When the drug had taken effect, he would roll the bed into the vacant examination room that he’d noticed earlier. Getting her there wouldn’t be a problem. He had watched how patients were shuttled from one room to another.
Then he would dress her and place her in one of the wheelchairs that was already in the examination room.
With the drug in her system, the young woman would be unable to speak or move. He would go out the main entrance and walk through the indoor parking area to the Buick.
From there, he would make his way unhurriedly to the hunting lodge in Mont-Laurier and carry out the plan that he had crafted specifically for her.
He was about to open the door when a sudden thought stopped him.
Why not follow the detective?
Why not pay a visit to the sixth floor? Why not walk past that office and see how much trouble his work had caused for the police?
Was he taking too many risks? He smiled, realizing that he’d let himself slip into a common fallacy.
These days, everything is reduced to a single consideration: risk management.
He despised the empty catchphrases that everyone was always spouting in contemporary culture: vacuous expressions like “value added,” “sustainable development,” “knowledge management,” and “growth of human capital.” Just so many trendy buzzwords, bereft of actual meaning.
Why was it that the stupidest ideas always came out on top?
It was the con job of the century. The triumph of unrestrained capitalism had given rise to a popular belief that it was possible, even natural, to do more with less.
Wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead, he composed himself. There was no point in getting upset. He needed to focus on the task at hand: neutralizing Simone Fortin and getting her out of the hospital without attracting attention.
On the other hand, he would only be gone fifteen minutes. And in her present condition, it wasn’t like she’d be leaving anytime soon.
He turned and headed for the elevators.
------------------------
Fernandez had notified him that the executive director of the hospital had just been found murdered in his office.
Lessard was in no mood to go through another bloodbath like the one at the Polytechnique.
Ever since that mass shooting, the response protocol had been clear. The top priority was establishing a secure perimeter.
As he ran up the stairs, he unholstered his Glock.
If the son of a bitch who’d done this was still in the building, Lessard wouldn’t think twice before gunning him down.
He had made lethal use of his weapon before. Doing so had caused him all kinds of problems, but he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
He sprinted along a corridor jammed with metal trolleys and went past a group of nurses.
One of them saw his pistol and shrieked.
“Police!” he yelled. “Step aside!”
He was running hard. Fuelled by adrenalin. He came to the floor where the administrative offices were located. He released the safety catch.
------------------------
He was exultant.
Total anarchy had taken hold in the corridor. The police officer was out of breath. A red-faced security guard was pacing back and forth uncertainly as he kept watch at the door.
A few of Mongeau’s colleagues were standing around in horror. One woman was crying intermittently. A man seemed to be in shock.
A group of people returning from a wine-soaked lunch were coming up the hallway. The laughter suddenly died in their throats. The news was spreading.
The executive director had been murdered …
The man blended into the gathering crowd. Through the open door, he saw the police officer vomit into a wastepaper basket.
They couldn’t understand.
He alone knew, and that gave him a heady sensation of power.
The boy reaches the spot where the animal disappeared. He sees no trace of blood. Could he have missed his target? Bearing left, he skirts a dense stand of conifers. The animal is lying on its side in front of him, one eye still open. Is it dead? He’s seized by a mixture of fear and excitement. He approaches the creature, nudges it with the barrel of his rifle. It doesn’t move. The boy lets out a loud whoop. Using his hunting knife, he guts the animal. Plunging his hands into the still-warm innards gives him a strange sensation. He marks the spot with fluorescent tape, picks up his rifle, and sets off. Night falls.
He wanted to step closer, but he restrained himself.
He watched the scene for a short while, then walked to the stairwell and went back down to the second floor.
He took a deep breath. The moment of truth was finally at hand: his prey was a few steps away, unaware and unprotected. She would pay for her mistakes.
He pushed the door open and walked into the room.
Instantly, he knew something was wrong. The bed stood in the middle of the space, unmade and empty. He opened the bathroom door. No one!
------------------------
When Dr. Pouliot came in, the tube was hanging down from my IV bag. I was dressed and ready to go.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded angrily. “You’re in no condition to leave.”
“My vital signs are normal. Ask the nurse.”
“You only regained consciousness a couple of hours ago. Do you have any idea what kind of risk you’re taking?”
He was right. This was very foolish.
“I know what I’m doing.”
“I won’t permit you to walk out of here unless you sign a refusal-of-treatment form.”
At my request, the nurse had brought me that very document a few minutes ago.
“It’s already taken care of.”
Disapproval twisted his mouth into a bitter smile.
“Fine. Suit yourself.”
Dr. Pouliot left without another word.
I stepped into the corridor, determined to solve the mystery.
------------------------
What was going on? Where was Simone Fortin? Had she been transferred to another room? Suddenly, he became aware of a presence behind him.
“Can I help you?”
He spun around, ready to reach for his knife. A nurse had entered the room. He hesitated for an instant.
“I’m Dr. Hamel. I was to examine the patient who was here.”
