Never Forget

by Martin Michaud

  He said so in a few dry phrases to his fellow cop, who shrugged and said the investigation had lasted several weeks, and the evidence was solid.

  “Give me five minutes alone with him.”

  Victor wasn’t asking for charity. He made the request in a peremptory tone. The officer met it with a flat refusal and began, calmly, to explain the reasons.

  Victor reacted like a wounded animal, his survival instinct kicking in.

  The man was standing in his way? If he wasn’t on Victor’s side, then he was his worst enemy. Without hesitating, Victor grabbed the ginger-haired guy by the shirt and shoved him against the wall. Jacinthe, Nadja, and two uniformed cops rushed forward to separate them, but despite his girlfriend’s pleas and the shouted orders of the others, Victor didn’t release his grip. The idea of shoving his gun in the officer’s face crossed his mind, but numerous hands prevented him.

  Shouts filled the room. The situation was becoming critical, threatening to spin out of control, when Jacinthe’s roar pierced the din and, as if by magic, restored calm. “Listen! He’s not asking for the moon. Five minutes with his son. That’s it. Do you have kids? Put yourself in his damn shoes!”

  Victor and the officer glared at each other for another moment. Then the ginger-haired guy lowered his eyes and nodded. He hadn’t seen disrespect or malice in the detective sergeant’s gaze, only distress. Who could blame a man for being ready to do anything for his son?

  “Okay, let him through,” he said to his subordinates.

  Grips were loosened, clothing was straightened out. Nadja pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. Fortunately, it was Christmas Day, so there was no one else in the police station to witness the event. Victor offered an apology to the officer, who accepted it with a nod of his head.

  Then he reholstered his weapon. Ignoring Nadja’s attempt to catch his eye to say something to him, he walked through the glass door that led to the cells.

  His chest tightened when he saw Martin through the two-way mirror. The room was windowless, with concrete walls that had been painted a dull beige centuries ago. His boy was sitting at a dark wooden table, elbows resting on its surface, head in his hands, fingers in his hair. Victor stopped to gaze at him for a moment, frozen, gripping the door handle.

  Suddenly, having fought tooth and nail to get here, he felt doubt take hold. What if they were right? What if the things they said they’d found out about Martin were true? For the first time, Victor contemplated the possibility that his son had become the kind of individual he had spent his life pursuing, cornering, and occasionally crushing underfoot.

  The detective sergeant entered the room. The young man looked up.

  Victor couldn’t tell exactly what he was seeing in Martin’s gaze. Fear, perhaps even terror; displeasure, but also relief.

  The chair legs rasped on the floor as the cop pulled it toward him. Turning it around, he straddled it, leaning his arms on the backrest. “We have five minutes to get you out of this shit. Tell me it’s not true.”

  Martin stared at his Doc Martens before raising his sad eyes to his father.

  “It’s not what you think. It’s not what it looks like. Let me deal with it. Everything will be fine.”

  “Let you deal with it? Are you kidding? Do you have any idea what they’re trying to pin on you? With the new anti-terrorism laws in place, they’ll ask for the max. You being a cop’s son means the judge will show zero leniency. You’ll end up in prison with a bunch of guys I arrested — guys who’ll enjoy nothing better than beating you to a pulp, then pissing on the pulp. And that’ll be on good days.” Victor looked at his watch. “We’re down to three minutes. Talk.”

  “I can’t, Dad. I can’t talk.”

  Martin clearly wanted to open up, but … did he fear his father’s reaction, or was there something else he was afraid of? Whatever the cause, Victor was on his feet in an instant, shoving the chair and table aside with a violent clatter.

  “Quit fucking around!”

  Eyes bulging, with froth on his lips, he slapped his son hard across the face. He regretted it instantly. Martin’s head snapped back. He started to cry in silence.

  Victor knelt beside the young man.

  “Martin, if you don’t want to rot in prison, you have to talk to me. Right now.” He spoke these last words in a soft, calm tone.

  There was a knock on the door. A voice called through. “One minute left.”

