“You’re not going to believe this,” Fernandez said. “The Urgences-santé dispatcher can’t seem to track down the ambulance that picked up the hit-and-run victim, Simone Fortin.”
“Nadja, I’m not in the mood for April Fool’s jokes.”
“I’m not joking. The dispatcher says they didn’t have any vehicles in that sector at the time of the accident.”
“He’s mistaken. There were witnesses who saw an ambulance take the victim away. Call around to all the hospitals.”
“Sirois’s already on it.”
Fernandez’s unfailing competence was something he too often took for granted.
“Okay. Keep me posted.” He hung up, baffled. This case wasn’t making any sense.
5
Étienne Beauregard-Delorme.
I was shaken. The memories that Miles had revived were still painful. Yet I was also relieved. Was it because I had opened up to someone who wouldn’t judge me? Or was it perhaps the words he had spoken that morning?
The line between a good and a bad decision is sometimes very thin.
I’d told myself the same thing many times over the last seven years. Why was it so much more convincing when it came from a stranger?
I had led an ascetic life since the little boy’s death, a cheerless existence in which I had taken refuge in a fortress of solitude, cutting all connections with my past. I’d done these things out of necessity, driven by my survival instinct, like a mammal caught in a trap. Now, for the first time in years, I was taking an interest in another human being. I wanted to know more about Miles.
We were sitting side by side on the couch. I drained my third glass of wine with a smack of the tongue. I hardly recognized myself.
“Are you married?”
His expression darkened. “I was. She died of leukemia.”
One more question like that and he’ll kill himself on the spot.
I plunged onward. There could be no turning back now. I was hell-bent on squashing myself like a bug against a windshield.
“I’m sorry. You must have loved her very much.”
“With all my heart. We had a son. He was five years old when she died.”
“How old is he now?”
“Last time I checked, he was twenty-two.”
“You have a twenty-two-year-old son!”
Miles laughed. “I was only twenty when he was born.”
Which put his present age at forty-two. I would have guessed he was in his thirties.
“He isn’t living with you anymore?”
“No. Actually, I haven’t seen him in some time.”
“Why not?”
“Things have been hard for him lately. When he’s unhappy, he has the unfortunate habit of seeking comfort in alcohol. I try to get in touch with him regularly, but he’s closed himself off. The harder I try, the more he shuts me out.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“I hope so. When he’s sober, he’s an amazing person. I think you’d like him.” Miles paused. He seemed lost in his memories. “He was a shy boy, very bright, with a passion for word games. At seven, he was writing me coded messages in the form of anagrams. His school years were difficult. He was a solitary kid, lacking in social skills. You know what I mean?”
I kept silent, unsure of how to answer.
“He was so loveable. I have wonderful memories of his childhood. One time, at our chalet in Trois-Pistoles, we filled a small treasure chest with mementos and buried it. We were going to dig it up together in the year 2000.”
As Miles spoke, his voice became choked with emotion. It was clear that he and his son had never kept their resolution.
I got up to go to the bathroom.
As I walked up the hallway, my vision became blurred. I suddenly felt faint. Though I’d always told myself that it was silly to worry, each time a migraine came on I found myself fearing that I might die the same way my mother had, struck down by an aneurysm. I leaned against the wall for support, but my legs gave out. I lost consciousness.
I felt an oppressive weight suffocating me. Someone was immobilizing my arms, preventing me from moving. Hands were palpating me, opening my mouth. I felt the cold metal of an instrument being forced down my throat.
I was struggling, kicking in the emptiness.
------------------------
As a precaution, he asked the taxi driver to let him off a few blocks short of the motel. He went the rest of the way on foot, without haste.
He took off his shoes and put his knapsack on the bed.
He’d done well to take the room for the week. He had made the place his own, and now he felt at home here.
He turned on the TV and selected a twenty-four-hour news channel, setting the volume on low. It was a habit he’d gotten into several years ago, to enliven his solitude.
He scribbled a to-do list in his notebook.
First of all, he needed to contact Urgences-santé and locate Simone Fortin. Next, he would have to get his hands on a car and come up with a way to replace the lost vials of Amytal. Finally, he needed to work out a plan for getting the young woman out of the hospital without attracting attention.
He already had some ideas on that score. He was glad he had brought along a few accessories to help him alter his appearance.
He was feeling surprisingly calm. The challenge was great, but he was up to it.
Before getting started, he decided to have a drink. He went to the mini fridge in which he’d placed a bottle of rum. He never drank more than a glass a day. He was proud of his moderation. He opened the fridge door and stopped dead.
The Amytal vials!
He had completely forgotten that he had put them in the fridge to preserve them.
For once, he allowed himself a smile.
------------------------
I screamed in terror and sat up with a start on the bed.
“You gave me quite a scare,” Miles said, handing me a glass of water.
Still disoriented, I took a few gulps.
“I’m sorry. I was out of it.”
“Feeling better?”
