Open Season (Luc Vanier)

by Peter Kirby

She was taking her time, enjoying the feeling of having his complete attention, knowing that all he was thinking about was what she was doing to him. When she stopped it was to move herself up. She straddled him, pushed her panties aside and took him inside her. She leaned forward and whispered, “I don’t think I’ll be able to come again. So this one’s for you. All yours. Just enjoy yourself.”

  He did. He lay on his back with Anjili slowly moving on top of him. She looked fully clothed from the outside but he could make out the shape of her breasts moving under her dress, could feel her skin bouncing on his thighs. They stayed like that for several minutes, hardly moving, skin on skin. He watched her face, eyes closed as she concentrated on moving back and forth on top of him, as if nothing else mattered. He motioned for her to roll over. He reached up under her dress and grabbed her, pulling her closer with every stroke until he couldn’t hold back.

  She reached around him and pulled him in, then started whispering in his ear. It didn’t take long. Vanier felt like screaming, but managed to keep it to a low moan.

  After, they lay on the blanket. It was as if they were the only ones in the park, the only ones for miles around. For the first time in days, Vanier felt a tremendous peace.

  Fifteen

  Vanier’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number.

  “You are looking for me, Mr. Vanier.” A woman’s voice, heavily accented. A smoker. Vanier took a chance.

  “Oksana Kedrov herself. Yeah, I want to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be at my condo for the next three hours. Why don’t you come by? And bring your pretty assistant.”

  The line disconnected before he could say anything. He considered bringing Laurent, but he was busy. Instead, it was Saint Jacques leading the way up the carpeted hallway to Kedrov’s apartment.

  The door opened before they walked up, and a burly guy who could have been Olag’s brother nodded in the direction they should go. Kedrov was sitting at a glass and chrome table working on a laptop. She had short hair, dyed blonde, and a body that was straining to escape through every seam in her pantsuit. A cigarette was burning in an ashtray that overflowed with lipstick-stained butts. The woman’s heavy perfume mixed with the cigarette smoke to make the place smell like a 1950s brothel. She didn’t look up as they crossed the deep carpet.

  The condo was like all the condos Vanier had seen recently. He could guess the layout. The view was the best thing it had going for it, and everything went downhill from there, unless you wanted your home to look like a quickly built three-star hotel.

  Vanier and Saint Jacques sat down at the table. Kedrov still didn’t look up.

  “You like it here?” said Vanier.

  Kedrov took her eyes from the screen, glanced at Vanier for a second, and turned to Saint Jacques. “I love Canada.”

  “I mean this place,” Vanier said.

  “It’s a place to stay.” She was still talking to Saint Jacques. “But you didn’t come here to ask about my living arrangements.”

  “Just wondering. I’m in the market.”

  “It’s not for sale.” At last she turned to Vanier. “What you want?”

  “Nick Angus. Ring a bell?”

  “You haven’t introduced us,” said Kedrov.

  “Detective Sergeant Saint Jacques, Oksana Kedrov.”

  Kedrov turned to Saint Jacques again. “And you like working with Detective, ah … Vanier?”

  “Answer the question,” Vanier said.

  “No. I don’t know any Nick Angus. Should I?”

  “He works for The Gazette. He was writing a story about your business.”

  She turned to face Vanier. “Then he should have asked for an interview. Very poor journalism. It shows what a rag The Gazette is. I read Le Monde.”

  “What about Sophia Luna?”

  “Who is she?”

  “Another journalist. She was working on the same story.”

  “And who says they were working on a story about my business?”

  “One was badly beaten. The other kidnapped. Do you know anything about that?

  She fixed him with a stare. “Why should I? I am a movie producer. Assaulting and kidnapping journalists is not good for people in my business. In the long term, that is. It makes for bad publicity. These journalists should have called me for an interview. Publicity would benefit me. My movies are very successful. They appeal to a discerning clientele.”

  “Prostitution? Human trafficking? Not the kind of business you want publicity for.”

