43.

All the guests came, at least I think they did. There were our neighbors from all sides, Ramirez and her mousy husband and quiet son. Thompson and his wife showed up a little late, but that was fine, at least they showed. Vanessa Rose showed up with a hulking boyfriend and they brought good will and cheer and an understated optimism that everything would be all right. The first thing Vanessa did was take me aside and tell me her boss had reconsidered and that we could keep the house for the full lease. Claire accepted this as our due and conned Vanessa into helping to baste the meat.

The weather was good so we set up in the backyard. Claire had reminded me not to put out the b.o.o.by traps the night before, so I didn't have the extra ch.o.r.e of dealing with that. I have no skill with small talk so I handed out iced tea, grinned, shook hands, handed out plates of meat and salad, thanked people, agreed the weather was nice, hid the last of the beer from my lawyer, although he had brought it himself. That made his wife pleased with me.

More greetings, more thank-yous, more schmoozing. More small talk.

Thompson took me aside and asked if I'd heard.

"Heard what?"

He was very loud. "Walsh. Burp. He's in deep s.h.i.t ..."

There was one of those strange pauses in the conversation so everyone heard him.

"... he's apparently been spying on a neighbor, he's accused of trying to steal his own car for insurance, he got insubordinate with some RCMP honcho. He's falling apart."

Thompson's wife walked over and grabbed his arm. "It's time to leave."

"Apart. Hic. 'Scuse me."

He started to say something to his wife and then he took a good look at the corners of her mouth. Then he agreed and they both left. Gradually, the rest of the party left too, fading away like mist and leaving behind litter and good feelings and, if not love, then an absence of fear. And when they were all gone, Claire and I cleaned up and laughed and then we went inside and made love and I fell asleep with my arms around her and hers around me.

I woke up at 5:00 in the morning and lay there. Claire still had her arms around me but I had rolled over onto my back at some point and above me there were dark shadow stains on the ceiling, the predawn blackness by which all others were measured.

In the quiet and the still, with my wife sighing, my dog snoring, my son whimpering, and my mouse walking very slowly on its wheel, I listened to my mind and my instincts.

In Walsh's house he had a framed diploma that showed he had gone to a very good combat shooting school. I had looked it up on a computer hooked to the Internet in the University of Winnipeg's library and found that the school taught "Combat Pistol Craft," along with fast draws and instinctive shooting. Unlike many other schools, though, Walsh's also encouraged students to carry a backup weapon and the instructors recommended something small but of large caliber, like a derringer or something similar. The logic being that most small, concealable guns were in smaller, weaker calibers. But derringers could hold one, two, even four shots and could be found in very large calibers indeed.

In Walsh's house were myriads of toys for grown-ups. He liked toys. He liked gimmicks. Tricks. He liked fancy. He had certificates showing he was good with batons and shotguns, unarmed combat and collapsible clubs, Tasers and first aid. He liked being a cop with a cop's tools and toys.

Claire sighed some more and outside a crow made an unlovely sound.

In Walsh's house his punching bag had slick spots on the left-hand side and low. As though he punched mostly with his right hand and aimed for the torso. Or else he kicked with his right leg.

In Walsh's house in his filing cabinet had been pistol targets marked ten yards with the center X blown away. Also rifle targets marked three hundred yards with groupings of five and four shots you could cover with the palm of your hand. But there were also pistol targets marked five yards with a scattering of five or six tiny holes all across. From what?

In Walsh's career he had killed several times. He liked it. He was good at it and people were happy when he did it. Twice, bad guys had taken his pistol away from him and he'd killed them. What with, the accounts weren't precise. Maybe with a backup gun he carried.

It was possible to lose a gun once in a struggle, but twice? That was carelessness. Cops aren't supposed to do that, they're trained not to lose their guns.

Walsh liked the adulation he received. He liked being tricky. He was vain. And proud. And he liked to do it all himself.

So maybe Walsh had let the bad guys take his main gun. Which made them real bad to anyone who heard the story. And made Walsh into an almost-victim. Until he shot them. And became a hero.

When he'd interrogated me he'd almost waved his Colt in my face. Why?

So I'd take it.

And he'd shoot me. With the backup gun he was trained to use. And he'd be a hero again. Which he liked.

Outside, the crow made another noise, which was answered by another bird farther away.

Suddenly I knew what to do. I'd been willing to set it up so Walsh would beat the s.h.i.t out of me and someone would film it. Someone like my wife or my lawyer or Atismak. But this was better. What I now had in mind was much better.

I woke Claire up with a long kiss that grew in insistency. When she was fully awake we made love and the whole f.u.c.king world waited. And outside the crows sang to their G.o.ds and, for all I knew, their G.o.ds sang back.

44.

At 10:00 the next morning I reached Walsh's car and walked past it, looking for the camera marked with 250. I had on dark sungla.s.ses so I could look up with impunity and I remembered the angles so I found the camera in three minutes.