“You work with Dr. Pouliot?”
“Uh, yes.”
“She left a few minutes ago. From what I was told, she refused to stay under observation.”
He froze for longer than he would have liked.
“Do you know where she went?”
“Home, I guess.”
“Do you have her contact information?”
“The other nurse took care of the paperwork before her shift ended.”
“May I see the forms?”
The nurse frowned irritably.
“I’ll have to find them. That’s going to take some time. Is it urgent?”
He was taken aback. “Well, it’s just …”
“Let me get my patient settled in, then I’ll see what I can do. What extension can I reach you at?”
He couldn’t afford to wait around and run the risk of being noticed. The hospital would soon be crawling with police.
“Forget it. I’m sure I have the information on file.”
He hurried out.
He stepped outside and looked around, trying to spot the young woman among the passersby. He had let her get away again! An uncontrollable sensation of panic gripped him. He was on the verge of exploding. He’d made another unforgivable mistake. He had let vanity get the better of him. He went back to the parking area.
Inside the car, he bit down on a fist to suppress the howl of rage that was rising in his throat. He started beating his head against the dashboard, but stopped himself instantly.
He was losing his grip.
It took him several minutes to get his emotions under contr
ol. When he had calmed down, he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
He needed to concentrate, to come up with a new plan.
What were his options? Where did she live?
He felt the anger starting to rise once again. He’d been unable to get her phone number, which was surely confidential.
Suddenly, he had a flash of inspiration.
Though he didn’t know where Simone Fortin lived, he knew exactly where to find her friend Ariane Bélanger.
He took out his notebook and checked the address. Simone Fortin had vanished, but she would surely get in touch with her friend. The way forward was clear. He would watch Ariane Bélanger. Sooner or later, she would lead him to his target.
And this time, he wouldn’t miss.
9
Trois-Pistoles
The temperature had just fallen below freezing.
A dozen chalets stood along the shore of the Saint Lawrence, separated from Route 132 by two kilometres of snowy fields.
This area was a popular summer destination for city dwellers seeking wide horizons, starry nights, and tranquility. But in the winter, it was bleak and practically deserted.
Pale smoke was rising from the chimney of one of the houses.
The interior consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom, and a large main space that served as kitchen, dining room, and living room. A fire was crackling in the cast-iron stove.
The floor was littered with empty vodka bottles, and the air was thick with rancid odours of sweat and decay. The white spruce-panelled walls had clearly seen better days.
A man was sprawled on a couch, fast asleep, when the phone started ringing. He answered on the fifteenth ring.
“Hello?” he groaned.
“Laurent? It’s Nicolas.”
He lay there in silence. The caller spoke again.
“Are you coming to work tomorrow?”
“Uhh … no,” the drunk finally managed to answer. “I’m still sick.”
“Laurent, it’s been five days. I can’t keep covering for you like this. Not without a doctor’s note.”
“I’ll get better soon, I promise.”
“Laurent?”
“Yes?”
“You’re really starting to piss me off.”
Laurent dropped the handset.
He groped for the bottle that stood on the side table, but his fingers touched the cold metal of a pistol.
He seized the weapon and released the safety catch.
Do I finally have the guts?
He cocked the gun and closed his lips around the barrel, his finger tickling the trigger.
Through the bay window, he saw the distant silhouette of an oil tanker moving up the Saint Lawrence.
In the end, Laurent replaced the gun barrel with the spout of a bottle. He’d spent the whole day indoors watching a soporific billiards match on TV.
His only meal had been a can of beans eaten straight from the container. There was no food left in the house. He’d have to go out soon. He hadn’t showered in three days. He was in a tailspin. How had it come to this? Even he couldn’t explain why he’d fallen off the wagon.
The phone rang again. Laurent picked up.
“I’m feeling better, Nicolas,” he said, trying to sound sober. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Laurent, this is Kurt Waldorf. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Leave me alone, Waldorf!” he shouted.
“You never called back. Did you get my letters?”
“What letters?”
Laurent had gotten them, but he’d thrown them in the fire after reading them. What Waldorf was suggesting was madness. The man was out of his mind.
“Laurent, we need to talk about your father.”
“Fuck off! I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it’s sick.”
“Stay where you are, I’m on my way.”
“If you set foot in my house, Waldorf, I’ll shoot you!”
A thick blanket of fog off the river had enveloped the house. The silence was broken now and then by a dry cracking noise as the rising tide compressed the ice floes and broke them up. The sound of the 4x4 approaching along the snowy road failed to rouse Laurent. He didn’t see the imposing figure of the man in the doorway. Nor did he hear the noise of the coffeemaker being turned on.
He was dreaming.
