The Dead of Winter (27 page)

SIXTEEN
MARCH 25

Winter doesn't end suddenly in Montreal; it withdraws slowly, in sullen resentment, like Napoleon's army from Moscow. Day after day the temperature struggles to climb above freezing for a few hours around noon and quickly falls back in the late afternoon, leaving tiny rivulets of water to become icy traps for the unwary. The snow that fell weightlessly during innumerable snowstorms is packed tight in stubborn boulders of dirty ice grudgingly giving up their bulk to springtime, revealing the filthy detritus that has accumulated in the cold months: dog shit, torn plastic bags, newspapers, Styrofoam cups, meal trays, pizza boxes, and thousands of cigarette butts. Impatient citizens torment the withdrawing army with picks and shovels, breaking up the rock-hard ice and spreading it to accelerate its disappearance. The cycle of thaw and refreeze continues for weeks until finally the city is liberated, and Montrealers spill out of their winter caverns, and occupy every open space. Terraces and park benches fill up and the streets teem with the survivors of a long siege.

In the Turcot Yard, where the city's snow is piled into dirty grey mountains, the melt is glacier slow and the land only returns to flat in late June. Such is the power of winter that the Stanley Cup is only awarded as the last evidence of winter disappears.

Vanier had watched the slow progression to spring. He had been present when they chipped Mary Gallagher from the river-ice that had held her for months and he had watched as Dr. Segal cut into the long-dead corpse to establish the cause of death. It didn't take long to establish that she died just as the others had.

6 PM

The six o'clock Mass was starting, and Vanier was kneeling in a pew at the back of the Cathedral, his head bowed. When he saw Monsignor Forlini take his place in front of the altar, he got up and made for the door, listening to the droning voice over the loud speaker.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.
”

Vanier was outside before the response finished. He knew Forlini would be busy with the faithful for at least an hour. He was in Morin Heights in an hour and a half. This time the lights didn't go on as he drove into the clearing before the chalet; he had pulled the wires out on his last visit. It didn't make much of a difference. The whole area was bathed in the bright moonlight reflecting off the snow that still lay several feet thick. Vanier shut the motor and looked around. He had been inside the chalet three times since January and found nothing, amazed that Monsignor Forlini could leave so little trace of who he was.

With the motor shut off, it was getting cold fast inside the car. Vanier opened the door and stepped out, not sure what he was looking for. He walked the perimeter of the chalet, keeping close to the wall, where the snow hardly reached. He completed a full circle of the chalet, and then struck out through the thick snow towards a large wooden shed about 30 feet from the back door of the chalet. Just like the other times, he was leaving obvious tracks, but he had given up worrying about it. The door to the shed was locked with a shiny padlock from Vaillancourt. Two weeks ago, Vanier had stopped at the store and bought the same kind of lock, but the key that came with it didn't fit the Monsignor's lock. This time he was prepared. He took a crowbar from his overcoat pocket and inserted the business end between the wood and the metal plate, easily forcing the screws out from the old wooden door. He wouldn't be able to replace the plate properly, but he didn't care.

He pulled the door of the shed back and shone a torch around in the blackness. There was nothing but fireplace-sized logs, carefully stacked up against each wall, and a long woodcutter's axe leaning against the wall. He flicked the torch off and pulled the door closed, slipping the screws back into place.

Outside, he looked to the woods beyond the shed. The area around the chalet was clear for about twenty feet, and then the trees formed a dark wall. But he could make out a narrow gap where the trees and underbrush seemed to part, as if it was an entrance into the woods. He struggled through the snow towards the gap in the trees. Up close, he could imagine a path that had been worn over years. He followed it through the trees and came to a clearing about 100 feet from the house, where trees formed a rough circle. Vanier scanned the clearing, trying to imagine what it might look without a blanket of snow. Snow, like water, finds its level, but unlike water it reflects the surface below. There was a Québec artist known for placing buckets and boxes on otherwise flat land in the autumn. When winter came, his random junk would become erotic snowscapes as falling snow accumulated and formed undulating mounds that unmistakably defined naked women lying beneath a white blanket.

He immediately noticed the snow was raised in a smaller circle that looked like it could be a fire pit in the summer. Next to it was what might be a bench where the snow sat high over the ground. Then he saw it, a pronounced ridge in the snow that didn't speak of a campfire clearing in the woods. It was out of place. He moved towards the pile and started to brush the fresh snow aside with his foot. There was crusted ice under the fresh snow, and he kicked at it, digging with the toe and heel of his boot, forcing it to give way. He quickly exposed a piece of blue tarpaulin. He grabbed an edge and pulled, straining to release it from the ice. When it finally gave and lifted he was staring at John Collins, frozen stiff, unburied and waiting for a better life. He was tempted to dig him out of his icy grave and drag the frozen corpse to his car for the drive back to his mother in Montreal. Instead, he turned to leave, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and pushing the on button. He kept walking as he waited for it to find a signal. He pushed Laurent's number as he cleared the woods, but lost the signal.

