Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller (30 page)

"I'll answer the question myself, then," Potard said. "We are
just another incompetent radical group
!"

His words echoed around the room, shaking the table, and causing the formidable, armed men to shrink back in their chairs.

"We are simply another case of organized crime
gone soft
!"

"Monsieur Potard," McTavish said, quietly, "the man at fault for this is not in this room!"

"Ahh, yes…" said Potard, a look on his face akin to that of a man who has remembered the name of a song that's been going through his head all day.

There was a period of relative dullness that followed, and anybody who walked in during that time would have thought they had found a meeting of bureaucrats. Each man at the table gave an update on his individual progress and his work in the grander plan. An operative at the end was speaking, in a deep, uninteresting voice, when Jean le Potard raised a hand to silence him.

"That would be Alberto," he said, chuckling.

Heavy footsteps were suddenly audible, racing down the hall, pounding even in the carpeted, paneled hallway. The translucent doors opened with a resounding crash, and the assassin stood in the doorway, illuminated by the sun setting behind him in the hallway's glass wall. It was evident to everybody that he had run, probably all the way from the street, likely much longer. "Monsieur Potard," he gasped, clutching his chest. "I—"

"—have failed," Potard finished.

"Sir…" Ordoñez gasped. "Just allow me to tell you."

"Then tell me." Potard looked exasperated.

"Five dead," Ordoñez wheezed. "The rats killed five men."

The table erupted. Men shouted and cursed, at Ordoñez, at McTavish, at each other. Potard banged his fist on the table. "Silence! Silence! Who has died?"

Ordoñez took a deep breath, and spoke a list of names. Potard held his head in his hands, listening numbly to each victim. "Pierre DuBois…Emile Argent…Cecile Meland…Henri Dorvan…and…"

"Francois Levache," Potard said. "You have let the child kill Francois Levache."

"You worthless simpleton, Ordoñez!" Edmund McTavish shouted. "Levache was ten times the gunman you could even hope to be! Each of the others had twice your skill!"

"That will do, Edmund," said Potard calmly. "Alberto, you have made a grave mistake."

"Sir, I know…give me another chance! One more week and I will have the boy dead!"

Potard rose and wearily walked around the long table, facing Ordoñez directly. "Alberto, Alberto…you showed such promise. But…I have tolerated too many of your mistakes."

Ordoñez sank to his knees. "Monsieur…"

Potard kicked him viciously. "Moose Killers do not beg! Now relieve me of the burden of your presence!"

Ordoñez rose; his face contorted violently through several expressions, and he looked on the verge of a thousand words. In the end, all he could do was turn to leave the boardroom. As he reached the glass doors, his impulses overcame him. He drew his gun, and, screaming in rage, fired twice through the glass doors.

He wouldn't be able to remember what happened after that. Of that day, Alberto Ordoñez would just hold fragments in his subconscious: walking down the hall, not looking where he was going; wandering the streets of Ottawa with no destination at all; winding up sitting on a bench on an Ottawa street, pondering what lay ahead for him. He would hunt the boy, that was certain. There was nothing in it for him but vengeance now. The child had become everything that was wrong, and he, Alberto Ordoñez, would put a bullet into him before he thought of anything else.

Alex, he decided, lived only because Ordoñez had allowed him to, passing up many chances to kill him out of—out of what? Arrogance? Conscience? Whatever it was, it was now gone. There was only him, his gun, and the boy in the world now.

His eyes, usually so watchful and vigilant, were no longer active. He was not scanning the crowd, mentally examining each Ottawan who passed him. He did not notice the men, moving quickly, dressed inappropriately for a cold-bitten Canadian evening. They approached his position, shielded by the crowd.

Ordoñez sensed something and stiffened. He flitted his gaze to the left and saw the two figures silhouetted against a streetlight.

His spirit leapt again.
I'm still a killer
.

His gun was empty, completely useless. He threw it aside and rose in a swift motion, turning to the left.

The men quickened in unison. Ordoñez began to count.
One…two…three…four…five!

He struck the first man in the gut, knocking the wind from him, then kicked him twice in the shin. Instantly the hitman righted himself, and aimed a blow at Ordoñez, who ducked it and struck the other man across the face. Some of the bystanders had gotten wind of the fight by now, and were backing away in shock and confusion—were they just drunk? Was this a gang fight?

The first killer didn't stay down for long. He leapt at Ordoñez and grabbed him around the throat. Ordoñez, wheezing and hacking, looked desperately for a weak spot. As he was thus occupied, more air receding from his lungs, the second killer charged into his back. The three of them fell to the edge of the sidewalk in a kicking, whirling mess.

The crowd had by now formed a solid ring about fifteen meters in every direction. Ordoñez grabbed the strangler's torso and thrust him toward the road, narrowly missing the wheels of a thundering car. The impact with the asphalt loosened the strangler's hold enough for Ordoñez to wrench himself free, draw a huge gasp of air, and duck the second killer's blow. He threw a jab at the second man's face and knocked him to the sidewalk.

The first man reappeared at his back, and Ordoñez kicked him in the gut, sending him flying back into the street. As he struggled to right himself, his eyes widened in shock, and he was struck by an automobile, which had slammed on its brakes just before the impact. The first man was knocked onto the hood and into the windshield. The driver looked stunned, immobile.

Ordoñez was about to turn his attention back to the other killer when something caught his eye. A reflection of light was noticeable in the corner of his vision. Ducking another punch, he dove for it.

The first killer's gun had landed under the car's front passenger tire. Ordoñez, judging it safe, reached under and came up with the gun. Wheeling around, he fired it at the diving second assailant. The man crumpled instantly. The crowd broke up, screaming, running in disorder.

