Torque (21 page)

He stopped talking and Muriel drove on
without a response. At times it was hard to discern just what his
students were thinking. He always hoped it was of the task at hand
though their minds occasionally wandered, which he could usually
tell by their fixed stare.

Muriel blinked.

“You could stay at my house.”

Fenn turned to look at her directly.

“My basement was converted a few years ago
into a self-contained apartment. We used to rent it out until my
husband’s health began to fail. It’s fully furnished with
appliances.” Muriel was now looking directly at Fenn.

He glanced back at the road and said
casually, “Stop sign.”

Her attention back to the fore she jumped on
the brake pedal. When they had proceeded through the intersection
Fenn said, “I sometimes keep late hours. Does it have its own
entrance?”

“Oh, yes. The side door goes directly
downstairs, and it has windows all around so you gets lots of
natural light.”

It sounded ideal and he said so.

“What do you want for rent?”

“We used to charge nine hundred a month, but
I don’t need that much anymore. How’s seven-fifty?”

“That seems reasonable. Why don’t I pay in
advance for six months, and we’ll see how it goes.”

“Fine, by me, if that’s what you want to
do.”

“It is. In fact, I’d like to pay in
cash.”

Fenn had her back the car into her driveway
to end the lesson, and arranged to drop by later that evening to
see the apartment. Muriel got out and Fenn took the short cut, over
the console, into the driver’s seat. As he fastened the seatbelt a
long black limousine rolled across the end of the driveway like a
battleship crossing his bow. It stopped, blocking his exit, and the
first mate disembarked. Fenn locked his doors.

A low stone wall to his left meant that the
only other escape route was across Muriel’s lawn, and directly in
front of the limo. Not a good option. With the confidence of one
used to intimidating others Brick walked up to the Toyota’s
passenger door and grabbed the handle, rocking the car. Fenn looked
at him passively. A meaty hand tapped on the window with the barrel
of a handgun, then swung in the direction of Muriel who, oblivious,
was unlocking her front door. Fenn reached over and let him in.

The little import sagged appreciably when the
big man’s weight hit the seat. Fenn turned the ignition key and the
limo backed up.

“Turn right and make your way to New Street,”
said Brick. “And don’t get smart. I’m done fuckin’ around.”

Fenn checked his mirror and saw the limo
following a few car lengths back. He and Brick were touching
shoulders and Brick’s large knees were up against the glove box,
the gun resting on his lap. He noticed Fenn glancing at it. He
grinned and poked it playfully into Fenn’s ribs.

“This peashooter making you nervous,
Teacher?”

“Lots of potholes on this road. Perhaps you
could point that elsewhere.”

“Why, sure I could,” said Brick. “How about
here?”

He raised the gun to Fenn’s temple.

“Bang.”

Chuckling at his own wit he lowered the gun
back to his lap. Fenn didn’t react outwardly but his rational being
devolved into a state of cold calculation. Nobody had the right to
decide how he would live or when he should die. Least of all Jenner
and this oversized jackass. Fenn’s cardio-vascular system began to
quicken as his sole focus became the annihilation of the threat
beside him.

Brick ordered a left turn at Walker’s Line.
Fenn took the corner and habitually moved into the curb lane. Empty
garbage bins lined the roadside, and a little ways ahead a
sanitation truck was blocking his lane. Fenn checked the mirror.
The limo had stayed in the left lane and was about fifty metres
behind. Others cars were also well back. Brick, feeling comfortably
in control, appeared to be sightseeing. Fenn had to get his
attention back.

“You should have let Jenner do this. He
wouldn’t have made three mistakes.”

With only mild interest Brick turned his way.
“What’re you talkin’ about?”

Fenn continued to scan ahead. The garbage
truck had moved up to a townhouse complex where a small mountain of
bags surrounded a collection of bins.

“I’d say your first mistake was getting into
my car.”

Brick smirked. “Yeah. I did, didn’t I.”

The garbage truck’s driver descended from the
cab to help out his partner.

“Your second mistake was not putting your
seatbelt on.” Brick thought about this for a second then said, “I
thought you guys knew how to drive.”

