It was an odd little house, two storeys, built in the middle of a natural meadow surrounded by thick forest, just a few miles east of Kemptville. It had been easy enough to find, since all the townsfolk had been warned off the area by the strangers that had taken up camp there. Not the subtlest of strategies, but one that simplified how the rest of the day would play out.
“Mr Mercer!” called Gauthier, a few paces back from the front door to the house. “A word, if you please!”
Émile stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Gauthier, doing his best to look confident, but getting nowhere near the swagger the older man was projecting. Behind them, their two horses ambled about, restless, sensing the danger of the moment.
No answer from inside the house. Gauthier rolled his eyes at Émile and shouted: “Mr Mercer! You come out, or we come in, but either way, this is happening today!”
The answer came in the form of a broken window, just near the door. A rifle aimed itself out, squarely at Gauthier, and a crack! rang out—
—and the shooter inside collapsed, dead.
Émile checked over his shoulder at Dexter, hidden in the treeline, switching his weapons. Passive and focused as ever.
Gauthier cleared his throat. “Let’s try this again, shall we? By the horses tied up out back, you’ve got five lads in there with you. Well, four, now.”
Another window smashed open, but before the glass had even shattered, another shot from behind, and the man inside fell.
“You’re welcome!” called Topek, somewhere in the trees.
Gauthier sighed. “Three, now. How about it, lads? Cut your losses?”
Silence, for a moment. Gauther looked over at Émile, nodded to his empty belt. “We oughta get you some pistols. You got any preferences?”
“I don’t like guns,” said Émile.
“And yet, if you had no choice…”
“I do have a choice. No guns.”
Gauthier grinned. “There’s a story there.”
“No story.”
“Then why the strong feelings?”
Émiled sighed. “Because guns are too messy. Too final. They let a man’s worst impulses run out of control before he has a chance to stop himself.”
Inside, someone was yelling, like a quiet argument was spiraling out of control.
Gauthier ignored it completely. “So knives,” he said. “Fancy knives. How’d that be?”
“I prefer to use my head, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Can’t kill a man with your head.”
“Exactly,” said Émile, as the arguments inside escalated.
“Everyone on the crew pulls their weight, Deschênes.”
“And I do. With words. Now if you—”
Gunshots, from inside. One, then two, three, four. A long pause, and then a fifth.
Gauthier checked his pocket watch, shrugged, set it in his pocket, and let out a loud sigh.
“Can’t carry ornamental words on your belt, is all I’m saying. The boys and I wanted to get you a gift, in celebration of your joining up.”
Émile took a moment to answer. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about—”
Just then, there was a loud yelp from the far side of the house, and the sound of a loud impact. Then, flailing boots trying to find purchase as Nowak came around the side, dragging a distraught Mr Mercer by the hair.
Mercer landed in a heap at Gauthier’s feet. He was dressed in fine clothes that had been roughly-treated. His face was a testament to a life on the run: a patchy beard with nicks and scratches where he’d tried and failed to maintain some sense of polish. His shirt was no longer white, but stained with sweat and dirt, and he stunk like he hadn’t bathed since he abandoned his wife. He was terrified, and rightly so, because all his worst nightmares were about to come true.
“Tried to run, eh?” laughed Gauthier. “What happened to your boys?”
“Dead,” said Nowak. “Shot each other over leaving.” He shrugged. “Should use words instead.”
Gauthier gave Émile a glare. “Keep it to yourself.”
Mercer had his hands up, head bowed, pleading for his life. “Please, sirs, whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it. Triple it!”
“Here’s the issue, Mr Mercer,” said Gauthier. “We don’t want your money. We want your tongue.”
Mercer covered his mouth with trembling hands. “My tongue?”
Gauthier burst out laughing. “Oh, it’s worse than that.” He nodded to Émile. “Tell him.”
Émile crouched down so he was more in line with Mercer. He didn’t have kindness in his eyes, exactly. Pity, more like. And a hint of mercy.
“What did they steal?” he asked. “The servants.”
Mercer sneered. “Don’t act like you don’t know. That’s why Tremblay’s sent you to kill me.”
Gauthier took a sharp breath, but said nothing. Émile stayed focused. “We are not here to kill you,” he said. “What did they steal?”
