Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  “My keys are upstairs in my office but I don’t have time to go get them,” he had added. “But I keep a key hidden outside the cottage, in case of emergency.”

  He had told Bruno where to find the key and given him the code for the alarm system. Bruno had gone to pick up the file and he had been impressed by the place. The cottage was lovely, but the site was really breathtaking. When he returned to the hospital more than two and a half hours later, he had congratulated Josh for having such a beautiful place. The old doctor was known to be rather antisocial; he mostly kept to himself and had no close friends. But one subject he seemed keen on was his cottage, and he spent a good ten minutes talking about it with Bruno. He had bought it eight years earlier, and he spent the summers there, from May to September, alone and happy in the middle of the forest. It involved a lot of driving back and forth to the hospital, but he loved it too much to spend the summer in town. Between October and April, he only went there occasionally, because the place wasn’t as interesting in the winter.

  The following day, Bruno had already forgotten Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc, the cottage and everything else.

  But this morning, he had remembered it again. He had also remembered that Josh went to Belgium to an international conference of cardiac surgeons every year in October. The conference was two weeks long, but Josh always stayed there on vacation the rest of the month. He’d been doing that every year for the past five years.

  And this year as well.

  It could not be just chance. It was a sign. A sign that what Bruno wanted to do was not only possible but also legitimate.

  Bruno went to the outdoor fireplace. The hearth had a wide protective grill. He slipped his hand behind it and felt around. Did Josh remove the key at the end of the summer? He found the little magnetic box that held the key.

  Perfect. He stepped onto the porch and looked at the door, the only entrance to the cottage. There didn’t seem to be any extra locks for the winter. Again, perfect. Now the most important thing: had the code for the alarm system been changed? When Josh gave it to him, he had said it was easy to remember because it was the same as the address of the hospital. Impossible to forget.

  It hadn’t been changed in the two years.

  He opened the door and went into the kitchen, which was rustic despite the modern oven and refrigerator. Bruno went to the little keypad on the wall and entered the code: 570. The alarm system was deactivated.

  Bruno nodded. He couldn’t have found a better place: it was a private cottage, considered to be inhabited all year round (even though the doctor rarely went there in the winter). They’d never come looking here. And Josh was in Europe until October 28.

  It could not be just chance.

  The only risk was that a friend of Josh’s could arrive unexpectedly for some reason. Or the old doctor might have asked an acquaintance or a neighbor to come by from time to time to check that everything was okay. Bruno was prepared to take that risk.

  He went into the living room, which was an extension of the kitchen. It had the same feeling, old-fashioned and modern at the same time, with antique wood furniture and an old corded telephone but a new television and a high-tech stereo. On the walls were abstract paintings. On a few shelves there were wooden knickknacks, mostly representing cats. Bruno went to the big window and looked out at the sparkling ripples on the surface of the lake. But to him, the water looked dull and gray. He muttered, “Sorry, Josh.”

  He went into the narrow hallway leading to the two bedrooms and the tiny bathroom. The bedroom on the left, which was used as an office, was where he’d come to pick up the file two years ago. The room was about twenty feet long by fifteen feet wide. There was a modest desk, a small metal filing cabinet, two chairs, and a closet. There were a few paintings on the walls. A window looked out on the lake.

  Bruno spent a few minutes examining the room. He glimpsed his reflection in the glass of the window and studied it for a long time. If he put his mind to it and didn’t back down, he would go all the way. There was still time to stop everything, to go back home, take Sylvie in his arms, and weather the storm with her.

  He saw the smiling face of the monster.

  He put his hand in his pocket, took out Jasmine’s blue ribbon and looked closely at it.

  Thirty seconds later, he got to work.

  He finished in the late afternoon and went to Grand-Mère, a town some thirty kilometers away. He quickly checked out the downtown area, making a mental note of two or three places, and then he went into a modest restaurant. He started by calling Sylvie. He told her he had spent the day at the hospital.

  “You’ve already gone back to work,” she said, surprised.

  He said he needed to do something, that doing nothing just made things worse. He added that he would be home late because he needed to catch up on his paperwork.

  A little later, while eating a sandwich and drinking a beer, he read the “Work Wanted” section of the local newspaper. He was interested in ads saying “Handyman” or “Interior or Exterior Work.” His father used to call these people “odd jobbers.” There were six of these ads in the Shawinigan paper.

  It was five twenty. A perfect time to reach people.

  He went to a phone booth with the paper. There was no question of using his cell phone; he didn’t want the police to be able to trace the numbers he had called.

  He dialed the number in the first ad and asked the man who answered if he did carpentry and welding. No problem for the first, but for the second, he wasn’t so sure . . . if it was simple, maybe . . . otherwise, probably not. Bruno hung up. He called the second number, a man named Beaulieu, who was not only an expert carpenter but said he was also a pretty good welder.

  “All right, then, listen to me without interrupting, Mr. Beaulieu. If you aren’t too concerned about the limits of legality, you could make a lot of money. Not only that, there’s almost no risk. All you have to do is build something a bit unusual. If you’re interested, meet me at six thirty in the park on Thirty-Fourth Street, near the slide in the playground. Just for coming to meet me and listening to what I have to say, I’ll give you three thousand dollars, whether or not you accept my offer. If you accept it, you’ll make a lot more.”

