Savage Rage

For Pegi and Dennis,

Mom and Dad

Thank you for everything

I love you both

A heartfelt thank you

When I wrote
Lethal Rage
there were times I couldn't type fast enough to keep up with my thoughts and I had the first draft done in three months. It was a selfish, joyful pleasure every time I sat down at the computer.

Then came time to write the second novel and that selfish, joyful pleasure became private, agonizing torture as, more times than not, I stared at a damned empty screen. I had the story in my head and knew where I wanted it to go but there were many times I just didn't know how to get there.
Savage Rage
took six months to write and would have taken a lot longer had it not been for the help of one special, amazing woman.

When the story ground to a halt or hit a brick wall, Mary was there to talk me through, over or around the impasse. If not for her help and input,
Savage Rage
would not be the book that it is.

So, thank you, Mary, with all my heart. In you I have found my Jenny.

Whoever fights the monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.

— Friedrich Nietzsche

0230 hours

The wind had teeth.

Icy fangs tore at his exposed flesh, yet he smiled. The skin on his bare arms bristled at the wind's hostile caress, yet he stayed his ground, wrapped within the doorway's cold shadows. The hood of his sleeveless sweatshirt was pulled low over his brow, concealing his hunter's eyes beneath a second layer of darkness. The shirt's deep blue hue merged with the shadows, enveloping him in stillness.

He had learned the value of patience over the past four years. Confined and surrounded by enemies, those jealous or fearful of his status, he had learned to hunt. When to wait and when to strike. When to kill.

Now he was free and the city was his to hunt. So now he waited. And watched.

His prey, oblivious to the danger poised across the street, huddled against the wall of the community centre, seeking what refuge he could from the bitter wind. The building's south end and small parking lot were brushed by the yellow-orange hue cast from old and failing lights, and skeletal trees laid down sickly shadows in the flickering illumination. Beyond the community centre and its frozen playfields, a park lay encased in icy darkness.

His prey had been busy tonight despite the cold, busy selling. But now as the hour reached the heart of night, business was slowing. Only the most desperate of crackheads would be out at this time, in this cold. And a desperate crackhead was a moneyless crackhead. His prey would soon be heading home.

The hunter's lips pulled back in a grinning snarl. The wait was almost over.

Marvin Gaye was cold. Fucking cold. Every time that bitching wind blew across the soccer field behind the community centre it cut through his jacket, shrivelling up his nuts as if he was standing balls naked. He couldn't stop shivering and when he stomped his feet they felt like clumps of ice shoved inside his Nikes. And his fingers burned. How could they be burning when it was so fucking cold?

He reluctantly freed his hands from what little comfort there was in his pockets to check his watch. Three o'clock. Fuck this, it was time to go home. Six hours standing out here was enough. Cold or not, it had been a good night. He had started the night with pockets empty of cash but filled with an eight-ball of crack to sell. He was down to the last of his crack — so little that he had it all stuffed down his crotch instead of hidden nearby — and had hundreds of dollars, mostly tens and twenties, squirrelled away in pockets, socks and underwear.

Marvin glanced at his watch again. Definitely time to go. Even the cops had stopped cruising by and scaring off his customers. Fucking pigs. But the cold had also worked in his favour, keeping the pigs inside their warm cars and off his back. The last thing he needed was another trip to the cells on a trafficking charge.

Marvin was a small-time dealer, just a step or two above a crackhead himself. He had been on the streets of downtown Toronto since he was fourteen, selling rock since he was seventeen and using since he was nineteen. At twenty-four, he was a burned-out old man, a wasted scarecrow of the boy named after his mother's favourite singer. If Marvin had ever known who his namesake was, the knowledge had long ago been burned away in the acrid smoke of his crack pipe.

Marvin was about to pack it in when he spotted a final sale coming his way. How did he know? With some, it was a familiar face. Others, a deep-set need in the eyes. But this one. . . .

