“No, that’s not it. Just some leftover jitters from careering down the highway towards a psychopath.”
MacNeice reduced his speed even further. “I see. Still, it was good for me to get a quick feel for this car, how it accelerates and handles.”
“Because you wanted to know you could outrun him if necessary?”
He glanced over at her. “Something like that, yes.”
MacNeice asked her to call Division and put it on speaker. When he heard Ryan’s voice, he asked for Michael or Montile. It was Montile who picked up the phone. As Williams listened to the summary of their near encounter with Venganza, his eyebrows climbed ever higher on his forehead. Turning to Vertesi and Maracle, he mouthed the words What the fuck?
“Valens Lake is several hundred yards behind his house. If I’m right, there’s a road back there that leads to the Valens Dam. There might be a hedge or some brush where we can drop a surveillance team to observe without being seen.”
“Sir, you want us to go out there?”
“No. I’ll ask Wallace for two members of the tactical team. Venganza has a woman with him, a French national. She owns a gallery in Paris and came out to meet him.”
“Jesus H.”
“I want you to set up a meeting at Division with Tactical. We’ll be back in two hours.”
* * *
Agnes met them at the restaurant door and immediately handed Venganza’s note to MacNeice. She seemed relieved to get rid of it. It was the tail end of Le Hibou’s lunch rush, and Jean-Marc came out of the kitchen to take their orders. Both requested the boeuf bourguignon. When it arrived, Jean-Marc sawed off half a baguette for them to mop up the sauce and poured two glasses of red wine. He stepped back, crossed his arms, and waited for the first taste. Once he’d seen the smiles, he said, “I think maybe you want to know about the woman.”
“Yes.” MacNeice put down his cutlery and took out a pen and pad. “But this is delicious.”
“Slow cooking, you call it here. Her name is Chanel Bourget. She and her partner own Galerie Weitzman-Bourget, not far from a restaurant where I was sous chef. The gallery is very forward, very . . . cutting-edge. Très importante and very successful, yes. I am surprised she comes to Dundurn, and so surprised to see her at Le Hibou. I never meet her before, but in Paris, when she came to our Michelin one-star, it was with her female partner. They never fail to float the energy.”
“Lift the energy,” Agnes said.
“Oui, lift.”
Bourget had spoken very highly of Venganza, saying that he was a brilliant photographer with a unique perspective and approach to his work. She had told Jean-Marc the dates for his first exhibition at GWB, but he couldn’t exactly remember them. “It is soon, though, maybe in June, before Paris surrenders to the tourists.”
Filling their water glasses, Agnes said, “It was so strange. They had the same meal as you, and Madame Bourget seemed to love it. Then suddenly I look up and he’s at the cash desk to pay the bill. They only had a few bites.”
“Oui, bizarre. Madame was really looking forward to my tarte au beurre.”
MacNeice swivelled around. “You called me from the phone at that desk?”
“Yes, but I spoke softly. There was all the chatter and the music in the background. He couldn’t have heard —”
“Ordinarily, I’d agree. But this man isn’t ordinary.”
“Did Bourget say where she was staying?” Aziz asked.
“Oui. She has rented a condominium in the Royal Connaught,” said Jean-Marc. Watching them enjoy their meals, he asked, “Will you have dessert? Butter tarts — they are very special.”
MacNeice watched Fiza’s eyes dance before turning to Jean-Marc. “One please, avec deux cafés noisettes. Merci.”
Aziz used her napkin to hide a wide grin, then swung her bar stool around to face him and smiled without the napkin. As he studied her face, her eyes teared up and she turned away again.
“We’ll get through this, Fiza, I promise.” His statement was heartfelt but unclear. He thought about how to correct it, how to say what he really meant, but he didn’t actually know.
When the coffee arrived, he turned his attention to the cup as if he found it deeply interesting. He realized he was still rattled from his session with Dr. Sumner. He trusted the psychiatrist’s honesty and straight talk, but her comments about Kate had shaken him. Was that her strategy?
