Ice Lake

by John Farrow

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t understand you about that other guy.”

  She was breathing heavily again, but more regularly. “What guy?”

  “Hillier. That Harry Hillier guy.”

  For a big man, he seemed light on his feet as he fled the room. He was carrying the file folder. Lucy heard him running down the hall. She tried to get up, but fell back. Her legs were wobbly and loose. She looked down at herself. She had peed. She saw Camille’s open, dead eyes then, and uttered a sharp cry.

  She heard other sounds, noises. Feet.

  She forced herself up abruptly, wanting out of there. Lucy staggered against a chair and used it to steady herself, then stumbled on her way out to the corridor, where she slumped against the wall. Slowly at first, her body slid to the floor. Lucy sat there, her head in her hands, weeping, awaiting rescue. She was alive, she knew that, but for moments at a time the thought seemed to be more than she could bear.

  She was surprised to hear footsteps again. So soon. She didn’t know how much time had passed. Had monks come running? She’d thought they might. Looking up, she saw four men charge through the doors at the far end to her right.

  The cops divided into pairs and each ran down a side of the corridor, checking the rooms as they made their way toward the weeping woman. They all heard a child’s voice and moved as quickly as possible toward it, with all due caution. Cinq-Mars came upon a little girl, who had managed to crawl out of the hefty, cast-iron enamel tub and wrap herself in a towel, and when she saw the man with a gun she whimpered, “I’m cold. I’m cold. I’m cooold!” Mathers moved past his partner, tucked his gun away and wrapped the girl in his arms, but she would not stop reciting, “I’m cold. I’m cold. I’m cold. I’m cold.” Her teeth were chattering.

  McGibbon and Recchi made it all the way to Lucy Gabriel and knelt beside her. She was sobbing now and uttering plaintive cries, overcome with rage and sorrow and the miracle of her release. The two New York cops glanced inside the room and issued a precaution to Cinq-Mars. The detective crossed the doorway and saw the body on the floor in there. He pressed himself against the wall and crept toward the doorframe. Then he ducked his head inside and pulled it back out again. He took a second to process what he’d seen, then indicated to the other two that he was going in.

  Cinq-Mars jumped into the room, finding it empty, save for the body of Camille Choquette.

  He came back out to the corridor and knelt beside Lucy Gabriel. He held her upper arms in his hands. “You’re Lucy? You must be Lucy.” He pushed her hair back from her face. She was squirming around and moaning, and he caressed the side of her head gently.

  Lucy nodded.

  “Who did that, Lucy?” Cinq-Mars inquired. “In there. Did you do that?”

  “Brother Tom,” she managed to whisper.

  “A monk?”

  Lucy shook her head slowly. “That was no monk. He was no monk. Oh God. Ok God!”

  “It’s okay, Lucy,” Cinq-Mars soothed her. “It’s okay now.”

  “No,” Lucy moaned. “You don’t understand. He took it. He took it.”

  “What?” Cinq-Mars asked her quietly. “Who? He took what?”

  “Brother Tom. He took Darkling Star. Oh God,” she wailed, and Lucy clutched the detective’s lapels. “Don’t you understand? It’ll happen again! He was no monk! He’s a criminal! A killer. He took Darkling Star!”

  BLOODWORK

  17

  KNOWLEDGE IN A PARTICULAR TIME

  The same day, late Wednesday afternoon, February 16, 1999

  Emile Cinq-Mars decided to pay Werner Honigwachs a visit in his office at the BioLogika Corporation to educate him on recent developments. Offered a seat by the company president, he declined, and instead took up a more defiant position near the windows with a view across the ice lake.

  “How’s your investigation coming along, Detective? Any progress?” The man’s confidence struck him as boundless.

  “It’s been interesting.” Clearly, his quarry had not been worried by the death of Charles Painchaud. Perhaps he did not know the implications, as Camille might not have told him that she was ultimately responsible. Cinq-Mars turned to face him. Knocking Honigwachs off his high horse was shaping up to be a pleasure. “The case has been solved. I only dropped by to bring you up to speed.”

  “Solved! That’s good news.” Taking his chair, Honigwachs swivelled around and calmly adjusted his trousers. “You know who killed Andy?”