The first killer had risen and was coming for him again. Ordoñez squeezed the trigger again, and was met with the soft click.
In various situations, the worst sound I've ever heard.

One bullet. Just one bullet. He cursed himself for forgetting the old Moose Killer trick.

He saw, as if in slow motion, the first killer running towards him, and some new players: a pair of cops had arrived, and one was entering the circle, holding a stun gun.

Ordoñez's mind did the work for him. The moment the first killer was within range, he seized him, and pulled him between the policeman and himself. He thrust the man forward; the stun gun cleanly impacted his body, and he fell beside his partner.

The cop made to start for him, but Ordoñez held up his hands. "Wait!" he said. "Wait, wait!"

The cop halted. "Are you gonna give yourself up?"

"Better," Ordoñez said. "I have some vital information that you might like to know."

"Come to the station," the cop said, "and tell us there."

"No."

The cop grinned. "And why not?"

"Because I hold the bargaining chip." It was Ordoñez's turn to grin. "And I say you will learn it here."

The cop swore. "Shoot," he said.

"Now, if your police force has any skill or value of any kind, I assume you're looking for the Moose Killers?"

"What kind of idiots do you take us for? Of course we're looking for the damn Moose Killers!"

"The McTavish Group."

"Huh?"

"I said, the McTavish Group. They're the key. They give money to the Moose Killers. They're a front."

The cop looked as if he'd just been zapped with his own gun.

"You're building a case, aren't you?" Ordoñez went on. "This is your cornerstone. Take down the McTavish group and you will take down the Moose Killers."

The cop nodded wordlessly.

"Oh, and you might want to know about their grander plan. I'm sure you'll find it interesting."

The cop nodded again. "Just say it."

"Actually," Ordoñez considered for a moment, "we might have to go to the station for this."

CHAPTER 22

The King of Hudson Bay

The Woodsbrook Public Library was what Machry liked to describe as endearingly sterile. The carpets were thin and blue, the walls were white, the rows of bookshelves undistinguished. A librarian's desk and an electronic card catalogue stood by the entrance, and rows of high windows circled the walls. Despite the dullness of its interior, Machry had always felt a certain fondness for the place, being a man whose job often revolved around the written word.

He had asked Dave to come along in order to speed up the searching process. Dave had obliged, saying that anything that could make Henry Machry this excited had to be good.

"So," Dave said, breaking the short silence that held between them upon entering, "we have two names and nothing else. Where do we start?"

Machry looked toward the card catalogue, two computers with blue screens and yellow text. "As good as anywhere else," he said, walking over to the one nearer the desk.

Sitting down in the chair, which squeaked ominously, he typed in "subject" and the first name he had, William Orson.

NO MATCHES FOUND

Machry slammed his fist on the table, causing the librarian to stare murderously in his direction.

"What did you think was going to happen?" Dave said, walking up behind him. "You'd search the public library card catalogue and it would give you his life story?"

"It was worth a shot, okay?" Machry said irritably. Without much conviction he entered the second name, Charles Johnson.

1 MATCH FOUND

Dave had begun wandering toward the shelves, when Machry pulled him back. "Dave, there's a match! Come see this!"

Dave hurried back over. His throat dry, Machry read out the title:
The Families of Upstate New York by Professor Ellen Isaacs.
The library had one copy in stock at the moment.

Of one accord, they hurried across the library, drawing numerous angry looks. Dave reached the shelf first, third from the back, and raced along it, looking for the Dewey Decimal code listed in the catalogue. He saw it flit by on a green, leather-bound book, covered in plastic to deter the already visible aging. "Johnson," he muttered, flipping the pages at random.

"Dave, use your brain!" Machry said, appearing beside him. "The index!"

"Oh," Dave muttered, his face turning red. "Of course."

"From what I can tell, the book's a history of New York, told by focusing on a specific bunch of prominent families," Machry murmured, holding up the pages in order to skim the dust jacket. "And…the Johnsons seem to be one of them!"

"Hey, I found it," Dave said suddenly. "Johnson, Charles. Page 114."

"Read page 114," Machry said, stepping back to get a better look. "See if there's anything about Woodsbrook."

Dave turned to the page and scanned it, looking for capital letters. No "W" caught his eye, but he saw an "I" which preceded the name of a town.

"Ithaca," Dave said. "The Johnsons had something to do with the region, but never Woodsbrook itself."

Machry cursed. "Where do we go from here?"

"I have an idea…"

"So do I. I think we need to see Professor Ellen Isaacs."

Ithaca College was sparsely colored in March, it being too early for the traditional palette of academic splendor to have emerged from its wintery cocoon. Machry's protesting car, still not working right after being forced to high speeds to pursue Edbrough through Woodsbrook, sputtered to a halt and spat disdainfully.

"What do you think?" he asked, casting a sidelong glance at Dave.

"We should probably just go in and talk now," Dave replied.

"We can't do that! She could be lecturing."

"Then I guess we just wait."

"Speak of the devil," Machry said, sitting up straight. The doors of the building ahead of them opened momentarily, then closed, and a woman in a grey suit and pants walked toward them along the ice-ravaged stone path. She seemed to have not yet completed the transition from youth to age, though she was in the final phase: her hair, once blond, had not completely turned gray; her face was wrinkled, but not extensively.

"Is it her?"

"That's her."

Machry opened the car door, stepped out, and shut it. He hurried to the walk and yelled, "Professor Isaacs?"

The woman stopped. "Do I know you?"