Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  “It’s not really detachment, it’s more complicated than that. For television, she simplified things a bit, but . . .”

  He stopped. He had the same troubled look as before.

  “She told you more this afternoon, huh?” asked Wagner.

  “Let’s say it was more . . . detailed.”

  But he did not elaborate. Wagner looked at him for a long time.

  * * *

  Since the rain and wind had slowed him down, it was a little after nine when Bruno stopped his car on a quiet little street in Saint-Hyacinthe. He stared hard at the house across the street. The lighted windows looked like beacons cutting through the darkness and the rain.

  Since Diane Masson was a single parent, he had not had any problem finding her address in the telephone directory. Then he had taken the risk of going into a service station and buying a map of the town. The clerk, an adolescent with his nose in a used car magazine, had barely looked at his dirty, smelly, unshaven customer.

  Bruno noticed that his gas tank was three-quarters empty. Would he have to fill up on the way back? He was improvising way too much all of a sudden.

  He studied the house for a while. A nice beer would do him some good. He had been racked with thirst throughout the two hours on the road.

  He opened his bag. First he prepared a cloth soaked in chloroform, and then a hypodermic syringe. He put the cloth in one coat pocket, the syringe in another, and examined the surroundings. The shower was helping him: there wasn’t a soul in the streets. However, he saw a silhouette in one of the lighted windows of the house next door. He waited a moment. When the silhouette had disappeared, he quickly got out of the car and ran to the carport, stumbling a little. There no one could see him. He leaned against the parked automobile, took a few deep breaths, and walked to the door that led to the carport. No neighbors would see him go in or out.

  At the door, he hesitated. Even if it was not locked, what would he do once he was in the house? And what if Diane Masson wasn’t alone? He pinched the bridge of his nose hard, closing his eyes. The kidnapping of the monster had been planned to perfection, with nothing left to chance. And now, one day from the end, he was taking foolish risks. And for what? To convince this woman?

  Shit! He should get out of here right away, before it was too late!

  But he grasped the doorknob and turned it cautiously, as if he were afraid of triggering an explosion. A click. The door opened a crack. He pushed it a little and poked his head inside. A kitchen. In the sink, the remnants of a recent supper.

  He stepped into the room slowly and carefully. His forehead was wet, more with sweat than with rain. A little hallway led to an open room on the left, probably the living room. From that room, he heard a voice. Diane Masson was not alone—he had to get out as quickly as possible! But then he realized that she was on the telephone. Reassured, he took a few steps down the little hallway and stopped. His back pressed against the wall, he listened, and he finally made out what the woman in the living room was saying.

  “No, the inspector didn’t force me to do anything! I thought about it and I agreed. It was my choice, Éric.”

  The inspector? Who was she talking about?

  Mercure! Mercure, who had bothered him with that ridiculous story of the dog, had apparently convinced Diane Masson to talk to the media!

  “No, I’d rather be alone, but thank you. These memories are too personal, do you understand? And I have to face them alone. Yes . . . I love you too.”

  The sound of the receiver being hung up. Bruno heard what he thought was a sigh (or a sob?) and then a rustling sound: she had stood up.

  Still pressed against the wall, Bruno held his breath and took out his chloroform-soaked cloth.

  And suddenly she appeared. Even before she saw him, Bruno had grabbed her with his free hand, pushed her against the wall, and pressed the cloth to her mouth and nose. A muffled scream. She struggled, but uselessly; she was small and frail. Her wide eyes, full of surprise and fear, were staring at Bruno, making him uncomfortable. He closed his eyes without releasing his grip. After several seconds, her jerking movements lost their intensity and her body went slack, and then completely inert. Bruno opened his eyes. Diane Masson was asleep.

  He started breathing noisily. He stuffed the cloth in his pocket, absentmindedly wiped his mouth, and picked the woman up. He walked to the door with his burden, but then it occurred to him that he could not very well cross the street carrying a body in his arms. Someone might see him.

  He thought of Diane Masson’s car, in the carport, where no one could see it. And thought that it would not be dangerous to take that car, since its disappearance would not be reported until the next day, probably in the evening, and by then, it would all be over. Plus, if there was enough gas in the tank, he would not have to stop at a service station.

  He found her handbag and took out the keys. He checked the blue-gray Honda Civic; the tank was half-full, which would be plenty. He put Diane Masson on the back seat of her own car and gave her an injection that would keep her asleep for close to three hours.

  Two minutes later, the car backed into the street. Still nobody around. He did, however, see a silhouette in one window, the same one as before. Probably a nosy neighbor. He congratulated himself on his idea.

  The car drove away. Behind the steering wheel, Bruno licked his lips. He should have looked in Masson’s fridge to see if there was any beer.

  * * *

  In spite of the deluge, a dozen patrol cars, some from Drummondville, some from the provincial police, continued searching the area around Charette.

  At nine twenty-three, ninety minutes before Bruno Hamel’s return, a provincial police car driving along Pioneers Road passed the lane leading to Josh’s cottage. But it barely slowed down, and sped up again when the driver noted that this address was not on the list of rental cabins. It was a private property. So there was no reason to check it out. How could Hamel hide in an inhabited house for a week?

