“This is Detective Sergeant Mercure. Excuse me for disturbing you at such a difficult time.”
Bruno didn’t answer. He was curious.
“But I have a good reason: we’ve found your daughter’s murderer.”
Bruno felt something crumble inside him, tightening his stomach, making him dizzy and drying his mouth. It took him some time to understand what was happening to him. For four days he had been so absorbed by the loss of Jasmine that, as crazy as it now seemed to him, he hadn’t given a thought to the fact that there was a rapist, a killer, and that he was still at large. For the first time, his feelings moved from his loss to the existence of this killer. It shook him so much that he had to sit down, with the phone still to his ear.
“Jasmine . . . Jasmine’s . . . murderer,” he stammered.
Mercure said he hadn’t been hard to find. He had been prowling around the school for a few days and he had spoken to some of the children. Some teachers had also noticed him, so identifying him had been easy. They had questioned him last night. He had given an inconsistent and confused alibi and had contradicted himself.
After a long silence, Bruno asked, “He confessed?”
“As good as. When he realized it looked bad for him, he said, ‘It looks like I’m screwed.’ We’re holding him, Dr. Hamel.”
Bruno was silent again. He really didn’t feel well.
“What happens next?”
Mercure explained that the man would appear in court the following day and would then be held at the detention center in Drummondville. About a week after that, there would be a preliminary hearing in front of a judge to determine the trial date.
“He’ll be going away for a long time, you can be sure of it. Rape with extreme violence, murder, surely premeditated . . . and a little girl. He’s almost certain to get twenty-five years.”
“Twenty-five years?”
“That’s a life sentence. He would only be eligible for parole after fifteen years.”
“But . . . you mean he won’t spend the rest of his life in prison?”
Bruno had surprised himself by saying that.
“Twenty-five years is a long time, Dr. Hamel. Even fifteen. To spend your entire life in prison, you have to do something really . . .”
He stopped, realizing his blunder, but Bruno had understood and he retorted curtly, “The rape and murder of my daughter isn’t serious enough, is that it?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
There was an embarrassed silence. His mouth dry, Bruno heard himself ask, “How is he reacting? Is he . . . is he showing remorse?” He rubbed his forehead. Why was he asking these questions?
“He knows he’s in for it, and it scares him. But he’s acting tough and . . . no, he isn’t showing remorse. When we spoke of the horror of his crime, he . . . well, he smiled. It’s bravado, obviously, but . . .”
Bruno nodded, his face suddenly white. He said blankly, “Thank you.”
And he hung up. He remained seated there for a while. He was trying to imagine this man who, when he was accused of the basest crimes, could just smile.
Smile.
This unnamed killer suddenly emerged from the darkness that until then had filled Bruno but that was now slowly stirring. And his sadness became a little less intense.
He finally noticed Sylvie standing in the doorway to the living room.
“They found him, didn’t they?”
It was the first time she had spoken of the killer, at least to Bruno.
“Yes, they found him.”
He summarized the information he’d been given. Sylvie put her hands over her mouth and cried. Bruno realized that, unlike him, she had already been thinking of Jasmine’s murderer.
“He’ll get twenty-five years for sure,” he explained mechanically. “And parole after fifteen. Probably.”
Sylvie was surprised at how detached he was, and asked if he wasn’t relieved.
“I—I don’t know. I . . .”
He couldn’t help imagining the smile of the faceless killer.
Sylvie became very grave. She took his hands and pulled him to his feet. Her voice clear, without crying, she said, “Bruno, we have to have another child.”
And after a pause, “As quickly as possible.”
“You can’t have any more.”
“We’ll adopt one.”
“I—I’m not ready to replace Jasmine so quickly.”
“I’m not talking about replacing her, you know that.”
“No, of course not, but . . .”
She was going too fast for him, and the phone call from the police had upset him too much for him to think clearly. And the darkness was giving him a sick feeling in his stomach.
