The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  Bell watched Nicola hesitate for a second, then finally move aside a couple of feet as Ryall edged towards her and backed half a step at a time towards the door with Lorena gripped tight to him. As Nicola followed, they were gone from camera vision; all Bell was left with was the sound.

  Nicola had moved aside almost mechanically. Afraid that he might harm Lorena, or just following his command the way she’d become programmed to all these years? Only as he edged towards the top of the stairs did the thought hit her.

  ‘Where are you going with her?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll decide that once I’m in the car.’ Ryall’s eyes shifted nervously downstairs. They’d know about the hypnosis from the tape, but had he touched Lorena anywhere he shouldn’t? He’d got so used to touching Lorena where he liked when she was under that he just couldn’t recall. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Here? Who?’ She squinted as if she was having trouble focusing.

  He nodded towards Lorena’s bedroom. ‘The bear. They’ve been taping.’ Tired tone: tedium of the long years of having to explain every last detail to cut through her drink and pills stupor.

  For Nicola, everything suddenly gelled in that instant. All she had to do was hold him up a couple of minutes. She raised the gun more confidently. ‘Then you’re not leaving.’

  That condescending sneer again. ‘You hardly had the stomach to shoot the bear… and both you and I know that you’re not a good enough shot to get me without also hitting Lorena.’ His eyes focused on her gun hand, which started to shake more under his stare.

  She found his confidence infuriating: a few words and she felt her own confidence blow to the wind like dandelion seeds. Exactly why he’d got away with everything for so long with Mikaya, and now Lorena. She’d let them down; and now even with a gun in her hand there was nothing she could do to stop him.

  She put her other arm up, trying to steady the gun with both hands. But still it shook and wavered wildly.

  ‘You’re pathetic!’ Ryall grinned at the spectacle. ‘Go back and practice shooting at the bear – then when you’re ready in a couple of years, let me know.’

  She tried to face him off a moment longer, but finally crumbled, lowering the gun. He was right: she was pathetic. A hopeless wreck of a woman on the edge. She’d been crazy to even think she had the strength to –

  But as he turned to the stairs with a last indignant ‘Pathetic’ and she caught the pleading look in Lorena’s eyes – a fresh spark suddenly rose. A red raw anger that made her eyes sting. Anger and disgust at the shell of a woman she’d become, at what he’d made her. She’d done nothing to help Mikaya – but she couldn’t let him go off now with Lorena! If she didn’t do something now, she never would: one last chance of redemption! And in that moment, there was a window of opportunity: he turned slightly to take the first step on the stairs, his guard down fleetingly as he thought she’d given up the ghost.

  She raised the gun and fired in the same motion, before his eyes could settle on her and steal her confidence away again.

  But at the last second he’d half-turned towards her – perhaps catching the gun raising in the corner of his eye – and as she saw the splay of red on his side and at the same time on Lorena’s night-dress, it looked like she’d caught Lorena as well.

  Then watched in horror as they were thrown down the stairs, Lorena almost directly under him as they tumbled down. They landed with a sickening thud at the bottom, and Nicola closed her eyes for a second, hardly daring to look, before finally rushing down.

  She knelt a yard away from the tangle of their bodies: Lorena blood-soaked, half-trapped under his chest. No movement from either of them.

  She tentatively reached out, then retracted halfway. Her nerve had suddenly gone again. And so she just stayed in the same position, chewing at the knuckles of her gun hand and rocking back and forth on her haunches as she looked on at their bodies.

  At Bell’s end, he’d been keened sharply to every small sound after the gunshot, praying that he might hear Lorena’s voice. Nothing but silence for a full minute; then, as he honed in closer, his ear less than an inch from the speaker, he finally picked up something: Nicola Ryall muttering ‘What have I done… What have I done?’ Punctuated by gentle weeping.

  The search-beam of the helicopter raced across the landscape ahead of them.

  ‘How far now?’ Michel asked. They knew from Mundy that the exact location was halfway between Cochrane and a place called Fraserdale.

