Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  * * *

  “There’s been no trace of him so far,” Cabana said at the other end of the line. “But we still have a lot of ground to cover, we’ve barely searched a quarter of . . .”

  “Is the SQ cooperating?” asked Wagner.

  “Very well. With our guys, there are sixteen on the case.”

  Wagner hung up morosely and summarized the call to Mercure. With four other officers, they were watching the end of the special report on the television set in the squad room.

  Mercure listened to the hysterical mother who was sorry she couldn’t be with Hamel for the week; he looked dejected.

  “I understand her,” Boisvert said. “She’ll feel a lot better if Hamel kills Lemaire.”

  “We know what you think, Boisvert. There’s no need for you to tell us again!” Wagner said.

  “I think I understand why Hamel wanted this report,” Mercure murmured.

  Wagner nodded as if he too understood. Mercure thought about the idea he had had the night before about Hamel going off the rails.

  “In any case,” sighed Pleau, gesturing toward the TV with her chin, “this kind of report is not going to encourage Hamel to turn himself in!”

  Mercure stroked his cheek. He asked, “The journalist said the parents of one of the victims had refused to speak to reporters, didn’t he?”

  Wagner confirmed it. Mercure ordered Pat to call TVA and ask them for the name of those parents. Wagner asked Mercure where he was going with this.

  “I want to meet with those parents.”

  “Why?”

  Mercure remained silent, his eyes still riveted to the screen, although he was lost in thought and no longer saw it. He wanted to know why those parents had refused. He might be able to use the information . . . maybe.

  After some ten minutes on the phone, Pat explained that there was only the mother; the father had died eight years ago. Her name was Diane Masson and she lived in Saint-Hyacinthe. Her eight-year-old daughter Charlotte had been raped and murdered four years ago.

  “Do you have her phone number?”

  Boisvert gave it to him, and Mercure immediately dialed it, while Wagner watched curiously. In his usual soft, hoarse voice, Mercure asked to meet the woman that afternoon. She was reluctant, but he finally got her to agree. He took down the address, thanked her, and hung up. Now Boisvert and Pleau were also looking at him curiously.

  “Would you tell me why you want to meet with her?” asked the chief impatiently.

  “Later . . .”

  He was already heading for the door when he stopped short and went back to the telephone. He wanted to call Sylvie, Hamel’s partner, to ask if she had watched the news just now. And what she thought of the report.

  The phone rang for a long time and the answering machine did not pick up. He finally hung up.

  “Hervé . . . ,” Wagner persisted.

  But Mercure was already out the door.

  * * *

  He had been watching TV for more than two hours, watching one channel for ten seconds and then changing to another channel. Since the television could only get five channels, it did not take long to go through all of them. But as the empty beer bottles accumulated at his feet, the channels changed less and less quickly. Bruno looked down and counted the number of empties: eight. Good God! It was crazy to drink so much! Getting drunk was really not a good idea. He had had proof of that two days ago.

  He checked his watch, his vision a little blurry: three fifty. Maybe the monster had already regained enough strength. He’d have to go see . . . He turned off the TV, stood up, and felt dizzy for a second. He was going to head toward the hallway, but the dizziness persisted, and he went to the kitchen to throw some water on his face. He reached his hand toward the sink and saw that it was still trembling.

  “Christ! Stop shaking!” he shouted.

  Maybe he should wait until he sobered up . . . or else he might not feel anything, like two days ago.

  Was he looking for reasons not to act?

  Ridiculous! He would go immediately, right away! And he would kill him!

  No, no, not kill him! Tomorrow! Not till tomorrow! Until then, he had to . . . he needed to . . . he must reach the top of the ladder, the summit of satisfaction.

  He raised his eyes to the window, taking a deep breath. Outside, the rain had finally stopped, but the dark sky clearly showed that it was only a pause. Suddenly, he saw a silhouette skipping among the trees. It immediately disappeared behind a huge trunk, but he had had enough time to glimpse a familiar blue dress and a mane of chestnut hair.