The tart came with a dollop of crème fraîche on the side and a drizzle of strawberry sauce. Jean-Marc put a knife, fork, and spoon beside the plate. “Though some people eat them like a cookie, it is not recommended. Enjoy. I must get back to preparing this evening’s menu.”
* * *
On the return trip to Dundurn, Aziz closed her eyes and began to fall asleep. Back on the 403, MacNeice gently touched her arm. “Fiza, I’m going to take you home.”
Aziz opened one eye and then the other. “That would be prudent, sir. Thank you.” She sat up and shook off the fatigue as best she could. “Mac, I want to be part of this, whenever it happens.”
“I know you do, but I can’t allow it. And you know that.”
“Then let me be in that rolling command post. I won’t get in anyone’s way and I may even be of some use.”
MacNeice thought about it for some time before answering. “With one caveat: the tactical team leader has to approve.”
“I accept.” She smiled and closed her eyes again.
“What’s that phrase you told me? ‘If you have a hammer . . .’” His voice was soft enough that if she was asleep he wouldn’t wake her.
Aziz didn’t open her eyes but answered. “Abraham Maslow’s hammer: ‘If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.’ Unless you’re referring to the Peter, Paul, and Mary song.” She opened one eye and smiled at him. “Why?”
“Why am I thinking about Maslow?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“It’s a metaphor for Tactical. It’s not that I don’t understand or even appreciate the value of a tactical unit; I do. But I’m not entirely comfortable with a command mentality that depends on heavy weapons, menacing paramilitary machines, and men armed to the teeth. Besides, when compared to Venganza, our tactical team is outmatched. They’re little more than show ponies, while Venganza is a warhorse. He can kill quickly and brutally without a weapon, all the while remaining calm. Tactical prefers killing from a distance. They adhere to command structures; he improvises. They train to fixed scenarios; he creates scenarios.”
MacNeice didn’t think he could talk Venganza out of his plan, whatever it was. But he wanted to try. He also wanted to save the life of the gallery owner, assuming that she wasn’t already dead. He looked over at Aziz and asked, “Do you think Chanel Bourget is in immediate danger?”
“Most certainly. I think she’s put her head in the lion’s mouth, thinking it was a plush toy.”
[55]
“Magnifique. Incroyable.” Bourget turned away from the exhibition prints stacked for her viewing on the kitchen table, and looked at him. “Where do you do your Photoshop work? It is extremely good.”
“Actually, there’s no Photoshopping in this work.”
“You joke, yes? They look so real.”
“Because they are real,” Venganza said, his tone incredulous.
“But no. The blood is —”
“Blood.”
“But look here, her throat is —”
“Cut.” He drew his finger slowly across his neck.
“I do not understand.” She was shaking her head, convinced that her command of English wasn’t as good as she’d thought.
“But you are beginning to. I can see it in your face, in the quiver of your jaw.”
“I’m sorry . . . Merde.” Her voice turned sharp and clipped; she was angry. “These people appear dead. So you are doing it with either extraordinary m
akeup or Photoshop. There is no other way.”
“Yes, there is — I kill them. And then I light them and take their portraits.”
Venganza smiled broadly, sending chills down her spine. The colour drained from her face, taking with it her poise and elegance. She suddenly realized the peril she was in and the terrible folly of coming to Dundurn.
“You see, Chanel — May I call you Chanel?” She nodded weakly and tried to avoid his eyes.
He began putting the prints back in their hard case. “I made it clear that you shouldn’t attempt to reach me, let alone try to find me.” He put a large hand on her shoulder. “But then you’re not accustomed to being told ‘no,’ are you.”
“Monsieur, please . . . I will go back to Paris. I will not tell anyone — you have my word.” She was shaking and digging her perfectly manicured nails into the palms of her hands. “I have done nothing to harm you. Please let me go . . .”
“But you have. You broke your word. Your acceptance of my work came with certain terms and conditions that you agreed to and then broke. And here you are asking me to trust your word again.” He smiled warmly.
