Excerpts from The Wolves Of Satan
Chapter 1
“Well, you shore ain’t gonna believe this one, boys…” old Jerry set his beer on the table. The bottle wobbled and drops of the golden liquid spilled from its mouth. Unfazed by the mishap, the seasoned fishing guide straightened the bottle and continued his story. His Maritime accent becoming more pronounced with each drink.
With a hook clamped in the vise, and the thread base laid down, Brand cinched the black thread tight, capturing the brown turkey biots for the tail. He reached for a couple of strands of peacock herl to form the body. His hand in mid-air, he paused. A smile tugged at his lips as he mockingly shook his head at the start of Jerry’s now famous but often repeated fishing stories.
Brand had known Jerry for close to a decade. The two guides crossed paths over the summer months at the river while launching or loading their drift boats. From friendly exchanges at the boat launch to an occasional drink after a day on the river, the frequent meetings building into a mutual friendship.
With the temperature swings of late spring and the early June rains, booked float trips on the rivers were postponed. The men took advantage of the breaks in their schedules. Days spent drinking coffee in the local fly shops and evenings idled away with impromptu fly tying sessions mixed with beer and friends.
Brand, like the rest of the fishing community, welcomed the short breaks, using the time to replenish the depleted inventory in his fly boxes. The collection of streamers and dry flies, nymphs and wet flies lost to fish and snags in the water by clients on previous trips.
With the passing of time, Brand selfishly looked forward to these opportunities away from the business to drink a few beers and spend time with his friend. Jerry had to be crowding seventy, he realized. How much longer would the old guide be able to participate in the strenuous grind of life on the water? How many more rainy evenings, he wondered, remained for the two to spend carefree, drinking beer and tying hooks?
With a relaxed smile on his face, Brand studied his friend. The older man’s animated speech growing louder with each pull from the beer bottle.
Jerry wore a grimy ball cap pulled tight over his forehead covering his sparse white hair. As was his habit whenever he began a wild tale, Jerry would lift his hat and rake his reed-like fingers across his scalp. The features of his face set in a mask of leathery skin wrinkled by too many years of sitting in a boat on the river. A pair of pale green eyes peered back from the darkened skin separated by a nose that betrayed Jerry’s fondness for alcohol, the nub bulbous and veined.
Brand set the herl down next to his vise and grabbed his beer. He tested his drink and shot a knowing glance at the old guide, a smirk lifting the edges of his mouth.
His friend’s slurred Maritime speech underlined by a gravelly voice. Jerry used his hands as props and paused for dramatics, the size of the catch ballooning with each re-telling of the adventure.
Brand raised an eyebrow and glanced across the table. Dave Halperson looked up from behind his vise shrugging a ‘here we go again’ look in Brand’s direction. Where Jerry maintained the gruff look of an old and wizened man who’d spent a lifetime outdoors, Dave was the polar opposite. The younger guide was on the lower end of the age spectrum, maybe a few years removed from school at best, but had worked doggedly to become one of the better guides in the Calgary fishing community.
Compared to Jerry’s weathered features, Dave’s age highlighted by the lack of wrinkled skin. Light brown hair leaked from beneath his ball cap and draped awkwardly over a sun-reddened face and onto the collar of his plaid shirt. The lights from above the table reflected in the younger man’s face. His brown eyes and sharp nose mounted beneath thick eyebrows and framed by a dark, burly beard. Again, Brand wondered at the young man’s attire. Even with the warmth in the room, Dave remained in a light jacket. The sleeves pulled up to his elbows.
Dave leaned back in his chair and lifted the warming beer to his mouth. A mischievous glint reflected in his eyes from the effects of the alcohol. The younger man smiled politely prodding Jerry on with disruptive comments.
“You mind your manners,” Jerry quipped at one of the young guide’s snide remarks. “This here is the honest to goodness truth.”
Dave threw his hands in the air in surrender. “Sorry.” He said trying hard to control his laughter.
Brand looked between the two men. Over the last few months, he couldn’t help but notice the close bond developing between Jerry and Dave. The guides had become nearly inseparable. The two, even with the age difference and different interests, hung out more often away from the banks of the rivers. It was nice to see Jerry mentor the younger guide, Brand mused.
Jerry paused his tale and pushed away from the table. The bobbin in his hand banged off the table leaving the thread trailing up to the unfinished fly clamped in the vise.
“How your beers doing, fellas?” He asked and walked to the kitchen. “Always time for one more,” Jerry judged as he rounded the island and bent to look in the fridge. A sigh of mock disgust warned of his frustration.
“Some kind of friend you are,” Jerry called over his shoulder to Brand. The man’s mumbled words changing to laughter as he reached to grab the remaining bottles. “There are only two lonely soldiers left.”
Brand swallowed the remainder of his beer and looked at the clock. Quarter to eleven. He paused and mulled over the tragedy. The forecast called for heavy showers spread over the next few days, the lack of sunshine leaving the three men with empty schedules.
“You guys have them. I’ll make a quick run to the liquor store.” Brand said. He rose from the table and carried the bottle over to the island adding it to the growing collection of empties staggered around the opened pizza boxes spread across the counter. “Besides, I’ve had the privilege of hearing this story at least a thousand times.” He ribbed Jerry. “You can wow Dave with the details while I’m gone.”
“Oh. That’s not necessary,” a blurted response came from the kitchen. Jerry’s turned head highlighted by the open fridge door, a tinge of panic flitted across the old guides face. “We're good. It’s late, and it’s still pouring like a bastard outside.”
Brand lifted a confused smile at his friend. The few beer he consumed did little to alter his judgement and Jerry’s show of concern for his wellbeing struck him as odd. Jerry was never one to refuse more booze, especially when someone else paid.
Brand shrugged off Jerry’s words and walked to the back entrance. Slipping on his shoes, he grabbed the key for his truck and swung open the door on his way to the garage.
“Well, be quick about it then,” He heard Jerry call before the door slammed shut.
Chapter 2
Torrents of rain lashed across the truck's windshield. Late Friday night and the lack of cars on the road shortened the drive to the liquor store. With a two-four pack of beer safely on the seat, Brand shifted the truck into reverse and backed from the alley into the dry interior of his garage.
A sharp flash of light reflected off the truck’s rear view mirror. Brand twisted in the seat looking past the window in the wall of the garage. His brows knitted in confusion, his sight focused on the larger panes of glass on the back of the house. He hesitated while his beer-addled brain pieced together what his eyes and ears told him.
Loud snaps of gunfire drifted across the deck. The unexpected sounds greeted Brand as he opened the small door leading to the house. His eyes traveled back up to the large picture window. More pops of light lit up the blinds followed closely by loud claps of thunder, the sound reverberating in the backyard.
A sickening feeling swept over Brand, the case of beer in his hand slipping from his fingers. The sound of shattering bottles ignored as his body and feet pivoted along with his racing thoughts pointing back the way he came. Long strides carried him through the garage door. With one hand, he flung open the rear door on the truck; his other hand dove under the back seat, his fingers feeling for his rifle.
