The Storm Murders

by John Farrow

  All that wasn’t so bad, he considered. Sandra had shocked him more, perhaps, by saying that she was done with horses than she did when she let him know that she might be finished with him. Without horses, whatever came next for her would be a complete rebuild, a transformation. Surely the same held true for him. His change had been thrust upon him, partly by circumstance, but primarily by time, whereas Sandra wanted to reshape her outlook, redistribute her priorities, develop alternate routines and charter unknown territory if for no other reason than to do so. She honored change over routine or familiarity. Given his own situation he saw the virtue in that, both for her, and by extension, for himself. So this wasn’t so bad. If she was willing to let him be a part of her next move in life, then he was at a juncture when he could thoroughly accommodate whatever she might choose.

  Down in his coat pocket, his fingers discovered an old stick of gum. He took it out and studied it in the gloaming to ascertain that the wrapper hadn’t been compromised, then removed it from the sheath, folded it in half, and dropped it into his mouth. Cinq-Mars chewed on that as he mulled his life.

  As the day’s last light vanished and the smoky fire was close to being extinguished, he considered the lives of the four who died on that farm. Morris and Adele Lumen, Officers Ron Bouvard and Marc Casgrain. A sorry, wretched business. Had it been him in similar circumstances dispatched to answer a call as a young policeman in uniform, his own life might have been snuffed out as quickly. Those boys would never know the blessings of a long and honorable career, or have families, or grow, like him, old. And the Lumens, what threshold had they crossed during their sojourn on earth to warrant such a swift, brutal demise? What linked them to the violent deaths of others? What developments brought them from who knows where—Nebraska, he was told, via Everardo flores, although some said the Maritimes, but really nobody knew—from who knows where, then, to land on a farm in Quebec now reduced to cinders and ash? And why, he asked himself point-blank, couldn’t he solve this are?

  Maybe if he was still a cop, able to tap into available resources and personnel, maybe then he could solve this. Stuck on his own on a farm, he had given it the old college try, but he felt much like a collegian suddenly thrust into a workforce and out of his element. In any case, excuses aside, he failed.

  Cinq-Mars considered his situation comparable to one of those impossible crosswords that so flummoxed him these days. When he peeked at the answers, he understood the clues, but when the next crossword came in, once again he could not comprehend what on earth was being asked. He didn’t really want to think this way, yet Émile was convinced that persons less intelligent than himself (although he was beginning to have his doubts about that), less well read, who possessed inferior vocabularies to his own were far more astute at the game. He didn’t get that. He supposed that if he was ever going to get the knack of these infernal things he would have to learn the logic behind the clues. That’s what he didn’t grasp now, and so he was deeply frustrated.

  He decided that he wasn’t enjoying the stale stick of gum so much, spit it out, and climbed back into his Jeep. He turned the motor on, let the heat blast him and tipped the toggle switch to warm his seat. So what if the damn car burst into flames and scorched his rear end? One more fire on the evening air, big deal. He put the vehicle into drive and moved it about a foot when he clamped down on the brake pedal again and backed up that same short distance off the road.

  What had he been telling himself?

  An unprovoked excitement drifted across the pores of his forearms, all the way under his down coat and shirt.

  To do crosswords, he’d have to learn the particular language of the clues.

  One more thing: once he read the answers, he understood the clues.

  He was not convinced that he could turn around his success at crossword puzzles, but was his inner self not speaking to him across a widening chasm?

  He had to find the answers to understand the clues.

  He’d been going at this the wrong way around! He was hoping for clues to lead him to answers, as they did in every other case he’d ever investigated. This one, though, was different, and required a different approach. Cheat. Go straight to the answers. Figure out the clues later.

  But how to do that?

  As exciting as the possibility seemed, it also appeared unfathomable.

  Émile checked his watch. The correct time was available to him on the car’s dash, but he wanted the old familiar comfort of looking at the hands of a watch to tell him what he needed to know. Yet that time check became protracted, and he took a moment to admire, once again, his elegant timepiece.

  What, he wondered, am I doing wearing such a thing? All that money on his wrist. A gift, but a gift from people who hated him, admired him, resented him, loved him, dismissed him, revered him, some of whom were so glad that he was leaving his job they’d chipped in to buy him the watch. What did he care for all that sentiment worn on his wrist? Next to nothing. But he admired the timepiece. The real question though wasn’t what he was doing by wearing an instrument of such obvious value on his wrist, but what was he doing enjoying it so much.

  Times, if he could permit himself the pun, change.

  So did he.

  He started the drive home, feeling cautious, alert, awaiting bright answers.

  He didn’t need to assess more clues. They weren’t going to help much. He only needed answers. Thinking that way, he soon felt freer, brighter, more attuned to himself and, as a consequence, to his case. He felt that if he didn’t solve the puzzle by the time he went to bed that night, he would most likely wake up in the morning with the whole thing figured out. Just like that. Like magic.

  Answers first. His new mantra. Then the clues.

  Solve it first. Understand it later.

