by Denis Coupal
Up ahead, Bernier and Morrison button-hooked back to see why Lars had launched his flare.
“What’s going on, Lars?” said Bernier.
“He’s puking,” said Morrison.
“Is that worth a flare, boy?” said Bernier, with as much sarcasm as possible.
“Gross!” said Morrison.
“Hey, use some leaves to clean up, at least,” advised Chief Bernier.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” insisted Lars, shouldering his rifle again and stepping forward, as if his throat wasn’t burning, but it was. He coughed. “I’m fine, let’s go,” he said, then stopped, propped his rifle against his leg and unzipped to relieve himself, without a care for Bernier and Morrison, who were looking right at him.
“Alright, I’m turning in!” said Morrison, spinning away.
“Oh, come on, Rob?” called Lars. “Don’t go!”
“Rob, stick around, please, it’s my birthday! You can’t leave! How often do you get out here from St. Sauveur?” said Bernier, pleading with him.
“Look, I’m not comfortable with this. And I’m not feeling well, honestly. I’ll just go back to the firing range and lie down on the old bench there. As soon as you’re done, that’s where I’ll be!” said Rob, leaving no room for argument.
“Come on, Lars, it’s you and me,” said Bernier. “Let’s go.”
Bernier trudged onward. The silence of the night enveloped him. Lars didn’t seem to be catching up. Maybe he was sick or urinating again? Bernier sensed motion off to his right, eastward from his position. He halted and quietly shouldered his new rifle. It felt light and perfect in his grip. This was the feel of a Morrison rifle. Wow. What a luxury. He’d never before owned anything that was the very best in its class. It was a privilege, and he was grateful to his friends as he aimed the awesome weapon into the blackness at the subtle form of a distant buck.
Lennox’s voice scared the shit out of Bernier.
“Are you going to shoot or not?” said Lennox, deliberately loud.
“Fuck, Jeff!” said Bernier. “You son of a bitch!”
“You should see yourself, Art, with that sexy rifle. Sure you can handle it?”
“I should arrest you,” said Bernier, bringing the rifle down.
“I didn’t do anything!” said Lennox, amused at himself.
“For being an asshole.”
“There’s a law for that?”
“Yeah, it’s not written anywhere, but it gives an old guy like me the right to kick your ass, if I think you earned it.”
“Alright, alright, I’m sorry, Art. I couldn’t resist. Let’s go. This is the best path. You did that much right.”
“It’s my birthday, man. Don’t ruin it for me.”
“I won’t, I won’t. This way!” said Lennox, leading Bernier across the leaves and the broken branches, around tree after tree. They walked silently. The moonlight came through the leafless trees, just enough to give them silhouettes of what was in the world around them.
Bernier saw movement in the distance. It was a big whitetail.
“Told you,” whispered Lennox. “It’s all yours, Birthday Boy.” Lennox knelt down and watched. Bernier preferred to stand.
“That’s the Carignan house over there,” whispered Bernier, motioning to the large dark mass ahead, with a few discreet security lights emphasizing its form.
“Yeah, yeah,” confirmed Lennox, a very soft whisper. “I shoot here all the time. The biggest bucks come through here like crazy. The plants, the soil, I don’t know, last couple months, this is where they cross to the other side of the valley.” He stopped talking and gave Bernier the silence he needed to concentrate.
Bernier had the whitetail straight in his sights. The animal chewed on rich, moist moss that grew on this side of the thickly wooded Carignan property. Bernier held his breath and imagined his bullet going through the air and connecting with the animal’s neck. He pulled the trigger. Pop! The handsomely crafted rifle propelled its round into the fresh night air. The bullet travelled along its fine arc, through the Carignan property.
It missed.
With his eye still in his sight, Bernier saw the whitetail take off, revealing behind it, in the pale light of the moon, the woodpile of the Carignan house and Paul Carignan reaching for firewood. Bernier could not tell exactly who it was, but his brain told him, instantly, that it was a person, not a deer, not a tree, not anything else in these woods. It was a human being. A man.
Paul fell.
Bernier dropped to his knees, letting the rifle go. He couldn’t breathe. Had this really happened?
Lennox stood up. “What? Art, what?” Lennox looked off in the distance, toward the Carignan house. His instinct told him something was wrong. Bernier’s face said it all—and nothing.
“Stay here.”
Lennox raced through the woods to see what Bernier had hit, if anything. He ran fast. It took a long moment, even for Lennox to cover the distance, and he had a long stride.
Lennox slowed close to the woodpile.
Paul Carignan gripped his belly, in the dirt.
Lennox spun on his feet slowly, scanning the area, looking up at the Carignan house. There were lights inside, but no one apparently looking their way and only the darkened forest in the other direction.
Paul oozed blood. He barely moved.
Then Paul’s arm moved, his hand trying to reach out toward Lennox. It was a last effort at survival, he was asking for help.
Lennox looked at the dying man as though he were a slain whitetail or a fox caught in a bear trap. Paul Carignan was a wild animal to him. That’s all he was. He had no feelings for him at all, and he’d put his head on a wall, if he could. One more trophy. And as with a buck that he’d shot, but which wasn’t quite dead yet, he crouched and watched it fade, until it died, sure and certain.
