Getting Even Read online

  “Perfect,” said Allan as Webster and Ryan, the second attendant, pulled the stretcher out of the ambulance. “Remaining funds due will be transferred by Friday.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Expect an additional bonus for everything you’ve done, Doctor.”

  Jansen smiled and said, “Thank you. May I never see you again, Allan. Good luck and stay out of trouble, for all our sakes.”

  Chapter 3 – Friday, August 7, 2015

  Abbotsford, BC, 6:04 a.m.

  When Dr. Oscar Jansen awoke, he immediately knew something was wrong. For one, his clock radio indicated the time was 6:04, yet he was fairly certain he had set the alarm for 5:30 as he always did. Had this been the only issue, he might have determined any number of reasons why the alarm had not woken him for his daily swim; perhaps he had indeed neglected to set it or an electronic glitch had prevented its proper functioning. However, the fact his ankles and wrists were bound clearly indicated something more serious than an uncooperative clock radio.

  “What the hell is going on?” he demanded as he rolled uncomfortably from his side onto his arms behind his back.

  “Oh, good. You’re awake,” said Allan, appearing at the foot of the bed. “Mind you, I was concerned you would wake up while I was tying you.”

  Jansen stared at the convicted killer he had helped set free, his expression a mixture of anger and fear. “H-how did you get in here? W-what’s going on?”

  Allan gestured to the windows to one side of the room and said, “How hard do you think it was to get in here when you left those wide open? You really should be more careful, Oscar.”

  “Okay, look. What are you doing here?” asked Jansen, struggling to sit on the bed.

  “I guess I could say I’m tying up loose ends,” Allan replied then chuckled. “Pardon the pun.”

  “Is this about the money?” Jansen asked, “Because, if it is, you can keep it. I’ll even return what was transferred to date if you want.”

  “Nonsense. The money has nothing to do with it,” Allan replied. “I had more than enough when I was arrested and it’s not like I’ve been spending any over the last nine years. No, this has to do with making sure nobody knows I’m no longer in prison.”

  Jansen attempted a laugh. “You don’t have to convince me to keep quiet, Allan. I orchestrated the whole thing, from coaching you to finding your replacement to making the switch.”

  “And I commended you for your fine work,” said Allan. “However, if for some reason any of this came out, you might decide to talk to lessen your hardship.”

  “I wouldn’t, Allan,” Jansen insisted, breaking into a sweat. “You should be more concerned about Holt. I told you he was making me nervous. Or Webster and Ryan. They didn’t get paid as much and might try to blackmail you somehow.”

  Allan raised his hand to cut the doctor off. “For your information, Webster and Ryan went out for a few drinks last night and unfortunately had an accident on their way back home. As for Holt, he decided to hang himself in his garage just a few hours ago. I do feel bad for his dear wife who’s off visiting her sister. She’ll be devastated when she finds him tomorrow.”

  Using his heels, Jansen pushed himself against the headboard as he cried, “What are you going to do to me?”

  “I’m going to take you for your morning swim,” Allan replied, stepping to the side of the bed.

  “Please don’t do this,” Jansen begged as he tried to move away.

  “I’m sorry, but I have no choice,” said Allan.

  He reached out and grabbed Jansen by the ankles, yanking him across the bed and twisting him onto his stomach before wrapping him in the bed sheet.

  “Please, Allan,” Jansen sobbed as the killer hoisted him onto his shoulder with surprising ease and carried him out of the master bedroom.

  An avid swimmer since childhood, Jansen had insisted on an interior swimming pool when he and his ex-wife had their home designed a dozen years earlier. The vast room which housed his pride and joy was unfortunately deemed to be his final destination.

  “This is really nice,” said Allan, gazing about before laying Jansen’s sheet-wrapped form at the edge of the fifteen by thirty foot, water-filled rectangle. “How deep is it?”

  “Please, Allan,” Jansen pleaded. “I’ll do anything you want.”

  “I want you to answer my question,” said Allan.

  “Eight feet,” Jansen whimpered. “It’s eight feet deep.”

  “That’ll work,” Allan replied.

  He reached down and grabbed two solid handfuls of the bed sheet then yanked hard and upward, unfurling it and sending Jansen rolling into the swimming pool with a splash. He examined the edge of the sheet for a moment and was pleased to note it hadn’t gotten wet. Tossing it aside, he knelt by the pool and, grasping the struggling Jansen with a hand on either side of his head, pulled his face out of the water.

  “I almost forgot to tell you,” said Allan, gazing into the doctor’s terror-filled eyes. “Thanks for sleeping in the nude. It made my work that much easier.”

  He pushed Jansen back down under water before picking up the sheet and heading to the bedroom to return it to where it belonged. He would come back to retrieve the silk ties he had used to bind the doctor in a few minutes when they were no longer required. He was confident they would leave no marks and was pleased no blows had been needed to subdue the man. However strange or questionable it might seem, the cause of death in the end would be accidental drowning.

  Chapter 4 – Monday, September 14, 2015

  Aboard Flight AC 1164 over Montreal, Quebec, 7:14 p.m.

