Ice Lake

by John Farrow

  Mathers sat up straight after Cinq-Mars signed off, anxious to know what was going on.

  The senior detective put his phone away and moved his body so that he was sitting almost sideways on the seat with his knees up, facing Mathers. “Okay. The SQ, is at Camille’s house because Charlie called her. The call went through before dark. She says that when she got home there was a call on her answering machine, but no one said anything. She listened to a lot of blank air on the machine, then erased it.”

  “That could be,” Mathers said, “if Charlie passed out after making the call.”

  “Makes sense. Or, if he was shot just as the call went through, she’d only hear silence. There’d be no gunshot on the tape. Apparently, she listened to the tape for a little bit, waiting for a voice, then she stopped it and pressed erase. So we don’t have a record.”

  Mathers took a deep breath. “Where does this leave us, Emile?” he asked.

  Cinq-Mars shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to put myself in the middle of that hornet’s nest.” He jerked his head in the direction of Camille’s house and the SQ. “I guess we knock off. Pick up the pieces in the morning.”

  His phone twittered, as though to immediately contradict him. After saying hello, he listened for awhile. Once he said, “God.” Later he said, “Shit.” At the end of the call he hung up without saying thanks or goodbye and tucked the phone away in his breast pocket. Then he slumped backward in the seat.

  “You should have a hat,” Cinq-Mars told his partner.

  “Why’s that?” He looked closely at his partner, who looked defeated, somehow.

  “Because now would be a good time to hang on to it.” He sighed. “This has gone dark, Bill. It’s all pitch-black now.” He spoke in a low voice.

  “Emile? What’s up?”

  “Harry Hillier,” Cinq-Mars recited slowly, trying to comprehend the words as he uttered them, “of Hillier-Largent Global. He’s the bald one, right?”

  Mathers concurred.

  “He just blew up.”

  “Blew up?”

  “Outside his office. Stuck his key into the ignition of his car, and the whole works exploded. Harry’s history.”

  They were both on overload, and the information they processed cascaded into a darkened realm. Cinq-Mars hoarded a visual image of a black hole, where planets and galaxies were extinguished, where time itself was bent out of shape. Life seemed to be mutating. Whatever was not crushed became monstrous.

  “What’s going on?” Mathers begged.

  Cinq-Mars failed to help him out. “Scientists puzzle over a problem of missing matter in the universe.” He put up a defensive, gloved hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to lecture you. I’m just tired. I’m just saying that the matter missing in the universe, Bill, doesn’t compare to this. Everything that matters here is missing. We’re nowhere. We’re lost.”

  “His car, we’re talking dynamite?”

  “Or plastique. I keep forgetting that somebody tried to wire my car.”

  “I don’t forget it. I’m not living with my wife because of it.” Mathers gripped the steering wheel as though he wanted to rip it out. “What are we going to do, Emile?” he demanded, shaking himself loose from his own lethargy. “We have to do something. We have to respond.”

  Cinq-Mars nodded. He was tired, but the young man was right to remain aggressive. “You get the scene at Hillier-Largent. Find out what’s there to find out. I’ll talk to Roland Harvey.”

  Mathers was confused. “About what?”

  “Harvey led you straight to Lucy, Bill. At least, he led you straight to her car, and I’m betting that that’s pretty much the same difference. He didn’t ask anybody’s permission first. Either the Mohawk Peacekeepers are hiding Lucy, which is possible, or the Warriors are, and he’s a Warrior, too. Either way, Roland’s involved, and he’s going to introduce me to Lucy Gabriel. I’d prefer going to see her with an invitation. I’d like that meeting to be friendly.”

  Mathers wasn’t so sure. “He might not feel inclined to do that, Emile.”

  Cinq-Mars grunted. “After tonight, he’ll feel inclined. There’s been a cop-killing. They know what happened the last time there was a cop-killing near here.”

