The Devil's Choir, page 7
part #3 of A Victor Lessard Thriller Series
“It’s pretty strange, but unfortunately, Lewis, our forensic entomologist, is at the same conference as Cloutier. I have a friend who works as an entomologist at the Insectarium. Lewis collaborates with her now and then, when particularly tricky questions come up. She did her Ph.D. on the taxonomy of Diptera. She’s one of the only fly specialists in Quebec. As soon as I have a minute, I’ll call her.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Lessard says. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Give me her contact info, and I’ll take care of it.”
Lessard takes the Ville-Marie Expressway back to Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, getting off at the Saint-Jacques exit.
His stomach is rumbling.
No surprise there. He hasn’t eaten yet. Among the healthy habits he acquired during his relationship with Véronique is his practice of eating a breakfast of fruit juice and whole grain cereal topped with plain yogourt.
This morning, though, he wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t slept well after the argument with his son.
Thinking back on the situation, Lessard realizes that he was more surprised than angry.
Martin never came home last night, and he turned off his cellphone. Lessard has tried to reach him twice. Not that he’s overly worried. They’ve been down this road before.
Before returning to the crime scene, he decides to go have a bite at the Old Orchard Pub on Monkland Avenue, where he occasionally has breakfast. He orders his usual meal from his usual waitress: an egg, tomato, and lettuce sandwich. Suppressing the urge to wash down the meal with a nice cold Guinness, he orders a decaf. As she always does, the waitress informs him that he’ll have to wait a few minutes while they make a pot.
For crying out loud, is he the only idiot in the world who drinks decaf?
Lessard opens the car door.
Since the weather forecast calls for several days of rain, he takes out the old yellow slicker that he used to wear on fishing trips.
Actually, he’s only gone fishing twice in his life.
He quickly realized that what drew him to the pastime wasn’t actually catching fish; it was the idea of being in harmony with nature and leading a healthy wilderness lifestyle. But in the end, the whine of dive-bombing mosquitoes; the lake that was supposed to be “teeming with trout” yet failed to produce so much as a nibble; the rising at dawn to “get a good start” when all his body craved was sleep — in short, everything that actually had to do with fishing — held little attraction for him.
He wanders from room to room in the house on Bessborough Avenue. In the kitchen, he encounters Adams’s assistant, who’s packing up his equipment.
After going by with a polite nod, Lessard turns to ask the guy if he’s seen Fernandez, but he’s already left.
Apart from the traces of blood on the walls and floors, there’s nothing to suggest that a murder was committed here.
In John Cook’s office, Lessard opens the drawers and examines their contents. He takes several volumes off the bookshelf and shakes them, hoping a piece of paper might slip from their pages; he leafs through the folders in a file cabinet. On a shelf, he finds documents that have been annotated by hand. The notes were surely made by Cook, since the documents concern Royal Tobacco. To Lessard’s eye, the handwriting resembles that on the message he found in the shed. He slips the papers into a pocket of his raincoat, telling himself that he’ll compare the writing later, in a more comfortable setting. He goes on searching a little while longer, pausing to look at an old photo album. He even takes a framed picture off the wall to see what’s behind it.
Pearson and Sirois have already gone over everything, but you never know …
Now that he thinks about it — where are those two?
Lessard had expected to run into one of them, but the house is clearly empty.
As he turns to leave the room, he bumps into a vase containing water and bamboo stalks, which is perched on a corner of the desk. The vase teeters for a moment, hanging precariously at the edge of the work surface. Lessard tries to catch it, and almost succeeds, before it slips from his grasp. But the cop’s clumsy fingers have slowed the vase’s descent. It lands on the floor without breaking.
Lessard puts back the bamboo stalks and steps into the hallway, grumbling, to find something to wipe up the water. In the laundry room, he opens a cabinet and takes a towel off a pile.
As he’s about to reclose the cabinet, he notices two VHS cassettes on the bottom shelf.
Strange place to leave videocassettes.
Deciding to screen them at his place rather than in the noisy environment of the police station, he pockets the cassettes. Will he be able to reconnect his old VHS player?
Martin would know how to do it in an instant.
Where is that kid, anyway?
Lessard loiters on the upper floor of the house after cleaning up his mess. Even though the bedrooms are deserted and the beds are empty, images suddenly begin to swirl through his mind: the bodies of Elizabeth Munson and her children mingle with those of his mother and brothers in a macabre dance.
The walls close in around him like a vise. A lake of blood begins to seethe beyond the windows.
Then he hears something behind him. A familiar voice murmurs in his ear.
“You abandoned me, Victor.”