Spinning, he ran out of the garage, gun in hand. Water splashed under his boot when it hit the first tread on the steps of the deck. Breathing heavily from exertion and adrenaline, he paused outside the back door. Brand’s heart sped with anxiety at the sound of Dave’s raised voice leaking outside the house and then another gunshot.
Brand tilted his head. His eyes lined up with a slit in the blinds covering the window cut into the top part of the door. Brand’s friend, the young fishing guide, lay slumped over the table. Dave’s eyes stared blindly back at Brand. Blood pooled on the table mixing with strands of hair. Dave’s outstretched hand rested on the table. A pistol clutched in the death grip of his fingers.
A stranger stood behind the young guide, the gun in the man’s hand still smoking, the stranger’s eyes turned away from the dead man toward the middle of the room.
Brand fought back the urge to rush through the door. He drew a deep breath and waited with his left hand on the doorknob.
The stranger’s eyes turned away from the dead man at the table and looked toward the middle of the room.
Brand slowly eased the door inward. His right hand held the rifle, its barrel levelled at the intruder’s chest.
The gunman swung his head in Brand’s direction. Before the man‘s eyes traced the sound of the opening door and brought his weapon in line, Brand barged through the opening, his finger squeezing the rifle's trigger. The bullet slammed into the stranger’s chest, raised the man up and tossed him back into the kitchen counter
Working the lever action on the rifle, Brand ejected the spent shell. A second bullet nestled in the chamber. Two quick steps carried him further into the house. With his back pressed tight to the partition wall separating the back entrance and the open interior, he stopped and listened. His ears searched for sounds of movement hidden from his sight.
A bullet tore a chunk out of the drywall as Brand edged closer to the open corner. The repercussions of the gunshot echoing in the confines of the house, acrid clouds of blue-grey smoke stung his nostrils and choked the air
Bullets lodged themselves into the wall Brand used as cover. One pierced the drywall, nicking his leg, the chunk of hot lead leaving a ragged furrow below his knee. Brand winced, pushed the pain from his mind. He calculated the direction the bullet traveled. A second gunman would have to be standing at the far end of the table, a position blocked from his view by the partition wall. From where he stood, the shooter had the advantage. A situation Brand needed to change.
Eyeing the table, Brand paced his breathing and dove from his shelter. Plastic boxes filled with assorted sizes of tiny hooks crushed under his weight and dug deep into his side as he bounced awkwardly on the table. Spools of tying thread rolled underneath, and sleeves of feathers and dried fur scraped across the wooden surface caught in the motion of his slide.
He tucked his head and rolled his shoulders. The momentum carried him over the edge of the table. A chair brushed from his path. A sobering jolt of physics recoiled through his body. The result of his awkward slide suddenly halted by the stationary bank of cabinets separating the kitchen from the dining room.
Hitting the island at an awkward angle, Brand scrambled to swing the rifle barrel toward the far end of the table. Through the tangle of chair legs, he spotted a second gunman turning in his direction. Brand fired at the man’s legs. The bullet struck the man’s thigh, spoiling the intruder’s aim.
Scrambling to his knees, Brand worked the bolt action on his rifle. A live cartridge replaced the empty shell. Rising clear of the table, he fired a round at the gunman when the man attempted to stand. The bullet sank deep into the soft flesh of the straightening body and knocked the man back down to the floor.
Brand’s right arm jacked the rifle’s lever. Another shell slid into the chamber while the spent casing flew into the air. He stayed still allowing his breathing to fight down the adrenaline spiking in his veins. He waited, body tense and nerves firing while he scanned the room. Unsure how many intruders invaded his house, he relied on his hearing to warn of the sound of moving feet or chambered bullets.
The steady roar of blood pounding in his ears, the only audible sound in the eerie quiet that followed the gunshots, Brand remained wary. His feet planted, his body tensed, he cast his eyes about the smoke-filled room. Bloodied bodies littered the room. The first man he shot lay sprawled on the floor close to his feet.
A moan intruded on the silence. Brand followed the sound to the end of the table. Jerry’s crumpled body twitched from under an overturned chair, a broken bottle of beer clutched in one hand and a pistol, on the floor, just beyond his outstretched fingertips.
Brand scooped the guns lying near the gunmen, stooping down to check pulses as he went. Stepping over the prone body of the second shooter Brand’s eyes returned to the young guide, who only minutes ago, was politely listening to Jerry’s fishing story.
Brand winced as he moved closer, his mind rebelling against what his eyes proved true. Blood had already begun to thicken against the side of Dave’s face, the dark red liquid congealing and turning his light hair dark. The bullet punched a gaping hole in the back of the young guide’s skull quickly ending his life.
Brand lingered over Dave then cleared a path to check on his other friend. Bending, he rolled Jerry onto his back. A dark stain bloomed on the front of old guide’s shirt. Brand’s fingers slipped as he gripped the wet cloth and tugged against the hold of the buttons. The fabric tore open and he peeled the blood-soaked material away to expose Jerry’s body.
Small, dark red pools bubbled on the man’s chest. Fears for his friend’s survival hammered the edge of his mind as he climbed to his feet. The late hour, an evening of drinking and the coming down from a sudden flood of adrenaline caused him to pause before deeply ingrained instincts kicked in. A dying man with blood pumping from chest wounds lay at his feet. Voices screamed in his head pleading for him to hurry and save the man.
A few quick steps carried Brand into the kitchen and to a drawer where he removed a stack of towels. Kneeling down at Jerry’s side, he dabbed at the rising blood, wiping the wounds dry before he layered clean towels tight to his friend’s chest and back. Using his knee to elevate Jerry’s upper body off the floor, Brand tore strips of cloth and wrapped the bandages tight to stop the flow of blood.
He worked feverishly to comfort his friend. Several minutes passed as he struggled to trap the escaping blood. The stack of soaked rags grew on the floor before the bleeding slowed. Satisfied at the bandaging, Brand slipped his arms under Jerry’s limp body, slowly lifting the old guide.
On unsteady legs, he carried Jerry to the couch and propped a cushion under his friend’s head. The slight rising of Jerry’s chest told Brand of his friend’s weak but still beating heart. He prayed the temporary dressing would slow the loss of blood and prolong the old guide’s life until medical help arrived.
Red, wet stains ran the length of Brand’s arms and chest. A slick, sticky hand dug into the pocket of his jeans and retrieved his cell phone. His fingers slipped on the glass screen as he dialled 911.
“I need an ambulance…” The exertion and adrenaline of the last handful of minutes tearing deep, ragged breaths from his lungs as he spoke to the operator. His voice barely contained the urgency drumming inside his mind while he explained the emergency.
Brand focused on slowing down his breaths and regained his composure at the dispatcher’s volley of questions. He glanced around the kitchen, his eyes studying the trail of destruction. The quick tap of keyboard strokes on the opposite end of the line grew quite. The dispatcher reaffirmed his address and assured him that the police and ambulance were already on their way.
Refusing to believe the young fishing guide was dead Brand stared at Dave’s lifeless body. He let out a sigh and sidestepped around the corpse of a gunman, calculating every placement of his feet, careful to not disturb the scene more than he already had. He retrieved his rifle and carried it to the front door. Leaning the gun against the doorjamb, he walked onto the front deck to wait for the ambulance.
