Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  She held out her arms over the table and he took her hands.

  “Our daughter is dead, Bruno, and I need you! Is that so hard to understand?”

  She had almost been shouting, but she immediately calmed herself. She added, speaking evenly but with intensity, “And don’t you need me?”

  He withdrew his hands with annoyance. Couldn’t she just leave him alone?

  She drew back and looked at him with amazement and alarm, as if she no longer recognized him. She got up and was about to leave the room when Bruno said in an emotionless voice, “Sylvie, in a few days, you’ll understand all this, you’ll see . . .”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Later, you’ll understand. Very soon . . .”

  “Understand what?”

  She was almost crying with rage and despair. Bruno repeated, “You’ll understand.”

  Sylvie left the room in tears and went upstairs.

  Alone, Bruno continued eating.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sylvie came back down carrying a small suitcase. Coldly, she said she was going to her friend Ariane’s house.

  “I need human warmth and solace.”

  “I understand,” Bruno said.

  Sylvie said he knew where to find her if he needed her.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, but his tone of voice said the opposite.

  Sylvie nodded and left without another word.

  For just an instant, Bruno felt his stomach contract with remorse, but the darkness came like an antibody protecting his system from viruses. He turned back into a dummy and his mind returned to Josh’s cottage. He ate the pasta mechanically, not tasting anything.

  HE WAS A LITTLE CHILLY. As he was putting on his coat, he glimpsed the policeman walking between the cars in the parking lot.

  He lay down on the passenger seat. Parking was surely allowed here, but he wanted to avoid any contact. He stayed down for two minutes and then sat up again. No cop in sight.

  His watch read ten thirty. God, he could really use a beer!

  He looked at his hand, perplexed. He felt like it wasn’t his, like it didn’t belong to him. In fact, since the darkness, he had the feeling of being in somebody else’s skin, in a different body but one he knew perfectly. And in the past four days, that impression had intensified.

  THE NEXT DAY, HE GOT up early, showered, had a quick breakfast, and left, taking the briefcase full of money and his laptop.

  He went and got the Chevrolet and headed for Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc, wearing his disguise. Morin was waiting at Josh’s place, sitting on the front steps smoking a cigarette. It was still sunny, but a little cooler than the preceding days. Morin said he figured he should be finished about three o’clock that afternoon.

  “Fine. I’ll try to come back about then, but I might be a little late. Don’t leave before I get back.”

  “Don’t worry, I want to get paid!” Morin said pointedly, chewing on his toothpick.

  In the car, Bruno prepared eleven rolls of seven thousand dollars each in hundred-dollar bills. That made thick rolls, but they would still be pretty easy to hide. That was why he’d set the amount at seven thousand dollars. He could have chosen ten thousand, but the rolls would have been too bulky, and therefore too hard to conceal in narrow spaces.

  In Grand-Mère, he returned to the park on the main street, and after searching for fifteen minutes, hid seven thousand dollars in one of the metal bars of the rocket in the playground. Half an hour later, he found a steel fence around a textile factory. The eighth fence post was held in the ground by a cement footing. The footing had a big crack in it, and Bruno pushed the second roll in there. He noted the precise locations in a notebook. He found two more hiding places in Grand-Mère and then drove out of town.

  He hid the seven other rolls in two other villages near Grand-Mère. So the seventy-seven thousand dollars were dispersed in eleven hiding places in three villages. Eleven safe places that were almost impossible to find by chance. And each time, he was careful not to draw attention to himself. Nine hiding places would have been enough, but he didn’t want to take any chances. There could always be a hitch.

  This took him all morning and a good part of the afternoon, so he got back to the cottage at three thirty.

  Morin had finished the work and had cleaned up. Bruno examined the setup closely. While Morin explained how to use everything, he tried out the various mechanisms. Everything worked perfectly.

  Josh would never have recognized his office.

  In spite of the apathy that had come over him with the darkness, Bruno could not help feeling some admiration for Morin. Honest or not, he really knew what he was doing. He congratulated him in a flat voice. Morin shrugged, but he was obviously proud. He gave Bruno a little key and said, “It opens all the rings. On the chains and on the table.”

  The two men returned to the living room. There were four empty beer bottles on the table. Morin chuckled apologetically: “I found the beer in the fridge and I figured . . .”

  Bruno gave him the remaining twenty-five thousand dollars. Morin counted the bills several times, hardly able to believe his eyes. He had never seen so much money in one place.

  “And starting tomorrow, you’ll be making another seven thousand dollars a day,” Bruno reminded him.

  He explained the method of payment: every day between nine and six, he would call Morin and tell him where the money was. If he found out that Morin had talked to anyone, the calls would stop automatically, and so would the payments.

  “And if you talk, I’ll know about it, believe me.”

  Morin said nothing. Bruno warned him that he wasn’t ever to come here, for any reason. If Bruno caught the slightest glimpse of him, the agreement was null and void.

  “And what if you’re lying to me? What if you don’t call me tomorrow?”

  “Then you can come and see me.”

  “Or I could turn you in.”

  “Turn me in for what? For having you build me some equipment? I haven’t done anything illegal.”