  Martin’s chin trembled. He sniffled and wiped the tears from his eyes. “You’re not going to believe me …” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been working as an RCMP informant. I infiltrated a neo-Nazi gang. They’re fucked up, Dad. Hitting Jewish targets and making it look like Muslims did it. They’re trying to stir up racial tensions so people will think multiculturalism’s dangerous.”

  Victor’s mind began to race. Neo-Nazis? Martin, an RCMP informant right under his nose? And he’d never guessed a thing?

  In your face, Lessard.

  Victor made an effort to block out any emotional reaction. “Have you contacted your RCMP handler?”

  “Yeah. I’m waiting for him to get back to me.”

  “Do you have official status? Are you on the payroll?”

  “It’s more complicated than that, Dad.” Martin hesitated, almost added something, then didn’t. “I thought you’d be proud of me, for once,” he said, looking his father in the eye.

  There was the sound of a door being unlocked. Victor’s neck began to tingle. The urgency of the situation provoked an adrenalin rush in his system. Time accelerated. “Give me your handler’s name. I’ll follow up.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t be stupid. You’ve got to trust me, Martin. I can’t help unless you talk to me.” Victor leaned forward. Their faces were inches apart. “What’s his name?”

  The door opened. The ginger-haired cop was standing in the doorway. “Your five minutes are up, Lessard.”

  “His name is Diego Concha Fernandez,” Martin murmured in his father’s ear.

  It took some time for the information to wend its way through Victor’s synapses. Then the connections were made. Victor kissed his son’s forehead, stood up, and backed toward the door. His eyes were asking Martin a question. Martin answered the question with a slow, deliberate nod.

  With that nod came confirmation that Diego Concha Fernandez was the same man Victor was thinking of.

  Nadja’s brother.

  62

  CONFRONTATIONS

  Sitting on a chair in the police station’s reception area, Jacinthe raised a triumphant fist and yelled “Yes!” followed by a choice obscenity. She had just crushed her previous record on Angry Birds. Since downloading the game onto her BlackBerry, she’d been playing for an average of thirty minutes a day, usually on the toilet.

  In the conference room to which Victor had led Nadja, gripping her arm, voices were raised. At the reception counter, the ginger-haired cop was ostensibly taking care of paperwork, but in reality, he was listening closely, doing his best to overhear what was going on. At one point, he almost opened the door to check that everything was all right, but Jacinthe dissuaded him with a look.

  The door banged against the wall. Jacinthe felt a wash of air as Victor blew by. “Come on, Taillon. We’re getting the fuck out of here.” By the time she’d pocketed her phone, he was already outside.

  Jacinthe poked her head in the door. Nadja’s makeup was all streaked, which didn’t lessen her beauty. She took a deep breath and said, in response to Jacinthe’s question, that she was okay. Then she added desperately, “Please, Jacinthe, don’t let him do anything stupid.”

  Nadja found the strength to put on her coat, leave the station, and walk to her car. Once she got behind the wheel, she began to cry. The memories flooded back.

  Nadja and Martin had shared the duties of looking after Victor during his recovery, and a close bond had formed between them. She no longer remembered how the subject had come up, but Martin had confided to her
that he wanted to become a police officer.

  During the conversation, Martin had expressed a particular interest in the fight against terrorism. As Nadja’s brother Diego led an RCMP section that specialized in that field, Nadja had put them in touch. Pleased that Martin was opening up to her, touched by his trust, she had foolishly promised not to tell Victor. Looking back, Nadja realized that was the moment she’d been taken in.

  She should have been suspicious when Martin started asking detailed questions and evoking hypothetical scenarios: “What would happen if a civilian had information about a terrorist plot? … How are informants recruited?”

  She should have understood at that moment that Martin was talking about himself, that he had come into contact with some dangerous individuals and seen an opportunity to impress his father.

  Above all, Nadja cursed herself for not following up more strenuously when, a few weeks later, she had asked Martin whether he’d spoken to Diego.

  The young man had been evasive, suggesting that he’d started working on a new recording with an indie rock group called M-jeanne, and police work didn’t interest him that much after all.

