Annals of a Dangerous Handyman

1

The Annals of a Dangerous Handyman

by Geoff Geauterre

Published at Smashwords by Write Words, Inc.

© 2007 Geoff Geauterre All Rights Reserved

First Electronic Edition, April, 2007

Prologue

He was killing me. I knew Henry Talbot was heavy, but this was ridiculous.

Henry, you bastard, when we get back, I am personally putting you on a diet! My back felt as if it was going to crack under the strain of his weight, but there was a comforting gurgle over my shoulder and I kept moving as fast and as quietly as I could.

I came to the gully we had entered earlier and took the turn to the left, down the incline when a sudden movement caught my eye. The 9mm Heckler and Koch shot up, but then relieved, I put it away. A deer. Three hundred yards further on, I had to stop. I couldn’t go any further, but then I needed to assess the damages and most of all—I needed to rest!

I’d been listening for any sounds behind me, but there were none, and surprisingly it seemed as if the installation we’d been scouting, aside of the few technicians there, was unmanned.

Cannot believe our luck.

Another gurgle.

A spot of soft grass offered us a moment and I twisted around to get another look, but the late evening starlight showed nothing more than rambling Kentucky countryside. His left hand gripped my shirt as I let him down, and then for the first time, I saw the magnitude of his wounds.

His white face tightened with a smile. I dropped beside him, and realized how the left side of my jumpsuit was covered in blood. The med kit came out, but the cotton wadding wasn’t up to the task, so I pulled up handfuls of grass and used what I could of that and the adhesive tape.

I took out one of three emergency morphine tubes, unscrewed the cap and gripping his wrist slid the needle into a vein and squeezed half in. He tried to talk, but couldn’t. His chest had been opened and shrapnel punctured his stomach. It was surprising he hadn’t screamed when the blast let loose. Another moment more and I knew half wouldn’t do either and squeezed in the rest.

It took a couple of minutes before he was able to whisper, and the first thing he gasped…was a joke.

Did you…hear the one…about the priest and his pair of shoes?

I shook my head. No. What about the priest and his shoes?

It was the time…of a christening, you see.

Yeah?

They…chose him to have…his feet washed by the Pope.

Uh-huh. Why?

He grimaced. For bein’ so damn holy.

So?

So…he took his shoes off…a month in advance!

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. The irreverent bastard was at it again. He chuckled and looked down at himself.

You know, he said hoarsely, his voice a little stronger, there was a time…when I could have taken something like this…and thought nothing of it.

You and me both, pal.

Now, all I can think…is what’s still to be done. An’ I won’t be doin’ it.

Yes, you will. What do you want? I’ll do it for you.

He looked at me, and then nodded with a harsh grin. The price of a debt was a debt to be paid.

I’ve got these two kids. Nice kids. Stuck ‘em…in a boarding school…under my mother’s name.

What do you want done?

Take ‘em out. Their stepmother found ‘em. Court will give her custody if… He took a deep breath to get it said. If they find out how I died!

I had to hold him down.

I told you I’d take care of it.

Grandfather’s trust. Signed over to them.

I understand. You want them out or the bitch drains it dry.

He smiled grimly. Henri…you always had a way with…words!

Henry, their names. I need their names and where I can find them. Then I’ll need their papers, or a will or a trust. I will need all that.

He nodded with a jerk as I took out a penlight and pad and began jotting down my instructions. I didn’t have a chance in the thing at all. He’d taken the explosive charge of a booby trap I should have anticipated. But it was supposed to be nothing more than a reconnaissance mission. Nothing more than to find out what the discontinued weather station in Kentucky was still doing, beside tapping satellite information systems. Therefore, I took it for granted and failed to see the lure and my namesake took what was meant for me.

Five minutes later the pain hit him so hard I gave him the second tube…and stood over him, refusing to believe what was going to happen, refusing to believe how I’d been suckered by those I should never have trusted.

The deal was simple. A light probe into a station that should not have been tapping into information systems, and someone upstairs wondered where that information was going and that probably a light probe was all that was necessary to find out. A light probe. Something any F.B.I geek could have done from his own computer terminal, but they wanted no trace, and that meant a walk-through in person, pictures, tapes if any, and a stroll out the door once penetration was effected.

