by John Farrow
12
PERILOUS LIAISONS
Later the same day, Monday, February 14, 1999
From a small portal in the thick stone wall, the young woman gazed down at the lake and the twinkle of lights surrounding the expanse of ice wherever cottage windows reflected the sun. Her loneliness swelled and yawed and settled inside her. From her precipice, Lucy Gabriel cast a light of her own, felt her spirit float free and rise on a sunbeam. She sensed a kinship with damsels in distress from olden days, fair maidens locked in towers awaiting rescue by a knight. She hated the association, for despite her depression and anxiety, and her aching, warring loneliness, she was a woman who wanted to act. She had every intention of slaying her own dragons and assailing her own castle walls. Her favourite fairy tales might derive from English lore, she might be a native steeped in the myths of her culture, but she also knew that she was a woman who lived in different times, modern times, one who moved across borders and communities. She worked among scientists and native activists. She had hobnobbed with criminals. While she enjoyed the nightlife of the city, she would never think to permanently move off the reserve and away from her people, for she was committed to their causes. She was off the reserve now, though, she admitted, unable to hide among her own, a refugee in a tower, hidden from the world, frightened by forces unseen and persons unknown.
Turning, she looked at the man behind her. Brother Tom checked on her regularly, although only for a few minutes at a time. As he had taken a vow of silence, their conversations would travel in one direction only.
“I need to get out of here, Bro’.”
He raised only his eyes when he looked at her, the angle of his chin tilting downward slightly, perhaps denoting disapproval of the enterprise.
“I’m serious. I can’t defend myself stuck in here. It’s not a question of my freaking safety, it’s a question of finding out who did what to who when. And then proving it. I’m the only one who can really do that.”
The monk was sitting on one of two ladderback chairs. She pulled the other in front of him, sat, and leaned closer to him. Whenever he shifted his weight, the chair squeaked.
“In my house, in the garage under my house, I have a car. I have a guy who ploughs the snow. He doesn’t know I’m here, he’ll just keep ploughing until I tell him to stop. The point is, Bro’, if we go get the car, we’ll be able to get out all right.” Perhaps because she was off the reserve, she deliberately wore a shirt with native embroidery and decoration. She had many shirts that carried Mohawk symbols, but over the years she’d also gone to meetings and public powwows where native crafts from all round the continent were sold, and she had acquired both jewellery and clothes from other Indian nations. The white shirt she had on now was Navaho, while the beading on her denim skirt was a Sioux creation.
“There’s plenty of spots to park it down below. With our own car, we could slip out when we needed to—you could come with me, Tommy, if that helps. I don’t mind. But I can’t sit around on my ass all day—I’m sorry, my rear end all day—while people are messing with my life!” She had her elbows on her knees and implored him with her eyes. “Tommy. Brother Tom. I know—I know you think you’re saving me from harm. But if I’m not out there, harm is being done to me, and you’re not helping at all. You’re hindering. I have to be out there. I’m the only one who can solve my own problems.”
She made eye contact while speaking, talking as though her words flowed into the monk’s eyes. She liked people to see the intensity behind her thoughts. She declined to take her eyes off Brother Tom’s. Seated alongside a little pine table, his hands folded in front of him, he was squirming around a little under her gaze, his chair noisily complaining about each movement as though the wood might snap.
He appeared to be contemplating her words. She had not expected to make much headway, but with her eyes locked on his she did not detect any denial there, or any particular restraint. When she eventually chose to have mercy on him and relinquished her claim to his eyes, it seemed to Lucy Gabriel that the possibility of her request being accepted was somehow vibrant in the air.
“Brother Tom?” she stated simply, without looking at him. “I need your help.”
He nodded, but she did not know what that meant exactly, or if they had agreed upon anything of substance or not.
While her husband slept into the afternoon, Sandra Lowndes fed and groomed her horses. She was glad to have him in the house during the day, even if he was in bed, and even if he had warned her that he’d be going out again that evening. She felt a certain comfort, following their eventful night, in having her husband at home.