They were closing on the truck. Fenn checked
the mirror again. The limo had dropped further back anticipating
his lane change. He accelerated slightly and put on his left
signal.

“So what’s the third?” Brick was saying.

Fenn accelerated a bit more. The garbage crew
was on the sidewalk trying to extract the bins from the bags.

“Your third mistake,” said Fenn, “was
assuming the airbags work.”

“Huh?”

Fenn began to drift toward the left lane,
holding the deception for a moment longer, then mashed the gas
pedal to the floor. He faced Brick with a dark look of retribution
and pulled the wheel hard to the right. The rear of the truck
rushed at them. Fenn pushed back into his seat until all slack had
gone from the shoulder belt. Comprehension hit Brick’s face like a
shock wave as the open maw of the garbage crusher loomed large in
the windshield.

Panicked, he raised the gun in desperation
and pulled the trigger. But it was too late.

CHAPTER
30

Fenn instinctively shut his eyes
milliseconds before impact. The tympanic crescendo of the crash was
punctuated by an ear-splitting report. The Toyota hit the rear left
corner of the truck, its momentum pushing the twelve-ton vehicle up
onto the curb. The rest of the energy swung the Toyota’s back end
into the adjacent lane.

The car’s radiator and engine took the brunt
on the right-hand side and were shoved back into the passenger
compartment. The wreckage pinned Brick’s feet and lower legs while
the rest of him came off the seat and hurtled at the windshield.
Luckily for Brick the gun led the way, it’s weight increased
ten-fold by G-forces generated by the sudden stop. Voluntarily, or
involuntarily, his trigger finger curled and the bullet weakened
the windshield an instant before his arm, shoulder, and head made
contact. It probably saved his life.

Bent at the waist, hips across the dash,
Brick now lay motionless on the crumpled hood. A shattered sheet of
bloodstained glass lay beneath him.

Dazed, Fenn sat with ringing ears behind a
steering wheel that seemed oddly out of round. His wrists hurt. He
turned the key to the OFF position to reduce the chance of an
electrical fire then reached down to release the seatbelt. Any
attempt to open his door, however, sent pain lancing through his
chest and shoulder.

There was movement to his left and he saw the
limousine rolling past. It slowed to a crawl, the tinted passenger
window down. Jenner was leaning forward, obviously bewildered as to
what he should do. Fenn forced his grimace into a spiteful smile
and raised his left fist, middle finger extended. He lowered it
just as his view became obstructed by one of the sanitation
workers. The man spoke to him through the shattered windshield.

“It’s okay, buddy. Help is coming. Just sit
tight.” The worker moved around to see what he could do for Brick.
The limo was no longer in sight, other cars were now slowly
creeping past.

A woman brought a blanket and placed it
tenderly over Brick’s prone form. “Kind of strange to see a driving
instructor not wearing a seatbelt,” she was saying.

“Yeah. Especially with that guy at the
wheel,” replied the worker as if Fenn couldn’t hear. Or maybe
hoping Fenn could. This mess would put the sanitation team way
behind schedule, and all routes had to be finished before knocking
off.

At least they could finish their shift, Fenn
thought. He was about to lose a whole week, and for the second time
in three days there were sirens coming his way. He wasn’t sure why
but he could taste blood. He closed his eyes to wait for someone to
get his door open. It would probably be the only rest he would get
for a while.

== == ==

Fenn’s door creaked as the fireman pried it
away from the car’s body. Brick, still on the hood, was hooked up
to an oxygen tank and an intravenous bag while another emergency
worker unbolted the seat to free his legs. A pair of paramedics
standing next to a stretcher chatted to the crew from the ambulance
that had come to pick up Fenn.

He was being ushered into it when Joe Posada
tapped him on the shoulder. Joe had seen the wreck and quickly
parked in a nearby driveway. Now he was gesturing at the scene with
an incredulous look on his face.

“What the hell happened, Chas?”

“The gentleman on the hood wanted to play
Bang
. I won.”

“Play what?”

Fenn wanted to explain but the ambulance crew
was being insistent. “I’ll tell you later. Do me a favour and have
Asha cancel the rest of my day. And tomorrow, too. I’ll check in as
soon as I can.”