The first inkling I had something was wrong with Intel was the fact that the place seemed deserted except for a small number of computer personnel. There were no wires, there were no monitors, there was nothing but a pressure switch and a claymore. I had walked right into it. Henry and I…

Then he gripped my hand, staring up, breathing torn, and ragged and whispered: I’m ready now.

Without another word, I shoved the third tube straight into the carotid. A few seconds later, a brief smile, and his eyes rolled up and he was gone. I’m not sure how long I crouched over him, half expecting he’d wake up and tell me another joke. Then, when he didn’t, and I knew for sure…I began digging a shallow grave.

I didn’t look forward to what I’d have to do next. I didn’t look forward to facing his children, telling them lies, or letting them wonder if they’d just been abandoned. Yet I had a debt to pay and I’d pay it. No matter who I ended up having to kill to get it done. This was my life.

Chapter 1

Hands that could kill straightened my collar, adjusted my tie, felt along the outline of the shoulders and finally brushed off whatever trace of lint there might have been.

I watched Branham in the dressing mirror, my eyes following those hands closely, noting the care he took, and then when he was finished, he lifted his eyebrows and I nodded with satisfaction. As always, Branham was perfect.

Will you require anything else, sir?

No. This should be sufficient. Thank you for helping me tidy up. I didn’t have much preparation time.

A pleasure, sir.

He turned for the door, and was about to exit, when he paused to look back.

Hmm?

If I’m not being impertinent…?

Never before had Section Twelve’s houseman showed curiosity, which was a valuable trait for such a position, but this time, this time it was different. He had to know.

Go on.

He grimaced. It’s this business, sir. With you, sir.

Me?

Yes. You see, try as the others and I have, it’s difficult for us to… he struggled with it. To associate you with all this. To us, you’ve always been an enigma, if you take my meaning.

I think I understand.

We were astonished when we heard, he added softly.

That I’d been summoned for this, you mean?

A grudging nod. Yes, sir. If you will. No disrespect, but how did you do it? It wasn’t too long ago when, er, he coughed, when there were bids to see which one got you first.

Oh, don’t look so contrite, you old pirate. I know quite well you were among that lot. You hardly fit the role of an angel in mourning.

He seemed about to protest, but then shrugged.

What you and the rest of that rascally crowd you run around with want to know is how I survived everything they could throw at me, including the kitchen sink. Is that it?

Hmm. He nodded. It has been a source of wonder.

I can see the ladies downstairs, right this minute, wringing their hands with greed and disappointment.

Well, he said reluctantly, I would not go that far. However, a good deal of money was put on your demise…and now… He seemed at a loss.

Which did you bet on? Prey or predator?

He sighed. I am afraid sir, I chose predator. I should have chosen prey, considering you were never anyone’s prey.

The wardrobe doors closed and I went over to the armchair and sat back, looking at him, wondering if I should be candid, keeping in mind that monitors could be looking at us this very instant.

You’re right, of course. I was never anyone’s prey. Anyone who thought I was a babe in the woods were in for a nasty surprise.

Yes, so we’ve come to think.

I’m curious. What were the odds?

He cleared his throat. Nine to three against.

How much did you bet?

Ah, yes, well I am dreadfully sorry, but it was a hundred.

Rogue. You thought you’d be rolling in dough.

Yes, sir. I am afraid I did presume too much.

Who bet for me?

He grimaced. The kitchen staff.

Never undermine those who deal in food, Branham. They can smell out if something is good or not.

I’m going to keep that in mind from now on.

Now, as to how I did it? To be frank it was luck.

Sir?

Branham, think a moment. In a sane society, I’d have been pushing up daisies long ago. However, it is in part to the society we live in that I made the grade. That I lasted as long as I have.

I, don’t quite—

Let me put it another way. Suppose I’d been one of the elite. One with position, influence, knowledge and power. I nodded towards the closed double doors. How long do you think I would have lived if I skated out of here, waving good-byes to my closest and dearest friends?

He didn’t have to think that one over for a moment. Not a single day.

So there’s your answer, Branham. All I had to do was remain the misfit I never had to pretend to be, keep my eyes open and wait.

His eyes lit with understanding. So when the sharks grew hungry and there was nothing else to eat…?

