Malcolm Ferrier
(604) 733-8170
mferrier@ferrierconsulting.com
TROUBLESHOOTER by Malcolm Ferrier CHAPTER FIVE They would know he was coming. It was unavoidable.
McCallum would have contacted Richards to tell him what had happened. Jack had
caught the next ferry to Galiano and could only hope that he’d be quick enough
to catch Richards. Located in the channel between Vancouver City and
Vancouver Island, Galiano Island was the lesser-known brother to the movie
star–infested Saltspring Island. Long and thin, Galiano still retained a small
town, “Beachcombers” feel. As the ferry pulled into the dock at Sturdies Bay,
Jack stood on the bow and looked at the town. A new hotel had been built near
the ferry dock but the island was much as he remembered. His favorite Gulf
Island, Jack had been coming to Galiano at least once a year for the past
decade. He hoped his familiarity with the island would give him an advantage. He wheeled his motorbike off the ferry, started the
engine, and slowly headed up the hill to the center of town. Sturdies Bay was
a small community. The town was made up of a bakery, a bookstore, and a few
other establishments. The bakery was the hub of Galiano social life, so that
was where he started. He entered the small shop, the bell ringing over the
door. The smell of homemade bread and cookies wafted past him. He ordered a
chicken sandwich and fries from the booth at the back. The young woman who
helped him gave him an appraising glance. “Just here for the day?” she asked. “I’m not sure. I thought I’d look around, maybe stay
a night or two,” Jack said. “It’s nice here during the week. Not as many
tourists. Supposed to rain, though.” “That’s the coast.” “Well, have a good time.” She handed him his food
and smiled. “Thanks. By the way, do you know where I can find
the Rod and Gun club?” Her smile faded. “Those weirdos? You don’t look the
type.” “What do you mean?” “They give me the creeps. You don’t.” Jack laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m
just trying to locate a colleague.” Jack found a version of the truth was
often the best approach. “Well, I hope you know what you’re doing. You’ll
find the Gun club at the end of Cook Road.” “Thanks.” Jack took his meal to a table to eat. It
seemed the gun club had a reputation. After checking into the hotel by the ferry dock, Jack
got on the BMW and followed his map of the island to Cook Road. Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the gravel parking
lot of the Galiano Rod and Gun club. The lot was empty except for an old GM
pickup parked by the long, low timber building that Jack took for the
clubhouse. He walked over and went in the main doors. As his eyes adjusted to the low lighting, he saw several
long wood tables, stacks of chairs near the back door, and a window on the side
that looked into a kitchen area. “Hello?” Jack called. No answer. He called again, louder. “Hello?” Suddenly, the door in the back wall banged open and a
short, stocky, balding man burst into the room. He was carrying a rifle. “Who the hell are you?” he yelled. Jack breathed in
slowly. He kept his voice low and calm. “My name is Jack. I’m looking for a friend.” The man looked Jack over. The guns barrel wasn’t
pointing at Jack yet, but it was close. “Jack who? And who are you looking for?” “Jack Yale. I’m looking for Richards.” “You’re a friend of Richards?” The gun lowered but
there was still suspicion in the man’s eyes. Jack decided to take a chance. He was fairly certain
the man he was seeking was ex-military, but he wasn’t positive. “We were in the service together. I thought I’d look
him up. Do you know where I can find him?” The suspicious look remained. “That depends. If you
were in the service with Richards, you must be able to shoot.” The suspicion
was replaced by craftiness. “If you can beat me in a little shooting
competition, I'll know you're who you say you are. If you can’t, well…” The
man glanced down at his rifle. “I guess you’ll have to go.” They stood outside the back of the clubhouse. They
were facing a long outdoor firing range. There were metal tracks like long
clotheslines which led to the sandy slope of a hill at the end of the range.
The tracks were used for mechanically moving paper targets along the length of
the range, and the sand on the hill stopped the bullets. The man, who
identified himself only as “Sonic,” was armed with a high-powered Remington.