Lennox made no effort to help. Paul’s arm fell to the ground. Paul no longer moved at all.
Lennox got up and approached him. He took his rifle and prodded Paul’s shoulder with the rifle barrel. Paul was too weak or too close to death to respond.
Lennox walked past Paul into the woodpile and inspected the wall of logs. He saw a silver glimmer. He took out his Bowie knife from his belt and jabbed it into the log, easily prying out the bullet that had transpierced Paul. He walked across where Paul lay and turned back to the dark forest.
He walked back to Bernier, taking his time. Bernier hadn’t moved at all. He could barely get words out.
“Did I? Did I?” he asked.
“Yeah, Chief. Paul Carignan. Square in the gut.”
“He’s? Is he? Can we help him?”
“He’s dead, Chief.”
“Sure? Are you sure?” said Bernier, shaking, but getting up.
Lennox blocked him. “Forget it. Nothing we can do.”
“Did I? Is he still alive? Can we?”
“He’s dead or he’s about to die, nothing to do. Don’t go there,” said Lennox, picking up the Morrison rifle. “There’s no point! He’s finished!”
Bernier fiddled with his jacket pockets and pulled out a flare. Lennox jumped forward and grabbed it from him.
“Fuck man, what’s the matter with you? You want everyone in the county running here to see this? Come on, let’s find the others! Let’s go! Get out of here!”
“We can’t just leave!”
“You’re the fucking Chief of Police! You shot and killed Paul Carignan, the richest son-of-a-bitch in Beaufort. This guy has got more lawyers and bankers than friends. You know that. There’s no good ending here. Except maybe one. We walk away.”
“But?”
“We walk away! Come on, right now! Let’s get the hell out of here!”
Lennox picked up Bernier under the arms and pulled him along, grabbing his rifle with his other hand.
They trudged on in the dark, leaving behind what they had done.
The seven hunters, old friends, had regrouped and were mulling over the circumstances they found themselves in. Chief Bernier sobbed uncontrollably, bundled on an old wooden bench near the shooting table. The others debated.
“There ain’t nothing to do!” insisted Lennox. “The guy’s dead. Good riddance.”
“Shut up, you stupid fuck! Shut up!” said Millet.
“Fuck you right back, Claude! We do nothing! That’s the only thing to do! If any one of us comes forward, it’s over for all of us.”
“We’re just a little involved!” said Davis.
“I’m finished, if this comes out!” said Morrison. “I can’t be caught up in this. I was sitting here the whole time. No offence, Art, but this was a bad idea from the start, and I had nothing to do with killing anyone. Let me leave now? Don’t say I was here at all.”
“Why, you’re special? Because you’re a famous gun-maker, that makes you different?” said Lennox. “We’re all part of this. If Art comes forward and admits to this, we all get roped into it. We’ll have to testify and all sorts of shit.”
“I hate to admit, I mean I hate to say I agree with Jeff,” said Henley, “but what the fuck else can we do? It’s not like we can help him now. The guy’s dead. Right, Jeff, he’s really dead, right?”
“Yeah, he’s dead,” said Lennox.
“Are you sure? We should go check, no?” said Millet.
“Don’t you move!” said Lennox.
“Guys, our goose ain’t cooked yet! We can explain this! People will understand!” contributed Lars, nervous as hell, circling his boss, around and around.
“Sit down, Lars. You’re too bloody nervous!” blared Davis.
“Art killed a man!” blared Lars Korb right back.
“We’re all in for it, if we don’t protect Art,” said Henley. “We’ll all pay a price.”
“Let’s just go home,” said Lennox. “Nice and easy. Okay?”
Lars kneeled next to Bernier. “Chief? Art? I’ll take you home. Okay?”
“Take that rifle with you,” said Lennox, “and hide it good.”
The men moved off from the clearing, each having come to terms, in his own way, with the killing of a man they didn’t like. They agreed to never speak of it again, to leave the memory and the horror of it all there in the forest. It was the best option for them, for their beloved Chief of Police of Beaufort County, and for themselves. It wasn’t ever a question of right and wrong, in their minds, it wasn’t a question of law. It was the only way they could maintain the status quo. Nothing should change, even if on this drunken, careless night a family had lost a father and husband. Damage control was the best option. The truth would never be known. Their freedom and the veil of normalcy mattered more.
As the men walked back together to Henley’s house, Lennox took the bullet that had killed Paul Carignan and threw it far into the darkness.
“What was that?” asked Henley.
“Nothing,” answered Lennox, his memory of the night clearing from his mind with every step. They said nothing more, trying not to think of the man Bernier shot. The man they had left for dead.
Over the forest, a pale moon reigned.
CHAPTER 12
BURNING
Tom went to the Bernier home as soon as he received the call from Gabrielle. He didn’t want to leave the standoff at the Carignan home again, but Gabrielle’s plea that he had to know what she now knew, and that it would have an impact on the ongoing situation, motivated Tom to speed over.
