Open Season (Luc Vanier)

by Peter Kirby

  Katya hoped she wouldn’t have to go. “How many people here?”

  “Maybe fifty, sometimes more. You need to come early to get a good spot.”

  The girl was already leaving and Katya ran after her. “You said for bag to sleep.”

  “Sleeping bag. Oh, yeah. Sure. I’ll show you. Man, you’re going to owe me big time.”

  “Yes. I owe you.” Katya smiled.

  The girl hardly talked as she led Katya east along Saint-Antoine. Then she stopped dead in the street, turned back to Katya and asked to see the tattoo again. Katya held her arm out.

  “That’s crazy,” she said.

  “Is nothing,” said Katya.

  When they got to Richmond Street, they turned south, and the girl pointed to an open warehouse door halfway down the street. “That’s the Salvation Army warehouse. They give things away if you need stuff. Go in and ask for a sleeping bag and blanket. Say you have no money and sleep outside. Okay?”

  “Ask for bag for sleeping.”

  “No. Ask for sleeping bag. And blanket.”

  “Sleeping bag. And blanket.”

  “Yeah.”

  The girl turned and walked off leaving Katya staring at the open warehouse door. She eventually mustered the courage to walk into the dark interior and found herself in a massive storage area. To her left were bales of used clothes, tied up and stacked high like so much hay. The rest of the place was crammed with all kinds of furniture, fridges, stoves, and televisions.

  “Hi. Can I help you?” Katya jumped. She turned to see a young guy smiling at her. He looked like he was maybe fifteen years old, but he seemed to be in charge.

  “A friend tell me to come here. I need sleeping bag. And blanket.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. I need.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I sleep outside. No home.”

  “Money?”

  “No money. Please.”

  The man was taken aback. “Okay, I suppose. Follow me.”

  He led her up a flight of stairs and into a sorting room where the donations from collection sites across the city were separated and appraised. “Sleeping bags are over there, blankets two tables down. One of each, help yourself.”

  There were six sleeping bags to choose from, and Katya examined each one carefully. Finally, she took one that smelled okay, the one with the fewest stains. The blankets came in all sorts. She went for a light one, something portable.

  The boy came over carrying an empty knapsack. “You’ll need something to carry them in.”

  She smiled, took the bag and started stuffing the sleeping bag inside.

  “No. Like this.” He took the knapsack back and showed her how to roll the sleeping bag and attach it on the outside. Then he did the same for the blanket.

  “Thank you. I have no money. But one day, I come back and pay.”

  “I know. It’s okay. Some clothes?”

  Her eyes lit up and she followed the boy to the other end of the room. He moved his arm over tables stacked with women’s clothes. “Take what you need. Come down when you’re finished.”

  He left her to wander around the tables and she chose things that would fit, shirts, underwear, two pairs of jeans. She even found sneakers that she liked and put them on. She put the wellingtons into the knapsack and carried everything downstairs.

  The boy was piling cartons against a wall and looked up. “Got everything you need?”

  She was grinning. “Very, very kind. You are very kind. Thank you.”

  He walked over to her. “You need help, anytime, come back here. Okay?”

  He reached over to put his hands on her shoulders and she recoiled from his touch.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, holding his hands in the air.

  “No. Is me. I am sorry.”

  Now she was looking at the square of sunshine shining through the warehouse door, resisting the urge to start running towards it.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He smiled, and she backed towards the door.

  Eighteen

  Vanier was having lunch in a tavern when Camara’s call came. The waitress had just put down a plate of rare roast beef smothered in onion gravy. It came with mashed potatoes and limp broccoli that had been cooked for longer than it had taken to grow. He shoved a slice of meat into his mouth and clicked connect on his phone.

  “Inspector Vanier?”

  “Yes. Listen, Sékou we have to talk.”

  “It’s happening. In half an hour. At the café in the food court at Place Ville-Marie. Can you be there?” Camara sounded excited. Scared and excited.

  “Half an hour. That’s crazy. Listen. We need time. We need to set this up.”

  “It’s all they gave me. I am going to the bank now. Call me when you have Sophia. Then I will give them what they want.”

  “No. Listen. You have to ask for more time.”

  “I cannot. Can you be there?”

  Vanier looked at the time. Put the phone pack to his ear. “I’ll be there.”

  He stood up and pulled out a twenty, dropped it on the table and moved to the exit. If the traffic was good he could make it in twenty minutes, but the traffic was never good in Montreal in the summer. He dialled Saint Jacques as he was walking to the car, and she patched in Laurent. He told them what was happening and asked them to put together a team.

  He made it to Place Ville-Marie in twenty-five minutes, mounted the pavement and parked his car outside the main entrance on University Street. He was listening to Saint Jacques on his cellphone.

  “We’ll be there in five minutes, boss. Wait for us.”

  “I’ll meet you inside.”

  He clicked the phone and ran towards the building. The food court was the first level down. He pushed his way through the office workers crowding the escalator, scouring the crowd, trying to watch everyone, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He knew the café was on the south side of the food court; he went there sometimes in the winter to take in the sunshine that streamed through the skylights.

