Without Blood

by Martin Michaud

“So?”

  “Since I don’t have access to prescription databases in other provinces, I couldn’t help him. I suggested that he speak to his doctor.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He walked away, and I went back inside.”

  Lessard glanced sharply at Pearson, who was looking triumphant.

  “This medication, Amytal — does it get prescribed a lot?”

  “Not anymore. For anxiety and sleep problems, benzodiazepines, better known as tranquilizers, have almost completely replaced barbiturates. Benzodiazepines are also used to treat alcoholism.”

  “Why aren’t barbiturates used anymore?”

  “Because tranquilizers don’t carry the same risk of a lethal overdose.”

  “Is the use of barbiturates rare enough that we could pinpoint who was prescribing them?”

  “No. Amytal remains a valid treatment option. Psychiatrists will still prescribe it when the circumstances are right.”

  Having finished the interrogation, Lessard bought three jumbo bottles of Pepto-Bismol. Stepping onto the sidewalk, he gave Pearson the same summary of the situation that he’d given Fernandez a few minutes earlier. They agreed that Pearson would have the pharmacist look at the composite sketch as soon as it became available.

  “What do you make of the information he gave us?” Pearson asked.

  “Fernandez was right. The killer didn’t abandon the car. He came back for it, only to discover that it had been stolen out from under him.” He paused. “There’s something I don’t understand, Chris.” Lessard rarely addressed his younger colleague by his first name. “Why would the killer risk leaving the car unattended with a body in the trunk?”

  “Because he was supposed to meet someone in the neighbourhood?”

  “Maybe. But let’s not forget that Simone Fortin was run over just a few blocks from where he parked the car.”

  “So what? We can’t be certain it was the killer who ran her over.”

  “We can’t be certain, but it’s a fair guess.”

  Pearson looked at him. Lessard continued.

  “We know she was struck at ten-thirty in the morning. The BMW was stolen around noon. What was he doing during that time?”

  “Okay, let’s say you’re right. Maybe he panicked afterward. Maybe he pulled over and got out of the car to settle his nerves. When he went back, the car was gone.”

  “Did he hit her deliberately?”

  “He killed the other two victims with a hunting knife,” Pearson replied without hesitation. “If he wanted to get her, too, why would he use a different method? No, if the killer did run her over, it was definitely by accident.”

  Lessard didn’t know what to think. He had a nagging sense that Simone Fortin was somehow involved in all this, but he couldn’t figure out where the intuition was coming from.

  “What bothers me,” Pearson said, “is the barbiturate thing. Should we be looking for someone who’s depressed? Suicidal?”

  Lessard, who had been given a prescription for antidepressants the previous year, was aware of the prejudices that many people had on the subject.

  “Even if the killer were under treatment for depression, that wouldn’t narrow the field a whole lot. Half of Quebec’s adult population is depressed. We’d be looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  They were silent for a long while.

  “There’s also the question of residency,” Pearson said. “Do you think he really lives in Ontario?”

  “If it was the killer, I’d be surprised if he was reckless enough to reveal where he came from.”

  “So what’s our next move? Is it worth drawing up a list of people who are using barbiturates?”

  “That would take too long, especially if the killer doesn’t live in Quebec. And we’d run into confidentiality issues in a hurry.”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “If the killer really lost his medication because of the car theft, he might try to replace it some other way. Check to see if there have been any pharmacy thefts in the last forty-eight hours. That way we’ll be sure we haven’t overlooked anything.”

  “Then what?” Pearson asked. “Should I continue questioning people in the neighbourhood?”

  “Might as well. You never know.”

  Lessard’s cellphone started humming in his pocket as he was rolling along Victoria Avenue.

  “Lessard.”

  “This is Véronique Poirier. You told me to get in touch if I remembered anything. It’s probably not important, but a reporter came around a few months ago, wanting to ask me some questions.”

  “About Mongeau and his soirées?”

  “Especially the soirées. He was well informed. He mentioned the names of people I’d met at a few of the events. I pretended not to know what he was talking about.”

  “Did he ask about the photographs?”

  “No, he never brought them up. Naturally, I informed Jacques right away. He didn’t seem too surprised, but he called me back a few hours later and asked me to let him know if anyone else came looking for information about the subject. I did a little checking and discovered that the person who had visited me wasn’t a real reporter.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “No. Jacques told me not to worry, he knew what it was about, and it wouldn’t happen again. But I could tell that it bothered him.”

  “Would you recognize this person if you saw him now?”

  “It’s been quite a while, but I think so. He was tall, dark-haired, in his midforties.”

  Lessard pondered for a moment. What did this mean? Could the fake reporter have been a hitman hired to get rid of Mongeau? If so, they would need to find out who had hired him.

  Véronique Poirier’s description didn’t match the ones furnished by Mongeau’s secretary and the pharmacist. It occurred to Lessard that Tanguay was fairly tall, dark-haired, and in his midforties.

  He had a feeling that something was out of place. But what?

  “I can hear the wheels turning.”

  “Sorry,” Lessard said. “Do you remember when this person came to see you?”

  “It was last summer. Before my vacation, I think. Sometime in late June or early July 2004.”