He had provided Jack with a more than slightly used .22 caliber rifle. There
was a low table in front of them which contained the controls for the target
tracks. Sonic spoke. “The rules are simple. We'll use
standard scored paper targets, we'll each get five shots as we alternate turns,
and the highest total score wins.” Jack looked at the targets. There was an outline of
a human figure with circles drawn within. The circles around the head and the
heart were worth ten points, the wider circles on the shoulders and navel five
points, and the arms and legs two points. The targets were similar to the ones
at the CSIS training range. He'd also spent countless hours on
computer-generated VR ranges. He felt confident. “Sounds good to me.” “Great,” said Sonic. “I'll go first.” He chambered a round into his Remington and stepped up
to the firing position. There were two targets set up at the end of the range,
about fifty meters away. He put on goggles and ear protection and lined up his
target. He fired. The shot pierced the head circle of the leftmost
target. Ten points. As the sound of the shot echoed away, Sonic turned smugly
to Jack. “Your turn.” As Jack moved to the firing position, Sonic handed
him a bullet. He conspicuously did not offer Jack eye or ear protection. He
also kept behind as Jack loaded his rifle. Sonic was taking no chances. Jack centered the right-hand target in the rifle's
sights. He aimed for the heart circle, slowed his breathing, inhaled halfway,
held, and squeezed the trigger. “Ah, ha, ha, ha!” Sonic laughed. The shot had passed through the target's right arm!
Only two points. This wasn’t right. He had practiced enough to know that
missing that widely was not his error. Sonic had either tampered with the
sights or had given him a defective rifle. Jack hoped it was the former. He
could compensate for tampering but not for faulty parts. Sonic took his place. It may have been his
overconfidence or his laughing fit, but he only managed a five-point shot to
the target's shoulder. Looking somewhat annoyed, he tossed Jack another round. Loading his rifle, Jack looked at his target. He had
to trust that his previous targeting had been accurate, and compensate to the
left the exact distance from the center of the heart circle to his previous
misfired shot. He pulled the trigger. He heard a rapid intake of breath from Sonic. He had
nailed the center of the heart circle. Ten points. The score was now fifteen
Sonic, twelve Jack. The next two rounds were flawless. They each scored
two more ten point shots, each putting one in the head circle and one in the
heart. Thirty-five Sonic, thirty-two Jack. The next round would determine the
game. Sonic took his time with the shot. He planted his
feet firmly, aimed carefully, and after some time finally pulled the trigger. “Fuck!” The pressure must have gotten to him. His shot had
passed through the target's navel. Only five points. But this meant that Jack
still needed a bull’s-eye or he’d lose. Sonic passed him the final bullet. Jack loaded,
aimed carefully, and fired. “You missed!” shouted Sonic. Jack narrowed his eyes. He'd aimed for the head, but
the only hole in the circle was from his previous head shot. “Well," said Sonic. "You missed
completely. One thing I know, anyone who used to work with Richards must be
able to shoot better than that.” Sonic had reloaded his rifle while Jack was
preparing to shoot. He swung the barrel up to cover Jack. “Richards is a good friend of mine. I know he
doesn’t like company, especially strangers,” stated Sonic quietly. Jack backed away until he bumped into the weapon
table. He thought quickly. He couldn’t have missed by that much! There was
only one possibility. He reached behind and triggered the track controls.
The targets began to slide towards them. “What the hell you playing at?” yelled Sonic. The targets reach the table. Jack, moving slowly and
deliberately, turned around to look at his target, putting his back to Sonic. “Just as I thought,” said Jack. “What are you talking about?” “It looks like I won.” “Whaddya mean?” “Take a look.” “Move away, then.” Keeping his rifle leveled as Jack backed away, Sonic
moved over to look at the target. “Well, I’ll be,” said Sonic. The hole in the center of the head circle was
actually two overlapping holes. Jack had managed two precise bull’s-eyes with
a misaligned rifle. Forty Sonic, forty-two Jack. Sonic lowered his weapon. “That’s more like Richards. In fact, I’m not sure
even he’s ever had a session like this. I’m sorry about the treatment. I
needed to make sure you were who you said you are. I’ll tell you where you can
find him.” “Trespassers will be Composted.” Jack read the sign again. It would have been funny,
but he was pretty sure the person who made the sign wasn’t joking. Jack was standing on a narrow dirt road bordered by
thick brush. The road dead-ended against a large metal gate upon which the
sign was posted. He looked to either side. A tall wooden fence curved off in
both directions, clearly surrounding a sizable compound. Sonic had provided the location of Richards'
residence after the contest. It was three-quarters of the way up the island in
a relatively unoccupied area. Jack had hidden his BMW in a clearing a mile or so up
the road. On his walk here he had passed only one house. He decided to
complete his recce by gathering some information. He walked up the drive of the nearby house and
knocked on the door. After a short wait a middle-aged woman answered the door. “Can I help you?” asked the woman. Jack had his story ready. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you could
help me. I’m trying to walk to Dionisio Park and this road seems to stop at a
gate down the road. Is there any way I can get through?” Dionisio Point Provincial Park was a marine access
park on the north tip of Galiano. The only way to get there was by boat or on
foot. Jack was sure she’d buy his cover. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “You’ll have to go back
to the fork and take a left.” “What about the gate? Could I talk to someone who’ll
let me through?” “I don’t think so. The owner’s a little… strange
down there.” “What do you mean?” “He doesn’t much like company. I hardly ever see
him, and when I do he pretty much keeps to himself. I think he wants to live
off the grid.” Jack played the curious tourist. “What’s up with
that? Is he nuts?” The woman’s expression became brittle. “I don’t
think so. He lost his wife and baby daughter not long ago.” “I’m sorry to hear that. I appreciate your help.
