Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  Behind him, the monster was demanding explanations more and more impatiently, but Bruno maintained his silence.

  He crossed the bridge over Saint-Germain River, took the overpass over Highway 20, crossed the city limits, and continued on a road bordered by woods. In less than a minute, he slowed down and turned onto the little dirt road. For a second, he was sure the green Chevy would be gone. But there it was, waiting patiently in the clearing, and he pulled up beside it.

  Eleven fifteen. Bruno had done the route in record time. The police must barely have begun their search. The monster was getting upset: what the hell were they doing here in the woods? Bruno cut the engine and turned toward him. The monster calmed down and, more cautious, asked, “Who are you anyway?”

  Silently, Bruno opened his bag, took out a bottle of chloroform, and splashed some on a cloth. He got out of the car and opened the back door. The monster recoiled a little and raised his handcuffed hands. Bruno, still holding the cloth, leaned inside and stared at him in silence, his face expressionless.

  The monster gave a nervous little chuckle.

  “Come on, say something! Who are you?”

  Suddenly, Bruno pushed the cloth over the monster’s nose and mouth, holding the chain of the handcuffs with his other hand. The monster struggled for a few seconds, then passed out.

  Bruno grabbed him by the collar, pulled him closer, and looked at him intently for a long time. His features hardened and his eyes became black as night. His breath became noisier, hoarser, and his jaw was clenched so hard that his teeth were starting to hurt.

  Not right away . . . soon.

  He heard a growl, distant and indistinct. He let go of the monster and looked around, expecting a guard dog to leap for his throat.

  There was no animal in sight. Unless the growling was coming from a far-off neighbor. He thought he had noticed a house not too far from here on the road.

  One more reason not to hang around.

  He dug around in the glove compartment and found some keys. One of them opened the monster’s handcuffs. Bruno picked up his bag, took out a syringe and a vial, and prepared an injection. After rolling up one sleeve of the monster’s leather jacket, he stuck the needle in his arm, ensuring a few hours of sleep.

  He went and opened the trunk of the Chevy and put the sleeping body in it. Then he put on his disguise, got in behind the wheel, and drove off.

  Three minutes later, he was rolling along Highway 20 toward the Mauricie region.

  * * *

  Mercure went into the Saint-Georges. The waiter greeted him with a friendly “Hello, Inspector!” and brought him a cup even before the policeman had ordered. At first, Mercure would correct people, telling them that the title “inspector” was outdated and no longer applicable, that he was in fact a detective sergeant. But it was no use: they all kept calling him “inspector.” He had finally given up; people had definitely watched too much Columbo.

  Sitting close to the big window in the front, the policeman drank his coffee and watched two little old men walking slowly in Saint-Frédéric Park across the street.

  When he went to the station shortly, he would call the victim’s parents to tell them the trial date. Until now, he had only spoken to the father, Bruno Hamel. Mercure recalled the voice of this man he hadn’t yet met. During the first call, Hamel’s voice had been weak and sad—completely normal under the circumstances. But during the second call, he’d had a totally different voice: calm, cold, hard.

  Mercure would try to meet him. In fact, if he hadn’t been so busy, he would already have gone to see him. The police were generally quite good at taking care of criminals and their victims, but they too often forgot another important category of people: the walking wounded. Since one of the missions of the police was prevention, they were making a serious mistake in neglecting these people. Very often, in Mercure’s opinion, the line separating them from the criminals was very thin. Sometimes it just took a single thing to make one of them start growing a new skin and turn into a criminal.

  This Hamel guy, for example. His voice on the telephone . . . so controlled, so distant. It was the voice not only of someone who had suffered, but of someone in the process of growing a new skin.

  He finished his coffee with a sigh. Maybe he was imagining things. It wouldn’t be the first time. With a vague smile, he waved to the waiter and left.

  Walking into the police station at eleven forty-five, he found the squad room abuzz with activity. Officers were rushing around, sending urgent radio messages or barking orders. He hadn’t even had time to take his coat off before Wagner came over. An incredible story—Mercure would never believe it.

  “Did somebody shoot Her Honor the Mayor?” Mercure asked calmly.

  “No kidding, Hervé! Somebody stole the car transporting Lemaire! With Lemaire inside! The guy who did it was following in a car and . . .”

  He explained. Mercure shook his head, bewildered. Why would anyone do that? Wagner had an idea about that. The guy’s car had been identified. The chief paused for effect and said, “It was Bruno Hamel. The father of Lemaire’s victim.”

  Mercure didn’t react for a few seconds. Then he closed his eyes and bowed his head.

  He knew he should have gone to see Hamel sooner.

  * * *

  At twelve forty, the Chevy stopped in front of Josh’s cottage.

  Bruno went in right away, picked up the phone, and dialed a number. There was no risk in using the old phone in the cottage: why would the police be interested in calls made by Josh Frears?

  There was no excitement in Morin’s voice this time, no attempt to start a conversation; he was starting to understand how things worked. Bruno described another hiding place to him, also in Grand-Mère, in a tree trunk at the town limits. After a few seconds, Morin said simply, “Fine, I’ve got it.”