  ‘Two or three miles, no more.’

  Trees, lakes. Trees, lakes. They knew the house was on the edge of a lake, but Michel couldn’t tell one from another. Hundreds of miles of the same vista stretching out across Northern Quebec and Ontario.

  ‘I think that’s it,’ the pilot said after a moment, nodding to one side. He tilted the helicopter, starting to circle in.

  And then as they straightened, the search-beam hit the house: no signs of life at first, not even any lights on. Michel’s hands clenched tight. Again the image hit of picking through the bodies.

  Then Michel spotted a figure in front of the house and another running along the lakeside. ‘There! Something there!’ He pointed.

  The man by the house looked up at them anxiously as he was caught in the beam, but the man at the lakeside seemed to have half his attention on something deeper out in the lake.

  ‘Where was he heading?’ Michel pondered aloud.

  ‘Don’t know. Let’s look see.’ The pilot swung back and pointed the beam towards the lake.

  At first they didn’t see anything, and he had to tilt the beam to reach further out before it finally picked up the two figures facing each other at the centre of the frozen lake.

  ‘So what now?’ Georges gasped for breath.

  ‘I think you know.’ Roman smiled as he levelled the gun. ‘Oh, but one thing just before you go. I had nothing to do with that abduction and attempted hit on you. That’s not to say I didn’t plan to kill you – but I think your friend and mine Chenouda knew that, and decided to try and get you into the programme.’

  Georges shook his head. His first reaction was to disbelieve Roman, but then why would he bother to lie at this moment? So many side-games that he’d never been aware of; but there was one that did now prey on his mind.

  ‘I can’t believe that Jean-Paul is responsible for this now, has ordered you to kill me. It goes against everything he believes in.’

  ‘Yep, you’re right there. His idea was to get you away to Cuba. Soft fool that he is.’

  Georges glared hard. ‘He’ll have you for breakfast when you get back.’

  ‘I don’t think so. As we speak now, he’s being taken out. He won’t be having any more breakfasts.’

  ‘What, I… I don’t–’ But as he saw the gloating satisfaction on Roman’s face, he knew that it wasn’t a bluff. His stomach dipped sickeningly, but his first thought was for Simone. Jean-Paul dead, and now him. She’d never be able to face it. He closed his eyes for a second and shuddered. Maybe they’d been wrong all along, wasting their time. In the end, Roman’s ways held sway.

  But if he was going to die, he might at least have one last swipe back. ‘Jean-Paul was right about you all along. No fucking brain! The bullet the answer to everything.’ Roman glared back intensely, his jaw set tight, but Georges met his stare evenly. ‘So if you’re going to shoot me, shoot me! Prove us all right what an absolute no-brainer you are.’

  Roman’s smile rose slowly, remembering Venegas. ‘That’s where you got it wrong, college boy. I ain’t going to shoot you.’ Roman wallowed in the quizzical surprise on Georges’ face for a moment before lowering the gun to Georges’ feet. ‘Sometimes I’m a little more subtle than you might appreciate. Or for that matter Jean-Paul’

  He fired and the ice cracked a foot to Georges’ side, but the block didn’t sever. And as the echo of the shot died, they suddenly heard the whirl of the helicopter.

  Roman looked over his shoulder, momentarily d
istracted. But it was hovering over the house – one shot more and the block would break off. He fired again, but Georges had anticipated and leapt a yard to one side as the ice block severed and sailed free.

  Roman aimed again at the ice, then suddenly his eyes shifted uncertainly. The engine tone of the helicopter had changed. It was moving towards them, baring down fast.

  Roman raised the gun towards Georges. Brief apologetic smile. ‘Sometimes subtleties have to be thrown to the wind.’

  In the helicopter, Michel had put a sniper called Gilles on alert by the open side door as soon as they started moving towards the two figures. Within a short distance, Michel could make out that the far figure was Georges, but with the other wearing night goggles he couldn’t make him out clearly. But they could see the gun, and they were close enough by then for the sound of the second shot to reach them.