Fishing a cigarette out of its package, he lit the smoke. His mind drifted while he listened to the raindrops. The ordinarily soothing rhythm the rain played on the porch roof added an eerie soundtrack to the unsettling turn of events that erupted on this chilly Friday evening.
Brand sat hunched over and contemplated the surreal scene that played out in the house behind him. The men who entered his house obviously confused his address with another. The local news was rife with likewise stories of home invasions in the city lately. The illegal drug trade fuelled a majority of the incidents, but those attacks centred on criminals involved with the drug business.
Sitting on the veranda, he recalled segments of the evening news, reports of shootings with a similar M.O., gang bangers who targeted houses and shot up the occupants in some form of perverse street justice. Wouldn’t be the first time the perpetrators confused the address and involved innocent people.
What other explanation would fit, Brand rationalized, although his years of experience railed against this reasoning? The men lying dead in his kitchen didn’t have the usual markings of local gangbangers? Not the type that he’d crossed paths with during his career in law enforcement or the criminals commonly shown on the evening news.
Brand took a pull from the cigarette. Happier feelings seeped into his mind as his thoughts travelled halfway across the country to his girlfriend, Sara Monahan. The image of Sara he pictured in his mind faded with reality. The momentary break from the shooting in his house, fleeting. He said a silent prayer that Sara had left earlier in the day for a business trip to Ottawa, far removed from the events that shattered the evening.
Sara, unfortunately, had witnessed enough horror to last anyone a lifetime. The blatant disregard for human life caused by the ideologically corrupt ideals of society. She still struggled with bouts of anxiety since a group of religious zealots abducted her a year earlier. The actions of the kidnapping pulled the couple into the midst of a home-grown terrorist plot south of the Canadian border.
Brand was sceptical of Sara’s constant assurances that the events were behind her. He knew the tragedy still visited in her dreams. Her words betrayed by changes in her attitude.
As the cigarette burnt down, the recollection of Sara’s unwanted nightmare replaced the evening’s shootings if only offering a brief respite. The heinous plot of a zealous religious cabal intended to rain terror on the United States and force the American President’s hand in deploying nuclear weapons against the group’s rivals.
The brutal ordeal was a bit more than a computer analyst of Sara’s stature should have to endure. Brand’s involvement in exposing the Cabal and thwarting their reprehensible plan resulted with him breaking several American laws. His tactics were deemed necessary, but legal problems persisted
He waited for the day of his return to the U.S.A. to answer for the charges filed by the American government. Whenever the subject of his impending court appearance surfaced, he noticed a change in Sara’s mood.
The mitigating factors surrounding his conduct were out of his hands, placed with overworked bureaucrats, mostly south of the border. His day in court was looming ever closer. A technicality, the lawyer’s assured, but political matters had a way of dragging on.
The Canadian government currently handled the backroom details to exonerate him of charges, but until the final verdict, the repercussions of his actions still weighed on both of their minds.
Chapter 3
Brand wondered back onto the deck after returning from inside the house and a check on Jerry. He lit a fresh cigarette. The night erupted with the wail of sirens closing in on his block. The mechanical warning signalled the imminent arrival of a black and white. Flashing blue and red lights perched on the car’s roof pierced the darkness seconds before the cruiser roared into view. The car screeched to an abrupt halt in front of his house, the blur of rubber wipers slapped against the windshield’s glass to drive away the falling rain.
Rising in his seat, he leaned on the metal railing at the same time the doors of the cop car flew open. Brand tracked the officer’s movements through the wispy tendrils of smoke drifting upward from the cigarette pinched between his fingers.
A pair of uniformed officers stepped out onto the slick pavement, their bodies protected behind the open car doors, guns in hand, heads swivelled while searching the front of the house for danger.
“In here.” He shouted down to the officer over the high-pitched wail of the siren. He stood and waved an arm beckoning the pair toward the house. The officers edged from behind the safety of the metal doors and cautiously crossed to the sidewalk. The no-nonsense barrels of their revolvers held ready in outstretched arms. Brand stuck both hands in the air, not knowing what else to do, showing the officers he was unarmed.
An older policeman, light reflecting off Sergeant bars pinned to the man’s lapels, climbed the stairs. A younger officer, the driver of the car, walked close behind. The Sergeant stopped on the deck, his eyes switching between the open door and Brand. The gun in the sergeant’s outstretched hand held firm, the barrel unwavering.
Brand glanced at the nametag stitched on the Sergeant’s chest as the officer stepped past the square column on the edge of the deck. The man’s last name, Whitly, was embroidered in blue thread on a white rectangle patch on the front of the man’s uniform. Brand crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, nodded toward the open door and began summarizing the shootings from only minutes earlier.
In a voice tainted by years of smoking, Sergeant Whitly interrupted Brand. “Mac…” Whitly called to the younger cop. “Grab your notebook and record the man’s statement. I’m heading inside to have a look around.”
The Sergeant turned his attention back to Brand. “You stay put and fill officer McLennan in on the details.” Finished with his instructions the Sergeant eased into the house, his arm extended, his service revolver leading the way.
A second set of flashing lights and the added noise of another loud horn announced the arrival of a city ambulance seconds before it rounded the street corner. Like the police car, the ambulance screeched to a halt behind the parked cruiser about the time the Sergeant entered the house. A pair of attendants jumped to the street with medical bags in their hands. Officer McLennan waved them to the house and called inside to the Sergeant.
“How you doing in there Sarg? The paramedics are here.”
The Sergeants raspy voice echoed through the open door. “Tell them to get their asses in here. Got a weak pulse in need of attention.”
Staying out of the way, Brand sat in his chair, his fingers absently reaching for a fresh cigarette from the package sitting on a table. His thoughts followed the responders into the house. Concern for his friends foremost on his mind.
Additional police cars steered onto the street along with an extra set of ambulances. The deluge of vehicles accumulating on the crowded, narrow road. The quiet, rain-soaked evening in the neighbourhood echoed under siege of the deafening sirens. The flashing lights from the vehicles lighting the block in a melding of red and blue strobe lights.
Brand looked around from his seat and watched as his neighbours ventured outside to the sounds of emergency vehicles. Porch light after porch light flared into the night as people poured onto their decks curious to find the reason for the disturbance to their sleep.
In the ensuing minutes, the pavement swarmed with first responders and onlookers alike. Brand stepped toward the door eager to check on Jerry’s condition, but the young officer McLennan held up a hand. With a shake of his head, the policeman motioned Brand back to the chair.
Brand sat down. Paramedics climbed from their vehicles, gathered on the wet pavement collecting their equipment before climbing the sidewalk and entering the house. Fishing another cigarette from the pack, Brand cupped the lighter in his hands and blocked the light, chill breeze. He bent his head, touching the cigarette tip to the waiting flame and drew on the cigarette until it smouldered. Straightening, he lifted his head to peer across the deck rail, his thoughts in disarray. He stared off into space. Concern for his friends flowed deep inside as he once again contemplated the bizarre turn of events the evening had taken.