He retraced his tracks back through the wood, and as he passed the woodshed, he heard a whoosh. He turned his face to the noise just in time to see the baseball bat swinging into it. He ducked instinctively but not quickly enough, taking the blow to his left temple. His knees buckled and his body fell to the floor.

When he regained consciousness, his back was freezing, and snow was melting in his neck. He slowly realized that he was being dragged by his arms through the snow. The snow riding down his back made him vaguely uncomfortable, but he wasn't in pain, and the moon looked beautiful. He kept still, allowing whoever was dragging him to think he was still unconscious as he watched the tops of the passing trees. He could hear heavy breathing, almost grunting, from the person who had a tight grip of his wrists. Eventually, the dragging stopped and his arms dropped, falling with a light thump in the snow. He was wet and freezing and realized that he had to fight back, but lying quietly on his back in the snow seemed so comfortable. He felt the warm blood trickling down over his eye and tried to make a plan. He sensed movement and saw a giant black figure standing over him, arms raised with something like an axe in his hands. The figure started the downward blow and with an effort that seemed to materialize from nowhere, Vanier twisted out of the way of the descending axe. He heard it dig into the snow where his face had been. He had no idea what his second move would be.

It didn't matter. There was a blinding white light, and Vanier looked up to see the axe hanging motionless as the black figure wielding it turned his head to the light.

“Drop it.”

Vanier blinked and then someone was holding a gun to the axe-man's head, and the axe was dropped softly to the snow. The last thing Vanier saw before he closed his eyes was the axe-man on his knees in the snow, his head bowed as though in prayer.

Laurent kept his gun trained on Monsignor Forlini and felt for a pulse on Vanier's neck. Vanier opened his eyes and looked at Laurent. He wanted to say something, but he just smiled and decided that he could let go and relax in the snow. He didn't notice how cold he was becoming. He just kept shivering.

SEVENTEEN
MARCH 20

2 PM

Vanier was lying in a bed
in the emergency room of the hospital in St. Jérôme, in stable condition. He was still in the emergency ward because there wasn't a bed available anywhere else. Laurent and St. Jacques were standing by his bed. There were no seats for visitors, the result of a hospital policy designed to discourage concerned relatives from getting too comfortable and cluttering up the emergency room. It didn't work, people still milled around sick relatives and friends, but it did make for a lot of disgruntled visitors
.

“So, how are you feeling, Boss?” said St. Jacques.

“There's a lot to be said for drugs.” Vanier turned to Laurent, “I owe you, my friend. How did you know?”

“Mme. Collins called me. She had been wandering around outside the Cathedral and saw you leave. The Monsignor left right after you. Apparently he excused himself after the Mass started and took off for Morin Heights. She thought you might need help.”

“How right she was. That was a little too close. And how is the Monsignor.”

“Cooperative. In his own way.”

“Why don't you see for yourself?” said St. Jacques, pulling her laptop from her bag. “We have him on tape.” She plugged in the computer and waited for it to start.

“Have you spoken to Mme. Collins?”

“I called her this morning with the news,” said Laurent. “She didn't seem surprised that John was dead.
I knew
, was all she said.”

St. Jacques put the computer on the bed with the screen facing Vanier and pushed some buttons. A video began to play, and Vanier recognized the inside of Interview Room 6 and the view from the camera mounted high up on the wall. The image was of the Monsignor and Laurent sitting at the table.

“This is all my fault,” said the Monsignor.

“That's a good start,” said Vanier.

On the screen, Laurent asked, “Why don't you tell me what's on your mind.”

“I did what I had to do to defend the Church. But I failed. It's such a sordid story.”

“I have all the time in the world, Monsignor.”

“Don't call me that. I have no right to the title. I have disgraced myself and the Church.”

“Well let's start somewhere. How long have you known John?”

“I have always known him. He was my son. I refused to acknowledge it. When he first showed up, I didn't know how to react. He was my son, and I had spent my life denying it. I couldn't jeopardize my position. I refused to see him in the Cathedral, but I met him from time to time in various places. He's my son, you can understand that. He persisted, and I found him a job at Xeon and tried to help him along. I forced Henri Drouin to act as a go-between. Henri and I were at seminary together, he trusted me.

“When he needed money, I would give it to Drouin to deliver. The arrangement was satisfactory. I could avoid direct contact with John, but I could help him from time to time. Father Drouin got John involved with the homeless, and he seemed to take to it. He was good with those people and seemed to find some fulfillment. I thought the boy was trying to be a good Catholic, but over the years he became more disturbed. He started wearing a cassock, never to the Church, he didn't go that far. It's as though he knew there were limits. But Drouin would report back to me that he was wandering around the city in a black cassock like a priest. I should have seen then that he was just mocking me.

“Things really started to fall apart in October. He was behaving very erratically, and then that awful man Audet showed up. Apparently he had noticed John's relationship with Father Drouin. He was a predator looking for opportunity. He broke into John's apartment and found letters between the Archbishop and that woman, John's mother. He took them and came to see me. Imagine, that man in my office in the Cathedral. He wanted money, and I gave him some, but he refused to give me the papers. He showed up twice in November and again just before Christmas.

