I had to face facts. My loss of consciousness and my encounter with Miles were irreconcilable. The most plausible explanation? Our meeting had been a hallucination, invented by my unconscious mind in the aftermath of my brief coma.
But this logic didn’t explain everything.
Although the décor was completely different and Miles was nowhere to be seen, how was it possible that I had found the apartment? If Miles only existed in my mind, who had visited the place previously?
I couldn’t help wondering whether, like a schizophrenic, I was living in several parallel realities at the same time.
I had never missed my mother so desperately. I had so many things to tell her, so much anguish to overcome.
During the months that had followed her death, I wished someone could have helped me to understand my fits of teenage apathy, my ingratitude, my sulks. I had lost my mother before reaching adulthood, before I was ready to face the hardships of grown-up life.
After Étienne died, the sensation of emptiness had plunged me into a state of misery that obliterated my emotional resources. I had emerged from that ordeal alone and liberated; I had overcome paranoia, the sickness that destroys minds.
The events of the last few hours were troubling. They threatened to wreck the delicate balance that I had taken years to establish. I didn’t want to sink back into that abyss.
It’s only when a person is dead that you realize how many things you wanted to say. Oh, Mom, if only you were here.
I was close to the spot where the car had hit me. Fearing that I might run into someone from work and be obliged to talk about the accident, I turned left onto Blueridge Crescent, thus avoiding my office building.
After I’d walked a few metres, the back of my neck began to tingle disagreeably. Something wasn’t right. I could feel it.
I spun around. Once again, I saw the man in the duffle coat. I could have sworn that he looked straight at me before melting into the flow of pedestrians.
Was it my imagination, or was he following me? This time, I would find out. A city bus was coming up the street. I waited for it to approach, then darted into the street in front of it. The driver honked at me, but I got safely across. On the far sidewalk, I spotted an apartment building that had a canvas awning over its front entrance. From this vantage point, I’d be able to conceal myself from passersby.
If the man in the duffle coat was following me, my sudden change of course would certainly provoke a reaction. He would have no choice but to reveal himself.
I scanned the opposite sidewalk. A heavy-set woman carrying several plastic bags lumbered onto the street, followed by a little boy. Two teenage girls came next, passing a cigarette back and forth.
There was no sign of the man.
Come on, Miles, show yourself and let’s clear this whole thing up.
I squinted. Where was he? I left my observation post for a few seconds to make way for a young couple leaving the building. Then I went back to my position and resumed the search. Still nothing. Disheartened, I emerged from my hiding place ten minutes later. The man had vanished once again.
• • •
I started walking again, with rage in my heart.
What are you playing at, Miles?
Stepping around an orange trestle that blocked a section of collapsed sidewalk, I went by the front window of a health food store. I looked absently at the displays offering a variety of dietary supplements. The longer I walked, the stronger my sense that I was straying away from familiar territory. I felt as lost as a musician without a score.
That thought brought back a distant memory.
When I was a child, my father had insisted that I take violin lessons. Despite the fact that I didn’t particularly like the instrument, I had forced myself to master its basics, only allowing myself to quit at last after several years of instruction.
Another memory, even more distant, came back to me.
One Christmas, my father had given me a pair of gloves. It was usually my mother who purchased Christmas presents, but this particular holiday season, I knew my father had picked out the gloves himself. And although I would have preferred to receive a doll, and despite the fact that the gloves weren’t the right size, I hadn’t shown any hint of dissatisfaction. I had proudly worn those gloves for the rest of that winter, as well as the following three. That’s how oversized they were.
I had spent my entire childhood offering my father similar gestures of unspoken consideration, because I was afraid to disappoint him or to hurt his feelings.
When would I finally have the courage to reconcile with him?
I stopped short. Something had snagged my attention. I wondered briefly whether I’d caught another glimpse of the man in the duffle coat. I looked around, studying the faces of the passersby. A slender woman in a poorly tailored wool outfit was walking along distractedly, moving her lips. A few steps behind, a girl was rummaging through her bag, trying to locate a ringing cellphone.
I turned my head.
No, it’s something else.
It was some nearby object that had stood out, somehow, as I walked distractedly past the storefronts.
I turned around and went back the way I had come, with my senses on high alert, swivelling slowly as I tried to scan as much of the street as possible. But despite my efforts, I couldn’t identify the object that had caught my eye.
A man strode by and gave me a smile. I wanted to scream in frustration. Suddenly, I froze in front of the health food store.
The gargoyles!
Atop the building’s façade, I saw a winged demon.
I was trembling.
This is the building where I had a cup of coffee with Miles.
13
Sitting alone in the hospital cafeteria, away from the other tables, Lessard was going over his notes, trying to spot connections and establish patterns. He wanted to proceed methodically, but he kept doubling back, worried that he might have overlooked some important element. The coffee he’d bought was the worst he’d tasted since puberty. He was about to complain to the attendant when the hum of his cellphone brought him up short.
“Lessard.”