There I paused and looked around but there were no other cameras nearby. I was in a blind spot at the base of a pillar about ten yards from Walsh's car. Above me was the camera, set onto a steel platform bolted into the concrete; above that were heavy-duty air vents.

It took only seconds to jump onto the hood of a pickup truck and climb on top of one of the vents. The vent creaked but held and I had maybe two feet of s.p.a.ce, which was just barely enough for my purposes. After laying out the tools from the backpack, I went to work, stopping to listen every few minutes for anyone coming or going.

I still had the car antenna I'd stolen from the parking garage days before and I'd used a clamp to attach a young girl's compact to the end. With that and some practice, I managed to get a look at the back of the camera a yard under me, using the small mirror. On the back of the unit were two, big, female receptacles, one for video and one for audio, and only the video was plugged in to a thin line leading into a hole drilled into the concrete. I checked through the accessories I'd bought the day before at a Radio Shack and found something that matched and fitted it first to the VCR, which I'd wrapped in a clear plastic bag. The VCR stayed on top of the vent and I started looking for a power source.

Again I was lucky. Less than three yards away there was a plug set into the wall, for what I don't know. Since the garage was indoors, they wouldn't need to run block heaters in the winter. The Dremel had a heavy-duty drill that served to put holes in the vent and into those I screwed two dull silver hooks to hold the extension cord until it reached the concrete pillar.

Then I hopped back onto the pickup truck and drilled more holes down the pillar until I could run the extension cord in a professional fashion to the outlet. I plugged it in and checked the VCR.

"12:00. 12:00. 12:00."

The blank tape went in and I folded the plastic back into place over everything and pressed the Stop b.u.t.ton on the VCR. Twice I'd had to stop for cars or drivers walking to work, but I still had time as I checked that the wires from the VCR were dangling in the right spot, just below and to the side of the camera. With everything in place, I got into the blind spot of the camera and waited.

I emptied my pockets into the backpack, change, wallet, knife, but I kept the cell phone, I'd need that. I was wearing a dark blue windbreaker and a pair of loose track pants with tennis shoes laced tightly.

I had a few tricks to match Walsh's. Around my left forearm from just below my wrist to just past my elbow, I had on a plastic and aluminum guard. It had cost fifteen dollars (with tax) at a sporting goods store and its purpose was to keep skateboarders and in-line skaters from fractured wrists and hands. The hand guard came down over my palm and ended in a raised bit of plastic so I still had most of my dexterity.

Under the jacket I was wearing a sleeveless rubber T-shirt a half-inch thick. I had bought it over the counter at a s.e.x shop that catered to fetishists of all sorts. I was hot and sweaty and really couldn't see the s.e.xual appeal of rubber, but so it goes. It had taken twenty-eight minutes to put it on in a pay toilet and I was wearing it in case Walsh was carrying a Taser.

I was also wearing a hockey player's cup. Which made me feel a little more secure.

After I'd stretched the muscles in my back and legs, I picked up the phone and made my call.

He answered on the third ring. "Walsh here."

"Walsh, this is Monty Haaviko. I'm waiting by your car. In the carpark. I figure we got some talking to do."

Then I hung up and crushed the phone before pitching it away. And I stood there, feeling my blood singing through my veins and my lungs expanding and contracting. Feeling every fiber of muscle and bone and sinew.

The backpack went up on the vent beside the VCR and I took the opportunity to unfasten the connectors on the camera and plug in my own. Then I flipped on the machine to Record and hopped down again.

I wanted to run and hide. I wanted to get a good rifle and a good scope. I wanted to knife Walsh or blow him up or ambush him in a dark alley. I wanted for none of this to have ever happened. I wanted to turn myself inside out and vanish. I wanted a cold beer and a hot pretzel. But mostly I wanted to run. Hard and fast.

Instead, I waited.

Nearby the elevator pinged pinged and I could feel Walsh approaching. I gambled with myself that he'd be alone, that he'd be ready to play his tricks, and when he came around the corner he was almost at a jog. His face split into a grin and he made a broad gesture with his hands to throw his arms open and show the b.u.t.t of the Colt tucked into his belt. and I could feel Walsh approaching. I gambled with myself that he'd be alone, that he'd be ready to play his tricks, and when he came around the corner he was almost at a jog. His face split into a grin and he made a broad gesture with his hands to throw his arms open and show the b.u.t.t of the Colt tucked into his belt.

"Here I am."

He walked towards me on the tips of his toes, bouncing with energy. I could imagine what was going on in his head: his life was turning to s.h.i.t, none of the cops would talk to him, no one trusted him, listened to him, adored him. In fact, no one liked him anymore. And right in front of him was me, the source of all his suffering. Although he couldn't prove a thing. And even if I wasn't the source, then I was something upon which he could vent his rage. A bad man, an evil man.

So I smiled back and started the whole thing.

45.

He was a yard away with his suit coat unb.u.t.toned and his arms outstretched.

"Go for it."

So I did.

