A Very Bold Leap (31 page)

“He’s waiting for us,” he announced.

They gagged Charles, carried him out to the car, and laid him out on the back seat. Marcel-Édouard got behind the wheel, Maxime climbed in beside him in the passenger seat, and the car pulled away. Father Raphaël had not left his room.

Strangely enough, an amusing thought came into Charles’s mind and mingled with the fear that gripped him as the Ford snuck off through the night. He felt as though he were in an old American B movie, one with a plot so predictable that one could leave the theatre and come back after a quarter of an hour without missing the thread of the action. But he wasn’t playing in a movie, and he had no idea what fate that hypocritical sermonizer had in store for him.

After a few minutes, the car came to a stop. He heard a door open nearby and a voice he recognized as that of the local pastor, Brodeur. Charles was slightly relieved: he did not think that such an inoffensive soul would be a willing accomplice to any foul deed.

The two assistants dragged Charles from the car (he struggled a bit, mostly for form’s sake, and earned himself a sharp knee to the ribs) and carried him to the pastor’s house. Instead of taking him inside, however, they carried him around to the back, where a large trap door set at a forty-five-degree angle over a stairwell led down into the house’s cellar. The pastor lifted this door open, went down the stairs, opened a door, turned on a light, and Charles, bundled up like an old rug, was taken head first into the damp basement and rudely deposited on the floor, which was nothing but tamped earth. After favouring him with a disdainful glance, the pastor turned off the light.

“Sleep tight, buddy,” Maxime said at the door. “You’ve got a lesson coming to you in the morning.”

Marcel-Édouard sniggered, and locked the door behind him. Charles was alone, shivering in the dampness, wrapped up like a salami, his right shoulder on fire, and very worried about what “lesson” they intended to teach him in the morning. The sound of the car’s motor told him that his two companions had departed.

H
is first thought was to free his hands and feet. Before leaving, Marcel-Édouard had checked the knots and given them all a final tug. The cellar smelled of furnace oil and damp paper and was glacially cold. Charles struggled for an hour before finally managing to untie one of his hands. The rest came more easily. Marcel-Édouard might have a really strong grip, but he was a rank amateur when it came to tying knots.

Charles inched his way cautiously around in the cellar, listening for any signs of movement from above. The house, however, was silent. The pastor’s bedroom was probably on the second floor, and he had no doubt gone to bed. But might he still be on the ground floor, just above Charles’s head, his ear cocked for any suspicious sounds?

Keeping as quiet as possible, Charles made his way over to the door and, running his hands over it, quickly realized there was no hope of opening it. He would need an electrical saw or a battering ram to get through its thick panels and bolts. He felt around in the dark for an air vent, but found nothing. He thought about turning on the light — he found the switch beside the door — but was afraid it would be visible from upstairs and would give him away. So, his arms held out in front of him, he stumbled around in the dark taking tiny steps like a blind man, banging his shins a hundred times on the many objects that seemed to have been stored in the cellar. The walls were lined with counters on which were piles of odds and ends, stacks of newspapers, and other jumbled bits of junk. Becoming more and more perplexed and worried, Charles sat down on a bench he’d stumbled into and tried to think. It wasn’t easy. Fear prevented him from concentrating; ideas spun in his head like dust in the wind, then disappeared into nothing, as though pulverized by the pounding of his heart.

It was the second time in three months that he’d found himself in a dire situation. Suddenly he thought of good old Boff. He saw him gnawing away at the tree root, his ultimate act of devotion. The memory brought on a flood of tears, and all his courage abandoned him. Sitting on the bench, his shoulders slumped, his knees bloodied, he thought bitterly that if Boff had been there, the door wouldn’t have lasted a minute. And that if anyone had tried to stop him, he would have been quickly dispatched minus a good chunk of flesh. But Boff was no longer with him. He was sleeping beneath the frozen ground in the Fafards’; backyard, and no one would ever be able to wake him again.

Hours went by. Charles’s teeth chattered and thoughts roiled ever more randomly through his brain. The only decision he could come to was to fight like a wildcat when they came to get him in the morning. If any sunlight managed to penetrate into the cellar, he might be able to find something he could use as a weapon. He was sorry he wasn’t more of a street-fighter (in which case Father Raphaël would have received more of a beating). In public school it had always been Henri who had come to his defence, saving him from learning the kind of tactics that now would have served him in good stead.