  At the time, Nadja had thought the behaviour confirmed Victor’s impression of Martin as a young man who was great at starting things, who loved to embark enthusiastically on new projects, only to abandon them soon after. She hadn’t given any further thought to the matter, concentrating instead on caring for Victor. And since Martin had claimed never to have gotten in touch with Diego, she hadn’t even brought up the subject with her brother.

  Victor had every right to be furious with her. He had every right to say she’d shown a lack of judgment. And if Diego really had recruited Martin, Nadja was angry that he hadn’t kept her in the loop.

  But how could he have dared to do such a thing? She loved her brother and couldn’t bring herself to believe he had done it purely out of spite for Victor.

  Nadja looked hesitantly at her phone. Should she warn Diego?

  The Crown Victoria was rolling at high speed along a quiet residential street in the south-shore suburb of Saint-Lambert. Victor was at the wheel of the car, his jaw clenched, veins standing out prominently on his temples.

  “It’s not her fault,” Jacinthe said. “She couldn’t have known.”

  “She should have known! And she sure as hell shouldn’t have told Martin to go see that bastard. One, he’s an asshole. And two, he hates my guts. I can’t believe she hasn’t figured that out!”

  “He’s her brother, Vic.” Silence. “Slow down, will ya?”

  “I’m telling you, she fucked up on this. She should have asked him if he’d spoken to Martin.”

  Jacinthe pointed at a car that was backing up the narrow street. Victor swerved, putting two wheels up on the sidewalk, and went around the vehicle without slowing down. “You’re pissed off and you’re worried about your son, but even so, I think you’re being too harsh.”

  Jacinthe couldn’t make out his muttered response in its entirety, but she clearly heard the words son of a bitch. She went on: “Listen, instead of barging in like a bull in a china shop, don’t you think it might be a better idea to have Nadja talk to him first, so everyone can get a sense of where things stand?”

  Victor wasn’t ready to calm down. “Too late. We’re going to settle this my way.”

  He looked down at his BlackBerry and saw that an email had just come in from a lawyer at Baker Lawson Watkins concerning Northern Industrial Textiles. The email would have to wait. There were more important matters to deal with.

  Jacinthe shrugged. She was trying to make Victor listen to reason, but at the same time, she understood his impulse. In his shoes, she’d have done considerably worse. So she didn’t feel entitled to moralize. “It’s Christmas Day, buddy. You sure he’ll be there?”

  “He’s supposed to meet Nadja at the restaurant at three-thirty.”

  He had just checked his watch and knew he had enough time to get there before Diego showed up. Even so, spurred by his anger, he activated the emergency lights and floored the accelerator. There was a malignant gleam in his eye. “He’d better not keep me waiting long.”

  Since their parents’ deaths, Diego and Nadja had made it a Christmas tradition to get together at a restaurant in the old quarter of Saint-Lambert. Though they didn’t see each other often, they were still close.

  They would usually arrive early, have a drink, and talk about the wreckage of their respective love lives. All that had changed when Nadja had entered a long-term relationship. Maybe that was one of the sources of Diego’s hostility toward Victor.

  Whatever the reason, Nadja’s brother never missed an opportunity to let her know in the strongest possible terms that an ex-alcoholic, twelve years her senior, with two kids, wasn’t an ideal match for her.

  As far as Diego was concerned, Victor was a loser.

  Diego’s SUV entered the parking lot and rolled through it in a wide arc.

  Like many people who instinctively park near another car in a near-empty lot, he pulled up next to the Crown Victoria.

  Whistling as he got out of the vehicle, Diego opened the rear hatch and took out a gift-wrapped present. He had just reclosed the hatch and was walking between the two vehicles when Victor opened the car door and got out, blocking his way.

  “Hello, asshole.”

  Diego Concha Fernandez was built like a rugby player. He had a naturally menacing gaze, a flattened nose, a bull neck, and powerful hands. Startled at the sight of Victor, he retreated a couple of paces. Glancing past the detective sergeant, he tried to look into the Crown Vic, but the fogged windows prevented him from seeing anything.