From an early age, Sandra had known that her life would revolve around horses. Her love for the animals was not dissimilar to that of her school chums, but she was convinced that her parents’ assumption—that one day her interests would break out along the predictable paths—was mistaken. Her folks had hoped that horses would inspire a sense of responsibility in their daughter, that the sport would equip her with a healthy lifestyle and a rounded education. Equestrian discipline was supposed to be preparatory to something else—a law degree, perhaps, or medical school. Although it was never stated, growing up she’d come to realize that, bereft of sons, her father imagined an important career for his outstanding daughter. Sandra secretly discarded his aspirations as being far too time-consuming. If his plans were going to take her away from horses, she wasn’t interested.
As it turned out, her father did not live long enough to be disappointed, suffering a stroke while she was in her junior year at Brown studying American literature. She was glad that she never had to stand up to him, never had to refuse to carry on into law or political science. She would have defied him. She had rehearsed speeches to break the news and had auditioned a few with her mother. Now, the dramatics would not be necessary. She held his hand and whispered to him while he gurgled in his hospital bed. He withered away. Two months after his stroke she received the news, before going into an exam, that her father had died.
Upon graduation, Sandra Lowndes returned to New Hampshire to run and expand the family farm. What had been a hobby for her father would be her life, her passion. Although she was an experienced and accomplished rider, competitive events were not her primary interest. Just as she had known that she would never step away from horses, she had also accepted that there would always be a better rider or a more tenacious competitor, if not in her county, then in New Hampshire, and if not in the state, then across state lines. What was more important to her than riding was the nurturing, training and, ultimately, the breeding of horses. These interests would command her devotion, and in these matters, over time, she would excel.
The death of her father had afforded certain opportunities for the young Sandra Lowndes. Her essential financial needs had been met, and she had further room for risk-taking. With experience, she would learn how to make a business work, but in the early days mistakes were common and funds were squandered. Her mother was enjoying a merry time with her share of the inheritance, travelling the world. When she died nine years later without much left to pass on, Sandra’s business was in recession. The entire region was hurting, money was tight. She had to parcel off land at low prices, and that was painful, but she muddled through the bad patch and managed to keep herself afloat. She’d had to govern her expectations. Ingredients she’d counted on to give her business an eventual boost—such as a sound economy and a second inheritance—hadn’t panned out. Her long-standing relationship with a local sporting goods retailer failed to result in marriage. She had put him off for years, then he had begun putting her off, and suddenly he was simply gone, off to open a new branch in Massachusetts where, he said, the opportunities were limitless.
“Opportunities,” she had asked aloud, “for what?”
A light dawned. Throughout her life, she had been somewhat cavalier, and not particularly adept, in her personal relationships.
Although inclined to settle down, Sandra would no soon
er get close to a man than she’d begin to analyse what benefits he’d contribute to horse-rearing. Could he bring income onto the farm, or expertise, or contacts? Could he be transformed into a salesman or a veterinarian, hired hand, something useful? Could he mend a fence or put in a well or fix a windblown roof? On one blind date, a disaster from start to finish, she had been tempted to check the guy’s teeth. It took a while, but she finally understood that men did not simply stop going out with her. They’d leave the county. Or vacate the state. One scrammed all the way from Maine to Missouri—and who, who goes to Missouri?—and another vanished altogether.
Around the time that she met Émile—a few loves and half a dozen years later—she had begun to rethink. She’d given her life to horses, and they weren’t providing much in return. Perhaps her father had been right, horses should only be a phase in a young woman’s life, or a sideline that validated one’s place in society. To actually raise the beasts and devote yourself to their welfare was not so much a life as a life sentence.
