Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  As he drove along Pioneers Road, his face showed certainty and unshakeable confidence.

  * * *

  At the other end of the line, the officer explained that he and the other guys from the SQ, the provincial police, had just arrived at the apartment in Charette and found it empty except for a portable computer, which was turned on, and a microphone.

  “Would it be possible to leave two men there in case Hamel comes back? Thank you.”

  After hanging up, Mercure turned to Wagner.

  “Hamel really planned everything. He started by creating a false trail in Longueuil . . . and he rented the apartment in Charette in case we discovered it.”

  “It’s still a clue,” Cabana said. “If he’s using that apartment to call from, he can’t be hiding far away.”

  “He could be two minutes away from Charette—or two hours!” retorted Wagner with a sigh. “How are we supposed to find him?”

  Mercure, looking in his notebook, murmured,

  “There’s a way . . .”

  * * *

  Bruno stopped the car at the corner of the street. Fifty meters away stood the duplex, silhouetted against the night sky. He looked at the lighted window with his binoculars and saw the kitchen. It was still quiet, still empty. His computer was still in the same place.

  Suddenly he stiffened.

  The two mice were no longer chasing each other on the screen of the computer. It was black except for the blinking cursor. His screen saver wasn’t on. And it was programmed to go on after twelve minutes of inactivity.

  Someone had just touched his keyboard.

  He slowly lowered the binoculars. A shiver went through him. He looked through the binoculars again and examined the street across from the building. There were two cars parked there, and in one of them, Bruno could make out a figure seated behind the wheel. He couldn’t see the features in the dark, but he saw that the person wasn’t doing anything. As if he was waiting for someone. Someone like Bruno . . .

  He quickly backed his car up until he couldn’t see the house. Had he been noticed? At this distance in the darkness and rain, it would be surprising. Besides, nobody had turned into the street in front of him, and nobody had followed him. He made a U-turn and continued slowly. His body was covered with sweat, and he took a couple of deep breaths.

  So the police had discovered that Longueuil was a false lead and had traced him here. And all that in an hour! Good God! He’d had a close call!

  But he absolutely must make that phone call tonight. It would be the last one, but he had to make it!

  He saw a telephone booth in front of a store that was closed. He looked around; the street was completely deserted.

  Yes, why not? It wouldn’t matter if the police discovered that he had used that phone booth, now that they had already zeroed in on Charette.

  He stopped the car and ran through the rain to the phone booth. He asked the operator for the number of the TVA television network in Montreal. He dialed the number, but they would not put him through to the person he wanted to talk to. When Bruno said who he was, the receptionist hesitated, perplexed, and then put him on hold. A long minute passed while he nervously watched the street, but there was still nobody there. Finally a voice on the line said tersely, “Monette here.”

  “I want to speak to the news director.”

  “You’re talking to him. And you claim to be Bruno Hamel, is that right?”

  “I am Bruno Hamel.”

  “I need proof.”

  The news director was trying to keep his voice even and slightly skeptical, but Bruno sensed his excitement.

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you, Mr. Monette. I’m calling you because my prisoner . . .”

  “You’re talking about Lem—”

  “Don’t say his name!” growled Bruno.

  Monette didn’t say anything. He must be starting to take him seriously. Bruno started again, his voice calmer.

  “My prisoner made a very interesting confession. He admitted to raping and killing three other little girls. He told me their names. I can give them to you . . .”

  Silence at the other end of the line.

  “I thought it would make a nice story, don’t you think?” continued Bruno. “You could even tell the parents of the victims and get their reactions.”

  “What you’re telling me is serious. I must have proof that you’re Hamel.”

  His voice was still distant, but the undertone of excitement was more and more perceptible. He really wanted him to be Hamel.

  Bruno thought about it. A car approached and went by, but it wasn’t the police.

  “Perfect. Listen to me. Until today, the police were looking for me in Longueuil. But tonight they realized I wasn’t there. Now they’re looking for me around Charette, in Mauricie.”