  She turned back to Saint Jacques. “Rumours. I’m sure you know how it is. As soon as a woman is successful, the men tried to find fault. If there were any serious evidence of this, I would be charged, no?” She smiled.

  Saint Jacques said nothing.

  Kedrov turned back to Vanier, the smile gone. “If this is what you wanted to speak about, you’re wasting your time. More importantly, you are wasting my time.” She pushed a business card across the table to Saint Jacques. “If you ever want to appear in one of my movies, give me a call. A woman like you, so beautiful. We could make a wonderful movie. It would capture you in your prime, and you would have that image forever.”

  Saint Jacques finally spoke. “And you would hire a police officer?”

  “Ah. First we would have to establish trust. Trust that I would not hurt you and that you would not hurt me.”

  “Trust?”

  “I know. It is such an elusive thing. We would have to get to know each other’s weaknesses, so neither is tempted to hurt the other.”

  “Or they will get hurt back?”

  “You see. You understand.”

  Saint Jacques stood up. “No thanks.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Vanier.

  Kedrov ignored him and began typing on her laptop. The bouncer reappeared to show them out.

  Fourteen

  When Katya woke again she was hungry and thirsty. The inside of the shed was bright with blades of light streaming through the slats in the wood, so she continued to lie in the dust under the shelf, and listened to the noise of people outside: summer noises, the shrieks and laughter of children playing, creaking pedals propelling rubber wheels on asphalt, dogs barking, and the footfalls of the occasional jogger.

  Everything seemed normal. She could smell the smoke from outdoor cooking and imagined people sitting on the balconies and in the gardens she had seen earlier. Her bladder was bursting, but she was too afraid to move. She waited another two hours, until she couldn’t wait any longer. She crawled out of her hiding place, stiff and sore, and stood up. Even in the half-light of the shed she could see she was filthy, covered in dirt. She looked around for something to empty her bladder into and saw a bucket in a corner. She pulled her panties down to her knees and squatted over it. It sounded like she had turned on the garden hose. When she finished, she pushed the bucket further back into the corner, crawled back under the shelf and waited. She noticed how hot it was in the confined space, the air close and thick, the musty smell of dust giving way to her own odour of day-old sex and sweat.

  Hours later, when the outside noises had subsided except the occasional passing car, she crawled out again. She found a large pair of rubber boots and put them on. She knew she looked terrible, ridiculous even, in a whorehouse-red dress and oversized rubber boots, covered in dirt. She needed to wash and find something to wear.

  She opened the shed door a crack and peered out into the night. The alley was deserted. In a garden a few houses up, someone had left a full line of washing and she headed for it. She had picked out what she wanted even before she got to the clothesline. She pulled jeans, a T-shirt and a flannel shirt off the line, grabbed a pair of men’s y-front underwear and white socks, and ran back to the shed. The jeans were too big, but she used garden string for a belt and rolled up the pant legs. The flannel shirt over the T-shi
rt looked like a conscious fashion choice, and you would hardly notice the rubber boots under the jeans. She rolled the hooker dress into a ball and threw it under the shelf. In her new clothes she felt safe enough to think about food. She had no money, and knew her best chance would be the same as in every city in the world—a dumpster behind a fast-food restaurant.

  Walking away from the shed she felt adrift. It was the only anchor she had, and she didn’t want to lose it. She walked in careful but expanding circles around the block, turning right, then right again, then right again until she was back at the alley. When she completed the first tour and arrived back at the shed, she started out in the opposite direction, all the while seeking out landmarks that would tell her where she was in relation to the shed. She wasn’t tired now, but she was starving.

