Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  Now it was Wagner, suddenly drained, who rubbed his eyes. Boisvert asked with a touch of defiance, “What about me?”

  Mercure glanced at him, not with contempt, but with total indifference.

  “Go home. Get some rest.”

  Wagner did not even have the strength to protest. Boisvert hesitated for a second and finally let the fatigue and impotence show on his face. He left the station under the embarrassed gaze of the other officers.

  For a long time, nobody spoke.

  Suddenly, as if he had just made a firm decision, Mercure walked to the door. Wagner asked him where he was going.

  “There. I want to be there when they arrest him. I want . . .”

  Without stopping, he made a vague gesture.

  “. . . just to see him.”

  “It’s an hour from here, Hervé!”

  “I’ll put on my siren and floor it.”

  He rushed out.

  * * *

  Officers Guy Ouellette and Karl Fulton of the provincial police were driving slowly along Pioneers Road, looking for the next house. They had just visited four houses on the shores of Lac des Souris, and according to their map, there were five or six more in the next three kilometers.

  “There, just over there,” Ouellette said, pointing to a little dirt lane ahead.

  The car turned into the narrow, downward-sloping entrance, but it had to stop because of another vehicle partly blocking the lane, a blue-gray Honda Civic that had run into a tree. Ouellette frowned. Fulton, behind the wheel, chuckled.

  “Some guy must have been pretty drunk last night.”

  “But why would he just leave it there? It doesn’t look very badly damaged.”

  He asked Ouellette to check the license number of the car they were looking for. With a shrug, Fulton took out his notebook, but as he was reading the description of Diane Masson’s car, his face became more sober. He raised his head to look at the license plate and double-checked it.

  “Christ!” he said.

  Ouellette just whistled through his teeth. Below they saw a little house partly hidden by trees.

  Slowly the police car backed up and parked on Pioneers Road, and Fulton called the provincial police station.

  * * *

  Mercure received the call at eight forty-three. Since he had left Drummondville, he had been driving at breakneck speed with the siren wailing, and now, judging by the map unfolded on his knees, he was less than five minutes from Charette. As soon as he heard Wagner’s excited voice, he knew Hamel had been found.

  “Has he been arrested?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the road ahead of him.

  “Not yet; we just found the house. Everything is quiet. He doesn’t know he’s been located. The guys are going to bust in and . . .”

  “Wait, wait! Where is it exactly?”

  Wagner gave the details while Mercure found Lac des Souris on the map. It was a little past Charette.

  “Tell them not to do anything until I get there!” he insisted. “I’ll be there in six minutes!”

  “We really can’t afford to wait, Hervé.”

  “Three minutes!”

  He hung up and accelerated.

  * * *

  How long had he been sitting on the couch like this staring into space? Half an hour? An hour maybe? Impossible to say. The sun had gradually filled the living room and its rays now touched his face, but Bruno did not even notice.

  Although his brain had not been registering the images on the television screen in front of him, one scene finally drew him out of his catatonia. It showed groups of demonstrators on quiet streets in the rain, fighting. Slowly he reached for the remote control and turned up the sound. The off-camera voice of a woman said, “. . . images filmed last night in the pouring rain. For the first time, the conflict between Bruno Hamel’s supporters and opponents has gone from words to deeds, with altercations like the one shown here. There were a few injuries, but nothing serious. There have been scenes like this in at least three cities.”

  “It’s incredible how big this story has gotten,” said the off-camera voice of the anchor.

  “Yes, and this latest wave of excitement is definitely due to the fact that today is the deadline set by Hamel. Tune in to the news at noon for more details.”

  Bruno looked at the images of angry people grabbing and threatening each other in the rain. One woman even tried to hit a young man with her sign, which read, “Real justice at last!” His face expressionless, Bruno closed his eyes and turned off the television with a limp hand.

  Silence. Except for the echoes in his head. The echoes of the blows.

  He felt a presence. Opened his eyes. Turned his head.

  Jasmine was standing in the hallway.

  For a few seconds, he had no reaction. Then he slowly got up and stood motionless, looking at his daughter . . . her torn blue dress, her arms and legs covered in blood, her bruised, swollen, lacerated face, her hair plastered down and dirty, and especially, especially, her eyes, so sad, so pained . . .

  The silence was dizzying, as if there were no longer anything alive in the house, or outside, or anywhere else in the world.

  He started to walk toward her, the weight on his shoulders making each step an ordeal. Jasmine watched him without reacting, her sad eyes riveted on him. He took her by the hand and led her to the bathroom. She followed obediently.

  He undressed her. He washed her long chestnut hair until it was soft and shiny again, until its natural honey smell filled the room. With a wet towel, he cleaned her small body, wiped away all the blood, all the wounds, all the dirt. Then he attended to her face, washing her nose, mouth, cheeks, and eyelids with infinite gentleness, and the wounds disappeared under the towel. All in absolute silence. Even the running water made no sound.

  There was only the echo of the blows.

  Bruno finally put her blue dress, which was now clean and undamaged, back on her.

  Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he looked at his daughter in front of him. She was perfect, radiant, beautiful, and pure. As before. As she had always been. She looked at her father in silence, but the sadness had disappeared from her eyes. Bruno would have liked to hold her and hug her, but he was so dirty, so filthy, and she was so clean, so immaculate.

  He took the blue ribbon out of his pocket. The cloth was clean now, with no trace of blood. He delicately tied his daughter’s hair in a long, silky ponytail.

  They looked at each other for a long time. Jasmine’s rosy mouth turned up in a sweet, mischievous smile.

  Bruno tried to smile too, but he was not able to.

  The echoes prevented him.

  * * *

  When he was less than five kilometers from his destination, Mercure turned off the siren. A hundred meters away, he saw a group of some thirty people, six or seven police cars, and as many civilian cars. His heart started to beat faster and he breathed deeply.

  He stopped, got out, and walked toward the police officers. They were standing and talking at the end of a little dirt road leading down into the woods. Six or seven reporters immediately surrounded him.

  “Are you the officer in charge?”

  “Are you going to order a surprise attack?”

  “Do you think it’s too late?”

  “Listen,” Mercure said with a patience he hadn’t thought himself capable of. “I’m asking you to remain as quiet and discreet as possible until Hamel is arrested. The life of a man, perhaps even two, is at stake. If you interfere with our operation, I’ll have you cleared out of here, freedom of the press notwithstanding.”

  His calm, authoritative tone had an effect. They all quieted down, although they looked disappointed. Mercure went over to the group of about fifteen police officers. The six from Drummondville, including Cabana, greeted him. The oldest man in the group put out his hand and introduced himself: Sergeant Normand Raîche of the SQ. He pointed to the dirt lane.

  “All indications are that he doesn’t know yet that we’re
here. It’s been absolutely quiet down there. Maybe he’s still asleep.”

  Mercure nodded and took a few steps down the lane. He could see the cottage below; it looked peaceful. So it was in that pretty little house that Hamel had been venting his fury for the past week.

  He saw Diane Masson’s car up against the tree, and he remembered his thought about Hamel losing it.

  He returned to the group and looked around, rubbing his cheek. Not far away, the reporters were waiting, taking notes. Two of them were even speaking on camera, preparing material for a later broadcast. An ambulance from the hospital in Shawinigan was parked a little off to the side. A car passed and slowed down as the driver looked at the gathering with surprise, and then sped up again. They would have to close the road. Everybody in Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc must know what was happening by now. In ten minutes, the residents of the area would start showing up.

  “This is your investigation, Mercure,” Raîche said. “You’re in command.”

  Mercure studied the police officers. They were all waiting, obviously nervous. They were with the SQ, but they were still small-town cops and they were not used to this kind of spectacular case.

  But then, Mercure wasn’t either.

  He turned again toward the lane leading to the cottage, rubbing his cheek harder, his mind racing.

  It’s over. You’ve done what you had to do. Now you’re of no more use. What will happen, will happen.

  He bit his lip, irritated by the sun in his eyes.

  “So what do we do now?” asked an officer.

  * * *

  Bruno went into the bedroom. He didn’t even notice the smell of vomit anymore. He went to the desk where his revolver lay and looked at it for a few moments. The echoes in his head were not as strong, but they were still there. And he couldn’t take it anymore.

  He wanted those echoes to stop.

  He took the revolver and left the room.

  * * *

  Mercure was deploying the officers. Three would go through the woods on the left, and three on the right. Three more, including Cabana, would go down the lane, and Mercure would go with them, with the megaphone Raîche had given him.

  “We’ll just approach as silently as possible, keeping hidden. We’ll communicate by walkie-talkie. Nobody moves in until you get my signal. Got it?”

  The officers all moved out, while the reporters looked on excitedly. Just as he was about to follow the others down the lane, Mercure saw three cars stop about fifty meters away and civilians get out. That was it, the curious onlookers were arriving.

  “Hasn’t the road been closed yet?”

  “Closing Pioneers Road isn’t that easy,” Raîche explained. “It’s the road that goes around the lake, and the local inhabitants . . .”

  The onlookers came closer and one of them shouted, in a voice that fortunately was muffled by the distance, “Go for it, Hamel, kill the bastard!”

  Mercure swore. Not another demonstration! And farther away, there were more cars arriving!

  “It’s imperative that you stop those people from getting close! Until we’ve arrested Hamel, I don’t want to see or hear any of them. Is that clear?”

  Raîche was already giving orders to his three remaining officers, who immediately hurried toward the onlookers.

  Mercure looked toward the cottage. He saw the officers in the woods, crouching down and moving slowly toward the house.

  “Let’s go,” he said to his three men.

  And the four of them walked cautiously down the dirt lane.

  Two minutes later, Mercure and his men were hiding behind Diane Masson’s car. From Cabana’s walkie-talkie, a low voice said, “All the men are in position. Whenever you’re ready, Mercure.”

  Mercure gripped the megaphone with all his strength, his forehead covered in sweat. His eyes were riveted on the house. Silence. The curtains in every window were closed. Should he try to talk to Hamel? Break in? And what if it was already too late? The idea that Hamel had lost it was hammering in his head. And a thought crossed his mind again.