He sensed, rather than saw a man step past the young policeman and walk over to stand beside his chair. Looking up, Brand saw a balding, heavyset man gazing back down at him. The buttons on the man’s rumpled shirt strained to hold the stretched fabric closed over the man’s girth. A brown blazer sagged over the man’s slumping shoulders. Tan slacks hung loosely below a large belly and ran down to a pair of scuffed loafers.
The large man stood blocking the porch light, his face obscured by shadows. Brand’s gaze followed the man’s hand as he dug inside his jacket and produced a wallet. Flipping it open, the man waved a CPS detective badge. Brand read the name stamped on the ID, Walgreen, detective Frank Walgreen. Raising his eyes from the wallet, Brand stared into the detective’s face.
“Mind if I sit down?” Walgreen asked. Brand motioned to a chair with his head. “Looks like you’ve had a busy evening?” The detective said, worming his portly frame into the narrow deckchair.
Brand shook his head absently, half listening to the detective’s words. Walgreen sat silent for a couple of minutes before speaking.
“You feel up to telling me what happened?” Walgreen asked. “Start from the beginning… when you’re ready.” He added, as he removed a notebook from an inside pocket of his blazer, then sent his hand back inside to recover a pen.
“Find out how the old man on the couch is doing first.” Brand said.
“A friend of yours?” Detective Walgreen inquired. Brand nodded his reply. “Hang tight for a minute. I’ll be right back.” A grunt escaped the detective’s mouth as he lifted from the chair and wandered into the house. Several minutes passed before Detective Walgreen returned to the deck and sat down.
“The paramedics tell me the guy on the couch is stable.” Detective Walgreen studied Brand’s face. “ You apply the bandages? Seems that your handy work probably saved your friend’s life.” The detective squeezed back into the deck chair. “They’re about to wheel him out. He’ll be on his way to the hospital in short time."
Brand nodded his head. “Good. From the beginning then.” He sorted his thoughts then explained that he and his friends were local guides who gathered for the evening to tie flies and drink a few beers. Followed by his impromptu trip to the liquor store and got to the part of describing the gunshots he had heard upon backing into the garage when the paramedics wheeled Jerry Kartman from the house, down the steps, and into a waiting ambulance.
Brand paused his narrative. His thoughts interrupted by the first-responders lifting the stretcher supporting Jerry into the back of the emergency vehicle. He stared after the flashing lights as the ambulance disappeared down the block before turned his attention back to the detective and continued his story. Detective Walgreen jotted notes in his book, occasionally interrupting for clarification as Brand walked him through the shootings.
Another man, a second detective Brand assumed, joined them on the deck before Brand finished his statement. The second man stood behind Walgreen, the porch light shining on his face revealing a full head of short red hair and the stubble of a five o’clock shadow clinging to man’s pale face. A blue sports blazer covered a pale yellow shirt and dark, sharply pressed slacks finished the look. The new detective’s attire a stark contrast to the shabbily dressed Walgreen.
When Brand got to the end of his statement, the second detective showed Brand his badge and ID, Detective Darcy O’Brien. Detective O’Brien asked Brand if he carried I.D. Brand looked at O’Brien quizzically, and then slid his wallet from his pocket and opened it, showing his driver’s license. The detective removed the offered I.D. and moved closer to the exterior light.
“Brandon James Coldstream,” O’Brien said out loud and continued reading the specifics. “Born, May twenty-second, nineteen sixty-nine.” The man droned on. “1.82 metres, ninety kilos. Brown hair. Brown eyes.” The detective glanced at the picture on the license and then matched the face with Brands.
“That your rifle leaning inside the door?” The detective asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it registered?”
“Yup.”
“And you arrived back to your house from a liquor run to find these men already inside and shots being fired, is that right?”
“Pretty much like that.”
“Couldn't be that you guys had too much to drink? A beer or three too many when a wrong word or two is spoken, a heated disagreement and suddenly a flare up of testosterone among a room full of armed men. Not unheard of.” O’Brien’s eyebrows furrowed as he regarded Brand. “There is an awful lot of empty bottles and guns lying scattered about inside the house. Maybe your quiet evening turned violent, and friends became enemies?”
The comment was a slap in the face for Brand. He looked up at the man, anger mixed with shock. “You’re kidding…right?” Brand braced the detective.
“Just asking.” Detective O’Brien said defensively, throwing his shoulders and hands up in a questioning fashion.
“You and your friends aren’t in the habit of using recreational drugs, are you? Maybe the shooters were a message sent by a pissed-off associate.” Detective O’Brien drifted to a different train of thought. “A sort of, even things up, kind of deal?”
Brand glared at the man and shook his head. The detective remained silent for a minute then continued his tirade. “This is the way I see it. Those two men came to your house, invited, not invited, doesn’t matter,” the detective shrugged, “and you and your friends had some previous trouble with them. Business disagreement, I don’t know, whatever.
The two show up unexpectedly and pull their guns. Luckily you all were armed. What next. A wild west free for all.” O’Brien turned and glanced back into the house. “ These men you say attacked your house, they’re unknown to us, but shit like this is pretty unusual in a quiet neighbourhood like this one.” O’Brien paused. “I sent pictures of the men to our gang unit for identification, so far nothing,” he clarified.
“How do we know you three didn’t plan to shoot those men when they arrived, but things escalated out of your control” Again O’Brien paused. “You want to know what I think. Something doesn’t smell right. Three dead inside the house, another man, rushed to the hospital, barely breathing, and here you sit, feet up, smoking cigarettes on the deck, enjoying the evening air. What’s your take on this, Frank?”
“I have to agree.” Walgreen looked from his partner back over at Brand. “You’ll need to come downtown.” Walgreen paused and read over his notes. “You’re right O’Brien. The story doesn’t add up.”
“Bullshit.” Brand replied and started to stand up. “I’m the one who called 911. My friends were shot, and my house is a crime scene, for god’s sake. If I was going to kill someone, I could sure in the hell think of a better place to do that than where I live.” Brand stared from one detective to the other.
Brand made a step to leave. “You guys believe what you want, I could care less, but I’m driving to the hospital to check on my friend.”
“Whoa. Sit back down.” Walgreen warned. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do. There will be plenty of time for you to visit your friend.”
O’Brien called into the house for Sergeant Whitly. The three waited in awkward silence until the sergeant appeared.
“Sarg. We’re going to run this fellow downtown for a chat. Make sure the crime scene is buttoned up when forensics are done and have a pair of uniforms remain behind to guard the house?”
The sergeant nodded and returned inside. “You coming along peacefully or…” Detective Walgreen asked, a pair of handcuffs dangling in his hand. The detectives waited for Brand to stand up.
“Turn around,” Walgreen commanded. The cold metal handcuffs bit into Brand’s wrists before the detectives marched him down the deck stairs. The three climbed down to the street, Brand walking between the two detectives.
Walgreen’s partner, O’Brien, opened the back of the squad car, waited for Brand to climb inside. The detective closed the door and circled the vehicle for the driver's seat. Walgreen flicked off the siren while O’Brien steered the car away from Brand’s house. The three rolled out of the suburbs and headed for police headquarters.
