August 1 1974 Montreal
The old hag dragged the two brothers a mile down Rue Saint-Sulpise to the Notre-Dame Cathedral, squawking at them incessantly. She would pause every so often to give either, or in some cases, both boys' ear a twist, and then lug them along further down the busy sidewalk.
Henri, the dumber and softer of the two, blubbered ceaselessly. As a result, he had received the bulk of her furor.
"…Grand mere, please…" he would begin, and then screech as the bitch gave his ear another twist. At least Gil had the sense to suffer in shamed silence. The old bat had caught them, they had whipped her into a righteous fury, and were going to suffer by her hand.
She battered her way past a gaggle of tourists, using her ruby faced grandchildren as soft bludgeons. A young priest with a widow's peak and double-chin stepped forward to intercept. His pouchy eyes navigated from the two boys, to her rosary beads, from the small gold crucifix around her neck, to the harsh face above it.
"Allo Madame."
"Pere." She genuflected and pinched their collars, brushing past the puzzled cleric, force marching the boys into the dimly lit sanctuary. They were tugged past row after row of ornate wooden pews; above them, from every window, stained-glass saints cast judgement with their luminescent eyes.
They halted at the shrine to the Virgin Mary, who stood enormous over the trio. The bitch forced them to their knees, and even Henri was smart enough to shut up and make the sign of the cross.
She released them at last, in one hand her rosary, the other a crumpled wad of ones, twos and fives.
At the sight of the money Gil felt hot angry tears wet his cheeks. That was THEIR money, THEY had earned it. The stupid old hag had the gall to call them thieves; she was stealing from them
Henri choked back a sob as she stuffed the lot of it into the slot and started counting out matches. Fifty cents a match, one candle per match, one prayer per candle.
The old woman creaked down to her knees, and signed the cross.
"You two, pray with me."
To disobey would be suicide. Gil began mechanically droning Hail Marys, shamefaced, watching sixty two candles flicker in their blue glass votives around the Blessed Mother's feet. Henri stuttered along with the woman.
"…Holy Mary, mother of God…"
His face, red, probably bruised from the smacks he had received, was slick with tears. It radiated with a heat to match the small inferno they had purchased in exchange for their salvation.
"….Pray for us sinners, now, and in the hour of our death…"
His face hurt so bad; the old bitch would pay.
June 19 1998 Jordan Road
His face hurt. His whole body hurt, but it was his face that protested loudest. It was hot, slick, torture to make any type of expression at all. He cracked open one eye; the other was apparently swollen shut and refused do to anything but hurt like hell. Above him, a blurry crescent moon doubled, tripled, quadrupled, then doubled again.
-Oh Jesus! Oh shit, this hurts-
Gil knew better then to try to speak. His lower molars no longer lined up with the top, and his tongue felt like a swollen chunk of meat. He must have broken his jaw, or maybe dislocated it. Taking half breaths out of his imperfect mouth, he unfolded one of his arms and slowly snaked it up to his lacerated face.
-Okay good, chin is still there, lips are there, Nose is broken…Oh shit this HURTS!-
His face, swollen, bleeding profusely, and alarmingly numb on the left side, was more or less intact. Carefully, he turned his swimming head from side to side; it made a peculiar clicking sound but he still had a decent range of motion.
One arm, the other arm. Both legs were still attached and working, although his left knee was sending spasms of pain up into his pelvis. Gingerly he lifted himself up and got his bearings. His vision was off and his neck kept twitching and clicking, but he wasn't paralyzed. That was good.
He could see the Celebrity's single functioning tail light a few yards away. The car had landed right side up, though it looked more like a ball of aluminium foil. Had he taken a trip through the windshield? It would explain his face.
A liquid sounding laugh bubbled out of him. He had been thrown from a barrel-rolling car, and though he had rearranged his features and broken a few ribs, he had survived. The car hadn't crushed him, and if the wreck had pitched him any further, his brains would have been painted all over the thick tree trunk, less than a foot from his head.
-Lucky guy. Oh fuck this hurts! I think I'd rather be dead-
Ever so gently, he got to his feet, trying to maintain his balance with a bad knee and messed up gyros. His inner ear must be screwy, neither ear was bleeding though, a good sign. He took very deliberate steps, favouring his left knee, and made his way to the car. The battered Chevy's front end was crushed into a pile of rocks, like a snuffed out cigarette. Surprisingly the engine was still running, testament to General Motors' ruggedness. He groped over to the driver's compartment and fumbled for the handle. It seemed to be moving on it's own; he hoped that he didn't have any serious head injuries. After more effort than necessary he gave up and reached through the shattered window, killing the engine and remaining lights.
The Celebrity rested at the bottom of a steep drop off, eight feet or so below County Road 128. With the lights off it should be invisible to traffic, at least until daybreak. Using the car to steady himself, he made his way over to the passenger side. The windshield was still more or less in one piece, meaning he had been ejected from one of the side windows. How he had not brained himself on one of the door pillars, or been torn in half as the car rolled, remained a mystery to him.
