In the middle of Highway 20! This country is going to hell.
By the time he was five kilometres out of Saint-Hyacinthe, the adrenalin rush was starting to wear off.
He stopped in the town for a bite to eat and took the opportunity to have another look at the photographs on his laptop. Then, in a vacant lot, he burned his victim’s personal effects and the soiled items. He dispersed the ashes with the tip of his shoe.
He was struggling to stay awake by the time he saw the glow of Montreal in the distance.
On the Champlain Bridge, with the skyline in view, he decided that it would be wiser to get some rest in the city. He didn’t want to risk falling asleep at the wheel.
Then he remembered a motel on Saint-Jacques Street where he’d stayed in the past. It was the sort of establishment that took cash and didn’t ask for ID. If he remembered correctly, there was also a pharmacy nearby. Perfect. He’d kill two birds with one stone.
He parked in the motel lot. Knowing he’d be back in Montreal in a few days, he paid for a full week. He stowed his belongings in the dingy room and walked unhurriedly to the pharmacy.
After pulling a ski mask over his face, he drew a hammer from the folds of his coat and smashed the front window. The alarm went off instantaneously. He’d have to work fast. A police car would be there within minutes.
He used the hammer to disable the two security cameras, then walked quickly to the prescription counter. He broke the lock on the cabinet containing restricted medications, took thirty seconds to find what he was looking for, then grabbed several vials and a syringe. He sprinted out into the deserted street. After a minute, he slowed down to catch his breath.
In the distance, he heard a siren.
He strolled back to the motel. Walking helped him put his thoughts in order.
He was ready.
Tomorrow will be a great day.
The label on the disc was dated March 31st, 2005. A web address was printed on it.
So were two words and eight digits.
Error message: 10161416.
APRIL 1ST, 2005
1
Montreal
As far as I can remember, there was no sunshine on the morning of April 1st, only the grey drizzle of a late-breaking day. A sheet of dirty ice clung to the pavement in front of my apartment on Saint-Antoine Street.
Caught up among the torrents of snow that the plows had been shoving aside since December, discarded papers lay in a mosaic on the sidewalk.
April.
It’s the time of year when, as though recalling a forgotten promise after a long winter, the residents of Montreal start looking forward to blue skies, to buds on the trees and a warm wind on their faces. It’s also the time of year when Canadiens fans begin to dream about the Stanley Cup.
Though the district of Saint-Henri was manifestly underprivileged, its fortunes had been looking up lately. Contributing to this trend were the renaissance of the old Atwater Market, the revitalization of the Lachine Canal — where empty factories were being converted into high-end condos — and the creation of a bicycle path linked to the market by a pedestrian bridge.
Unlike the trendy Plateau Mont-Royal, Saint-Henri would never be a tourist destination. It wouldn’t become a mini Soho or Greenwich Village. But still, a growing number of young people were moving into the area.
That’s precisely how it was with me. I occupied a five-and-a-half with crumbling plaster walls, though I only used the three rooms that were fit for habitation.
My clock radio went off for the first time at 6:45 a.m. I automatically hit the snooze button, giving myself ten minutes’ grace. It was the same routine every morning until my official wake-up at 7:15 a.m. But for reasons I’d be hard put to explain, that’s not how things worked out this particular morning.
I woke with a start at 8:45 a.m., emerging from an awful nightmare in which a car was about to run me down. I lay in a daze for a few seconds, staring at the clock’s liquid crystal display. No doubt about it. The time really was 8:45 a.m. I was going to be seriously late.
Leaping from my bed, I hurried into the shower. I didn’t pause to enjoy the scalding caress of the water, a pleasure I usually prolonged until the tank was empty, which generally took less than three minutes.
I had turned thirty-three the previous week. My best friend, Ariane, had given me a green wool sweater, which I now threw on after grabbing my jeans off the floor.
To celebrate the occasion, we’d had dinner in Chinatown. We’d gotten decidedly tipsy and closed out the evening in a seedy karaoke bar on Saint-Laurent Boulevard, where, to my own surprise, I’d launched into a delirious rendition of Cyndi Lauper’s old hit “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”
I walked past the mirror and pushed back a few unruly locks of red hair. My face was freckled. As for the rest of me, it was neither ugly nor beautiful. Ordinary, but not boring. Makeup was something I never wasted time on. I grabbed a beanie off the coat rack to keep my hair in place and threw on my old coat.
As I was opening the door, a caramel-coloured furball darted through my legs into the street.
Stupid cat!
I loved to hate that animal, which fled from me every time I set foot in the apartment. But I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of him.
I had come home one morning to find him on the doorstep. He had probably belonged to the previous tenant.
A survivor, like me.
By 9:12 a.m., I was running toward the bus stop on Atwater.
After slipping discreetly into my cubicle, I collapsed onto my not-even-slightly-ergonomic chair, which squeaked as I sat down.
I looked at my watch: 9:50 a.m.!
Maybe nobody noticed.
The first thing I did was check my emails. I opened a few messages and noted that there were no new developments in the file that I was supposed to be overseeing.