  There’s nothing more you can do. It’s all over.

  He decided to count to ten in his head and then give an order. Even though he didn’t know what the order would be.

  * * *

  Bruno went into the monster’s room. He was still lying on the floor, his chained arms extended in a cross on either side of his tortured body. His breathing was no more than a constant rasp, but he was conscious, because when he heard Bruno’s footsteps, he tried to lift his head. Unable to do so, he just turned it a bit. When he recognized his tormentor, he gave what sounded like a sigh and closed his good eye.

  Bruno stopped a few steps away from him. His expression was unusual, a strange mixture of hatred and discouragement. His head on the floor, the monster painfully opened his eye. When he saw the revolver, there was neither fear nor despair in his expression, only a kind of resigned relief. He turned his gaze and stared at something invisible, perhaps the nothingness that was gradually approaching.

  Bruno was breathing a little faster. The revolver trembled slightly in his right hand. He opened his mouth and said in a harsh voice, “You killed my daughter.”

  The monster found the strength to recoil. He looked again at Bruno, and in spite of his exhaustion and suffering, shock contorted his mangled face. Bruno’s breathing became irregular, and he gasped painfully. But he spoke again with more strength.

  “You raped and killed my little Jasmine.”

  Then something broke inside him, as if he had been pushing against a window for too long and it had finally shattered and he had fallen. A terrible, frightening fall, but at the same time liberating, because the superhuman effort was finally over, and the body, in its fall, relaxed with a great cry.

  “YOU KILLED MY DAUGHTER!”

  And he burst into tears. He was sobbing so hard that he leaned both arms on his thighs and put his face down. The monster was still looking at him, his mouth open, his breath wheezing. Bruno felt something else disappearing with the tears. It was the weight on his shoulders, that terrible weight that had not let up since the coming of the darkness. It was suddenly diminishing, melting, evaporating through every pore of his skin, through every breath, every sob.

  Bruno fell to his knees, crying harder and harder, more and more intensely, welcoming this new lightness.

  * * *

  They were all concealed around the cottage, waiting. Cabana, walkie-talkie in hand, was watching Mercure, waiting for him to give an order.

  Just as Mercure was opening his mouth to speak, the shot rang out, causing dozens of birds in the woods to fly up into the air. All the police officers started, and one of them swore and stood up, nervously drawing his revolver. Above them on the road, there were cries of surprise. Mercure’s voice, amplified by the megaphone, shouted, “Hamel, come out of the house and surrender!”

  At those words, all the police officers leapt up, and a dozen revolvers were pointed toward the house. Mercure was distraught and breathing heavily behind the megaphone. Hamel had fired! It was too late! Too late!

  “Hamel, I urge you to turn yourself in!” Mercure said desperately. “In twenty seconds, we are coming into the house!”

  From the road above came a hysterical cacophony, in which the words “Bravo, Hamel!” were discernible.

  Suddenly there was a second gunshot from inside the house, followed by absolute silence and paralysis. Even from the road above, there was no more sound. The police officers slowly lowered their weapons, resigned. Mercure turned pale and closed his eyes.

  Suddenly, a creak: the door had opened.

  As if they had received an electric shock, all the police officers crouched down again and raised their weapons at exactly the same moment. But immediately there was doubt. The man standing in the doorway looked like a refugee from hell—dirty, rumpled clothes, skin covered with blood and filth, thinning hair, several days’ growth of beard, and a face so white, with dark rings under bloodshot eye
s. For a brief moment, the police officers thought he was the victim. When they finally recognized that frightful face, all of them, including Mercure, were horrified and incredulous.

  “My God,” muttered Cabana, his weapon still pointed at Hamel.

  Hamel took a few steps on the porch and looked grimly around him. He slowly raised his arms.

  The police officers surrounded him and put him in handcuffs. Their speed and vigor contrasted sharply with the calm and resignation of their prisoner, who submitted passively without looking at anyone in particular and without uttering a sound.

  Two police officers went into the cottage, including Cabana. The smell that assailed them was so horrible that they hesitated a moment, looking uneasily at the terrible disorder surrounding them. Quickly noting that the kitchen and living room were empty, they ran to the hallway, weapons still drawn, and went into the bedroom on the left.

  They stopped immediately. Lemaire’s body was hunched on the floor. Cabana grimaced in revulsion. The other officer put his hand over his mouth, suddenly nauseated. There was a revolver lying on the floor.

  The Drummondville policeman was putting his walkie-talkie to his mouth to inform Mercure that Lemaire was dead when the body suddenly opened his good eye and feebly turned his head. His mouth hanging open, the officer slowly lowered the radio, while his colleague opened his eyes wide with horror.

  Cabana noticed a detail: the two chains attached to Lemaire’s wrists were broken.

  * * *

  Mercure watched the police officers escorting Hamel off the porch. Still standing by the Honda Civic, he did not move. He was no longer holding the megaphone, but instead a walkie-talkie. He was waiting, resigned.