  When the man started to say something, Bruno hung up. He was surprised how easily he had played his role. He called the number in the third ad. The man also worked as a mechanic. Bruno repeated the same pitch, with one difference: he arranged to meet him at seven thirty at the pay phone in the bar Chez Lili. Like Beaulieu, the guy didn’t get a chance to answer.

  Bruno didn’t call the other numbers. Three were enough for today.

  He went back to his car. He put the black wig on his head, which was already quite bald despite his young age of thirty-eight, and put on the false beard. He put a pair of sunglasses on and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked weird, but he didn’t care. Safety first.

  The first man didn’t show. The second one didn’t either, but he sent someone. Bruno had parked some fifty meters from Chez Lili, and from there he could see the pay telephone through the front window. At seven thirty-five, a police car stopped in front of the bar. Two police officers went in and headed straight for the pay phone. From his vantage point, Bruno even saw them questioning the waiter.

  Bruno started the car and drove off, slowly so as not to attract attention. As he drove, he removed his disguise.

  Just before leaving town, he stopped at a phone booth and called the people from the three other ads. One of them didn’t seem comfortable with mechanical devices, but the two others were suitable. He recited the same spiel as before, except that he made the appointments for the following day. The first one was for nine o’clock at the slide in the playground, and the second for ten at the phone booth he was making the call from.

  He got home at eight forty-five and went directly to the fridge to get a beer. Sylvie asked how it was being back at work. He answered that it had been hard, but that at least it had pa
rtly distracted him from his sadness and pain. He was surprised at how easily he lied.

  “I spent the whole day alone,” she said reproachfully.

  He said that perhaps she should go back to the women’s shelter. Spending the whole day wallowing in misery wasn’t exactly healthy, was it? She thought about it and, with a sigh, shook her head.

  “I don’t feel ready yet.”

  She was so weary, so listless, so defeated. She held out her arms to him. He went to her and they hugged.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You feel so tense.”

  He didn’t answer. He would have liked to abandon himself completely to tenderness, but the darkness prevented him.

  When he went to bed with his eyes on the ceiling and his face hard, it took him a good two hours to fall asleep.

  The next morning at nine, he was parked at the playground in Grand-Mère, watching the slide from a distance. It was Thursday and the children were in school, so the park was almost deserted. But a man walked up to the slide, stopped, and waited there, looking nervously about.

  Wearing his disguise, Bruno approached in turn. The weather was mild. It would be warm again. It was as though fall had forgotten to come. The man watched Bruno suspiciously.

  “Gaétan Morin?”

  “Yup, that’s me.”

  Forty-five years of age, already graying, a protruding belly, but muscular arms and legs. A gray baseball cap. He was chewing on a toothpick, trying to look relaxed, but you could tell he was nervous.

  “What’s with the getup? Are we in a James Bond movie?”

  “I told you this could go beyond the bounds of legality.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  He scratched his head. He was finding this a bit too mysterious.

  “I came out of curiosity.”

  Bruno took an envelope from his coat and gave it to Morin.

  “Three thousand dollars for your trouble, as promised.”

  Morin looked around. Some distance away, there was a woman reading on a bench. Two people were walking and talking. From time to time, a car passed along the main street. He finally dared to open the envelope and quickly count the money. He put the money under his coat and looked around again, and then back at Bruno. His expression had suddenly changed to one of interest, as if he hadn’t really believed Bruno until then. Bruno was direct: now that his curiosity was satisfied, Morin could leave if he wanted. But if he were to accept Bruno’s offer, he could make a lot more.

  “How much?”

  Bruno nodded almost imperceptibly. Morin was the kind of guy who lived a quiet, monotonous life, dreaming of money, and from time to time pulling off some scam that wasn’t too compromising. Exactly what Bruno needed. So he gave him the numbers right away: a first installment of thirty thousand dollars and then seven thousand a day for a certain period. What Bruno saw on Morin’s face was not greed, but fear. He hadn’t been expecting that much money.

  “Hey, don’t expect me to kill anybody!”

  “You won’t have to kill anybody. In fact, what I want you to build for me isn’t illegal. But after you’ve built it, I want to be sure you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

  Morin, relieved, looked interested again. Bruno added, “It’s up to you to decide if silence is too serious a crime for you.”

  The toothpick between Morin’s lips was twitching.

  “Just what is it you want me to build?”

  “You’re a good mechanic, right?”

  “I can do anything, sir.”

  Bruno took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and gave it to Morin. He explained that it was a rough sketch just to give him an idea. Morin looked at the sketch and the toothpick stopped moving, while his eyes grew wide.

  “I realize it’s quite complex. If you don’t think you have the skills, tell me right away. But if you feel you can do it, I’ll give you more details on-site.”

  “Shit! What are you going to do with that?”

  “I’m also paying you not to ask questions.”

  Silence. Morin eyed him closely. Bruno was glad he’d worn the dark glasses.

