by John Farrow
Upon landing, the first item of business was to erect an altar, where the company’s nurse placed a glass vase in which she’d trapped fireflies that flashed and glowed in the gathering gloom, a moment, perhaps, that initiated the city’s penchant for poetic expression in perilous times. What had also commenced was the enduring friction between religious orders and the mercantile class, between secret societies and, if not a savage, then an obstinate public, one not so easily converted to anything.
Not much had changed, not in essence, Cinq-Mars was thinking as he and Mathers sped into the old town. Here the city showed its European heritage. The stone of the aged buildings proved its mettle in winter, a fortress against the elements. Narrow, cobbled streets dated back to a time before the automobile had been imagined. Archways leading to the rear of stout buildings had been constructed high so that the riders of horse-drawn carriages would not need to duck. The vast expanse of the New World had not yet inspired the early architects to use the space, the more important influence being the need for warmth and the protection gained by close proximity, a buttress against both winter’s severity and tribes of warring neighbours. On a cold, snowy morning, particularly, the beauty of the old town came into its own, reasserting its place in history.
In contemporary times, the conflict between piety and avarice had been replicated by the agitation between political and commercial forces. The drumbeat of Quebec nationalism, possibly to the detriment of a sporadic economy, had replaced the covert agendas of religious sects. On occasion, at least in the view of the minorities, the historic conversion of the savages found new voice in politicians rankled by the failure of ethnic populations to see things their way. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, and this was especially so, in the opinion of Emile Cinq-Mars, when it came to secret societies. Terrorist cells would come and go. And while restrictive religious orders had lost their hold, occult groups filled the void to a minor, and perplexing, degree. Hydro-Québec—the largest supplier of electricity in the world, the company that dammed northern rivers and flooded huge tracts of native land to run the summer air-conditioners of New York City—was for a time riddled with members of the Order of the Solar Temple among its employees. The Order was a suicide sect responsible for scenes of mass death in both Quebec and Europe. As well, the work of secret societies was most conspicuously represented by warring gangs, the Mafia and the West Enders, among others, having yielded to, or been absorbed by, rival biker gangs—such as the Hell’s Angels, the Rock Machine and their new confederates, the Bandidos, who were moving up from Texas—all battling with dynamite and Uzis and chainsaws for their criminal turf.
As if that weren’t enough, Russian coalitions were also flourishing. Jamaican youth gangs peppered the mix, following their wave of immigration. And organized crime syndicates from Hong Kong were finding a niche following communist China’s reclaiming of their city.
For the same reason that Champlain had wanted the island of Montreal to be a fur-trading post, to do business in the west and guard against the south, criminal gangs also found the city ideally situated. An inland harbour leading to the oceans of the world helped with the import and quick distribution of narcotics and other contraband. The easy access between Toronto, to the west, and New York, south, both six hours away by car, assisted with cross-border commerce and the movement of guns, drugs, money and people. Often it was helpful to shunt enterprises across the relatively open frontier, keeping activities beyond the reach of even the most interested law enforcement agencies. By obliging police agencies from different jurisdictions and countries to cooperate one with the other, criminals discovered that they could retard investigations for years, and foil many forever.
That Montreal had become an international banking centre helped the criminals as well, and that the city was renowned for pharmaceutical research created a surplus of scientists willing to work at the behest of the gangs on illicit drugs in exchange for substantial remuneration.
The first leader of the island outpost, the tall, soldierly de Maisonneuve, had declared that if every tree on the island of Montreal proved to be an Iroquois warrior he would sail forth and build the New World anyway. True to his word, he had voyaged to Montreal and, like the others, discovered beauty that first evening on a wilderness altar illuminated by fireflies. He would build his community. He’d combat floods with faith and arrogance, and cause the river to recede by planting a cross on the mountaintop—or at least get lucky with that move, for the water did subside. He’d convert natives and engage in the Iroquois wars. He’d contest starvation, disease, death, and mosquitoes with prayer and fortitude. As had been the case at its conception, the city thrived with joy and high spirits while also undertaking brutal battles.
