Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  A voice finally came from the radio.

  “Lemaire isn’t dead!”

  Mercure blinked.

  “The two shots were to break the chains on his wrists!” Cabana explained.

  Mercure leaned against the car and gave a very long sigh.

  “But send the paramedics in right away,” Cabana continued. “He’s in really bad shape!”

  They must have gotten the message up on the road, because ten seconds later, the two paramedics rushed past Mercure with their stretcher and went into the house.

  Mercure remained there for a few moments, leaning against the car with his left hand to his head. Finally, he turned toward the house. Hamel, in handcuffs, was accompanied by five or six police officers, all of them completely silent, awed by his nightmarish appearance and paradoxical calm. When he came within a few meters of Mercure, Hamel turned his head toward him and the two men looked at each other for the first time. Mercure knew Hamel recognized him. He smiled sadly and nodded slightly. Hamel, still walking, continued to stare at him for a moment, and then he too gave a little nod. Without smiling.

  The little group had not even reached the road when the reporters came running, shouting questions, while the cameramen jostled to get as close as possible. Wearied by the idea of facing the media circus, Mercure turned his back and walked down the lane. He met the paramedics, who were hurrying back up. He had time to see Lemaire, lying on the stretcher, hooked up to an IV, with an oxygen mask over his mouth. Mercure glumly followed the stretcher with his eyes, and then continued on his way. He thought for a moment of going into the cottage, but decided against it. Later, not now. Instead, he walked down to the shore of the lake.

  He looked at the sparkling expanse of water rippling with calm little waves. The thought of Madelaine crossed his mind.

  He tilted his head back and, as if trying to inhale all that light, took a deep breath.

  * * *

  On the television, a special live report stated that Bruno Hamel had finally been found on the very day he was supposed to kill his hostage.

  “But to everyone’s surprise,” announced the excited reporter, “he gave himself up without even trying to kill his victim! We can see him coming now, behind me. I’ll see if I can get closer . . .”

  The shaky camera managed to capture the frightening image of a ghostlike figure, handcuffed and surrounded by police.

  At the Drummondville station, a dozen officers were watching the broadcast and applauding. Wagner, standing in the midst of them, nodded his head with satisfaction. He tied his necktie and sat down comfortably, sighing with contentment.

  “So, Greg, it’s a total victory. Right?” Bolduc said with a smile.

  The chief opened his mouth to answer, but then he saw the image of Lemaire on the screen, lying on a stretcher, his face mangled, one eye missing, hooked up to an IV. He closed his mouth again, his face suddenly dark, and did not answer Bolduc.

  At his house, Gaétan Morin was watching the special report as he ate his breakfast, raging inside. Goodbye to the seven thousand dollars he should have had today so he could bet it tonight at the track! His wife, sitting across from him, was also watching the images, and she was shaking her head sorrowfully.

  “My God, the poor man. I can hardly imagine what a hellish week he must have gone through.”

  Morin chewed his toast energetically, thinking about the ninety thousand dollars he had lost in less than two weeks. He had the feeling his day would be long and depressing.

  Josée Jutras was also watching the special report. When she saw her brother-in-law on the screen, she put her hand over her mouth in horror and her eyes filled with tears. She had to warn Sylvie! She stood up and went to the guest bedroom.

  Sylvie was sleeping, holding the framed photo of Jasmine against her body. Josée thought to herself that this was the first night since her arrival that her sister had gone without crying, and the first morning she had slept in so late. Josée found that thought so comforting that she did not have the heart to wake Sylvie. In any case, she would know soon enough.

  So she closed the door again and Sylvie continued sleeping peacefully, with Jasmine’s smiling face against her breast.

  * * *

  When Bruno walked past that gaunt, weary man who looked at him so insistently, he knew right away he was Mercure. He could tell from his eyes.

  So that was him. The one who had harassed him, who had been so relentless in getting into his head and undermining him. The one who, without his ever having seen him in person, had been with him all week. The one Bruno had hated so much.