  “When do you want me to build it?” Morin finally asked.

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Perfect. I can start tomorrow if you want. I have some contracts, but I can cancel them.”

  Morin suddenly seemed reassured and even eager, as if, now that the decision was made, he was in a hurry to start. His attitude intrigued Bruno.

  “And the seven thousand a day you’re going to give me for my silence . . . that’ll be for how long?”

  “Two weeks.”

  That wasn’t true. It wouldn’t be for that long, but Morin didn’t need to know that. The handyman made a quick mental calculation and his eyes grew brighter.

  “You’ll start giving me that amount right after I finish building your . . . your little contraption?”

  “Exactly. I’ll start the next day.”

  “I can build it for you in two days.”

  He was in such a hurry, almost more of a hurry than Bruno. Was he in urgent need of money?

  Josh’s cottage, Morin so eager . . . everything was coming together so nicely. These were signs. Signs that Bruno was right to do what he was planning.

  In the distance, a woman got up off a bench and walked away. Morin nodded, having nothing else to say. He took the toothpick from his mouth, considered it for a moment, put it back in his mouth, laughed nervously, and shrugged. Bruno asked if there was a telephone number where he could reach him personally, and Morin gave him his cell number. They agreed to meet at the same time and place the following morning. Morin nodded, hesitated again, and clumsily stuck out his hand. Bruno looked at it curiously for a moment and then shook it mechanically. He was finding it more and more difficult to carry out these everyday actions, to observe the social conventions, which seemed so distant and foreign now, so far from the darkness.

  Finally, Morin turned and walked away, his steps becoming faster and more energetic. He must have been in a rush to get into his car and shout for joy.

  Bruno gave a long sigh, rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and went back to his car. He left Grand-Mère without even bothering to keep the second appointment.

  He was back in Drummondville at eleven, and went to his bank. He had a short conversation with his banker, who seemed puzzled and somewhat discouraged but agreed to meet with him the following afternoon. Bruno left the bank with five thousand dollars cash.

  He got to the bus station just in time for the next bus to Montreal. He had his disguise with him in a travel bag.

  When the bus stopped in Longueuil, Bruno got out, wearing his disguise.

  He spent more than an hour downtown and then took the subway to Montreal.

  At about four thirty, still wearing his disguise, he went to a used car dealer and bought a green ’92 Chevrolet for the ridiculous sum of a thousand dollars, without negotiating. The whole transaction took less than ten minutes. The dealer, who had initially been suspicious of this weirdo in disguise, was so delighted he almost swallowed his cigarette.

  Bruno then found a sex shop that specialized in accessories for fetishists. He made a purchase and came out carrying a bag containing a rectangular cardboard box.

  A half hour later, he parked the old Chevrolet on Sainte-Catherine Street near Saint-Laurent. After thinking about it for a minute, he left the wig and beard in the car; he wouldn’t need a disguise. He also left all but a thousand dollars of his cash hidden in the car, under the front passenger seat.

  He went to eat in a little Vietnamese restaurant. At ten minutes to seven, he was walking along Sainte-Catherine Street. It was dark already, but there still was no autumn chill. Bruno passed a few young punks, some prostitutes, some shady-looking characters, but he didn’t dare approach any of them. He was a bit nervous and he still had that new heavy feeling in his shoulders.

  In a narrow, dirty alley, he saw
a man having an animated conversation with a young girl. The man, who was in his thirties, was dressed in a flashy black suit with extravagant rings on his fingers. He was moving in a theatrical way as he talked. From her outfit, it was obvious the girl was a prostitute, and she was clearly being rebuked by the man. Bruno stood watching them from the street, hesitant to approach. After a minute, the girl came out of the alley looking dejected, and went back to the street.

  Summoning up his courage, Bruno turned into the alley and approached the pimp, who was lighting a cigar. Bruno began speaking, quickly but with assurance. The pimp started by laughing scornfully and even motioned for Bruno to leave. Bruno was so insistent that the pimp finally became annoyed, and then got really angry. He grabbed Bruno by the collar, shoved him against the wall, and spat threats at him. Bruno managed to maintain his composure and showed the pimp a thousand dollars from his wallet. The pimp was at first incredulous, and then he let go of Bruno to count the money. Bruno continued talking, and now the pimp really listened, keeping his eyes on the wad of bills in his hands. Finally, his face cold but no longer menacing, he gave Bruno the answer he was looking for. Bruno walked quickly out of the alley and lost himself in the crowd on Sainte-Catherine Street.

  For the next hour, he wandered aimlessly in the neighborhood. Once or twice, he was approached by young girls, but he didn’t even look at them. While walking, he thought about the birthday party they had organized for Jasmine the month before. It had started at four thirty in the afternoon, but Bruno had arrived an hour late because of a complicated surgery. His lateness wasn’t a disaster, but he had been disappointed, and so had Jasmine. He had said, “I’ll never let you down again, sweetheart, I promise you. I’ll be there whenever you need me.” He was exaggerating, but he really was sorry and he wanted so much to make her happy. And with all the innocence of a seven-year-old, Jasmine had believed him. She had kissed him and given him a hug.