Chapter 1
“Well, you shore ain’t gonna believe this one, boys…” old Jerry set his beer on the table. The bottle wobbled and drops of the golden liquid spilled from its mouth. Unfazed by the mishap, the seasoned fishing guide straightened the bottle and continued his story. His Maritime accent becoming more pronounced with each drink.
With a hook clamped in the vise, and the thread base laid down, Brand cinched the black thread tight, capturing the brown turkey biots for the tail. He reached for a couple of strands of peacock herl to form the body. His hand in mid-air, he paused. A smile tugged at his lips as he mockingly shook his head at the start of Jerry’s now famous but often repeated fishing stories.
Brand had known Jerry for close to a decade. The two guides crossed paths over the summer months at the river while launching or loading their drift boats. From friendly exchanges at the boat launch to an occasional drink after a day on the river, the frequent meetings building into a mutual friendship.
With the temperature swings of late spring and the early June rains, booked float trips on the rivers were postponed. The men took advantage of the breaks in their schedules. Days spent drinking coffee in the local fly shops and evenings idled away with impromptu fly tying sessions mixed with beer and friends.
Brand, like the rest of the fishing community, welcomed the short breaks, using the time to replenish the depleted inventory in his fly boxes. The collection of streamers and dry flies, nymphs and wet flies lost to fish and snags in the water by clients on previous trips.
With the passing of time, Brand selfishly looked forward to these opportunities away from the business to drink a few beers and spend time with his friend. Jerry had to be crowding seventy, he realized. How much longer would the old guide be able to participate in the strenuous grind of life on the water? How many more rainy evenings, he wondered, remained for the two to spend carefree, drinking beer and tying hooks?
With a relaxed smile on his face, Brand studied his friend. The older man’s animated speech growing louder with each pull from the beer bottle.
Jerry wore a grimy ball cap pulled tight over his forehead covering his sparse white hair. As was his habit whenever he began a wild tale, Jerry would lift his hat and rake his reed-like fingers across his scalp. The features of his face set in a mask of leathery skin wrinkled by too many years of sitting in a boat on the river. A pair of pale green eyes peered back from the darkened skin separated by a nose that betrayed Jerry’s fondness for alcohol, the nub bulbous and veined.
Brand set the herl down next to his vise and grabbed his beer. He tested his drink and shot a knowing glance at the old guide, a smirk lifting the edges of his mouth.
His friend’s slurred Maritime speech underlined by a gravelly voice. Jerry used his hands as props and paused for dramatics, the size of the catch ballooning with each re-telling of the adventure.
Brand raised an eyebrow and glanced across the table. Dave Halperson looked up from behind his vise shrugging a ‘here we go again’ look in Brand’s direction. Where Jerry maintained the gruff look of an old and wizened man who’d spent a lifetime outdoors, Dave was the polar opposite. The younger guide was on the lower end of the age spectrum, maybe a few years removed from school at best, but had worked doggedly to become one of the better guides in the Calgary fishing community.
Compared to Jerry’s weathered features, Dave’s age highlighted by the lack of wrinkled skin. Light brown hair leaked from beneath his ball cap and draped awkwardly over a sun-reddened face and onto the collar of his plaid shirt. The lights from above the table reflected in the younger man’s face. His brown eyes and sharp nose mounted beneath thick eyebrows and framed by a dark, burly beard. Again, Brand wondered at the young man’s attire. Even with the warmth in the room, Dave remained in a light jacket. The sleeves pulled up to his elbows.
Dave leaned back in his chair and lifted the warming beer to his mouth. A mischievous glint reflected in his eyes from the effects of the alcohol. The younger man smiled politely prodding Jerry on with disruptive comments.
“You mind your manners,” Jerry quipped at one of the young guide’s snide remarks. “This here is the honest to goodness truth.”
Dave threw his hands in the air in surrender. “Sorry.” He said trying hard to control his laughter.
Brand looked between the two men. Over the last few months, he couldn’t help but notice the close bond developing between Jerry and Dave. The guides had become nearly inseparable. The two, even with the age difference and different interests, hung out more often away from the banks of the rivers. It was nice to see Jerry mentor the younger guide, Brand mused.
Jerry paused his tale and pushed away from the table. The bobbin in his hand banged off the table leaving the thread trailing up to the unfinished fly clamped in the vise.
“How your beers doing, fellas?” He asked and walked to the kitchen. “Always time for one more,” Jerry judged as he rounded the island and bent to look in the fridge. A sigh of mock disgust warned of his frustration.
“Some kind of friend you are,” Jerry called over his shoulder to Brand. The man’s mumbled words changing to laughter as he reached to grab the remaining bottles. “There are only two lonely soldiers left.”
Brand swallowed the remainder of his beer and looked at the clock. Quarter to eleven. He paused and mulled over the tragedy. The forecast called for heavy showers spread over the next few days, the lack of sunshine leaving the three men with empty schedules.
“You guys have them. I’ll make a quick run to the liquor store.” Brand said. He rose from the table and carried the bottle over to the island adding it to the growing collection of empties staggered around the opened pizza boxes spread across the counter. “Besides, I’ve had the privilege of hearing this story at least a thousand times.” He ribbed Jerry. “You can wow Dave with the details while I’m gone.”
“Oh. That’s not necessary,” a blurted response came from the kitchen. Jerry’s turned head highlighted by the open fridge door, a tinge of panic flitted across the old guides face. “We're good. It’s late, and it’s still pouring like a bastard outside.”
Brand lifted a confused smile at his friend. The few beer he consumed did little to alter his judgement and Jerry’s show of concern for his wellbeing struck him as odd. Jerry was never one to refuse more booze, especially when someone else paid.
Brand shrugged off Jerry’s words and walked to the back entrance. Slipping on his shoes, he grabbed the key for his truck and swung open the door on his way to the garage.
“Well, be quick about it then,” He heard Jerry call before the door slammed shut.
Chapter 2
Torrents of rain lashed across the truck's windshield. Late Friday night and the lack of cars on the road shortened the drive to the liquor store. With a two-four pack of beer safely on the seat, Brand shifted the truck into reverse and backed from the alley into the dry interior of his garage.
A sharp flash of light reflected off the truck’s rear view mirror. Brand twisted in the seat looking past the window in the wall of the garage. His brows knitted in confusion, his sight focused on the larger panes of glass on the back of the house. He hesitated while his beer-addled brain pieced together what his eyes and ears told him.
Loud snaps of gunfire drifted across the deck. The unexpected sounds greeted Brand as he opened the small door leading to the house. His eyes traveled back up to the large picture window. More pops of light lit up the blinds followed closely by loud claps of thunder, the sound reverberating in the backyard.
A sickening feeling swept over Brand, the case of beer in his hand slipping from his fingers. The sound of shattering bottles ignored as his body and feet pivoted along with his racing thoughts pointing back the way he came. Long strides carried him through the garage door. With one hand, he flung open the rear door on the truck; his other hand dove under the back seat, his fingers feeling for his rifle.
