Ice Lake (59 page)

Cinq-Mars was not going to continue without his adversary asking him to do so. He wanted that final satisfaction.

“Why’s that? No, don’t bother telling me—it’s all a bluff.”

“I won’t need any of that evidence, sir, because you are going to write a full confession of your crimes. You will provide me with a detailed, written account of the
murder of Andrew Stettler, and you will reveal your entire part in the conspiracy to advance your science while callously disregarding human life.”

Honigwachs was shaken, but he was willing to keep his head in the game. He relaxed and tensed his shoulder muscles, as if weighing various options. “Okay, I’m interested. Why am I doing this?”

“You will confess, sir, or I will refuse to arrest you.”

Honigwachs chortled. “This is some sort of Cinq-Mars word game. I suppose I have to ask you what you mean by that now.” He returned the Cinq-Mars glare, choosing to take him on and not back down.

“It’s simple. The mob knows you killed their man,” explained Cinq-Mars. “Camille Choquette inadvertently informed them. Trust me, they believed her. Even if it’s not true—although we know better, right, sir?—but even if it’s not true, it’s what the mob believes. Now, they beat the living crap out of Sergeant Painchaud before they decided that he didn’t do it. Poor fellow, he was having a bad run of luck. He called his girlfriend for help and she came along and shot him instead.”

Honigwachs scrunched his eyes tighter, as if he was trying to either narrow or intensify his gaze. Cinq-Mars maintained that eye contact, burrowing into his head.

“You see,” he added in a confidential tone, “I’ll tell you this for free, as an example of my insider knowledge. Not only will you confess to the crime, sir, but you will plead guilty to murder in a court of law. After that, after we’ve locked you up for the Stettler murder, the Americans—two of whom are outside the door as we speak—the Yanks will do their best to tackle the more complicated charges against you. They’ll have your confession, of course, which will make things easier. They’ll have Lucy’s testimony, and Luc’s. So, you’ll be trying to avoid the death penalty in a couple of states, sir, but at least you’ll be alive for that fight.
Serving time, but alive. That’s the best I’m offering. We can’t predict how that will go. All we know for sure is how things will go if I
don’t
arrest you.”

“Nice speech, Cinq-Mars.” Honigwachs had to clear his throat. He finally dropped his staring contest with the detective, and when he spoke his voice was weaker, and parched. He started to blink rapidly. “I still say you’re bluffing.”

“That’s fine. You can say whatever you want. But I’m not finished with you yet, sir. You will also take what assets you have left in BioLogika and your satellite company, Hillier-Largent Global, and you will use them to compensate the families of your victims. You’re on the event horizon, sir. You know what that means.” Cinq-Mars pointed his right index finger and coldheartedly stabbed three orbiting planets in succession. Suddenly, the cosmic clock was in disarray. Mars had lost ground to Jupiter, Saturn had vaulted forward several eons. “What comes next is the long, traumatic, terrifying dip into the black hole, sir, and down you go. The choice, of course, is yours.” Cinq-Mars stood. “I’ll go now. Please, remember, full confession to murdering forty men in the United States, a guilty plea in Stettler’s murder, and compensation to victims’ families—or no arrest. Ask your lawyer if he’s ever heard of a bluff like that before.”

Cinq-Mars walked to the door, opened it, and turned around for a final word.

“Just fuck off,” Honigwachs told him. His jawline had hardened. The veins on his neck had bulged and darkened.

“A word of caution, sir,” Cinq-Mars added. “I imagine that the mob has received word of your misdemeanours by now. The first thing that I expect them to do, even before their nasty job on you, is to sell off their shares in BioLogika. Doesn’t that sound likely? Check, sir. If there’s a selling frenzy underway, if the price per
share plummets, if it appears that your largest shareholders can’t dump stock fast enough—hickory dickory—consider what that means. Then ask yourself and ask your lawyer how I bluffed that one. Good day, sir. Oh, and don’t trouble yourself too much about all of this. We’ve all been living in a time warp. We’re just catching up to you now.”