“Yes. It was probably just a drop in blood pressure. I don’t usually drink so much.”
I glanced around the bedroom. What was happening to me? Fainting at the drop of a hat was hardly my style.
I took another few seconds to collect my thoughts. My gaze fell on the painting that hung above the chest of drawers. Once again, the graffiti in the picture caught my attention.
Run, late, elapse, lid, me, tee.
So strange. So beautiful.
“I’m no expert,” I said, “but I love that painting. Who did it?”
“Me,” Miles said shyly.
“Seriously? It’s terrific.”
“Thank you.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging.
“Do you paint a lot?”
“Not really, no.”
I spent another few seconds contemplating the work, then I got up.
We climbed the stairs to the upper floor.
“Are you sure you’re strong enough to do this?”
“Definitely. I’m really in the mood to hear some jazz.”
• • •
Jamal Cherraf was a small man, Moroccan-born, about sixty years old. He greeted us warmly. After leading us into his living room, he disappeared for a few moments to make tea. When he came back, he was carrying a tray.
He talked to us about his service in the Moroccan army, his participation in the Saharan conflict against Spain in 1975, and his subsequent immigration to Canada. He spoke with an accent, and there was great humility in his voice.
“Jamal, would you play something for us?”
“With pleasure, my friend. How much do you know about jazz, Simone?”
“Not a lot. The truth is, I only have one album at home.”
“Which one?”
“Kind of Blue by Miles Davis.”
“That album
ought to be everyone’s first experience of jazz. You know more than you realize.”
Jamal got up and reached for his instrument.
We were sitting on a thick Persian rug strewn with cushions. The room was bathed in the flickering glow of a three-arm candelabrum.
Jamal launched into the opening bars of “So What.”
I let the music carry me away. The trumpet’s warm voice thrilled me. Without thinking, I put a hand on Miles’s knee. He didn’t flinch.
After thanking Jamal warmly, we went back downstairs to the apartment.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Miles asked.
“Very much. I’m now officially a fan. I’m going to buy myself a boxed set of Miles Davis CDs.”
“What about your dizziness?”
“All gone,” I said, stifling a yawn.
“Listen, it’s been a long, intense day. I put clean sheets on the bed earlier. I’d like you to spend the night here.”
“No need for that. It’s super easy for me to go home and …”
I was only arguing to be polite. I had no desire to go home.
“I insist. I’ve put out a towel and a robe in the bathroom. There’s a toothbrush still in its wrapper on the counter.”
I took a long hot shower, letting the water dissolve the day’s accumulated tensions. I used the towel to wipe away the fog from a corner of the mirror, then dried my hair. Finally, I put on the white robe and brushed my teeth.
Before turning the door handle, I parted the lapels of the robe slightly to reveal the curve of my breasts. I felt my pulse accelerate. It had been a long time since I had desired a man this way.
Miles was looking out the living-room window when I entered. He half turned and gave me a smile.
I don’t know what came over me at that moment. The impulse was irrational. I approached until our faces were only a few centimetres apart. With an expression full of desire, I drew close to him. My lips brushed his mouth. Our tongues curled around each other. A tingle of adrenalin ran up my spine. I pressed myself against him.
With infinite gentleness, he broke the embrace.
“Miles, I —”
“Shh,” he said, putting a finger to my lips. He took my face in his hands and kissed my forehead.
“Sleep well.”
Easier said than done!
Alone with my longings, I had a troubled sleep.
I dreamed that I was being hit by a speeding car. I saw my limp body flying through the air, over and over again.
------------------------
Lessard closed his office door and sat down at his computer.
Time was slipping away!
With a cup of coffee at his elbow, he was ready to start the research that he hadn’t gotten around to that morning.
While he was opening his browser, Fernandez walked in, interrupting him once again. He threw up his hands, exasperated.
“Can’t a guy get two minutes’ peace around here?”
“Sorry, Victor. I just got a call from the Urgences-santé dispatcher. They’ve tracked down Simone Fortin.”
“Where is she?”
“The emergency ward at the Montreal General. Do you want me to notify Ariane Bélanger?”
Lessard reacted with embarrassment. “No, I’ll handle it. Why did it take them so long to find her?”
“The EMTs who picked her up were at the end of their shift. They only reported the case when they got back to headquarters.”
Lessard called Ariane’s number and made an effort to sound professional.
“Ms. Bélanger? This is Victor Lessard. I … yes, we’ve located her. I can swing by and pick you up.” His expression changed. “Great. I’ll be right over … Ariane.”
------------------------
I looked around the sparsely furnished room. The chest of drawers seemed forlorn in the morning light.
I lay there, disoriented for a few seconds, before remembering that I was in Miles’s bedroom.
I looked at my watch.
Strange. The hands were stopped at 10:20. I tapped the glass with a finger. Nothing. Must be the battery.
No matter. I was going to be late for work again. Only this time, I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was stay with Miles.
I threw back the quilt and sat at the edge of the bed for a moment before putting on the bathrobe. I walked to the kitchen, which was filled with the aroma of coffee.