“I’ll think about it, but . . . not right away.”
She nodded, sniffling, and said she understood. He stroked her cheek, smiled, and said he needed to get some fresh air, alone, and might not be back for supper. She seemed a bit surprised, but didn’t argue. He hugged her and went out.
He walked for a long time, all the way downtown, haunted by the phone call from the police.
Twenty-five years . . . maybe fifteen.
He had a late supper in a restaurant on Brock Street, but after a few mouthfuls, he pushed his plate aside in disgust. He tried to regain the strength of the sadness he had felt for five days, but it was hard, because it had been pushed aside by the heavy darkness weighing on it.
When Bruno got back from his long walk in the city, Sylvie was in front of the TV. She didn’t ask where he had gone or what he’d done. She only said softly that he was just in time for the news. She had set the VCR to record in case he got back too late. His mother had called to see how things were. He nodded in silence. His mouth was dry. He went to the kitchen and got a beer from the fridge and came back and sat down beside Sylvie.
After the national and international political news, the news anchor said the Drummondville police had just arrested a suspect in “the horrible death of little Jasmine Jutras-Hamel.” There was a clip of the Drummondville police station, with two officers escorting a young man in handcuffs.
“That’s him!” breathed Sylvie.
Bruno gripped her thigh and squeezed it hard. With his free hand, he picked up the remote and turned up the volume. A voice-over stated, “Last night, the Drummondville police arrested a suspect in the case of last Friday’s brutal rape and murder of little Jasmine Jutras-Hamel. The suspect is . . .”
Bruno suddenly pressed the mute button. Surprised, Sylvie asked him why he’d done that. He stared at the remote, also surprised. Why had he done it? And he heard himself answer in a voice that seemed to come from outside him, “I don’t want to know anything about him. Not his name or what he does or anything else.”
Sylvie asked why. Bruno stared at the screen as if he were looking for an explanation.
“Any information about him, about his personality, would make him seem too much like a human being.”
Yes, that was it. That man couldn’t be human, that was obvious. A human being wouldn’t have done what he did. And Bruno didn’t want to consider him a person. That was the only way to . . .
To do what, exactly?
He rubbed his forehead, perplexed.
Sylvie didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
“Well, I want to know that information.”
“You can watch the recording later.”
He looked at her imploringly.
“Please.”
He knew it was an absurd thing to ask, but he couldn’t help it. She nodded, understanding. She said she was going to make coffee and would watch the videotape later. He thanked her and she went to the kitchen.
There was another story on the screen now. Bruno pushed stop on the VCR, rewound the tape, and with the sound still muted, watched the part with the suspect again. He was in his twenties, with long, dirty yellow-blond hair, jeans with holes in them, and a worn leather jacket. He had a few days’ growth of beard, dull, lifeless
eyes, and a slack jaw. A nasty-looking guy.
That guy had approached Jasmine. He had talked to her, had lured her into the bushes on some pretext. And behind a bush, he had forced her down on the ground, had torn her dress, had penetrated her and struck her again and again . . . while she had tried to scream for help, to call her mommy and daddy to come to her. Finally, he had put the blue ribbon around her little neck and strangled her. The last emotion she had felt in her short life on earth was huge, incomprehensible suffering.
In Bruno’s hand, the remote crackled faintly.
All of a sudden, the young man on the television turned toward the camera and gave a quick smile, arrogant and scornful. In that fraction of a second, Bruno’s heart turned to stone.
The news anchor came back on the screen, moving his lips soundlessly. Bruno rewound the cassette again and replayed the part up to the smile. Had he been smiling like that while beating and raping Jasmine? Probably . . . and he would smile like that when he got out of prison, whether it was in fifteen or in twenty-five years . . . fifteen, probably.
Bruno got up and quickly went to the stairs, passing Sylvie, who asked where he was going.
“I’m going to bed,” he answered quickly. “I’m really tired.”