I'll head back to the main road.” “No problem. Have a good day.” She closed the door. Jack walked back to his motorcycle and thought about
these new developments. Richards had recently lost his wife and daughter.
That’s kind of loss could drive a man to extreme behavior. The pieces of the
puzzle were starting to come together, but Jack still couldn’t see what picture
they formed. He’d pay a visit to Richards' place tonight. After dark, Jack made his way quietly through the
brush to the side wall of Richards' compound. He was dressed in a black
T-shirt and cargo pants. The full moon provided sufficient light as he passed
silently through the tall grass. The wall was made of thick wood planks nailed to a
solid timber frame and rose ten feet. There were no handholds or gaps. He
followed the curve of the wall away from the main gate, searching for a
weakness. He found it. About halfway around, almost directly
opposite the main gate, Jack located a small gap underneath the fence. Made by
animals, it was too small for Jack to fit without modifications. As quietly as
possible, Jack set about upgrading it. After twenty minutes of burrowing with his hands, the
gap was wide enough to allow him to enter the compound. He crawled through and
crouched near the end of a sizable but neglected garden. He surveyed the
enclosure. It was about two hundred meters across. Jack could
see a well-constructed two-story log home with solar panels on the roof, a
large shed that probably doubled as a workshop, and a smaller-scale version of
the Gun Club firing range. Light shone out of the main floor windows of the
house. Jack moved closer to take a look. He hadn’t heard a single bark so he
was fairly certain there were no dogs. However, he still moved as silently as
possible in order to let sleeping ones lie. He stayed far enough away from the windows to remain
in darkness. He could see a well-appointed kitchen through the first set of
windows. Adjoining was a comfortable living room with a large rug thrown over
a hardwood floor. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the rug was a man. This had to be Richards. He was tall, dark-haired,
and wore a few days growth of beard. He was fit-looking, but Jack could see a
darkness in his hardened features. He was methodically cleaning a rifle piece
by piece. Although he was sure this was the man he was looking
for, Jack wanted to find hard evidence. He needed to check out the rest of the
compound before calling for backup. Jack moved away from the windows and crossed to the
darkened firing range. There was a bench for holding weapons and ammo, but no
automated track system. The targets were simply fixed to boards at the end of
the range. Jack could see an unmarked target pinned in place. The work shed nearby was unlocked. The door made a
slight creaking sound as he entered. Jack froze. He waited a few breathless
minutes to see if he had been heard. The lights remained on at the house,
however, and Richards did not come out to investigate. Jack scanned the room. It contained a tool bench,
some gardening equipment, and a riding lawnmower. There was also a plastic
lawn chair, a trashcan, and lots of dust and cobwebs. He checked the tool bench but found nothing. He
wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but he’d know it when he saw it.
He looked over the walls, at the gardening tools, and at the trashcan. Wait.
The trashcan. Inside there were grass clippings, plastic wrap, wood
shavings, and crumpled wads of paper. Jack removed one of the wads and
flattened it out. It was a paper target with several precise holes in the
shoulder. He pulled out another; the same target, the same holes in the
shoulder. The third and fourth were identical. All with surgically precise
holes in the shoulder… Wait a minute. Suddenly it all came together.
Maxwell Stevens, the Minister of Education, had been shot in the shoulder. It
had been intentional. Richards had not planned to kill Stevens, but simply
wound him. This meant that Stevens was involved in, if not behind, the whole
affair. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Jack whirled around to look down the barrel of
Richards' loaded rifle. “I had to put my gun back together,” said Richards.
“You’re the Kung Fu master, I presume?”