  He reached the door in one leap and ran outside without a coat, impervious to the cold. The sky was so overcast that it seemed like evening. The gray lake merged seamlessly with the low clouds.

  “Jasmine!”

  Hadn’t something moved there in the woods? But Bruno wasn’t sure, and the filter over his eyes made everything uniformly gray and flat. He went down the porch steps and into the forest. His shoes dragged through the dead leaves and caught on roots. He ran through the trees, ignoring the branches scratching his face, his path winding and slowed by drunkenness and by that damn heaviness that was always with him now. His crazed eyes searched for the silhouette, for his daughter. She was close by, he was sure of it, she hadn’t had time to go very far.

  He felt a presence behind him and turned around. He caught his breath. Jasmine was standing less than ten meters away. She was partly hidden by the branches, but he could see her tattered blue dress, her disheveled hair, her lacerated arms and legs . . . and her face, her beautiful face, covered with brownish scabs. He couldn’t read her expression. Pain? Indifference? Sadness? He was convinced, however, that she was looking at him, standing straight and motionless, her skin wet with the rain from before.

  No, it was not rain . . .

  He started walking toward her like a sleepwalker and reached out a trembling hand.

  “Jasmine!”

  He thought he saw a glimmer of sadness in her eyes, a trace of disappointment on her bloodied face. And then she took two steps to the side and disappeared behind a tree.

  “Jasmine!”

  He ran, barely noticing that the echo of his calls was greatly amplified. He ran to the tree she had disappeared behind, his little Jasmine, his daughter, for whom he was doing all this.

  There was no one behind the tree.

  Stunned, Bruno looked around. His shoulders sagged as if all his strength had deserted him. He leaned his back against the tree and let himself slide to the ground. He crossed his hands over his folded knees and bent his head toward the muddy forest floor.

  He was still.

  * * *

  When the detective sergeant returned from Saint-Hyacinthe, Wagner immediately joined him in his office. Mercure had an odd expression on his face, but when the chief came in, he shook himself and asked, “Any news of Hamel?”

  “Nothing,” Wagner said. “But they haven’t searched everywhere yet. And you? Are you finally going to tell me the reason for your little visit to that woman?”

  “I’ve convinced Diane Masson to talk to the reporters. It wasn’t easy, but she agreed to do it. When she told me what she thought of this whole Hamel business, I told her she should say it on TV, that it might help with our investigation.”

  “How’s that? What’s she going to say?”

  Mercure hesitated, and his strange look came back.

  “You’ll soon see, on the news.”

  Wagner almost lost his temper, but Mercure seemed so anxious that he kept his mouth shut. The chief had a strong suspicion that the Hamel case was having an odd effect on Mercure’s mind, an effect that must take him back to Madelaine’s death . . .

  . . . and maybe that visit to Saint-Hyacinthe had also created some strong vibrations.

  Wagner knew that Mercure would talk to him about it when he was ready. So he nodded and left the office in silence.

  * * *

  The rain started again a little before six
o’clock, and Bruno was still sitting against the tree, his face blank. He had been in the same position for almost two hours. He had not even been aware of the gradual coming of darkness, and it was only the first scattered drops that finally roused him from his catatonia. He looked around at the dark silhouettes of the trees and staggered to his feet. What was he doing here?

  He had seen Jasmine.

  He rubbed his face. He had been completely delirious.

  The rain came down harder and Bruno turned around to go back. He could still feel the effects of the alcohol in his head, but the drunkenness was now only a faint intoxication.

  In spite of the darkness, he found his way back to the cottage quite easily. As soon as he got there, he went to his prisoner’s room. The monster had recuperated quite a lot now, and Bruno had to act. Things were really becoming urgent. But he felt so numb . . .