“S-statues,” he said. “Egyptian. A pair of them, taken from a site outside—”
“Bull,” said Gauthier. “Charlie Tremblay? Art?”
“Not art,” said Mercer. “Antiquities. Thousands of years old. Priceless artifacts. Mr Tremblay has a keen eye for—”
“How did you come to have them?” asked Émile, and then realized: “You’re a broker.”
Mercer nodded. “The few connections I retain allow me certain…opportunities when it comes to the redirection of such valuables. Mr Tremblay came to me with a request, I found him a suitable match, but before we could arrange the final transaction, those fiendish servants s-stole the statues and—”
“Tremblay paid in advance?” asked Émile.
“A portion. To facilitate certain approvals.”
Gauthier whistled. “If you’re going to these lengths over a down payment, I can only imagine what the full statues are worth.” He grinned to Nowak. “Something for later, I suppose.”
Mercer was confused. “Later? B-but I thought—”
“We do not work for Tremblay,” said Émile. “We want you for other reasons. What can you tell us about Peter Aylen?”
If Mercer was scared of Tremblay, he was terrified of Aylen. He scrambled backward, looking at Gauthier and Nowak anew, and at Dexter and Topek, making their way across the field. His eyes filled with tears as he cried out: “I didn’t…I wouldn’t…I swear I never told a soul…”
“Well it’s time to change that,” said Gauthier. “Before a magistrate. Under oath.”
“You can’t be serious…” he gasped.
“He killed your wife and child,” said Émile. “He tried to kill you, too…”
“And what do you think he’ll do if he thinks I’m a threat again? My life is forfeit, the second he knows I’m alive.”
“If you don’t say something, more lives will be lost. More families destroyed…”
“That’s not my responsibility,” said Mercer. “I can’t be the only one Aylen’s wronged.”
“No,” said Émile. “But you may be the only one he wronged with purpose.” Mercer looked up, terrified of what was coming next. “Why did you sell your share to Wright?” he asked.
Topek and Dexter had finally arrived, flanking the others as Mercer relived a time he was clearly trying his best to forget.
“It…he…” He caught his breath. “He was always abrasive. Always reaching for more than he had. But not in the usual sense, though. He…if a man had a brick house, he didn’t just want a brick house of his own. He wanted that brick house. That fur coat. That…” He cast his eyes downward. “Anything he wanted, he got, eventually. Anyone.”
Émile’s mind assembled the facts into a terrible story that seemed all too real: Mercer and Aylen, up-and-coming partners in tough competition to dominate the Bytown lumber business, worked perfectly as a team…until Aylen, never satisfied with what he had, crossed the one line Mercer couldn’t stomach.
“He seduced your wife,” said Topek.
“Seduced…” spat Mercer. “Seduced, no. He…he…”
“So you betrayed him,” said Émile. “Sold your land to Wright to punish him, then fled—”
“I was done with him. With Bytown. With all of it. We just wanted to get as far away from him as we could, forget it ever happened, and…” Tears streamed down his face, but he was calm. Oh so calm. “He killed them. My poor darlings, they died because I…I…”
“Aylen did that,” said Gauthier. “Not you.”
“If I’d just sold to him,” Mercer said. “If I’d just given him what he wanted, he might have—”
Émile reached out, put a hand on Mercer’s arm. “Never apologize for being wronged.”
“But—”
“Peter Aylen is a monster,” said Gauthier. “And one due for slaying.”
“I can’t…” said Mercer, panic rising. “I won’t, there’s no way…”
“If you testify…” Gauthier said, but Mercer stood, hands out, backing away like they had suggested they’d hang him on the spot.
“If I do, I’m a dead man.”
“Seems to me you’re on that road regardless,” said Gauthier. “Wouldn’t you rather do it for a purpose?”
Émile could see panic overwhelming Mercer, and knew that would only make things worse. He spoke softly, reassuringly: “We can protect you,” he said. “Until Aylen answers for his crimes.”
Mercer looked from one to the other: Nowak, with his impenetrable physique; Dexter, carrying two rifles like they were extensions of his body; Gauthier, who had stood at the front door of a well-armed house without flinching; Topek, rubbing a scuff off his pistol like that was the biggest concern of his day.