“It’s Berger.”
“Thanks for calling, Jacob. How are you doing?”
There was a long, weary sigh.
“Same old, same old. People think it’s cool being a medical examiner. If they only knew how much useless paperwork is involved …”
Lessard had to make an effort to restrain his temper.
“I appreciate your coming in so quickly. Have you finished?”
“Initial findings, yes. I’ll still need to do a full autopsy in the lab.”
“And?”
Berger sighed again, sounding like a lovesick teenager. “Death occurred a few hours ago, no more. It was caused by stab wounds to the chest, three or four in all, inflicted with a knife.”
“The slashed throat didn’t kill him?”
“It would have done the job, but I don’t think that was the fatal wound.”
“Why not?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, the man was already dying when the killer cut his throat. The internal organs were a mush, Victor. Hemorrhaging was massive.”
“What kind of knife was used?”
“I’ll have a better idea after the autopsy, but at first glance, I’d say it was a hunting or survival knife. One edge smooth, the other serrated.”
Lessard pulled out his notebook and started writing.
“What about the severed finger?”
“It was cut off post-mortem.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Lessard didn’t speak for a few seconds. If the finger had been cut off after death, that ruled out the possibility that the victim was tortured to extract information.
Unless they found proof to the contrary, they had to presume that the killer had sliced off the finger for a specific reason. The idea of a device equipped with fingerprint recognition was sudd
enly much more interesting. The team would need to look into this.
“In your opinion, Jacob, what are we dealing with here?”
“Well, the killer knew what he was doing.”
“What do you mean? Someone with a medical background?”
“Possibly, but not necessarily. The killer knew where to strike to cause the greatest damage with the fewest blows.”
“So, a doctor? A soldier?”
“Could be anyone, really. These days, there are websites that’ll teach you how to build a bomb. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Victor, but it’s a sick world out there.”
Lessard wasn’t about to argue with that. He’d seen his share of horrors over the last ten years.
“Yes, I’ve noticed. Call me if you come up with anything else.”
After hanging up, he put on his leather jacket and went out to his car. The conversation with Berger had given him an idea.
• • •
The wind had risen, gusting from the north.
Lessard drove east along Doctor Penfield, turned down De la Montagne and went south as far as Notre-Dame, then headed east again. He parked his Corolla in front of Baron Sports, a hunting and fishing store, and slid a few coins into the parking meter.
He knew the store from having come here to buy a rod and reel for Martin. They’d been planning a father-and-son fishing expedition, but the souring of their relationship had scotched that plan. Things had gone from bad to worse after the separation.
He walked into the store. It was empty.
The detective sergeant approached a sales clerk who was bent over a crossword puzzle. He asked to see some hunting knives.
“Ungoverned chaos,” the clerk said. “Seven letters. Any ideas?”
Lessard shrugged.
“Sorry.”
Slender as an altar boy, the clerk set aside his puzzle with reluctance and, moving unhurriedly, led Victor to a glass case. Lessard saw a few dozen blades on display: daggers, survival knives, hunting knives.
“I’m looking for something sturdy, smooth on one side, serrated on the other. What have you got?”
“Depends on what you want to do with it.”
Without going into specifics, Lessard explained that he was working on an investigation. This seemed to motivate the clerk, who laid out five different models of survival knife on the counter, all of them meeting the detective sergeant’s requirements.
Lessard picked one up, a black-and-silver weapon with a set of immense teeth running along its upper edge.
“That’s the knife from Rambo,” the clerk said.
“The movie?”
“Yes.”
“Is it well made?”
“It’s manufactured by a reputable company that puts out lots of products. If you’re looking for a good survival knife, they don’t come any better than this one. It’ll slice an arm in half or cut firewood. There’s a compass in the handle. It even has a compartment for matches.”
“Is it popular?”
“Yes, it’s a steady seller.”
“What kind of people buy these knives?”
“The occasional Rambo fan. Hunters love them.”
“Are they easy to come by?”
“Any store like this one would carry them.”
“I’ll take it.”
The clerk drew up a bill of sale.
Above the cash register, two mounted caribou heads on the wall were gazing down at Lessard. He took out his wallet and gave the clerk his credit card. He would put in a request for reimbursement later. Just then, as his phone began to ring, it came to him.
“Anarchy.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ungoverned chaos. Seven letters. Anarchy.”
The clerk thanked him, stepped behind the counter, and went back to his crossword. With a last glance at the caribou heads, Lessard pressed a button on his phone and took the call.
------------------------
Built in Italian Renaissance style, the dome of Saint Joseph’s Oratory overlooked the city. “It’s the biggest in the world, after Saint Peter’s in Rome,” Mrs. Espinosa had explained to Snake. When it came to churches, the lady knew her stuff.
They had taken the BMW right up to the oratory entrance, avoiding the hundreds of steps that true believers still climbed on their knees on Christian feast days.
They went inside.