  He looked at the time: three minutes after six. The news would be starting. Why not watch the report from noon again? It would get him in the mood, energize him, get rid of this numbness. And maybe there were new details.

  Without sitting down, he tuned in to TVA, and soon they were talking about him. They explained again that he was hiding in the Charette area, and they listed the nine possible municipalities and gave the telephone number for the provincial police. Then they repeated the report from noon, and Bruno watched it again with the same sick pleasure. He had already taken a step toward the hallway, his appetite whetted, when the news reader announced that the mother of the third victim, Diane Masson, had finally agreed to talk to reporters in the afternoon, although she had refused in the morning. Interested, Bruno finally sat down.

  A woman in her late thirties appeared on the screen. Not particularly beautiful or ugly, she gave an impression of strength and assurance. Sitting in her living room with five or six microphones from different radio and television stations pointed at her, she spoke in a cool, completely calm voice.

  “Yes, I know Dr. Hamel is now holding the rapist and murderer of my dear Charlotte. But I do not agree with what he’s doing. The murderer should be in the police’s hands, not Dr. Hamel’s. My husband died when my daughter was only three, but I’m sure he would have agreed with me.”

  Bruno’s mouth slowly opened, and his eyes widened.

  A journalist asked, “But after all these years of not knowing who murdered your daughter, don’t you feel any satisfaction knowing that he is now suffering as much as your child and his other victims?”

  An almost imperceptible grimace of pain passed over Diane Masson’s face, but she recovered very quickly and answered in an even voice, “I just want to move on. And if Dr. Hamel is listening now, I want to say this to him: Don’t kill that man tomorrow. Stop what you’re doing and return him to the police.”

  Bruno’s eyes were not wide open now, but almost closed—two thin incandescent slits that stared piercingly at the television screen.

  “A point of view different from that of the other parents,” the news anchor said. “A point of view that, in fact, is diametrically opposed . . .”

  But Bruno was not listening anymore. His body straight and stiff, his muscles tensed to the breaking point, he mentally went over the woman’s words. How could she be so insensitive? Didn’t she care about her daughter’s killer being punished?

  She was a heartless woman! That was the only explanation! One of those cold mothers who had no feeling for their children!

  He turned his attention back to the TV, where he once again saw groups of demonstrators, some for him, others against. The reporter’s voice said, “For the first time, two opposing groups met in Drummondville about an hour ago. There was no violence, but there were heated verbal exchanges.”

  The screen showed dozens and dozens of men and women on the wet street, screaming insults at each other, many of them carrying signs saying either “Hamel Defender of Justice” or “Vengeance Is Wrong,” depending on the camp they were in. There were a few close-ups of people explaining their positions. One of them looked straight at the camera and proclaimed, “Tomorrow will be a great day for justice!”

  Bruno muted the sound, infuriated by the shouting of the demonstrators.

  But he couldn’t get Diane Masson out of his mind, and his rage swelled. And his hands started trembling again.

  He leapt to his feet . . . He was going to go and hurt the monster. Hurt him bad, hurt him more than he had since he’d brought him here.

  But he didn’t go.

  Was it that bitch who was making him have doubts all of a sudden? Of course not! It was just that he was too excited; if he went to the monster now, he would be carried away by rage and would surely kill him.

  He took another beer. His hands were trembling so much that he couldn’t unscrew the cap and he had to use a bottle opener.

  Bruno spent the next half hour in complete turmoil, his mind beset by disturbing thoughts. He paced from one end of the house to the other, stopped, started again, walked decisively toward the monster’s room and then froze and retraced his steps, muttered, tried to sit down and stood up again right away. He drank two beers without even realizing it, knocking over the empty bottles, which rolled across the floor. The additional beer reawakened his drunkenness. In that mental storm, there was one constant: the words of Diane Masson. He could not get them out of his head. The other parents understood what he was doing! Why didn’t she? All he had to do was forget about her, ignore her. That wasn’t so complicated! Except that he wasn’t able to do it. Suddenly, he wished he could talk to her and show her he was right. Yes, to have her in front of him and convince her! Convince her because . . . because . . .

