The Extinction Club (21 page)

“Just a few more details.”

Céleste adjusted her pillow, folding it in two to make it higher. “About …?”

“Bazinet.”

She groaned. “Don’t do this,” she entreated, her bloodshot eyes begging me to leave her alone. “It’s not the right day. How about tomorrow?”

“How about today, how about this very second? It’ll be like climbing a ladder. We’ll go up one rung at a time.” I had adopted a tone not unlike my attorney’s.

“All right, Mr. District Attorney. But before we go up this ladder of yours I just want to thank you, you know, for pushing the point, for digging into me and stirring up all this shit.”

“I’m sure there were things that happened—forces—that warped Bazinet as a child. His parents must have had a role in turning him into … well, whatever he turned into.”

“There’s no excuse for Bazinet. His parents were good people—and his brother and sister turned out just fine.”

“But this kind of thing—the cruelty and brutality you told me about—it just doesn’t come out of nowhere. He’s a sick man and he obviously needs a good doctor. But I was wondering if—”

“Oh, really? And what’s the good doctor going to do? Cure him? Don’t make me laugh. What Baz needs is a good hangman.”

“But I was wondering if this cruel streak has ever been … you know, directed at humans.” I nodded at her scars, at the slow death that seemed to have been the aim.

“He was in jail at the time.”

“But he ordered it?”

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that yes, he’s the one who ordered it.”

“He’s a bully and a coward, am I right? Call his bluff and you defang him, neutralize him?”

“No.”

So much for that hoary theory. “Was his cousin in on it? Gervais? Was he the one who knifed you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Was he the one who punched you in the neck?”

“Don’t know.”

“Was he in the truck that dumped you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Why did they dump you there?”

“They dump lots of things there. Sofas, fridges, grocery carts, dead animals. It’s a giant sinkhole.”

“You’re lucky it was partially frozen.”

“No,
you
were lucky.”

“The truck, the black pickup, had only one headlight. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“It also had a big grille and some sort of platform welded on the bed, with an animal on top. And a light bulb stuck in its mouth.”

Céleste frowned, but said nothing.

“And its paws were cut off,” I added.

“When they take a gall, they usually take a paw too. To prove freshness.”

“So he sells them, the bear galls, in Quebec?”

“Quebec, Canada, the States, anywhere there’s a big Asian market. But most of them end up in China. Where there’s a backlog of orders that Bazinet and Company are doing their best to fill.”

“So it was his truck, the black one I saw?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised.”

“When does Bazinet get out of jail exactly?”

“Month after next. Fourteenth.”

“St. Valentine’s Day?” Instead of red hearts, I saw a red decapitated head. The only thing I knew about Saint Valentine was that he was beheaded on this day.

“Or maybe sooner.”

“Is there anywhere you can stay? Temporarily, in February? Some place far away, until I think of some way of beheading him?”

“
Beheading
him?”

“I mean dealing with him.”

Céleste tilted her head, gave me the kind of look my therapists used to give me. “We’ll be in the house when he
gets out and I’m not leaving it. I’ll barricade myself in. Just get me a gun. The bigger the better. A cannon.”

“So you know about guns?”

“There’s not a whole lot to know. You just point at what you want to hit and blast away. They’re pretty much idiot-proof.”

“So he’ll be looking for you when he gets out?”

“Duh.”

“How about a friend’s place? Or relative’s. In Montreal or something.”

“I already told you. I don’t have any friends or relatives.”

“What about your father? Where’s he?”

“Missing in action. Never laid eyes on the man or heard his voice or even saw a photograph.”

“And your mother?”

“So strung out on crack that Child Services took me from her. After I ran away.”

I went back in my mind till I was about Céleste’s height, when I had done the same.

“Cue the uplifting music,” she said with a sigh.

“You were a runaway?”

“More like a throwaway.”

“Do you ever see her, your mom? What happened to her?”

“She walked into Ravenwood Pond. On acid. Quite a trip.”

God, I thought I had it bad. “Suicide?”

Céleste shrugged. “I don’t feel like talking about it. Now or any other time, okay?”

“What about … your grandfather?”

“Dead.”

“Did he live with you guys up here?”

“No, when Gran got the gig at the church, he refused to come with her. He was making good money with the Gaming
Commission. At Kahnawake. He was part Indian, enough to get him on the reserve at least.”

“So you’re like … half Indian?”

“More like a sixteenth. Along with French, Greek and a shot of Scotch, way back.”

“So is your Indian blood part of your … I mean are you, like, proud of your heritage or—”

“All Indians are screwed up. Almost as much as the whites. The hunters especially. Asking for the animal’s forgiveness for killing it—
pulease
. And rubbing a boy’s face in blood when he kills his first deer—
hello
? I’ve seen tribes put hawks in cages. Everyone knows that a hawk won’t eat inside a cage. All it’ll do is die. Plus they’ve destroyed, or helped destroy, lots of species.”

“But did they know the animals were endangered?”

“They know bald eagles and golden eagles are endangered but they still shoot them, still poison them, still sell their feathers on the black market, still use dancing sticks with eagle heads. They know that trumpeter swans are endangered but they still kill them. Why? Because they’re worth a thousand bucks a piece. They know the woodland caribou is almost extinct but a few weeks ago the Quebec Innu killed forty of them, out of the hundred or so left. They know the wolverine is endangered in Quebec, or ‘extirpated,’ but they’re not interested in saving them, in bringing them back to their forests—even though they’re supposed to be a link with the spirit world. Why? Because they’re rare and protected and therefore not a ‘fur-bearer resource.’”

“Are you talking about
all
Natives, or just a few louts, a few bad apples?”

