Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  In the silence, he thought he heard echoes of that impossible dog’s howling.

  DAY 5

  TWO DAYS!”

  In the middle of the squad room, Wagner pronounced the words pointedly, with frustration verging on panic, but Mercure, Ruel, and Cabana knew they should not take it personally. The chief had to vent, or else there would be an atomic explosion and everybody would suffer for it. Boisvert was sitting off to the side, pretending to work on a report on a robbery that had occurred during the night in a downtown store, but he was not missing a word of the conversation.

  “But if we count today, and if Hamel only intends to kill Lemaire at the end of the day on Monday, we actually have three days left,” Ruel corrected.

  He had said that to boost the morale of the troops, but the chief’s expression showed him that he had missed the mark. Ruel shrugged, though he still found his reasoning very relevant.

  They had had the shoebox examined by experts, but nothing of interest had been found. Bolduc and Pleau had called from Longueuil a little earlier, asking if they could come back to Drummondville. But now that the triangulation was in place, Mercure had told them to stay there and be prepared.

  Rubbing his neck, Wagner mumbled as if to himself, “We’ll have to make Hamel call us . . .”

  Mercure agreed. “Yes, we have to create an event or a situation that will provoke him to call us.”

  “And how would we do that?” asked Ruel skeptically.

  Mercure sighed and smiled wryly. He had no idea.

  “Okay. A way to make him call us!” the chief said, leaning on a desk with both hands. “Any suggestions?”

  There was hesitation for a few instants, and then Cabana suggested broadcasting a false news item on TV. For example, saying that his partner had been arrested as an accomplice. Hamel would surely call to deny it. Wagner made a face. It was too obvious. Hamel wouldn’t take the bait.

  “And I’m not sure he’d feel obliged to help her,” Mercure said, recalling the conversation recorded the day before.

  They started brainstorming again. Ruel suggested, as if it was the idea of the century, that they should announce on the news that someone had just confessed to the murder of the little girl, implying that Lemaire was not guilty.

  “Oh, come on! Hamel was told that the DNA tests were positive!” protested the chief. “Lemaire pleaded guilty. It was all in the news!”

  “And in four days of torture, Hamel must surely have gotten him to confess to anything he wanted,” added Mercure gravely.

  These words threw cold water on the idea. Wagner sighed.

  “We have to find a way. There must be something.”

  Boisvert, who had kept quiet until then, spun around in his chair to face the small group, and said, “What if we just let him die? He’s a goddamn child murderer! Why are we busting our asses to find him?”

  “You keep right on doing your paperwork and let the intelligent people do the thinking!” replied Wagner, who had immediately turned scarlet.

  “You may be my boss, Greg, but I won’t let you speak to me like that!” retorted Boisvert, standing up.

  “What do you want, Michel? A little two-week holiday?”

  “I want us to arrest real bad guys instead of trying to save an asshole!”

  “We’re not trying to save an asshole. We’re trying to keep one man from killing another!”

  “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Whose side!” yelled Wagner, choking with rage. “This isn’t a hockey match, you idiot, it’s a police investigation!”

  “Hey! I asked you not to talk to me like that!” fumed Boisvert, walking toward his superior.

  Cabana stepped between them. Boisvert and Wagner glared at each other, while the other two officers told them to calm down. Mercure, standing to one side, rubbed his eyes.

  “There are already people in the streets acting like fools, but that doesn’t mean we have to,” Cabana said.

  He was talking about the demonstration the day before in Hamel’s neighborhood. In fact, that was what had made Mercure so depressed.

  The two officers finally moved away from each other, casting nasty sidelong glances at each other. Wagner forced himself to stay calm.

  “I’m just saying we should be doing everything we can to find him, because that’s our job, that’s all.”

  “Not just because of that,” added Mercure softly.

  Everyone turned toward him. Looking at his fingers, he added slowly, as if he were thinking out loud, “It’s not a child murderer we’re trying to save, it’s . . .”

  He hesitated, and then said, “. . . it’s a meaning.”

  “A meaning? The meaning of what?”

  Mercure almost answered, but he reflected for an instant and thought better of it. He shrugged and made a dissatisfied expression. Boisvert chuckled scornfully, while Cabana and Ruel exchanged weary, knowing looks. They were used to the detective sergeant’s mystical flights of fancy. Wagner scratched his ear morosely, then tapped the desk in front of him.

  “Okay, until we find the meaning of the universe, we could start by finding a way to get Hamel to call us again. It’s a less ambitious project, but one that’s more urgent!”

  * * *

  Bruno woke up at ten o’clock. God. He’d slept so much since coming to the cottage. He rubbed his painful forehead. He had a bit of a hangover, but nothing serious. Still, he lay in bed for quite a while, looking at the trees through the window. The sky was still cloudy.

  The heaviness that had burdened him since the coming of the darkness seemed to have gotten worse, but maybe that was an effect of the headache. The night before, he had again dreamed of gaping jaws and dark fur, and the blows were closer than ever, and stronger.

