We quickly changed into our pyjamas, hid our dirty clothes under the bed, and five minutes later, seated cross-legged on the quilt embroidered by Emma, we swallowed our Quik while checking the noises outside, louder now as the wind had risen. It was Pete Landry, Emma finally blurted out, and I agreed, even if I was no longer sure that this story of the living dead held any water. For an hour or two we tried to imagine the creature that pursued us, describing its gaze, its mouth and its black teeth, going over our progress from the falls to the bog, looking for clues, noises to which we’d paid no attention, then fatigue got the better of our fears, and the wind, in Emma’s room, finally died down.
I’ve often thought back on that night, wondering if someone really was watching us from afar, a man, a stalker of Tanager, but I’ll never know, no more than I’ll know if the pictures that come back to me are the same as those seen by the bats or if they belong only to childhood fears. All the same, when from my window I see darkness fall, I tell myself that the very existence of those pictures, and the very persistence in my memory of that cracking of dry wood, attest to something real that nothing will ever be able to refute.
When Gilles Ménard spotted the fox, a low grunt came out of his throat, a growl that had him stepping backwards, frightened by the hollow sound he’d not been able to repress, itself triggered by fear, elemental and instinctive, a reflex shutting down thought and commanding you to flee. Unable to take one step more, he lifted his left arm to tell Sam Duchamp to stop, and pointed to the animal.
A fox, said Duchamp, then he went to get closer, but Ménard stopped him, seeing only the animal’s redness, the hair on the moss, the thread of blood following the lie of the land. No, it’s not a fox, he whispered in a dead voice. It’s not a damn fox, Sam, look, he implored, placing himself in front of Duchamp to be sure he was real, and above all to keep him away from the animal that was just another ruse of Peter’s Woods, a mad deception born of the play of shadow and light. When they’d go close they’d see the skin, the legs, the bare belly. They’d see the watch circling the thin arm, and would know that the fox was only a mirage. Go call the police, he added, but Duchamp didn’t move. Gently, he eased Ménard to the side and approached the animal, a fox of that year, almost cut in two by the trap’s jaws.
The death was still recent, the blood still fresh, the last gasps almost palpable. No need for the police, Duchamp muttered, going back to Ménard, who’d given him a fright a few moments ago when he came out with that groan, a sound he’d never heard, a kind of rasp that idiots might make, and he was scaring him almost as much now, totally motionless, his gaze frozen, fixed on the red tail.
Wake up, Gilles, it’s just a fox. It’s only a fox, mimicked Ménard, only a poor fox, then his shoulders were wracked with trembling, his eyes filled with tears and he burst out laughing, goddam Ménard, sometimes you give me a pain, and his laugh went manic, became a series of yelps and bleats he couldn’t stop, goddam Ménard, goddam idiot, and Duchamp started laughing too, happy to see Ménard coming down to earth, laughing like crazy, his stomach cramped and his nose running, goddam Ménard, goddam idiot. Then their laughter stopped bit by bit and Ménard went to vomit behind a tree.
When he came back, his face had gone numb again, but at least he could talk. Have to take care of it, he said, pointing to the animal with his chin, have to bring back the trap. He walked up to the fox with Duchamp, who was still sniffling, unwilling to wipe his nose on his sleeve. Kneeling next to the fox, they each took hold of one end of the trap, reproaching themselves for being dumb, not having brought along gloves, and they managed to pry it open, sweat on their brows, preferring not to look at the wound from which viscera were spilling, but Ménard saw all the same, he saw the torn skin, Sugar Baby’s entrails, he saw the tibia of a young girl with long legs and the nails painted pink near a pink satin ribbon, a modish colour that you didn’t find deep in the woods. He saw Zaza Mulligan running along the shore, he saw life and death, birds gliding, mutilated birds, he saw his little Marie in a field of pale grass, a dog sprightly as a cloud following her close.
We can’t leave it there either, he mumbled. And so the two of them dug a hole in the soft earth, a hole the size of a fox, and they left with the trap, silent, looking for other traps.