  After about an hour she saw a giant cheeseburger over a storefront. The restaurant was closed, and she peered through the darkened window. It looked the same as a hamburger restaurant she used to go to in Poltava, thick plastic tables and chairs fixed to a steel beam bolted to the floor. At the back, above the counter, there was a picture menu, which would be lit up when the place was open. She looked up and down the street; it was deserted. She walked around to the back. Two rusting steel dumpsters guarded either side of the back door. She pushed up the lid of the first and looked in at a pile of black garbage bags. Resting the lid on her head, she grabbed the first bag she could reach and pulled it out. Then she got down on the ground and ripped it open. The greasy smell made her mouth water. Almost every cardboard container had some leftover fries and she began stuffing them in her mouth. They were cold, salty, and loaded with grease, but hunger made them taste good. Now and then she’d find a half-eaten burger. She ate the first three bread and all, and then started picking the good parts out, breaking off the obvious bite marks, eating pieces of cold hamburger and fried chicken patties. She worked through the bag feverishly and finished in ten minutes.

  She searched again in the bag and collected two fistfuls of paper napkins, used and unused, and then heaved the torn bag back into the dumpster. She stood up; the smell of grease from her hands was beginning to sicken her and the food was lying heavily in her stomach. She pulled one of the dumpsters out from the wall and backed into the empty space. She pulled down her pants, squatted and emptied her bowels, using the paper napkins to wipe herself.

  She went back out to the street and started wandering again, always keeping a sense of where the alley was.

  The salty food had given her a fierce thirst, but it took her two hours before she found somewhere to drink, a coiled hose in a fenced-in garden. She climbed over the fence, turned on the faucet and put her mouth down to drink the cold water. After she had finished drinking, she leaned forward and aimed the water through her hair, using her free hand to wash her head and face and neck. It cooled her off, but she wasn’t any cleaner. Without soap she was just moving the dirt around. When she reached to turn off the tap she caught sight of her hands, grimy and streaked black with dirt. She stared at them for a few moments, turning them over as though to be certain they were hers. She hooked the hose over the tap and plunged her hands into the water, rubbing them back and forth, using her nails to scrape at the skin. When she was satisfied, she put her head under the flow and scratched and rubbed at her scalp until she felt she was clean. Then she did the same to her face, splashing it with the cold water, rubbing, and splashing again.

  When she had finished, she felt like someone who had crossed a river, emerging exhausted on the other side. She felt ready to continue.

  Fifteen

  Vanier was strap-hanging on an articulated bus that had left the Guy Concordia metro station at 11:47 a.m. Camara had called him at ten to tell him exactly what bus to take. The bus was standing room only. Vanier knew the route vaguely, but he had studied it again while waiting for the 11:47. The 165 followed Côte-des-Neiges almost the entire way, up the side of the mountain, past the Montreal General where Bélair had been killed. Then it swept along the ridge close to Westmount, before descending through a thick mix of neighbourhoods that covered the northern flank of the mountain. After passing through low-rent immigrant areas at the north end of Côte-des-Neiges, the bus crossed Jean-Talon and entered the leafy Town of Mount Royal, a moneyed suburban enclave of large homes on large lots. Jean-Talon was a border, as effective as a barbed wire fence, and Vanier was sure Camara would make contact before they reached Jean-Talon.

  As they were stopped outside the Montreal General, Vanier watched an old woman pull herself into the bus with one arm while the other dragged a wheelie bag filled with groceries. She bumped her way through the crowd and ended up next to him, glaring up and down at the people occupying seats. Nobody seemed to notice her, or care.

  In front of Vanier, a kid was sitting with his back to the window, absorbed in a video game, listening to the sound through ear buds. Vanier reached for the wire and yanked out an ear-bud. The kid glowered up at him. Vanier leaned down into his face, close enough to let the kid know what he’d had for breakfast.

  “Get up and give the old lady your seat, asshole.”

  The kid looked at the woman and shrugged, then he looked back at Vanier and decided it was wiser to stand. The woman sat down without making eye contact with either of them, pulled her basket close to her knees, and stared ahead. The kid was trying to manoeuvre past Vanier, to move back down the bus, but Vanier blocked his way and pulled the cord to ring the bell. “This is your stop.”