  “Not yet . . .”

  The two men looked at each other for a moment. Morin seemed to be feeling more confident and there was a hint of irony in his expression. Bruno’s face remained inscrutable under his disguise.

  “Don’t talk to anyone about this business, Mr. Morin, and you’ll make seven thousand dollars a day for two weeks. After that . . .”

  He shrugged.

  “After that, you can do whatever you like.”

  He was about to add, “because it won’t matter anymore,” but he decided not to.

  When he went to Morin’s truck with him, Bruno saw a tool he found interesting—a sledgehammer with a long handle and a head heavy enough to smash big rocks. Bruno asked how much for the tool.

  “It’s not for sale. I need it.”

  Bruno offered him five hundred dollars and Morin handed over the sledgehammer. He almost asked a question, but changed his mind with a shrug.

  The two men did not shake hands. Two minutes later, the pickup was driving off up the dirt lane.

  Carrying the sledgehammer, Bruno went back to the guest bedroom and studied the sinister installation for a long time. It was precisely as he had imagined it, and yet he felt nothing. As long as this equipment was not used, it would mean nothing to him. He leaned the sledgehammer against the wall near the door and went back to the living room.

  He looked out the big window, drinking a beer. Above the lake, completing its lazy descent, was the sun—a sun that Bruno saw as dull and washed out. A light breeze had come up, and on the shore hundreds of (drab) red and (faded) yellow leaves were dancing gently.

  Before returning to Drummondville, he went to the village of Saint-Élie. He quickly drove around the village, but without finding what he was looking for. He went on to the next village, Charette, some twenty kilometers from Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc. He drove around for a while and finally found an isolated old duplex with a “For Rent” sign on it, with the owner’s p
hone number. Again using a telephone booth, Bruno called the owner, and then went to see him at his house. It was several kilometers from the duplex, which suited Bruno perfectly.

  Wearing his disguise but without the dark glasses, Bruno said his name was Gauthier and that he was a writer looking for a quiet place to write for a couple of months.

  “Usually I rent by the year, not by the month,” said the landlord, an old man.

  Bruno offered double the regular rent, in cash. The old man accepted and gave Bruno the key.

  “I should tell you, you probably won’t see me again,” the new tenant said. “When I write, I’m a hermit. I don’t answer the telephone, or the door if someone comes knocking.”

  “Don’t worry, I never bother my tenants,” answered the old man with a smile.

  Ten minutes later, carrying his laptop, Bruno went to the rustic little two-bedroom ground-floor apartment, which was completely empty. There was an old telephone, but the line wasn’t in service. He left his laptop in the apartment and went out again.

  He called the phone company from a phone booth and spoke briefly with an employee.

  “Everything will be ready on Monday, right?” he insisted.

  “Before noon, sir.”

  Then he made another call. Once again, he was assured by the person at the other end that everything would be ready on Monday.

  He got home at six forty-five. There were no messages from Sylvie on the answering machine. He wondered if he should call her, and realized he didn’t feel like it.

  He ate a steak.

  He watched television without really paying attention to any of the shows.

  His mother called. She cried. He spoke to her gently, saying that he and Sylvie were doing better and he would go and see her very soon. A little later, there was a call from one of his friends. This time, Bruno said rather curtly that he didn’t feel like talking.

  He went to bed at ten o’clock, but he found the bed big and cold. He got up again and went to Jasmine’s bedroom and lay down on her bed. He fell asleep in a few minutes.

  At five to ten the next morning, he was in Woodyatt Park. He walked around the tennis courts to the path along Saint-François River and toward the little bridge. The wind was chillier than the day before and it seemed like autumn had finally come. Quite a few people were strolling along the path, which had been transformed into a multicolored carpet; some were even sitting reading on the benches, well bundled up, and children were running up and down. He had counted on all this Sunday activity. It was always easiest to go unnoticed in a crowd.

  Martin was waiting on the little bridge, holding a medical bag and nervously smoking a cigarette. When he saw Bruno, his face darkened and he tossed the butt in the river. He handed Bruno a large envelope. Bruno discreetly checked the contents before putting it under his coat. Then Martin gave him the bag, which held antibiotics and sedatives. A pair of lovers crossed the bridge. Martin still said nothing; he just stared at Bruno, almost with contempt.

  “I’m sorry, Martin,” Bruno said, his face impassive.

  Martin grinned disdainfully and then walked stiffly away.

  Bruno surveyed nature all around him. He had always found autumn the most beautiful season of the year. But today, it had never seemed so drab. A little girl of about five crossed the bridge singing, a doll in her hand. Her mom followed her, watching her absentmindedly.

  The lighthearted child’s laughter echoed in Bruno’s head. He quickly walked away.

  In front of the tennis courts, he ran into his neighbor Denis with his nine-year-old son, Frédéric. Surprised and uncomfortable, Denis asked how he and Sylvie were. The discussion was almost unbearably painful for Bruno. For days, he had been feeling nothing but rage and aggression, and that made it harder to put on an act.

  At one point, little Frédéric spoke up in a sad voice:

  “I’m very sorry about Jasmine being dead too . . .”