  “The last time it was the Indians who shot the cop. Are you suggesting—”

  “I’m not,” Cinq-Mars assured him. “But they know that when a cop is shot dead the world goes crazy for a while. He’ll lead me to Lucy.”

  The night was brightening, the clouds dispersing to reveal a half-moon. The detectives headed in opposite directions, intent on different situations. Bill Mathers would deal with the grisly aftermath of a car-bombing. Emile Cinq-Mars would enter a domain of cop-hating criminal Indians—some of whom might be cops themselves—hopefully to arrange contact with a young native in hiding, to see if they could find common ground.

  Cinq-Mars drove back along the highway through the woodlands and farms that rimmed the north shore of the lake. He made a phone call, which gave him Roland Harvey’s home address, culled from a phone book. He was then passed along to a police dispatcher who searched through her directories and gave him the necessary directions.

  To pop in on Lucy uninvited was a temptation, but he didn’t know what level of security existed inside the monastery, and he certainly had no desire to instigate a gunfight or to spook her, or anyone else. His best bet was to visit Roland Harvey first.

  The directions took him onto Indian land and down a narrow, winding back road through a forest of pines. Snow hung on the boughs, pristine in the moonlight. Initially, the road carried him uphill, but later it veered and descended into a clearing, where he spotted a smoking chimney before he saw the house. Cinq-Mars was unnerved by the number of vehicles parked in the driveway. Ratty pickups and high-priced four-by-fours. Rifles were mounted across the back windows. As he dimmed his lights and turned off the engine, he saw movement inside the house responding to the sound of his vehicle.

  At least he wouldn’t be waking people up or disrupting matrimonial intimacy.

  His steps crunched snow as he walked toward the door. He made a point of remaining in the light from the living room, so that he was seen, to keep everybody calm. A fine, crisp night. A snapping cold. His breath visible in the night air.

  Stars twinkled through the bare trees.

  Cinq-Mars knocked on the stout pine door.

  Roland Harvey waited a moment, then opened up. The two men regarded one another carefully.

  “What’s happening?” Constable Harvey asked. He was out of uniform, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. The men behind him were standing, as though worried they might have to move quickly, and a couple of guys were keeping a vigil at various windows in case Cinq-Mars was not alone.

  “Lucy Gabriel’s at the monastery,” the detective declared. “I want to talk to her.”

  Harvey continued to watch him steadily. Then he said, “Hang on,” and closed the door. When he opened it again he had thrown on an overcoat and boots. Harvey came outside with Cinq-Mars and they walked a short distance away from the house, then stopped and faced one another. The Indian said, “You’re asking me?”

  “That’s right. I’m asking you to take me to Lucy.”

  “I can’t just do that.”

  “Why not? You went there after we talked today.”

  “You had me tailed?” The way he stuck out his chin underscored his hostility.

  “I had you tailed. You’re not going to trust me now?”

  “That’s right. I’m not going to trust you now. But I didn’t before, not so much.”

  “Remember Charlie Painchaud?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He hadn’t buttoned his coat, and he flapped it impatiently with his hands in his pockets.

  “He’s dead.”

  Roland Harvey first leaned into the news, as though he could not trust his hearing, then leaned back, absorbing its impact. He took a deep breath and shook his head. Then he asked Cinq-Mars, “What are you saying
to me?”

  The Montreal cop took a step forward. He whispered, “I’m telling you that Sergeant Painchaud of the SQ was beaten in his own house and shot to death. I’m reminding you that he was working on a case that concerned the abduction of an Indian woman. A woman, incidentally, who happens to be living in the Oka monastery under your auspices. I’m pointing out to you that the dead man lives close to Indian land and there will be shit to pay for this all around.”

  “My people didn’t do it,” Harvey declared.

  “You know what, Roland? That doesn’t surprise me. But that doesn’t mean that your people won’t be considered. He’s SQ, Roland. SQ. You know there’s no love lost between the SQ and your people. He lives near Indian land. He was working on an Indian case. He was worked over and shot in his own house. Don’t expect his colleagues to be reasonable about this. They’re going to kick doors down first and ask questions later. I doubt if they’ll need any particularly good excuse to kick down Indian doors, do you?”