“My family can pay you . . . handsomely.” She took out her cellphone and was ready to make a call when he gripped her wrist and flung the phone to the floor, where it shattered.
“I was only going to call my partner. She has money and will gladly pay you.”
“You’ve heard the phrase ‘A man’s word is his bond’?”
“Oui, of course, but —”
“That also applies to women.” Venganza took a work cloth from his pocket and knotted it. Her eyes were wide and filling with tears as he rammed the knot into her mouth and tied the cloth behind her head. She was so frozen with fear he had no difficulty putting her hands behind her back and binding them together with a zip tie. He lifted her up and carried her under his arm, like a small rolled-up carpet, to a metal chair. There he used a nylon rope to tie her legs to its frame. When he stood in front of her, she was frantically shaking her head.
“If you keep doing that, Chanel, you’ll hyperventilate and pass out. You’re going to be the main event, the climax of the exhibition. Given your aesthetic, I think you’ll appreciate what I’m doing.”
Bourget was doing her best to control her emotions, but every time it looked like she had calmed down, she started crying again, her chest heaving as she struggled for air.
“I’ve been where you are. The best strategy is to take yourself away . . . the Alps, the Riviera, in bed with your lover, or maybe to the opening of an exhibition.” He placed a hand briefly on her shoulder and walked away. Panicking, she looked to see where he’d gone and then worried that he’d come back with a weapon. She listened for his footfalls, but realizing she hadn’t actually heard him leave only worried her more.
Chanel took in her surroundings. It was an old kitchen, with worn cupboards and a large pine table and four chairs. On the table were salt and pepper grinders, a bottle of Spanish extra-virgin olive oil, and another of sparkling water. They were neatly lined up like soldiers against the wall. Light streamed in through the small window over the sink; two tea towels were neatly folded on the cupboard handles below. There was a calendar but no art on the walls. On a nearby shelf sat a small colour photograph of a group of soldiers. She couldn’t make out their faces from where she was sitting. Carving and paring knives were held by a magnetic strip near the window, and four jars of what looked like rice and grains stood against the wall on the other side of the sink — an opposing army.
As the sun shifted, it fell on her shoulder and, moments later, her face. She closed her eyes against the glare and listened hard for any movement behind her. In time, perhaps from exhaustion or jet lag, lack of oxygen, or the sun streaming through the window, she fell asleep.
* * *
Chanel woke up to find herself being carried into the next room. Venganza placed her in another chair and once again tied her legs. The windows had been painted over, and daylight could penetrate only as a soft glow. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the room gave up its secrets. The space had been crudely renovated and showed signs of recent work. Judging by the marks on the floor, he’d combined three original rooms to make one large studio. The vertical posts that supported the attic and roof joists were exposed; on these he’d pinned up a mix of sketches, postcards, and more snapshots of soldiers.
Only when he moved did she realize that Venganza was still in the room. He had his back to her and seemed to be working on something. When he stepped away, she was staring at an elevated platform. Pale grey drapery covered a series of wooden boxes of different sizes. Off to the right on a folding table, there appeared to be a body under a white sheet. She gasped at the sight of it, gasped till she choked.
He moved the cloth knot down to her chin. “Breathe normally . . . slowly.” He placed his fingers on her neck, feeling for her pulse, until her heart rate returned to nearer normal. Then he put the knot back in her mouth and showed her a card. Kneeling before her, he smiled and his eyes softened. He held it in front of her face and watched as her eyes opened wide with awe.
“It’s my final piece. It wouldn’t have occurred to me if you hadn’t disrespected my request to remain anonymous. But here you are. You’re going to be my Virgin Mary. This piece, like the others, will have a twist . . . Actually, two twists.”
Her breathing was heavy again and tears filled her eyes. He waited patiently for her to calm down, again feeling for the pulse in her neck.