- Just be glad you're a La Chance. Yeah lucky me, my head feels like a fucking beach-ball-
He pawed at the glove compartment; his gun had survived the experience. He had two bullets left, but with any luck he would only need to use one of them.
-Okay, time for a plan. Go up to the highway, flag down a car. Get rid of the driver and start putting some miles on. Hide the car and lay low all day, try to heal up a bit. OW! Careful with the ribs stupid! There's no way I'll make it to Quebec like this. Maybe I should cross into Saskatchewan? I wonder if Vince is still in Regina, I could shack up with him for a while-
It wasn't much of a plan, he knew that a lot could go wrong. He also wasn't pleased that it would mean at least one more dead body, but he needed a set of wheels and couldn't think of a way he could let the chump live and still make a clean break.
He tucked the knockoff .32 PPK into his back pocket and began picking his way up the embankment to the highway. His head throbbed; it kept tipping forward on his damaged neck muscles, and his broken ribs made every laboured breath a harrowing experience. At least his vision had cleared slightly.
-You should have stayed in Vancouver- Henri chided, the smug bastard.
It was raining again by the time he had made it to the road. The cold water further aggravated the long gashes in his scalp. He turned his mangled features up to the night sky. The moon had disappeared behind a curtain of clouds and it was darker that dark. How many hours of night did he have left? He would have to be on the other side of the city by daybreak. Hopefully someone would show soon. He doubted that he could stand for much longer.
Gil tucked his T-shirt behind the gun's handle and draped his jacket's tails over top. The .32 had bad range and low power. It was ideal for concealment and little else. He would have to get very close to make the shot count. There would be blood, he would be close enough to watch the person die. He would have one more dead body to add to the pile. He really sickened himself, at what he had become. Gil Lachance, the drug dealer, the thief, the murderer. He should just give up. Washington didn't have the death penalty; the cops would fix his face up. No more running, no more killing.
-Just the rest of your life in a chicken coop- Henri said. -Do you want that?-
No he didn't want that.
Something grabbed at his attention: a groan, low and pained and muted. It came from further down the road.
-The guy!-
How could he have forgotten about the drunk he had hit? He heard the groan again, and the snap of a dead tree branch. The guy was still alive, injured but alive.
-For the time being-
Gil loped off in the direction the noise was coming from. Another muffled groan. Closer now.
-Stupid shit. How did he survive that?-
He felt a tinge of anger. It was this guy's fault that he was in this mess. What kind of idiot walks down the middle of an unlit highway in the dead of the night? He pulled the pistol out and chambered a round. He would be doing the human race a favour by getting rid of him. That groan again, louder and drawn out, in the tree line a bit. Gil stumbled off the road, into a swampy patch of tall grass and ferns, reminiscent of the stuff Marines had to slog through in every Vietnam War movie ever filmed. He could hear a tangle of branches and grass rustling. There was no way the guy was walking; both of his legs must be broken, at least.
-Geez, listen to that guy howl -
It was far too dark to see anything; why did it always get darkest just before sunrise? The moaning was nearly constant now. Gil had the pistol out, swaying on his bad leg and squishing through the mud. The guy didn't sound far away; he at least deserved to be put out of his misery.
"Eh buddy, where are you?" His mouth worked irregularly. Proper pronunciation was next to impossible.
He received another loud groan in response, a few feet away. He took two steps forward, and then the tall grass rustled, in a direction opposite to the groaning, behind him.
"Wha?"
He spun toward the noise, feeling his heartbeat accelerate. What was going on?
-I should get out of here-
His instincts had never lied to him before; now was no time for second guessing. He sidestepped, over, and could see movement in the grass at his feet. Someone else moaned behind him.
-What?- He spun the gun around and took another three paces to the right. He felt light-headed, confused. There couldn't be three people here.
Strong hands wrapped around his right leg and pulled. Gil lost his balance and tumbled into the bog, cracking his ribs on an unseen tree stump. A dark shape emerged from the murk, a coal silhouette against the sooty night sky.
His flailed chest made deep breaths impossible; he was nearly hyperventilating. He swung his pistol out, squeezed off a wild shot, and then he felt teeth dig into the meaty part of his calf. Somehow, he found enough breath to scream.
Front Page. Seattle Times June 19 1998
2 Police, 1 DEA agent dead after drug raid, shootout.
Dwight Fischer
A state-wide manhunt continues after a DEA raid in the Industrial District resulted in a shootout, claiming the lives of Officers Matthew O'Reilly 22 , Alan Garcia 41, both of the Seattle Police Department, and Agent Frank Ruiz 34 of the Drug Enforcement Administration.
Washington State Police, working along with County Sherriff's departments are conducting check stops along major thoroughfares and circulating photographs of suspects Carlos Ramirez, Eduardo Escobar, Gilbert Lachance...
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, you guys rock! Be sure to let me know if this is getting repetitive. I assure you, I do have a plot outline! I don't just plan on killing off random OC's (as much fun as it is sometimes)