Back at their meeting place, Ménard entrusted the trap to Valère Grégoire so he could dispose of it, and thought of Marie, his tiny Marie seeing the blood on his hands that he hadn’t washed, then the look of Andrée Duchamp, Sam’s daughter, who came to meet her father with little Emma Larue and stopped cold on seeing the blood. Instinctively, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and moved off, as if it were possible to hide blood that had burned itself into someone’s eyes. After the two children had left, he went down to the lake, took off his shoes, and walked in until the water covered him entirely. Marie would not see that blood, never. Marie would never stop running.
A bit later the men separated, shaken by the thought of an animal sacrificed to no purpose, but animated by a feeling that binds you to your fellows in a time of misfortune. Zaza Mulligan’s death had changed Boundary’s landscape, leading people who barely talked to one another to stand together, to slap each other on the back and offer encouragement, fucking Morgan, goddam Lacroix, trading languages and curses, exchanging recipes for Rice Krispies squares. Nothing would be the same from now on. You’d wave from one porch to another, you’d honk while passing Duchamp making his turn around the lake on his bicycle, go Duchamp, you can do it, you’d borrow screwdrivers and cups of sugar, and the children, come the night, would no longer whisper the name of Tanager, Tanager of Bondrée, in flight before the hissing of the waves.
Kneeling next to Zaza Mulligan’s unconscious body, the man took his head in his hands to silence the sound of shells bursting inside his skull, to cover the screams of the girl, another whore, another Maggie Harrison, screams blending with those of his barracks mate, Jim Latimer, the best poker player in the 1st Infantry Division of Uncle Sam’s army. Shut up!
Then he spat on the young girl’s face, take that, you little bitch, before renaming her Marie and lifting her in his arms, sweet girl, sweet Marie, sweet Tanager of Boundary, to carry her to the trap he’d unearthed for her from out of the spongy forest soil.
And light, so light in the man’s arms, Zaza Mulligan saw the sky through her lashes, the sky between the branches, and the stars on high spread their wings, unsealing her smile at the same time: the sky between her lips. Just before losing consciousness again, feeling the cold iron on her right leg, she thought of Sissy and described to her the firmament above, the birds dancing. A bunch… a flight… Sissy, a cloud of flickering birds, a scattering of birds and luminous winds. A flight of silent owls. Then her voice was but a breath. I saw… Sissy… a flight of flickering doves. And death eclipsed the night.
SISSY
DAY 1
The last time anyone saw Sissy Morgan, she was going down Snake Hill kicking her feet in front of her, looking haggard, her hair dishevelled, her red eyes dry at last. Summer’s colours had been back for some days, its sounds and smells, along with children’s laughter, for how to stop a summer season from blossoming under the sun? People still thought about Zaza, but thought of her as a forewarning, as with all senseless deaths that awaken us to the perilous privilege of being alive. Only those close to the young girl were still blind to the summer, which was, however, very much there, its greens and blues blending together in the light.
Then one evening people saw Vic Morgan circling the lake shouting out his daughter’s name. His hair was wild, his shirt open, there was saliva at the corners of his lips. He was then heard knocking at the Mulligans’ door, at that of the McBains, the Lamars, the Millers, an anxious parent talking fast, in a halting and panicky voice. Sissy had left the house that morning and had still not returned, even though she’d eaten nothing, not even drank the café au lait he’d prepared for her. Before Zaza Mulligan’
s death Morgan would not have run like that, but now he knew death ran faster than he did, and he was afraid the whore had caught up with Sissy and her red eyes to throw her from a cliff, under a car, off the end of a dock. He saw Sissy’s body thrown up by the waves, he saw his daughter sinking, stones tied to her feet, stones tumbling onto the back of her neck, and he felt himself propelled along with her into a rush of white water bearing away his sanity with all the rest.
Before Zaza Mulligan’s death, one would also have tried to reassure Morgan, saying his daughter would soon return. That she was the sort of girl to disappear at the drop of a hat, you know, that kind of girl. That night, however, they listened to Morgan in silence. A few people even went to see him, saying they’d have a look around and question their neighbours. At nine-thirty, as Sissy was still missing, the men pulled on their jackets, embraced their wives, whose eyes were fixed on the dark lake, and soon you could see the beams from their flashlights coming together, wavering among the birch and aspen leaves, then moving off into the woods as they cried Sissy’s name, Sissy Morgan.