  All day, they had questioned the owners of motels and hotels, waiters in restaurants and merchants. At ten twenty-five, the cashier in the convenience store on the main street of Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc, the one who had served Bruno Hamel two days before, was shown a photo of the doctor by a Drummondville policeman. She put on an apologetic look and replied that the face meant nothing to her, she saw so many customers every day. And as the policeman returned to his car under the rain, a little smile appeared on the woman’s lips.

  * * *

  The station was practically empty. Wagner passed Mercure’s office and saw the detective sergeant sitting there, his arms crossed. He went in and asked him what he was doing.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “You’re waiting!” Wagner said with humorless irony. “Is that all you can find to do?”

  Mercure looked up at him. “There are a couple dozen officers searching the perimeter right now. So, at a quarter after midnight, can you tell me what else I could be doing?”

  Wagner rarely saw his colleague act so cold, and he was contrite. Mercure sighed and apologized.

  “We’re all worn out, I think,” Wagner responded.

  They said nothing for a moment, and then the chief asked, “What did you really hope to get out of that interview with Diane Masson?”

  Mercure put his hands behind his head and gazed into the distance.

  “I have the impression . . .” He narrowed his eyes, thinking. “I have the impression that when I talked to Hamel about the dog thing yesterday, it upset him. So much so that he did something that was not planned: he called a journalist to talk about Lemaire’s other victims. As if he suddenly needed to justify everything, to justify himself. I think it set off a sort of chain reaction. I wanted to add another link to the chain by asking Diane Masson to talk on TV; I knew Hamel wouldn’t like it.”

  “That’s what you meant when you spoke about him going off the rails? You think he deviated from the path he’d planned?”

  “Yes, I t
hink so.”

  “To the point of giving up the whole thing?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  Wagner considered this idea for a moment and looked dubious.

  “But he could deviate from his path in the other direction too . . . He could finish Lemaire off sooner, even tonight.”

  “I know.”

  Mercure had said this in an even voice, but he had lowered his eyes.

  This time the silence was longer.

  “Are you going to spend the night here?” asked Wagner.

  Mercure did not answer, and the chief nodded.

  “Me too, I think.”

  The wind briefly shook the glass in the window.

  “What did Masson tell you this afternoon?”

  Wagner had decided earlier to wait for Mercure to raise the subject, but this seemed like the perfect time to make an overture. With his hands still behind his neck, Mercure looked up at the chief. He gave a little smile that, though humorless, expressed real closeness. Wagner returned the smile.

  “Go get yourself a coffee, and bring me one too,” Mercure responded.

  * * *

  Bruno was standing two meters from the couch and saw her open her eyes. She seemed disoriented. She sniffed and made a face. Seeing Bruno, she sat up quickly and appeared dizzy, but quickly recovered. On the alert, she stared intently at him. She was afraid, certainly, but he admired her calm control. This was not a woman who was much given to panicking.

  “What do you want with me?” asked Diane Masson a bit breathlessly. “Who are you?”

  And suddenly she frowned. Her face expressed doubt, then astonishment. He knew she’d recognized him.

  “My God,” she said.

  “It was about time you woke up,” he said. “I was going to start without you.”

  She swallowed and asked, “Start what?”

  “Taking care of the monster.”

  He watched her reaction. She paled a bit, but returned his gaze.

  “I’m sure you’d like to hear him yelp.”

  “Hear what?”

  “Scream, I mean.”

  He grimaced in annoyance. She sniffed again, nauseated.

  “Lord, what’s that awful smell?”

  Bruno did not reply. He no longer noticed the smell in the house, and he hadn’t for a long time. She looked at the mess in the house, Bruno’s clothes, his face . . .

  “What’s happened to you?”

  She looked into his eyes.

  “What’s happening to you?”

  He shrugged and took a swig of beer.

  “And you’re drunk.”

  Probably a little, yes, but he was in control. His trembling hands kept trying to indicate otherwise, but he dismissed them. In fact, he had now decided to dismiss everything. He had said to hell with everybody.

  Except this woman, this woman he wanted to convince, needed to convince.

  He had a slight headache. He rubbed his forehead and paced a few steps.

  “I saw what you said on television. Did Mercure make you say that?”

  “Inspector Mercure didn’t make me do anything. What I said is what I really think.”

  “You think what I’m doing is not right?”

  “I think it’s pointless.”

  Bruno licked his lips without taking his eyes off her. He said, “You must not have loved your daughter to talk that way . . .”

  “I forbid you to talk that way,” retorted Masson in a slightly hoarse voice. “I loved Charlotte at least as much as you loved your daughter.”

  “Then why don’t you want her murderer dead?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  Outside, the rain had become so violent that it felt like the whole lake was being poured onto the house.

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  And she looked around, as if she was trying to understand where she was. All the curtains were closed, so she could not see outside. Bruno gulped down the rest of his beer, dropped the bottle on the wood floor, and walked quickly toward the hallway, saying, “Come here.”

  “No, no way.”

  He turned toward her. She was standing in a strange position, as if she were about to enter a haunted castle. She tried to keep her expression firm, but cracks were showing.