  Bruno hung up.

  He went and got the monster and dragged his sleeping body to the room that had been Josh’s office. He dropped him on the floor about a meter away from the back wall, and quickly undressed him completely. He even untied his hair, which had been tied back in a ponytail with an elastic. He opened the bedroom closet and threw the clothes in it. He returned to the naked body. Thin. Pale. A few scars.

  Two chains hung from a hook in the ceiling down to the floor. Metal rings were welded to the ends of the chains. Bruno put the monster’s hands through the rings and closed them. He took a few steps back and looked at the monster lying on the floor, naked, his hands shackled. Perfect. He looked like a chained dog.

  Why that strange comparison? He didn’t look like a dog at all.

  The other ends of the chains extended diagonally from the hook in the ceiling to a hand winch by the window, where the curtains were closed. The chains were wound around the winch. Bruno did not intend to use the winch for the time being. Not right away. Nor the very special table off to one side, also made by Morin. That would also be for later.

  Now it was ready. Now all this had a meaning.

  He left the room, walked to the kitchen, took a beer from the fridge, and dropped into an armchair in the living room.

  He looked at the beer, the living room, and the window, and for the first time since the coming of the darkness, he smiled.

  * * *

  “And it didn’t occur to you that it might be a trap!” Wagner exclaimed.

  It was one ten in the afternoon. Boisvert was sitting in front of Mercure’s desk, his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

  “No . . . not really, no.”

  “A doctor who was following you just when Cabana didn’t feel well! Who got you to leave the car! Who went back to get his bag! Really, Michel!”

  “Come on, Greg! This isn’t a movie, it’s not New York City! This is Drummondville, for crying out loud! Have you seen an ambush since you’ve been working here?”

  “A trap,” Mercure said nonchalantly, sitting behind his desk.

  “Huh?”

  “Ambush isn’t th
e right term. Trap would be more accurate.”

  Wagner started pacing back and forth behind Boisvert. As usual when he was in a tense situation, his face was red and contorted. Grégoire Wagner was fifty-eight years old, stout and imposing, with thick, curly black hair and a black mustache; he had been commanding the Drummondville station for eight years and always looked like he was about to have a heart attack. When he got upset, as he was now, it was much worse.

  “In broad daylight, on Saint-Joseph Boulevard!” he growled, rubbing his swollen neck. “In front of witnesses!”

  “How’s Cabana?” Mercure asked.

  He was already better. He had pretty much recovered. He had had a spectacular drop in blood pressure. But how had Hamel been able to make that happen to Cabana at just that time?

  “Maybe it was a coincidence,” suggested Boisvert.

  The look from his superior convinced Boisvert not to make any more suggestions.

  “What about Hamel’s wife?” asked Mercure.

  They still hadn’t reached her. She must have been involved. Maybe she had already joined her husband.

  An officer knocked and came into the office, and told Mercure that they had found the police car in the woods along Golf Course Road. The forensics team had examined it and found nitro patches on the steering wheel.

  “Nitro!” Wagner exclaimed.

  There was no sign of Hamel or Lemaire, but there were tire tracks indicating that another car had been waiting for them. The site was being combed for more clues.

  Mercure remembered that, a few days earlier, Hamel had asked him to explain in detail the procedure of the preliminary hearing. The detective sergeant had complied. But how could he have foreseen what Hamel was going to do?

  “Greg,” Mercure said, “I’d like to be in charge of this case.”

  “Of course you will! You handled the Lemaire case, so there’s no reason you shouldn’t continue.”

  Silence. Mercure went over his notes on a sheet of paper. He asked Boisvert, “Did he seem calm to you during his little act?”

  “Extremely.”

  The detective sergeant sighed, far from reassured by this answer.

  The intercom on the desk buzzed and a voice asked if Wagner was there. It said the forensics team had not been able to ascertain the make or color of the car. All they knew was that it was losing oil and that it had Goodyear all-season tires, two or three years old. Wagner raised his arms, discouraged: might as well stop half the cars in the province! He paced for a few seconds, shaking his head. Hamel’s intentions were crystal-clear.

  “We’re going to find Lemaire’s body in a couple of hours, mark my words!” Wagner said.

  * * *

  Sitting in the living room, Sylvie glanced anxiously at the clock for the thirtieth time since noon. Two o’clock. Where was he? She had returned home intending to have a calm, serious talk with Bruno. When it turned out that he wasn’t there, she had called the hospital, but they had told her he hadn’t been back to work since the tragedy. So he had lied to her! But what had he been doing the past few days? What was he doing now? She imagined him wandering the streets in a state of total confusion, unable to deal with his emotions. She had accused him of not taking care of her, but maybe she had been wrong. Maybe he was the one who needed to be taken care of.

  She had been thinking for the past two hours and had made a decision. When he came home, she wouldn’t ask any questions. This time she would wait for him to talk, without pushing him. And if he opened up to her, if he really communicated, she would suggest they get help, that they go see an expert. She had thought that they would get through this alone, but she had been wrong. This ordeal was too big for their relationship, which had been in trouble for a while now. With help, they would find each other again. And if they managed to get through this tragedy, they would be stronger than ever.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. They would also adopt a child. It was essential. Vital. For her, but also for Bruno. For them.