  ‘Oh God! Are we too late?’ Michel shouted. ‘Try a shot! Try a shot!’

  ‘He’s shooting at the ice for some reason.’ Gilles tried to steady the rifle against the movement of the helicopter, get the figure centre in his night-sight. ‘But we’re still too distant.’

  Then, as Gilles saw the gun raise, he realized there was little choice. The figure moved wildly in his cross-hairs with the vibrations: it would be pot luck. But if he didn’t try, it would be too late anyway!

  Gilles squeezed off the shot, saw the figure jolt from his sights; not sure if it had fallen away or it was the kick of the rifle.

  ‘You’ve got him!’ Michel announced excitedly, seeing the figure sprawl a second before Gilles could pick it up again in his sights.

  But as Gilles trailed the cross-hairs back across the figure, he could see that he’d only clipped him, a shoulder wound: the hand was rising again with the gun. Though this time they were closer, the shot cleaner. He pumped two bullets in quick succession through the back.

  Clenched fist ‘Yes!’ from Michel, but the elation was short-lived.

  A high-powered .308 calibre, the bullets had gone straight through the body, shattering the ice beneath. A large ice-block had broken free, the body sliding into the water as it tilted. But at the far end of the block was Georges. He tottered unsteadily for a second before falling on his side, and Michel watched in horror as he slid in too with the tilt of the ice-block.

  ‘Get us down. Fast!’ he screamed.

  ‘We can’t land on the ice. It won’t take us,’ the pilot shouted back. He pointed with his thumb. ‘Someone will have to go down on the winch.’

  Michel assessed for only a second before moving forward. ‘Okay.’

  Gilles leaned back from the open side door as a colleague hooked in Michel and they started to wind him down.

  The winch rope swayed and spun wildly with the wind from the rotors, and Michel’s view of Georges below came and went. A third of the way down he caught a glimpse of Georges thrashing around in the dark water, trying to grab on to a solid ice-edge. He was still there halfway down, but as Michel straightened from a half spin close to the ground, Georges had completely disappeared. His stomach sank. No. No! He hadn’t come all this way for it to end like this.

  He frantically waved to the helicopter to bring him down closer. There was still a good five yards between the end of the rope and the ground. As more winch rope was fed out, its swing became even wider. Michel had to be careful where he landed in case he hit the broken ice and fell in as well.

  And in the last few feet, just before he finally made contact with a jolt, he was sure he saw the brief bob of a head and part of an arm appear above the water.

  He quickly unhooked, ran breathlessly towards it. But by the time he got to the edge of the broken ice, Georges had gone again. He scanned frantically for movement, bubbles. Anything. But there was nothing but still black water.

  ‘No. No!’ he screamed, falling to his knees. Knowing in that moment that if Georges died, he’d never be able to forgive himself for what he’d done. He started hurriedly brushing away the snow to see through the ice. Still only blackness: too dark to see through! He waved to the helicopter to bring the search-light in closer.

  Colleagues would pat him on the back, console him that he’d done his best. But all the time he’d know the dark truth; know that if it wasn’t for his obsession, this would never have happened. He might as well have pushed Georges under with his own hands!

  He clawed desperately at the snow, his hands red-raw and numb. ‘Can’t end like this… can’t –’ And suddenly he thought he saw something, a couple of feet to his right. He clawed away more snow, shrinking back slightly in shock as it finally became clear: Georges’ face only inches beneath the ice, ghostly in the search-light beam.

  Michel let out a gasp of relief. Though he wondered whether he was already too late: Georges had probably been under almost two minutes. He banged on the ice, but it didn’t break. He tried again, but still it didn’t budge.

  ‘Oh, Jesus, no… No!’ Salt tears stung his eyes as he realized he couldn’t get to Georges. Getting so close but still not able to save him! Having to watch from only inches away as Georges drowned before his eyes: maybe that was his punishment!

  And he noticed something else then: Georges’ body was shifting beneath the ice with a slight current. He tried another smash with his fist with no luck, then he had to clear more snow to see Georges clearly again.