Spinning, he ran out of the garage, gun in hand. Water splashed under his boot when it hit the first tread on the steps of the deck. Breathing heavily from exertion and adrenaline, he paused outside the back door. Brand’s heart sped with anxiety at the sound of Dave’s raised voice leaking outside the house and then another gunshot.
Brand tilted his head. His eyes lined up with a slit in the blinds covering the window cut into the top part of the door. Brand’s friend, the young fishing guide, lay slumped over the table. Dave’s eyes stared blindly back at Brand. Blood pooled on the table mixing with strands of hair. Dave’s outstretched hand rested on the table. A pistol clutched in the death grip of his fingers.
A stranger stood behind the young guide, the gun in the man’s hand still smoking, the stranger’s eyes turned away from the dead man toward the middle of the room.
Brand fought back the urge to rush through the door. He drew a deep breath and waited with his left hand on the doorknob.
The stranger’s eyes turned away from the dead man at the table and looked toward the middle of the room.
Brand slowly eased the door inward. His right hand held the rifle, its barrel levelled at the intruder’s chest.
The gunman swung his head in Brand’s direction. Before the man‘s eyes traced the sound of the opening door and brought his weapon in line, Brand barged through the opening, his finger squeezing the rifle's trigger. The bullet slammed into the stranger’s chest, raised the man up and tossed him back into the kitchen counter
Working the lever action on the rifle, Brand ejected the spent shell. A second bullet nestled in the chamber. Two quick steps carried him further into the house. With his back pressed tight to the partition wall separating the back entrance and the open interior, he stopped and listened. His ears searched for sounds of movement hidden from his sight.
A bullet tore a chunk out of the drywall as Brand edged closer to the open corner. The repercussions of the gunshot echoing in the confines of the house, acrid clouds of blue-grey smoke stung his nostrils and choked the air
Bullets lodged themselves into the wall Brand used as cover. One pierced the drywall, nicking his leg, the chunk of hot lead leaving a ragged furrow below his knee. Brand winced, pushed the pain from his mind. He calculated the direction the bullet traveled. A second gunman would have to be standing at the far end of the table, a position blocked from his view by the partition wall. From where he stood, the shooter had the advantage. A situation Brand needed to change.
Eyeing the table, Brand paced his breathing and dove from his shelter. Plastic boxes filled with assorted sizes of tiny hooks crushed under his weight and dug deep into his side as he bounced awkwardly on the table. Spools of tying thread rolled underneath, and sleeves of feathers and dried fur scraped across the wooden surface caught in the motion of his slide.
He tucked his head and rolled his shoulders. The momentum carried him over the edge of the table. A chair brushed from his path. A sobering jolt of physics recoiled through his body. The result of his awkward slide suddenly halted by the stationary bank of cabinets separating the kitchen from the dining room.
Hitting the island at an awkward angle, Brand scrambled to swing the rifle barrel toward the far end of the table. Through the tangle of chair legs, he spotted a second gunman turning in his direction. Brand fired at the man’s legs. The bullet struck the man’s thigh, spoiling the intruder’s aim.
Scrambling to his knees, Brand worked the bolt action on his rifle. A live cartridge replaced the empty shell. Rising clear of the table, he fired a round at the gunman when the man attempted to stand. The bullet sank deep into the soft flesh of the straightening body and knocked the man back down to the floor.
Brand’s right arm jacked the rifle’s lever. Another shell slid into the chamber while the spent casing flew into the air. He stayed still allowing his breathing to fight down the adrenaline spiking in his veins. He waited, body tense and nerves firing while he scanned the room. Unsure how many intruders invaded his house, he relied on his hearing to warn of the sound of moving feet or chambered bullets.
The steady roar of blood pounding in his ears, the only audible sound in the eerie quiet that followed the gunshots, Brand remained wary. His feet planted, his body tensed, he cast his eyes about the smoke-filled room. Bloodied bodies littered the room. The first man he shot lay sprawled on the floor close to his feet.
A moan intruded on the silence. Brand followed the sound to the end of the table. Jerry’s crumpled body twitched from under an overturned chair, a broken bottle of beer clutched in one hand and a pistol, on the floor, just beyond his outstretched fingertips.
Brand scooped the guns lying near the gunmen, stooping down to check pulses as he went. Stepping over the prone body of the second shooter Brand’s eyes returned to the young guide, who only minutes ago, was politely listening to Jerry’s fishing story.
Brand winced as he moved closer, his mind rebelling against what his eyes proved true. Blood had already begun to thicken against the side of Dave’s face, the dark red liquid congealing and turning his light hair dark. The bullet punched a gaping hole in the back of the young guide’s skull quickly ending his life.
Brand lingered over Dave then cleared a path to check on his other friend. Bending, he rolled Jerry onto his back. A dark stain bloomed on the front of old guide’s shirt. Brand’s fingers slipped as he gripped the wet cloth and tugged against the hold of the buttons. The fabric tore open and he peeled the blood-soaked material away to expose Jerry’s body.
Small, dark red pools bubbled on the man’s chest. Fears for his friend’s survival hammered the edge of his mind as he climbed to his feet. The late hour, an evening of drinking and the coming down from a sudden flood of adrenaline caused him to pause before deeply ingrained instincts kicked in. A dying man with blood pumping from chest wounds lay at his feet. Voices screamed in his head pleading for him to hurry and save the man.
A few quick steps carried Brand into the kitchen and to a drawer where he removed a stack of towels. Kneeling down at Jerry’s side, he dabbed at the rising blood, wiping the wounds dry before he layered clean towels tight to his friend’s chest and back. Using his knee to elevate Jerry’s upper body off the floor, Brand tore strips of cloth and wrapped the bandages tight to stop the flow of blood.
He worked feverishly to comfort his friend. Several minutes passed as he struggled to trap the escaping blood. The stack of soaked rags grew on the floor before the bleeding slowed. Satisfied at the bandaging, Brand slipped his arms under Jerry’s limp body, slowly lifting the old guide.
On unsteady legs, he carried Jerry to the couch and propped a cushion under his friend’s head. The slight rising of Jerry’s chest told Brand of his friend’s weak but still beating heart. He prayed the temporary dressing would slow the loss of blood and prolong the old guide’s life until medical help arrived.
Red, wet stains ran the length of Brand’s arms and chest. A slick, sticky hand dug into the pocket of his jeans and retrieved his cell phone. His fingers slipped on the glass screen as he dialled 911.
“I need an ambulance…” The exertion and adrenaline of the last handful of minutes tearing deep, ragged breaths from his lungs as he spoke to the operator. His voice barely contained the urgency drumming inside his mind while he explained the emergency.
Brand focused on slowing down his breaths and regained his composure at the dispatcher’s volley of questions. He glanced around the kitchen, his eyes studying the trail of destruction. The quick tap of keyboard strokes on the opposite end of the line grew quite. The dispatcher reaffirmed his address and assured him that the police and ambulance were already on their way.
Refusing to believe the young fishing guide was dead Brand stared at Dave’s lifeless body. He let out a sigh and sidestepped around the corpse of a gunman, calculating every placement of his feet, careful to not disturb the scene more than he already had. He retrieved his rifle and carried it to the front door. Leaning the gun against the doorjamb, he walked onto the front deck to wait for the ambulance.