  He put on his clothes. Now they were not only creased but also covered in bloodstains. He would have to wash them. In the bathroom mirror, his reflection shocked him—he had several days’ growth of beard, his sparse hair was dirty and disheveled, and his eyes were hollow and bloodshot. What was he waiting for to take a shower? He began by rubbing at the blood on his clothes with a wet towel. The dark stains remained on his shirt and pants, but they looked a little less like blood. As for the shower, he decided to eat first.

  He made himself some breakfast, but ate very little. As he drank his coffee, he thought about the night before, in particular the frustration he’d felt. He thought he understood the cause: he had drunk too much. He could not get any satisfaction from the tortures he inflicted on the monster if he was doing it in a state of inebriation.

  On the other hand, he hadn’t been that drunk.

  Even so, he made a decision not to have a drop of alcohol today. He promised himself. To regain control.

  He rubbed his eyes. He was more messed up than he’d thought. He decided to relax for a few hours. Take a walk, for example. He put on his coat, and before going out, he went to see his prisoner.

  The monster was a real wreck now. Several of the welts from the whipping, including the gash across his cheek, had become infected in spite of the ointments, and were oozing pus. His genitals were in shreds, and his body was lying in a mixture of urine, shit, and blood. His hollow-looking eyes were staring at the ceiling. The fear had disappeared, giving way to a troubling emptiness. When Bruno went over to him, he did not even turn his head.

  Bruno touched his forehead; he was burning up with fever. Bruno hooked him up to the intravenous again, but did not bother with the antibiotic ointment. Even if the infection progressed, he would survive until Monday. The monster submitted with no reaction, his face completely expressionless.

  Bruno thought about the dog’s howling that he had heard coming from the mouth of his prisoner.

  Slowly, he left the room. He really needed some air.

  * * *

  The video was almost at the end, and it was about time too, because Mercure felt like he was on the verge of visual overload. He’d had more than enough of those family scenes, parties, bir
thdays, and walks in the woods, especially because he had not really learned anything new about Hamel since the second cassette.

  Maybe he was wasting his time.

  There was little Jasmine on the screen, two years younger. She was on a swing in a park, joyfully shouting to the camera “Look, Daddy, look how high I’m swinging!” and he could hear Hamel’s voice, full of delight and love: “If you go much higher, honey, you’ll fly away!” There was a second child’s voice and the camera turned to another kid who was also swinging. Mercure recognized him: it was the little disfigured boy he’d seen the other day when he was leaving the Hamels’ house. In the video, his scars looked worse, more recent, but the child was laughing and shouting, “Look, Jasmine, I’m going to fly away too!”

  Mercure glanced at his watch: almost noon. As soon as the video was over, he would go for lunch.

  They’d have to find a way to get Hamel to call again.

  On the screen, the little boy was leaving, shouting goodbye to Jasmine. The little girl immediately turned to the camera and said in an exaggeratedly low voice, even though the boy was now far away, “Frédéric’s face still doesn’t look very nice, does it, Daddy?”

  Resting his chin on his hand, Mercure smiled indulgently. Hamel’s voice, just as understanding, explained, “The dog bit him very, very hard, Jasmine, and he’ll have marks for the rest of his life.”

  The weariness slowly disappeared from Mercure’s face, replaced by a frown of concentration.

  “And where’s the dog, Daddy?”

  “I already explained to you: it was bad, and they made it die.”

  Mercure leaned forward. On the screen, little Jasmine was staring at the camera as she played with the hem of her dress. She was not really satisfied with these answers.

  “But how did they make it die?”

  “They killed it, honey. Come on, let’s go to the slide.”

  “How did they kill it?”

  “Listen, Jasmine, you don’t want . . . Wait a second . . .”

  The camera was lowered and then turned off. The father had not felt it necessary to film this delicate conversation.

  Mercure ejected the cassette from the machine with a quick movement, picked up the other three cassettes, and hurried out of the room.

  * * *

  When it started raining, Bruno went back in. His headache was gone, but he still felt morose. The sense of frustration from the day before still lingered.

  He made himself some lunch but did not eat very much. He had no appetite. Was there news on TV at noon on Saturday? He found some on Radio-Canada. But when he saw they were essentially repeating the same information, he turned it off. Carrying a plate of chicken and a glass of water, he went to the monster’s room.

  The smell was revolting. Bruno unshackled his right wrist, but the monster left his arm in the same position, stretched above his head. Bruno put the plate and the glass down on the table, close to the prisoner’s face. He still did not move. He had to eat, though, to keep up a minimum level of strength. Suddenly, he turned his head toward Bruno. When he saw Bruno, the fear returned to his eyes, but it was so shallow, so distant that it was barely perceptible. He opened his mouth and said, “I understand . . . I understand where I am . . .”

  His voice was so weak. And he spoke very slowly, like an old 33-rpm record played at half speed.

  “I’m in Hell.”

  Bruno looked at him for a moment, and then picked up the fork and started feeding him. The monster took the food passively, chewed a little, and swallowed with difficulty.

  “I’m in Hell and . . . and you’re the Devil . . .”

