by Mario Bolduc
“Merry Christmas, Sergeant.”
Max hung up.
Lefebvre.
The name rang a bell, but why? And why had the notary sent an envelope to Kevin from Lefebvre after the man’s death? Perhaps something to do with a will he had with Michaud?
Max returned to Kevin’s room. No envelope to be found.
27
A rather curious chronology. In early June, Kevin had received a letter from a notary with a client named Lefebvre. A few weeks later he had asked to take a sabbatical, which his principal wasn’t keen on. Then, in September, Kevin had left for the Appalachian Trail; at least that was the excuse he’d given Caroline and Gabrielle so they wouldn’t worry. To maintain his subterfuge, he’d written to his daughter regularly. Of course, by then, Kevin was already in Romania for an unknown reason.
Everything had gone downhill from there.
First, the Bucharest police had tried to get Kevin for the Zăbrăuţi Street fire.
Laura Costinar’s fake passport, she the widow of a Romani leader murdered in Manitoba.
A Romani leader known by Raymond Dandurand.
And, finally, Kevin in the hands of his captors, and the horrible deaths of Laura Costinar and Cosmin Micula.
The next day Max met up with Gabrielle for breakfast at a nearby diner. The young girl usually wolfed down her toast with caramel as if she hadn’t eaten in days. But, this morning, she seemed to have no appetite at all.
Max ordered a cup of coffee. He described his conversation with Michaud, the notary. Gabrielle had never seen such an envelope, and her father had never mentioned it to her.
“How was your father last summer? Was he acting strangely?”
“No, I mean, he was running in the morning, training …”
“For the Appalachian Trail?”
“No, just to stay in shape.”
“He didn’t seem different at all?”
Gabrielle thought back. “I went rafting with a friend, and when I came back, yes.… More nervous, I guess you could say.”
“Rafting?”
Camping, actually, with her friend, Chloé, and Chloé’s older brother in vallée de la Jacques-Cartier near Quebec City. Kevin had suggested it, which had surprised her. Since forever, Gabrielle had been nagging her father about the trip, but Kevin had always said no. He’d lost his son in the Saqawigan’s currents. He wouldn’t risk his daughter in the rapids of rivière Jacques-Cartier. For some reason, from one day to the next, he’d changed his mind. He’d even chosen the dates for her and made all the reservations.
He’d been a week without Gabrielle in July.
What had he been up to?
Back in his hotel, Max called Julien Desmeules, a John Deere dealer near Boucherville. His name was on the invoice for Kevin’s rental. Desmeules rifled through his papers and found Kevin’s reservation. However, he’d gone to the Grande-Vallée service point to pick up the equipment.
“I guess he called us to avoid the long-distance fees.”
“What did he rent, exactly?”
“A bulldozer.”
Max couldn’t imagine Kevin operating a bulldozer.
“Comes with an operator, of course.”
Desmeules didn’t know the guy; Max had to get in touch with the Grande-Vallée office.
At first glance nothing seemed off. There’s always work to do on a country house. But Max knew from Gabrielle that Kevin hadn’t gone to Grande-Vallée since the accident. And neither Max nor Josée had actually been able to part with the house. On the one hand, the place was still filled with too much pain, and the idea of visiting might have seemed intolerable to both of them; on the other hand, selling what had become hallowed ground felt like a betrayal to both Kevin and his half-sister. Another relationship of love and hate, of affection and repulsion, just as Kevin had had with his father while he was still alive. Raymond, whose presence in Woodlands with Ioan Costinar still raised questions Max was unable to answer.
The affair Max was embroiled in seemed to be an echo of another sequence of events that had occurred four years earlier in another country. In both cases, people had died: Ioan Costinar and Raymond Dandurand in the first case, and now Laura and the photographer Cosmin Micula. Max felt as if these two series of tragedies were intertwined, though he still struggled with exactly how. The link might just be the letter from Michaud, the notary, received by Kevin this past June.
Lefebvre.
He’d been thinking about the name all day, and suddenly it came back to him.
Gérard Lefebvre, Nordopak’s co-founder. One of Raymond’s early collaborators, he’d left the company just as it was beginning to find real success. Max remembered now; he’d come across the man’s name several times while studying Nordopak for the scam. Gérard Lefebvre had sold his stock in the early 1980s. Max had believed the man — much older than Raymond — to have died. And yet, clearly, Lefebvre had kept something of a relationship with Kevin’s father after leaving the company. If it was indeed the same Lefebvre.
Max went on the Internet to find a list of retirement homes in and around Victoriaville. He called each of them in turn. Based solely on his age, Lefebvre had probably ended his days in one or the other of these establishments. After a few unsuccessful calls, Max reached an orderly with Cedar Residences. The woman told him Gérard Lefebvre had indeed been one of their residents. At the time of his death he’d been suffering from Alzheimer’s for several years.
“Did he have any family? Friends?”
“No, no, he was all alone in the world. By the time you’re ninety-three, you’re often the only one left, you see.”
Which meant there were more than twenty years between Raymond Dandurand and Lefebvre. An odd couple, indeed. The young businessman and his older partner. The mentor and his protégé.
