The Ambitious City (31 page)

MacNeice wasn’t listening. He remained focused on the open door ahead.

“Vertesi, check the back way out of here. If it’s open, stand by. If it’s locked, come back here and take cover.” Vertesi drew his weapon and ran to the rear of the building, trying to figure out what had set off MacNeice.

“Take the safety off your sidearm, Montile, and stay to the left, behind the sliding door. Don’t show yourself till you have to.”

They walked slowly towards the entrance. Williams held his weapon in front of him with both hands as if he were about to make a chip shot with a nine iron.

The afternoon sun cut an angled shaft deep into the barn; cluster flies flew in spiralling circles, chasing the tiny specks of dust floating harmlessly in the light. As he stepped out of the shadow, MacNeice raised his hand and Williams stopped moving. He struggled to hear what MacNeice was hearing, but apart from cicadas and a crow calling somewhere in the distance, he couldn’t make out a thing.

As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, MacNeice called out, “Wenzel, let me hear you.”

Wenzel didn’t respond. MacNeice looked over to Aziz, who had her Glock drawn and her cellphone in the other hand. Pointing to the wall beside the door, MacNeice said softly to Williams, “Over there.” Once he was in position, MacNeice took several deep breaths, raised his own weapon and approached the door from the left.

The first man he saw had a chrome-plated pistol tucked into his belt. He smiled at MacNeice and casually urged the detective forward with his index finger. Beside him stood a mountain of a man with a shotgun levelled in MacNeice’s direction. Both of them were in black; the one with the pistol wore tight black leather pants with small silver disks on the outside seam, in the style of a Mexican desperado. He was short, slender and good-looking.

“Come,
monsieur
, join the party. Be smart, now, and drop the gun.”

“I don’t think so,” MacNeice said. “But I’d be grateful if your friend dropped his.”

“Bruni? No, no, that’s not going to happen. But come, come—you’ll reconsider, I think so.”

MacNeice kept his weapon pointed at the first man as he stepped further into the sun. To his left, in front of the barn, Wenzel was on his knees. Beside him was the uniform from the cruiser, a gag in his mouth. Two more men held shotguns to their heads.

“Now—the weapon?”

“No, I insist your men drop theirs.”

“
Ah, oui?
” He took out his shiny pistol and fired at the uniform, hitting him in the thigh. As the cop fell sideways with a muffled scream, the shooter looked back at MacNeice. “My name is Frédéric—it’s French. Will you reconsider,
monsieur
?”

From somewhere in the barn they heard a tinkling melody—Ravel’s
Bolero
. MacNeice could hear Williams fumbling for his phone, but the music repeated twice before it stopped. MacNeice shrugged. Frédéric, who was shaking his head at the absurdity of it, said, “Shit
merde
, I hate that piece. Stupid music, stupid movie too, eh? I joke, but … tell that fool to come out here.”

“Williams, come on out. Train your weapon on the big guy.”

Williams came around the corner trying not to look embarrassed. He stood several feet away from MacNeice and levelled his weapon on the centre of the big man’s chest.

“What do you want, Frédéric?” MacNeice asked.

“What do I want? What do I want?” He glanced at Bruni and shrugged. “You and your friends are on my property, and this”—he pointed his weapon at Wenzel—“this … Maple Leaf, I think he’s not with you, am I right?”

“Wrong.”

“He’s a
mouchard
—a rat, I think. Yes, I think so. A rat. Do you know what we do with rats in Montréal?”

“I can’t imagine. You realize there are more of us here, Frédéric?”

“I know. I know they’re calling for the SWAT team, but this will be over before they arrive.”

“So far you haven’t killed anyone. Don’t start now.”

“
Monsieur
, the rat must die.
Alors
, fire that thing or put it down.”

MacNeice took two more steps towards Frédéric. “Drop your weapon, and tell your friends to do the same.”

Williams wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but he stepped towards the big man, certain that with the size of him at least he couldn’t miss, wishing at the same time he was holding something with more punch than his standard issue.

“You are amusing. First, I’m going to deal with this Maple Leaf rat—they spread disease, you know.” He walked over to Wenzel, put the barrel against the kid’s head and pulled back the hammer. “Bruni,
s’il vous plaît, fais le compte—à partir de trois
.”