  “Who’s to say that’s true? You could be making it up.”

  “Call Inspector Mercure in Drummondville.”

  This time the silence was interrupted by a slight wet sound. Bruno imagined Monette nervously licking his lips and getting more and more excited.

  “Okay, give me the names.”

  Bruno took out a paper and read the three names, the dates, and the two cities.

  “Why are you doing this, Hamel?”

  He had called him by name. He believed him. Bruno was silent for a few seconds, and then he said tersely that he had nothing more to tell him.

  “Wait, one last question . . . Your prisoner . . . what condition is he in?”

  Bruno discerned an emotion he found disconcerting, a kind of morbid fascination, as if . . .

  He thought of the cashier at the beer store.

  I’m with you . . .

  He hung up and left the phone booth. This time, he’d have to get out of there quickly. There could already be dozens of cops combing the area.

  * * *

  Mercure, his eyes on his notebook, explained slowly, as if he was doing the calculations while he was speaking.

  “My message to TVA was broadcast at 6:04. It lasted about two minutes, so it ended at 6:06. When Hamel called, it was 6:20. So his hiding place is a fourteen-minute drive from the apartment in Charette.”

  He tapped his lips with the pen, and then asked, “Do we have a map of the Mauricie region?”

  Cabana found one and unfolded it on a table.

  “Here, Charette is here.”

  The four men formed a circle around the table, like military strategists planning an attack.

  “Look,” Mercure said, pointing at the map. “Apart from the 350 and the 351, there are only winding country roads. Even if Hamel was in a hurry, he couldn’t have gone more than a hundred kilometers an hour on those roads. So in fourteen minutes, he would have gone . . .”

  He made a quick calculation on a sheet of paper.

  “Hamel did at most twenty-three kilometers. Let’s say twenty-five if he took the 350 or the 351, which are faster.”

  “That narrows down the search area quite a bit!” cried Ruel, pleased.

  “The problem is that it could be twenty-five kilometers in any direction from Charette,” Wagner pointed out. “And there are secondary roads off every main road.”

  “Right. Let’s look at all the possibilities . . .”

  They got some colored markers, figured out the area on the map, and then traced all the possibilities on the roads around the village. After a half hour, the map had a red dot at Charette with a series of branching lines all around it. It looked like a mosaic.

  “There,” said Mercure. “Hamel is hiding somewhere along those red lines.”

  “Or rather, at the ends of those red lines,” Ruel said.

  “Not necessarily,” retorted Wagner, annoyed that his officer had failed to understand. “If he left five, six, or seven minutes after hearing the message on TV, he traveled a shorter distance. He could be twenty-five kilometers from Charette, but he could just as easily be right nearby.”

  Ruel scratched his head, following the
red lines with his eyes.

  “That means there are a lot of possibilities.”

  At least the area didn’t extend all the way to Trois-Rivières. In fact, it only covered villages. They identified them one by one: Charette, and then Saint-Étienne-des-Grès . . . Saint-Barnabé . . . Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc . . . Saint-Élie . . . As Mercure named them, Wagner wrote the names on a sheet of paper.

  “Nine!” the director sighed. “That’s a lot!”

  Cabana pointed out that it was still more precise than looking in Longueuil, but the joke left Wagner cold.

  “And it’s not just the villages we’ve got to search, but all the area around them!” Ruel said. “There’s a lot of woods in that area! He’s probably hiding in a cabin in the forest!”

  “A cabin that he can get to by car and that has electricity,” Mercure said. “I’d bet it’s more likely a cottage that he rented under a false name and paid cash for. We’ll have to ask the agencies if they’ve rented one in the past couple of weeks. But we mustn’t overlook anything. Also ask the hotels, motels, and businesses.”

  Wagner agreed, won over by their optimism now that they finally had something to go on.