  “I know where you want to take me, and I refuse.”

  “Can you honestly tell me you don’t want to see him!”

  “That’s the last thing I want!”

  Bruno frowned, disconcerted by her attitude. But that was because she wasn’t yet standing in front of him. Once she had the monster at her feet, she would change her mind . . .

  And he wanted her to change her mind! To admit he was right! That he was right! And when she understood, the two of them would torture the monster together! It would be magnificent! They would be joined in vengeance and hate! And tomorrow, they would finish him off together! She had to understand! She had to!

  “If you refuse to come see him, I’ll force you!”

  She remained motionless. Bruno stepped forward threateningly. She started and raised her arms. Okay, she’d do it! Satisfied, Bruno told her to go first. Walking with stiff, hesitant steps, she went into the little hallway. Bruno, behind her, told her to go into the room on the left. She stopped in the doorway for a moment to catch her breath, and went in.

  When Bruno entered behind her, she was in the middle of the room with her back to him, motionless, two meters from the monster. The monster was unconscious, and he was now hanging from the two chains in the ceiling, a few centimeters from the floor, his breath wheezing. From time to time, he would move his head a little and moan feebly, but he did not open his eyes. The rain was pounding on the window, which was hidden by a curtain.

  Bruno saw that Masson was covering her nose with her left hand, but he could not see her face. He tried to guess her expression. Surprise? Revulsion? Joy at seeing the monster in this condition? Anyway, she could not continue to be as detached as she claimed to be, it was impossible! He took a few steps to the right so he could see her face. With fierce joy, he recognized a flash of hate, if not of anger, in her eyes. But another emotion, bigger and more powerful, showed in her eyes, and her face and her whole body.

  Distress.

  Could she actually pity the monster? No, that wasn’t it: the tiny flash of hatred contradicted that. The distress did not concern the monster, but seemed to . . . seemed to concern her.

  Bruno was unable to react for several seconds. Then he walked to the closet, opened the door, took out the whip, and held it out to Masson. It took her several seconds to turn and look at it. Bruno waited, his face hard, the whip still in his hand. A gust of wind shook the house. The breathing of the sleeping monster filled the room. The whip trembled in Bruno’s hand, but he did not even notice it.

  A horrible grimace of disgust twisted Masson’s mouth and she rushed from the room. After a second of surprise, Bruno dropped the whip and hurried out, sure he would find her at the door of the house. But she was in the living room, standing motionless with her back to him and her face in her hands.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “You’ve got the murderer of your Charlotte in front of you and you’re acting like a horrified little girl!”

  She smothered a sob behind her hands. Bruno walked over to her, his fists clenched.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Still no answer. Exasperated, Bruno grabbed the woman by the shoulders and turned her around.

  “Say something, for Chrissakes!”

  There was no longer horror on her face, or panic. Her calm had returned and her eyes were dry, although the pain was still there, ready to surface again at any moment.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done—done to me?”

  He did not answer. He did not understand.

  “This man no longer existed for me. I had stopped thinking about him.”

  “That’s impossible!” retorted Bruno brutally.
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  “Of course it’s possible! For the first three years, I wanted him dead. I had no love left for anyone, not for friends, not for lovers, not for myself. For three years, I lived in hatred. But there’s no bottom to hatred, you keep sinking deeper, and I realized that as long as that man existed in my mind, I couldn’t exist. Every time I thought of Charlotte, my memories would be tainted by blood and anger. And that’s worse than anything.”

  Bruno did not move a centimeter. He would have liked to order her to be quiet, but he said nothing. Masson was speaking more and more slowly, separating each syllable. She was still looking at Bruno, but with a distant gaze. She took a deep breath and continued.

  “So one year ago, I . . . I erased this man from my mind. I put the hatred behind me and I learned to live again.”

  “You forgot about your daughter!”

  “Not my daughter, the man who killed her!” she replied harshly.

  But that harshness only lasted a second, and she calmed down again.

  “There’s not a morning I get up without thinking about Charlotte, not a night I go to bed without feeling her arms around my neck. But I am finally open to life. Happy, I don’t know, but . . . open. And especially, especially . . .”

  She smiled, now serene, and Bruno was surprised to suddenly find her incredibly beautiful.

  “. . . when I think about my daughter, I don’t see her all bloody anymore, but smiling, beautiful, and happy.”

  She finally seemed to really see Bruno, and her eyes darkened and filled with tears.

  “And after all this time, you’ve . . . you’ve come and spoiled everything! You’ve brought my daughter’s killer back to life! Not to hand him over to the police, no! That would have been less awful! Once arrested, he would quickly have gone out of my life again. No! You’re holding him hostage, you’re torturing him, you taunted me on television, and you . . . you plunged me back into darkness!”

  Bruno was silent, impressed. Masson’s features tensed in a desperate anger, but she wasn’t crying yet.

  “Inspector Mercure told me that if I said what I felt on TV, you might come to your senses! And like an idiot, I believed him! I believed him, and the worst possible thing happened: you brought me here and put me in front of him! Even though I didn’t want it! Because I knew that if I saw him, the hatred would come back!”