Messenger of Death (29 page)

The obvious
choice for the drive was his beloved Harley Davidson. The warm day,
the cloudless sky, and the light breeze were very inviting. Claude
put on jeans, hopped on the bike, and drove away. Once outside the
city, the rural scenery of the country, the air blowing in his
face, and the feeling of freedom known only to motorcycle riders
and flying birds eased his anxiety. With no cars or humans in
sight, he let the engine roar with its full might. The sun glowed
directly above his head, throwing no shadows from the trees on
either side of the road. Brightly lit pastures, stables, and
farmhouses, scattered great distances one from another, flew past
him in pleasant but monotonous succession. He arrived at the
meeting point fifteen minutes early and found it to be a farm,
plunged into a state of afternoon drowsiness. A gravel road led him
through a collection of retired and dirty farm machinery, scattered
like a rusty scrap yard, and up to a farmhouse. Farther, behind the
house, was a big barn, its large doors looming open. Claude pulled
up close to them and turned his engine off. The sudden silence of
this remote, uninhabited place alerted him—this would be a perfect
place for murder, he thought. Nobody would hear any cry for
help.

With cautious
steps, he walked slowly toward the barn entrance, the gravel under
his feet protesting with grinding crunches. Inside, he stopped and
listened. It was pleasantly cool, and the afternoon sunlight
slanted through the opening behind him, making the shady space
beyond seem darker than it really was. A voice from the depth of
the barn startled him.

“Come in.”

Claude
nervously reached for the gun stashed under his jacket, but
withdrew an empty hand with the same impulsive jerk. Turning to
where the voice had come from, he saw Marcel sitting on a long
wooden box, dressed in a leather suit, but with no club insignia.
He was rolling a joint.

“Sit down.”
Marcel nodded to the place beside him.

“Some work to
do?” Claude asked, settling on the box and smiling. Marcel
stretched his lips tight in a contemptuous grimace.

“Last fall, a
dealer in Ontario was killed.” Marcel fixed his eyes upon
Claude.

Claude’s heart
began pounding, defying any effort to control its beat.

“We found out
that Stash wanted to collect on the guy’s debt to the Vandals. You
killed him?”

Lying to Marcel
meant a certain death penalty.

“Yes.”

“Did you know
that the brother of this dealer was a full patch in B.C.?”

“Gosh,” Claude
exclaimed, pretending great surprise. “I had no idea.”

He quickly
reran the events of the hit in his memory. Only the dealer had told
him about his brother being a full patch Devil’s Knight. There was
no witness to that.

“I’ve been
watching Stash for the last year or so,” Marcel continued. “He puts
all his money up his nose. Often, he couldn’t even pay his
membership fees. I never thought, however, that he’d go so far as
to collect debts from our own people. Enough is enough.”

A silent
exchange of sharp looks followed. Claude nodded, waiting for
instructions—on how to execute the death sentence.

“You’ve been
friends lately, the two of you,” Marcel started.

“I don’t give a
fuck,” Claude growled. “If I’d known the truth, I’d have told you
right away. Son of a bitch wanted me to be a scapegoat.”

Marcel shrugged
his shoulders.

“It’s hard to
keep a tight leash on a pack of wild wolves. Anyone’s free to leave
the club. There’s nothing wrong with that. But one cannot be in the
club and not obey its rules.”

It was unusual
for Marcel to explain his point of view.

“I agree with
you,” Claude told him.

“The dealer’s
brother is in an active search for the killer,” Marcel kept
talking. “It’s better to finish with Stash before they find you
out. Stash, in his current state of mind, would spill the beans. I
don’t want to lose you.”

“But Stash has
a brother who is a Prospect in Nova Scotia,” Claude cautiously
remarked. He was sure that there were other reasons to get rid of
Stash.

“That’s right.
We’ll let him know everything after the fact. He’ll understand.
Once a Devil’s Knight, one has to remain so ’til death.”

“How d’yah
wanna do this?” Claude asked.

