“Oh yes, there were! Maybe I was the only one who heard them, but they were there! Horrible echoes, precisely because that was the only effect of my blows. And that’s why I finally stopped hitting it—not because I wanted to, but because the echoes in my head had become unbearable! And they still are! Even if I put music on in the house all day long, I still hear them! They’re always in my head, and I have a feeling . . .”
He had bitten his lip and added in a breaking voice, “I have a feeling they’ll always be with me—the echoes of the blows. Endless hollow echoes.”
* * *
Behind the steering wheel, Bruno opened his eyes. The car was surrounded by darkness, and the rain was drumming erratically on the hood.
How, after three years, was he able to remember every detail with such precision, such clarity?
* * *
A few weeks later, he had run into Denis in town with his poor disfigured son. They had made small talk; Denis had really seemed better, although he still had that filter in front of his eyes. At one point, Bruno had ventured to ask, quite seriously, “And the echoes?”
Denis had given him a knowing, bitter little smile.
“Now it’s more like echoes of echoes. They’re a lot less bad . . . but they’re still there.”
* * *
Bruno had not thought about it again. But sitting in the car staring at the curtain of rain in front of him, he wondered if Denis still heard those echoes.
At the time, the story had really shaken him. When he told some of his friends about it, they had laughed, saying it was only a dog, and a rabid dog at that. They were right, but that did not diminish the horror.
He had finally stopped thinking about it.
So why, three years later, at this particular time, would that story have come back to haunt him? Could it be Luky he heard whimpering and growling? Good God! But why? What was the connection?
In the rearview mirror, he saw headlights in the distance behind him. As a precaution, he drove off quickly.
No, it had nothing to do with what he was doing. Mercure was completely off base. Or he was trying to undermine Bruno psychologically.
And he had succeeded, hadn’t he?
Bruno pushed that old story out of his mind. He regretted leaving the cottage because of it. It was really stupid! He should have stuck with his first idea and stayed there!
So he concentrated on what he was soon going to do to the monster. Because tonight, he absolutely had to climb another rung.
With his free hand, he fingered the blue ribbon in his pocket.
* * *
“Great! Go there right away and search everywhere! I managed to get a warrant, so don’t hold back! Call me as soon as you get your hands on him!”
Wagner hung up and rubbed his hands. Mercure, Cabana, and Ruel were waiting for an explanation. The chief announced that the triangulation had been successful; the signal had come from a building with twelve apartments.
“Hamel is in one of those apartments. As soon as they find him, they’ll call us back. I’d say fifteen minutes at most!”
He looked at Mercure for a moment.
“You’re not exactly jumping for joy, Hervé.”
The Drummondville police officers were used to Mercure’s emotional reserve, but Wagner thought he looked downright worried, as if something was bothering him. Mercure was sitting in a chair gently stroking his cheek and shaking his head skeptically.
“He won’t be there,” he said finally.
“What are you talking about?”
Mercure sighed. There, he’d said it. And just expressing his doubt out loud automatically transformed it into a certainty.
“Hamel has sent us on a wild-goose chase.”
* * *
Bolduc, Pleau, and two more Longueuil officers were standing in the living room looking around in bewilderment. The triangulation had pinpointed this building. And this apartment was the only one that had been rented in the last two weeks and whose tenant was a single man, according to the landlord.
Bolduc remembered visiting this apartment two days before. He had not found anything then, so why would it be any different today?
“Search the other apartments!” he ordered. “Ask the guys outside to help you! Break in if the tenants aren’t there! He’s got to be here somewhere!” Then more softly, “We have to take him by surprise.”
The three police officers went out. Perplexed, Bolduc moved from one room to another. The same remnants of food as the last time, the same unmade bed, the same book open in the living room as two days before. The same. Too much the same, in fact.
He had to call Mercure.
He found the telephone, but there was no dial tone. He noticed that the phone was not plugged in. However, there was another wire coming out of the telephone jack in the wall, which disappeared behind the couch. And there was a plug in the electrical outlet too, with a cord following the same path.
Bolduc pushed the furniture away with one hand, watched curiously by Pleau and another officer, who had just returned. He uncovered a laptop computer sitting on the floor. Beside it was a cell phone, which was connected to it. On the screen, there were fish swimming lazily against a black background. Bolduc stared stupidly at the two devices, his head cocked.
“What’s that?” asked the Longueuil cop, bending over the computer.
And he pressed the space bar on the keyboard to get rid of the screen saver. Pleau, who had already understood, yelled at him not to touch it, but it was too late. Not only did the fish vanish but the computer shut down completely with a disturbing grinding sound.
“Shit,” said Bolduc angrily, rubbing his forehead. Pleau, looking like a condemned woman walking to the guillotine, connected the telephone and dialed a number.
* * *
“I’m no computer geek, but it isn’t hard to understand. He’s somewhere else, with another computer. He goes on the Internet and communicates with the computer here, which is also connected to the Internet and to his cell phone. Hamel turns on his cell phone, dials a number, and calls remotely. That’s why we located the cell in Longueuil. The cell phone is here, but Hamel isn’t.”