Joe, still clearly concerned, said okay and
jogged back to his car. The ambulance doors closed and Fenn was
driven, with lights flashing, to Joseph Brant Memorial
Hospital.

The JBMH triage workers admit two kinds of
patients; the unconscious and everybody else. Heart cases rank
somewhere in the middle. Fenn’s class of injury was way down on the
priority list and when finally called for X-rays he was surprised
at how stiff his knees had become.

In the examining room the doctor noted that
both legs had contusions from hitting the steering column, and the
left knee was somewhat swollen around the anterior cruciate
ligament. There were also abrasions on his shins. The other trauma
was seatbelt related; damaged shoulder tissue and torn ligaments
which merited a sling, and a cracked rib that needed to be taped.
His wrists were just achy, only strained.

The doctor left and a nurse entered to tape
and sling him. When she left to get some ointment for his shins the
constable that had attended the accident scene came in. Having
previously taken Fenn’s licence and ownership information, the
officer was ready for details.

“Witnesses say your car appeared to
accelerate and lose control. Is this what happened?”

“Accelerate, yes. The collision was
intentional.”

The officer raised an eyebrow, pencil poised
above his pad. “I should caution you that if you admit to this, and
your passenger dies, the charge could elevate from involuntary
manslaughter to murder. As it is, we’re talking aggravated assault
with a vehicle.”

Fenn shook his head. “Before you go that far,
you should get the whole story.”

The officer pulled a chair from the corner
and sat down. “Which is?”

“I was being car-jacked.”

“So you didn’t know your passenger.”

“I don’t even know the man’s name.”

The officer made a note. “The man’s name is
Byron Evelyn Rupnick. He’s still in surgery so I won’t be able to
interview him for a while.”

“I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that
chat. And who calls their kid Byron Evelyn Rupnick? No wonder he
was mean.”

“If we can get back to the alleged
car-jacking, Mr. Fenn, exactly how did Mr. Rupnick happen to be in
your vehicle?”

Fenn recited from when he dropped off Muriel,
and the officer began jotting notes on his pad. He looked up at the
first mention of the gun.

“Gun? There was no sign of any gun at the
accident scene.”

Fenn replayed the crash in his mind. His eyes
had been shut when they hit the truck but he was familiar with the
physics involved.

“Don’t let them dump that truck,” he
said.

The officer was young and sharp. “I’ll get
dispatch to contact the sanitation company. I have to go outside to
use my radio, so you wait for me here.”

Fenn pulled on his jeans then grabbed his
jacket and followed the policeman down the hall. The cafeteria was
conveniently located near the exit doors and he sat within until
the officer returned through the lobby. Crossing the parking lot to
Lakeshore Road, Fenn walked east a few blocks to a gas station that
had a payphone. Tony was just having breakfast.

“Cereal in the afternoon, eh. I guess you’re
on night shift, this week.”

“Yeah, I just got up. What’s happening?”

“I need a ride.”

Twenty minutes later Tony pulled up in front
of City Hall. He was in the Black Mariah, a 1967 Pontiac GTO that
had once belonged to a North Carolinian bootlegger. Tony had bought
the car for a song at a local auction and had changed nothing but
the oil and plugs. It had flat black paint on all surfaces except
the windows and the lights, and a 400 cubic inch motor tweaked for
performance beneath the hood.

The interior had been stripped to reduce
weight and increase cargo capacity. With neither passenger nor rear
seats it had been able to carry a lot of moonshine. Where the rear
seat used to be there was now a thick slab of sponge foam. Not
ideal transport for Fenn, in his present condition, but he lay on
his back and made himself as comfortable as possible. While Tony
drove he relayed the whole affair, start to finish, and when he was
done his friend let out a short whistle of amazement.

“Okay, let’s see if I’ve got this straight,”
said Tony. “There’s a chic called Reis who’s pissed at you. Jenner,
who you used to work with, is pissed at you. That dude in the
hospital, if he ever wakes up, will be really pissed at you. Kim is
pissed at you, and your landlord is pissed at you. You’ve ruined
DriveCheck’s insurance rating, so Dieter and Carole will be pissed
at you. And, having left the scene of an accident, you’ve now got
the entire regional police force pissed at you.”