Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  This time the tears flowed, and her voice swelled with rage.

  “And it came back! Do you understand what I’m saying? It came back!”

  She gave two short, heartrending sobs, and a wave of feeling contorted her face.

  “You know what I felt just now when I saw that man? I felt like my daughter had died again! And this time it’s your fault! You killed my daughter a second time!”

  Bruno was breathing noisily now. The consternation on his face gradually turned to cold anger. Diane Masson suddenly calmed down. She stopped crying, but there were still tears on her cheeks. The distress in her eyes gave way to immense pity, and she said in a faint voice, “And for the last week, with each torture you have inflicted on this man, you have killed your daughter. Again and again and again.”

  The punch came spontaneously. Because he had to shut her up, he had to stop her from saying such obscenities! His fist connected with Masson’s jaw in a precise blow so powerful that the sound echoed off the walls, filling Bruno’s skull with pain. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands over his ears, grimacing, for several seconds, until the echo finally faded and he opened his eyes again, panting. Masson was lying on the floor, unconscious.

  “You have no right to say that, you bitch!” he shouted at the inert body. “You understand nothing about what I’m doing! Nothing, nothing, NOTHING!”

  Still hurling insults, he walked around her. Why had she given him that sermon? Did she think she was going to change his mind? Who did she think she was dealing with? On a sudden impulse, he took from his pocket the little key that opened the rings on his prisoner’s wrists, went to the door, and with the wind blowing the rain in, threw it with all his strength toward the forest. He closed the door again with a grunt of satisfaction. Even dead, the monster would rot in his chains! Bruno took a beer from the fridge and went back to Masson. He looked at her in confusion.

  To hell with her! He would take care of the monster alone, that was all! He just had to give this heartless bitch a powerful sedative and she would sleep until the next day. But he knew that wouldn’t work. She was supposed to join with him, not be against him! Even reduced to silence, her mere presence in the house would bother him, ruin his concentration, keep him from . . . from . . .

  He gulped down the rest of the beer and threw the empty bottle against the wall, smashing it.

  Dazed, he stared at Masson. She was breathing strangely. In fact, it wasn’t breathing, it was . . . yes, the panting of a dog . . .

  She couldn’t stay there.

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch!” he screamed.

  He bent over toward her, lost his balance, and collapsed on the floor. He got to his feet again, cursing, and went and put on his coat, not bothering with his disguise. With difficulty, he put his arms under the woman and lifted her. He almost lost his balance again, and the living room started spinning. God, he was more drunk than he’d thought! But the confusion in his mind was not because of the alcohol, he knew that. It was her! She had to go! Her dog panting was getting louder and louder and would soon fill the whole house, echoing, it would be unbearable!

  Outside, the storm was getting worse. Bruno thought he heard thunder in the distance, but he wasn’t sure. The rain was so noisy, the forest was so full of activity, his mind was so confused . . .

  Not very gently, he threw Masson onto the back seat of the Honda Civic. Before getting into the driver’s seat, he had a moment of indecision and went back into the house. He took another beer, hesitated, and then, with a shrug, picked up the case and took it with him.

  He turned the key; the engine roared and the headlights came on, lighting up the turbulent lake twenty meters from the car. A moan was audible over the din of the storm—Masson was about to wake up!

  Bruno got out of the car and went back into the house again. He ran to the monster’s room, but his footsteps were becoming more and more unsure and he banged his shin on the chair and cried out in pain and rage. In the room, without a glance at his unconscious prisoner, he prepared an injection, having to start over twice because his hands were trembling so much. Then he hobbled out again.

  Diane Masson’s eyes were open and she was half sitting up on the back seat, looking at the lake in a daze. She barely had time to recognize Bruno before he stuck the needle in her arm. Ten seconds later, she was fast asleep.

  Reassured, Bruno took a deep breath and sat down behind the steering wheel. Looking out at the deluge, he hesitated. It seemed completely insane to drive in this weather. Now that Masson was asleep, he could just leave her there, couldn’t he?

  No. The storm was not only outside, but also in his head. And it would not subside as long as this woman remained in the house! Her last words, those horrible, insulting words, would stay in his head as long as she was here! Above all, he knew he couldn’t torture the monster with her in the house. It was absurd, but that’s the way it was!

  In a rage, he put the car in gear and backed up the lane. He scraped a tree but made it to the road.

  As the car accelerated, Bruno reached into the case and grabbed a beer.

  * * *

  Leaning against the wall, Wagner took a swallow of coffee. Mercure, behind his desk, was playing with his empty cup. For several seconds, the only sound was the wind and rain against the windowpanes. Then the chief said, “It’s more detailed than what she said on TV, but . . . Why does all this upset you so much? If I know you, I’m sure you agree with her.”

  “That’s not the question. It’s just that . . . it takes me back to Madelaine’s death . . . and Demers.”

  Wagner nodded understandingly. Mercure looked at his cup as he spoke.

  “All these years, I’ve been trying to convince myself that my visits to Demers were a way to fight the anger. Trying to understand is better than living in hatred, isn’t it?”

  He looked up at Wagner. The chief did not answer. Mercure looked back down at the cup and sighed.