  He did not hate him anymore. The bitterness was gone, like the weight that had been on his shoulders. And, above all, like the echoes of the blows in his head.

  But not the filter over his eyes, the filter that dulled the color of everything he saw. Bruno knew it would always be there now. It was through that filter that he saw Mercure smile sadly as he nodded.

  It was through the filter that he saw the reporters rushing toward him even before they reached the road. They were holding out their microphones and pointing their cameras, asking a thousand questions at the same time. Without letting go of Bruno’s arms, the police officers tried to push them back. Bruno ignored them completely.

  When they reached the road, Bruno looked around. More police officers were standing to the side looking at him, some with horror, others with relief, some even with pity. Farther away, about forty people were shouting at him, either insults or approval, but all with the same rage. They wanted to get close to him, but the police kept them away, which made them furious. Bruno stared at them with a weariness bordering on contempt. Finally he looked at the ambulance and saw Lemaire being put inside. Bruno remained expressionless.

  Around him, in spite of the efforts of the police, the reporters continued to bombard him with a cacophony of questions. One of them, a woman, spoke louder than the rest and Bruno was able to make out her words over those of the others.

  “Bruno Hamel, you kidnapped your daughter’s murderer and tortured him for a week. Do you believe this kind of action solves anything?”

  Bruno turned to the reporter and looked at her for a moment, then answered flatly, “No.”

  Everyone was silent, waiting anxiously for him to say more. But Bruno kept looking at them gravely and added nothing.

  The reporter, excited by her advantage, asked further, “So do you regret what you’ve done?”

  Bruno appeared to think, made a face, and said in an annoyed tone, “No.”

  As the flurry of questions continued, the officers put him in the police car. Thirty seconds later, it drove away, pursued by the shouts of the frustrated demonstrators.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Dr. Valérie Bédard for her advice on medical matters.

  I would like to thank Sergeant Michel Poirier and lawyer Jérôme Gagner for their advice on legal matters.

  I would like to thank Bernard Rioux, Jean Mercier, and Maher Jahjah for their advice on computers and electronics.

  I would like to thank René Flageole, Éric Tessier, Marc Guénette, Julie Senécal, and Camille Séguin, who read the first draft of this novel, and whose advice assisted me greatly in writing the final version.

  I would like to thank Jean Pettigrew, who does not miss a single inconsistency and who continues to believe in what I am doing.

  Thank you to my beloved children, Nathan and Romy, without whom this novel would surely never have been written.

  Thank you to everyone at Simon & Schuster, especially Laurie Grassi, who has given me the opportunity to reach an English audience and has been a pleasure to work with.

  Thank you, finally, to my sweet Sophie for her intelligent advice and her understanding of the foibles of the writer she shares her life with.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at Patrick Senécal’s next novel

  SILENT MOVE

  Coming to bookstores in 2020

  Translated by Ho
ward Scott & Phyllis Aronoff

  Crazy.

  Such an ordinary word, used without rhyme or reason. But it’s the first and only word that comes to mind at the moment. So I write it down. I don’t care if it’s a cliché. Originality is not what I’m concerned about now. I’m not an author. I’m a prisoner. Some will say there are similarities, but I don’t have much of a head for theorizing.

  Crazy, but there you have it. Frankly, I can’t think of anything better. After these last three days, I have developed a deeper understanding of the word.

  Three days.

  It’s really rather ironic. I had insisted on having something to write on, and now I have enough paper to copy out the entire Koran, but I’m completely empty. In fact, no, it’s the opposite: I’m too full.

  This is the first time I’m going to write about myself. I’ve already written some insignificant little poems, a few pseudo-intellectual short stories, but nothing really personal. Never felt the need. Until now. I need to get things off my chest and put my emotions, my fears, my questions down on paper. And my hopes, perhaps. If I ever get out of here (God, just writing those seven words is so terrifying), I’m not at all sure I’ll want anyone to read what I’m writing. I’m not writing this for anyone else.