My tension level rose when I saw an email from the boss, sent a few minutes ago and marked “Important.” The company was small, and Flavio Dinar ran it like a dictator. He hated lateness, but I desperately needed this job. My cheeks flaming, I clicked the email.
Date: Friday, April 1, 2005, 9:20 am
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Attachments: Fundraiser(text).doc, Fundraiser(photos).gif
To all employees:
I was delighted to see everyone participate so enthusiastically in this year’s “Software Fights Poverty” fundraiser.
I’m proud to inform you that thanks to your commitment, your hard work, and the generosity of our donors, we surpassed our fundraising objective for 2005, collecting the record sum of $16,000.
I want to thank you all for the excellence of your contributions, which reflect the high standards of Dinar Communications.
I’ve attached some articles and photographs that appeared in various newspapers some weeks ago.
Cordially yours,
Flavio Dinar
I let out a sigh of relief. The email had nothing to do with my lateness. Since I’d participated actively in the fundraising event, which had been held in a reception room at the Saint-Sulpice Hotel, I opened the file and looked over the media coverage.
Each employee had created a fun piece of software for the event.
My nonsense-phrase generator wasn’t particularly brilliant, but it had attracted the highest bid of the night, three thousand dollars. That didn’t really come as a surprise. The bidder, a bald, middle-aged man, had been watching me all evening long like a drug user eyeing his stash.
Following the event, Flavio Dinar had hosted an after-party in two connecting hotel suites that he’d booked for the evening. When it came to preserving close ties with major clients, the man knew what he was doing. There were even whispers that over half the company’s revenue came from the federal government through the back channels of the scandal-ridden sponsorship program.
As a result, the entertainment laid on by the boss included champagne, cocaine,
and high-end escorts. None of which was likely to raise an eyebrow among those familiar with the public-relations business. In that line of work, moral rectitude doesn’t count for much.
I had put in my usual perfunctory appearance at the party, but left before it degenerated into a bacchanal. I had decided to leave the event as Dinar, blind drunk, was preparing to offer up a public display of his personal charms, stumbling onto the dance floor in a hypnotic trance.
On my way out, I had run into the bald man. A good-looking young blond was on his arm. Gazing eagerly down my décolleté, he had invited me to join him and his companion for a drink somewhere else. Politely but firmly, I had declined.
Opening the file that contained the photos, I noticed that most of the images were of Dinar employees and inebriated donors. In one of them, I saw the bald man and the blond in a smiling embrace. The blond’s gaze seemed unfocused.
On the caption accompanying the photo, I read: Jacques Mongeau. The name seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Then I forgot about it.
I should have remembered him, but I didn’t. Even if I had, I don’t think it would have changed anything. More than seven years had passed since the last time I’d heard the man’s name. I’d spent those years trying to put a very painful chapter of my life behind me.
Despite all the precautions I’d taken, I saw my own face in the background of another photograph. Not only that, but my name was listed on the caption accompanying the picture. All of which was very upsetting. But at that moment, I had no inkling of the chaos the photo would unleash.
I was starting to feel distinctly anxious when Ariane stepped into my cubicle.
“You’re late!”
Her voice was loud and cheery.
“Keep it down,” I whispered. “No one noticed.”
She threw herself onto the visitor’s chair, which let out a groan.
“It’s not like you make a habit of it. You haven’t taken a day off in two years.”
“You know I can’t stand being late.” I reddened. I was still prone to blushing, even at my age. “A lot can go wrong in five minutes.”
I gathered up some loose papers and placed them in a neat stack on the corner of my cracked melamine desk. A lot really could go wrong in five minutes. I knew from experience.
Ariane jumped to her feet.
“Coffee?”
“Are you nuts? I just got here!”
• • •
10:05 a.m.
Had she used her legendary powers of persuasion, or was I just in the mood for coffee? Whatever the reason, three minutes later we were on our way down to the ground floor.
The question occurred to me the very first time I stepped aboard: Why don’t people talk in an elevator?
I must have been six years old, accompanying my father to his office, when I first noticed this phenomenon. Not only were all the passengers studiously avoiding eye contact, but in the steel cage carrying us from one floor to the next, an almost funereal silence reigned, noxious and unsettling.
I asked my father about the reasons behind this puzzling fact, and he answered, “When human beings feel trapped, they retreat into themselves and keep their mouths shut.”
Ever since then, with his dictum in mind, I’ve done like everyone else. I’ve kept quiet whenever I stepped into an elevator.
But this time, because I was alone with Ariane and she was trying to get an answer out of me, I broke my habit.
“You know,” she said, “Jorge’s been asking about you again. He’s shy, but he’s also kind of sexy, don’t you think?”
Jorge was a charming guy, but I’d grown accustomed to my solitude.
“Ariane, you really need to stop trying to set me up. How many times have I told you that I like being on my own?”
“Well, if he was interested in me, I wouldn’t hesitate. He’s so sincere, so passionate …” Her expression was lascivious. “I’ll bet he’s great in bed. Who knows? He could change your life.”
Ariane was an inveterate sensualist. They say opposites attract. Perhaps that was why she was the only person I trusted.