Florence Duchamp toyed with the belt of her dressing gown while watching her husband Sam depart, Stella McBain insisted that Ed wear his windbreaker, the nights are getting cold, Marie Lacroix emptied out her kitchen drawers, turned the room upside down looking for Henri’s flashlight batteries, and they all waited, what else could they do, as they stared out at the black water.
Around two o’clock, Stella McBain heard hurried steps coming towards the cottage. Ed burst in with Ben Mulligan on his heels, and he picked up the telephone without paying any attention to Stella, who was riddling him with questions in a shrill voice she couldn’t recognise as hers, What’s happening, Edward? For God’s sake, what’s happening? Then the word “again” resounded in the cottage, and Stella McBain collapsed into the rocking chair, which in its turn creaked out again, again, again…
Before sunrise, this Sunday 13 August, it was almost bright in Boundary, because all the lights, from Ménard Bay and along the shore to where Moose Trap came down, lit up one by one. There were also lamps outside that shifted about lazily, came together, moved apart. A swarm of artificial suns. And there were flashing lights, sweeping red across stunned faces.
Stan Michaud was not watching Bonanza when the telephone rang. He was dreaming that he was falling, plunged into an endless descent, like James Stewart in the Alfred Hitchcock film he’d seen with Dorothy in Portland during one of those weekends he still allowed himself a few years ago, far from the house, between motel sheets smelling of bleach, then Dorothy’s perfume, then his own musky odour of which he was a bit ashamed, but into which Dorothy, sighing, buried her face, at the same time easing his embarrassment. The ringing crept into his dream like distant music, a mallet rapidly descending the bars of a xylophone. It invaded his world and he came down to earth. It was an abrupt drop, making him feel like he was falling outside himself, then he opened his eyes and picked up the phone on the bedside table, where it sat shuddering, while Dorothy moaned softly by his side. How could she sleep when that ringing could have awakened the dead?
Caught up in his dream, he had trouble grasping what the agitated voice on the other end of the line was telling him, that of Anton Westlake, the youngest of his colleagues, who for that reason drew the night shift more often than not. After a few moments he understood that Westlake was talking about Boundary, Boundary Pond, where another accident had taken place. Again, chief, added Westlake, waiting for his superior’s reaction, but Michaud remained silent. He knew, he’d always known, that one day he’d get a phone call from Cusack or Westlake announcing the boomerang’s return. Wake Cusack, Michaud finally ordered, I’ll be by to pick him up in ten minutes. And send an ambulance and a doctor to the site.
Beside him, Dorothy’s moans had mutated into a gentle snoring, like the complaints of a dreaming dog, an animal that runs in its sleep, fleeing an evil shadow or struggling against its materialisation. Almost every night, Dottie changed into a dog in flight. When he feared that those groans, more insistent, were inciting the dream animal to sink its teeth into itself, he gently nudged Dorothy, caressed her shoulder, and the snoring stopped even as the cadence of her breathing remained erratic.
He’d wake her before leaving, to calm the troubled animal in her breast, and above all so she wouldn’t be anxious on seeing his side of the big bed empty.
Seven minutes after two, he murmured, lighting his bedside lamp, it’s going to be a long day, then he pulled on his pants and shirt, grabbed the jacket with his ID, and gently shook Dorothy’s shoulder. What time is it? she mumbled. It’s time for me to turn in my badge, thought Michaud, and to let younger people dirty their hands and bring home to their houses the smell of rot that clings to the soles of your shoes. Late, he replied, but was it late or early? You never knew, in the middle of the night, if you should refer to the day before or the day to come.