For the most part, Montreal was a pleasurable city—fun, peaceable, pleasant, safe, interesting, lively—usually ranked with New Orleans and San Francisco as the most distinctive on the continent. But a side of the city had become a war zone, the death count mounting. It had been that way at the beginning, and Cinq-Mars believed that little had changed.
Mathers’s car rumbled on the cobblestones of rue St. Paul, then turned the wrong way down narrow St. François-Xavier. Traffic had been halted throughout a radius of several blocks, and Mathers parked behind a line of police cruisers. The rest of the way would be managed on foot. Their gold shields weren’t necessary. Cinq-Mars was universally recognized, and they walked with the brusque disposition of cops on the job. Uniforms watched from doorways as the pair of detectives strode down the sidewalk to where the SWAT had marshalled forces. Cinq-Mars noticed that the rooftops were occupied by police snipers while, behind cars, cops readied themselves for heavy weapons fire. If the action was gang-related, a cop never knew what degree of force might greet him. Smart ones expected the worst.
A colleague signalled Cinq-Mars to an alleyway and gave the two rumpled detectives a bemused smile. Lieutenant-Detective Remi Tremblay, tall and angular with an academic’s demeanour, shifted his weight from side to side to warm his feet. He nodded to his friend. “Heard you had a bad night. Looks like it, too.”
“You’re out of place, Remi. Where’s your desk? I haven’t seen you this far south of a coffee machine in months.”
“If I’d known you were getting out of bed, Emile, I wouldn’t have bothered.”
“What’ve we got?”
Tremblay displayed the carpet, partially unrolled over a bulwark of trash cans. A modern design, Cubist-influenced, with irregular blocks and rectangles of colour and bold black lines. A yellow patch was stained with blood. “We’re guessing the vehicle stopped in this little alley to unload. Somebody dripped blood halfway down the block and crossed the street.”
“No van?”
“No van.”
“Who found the carpet?”
“A janitor. This is somebody’s parking spot, a tenant in an office. The janitor clears snow in the morning. He came down, found the carpet, says he unrolled it to check if it was worth keeping. The bloodstains were warm enough to come off on his gloves. So he called it in.”
Things went your way sometimes, Cinq-Mars mused. He studied the block. Cops were everywhere but he saw no action. “What’s our situation?”
“The blood trail disappears on the sidewalk, outside that wood door. Uniforms are inside, room to room. We’ll hear back soon.”
Cinq-Mars sighed deeply. “Let’s hope,” he said. “I appreciate your getting the news out.”
“A cop was shot at, Emile. Just because it happened to be you doesn’t change our approach. Have you been pissing people off lately?”
Cinq-Mars smiled, then beckoned his friend closer for a whisper. Both officers were tall, half a head above the others around them. “Remi, this could be real enough. Gut feeling. This could be bad.”
Tremblay nodded emphatically, as though he had already reached the same conclusion himself. “I’d say so. Attack on your house. A murdered young man, that’s not friendly. A native woman kidnapp
ed.”
Cinq-Mars signalled his superior to incline his ear again. “The point is, we need good people inside that building, Remi. I don’t want dead air. I want live radio.”
Gravely, Tremblay nodded with understanding. “That’s the word I gave out, Emile. I didn’t say it lightly. Not much we can do about it now. Do you want to wait in the car? Warm up? You really look a mess.”
Detective Bill Mathers quit the wait and headed back up to rue St. Paul, where a coffee shop had remained open despite losing its morning business to the police action. He ordered a coffee to give his system a jolt and after a sip stepped across to the public phone situated in a cramped corner. After three rings his wife picked up.
“Bill. Oh, Bill, where are you?”
“I’m downtown.”
“Don’t kid me. You’re in Old Montreal, aren’t you? I heard the traffic report. You’re messing up the rush hour. Is there a gunfight?”
