Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  “Of the dog?” Sylvie stammered. “What dog?”

  “What?”

  “What dog are you talking about, Bruno?”

  “What do you mean, Sylvie?”

  She shook her head, incredulous. Mercure frowned again.

  “Okay, I’m going to hang up now. I was hoping . . .”

  “You can’t do this!” Sylvie shouted. “You can’t, you’ve gone completely crazy! You can’t do it!”

  “Don’t say I’m crazy!” Hamel replied. “On the contrary, I’m very clearheaded!”

  He sighed and changed to an incredulous, almost pleading voice. “So you don’t see it? You don’t see the meaning of what I’m doing?”

  “Bruno, you . . .”

  “Isn’t there some part of you that approves of what I’m doing, Sylvie? Even if all this upsets you, revolts you, is there not a small part of your soul, of your heart, that’s satisfied with what’s happening?”

  She was caught off guard and didn’t answer.

  Totally calm again, but in a terribly dark voice, Bruno continued, “For the next seven days, each night before you go to bed, you’ll be able to say to yourself that the monster who raped and killed our daughter has endured a day of suffering. Every day, you’ll be able to say to yourself that he’s experiencing the kind of torture he subjected Jasmine to. And every day will be worse than the one before. He will never again smile that damn little snotty smile. Do you understand? Until next Monday, you will know that somewhere, our daughter’s murderer is screaming in pain. Think about that, Sylvie, and try to tell me you’re completely against the idea!”

  Sylvie opened and closed her mouth, confused.

  “Just say it!” Bruno insisted.

  With the telephone at his ear, Mercure was observing Sylvie. Her face was contorted as if she was in agony.

  “I . . .”

  She couldn’t say anything more, and bit her lip, frightened by her inability to answer.

  “I won’t torment you anymore, Sylvie. I won’t call you again. Later, I’m sure you’ll under—”

  “This is Detective Sergeant Mercure,” interrupted the policeman softly.

  Silence at the other end of the line.

  “Do you hear me, Dr. Hamel?”

  “Actually, I’m not surprised you’re there,” Bruno said evenly. “Now that you know, I have nothing to add. So I’ll call you next Monday, after I’ve killed the monster. Then I’ll tell you where I am.”

  “Dr. Hamel, what you’re doing won’t bring back your daughter.”

  “Do you take me for an idiot? Of course I know that. That’s not the purpose.”

  “Do you think it will ease your pain?”

  “No.”

  “Why, then?”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line, and then, “It will alleviate my feeling of injustice and powerlessness.”

  “I think you’re making a mistake,” Mercure said.

  “I think I don’t give a damn.”

  “If you torture and kill that man, you’ll be a murderer just like him.”

  “I’ll be a murderer, but not just like him.”

  This answer caught Mercure off guard.

  Hamel continued, “In seven days, it will be all over. Until then, there’s no point trying to look for me. You won’t find me. Don’t bother Sylvie; as you’ve heard, she had nothing to do with it.”

  “Dr. Hamel . . .”

  Mercure, sensing that the doctor was going to hang up, spoke a little more insistently, more gravely, without losing the hoarse softness of his voice.

  “Dr. Hamel, you’ll lose your job, you’ll go to prison. Your life will be destroyed.”

  “It already is.”

  The connection was cut.

  “He has a cell phone, doesn’t he?” Mercure asked Sylvie.

  “Wh . . . what?”

  “Your partner has a cell phone, doesn’t he?”

  She replied yes, and he asked her for the number. He dialed it immediately, but in vain: no answer. Mercure wrote the number in his notebook and turned back to Sylvie, who seemed completely lost.

  “So you think that . . . that he’s going to torture him, is that right?” she asked. “For seven days?”

  He didn’t answer, but his silence was eloquent. It was obvious, wasn’t it? Hamel certainly wasn’t holding Lemaire hostage to discuss philosophy with him.

  She shook her head again and put her hands on her temples. This wasn’t possible, it wasn’t Bruno, he could never do something like that, never! She was on the verge of tears again.

  Mercure tried to imagine Hamel these past few days, and it fascinated him. Because he hadn’t just waited for Lemaire at the courthouse door to put a bullet in his head in a fit of rage that had made him lose all judgment. No. For more than a week, Bruno Hamel had coldly prepared a meticulously detailed plan. For more than a week, he had known very well that he was going to kidnap Lemaire, take him to an isolated spot, and torture him. He had planned how long he would keep him. He had planned to kill him in the end, and then give himself up to the police. Everything he had done these past few days was directed toward that goal. He had found a safe place without attracting anyone’s attention, had likely gotten hold of a car, probably outside the city, had inquired about the formalities of the preliminary hearing, had prepared the nitro patches, had found a way to unlock the door of the police car. There was nothing impulsive in any of that. On the contrary, there was intelligence, thought, calculation. And the insanity of the plan hadn’t stopped him.

  Mercure stroked his right cheek. Something had broken in Bruno Hamel.

  An image of the tormented man came to his mind.

  “Would you have any idea at all where he might be hiding?”

  Holding back her tears, Sylvie thought for a moment, shrugged, and mentioned their cottage in the Eastern Townships. He also asked for the names of Bruno’s parents and his close friends.