“He must be hurting for a fix bad,” Marvin laughed to himself, watching the fool cross Queen Street, his arms startlingly bare. “Or he's one crazy-ass mother.”

He waited impatiently, shivering inside his parka. How this fool could be out like that. . . . Marvin wrapped his hand around the knife tucked inside his coat pocket. If this fucker was crazy enough to let himself freeze to death, there was no telling what he would do.

“Hey, man, you looking?” he called out when the crackhead drew close, raising his voice to be heard over a gust of wind. The wind grabbed the crackhead's hood and snapped it off his head, revealing a scalp shaved clean on the sides, leaving only a band of short dark hair.

The man raised his head. Marvin saw eyes as cold as the wind and realized two things simultaneously: this was no crackhead and he was in deep shit.

Marvin tried to pull out his knife and that's when things got very bad. Very quickly. Very painfully.

The hunter waited until he saw the realization bloom in the dealer's face, then he smashed his fist into his prey's nose. Bone broke with a satisfying crunch. The dealer staggered back into the wall of the community centre, his left hand flying to his nose while his right swung a knife blindly in great, looping arcs.

The hunter swatted the knife away contemptuously, then drove his knee into the dealer's groin. The dealer was lifted onto his toes from the force of the blow before crumpling to his knees. Both hands clutched at his balls, the pain from his broken and bloodied nose forgotten, overwhelmed by the sheer agony ripping through his guts.

The hunter gripped the front of the dealer's coat and slammed him against the wall, then let the dealer slide down to an almost upright sitting position. He was crying now, openly bawling, and the hunter's guts rolled with distaste.

Fucking weak black bastard.

He jumped at the dealer, a vicious knee strike that smacked the dealer's skull against the bricks. This time the dealer didn't crumple so much as deflate, a balloon released with its tail untied. His eyes fluttered, then rolled back into his head as if he was trying to inspect the inside of his head for damage.

The hunter squatted down and casually looted the dealer's pockets. He did not rush; he had no fear of witnesses. Let them see. For soon his name would be known and feared by all the weak.

He transferred the dealer's profits to his own pockets, then rudely shoved his hand down the front of the man's pants. His hand groped among balls already swelling — had the dealer been conscious, the screams from his wounded testicles would have been enough to knock him out — and fished out the remaining half-dozen pieces of crack. They followed the money into his pocket. A treat for later.

The hunter wiped his hands on the guy's coat, then reached into the belly pocket of his sweatshirt, reaching for
it
. Erratic snowflakes sailed on the wind, flickering past his eyes in the sallow light. Its weight felt good in his hand. Solid. He ran his thumb over its dark, fierce edge carefully; it may be his, but it didn't care whose blood it drank.

That old fool Jeremiah had been right about one thing.
Turn to the good book, he had said and you will find your guide, your talisman.

Well, he had found his talisman. How it had ended up in the prison yard was a mystery but as soon as he had seen it he knew it was meant to be his, his to use first behind bars and then on the streets he called home. Soon everyone would know those streets were his. Would know his name.

Not a full day after leaving captivity, it was time to take his first step into history.

The dealer's head hung limply. A line of bloodied drool dripped from his busted lip, dancing erratically before the wind snatched it away. He seized the dealer's jaw and shook his head till his eyes opened, focused. It would not do if he was unconscious for what was coming next. Not at all.

Still gripping the dealer's jaw, the hunter straddled his chest, pinning the dealer against the bricks with his weight. He raised his talisman slowly, reverently. Wide, frightened eyes clutched at the talisman but they were impotent to stay the hunter's hand. The talisman's edge lay on the dealer's forehead and the man flinched at its icy touch.

“Tell everyone who did this to you. Tell them and let them see.”

The hunter bore down with the talisman, ripping flesh, digging for the hidden bone.

For Marvin Gaye, the pain went on forever.

0017 hours

“5106, in your area. 339 George Street, the Seaton House. Male going berserk, attacking staff with a chair. Units to back up 5106? Time, 0017.”