You know your Roman history, Branham? Can you put a name to a character who applied those attributes?

Claudius, sir?

You’re quick and you’re smart. Yet you should focus on Seneca instead. Claudius preferred people to think he was a fool. Seneca, however, was never thought a fool, just uninterested in the play of power.

Ah… He nodded thoughtfully. Seneca. Yes, I can see where that would apply.

Speaking of applications, I’ve always wondered why you didn’t claw your way up the ladder. I would have expected you to become much more than a houseman.

He glanced around quickly. That would never do.

You know, Branham, it’s men like you and I who truly control the destinies of others. Everyone else simply suffers the pangs and strains of imagining titanic weights strung across their shoulders, but it’s all a sham. Men like you and I, wrestling with far lesser burdens are the ones who suffer the ingratitude and the incompetence of better placed, lesser endowed individuals. We’re the ones called upon to fix the machinery, check the oil, see to the gas and replace the windshield.

When there are so many breakdowns, he murmured, and nothing else is feasible?

Now, be nice. After all, whom would you trust with valuable equipment? A clerical scholar or a greasy mechanic?

He fought against laughing, checked his wristwatch, saw it was time to go and with a nod turned for the door. The few moments with Branham were moments of truth and clarity. Twenty years before my time, he had been just like me, before they made the kind of flexible body armor you could wear under your clothing. Three bullets, a shattered pelvis, nerves shot and he still walked with a slight limp.

A chill touched me at the back of the neck. A single strand of memory wove its pattern in my mind and its significance was daunting. Flickering after-images skirted across my vision, and then they were gone.

It was a world where pain made philosophy and mathematics unreal. In which pain was unforgiving, yet truthful. In which pain made nothing of laughter. In which pain solidified place, making everything else seem alien and cruel.

I looked towards the inner doors and I could feel the smile on my face fade. Here, my greatest triumph lay before me. Wasn’t that a reason to cease this endless sense of despair? That had certain things occurred and not occurred, my life would have been far more agreeable? Far more acceptable?

However, neither muscle nor eyelid twitched as the stoic stared into his soul and it seemed as if time, space and recriminations were not part of the formula for living. Everything else was illusion. Everything else was a dream and was suffering a sense of endless defeat part of that dream?

The last time I’d been in this study was so long ago, it was almost too painful to recall. When I first stepped across its threshold, I thought I’d achieved a success beyond my wildest imagination. But now, as I glanced curiously about, I could see nothing had changed except for me.

A remembered, elegant roll-top was still in the corner. The armchair I was comfortably ensconced in, with its reading lamp were new, but they were merely copies of what had been before. A showroom more than a study. I felt no refuge in the glowing embers of the fireplace.

What would the people I’d worked so diligently for had thought if they knew I kept a journal? Would they have been amused? Would they have instantly put forth a concentrated effort to have me killed, once and for all?

I had to grin at that. I was never quite certain they hadn’t at one time or other. Then, perhaps, just perhaps, the idea of my having insurance lying about might have helped keep me alive and kicking.

So, I asked myself, how should I reflect upon it all, before the doors to the inner sanctorum opened and a new life might beckon?

I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let myself slip into that suspended peace of time and space, where patience was everything. Where had it all begun? There were so many places to start before the last curtain rose. Then I knew where to begin. It was obvious. It was the crux upon which everything was built. My being born a bastard.

* * *

Common sense was a faculty Lillian Chabron lacked. It wasn’t something she just missed; it simply didn’t exist in her makeup. Still, I had to hand it to the old girl, she poured what was left of her pitiful existence into mine, draining herself while filling out the empty crevices. Given the same circumstances, any other woman would have flushed the fetus down the toilet. That’s what made me feel guilty.

A spreading of the legs, a jerk, a scream and as a result, I was conceived and in the same manner born. Silly cow. Eventually she realized what she’d done, felt some spasm of motherhood preventing her from an abortion, and luckily all around decided to play a role she was not prepared for in the slightest degree.

It was a decision, I think, that always made her sorry. Thus was my destiny secured. The ticket had been punched, the local passed on by, and the express was the ding-dong that took us both clacking down the rails.