He walked out then and, joined by McGibbon and Recchi, left the building.

“Where to?” McGibbon asked him outside. He was thinking that he’d had an interesting day.

Dusk was falling. “Back to HQ. Wait for a phone call.”

The call came within three hours.

Cinq-Mars talked to the lawyer and made certain that his demands were being met to the letter. Honigwachs was obliged to plead for his arrest, and Cinq-Mars reiterated to the lawyer that he would not do the paperwork on his client or take him into custody unless, beyond a reasonable doubt, he fully proved his guilt.

“Counsellor?”

“Yes, sir?” the attorney asked.

“Do you have any children?”

“What does that have to do with our discussion?”

“Indulge me. Do you?”

“Two. One of each.”

“Don’t drive in with Honigwachs. See that he comes in alone. Our body count is high enough. If he gets whacked, don’t be in the vicinity.”

“A little dramatic, don’t you think, Sergeant-Detective?”

“Maybe. But think of your kids, counsellor, that’s all I’m suggesting.”

Cinq-Mars put the phone down and nodded to Mathers, McGibbon, Recchi, and Lieutenant Tremblay, all gathered in his cubicle. “Late this afternoon, between three and four, according to Honigwachs’s
lawyer, BioLogika shares were savaged by a steep decline,” he announced. “The company has experienced a sell-off on heavy volume. Honigwachs is coming in. Dead or alive—that remains to be seen.”

Eleven days later, Sunday afternoon, February 27, 1999

Emile Cinq-Mars was alone in his house—his wife had gone into the local village with their weekend house-guest—when he received the phone call he’d dreaded the most. Snow was heavy in the fields as he gazed out the second-floor window and listened. The day was unseasonably warm, and the horses shuffled around in the outdoor paddocks closest to the barn, relishing the breezy air that, weathermen were saying, had originated in Texas. He caught sight of a squad car turning onto the lengthy drive up to the farmhouse and stables, and after he had hung up he went downstairs and stepped outside to greet the unknown visitor, not bothering with a coat. Only when the vehicle turned sideways to him and stopped did he see that it belonged to the local police department. He identified the officer behind the wheel as the Chief of Police.

The man had to work a little to get himself out of the car and upright. Expecting trouble, Cinq-Mars was surprised when the chief, wearing sunglasses to protect his eyes from the bright glare off the snow, approached him with a smile. “Jean-Guy Brasseur,” the visitor announced. He had adopted a different voice from the cranky tone he’d employed during their first meeting on the ice lake. Apparently, whatever chip had been on his shoulder then had eroded away.

Cinq-Mars met him at the bottom of the stairs and shook his hand. “I remember. How are you, Chief?”

“Good enough. Sick of winter. Detective, I have some news.” He shuffled his feet around. He raised his
head when a horse snorted, and Cinq-Mars looked across at the animal. The horse was gazing at him, probably wondering if he was coming over with a sugar lump or an apple.

Cinq-Mars shrugged. “What’s that?”

“We’ve made arrests that might interest you.”

“What’s the crime?”

“Car theft.”

He looked around his yard. He was thinking that he would remember this day. That the sadness in his heart and lungs and belly, the pain behind his eyes, would never completely vanish. He was thinking that after this cop left he’d go over to the horse who was still watching him and hug his neck. Then, he’d weep. “Okay. I’ll bite. Why does that interest me?”

The chief grinned. He bobbed his chin continuously as if the information he was hoarding might pop a valve. “Same
MO
as before, Sergeant-Detective. You’ll remember we had a snow squall Friday night. Lasted an hour or two. During the blow a Jeep Cherokee was heisted off a farm about twenty clicks down the road. One set of tire tracks left the farm, one set only, the Jeep’s. Snowmobile tracks crossed nearby. Same thing could’ve happened to you, bud. A perp figured these farmhouses run so far off the roads nobody bothers locking doors. Let’s face it, farmers run ten different types of machines, leave the keys in the ignition every time. Until now, they had no cause for concern. But somebody’s out there stealing. No bomb that night. There wasn’t any dynamite. No bikers. Just a couple of rough boys out to score a four-wheeler.”