Snake, who had never visited the place before, was surprised by the modern, unadorned style of its interior. He was no expert on architecture, but as he looked up at the arching golden-hued ceramic ceiling, he estimated that the sanctuary must be as big as two football fields.
While Mrs. Espinosa was lighting a votive candle in memory of the oratory’s founder, Brother André, Snake walked to the end of the apse. There, behind a monumental grille, he saw the Saint-Sacrement chapel, the most richly decorated section of the building.
Mrs. Espinosa knelt and began her prayers, which generally went on for about ten minutes. Snake looked over an information pamphlet that he’d picked up at the entrance. With a yawn, he read that the oratory was among the largest religious structures built in the heart of a major city, ranking behind only Saint Peter’s in Rome and Sacré Coeur in Paris.
The old lady was right. But Snake didn’t care. He was nodding off when she gave him a little shake and informed him that her prayers were done.
They got back in the car and drove along Queen Mary to Victoria Avenue, then headed south. Reaching Côte-Saint-Luc Road, Snake turned onto the entrance ramp to the Décarie Expressway.
He took Mrs. Espinosa to a shopping centre near the Blue Bonnets raceway.
During the drive, she pointed out that there was an unpleasant smell in the car. She was right. Luckily, he’d be handing off the BMW to Tool later in the day.
At the shopping centre, she bought a variety of soaps and skin creams, a striped dress that she wouldn’t be able to fit into unless she lost twenty pounds, and a thousand other useless toiletries. Poor Mrs. Espinosa. How could she be so intent on making herself pretty when a single glance in the mirror should have been enough to convince her that it was a lost cause?
Maybe that’s what happens when people get old, Snake mused.
He offered to carry the old lady’s packages. Loaded down like a mule, he had to struggle to make it to the car. Placing the packages on the ground, he unlocked the passenger door and helped Mrs. Espinosa get settled.
Then he opened the trunk to stow her purchases.
A stench of putrefaction billowed up into his face. He slammed the trunk shut, threw the packages in the back seat and sped out of the parking lot.
“What’s the matter, my boy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
What he’d seen was worse than any ghost.
There was a hockey bag in the trunk, with a lock of blond hair sticking out through its closed zipper. Snake had never seen a dead body before, but the smell made it clear that he’d been driving around with one all day.
He needed to drop off Mrs. Espinosa as quickly as possible and then call Jimbo.
He was doing a hundred kilometres an hour in a fifty zone. He eased up on the gas pedal. The last thing he needed was to be stopped by the police.
The old lady had been staring at him since they’d left the shopping centre.
“What’s wrong, my boy? You’re white as a sheet.”
------------------------
Lessard was still on his phone as he walked to the car.
“What we have so far is still very preliminary,” Fernandez said. “Mongeau started out as a general practitioner in the South Shore of Montreal. Then he got interested in politics. During the 1984 federal election, he was a Liberal candidate in the constituency of Taschereau, where he lost. From 1986 to 1994, he was principal secretary to the prime minister. He was known to be a man of influence, heavily involved in party financing. He was named executive director of a hospital in the Quebec City area in 1997. He held the job until last year, when he to
ok a similar post at the Montreal General Hospital.”
“Do we know why?”
“Apparently his wife pressured him to come back to Montreal. She was tired of only seeing him on weekends. I talked to the chairman of the board at the General. According to him, Mongeau was an excellent manager, well respected by medical staff, very hard-working. He had a reputation for being fair and, above all, very well connected.”
“Any criminal record?”
“No, but I found a complaint for sexual harassment dating back to 1978. It seems to have been dropped. It’s the only blot I’ve found on his record so far.”
Lessard opened the door of his rust-covered Corolla and got behind the wheel. They would have to go on digging. They needed to find an opening.
“Nice work, Nadja. Keep searching. If there’s a chink in the guy’s armour, we need to know what it is. Have you checked his bank records?”
“Not yet, I haven’t had time. But I did speak to the president of Atlas, a company that specializes in biometrics.”
“And?”
“He says the fingerprint-recognition market has been growing like crazy since the late 1990s. Apparently, there are all kinds of uses for the technology. It’s incorporated into safes and strongboxes, but also into more common items like computer mice and cellphones.”
Lessard was suddenly seeing his ancient Nokia in a new light. “Is it really that widespread?”
“The market is exploding. Several of these applications are readily available.”
“We’d better widen our search. If I’m hearing you right, the victim’s index finger could be used to open a safe, to get into a computer, or to access a cellphone.”
“Among other things.”
This wasn’t good news. They were already groping in the dark. The fact that the commander had called a press conference for 7:00 p.m. didn’t help matters.
Lessard felt a bout of heartburn coming on, as he did whenever his stress levels rose. “Okay. Stay focused on the guy’s bank records. As for biometrics, I’ll have Sirois question Mongeau’s wife. For now, that’ll be our starting point.”
He hung up and spent a few seconds scouring his memory. He had a nagging sense that he’d forgotten something. But it faded away. He put his key in the Corolla’s ignition.
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