  More than eight months had passed since then. Was there a link between this incident and the murder?

  A sudden sensation of defeat washed over him. He wasn’t going to make it. He longed to buy a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and drink himself into oblivion.

  “Victor?”

  His heart jumped. Had she just called him by his first name?

  “I know you’re in the middle of a difficult case, but when it’s over, we should go out for dinner sometime. Do you enjoy open-air whirlpools and saunas? This is the ideal season to go to a spa.”

  Lessard felt light-headed. He’d never been to a spa, but he knew people wore swimsuits there.

  “It would be a pleasure,” he heard himself say.

  “Great. See you soon.”

  She hung up.

  It would be a pleasure.

  Had he really said that in the smooth, confident tone of a man of the world? Had he, Victor Lessard, pronounced those words? Was it conceivable that an exquisite woman like Véronique Poirier was actually interested in a loser like him?

  He glanced around. Surely, somebody was about to emerge from an unseen corner and point to a hidden camera.

  25

  Trois-Pistoles

  I got up, taking care not to wake Kurt Waldorf.

  I regretted not having offered to share the bed with him. He had slept fully clothed in the sagging armchair, and he would certainly feel the painful effects when he woke up.

  How had I ended up here?

  It was quite simple, really.

  After approaching me in the parking lot, Waldorf offered to drive me to the only local motel that was open at that hour. It was four in the morning. I was bone-tired, I didn’t know Trois-Pistoles, and frankly, how could things get any worse? Ig
noring the instinct that urged me to be suspicious of the man, I followed Waldorf to his car.

  While he drove, I checked my messages. Ariane had tried to reach me while my phone was off. I was hesitant to bother her at this hour, but I knew she always turned off her cellphone at night. My call went directly to voice mail. I left her a message saying I’d gone on a short trip to the Lower Saint Lawrence region, and I wasn’t sure when I’d get back, but I’d tell her all about it when we saw each other. I asked her please not to worry, and also, if it wasn’t too much trouble, to stop in at my place and feed the cat.

  As I was turning the key in the lock of my motel-room door, the anxious voice in my head got louder.

  Why are you letting this man come in with you? Because he wants to talk about Miles, and I need to understand what’s going on!

  Waldorf pulled the table into the middle of the room and drew up two chairs. Then, like a magician, he produced a bottle of vodka from the folds of his coat and placed it on the table. I took two plastic glasses from the edge of the sink and removed their cellophane wrapping. He half filled them and dropped in some ice cubes that he’d gotten from the reception clerk.

  As I brought the glass to my lips, I felt myself getting woozy again. He caught me before I fell off the chair and helped me to the bed.

  “Let me examine you.”

  “I’m okay.”

  I looked at him warily. Who did he think he was, wanting to examine me?

  “I insist.”

  Without putting on his coat, he walked out to his car and came back with a medical bag.

  I sat up, ready to fight him off.

  “Relax,” he said. “I’m a neurosurgeon. Or was, anyway.”

  He looked about as much like a neurosurgeon as I looked like a belly dancer. But I didn’t resist. His voice was so warm, so sincere. A man with a voice like that couldn’t possibly have evil intentions.

  Waldorf shone a bright light in my eyes and checked my blood pressure.

  “You’ve sustained a head injury,” he said, unwrapping the cuff from my arm. “Your pressure’s a little on the high side, but on the whole, you seem okay.”

  “I don’t —”

  “When did you come out of your coma?”

  The conversation had just taken a very weird turn. In my astonishment, I could think of nothing better to tell him than the truth.

  “Yesterday afternoon at two-thirty. But how did you —”

  He interrupted me once more. “You didn’t waste any time. It took me several weeks to work up the nerve to come looking for Miles.”

  I didn’t blink at this further revelation.

  “You’re the second person in less than twelve hours who’s tried to convince me that you saw him. Is this a conspiracy?”

  “So you’ve met Gustave, have you?”

  Two glasses of vodka were enough to batter down the last of my defences. Dazed by alcohol and fatigue, I wanted to learn more about Gustave, but Waldorf, who was seated with his legs crossed on the sagging armchair, stopped me short.

  “You need to rest. I’ll wake you up in a few hours.”

  I had so many unanswered questions.

  Under normal conditions, I’d have fought tooth and nail to extract every shred of information he possessed. But at that moment, his voice had seemed to be coming from far away, and the mattress was as soft and yielding as the creamy foam on a café au lait. Even so, I tried to press him, if only out of pride. “How did you find me?”

  “I asked to be notified if anyone came to visit Miles.”

  I was drifting off. Waldorf spoke again.

  “Did Miles speak to you about his son, Laurent?”

  “Yes.”

  My eyelids were heavy. My speech was slurred. Waldorf hesitated.

  “He’s here in Trois-Pistoles. We’ll go see him tomorrow.”

  As he said those words, I fell asleep.

  And that was how I ended up in this room.

  Though it might have seemed like an impossible feat, the motel dining area managed to be even uglier than the room. Waldorf ordered orange juice and a plate of bacon and eggs. I settled for a cup of sour coffee and a limp croissant.