His right-hand coat pocket was heavy so I went for that with my right hand. The steel of the gun was cold as I dipped it out while I slammed my left palm into the center of his chest and drove him back.

" 'Kay. Now what?"

His face went pale with panic and fear as his hand scrabbled at the big pistol at his waist.

"Wait-wait-wait!"

"C'mon, Walsh, go for it."

The pistol in my hand was tiny, a two-shot derringer over and under pistol. Inaccurate at more than two yards, practically unrifled. A gambler's gun, a hustler's gun, an ugly gun.

"You can't shoot a cop."

My face tightened. "Not with this."

The gun broke open just before the trigger and two little shotgun sh.e.l.ls popped into my left hand: .410 shotgun sh.e.l.ls loaded into the .45 caliber gun, just a load of copper BBs over a wad of powder. Up close, one shot would sc.r.a.pe a face down to the bone like a cheese grater.

The gun went over my left shoulder and the sh.e.l.ls went over my right to tinkle musically among the parked cars, and Walsh went for the Colt. He was good. Fast and trained, but I knew what he was going to do before he did. His right hand drew the pistol while his left pulled a loaded clip from the back of his belt; his right thumb dumped the empty magazine while his left hand turned the full one so he could seat it right. Before the hands could meet in the middle, I stepped forward and slapped the gun away under an SUV ten yards away.

"Next?"

Nothing happened and I watched Walsh carefully, focusing on his belly. Any move he'd make would show there first. As I stood there, I felt the tension leave me. Vanish. My right hand vibrated with the pain of smashing the heavy chunk of metal. I ignored that and stepped back into place. Walsh was breathing hard now.

"C'mon, you know what to do."

He didn't do anything for a second and then his left hand came up palm-first towards me while his right drew a tiny, bright orange piece of technology from somewhere. It oriented itself towards me and then there was a puff of air and I was connected to Walsh by two tiny darts trailing lengths of micro-thin copper wire from my chest to his gun. His face went slack and I dropped to one knee.

In front of me a tiny snowstorm of flecks of paper drifted to the tarmac and the Taser hummed. But I didn't feel it, the rubber shirt kept the current from me. I'd been Tasered before and knew what I was supposed to be doing, spasming slightly, immobile, helpless. Walsh jammed the trigger again and I felt a thin wash of power again, like you'd get from licking a battery. A big battery.

I braced myself on one bent leg and my hand and watched Walsh's feet less than two yards away. The flecks of paper were between us, a security feature of the latest models of Tasers, designed to be released whenever the gun fired, while an internal computer recorded time and duration of the shocks. To make it easier for a cop to convince a jury he'd been using reasonable force.

A poacher I knew once said that you can legally shoot anything that walked or crawled, flew or swam if you said the following magical words before you fire: "It was coming right for me." Cops had learned that right well. How many times had those words been uttered, I felt threatened and, in my professional opinion, ... ? I felt threatened and, in my professional opinion, ... ?

Another wash of power and Walsh stepped forward and brought his foot back to field goal my lights out. And I drove my right fist up into his crotch.

While he was down I tore the wires loose and yanked the Taser out of his nerveless hand. It went over my shoulder too and I unclenched my jaw and waited for him to get up. As I watched, he puked up coffee and raisin bran cereal.

"C'mon, Walsh. Try again, you can do it."

He rolled to his knees and pulled a short length of metal from somewhere. A flick of his wrist and it was almost a yard long, a collapsible metal baton called an Asp. He swung it inelegantly, clumsily, and I danced back out of the way to give him time to get up.

"Motherf.u.c.ker, motherf.u.c.ker, f.u.c.kermother."

He shifted his weight as sweat soaked his collar. I spoke gently, "C'mon, swing batter, swing ..."

His left hand was towards me again to hold me off and his right held the Asp ready over his shoulder. When the blow came, it whistled, a killing skull breaker aimed at the crown of my head. I caught it on my raised left forearm and felt the plastic and aluminum sheath break. But by then Walsh was commited and completely open and I let one perfect punch go. It started behind my hip and I threw my shoulder first and then my elbow and then my wrist and then the knuckles.

A clumsy and simple jab. Dempsey would have wept. Ali would have spanked me. Tyson would have bitten my ear off. But it worked.

I was aiming at a s.p.a.ce six inches past his head and it hit him right on the point of his chin. He paused as I recovered balance. And he didn't look like much there on the concrete, he didn't look like much at all.

"... and the b.l.o.o.d.y Red Baron went spinning out of sight ..."

No one heard me and five minutes later I had the VCR unplugged and in the backpack. Two minutes after that, I was out of the car park and looking for a cab.

46.

A camera-repair place in the North End made ten copies of the tape while I watched. The guy even took fifty dollars to let me do it myself. I kept the original, Thompson received one, Claire ended up with two, and the other seven were mailed to reporters.

And then, with Thompson beside me, I turned myself in to the police before Walsh regained consciousness.