Jack's hands twitched on the steering wheel as the dispatcher voiced the hotshot. The urge to hit the lights and turn the scout car around was almost too strong to ignore. He took a deep breath and forced his hands to relax.

“Doesn't get any easier, does it?”

Jack glanced at the officer in the passenger seat and shook his head. “You'd think after three months up here I'd be used to it. Guess in my heart I'm still a 51 copper.” He snorted. “Might be easier to forget I'm no longer down there if there was more going on up here.”

His escort laughed but not without sympathy. “Welcome to 53 Division, Jack: the Sleepy Hollow of Toronto. Give it time, you'll get used to it.” Brett Douglas spoke from experience, having transferred to the mid-city division after spending fourteen years in the shithole that was 14 Division. The two divisions, 51 and 14, were similar in nature: drugs and violence, and they bracketed 52 Division, the business and entertainment core of Toronto. As such, they were frequently referred to as the city's armpits.

Jack eased the car to a stop at the red light at Yonge Street and Eglinton Avenue. “How long did it take you to get used to the pace up here?”

“'Bout a year.”

Jack groaned.

The light changed and Jack continued their slow crawl up Yonge Street. It was the first mild day after a cold winter and despite the hour, the streets and sidewalks were busy with people relishing the much-needed touch of spring. The snow still piled everywhere and the warmth had dropped from the air with the setting sun. The city could be dumped back into a deep-freeze tomorrow, but for tonight winter was in retreat and every club and pub was in full celebration mode. Jack even saw the odd open patio; he thought that was taking positive thinking to a new level of drunkenness.

Jack Warren, originally of 32 Division, lately of 51 and Officer of the Year, was bored out of his bloody mind. After spending the first six years of his career in the north-central part of the city writing traffic tickets and dealing with shoplifters, he had transferred to 51, affectionately known as the toilet, armpit and asshole of the city. In three brief months he had learned, painfully at times, the immense difference between being a police officer and being a street cop. And tragedy had scarred his life. His partner murdered, his wife taken hostage, himself seriously wounded at the hands of his partner's killer. But Jack had triumphed, avenging his partner and saving his wife. 51 had forged him in blood and fire and laid claim to his soul.

Now, half a year later, he was on his way to break up a house party. Oh . . . bloody . . . joy.

“Actually, Jack, I've never understood how you ended up here. After all the shit you went through, I'd've thought you would have had your pick of the squads. If you don't mind me asking, why
are
you here?”

Jack laughed and even to his ears it sounded bitter. Why, indeed. “It was a compromise. I wanted to stay in 51 and my wife, Karen, wanted me to quit policing altogether. When I told her 53 had no housing projects and was pretty much a dead spot, she agreed to let me work here.”

“Agreed to let you?” Brett's voice held an amused note.

“It was either that or a divorce,” Jack snapped.

“Hey, no offence meant,” Brett pleaded, his hands held up in appeasement. “I'm all too familiar with an unpleasant home life.”

“Sorry, Brett, I'm just so fucking bored here.”

“That explains why you keep sliding down into 51 to help out with calls. Let me guess: your wife doesn't know that 53 borders the top end of 51 or that the divisions share the same radio band.”

Jack smiled impishly. “I may have forgotten to mention that.”

“But it was an honest mistake,” Brett suggested.

“Absolutely,” Jack agreed and they both laughed.

“Well,” Brett proclaimed, “while 51 fights the good fight, we are on our way to rescue a poor teenager from his own stupidity.”

“Speaking of that: it's gotta be a typo, right?
One hundred
unwanted guests? I can see one, or ten, but a hundred?”

“Nope, it happens a lot up here but more often at the end of the school year. Some kid's parents plan to go away for the weekend and Junior decides to invite a few friends over. By the time the weekend rolls around, word of the party has spread through the whole school and that little get-together becomes one big-ass party. By the time the house is getting trashed and there's an orgy on the parents' bed, Junior panics and calls us.”

“Better call the ETF,” Jack said dryly.