  “Hey, bro,” he said with disdain. “Did you drive my sister over? Where is she?”

  “It’s just you and me, asshole.”

  Diego hadn’t expected Victor to approach him so directly, but he didn’t seem at all intimidated. His phone rang. He ignored it.

  “What do you want?” he asked contemptuously.

  Victor’s eyes narrowed.

  “You know what I want. You’re going to get my son out of jail.”

  Motionless, arms at his sides, the detective sergeant was clenching and unclenching his fists. He seemed taller and broader than he had a few minutes ago. “I can’t imagine what Nadja sees in you, Lessard,” Fernandez said scornfully. “She deserves a lot better than the likes of you.”

  Victor ignored the comment.

  “My son, asshole. You’re going to take care of him.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now get out of my way.”

  “How’d you rope him in, scumbag? ‘Want to make a little cash, Martin? Bring me information and you’ll be paid for it. The more you bring, the more you’ll make.’ Something like that?”

  Fernandez decided to stop playing games. “You’re leaving out the most important part. ‘If you get in trouble, we never met.’ Forget it, Lessard. There’s no contract. Martin’s on his own. He knew that going in, and he accepted it. Your son doesn’t have a lot of brains, but at least he’s got balls. Clearly it’s not genetic.”

  Fernandez stepped forward between the cars, heading for the restaurant, and tried to shove Victor out of his path. Victor’s response, more instinctive than calculated, was a hard right hook that caught the RCMP officer with full force.

  Bent forward, Fernandez brought his hands to his face. Blood began to pour from his nostrils. His fingers and coat were instantly stained.

  “You broke my nose, motherfucker!”

  With surprising speed and agility for a man of his build, Fernandez rushed at Victor. His elbow was up, aimed at Victor’s head, which he was evidently determined to crack like a nut.

  Victor dodged the blow, but Fernandez followed up with a punch that opened up Victor’s eyebrow. Blood ran into Victor’s left eye. He was momentarily disoriented, with his back against the SUV. As his adversary closed in, he shook off the cobwebs and caught him with a kick to the ribs.

  Fer
nandez grimaced with pain, coming back with a kick that missed Victor and landed on the door of the SUV.

  He threw another punch.

  Victor managed to block it partially with a forearm, but the follow-up landed squarely on his chin. Pain exploded through his body. Instead of making him retreat, it magnified his rage tenfold.

  He knew he wouldn’t last long at close quarters with Fernandez, whose superior size and weight would quickly overwhelm him.

  He had to go for broke.

  He lunged at Fernandez. The two men grappled for an instant, their bodies leaning against the Crown Victoria. To Fernandez’s surprise, Victor pivoted, ending up behind him. Grabbing him by the hair, Victor yanked his head back and hit him as hard as he could in the kidneys. With the air entirely knocked out of him, Fernandez sank to his knees and fell into the slush between the two cars.

  Victor unclenched his hand. A tuft of hair had come away in his fist.

  He kicked Fernandez, who cried out in pain. Inside the Crown Vic, Jacinthe, who had watched the entire confrontation, smiled in appreciation of her partner’s technique. She had stopped playing Angry Birds and put away the phone some time ago, ready to intervene if necessary.

  Victor grabbed Fernandez by the hair once again. The RCMP officer writhed in pain. “Now, you listen very carefully, asshole,” he said, speaking deliberately, his voice lower and calmer than usual.

  Victor was so focused on the pressure he was administering to Fernandez’s neck with his fist that he didn’t see Nadja’s car come into the parking lot.

  63

  LE CONFESSIONNAL

  Victor had been sober for seven years, five months, twelve days, eighteen hours, and twelve minutes when he walked into Le Confessionnal.

  And he had plenty of sins to confess.

  In an effort to settle himself, he had taken the metro to Place-d’Armes and walked through Old Montreal, which lay abandoned by local residents for the holidays. His gaze had strayed over the heritage buildings, stopping now and then at a light-filled window as he tried to imagine what was going on inside.