  “You want to question them?”

  Mercure was almost sure Hamel was hiding someplace nobody knew about, but he had to check every possible lead. Maybe one of them would have an idea. She gave a few names and telephone numbers, which Mercure wrote down. Then, as if she couldn’t hold herself back anymore, Sylvie slumped down in her chair and started sobbing. Mercure watched in silence. He had rarely seen someone so physically affected by sorrow. Sylvie Jutras was devastated. She looked like a survivor of some terrible catastrophe who hadn’t slept in days. And wasn’t that exactly the case? She was still in mourning for the death of her daughter when a second tragedy had been added to the first one. He remained respectfully quiet and took the opportunity to skim through what he’d written in his notebook.

  “Dammit! I’m fed up with bawling all the time!” she cried suddenly, hitting the table feebly.

  “Is there someone who could come and spend a few days with you? I really don’t think you should stay here alone.”

  She began to protest, but he was so insistent that she finally agreed. Another thing: would she let him put a tap on her telephone? They would automatically record all her conversations, but the only ones the police would listen to would be those with Hamel. If he called again, of course. She agreed, and Mercure said a technician would come by later in the day. He was about to ask her not to talk to anyone about this, but he couldn’t bring himself to—it seemed too cruel. In any case, she wouldn’t be capable of it.

  When he was about to leave, she stopped him.

  “The phone call he just made . . . can you trace it?”

  “Since he must have used his cell phone, we could tell which cell relayed the call.”

  “Which cell?”

  He scratched his head.

  “Listen, I’m not an expert in electronics, but basically, the radio waves from cell phone calls are sent by transmitters called cells. The message is sent to the cell closest to the sender—Hamel—and then that cell communicates with the cell closest to the receiver—you.”

  “Are there a l
ot of these cells in Quebec?”

  “Hundreds.”

  Sylvie looked discouraged, but Mercure explained that it was precisely because of that fact that they could tell where a call came from.

  “The more densely populated the region, the more cells there are. If he called from Montreal, for example, the cell would give us a zone of just a few square kilometers. If he called from some remote village, there might be just one cell in about twenty square kilometers or more, so it becomes less precise. But that’s already a clue.”

  He hesitated.

  “If you find out where he is, will you tell us?”

  Sylvie, taken aback, answered yes.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  He remembered her silence, her hesitation, before, when Hamel had asked her if there wasn’t a part of her that approved of his actions. But she gave the same answer, without hesitating. He asked why.

  “Because I want to see him again as quickly as possible.”

  Mercure nodded.

  She smiled bitterly.

  “That wasn’t the reason you were hoping for, was it?”

  “I wasn’t hoping for any particular reason,” he replied gently. “Don’t forget to call someone to keep you company.”

  She promised. As she was closing the door, he could see that she was trying hard not to cry.

  In his car, before driving off, he looked at the house for a while. A pretty cottage, surprisingly modest considering that the owner was so rich. Warm, with brightly colored flowers, shrubs of all sizes, and a big yard covered with dead leaves. He imagined Hamel, Sylvie Jutras, and little Jasmine playing in the yard.

  He examined the photograph of the doctor again. Earlier, when Hamel had called, the detective sergeant had tried to connect that voice with this face. He couldn’t do it.

  There was no relation, no connection between this smiling, serene face and that dark, detached voice.

  * * *

  Bruno put down the computer mike and breathed a long sigh of relief.

  It had worked perfectly. That proved he’d managed to learn something in his computer course last year.

  When he arrived at the duplex, he had tried the telephone and found that the phone company had kept its word and the line was connected. He had set his computer up on the kitchen counter and configured it to connect to the Internet, and everything had gone very well.

  Even better, Mercure had been with Sylvie when he called. In less than an hour, the police would be on his trail. On his false trail.

  There was only one dark spot in the picture: Sylvie didn’t understand. She thought he was crazy. But she was still in shock. In a few days, she would change her mind, he was sure of it. Imagining the monster suffering would change her mind.

  In any case, what she thought didn’t matter to him anymore. And never would again.

  Before leaving, he put on his disguise again, except for the dark glasses, which definitely made him look too suspicious. Outside, there was no one on the glum, deserted street. He glanced toward the window of his apartment. The light was off and the curtains drawn. He got into his car and left Charette.

  When he stopped the car in front of the cottage, he checked his watch. It was three ten. It had taken him about fifteen minutes to return to Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc. It was close enough if he had other calls to make, and far enough in case there was a hitch.

  The house was completely silent. Before leaving for Charette, Bruno had given the monster another injection to make sure he wouldn’t miss seeing him wake up. He still had a few hours to sleep.

  In a magazine rack beside the couch, he found a few medical journals. He made himself comfortable and began to read.

  * * *

  In his office, Wagner paced back and forth, loosening his necktie. Mercure, sitting in a corner with his hands folded across his belly, watched his movements with a certain weariness.

  “So you think he’s serious?”

  “Yeah, I think he is.”

  Wagner swore, started pacing again, stopped, and said, “He’s gone crazy obviously!”

  Mercure didn’t comment.