Max asked whether Lefebvre had received any visits from a Kevin Dandurand over the few months preceding his death, but she was categorical: Lefebvre had died alone, without family, without any visitors, forgotten by everyone. There was a solitary soul at his funeral: Michaud.
“Maybe you should speak with him,” the woman offered. “He was the executor for his will.”
Max rang the notary again but was told Michaud was off for a few weeks over the holidays. Anyway, Max hadn’t expected much from that call: Michaud would be sober now and much more conscientious about attorney-client privilege. As Lefebvre’s guardian and later executor, he would be the one who’d paid for the care and lodging of the old man. Max could well play the policeman over the phone. But to get more from the notary, as the man himself had suggested, Max would have to go to his office in person. A risk he wasn’t willing to take.
One thing was certain: at Lefebvre’s death Michaud had disposed of his client’s assets in compliance with his wishes and responsibilities. Kevin might have inherited a part of those assets. An envelope at least. A few weeks after receiving it Kevin had rented a bulldozer in Grande-Vallée.
The next day Max hit the road and headed for Gaspésie to visit the family house on rivière Saqawigan. Raymond had acquired it early on when Nordopak was halfway between a small family-run business and an important player in the Canadian packaging industry. Why Gaspésie? It seemed a strange choice: after all, Grande-Vallée was several hundred kilometres from Montreal. Raymond could have found as nice a place closer to home in the Eastern Townships or the Laurentian Mountains that could have satisfied any desire for clean country air. Maybe those places were too close to the city for his tastes.
Raymond had only visited his hideout on rivière Saqawigan a few times a year — over Christmas or summer vacation, sometimes at Easter. But every time he went to the place, he’d stay for a few weeks at least and usually with his family. First with Roxanne and Kevin, later with Sharon, Josée, and Kevin.
Kevin had told him once that when Roxanne was alive, Sharon and Josée would also spend their vaca
tion time in Grande-Vallée in a rented house nearby. Raymond wasn’t the sort of man to go without his second family, not even for a few weeks.
Kevin remembered his time in Grande-Vallée fondly. His father’s constant pressure would lessen. Raymond, far from his court, was able to unwind a little, able to relax his expectations.
It was over the course of one of these summers that Kevin had come to appreciate Sharon, whom he had once so loathed. His stepmother was a good woman, after all, and the two had gotten along famously. And because of it, life with Raymond had become less tense, as if Roxanne’s death had in a way made his father’s life better. Sometimes, in a moment of laughter or joy with his stepmother, he’d be overcome with guilt, feel like a traitor.
In those moments, Kevin would run off and find refuge near the boating shed at the far end of the grounds. He’d go and sit in that dark, humid shack and let himself mope for hours. Once night fell, it was Raymond’s voice calling him back that would signal the end of his episode. Kevin would come out, head bent over his chest. At the top of the steps Raymond would sometimes toss out: “You were off to see your mother again, is that it?”
Kevin would hate him then as intensely as ever before.
A few years later, after Caroline had come into Kevin’s life, the atmosphere had changed once again. Josée would bring a boyfriend from university, a law student destined for a stellar career, according to the young woman. Raymond would transform himself into the patriarch then, bestowing counsel and advice without being asked, playing to perfection the role of the exemplary father. In law, as in journalism, he could give lessons even to the experts. His newfound court oohed and ahhed and asked for more while Raymond beamed. Meanwhile, Kevin made himself discreet, trying to offer a small target for his father’s sarcasm.
With Kevin back in the fold after his return from New York, Raymond’s attitude had evolved once again. Kevin was now an example of a man who’d returned to the righteous path of a serious career. Raymond could be proud of how he’d expertly manoeuvred Kevin’s entry into the business world. A former athlete with good to fine results — though his career had dragged on too long by half — was now finally becoming a man to be proud of. The reconciliation seemed sincere enough, though always tainted by an undercurrent of dishonesty. And then there was Gabrielle, and later Sacha, allowing Raymond to display his talents as a grandfather. Kevin was grateful for his children, since they took his father’s attentions away from him, giving him room to breathe.
Sacha.
Such a beautiful child, a doll brought to life, as Gabrielle used to say.
Always the centre of attention, of love, of affection.
And then the tragedy.
Before entering the village of Grande-Vallée itself, Max turned right and drove along rivière Saqawigan for about twenty kilometres until he reached the site of the accident. He stopped the Jeep on the other side of the bridge and strolled toward the river. Then he walked back to the bridge and across it. It was a recent construction, all made of concrete, replacing the old metallic structure still seen higher up the river, though now unused. The accident had taken place just as construction on the bridge was ending, after it had been opened to traffic. Perhaps it had been opened too early. Raymond had lost control of the Pathfinder and fallen into the water ten metres below.
Max leaned over the guardrail. The water frothed and jumped and sprayed where the river suddenly became much narrower between two cliffs. The accident had happened in spring, when the current was stronger still, fed by melting snow.
Standing there, watching the water go by, Max felt as if he were reliving the terrible tragedy. That single day had destroyed a happy family and ruined the lives of people he loved.