“I’m in a coffee shop, actually, having a conversation with my wife. I’m the only customer and the chef’s not shooting anybody yet. How’re you doing, Donna?”
“We’re okay. Kit’s coming down with something. I hate to say it but she’s so cute when she sneezes. You?”
“Bad night. You can imagine. I miss you, sweetheart.”
“Do you?”
“Oh yeah. I’m tired, sweetie. I’m beat.”
“I bet. So what is it?” Donna pressed him.
“What’s what?” The man behind the counter had caught his eye and gestured to indicate that he’d carry over his coffee, which he’d left on the counter, if he liked. Mathers agreed, and stretched out his hand to receive the cup.
“The missing-me-sweetheart bit. What do you want to say?”
She’d make the better cop, he believed. Perhaps he really was hopeless at disguising his intentions. If tempted, however mildly, by a flirtation, Mathers would cut it off quickly, knowing that he’d never be able to hide the truth when he got home. “Have you talked to Sandra, by any chance?”
“This morning? I called. No answer. Why?”
“Busy with the horses, probably. She’ll call when she gets a chance.”
“Bill?”
“What?”
“You’re stalling.”
He’d like to have her on his side in an interrogation room. “I’m just drifting, sweetheart. I’m so tired.”
Her silence felt weighted.
“What?” he asked.
“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me,” she warned him.
Mathers reminded himself to keep some things in perspective. The next time he was toe to toe with a gruesome con he’d remember what was really difficult in life. Compared to explaining to his wife that they might have to go into hiding, breaking down a homicidal gorilla goon was child’s play.
“Sweetheart—”
“Stop that! Don’t do that, Bill!”
“All right. All right. Listen. There was an attack on Emile last night. He came through unscathed but, you know, it was at his house.”
“Oh, God. Bill. Sandra must be frantic!”
“Their place will be under guard for a while. Donna, it might be a good idea if we vacate the apartment for a bit.”
“What?”
“Not for long. It shouldn’t be for long.”
“What? Bill!”
“It’ll be wise to take precautions, too. There’s a possibility—however remote that is—that we could also be in danger. Nobody knows why.”
Now her silence felt altered, as though time had elapsed, as if the hands on a clock had rewound. The quiet was lighter, airier, as if what had been compressed had suddenly been released, taking flight.
“Where will we go?” Donna Mathers asked her husband in a hushed voice.
“My sister’s, I was thinking.”
“Bill, does Janice have two extra rooms, or a double bed?” she chided, as though his organizational skills were deficient. Bill Mathers waited, allowing the implications to sink in, grateful in a bizarre way that his wife, finally, was not getting the better of him. “Oh, God,” she said, catching on. “You’re not coming with us?”
“For Kit’s sake, for yours, it’s too risky.”
“Oh, William. Bill!”
“I’ll still see you. I’ll still slip by. This shouldn’t go on for long, sweetheart.”
“I can’t take this!” she finally blurted out. “Not again. This is not a life.”
“Donna, come on, I’m a cop.”
“You’re a cop. Fine. I signed on for that. But you signed on to be Émile’s partner, and nobody said that that was for life. You can get a new partner and give yourself back a normal cop’s life. God knows that’s bad enough.”
Mathers still held the coffee cup in his hand and he took a second sip. He exhaled with exasperation. “Donna, you know I can’t bail out on him now.”
“That’s the difference between me and you, Bill. Because I can.”
She hung up.
He stood there, beat, and wondered why in the movies when someone suddenly hung up the other person would keep on talking. “Hello? Hello?” the actor would say into the phone. Who would do that? Who would talk to that persistent buzz which told anyone with a brain a fraction the size of a pea that he’d been disconnected? Mathers gave her a minute, sipped his coffee, then dialled again.
“Donna, don’t do this.”
She didn’t speak for awhile, and he hoped that what he detected in her breathing was resignation. “All right. I’ll take Kit to Janice’s. But you and I have to talk, Bill.”
