“You operated on me yesterday . . . and I felt . . . I felt everything.”
He pointed to the small open slit in his abdomen, a few centimeters long.
“And you didn’t even close it completely!”
With a trembling hand, he ventured to touch the incision. Strangely, it was not bleeding even though it was open. It almost looked like a closed, lipless mouth. He had an opening in his belly, and he felt nothing!
“What . . . what is it? Christ, what did you do to me! Answer me! What is this opening here?”
Bruno, who had watched him without moving, turned around and left.
He went and sat down in the living room. From the room, there were no cries, no sounds. The monster must be fascinated and terrified by that opening in his belly.
In an hour—two at most—he would have an answer.
* * *
Boisvert laid the package on a desk. It was about the size of a shoebox, and wrapped in white paper containing the words For the Drummondville police, from Bruno Hamel, and also the word Danger. The five people in the hall were looking at the package in silence, undecided. Not that the word “danger” bothered them; they all knew that word was there to dissuade whoever found it from opening the box before calling the police. But they knew that what it contained could still cause quite a shock.
“Maybe we should open it,” timidly suggested Ruel, an officer in his thirties with half his face scarred by acne.
Mercure walked over to the desk and began to tear off the white paper, unhurriedly; frankly, he was in no rush to find out what was in that box.
It was, in fact, a shoebox, an ordinary shoebox, with the brand name in big bold letters. Only the traces of dried blood made it seem less banal.
Wagner loosened his collar with a nervous finger. Mercure was preparing himself mentally. He had been a cop for twenty-six years, but the sight of blood still got to him. Summoning up his courage, he took off the lid, holding his breath.
Inside, there was something that looked like a very long shiny sausage in a coil. Mercure understood almost immediately. He smothered a curse, averted his eyes, and took a deep breath.
“What?” asked Wagner impatiently. “What is it, dammit?”
He went over to the box and, in turn, recognized a section of intestine.
In spite of their repulsion, the other police officers could not help glancing fearfully into the box. Ruel even shouted, “Fuck! He must have cut three feet out of him!” Wagner told him to shut up. Mercure, who had his back to the table, smoothed his hair with both hands and tried, in spite of his disgust, to understand why someone would remove three feet of intestine from a man. What exactly was the effect of that?
At the same time, Ruel, who was still leaning over the box, cried out again, “There’s a piece of paper too!”
Wagner ordered Ruel to pick up the paper. After hesitating, the officer reached cautiously into the box and, grimacing with disgust, took out a small bloodstained sheet of white paper. He frowned and, like a child learning to read, articulated every syllable: “Col-os-to-my.”
“Huh?”
“There’s just one word: colostomy.”
“What does it mean?”
Ruel shrugged. None of them seemed to know. Mercure wracked his memory; the word reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. In any case, he was sure it wasn’t anything very nice.
“Christ! There are five of us here, and nobody knows what colostomy means!” fumed Wagner, raising his arms in exasperation.
“We’re police officers, not doctors!” objected Boisvert.
Pat, who had been thinking, suddenly opened his mouth and raised his head. “Oh shit! It just came to me! I have an uncle who had that and . . .”
He paused and they all looked at him quizzically. Seeing Pat’s nauseated look, Mercure knew that it was worse than anything he’d imagined.
* * *
Bruno was still in the armchair, where he had been dozing for a while (the operation of the day before had been long and his night’s sleep short), when the monster’s shouts rang out. Not cries of fear, this time, or of panic, but of total horror. He stood up and walked to the room.
On the floor, the plate and the glass were empty. Propped up on his hands, the monster did not even look at Bruno. He was too busy staring at the slit in his belly that had opened to reveal a brownish, sticky mass. He had obviously regained a certain level of energy, because he was repeating loudly, “Christ! What’s happening to me? What’s happening to me!”
The soft mass was oozing out, and a nauseating smell filled the room. The monster must finally have understood, because his eyes, still riveted on his belly, widened with repulsion.
“Damn, it can’t be! It can’t be!”
Bruno saw his face twist with effort, as if he were trying to hold back the substance, to keep it from coming out of him. This amused Bruno. He knew that any attempt at retention was pointless. The sticky mass finally came out completely and slid slowly over the monster’s stomach as he moaned in disgust. Bruno’s eyes shone.
Filth for filth. You defiled my daughter, you sullied her body and her soul. Now it’s your turn to be defiled, you piece of garbage, your turn to soil yourself! You’re just a piece of shit, so ROT IN YOUR OWN SHIT!
The slit opened again. The monster raised his head and gave a long cry. He finally saw Bruno, and something insane, something inhuman, flashed in his eyes.
“You’re sick!” he squealed in a voice so shrill he sounded like a cartoon character. “You’re sick, Hamel, sick, sick, sick!”
Shouting hysterically, he tried to push back the excrement that was emerging, but he only spread it over his belly, his thighs, his hands.
Without waiting for the vile evacuation to end, Bruno left the room.
