Ice Lake (12 page)

Brad nodded. “I think so. Maybe.”

“Try. There’s nothing in it for the Warriors except what they already got, the smokes. Now can we go through?”

“Yeah,” Brad said, suddenly subdued. “You’re on your way.”

Luc locked the tailgate again while Lucy hugged herself warm in the cab, then he climbed in beside her and Brad waved them through. The truck lumbered up the snowy incline that was cut through the trees, slipping a little on the icy patches, gaining traction wherever the rocks were bare.

Later that day, Tuesday, January 11, 1999

From a distance, smokestacks exhaling the dawn’s grey haze, the spectre of New York City was an impressive, odd sight for travellers just down from the state’s north woods, the buttress of skyscrapers an unreal illusion on the grainy horizon.

Lucy asked her driver to pull over. “Let’s wait for the sun,” she said.

Later, she asked, “Isn’t it beautiful, Luc?” But Luc was taking advantage of the respite to sleep, and he stirred uncomfortably behind the wheel.

“Beautiful?” He stretched and yawned.

“I know. Beauty’s hard to measure. We’ve come
through rolling hills, and they were beautiful, but this, too, is beautiful.”

“Like the personality of an ugly girl is beautiful,” Luc proposed.

Lucy was too baffled by what he said to bother figuring out what it meant. “It looks nice, Luc.”

“A bunch of buildings?”

“With the sun coming up, and the ocean in the distance, and the lights of the city clicking on and off and the lines of traffic on the bridges. Luc! Look!”

“A bunch of buildings,” he grumbled. “I thought you Indians liked nature.”

“Got us figured out, huh?”

“Don’t get mad. It’s just what I thought.”

She gazed at his profile then. He didn’t see things as she did, and why should he? He had illness in his short-term future, possibly death. For him, the escarpment of buildings might evoke prison walls, not a new, unexplored world. She was young. He was middle-aged, without a future. She was out here to save lives. Luc didn’t have a clue what he was doing with her. Naturally, he saw things differently.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you, Luc. I’ve been catnapping while you’ve had a long drive.”

“That’s all right to me.”

She returned her attention to the distant view. She thought she’d explain one reason why it was attractive to her eye. “My people built this city,” she stated quietly.

“New York?” Luc challenged, doubtful. “Indians?”

She smiled. “People always laugh when they think of us selling Manhattan for beads. But it wasn’t such a bad deal. Who do you think built the bridges and skyscrapers? Mohawks. Men from my reserve. My father was one of them. More people do the work now, but it used to be just us Indians who walked the high
girders as if we were out for a stroll in the park. We lived pretty well off Manhattan.”

Luc liked her story, she could tell by the subtle change in his expression. He was staring out at the city now, letting his imagination travel with her story.

“The Mohawk Warriors began as high riggers. Way up there, above Fifth Avenue, looking down on Central Park or Broadway, men from my reserve would discuss the ways of the world and the lives of Indian people. The men decided to change things. I’m not against the Warriors. God knows, I have a Warrior heart. What happens to a high rigger when buildings aren’t going up, that’s a tough question. The first Warriors asked tough questions like that. I don’t think anybody shouted out, ‘Let’s call Bingo numbers!’ But I bet somebody said, ‘Look out for the red man first, and fuck the white man’s ways.’ Oh yeah, that was said.”

They were quiet awhile, and even Luc appeared appreciative of the sun rising above the winter haze into a pale sky.

“Can I ask you something, Lucy?”

“Go ahead.”

“What do you have in the back of this truck I drive?”

She reached across and touched his wrist. “You want to know what kind of trouble you’re in?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter to me if I get five years or ten. The man can’t take those years out of me because I don’t got that many left to give him. But I would like to know the true nature of die wrong I’m doing.”

Lucy stretched her muscles, stiff from the night’s travel. “Luc, you’re going to see some things you haven’t seen before. Some sights won’t be so pleasant, unlike the one in front of us now. Prepare yourself. Some things might disturb you.
Even you,
an ex-con. But we’ll makea deal.If at any time you’re not
comfortable with what you’re doing, let me know, all right? We’ll talk about it then. For now, just drive.”

“All right,” Luc agreed. “I’ll drive.”

“Follow the signs to Paramus, New Jersey. We’ll find a motel there.”

The density of traffic increased on their drive down to the city and the sea. The buzz of the metropolis reverberated to the outskirts, where cars raced and trucks rumbled, and the tall, pear-shaped clerk at the motel desk looked up at them with disdain for interrupting his next bite of a morning omelette.

“May I help you?” he asked, and coughed. Lucy studied him, and felt quiet inside, because she knew he didn’t mean or want to be offering help. And yet it was men like him, men of no particular distinction, who wore lesions on their foreheads like him, wore them as medals, yes, men like him that she had come to save, rescue from the dusty destitution of their lives brought on by the most menacing plague of all time.

“Yes,” she said. “We’d like two rooms. One for me. One for my friend.”

He shook his head. “Housekeeping won’t have two rooms fixed up this early.”

“That’s not my problem,” Lucy told him.

“You have to come back.”

“Or—” she suggested.

“Or what?”

“Or there’s another way.”

“Lady—”

“Two rooms,” she said. “Cleaned up, sheets changed. Twenty minutes. Where do I sign?”

Tourists,
he was probably thinking, hating them all. “Sign here, lady.” He indicated the visitor’s card and offered a pen. “Your rooms will be ready soon. I’ll fix them up myself.”

“That’s the spirit.” After she had signed in, she
looked at him again. “I have something for those sores on your face.”