It was when he went to bed that Bruno would really abandon himself to his sorrow. Lying still in the bed, he would let the memories of Jasmine wash over him, and fall asleep drowning in his pain. But tonight, lying with his face buried in the pillow, he wasn’t able to get in touch with his sadness. He could just barely feel it at the edge of his soul, but the darkness thickened to the point where he felt nauseated.
When Sylvie came to bed an hour later, he still wasn’t asleep, although he had his eyes closed. And at two in the morning, he was turning over in the sheets, his body covered in sweat, his mind confused. Every time he tried to fix his thoughts on Jasmine’s face, every time he tried to find relief by immersing himself in sadness, he saw the killer’s face with its horrible smile. And in his head, the time passed, the years passed, until the little girl had turned to dust, while the killer was getting out of prison, smiling.
Smiling, still smiling, still smiling . . .
What could Bruno do to make him stop smiling, to make him grimace with fear and suffering as Jasmine had?
A rush of blood, of violence and fury, suddenly swept over him with such force that he leapt out of bed and rushed from the bedroom as if he were fleeing a man who had been in the bed just seconds ago.
He went down to the kitchen for a glass of water. But he couldn’t swallow it—the darkness blocked his stomach. He was seized with nausea and just had time to make it to the bathroom to throw up in the toilet. While he was vomiting, his head was filled with images of madness.
When he stood up, he felt strangely calm. He looked at himself in the mirror, at first with surprise. Then his expression became grave.
Walking slowly, he went into the living room. He turned on the TV and watched the recording of the news again. With the sound still off, he watched the images, and hit pause when the killer was smiling toward the camera. The young man was frozen on the screen, and at that moment, he became the monster.
Bruno went over to the TV, leaned down to put his face close to the screen, and stared at the monster frozen in front of him.
The darkness didn’t just intrude on his sadness, but took it over completely, spreading like wildfire throughout his whole body, even filling his eyes.
When he went back to bed ten minutes later, he didn’t even try to sleep. Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling while his mind raced. At first his thoughts were scattered and chaotic, but over the hours, they became clear and coherent. All through the sleepless night, one sentence kept surfacing out of the storm of ideas in his head: the monster would appear before the judge for his preliminary hearing in one week.
In one week.
BRUNO STARTED WHEN THE BOY came back to the car and said nervously but proudly that it was done. Bruno gave him the thousand dollars.
Happy with the money in his pocket, he said to Bruno, “I don’t know what you’re planning to do, but it’s cool that you’re doing it against the cops!”
Bruno looked at him without emotion.
The boy added conspiratorially, “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything to anyone.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” Bruno said.
The skinhead scurried off, and in ten seconds he had disappeared from view.
Bruno made sure there was still no one in the parking lot and got out, holding his doctor’s bag. When he got to the police car, he pulled the door handle on the driver’s side; the door opened without resistance. And there was no sign of tampering. The boy had done a good job.
Bruno sat down in the driver’s seat and closed the door. He took his supplies out of the bag—a number of sheets no bigger than the pages of a notepad. Each one had four dark rectangles two centimeters by four stuck to it.
Very carefully, trying to avoid touching it, Bruno peeled off one of these little rectangles and applied the adhesive side to the underside of the steering wheel where the driver wouldn’t be able to see it. Although Bruno had asked Martin to make them as dark as possible, they were still lighter in color than the wheel, so he didn’t want to take any chances.
Bruno covered the whole underside of the steering wheel with these little rectangles. Now it would be impossible for the driver to touch the steering wheel without pressing his fingers against them. Bruno had also asked Martin to make them as thin as he could. And since they were placed close together with no breaks, there would be no unevenness, and he hoped the driver would not be able to feel them.
He hoped.
If he did feel them and decided to check the underside of the steering wheel, it would ruin everything. At that point, Bruno would take direct action . . . with his weapon. Which he hoped wouldn’t happen. He was really no match for two experienced cops.