As the business sagged once more, the local economy again in tatters, Sandra Lowndes looked around for fresh opportunities. She discovered a growing, reasonably lucrative niche breeding polo mounts. A good polo pony could be sold to the rich. She didn’t have to depend upon a young girl’s ability to implore her father to spend money to buy her a pony, nor did she have to limit herself to local buyers. She could speak directly to men with deep pockets, and get her price whenever it was warranted. As well, anytime she was lucky enough to have a special horse, she could readily tap into an organized international market.
Polo put her into contact with a mysterious, unmarried, not-divorced-exactly, French-speaking, older, Montreal police detective, for heaven’s sake, who knew horses, who dropped by her farm one day scouting ponies for a friend. He was tall, he was austere, he was knowledgeable and articulate and astute. He had bearing. He could bargain hard, yet do it with a smile. She was intrigued. He was definitely not on any map she’d drawn for herself. He lived outside her geography. He was French! He was from a city, he was old! Well, older. But no matter how she ran down his dire traits for her best friends—He has a big nose! It’s the size of Rhode Island at least. What a beak!—he stuck in her head.
Emile called, without pretence or preamble, offering no deals. This time around he was not buying horseflesh, although he did know someone who might be in the market. Then why was he calling? To talk to her. And he asked, Would that be all night?
“Tell me something, Detective, what does ‘not-divorced-exactly’ mean?”
“I’m Catholic.”
“So?”
“My first wife was fragile. I was much younger then. I found the trait endearing. In my youth, wanting to protect people was a weakness, a character flaw. She’d stay up worrying while I was on the job. She couldn’t take it. She had a breakdown. I guess she was even more fragile than I’d realized. Being Catholic, I didn’t believe in divorce. I didn’t believe in hypocrisy either, but a choice had to be made. We had our marriage annulled.”
Did I mention, she’d recite to her confounded friends over the phone, that he’s religious? Religious!
So it began. Leading to the dangers, the lonely nights, the worry, calamities and stress that left her feeling fractured. Had she known that she’d depart New Hampshire, give up the farm, move to a city, become lost among people she not only didn’t know but could not address in their own language, be scared half the time and half the time not get along so well with her husband, then she might not have altered her life’s course. But she had not perceived the downside, or how bad it might be. Neither had Emile. She trusted him, and only later did she learn that that was a mistake. He was completely trustworthy, of course, once she understood the ground rules, which were that he was wholly committed to crime-fighting, totally absorbed in chasing down the bad guys, and consumed by a desire to undermine the machinations of criminals, foil the syndicates, disrupt the alliances and hurt the organized operations. Emile had not fully appreciated that things would get worse from year to year, or that he’d become more deeply involved. Organized crime was not his official bailiwick—more often than not the gangs operated outside his jurisdiction—but increasingly he came up against them, and they against him.
In Montreal, when Sandra arrived, a war was just heating up between rival biker gangs that within four years would claim ninety-eight lives with no sign of stopping. There’d be another ninety attempted murders, a hundred bombings and a hundred and twenty flash fires, and to those who were counting it was only the beginning. No cessation was in view, no genuine hope of a truce, no hope at all for victory by the police. At times, Emile found himself in the midst of the conflict, putting his life in jeopardy and, by extension, hers.
Then last night they had been attacked.
They were getting along well these days, and they’d come through so much. Three years earlier, she and Emile had moved out of the city and back to the country, and she was raising horses again, doing what she loved. With Emile’s guidance she was more businesslike, an aspect of her enterprise that she could now appreciate. She wasn’t a young girl with an expensive hobby anymore, she was a savvy, small-business woman making her way in a foreign land. Emile was there to lend his practised eye, speak French for her, help her negotiate better deals, offer a second opinion on an animal. In the end she had found what she had been looking for in the beginning, someone who could help out with the horses—she had just never calculated or imagined the complete package.