  “Well, I’m not so sure anymore, that’s just it.”

  He started tearing the cup into tiny pieces.

  “Of everything Masson told me, you know what shook me up the most? It was that all that time that she was living with hate and anger, she was only able to see images of her daughter dead. In order to remember her alive and happy, she had to erase Lemaire. That’s what she said: erase.”

  He dropped the remains of the cup and looked up at the window.

  “But if I erased Demers, it seems to me that . . . that it wouldn’t be fair to Madelaine.”

  “That may be exactly what Hamel has told himself,” Wagner said softly. “If he does not kill Lemaire, it wouldn’t be fair to his daughter.”

  Mercure grimaced, rubbed his face, and gave a long sigh. Wagner thought to himself that he had never looked so gaunt. Mercure’s voice was no more than a whisper now.

  “The other day, Demers told me that in visiting him, I was his worst torturer.”

  A sad smile.

  “Have I been living in hate all these years without realizing it?”

  “I think it’s more complicated than that, Hervé.”

  Mercure nodded absently. There was a clap of thunder. Wagner turned toward the window and, with his face lit up by a flash of lightning, growled, “That’s it, with the storm now . . .”

  * * *

  Bruno had been driving for about three-quarters of an hour, quite carelessly. He had met very few cars and he wouldn’t have been able to say if they were police or ordinary people. Even on the highway, the traffic was very thin. He had drunk two more beers during this time, and the Honda was tending more and more to drift to the right. Twice he had felt his tires touch the shoulder and had turned back onto the pavement at the last second. But he didn’t want to slow down. He wanted to get rid of this woman as quickly as possible. He could sense her behind him, and ten times he had quickly turned around, sure that she was awake and was attacking him with her accusing eyes.

  He had never drunk so much in a single day, and his visi
on was blurring. The rain had become arrows attacking the car, the lightning nuclear explosions, and the thunder earthquakes. He suddenly had the impression that the car was no longer moving forward, but was spinning like a top.

  In a moment of lucidity, he pulled over onto the shoulder. Exhausted, he leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and took deep breaths. He felt nauseated and opened the door, sure he was going to vomit. But nothing came out. The alcohol insisted on staying inside him to rot his mind.

  But there was not only alcohol, he knew.

  In spite of his confusion, he tried to think. He looked at the time: one forty. He couldn’t get to Saint-Hyacinthe, it was still too far, he could get himself killed.

  He got out in the fury of the storm, opened the back door, and pulled Diane Masson’s body out. He laid her on the grass some distance from the road and got back in the car. He drove across the median, turned into the opposite lane, and sped away.

  There, she wasn’t there anymore! She wasn’t in his way anymore! As soon as he got back to the cottage, he could have his fun with the monster in peace!

  But he couldn’t get the last words she had spoken out of his mind.

  He opened another beer.

  He turned off the highway onto a country road. He was still driving much too fast, but he didn’t care. Ahead of him was hell, a dark hell of rain, headlights, and winding roads lit by apocalyptic flashes of lightning. And those claps of thunder were becoming more and more deafening, like the blows a giant would give an animal, a . . .

  Two headlights in front of him. A truck. Spinning, spinning and spinning and . . .

  Bruno jerked the wheel, and barely avoided the ten-wheeler, which passed him honking furiously. Drenched in sweat, he finished his beer, laughing. He defied the trucks, as he defied the weakness and cowardice of Diane Masson! He defied the storm to kill him, to prevent him from carrying out his vengeance, his mission!

  He drove on, zigzagging along the roads, which were fortunately almost deserted. Suddenly, on a curve, the car went off the road into a soggy field that soon brought it to a halt. Muttering curses, Bruno tried to back up. But the car was stuck and he was spinning his wheels. He bellowed with rage, pounding the steering wheel. He tried a series of maneuvers, going forward ten centimeters, backing up five . . . and after ten minutes, he was finally back on the road. He drove off again without slowing down.

  He wanted the monster. He needed to take his feelings out on him. It was the only way to shut that woman up, to smother her terrible words.

  Blinding lightning. Deafening claps of thunder, echoing endlessly . . .

  At two thirty-eight in the morning, he drove past the turnoff to the cottage. He braked as hard as he could and spun around twice. He drove back to the lane and turned down it. It was too narrow for the swerving car, but there was no question of slowing down. Just when he saw the house, he ran into a tree. His forehead hit the steering wheel, but he barely felt it. He screamed insults at the tree and got out of the car. He wanted to run to the house, but he could only stagger. He slipped three times, falling in the mud and getting up again, moaning.

  And the heaviness that was weighing him down mercilessly was like two giant hands pushing down with all their strength on his shoulders.

  He went into the house, ignoring the television that was on but muted. As he walked toward the hallway, he struggled out of his coat. He missed the turn and bumped into the wall. He punched it, splitting the side of his hand, and continued toward his prisoner’s room, wild-eyed.

  The monster, still hanging by the arms, had partly regained consciousness.

  This time, Bruno would climb not just one rung, but the whole ladder! He would climb to the very top, until he exploded with this final satisfaction! That was what he had wanted from the beginning, what he wanted so much!