Daylight finally began to creep into the cellar, a weak, watery glimmer emanating from behind a stack of old telephone books. He found a second window on the wall opposite. Neither of them opened. The heavy, wrought-iron gratings that covered them was solidly fixed into the cement, and it would have taken a heavy tool and a lot of time to get one of them off.

Above his head all was still silent, almost as though the house were empty. Had the pastor run off during the night so as not to become involved in a compromising act? Charles hadn’t slept a wink, and he had heard no sounds of anyone decamping.

What was this “lesson” awaiting him, he wondered for the hundredth time. Normally these infamous sects were made up of inoffensive types, but occasionally a few dangerous thugs, surrounded by large numbers of blind, faithful followers, gave in to their sadistic impulses, certain of being able to indulge in them without repercussions. Was Father Raphaël one of those?

Thanks to the half-light that now filled the cellar, Charles was able to get about easily. He went over to the door and examined it again for a long time. The deadbolt was solid and resisted all his efforts. But there was also a sliding bolt fixed to the inside of the door, and by closing it he would oblige his
assailants to spend some effort breaking into the cellar. That might gain him some time … but what would he do with it?

He examined the vent, shook the iron bars covering the windows as hard as he could, and searched in vain for a tool or a weapon, but all he found were pieces of disused electrical equipment, three bags of concrete, and a few pads of steel wool. He returned to his bench and slumped down onto it, more defeated and discouraged than ever. His uncontrollable fury at the hotel had certainly landed him in hot water.

His eye ran along the counters covered with piles of odds and ends, old telephone books, and stacks of yellowed newspapers. Suddenly an idea came to him — perhaps a stupid, preposterous idea, an idea that might set the frogs to croaking and the birds soaring into the air. But it might also be an idea that would save his skin.

He quickly counted the telephone books. There were at least fifty of them, all very thick. What idiot would keep so many used phone books? Obviously, the same idiot who saved every newspaper that came his way.

He drew back the bolt he’d slid across the door, rendering it inoperative. Then he set one of the phone books on the ground and began tearing the pages out of it, making as little noise as he could.

Before long, a large pile of crumpled newsprint began to accumulate in front of him.

Around seven o’clock, Father Raphaël sat up in bed, scowling horribly. He was as angry as a bull whose backside had been coated with hot sauce. He shook Marcel-Édouard, who was sleeping beside him, having spent a good part of the night ministering to the preacher’s sexual needs in a manner that came from long experience, and sent him downstairs in search of coffee. He’d decided not to leave the room himself; he had no intention of showing himself in public in the state he was in.

“And don’t bring me any of that dishwater, do you hear me?” he said. “Unless you want me to box your ears for you.”

Still sleepy, Marcel-Édouard got up grumbling, the tips of his fingers still smarting from having handled ice cubes, but put on his coat and left the room. “Bloody nuisance!” he muttered under his breath. “Where does he
think I’m going to find decent coffee at this time of the morning. It’s La Tuque, damn it, not Italy!”

He had to make do with what he could find. But when he handed his boss a Styrofoam cup full of a dark liquid that some American chain was pleased to call coffee, he found the preacher’s mood had improved. Instead of having to shut down the La Tuque operation, and thereby forfeit a good source of income as well as the opportunity for more converts, Father Raphaël had had a sudden brainstorm: what a splendid sermon he could make out of these wounds on his face, inflicted as they were by a lost young soul who had been possessed by Satan! He could present himself as a victim, almost as a martyr. If he played his cards right, he could have his congregation crying their eyes out and plunging their hands deeper into their pockets at collection time.

He peeled the lid off his coffee, added cream and sugar, took a sip, and showed his disapproval with only a slight grimace. By his third sip his spirits had climbed another notch: he had thought of another refinement to the treatment he had in store for Charles.

“Go wake up Maxime, will you?” he said to Marcel-Édouard in a voice that was almost friendly. “I want you to go out to pay our little friend a visit. Take off his gag and give him something to eat and drink. Don’t be too rough with him. Understand? Not even if he swears at you. Brodeur may not be the brightest candle on the altar, but he’s got ears like everyone else. Then I want you to come back here and tell me what condition he’s in.”