  The doorbell rang. She got up reluctantly. She really didn’t feel like seeing some solicitous friend today. When she opened the door, she was surprised to find a man of about fifty, thin, with a long, tired face, who greeted her politely but without smiling.

  “This is where Bruno Hamel lives, isn’t it?”

  * * *

  They were facing each other across the little kitchen table. Between them, two almost full cups of coffee were getting cold. Sylvie was leaning on her elbows with her hands on her temples, pushing waves of her long black hair up. She looked like a boxer recovering from a KO; her eyes were red and swollen, but she had stopped crying five minutes ago. Outside, a neighbor was raking his lawn.

  Mercure looked at her in silence for a long time. One thing was already clear to him: she was not an accomplice.

  “What are you thinking about?” he finally asked.

  Without changing position, still distraught, she answered in a weak voice, “Lately, I found him so strange . . . And all those days he spent away, I don’t know where. He was upset, but not . . . not like he should have . . . I mean, in the beginning, yes, but . . . on the fourth or fifth day, something happened, he changed. There wasn’t only despair in him, there was . . . something else . . . something much darker.”

  “Did your husband . . .”

  “We’re not married.”

  That’s right, Hamel had told him that.

  “Was your partner violent by nature, Ms. Jutras?”

  “On the contrary, he was a pacifist.”

  Sylvie talked about the dozens of petitions he had signed protesting violence against women or children or political prisoners.

  “Do you have a recent photo of him, where you can see his face clearly?”

  Sylvie disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a photo she gave to the detective sergeant. It had been taken at his thirty-eighth birthday party, in May. It showed a man who was almost completely bald, with a rather long face and brown eyes that were small but penetrating, intelligent. He seemed a little older than thirty-eight. He was looking at the camera with his thumb up. He was smiling serenely. He looked happy.

  Mercure looked at the photo for a long time, then slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.

  Suddenly the telephone rang.

  They both looked at the phone hanging on the kitchen wall. Mercure asked if there was a cordless phone in the house. Yes, it must be in the living room. The policeman dashed there and came back with it five seconds later. The fourth ring was sounding.

  Sylvie stood up and went to the wall phone. Mercure gave a signal, and she answered at the same time he picked up on the cordless.

  “Hello?” she said in a flat voice.

  “It’s me.”

  She closed her eyes and put her hand on her cheek. Mercure was listening carefully as he recorded the time of the call in his notebook.

  “God, Bruno! What . . . what’s gotten into you? Did you . . . You haven’t killed him, have you?”

  “No, he’s still alive.”

  The voice was calm, in control. Sylvie sighed with relief: he could still get out of this okay. Mercure, while remaining silent, gave a little nod of satisfaction.

  “And he’ll stay alive for seven days.”

  Sylvie blinked, taken aback, while the policeman frowned. She asked what he meant. She didn’t understand. Still calm, Hamel explained, “I’m going to kill him next Monday, and after that, I’ll turn myself in to the police.”

  She gave an incredulous little gasp. Mercure felt a cold shiver run down his spine. But he didn’t move, and continued listening carefully.

  “Do you understand now?” Hamel asked. “Do you understand what I was planning?”

  Sylvie shook her head. It didn’t make sense, he couldn’t be serious!

  “I’m very serious, Sylvie.”

  “But it’s insane! What . . . what are you going to do with him for a week?”

  Hamel didn’t answer. Mercure didn�
�t need to hear the answer; the chill within him turned to ice. Sylvie seemed to have understood too, and she blanched, her hand over her mouth.

  “Listen, Sylvie, I’m calling you to tell you I’m sorry. I know I’ve caused you a lot of pain.”

  Mercure was paying close attention to the voice. Of course, from certain intonations, certain words, he could sense that Hamel was really sorry, but the detachment and hardness were so dominant, they overwhelmed everything else. With his free hand, he took out the photo of Hamel, and for the rest of the conversation, he kept his eyes on it.

  “But at the same time, I wanted you to know what I intend to do because . . . if anyone can understand, it’s you. I don’t need you to give what I’m doing legitimacy, but Jasmine was your daughter too, so I think you . . . you can understand.”

  “Bruno, you . . . Think about what you’re doing. This is just crazy! You can’t do this, it’s not like you! I love you, Bruno! It’s your life you’re destroying, not mine! I love you! And if you still love me, come home! Come home now, quickly!”

  Silence.

  “Do you still love me?” Sylvie asked, panic in her eyes.

  For the first time, Hamel’s voice faltered slightly.

  “I . . . I can’t love anyone now, Sylvie.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair, searching desperately for new arguments. Mercure tried to make out the background noises: car sounds, people talking, city sounds, anything that would give him a clue. But there was nothing.

  “If it were . . . If somebody else were doing what you’re doing, you would be against it!” Sylvie continued. “You’d think it was insane!”

  “But that’s just it, it’s not happening to somebody else, it’s happening to me!” Hamel replied with surprising anger. “That makes all the difference! I’m the victim of the dog! Me!”