* * *
“. . . the anus is no longer used, and all the . . . the business comes out of a small opening in the abdomen.”
They listened to Pat in disbelief. Ruel said, “You mean he shits from his belly?”
Mercure glared at him. Wagner paced a bit, grumbling, and then said, “Okay! Not a word of this to the reporters!”
While he was giving his instructions, Mercure, overcoming his revulsion, took the shoebox and examined every surface of it. No store name, just the brand, a common one that was sold everywhere.
He put down the box and checked the time: ten o’clock. He went to his office and got his coat, and put it on as he crossed the squad room.
“I’m going to Montreal. I’ll be back at the end of the afternoon. Try to get us an injunction for the reporters.”
Wagner nodded. He had understood perfectly.
Mercure’s voice was unusually hard and cold. He could have called TVA, but he wanted to tell them what he thought in person. And it would also give him a chance to visit Demers, as he should have done at the beginning of the week.
As he was about to leave, Wagner said, “I’ll ask Longueuil to set up a triangulation.”
Mercure nodded and left.
* * *
“Did you get that?” asked Bruno after describing the hiding place for the day’s money.
“I got it,” Morin said.
Just when Bruno was about to hang up, Morin asked, “Could you . . . uh . . . give me double today, and then I could skip a day tomorrow?”
Bruno was surprised. Morin had received some sixty thousand dollars and he already needed more? Maybe he had huge debts.
“The agreement was seven thousand a day, and that’s how we’ll continue.”
Bruno hung up. He put on his coat and hesitated for a moment in front of the refrigerator. Wasn’t it a little early for a beer? He shrugged, took one out, and went outside.
The sky was even more overcast than the day before. It would probably rain by the end of the afternoon. Bruno walked along the shore of the lake, looking absently at two ducks gliding over the water in the distance.
Last night, for the first time, he had felt
no real satisfaction.
It was true that the operation was very delicate, very technical, and quite far from the usual ways of letting off steam. But still, he had used the curare precisely so that the monster would feel everything. So Bruno should certainly have experienced some kind of satisfaction.
At least, that’s what he thought.
He shook his head and gave a little kick at a stone. But the kick was soft and lacked conviction. Still this damn heaviness . . . The pebble fell to the ground without even getting as far as the lake.
The sound of an animal whimpering came from the woods. Bruno turned toward it, his ears pricked. It sounded like a dog or something. But he didn’t see any animal, and the sound stopped.
His imagination again!
He gulped down half his beer. He took the blue ribbon out of his pocket and examined it for a moment.
It was time for the big one, the one he had been planning from the beginning, that he had conceived the very day he had learned of the monster’s arrest.
He would give him a few more hours to recuperate from his operation yesterday . . . and then this evening . . .
* * *
Behind the big desk, a bearded man in his forties stood up with a smile and extended his hand to the visitor coming in. Behind him, a wide window showed the skyscrapers of Montreal.
“Good day, Inspector Mercure! What brings you all the way from Drummondville!”
In spite of his pleasant manner, it was obvious that Monette was a bit nervous. He knew the reason for the visit. Mercure kept his hands in his pockets and did not sit down. He began softly.
“What were you thinking? We had an agreement. Were you trying to provoke him, or what?”
The extended hand hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to continue trying to be conciliatory, decided not to, and withdrew. The smile, on the other hand, was more stubborn.
“Have a seat, Inspector,” suggested Monette, sitting down himself.
“Do you have any idea what the consequences of your actions were?”
Mercure remained standing. Monette’s smile finally disappeared.
“Come now, Inspector, don’t exaggerate! All we said was that Lemaire had already been charged with the same kind of crime in Saint-Hyacinthe a few years ago. Nothing more. We didn’t even give his name.”
“That was already too much.”
“Listen, I wasn’t the one who did the report . . .”
“Come on, you’re the news director! And for how long now?”
“A little over a year.”
“Didn’t anyone explain to you that when the police ask for your cooperation, it is in your interest to listen?”
Monette sighed, embarrassed.
“Okay, we made a mistake, we apologize. We’ll go back to the law of silence. But I have to say I don’t agree. The public has a right to know, and—”
“Don’t bore me with that right-to-know stuff!” Mercure interrupted, his voice still calm, but scornful.
“And you stop playing the offended virgin!” replied the news director, who had regained some of his assurance. “Your Hamel probably didn’t see the report.”
“He saw it, and he made good on his threat.”
A brief silence.
“Meaning?”
“You think I’m going to reveal that to you? All you need to know is that what he did to Lemaire was really atrocious, and we have you to thank for it!”
“Was it really that awful?”
But Monette was not asking out of remorse. Mercure even detected a hint of dark satisfaction on his face, and he suddenly understood.
“It’s what you wanted,” he muttered, incredulous.
“What?”
“You wanted Hamel to hear the report and carry out his threat!”
“Come now, Inspector, you’re going overboard.”