  Allan Ryerson, his new name according to the identification and credit cards in his wallet, gazed down at the lights of Montreal which glowed brighter by the moment, the sun having set mere minutes earlier. It felt good to be finally returning to the city he had called home for most of the first fifty-two years of his life, until he had boarded that flight nine years ago, destination, Kent Institution, the only maximum security penitentiary in the Correctional Service of Canada’s Pacific region.

  An only child, William Allan Enright, as he was legally known, had been born into money. His father, Patrick Enright III, had been sole owner and CEO of P.W. Enright Tobacco Company, founded by Patrick William Enright the First in 1888.

  Over the years, Patrick III had grown concerned with the plight of the homeless, finding it unfair that some struggled daily without sufficient food and shelter while he, and others, had the means to obtain whatever they desired at a moment's notice. Before long, he had become progressively involved in helping the less fortunate; opening shelters, supporting assistance programmes and organizations and speaking for the rights of the homeless to various private and public groups.

  Following his wife's death in an automobile accident in 1968, Patrick's interest in running his enterprise had waned as he had realized there was more to life than simply making more money. His decision made, he had sold the P.W. Enright Tobacco Company in 1970 for an astronomical sum, intent on dedicating his remaining time to sixteen year old William and helping the homeless.

  Exposed to his father’s mission since childhood, William’s dedication to helping the homeless became second nature early on. Throughout his school years, he participated in and organized numerous campaigns and programmes aimed at supporting the rights of the homeless and improving their lives.

  When Patrick III had passed away in 1989, he'd left thirty-five year old William a trust fund more than sufficient to keep him living in luxury for the rest of his life. The remainder of his vast fortune had been bequeathed to the Patrick William Enright Foundation for the Homeless which William would institute and subsequently chair.

  True to his father’s hopes and wishes, William had proudly continued the war against homelessness with unrelenting vim and dedication for the next seventeen years, or so it seemed, until his arrest in 2006 for the murders of several street people as the notorious Homeless Killer.

  Thanks to the efforts of his dete
rmined, and expensive, lawyers, a plea-bargain had been reached – one count of second degree murder – and William had been sentenced to life in prison with no possibility of parole for a minimum of ten years.

  The next years had passed as well and quickly as years can pass when one is incarcerated in a maximum security institution. Intelligent and of strong character, William had managed to become one of the population without issue and quietly gained the respect of the other inmates. A fitness buff all his life, he had occupied much of his time exercising and lifting weights. Ironically, he had insisted on continuing to head the Foundation and, considering its humanitarian importance, he had been permitted to do so from inside, being granted internet, telephone and meeting time as required.

  A year earlier, with still two years to go before he could even apply, he had asked his chief counsel if he could reasonably expect to be paroled and, as he had presumed, the answer had been, “No.” William, knowing the lawyer would assist him for the right price, had gone on to describe the basics of an escape plan he had been formulating. Over time, he would appear to mentally deteriorate enough to be transferred from Kent to the Pacific region’s asylum in Abbotsford. During the transfer, William would be replaced with a double. Sean Wollam, the lawyer in question, would look after securing any help required to make the plan a success. Money was no object and Wollam’s greed outweighed his ethics.

  His lawyer had gotten busy, identifying required players and finding the right angles, and prices, to get them on board while William had gradually shut down, going from articulate, outspoken serial killer to human vegetable. Dr. Oscar Jansen, whom Wollam had approached and convinced early on with a two million dollar offer, had been instrumental in bringing the plan to the desired final outcome.

  Leaving nothing to chance, William had ensured the ‘hired help’ would remain forever quiet after which he had made his way to Banff for some appearance altering facial surgery. He had stayed in the area for the next five weeks, recuperating for the first two before embarking on an aggressive training regimen to get back to the peak physical shape he had prided himself with for most of his sixty-one years.

  He leaned back into his business-class seat as the Airbus A320 touched down smoothly and quickly slowed as the thrust reversers were deployed. With only a carryon to deal with, he would be out of the airport and on his way in no time. A suite in one of Old Montreal’s finer boutique hotels awaited him and dinner would likely be room service, prepared in the establishment’s upscale bistro.

  His five week retreat in Banff had left him rested and energized so he perhaps would go for a stroll in the evening to re-acquaint himself with his old stomping grounds. However, if he did, he would still make it an early night because the following day would mark the start of a busy period. He would be getting himself some transportation, settling into the more adequate lodgings his lawyer had arranged and beginning his research and planning. Yes, the following day would be the start of big things to come… the start of his getting even.

  Chapter 5 – Wednesday, September 30, 2015

  Summit Woods, Westmount, Quebec, 6:44 a.m.

  The fifteen days since his return to Montreal had been busy ones for William, in part due to shopping for necessities but mostly because of the research required to track down the old ‘acquaintances’ with whom he had debts to settle. He had, however briefly, considered assigning some initial legwork to his attorney but had refrained. After all, Wollam was unaware of William’s intentions and there were surely limits to what the corrupt lawyer would agree to do. In addition, logic dictated he personally look after the sensitive aspects of his planned activities. As the old French proverb said ‘one is never better served than by oneself’.