Holding the receiver to his ear, Mercure nodded. He looked more weary than discouraged. Wagner was the one who was discouraged, standing off to the side rubbing his neck furiously with both hands. The other officers in the room had heard the conversation on the speakers and were silent and embarrassed. Bolduc, on the other end of the line, was also silent, waiting.
Hamel had subscribed to an Internet service somewhere. In two places, in fact, one in Longueuil, and the other . . . somewhere else. When Mercure had checked his recent credit card purchases earlier in the week, there hadn’t been any transactions of that kind. Hamel must have added the two subscriptions to the Internet service he already had at home. But who was the ISP? Bell-Sympatico? No, Mercure would already have known about it from checking the calls from his cell phone. Globetrotter? Videotron? AOL?
“Who’s the service provider?” asked the detective sergeant.
“We don’t know. The computer shut off and we haven’t been able to turn it on again,” Bolduc said. “But the computer expert from the Longueuil station will be here any minute now. At any rate, Hamel had just bought the computer, the stickers from the store are still on it.”
“Call back as soon as the computer is on.”
He hung up. That was the signal Wagner had been waiting for to explode. He couldn’t believe they’d been tricked like that! To think that they’d been searching Longueuil like idiots for the past five days! Hamel, wherever he was, must really have laughed when he thought of the look on the cops’ faces when they discovered they’d been looking for him in the wrong place!
Mercure was trying to reach Sylvie Jutras to ask her what Internet service provider they used, but there was no answer. He hung up and waited silently with his arms crossed while Wagner ranted. Once again Mercure was astounded and unnerved by the detailed planning of
the operation and all the precautions Hamel had taken.
Could hate give a man the power to come up with such a perfect plan?
But too much power could destroy. That was why Mercure had finally opted for something other than hate when his wife died.
But had that brought him peace?
“He could even be in the US!” shouted Wagner, whose two top shirt buttons were open.
Mercure kept on thinking, hardly noticing his superior. Hate had enabled Hamel to make such a careful plan, but hate could also make him lose control. He was in a train going three hundred kilometers an hour, and if he didn’t slow down soon, he was going to crash . . . and all Mercure would be able to do would be to pick up the pieces.
He thought of the conversation he had had with Hamel earlier. About the business with the dog. Despite Hamel’s bravado, Mercure had sensed that he was shaken. Had Mercure managed to slow down the runaway train—or at least to throw in some sand that in the next two days might work its way into the motor and make it grind to a halt? He hoped so, but he was far from sure.
Wagner had finished blowing off steam and finally proposed something constructive. “While we’re waiting for their computer expert to call, we could start calling Internet service providers.”
Just then the phone rang, and Mercure answered. It was the computer expert. Her name was Massicotte, and she had been able to turn the computer back on without any problem: the security system Hamel had used was pretty crude. She said Hamel’s Internet service provider was Globetrotter, and Mercure thanked her. While Ruel called Globetrotter, Wagner rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
“So! He’s not so smart after all, our doctor! He didn’t think that when we found his computer, we’d trace it back to the source!”
But his satisfied mood soon gave way to doubt, and he asked Mercure, “Do you think he thought of that?”
Mercure’s silence was enough to discourage Wagner.
After less than five minutes, Ruel hung up.
“Hamel did add two addresses to his Globetrotter subscription. One in Longueuil and the other in Charette. I have the full address.”
They all looked at each other.
“Does anyone know where Charette is?” asked Ruel.
Cabana, who hadn’t said a word up to then, went to a computer and quickly found where it was.
“It’s in the Mauricie region. A tiny village about thirty kilometers from Trois-Rivières.”
“There’s no police force there, it’s too small,” Mercure said. “We’ll have to find the nearest SQ detachment.”
Even before he finished his sentence, Wagner had grabbed the phone.
* * *
The first thing Bruno did after entering the house and removing his disguise was go to the refrigerator. Just one beer! It would only be the third one of the day. That wasn’t very many! He walked to the living room, forcing himself to take small sips. There, he was being reasonable. He would still be completely in control in a little while.
His gaze fell on the TV, which was still on. The TVA news was over, but there must have been a special report on his case, because a voice was saying: “. . . demonstrations not only in support of Bruno Hamel’s actions, but also against them.”
Standing in the middle of the living room, Bruno watched in amazement as they showed the “anti-Hamel” demonstrations in different cities.
“I can understand Bruno Hamel’s reasons,” explained a demonstrator, a young man of about thirty wearing a T-shirt that said “peace and love.” “But I can’t accept them. He’s acting personally, but justice isn’t personal, it’s a matter for society.”
Bruno clenched his teeth. It was his daughter that had been murdered, not society’s! So, yes, it was his personal revenge! And he was perfectly willing to accept that!
But at the same time, those images forced him to realize that it went further; however personal his action was, it suddenly had a social impact. But he couldn’t control that impact, and that was what angered him the most. If his action was to have a social impact, he wanted to explain its meaning himself, publicly; then all the people who were criticizing it would have to agree with him.
And just what was its meaning?
