That night, he had put away the food before going to bed. With the cupboards full, he could count on several days’ autonomy before needing to resupply.
He’d spent most of March 21st sleeping and recovering his strength. In the evening, he had gone snowshoeing in the forest and heard a solitary wolf howling at the moon in the frigid darkness. It had occurred to him that he was like that wolf: the last prophet on the hill. He too would stand alone and howl out his gospel to the world.
The next day, he had carried out the necessary modifications. The lodge was divided into three sections: a main space, a private room, and a dormitory.
He had emptied the dormitory of its four bunk beds, which he had disassembled and stored in the shed. Next, he had boarded up the windows with slats of plywood. Using chains, he had affixed metal manacles to the wall at the end of the room. Then he had tested the apparatus. Once locked, it was escape-proof. Finally, he had installed the projection system.
Two freezers purred in the main space. Each one was big enough to hold a body.
The hunting would be good.
On March 23rd, he had returned to Quebec City, eager to begin.
The alarm system didn’t emit its usual beep. The man was surely wondering why it wasn’t working.
The light blinded him for a moment, but he blinked without concern. In a few seconds, his eyes would adjust and he would kill his prey.
The old man would have been proud of him.
The old man’s been drinking in the truck all morning. Suddenly, a door slams. The boy feels a hand on his back. He’s expecting to get hit, but the blows don’t come. The old man hands him a rifle with a telescopic sight. The boy knows how to find his way in the woods. He knows how to track a moose. But at this particular moment, all he wants to do is cry. He has no desire to venture into the forest alone. “Quit whining like a baby. Do your father proud.” He heads off with an ammunition clip, his hunting knife, a canteen and a knapsack containing a few sandwiches.
He leaped from his hiding place before the man, who had picked up the telephone, could call the alarm company to report the outage.
For a second, everything seemed suspended, frozen, as though time were folding in on itself.
He drove the knife into the rib cage with a quick, brutal motion. The man staggered backward. The killer pulled out the blade and struck twice more, two blows as rapid as they were lethal.
He was surprised at that moment to discover how easily the weapon pierced flesh, severed muscles, sliced organs.
A sound of splintering bone confirmed that he had perforated the sternum.
With distorted features, the man gurgled like a bathroom drain.
“We all have to pay for our mistakes,” the killer said in a soft, almost compassionate voice.
It’s crazy how the brain works.
The man didn’t even wonder why this fate had befallen him.
Instead, he reflected on the fact that he would never meet the baby his sister was expecting in May. He also thought about the lakefront property that he’d wanted to buy, though he had never taken concrete steps to make his wish a reality. With a hint of panic, he realized that he would miss an important meeting and that he wouldn’t be able to take out the garbage.
And finally, his life ended on a question mark: who had spread that plastic sheet on the floor?
At that moment, the killer drove the knife blade upward, causing irreversible damage to the internal organs.
The man collapsed onto his attacker. Their foreheads came together, giving them the brief appearance of grotesque Siamese twins. They stared at each other wordlessly.
The hunter saw only surprise and distress in the horrified gaze of his prey. On the threshold of death, the man’s lips parted as though he were about to say something, but a final spasm emptied him of breath.
The killer slit his victim’s throat, and the lifeless body slid gently to the floor.
A jellyfish of blood wriggled on the plastic sheet.
It had all happened so fast that he barely had time to grasp what he had done.
He opened the metal suitcase and took out a Nikon digital camera. He photographed the body from every conceivable angle, taking several close-up shots of the face and wounds. When he was satisfied with the images, he put the camera back in the suitcase.
He pocketed the dead man’s ID cards and rolled up the body in the plastic sheet. As he’d expected, getting the corpse into the hockey bag was the hard part.
Now it was time to clean up. He used the towels to wipe the blood spatter off the tile floor, then scrubbed everything thoroughly with disinfectant.
He removed his gloves and coveralls. He put them in a plastic bag with the dead man’s ID cards and the bloodstained items. He put on a pair of clean gloves and rolled the hockey bag to the garage.
After parking his car beside the victim’s, he leaned the bag vertically against the bumper. Then he grabbed it from underneath and lifted it until it tipped over into the trunk. Finally, he unzipped it and shoved in plastic ice bags on either side of the body.
Done. No one around.
He downloaded the photographs to his laptop, then erased the Nikon’s memory card. He looked at the photographs as one might look at a painting. They were his work of art.
The images would be perfect for his blog. And for everything else.
He burned the photographs onto a blank disc, then attached a preprinted label to the disc. He slid the disc into a case, went back into the house, and left the case on the counter. On his way out, he reactivated the alarm and locked the door using the dead man’s keys.
He started the old black BMW 740i that he’d stolen the day before from the long-term parking lot at Quebec City’s Jean Lesage Airport. Insurance companies spent a fortune each year on theft prevention, but some drivers were simply stupid. If you knew where to look, you could easily find a hidden duplicate key. The BMW’s owner had shown exceptional consideration in leaving the parking stub on the dashboard.
Despite his excitement, he forced himself to drive slowly. After a few kilometres, he started to relax. Everything was going according to plan. His victim lived alone and wasn’t expected at work until the following Wednesday. Barring unforeseen circumstances, no one would miss him before then, which meant there was ample time to carry out the rest of the plan.
He would stop somewhere for a fast-food meal. Not the healthiest choice, but this evening he was prepared to make an exception. He didn’t want to fall behind schedule.
Should he take the body directly to the lodge or get some rest on the way?
He considered the matter.
If he drove at a reasonable speed, he could expect to reach Mont-Laurier around 3:00 a.m. Taking out the snowmobile, loading the sled, and making the trip in darkness would require at least another hour. Everything would depend on how tired he was.
He’d been driving for twenty minutes when a dull thud shook the car. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He had probably rolled over a pothole.
In the middle of Highway 20! This country is going to hell in a handbasket.
By the time he was five kilometres out of Saint-Hyacinthe, he was struggling to stay awake.
He stopped in the town for a bite to eat and took the opportunity to have another look at the photographs on his laptop. Then, in a vacant lot, he burned his victim’s personal effects and the soiled items.
He dispersed the ashes with the tip of his shoe.
His adrenaline level was falling again by the time he saw the glow of Montreal in the distance.
On the Champlain Bridge, with the skyline in view, he decided that it would be wiser to get some rest in the city. He didn’t want to risk falling asleep at the wheel.
He remembered a motel on Saint-Jacques Street where he’d stayed in the past. It was the sort of establishment that took cash and didn’t ask for ID. If he remembered correctly, there was also a pharmacy nearby. Perfect. He’d kill two b
irds with one stone.
He parked in the motel lot. Knowing he’d be back in Montreal in a few days, he paid for a full week. He stowed his belongings in the dingy room and walked unhurriedly to the pharmacy.
After pulling a ski mask over his face, he drew a hammer from the folds of his coat and smashed the front window. The alarm went off instantaneously. He’d have to work fast. A police car would be there within minutes.
He used the hammer to disable the two security cameras, then walked quickly to the prescription counter. He broke the lock on the cabinet containing restricted medications, took thirty seconds to find what he was looking for, then grabbed several vials and a syringe.
He sprinted out into the deserted street. After a minute, he slowed down to catch his breath.
In the distance, he heard a siren.
He strolled back to the motel. Walking helped him put his thoughts in order.
He was ready.
Tomorrow will be a great day.
The label on the disc was dated March 31st, 2005. A web address was printed on it.
So were two words and eight digits.
Error message: 10161416.
Never Forget Page 48