  Impatient by nature, he had been disappointed to have only located one of his prospects to date following countless hours of research. Of the four, he had known two would be difficult to find, particularly because he had no clue who they actually were, though he intended to find out. However, he had the names and details for the other two and had expected tracking them down would be a walk in the park.

  In truth, he had zeroed in on the first subject as easily as he had hoped. Nothing had really changed in the man’s life except for the cars he and his wife drove. This had allowed him to tail the man on a number of occasions and familiarize himself with his schedule and habits, which included his morning run in and about Summit Woods in Westmount. Unfortunately, his second subject seemed to have changed employer and home address and was proving difficult to trace.

  The sound of cracking twigs pulled William back to the task at hand and a quick glance at his watch confirmed his target was keeping to his usual punctuality. He would come up the path behind William’s natural cache then pass to the left, mere yards away, before crossing the small clearing to the path beyond.

  William steadied himself down on one knee and raised the Henry US Survival AR-7. He wasn’t fully convinced the .22 caliber rifle would do the job, particularly with the low velocity sub-sonic rounds he would be using. However, low noise was a necessity and the arms dealer had assured him he should manage to achieve his goal at close range.

  The jogger appeared, moving across the clearing, and William pulled the trigger eight times in rapid succession, emptying the magazine and ending his target’s run, and hopefully, his life. As the runner pitched to the ground and lay motionless five yards away, William quickly disassembled the rifle, storing the barrel, action and empty magazine inside the polymer stock and slipping it into his small backpack.

  He wished he could confirm his victim was dead but the danger of getting caught increased with each additional second he remained on the scene so he would have to depend on news reports to learn of his success, or failure. His backpack secured in place, he climbed onto his Trek mountain bike and pushed off, taking the steep-sloped trail heading south to Summit Circle below.

  He paused briefly as he reached the edge of the woods but the street was deserted and he pedalled off, heading west to Upper Bellevue from where he zigzagged down the mountain along Sunnyside and Bellevue avenues and away from what he hoped was a murder scene.

  * * * *

  Forty-nine year old Detective Lieutenant Frank Bakes moved quickly but cautiously up the trail, uncertain what danger, if any, lurked amidst the trees. He was certain what he had heard was gunfire, small caliber, a sound rarely heard, if ever, on the wealthy streets of Westmount. Eight shots, if he had counted correctly, fired quickly and systematically, but he had no idea where. Sound could bounce around well enough up near the summit with its woods, winding roads and stone mansions.

  He had started his morning jog a few minutes late, courtesy of a broken shoelace, and had just entered the woods at the southwest corner when the shots had rung out. He’d stopped and listened, trying to determine from which direction they had come from but a slight after-echo had left him confused. He’d called in to 911, identified himself and reported the incident then continued along the trail, searching for any signs of disturbance or trouble.

  He continued his hike upward, it was called the Summit Woods for a reason, and approached a crest where he knew was a clearing where several trails intersected. The clearing came into view and he stopped, swearing under his breath as he scanned the area and pulled out his mobile to call 911 again.

  “I called in a few minutes ago to report gunfire heard near Summit Woods,” he said as he moved toward the immobile man sprawled facedown at the far edge of the clearing. “I have a possible victim, male, with what appears to be multiple gunshot wounds to the back and head. I need to check if this guy’s still alive.”

  As he crouched by the victim, the man emitted a low moan and clawed feebly at the dirt with his right hand.

  “Easy, buddy. Help’s on the way,” Frank told him before speaking into the phone. “He’s alive. I need an ambulance at Summit Woods, up in the trails just above the lookout.”

  The man moved a bit more, likely regaining consciousness, and turned
his head slightly toward Frank.

  “Try not to move,” said Frank, gently pulling the man’s hood back which covered his face. “Aw, crap, Paul. You’re hurt, buddy. An ambulance is on the way. Just lay still.” Back into the phone, he said, “Victim is Paul Greer. He’s my neighbour, damn it. Hurry with the ambulance.”

  He cut the connection as he heard approaching sirens and said, “I’m going to run down and get these guys up here, okay?”

  Greer opened an eye and rasped, “I’ll wait here.”

  * * * *

  Montreal, Quebec, 12:01 p.m.

  “Police are investigating a bizarre shooting which took place in the Summit Woods in Westmount early this morning,” the newscaster announced. “The victim, local resident Paul Greer, is in hospital in serious but stable condition after having been shot multiple times while –”

  “Are you kidding me?” William hissed, stabbing the mute button as he glared at the television screen in disbelief. “Paul Greer? I shot the wrong guy?”

  He fumbled with the remote to turn the sound back on as a familiar figure appeared in the footage presented on the screen.

  “– shots were initially reported by off-duty Lieutenant Detective Frank Bakes who was also out for his morning jog,” the anchorman continued. “Detective Bakes found the victim moments later and –”

  “Son of a bitch,” William muttered, turning off the television in disgust.

  He rose from his seat and paced the length of the living room several times, willing himself to regain his composure. After a minute or two, he stopped and stared at the now blank television screen.

  “Those bullets were meant for you, Bakes,” he murmured, “And believe me when I say I won’t screw up a second time.”