“Ah,” Cinq-Mars cottoned on. “You’re telling me that the attack on my house was random.”

“It no longer looks isolated, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Thanks for driving out with this.”

“Just filling you in, bud. I’ll see you, Cinq-Mars.
You take it easy now.” The chief got into his car and rolled down the window. “You know what it means?” he asked.

Cinq-Mars nodded slightly. The chief had done his best to mask his pride, and a measure of his disdain, although he had not been wholly successful. He was taking pleasure in the news, as the information was meant to belittle the city cop, knock him down from his high station. The chief was telling him that he was not such a vaunted legend of law enforcement that gunmen vied to be his assassin. He was not the target of the worst criminals in the land. Gangs were not willing to risk everything merely to take him out. He had been the random victim of an auto theft, like thousands of others, and the fact that he hadn’t figured that out suggested that maybe he wasn’t such a hotshot detective after all.

Cinq-Mars had been willing to let Chief Brasseur have that satisfaction, but then he changed his mind. He walked across to his car. “Do
you
understand it, Chief? Do you know what just happened here?”

The chief smirked. “Sure I do. You’re not on anybody’s hit list.”

“No,” Cinq-Mars told him. “I just got taken off.”

“What do you mean?”

“They came at me, the mob did. Andrew Stettler, before he was killed, talked them into that. Not out of revenge, they’re not that stupid, but because I was about to interfere with a major part of their business. Then Stettler got bumped off. As it happens, I solved that murder for them. Now, I have no way to interfere with their business any more, I have no way to disrupt their cash flow. Plus, I did them a favour. So they arranged that little heist Friday night, and somehow they put a bug in your ear to come out here and tell me about it. Am I right?”

The chief’s eyes shifted to one side, then back again,
as though he didn’t know where to hide.

“So I’m right about that. Do you know what it means now? The mob sent me a message. I’m off their hit list. I was on, and now I’m off. They want peace between me and them. You, sir, you were their messenger. Nothing more than that.”

The chief stared up at him, his teeth clenched, and then stepped lightly on the gas and turned the car away. Cinq-Mars watched him go down the drive, amazed once again by the pettiness of human relations.

As he was watching, the squad car passed his Pathfinder returning. Cinq-Mars waited outside for the return of the two women. He felt the eyes of his father upon him. When he looked over, the horse continued to observe him. Cinq-Mars looked down again, and his eyes filled.

The vehicle parked in its usual spot and Sandra jumped down from the driver’s seat holding up a little white bag. “I filled your prescription!” she called. “Celebrex, Emile! No more achy hands!”

“Yeah, well,” Cinq-Mars grumbled. He’d been deliberately procrastinating on that one. Lucy Gabriel was stepping out of the vehicle also, and she let Sally the dog free from the back seat to bark at the departing car.

“What did he want?” Sandra nodded toward the driveway.

“To break my balls. Typical police behaviour. Lucy! Tell me, how many lab rats had to get sick for that little bottle of pills?”

“Human or rodent?” She smiled, for the first time in ages.

Sandra spun the cap off. “Come on,” she coaxed, “open up! Wouldn’t you rather shoot straight? Do you still want to be a cop or not, Emile?”

The question was a good one—did he still want to be a cop?—and Emile Cinq-Mars gave it more serious
attention than perhaps his wife had intended. Apparently, he was already losing his partner, although he hadn’t given up on that front, and that was more than he could stomach. At least Mathers was continuing in the force, for his photograph had been published holding little Carole Choquette in his arms, and his wife, affected by that, agreed that it was important that some people take risks to protect others. That he himself had encouraged the newspaper to publish the photo was knowledge Cinq-Mars was keeping to himself.

In the end, to answer his wife’s question, he opened his mouth wide, and she popped in the pill. He gagged on the tablet, and made a face, and hugged his chest as he choked on it, but he managed to swallow it down, and the women laughed at his pantomime.