“Hey, you never know. We might get lucky and there could be some — dare I say it? — marijuana.”

“Marijuana and drunk teenagers? I don't know if I can take the excitement.”

“Hey, you have to take what excitement you can find in 53.”

Jack goosed the car through a yellow light at Blythwood Road. “Why did you leave 14? It's like 51, isn't it? But with a different cultural makeup?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brett agreed. “Drugs and all the shit that goes with them.” He was silent for a moment, reflecting. “I guess I left because I didn't like the person I was turning into.”

Jack looked at him. Brett didn't elaborate. “Meaning?”

“It's a story for another day.” Brett sighed. “Let's just say that, after spending fourteen years among the shit of humanity, it starts to wear off on you.” He was quiet again, then perked up. “But it's always nice to have that 14 or 51 copper inside you 'cause every once in a while he gets to come out and play and it scares the shit out of the pukes who have only dealt with spineless 53 coppers.”

“Don't I know it.” In the two and a half months Jack had spent on the road in his new division, he had actually seen cops back down or walk away from a confrontation. Not often and definitely not every cop, but even once was too many. “I still think you're right and they should go back to training divisions. Everyone should start in a shithole.”

Brett nodded. “Certainly can learn a lot more than in a quiet place like this.”

Jack enjoyed working with Brett. They were kindred spirits and had very similar views about policing. In particular, they weren't in favour of the touchy-feely style of community policing some of the brass were flaunting as the new direction for the Toronto Police Service. Hell, it wasn't all that long ago that it had been a force, not a service. But, of course, force had sounded too military, so the Toronto Police Service had been born.

Not that Jack and Brett were Neanderthals with badges, opting for brawn over brains. Not likely. Working in a shithole hammered home one lesson perfectly, and frequently: in a fight, anyone could get hurt. And lesson number two: whenever a cop got into a fight, there was at least one gun present. Why risk tangling with some guy and letting him get within reach of your gun if you could talk him into cuffs?

But, given the nature of the job, there were times when some knob just wouldn't listen to reason and it was off with the kid gloves and on with the leather ones lined with Kevlar. Sometimes brute force has a style all its own.

Jack turned onto Lawrence Crescent. The streets between Yonge Street and Mount Pleasant Avenue were lined with older, expensive homes and the neighbourhood oozed money. The division had too many neighbourhoods that oozed that way.

It wasn't hard to find the house. On a street where most people had already settled in for the night, one home was ablaze with lights. Cars crammed the driveway and overflowed onto the street. One ingenious driver had opted to park on the front lawn but had only made it halfway over the snowbank lining one side of the driveway.

Wonder if he was pissed before or after parking?

Jack stopped on the street in front of the house, clogging the last bit of clear roadway. It was either that, or park more than two blocks away and Jack wanted the scout car close by; he had a feeling someone could be leaving the party with them. Brett didn't comment on the parking.

They got out of the car and headed for the house. On the road, broken glass crunched underfoot and Brett had to step around a steaming puddle of vomit on the sidewalk. Standing at the bottom of the driveway, they surveyed the street. Cans and bottles, mostly beer but the odd wine bottle, littered the snow-covered front yards of several houses on both sides of the party house. Next door a youth was staggering barefoot in the snow, a beer can clutched in one hand and a queasy look on his face.
If he's old enough to drive, I'll volunteer to clean up the street; two guesses whose puke Brett stepped around.

“I'd say we have enough grounds to shut down this party right now even if the complainant doesn't want to.” Brett didn't sound impressed with what he was seeing.

“Absolutely.” Neither did Jack.

There was another scout car parked in a neighbour's driveway, but there were no cops in sight. Jack and Brett headed up the driveway. The front walk looked like it hadn't been shovelled at all during the winter. They made their way down the side of the house, following a path of packed snow, to where a wood fence separated the driveway from the backyard. Three teens stood by a gate, beers in hand and none too steady.

And, of course, one decided to be an idiot.