  “I do.” Cinq-Mars faced him. “You did. You took Andrew Stettler’s life, sir.”

  The accused managed a slight laugh, which degenerated into a faint cough. “Sergeant-Detective, you amuse me,” he admitted. “I’ll grant you that much.”

  “Glad to be of use, sir.” Stepping away from the window, Cinq-Mars stalked Honigwachs in front of his impressive desk. From time to time he passed close to the cosmic clock, where the planets in their traces slavishly continued to orbit the sun. “Mr. Honigwachs—regarding your grey colt, Darkling Star. When I first said its name to you, you appeared startled. Now I know why.”

  Honigwachs put a foot up to rest across his opposite knee, as though relaxing into the discussion, hoping to convey the impression that Cinq-Mars did not make him nervous, or intimidate him or worry him in the least. The smile curling at the edge of his lips continued that smug declaration. “I don’t follow. Why would I be startled by the name of my own horse?”

  “Indeed you were. And no wonder, given that Darkling Star is also the code name that you gave your awful foray into the United States, sir, where you were personally responsible for the deaths of forty-two men—sorry, allow me to correct myself. I should say forty men, as Camille Choquette apparently took it upon herself to kill two of them with her bare hands—”

  “Excuse me?” For the first time, the smirk was gone from his face. Pale, Honigwachs put his feet down on the floor, as if he suddenly felt the need for balance, for something solid underfoot.

  “You didn’t know that? I’m not surprised—why would she tell you? Most killers prefer keeping their lives as homicidal lunatics secret.”

  Strain showed across the man’s jawline. “You’re insane. Once again, you’re rapidly depleting my patience.”

  “I’ve seen the pictures. Cops in New York and Jersey didn’t think the whole thing was connected. Some lunatic killed two AIDS patients and sewed their lips shut.”

  “Sewed their lips—” Honigwachs repeated.

  “That’s right. Sewed their lips shut. They were more interested in who was sending AIDS patients into sudden death. The lip-sewer was just a sideline to their investigation. But everything is all woven together, isn’t it, Mr. Honigwachs? Or crushed together. Not unlike knowledge flowing into a black hole. The weight of that gravity turns everything that is known into one hard ball of matter.”

  “What are you talking about?” His forehead was furrowed in concentration, as though he was frustrated by something that he could not understand or even begin to grasp.

  “You don’t know. That’s regrettable,” Cinq-Mars sympathized. “I’m also sorry to inform you, sir, that your girlfriend is dead.”

  “My girlfriend?” Werner Hongiwachs was not wearing his jacket, and the sleeves of his pinstriped shirt were rolled almost to his elbows. Cinq-Mars noticed the sweat stains expanding under his arms.

  “Camille Choquette is dead, sir. She was executed by the mob.”

  Honigwachs did not reply this time, but stared at his adversary across the moat of the desktop. Cinq-Mars finally sat down in a visitor’s chair, choosing one toward the end of the desk, near the cosmic clock.

  “Before her death, sir, Camille happened to mention to Lucy Gabriel that you were the one who pulled the trigger on Andrew Stettler, that she only assisted with the cleanup. Would you care to confirm her report?”

  “You’re bluffing,” Honigwachs taunted him. He tossed his head to dismiss the accusation as mere folly. “You’re a scoundrel, Cinq-Mars.”


  This time, the detective smiled. “If I’m bluffing, sir, I’m doing a hell of a job. Before stepping into this room I took a call from my partner. He’s been interrogating Randall Largent. Apparently, Mr. Largent was somewhat upset to have had his business associate dropped into a blender.” Cinq-Mars put up a hand. “Sorry, sir—police jargon for a carbomb. Insensitive, I know. Once we proved to him that Lucy had been in possession of Harry Hillier’s copy of Darkling Star, well, sir, he got this faraway, worried look in his eyes, and after that he was willing to respond to our approach. Mr. Largent decided to talk the whole thing through, see if an agreement was possible on what his future might hold. He’s anxious to make amends. With good behaviour, not to mention full disclosure, he might be out in time to see his year-old grandchild graduate from university, if he lives that long. It’ll be touch and go.”

  Honigwachs scoffed. “You’re bluffing. Randall Largent has no reason to be making up stories about me.”