Max returned to the Jeep, inconsolably distraught. He turned it around and drove back to the Grande-Vallée garage, the John Deere service point. Max was given the name of Sylvain Drolet, the only qualified bulldozer operator this side of the Saqawigan.
He drove around for a while, completely lost. Finally, he accepted the humiliation and asked a passerby. Max got the direction wrong again and was forced to ask someone else. He had to take a right after the gas station and follow a dirt road for about ten kilometres.
“Watch out for your muffler!”
As he drove down the road — more of a gravel path between the trees, really — Max realized that farmers, with little success, had attempted to tame this land better known for its coastal fisheries. The farmhouses were in disrepair, many of them standing behind washed-out FOR SALE signs.
Max reached the place he was looking for. A dog ran, barking, sticking its maw between the slats of a wooden gate. The owner’s voice was heard behind the dog, cursing the animal to take it easy, for Pete’s sake. A man in overalls walked over, wiping his hands on an oily rag. Behind him, a pickup, its hood open.
“Sergeant Gravel? I’m Sylvain Drolet. I thought you’d be in uniform.”
Max smiled casually. “We get to take it off when we become inspectors.”
That answer was enough for Drolet. And a good thing, too, since Max hadn’t had time to prepare fake papers. A gangly boy appeared behind Drolet — his son, Sébastien, the man informed him. A perfect copy of his father, twenty years younger.
Sylvain Drolet knew Kevin Dandurand well. The whole family, in fact. Raymond had been a gold mine for local jobbers. He was always off on some renovation project or other, adding sheds, storeys, or extensions every season, following his whims. From the patio to the pool, not to mention the garage and the aviary, Grande-Vallée’s underemployed contractors had loved him. Raymond’s death, with his house left in disrepair, had put an end to the good times until Kevin called him in early August to hire him. The two men agreed on a price, and Drolet waited for Kevin on the property early the next morning.
“What sort of work, exactly?” Max asked.
“He wanted to solidify the dock. And also build a small embankment. Sometimes, when the snow melted, the basement got rather humid, and in bad years could even flood.”
Drolet ambled back to the pickup and lowered its hood. “He was also looking for someone to do some basic work on the house — repair the deck, clean the chimney, that sort of thing.”
Drolet had started the work that very afternoon, despite the rain. Kevin, umbrella in hand, supervised him, sometimes offering suggestions but mostly listening to Drolet’s advice. Three days later Kevin returned to Montreal, never to come back. Drolet finished the work the following week after checking on a few details with Kevin over the phone.
“He essentially gave me free rein on the renovations,” Drolet added.
The following Friday he had prepared his invoice and dropped it off at the general store. A few days later he received a cheque with a thank-you letter from Kevin, promising to get in touch that autumn for more renovations.
“So he was thinking of coming back to spend time here?”
“That’s what I told myself. I guess he’d mourned, you know, moved on. Or maybe he wanted to sell.” Drolet rubbed his forehead with his hand. “But there wouldn’t be much of a market for the house. Bit too rich for the area.”
“Had he come back to Grande-Vallée since the accident?”
“That was the only time I know of. But someone in the village might know more than I do.”
“How did he seem when you saw him?”
“Happy to see his house again. Happy, but worried.”
“Worried?”
“I don’t know. He was fidgety. I told myself it was the emotion of being back. I didn’t ask any questions. It was none of my business. His father was like him, you know. Always a bit of mystery with Raymond. An incredible man, but you never really knew what he was thinking.”
Drolet looked at Max, a frown on his face. “It’s horrible what happened, isn’t it? Is it true what they say? That he was behind his father’s downfall?”
“You can’t believe everything you read.”
28
To protect drivers from the spring floods, the municipality had closed off the old, sinewy road and replaced it with a new one, straight as an arrow, and relocated it higher on the hill, cutting right through a field, far from rivière Saqawigan. Max had no trouble finding the place this time. He encountered a huge metal gate, the sort they’d have had in front of Versailles to make sure the peasants didn’t come to lop off a few heads. It, too, was in disrepair.
Max left the Jeep in front of the entrance and slipped between two rusted bars. He walked for a while through tall grass before reaching the dirt path again, two overgrown tire tracks beneath an arch of maples. The residence appeared behind a row of birch trees. The place had a lot of character, Max thought. Two storeys, chimneys on both ends. A long gallery on three sides. A prosperous home despite the lack of upkeep.
Raymond had bought the home from a ruined gentleman farmer, who himself had acquired it from an American industrialist seeking solitude. Dandurand had had it renovated while still in Montreal, faxing plans and estimates back and forth from his offices at Nordopak. The result? A luxurious and comfortable refuge amid the undergrowth, undergrowth Raymond had always refused to trim and prune and control. The grass had only grown taller, the grounds wilder, since the house had been abandoned.
After being conned, Raymond had travelled here to lick his wounds and find his bearings. Sharon had come with him. Kevin, Caroline, and the kids joined them for Easter. Rumours of bankruptcy were in the air, and perhaps Raymond had been informed of the financial details of the trustees’ agreement while at the rivière Saqawigan home. Perhaps, by then, he’d already decided to take his own life if his company went under. A double exit, a final show. He would impress them all one last time.
By taking Sacha with him.