If he’d had the choice, he’d have preferred that the previous day could have lingered on, a quiet evening spent reading, gazing at the stars, finishing a crossword puzzle. So he said late, though he really meant early, very early on the morning of a day that would have no end. Go back to sleep, he added, before planting a kiss on Dorothy’s brow, and heading to the bathroom. His eyes were puffy and his beard was starting to blacken his cheeks, but he had no time to shave. He plunged his face into cold water, rinsed out his mouth, and that was it, he was ready to leave.
A light dew covered the grass, the car, the flowers, the whole world. He hoped, selfishly, that Laura, Cusack’s wife, would have made coffee for them, as she sometimes did. He shivered as he inserted the key in the ignition, and drove off. He saw no lights in house windows on the way to Cusack’s, except in those of widow Maxwell, who had suffered from insomnia ever since the death of her husband, Horace Maxwell, fallen from a scaffolding when he went to pick up a stupid nail: what have you done, honey? Picturing Maxwell’s plunge, he remembered his dream, that sensation of tumbling into a void where there was no sense of air pressure or wind brought on by his movement. He’d read an article, not long ago, about children’s dreams, in which the body was propelled towards the tops of trees or swept up on a swing, higher, higher still, push me mom, then was launched into a soundless sky where mothers’ arms no longer existed. Was that what Zaza Mulligan experienced when she fell in the forest, that solitude where there was no sustaining arm on which to lean?
Since he’d hung up the phone, he’d tried not to think of Zaza, nor of the drama that had just taken place in Boundary. Since Westlake had not given him any details, other than that someone was dead and that the police had to act quickly, he preferred to wait, hoping that the victim was an elderly man or woman, someone who’d had time to look backwards many times before seeing the end draw near.
Parking at Cusack’s he honked his horn, a short little toot just to announce that he’d arrived. He might at the very least give his man the time to take a piss. Laura, Cusack’s wife, half opened the door to tell him that Jim wouldn’t be long, then he appeared, his shoulders hunched, with a thermos and plastic cups, just as Michaud had hoped. Thank Laura, he said, accepting the cup Cusack held out to him, and he took the time to swallow a few mouthfuls before putting the car in gear.
A dirty business, mumbled Cusack, but the roar of the motor covered his voice. He didn’t know any more than Michaud what awaited them, what kind of death they were going to find. But he couldn’t stop Zaza Mulligan’s body from creeping into his thoughts, with her matted hair and her long legs. He’d never confessed to Michaud that, since he’d followed Gilles Ménard and Sam Duchamp into the forest, his nights were filled with nightmares in which it wasn’t Zaza stretched out on the carpet of moss, but his wife, Laura, murmuring sorry, Jim, through her closed lips as she sank into the ground repeating sorry, sorry, sorry, until her whole body was swallowed up except for a long lock of red hair. Except Laura didn’t have red hair, and that lock of hair frighte
ned him even more than the burying of the body, he didn’t know why, as if Laura were becoming Zaza, as if Laura didn’t exist. He would have liked to tell Michaud about his nightmares, but he couldn’t find the words, didn’t know how to talk, never could express what was tormenting him, ever since, when he was little, he’d heard goblins gnawing away in his closet.
Women weren’t so complicated. They sat in front of a tea or coffee and talked about their dreams and disappointments without ever having the feeling that they were exposing or betraying that part of themselves that they could only communicate clumsily. They didn’t have that pride that blew relatively banal things way out of proportion. And they knew how to laugh. He remembered going by his house to pick up a file one afternoon when Dorothy was visiting Laura. The two women, Laurie and Dottie, were sitting at the kitchen table, laughing with tears running down their cheeks. He’d asked what was so funny, and Laura had held out in front of her a glass of pink alcohol, sputtering it’s Canon Kir, Canon My Ass, and the laughter burst forth even louder, for nothing, for a stupid joke, because they’d simply had to let themselves go. He envied the two women’s friendship that transcended their difference in age, the youth of Dottie when she was with Laura, the seriousness of Laura when Dottie couldn’t hide the deep lines in her face. He’d never experienced such complicity with his chief, nor with any man, and wondered how it was getting old, if you got ugly when you had no one to whom you could confess your fear of dying or of not being able to get it up, if you had no one to whom you could vent the spleen that locks up your jaws if everything stays inside.
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