The First Sixteen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller novella - The Prequel by Claude Bouchard Read Free Book Online

dripping
marinade sizzled and sent up a tantalizing puff of steam. The man knew how to
treat himself, culinary-wise. Too bad he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it forever.
    He
returned inside to turn on an outside spot strategically positioned to illuminate
the grill, one does wish to see what one is cooking, and to fetch his wine
glass, which he refilled, before returning outside to supervise his grilling
activities. He sipped his wine, checking his watch and the temperature on the
grill’s thermometer and, after several minutes, raised the grill’s lid, only
long enough to turn his steak, nodding in satisfaction at the sear marks left
on the underside.
    A
few minutes more and I had to suppress the urge to warn Pierre not to overcook
his steak but it was not my place to do so. Anyhow, he removed it from the
grill shortly after, avoiding to commit a grave cooking faux-pas. Depositing
the meat on a heated plate, which I guessed from the oven mitt he used to carry
it, he turned off the grill then returned inside to enjoy his meal, closing and
locking the door to the terrace as I watched from the outside.
    I
wasn’t concerned about getting inside to deal with the man – I had arrived well
ahead of him and had an unlocked door waiting for me. He pour himself yet another
glass of wine and settled down to enjoy his dinner. I love to cook so I had no
problem understanding where he was coming from after a hard day’s work.
    I
considered the situation – he, a fit man in his late thirties with a wine
bottle, a fork and a steak knife at his immediate disposal – and decided there
was no real advantage to offing him while he dined as he had done to Beaudet . After all, if I was looking to re-enact the crime
in my execution, I should be simply blowing his brains out. I was in no rush, I’d
had a good lunch and had no problem with eating later in the evening. Anyhow, I’d
come prepared with a couple of scenarios to deal with him.
    He
eventually finished his dinner, he was a slow eater, and the bottle of wine then
opened a bottle of cognac, poured himself a glass and moved into the den. Game
time…
    I
retraced my steps to a side door which led into a combination laundry/mud room
and let myself in. As I made my way down the hallway, I could hear the
television on. I moved closer slowly, cautiously, past the dining room and
kitchen, making sure both were empty as I passed. I reached the entrance to the
den, which also opened onto the kitchen, and there sat Pierre Brault , his back to me, puffing on a cigar, his cognac
snifter and bottle on the table to his side. Waterworld with Kevin Costner was
Pierre’s choice of entertainment for the evening. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t
get to see the ending, or much more of the movie from then on, for that matter.
    I
moved in behind him, thankful that the television’s volume was up, though the
thick pile carpet under my feet certainly helped make my approach quiet. With a
heavy vase I had selected in the home prior to Pierre’s arrival, I tapped him
on the side of the head, just enough to put him to sleep.

 
    When Brault awoke about thirty minutes later, he was
laying spread-eagled on the stylish brass bed in the master bedroom, his ankles
and wrists securely cuffed to the bed frame to hold him in a position.
    “Wake
up, buddy,” I said in French, patting him on the cheek to help revive him. “I don’t
have all night.”
    “ Wha’s going on?” he mumbled in his native tongue then
started struggling against his restraints. “What the hell is going on here?”
    “Hi,
Pierre,” I replied in greeting. “Didn’t that knock on the head ring any bells?”
    He
shook his head and winced then did his best to glare at me. “Who the hell are
you?”
    “Bah,
that’s not important,” I answered, “But, if you must know, I’m the guy who’s
been killing deadbeats like you lately. Heartless bastards who think they can
further themselves through violence and manage to sneak through the