  “Randall Largent, sir,” the policeman explained, and he sighed with casual impatience but kept his look fastened on his prey, letting him know that he would give him no quarter, “understands the consequences of his actions. He’s an intelligent, if somewhat misguided, human being. He’d rather not end up like poor old Harry. Lucy Gabriel conducted a telephone conversation with poor Mr. Hillier that was misunderstood, that’s all that she did wrong in this particular matter. She’s upset about it. She was fond of Harry, thought of him as an ally. Unfortunately, due to that misunderstanding, the mob went ahead and dropped poor old Harry into a blender. If that’s what happens from a misunderstanding, imagine the results when she talks knowingly and specifically to the mob. Which she has done.”

  “What do you mean, ‘which she has done?”

  Cinq-Mars smiled broadly again. He wanted Honigwachs to appreciate that he was enjoying this. He wet his lips with his tongue. “The mob took Lucy into custody, they tried to shake her down. They wanted to know who killed Andy, their boy. I’m sure they had a word with you, as well. Now, the Indians allowed that interrogation to take place, but they were also on hand to protect one of their own, and they initiated a plan to put her into hiding, in case somebody like you, or like me, wanted to harm her.”

  Honigwachs shifted his weight around in his chair, although he made a conscious effort not to seem to be squirming. He tried to appear both relaxed and bored, holding a knee in his hands for a moment, then letting it go again. Nothing worked satisfactorily for him.

  “That was the significant variable in all of this,” Cinq-Mars continued, drawing things out to increase the man’s discomfort. “Blood. The blood connection between Lucy and the Mohawk Warriors, whatever their differences of opinion, was too strong for them not to look after her in a time of crisis. Lucy, after all, had fought alongside them and risked her life when the Warriors were under attack. What Lucy didn’t know was that the Indians had allowed a mob gunman to go into hiding with her, in case she talked, in case she had something to say. The Mohawks were happy, because it gave her protection. The mob was happy, because it gave them a possible source of knowledge. That’s all the players wanted in any of this, Mr. Honigwachs, even you—protection and knowledge. In your case, I’d add loot.”

  He paused to look at the intricacy of the clock, the moon and planets in strategic hold, a fearful symmetry, a precise gravitational dance in perfect balance. He gathered himself and carried on. “Today, sir, before her death, Camille Choquette confessed to killing Sergeant Charles Painchaud, and to helping you do away with Andrew Stettler.”

  “All right, Sergeant-Detective,” Honigwachs intruded, “I’ve heard enough. I’m calling my lawyer. He’ll take care of this. You’re bluffing. Even if Camille spouted some nonsense, which I doubt because it’s so ludicrous, a dead person can’t be cross-examined. Any folly she might have uttered under duress can easily be dismissed in court. You know that. I know it too. If you think you can hoodwink me with some cockamamie scheme, you’re twice as dumb as I thought you were, which is saying something.”

  Cinq-Mars burst out laughing. “Sir! My intelligence quotient is of no relevance! Whether I’m smarter than you or you are smarter than me won’t help you! You’re done! It’s finished! It’s over! Why play games? By all means, call your lawyer. Explain to him the following. Lucy Gabriel is in my hands now, and she’s willing to talk at length. Lucy’s been granted full immunity in exchange for her testimony, so she won’t have to worry about incriminating herself. We have Luc Séguin, sir, her driver, who’s not dead after all, as everybody thought. His demise was a story that Lucy made up, at Luc’s insistence, to hide the fact that he was still breathing. He can corroborate a few details. We also have Randall Largent’s testimony, and he will provide us with the paperwork, stating that you are the principal owner of Hillier-Largent Global, and that you were conspiring to cheat BioLogika of its knowledge. How am I doing? Not bad, wouldn’t you say? Also, tell your lawyer this, in case he doesn’t see the whole picture for himself. None of what I’ve just told you will be coming into play.”

  Cinq-Mars was not going to continue without his adversary asking him to do so. He wanted that final satisfaction.

  “Why’s that? No, don’t bother telling me—it’s all a bluff.”

  “I won’t need any of that evidence, sir, because you are going to write a full confession of your crimes. You will provide me with a detailed, written account of the murder of Andrew Stettler, and you will reveal your entire part in the conspiracy to advance your science while callously disregarding human life.”