Fishing a cigarette out of its package, he lit the smoke. His mind drifted while he listened to the raindrops. The ordinarily soothing rhythm the rain played on the porch roof added an eerie soundtrack to the unsettling turn of events that erupted on this chilly Friday evening.
Brand sat hunched over and contemplated the surreal scene that played out in the house behind him. The men who entered his house obviously confused his address with another. The local news was rife with likewise stories of home invasions in the city lately. The illegal drug trade fuelled a majority of the incidents, but those attacks centred on criminals involved with the drug business.
Sitting on the veranda, he recalled segments of the evening news, reports of shootings with a similar M.O., gang bangers who targeted houses and shot up the occupants in some form of perverse street justice. Wouldn’t be the first time the perpetrators confused the address and involved innocent people.
What other explanation would fit, Brand rationalized, although his years of experience railed against this reasoning? The men lying dead in his kitchen didn’t have the usual markings of local gangbangers? Not the type that he’d crossed paths with during his career in law enforcement or the criminals commonly shown on the evening news.
Brand took a pull from the cigarette. Happier feelings seeped into his mind as his thoughts travelled halfway across the country to his girlfriend, Sara Monahan. The image of Sara he pictured in his mind faded with reality. The momentary break from the shooting in his house, fleeting. He said a silent prayer that Sara had left earlier in the day for a business trip to Ottawa, far removed from the events that shattered the evening.
Sara, unfortunately, had witnessed enough horror to last anyone a lifetime. The blatant disregard for human life caused by the ideologically corrupt ideals of society. She still struggled with bouts of anxiety since a group of religious zealots abducted her a year earlier. The actions of the kidnapping pulled the couple into the midst of a home-grown terrorist plot south of the Canadian border.
Brand was sceptical of Sara’s constant assurances that the events were behind her. He knew the tragedy still visited in her dreams. Her words betrayed by changes in her attitude.
As the cigarette burnt down, the recollection of Sara’s unwanted nightmare replaced the evening’s shootings if only offering a brief respite. The heinous plot of a zealous religious cabal intended to rain terror on the United States and force the American President’s hand in deploying nuclear weapons against the group’s rivals.
The brutal ordeal was a bit more than a computer analyst of Sara’s stature should have to endure. Brand’s involvement in exposing the Cabal and thwarting their reprehensible plan resulted with him breaking several American laws. His tactics were deemed necessary, but legal problems persisted
He waited for the day of his return to the U.S.A. to answer for the charges filed by the American government. Whenever the subject of his impending court appearance surfaced, he noticed a change in Sara’s mood.
The mitigating factors surrounding his conduct were out of his hands, placed with overworked bureaucrats, mostly south of the border. His day in court was looming ever closer. A technicality, the lawyer’s assured, but political matters had a way of dragging on.
The Canadian government currently handled the backroom details to exonerate him of charges, but until the final verdict, the repercussions of his actions still weighed on both of their minds.
Chapter 3
Brand wondered back onto the deck after returning from inside the house and a check on Jerry. He lit a fresh cigarette. The night erupted with the wail of sirens closing in on his block. The mechanical warning signalled the imminent arrival of a black and white. Flashing blue and red lights perched on the car’s roof pierced the darkness seconds before the cruiser roared into view. The car screeched to an abrupt halt in front of his house, the blur of rubber wipers slapped against the windshield’s glass to drive away the falling rain.
Rising in his seat, he leaned on the metal railing at the same time the doors of the cop car flew open. Brand tracked the officer’s movements through the wispy tendrils of smoke drifting upward from the cigarette pinched between his fingers.
A pair of uniformed officers stepped out onto the slick pavement, their bodies protected behind the open car doors, guns in hand, heads swivelled while searching the front of the house for danger.
“In here.” He shouted down to the officer over the high-pitched wail of the siren. He stood and waved an arm beckoning the pair toward the house. The officers edged from behind the safety of the metal doors and cautiously crossed to the sidewalk. The no-nonsense barrels of their revolvers held ready in outstretched arms. Brand stuck both hands in the air, not knowing what else to do, showing the officers he was unarmed.
An older policeman, light reflecting off Sergeant bars pinned to the man’s lapels, climbed the stairs. A younger officer, the driver of the car, walked close behind. The Sergeant stopped on the deck, his eyes switching between the open door and Brand. The gun in the sergeant’s outstretched hand held firm, the barrel unwavering.
Brand glanced at the nametag stitched on the Sergeant’s chest as the officer stepped past the square column on the edge of the deck. The man’s last name, Whitly, was embroidered in blue thread on a white rectangle patch on the front of the man’s uniform. Brand crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, nodded toward the open door and began summarizing the shootings from only minutes earlier.
In a voice tainted by years of smoking, Sergeant Whitly interrupted Brand. “Mac…” Whitly called to the younger cop. “Grab your notebook and record the man’s statement. I’m heading inside to have a look around.”
The Sergeant turned his attention back to Brand. “You stay put and fill officer McLennan in on the details.” Finished with his instructions the Sergeant eased into the house, his arm extended, his service revolver leading the way.
A second set of flashing lights and the added noise of another loud horn announced the arrival of a city ambulance seconds before it rounded the street corner. Like the police car, the ambulance screeched to a halt behind the parked cruiser about the time the Sergeant entered the house. A pair of attendants jumped to the street with medical bags in their hands. Officer McLennan waved them to the house and called inside to the Sergeant.
“How you doing in there Sarg? The paramedics are here.”
The Sergeants raspy voice echoed through the open door. “Tell them to get their asses in here. Got a weak pulse in need of attention.”
Staying out of the way, Brand sat in his chair, his fingers absently reaching for a fresh cigarette from the package sitting on a table. His thoughts followed the responders into the house. Concern for his friends foremost on his mind.
Additional police cars steered onto the street along with an extra set of ambulances. The deluge of vehicles accumulating on the crowded, narrow road. The quiet, rain-soaked evening in the neighbourhood echoed under siege of the deafening sirens. The flashing lights from the vehicles lighting the block in a melding of red and blue strobe lights.
Brand looked around from his seat and watched as his neighbours ventured outside to the sounds of emergency vehicles. Porch light after porch light flared into the night as people poured onto their decks curious to find the reason for the disturbance to their sleep.
In the ensuing minutes, the pavement swarmed with first responders and onlookers alike. Brand stepped toward the door eager to check on Jerry’s condition, but the young officer McLennan held up a hand. With a shake of his head, the policeman motioned Brand back to the chair.
Brand sat down. Paramedics climbed from their vehicles, gathered on the wet pavement collecting their equipment before climbing the sidewalk and entering the house. Fishing another cigarette from the pack, Brand cupped the lighter in his hands and blocked the light, chill breeze. He bent his head, touching the cigarette tip to the waiting flame and drew on the cigarette until it smouldered. Straightening, he lifted his head to peer across the deck rail, his thoughts in disarray. He stared off into space. Concern for his friends flowed deep inside as he once again contemplated the bizarre turn of events the evening had taken.