  Bruno brought the glass of water to the prisoner’s mouth. A swallow, a second one, and then the rest ran down his chin.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  This damn frustration that wouldn’t go away! Exasperated, Bruno punched the monster in the nose. There was a cracking sound, but the monster barely reacted as blood flowed from his right nostril. The doctor rubbed his knuckles and nodded. That had felt good.

  For ten seconds.

  Moving quickly, he re-shackled the monster’s right hand and went to his bags. He would put out an eye, that should satisfy him for more than ten seconds! He stopped suddenly. Come on, cool it! The monster was still too weak, too much in shock from his mutilation of the day before. Did Bruno want to finish him off?

  Irritated, he left the room.

  In the living room, he picked up the phone and called Morin and told him where to find the money.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I know who you are.”

  Bruno was silent for three long seconds and then replied in a calm voice, “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Morin’s voice was slightly lilting, vaguely amused. He must be very proud of himself.

  “Well, good for you. Talk to you tomo—”

  “Not so fast, Dr. Hamel, I’d like to talk to you . . .”

  Bruno was silent again. He was not really surprised. What was surprising was that it had taken Morin so long to catch on. But even though he had prepared himself mentally for this situation, he still felt nervous. Morin was the weak link in the whole plan.

  “I don’t know what we have to chat about, Mr. Morin.”

  “I think we have a lot of things to discuss . . .”

  “Send the police and you lose fourteen thousand dollars.”

  There was a heavy silence, which Bruno allowed to go on.

  “Do you understand what I said?” he finally asked.

  “Yes,” Morin answered in a strange voice.

  “Good.”

  Bruno hung up. Morin had understood. The link would hold. He stood up and walked slowly to the kitchen. After all, just one beer wouldn’t do him any harm.

  Suddenly there was a ring.

  Bruno turned toward the phone, as surprised as if the telephone had started talking. He answered on the second ring, and barked into the receiver, “Are you crazy, Morin?”

  “Listen to me . . .”

  “I told you not to call me, ever!”

  “I know, but I thought of something.”

  “You should do less thinking! Call again, just one more time, and starting tomorrow, you won’t get another cent!”

  He slammed the receiver down.

  Seconds passed, then minutes. But Bruno was not at all reassured.

  Without putting on his coat, he hurried outside. The rain, falling harder than the day before, made a constant rustling sound in the trees. He opened the trunk of the Chevy and took out the revolver and some bullets. He went back to the house and into the living room, and clumsily loaded the pistol. He raised the weapon and examined it nervously. Then he put it down on the little living room table and waited, making a superhuman effort not to go get a beer. This was not the time to dull his reflexes with even a few slugs of alcohol. He took long, deep breaths.

  He had acquired the weapon to finish off the monster on Monday. But he might have to do it sooner . . .

  * * *

  “You watched them all?”

  “Every one.”

  “And did you find anything interesting?”

  She asked this without any hope, just to be polite. They were both standing at the door of the house, she inside, he on the little porch, barely protected from the rain by the roof overhang. She was holding the bag containing the videocassettes; in spite of the bad weather, she had not invited Mercure to come in. The message was clear: she had just about had enough of police visits.

  “Maybe, I don’t know . . . I wanted to talk to you about it,” he said, silently berating himself for harassing her. “Uh . . . your sister isn’t here?”

  “She went to do some shopping. I didn’t have the stomach . . .”

  Then, obviously reluctantly, “Come in. You’re getting soaked.”

  “Just in the entryway then.”

  He took three steps into the entryway. Smoothing his wet hair, he examined Sylvie covertly:
her face looked older, her skin gray, her eyes so tired.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “What is it you think you’ve found?”

  He described the scene in the park between Jasmine and the little boy who had been disfigured by a dog.

  “You know the story about the dog?”

  “Of course. It was the biggest tragedy in the neighborhood in the last ten years . . . It’s so quiet here that . . .”

  She frowned, and then finally showed some interest. “You think this is connected to the dog Bruno seems to hear all the time?”

  “How about if you told me about that tragedy first?”

  “It was terrible. It happened three years ago, at the beginning of the summer. The Cussons, who live five houses away, had a big black Great Dane, Luky, which was very gentle with everyone. Little Frédéric Bédard, the son of some other neighbors, was five or six at the time, and he tried to pet Luky, as many children did. But this time, for no apparent reason, the dog attacked and bit him in the face two or three times.”

  She grimaced, shook her head and continued, “It was a miracle Frédéric even survived. I was at the Center. A few neighbors came out, including Bruno.”

  Mercure was becoming more and more interested.

  “The rest is what he told me . . . Denis, Frédéric’s father, didn’t go to the hospital with his wife and son. He went and killed the dog.”

  “Your partner witnessed that?”

  “Along with two or three other neighbors, yes. Of course, nobody did anything to stop Denis.”

  Mercure nodded.

  “But . . . Bruno told me it was really awful . . . Extremely violent . . .”

  “To the point where it could have affected him?”

  “For a few days, he was really shaken.”

  Mercure asked her to be more specific. Sylvie thought for a moment. In spite of her weariness, she really made an effort to remember, feeling, as Mercure did, that there might be something significant in the story.