  “It’s not my stop.”

  “It is now. Maybe you’ll find your manners out there.”

  The kid knew when he was beaten, and got off the bus. Vanier watched and waited for the finger. He got it as the bus pulled away. He hadn’t noticed Camara getting on, and only saw him as he was negotiating his way through the thicket of people.

  Camara stopped when he was level with Vanier, and reached up for a strap. He leaned close. “Don’t look at me. Just listen.”

  Vanier stared out the window.

  “You know who I am, Inspector?”

  “Of course.” Vanier didn’t tell him the ears were a dead giveaway. “I recognized the accent on the phone. Sékou Camara, the rooming house.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sophia trusted me. Before she disappeared, she was very scared. She gave me the key to a safe deposit box. She said what was in the box will save her. She told me she gave my name to the people at the bank, and only she and I can open the box. She gave me the key and a phone, a special phone, not for me to use. Just to keep. If anything goes wrong, she will call, or someone else. She said she will exchange her freedom for what is in the box. She acted like it was certain. So I kept the key and the phone.”

  Vanier did the lost-on-a-bus routine, bending to look out the window and then scanning his surroundings idly.

  “So right after the people search her room, the next day, I went to the bank to open the box. Inside I find a data stick and some papers. I made copies. Then I put them back. She was right, the information maybe will save her life.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Can’t say that. Just listen.”

  “Maybe two hours after you left the rooming house, they call me on the phone. A man’s voice, a Canadian. He promised to give me Sophia for the key. I must meet them at the bank the next day. I went there, but he was lying. No way he would let Sophia go free. She was in the backseat of the car. Drugged, maybe. Like she had no idea what was happening.

  “I went crazy. What was I supposed to do? Me against two men, big men, no way. And Sophia, like drugged in the back seat. But they needed me to open the box. No way Sophia could go into the bank like that.”

  Their eyes met for a second, then they both stared out the window.

  “I know if they get what they want, they will kill Sophia. Me too. So when we went in the bank I pretended to have a heart attack. I fell down on the floor.
The man who was with me, he shouts to get up, but shit, no. I stayed on the floor. I told him to call me back on the same number. We will make a fair meeting for an exchange of Sophia.”

  The bus stopped at the Côte-des-Neiges metro station. People flooded off, and even more people got on. Camara was pushed closer to Vanier.

  “So I escaped. I still have the key, and I still have the phone. But now I’m scared. I need help.”

  “We can protect you,” Vanier said.

  “No, you won’t protect me. Maybe you will help for a while. But after, they will send me back to Guyana.”

  Vanier knew he couldn’t stop deportations.

  “This way, maybe I can stay in Canada. Sophia too.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to help. In the exchange. They will call and say where Sophia is. When you have her, you call me to say she is safe. Then I will go with them to the safety deposit box and give them the stuff.”

  “Shit. That’s not a plan.” Vanier looked him in the eyes. “Why don’t we get off, go to the station. We’ll find a way to make this work.”

  “No. This will work. It must be this way.” Camara had a piece of paper in his hand. “Here is my number. I will call you soon and tell you where to wait for Sophia. When she is safe, you call me and tell me.”

  The bus had stopped, and Camara didn’t wait for a response. He moved behind Vanier and stepped off the bus. Vanier watched as Camara disappeared into the crowd.

  Vanier got off at the next stop, pulling out his phone while looking for a taxi to take him back to his car. Flood answered. He explained about the safe deposit box and Camara’s heart attack.

  “Banks these days have more cameras than Hollywood. If we can find the bank, we can get pictures, and a warrant to open the box.”

  “Any idea which bank?”

  “He wouldn’t say. All we know is the date. And that Camara signed in and dropped to the floor like he was having a seizure. That must ring a bell with someone. And they have to have records of who owns the boxes. Start calling all the security people for the banks. Tell them it’s urgent. Camara is trying to set up another exchange. We need to find the bank before that happens.”