He sensed, rather than saw a man step past the young policeman and walk over to stand beside his chair. Looking up, Brand saw a balding, heavyset man gazing back down at him. The buttons on the man’s rumpled shirt strained to hold the stretched fabric closed over the man’s girth. A brown blazer sagged over the man’s slumping shoulders. Tan slacks hung loosely below a large belly and ran down to a pair of scuffed loafers.
The large man stood blocking the porch light, his face obscured by shadows. Brand’s gaze followed the man’s hand as he dug inside his jacket and produced a wallet. Flipping it open, the man waved a CPS detective badge. Brand read the name stamped on the ID, Walgreen, detective Frank Walgreen. Raising his eyes from the wallet, Brand stared into the detective’s face.
“Mind if I sit down?” Walgreen asked. Brand motioned to a chair with his head. “Looks like you’ve had a busy evening?” The detective said, worming his portly frame into the narrow deckchair.
Brand shook his head absently, half listening to the detective’s words. Walgreen sat silent for a couple of minutes before speaking.
“You feel up to telling me what happened?” Walgreen asked. “Start from the beginning… when you’re ready.” He added, as he removed a notebook from an inside pocket of his blazer, then sent his hand back inside to recover a pen.
“Find out how the old man on the couch is doing first.” Brand said.
“A friend of yours?” Detective Walgreen inquired. Brand nodded his reply. “Hang tight for a minute. I’ll be right back.” A grunt escaped the detective’s mouth as he lifted from the chair and wandered into the house. Several minutes passed before Detective Walgreen returned to the deck and sat down.
“The paramedics tell me the guy on the couch is stable.” Detective Walgreen studied Brand’s face. “ You apply the bandages? Seems that your handy work probably saved your friend’s life.” The detective squeezed back into the deck chair. “They’re about to wheel him out. He’ll be on his way to the hospital in short time."
Brand nodded his head. “Good. From the beginning then.” He sorted his thoughts then explained that he and his friends were local guides who gathered for the evening to tie flies and drink a few beers. Followed by his impromptu trip to the liquor store and got to the part of describing the gunshots he had heard upon backing into the garage when the paramedics wheeled Jerry Kartman from the house, down the steps, and into a waiting ambulance.
Brand paused his narrative. His thoughts interrupted by the first-responders lifting the stretcher supporting Jerry into the back of the emergency vehicle. He stared after the flashing lights as the ambulance disappeared down the block before turned his attention back to the detective and continued his story. Detective Walgreen jotted notes in his book, occasionally interrupting for clarification as Brand walked him through the shootings.
Another man, a second detective Brand assumed, joined them on the deck before Brand finished his statement. The second man stood behind Walgreen, the porch light shining on his face revealing a full head of short red hair and the stubble of a five o’clock shadow clinging to man’s pale face. A blue sports blazer covered a pale yellow shirt and dark, sharply pressed slacks finished the look. The new detective’s attire a stark contrast to the shabbily dressed Walgreen.
When Brand got to the end of his statement, the second detective showed Brand his badge and ID, Detective Darcy O’Brien. Detective O’Brien asked Brand if he carried I.D. Brand looked at O’Brien quizzically, and then slid his wallet from his pocket and opened it, showing his driver’s license. The detective removed the offered I.D. and moved closer to the exterior light.
“Brandon James Coldstream,” O’Brien said out loud and continued reading the specifics. “Born, May twenty-second, nineteen sixty-nine.” The man droned on. “1.82 metres, ninety kilos. Brown hair. Brown eyes.” The detective glanced at the picture on the license and then matched the face with Brands.
“That your rifle leaning inside the door?” The detective asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it registered?”
“Yup.”
“And you arrived back to your house from a liquor run to find these men already inside and shots being fired, is that right?”
“Pretty much like that.”
“Couldn't be that you guys had too much to drink? A beer or three too many when a wrong word or two is spoken, a heated disagreement and suddenly a flare up of testosterone among a room full of armed men. Not unheard of.” O’Brien’s eyebrows furrowed as he regarded Brand. “There is an awful lot of empty bottles and guns lying scattered about inside the house. Maybe your quiet evening turned violent, and friends became enemies?”
The comment was a slap in the face for Brand. He looked up at the man, anger mixed with shock. “You’re kidding…right?” Brand braced the detective.
“Just asking.” Detective O’Brien said defensively, throwing his shoulders and hands up in a questioning fashion.
“You and your friends aren’t in the habit of using recreational drugs, are you? Maybe the shooters were a message sent by a pissed-off associate.” Detective O’Brien drifted to a different train of thought. “A sort of, even things up, kind of deal?”
Brand glared at the man and shook his head. The detective remained silent for a minute then continued his tirade. “This is the way I see it. Those two men came to your house, invited, not invited, doesn’t matter,” the detective shrugged, “and you and your friends had some previous trouble with them. Business disagreement, I don’t know, whatever.
The two show up unexpectedly and pull their guns. Luckily you all were armed. What next. A wild west free for all.” O’Brien turned and glanced back into the house. “ These men you say attacked your house, they’re unknown to us, but shit like this is pretty unusual in a quiet neighbourhood like this one.” O’Brien paused. “I sent pictures of the men to our gang unit for identification, so far nothing,” he clarified.
“How do we know you three didn’t plan to shoot those men when they arrived, but things escalated out of your control” Again O’Brien paused. “You want to know what I think. Something doesn’t smell right. Three dead inside the house, another man, rushed to the hospital, barely breathing, and here you sit, feet up, smoking cigarettes on the deck, enjoying the evening air. What’s your take on this, Frank?”
“I have to agree.” Walgreen looked from his partner back over at Brand. “You’ll need to come downtown.” Walgreen paused and read over his notes. “You’re right O’Brien. The story doesn’t add up.”
“Bullshit.” Brand replied and started to stand up. “I’m the one who called 911. My friends were shot, and my house is a crime scene, for god’s sake. If I was going to kill someone, I could sure in the hell think of a better place to do that than where I live.” Brand stared from one detective to the other.
Brand made a step to leave. “You guys believe what you want, I could care less, but I’m driving to the hospital to check on my friend.”
“Whoa. Sit back down.” Walgreen warned. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do. There will be plenty of time for you to visit your friend.”
O’Brien called into the house for Sergeant Whitly. The three waited in awkward silence until the sergeant appeared.
“Sarg. We’re going to run this fellow downtown for a chat. Make sure the crime scene is buttoned up when forensics are done and have a pair of uniforms remain behind to guard the house?”
The sergeant nodded and returned inside. “You coming along peacefully or…” Detective Walgreen asked, a pair of handcuffs dangling in his hand. The detectives waited for Brand to stand up.
“Turn around,” Walgreen commanded. The cold metal handcuffs bit into Brand’s wrists before the detectives marched him down the deck stairs. The three climbed down to the street, Brand walking between the two detectives.
Walgreen’s partner, O’Brien, opened the back of the squad car, waited for Brand to climb inside. The detective closed the door and circled the vehicle for the driver's seat. Walgreen flicked off the siren while O’Brien steered the car away from Brand’s house. The three rolled out of the suburbs and headed for police headquarters.