“You have no idea what you’re up against,” said Mercer.
“Oh, I think we do,” said Topek, slipping his gun away and giving Mercer his most furious stare. “And we’re lookin’ forward to it.”
Mercer took another step back, bumping into the house he’d just been hiding in. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the men surrounding him.
“If I do this…” he said, piecing things together. “Where—”
“Perth,” said Gauthier. “Before he knows what hit him.”
The theory made sense. The reasons made sense. But Mercer wasn’t biting just yet, and Émile couldn’t figure out why. They were trying to take down the man who’d killed his family, sent him into exile…and he was hesitating? Why?
“Tremblay,” said Mercer, his face hardening like an experienced negotiator. “You appease him, and I’ll do it.”
“Tremblay’s not our problem,” said Gauthier.
“He is now. If I testify against Aylen, Tremblay will have men waiting for me, the second I step outside the courthouse. No, if you want my help, you need to settle things with Tremblay first.”
Topek stepped closer, hand on his gun. “Y’know, we could just as easily drag you to Perth anyway. And I do mean drag…”
Mercer might’ve been scared, but he didn’t let it show. “And I could just as easily tell the justices that Peter Aylen is a good and honourable man.”
Topek snarled. “You wouldn’t.”
“If I’m a dead man anyway, why wouldn’t I? You want Aylen gone, this is the price. Convince Tremblay to let me live, and I will say whatever you want. Your choice.”
They camped near the river, tying the horses and Mercer to trees while they ate and drank and rested. Dinner was a funny thing with a prisoner: no more “one true thing”, lest they give him some advantage they couldn’t predict. They traded good-natured barbs, made off-colour jokes, and minded their business ‘til the sun went down.
Gauthier got up a while later, finding his way through the forest, out to a rocky outlook that hung over the water. Émile saw him coming, but did nothing to dissuade or invite him. He just stayed there, feet hanging over the edge, watching the moonlight dance upon the waves.
“So I’ve figured a solution,” said Gauthier, settling in beside him. “A journal. We’ll get you a journal to keep your words in. Get you a holster and everything.”
Émile laughed. “Strike fear into the hearts of my enemies.”
“Fear of a sermon, maybe.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, just watching the waves.
“Who is this Tremblay? You know him.”
“Aye, I know him. Charles Tremblay, or Charlie, to his friends. Crazy son of a bitch, thinks himself the king of New France. Travels up and down the St Lawrence, Québec to Kingston, stirring up trouble and demanding tributes wherever he goes. Aylen’s a bastard, but Tremblay? Tremblay’s a madman. One I prefer to avoid.”
“What are the odds he will let Mercer live?”
“If we promise to recover his statues for him? 50/50 at best. See, Charlie likes to talk about honour and loyalty and chivalry and all that, but when it comes right down to it, if you ain’t Français, he’ll gut you the second you turn your back.” He gestured back to camp. “Poor Mercer’s livin’ on borrowed time regardless. But the thing is: if we don’t try to make a deal, Charlie won’t just have him killed, he’ll have him killed in the courtroom, so everyone can see.”
Émile nodded, thought that over. “But if you offer to hunt down those statues for him, that’s adding more expense to a job with no payout…”
“Well, two issues with that: one, seein’ Aylen hang is payout enough for me. And second: it won’t be me making the offer. It’ll be you.”
Émile looked up in surprise. “Me? But—”
“I’m a little French, sure,” said Gauthier. “But that only gets me so far. I can serve King Charlie, but I can’t ask him any favours. You, on the other hand…”
“I’m not—”
“It’s simple, Deschênes. You state your case. You offer your services. You accept every condition without question. You keep him happy, no matter what. And if you do it right—and the stars align just so—we’ll have our deal, and Aylen will be ours.”
Émile looked pained, twisted, conflicted by the situation he was in. “Once this job is over…I…”
“I know,” said Gauthier, clapping him on the shoulder. “But it’s a long way from over. And who knows how you’ll feel afterward, with the bastard dead and your life restored.”
“My life will never be restored,” said Émile, quietly.
“No,” sighed Gauthier. “But maybe it’ll feel a little less broken.”