  I want to write for myself. It’s my only possible escape. For now, at least. To write down events in order, that in itself will be liberating. Maybe it will help me see things more clearly.

  Okay. Here we go.

  It all started three days ago. Or, to be precise, on Friday, September 20, 1991. My classes at the Literature Institute were supposed to start on Monday. I had only been in Montcharles for three days, and since I didn’t know this town of twenty-five thousand, I decided to take advantage of the last nice days of summer by biking around the area. At around eleven thirty, I was pedaling at a leisurely pace through the sleepy streets of the town. I made my way downtown, which was pretty but quiet, and stopped for lunch in a snack bar. It’s hardly an exciting town, but since I come from Drummondville, I wasn’t expecting much. In any case, I was planning to spend the weekends with Judith in Sherbrooke, only about twenty kilometers from here. So that would mean studying all week and partying all weekend. A normal schedule for any self-respecting student, right?

  After lunch, I continued exploring. There were residential neighborhoods one after the other, all alike, just a series of identical, cold new houses. But I eventually found myself in an area that was a little older, and therefore more attractive, with lots of trees, no sidewalks, and not much traffic. I turned onto a street called Elm Street, which was a little isolated and had even more trees. Behind the row of houses, there was a big field. I felt a little pang of nostalgia; I had grown up near woods, and many of my happiest childhood moments were spent hanging from the branches of those trees behind my parents’ house. I pedaled idly down this street, finding it more and more welcoming—widely spaced houses that were pretty, not modern, with a couple of people outside, working in their yards.

  The street ended at a yellow wire mesh fence on which a sign had been hung: “END.” Without getting off my bike, I leaned against the fence. On the other side, there were a few trees, then a steep gravel slope that went down about ten meters to a narrow, brownish river. On the other side of the water, wild nature reigned. No houses and no roads. I stayed there a few minutes contemplating the quiet river, before looking around. To my left, there was a wide vacant lot. The houses only started again about fifty meters on. To my right, near the fence, stood a two-storey house, a rather ordinary brown brick structure that must have been about sixty years old. It did have a certain charm, a reassuring tranquillity, maybe because it was a little isolated from the others. I turned back to the river and took a deep breath. I felt good. I was happy to be in this calm town. I thought about Judith. I would call her this evening. I would tell her I was happy. That I loved her.

  I turned my bike around and headed off again.

  I hadn’t gone three meters when the damn cat appeared.

  To think some people don’t believe in luck. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that luck exists. I almost ran it over with my bike. It came out of nowhere, a meter from my front wheel. I tried to avoid it, but you can’t avoid luck. I wrenched the handlebars and I felt everything jam. My gears gave a grating groan, and a second later, I experienced the sensation of free fall for the first time.

  I struggled to my feet, holding my arms and cursing. I had a scrape or two on my hands and a slightly wounded pride, but I would survive. I looked around—there was nobody on the street, and the two or three people working in their yards in the distance hadn’t noticed anything. I could already feel my ego recovering. My bike had been less fortunate. The chain had come off, the handlebars were out of alignment, and the front wheel was badly twisted. Since I’m the type who breaks three fingers hammering a nail, I decided to call a taxi instead of trying to fix it.

  I abandoned the remains of my ten-speed and started walking toward the big two-storey house, the one that was a little isolated from the rest. More proof that luck likes to play with us. If I had crashed a little farther away, nothing would have happened. Nothing.

  This thought alone is enough to make me cry with rage.

  I saw the cat disappear under the fence.

  If I ever manage to get out of this nightmare, I’ll offer a reward of a thousand dollars to anyone who brings me its skinned corpse. No, strike that—anyone who brings it to me alive. I’ll skin it myself.

  The house had three windows on the ground floor, and between the first and the second one, there was a door. The second floor also had three windows, but the first one was strangely darker than the others. Curtains? It didn’t look like it.