Trois-Pistoles
1998
Under full sail, the vessel is scudding across the cold waters of the Saint Lawrence. The wind is blowing hard from the north, dispersing the fluffy clouds. Two large herons are following them, flying above their foaming wake. The boat runs headlong into a wave, sending a spray of water into his face. He’s pumped on adrenalin, yelling at the top of his lungs as his father keeps a firm grip on the tiller. Laurent looks to his right. He sees the steeple and four shining turrets of the church, built in 1827. Farther east, he can see the outline of the hospital. They’ve been sailing since sunrise. After going around l’île Verte, they stopped for a picnic lunch on l’île aux Pommes, a well-known attraction for birdwatchers. Now they’re coming home. They cruise past a couple of dozen houses standing on stilts at the waterline along the Chemin du Havre, and Laurent sees the place they’ve rented. He observes a tennis game in progress on the court where they often play. At his father’s request, Laurent starts to bring in the sails. Charlène is waiting for them on a bench beside the walkway that runs around the wharf. She gives them a wave, and Laurent waves back. The two men begin to execute docking manoeuvers, and the boat is soon at rest beside the wharf. Laurent gives his father a pleading look. “Tie us up,” his father says, laughing. “I’ll handle everything else.” Laurent knots the dock lines in a hurry, then goes over to Charlène. They share a long, long kiss. Laurent’s father smiles as he watches them walk off toward the Rue Notre-Dame. He looks out across the water and inhales the iodine-tinged salt air. The sun is setting fast, illuminating a golden path across the water. Wanting the boat to be ready for their next outing, the man scrubs the deck. At last, he removes the perishable foods from the refrigerator and stows them in a bulky metal cooler, which he picks up. Gripping this burden, he puts one foot on the wharf and, with the other, pushes off from the sailboat’s gunwale. But instead of providing the resistance he needs to get safely onto the wharf, the boat shifts away abruptly. Thrown off balance, the man falls between the wharf and the boat. His head strikes the concrete edge and he goes down like a stone. On the wharf, people are scrambling to provide assistance. Laurent and Charlène have gotten as far as the rectory. The towering silver steeple of the church fills the sky. Charlène’s mouth tastes of mango and honey. Her hair smells of lavender. A man walks toward them, looking grave. There’s been an accident. The moment Laurent reaches the wharf, he realizes that something isn’t right. He didn’t properly secure the boat’s rope to the cleat.
“Laurent! Wake up.”
He spluttered. A dangerous-looking man had just thrown a glass of water in his face. Laurent tried to get up, but he fell back onto the couch, unable to hold himself upright. The stranger put a cup of coffee on the table.
“Drink.”
Laurent swept his arm across the table, sending the cup and its contents flying.
“Idiot,” the stranger said, grabbing him by the collar. He was in his midforties, dressed in black, and had angular features and a long scar running down the right side of his face.
“Waldorf?” Laurent asked.
“Who else?”
The young man looked around for his gun.
“Don’t even think about it. I took your weapon.”
“Get the fuck out of here, Waldorf, or I’ll call the police!”
He reached for the handset, but it wasn’t there.
“I also hid your phone.”
Laurent glanced around the room. The bottles and trash had disappeared. Freshly washed dishes were drying on the counter. The ashtrays were empty.
An icy wind was blowing in through the open windows.
“Thanks for dropping by to clean the place up, Waldorf. I’ll mail you a cheque.”
“Shut up and listen to me —”
“Go fuck yourself! Who do you think you are, some kind of fortune teller?”
“No, just a man who honours his word. I made a promise to your father, and I’m going to keep it.”
“Even if I believed you, what could I do?”
Waldorf pulled out the pistol and pointed it at Laurent.
“Get in the bedroom.”
“What is this, a joke?”
Waldorf cocked the weapon.
“Fine,” Laurent said scornfully, raising his hands.
He entered the bedroom with the barrel nudging his back.
“Lie down on the bed,” the visitor ordered.
“Sorry, Waldorf, but you’re not my type.”
“Stop messing around!”
With one hand aiming the gun at Laurent, Waldorf used the other to pull out two pairs of handcuffs, which he locked to the bedposts, then to Laurent’s wrists.
“What are you doing?” Laurent asked.
“Keeping my promise,” Waldorf said.
He found a glass in the adjoining bathroom, filled it with water, and fished some pills out of his shirt pocket.
“Open your mouth,” he said, holding the pills in front of Laurent’s face.
“Forget it! You’re going to drug me.”
“No choice,” Waldorf snapped, waving the pistol under Laurent’s nose. “Open up.”
“What are you giving me?”
“Benzodiazepine and acamprosate. They’ll help. I’ll give you a shot of vitamin B1 later.”
Reluctantly, Laurent swallowed the pills. Waldorf was closing the door behind him when the young man called out.
“What the hell is wrong with you? What do you want?”
“To convince you,” Waldorf answered.
“Of what?”
“The fact that I saw Miles.”
PART TWO
I do not believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear.
— Woody Allen
10
Limping, I went out to the hospital parking area and made my way to the taxi stand. My arrival interrupted a conversation among several drivers. From what I could gather, they were talking about The People’s Almanac and its weather forecasts for the coming summer.
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