  “That’ll be too bad if they do,” Harvey warned defiantly. Again, he stuck his chin out as though to goad the other man into throwing the first punch.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Cinq-Mars replied. “It’ll be too bad if they do.”

  Roland Harvey had to ponder the situation. He kept his hands in his pockets to protect them from the cold. He looked around at the woods awhile. “I can’t bring you to Lucy,” he said in the end.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have her permission. You’ve got to understand. Lucy is hiding out so she’s protected from people who kill people in their own homes—”

  “—and from people who might splash acid around her face if they want her to talk?” Cinq-Mars asked.

  Harvey looked in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly, gravely, “from people like that.” He continued in that tone. “She also needs protection from interested parties.”

  “From pharmaceutical executives who might wonder what she’s been doing lately, what she’s been saying. Is that what you mean?”

  Roland Harvey nodded. “She also has to be protected from the police.”

  “I expected as much,” Cinq-Mars told him. He looked up at the stars a moment, as though he needed help to construct his next proposal. “I was saying to you earlier today that I wanted to meet with Mohawk Warriors. Maybe your friends in the house are discussing that now, Roland? Maybe it’s on the agenda?”

  The Peacekeeper continued to gaze at him steadily and said nothing.

  “In any case, you could bring the same news to Lucy. Tell her that I want to meet her on a personal basis. Not as a cop. As somebody who wants to keep her safe. You can tell her something else. I want her to stay in hiding. I think that’s a good idea right now.”

  The officer cocked his head with curiosity. “You do.”

  “Yes, I do. Charlie Painchaud was a friend of hers. Let her know that he’s dead. You can also tell her that Harry Hillier, one of her bosses, was the victim of a car-bombing tonight.”

  The news was sounding increasingly dire to Harvey. “He’s dead too?”

  “Oh yeah. He’s a cherry pie.”

  The Indian exhaled a long breath. As he turned his face to the moonlight, Cinq-Mars could see the pock-marks on his skin and the fleshiness of his jowls.

  “Take me to her,” Cinq-Mars pleaded.

  The Mohawk shook his head, holding his ground. “I’ll talk to her. See what she says.”

  Cinq-Mars lowered his head, nodding. He had made progress, and he would have to settle for that, for now. “You have my number? Do you know where I live? She’s mobile, Roland, she’s got her car.”

  “She’s made a solemn vow to stay put.”

  Roland Harvey was admitting to something with that remark, and Cinq-Mars looked up at him. He was saying that he was in charge of her, and admitting to it had been a concession, not a mistake. He was putting himself on the line. “Anytime,” Cinq-Mars urged him quietly, “day or night. I need to talk to her.”

  The Peacekeeper nodded.

  Cinq-Mars turned toward his car, as though by taking his leave he could change both his tone and the subject, and seal their professional relationship. “I like the scheme, Roland. The monks take Indian land for themselves. A century or so later, a new generation of religious man feels guilty about all that and seeks to make amends. Indians go to the monks and ask them to hide someone. The monks agree.”

  Although his expression hardly changed at all, Cinq-Mars believed he detected an inner smile cross Roland Harvey’s face.

  “Write them down for me,” the constable instructed, “your numbers and stuff. I’ll go see her, but I don’t want anybody tailing me this time. You’re not going inside the monastery without Lucy’s permission.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that, Roland.”

  “Because my own people will be right behind me. I think you know what I mean by my own people.”

  Everybody would have their armies on the road tonight.

  “Be careful, Roland. There’s movement out there.”

  The Indian nodded solemnly. “You too,” he said.