  Idiot, idiot, idiot!

  And he hit the wall again, and started going around in circles again.

  He stopped short, struck by an idea. He went to his bedroom and put on his false beard and wig. He came back into the living room and put on his coat. His movements were quick, but oddly jerky because of the alcohol . . . and maybe because of something else as well, a mental turmoil that threw off his whole body.

  He went into the monster’s room and took one of his bags. He turned toward the table and stood still for a moment. The monster was sleeping, his breath wheezing. Bruno felt the hatred rising inside him like a volcanic eruption. He had to hurt him right away. He hadn’t tortured him all day. Something, anything, there were so many possibilities!

  Put out his other eye, cut off his testicles, push blades under his fingernails, stick a knife in his anus, cut out his tongue, tear the skin off his belly, puncture his eardrums, cut, tear, split, smash, pierce, poke, crush . . .

  A sudden dizziness made him stagger. He held his head in both hands and spat at the monster. Then he left the room, carrying the bag, and was soon outside.

  The rain had started again, and this time the wind had come with it. Once on Pioneers Road, Bruno maintained a good speed, cutting through the wall of rain, which constantly re-formed behind him.

  He was drunk, but he felt as if his senses had never been so acute, his reflexes so sharp.

  What he was planning to do was absurd, he knew it. He knew that Saint-Hyacinthe was nearly two hours away. He knew, above all, that the region was crawling with cops looking for him. And yet that didn’t worry him at all. In spite of all the beer he had drunk, he was driving well. When after ten minutes he came upon a police car, he didn’t cringe. He didn’t feel the least shiver of anxiety. They would never recognize him in the middle of the night in this weather! And the cops couldn’t stop every car they met! Indeed, the police car went by without slowing down.

  Although Bruno tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his hands were trembling more and more.

  * * *

  In the squad room, they were all watching the last sentences of Diane Masson’s surprise appearance on TV. Boisvert was appalled; he did not understand. How could a woman whose daughter had been raped and murdered by Lemaire talk this way? Pleau gave a little sigh of irritation, and Wagner shot her an angry
look, wondering how he could get her to shut up.

  “Is this your doing, Hervé?” asked Boisvert, turning toward Mercure. “You went to see her this afternoon to convince her to say that, didn’t you?”

  Mercure, sitting on the corner of a desk, said he had met with her to find out why she had refused to talk to the media. When she explained to him, he had indeed convinced her to speak publicly.

  “But those are her words, her ideas, not mine,” Mercure added.

  “And do you think those words will get to Hamel and make him turn himself in?” asked Bolduc.

  Mercure took time to think before answering.

  “I’m hoping they will push him over the top.”

  The other officers did not seem to understand, but Wagner was watching his inspector closely.

  “Well, it wouldn’t make me feel any doubts at all!” muttered Boisvert, kicking at the desk leg.

  “Listen, Boisvert, if I hear another comment like that, I’ll suspend you for three days!”

  “He’s not wrong, though,” Bolduc ventured timidly.

  For a second, Wagner was so enraged that he could only sputter. When he finally got his voice back, he thundered, “I don’t want to hear any more personal opinions about Hamel’s actions! We’re going to do everything we can to find him in the next twenty-four hours, because that’s our job, dammit! Is that clear?”

  The officers, daunted, were quiet. Wasn’t there a story about Wagner once in one of his fits of rage biting another cop’s ear? When his complexion returned more or less to normal, the chief turned to Pat, who was still at the telephone, and asked, “Any news from Mauricie?”

  A stupid question, since he knew very well that the telephone had not rung for more than an hour, but he could not help asking. Pat shook his head.

  Wagner turned to Mercure and said quietly, “It is incredible, though . . . that woman’s detachment about what happened to her daughter, isn’t it?”