She loved him. Desperately. More than ever now. She’d learned to manage the stress, and they’d learned to communicate more directly. He had lived with suspicion as a companion for so long that it had taken him a while to express trust. He’d been cynical and doubtful for so long that he did not readily drop the pose upon arriving home. In the early days he’d keep his major worries to himself, thinking to protect her, succeeding only in keeping her at a distance. But crises that could have destroyed them brought them closer, and they had become closer still as Emile’s father’s condition had deteriorated. Sandra was wholly confident now that her odd union with this older! French! religious! cop!-—a detective yet! With a beak! as she’d regale her old friends on the phone, long-distance, who snores a little! suited her well.
She returned to the house from the barn, bone-weary and famished. Before making herself tea and a snack, Sandra went up to check on Emile, and observed him from the bedroom doorway. His rest was fitful. He appeared to be dreaming, and the dreams were not tame. Then she saw his arms and hands move under the covers, and feared that her presence had awakened him. But no, he might still be asleep. She looked closer. What she saw startled her, for her husband’s face appeared to be wincing with pain. “Emile?”
He opened his eyes, as if awake all this time. Sandra approached the bed and when he saw her, he tried to turn away, but the pain he was experiencing prevented him from covering up his agony. Sandra gently pulled the tops of the covers off him and watched, terrified, as her husband slowly unbent the fingers on one of his hands, then on the other. The softly curled fists seemed benign, but clearly he could not unfold the fingers without applying external pressure, and doing so in even the gentlest way hurt him enormously.
“Oh God, Émile, what’s happening?”
“I forgot to take my Aspirin.”
“Emile! How long has this been going on?”
“Months. It’s only when I sleep.”
“Oh, honey. Haven’t you seen a doctor?”
“I don’t have one.”
“The department—”
“—would boot me out if they knew.”
“Emile.” She moved against him, kissed his head, cradled him and made him rock. “Sweetheart.” She bundled both of them up in the blankets again. “You should’ve told me, you bastard.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Instead you’ve been worrying yourself senseless. Hey, Mister Man, you don’t think I’ve dealt with ar
thritic horses before?”
“Yeah. I do. Some of them you’ve put down.”
She laughed, although she was half weeping. “I’ll put you down if you don’t see a doctor. Come on, baby, if Aspirin’s been working it can’t be that bad. You don’t hurt during the day?”
“Only when I walk.”
She laughed again.
“I’m serious. On long walks, my hands hurt. Otherwise, I’m fine.”
“Oh, baby, we’ll get you through.”
“If I can’t hold a pistol—”
“Shhh. Shhh. I know. We’ll get you through, baby. We’ll get you through.”
Werner Honigwachs timed his arrival at Hillier-Largent Global to coincide with Camille Choquette’s afternoon break. She ran outside without bothering to throw on an overcoat and scurried into the front seat of his Mercedes-Benz.
“What’s up, Wiener. You look like yesterday’s bacon.”
“I’ve had visitors.”
The anger underpinning his tone was difficult for Camille to fathom. She did know one thing. He had no business being angry at her. “Like who?”
“That detective. Cinq-Mars.”
“I know for a fact that he doesn’t have jurisdiction. Charlie mentioned it.”
“Well, mention to Charlie for me, will you, that he’s been coming around,” he scolded her.
“Come on, relax. If he comes by again, blow him off, Wiener. He’s not allowed to talk to you.”
Honigwachs took comfort from that option. If a city cop had no right to talk to him, he would not stand on ceremony. Next time, he’d eject Cinq-Mars. “All right. Good. He didn’t get far with me anyway. But then I got a visit from guys I can’t blow off so easily. The mob showed up, asking questions about Andy.”
“What’d they want?” Camille had no personal experience with such people, but they’d been around the periphery of her life, and they scared her. The mob represented the rogue wave in their entire operation, the one group she could not control and might legitimately fear. When she had pitched the idea of doing away with Andrew Stettler to Honigwachs, that had been the element most difficult for her to assess. “We won’t try to bury the body,” she’d told him. “It’ll be under water, under my hut. I’ll announce finding it. Nobody will think it had anything to do with me. The mob will assume some other punk did it. One of their own. Aren’t they always killing each other?”