  Little did he know that he was destined to figure everything out much sooner than expected. He had barely walked through the front door to his farmhouse when he understood everything.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  As Merlin padded through to the vestibule to greet him, lacking, it seemed, his customary enthusiasm, Émile heard Sandra preparing dinner in the kitchen. He removed and hung up his winter coat, kicked off his boots, and leaned down from his significant height to stroke the dog’s brow and snout. Merlin carried on as curiously cheerless although he managed a faint tail-wag on his way back to rejoin Sandra. Émile kept his eyes on him. He often sought her company—or her protection, or to protect her—when distressed. Cinq-Mars returned his coat to the rack a second time, it had slid off a hook encumbered with jackets, then wandered through to the kitchen. Hands in the sink, Sandra tilted her lips to him, they kissed, and before he could fill her in about the fire or inquire about her day, the phone rang.

  Émile answered the wall-mount. “Cinq-Mars.”

  Sandra rolled her eyes. Clearly, reforming his salutation was a lost cause.

  “Émile, hi, it’s Bill.”

  “Sergeant-Detective,” Cinq-Mars said, “how goes the battle?”

  “Still driving home, of course, but Borde’s people just called him. Then he called me. We have the answer you were looking for.”

  “I don’t recall the question, but go ahead.”

  “The dead pets, gas can, and empty packs of accelerant, as near as Borde could figure out over the phone while he was driving, were dumped in more or less the same spot. What’s your best guess, Émile? Coincidence? Or the same guy?”

  Clues were not going to help him, he already decided that. He needed to start thinking from the perspective of the answers.

  “Hang on,” he said. He processed Mathers’s news, but something else was bugging him. Merlin went over to his food bowl and somewhat disinterestedly helped himself, then slurped water, then moved off again. Cinq-Mars continued to study the dog’s bowl. Holding the phone to his chest, he asked Sandra, “You fed Merl?”

  She looked up. “No. Why? It’s not time.” The geriatric dog was on a strict diet and feeding schedule. They never al
tered it. Yet he had more food in his bowl, by far, than when Cinq-Mars left the house for the day.

  He got back on with Mathers. “Bill? Where are you exactly?”

  He had stopped for a doughnut. He mentioned that without a shred of embarrassment. “Near the Île aux Tourtes right now. Still on the west side.”

  He was referring to the bridge to take him back onto the Island of Montreal.

  “I know an excellent shortcut from there, Bill. Saves time. You can skip a ton of traffic.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Take the turn-off to go east of Aldgate, Bill. Cut your time in half.”

  Privy to only one side of the conversation, Sandra, who was busy at the sink and running water to wash lettuce, knew that what he said made no sense. Or made sense in an alarming way. She turned off the tap and stared at him.

  A grim fright reared up.

  Émile was waiting for Mathers to respond. He understood that the man needed a moment to process his code. His silence meant that he grasped that it was code, but he needed him to not only understand it but to do so at lightning speed. His life might depend on Bill Mathers getting this, and fast.

  “Yeah,” Mathers said. “You’re right. That’s a timesaver. Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He meant it the other way around. He had a problem. “You owe me.” He meant that the other way around as well.

  “You’re right about that.” He meant that he understood. “Take care, Émile.” He meant exactly that, for Émile to take care.

  Émile put the phone back in its cradle. He whispered, “Of course,” to himself, then turned to face Sandra. Their eyes locked. “Us, too,” he told her quietly, redoubling her trenchant fear.

  By the way her eyes shifted to the bottom cupboard next to the pantry he could tell that she understood him. Then she looked back at him, and Émile tilted his head in such a way that she looked over at Merlin’s food bowl. She dried her hands on a dish towel. Sandra was a good American girl. She had no qualms about crossing the kitchen at that moment, even though her knees felt like jelly, to open the undercounter cupboard to take out her shotgun. Her weapon, not Émile’s. She pulled out a box of shells and inserted one in each barrel and dropped more shells into the side pockets of her blue cardigan with the rope-like weave that hung extra-low on her hips. She looked back at Émile.

  “Rather than go out again later,” he said in a normal voice, “why don’t we feed and water the horses now? Then relax for the evening.”

  That voice of his. He was telling her that someone might be listening.

  Although she already guessed as much.

  “Good idea,” she said.

  He moved across to the gas range and turned the flames under two pots off. He checked that the oven wasn’t on, turned, and indicated the front door. A finger to his lips curtailed further discussion. Sandra tapped her thigh to invite Merlin along and the old dog fell into step behind her, though he seemed reluctant.

  In the front vestibule, they discreetly took turns holding the shotgun. They dressed for the out-of-doors and a cold barn, then went out with the weapon, which was cracked, concealed under Émile’s down coat. They crossed the yard between the two buildings, Sandra going on ahead, Merlin at her heels. The side door intended as a convenience for humans was still heavy and more broad than any normal one, mainly to facilitate the passage of wheelbarrows and wagons, though nothing the size of the barn door for horses. Sandra heaved it open without any help as Émile’s hands were occupied. Inside, he removed the shotgun from under his arm. Sandra swung the door shut and turned on him in an instant.