“I’ll arrange
it for next Thursday, here, in this barn. Just between you and me,
I’ve suggested promoting you to Prospect. This is supposed to be a
surprise to you, but I have a reason for telling you sooner.
Everyone approved your candidacy, Stash included. At the meeting
next week, we’ll discuss a few things, full patches and selected
Prospects only. I know that Stash is planning to play golf that
day, so he’ll have his clubs with him. We will use them for
teaching him, and reminding all others, a lesson. Everyone has to
take part in it. You’ll start.”

Claude nodded.
Killing a full patch needed to be a collective decision and had to
be carried out as a group responsibility. Apparently all the
high-profile members had agreed about the action that would be
taken. By participating in the execution with them, even leading it
off, he would be admitted into their circle.

“The shovel’s
over there.” Marcel pointed his finger to the wall where a few
manual tools were arranged.

“The cornfield
behind the barn would be a good place for his grave. You won’t have
time to dig it next week, so go and do it now. No one from the farm
is around. I have to go. See you next Thursday.”

Marcel went
outside. The roar of his bike thundered from somewhere behind the
barn where Marcel had hidden it before Claude arrived. As the bike
moved past, the sound of its engine grew weaker and weaker, until
it died in the distance. The peace and quiet returned. Claude took
the shovel and went to dig the grave for his friend, the one man
who had guarded him so faithfully in the hospital.

IV

The following
Thursday was an ideal day for outdoor activities. Around the farm,
where the meeting was about to take place, nature seemed ready for
an afternoon nap. Without the gentlest breeze blowing, fresh green
leaves hung on their trees in drowsy immobility.

Even inside the
barn, where the bikers were gathering, it seemed everyone was in a
good mood. The place bustled with the sounds of friendly greetings
and lively conversations. The rattles of motorcycles rose from the
distance, growing louder and louder until they arrived and settled
into their own resting places. Only three members did not ride
their bikes: two came in cars, one in a pickup truck. A few of them
wore the club’s colors.

Stash came on a
bike, his golf bag attached to the rear seat as expected. Half a
day on a golf course, exposed to sun and fresh air, had brought a
trace of color to his wrinkled, swollen face.

“Glad to see
you,” he said to Claude, firmly shaking hands. “How are you these
days?”

“Getting
better.”

“I have a deal
for you, Claude. Could we meet next week?”

“Of course. No
sweat.”

Claude found
himself enjoying the unusual fun of having a friendly talk with
this high-ranking Devil’s Knight—who would be beaten into a bloody
mess with his own golf clubs within the hour.

“I had to shut
down my collection agency,” Stash was still talking. “The new laws
have given the police too much power. They came to me demanding
that I give them the list of my clients and debtors—since the
inception of the company! Lawyers would have cost me a fortune. I’m
thinking of running back to the States.”

“Good idea,”
Claude absently agreed. “It is getting pretty hot here.”

“Exactly. See
how many of us are missing? Dead or in jail . . . The police are
closing in on us. I was against this war with the Ghosts from the
outset. See how many new members we’ve taken in, in a rather short
time? We’re paying a heavy price.”

“Marcel said
that there was no way back.”

“He said,”
Stash nodded. “There’s more than one solution to this, I think.
What would be the good of a truce with the Ghosts after all of us
are wiped out? That’s what will happen eventually, believe me.
Well, most of us think that Marcel’s doing the right things. So, be
it. There will be no winners in this war, Claude, you’ll see. But,
enough of this crap. Marcel is calling everyone. Let’s go.”

Claude shrugged
his shoulders. There wasn’t much sense in arguing with a dead
man.

Inside the
barn, everyone settled down in a circle, sitting on whatever was
handy: wooden boxes, blocks of wood, or armfuls of hay spread on
the ground. The mob, it seemed, was in a relaxed, friendly mood.
The last splashes of conversations died when Marcel took the stage
and introduced the topics of discussion.

His main
concern was the amount of money that they needed to maintain
pressure on the Iron Ghosts. He requested, in fact, demanded, that
everyone contribute more than he had before, as all expenses
pertinent to the planning and executing of explosions and
killings—as well as the gathering of information on enemies, police
officials, businesses, and politicians—were growing faster than
anyone could have expected. Nobody objected, although a few bikers
complained that because of pressure from the Ghosts, their business
had shrunk, leaving them with almost nothing to live on.