  Bruno looked down at the child. He stared for a moment at the disfiguring scars he’d had for the past three years. Not very long ago, Bruno had counted himself lucky every time he saw that child.

  He had to bite his lip hard to keep from screaming.

  “Anyway,” Denis said with nauseating compassion, “if you want to talk, I’m here for you.”

  He added, moving closer, “I know what you’re going through.”

  And he gave Bruno an understanding look! Bruno looked at him for a long time and then said evenly, “As far as I know, your son isn’t dead, he’s only disfigured.”

  Denis’s features went rigid, while little Frédéric’s eyes, at first stunned, filled with tears. He began to cry, and his father bent down to comfort him. Bruno wished he could have regretted his words, but he felt no regret. He silently watched the little scene and felt a dark jealousy. He violently envied this man for being able to comfort his little boy.

  Denis looked up at Bruno, but there was no reproach in his eyes. Only a vague, intolerable understanding pity.

  Bruno strode away with a sudden pain in his stomach.

  In the car, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. One last effort . . . one or two more things to take care of and everything would be ready.

  During the dinner hour, he went to parks, parking lots, and arcades where he knew he could find young people who didn’t do much except hang around, talking to each other and smoking. Making sure to avoid anyone he knew, he approached nine boys in succession, choosing those who looked the toughest and shadiest.

  “I have five hundred dollars for you if you’ll agree to pick the lock of a car door two days from now.”

  Five refused his offer, offended: who did he think they were anyway, crooks? Two seemed tempted, but resisted, no doubt suspecting a trap. Another told him outright that he would have been glad to do it but he knew nothing about breaking into cars. Each time, Bruno quickly walked away.

  But the ninth one, a conceited-looking skinhead, agreed, attracted by the money. His coat sported the slogan “No faith—No mercy.” Bruno made an appointment with him for Tuesday at nine thirty in the morning across from the Box Office bar.

  “Nine thirty? I’m gonna miss school!” the skinhead said ironically.

  “I’m sure you’re really upset about that.”

  “For five hundred bucks, I’d skip the whole year!” the kid said, taking a drag on his cigarette.

  Bruno told him he would get the money when he did the job, and then he left, with the boy watching him, amused and intrigued.

  He had a quick bite in a restaurant and went to park his Saturn at the seniors’ residence. He was surprised to find a ticket on the Chevrolet. He crumpled it up and tossed it away before getting into the car.

  He had to call Morin. There was no question of using the phone in the house or his cell phone, so he stopped at a phone booth. Morin answered on the first ring.

  “It’s me” was all Bruno said.

  “Yeah, I recognized you.”

  Morin’s voice was a bit excited but, above all, surprised.

  “Jeeee-zus! After a while, I didn’t believe it anymore and I thought you wouldn’t call!”

  “Here’s where you can find today’s seven thousand dollars.”

  Checking his notebook, he gave detailed directions to the hiding place.

  “Wait, wait, I have to get all this down.”

  “Is it clear?” Bruno asked when Morin was finished.

  “Very clear!” Morin said excitedly. “And it’s not far from . . .”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Bruno hung up.

  A little less than an hour later, he arrived in Longueuil. He stayed there awhile and then returned to Drummondville.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon searching the outskirts of the town for a safe place to leave the Chevy without anyone noticing it. At around four thirty, he finally found one. He had been driving along Golf Course Road for a few minutes and had even gone past Highway 20, beyond the city limits of Drummondville
. There were woods on both sides, with a few scattered houses. He came upon a little dirt road into the woods, like the one to Josh’s place but flat.

  Bruno turned onto the road, and in about twenty seconds, he came to a clearing with no buildings, no remains of campfires, no garbage . . . in short, no sign of human activity. He stopped the car and got out. He could just barely see Golf Course Road. The land must belong to someone, but it clearly wasn’t used much.

  What were the chances of anyone coming here in the next two days, when it was obvious that nobody ever came here? Close to zero. He would have to be really unlucky.

  But it wasn’t impossible. What would he do if the Chevrolet wasn’t here in two days? Well, he’d steal a car, or get one any way he could.

  He estimated that he was ten minutes from downtown at normal speed. That should do it.

  He opened the trunk and took out one of the two medical bags. He left the disguise and the antibiotics from Martin in the trunk, but he kept the envelope of nitro patches. Then, taking the bag, he walked to Golf Course Road, where he stuck out his thumb for about ten minutes before a young man about twenty picked him up and took him to the seniors’ residence, where his Saturn was parked.

  Standing beside his car, his hands on his hips, he looked around, thinking hard. Had he done everything he needed to do? Had he forgotten anything? He had the feeling that, since the darkness, everything had been happening in a single endless, numbing day.

  Everything was ready. Everything was in order. All the pieces were in place.

  He ran his fingers through his sparse hair with a very long sigh, climbed into the Saturn, and started the engine.

  All he had to do now was wait for Tuesday.

  TEN FORTY IN THE MORNING. It should be almost done now.

  Three little raps on the side window made him start. A policeman was gesturing to him to lower his window. Shit! He really hadn’t seen him coming!