  The waitress brought our meals to the table and we ate in silence. After a few minutes, Waldorf pushed his empty plate aside.

  I clearly remembered that he and I had discussed Miles, his son, and Gustave before I’d fallen asleep. I was desperate to know more.

  “Kurt, I —”

  Perhaps anticipating my question, he cut me off gently, as though reluctant to hurt the feelings of an old friend.

  “I know, Simone. I owe you an explanation.”

  He took a few seconds to gather his thoughts. I took a sip of coffee and grimaced. Through the window, I saw a car go by on the wet asphalt.

  “Not so long ago, I thought I had the perfect life. I’d been married for sixteen years to an extraordinary woman. I worked as a neurosurgeon at the Cité de la Santé Hospital in Laval. I was a successful professional, respected by my colleagues. I had money, a country house, ample opportunities to travel …”

  His features grew sombre, and I couldn’t help thinking that I, too, had once aspired to a successful and prosperous life.

  “That perfect life continued until one chilly evening in October of 2004. I was driving home after a day of surgery. I can’t even remember if I felt tired. Should I have been worried about falling asleep at the wheel? In any case, that’s what happened. I woke up twelve days later in the intensive care unit, having sustained a cranial trauma and multiple fractures to my legs and pelvis. My car had plowed into the back of a tractor-trailer. By some miracle, I wasn’t permanently disabled. In the first few hours after I regained consciousness, I had trouble recognizing my wife. But my condition improved rapidly. Within twenty-four hours, my neurological signs were back to normal. Everything was fine, except that a memory was haunting me, a memory so strange that I didn’t dare mention it to anyone. While I was in a coma, I had met a man named Miles.”

  I felt myself grow tense in my chair, my fingertips whitening as I clutched the armrests. I looked at Waldorf with an expression of incredulity, even though I knew he was telling the truth.

  “I’m not religious or spiritually inclined. Being a physician, I had to get past some serious doubts. I was assailed by the same questions that have surely been eating at you. Was it a dream? Was I crazy?”

  Listening to Waldorf describe his uncertainty, I felt simultaneously relieved and terribly woozy, as though realizing for the first time the full implications of what I’d been through.

  “You can well imagine that for someone like me, someone who prides himself on his knowledge of the brain and its functions, the level of disbelief was very high. Could my coma really have brought me into contact with another comatose person? Naturally, the idea struck me as absolutely inconceivable. After a few days in the hospital, I went home. I spent hours on the internet, searching medical databases for reports of similar cases, but I came up empty-handed. As the weeks went by, I resumed my day-to-day life, trying to convince myself that nothing had happened. I didn’t want to talk to my wife about it, because I felt afflicted by a shameful deficiency. Eventually, unable to stand it anymore, I decided to consult a trusted colleague, a man I knew to be more open-minded than I was when it came to spiritual matters. After hearing me describe my experience, he put me through a battery of tests, more for the purpose of calming my fears, I now realize, than of figuring out what was going on. The tests came back perfectly normal, and my colleague tried to convince me that I was simply suffering from the post-traumatic effects of my head injury. All of which led to one inescapable conclusion: if this man refused to entertain the possibility that something unaccountable had happened, then no one else would, either.”

  Remembering my own brief conversation with Ariane, I knew the hopelessness he’d felt as he realized that the whole world might start questioning his grasp on reality.

  Waldorf went on. “I trie
d to put the matter behind me, but I couldn’t. It had become an obsession. I finally opened up to my wife and close friends. If you insist on speaking frankly about uncanny experiences, people are quick to let you know they don’t appreciate it. When you walk into a room, you can see them whispering, ‘Poor Kurt, he hasn’t been the same since the accident. He’s not all there.’”

  “Your wife didn’t believe you?”

  He lowered his gaze. “That was the hardest part. The accident left me with a permanent impairment of my fine motor skills. When it comes to everyday tasks, I’m okay, but as far as surgery’s concerned, my career is over. So a big part of my world came tumbling down after the accident. Surgery had been my life.” He gazed vacantly into space for a moment. “I think my wife came to believe that I’d invented the story to avoid having to face reality.” He stared at the wall for a long time, as though scenes from his past were being projected there. “But there was more to it than that. The accident opened other wounds. Over the weeks that followed, my wife became a stranger to me.” His expression clouded over. “We separated more than two months ago. That was when I started trying to locate Miles.”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be,” he answered. “It’s in times of hardship that we learn the truth about those closest to us.” He paused. “I haven’t yet succeeded in grasping the phenomenon, let alone explaining it. But after torturing myself for weeks, I’ve realized that I have two choices: I can believe or I can deny. I choose to believe. I choose to accept that these things really happened.”

  “You mentioned Gustave earlier. How do you know him?”

  “He approached me when he saw me hanging around Miles’s hospital room. It’s not easy to have a rational conversation with Gustave, but from what I could gather, he spent more than a week in a coma as a result of a snowboarding accident. He had an experience similar to yours and mine. But he decided to deny what had happened … or rather, he settled on an explanation of his own.”

  “The men from the other world.”

  “Exactly.”

  At least two other people had been through the same thing as me. One of them, Kurt Waldorf, was a trained neurosurgeon and a highly articulate man.