Thus came the most intelligent first impression I had, finding myself upside down with a smarting bottom. Pain drove unconsciousness away and left me with a spiritual acceptance of worth. I was cold, I was miserable and, as I later learned, I was out of luck. I’m told I cried a lot, but I don’t remember that part.

It should not be surprising that to this day I shy from excessive light, being upside down and having anyone touch my ass. The way professional athletes take such liberties with one another leaves me to suspect there’s a lot more going on in the locker rooms then they would have us know.

The next sensation of relevant awareness came when I was eight years old. All the years prior to that were a dream of something to do with yelling, playing ball, having a favorite blanket and sucking my thumb.

At eight, though, I began to realize my mother was always yelling at me. It was the first inkling I had that something was wrong. She rarely laughed. She often cried. When she looked at me, there was something in her gaze that made me wary. She was the first one to teach me fear. She was the one who made me understand what it meant, to dislike someone so intensely, that just their presence could blot out all thoughts of happiness. As a person, Lillian Chabron was a shit.

A manic-depressive personality, fixed on teaching me a lesson for having lived, and thereby chaining her to me with unfulfilled needs. Yet, what was that assessment based on? Then the memory of that came to me as well.

I was hiding behind a trunk. Yes, I was hiding because she believed I misplaced her glasses and in a fury she beat me because of it. I cried, begging her to stop, but she wouldn’t stop. Then, when she found where she had mislaid them, she cried.

However, each succeeding loss of self-control only increased her abusive nature, until every imagined slight was a reason for madness. A corner became the place where I huddled as she struck out, first for her glasses, then for a purse, a torn dress and last for the way her life turned out. Nothing I did could please her, everything she did following one of her ‘moments’, to help me forget her insanity, was only a temporary reprieve.

There were whole nights when she whipped me so dreadfully, I bore the marks for weeks, knowing that I was in some way responsible for her torment and disgust…and somewhere along the line, some indefinable point was crossed and the enduring pain burst like a white-hot flame of mind.

That’s when a solitary enclosure wrapped about all the hurt, all the fear, and a voice whispered: ‘this is nothing…nothing…’ and the terrible knot of pressure at the back of the skull eased, and whatever feelings I may have had for her, my mother, ceased. She was nothing to me. It was she who was a mistake, not I.

This went on for some years as we moved from place to place, where a woman of little talent and less skills was driven. Eventually it was decided to move to Montreal, abandoning the indistinct border towns and see what other opportunities afforded.

We stayed one week before we suddenly had to leave. I learned that she had attacked a woman who mistook her for someone else and laid her out. Lillian always did have a wicked right hook.

An escape by train and then by bus, and we didn’t stop running until we got into the Yukon Territory. It was my first experience in eluding the authorities. It was a lesson well learned.

Once there, off a bulletin board in a Whitehorse grocer, she found a notice for a cook that offered room and board. There was even a place for a snot-nosed brat. However, it was demeaning and demanding employment, cooking for hard men, whose operation depended on moving around in trailers and trucks.

The main camp had several log cabins where my mother and I moved into one, and the mess was in another, along with a hacked-together kitchen, tables, chairs, fireplace and wood-fired ovens. The boss of the outfit was a huge man by the name of Jacques Tremblay, who sported a handlebar moustache and had scarred hands from a life of hard work. He took a shine to Lillian right off, set her up, and then I started out as her assistant…

That’s where I was mostly taken up by storm. I cast my mind further back, back to the earliest adventure of so many moments and when they came, it was with a rush.

There was the night my mother became ill and I was left to help some timber man’s daughter, recruited to take over her chores for a while. It was a Thursday, and there was some sort of festive occasion where the men clamored for a chocolate layer cake.

The girl helping out shook like a leaf. Frying eggs was one thing, but this was altogether different. She pored over the cookbook, wrote everything down, and then sent me round to gather the ingredients. I went into every cupboard of the kitchen and the mess. Sugar, milk, baking soda, flour and chocolate for the mix…only there wasn’t any chocolate for the mix. That was when I remembered where I saw some. A whole bag of it at the medic station.

When it was done, I didn’t eat any; never liking dark chocolate, although I did taste it and thought it wasn’t too bad. A lot of the men thought so, too. Some even had double helpings.

So for seven days and nights, I hid in the forest while men crazed with fury searched for me. There was murder in their hearts and I was not about to oblige them. I was just a kid. How could I know the damn chocolate was a laxative?