He spins around.
The boy in the striped tank top is standing in front of him.
Lessard refuses to believe what he’s seeing. He shakes his head to dispel the vision. A panicky fear seizes him, the kind of terror that makes a child ask his parents to check for monsters under the bed and in the closet.
How long does he go on yelling?
He can’t say.
A hand on his shoulder brings him back to reality.
“Are you okay, Victor? I was in the basement. You gave me a scare.”
White as a sheet, Lessard takes a few seconds to regain his composure.
“I’m fine, Doug. Just a little stressed out. Sorry.”
Before he even saw the boy’s face, Lessard knew the identity of the scrawny kid in the striped tank top who’s been crossing his path since yesterday. More than thirty years after hearing it for the last time, he recognized his brother’s voice instantly.
The wounds and dried blood are still visible on his throat and chest.
Raymond.
7
She’s put on a raincoat and rubber boots.
Recalling the child she was, just a few short years ago, she takes mischievous delight in jumping into puddles, watching the muddy water splash her thighs and snake back down her calves.
Laila loves rain the way a person might love springtime, or the smell of coffee, or a country walk. Her wet hair sticks to her face, a stray lock rising and falling to the smooth rhythm of her gait.
As she had expected, Monsieur Antoine’s trailer is standing at the intersection of Berri Street and De Maisonneuve Boulevard. Two squeegee kids are smoking near the door.
Inside, a couple of goths with a German Shepherd on a leash are talking to a volunteer. A young, hollow-eyed girl, her face riddled with acne, is sunk in a corner. A little farther off, another volunteer is distributing syringes to three homeless youths who reek of urine.
Laila goes to the back of the trailer, where Monsieur Antoine is sitting on the same rickety, uncomfortable chair that he’s occupied for so many years. The old man is reading to Felix, who’s sitting on his lap.
Felix’s mother, a heroin-addicted, HIV-positive prostitute, used to be an occasional visitor to the trailer. From the age of four, Felix would accompany her to seedy hotel rooms, where she turned tricks for disgusting men. An exceptionally intelligent child, Felix started keeping a diary during the long periods he spent alone in bathrooms, waiting for his mother.
By the age of seven, he was working the streets himself. One day, Monsieur Antoine found the little boy standing in front of the trailer holding all his worldly possessions: a few balled-up sweaters in a paper bag. Felix’s mother had apparently left for Vancouver, leaving her son behind — surely the greatest favour she could have done him.
Monsieur Antoine immediately offered to become Felix’s foster parent. After some back-and-forth with the youth protection authorities, the child was entrusted to him.
Felix, who’s small for his age, hasn’t uttered a word since he was brutally assaulted some time ago. When spoken to, he responds through gestures or mouth noises, or simply scribbles a few words on a little chalkboard or in his diary, which he carries with him everywhere.
“Look who’s here, Felix.”
A shy smile lights up the boy’s face. He likes Laila.
“Hi, Monsieur Antoine. Hello there, Felix!”
The elderly man stands up. He’s a little more bent and stiff than the last time Laila saw him.
“What a pleasure to see you, sweetie.”
Laila hands him a canvas bag filled with items intended for street kids.
“I’ve brought some clothes that I don’t wear anymore, and a few toiletries. I also have something for you, Felix.”
She extracts a second-hand book from her pocket and gives it to the boy, whose eyes widen.
“Oh,” Monsieur Antoine says. “The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway. A very serious book, Felix.” He looks at the girl.
“Have you read it, Laila?”
“Yes. It’s beautiful. And very sad.”
She thinks she sees a tear on Monsieur Antoine’s cheek. But she isn’t sure.
Felix steps close and gives her a hug.
The child is sitting in a corner, poring over the Hemingway novel. He’s entirely immersed in it as Monsieur Antoine and Laila sip tea.
“Do you plan to keep doing that video stuff?” Monsieur Antoine asks.
“I don’t know. For now, the money’s good. I can do it at home, and it’s easy.”
“Have you considered going back to school?”
“I’ve thought about it. But not yet.”
The old man lifts his head and looks into her eyes.
“You’re not using again, are you, Laila?”
“No. I’m totally done with that.”
“You don’t seem too sure,” he says doubtfully.
Laila isn’t about to admit that she still allows herself an occasional joint.
“I’m telling you, Monsieur Antoine, the therapy really helped. Trust me, all that stuff is behind me.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sweetie. I had to ask — better that than to sit here worrying about you. But there’s something else I want to talk about.”
“Yes?” Laila says nervously, wondering what’s coming.