Bruno held the wheel with both hands, but let go after a second: he mustn’t let his fingers stay in contact with the little rectangles for too long. But that second was enough for him to be sure you couldn’t feel the little stamps. At least, he didn’t think you could.
He put the sheets back in his bag and looked outside. Someone left the parking lot and disappeared in the distance. Bruno got out of the car, locking the door behind him. He quickly went back to his own Saturn, and once he was in it, he began to breathe normally again. He was covered in sweat, and he took off his coat and threw it onto the back seat.
He glanced at his watch: ten twenty-five.
Nothing to do now but wait.
He idly looked at the cars parked around him. His gaze fell on a Jaguar. So much money for a stupid heap of metal.
Bruno was well-off, but not because that was what he sought; his work paid well, that was all. If it paid less, he would have done it anyway. Bruno had never placed a lot of importance on money. He had tried to base his life on other values. He and Sylvie each had a car, but nothing luxurious. They had a nice, comfortable house, but it was not one of those twenty-room mansions, which they could have afforded. They had a cottage in the country, but it was nothing special, practically a log cabin. Jasmine went to—had gone to—a public school, because Bruno didn’t believe in private schools. Sylvie shared his opinions and social values, and they were teaching—had taught—those to their daughter. Some of Bruno’s colleagues found his attitude irritating and called him a bourgeois pseudo-leftist who supported all the right causes to ease his guilty conscience. Bruno just laughed at them.
But in the last few days, for the first time in his life, Bruno had understood the real power of money.
AT NINE O’CLOCK IN THE morning, Bruno was still staring at the bedroom ceiling. He hadn’t slept all night, but he didn’t feel at all tired. Except mentally, perhaps, because he had been thinking hard. While Sylvie was still asleep, he got up and dressed. He noticed a heavy feeling in his shoulders, but he figured it was the effect o
f lack of sleep. He left the house without making noise. His step was resolute, his face set.
At the bank, he took out five thousand dollars in cash. Then he drove for forty-five minutes, until he reached Trois-Rivières, where he bought a black wig and false beard. He left the city and went back onto the 55, traveling north. After a couple of turns, he reached the 351 and kept going north, passing quickly through Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc. Leaving the village, he watched the road carefully, and after two or three minutes, he took Pioneers Road, along the shore of Lac des Souris, which was hidden by the trees. From time to time, he passed a lane through the trees, leading to a house, usually a summer cottage. Twice he turned in to one of them, but quickly backed out again: wrong place.
The third time he turned off, Bruno knew it was the right place. The lane was narrow, bumpy, and surrounded by forest, and it descended steeply some hundred and fifty meters to a clearing. In the center of the clearing was a small wooden house. It looked very Swiss. Some fifty meters behind the house, Lac des Souris sparkled in the autumn sunshine.
Bruno got out of the car and looked around. It was a beautiful spot, especially with the autumn colors, but he was unmoved by it. He checked to make sure the road above couldn’t be seen from the house. There were no neighbors within view; the nearest one was half a kilometer away. Then he examined the house.
About two years before, during the summer, one of Bruno’s colleagues, Josh Frears, had asked him for a favor. Josh had forgotten the file of a patient he had to see that afternoon. He couldn’t go pick it up himself because he had to be in surgery in fifteen minutes. Josh was about sixty years old, a widower with no children; there was no one who could bring him the file. A little embarrassed, he had asked Bruno to go pick it up for him. They weren’t on particularly friendly terms (they had a good working relationship, nothing more), but Bruno was the only doctor with a few hours’ space in his schedule at that time.
The reason Josh was a bit uncomfortable asking the favor was that during the summer he lived in his country house near Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc, a village in the Mauricie region, a hundred kilometers from Drummondville. Bruno wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of the long drive, but the older doctor was in a jam, so he had agreed. Josh had given him instructions on how to get to the cottage.
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