It was Marty Grant.
“What the hell…” I said.
The bartender looked out the window. “What is it?”
“Over there, at the gas station.”
“You know that guy?”
I didn’t have time to answer him. I was already on my way out the door. When I got around to the gas station, Marty Grant had already pulled out. He was heading south. I ran back to my truck and fired it up, skidding my way out of the icy parking lot and onto the road.
You son of a bitch, I thought. What the hell are you doing up here? There’s no way it could be a coincidence. No way you’re up here doing a windshield job. There were probably a dozen auto glass shops in Soo Canada. Nobody would hire a man from Michigan to drive all the way up here.
I accelerated until I could finally see his truck ahead of me. I’m gonna run you off the road, Marty Grant. I’m gonna run you into the snow and then drag you out of that truck…
Wait a minute, Alex. Take a breath. Maybe I should go back, get Don the bartender, go find Grace’s house.
No. You heard the man. She’s not there.
God damn it, Grant, if you’ve done something to her. Or to Natalie. I swear to God…
I could feel my grip getting tighter on the steering wheel.
Okay, Alex. Take it easy. Just follow the man. Don’t do anything stupid. At least not yet. Just settle in and follow him.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. This is one of the men who beat me half to death. This is the man who swung at me the hardest, so hard that when he missed he’d broken his hand on the bricks.
He’s the worst of them. He’s the biggest. He’s the strongest. God damn it to hell.
I kept following him. It wasn’t even an hour on the road, but it felt like an eternity. I stayed a quarter mile behind him, all the way back down the Queen’s Highway to Soo Canada. The sun was going down as he finally reached the bridge with me behind him. I didn’t think he had spotted me, even as I pulled in right behind him at the toll booth. He pulled out of the booth and onto the bridge. Another car got between us. When he hit customs, he took one lane and I took another.
I could see that Marty got a quick once-over and was already pulling out onto the road. Meanwhile, I had to wait while the car ahead of me got the full treatment. I was expecting the agent to come out and start ripping the door panels off the guy’s car, when finally he was given the all clear.
I pulled up, trying to calm myself down before I spoke to the agent. Looking like a homicidal maniac wouldn’t do me much good right now, even though that’s about how I felt. The agent asked me the usual questions. I gave him the right answers and was on my way, but by the time I hit I-75, Marty Grant was long gone. No matter, I thought. I knew exactly where to go.
I took the exit and headed downtown, past the Ojibway Hotel, and onto Spruce Street. It was dark now. I pulled into the driveway, right in front of the garage door. I didn’t see Marty’s truck there, but so what. I parked and got out. After everything that had happened, it was finally time for my own little showdown with the Grant family.
When I opened the door, I saw Michael Grant, the other brother, working on a car. I didn’t see Marty anywhere. Michael looked up from his job-it looked like he was doing a full cutout, scraping all the old adhesive out of a windshield bed before putting in the new glass-just in time to see me come through the doorway.
“McKnight?” he said. “What the hell is going on?”
“Where is he?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tell me where he is.”
“Where who is?”
“Your brother Marty,” I said. “I saw him in Batchawana Bay.”
“What?”
“He was up there. I just followed him back.”
“What was he doing up there?”
“That’s what I wanna know.”
“Look, McKnight…” He stepped away from the car and approached me. He still had the scraper in his right hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Tell me where to find your brother and I’ll leave.”
He shook his head slowly. “Ain’t gonna happen,” he said. “You need to turn around and get out of here right now.”
“What happens if I don’t?”
He looked at me for a long moment. His eyes were steady until he was about to make his move-the oldest “tell” in the book, the eyes getting wider just before your man pulls the trigger. Apparently, it works for glue scrapers, too. I ducked as he swung it at me and put my elbow into his ribs. That knocked the wind out of him just long enough for me to grab something myself.
There, a crowbar leaning against the garage wall. This will do nicely, Alex.
I picked it up just in time for him to come at me again. He took one look at it and dropped his scraper. “All right,” he said. He raised both hands. “All right. Just take it easy.”
I didn’t feel like taking it easy. Not yet. A new windshield was sitting on a special felt-padded stand, waiting to be fitted onto the car. I swung the crowbar and hit it dead center, sending a spray of glass pebbles all over the floor. What was left collapsed together into a heap, like some sort of folded-up modern sculpture.
He took that in stride. I had to give him credit. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said. “Put that thing down.”
“Where is he?”
“I said put it down.”
There was a box leaning against the wall, just the right shape and size. I was pretty sure I knew what was inside. I swung the crowbar and heard the muffled sound of more glass breaking.
“Shit!” he said. “What are you doing?”
“What does one of these babies cost?” I said. “Four hundred dollars? Five hundred?”
I swung at another box and heard more glass breaking.
“I’m calling the police,” he said. “You’re insane.”
“I think you’re right. I get that way when people gang up and beat the shit out of me.”
I hit another box. It was utterly and completely the most stupid thing I had ever done. I was committing a felony myself and probably screwing up the whole assault case against the three men who had attacked me. I was throwing everything right out the window. Grant made another move, but stopped himself short when I raised the crowbar at him.
“You’re a real tough guy with a club in your hand,” he said.
“That’s good coming from you,” I said. “Why don’t you call your brother and your brother-in-law over here so we can have an even fight again.”
He kept his hands up as he backed away from me. “You’re making a big mistake, McKnight.”
“I’m sure I am,” I said, dropping the crowbar on the floor with a loud clang. “Now it’s your turn. Let’s see what you’ve got, Grant.”
He took one look at my empty hands and came right at me. I gave him a side step and slipped a punch into his midsection. I followed that with an overhand left that sent him bouncing off the wall. He tried to wrap me up on the rebound, backing me up hard against the car. I got an elbow under his chin and pushed him away, just far enough to hit him again. He started punching back, but I didn’t care anymore. I had been carrying this rage around inside me for days, a secret even to myself, subconsciously nursing it and promising it that I’d give it some release. That time had come.
He hit me in the face a few times, hard enough to tear out some of my stitches. I could feel the blood running down the bridge of my nose. But I stayed close to him. I kept driving my fists into his stomach. I could feel him weakening.
He pushed me away and grabbed something off the workbench. A screwdriver. I backed up as he swung it at me. Once, then twice. A man with any sense would have checked out right then, but instead I timed the third swing and locked up his arm. I bent his elbow back, my face just inches from his.
“Drop it,” I hissed in his face. “Or I’ll break your arm in two.”
The screwdriver fell to the ground. When I let go of him, he tried to take one more swing at me. His last. I caught him right under the ribs with everything I had left. That sent him onto his hands and knees. He stayed that way for a long time, trying to breathe.