Marcel-Édouard went into the next room, found his companion still sound asleep, and awakened him with a surprisingly pleasant method that never failed to work. Feeling listless, Maxime was in no hurry to get out of bed, but the sound of Father Raphaël’s fist pounding on the adjoining wall precipitated a sudden surge of energy in him. The two assistants went to a restaurant for breakfast, and then at eight thirty drove the short distance to Pastor Brodeur’s house.

The night before, the pastor had given them the key to the cellar. Marcel-Édouard had barely stopped the car before he saw Brodeur come out of the house to meet them.

“What’s up?” Maxime asked. “How did it go last night?”

“I didn’t hear a thing. Obviously he couldn’t make a lot of noise.”

“He couldn’t even fart?” laughed the young man.

“You never miss a chance, do you,” said his companion, shaking his head ruefully. “Give me the key.”

Pastor Brodeur looked at them gravely, still concerned by the story they had told him the previous night about Charles’s aggressive behaviour towards Father Raphaël.

“I’d never have believed it to look at him,” he said again, as he lifted the trap door that led to the cellar stairs.

“You can’t go by appearances,” Marcel-Édouard replied. “That’s what they always say.”

“It’s true. Only God knows the depths of our souls.”

After some twisting and turning, the bolt slid back on its track with a loud click, and Marcel-Édouard pushed the door open. For a second he stood motionless, his mouth gaping open. Behind him, his two companions were likewise struck dumb with amazement.

The entire cellar was filled floor to ceiling with a solid mass of crumpled paper. Not a sound escaped from it.

Marcel-Édouard thought quickly. His prisoner was more cunning than they’d given him credit for: he must be hiding somewhere in that pile of papers, probably close to the door; perhaps he had armed himself with an axe, or a hammer, or some other object. They had to persuade him to give himself up or risk botching the whole affair.

“Hey! Asshole!” he shouted menacingly. “What good do you think this is going to do you, you in your little paper hiding place? Come on out now, and make it quick, or I’ll have to come in and get you myself.”

Charles shuddered at the sound of the assistant’s voice but otherwise remained perfectly still. He would have to make them come inside. The minute they stepped into the cellar to nab him, his game would be afoot.

“He’s torn up all my phone books!” the pastor whined.

“We’ll get you some more,” Marcel-Édouard said sarcastically.

“You got to hand it to him,” Maxime said admiringly. “He’s never short on ideas.”

“Shut up,” ordered Marcel-Édouard as he eyed the wall of paper in front of him, trying to discern the slightest rustle or movement from within.

Minutes passed. Anger built up inside Marcel-Édouard. He was being made to look ridiculous. He had no intention of spending the entire morning
standing there while these two idiots behind him exchanged their inane observations aloud.

The more he thought about it, the surer he became that Charles was hiding somewhere near the door. He motioned to Maxime to get ready to plunge in to the left, while he would throw himself in the opposite direction. At his signal, they leapt in, but found no one there. Charles heard them cursing loudly: he had placed piles of heavy objects on either side of the door: benches, sawhorses, jam jars, even an anvil. Crouching beside the furnace, he pulled on the end of an electric cord, his simple plan for obtaining his liberty: the cord produced a loud noise deeper into the cellar.

“He’s back here!” shouted Maxime.

With a great rustling noise, the two assistants pushed their way through the paper to the back of the cellar, in the direction of the sound, but all they found was a partially eviscerated sack of cement. Charles, meanwhile, had moved swiftly towards the door. His adversaries, suddenly realizing that they’d been tricked, shouted curses after him, but he was through the opening and out into the fresh air, where his only remaining obstacle was the frightened pastor, standing on a patch of solid ice, who tried timidly to stop him but ended up flying ass over teakettle into a snowbank. Charles ran as fast as his legs would carry him, intending to make it to a neighbouring house where his adversaries wouldn’t dare to follow. But then he saw the car in the drive, a welcoming plume of white exhaust fumes coming from its tailpipe. He swerved towards it, jumped behind the wheel, and the next second was tearing down the driveway, the door still swinging open. A moment later he was on the highway, with the pastor’s house far behind.