He laughed her off. “No, lady, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”She smiled and accepted the keys.

“We’ll talk.”

The next day, early Wednesday morning, January 12, 1999

Camille Choquette lived with her daughter in a modest bungalow in a town that took its name from the adjoining lake,
Lac des Deux-Montagnes.
The location offered the advantages of a small town in the country, and yet, thanks to an expressway and a commuter train, she had ready access to her job at Hillier-Largent on the edge of the city. In winter, if she wanted to drop by the ice-fishing village or visit friends where she used to work at BioLogika, she’d speed across the lake on her Ski-Doo.

Awakening in the dark, Camille groped around for her nightgown, tossed off in a moment of passion. When the lost was found, she slipped the wisp of fabric, patterned with vines and dashes of colored flowers, over her head and down her torso. Then she tucked her feet into bedroom slippers, the ones with lambswool lining. She went through to the bathroom, where she took a long drink directly from the tap. Anytime she made these nocturnal strolls to fend off dehydration, she reminded herself to buy a humidifier, but somehow she never remembered when she was out shopping. Too many things on her mind, and the minutiae of daily living bored her silly. Drudgery wore her down.
Everything must change,
she thought to herself.
Everything will,
she vowed, as though a second voice had answered the first.

She flicked on the light and gave her short hair a hasty fluff. Camille had never been considered a beauty, but she made the best of her sharp features.

Given that she was already on her feet, she went
through to her daughter’s tiny bedroom to confirm that the little girl was warm enough, and adjusted her covers slightly. According to the child’s careful count, Carole was seven and three quarters years old. She had a habit of kicking the covers off while she slept, but tonight was resting calmly. Perhaps she had fallen asleep intent on sounds from the other room, which had kept her still.

Gently, Camille removed Carole’s thumb from her mouth and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

Back in her bedroom, her guest for the night had roused himself. “Leaving?” she asked.

“Pretty soon. If I can wake up.”

“Just as well.” She crawled under the covers and snuggled up against him. “I wouldn’t want Charlie to pop in on us.”

The caution took Werner Honigwachs by surprise. “Are you expecting him?”

She patted his shoulder. “He’d call first. But you never know, there’s always a first time.”

“You’re living dangerously,” Honigwachs teased.

Her right hand drifted south, finding his softened penis to tug. “What would you do if Charlie waltzed in here, wearing his gun?”

He chuckled. “My fast-talking skills would be put to the test.”

“What would you say?”

“I’d tell him the truth.”

That intrigued her. “What truth?”

“That I was doing him a favour, sparing him a lifetime of misery with you.”

“Wrong move, Wiener,” she said, using her pet name for him and giving his testicles a rub. “He’d shoot you dead if you said that. Charlie believes in me.”

The conversation and her attentions were helping Honigwachs wake up. “What would Charlie-boy do to you?”

“I’d promise to do that little thing he likes. He’d spare me.”

“What thing;?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Have you done it to me?”

“Want me to? Turn over on your tummy and raise your butt.”

“Forget it.” He threw the covers off himself while Camille giggled at her own sauciness. Exposed to the chilly air, he moved quickly to dress. While he was tucking his shirt into his trousers, Honigwachs asked, “You’re off soon, to the States?”

“In a few days. Lucy just got started. I like to check results after six days.” Camille squatted on the bed, bunching the blankets around her. She was bobbing her chin and shoulders as if hearing a distant dance music.

“You’re set? It won’t be a picnic. I still think you should go with someone.”

“Too risky. I can handle this myself.”

“It’ll be different this time.”

“I’ll manage.”

Upon his arrival that night, Honigwachs had gone straight to her bedroom, so he found his overcoat there.

“See yourself out, okay, Wiener? It’s too cold to get up.”

He leaned across the bed to give her a kiss. “Take care, babe.”

“Give your wife a hug for me, will you?” She laughed again.

“Say hello to Charlie. I’d still like to know what you’re doing with a cop.”

“What are you doing with a wife?” She hugged a pillow for warmth.

“She takes care of my home. My family. She’s an asset in many ways. We have fun together.”

“Ditto Charlie,” Camille said. “He’s an asset in so many ways. I’m probably going to have to break this
off with you, Werner, sooner or later. Just so I can be more faithful to the boy. At least on the surface, if you know what I mean, until everything works out. When I’m super-rich, when I’ve outgrown him—I’ll dump him then.”

He leaned down once more and kissed her. “And Lucy? She no longer puts the two of us together?”

“I took care of that. She believes I’m utterly devoted to Charlie. Charlie thinks so too. Nobody can connect us.”

“Be careful in New York, Camille.”

“Wiener!
Don’t worry. I know what’s ahead. I can handle it.”

The same day, Wednesday, January 12, 1999

In the morning they drove onto Amsterdam Avenue in Upper Manhattan. Luc appeared to know his way around, although he was reluctant to give details of time previously spent in the city.

“I assume you weren’t attending Columbia,” Lucy said.

“What?”

“Never mind. I’m just being snobby. Hard-Knocky U probably gave you a well-rounded education. Did you get an athletic scholarship, at least?”

“What?” Either his morning coffee had been too weak or he really couldn’t grasp the language when she teased him. Lucy was thinking that the trip could turn out to be an endurance test in one another’s company.

“Sorry, Luc. Forget it.”

When she reached the address on 126th Street Lucy was pleased to discover that not only were they expected, but a welcoming committee had prepared for their arrival. A skinny black man with a wide grin, a salmon shirt and grape-coloured pants was the first to greet them, and he did so with a sense of occasion.