“You’ve noticed there’s a body on my worktable. That’s Jesus. He’s dead. He’s been in my freezer but now he’s good and flexible.” Venganza pointed to the postcard of La Pietà, Michelangelo’s masterpiece. “How he sculpted dead flesh and bone so accurately out of marble amazes me. Does it do that for you?”
The question astonished her, which didn’t escape him. “I know, I’m a fool to think that you and I have anything in common, that we might have a conversation about Michelangelo’s rendering of the sacrificed Christ.” He stood up abruptly and walked away to a small drawing table to retrieve something. He turned and studied her for a moment.
She shook her head emphatically from side to side to suggest that it wasn’t strange, that yes, she understood what he meant. But it was too late. He crossed the floor quietly and swiftly, with something clenched in his hand.
When he knelt before her again, she was shivering uncontrollably, trying to see what he was holding. He smacked her sharply across the cheek and the shivering stopped. Picking up the postcard of the Pietà again, he pointed to the Virgin Mary. “You can also see what makes Jesus so remarkable in death. It is the life that’s so present in Mary. For this piece to work, she must be alive. Nod if you’re following me, Chanel.”
She nodded furiously. His hand darted to her chin to stop her. “Yes, exactly. I cannot do this piece if you’re dead.” He stood over her as if reconsidering her status. “It’s clear now that my solo exhibition isn’t going to happen. Nod if you agree.” She did. “Right. Nonetheless, a beautiful and alive Mary you will be. What happens afterwards will be out of my control.”
He opened his hand to reveal an alcohol swab and syringe. “This is for later. It’s a sedative. It’s not lethal. You’ll go to sleep for a few hours and wake up feeling rested.” He closed the hand again. “You won’t be — what’s that genteel phrase? — ‘interfered with.’ But I will take off some of your clothes. Nod if you understand.” She nodded. Her mascara was a coal stream down her cheeks. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean your face, apply some powder, rouge, a touch of lipstick — not too bright, given the role you’ll be playing — and you’ll be ready.”
He picked up the postcard again. “Another thing that’s always struck me is the size of them. Jesus is large; he rests on Mary’s knees like human drapery. But that meant Michelangelo had to make Mary large too, even larger than her son.” He shook his head in amazement.
“You know, if this had been attempted by anyone but Michelangelo, it would have been mocked and laughed at and destroyed by the Church. Don’t you agree?”
It was hard to tell whether she did or not, as her brain was processing the insight in a moment of overwhelming terror. She nodded once and managed to make it not look frenzied.
“Exactly. I went back several times to look at La Pietà. That’s what I saw, but when I listened to those around me, they were caught up in reverent awe at the art of it and what it meant to believers.”
He placed the card on the floor in front of her. Like some bizarre form of method acting, she was to internalize the role and he’d capture it on camera. He walked back to the worktable and removed the sheet. He poked the body to check that it had thawed completely and lifted the arm to test that the rigor mortis had gone. The arm sagged and fell gracefully as he let it go.
“This is Master Corporal Steven Wozinsky.” He turned to make sure she was paying attention. “Woz, to his men. He’s the one subject I didn’t kill. He was a brave man, a brother in arms . . . a leader.” He turned again to look at her. She nodded. Venganza looked the way mourners do when viewing the body of a loved one. “He looks so deflated lying here on my table.” He turned and pointed at the image of Christ reclining on Mary’s lap. “But see for yourself: Jesus is also deflated. The spear thrust into his side, the nails through his hands and feet, the time on the cross in the sun — it all took a toll. Woz is a lot like that.”
Venganza bowed his head. She couldn’t tell if he was praying, weeping, or both. He stayed like that for several minutes before raising his arms to suggest the futility of the loss. “Woz is ripe, and he’s going to get riper. You know, he’s at least fifty pounds lighter than the last time I saw him. The man had a superhero’s body — ‘purpose-built,’ with muscles, lots of them, to carry heavy weapons and wounded comrades. He could run for days, climb rocky inclines like a goat.”
Vantage Point Page 25