“When people started dying – and I have to tell you I don't believe that Christmas Eve was the start of it – I didn't know for certain that John was involved, but I was suspicious. During one of our meetings, John started talking about the power of prayer. Now, I believe in the power of prayer, but he sounded like one of those American evangelical preachers,
ask and you will receive
, literally and immediately. He was attending Drouin's Circle of Christ and was excited about prayers and having them answered. Father Drouin told him about a family that was facing eviction because they fell behind on their rent. The wife had filled in a card asking for a thousand dollars, and John slipped a thousand dollars under the door of the family's apartment. It could have been his own money, or perhaps he stole it, I don't know. But it worked. They weren't evicted and the father found work. John was elated. It was pitiful. He acted as though he had found his mission, his mission to be God's little helper on earth. He started attending the Circle more frequently, always consulting the cards. And I think he started making prayers come true.

“Everything changed when his picture was published. That's when he killed Audet. He went home and found Audet in his apartment. It was the day the sketch was shown on the evening news. John said that Audet attacked him, but he killed Audet instead. He called me, asking for help, and I drove him to the chalet. I couldn't understand the Audet thing, because Audet had never been interested in John. I'm the one he was blackmailing. But I have to admit that I was relieved that Audet was gone.

“John stayed at the chalet for a while, and I arranged for new documents. I got him a passport, a driver's licence, and a new credit card. I had arranged for him to be cared for in one of the Church's establishments in Rome; very private, very secure, and he would be looked after until he got better, or forever. I had the flight booked, and everything looked like it was going as planned. We decided to finish the bottle of wine before we left, barely a glass each.

“But it wasn't over. While he was bringing the suitcases out to the car, I switched our glasses. I don't know why. Some other time I might have seen God's hand in that, God working a miracle to serve his loyal servant. We sat at the table, saying nothing, and we clinked the glasses in a toast and drank the wine.

“He realized almost immediately that he had the wrong glass. He ran to the sink, trying to make himself vomit with a spoon, a little came out but it was too late. He sank down to the floor and was having trouble breathing. It didn't take long, two, maybe three minutes, and then it was over. I didn't move for a very long time. I just stared at his body lying on the floor. I had to do something, and I just thought, that was it, the end. His death and Audet's death were the end of it. Life would be normal again. Eventually, I dragged his body outside and down into the woods. I covered it with a tarpaulin and left him there. It was supposed to be temporary until I could think of a more permanent solution. It was snowing hard, and I knew the tarpaulin would be quickly covered in snow. I walked back to the chalet and watched the snow cover the tracks into the wood, and then I drove back to the Cathedral. I still have his suitcase in my apartment there, I haven't touched it.

“Three days later, I went back. I planned to put him in the trunk and drive him somewhere far away. I couldn't bury him, because the ground was frozen, and I was in a panic because I knew that you had tried to get a warrant to search the chalet. But I couldn't move him. He was frozen solid and stuck to the ground, locked in the ice that had melted under him and then frozen again. I tried to chip away the ice, but it was too much, he wouldn't budge. I had no choice. I replaced the tarpaulin and covered it with snow. Can you imagine what I was going through? Every day, every minute, it's all I thought about, and I couldn't do anything about it.

“I began to imagine that someone had been to the chalet. I saw small signs, probably nothing, but in my state I built it up. Then, as I was saying Mass last night, I saw your Inspector Vanier in the congregation as I walked in, and a moment later he was gone. He was the one. I knew it. He was the one who had been to the chalet. Who else? I excused myself from Mass and drove up as fast as I could. And I was right. There were tire marks in the driveway, so I parked the car further up and walked to the chalet. From a distance, I saw a light in the woodshed and then it went out. I didn't know where he was until I saw him hurrying back from the woods. By that time, I had the axe. It was obvious he had found John, and so I acted.”

“You tried to kill Inspector Vanier?” said Laurent.

“I tried to stop him reporting what he had found. I wasn't thinking about how to stop him. But yes, I was going to kill him.”

“Let's stop it there, shall we,” said Vanier. “I've had enough.”

St. Jacques stopped the video. “There isn't much else, anyway. Laurent takes him through the story again, and it pretty much matches the first time.”

The curtain surrounding the bed parted, and Dr. Segal came in with a huge bunch of red and yellow tulips. They looked almost magical in an emergency room in St. Jérôme, a sign that winter was ending.

“Dr. Segal, what a treat. My friends here were just leaving. They have work to do.”

St. Jacques smiled at Segal and grabbed Laurent by the arm. “We'll see about getting you transferred to Montreal, sir.” The two officers left the patient with his visitor.

“They're beautiful,” he said, nodding at the tulips. “They're lying when they say that food is the fastest way to a man's heart.”

“I know. I have a saw that's much quicker.”

He laughed, but it hurt.

She leaned over and kissed him, a kiss of relief, and of hope.