Without Blood

by Martin Michaud

  “That’s not what I said!”

  I made myself take a dispassionate view of the situation, and what I saw wasn’t good. Having barely regained consciousness, I was now describing otherworldly experiences.

  “I don’t know what to think, or what to do,” I said. “But there has to be a rational explanation.”

  “Why don’t we bring it up with your doctor? I’m sure he —”

  Despite myself, I became agitated. “No! Not a word to the doctor! He’ll think I have brain damage.”

  What had I been expecting from Ariane? Approval? She thought I was disoriented. But getting to the bottom of this mystery had become imperative. My sanity depended on it.

  “You need to get some rest, honey. They’re keeping you under observation tonight. If everything’s okay tomorrow, they’ll let you leave.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I should rest.”

  I wasn’t the least bit sleepy. I knew the risks, but I had made up my mind. Waiting until tomorrow was out of the question. The only way to figure out what had happened was to get out of this bed and find Miles as soon as possible.

  And I wouldn’t be able to count on Ariane for help.

  Which meant I had to get her out of the room.

  ------------------------

  He knocked three times. A woman with a pinched face came to the door and let him into a windowless anteroom. An aging computer stood on a small desk. After offering him a cup of coffee, which he declined, she gestured toward a faded couch.

  “Please have a seat. I’ll let Mr. Mongeau know you’re here.”

  She walked to a padded door and opened it slowly, without knocking. “Mr. Tremblay has arrived.”

  “Thanks, Jeannine. Show him in.”

  She stepped aside to let him pass.

  A bald man of about sixty shook his hand. “Jacques Mongeau.”

  “Pierre Tremblay,” the man answered.

  The executive director turned to his secretary.

  “You can take the rest of the day off, Jeannine. I won’t be needing you until tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Mongeau.”

  She closed the door behind her. Then she picked up her coat and left. By way of introduction, the executive director launched into a little speech about the virtues of private giving. Without donations, hospitals like this one would find it hard to maintain their standards of care.

  Jacques Mongeau expounded on the subject with practised assurance. His tone was warm, his arguments compelling. I’m making a strong case, he thought with a tingle of pride.

  With his lower body hidden by the desk, the killer took advantage of the executive director’s focus on his speech to unsheathe his knife. His expression had hardened.

  Jacques Mongeau was too vain and self-obsessed to notice that his visitor wasn’t listening. He didn’t have time to react before the man drove the knife into his chest, near the heart.

  “We all have to pay for our mistakes,” the man murmured into Mongeau’s ear, twisting the knife in the wound.

  In a final effort to dislodge the blade that was ripping his flesh, the executive director grabbed the knife handle with one hand while, with the other, he tried to push his attacker away. His legs failed him and he collapsed to his knees, but he managed to get back on his feet. His physical strength was impressive.

  As he felt his resistance ebbing away, Jacques Mongeau couldn’t help thinking about the breasts of the youthful waitress who had cleared his table after lunch. He had only one regret. If he had known that this was his last meal, he would have stepped forward and kissed them. Was there a more stirring sight on earth than the curve of a young woman’s bosom?

  The executive director’s last impulse was to cry out for help, but all he could manage was a feeble croak.

  The killer cut his throat with a single stroke.

  After a few gasps and a final spasm, the mortal remains of Jacques Mongeau fell with a clatter onto the pale maple-wood desk, which quickly became as red as mahogany.

  The killer laid the dead man’s right hand flat on the desk and cut off the index finger, which he inserted into an aluminum tube. He had given up on his plan of transporting Mongeau’s body to the hunting lodge. In his eyes, the finger wasn’t so much a substitute as an artifact, bearing witness to what he had done.

  Next, he opened his briefcase and took out a digital camera that he’d paid for in cash at an electronics store.

  A quartz desk clock spattered with fine droplets of blood indicated that it was 2:50 p.m.

  ------------------------

  A young blond nurse came into the room. Without being aware of it, she achieved precisely the outcome I was hoping for.

  “Ms. Bélanger,” she said softly, “visiting hours are over. Your friend needs to rest.”

  Ariane stiffened, wanting to protest, but I intervened.

  “She’s right, Ariane,” I said. “Besides, you’ve got to pick up Mathilde at school.”

  Ariane had adopted the little girl from Guatemala a few years ago. I loved the child like she was my own.

  “I was going to call the daycare service,” Ariane said. “They can keep her an extra hour.”

  The nurse spoke gently.

  “I’m sorry, but the rules are clear. You really have to go. You can come back this evening at seven-thirty.”

  The nurse retreated to the door.

  “I’ll give you five more minutes.”

  Ariane nodded reluctantly, and the nurse walked out.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said reassuringly.

  “Promise?”

  “Go on, get out of here.”

  “Is there anything you need?” she asked as she put on her coat.

  A “no” might have seemed suspicious.

  “Uh … could you bring me some reading material?”

  Ariane perked up. Being useful raised her spirits. “Sure! How about some magazines? Cosmopolitan?”