  He saw her through the crowd as he ran through the food court: Sophia Luna, sitting in a wheelchair, looking like a retirement-home resident taking an afternoon snooze. When he got close he saw she wasn’t asleep, but her eyes were staring blankly at nothing.

  He squatted down next to the wheelchair. “Sophia?”

  Only her eyes moved, she looked up at him, trying to focus. He pulled out his phone and dialled the number. “We have her,” he said when Camara answered.

  He turned back to the woman in the wheelchair. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  He squatted down to flip the brakes on the chair when he noticed her eyes staring up at the skylight. He followed her gaze. A man was leaning against the glass skylight, holding himself steady with one hand against the glass. He had a gun in the other, raising it to aim.

  Vanier shoved the wheelchair just as the flash of light exploded and a bullet hit the ground at his feet. A shower of glass rained down on them. The chair stopped rolling but Luna was still plainly visible from the skylight. Vanier pulled his gun and aimed just as the man took a second shot and disappeared. Vanier holstered his gun and went to Luna. She was lying on the ground bleeding, the wheelchair on its side next to her. He couldn’t see where the blood was coming from.

  Saint Jacques appeared as if from nowhere, and then Laurent. Both had their guns drawn. Vanier pointed to the skylight and turned to the staircase that led directly to the Plaza where the shooter had been standing.

  “Laurent, you come with me. Sylvie, stay with her. Call an ambulance.” Then he was gone, followed by Laurent.

  Saint Jacques turned to Sophia lying on the floor in a pool of blood that was growing by the second. She leaned down to feel for a pulse
. It was faint, but there was one. A few people were milling around her, while others slowly emerged from behind chairs and counters. She punched numbers on her phone and put it to her ear. A man in the crowd reached into his pocket, and Saint Jacques pointed her gun at him. “Nobody move!” she shouted.

  The man pulled his hand out of his pocket and dropped his cellphone to the floor. It broke on impact, spilling plastic parts. Almost everyone froze.

  Saint Jacques caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned and aimed. Before she could get a shot off, she heard one, and dropped, her head smacking the marble floor. She heard another, and lost consciousness.

  Officers Flood and Descartes had been assigned the job of tracking down the bank branch where Camara had tried for the first exchange, and had wasted days in an effort that increasingly seemed futile. The banks’ security departments were uniformly useless, and everyone else they spoke to was politely helpful without breaking a sweat. None of the banks kept their closed-circuit images for more than forty-eight hours, and there were too many reports of people falling sick in various branches. It seemed people regularly had heart attacks in branches. It took time to follow up on all the reports, too much time, and trying to speak to a live person on the telephone was next to impossible. Bank staff hid behind voice-mail systems that were as effective as steel doors at keeping people away.

  Now they were stuck in traffic on Saint-Ferdinand in Saint-Henri, heading to the Laurentian Bank on Saint-Jacques to interview the staff. Except they weren’t going anywhere. People had gotten out of their cars and were looking up the street to see what the problem was. Others had decided to be more proactive by leaning on their horns.

  Flood got out of the car. At the top of the street, a black SUV had mounted the sidewalk, and was trying to navigate around a truck. The SUV was travelling in the wrong direction, and the truck driver wasn’t cooperating.

  A cyclist swept by Flood. Descartes was out of the car at once. “That’s him. Camara.” Descartes was pointing. There was no mistaking the straight-out ears that Vanier had described.

  They watched as Camara swerved through the jammed cars and disappeared onto Charlebois. Both detectives pulled their guns and ran towards the SUV. It had given up the chase and was reversing back up Saint-Ferdinand. They watched as it did a wide sweeping turn on Saint- Jacques and sped off.

  Nineteen

  Each time Vanier pulled up outside the emergency room these days, the parking had gotten worse. This time he just parked up on the curb and cut the engine. Let them tow it, he thought.

  He rushed past the sick and despairing in the waiting room and burst through the swinging doors to the trauma centre. He was tackled before he could even take a breath.

  “You can’t come in here.” This from a tiny nurse that Vanier could have lifted and tossed into the nearest bed.

  “I’m with the cop who was shot.”

  “Are you family?”

  “I’m all she’s got right now.”

  The nurse softened, turned and pointed to a curtained-off bed. “She’s in bed three.”

  Vanier moved to the bed and pulled the curtain back. Saint Jacques opened her eyes at the sound and smiled. Her head was bandaged like a turban. He couldn’t see any hair, just the smile under the bandage. He had a flash of Elizabeth Taylor. Vanier opened his mouth, but no words came.

  “I’m okay, boss. Just a flesh wound.” She was trying for a cowboy accent.

  “Ha!” was all he could muster. Loud and drawn out; he repeated it. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” As though he was convincing himself it was true. Tears were dribbling over a shaky smile. “Jesus, Sylvie.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “Of course not.” He made no effort to wipe the tears away. “What happened?”

  “Like I said. A flesh wound. The bullet grazed my thigh, and my leg collapsed. I hit my head on the floor and lost consciousness.”

  “So you’re okay?”

  “Define okay. They said I’ll be fine in a couple of days. Rest and recuperation. It will hurt to walk at first, but that’s all.”