“They know the peregrine falcon is endangered but they
still rob the nests. Rappel down cliffs, wearing hard hats to protect themselves from the females.”

“Why do … what do the females do?”

“They peck them in the head when they get too close. Wish I could do that, come to think of it.”

“But why? I mean, why go to all that trouble?”

“The peregrine’s the fastest bird in the world. People want a piece of that. Sheikhs come over here, pay two grand per bird. And the price is getting higher as the birds … disappear.”

“But every race, every nationality, has its share of thieves and thugs and poachers. Why single out Indians?”

“They know the whales in Ungava and Hudson Bay are endangered, but when the Department of Fisheries cut their seasonal quota-—by twenty-seven whales—they called it ‘genocide’ and ‘terrorism,’ a ‘threat to our way of life,’ a ‘denial of our human rights.’”

“But it’s an age-old tradition. By people who were here long before us.”

“Just because it’s a tradition doesn’t means it’s good. Traditions can be changed, replaced with other ways of doing things, better ways. Which become traditions themselves.”

“But if their livelihood, their main source of food—”

“They know that polar bears are threatened, yet they continue to slaughter them.”

“But don’t they eat them? And use their fur and hide to survive?”

“Continue to hire themselves out as guides to well-fed American trophy hunters.”

“All trophy hunters are American?”

“European, Asian, whatever.”

“No Canadians?”

“And they chase wolves on Ski-Doos till they drop. Now
they’re trying to get them off the endangered list. So they can be wiped out all over again.”

“I thought that was in Alaska. Where they shoot them from planes.”

“Whatever.”

“So is it all Indians you dislike? Or just Indian hunters.”

“Mankind.”

From what she’d seen of it in her short, nearly foreshortened life, who could blame her? I groped for something to say. “What kind of Indian blood do you have?”

“Laurentian.”

I nodded, though I’d never heard of the tribe. “Can you speak the language?”

“No, it’s extinct. And the last speakers left only a few words behind. Well, really only one word.”

“Which one?”

“Canada.”

“You’re kidding. Which means?”

“Village. When Cartier first landed he asked the Laurentians what they called their homeland, pointing all around. ‘Canada,’ they replied.”

I tried to steer things back to Bazinet, to some sort of defence strategy, but on this subject Céleste’s conversation tended to tread water. She said we had until February to worry about all that.

“For now,” she said tartly, “we have other things to discuss.”

It had been building for a while now, like an overblown balloon—I could see it in her eyes, the colour of her cheeks.
A burst, an explosion, was coming. Something to do with the church, with my buying the church? Or with hunters and poachers and collusive rangers? “Such as?”

“Cigarettes. And why you’re not getting me any. After I’ve asked you a gazillion times.”

“I got you some.”

“Very funny. Those were
candy
cigarettes. You think I’m five years old or something? I’m an adult. Practically.”

“You’re not an adult. And you’re not having any cigarettes. They’re not good for you.”

“They’re not? Gee, thanks for the scoop, Mr. Drug Addict. How dare you tell me what I can and can’t have.”

“I’m your doctor.”

“You are not my doctor. You’re my … my
bourreau
.”

This means torturer. “You’re not smoking in here. Not while you’re recovering. And barely eating. Not just for health reasons either—this place is a firetrap.”

“So I got to wait till we move to the house?”

“No, you’re not smoking there either.”

“Oh really? I’ll smoke wherever and whenever I want. Don’t tell me what to do, you big bully. I’m going to the store right now.”

“I’ll tell you what. You can have a licorice pipe.”

Her eyes, large and clear, were circles of wrath. “You can go to hell!” She stumbled out of bed and grabbed my winter coat from the back of a kitchen chair. After digging in the pockets for car keys, she wore the coat like a cape while hobbling to the door. But I beat her to it, and stretched my arm across the frame.

“Get out of my way, you junkie.”

“Please go back to bed, Céleste. You’re not well enough to go out.”

A brief pause, as if she were listening to reason. She let the coat fall to the floor. “All right,” she said, but when I lowered my arm she lunged at the door handle. I grabbed her hand.

“Let go of me, you big bully, don’t you dare touch me!”

The minute I let go of her hand she turned and began to hit me, pounding her fists on my arms and back.

I pretended to cower under the assault, which was more like a Japanese massage. She caught my eye and didn’t like what she saw. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, you … deviant. You American terrorist. I’m never speaking to you again as long as I live. You are not my father. Or even a friend. You are a … passing acquaintance. Who I’ll forget like a chewed piece of gum.”

I held my tongue.

She clenched her teeth. “I’m staying at the house alone. I can paddle my own canoe, is that clear?”

I nodded.

“Remind me,” she said between quick shallow breaths, “why I tolerate you.”

“Because I’m your lord and master?”

“You … are such a little … I hope you go to hell forever. Wait’ll I tell …”

“Tell who?”

“Never mind.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in hell. Or heaven.”

“Cigarettes keep my weight down,” she pleaded. “Please.”

“No. This is a perfect time to quit. You’ll thank me in a few years.”

“A few
years
? Don’t make me laugh. I don’t plan on living for years. I plan on living for
days
. So give me a bloody cigarette. Now.”

“You’re planning on killing yourself?”

She glared at me with cold reptilian eyes. “This is
so
wrong, on
so
many levels.”

“If you’re going to kill yourself, why worry about your weight?”

Unused to logical ambush, I’m guessing, she stared wordlessly at me for several seconds while gnawing at her lip. So forcefully I thought she was going to draw blood. Her entire mouth began to quiver. “You … it’s none of your effing business. Who says I’m going to kill myself? Did I ever say that? Did I ever once say that? Where did you get this information? From dialling 411? From reading my journal? You did, didn’t you. You’re nothing but a goddamn snoop—”