Wagner finally said something: “You told us you were asleep when he took you to his hideout. And you were also asleep on the way back?”
“Yes.”
She picked up her coffee in both hands, took a sip, and thought. Mercure was impressed by her calm, by the perfect control she managed to maintain even after such an experience.
“But I woke up for a few seconds before we left again and . . . I was confused, but I’m sure we were in my car.”
Mercure asked for the make and the license number. She gave them to him, and Wagner wrote them down.
“Did you see anything during those few seconds you were awake? The outside of the house, for example?”
“No, not the house . . . As I told you, I was very dizzy, but . . . I could see water not very far away in the car’s headlights . . . a lake or a river, I don’t know.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Wagner, walking to the door. “I’ll get a list of municipalities where they rent out cottages close to a body of water!”
“It wasn’t a rented cottage,” Diane Masson said.
The two police officers looked at each other, surprised. The woman took another sip of coffee, her forehead furrowed.
“A cottage you rent doesn’t have any personality . . . or, at least, it takes more than a week to give it one.”
Wagner and Mercure were listening and holding their breath.
“This was a real house, with nice furnishings, but it had a . . . a personality, I don’t have another word for it. There was a terrible mess, but the decor, the furniture, pictures on the walls, knickknacks . . . Someone lives in that house.”
She shrugged wearily.
“It’s not very scientific, but that’s really the impression it gave me.”
“Those sorts of impressions are often the best,” Mercure said approvingly, with a little smile.
“But Hamel’s cottage is in the Eastern Townships, not in Mauricie,” objected Wagner.
“So he’s in somebody else’s house,” replied Mercure.
Wagner agreed, although he was caught off guard. How had Hamel done that? Had he knocked out the owner and tied him up somewhere? Or had he chosen a house whose owners were away for at least a week?
“It doesn’t matter!” exclaimed Wagner, heading to the door again. “I’ll go tell the guys that now they should visit all houses close to a lake or river, including private properties. And they should go in even if there’s no one there!”
“That will take us a search warrant.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get one! I’ll wake up every judge in the province if I have to!”
Mercure was left alone with Diane Masson. He told her a doctor would come and examine her shortly. She took a sip of her coffee, blew her nose again, and then asked him, “Do you believe that what I said to Hamel will make him think?”
“Well, when you said it to me yesterday afternoon, it made me think.”
“About what?”
He smiled and said that it would be too complicated to explain.
“After the doctor examines you, one of my men will drive you back home if you want.”
She nodded. Her gaze was suddenly distant and frightened.
“I saw him,” she murmured. “I saw my daughter’s murderer.”
Mercure said nothing.
“It’s horrible what Hamel’s done to him,” she added.
Mercure sighed and looked down for an instant. A shadow passed over Masson’s eyes.
“When I saw him, when I realized that he was the one who had raped and killed my Charlotte, I . . . I felt something come back to life in me, something . . .”
She started to cry.
“I don’t want the hate to come back! I can’t go through that a second time. I can’t!”
“It won’t come back.”
He ventured to take her hand.
“You’re strong, you can fight it again. In fact, that’s what you did by refusing to join Hamel. You’ve already won!”
She looked at him, her eyes filled with tears, and for the first time since she had come to the station, she smiled slightly.
* * *
There were more and more birds singing around Josh’s cottage. Dawn was just breaking, but there was not a single cloud in the sky and it looked like the day was going to be beautiful.
In the bedroom, Bruno was lying on his back, covered in dried blood and vomit, with one arm hanging off the bed. His pupils were twitching under his closed eyelids, and a tic sporadically contorted his mouth. The silence in the house was complete except for the twittering from outside.
Several kilometers away, the police were about to begin searching all homes close to a lake or river.
It was five thirty-five, and Bruno’s sleep was becoming more and more agitated.
* * *
The atmosphere in the squad room of the Drummondville station was electric. Pleau and Boisvert, who had been asked to come in early, had just arrived, still sleepy, and were being told about the latest developments. Boisvert didn’t react much, but Pleau was so enthusiastic that she congratulated Mercure as if Hamel had already been found. Wagner felt obligated to set the record straight.
“Take it easy. We still have six municipalities to search. And there are lots of houses close to water in them. We might find him in half an hour—or in four hours. And in four hours, Lemaire might already be dead. We know Hamel intends to kill him today, but when exactly . . .”
“We’ll just have to send more men,” Pleau said.
“Just because Hamel is monopolizing our attention doesn’t mean life has stopped in Drummondville. Right now, there’s a store on fire downtown and I’ve got four guys there, so . . . As for the provincial police, they’re doing what they can to help us.”
“But I’m sure Hamel doesn’t intend to kill Lemaire this morning.”
“What do you know about it, Anne-Marie?”
She looked sheepish and did not answer. Everyone calmed down a little. Boisvert walked toward the door and Wagner asked him where he was going.
“I’m going to get some muffins. Didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.”
Mercure was lost in thought, leaning on a desk with his arms crossed. The chief asked him what he was thinking about.
“For him to kidnap that woman,” Mercure answered, “he’d have to be really disturbed. He must be completely unhinged.”