“Good. Take the bare minimum with you. I’ll pass by later to pick up what you need. Now listen. When you go, take a cab to the shopping centre. Step inside for a few minutes. Go out a different exit and grab a cab to Janice’s from there. Okay?”
He heard the intake of breath, the dawning awareness of danger. “All right,” she consented.
“Good girl. Don’t worry. Things will be okay.”
“Things have to change, Bill.”
“Just let me get through this case.”
“Émile’s been saying that to Sandra for as long as they’ve been married. During every slam case he says it.”
“Donna, we’ll talk it through when we’re out of this one. I promise.”
“Think hard about leaving Emile, Bill. Don’t think you’re going to wriggle out of our talk. Now, goodbye, and please, please, take care of yourself.”
He waited. She didn’t hang up on him this time. “Bye for now. Take care. I’ll be in touch.”
“Good thinking. You do that.”
As he hung up the phone, he noticed his cup trembling in its saucer.
The feet of thirty cops thundered on the hardwood floors as uniforms, detectives and SWAT moved on the double. The all-clear had sounded, but no one dared trust the news, so cops were checking doorways and swarming apartments, confirming “Clear!” as they shunted through rooms previously gone through by the swat, up stairwells and along corridors.
By the time he reached the top floor, Emile Cinq-Mars, like anyone else over thirty, was puffing, running on the memory of an athletic youth.
Wearing a vest and hoisting an automatic rifle, a cop gestured him down to an end room on the fourth floor and Cinq-Mars walked over with Tremblay and Mathers in tow and stepped inside. The office space was bare and dusty, with an atmosphere of long-term abandonment. The air tasted stale on his lips and the corners of the room were propped up by cobwebs. Windows wore the oily grime of the city as a second skin. A kitchenette, an area that now interested those cops first on the scene, was separated from the expansive main room by an island counter. The new arrivals quickly discerned the attraction. The sink and counter-top showed fresh bloodstains, and bloody balls of gauze and cotton batting littered the floor. Mathers pointed with his toe to a syringe. Tossed against the radiator lay an empty IV bag.
“Some of it’s recent, some of it’s old,” a SWAT sergeant offered.
“An operating table,” a se
cond officer confirmed.
“Check this out,” the SWAT guy said. “It’s definitely recent.” Each man, including Cinq-Mars, Tremblay and Mathers, bent over the countertop to closely eyeball an unusual pattern. A semicircle and, off to one side, a burned splotch marred the surface.
“What do you make of it?” Tremblay inquired.
“Acid,” an officer replied. “Burned right though to the wood.”
The room grew quiet with the news.
“Blood’s caked,” Cinq-Mars mentioned. “They got out before we got in.”
“Forensics?” Tremblay called out.
“On the way!” brayed a uniform from the doorway.
“Emile?” the Lieutenant-Detective asked quietly.
Cinq-Mars shook his head, despairing. “They want her alive, that’s the good news. The bad news is, they’ve got her alive and we don’t know why, we don’t have a clue what they’re after. The acid—I don’t want to contemplate what that means. We have to find out what she knows that others want to know so much. We have to do it sometime soon.”
“All right,” Tremblay decided. More detectives were coming into the room and awaiting orders. “Canvass the neighbourhood for anybody who saw that van arrive or depart, or for anybody who noticed a young woman walking away in the company of men. We need to run down possible physicians, starting with any sawbones connected to a gang. Filter through the usual hacks after that. Then think about legitimate doctors, maybe in the neighbourhood. There might’ve been a few vehicles coming and going—ask if anybody noticed traffic. Emile?”
“She lost blood. They might be wanting some.”
“Bikers have their own supply.” Worried about AIDS, the warring gangs maintained private stocks.
“Doesn’t matter. They still need a lab to make the match. Nobody knows for sure that it’s a biker action anyway. Run down the hospitals and the labs, look for emergency requests.”