Although, at the time it seemed pretty funny, seeing over thirty men screwing their legs together, waiting their turn at the outhouse, and then some losing it all and running into the woods, streaming tissue paper behind them.

Eventually the whole thing played out as a joke, but I knew that if they had caught me it wouldn’t have been any laughing matter. That was the month I turned twelve.

Then, for some reason, Jacques Tremblay fell in love with my mother. She was a pretty enough woman, but it was obvious to me he knew nothing of her true character. Strangely enough, she loathed him, again why, I’ll never know. In his way, he was a pretty good man. Drunk though, was a different story. Drunk he got mean…and then he started drinking often.

There were times when he would bang at our cabin door yelling to be let in, but I’d bolted it and told him if he broke through I’d let him have it with a shotgun. Still, he just kept banging away, and the men muttered worriedly that if he got in I’d have to shoot him and there would go their jobs. My mother, white-faced and trembling, cowered in a corner and something about that made me feel good.

Eventually though, Jacques calmed down, took a steam, sweated the booze out of his system and apologized. To me. He wouldn’t talk to her. He just respected how close he’d come to getting the guts blown out of him, was all. So, to make amends, and knowing how strapped we were for money, he offered to take me into a sideline of his and I didn’t mind. In that part of the territory everyone did a little smuggling to get by, but it was nothing serious.

To get started, Jacques took me a couple of times by mule and horse to Skagway. There we picked up some supplies you couldn’t get in Whitehorse, and I was taught how to care for the animals so they wouldn’t get lame, throw a shoe or step into a hole. He advised me on where to camp out if I had to, how to bed down and what to avoid if it looked like trouble was coming my way.

When I began feeling more secure, I hustled about twenty pelts across myself, and a couple of weeks after that, fifty at a time. His suppliers were Indians whom he paid, and those were leery of being sighted crossing the border to do business.

The warehouse they were delivered to was just outside town, but whenever a run was due, a truck would be waiting at a stop and the mules and horses stabled until my return. That was the first time I lied about my age so I could sign a receipt for Jacques. Our best runs were from April to September, and during the hottest times, I had to take extra precautions. More water, salt tablets, and lots of insect repellent. Lots. They had a mosquito in that part of the world called a black fly. Small, traveled in swarms, and ate at anything that moved, sweat or bled.

It was early April, when I was returning, that I ran smack into Sergeant Scoggins and a three-man troop of mounted police. He hailed me from a distance and obligingly I turned towards them.

Whatcha got there, young feller? he asked gesturing to the empty pack on the mule I was leading.

Nothin’ to excite the notice of Canada’s Finest, sir, I said.

The three men with him smiled.

Yes, I can see that, young Chabron, but what I was wondering was what it was you took over in them?

Over?

Yes, son. Don’t look so mystified. That’s what I mean."

Oh, I said, sounding the slow wit. I wanted to see if there was any work.

One of the Mounties chuckled. Son, you need a visa to work over there.

Do I?

Young Chabron, said Scoggins was born in a border town. He can work either side if he wants.

That was when my ears perked up. I hadn’t known Scoggins knew that much about me. It put me on guard. He waved me aside and pulled his mount closer.

Listen here, my good buck, he said in a friendly manner. I don’t mind Jacques’ side trips now and then, but I do object when one of his boys turns out to be a boy.

Well, I said carefully, it’s pretty hard out here, sir. Y’understand. Pity is scarce when you need to put food on the table. Oftentimes, it won’t knock on your door.

In that instant I saw my folly. He looked at me curiously. What’s this?

Just something I heard.

Ah. He shook his head, trying to make up his mind and waved me by. Well, it’s true. It is a hard land and you better be more careful riding through it.

Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. Get going.

I led the mule down the trail and felt their stares in the middle of my back, as the receipt seemed to burn a hole in a pocket. Then I heard them ride off and breathed in relief. It was a time I learned to question what was underneath a Mounties’ uniform. Why did they always seem to be on parade? Was it all for show? What was the purpose?

In the years following, I was to learn much more about them and truth to tell my instincts were right. Some were good, some were bad, and most were petty uniformed egoists.

When I got back, I gave Jacques the receipt, and nodding with a smile,