“So your plan worked. It proves that he’s . . . how did you put it?”
“Gone off the rails.”
“Yeah, he’s gone completely off the rails . . .”
Both of them were silent. Because they were both thinking about the same thing: the unknown consequences of that. Either the train would just stop . . . or it would crash and kill all the passengers on board.
Wagner looked at the clock: five forty-four.
* * *
Bruno opened his eyes at seven thirty-eight.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. Then, when he tried to sit up, he couldn’t help moaning: he had a splitting headache. Once he was in a sitting position, he saw the dried blood and vomit on the sheets and on his clothes. He ran his fingers through his hair, and nasty scabs fell to the mattress. He did not even have the strength to feel disgust.
For the moment, he felt nothing.
Grimacing with pain, he managed to stand up. Three hundred cannons were thundering in what felt like the remains of his skull. He considered lying down again in spite of the filth in the bed. But he couldn’t sleep.
Not today.
He walked. The weight on his shoulders reminded him cruelly of its presence. After a century, he reached the hallway. He hesitated at the door to the monster’s room. Would he again find a bloody, whimpering black dog? He went in. No, it was the monster, hunched on the floor like a pile of garbage with his wrists chained and his left eye closed. His breathing was labored, with the occasional disturbing rattle.
Bruno looked at him for a moment and went out again.
He walked to the living room so slowly that he barely seemed to be moving forward. He tripped over the empty bottles, saw the couch, and slumped down onto it, which set off another round of cannon fire in his head.
When he opened his eyes, he realized that the TV was still on. The morning-show host was smiling at a reporter, who was smiling at the camera and saying something.
He thought again about Diane Masson. About the monster transformed into a dog. About kicking him. And about the echoes of the blows. The echoes he still heard, that he had heard all night long in the chaos of his dreams.
Bruno no longer moved. He sat there with his mouth agape, his zombie eyes riveted on the screen that he did not see.
* * *
Seven forty-two.
The two men had resumed their night positions: Mercure sitting at his desk with his arms crossed, Wagner across from him, leaning against the wall with his hands behind his neck, gazing at the ceiling. There was a feeling of indescribable fatigue radiating from the two, although they had been doing practically nothing for almost two hours. Except wait. A little earlier, Mercure had tried to reach Sylvie Jutras, but in vain. If she was not home by this time, she must have left town. And he understood perfectly.
Neither had said a word for ten minutes when Mercure, his voice completely neutral, said, “I won’t go see Demers anymore.”
Wagner looked at him. In the same detached tone, Mercure added, “I don’t regret having done it all these years, but now . . . it’s enough. It’s over.”
With those words, he finally looked at Wagner. The chief did not say a word, but he nodded slightly.
They remained like that for three long minutes, without any discomfort.
The sudden ring of the telephone seemed out of place in such an atmosphere. Mercure was so lost in his thoughts that Wagner had to answer. It was Cabana, with a preliminary report: until now, most of the residents had been home when the police had visited (most of them had been woken up), and a few questions had been enough to dispel any suspicion. As for the empty houses, they had been searched, but in vain. There were still some cottages around Lac des Souris and Lake Eau Claire to be visited.
“It’s sure taking a long time!” exclaimed the chief.
“But there’s something else,” continued Cabana. “The reporters know.”
Mercure, who was listening on the speakerphone, stood up suddenly. Cabana explained that he had just finished visiting a house when a car pulled up—a reporter from TVA.
“He knew everything!” added Cabana. “He asked me how many houses, roughly, there were in the region that were close to a body of water!”
Wagner went to loosen his necktie, but realized it was already completely untied. He ordered Cabana not to tell the reporter anything.
“Of course not, except he’s following me and I don’t think he’s going to give up! And a guy from the SQ told me he’s had a reporter from Radio-Canada on his ass for the past ten minutes!”
“Let them follow you if they like, but don’t say anything to them!” replied Wagner. “Pass the message along to everyone, understand?”
He hung up, cursing.
“In half an hour, it’ll be crawling with reporters there,” sighed Mercure.
“Maybe only Radio-Canada and TVA know?”
“For the time being, but like me, you know this is going to snowball.”
“You think they intend to do a live report?”
“I don’t know. Maybe during their morning shows, when they cover the breaking news.”
Furious, Wagner paced back and forth for a few seconds. Then he made a decision: he was going to make a few phone calls and arrange things so that no TV or radio stations did any live reporting. He would argue that if the reporters alerted Hamel, it could endanger the life of the prisoner and even the lives of the police officers.
When Wagner had left the room, Mercure sat and thought for a moment, furiously rubbing his bloodshot eyes. He quickly walked to the squad room. Everyone looked at him uncomfortably—they knew about the reporters, obviously. But Mercure ignored them and turned on the TV. He flipped through the main channels. They were not talking about the search on any of them. He went back to his office, still without saying a word to anyone.
Twenty minutes later, Wagner joined him, calmer now although his face was still red.