  Starlight lit his way home. The clouds had moved east. The ride across the lake felt infused with an old, odd magic. The dance of the heavens, the soft fall of lights from homes along the shore and silvery moonlight across the snow. Another world, one that seemed far removed from danger. Cinq-Mars was not convinced, and twice after leaving the lake he stopped in a quiet spot and waited, checking that no cars were following him. Twice he doubled back, to verify his security. The roads on the south side of the lake proved to be clear, he was alone in the country under the moonlight, beneath the stars, skimming across bright, gleaming surfaces.

  Sandra had left a light on in the kitchen. Turning the Pathfinder off and walking toward his front door, he heard his dog whining and scratching on the other side. As he opened the door, Sandra was coming down the stairs to meet him, having been alerted by the dog’s excitement.

  “I’ll walk her,” Cinq-Mars said. They kissed.

  “We both will,” Sandra offered, and she jogged upstairs to get dressed.

  Outside, the couple played with their retriever awhile, chasing her off with showers of snow. She’d yelp and scamper away, only to bog down in the powder and desperately bound back to them. Finally she wearied of their nonsense and braced herself beneath the branches of a magnificent Great Eastern Pine to do her business. Then it was back to the comfort of the house.

  And upstairs.

  Cinq-Mars undressed his wife.

  He supposed they were lucky. Her body remained an adventure to him. Familiar, yet also a surprise. He had been alone most of his adult life, and she was such a wonder to him, how she moved with him as he caressed her. There was weight to her flesh, and toil, and history. Tracing the contours of her skin with his fingers, his tongue, he revisited the years of her life, the times when he had not known her, making her laugh as a girl, or sigh with the ardour of a young woman in the early throes of passion. Sandra was a woman who had made her way, suffered setbacks, persevered, managed, struggled through, and when she turned under him on the bed, kissing him, drawing him down, she was his wife, here, now, in their home, in the middle of her life, anxious and content.

  Sally lay at the foot of the bed, eyes open part of the time.

  They moved together, intent now, and Sandra incited her husband with crude whispers, her mouth to his ear. She knew that the words were strange for him, for his priestly Catholic mind, but he responded with guttural fulmination and an increased tempo, and she laughed as she hugged him and squeezed and met his lunge with her hips, a lifetime’s experience as a rider put to strong, athletic use. At the penultimate moment they were both perplexed, bewitched, straddling laughter and joy and a sense of sheer fun with an underlying and soon dominant need and lust and release. They broke the silence of their rural landscape, their outcry boisterous across the contours of fallen snow.

  The couple nestled togeth
er awhile, then rearranged themselves to escape the cool breeze coming through the window, which was open a crack. They cuddled in a warmth of their own creation under the duvet. They might normally have tumbled into sleep, but the silvery, bright moonlight through the window, the eerie quiet, the particular joy of lovemaking on this night, and the anxiety of the day’s news kept them awake. They lay, spooned together, listening to one another breathe against the backdrop of the night.

  The wind picked up. They felt the cold air on their noses.

  Trees made cracking sounds as they swayed.

  Sandra remembered to pop an Aspirin into her husband’s mouth.

  As quickly as it came up, the wind ceased.

  “I heard on the news about the policeman. Did you know him?”

  “I’ve been working with him since Sunday.”

  “Oh, Émile.”

  “There was a bombing tonight, as well. That’s also my case.”

  Gently, she reached behind her to touch his shoulder with her fingertips.

  After a while, after she thought he had fallen asleep, Emile said, “I was standing outside Charlie’s house tonight. He’s the dead man. I found him. I was standing outside and I was thinking, it’s death. That’s my enemy these days. I’m fighting against death, and how crazy is that? Men have pills, drugs, that precipitate death, speed up the process of dying, because that might teach them something. My father is dying and I only want him to live longer. But I know, he knows, his life is over. Death. Death wins. Where in all this is life?”

  She craned her neck, twisting her head around to kiss his shoulder with grave tenderness. After a while, she whispered, “Here.”

  He bound her closer to him then, and tucked in one another’s embrace, they slept.