mention
sent him flipping in the opposite direction to land flat on his back. He unfortunately
also banged his head pretty hard on the floor when he landed. Fortunately,
there currently were no neighbours downstairs.

I
helped him up, whether he wanted me to or not, and guided/dragged him along the
hallway to the living room. Once there, since it was his home, I let him have
the recliner and dropped him into it. I didn’t care about him crumpling the
milk cartons I’d left there. He had seen my props.

“Where
are they?” I asked.

He
tried to laugh in derision but it hurt because of the broken nose so he just
kind of snorted then winced.

“Where
are they?” I asked again.

“Who?”
he asked in return, taking the dummy approach but only succeeding in annoying
me.

I
stared at him for a long moment then took a step toward the couch and picked up
one of the cartons I’d left there. One of the girls, the youngest of his
victims. I stepped back closer to him as I looked at the photo on the carton
then leaned toward him, bringing the carton forward until it was six inches
from his face.

“Let’s
start with her,” I said. “Where is she?”

“I
don’t know,” he answered softly as he gazed at the young girl’s face. “She sure
was a cutie. Was she never found?”

I
crushed the carton into his face, pretty hard, not really impressed by his gasp
of pain, you know, because of the already broken nose then backhanded him,
knocking him askew in the recliner. Grabbing the front of his shirt, I pulled
him toward me then shoved him back, centred in his comfortable chair. I picked
up another milk carton from the centre table by my side, one of the boys this
time, and held it up for his viewing.

“Let’s
try with another,” I suggested, “But I want you to keep in mind that you
will
tell me where they are, all of
them.”

He
looked at me, trying to gauge where this might end and finally sighed and said,
“You’re going to kill me. We both know it and we both know I can’t stop you. If
that’s the case, why should I tell you anything? It won’t change anything for
me so why should I care?”

“Those
four children will never get to experience life and its pleasures,” I replied, “Because
you ended their lives to cover up your having abused them for your own sick
pleasure. They deserve a proper resting place. Their families deserve, at the
very least, some closure. That’s why you should tell me.”

He
looked pensive for a moment then turned to me with a faint smile. “Very nicely
said, touching, in fact, but, in the end, it still changes nothing for me.
Sorry.”