“Okay. Not one TV or radio station is reporting it live this morning. Even so, the reporters will definitely be swarming around our guys. But they won’t put anything on air before the noon news—unless we arrest him first. As soon as we have Hamel, they’ll broadcast live. We don’t know if Hamel watches television in the morning, but we can’t take any chances.”
“In fact,” Mercure said finally, rubbing his cheek, “it wouldn’t have changed anything at all.”
Wagner didn’t understand.
“What happened last night definitely sped up Hamel’s change of plan,” Mercure said. “I think he’s made his decision. Consciously or unconsciously, he’s made it. And whether or not he knows we’re about to find him won’t change his mind.”
“And what do you think his decision is?”
Mercure opened his mouth, then closed it again and shook his head, biting his lip. Wagner walked around the desk and bent down in front of him, putting his hands on his shoulders.
“Listen, Hervé. You’re right, we don’t know. Besides, by this time, it could be too late, we both realize that. But let’s make a deal, starting now. We act as if it is not too late. Okay? Otherwise, we’ll fall apart.”
Mercure looked at his superior. A little smile appeared on his lips, and he nodded and mumbled an “okay” that was both amused and sincere. Wagner agreed in turn. He stood up and quickly got serious again.
“If the reporters know, it means somebody here talked.”
Mercure suddenly thought of Boisvert, who had gone out in the morning to get muffins.
He stood up and walked away from his desk. Wagner, intrigued, followed him. In the squad room, Mercure found Boisvert talking with Pleau. He said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “The reporters won’t be able to broadcast live as long as we haven’t arrested Hamel.”
Then, directly to Boisvert, “Not too disappointed, Michel?”
Four astounded pairs of eyes turned toward Boisvert. For a good five seconds, he was as still as a statue, with his mouth open and his eyes wide. In another situation, he would have looked comical. He was acting innocent, but it was so fake that no one was fooled, and little by little, discomfort showed on all their faces.
“What, do you have any proof?” he asked, trying to defend himself but just digging himself in deeper. “One piece of evidence, just one!”
Mercure did not answer. All he did was look at Boisvert, not with blame, but with a kind of resigned sadness. Wagner glared at Boisvert, clenching his fists like a boxer waiting for the bell so he could demolish his adversary.
Boisvert finally realized that he had lost. He looked panicky and then, in self-defense, finally opted for arrogance.
“I don’t regret it!”
“You goddamn idiot!” Wagner growled.
He grabbed Boisvert by the lapels and started shaking him, calling him every name in the book. Boisvert responded wildly, trying to look threatening but not daring to lash out, caught between fear and fury. Pleau and Pat stepped between the two men and urged them to calm down. They finally managed to get the chief to let go, though he kept peppering Boisvert with insults. During all this, Mercure stood apart, his face impassive.
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Wagner still fulminated. “You hoped the journalists would report live and that Hamel would see it on TV! So that he would hurry up and kill Lemaire!”
“Am I the only one who understands anything here?” exploded Boisvert. “If you think I’m going to just stand by while you save Lemaire’s life!”
“You’re a cop, Boisvert, you represent law and justice!”
“Since when does justi
ce protect child murderers?”
“Don’t you get it, you pigheaded fool? If we’re trying to stop Hamel in time, it’s precisely to protect him. We’re not trying to protect Lemaire, we’re trying to toss him in prison for twenty-five years!”
“Prison!” Boisvert laughed. “That’s just what Lemaire must be hoping for now! He’ll have it good in prison compared to what he’s going through now! We’ll be doing him a favor! The worst thing is that we’ll be putting Hamel in prison too!”
“For not nearly as long—if we stop him in time!”
“It doesn’t matter!” shouted Boisvert, shaking his head. “It’s not right! Can’t you see that, dammit? It’s not right!”
They were all looking at him, shocked by this outburst. Even Wagner was quiet for a moment in spite of the rage that was swelling the veins in his neck. Alone in the middle of the circle that had formed around him, Boisvert continued to pour out his objections, but his voice trembled as if it was about to break.
“I have two kids, both under ten! Do you think . . . do you think I’d let anyone get away with doing that to them? Do you think I’m going to serve that kind of justice?”
“Come off it with this crap! What you’re saying is purely emotional! It’s not . . .”
“Yes, it’s emotional!” interrupted Boisvert almost desperately, his eyes filling with tears, in contradiction with his angry expression. “Of course it’s emotional! Could it be anything else?”
Silence. Mercure rubbed his forehead. He was tired, very, very tired. This melodramatic little scene seemed terribly banal to him. What he was seeing here was the eternal paradox of civilized man. Civilized, but always, irremediably, fatally human.
Boisvert wiped his eyes with a furtive gesture, embarrassed at being so close to tears.
“You’re going to suspend me, is that it?”
“Suspend you?” exclaimed Wagner, recovering from shock. “I’ll have you arrested as an accomplice! Because that’s exactly what you—”
“Greg!”
It was Mercure. In a second, everyone’s attention shifted to him. Wagner wondered if he should reprimand his inspector for his insolence, but he was too surprised to react. Mercure seemed to regret his tactless interruption and raised a hand in excuse. He said wearily, “Later . . .”
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