  “What the hell is going on!”

  “Sshhh!” he urged her.

  She quieted instantly. “Nobody can hear us in here.” Her statement carried the inflection of a question.

  “We don’t know that.” She was about to object when he put two fingers on her lips. He whispered, “Don’t assume this isn’t sophisticated.”

  She urgently wanted to ask what the hell that could even mean, but she didn’t. Not so hard to imagine. Listening devices. Bugs. Wireless this and remote that. Even out here on the lone prairie they had satellite TV for heaven’s sake, so who knew what toys bad guys might be playing with?

  Whoever they were, they might have satellites, too.

  Émile was walking past the horse stalls to the rear of the barn and Sandra scurried after him. She didn’t appreciate being left alone. Merlin chose not to follow. Émile checked the latch at the rear—it was closed—then stuck a peg through the bolt. The peg hung by the side of the door permanently for those rare times when they wanted to lock that door to extreme weather. He returned to the front and the big barn doors that, apart from their latch, could be bound together and shut by fitting a six-foot-long two-by-ten plank, through four pad eyes. Which he did.

  Émile then returned to the door they had entered and looked out the window. The old cracked glass was barely opaque after a winter’s dirty abuse. The house stood as they left it, with a few lights on, but no movement within could be detected.

  Indeed, the whole of the farm seemed serene and quiet.

  Just as he loved it.

  He motioned his wife over to his side and whispered directly into her ear, as quietly as he possibly could and still be heard. “The Lumens’ barn burned. If somebody tries that here—only a remote chance—we shoot our way out.”

  She looked into his eyes then. She’d given herself barely a moment to be scared, but fright took hold now, simmering. She breathed in deeply. No time for histrionics. Explanations could come later. She’d been through enough with Émile before to know that she had to be brave, smart, expectant, and decisive. She nodded.

  Merlin whimpered. They didn’t know why. The cold and damp of the barn? He never liked it, but he was used to it. Their inactivity? He was staring away from them as he did whenever a horse put him on his guard with unsettled behavior.

  But no horses were out.

  In a stall, one lone mare whinnied.

  Émile let Sandra carry the weapon. She grew up shooting grouse, gophers, and wild fowl. She could hit targets with that thing better than he could and fire and reload more rapidly than he could, and anyway her life was the one he most wanted to protect.

  He checked his mobile phone. No communication from Mathers or Borde. He had to hope and pray that their silence derived from intention, not neglect. Some trap I laid here. He considered smiling. But self-mockery could not help him now.

  Then Émile thought to look up. He scanned the rafters, but his vision was limited, as the floor for the hay loft above him covered most of the barn’s footprint. The ceiling was low, one reason he was hoping to buy a new barn.

  Sandra followed his gaze. A barn cat poked its head out from the loft, staring back. “You don’t think?” she asked. Right inside her coat, against her skin, she felt a chill that held her as if by a human’s grip.

  Émile whispered, “Let’s get in the Jeep. I didn’t think. I’m supposed to think. I was being a cop, wanting to catch him. But I don’t have to do that anymore.”

  He was legitimately cross with himself and breathing heavier. Sandra was watching him, breathing more rapidly as well. She wanted to comfort him, but wasn’t in any shape to do so.

  “He knew we’d come out here sooner or later. Or one of us would. To look after the horses.”

  “Who? What’ve you brought on us, Émile?”

  “Burning the Lumens’ barn was a distraction. To get me away from here. That would leave you home alone except he might’ve known you were gone, too.”

  “Émile. No.”

  “The Jeep.”

  “The horses, Émile.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t leave the horses.”

  “No one has any reason to harm them.”

  “He burns barns, you said.”

  True. Perhaps that’s why, subconsciously, he came in here. To protect the horses as well as themselves. He hadn’t realized that he was eva
cuating a two-story house for a two-story barn. Same difference. Same modus operandi.

  But he forsook that idea. He came in here because his instincts to run were nonexistent. He wanted to catch the guy.

  “Who, Émile?” Sandra asked him again, whispering still. Although she knew.

  “Someone who might expect us to come out here to check on the horses.”

  He didn’t want to say in case he was being foolish. Ridiculous, even.

  “Any chance you’re just paranoid?”

  “Hope so. I pray that I am.”

  She considered all that. “Let’s put them in the paddock. Then leave.”

  “Eight horses. Can we do that in one trip? Four each?”

  “Are you crazy? We’ll lose them!”

  “That doesn’t matter. Not really. We’ll get them back.”

  “No, Émile. Four trips. One horse each. If this person knows anything about horses, if he’s watching us, that will be a lot less suspicious. Four horses at once, even two each, will look like we’re panicking.”

  “Which we are.” A joke. He smiled. She did, too, finally. Briefly.

  “Four trips,” she said. “We’ll look relaxed. Like we don’t have a care in the world. Leave the shotgun behind. Take our time. Anybody watching will think we’re heading back into the house after that. Only we jump in the Jeep instead. Oh, God, Émile, do you even have your keys?”