Loose Ends. Don Easton

replied Wizard.

      Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. Good. Everything is okay.

      The dog whined.

      The mirror in front of Maggie’s face exploded into a multitude of broken shards that penetrated her face and neck like porcupine quills. The first blast caught her hand and the side of her ribcage, spinning her around and dumping her on the floor like a rag doll.

      The deafening roar of three more blasts followed, but all missed their mark. Smoke and dust ebbed through the rays of sunshine. The sulfuric smell of gunpowder filled the air.

      Ben Junior, unscathed, stood staring at his sister. He could see her eyes. Open, but without expression. She wasn’t moving. Ben Junior closed his eyes and hunched over.

      “Fuck! It’s just kids!” said Wizard.

      “Good thing. I thought it was the cops,” Rolly replied. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

      “Not so fast, you morons!” said The Suit.

      “Nobody has seen us,” said Wizard. “We’ll just fuck off and —”

      “You might take chances; I don’t!”

      Wizard shrugged his shoulders indifferently, then passed the shotgun to Rolly.

      Rolly rested the muzzle of the shotgun on the bump at the top of the spine near the back of Ben Junior’s head. The little boy shook and squatted in a fetal position, squeezing his eyes tighter. His jeans turned a darker blue.

      Rolly hesitated as the wet stain appeared around the little boy’s feet. He lowered the shotgun and looked at Wizard.

      “Do it!” The Suit yelled.

      “It’s time you earned your tattoo,” said Wizard.

      Maggie’s body convulsed and thumped on the floor as she released a gurgling sound from her lungs. She was still alive.

       chapter two

      Jack Taggart’s apartment was on the eighteenth floor and it provided him with a good, if slightly distant, view of the heart of Vancouver. He gripped the railing on his balcony and stared blankly at the street below. Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro played through the open door of his balcony. He thought the music would ease his depression. It didn’t.

      He had joined the Royal Canadian Mounted Police when he was a fresh-faced kid of twenty-three. Fourteen years had passed, and he had long since lost the innocence of his youth. Six years of working undercover on the Drug Section had been followed by a transfer to the Intelligence Section, where he had spent the last five years working undercover on organized crime.

      He was a survivor and was good at what he did. His work had not gone unnoticed by a superior officer. Taggart wasn’t only good at his job — he was too good. Too good to be playing by the book.

      Jack exercised to stay fit, but his dark wavy hair was starting to recede, and plucking the occasional grey hair was becoming a daily ritual. Vanity was not something that he admired about himself, but neither was living alone.

      He decided to strike at the root of his depression and strode back inside and reached for his stereo. The Marriage of Figaro faded as he dialled his boss.

      “Louie, it’s Jack.”

      “How did it go last night?”

      “Another shipment arrived in a Winnebago at two-thirty this morning. I watched and met my informant after he helped unload. He confirmed that it’s coming from the same guy in El Paso.”

      “That’s good. Put it in the report for Interpol.”

      “Forget Interpol! I’m going to El Paso myself.”

      “No. You’re not,” said Louie firmly. “Wigmore won’t approve it. Child porn is low on the list these days.”

      “But my source says they’re linked to snuff films, for God’s sake! That’s murder.”

      “I know.”

      “Does Wigmore know that the El Paso connection distributes to most of Canada?”

      “We’ve been over this. I told him.”

      “Damn it, Louie! The guy in El Paso has a family and is a leader in his church! I could turn him in about ten seconds. We’d get his distribution list for Canada, not to mention his connection, who is either producing it or knows who is.”

      “As Wigmore pointed out, the victims aren’t Canadian. Pass it over to Interpol.”

      “The victims aren’t, but the goddamned perverts are! We’re talking about children being raped and murdered! Who cares what their nationality is?”

      “I hear you, but Wigmore wants this handled through channels.”

      “That could take forever, plus I promised my source I wouldn’t burn him. This needs to be handled right. The hell with Wigmore. I’ve decided to take leave and pay for it myself.”

      “Forget it, Jack! You go flying off to Texas and he’ll have your ass for working in a foreign country without authorization. He’s been looking sideways at you ever since Levasseur’s body turned up last month. I’m sure he figures you were behind it.”

      “Levasseur was murdered in Montreal. I haven’t been there in years.”

      “I know. You also look better without a beard.” Louie paused a moment, and when Jack didn’t reply, he said, “Wigmore’s not in right now. Let’s meet for coffee tomorrow and talk about it. Maybe I can convince him to cut loose with the funding.”

      “Appreciate it. Speaking of funding, when am I getting a new partner? It’s been three months since Paul was transferred.”

      “You know Staffing as well as I do. Your guess is as good as mine.”

      Jack hung up the phone and stared at the cardboard cutouts of fish dangling in his waterless aquarium. A breeze from his balcony made the fish start to spin. Some were sharks with silver teeth. The rest of the fish were bright, colourful, and looked real.

      Great kids. Lucky to have been born in Canada. The telephone rang and he picked it up.

      It was his sister. She said someone killed both her babies. Her voice was hollow and detached. Ben had gone to look….

      Jack accelerated along the dusty road. Last Sunday he had been with Liz and Ben. They had gone on a picnic with the kids. He had played hide-and-seek with Maggie and Ben Junior. Later, they had roasted hot dogs over an open fire. Ben Junior had dripped mustard down his shirt.

      Jack’s car bounced along the gravel driveway leading to the house. He had made the usual one-hour drive to the farm in less than forty minutes. Dust billowed behind, then overtook him as stepped out of the car. A police car, with lights flashing, sat empty outside the house.

      Jack sprinted inside.

      A uniformed officer appeared in the hall.

      “I’m on the job too. This is my sister’s house,” said Jack, reaching for his badge.

      “She told me you were coming. They just left. We’ve got a car taking them both to the hospital. She’s really out of it. I think she broke her nose.”

      “What happened?”

      “She found her kids in an old abandoned farmhouse down the road. She fainted and smacked her face.”

      “Are you sure the kids are…?”

      “I’m sorry. Both dead. That’s all I know. Homicide should be arriving any minute.”

      A police car blocked the driveway leading to the abandoned farmhouse. He saw a uniformed officer talking with two paramedics leaning against an ambulance. Any hope he had was gone.

      Moments