  He went and got a scalpel and staggered to the winch and released it. The chains went slack and the monster crumpled to the floor. He gave a plaintive sound, opening wide a terrified eye.

  Bruno bent down beside him, holding the scalpel. Strike, anywhere! Strike, that was all, strike!

  And he lowered the scalpel toward the monster’s right thigh. But the storm outside was still in his head, the lightning and thunder continued to bombard his brain, and his vision was still full of rain and darkness. He missed his target and the scalpel dug into the floor. The monster gave a surprised cry, frantically moving his upper body and his chained hands. Swearing, Bruno picked up the blade and struck again. This time, the scalpel sank into the thigh. More cries from the monster, who could still find the strength to express pain, but there was also a disheartened resignation in those cries, as if he was tiring of his own suffering.

  Bruno pulled out the blade. Nothing! He felt nothing! He looked at the bleeding thigh, listened to the monster’s moans, but he felt no joy, no satisfaction. Nothing at all!

  This time, he struck on the purplish right knee. The cry was more shrill, but Bruno still felt nothing! And the thunder didn’t stop! And his vision was spinning more and more! And suddenly he was nauseated, he was very close to being sick. It was too much! This time, he took aim at the intact eye. But the monster’s hand intervened and the scalpel went into his palm. Under the impact, the chained hand swung back and the surgical instrument described a long arc and disappeared into a corner of the room.

  With both fists, Bruno started hitting that foul face, which lolled weakly from side to side. Half of his blows missed their target, but some were so violent that blood splattered on his face. That warm blood should have excited him, given him pleasure . . .

  . . . but he still felt nothing!

  He stood up with an insane shout and gave his victim a terrible kick in the belly. The monster gave a muffled cry, and excrement spurted from the slit in his abdomen. The sight of that shit disgusted Bruno and enraged him to the point of frenzy. With hoarse cries, he administered a hysterical series of kicks. And with each impact, the monster moaned . . . a moan that was more and more animal, more and more canine. There was no question of Bruno stopping now! He would stop when he finally felt satisfaction, when his thirst for vengeance and hate was sated, not before! Not before! And each kick produced a sound that was more and more hollow, and each time, the black body gave its animal moan.

  The black body?

  It was no longer bare, bloody flesh that Bruno had in front of him, but hairy flesh . . . Hallucinating, Bruno stopped kicking and finally looked closely at his prisoner.

  It was no longer the monster. It was a dog, an enormous, bloody black dog with its two front legs chained, howling in agony.

  Bruno was breathing so rapidly that his lungs were on fire. The nausea had come back stronger than ever, and the thunder was still hammering his head. No, it was not thunder, it was the blows he was giving the monster, whose echoes filled the room.

  At his feet, the dog was still howling, its tongue hanging out.

  Bruno was gripped by a terrible fear like none he had ever felt before. He backed to the door and ran into the living room. But he stopped immediately, realizing that the echoes were following him. Moaning, he went into the bedroom and closed the door. The echoes still caught up with him, they even seemed louder. With a cry of terror, Bruno went to throw himself on the bed, but missed it and landed sprawling on the floor. Blood gushed from his nose. He crawled to the bed, pulled himself up onto it, and hid his head under the pillow.

  But the echoes of the blows did not stop! Because they were in his head, Bruno now understood! And no matter if he screamed, pounded the pillow, stuck his fingers in his ears, it didn’t help! The nausea became too much for him and he vomited once, twice, crying. But the echoes continued, resonating in his head and through his whole body, all his muscles, down to the tips of his fingers.

  Overcome by horror and delirium, he lost consciousness lying in his own filth.

  DAY 7

  DIANE MASSON HAD BEEN SITTING in the interrogation room at a table with her third coffee on it for a
bout twenty minutes. An hour earlier, a man had spotted her on Highway 20, waving her arms in the rain, which was gradually letting up. She was shaking so much that the man had suggested he take her to the hospital in Drummondville, thirty minutes away, but she had insisted on going to the police station.

  Now, she was wearing clothes that were too big for her but dry, and she had a thick gray woolen blanket pulled tightly around her. She had just told her story and was finally silent again. Her eyes, bloodshot, with dark circles under them, were staring down at her coffee. She sniffed, reached a white hand to a box of tissues, and then blew her nose, something she had done a good thirty times over the last half hour. She had a big swollen bruise on the left side of her face.

  Mercure was sitting across from her. He had taken off his jacket and loosened his necktie, a sign of exhaustion. Behind him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, stood Wagner, barely hiding his impatience. His tie was completely undone, with the ends hanging down on either side.

  The clock on the wall read four thirty-nine.

  “I’m sorry,” murmured Mercure.

  Masson looked up at him.

  “I was hoping your interview on TV would get a reaction from him, but . . . never to the point that he would kidnap you. If I’d had the slightest inkling that he would do something so incredible, I would have had your house watched.”

  Besides, it would have been so simple to pick him up at her house. But he kept that thought to himself.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  But the speed with which she averted her eyes showed that she did feel some resentment toward him. In spite of his guilt, Mercure could not help feeling a little excited.