Gabrielle greeted Tom with a sad, tired face. He knew her well enough to know it was serious. “He’s not well, Tom. Not well at all,” was all she said, guiding him in. “What he has to tell you,” she began to say, pausing to consider her words, “well, you will judge for yourself.”
Tom mustered a comforting half-smile and hugged her lightly. She was grateful for his gesture, knowing him well enough to know these types of exchanges were difficult for him. She nodded and patted him on the arms, communicating that he needn’t worry about her.
Tom made his way to the basement and knocked on the closed door to his mentor’s office.
“Art!” he said and waited, then louder, “Art! It’s Brooder!”
He tried the door. It was locked.
A long silence, then Tom heard something drop inside. A hard knock. Tom could wait no longer. He took some distance and gave the door a smooth kick, breaking the frame. The door swung inward. He levelled an arm at it before it could bounce back shut. Inside, there was no light. He heard another knocking sound.
“Art?” Tom found the cord to the single light that lit the wood-panelled room and pulled on it. He saw Arthur Bernier prostrate, halfway off the old, musty couch, reaching unsuccessfully for a whiskey bottle. There were other bottles on the floor near the couch, some empty, some full of liquor.
Tom presumed that what he had heard was a bottle falling. It might also have been Bernier’s new Morrison rifle, which was lying on the hardwood floor, loaded and ready to fire. He picked up the weapon and unloaded it, pocketing the bullets. He had leaned it near the door he had just broken when he spotted half-a-dozen bullets on the desk and pocketed that too. He then went over to Bernier, grabbed him, and pulled him back onto the couch. Bernier kept grasping at the air.
“What are you doing here, Tom?” Bernier asked. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know, Boss, guess I missed you,” Tom said, dryly. Bernier’s flailing arms annoyed him. “Stop moving so much. Relax.”
Bernier didn’t seem to be listening. He was lining up two small glasses on the coffee table, and now filled them from several different bottles.
“What are you doing, Art?”
Bernier handed him one of the two glasses. “Here, drink this.”
“I’m on duty, Art, you know that. Come on!”
“You’re a big man. What’s it gonna do? A tiny drink.”
Tom sighed. “No, thanks.”
Bernier moved the glass closer.
“What is it?” asked Tom.
“Tell you after.” Bernier was insistent.
Tom drank it down reluctantly, just to appease Bernier. “Happy now?”
Art downed the second glass. “That, my boy, is a blindshot!”
“A what?” asked Tom.
“When I was a kid I worked in my uncle’s restaurant. A tavern. When we closed up for the night, a couple of the younger boys who worked in the kitchen would pool together the last drops of bottles that were nearly empty. We’d mix them up in a shot glass and downed it all before we left for the night. We called it a blindshot because we didn’t know what was in it really. Stupid things kids do, right?”
“Come on, Art,” said Tom.
Bernier grabbed his arm for his continued attention.
“You just drank God-knows-what because I told you to. I’m in authority over you and you did something you felt you shouldn’t. And why? Because of the pressure I put on you.”
“Art, what the fuck are you talking about? I need this lesson now? You need to get yourself sober and cleaned up. You need to become part of some kind of solution here.”
“Is that so?” Bernier was trying to refill a glass.
Tom had had enough. “I’m taking your rifle with me. For now,” he said. “Where’s your old one, the Winchester that you’d rebuilt?”
“Claude Millet borrowed it.”
“Millet?” asked Tom. “Okay, do you have any others?”
Bernier shook his head, but then grimaced. The movement seemed to hurt him. He reached for the whiskey bottle again.
Tom got to it first. He went to the utility sink and poured out what was left of the shiny bronze liquor.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” said Bernier.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Tom. “You’ll thank me one day, when whatever it is you’re going through passes.”
“It won’t pass,” said Bernier.
“Yeah, it will. It always does. That’s what you always tell me. The darkness passes. Or are you too drunk to remember all those times I woke up on this couch and you and Gabrielle nursed me back to my senses?”
“Won’t pass,” muttered Bernier. “It can’t.”
“What’s going on? Is it your health? Are you sick?”
“Nothing you can do,” said Bernier, trying to sit up.
“Try me,” said Tom. “What is it?”
“Best you leave.”
“Not a chance. What’s going on with you?”
“It was me, Tom. It was me. All of this is my fault. It was me!”
Chief Bernier coughed repeatedly, got a hold of himself, then slumped back down.
“I shot Paul Carignan,” said Bernier, tears thick in his bloodshot eyes. “Son, you need to arrest me.”
The two men stared at each other.
And then, despite his drunkenness and a sadness so great that it bore a hole down to the depth of his soul, Chief Arthur Bernier described everything he knew about September 23rd, 2012.
“I saw a fine buck,” Bernier told Tom. “Really that’s what I saw, but it was dark, and I couldn’t see, not well at all. I shouldn’t have shot. What was I thinking! I couldn’t see! But I shot anyway, and I was scared, Tom, so scared. I knew better than to shoot at night, in the dark. I knew better. I’m the law here! But I pulled the trigger and for a moment I thought I’d missed completely. And it was, well, it was someone! I didn’t know who, from that distance. And he went down.”
“How long was it till he went down?” asked Tom.