But his nervousness had returned. Mercure took his hands out of his pockets and stepped toward the desk. He was a slight man, but suddenly he looked threatening.
“Who do you think you are, Monette? A court? A judge who decides the fate of others?”
The news director leaned back but didn’t get flustered.
“And you, do you think you’re God, saving the sinners and the just alike? Maybe you don’t make any distinction between Hamel and Lemaire, but I do! You’ve taken the side of the murderer; I’m on the side of the victim!”
“And who’s the victim? Right now, who’s the victim of whom?”
“Stop it. You know very well that that doesn’t stand up! I have a nine-year-old daughter, and if somebody killed her, I would be one of the victims! And even if I held the murderer hostage, even if I tortured him, I’d still be a victim!”
Monette put aside all diplomacy and inclined his head forward.
“I’m telling you, Inspector. Hamel could make Lemaire drink battery acid, I don’t give a damn. And if on Monday he manages to kill that son of a bitch before you find him, our station will play the game and announce it as a tragedy. But here in my office, I’ll be applauding like mad. And I don’t think I’ll be the only one.”
Mercure grabbed him by the shirt collar, something that would really have surprised the detective sergeant’s colleagues.
“You understand nothing!” he growled through clenched teeth. “Nothing at all!”
“Oh yeah?” replied Monette provocatively, without even trying to free himself.
Mercure looked at him for a moment, and then let go of him and strode to the door. Before leaving, he turned around, pointing his finger, and said, “We have an injunction now. You’ll be receiving it by the end of the afternoon. Say another word about Lemaire’s life on TV and I’ll have you in court.”
Without waiting for the news director’s reaction, he left.
* * *
Sylvie was in the middle of a black cloud that would not dissipate. In the last few days, she had been able to come out of it once or twice. No, not really, she had been pulled out of it, dragged out for a moment. To talk, take care of details, answer questions. But those moments were brief and the cloud always re-formed around her.
She knew she could not grieve normally for Jasmine as long as the cloud remained there. But how could she help it, now that a second disaster had hit her in the face? How could she deal with two disasters at the same time?
Her sister’s voice finally got through to her:
“Sylvie . . . Sylvie, come here.”
Couldn’t she leave her in peace? But Josée insisted, saying she had to come see something. Sylvie made a superhuman effort to come out of the cloud. She got up from her chair and walked to the kitchen. Josée was in front of the window, looking stunned. With slow, dragging steps, Sylvie went over and looked out the window with her.
In the street, there were about twenty people marching back and forth chanting inaudible words. They were waving placards, and Sylvie managed to make out what was written on them. First she felt surprise, then devastation.
She should have stayed in her cloud.
* * *
“How are you, Marc?”
The two men were facing each other on either side of the big glass window, each holding a telephone to his ear. Marc Demers, in his late twenties, with hair cut short and small round glasses, shrugged.
“I’m all right, sir. I still have another fifteen years to do, but I’m okay.”
His voice was soft, melodious, and intelligent. And it was not just his voice that was intelligent, as Mercure had observed more than once in almost four years.
Mercure remained silent. As usual, he waited for Demers to steer the discussion. The prisoner looked down at the fingers of his free hand for a moment and said, “I haven’t got a lot to say, sir. And the two last times I saw you, I didn’t have much to say either. I don’t know if you noticed . . .”
“That’s true.”
After a dozen meetings, the formality seemed a little out of place to Mercure. Once he had tried to get Demers to drop it, but Demers, u
nperturbed, had continued calling him “sir.” So Mercure had just accepted it.
“Uh, you know, there is one thing,” the convict said suddenly. “I dreamed about your wife two weeks ago.”
There was no reaction on Mercure’s face.
“That’s not the first time.”
“No, but this was different. She was dressed in a white dress and she was radiant with inner light. It was very peaceful. She looked at me silently. And that’s all.”
He finally looked up at the policeman and smiled slightly.
“It’s a bit kitschy, don’t you think?”
The remark was meant to be provocative, and Mercure knew it.
“How do you interpret it?” asked the policeman.
“I don’t know. I hope you don’t think your wife came to tell me she forgave me.”
“Of course not.”
Demers’s provocation no longer shocked Mercure. He knew he did it to test him. But Mercure sensed that there was no malice in it. At the beginning there had been, but there no longer was.
“There’s a theory,” Mercure said, “that people in dreams are only different representations of the person dreaming.”
“I know that, sir. And I see where you’re going with this. My dream could be a sign that I’m beginning to forgive myself, right? After evil, indifference, then remorse, and finally, the beginning of inner peace . . . I’m on the road to redemption, right?”
It was impossible to know if he was being sarcastic. Or rather, how sarcastic he was being.
“It’s true,” Demers added. “Did you ever want to be a priest?”
Mercure looked doubtful.
“I’m not sure I’m a believer.”
“Of course. You’re much too interested in men to believe in God.”
He glanced over at the two guards, standing motionless farther away.
“Do you intend to come and visit me like this for the next fifteen years?”
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