  “Perfect!” he said to Mercure. “I’ll call the guys at the SQ to ask for their cooperation. I’ll send them eight of our officers.”

  Just then, the phone rang, and Wagner answered it. He looked surprised, and then told Mercure that somebody called Monette at TVA wanted to talk to him. The detective sergeant had a feeling of foreboding as he took the phone from Wagner. A click signaled the transfer of the call, and then Monette asked in a jovial voice, “How are you doing, Inspector?”

  “To what do I owe the honor of your call, Mr. Monette?”

  “Now that you know Hamel isn’t in Longueuil, you’ll be looking for him in the Charette area, is that right?”

  Wagner had put the phone on speaker. He turned white as a sheet, which was really unusual for him. Mercure was so taken aback that he was silent for two seconds . . . two seconds that gave him away.

  “It appears that I’m right,” Monette said with a chuckle.

  “Who gave you that information?” Mercure asked in a more emotional voice than he would have liked.

  “Hamel called me almost an hour ago. I had to be sure it was really him, and you’ve just confirmed it. We’re going to prepare our report.”

  “What report?”

  “Watch the news. We don’t have time to prepare anything much for tonight, but tomorrow we’re going to have something big.”

  “Monette, if you don’t tell me immediately what Hamel said, I’ll be there in two hours breaking down the door of your office, with a court order to make you talk!”

  Monette seemed to find this amusing, but he told Mercure the whole story without making him ask again. Wagner and the other police officers were astounded, and Mercure himself was speechless for a few moments. Then, in a voice that was less than convincing, he said, “I forbid you to broadcast a story on it!”

  “We’re not only going to broadcast it; we’re planning to run a news special tomorrow at noon! And since the story won’t hinder your investigation, I’d be very surprised if you succeeded in getting an injunction!”

  He hung up. Mercure sighed.

  “He knows we’ve found the apartment in Charette. When he called TVA, he must have been nearby.”

  Wagner smiled wryly; the guys from the SQ must have just missed him. It was really ironic!

  “Three other little girls,” sighed Cabana, upset. “He killed three other little girls.”

  The others were all silent, troubled.

  “I’m starting to think like Boisvert,” he added in a low voice.

  “Meaning . . . ?” asked Wagner suspiciously.

  But Cabana decided not to say anything more.

  Mercure sat down and calmly asked the chief, “Why did Hamel go to the trouble of calling TVA to give them that information? He must know it will be on TV.”

  “That’s what he wants.”

  Mercure nodded. Wagner asked if he should try to get an injunction to prevent them from reporting it.

  “Monette is right. We won’t find a judge who will give it to us,” Mercure said after thinking for a moment.

  “That’s what I think,” Wagner said.

  He looked at Mercure for a moment and said, “You’re thinking of something, aren’t you?”

  Mercure reflected for a few more seconds and made a vague gesture with his hand.

  “At any rate,” he said, changing the subject, “Hamel knows we’re looking for him in the right area now. So there’s no point keeping it secret. We might as well ask the local people for help.”

  Wagner asked him to explain. Mercure suggested that they send a press release to the major daily newspapers and TV networks in the province, explaining that Bruno Hamel was hiding in the Charette area, in Mauricie. They would name the nine villages within the perimeter and ask the residents of the area to call the provincial police if they had seen Hamel or had any clue to his whereabouts.

  “There are only two days left. If we want it to be in the media tomorrow, we’ll have to write the press release and send it right away.”

  Wagner glanced at the clock; it was almost 8:00 p.m.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get us some coffee and we’ll get to work on it!”

  * * *

  At about ten thirty that night, Bruno took out one of the monster’s eyes. He would have liked to remove the other one as well, but he got tired of his victim’s cries, which gave him a headache. So he had put a bandage on the bloody socket and left the room.