Next, Marcel
suggested that they promote one of the biker’s gangs in northern
Quebec to Prospect status. They were doing very well, he
maintained, contributing money and soldiers to support the Devil’s
Knights in fighting the Iron Ghosts. He also suggested easing
restrictions for admission to the club, as they had recently seen
significant losses, some through deaths, some through
incarceration.

Claude looked
around the barn. He saw Techie sitting next to Marcel. Techie had
regarded every speaker with his cold, inquisitive eyes staring from
his unemotional, stony face. A few seats down was Stash, who had
apparently begun sensing that something was going to happen before
the meeting was done. He wiped sweat off his forehead with a
sleeve, his eyes jumping from face to face, looking in search of an
answer to his gruesome suspicions. But all the discussions were
conducted in a businesslike manner, nothing really stood out as
being unusual, and the meeting concluded within an hour, as
planned. A short break was announced, and a purr of conversations
filled the barn.

“Now . . .”
Marcel raised his voice above the noise of the crowd. “I have an
announcement to make—Good news. Claude is promoted to Prospect
status.”

The uproar of
congratulations pleased Claude immensely. Status in the gang was
very important to him. It meant he would have the companionship of
high-ranking members and the friendship of like-minded people
united by common goals, rules, and mentality. It meant recognition
of his wits, guts, and achievements. It meant business and money.
Everyone shook hands with him, gave him strong, manly hugs on the
shoulder, and spared a few words of praise.

“We’ll
celebrate this event at the Speaking Parrot bar tonight,” Marcel
added. “I’ve booked it until morning. Everything will be paid for:
broads, drinks, and food.”

Another uproar
of appreciation.

“One more
thing, before we go . . .” Marcel paused, allowing a feeling of
apprehension to descend over the mob.

“A question to
you, Stash—,” he paused again.

“We’ve
discovered that you helped to collect a debt from one of our own
people—a debt payable to the Vandals.” He was looking directly into
Stash’s eyes, waiting for a look of fear or panic to fill them.

“It seems that
you’ve even gone so far as to kill the Ontario dealer, whose
brother is one of our own full patches.”

Claude turned
his attention to a biker standing at the entrance to the barn. He
held the bag full of golf clubs.

“Debts must be
paid, Marcel, you know that. Our people shouldn’t be exempt.” Stash
wiped some sweat off his neck and looked around in search of
Claude. He didn’t see the biker at the entrance put the bag on the
ground and remove one of the clubs from it.

“So far as this
dealer is concerned . . . ,” Stash began, stopping mid-thought when
he found Claude, already standing behind him holding one of his
golf clubs in both hands.

When their eyes
met, Claude swept the club around, using the full force of his body
and arms. The air whistled under the pressure of the fast-moving
metal rod until the heavy end of the club landed on flesh with a
dull, somewhat wet sound. Stash collapsed, yelling in pain. Bikers
snatched up the remaining clubs and joined Claude in the execution.
Marcel and Techie did not participate: They only watched.

Stash was dead
in a few minutes, his head smashed. Claude produced a large garbage
bag, spread it on the ground, and, with the help of a few others,
slid the body inside it. Several of them carried Stash to his
grave, the grave that Claude had dug the week before. They threw
the corpse in, followed by the bag of golf clubs, and the grave was
quickly filled with soil, which was then smoothed level with the
surface around it. Someone loaded Stash’s bike onto the pickup
truck as bike engines roared to life. Soon, not a biker was left,
and the place returned to its native stillness and quiet.

Claude was
high, as if he had enjoyed a snort of cocaine, all the way back to
town in anticipation of being the center of attention through a
whole night of wild binging.

There was
nothing, he thought, that he would not do for the gang.

Chapter 8

I

Serge glanced
one last time at the photographs that were spread over his table.
He picked one up and placed it into a black leather binder he held.
As he did so, he looked over and noticed the hands on the clock
were pointing to 12:30. The door to his office opened just then and
Patrick came in.