  “Whatever you like.”

  “I’ll bring Mathilde this evening.”

  “Great idea.”

  Ariane took me in her arms and squeezed so hard I thought I might pop. I felt guilty for lying to her, but I needed to get out of here at all costs. When the door closed behind her, I took a deep breath, relieved that she was gone. I loved Ariane, but what I was about to do would require my full concentration.

  ------------------------

  At the admissions desk, the man said he was a relative of Simone Fortin’s. He was informed that the patient had just been transferred to room 222. He thanked the receptionist and walked up the main corridor toward the laundry area.

  He was now wearing a wig and round glasses that transformed his appearance, giving him a vaguely intellectual air. The way ahead was clear. This time, whatever happened, he would be patient.

  • • •

  His injury isn’t serious. He can feel the forest lowering its opaque veil over him, but he’s not afraid anymore. The old man will see that he’s no weakling. He’s survived a bear attack. After nearly an hour’s hiking, he sees the moose grazing a hundred metres away. He looks around, searching for a steady location from which to take his shot. He rests the rifle barrel on a branch and adjusts the scope. The animal is directly between his crosshairs. It turns, exposing its right flank. He releases the safety catch and slowly caresses the trigger. The blast shatters the silence. The forest reels under the deafening noise. The moose jumps, then starts to run. Making a mental note of the animal’s path through the trees, the boy straightens up.

  The direct approach had served him best until now.

  Why change a winning formula?

  He strode into the hospital laundry area, looking confident and authoritative. A woman was ironing sheets with an industrial press.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Hamel,” he said smoothly. “I’m in a bit of a bind. You see, it’s my first day here. I’m supposed to be in surgery in ten minutes, and I’ve forgotten my scrubs.”

  The woman gave him a conspi
ratorial look.

  “I really shouldn’t be doing this, but Dr. Bourque sometimes leaves his scrubs with me for ironing. If you go to that closet over there in the back, you’ll find a pile of surgical tops and pants. He’s about your size.”

  “You’re a lifesaver. What’s your name?”

  “Claire.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  He picked up a set of scrubs.

  “If everyone were as competent as you, we’d be able to do something about the waiting lists that afflict our hospitals. I’m really grateful to you … Claire.”

  Unaccustomed to receiving praise, the woman blushed deeply.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  He went out as regally as he had come in.

  Now, there’s a gentleman! she thought to herself as she went back to work. Not like those young know-it-alls, fresh out of medical school.

  Only later, when the case was closed, would Claire recognize the photograph in the newspaper and read in shock about the man whom the media were calling a monster.

  8

  The Montreal General Hospital cafeteria was full to bursting.

  Lessard drank the remains of his coffee and pushed away his newspaper. He’d finished reading the sports and entertainment sections. He stood up and stretched.

  A young woman in a white blouse approached, carrying a tray.

  A club sandwich!

  He hadn’t eaten french fries in ages. He was sick of healthy diet choices. He picked up his empty cup and yielded his seat to the young woman, grumbling.

  He looked at his watch. He had dropped off Ariane Bélanger at the emergency ward some time ago. He decided to check in on the hit-and-run victim and see if she was well enough to talk. If she was, he would take her statement and go back to the station.

  He was stepping off the elevator when his cellphone rang.

  A nurse scowled at him and pointed to a sign that showed a cellphone with a big red X through it.

  Lessard shrugged and showed the nurse his badge.

  “It’s Fernandez. I just wanted to let you know that Simone Fortin’s been transferred to room 222.”

  “Okay. I’ll head over.”

  Lessard scanned the wall, looking for a directory.

  ------------------------

  The nurse came back into the room a few minutes after Ariane’s departure.

  “How are we doing?” she asked with a cheery expression on her young face.

  She started checking my vital signs and entering the results meticulously in a notebook. I looked straight at her, doing my best to appear as sharp as a Swiss army knife.

  “My name is Simone Fortin. Today is April 1st, 2005. I’m at the Montreal General Hospital, in room 222. Since being brought in at eleven o’clock this morning, I’ve received treatment for a sprained ankle, various contusions, and a traumatic head injury. I’m not feeling any numbness and my vision isn’t blurred.”

  The nurse stared at me.

  “That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?” I asked.

  She frowned, clearly impressed.

  “Do you have medical training?”

  I hesitated. “Sort of.”

  “Is there any pain in your ankle?”

  “It’s bearable.”

  “Do you want painkillers?”

  “Don’t need them.”

  “Any nausea?”

  “No.”

  “Gaps in your memory?”

  “Apart from a few seconds just before the accident, no.”

  “Perfect.”

  She did some more scribbling in her notebook.

  “Would you please ask Dr. Pouliot to come and see me? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “He’ll come as soon as he’s finished his rounds, which should be in about fifteen minutes. Do you need anything in the meantime?”

  “Not at the moment, thanks.”

  “If Dr. Pouliot runs late, I’ll let you know.”