The G on the panel above the elevator doors lit up in orange. A synthetic voice said, “Ground floor.”
The doors opened.
“Forget it, Ariane. Sartre was right when he said, ‘The only person who can change your life is you.’”
Only much later did I realize how incredibly wrong that statement was. Which is why I now live by a fixed rule. It may not be entirely rational, but it’s a rule that serves me well, and I think everyone would be wise to follow it.
Never talk in an elevator.
We were crossing the lobby when a phone rang.
“It’s mine,” Ariane said, searching in her bag. “Hello?” She rolled her eyes in irritation. “Did you try going through the administrator menu?” She turned to me, putting one hand over the mouthpiece, and mouthed, “What a moron.” Then she barked into the phone: “Don’t think about it, nitwit! No! Don’t move, I’ll be right there.”
“Problem?” I asked.
“It’s Hogue. He can’t get into the main database. If I don’t go back to help him, he’ll bring down the whole system. I’ll join you in five minutes.”
“Okay.”
I walked to the building entrance and opened the glass door. I stepped aside to let an old lady go by. Looking at her, seeing her gnarled hands, I suddenly felt sad and ugly.
In the street, a taxi driver and a motorist were yelling at each other. I shook my head. I’d recently seen a news report about road rage. It was a phenomenon that mystified me. A man had beaten someone to death for cutting him off at an intersection.
How was it possible to lose your self-control so completely?
I went around the taxi and stepped off the sidewalk. The café where I spent too much money on lattes was in the building across the street.
I looked to my left to make sure no cars were coming. Did I have enough cash? I opened my bag and found my wallet.
Just then, I was struck by a realization.
Shit. I had forgotten to leave the bathroom window half-open so the cat could get in.
I had to smile.
I cared about that dumb animal more than I was prepared to admit. I opened my wallet and saw two five-dollar bills.
Without being aware of it, I’d gone two steps past the yellow line that ran down the middle of the street. I looked to my right. A black sedan was speeding straight at me. I froze in horror. Collision was inevitable.
I held my breath. My muscles tensed.
The air around me seemed to contract. Other sounds evaporated, leaving only the low, terrifying growl of the oncoming engine.
I felt a sudden impact on my lower body, then I lost my balance and went tumbling forward. The rear wheel lost its traction and skidded over something. At the last instant, I raised my elbows reflexively in front of my face.
A jolt of pain shot from my shoulder to my right ankle, drilling its way down my spinal column.
I heard the rumble of the engine as the car raced away, then a loud squeal of tires, then nothing.
Nothing but silence.
------------------------
His sleep was deep, dreamless, restorative.
He woke up around 5:00 a.m., feeling clear-headed, and went over his plan.
Before setting out for Mont-Laurier, he would first gather some information about the habits of his second target, Simone Fortin.
At this stage, it was crucial to work out every detail of the operation in advance. Having spent more than six days tailing his first target, he thought he might need even more time for this one. The project certainly had its share of complexities. He had decided to hold the young woman captive, which meant taking her alive.
Whether or not he was satisfied with the results of his surveillance, he would leave Montreal around 3:00 p.m.
That way, he’d avoid the rush-hour traffic and reach Mont-Laurier in darkness, facilitating the trip to the hunti
ng lodge with the body that now lay in the trunk of the BMW. After storing the corpse in one of the freezers, he might give himself a day’s rest in the wilderness before resuming his surveillance.
That remained to be seen.
He took a long cold shower and got dressed. Then he stopped in at a service station, where he bought some bags of ice, a newspaper, a cup of coffee, and two banana muffins. He paid in cash and manoeuvred the BMW so the clerk couldn’t see the licence plate.
Was he paranoid?
He didn’t think so. Better to be cautious.
In the empty parking lot of a shopping centre, he placed the newly purchased bags of ice around the body.
At 7:00 a.m., he took up a surveillance position near Simone Fortin’s office building and began his watch. A black notebook and pen lay on the dashboard, in case he wanted to take notes.
The wait had begun.
The dense forest swallows him. At the lake’s mouth, he hears a noise, a snap of branches to his right. The animal is moving deeper into the thick brush. He hesitates to advance along the trail. It’s already midafternoon. He doesn’t want to spend the night in the forest, but he’s not about to go home empty-handed. The old man might get annoyed, and when the old man’s annoyed, he hits hard. He follows the moose’s tracks. Fearing he might have lost the trail, he climbs a tree and sees the animal down below, near the water, at a distance of over seven hundred metres. A makeable shot for a good sniper, but not for a beginner like him. He edges forward, one step at a time, crouching to stay hidden in the high grass. Another fifty metres and he’ll try his luck. Suddenly, the animal stamps its hooves and flees.
• • •
He started having doubts around 9:15 a.m.
Had he missed her?
That seemed unlikely. There was only one entrance, and he hadn’t taken his eyes off the door for a second.
Had he gotten the address wrong? He rechecked the slip of paper on which he’d noted it. He was in the right place.
At 9:40 a.m., a police car pulled up behind him. He relaxed when he saw one of the two cops in his rear-view mirror sipping coffee.
They were on their break.
Without Blood Page 2