  Once again, he got no real satisfaction. He had not gone up another rung. But, unlike the day before, he didn’t experience any real frustration. Tonight his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t stop thinking about his phone call to Monette; that was what had given him real satisfaction tonight. And the best was yet to come. He had watched the ten o’clock news on TVA, and of course they had hardly mentioned it. They had said only that Hamel had given the station the names of three other victims of the monster, and had ended by saying, “We will give you further details in a special report tomorrow at noon.”

  So the bombshell would come tomorrow. And Bruno was so eager for it that he couldn’t concentrate on what he was doing. That was why tonight’s torture had been disappointing.

  You keep finding reasons, said an inner voice. Yesterday it was alcohol, and tonight . . .

  But those reasons were true! Tomorrow, after the explosive report on TVA, he would regain his enthusiasm, he was sure. Even now, watching a silly comedy on TV with a beer in his hand, he couldn’t think of anything else.

  Tomorrow his story would take on greater significance, and that would give his action a kind of . . .

  What, exactly?

  Why did you really tell that to the media?

  Why this question? For the bombshell, obviously! The bombshell that would explode on TV tomorrow!

  He rubbed his face. Yes, tomorrow he would see. Everything would be clearer. For everyone, and for himself as well.

  He tried to concentrate on the movie.

  * * *

  Mercure got home at ten fifteen, exhausted. The press release had been sent to the media. Tomorrow everyone would be talking about it.

  He ate some leftover meat pie and went to bed. But as usual, he had a lot of trouble getting to sleep. It was the time of the day when the images of his wife were most persistent. There was one in particular that he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind for five years: Madelaine dead with a bullet wound from a revolver in her forehead.

  He tried to chase away these dark thoughts by thinking of the evening and Hamel’s call to Monette. Hamel couldn’t have planned that beforehand, because he hadn’t had all that information about the other children. He must have learned it during the week, by torturing his prisoner. And that information had such an impact on him that he had run the risk of calling a reporter to tell it to him. Hav
ing started by wanting only to torture and kill Lemaire, he had added a new element to his plan. Why?

  Hamel had gone off the rails; Mercure was convinced that that was why he had deviated from his original plan. The phone call proved it.

  But how much had he deviated? Did he have a specific intention in wanting the story to go on television? The only way to find the answer was to let Monette do his report.

  Suddenly, without warning, Madelaine came back into his thoughts. That led him to think of Demers. When he had seen him the day before, Mercure had really considered ending these visits. It wasn’t the first time, but yesterday, the possibility seemed much stronger than before.

  Strange that this would happen at the same time as the Hamel case. All week long, his thoughts about Hamel had often led him to think of Madelaine and Demers. Why was that? Of course, Mercure too had lost a loved one, as Hamel had, but it seemed to him there was more to it than that.

  Sighing, he turned on the light and picked a book up from the night table, resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t fall asleep quickly again tonight.

  DAY 6

  THE DOG’S HOWLING WAS BECOMING unbearable, but Bruno kept moving through the labyrinth. He wanted to see. And the farther he went, the more he was able to discern other sounds with the howling, dull blows that had haunted his nights since the beginning of the week.

  Whimpering and blows . . . whimpering and blows . . .

  Finally, he came to the end of the labyrinth. A Great Dane was lying on its side. It was Luky, or at least what was left of him. Broken and bloody, he was lying in a pool of blood and guts, but was still alive. And he was howling. A man was beating the dog with a baseball bat, and every terrible blow was followed by a horrible sound; but even more horrible were the echoes of the blows.

  The man had his back to Bruno, but Bruno knew he wasn’t Denis Bédard. This man’s silhouette was more animal than human. Weren’t those hoofs holding the bat? And those things on his head really looked like horns. It was a grotesque combination of a man and a bull . . . and Bruno decided he didn’t want to know what it was. The very idea that the creature might turn around and show its face terrified him so much that he decided to retrace his steps. But a wall had appeared behind him and it was impossible to turn back. Bruno understood that he would have to look at the scene, to confront it.