Evil in Hockley (6 page)

Joe paced and thought then eyed Tony
Moore.

“All right Bobby. Get Reverend Dean
after we finish with Tony.”

“Boss. Not meaning to tell you your
business but the preacher likes things untouched. He says he needs
the mood of the moment or some kind of crap. He’ll deal with Moore,
his own way.”

Bobby swallowed then added,

“If that’s okay with you
boss?”

At a time like this when Joe Sharky had
to call in a professional there was a short fuse burning somewhere
inside the man. He was liable to shoot anyone in the room not
excluding the bar tender.

It was the last thing Bobby expected.
Joe laughed.

“You handle it Bobby. I got a business
to run.”

Bobby Mercer drove to Toronto along
Lakeshore to an abandoned building on Front Street. At the truck
entrance he pressed the button on the intercom, gave his name, and
asked permission to enter. The door opened and he drove in then
stopped his car and stepped out. Sitting at a desk in the abandoned
warehouse was Reverend John Dean.

Reverend Dean stood: he was a
formidable height, over six feet tall, and had a solid frame
sporting wide shoulders. He wasn’t black yet he wasn’t white, his
skin tone somewhere between two extremes. He had jet black hair
that hung to his shoulders in ringlets. Bobby guessed he was about
thirty years old. The man was awe-inspiring especially when he
spoke. He had a low bass voice that seemed to vibrate through a
room and could be felt as well as heard.

“You honour us with your presence. Is
your visit business or pleasure?”

The Reverend had another quirk Bobby
liked: a slight French accent that added class to the already
astounding figure.

“Business today. We got a problem and
need professional help. A man by the name of Harry Tanner
has…”

“One man?”

“One man. Some kind of Terrorist
assassin so I hear. Deadly as shit.”

“All right, but one man or ten the
price is still the same.”

“No problem. I know the drill. Just
give me the account number and I’ll wire the money.”

Bobby had seen her before but she
always took his breath away. She was almost six feet tall and had a
figure like a statue. She had the same skin colour as the Reverend
and black hair that hung to her shoulders in ringlets. She wore a
black halter top and a short black skirt. Over it all was draped a
black robe, open in the front, that fluttered as she
walked.

She was Lenea, a Voodoo
priestess.

Bobby knew they were both originally
from New Orleans. They were Creole, a mixture of French and African
with a little American native thrown in.

The reverend said,

“We’re taking a little detour north, to
help Bobby with a problem. We leave immediately. Is that
satisfactory?”

In a low soft voice she
said,

“I don’t like polar bears.”

The Reverend gave a low throaty
laugh.

“Not that far north.”

She left again probably to
pack.

“Same place?” asked John
Dean.

“Yup. No change.”

“Until tomorrow then.”

With that John Dean turned and walked
away and Bobby got back in his car then drove home.

Bobby Mercer stood beside Joe Sharky
and they watched as a limo and a black sedan entered the parking
lot. A long motor home made it’s way to the south end of the lot
and parked on the grass. Bobby knew this model was worth a half a
million. Two men climbed out of the sedan and directed a truck to a
spot near the motor home.

The drivers of the motor home, truck,
and two workers unloaded a large tent then pitched it on the grass.
Tables, chairs, and a barbeque were set under the tent which was
about fifty feet square. The entire process took two hours. Finally
John Dean and Lenea climbed out of the limo. Lenea went to the
motor home and the reverend walked into the bar.

John Dean paced: not the nervous way
Joe Sharky did but a deliberate sizing up of the room. It was as
though he was visualizing every detail, sniffing the air at
different spots, and delicately touching surfaces. He would touch a
tabletop then smell the ends of his fingertips.

He finally asked for Tony
Moore.

The room was silent as Tony was
escorted from a backroom into the tavern. He was tied and gagged.
The reverend released him from his bonds and led him to the motor
home. Bobby knew that Tony’s life would take a desperate turn for
the worse.

It was early in the day. Staff and
customers had not yet come to work. A blood curdling scream came
from the motor home loud enough to frighten birds from their
sanctuaries in the trees. Bobby knew it was the sound created when
a soul was torn from the body. He turned to Joe and
said,

“I think the reverend is letting you
know he’s on the clock.”

Chapter 11

Harry Tanner drove south on Airport
Road from Mono Mills to the sleepy town of Caledon East. Halfway
there he stopped at a set of lights in the middle of nowhere, only
farmer’s homes and fields on either side of the road. Not only were
there traffic lights but other flashing signals in amber or red to
alert drivers that there indeed were traffic lights in the middle
of this desolate stretch of highway: Traffic lights as majestic as
ones found in any city.

There existed a side road that
connected to Airport Road and ran west toward Caledon. Caledon East
was five kilometres south of the lights and Caledon so why did they
called it Caledon East?

A stranger question to
answer.

Why the lights?

It was a three road intersection. On
the east side, of the side road, was a steep downhill that led to a
swamp. If one were headed east from Caledon on the side road and if
one wasn’t paying attention one would overshoot the intersection
travelling on a road that didn’t exist and be vaulted into the
swamp a couple of hundred feet below. No matter how many amber
warning lights and speed bumps the town installed a few people
every year seemed to merrily drive through all warning signs into
the swamp.

Tow trucks would be called and the
police filled out reports. Rumour had it that a police officer put
a cruiser into the well travelled swamp one night. Which seemed to
justify calling it a dangerous intersection and thereby a need for
extra cautionary lights.