“I will stop you before he gets to one, Frédéric. Don’t do it.” MacNeice took another step towards him and held his weapon with both hands.

“
Oui
, maybe yes—and Bruni will stop you. Are you ready to die,
monsieur
?”

“Why would you risk a life sentence when you can stand down now?”

“This property is
énorme
. We will be gone but you, sadly, will stay.”

“Mr. MacNeice, sir, please don’t let him do this, please.” Wenzel was crying, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Ah,
splendide, mes amis
, this is Monsieur MacNeice. I must say, though, I’m not impressed.” He looked at his watch, buried in the middle of a heavy black leather band. “
Alors
, no more talk. Say
au revoir au petit mouchard
. Bruni, from three.”

“
Trois
 …” The mountain’s voice was so high-pitched that if you
weren’t looking at him, you’d swear he was female.

Frédéric looked down at Wenzel, who was whimpering, drool spilling from his lip into the dirt. He was whispering, “No, please, sir, don’t …”

“
Deux
 …”

MacNeice steadied his weapon, pointed at Frédéric’s head and started walking towards him. “Put it down, Frédéric, put it down now.” Bruni followed him with the shotgun, the barrel levelled at his midsection.

“
Un
 …”

Frédéric turned towards MacNeice, smiled and opened his mouth to say something when his face exploded, spraying flesh, blood, hair, bone and brain matter all over Wenzel and the exterior wall of the barn. His body pitched forward violently, knocking Wenzel onto his back. Bruni swung around to fire at the attacker, and seeing no one, turned back—but it was too late. Williams’s shot slammed into his chest. Dazed, the big man staggered backwards with the shotgun raised. Williams fired again, hitting him in the chin, snapping his head back. Bruni slammed down hard on the pavement. The biker who had been covering the wounded cop ran for the farmhouse, while the other one crouched at the corner of the barn as if he was still trying to spot the first shooter. MacNeice moved quickly towards him, stepping over Frédéric’s legs.

“Lay it down—it’s over.”

The biker hesitated, then slowly placed the shotgun on the ground. MacNeice kicked the piece away and said, “On your stomach, hands behind your back. Don’t move.”

Vertesi came racing around the side of the building, heading towards the farmhouse, weapon in hand. Aziz appeared at the barn door and, spotting Vertesi, yelled, “Michael, where are you going?”

“I’ve got him.” Vertesi leapt up onto the porch and disappeared into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

“Aziz, cuff this one. Take care of the uniform and Wenzel.”

Williams was taking the shotgun from Bruni’s hand when MacNeice tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to the farmhouse. He and Williams ran to the door. Once inside they stopped and listened—it was dead quiet.

Williams pointed upstairs and MacNeice grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said softly, putting his hand to his ear. “Listen.”

There was a faint rumbling of footfalls moving fast.

What the fuck?
Williams mouthed the words.

MacNeice’s eyes widened. “There’s a tunnel!”

They tore down the stairs. In the basement they listened again: the rumbling was coming from the rear of the house. They rushed into the back room and saw a heavy oak shelving unit full of preserves; it had been pulled away from the wall. Behind it an open steel door revealed a concrete tunnel with caged lights set at intervals along the ceiling. They took off running and were just approaching a dogleg turn when three loud shots echoed towards them. The first was from a shotgun, the other two from a sidearm. Pellets from the shotgun ricocheted off the wall ahead of them and rattled menacingly towards them on the floor.

As they turned the corner, an acrid smell filled the air. A hundred yards in the distance they could see two bodies. “Fuck!” Williams shouted and began running faster, easily pulling away from MacNeice. “Vertesi, you crazy motherfucker, you better be alive!”

MacNeice was out of breath when he reached them. Williams was squatting beside Vertesi. Beyond them there seemed to be blood everywhere, but none on Vertesi.

“He’s deaf, boss. He can’t hear a thing,” Williams said.

MacNeice looked at Vertesi, who smiled that little-kid smile all the women loved and most men envied. MacNeice patted him hard on the shoulder and looked up the tunnel.

The fourth biker was lying dead on his back in a pool of blood. The shotgun was behind him in the middle of the floor.