“Sorry, officers, but this is a private party.” He was smiling the type of shit-eating grin only a head full of booze can produce. “No pigs — I mean cops — allowed.”

He was a big kid, but Brett was bigger. Standing six foot six and weighing a solid three hundred, Brett was bigger than most people. Only idiots or drunks would try to stop him from going where he wanted to.

Brett shoved the kid aside without stopping. The kid landed in a pile of slushy snow — warm weather and salt, just his luck — and struggled to get up, a look of indignant anger on his face.

Jack stopped in front of him. Jack was eight inches shorter and a hundred pounds or so lighter than Brett, but his words, delivered in an emotionless voice, didn't need size to back them up. “Is it worth spending the night in the hospital?”

The kid stayed in the snow. He wasn't as drunk as he looked.

Jack gave him and his buddies some advice. “I'd find someplace else to be. This party's about to be shut down.”

He joined Brett by the gate. The big cop had a scowl on his face and his words matched. “I hate it when these little shits think they can do whatever they want 'cause Mommy and Daddy have money.”

“Yeah, but it gives you a reason to introduce them to the 14 side of you.”

The gate opened onto a large backyard, not so uncommon in a neighbourhood as established as this, and they found the party. Or at least the outside portion of it. The house had two floors; a single-storey sunroom jutted out at the back. The roof of this sunroom was a walk-out patio; Jack thought it would be a pleasant place to laze away the afternoons. That evening it was packed railing to railing with happy revellers. Jack had a fleeting concern the patio would end up in the sunroom. Not that it would have slowed anyone down, judging from the amount of alcohol in hand up there.

Brett must have come to the same conclusion. “Man, I'm getting buzzed just looking at all that booze.”

Jack nodded and pointed to the back door. The two missing coppers from the other cruiser were knocking ineffectively on the door. They were a pair of older guys from the evening shift. If 53 had a quarter-century club like 51 had, for officers who had lasted twenty-five straight years in the division, these two would be founding members.

Only after it was obvious — painfully obvious in Jack's opinion — that no one was going to answer the door, or could even hear the knocking over the music blaring inside, one of the cops backed up a few steps to holler up at the patio. “Who's Eric? He called the police. We need to speak with him.”

The officer's request was met with a chorus of abuse. A number of voices, most sounding drunk and all very loud, told the officers where they could go and what they could do with Eric when they got there.

The officers stepped back from the house as if they were being pelted with more than just words. They shared a look, shrugging in a unison that spoke of a long partnership, and gave their backs to the house. Jeers and more abuse rained down on them as they walked away. They passed Jack and Brett without making eye contact or saying a word.

It was the younger cops' turn to share a look.

“Oh, I don't think so,” Jack said.

Brett was in full agreement. “No fucking way.”

They approached the sunroom and Jack called out for Eric, the poor underage son of a bitch who was going to have a shitload of explaining to do when his parents got home.

Bolstered by their successful repulsion of the first attack on their party, the crowd atop the sunroom — a goodly mix of high schoolers and university types, Jack thought — grew bolder still. Jack and Brett were assailed by shouts of “Fuck you!” “Fuck off!” and the catchy “Fuck you, you fucking pig fucks!” A few brave souls from deep within the mob and well out of sight tossed empty and not so empty plastic cups at them. The cups clacked jauntily against the paving stones.

Jack looked at Brett and saw his rising anger mirrored in the big man's eyes.

The verbal assault was growing louder but not much more imaginative until a beer bottle shattered on the ground next to Jack. A shocked silence dropped on the crowd after the sudden, shrill explosion. The partiers waited anxiously to see what the reaction would be. Playtime was very definitely over.

In the quivering silence, Brett asked Jack, “Do you want to kick in the door, or shall I?”

Jack extended his hand.
Be my guest.

From what Jack could see through a window, the back door led to a kitchen. Brett yanked open the screen door, then found that the inner one was locked. Word from the patio — the cops are going to kick down the door! — must have sped to the kitchen; as Brett raised a fist to pound on the wood, locks clacked and the door snapped open.