  An officer came in. He said Hamel had indeed used his cell phone. And they had located the cell that had relayed the call to Drummondville. It was in Longueuil and it covered one of the biggest neighborhoods of the city, including part of downtown.

  “Longueuil,” Mercure murmured with astonishment.

  “Good, we know where he’s hiding!”

  “I’m not so sure. Maybe he only stopped there to call his wife. By this time, he could be hiding somewhere in the Laurentians.”

  “Well, it won’t cost us anything to send his description to the guys in Longueuil, will it?”

  Mercure shrugged, and Wagner passed on the order by telephone. Then he started pacing again.

  “You had a tap put on his wife’s phone?”

  “Yes, they said ten minutes ago that it had been done.”

  “Okay. So what’s your plan?”

  The detective sergeant cracked the joints in his thin neck. Soon he would go and question a few people. Tomorrow he would review the situation with his colleagues Pleau and Bolduc.

  “There are still reporters waiting outside!” growled the chief. “They want something for the six o’clock news! What should I tell the vultures?”

  “Everything. They’ll find it all out anyway.”

  “I’d rather not mention the seven-day deadline. Or tell them we traced his call to Longueuil.”

  Wagner took a few more steps and leaned both hands on the back of his chair. Mercure didn’t remember ever seeing him sitting in it.

  “What do you think of all this, Hervé?”

  The detective sergeant gave a sad sigh.

  “I think the guy has grown a new skin.”

  * * *

  Seven ten in the evening. The monster would surely wake up soon.

  Bruno had eaten at around six, a tuna sandwich with a beer. He had examined the cat curios in the living room, which were kind of cute. He had even rummaged a bit in the cupboards in Josh’s bedroom, across from the monster’s room, and found a bottle of Scotch. He hadn’t drunk any. He didn’t particularly like liquor and drank it only on special occasions. He had also found a pair of binoculars, which Josh must have used for bird-watching. He even came across a few porn magazines, which he leafed through without much interest.

  Now he was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. There was a TV, but he had no desire to turn it on. The more time passed, the more Bruno’s excitement mounted—the excitement of the batter at the plate in the ninth inning when there are two men out and three on base and the hitter is certain he’s going to hit a home run.

  Certain.

  A noise. Muttering.

  Quickly Bruno went to the monster’s room. He was lying on the floor with his eyes still closed, moving one arm a bit and turning his head from side to side. He gave a little moan and then was quiet. In a few minutes, he would be awake.

  The ball would be pitched any second now.

  Barely feeling his heart rate increase, Bruno went to the winch and started turning the crank. The chains tightened and lifted. First the monster’s arms were slowly raised, then his torso. Bruno kept turning the crank until the body was completely vertical, the feet barely touching the ground. Then he locked the winch. The monster’s mutterings were becoming clearer and his head was moving more.

  Bruno went to the table on the left, close to the winch. It was huge, almost a meter wide and two and a half long, solid wood. There were four metal rings screwed into it, two at each end. It stood on a single post, also of wood and very thick. But between the post and the tabletop there was a complicated metal mechanism with a lever and a crank. Bruno moved the lever and pivoted the table into a completely vertical position. Then he pushed the lever toward the monster. The table was heavy, and Bruno gritted his teeth with the effort; the enormous casters under the post turned slowly until the upright tabletop was against the
back of the hanging body.

  Bruno backed to the door and observed the scene. The monster, completely naked, was held in a standing position by his shackled hands. He was no longer swinging, but leaning against the upright tabletop. He licked his lips and squeezed his closed eyelids tight, and finally opened his eyes. Fully awake now, his face framed by his long yellow-blond hair, he looked around wildly. Finally he saw Bruno. He mumbled a few inaudible words and looked up at the chains on his wrists. Fear washed over his face. He realized that the position he was in did not bode well for him.

  “Wha . . . what’s going on?”

  Bruno said nothing. The monster looked at his chains again, turned his head toward the table behind his back, and glanced down at his naked crotch.

  “What am I doing naked? And why am I chained up?”

  He pushed against the table with his legs. His body swung forward and immediately bounced back against the table behind him.

  “Fuck, man! Say something!” he cried, now angry.

  Bruno’s face was unperturbed, but within him, a terrible process was taking place. The rapist and killer of his little Jasmine was there in front of him. At his mercy.

  The monster laughed without conviction and even started to smile his arrogant smile.

  “Come on!” he said in a voice that had become uncertain. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  At the sight of that little smile, Bruno finally opened the doors of his heart and soul to the hate he had been controlling for the past week. At first it was a trickle, but in a few seconds it turned into a river, a raging torrent that swept through his being, destroying everything in its path. And this devastating flood occurred in the most complete, most horrifying silence.

  The monster must have seen glimmers of that tide reflected in Bruno’s eyes, because the fear quickly returned to his features.

  With surprising speed, Bruno grabbed the sledgehammer that was leaning against the wall and stepped forward. His eyes flashing with fury, his face waxen, he raised the tool sideways. And just when the monster realized what was going to happen, the sledgehammer smashed into his right knee. The blow was so violent that the heavy table behind him was knocked back a centimeter.