“Take Vertesi back. I’m going to follow this tunnel to the end.” He stepped over the biker, avoiding the blood. It was another hundred yards or so before he reached a steel door with a small peekaboo cover and grate. He slid the cover aside and looked out into forest. Pulling the bolt, he stepped outside with his weapon drawn. The four bikes were parked in a shallow gully surrounded by trees. Only a narrow path leading up to the road could possibly give it away, and it was obscured by brush. MacNeice walked up to the road and looked back towards the farmhouse. It had to be a quarter-mile away.

Things had happened so fast he hadn’t thought about the shot that killed Frédéric until now. He hadn’t heard it, not even a delayed, muffled
pop
. MacNeice walked along the perimeter of the chain-link fence until the meadow sank and he could see the first barn to the right of the house. As he tried to recall the angle, he could see uniformed figures running back and forth, several cruisers, ambulances, two firetrucks and a SWAT van in the driveway; he hadn’t even heard them arrive. He could still make out where Frédéric had fallen.

Walking further along the road, he looked for fresh tire tracks on the mud and gravel shoulder. Fifty yards on, he found them. The vehicle had pulled into an old, tire-rutted driveway used to stack firewood and fallen timber from the property. He looked at the tread marks, pushed his fingers into their zigzag grooves—they were still moist. He stood between the tracks trying to picture the vehicle. They were too wide for a sedan.
It must have been an SUV
, he thought. There were no footprints near the tracks, no broken twigs or disturbed leaves.
Light-footed
, he thought, as he crossed the road.

MacNeice began working out the geometry. The distance to the
barn had to be more than six hundred yards. He looked down in the ditch for evidence of a shooter: depressed weeds, scuffed dirt, a fresh shoe or boot print. He was about to retrace his footsteps when he spotted something standing on the edge of the road like a tiny soldier. MacNeice squatted and looked closely at the narrow two-and-a-half-inch brass shell. Inside, the shooter had placed a tiny yellow buttercup, taken from a clump growing in the nearby ditch. Within a second of Frédéric’s head exploding he’d thought he’d figured out who the shooter was—now he was certain. Putting on a latex glove, MacNeice picked up the shell and nestled it inside the second glove, then slipped both into his pocket and walked back along the road towards the farm.

He found Vertesi sitting on the steps of the farmhouse. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, sir, I’m okay now—just big-time ringing in my ears.”

“Good work back there. But why did you take off alone?”

“With respect, boss, you went out there with nothing but a handgun.”

“I thought I could talk him out of it—I was mistaken. That tunnel was his insurance, the reason for his bravado. We would have been six dead people, and no suspects.”

“Swets is on his way. He couldn’t believe he missed the show. When I told him there was a tunnel, he asked where it was, and when I told him it was behind the preserves in the basement, you know what he said?”

“No.”

“Palmer polished off three Mason jars of peaches over the two weeks they were bunked down here, and he never noticed it.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said he was probably on his cellphone all the time.” Palmer was notorious for conducting the business of his romantic life while on the job. “But I also pointed out that you couldn’t spot it even if
you were standing in front of it. I only found it because the guy didn’t take the time to close it behind him.”

“How’s the young cop?”

“He’s gonna be fine—the bullet tore through the muscle on the outside of his thigh. He’s embarrassed that he fell asleep in the cruiser. Frédéric actually tapped on his window with that chrome piece of his.”

“What’s his name?”

“Tyler Wosniac, third year on the force.”

“He won’t make that mistake again. Have you got your cellphone?”

“Yessir.”

“Do you have Sue-Ellen’s phone number on there?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Call her.”

“Like right now?”

“Right now.”

MacNeice sat down on one of the chairs that had been retrieved from the barn and watched as Vertesi punched in the call. “Hello, Sue-Ellen, it’s Michael Vertesi. The boss wants to—” MacNeice was waving at him to stop. “Sorry, Sue-Ellen, just a second.” He cupped the phone in his hand and looked at MacNeice. “What should I say?”

“Ask if her brother has shipped out. If he didn’t, I want to leave him a message.”

“He was supposed to go this morning, wasn’t he?”

“I know. Just ask the question.”

Vertesi asked. His eyes widened as he heard the answer; he shook his head and mouthed
no
at MacNeice.