  There was a yard on the left and another door on the side. I walked up the asphalt driveway, where a car was parked. There was a taxi light on the roof of the car, an old brown Chevy. Well, well. I wouldn’t turn down a little good luck.

  I rang the doorbell. There was a big yard behind the house, surrounded by a high cedar hedge. Beyond that, were woods.

  I checked my watch: two thirty. I rang again. The taxi convinced me to persist.

  Finally, the door opened. The man must have been in his early forties and he was a little shorter than my five feet eleven. He blinked, unsure, looking surprised to see me. I explained to him what had happened, pointing to the remains of my bike in the street. The man listened to me, a bit suspicious. The little brown mustache and the mop of curly chestnut hair on his head made him look like a has-been pop singer. The typical suburbanite. He stepped outside and looked toward the street. When he saw my bike, his ridiculous mustache curled up in a wide smile and his suspicions dissolved.

  “Ah, you crashed your bike!”

  It seemed to reassure him. I don’t know why. He looked at me, still smiling, as if I’d just told him a good joke. He even started laughing.

  “Because of a cat. Ha! That’s a good one! If you’d hit it you would have come out of it better. I’ve never trusted bicycles myself. More dangerous than cars.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. He had a corny sense of humor, but he seemed nice enough.

  Nice.

  I explained that I wanted to call a taxi.

  “I’m a taxi driver myself. What luck, eh? Only I’m not on duty this afternoon and . . . I’m really busy right now.”

  He looked like he was actually sorry.

  “No problem. Do you mind if I call one?”

  He hesitated a moment, looking inside the house. He rubbed his mustache as if he were weighing the pros and cons of my request. Would it bother him that much? He was dressed in a pair of old jeans and an old T-shirt. There were stains on his clothes. He looked like he was in the middle of fixing something.

  “Listen, I could go to the house next door if you’re too . . .”

  “No, no, of course not!” he exclaimed suddenly, smiling again. “Come in, come in.”

  I stepped directly into a big, strangely
decorated kitchen: green wallpaper with a pattern of mauve flowers, caramel-brown cabinets, and a corn-yellow fridge. It hurt my eyes. To my left, there was a staircase to the second floor, and under the stairs was a door locked with a padlock. In front of me, near the stove, there was a wide doorway to the dining room.

  The man was starting to show me where the telephone was when the front door opened and a woman entered. She stopped short and stared at me in stunned silence. She was holding a little girl by the hand.

  “Maude!” The man seemed surprised. “Your walk didn’t last long.”

  He looked annoyed, as if he was criticizing her. As for the woman, she was still staring at me. She actually looked scared.

  “This young fella just crashed his bicycle, right in front of the house. Because of a cat!”

  He laughed. Obviously, my accident was an inexhaustible source of amusement to him. The woman finally looked reassured. A little, at least. She was quite tall, with graying chestnut hair cut in a square hairdo, not very pretty. Her smile looked a little forced. I guessed her to be about forty-five, but her weary expression might have aged her.

  “This is my wife, Maude.”

  I smiled politely. She blushed, averted her eyes, and said quickly in a weak voice, “I’ll take Anne to her room.”

  The little girl, who must have been about six, was tiny and thin and had long black hair. She didn’t say a word and didn’t budge an inch. Really docile. She let herself be led by her mother.

  Just as she was about to start up the stairs, the woman stopped abruptly and stammered to her husband, “Unless . . . it’s too early . . . for me to go up?”

  The man’s expression changed. He suddenly looked ill at ease. In a forced voice, he asked, “Uh, no, why do you ask?”

  He accompanied this false question with an icy, disapproving glare. I had no idea what was going on, but I didn’t like the atmosphere. I wasn’t in the mood to witness a domestic row. I just wanted to call my taxi and leave. Finally, the woman lowered her eyes, looking confused, and climbed the stairs, still holding her silent daughter’s hand.