  I reacted with a start. “I’m sorry,” I said, “what did you just say?”

  “If Dr. Pouliot runs late,” the nurse repeated, “I’ll let you know.”

  Run, late.

  “Do you have something I can write on?”

  “Sure.”

  She tore a page out of her notebook and handed it to me, along with her pen. Hastily, I wrote down the six words that were blazing in my memory.

  Run, late, elapse, lid, me, tee.

  I shuddered.

  Could I really be so confused that I was imagining these details?

  ------------------------

  The detective walked right by without noticing him. For the killer, it was a strange feeling. The cop was oblivious of the fact that he had the power to defeat the killer’s murderous intentions. Even so, the killer bore him no ill will. They were both simply doing their duty. Under different circumstances, they might even have been friends.

  It occurred to him that he hadn’t had a friend in a very long time. Oh sure, he’d made a few acquaintances here and there; he’d had some pleasant colleagues at work. But a true friend? Someone he could confide in? He hadn’t had one of those in years.

  He tried to recall the precise moment when he had withdrawn from the world of the living and slid into the shadowlands. But he shook himself out of his reverie. None of that mattered.

  Watching as Victor Lessard stepped into the hospital room, he was finally able to put his finger on what he felt for the police officer.

  Respect.

  ------------------------

  The faded curtains separating the beds, the incessant to-and-fro of the hospital personnel, the sporadic moans of patients unable to bear their pain, the merciless glow of the fluorescent lights, the battered furniture, the chipped paint in the corners — all these jumbled, long-forgotten images were coming back to me when I heard a knock at the door. A man wearing a leather jacket walked in.

  “Hello. I’m Victor Lessard. I’m a detective with the Montreal Police. May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  What did the police want with me?

  He drew a chair close to the bed.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “The accident?”

  “To start with, I’ll need your personal information. Name, address, phone number, age, and occupation.”

  He pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket. I wasn’t happy about having to reveal these things, but what choice did I have? Reluctantly, I gave him my information.

  “Okay, now tell me what happened. Even the most seemingly trivial details may be important.”

  I told him what I remembered. I’d been crossing the street to go to the café. I had looked down for a moment to find something in my purse. After that, my memory was blank until the moment I woke up in the hospital. I didn’t mention my encounter with Miles. I wasn’t about to tell a police detective about my unhinged delusions.

  “Did you notice the make or colour of the car?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see the driver’s face?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember whether the driver hit the brakes?”

  “I think I shut my eyes.”

  “Did you hear the tires squeal?”

  I tried to concentrate, but I couldn’t remember a thing.

  Detective Lessard was all business as he questioned me, but his voice was gentle, as though he wanted to compensate for his bluntness. I found him likeable. It pained me that I couldn’t be more helpful.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “That’s all right. We’re not flying completely blind. A witness heard the car hit you and gave us a good description of the vehicle. It’s a black Mercedes. According to the witness, the car didn’t brake or swerve to avoid you. And there are no skid marks on the asphalt.”

  What was the cop getting at?

  “The car struck your legs. You were thrown some distance. T
he doctor believes your head hit the pavement when you landed. In cases like this, we’re often looking at a drunk driver.”

  That surprised me.

  “So early in the morning?”

  “It happens more often than you might imagine. A lot of the time, we’re able to track down the driver because of the dents in the car’s body.”

  For the first time since our conversation had begun, he looked straight at me.

  “To be honest, I can’t guarantee that we’ll ever catch the person who did this.”

  But my mind was elsewhere. At this point, I didn’t much care whether the police caught the driver. I had no memory of the impact, and even if the facts seemed to prove beyond any doubt that it really had happened, all I could think about was finding Miles. The detective’s phone rang. Without taking his eyes off me, he cut off the call.

  “Thanks for trying,” I said.

  “That’s my job,” he said. As he stood up, he handed me his business card.

  “In case something comes back to you.”

  He placed the chair against the wall.

  “I almost forgot … is there anyone who might have a reason for running you over?”

  “You mean … on purpose?”

  “It may seem weird, but sometimes —”

  The detective’s cellphone rang again.

  “I’m sorry. I’d better take this.”

  He pressed a button. “Lessard.”

  His face suddenly turned red. He hurried to the door. He seemed to be on the verge of tears.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  He rushed out without answering, letting the door slam behind him.

  ------------------------

  Looking like he’d seen a ghost, the police officer ran down the corridor and disappeared around a corner. The killer watched him go.

  Have they already found the body?

  There were no more obstacles in his way. His goal was within reach. As he advanced toward room 222, he consulted his notebook. He would only need a few seconds. The door was ajar. Through the gap, he glanced furtively at the young woman.

  An adrenalin rush hit him.

  Instinctively, he patted the pocket containing the vials and syringe that he’d stolen from the pharmacy. He would speak to her calmly as he injected the liquid into the catheter. He knew exactly what he’d say. It’s just something to kill the pain.