Miles was busy squeezing oranges.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
I stretched lazily.
“Mmm-hmm. But I had the same dream again. Except this time, the car actually hit me.”
“Really?”
He handed me a cup.
“How about some coffee? I also have fresh-squeezed orange juice.” His T-shirt was soaked with sweat.
I thanked him and took a sip. I noticed a set of weights in the corner.
“How about you? Did you sleep well?”
He winked. “Me? I never sleep.”
I walked over to the window. The sky was grey.
“Is it as warm out as it was yesterday?” I asked.
“Not quite. Around eight degrees.”
Breakfast consisted of fried eggs and toast, which I ate with gusto. Though not normally talkative, I chattered happily through the entire meal. I was in such good spirits, feeling so light and carefree, that I chalked up Miles’s sad expression to the bad night he’d had.
Outside, raindrops started to fall against the window.
While I was showering, I thought about how much I wanted to spend the day with him. I decided to call the office and let them know I wasn’t coming in. Then I’d bring him to my place. It was irrational, I knew. But I hadn’t felt so alive in a very long time.
When I walked into the living room, I found him on the couch, looking heartsick.
“What’s the matter?”
“Our time’s up, Simone.”
“Right. Do you feel like going for a walk? We could stop off at the Atwater Market and pick up a few things, then hide away at my place. I have to feed my cat and …”
“That’s not going to be possible.”
I froze, humiliated. He wasn’t attracted to me.
“I get it,” I said. “You have other plans.”
He didn’t speak.
“Am I moving too fast?” I asked. “Is that it?”
“No, Simone. You need to … leave.”
I raised my hands. It was all a misunderstanding.
“Don’t worry, I’ll call the office. I’ll let them know I’m taking the day off, then I’ll …”
But as I was speaking, a wave of excruciating pain struck the back of my neck. I collapsed onto the couch, unable to finish the sentence, my eyes rolling back in my head. Before I lost consciousness, I felt a dull throb in my right ankle as hands seized my arms and probed my throat.
I sank down, down, down …
6
This evening, it will all be over. He left the key on the counter. He wouldn’t be needing the room anymore. The motel desk clerk was busy on the phone and didn’t turn around. If he had turned, would he have noticed the change in appearance? The killer stepped outside. The cold air slapped his face. In the parking lot, he saw an old Buick Regal. He’d have no trouble hot-wiring the vehicle, as he’d seen the old man do so many times with his truck. A few minutes later, he was at the wheel of the car, pulling out onto Saint-Jacques Street. As he drove, he made sure to respect all the rules and stay within the speed limit.
First, he had called Urgences-santé.
Inexplicably, those idiots hadn’t known which hospital Simone Fortin had been brought to. Next, he had tried the Royal Victoria and Saint-Luc hospitals, both without success. His ruse was simple: his daughter had been hit by a car on Côte-des-Neiges that morning. Had they admitted her?
As he waited for the traffic light to turn green, he couldn’t help laughing. He had hit the jackpot with his third call: Simone Fortin was at the Montreal General Hospital. At f
irst, he hadn’t believed it. He’d made the switchboard operator confirm the information twice. Everything happened for a reason, but even so, this was an exceptional stroke of luck.
Simone Fortin had been brought to the very hospital where Jacques Mongeau was executive director.
Jacques Mongeau, that arrogant son of a bitch, that low-life bastard, was also his third target.
Only a few hours ago, he had been cursing himself for straying from his plan. Now the mistake was working to his advantage.
Things were moving fast, but he had made up his mind to let himself be swept along by the flow of events. He would have to act in haste, with minimal preparation, but he knew he couldn’t fail.
As he reflected, he saw that this was no coincidence.
It was a sign from God.
An acknowledgement that his cause was just.
------------------------
It was a strange sensation, like trying to see through a veil. The space around me was murky, except for a circle of light to my left. I blinked a few times, the way you do when you’re trying to get something out of your eye. Then I saw a flower in a vase.
What had happened to me?
I tried to lift a hand. I couldn’t. I made an effort to shift my legs. In vain. A terrified panic seized me, similar to the feeling I would get as a child when, roughhousing with playmates, I suddenly found myself trapped under their weight.
Was I paralyzed?
I wanted to cry out, but no sound came from my parched throat. As my eyes opened more fully, the circle of light around the vase grew wider. I saw the corner of a table, a chair, monitors, and tubes snaking off in all directions.
As far as I could tell, I was lying on a bed, unable to move. There were curtains on either side of me, serving as partitions. I saw outlines moving like shadow puppets on the yellowed fabric.
Where was I?
A lab? A hospital?
A human figure stirred on the chair.
Miles?
I listened and heard a murmur, distant, almost imperceptible. The circle widened some more. I saw a face.
Ariane.
What on earth was she doing here?
I wanted to say something, but despite my strongest intentions, my eyelids drooped.
Without Blood Page 6