  Honigwachs was shaken, but he was willing to keep his head in the game. He relaxed and tensed his shoulder muscles, as if weighing various options. “Okay, I’m interested. Why am I doing this?”

  “You will confess, sir, or I will refuse to arrest you.”

  Honigwachs chortled. “This is some sort of Cinq-Mars word game. I suppose I have to ask you what you mean by that now.” He returned the Cinq-Mars glare, choosing to take him on and not back down.

  “It’s simple. The mob knows you killed their man,” explained Cinq-Mars. “Camille Choquette inadvertently informed them. Trust me, they believed her. Even if it’s not true—although we know better, right, sir?—but even if it’s not true, it’s what the mob believes. Now, they beat the living crap out of Sergeant Painchaud before they decided that he didn’t do it. Poor fellow, he was having a bad run of luck. He called his girlfriend for help and she came along and shot him instead.”

  Honigwachs scrunched his eyes tighter, as if he was trying to either narrow or intensify his gaze. Cinq-Mars maintained that eye contact, burrowing into his head.

  “You see,” he added in a confidential tone, “I’ll tell you this for free, as an example of my insider knowledge. Not only will you confess to the crime, sir, but you will plead guilty to murder in a court of law. After that, after we’ve locked you up for the Stettler murder, the Americans—two of whom are outside the door as we speak—the Yanks will do their best to tackle the more complicated charges against you. They’ll have your confession, of course, which will make things easier. They’ll have Lucy’s testimony, and Luc’s. So, you’ll be trying to avoid the death penalty in a couple of states, sir, but at least you’ll be alive for that fight. Serving time, but alive. That’s the best I’m offering. We can’t predict how that will go. All we know for sure is how things will go if I don’t arrest you.”

  “Nice speech, Cinq-Mars.” Honigwachs had to clear his throat. He finally dropped his staring contest with the detective, and when he spoke his voice was weaker, and parched. He started to blink rapidly. “I still say you’re bluffing.”

  “That’s fine. You can say whatever you want. But I’m not finished with you yet, sir. You will also take what assets you have left in BioLogika and your satellite company, Hillier-Largent Global, and you will use them to compensate the families of your victims. You’re on the event horizon, sir. You know what that means.” Cinq-Mars pointed his right index finger and coldh
eartedly stabbed three orbiting planets in succession. Suddenly, the cosmic clock was in disarray. Mars had lost ground to Jupiter, Saturn had vaulted forward several eons. “What comes next is the long, traumatic, terrifying dip into the black hole, sir, and down you go. The choice, of course, is yours.” Cinq-Mars stood. “I’ll go now. Please, remember, full confession to murdering forty men in the United States, a guilty plea in Stettler’s murder, and compensation to victims’ families—or no arrest. Ask your lawyer if he’s ever heard of a bluff like that before.”

  Cinq-Mars walked to the door, opened it, and turned around for a final word.

  “Just fuck off,” Honigwachs told him. His jawline had hardened. The veins on his neck had bulged and darkened.

  “A word of caution, sir,” Cinq-Mars added. “I imagine that the mob has received word of your misdemeanours by now. The first thing that I expect them to do, even before their nasty job on you, is to sell off their shares in BioLogika. Doesn’t that sound likely? Check, sir. If there’s a selling frenzy underway, if the price per share plummets, if it appears that your largest shareholders can’t dump stock fast enough—hickory dickory—consider what that means. Then ask yourself and ask your lawyer how I bluffed that one. Good day, sir. Oh, and don’t trouble yourself too much about all of this. We’ve all been living in a time warp. We’re just catching up to you now.”

  He walked out then and, joined by McGibbon and Recchi, left the building.

  “Where to?” McGibbon asked him outside. He was thinking that he’d had an interesting day.

  Dusk was falling. “Back to HQ. Wait for a phone call.”

  The call came within three hours.

  Cinq-Mars talked to the lawyer and made certain that his demands were being met to the letter. Honigwachs was obliged to plead for his arrest, and Cinq-Mars reiterated to the lawyer that he would not do the paperwork on his client or take him into custody unless, beyond a reasonable doubt, he fully proved his guilt.