He gave a sigh of frustration and took a sip of beer. To hell with these sociological concerns! What had gotten into him all of a sudden, wanting to set himself up as a standard-bearer? He had never wanted that! All he wanted was to avenge his daughter’s death, to free himself from the hate that was eating away at him and plunging his heart into an abyss, period!
Period!
The host of the special broadcast appeared on the TV screen with a group of seated people wearing solemn expressions.
“Now I would like to introduce my guests, who are experts in . . .”
Bruno leapt up and turned off the television. Experts now! What next? Would he become a case study in the universities? He laughed. A bitter, joyless laugh.
After a few seconds, he went to the monster’s room.
He went directly to his medical bags, took out a scalpel, and, without bothering with a mask, gloves, or sterilization, went over to the table. The monster was asleep, with the intravenous tube still in his arm. When Bruno grasped his chin, he woke up with a start. For a second or two, he had the same look of a zombie, detached from reality, but when he saw the scalpel right near his face, the ritual of fear, pleas, and lamentations began again. In a strangely childlike voice, he called Bruno the Devil and said he didn’t want to stay in Hell for eternity.
Unperturbed, Bruno slowly lowered the scalpel toward the monster’s right eye. The monster continued pleading, moving his head frantically. For all Bruno’s efforts to hold him still with his free hand, the monster had surprising energy for a man in such a pathetic state. Grimacing with the effort, Bruno managed to make a first perforation, but the head was moving too much, and the blade, instead of going in, cut the eyelid, which started to bleed.
“Kill me! For God’s sake, stop torturing me and kill me!”
Bruno should have felt a delicious pleasure at these words, but all he could feel was disgust for the monster. But of course he was disgusting! That was why he wanted to torture him, wasn’t it? So go ahead! Tear out his eyes, this piece of shit who raped and killed your little girl! Tear out his eyes and let your disgust be transformed into satisfaction! Satisfaction! Satisfaction, dammit!
And while he aimed for the eye again, trying as best he could to immobilize the hysterical movement of the head, the monster’s shouts gradually changed to the cries of an animal . . . to the howling of a dog.
Not again! No, not again!
He held his scalpel high, and was about to strike at random, when a slight movement to his right made him turn his head.
He just had time to catch a glimpse of a silhouette disappearing from the doorway, a glimpse of a torn dress, a lock of hair . . . and red, too much red . . .
After a second of total stupefaction, he rushed to the door and into the living room. There was no one there. No silhouette. No dress.
With the scalpel still in his hand, he rubbed his sweat-covered forehead. The monster’s cries reached him again . . . but now there were words . . . sentences . . .
“I raped other children! I confess, I raped and killed other little girls!”
Bruno ran back to the room. The monster, tears and blood pouring from his eyes, said between sobs, “I . . . I’m ready to confess everything . . . I’m in Hell to do penance for my sins, so I . . . I’ll confess everything. I’ll give you their names, I want to confess everything. But promise me . . . promise me you’ll let me die in peace afterward.”
Bruno was going to give him a punch to shut him up; he didn’t want to know anything about him, anything about his past! But suddenly he thought of the images he had seen on TV, the demonstrations for and against him.
He went back to the living room and looked frantically for some paper and a pen. He found them on the telephone table, and took them back to
the monster’s room. He stood in front of the monster, paper in hand, ready to write, like a secretary waiting to take dictation. The monster seemed not to understand for a few seconds, and then a light glinted in his eye.
“You . . . you’ll let me out of Hell after that?”
Bruno didn’t answer, didn’t even move, but looked threateningly at his prisoner. Then, in a sobbing voice, tinged with hope and fear, the monster gave the names of three little girls, the dates, and finally the names of two cities: Joliette for the first victim, and Saint-Hyacinthe for the other two. Bruno wrote quickly, gripping the pen so tightly that he nearly broke it. When he wrote each of the names, he saw the face of a little girl on the sheet of paper. Three anonymous faces, all wearing the same mask of fear and suffering, and for that reason, all resembling Jasmine.
“Will I . . . will I be able to leave Hell now?” mumbled the monster when he had finished. “I’ve paid now. Can I . . . can I go to Heaven? Can I . . . ?”
Bruno slowly put the notebook and pen in his pocket. He stared at the monster for a moment. Suddenly, he grabbed the scalpel and raised it high, ready to strike. The monster screamed and closed his eyes in anticipation of more torture, and his screams once again became animal . . . doglike. Bruno looked for a place to aim the scalpel, the most painful place. He hesitated with the scalpel in the air, unsure, not satisfied with the choices available. Even the eyes no longer seemed like a good idea . . . and the dog’s howling was so exasperating! With a grimace of frustration, he struck completely at random and the blade landed in the left arm. He left the room immediately, leaving the scalpel stuck in the arm of the screaming monster.
He put on his disguise and left the house, hardly feeling the cold rain. He got in the car and started the motor.
He realized that it would be his second call in an hour . . . but unlike the first time, he wasn’t worried. He didn’t hesitate at all: it was too important this time! It was a real bombshell!
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