  Three more strikes in rapid succession, Michel grunting and screaming with each, putting all his strength into it. And with the last with still no ice-break, Michel felt the last of his strength go with it, was about to roll over onto his back and give up, give one last cry of frustration and – then suddenly he remembered the sniper’s bullets.

  Michel took out his gun, measuring. He’d have to be careful with Georges’ body shifting with the current. A few inches out and he’d hit him. But no time to clear away more snow!

  He fired once, twice, just ahead of where he thought Georges would be. A crack appeared, and he fired a third shot to break the block free.

  He scrambled down, reaching into the icy water. Nothing, nothing! He was frantic. Try another shot or clear some snow to see where Georges was? He started to clear with his other hand – a glimpse of something, though not very clear, and a second later Georges’ body connected. He grappled on and yanked up hard, pulling Georges’ head and shoulders above the water. A quick breath, and then he yanked again, putting all his weight into it until he had most of Georges’ body solidly on the ice.

  His breath vapour billowed hard in the freezing air as he leant over to resuscitate Georges – but at that moment he could see the ice-block they were on cracking with the weight. He had to desperately grapple and slide the body again, this time almost a full two yards – before collapsing in a heap at Georges’ side, exhausted, as only a foot away the ice-block gave way.

  He was almost too out of breath to give mouth-to-mouth, he had to furiously pull in every breath he gave out, muttering repeatedly ‘Don’t die on me now… Don’t die on me!’ as he intermittently lifted off and pressed against Georges’ stomach.

  And as the first coughs and splutters finally came from Georges’ mouth, Michel rolled onto his back and let out a great whooping victory cry towards the night sky and the swaying beam of the helicopter above.

  EPILOGUE

  July 8th, Montreal, Canada.

  Jean-Paul slowly surveyed the large reception room from the head table. The only one standing among the almost two hundred wedding guests.

  ‘It’s good to see the whole family together. Old friends, some that I haven’t seen for a while.’ His gaze fell on Art Giacomelli, who puffed on his cigar and nodded in recognition. ‘And new found friends.’ Jean-Paul briefly acknowledged Michel Chenouda at the far table, then looked more pointedly towards Elena Waldren only a few places away at the head table.

  The reception was in the Hotel de Ville, a spreading colonial style 5-star dating from the 1860s overlooking Place Jaques Cartier. The six-course dinner was finished, the telegrams r
ead, and the only background sounds to Jean-Paul’s speech were the unwrapping of truffles and petit-fours, the hovering waiters replenishing brandy and liqueur glasses, and the gentle puff of cigar smoke sent twirling around rococo columns towards the high ceiling.

  Jean-Paul spoke about his joy at Simone’s birth, his eyes cast down for a second in memory of her mother, Clair, and Stephanie, whom she’d treated as a mother. Then he quickly lightened again with a few anecdotes from Simone’s childhood and early teens before getting to the subject of Georges.

  ‘…I’ve trusted him with my business affairs these past few years, and now my daughter. I’m not sure which I should be more worried about.’

  Murmur of laughter from the guests. Jean-Paul held one hand up slightly, changing the mood again. ‘But not to make light of Georges’ help. What we’ve tried to achieve these past few years hasn’t been easy – some said all along that it was impossible. And during that transition, there’s been some changes and transitions too in the family, some of them painful. There was the loss of my brother...’ Jean-Paul left a significant pause. ‘Pascal. My father. And there’s been some other close calls too…’

  As he looked towards Georges and Simone, Simone’s eyes watered. He could have meant Georges’ near death, or the fear of losing her that he’d told her about soon after. The ambiguity wasn’t lost on her either of the way he’d mentioned his brother, Pascal. He’d vowed that he’d never mention Roman’s name again, but to those not in the know he might have meant his brother Roman with Pascal mentioned separately.

  ‘…No, my friends. That transition has at times not been easy.’ Jean-Paul pursed his lips tight and looked down for a second before looking up again to pick out Giacomelli and Chenouda. ‘But hopefully we got there in the end.’