  “You were lucky, Sylvie.”

  “I know.” She took a deep breath. “This may sound strange, boss, but I think the Lord himself has saved me. For a reason. I think He has a mission for me.”

  Vanier didn’t know what to say. He stared at her with his mouth open.

  “I’m kidding. Jeez, you’re in worse shape than I am.”

  Vanier looked around for a seat, but couldn’t find one. “And Sophia Luna?” Saint Jacques asked.

  “She’s dead, Sylvie.”

  “Did you get anyone?”

  “No. There were at least two, maybe three. They all got away. But we’ll get them. Anyway, it’s not your problem now. You just focus on yourself.”

  “I want to come back. Maybe in three or four days?”

  “Sylvie, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Anyway, it’s not my call. You need to be cleared by the medical guys. Getting back to active service is going to take time.”

  She laid her head back on the pillow. “Just don’t rent out my desk.”

  The curtain parted, and Flood and Descartes approached. In a second they were transformed from heartbroken mourners to happy idiots. Everyone had assumed the worst, and seeing Saint Jacques grinning was like a resurrection. The three men crowded around the bed as though they were taking strength from her. Eventually, Vanier made a move. “We’ve got work to do.”

  None of them had the courage to attempt even a soft, cheek-brushing kiss; the turban was intimidating. They settled for high-fives.

  The squad room was hushed. They were all staring at the TV screen waiting for Chief Bédard to begin talking. He looked grim and uncomfortable, which was understandable, given that he was about to give a press conference with only bad news and no answers. Vanier recognized Julie Laflamme, a communications specialist, standing at the podium next to the Chief. She grimaced as Bédard pulled out a large white handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his face, not realizing that the scene was already being broadcast live on at least three channels.

  The TV commentator was droning on. “I don’t know if it’s nerves or the heat from all those cameras, but Police Chief Bédard is sweating, using an old-fashioned handkerchief to deal with it. They seem to be ready to get under way any moment now.”

  Laflamme stood behind the microphone and gestured for silence. It didn’t take as long as usual for calm to descend on the room. The atmosphere was deadly serious.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if we can get started, please. I am Sergeant Julie Laflamme and I’m the contact point for all follow-up questions related to this incident. For those of you who don’t have my coordinates, I’ve left business cards on the table over there. Now, Police Chief Bédard is going to read a statement and then he will take a few questions.”

  She turned to Bédard and gestured him forward.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This afternoon at one forty-five, a woman was shot and killed in Place Ville-Marie. Her assailants also shot and wounded a police officer who was at the scene. The murder occurred during a police action. We do not have suspects in custody. Our officers were shot at and returned fire but we do not believe any of the assailants was injured.

  The victim’s identity is being withheld pending notification of her family. For the purposes of the investigation, we are also withholding the identity of the injured officer and the names of the officers involved in the incident. Ladies and gentlemen, rest assured that we are putting the full resources of the police service into this investigation. We have several lines of inquiry ongoing and are confident that arrests are imminent. Thank you.”

  The room erupted into shouted questions. Bédard pointed to a reporter from La Presse. “Mr. Gallipeau.”

  “Can you confirm the nature of the police operation? Drugs, organized cr
ime? What was it?”

  “At this stage it would hamper the investigation to disclose that information.”

  Bédard pointed again. “Ms. Thibault.”

  “Was the victim under police surveillance at the time of the incident?”

  “If you’re asking if the victim was involved in criminal activity, the answer is no. She was not involved in any criminal activity.”

  Another shouted question. “How many police officers were involved in the action?”

  “Once again, in order not to jeopardize the investigation, we are not releasing any details at this time.”

  Laflamme raised her hand to try to restore order, but Bédard didn’t notice. Someone shouted another question.

  “How do you know the victim was not shot by the police?”

  “The information we have at the moment is that there were no shots fired by the police prior to the shots that killed the victim. Subsequently, during a chase, a police officer fired on one of the assailants.”

  Laflamme almost shouldered Bédard away from the microphone. “Please. Let’s have some order.” She looked at the crowd of reporters and picked the reporter from Le Devoir. A serious paper. “Mr. Beaulieu.”

  “Do we know how many assailants were involved?”

  Bédard was back at the microphone. “There were at least two men involved. However, we are still reviewing the forensics and the closed-circuit footage.”

  “Was the victim specifically targeted?”

  “We believe the assailant knew the victim and intended to kill her. Yes.”

  “Do we have a total number of shots fired?”

  “Not yet. That’s for the crime-scene people to determine, and they’re doing it as we speak.”

  The Gazette reporter yelled into a brief silence. “Place Ville-Marie is a pretty crowded place. Was it wise for the police to start shooting in a public place?”

  Bédard looked at the journalist like he was ready to kick the shit out of him, but you don’t get to be Chief by giving in to your emotions. He took a deep breath instead, “Mr. Thompson.” Bédard couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “Our officers were being fired at. I should remind you that our officers were responding to a murder that occurred in broad daylight in a busy shopping centre. Our officers are highly trained in the appropriate use of their firearms. So I am confident their actions were correct, and the risk of not returning fire would have endangered even more people.”