Clive Willowby had told Harry that the
intersection was so well lit at night a small plane pilot had
landed on Airport Road thinking it was a runway at Pearson
International. Harry didn’t believe it although it was a hilarious
tale, one only Clive could tell.

Harry paid his house taxes at the Town
Office in Caledon East then stopped at the grocery store to stock
up. He also made a pit stop at the local LCBO and picked up a badly
needed bottle of whiskey. The circumstances around his brother’s
death would surely drive him to drink.

He passed his house on the way home to
get a coffee for himself and Sandy at the local donut shop. He
passed a shop built while he was in the Middle East. They tore down
an old historical site (with permission of course) that used to be
an old General Store. In its heyday they sold everything from nails
to bread and for over a hundred years was the entire shopping
centre for the area.

Across the road from the General Store
used to stand a hotel. It burned down half a century ago and Harry
wondered about the story behind that. There was a mill at the river
across the highway where they ground flour but that too was
abandoned over fifty years before. Unfortunately over a hundred
years ago the railway ran through Orangeville bypassing Mono Mills.
One flourished, the other dwindled.

Harry found it amusing that people had
lived and died buying all they needed from that single General
Store and today two hundred acres of shopping mall in Orangeville
wasn’t enough to satisfy everyone. People drove to the Toronto and
area shops.

Harry picked up coffee and gassed up
his Cuda then went home to Sandy. She was busy surfing the net,
searching for every reference in regards to Joe Sharky and his
enterprises. He had several businesses, some rather unusual, having
nothing to do with his exploits north of Hockley.

Harry dialled Shelley’s number. A male
voice answered, low and authoritative.

“Hello Mr. Tanner.”

Harry wondered how he knew. Shelley
wouldn’t have his number or caller ID.

“You seem to know me. Who am I speaking
to?”

“A friend. I have information you’d
like to speak to Shelley.”

There was a pause as though the other
party wanted Harry’s confirmation.

“That’s right.”

“I can arrange it Mr.
Tanner.”

He called Harry mister but it sounded a
tad sarcastic the way he said it.

“Where and when?”

“Anytime. She’s at Tony Moore’s
house.”

Harry chuckled.

“My mother didn’t raise idiots. If you
think I’m walking into that house, you’re nuts.”

“I guarantee your safety Mr. Tanner.
Drive to the house: Tony, Shelley, and I will be waiting. You will
come to no harm. We would like to show you we have nothing to
hide.”

“Who the hell are you and why would you
care?”

“My name is John Dean and I’m working
for Joe Sharky to resolve a misunderstanding that seems to have
developed between you and my client.”

Harry knew a bullet between Joe’s eyes
would be the only resolution he was likely to accept.

“Mr. Tanner, are you still with
us?”

“I’m listening.”

“Let’s suppose for a moment that Joe
didn’t kill your brother. The murderer, if in fact there is one,
will go free. What evidence do you have that he was indeed killed
by Mr. Sharky? The police seem satisfied that it was an
accident.”

Harry realised his evidence didn’t
amount to much. The bumper mark on the bike could have been there a
week before Jarrod hit the ditch. But Joe had tried to drown him in
the reservoir for merely asking a few questions.

“Mr. Tanner, we’ll be waiting. Come and
check us out. You’ll see it’s not a trap and we’ll talk. Just you
and I, and Shelley of course.”

John Dean hung up.

Sally asked who called.

“No one you know. I’ve been invited to
a bull session at Moore’s house.”

“It’s a trap. You can’t go.”

“I’m going to check it out.”

Chapter 12

Harry saw only a single black sedan at
Tony Moore’s house. He checked his Beretta then tucked it into the
waist band of his jeans. Sandy was in a nearby laneway barely out
of sight. He drove slowly toward the house expecting someone to
jump out the front door and spray lead across his windshield with
an Uzi.

That didn’t happen.

Harry climbed out of his car and slowly
walked toward the house searching for signs of movement. A figure
stepped into the open front doorway. He was tall, well muscled, and
slightly coloured. His hands were high in the air.

“I’ve come to escort you Mr. Tanner.
I’m your hostage. Shoot me if you feel threatened.”

If it was a trap this guy was taking a
hell of a chance. Harry warily followed him into the house. Shelley
was sitting at the dining room table and Tony stood in front of a
wall, his non blinking eyes wide.

“Please have a seat Mr.
Tanner.”

Harry sat across from John Dean,
Shelley to his left, and Tony to his right.

“Don’t be a bad host Tony. Pour Mr.
Tanner a drink.”

Tony walked toward the liquor cabinet
in a jerking motion as though his knees were backward, like a
dog’s. Of course the bullet to his knee wouldn’t help. Harry
watched as Tony poured whiskey into a glass, spilling most of it.
He brought it to him but half the contents dribbled over the rim.
Tony looked as though he was drugged. He set the glass on the table
then stood against the wall, still as a fencepost. Harry eyed the
yellow liquid but didn’t touch it.

He turned left to Shelley and almost
drew his gun. A pencil was shoved into each of her eyes, standing
straight out. Her hands were sewn together in a praying fashion
with leather lace: In and out of between the bones of her hands.
She sat quietly and at first glance Harry thought she was
dead.

“There was some persuasion required.
She was reluctant to cooperate. Now go ahead Mr. Tanner, ask your
questions.”

“Is this some kind of a joke, Dean.
She’s dead.”

“No she isn’t. Ask your
questions.”

Harry felt like an idiot but he did
ask,

“Do you know anything about Jarrod’s
death?”

She shook her head from side to side.
She was alive but with a pencil shoved deep into each eye should
have been screaming. She seemed to be in no pain.