“I know how much you care about your work with the support group.”
Some time ago, Monsieur Antoine (whose full name is Antoine Chambord), knowing Laila’s past, put her in charge of a support group for drug-addicted street kids. He had some initial reservations because of her young age.
But after some thought, he decided that assigning the task to her would kill two birds with one stone: on the one hand, the young addicts who came to the trailer would benefit from Laila’s experience, and on the other, the responsibility would help her to stay off drugs herself.
That was the hope, at least.
But last week, after a meeting, he found Laila sitting alone, in tears. One of the kids in the group had killed himself two days previously. The last thing Chambord wants is for Laila to get so caught up helping others that she neglects her own needs and falls back into her old habits.
“Yes,” she says, “I love it. It’s a major responsibility.”
“That’s what I’d like to talk about. I don’t want you feeling overwhelmed, or putting too much pressure on yourself. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to save anyone.”
Laila can see where this is going.
“I get the message, Monsieur Antoine.”
“Good. If ever there’s a problem, Laila, come and see me. I’m always here for you.”
“I know. Thank you.”
Chambord smiles and asks in a lighter voice:
“How’s Mélanie these days?”
“Just great. She says hi, by the way. And you, Monsieur Antoine? How are you keeping?”
“Oh, you know …”
Laila is sitting next to Felix, with her back to the wall.
“Can I see what’s in your diary, Felix?”
The boy looks at her in silence.
“My bad. Forget I asked. How about drawing a picture for me?”
Laila gives Monsieur Antoine a peck on the cheek.
“Gotta go.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, sweetie? You seem anxious.”
The girl hesitates. He’s offering her a chance to talk. All she has to do is take it. Monsieur Antoine is wise, and he’s an excellent listener. Most importantly, he doesn’t judge her.
She’s about to confide in him when a hand tugs at the hem of her raincoat.
“Oh, Felix, what a beautiful drawing!”
She crouches down and takes the boy in her arms.
“It was nice of you to come by, Laila. If you ever need anything, just say the word.”
“Sure thing. Take care, Monsieur Antoine. ’Bye, Felix.”
The boy watches Laila walk away in the rain.
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Dear stupid diary,
Monsieur Antoine is sad because he’s old, and he’s old because he’s sad. I guess I’m too young to understand, but I saw him crying when Laila gave me the book. I read the back cover. It talked about an unlucky old fisherman who wants to catch a big swordfish so he can save his honour as a man. Monsieur Antoine still has his honour as a man, but he’s been fighting a big swordfish of his own for a long time now.
I think he’s very tired.
A few days ago, he told me that I’ll live to be a hundred, while his own years have nearly run out. On my chalkboard, I wrote, “Maybe I can share my years with you, because you’ve taken care of me and haven’t made me work.”
When he read what I’d written, Monsieur Antoine pretended there was something in his eye. Let me tell you, stupid diary, it really bugs me when words make people cry. You know how onions bring tears to your eyes? Sometimes words do the same thing. When that happens, I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands.
I remember the day Monsieur Antoine gave me my first card.
That’s what Monsieur Antoine does. He laughs and makes jokes and watches you with his crinkly eyes, but if you do something he’s told you not to — bam! He’ll give you a card that’s yellower than his teeth.
And then you need to be careful, because after the yellow card comes the red card. I’ll tell you all about the red card later if you’re interested, but just so you know, the red card is bad news.
When Laila came by a little while ago, I could see from Monsieur Antoine’s face that something was wrong. He was looking at Laila with a stern face, the way he’d have looked if he’d given her a red card.
------------------------
Laila is walking back to her apartment, oblivious of the rain. She cuts through an alley near Charlemagne Street.
She’s thinking about David, whom she wishes she could seduce. She’s thinking about Monsieur Antoine, to whom she wanted to open up about her past — but Felix chose that moment to show her his drawing. Which was probably for the best.
Above all, she’s thinking about HIM.
It’s inevitable. Every passing day brings back memories of that living nightmare, that dark tide of misery that keeps rising in her, despite her best attempts to submerge it in an ocean of forgetfulness.
Jagged lightning ignites the sky.
At that moment, a hand covers Laila’s mouth and an arm goes around her throat, pulling her backward.
She has no time to react or cry out.
8
In the yard, the clatter of the rain on the shed’s roof reassures him. The cold raindrops invigorate him. Little by little, the colour returns to his cheeks.
His hand is still trembling as he brings the cigarette uncertainly to his mouth, but he calms down as the nicotine invades his lungs and takes effect on his central nervous system.
When it happened, the apparition seemed so real that he lost his grip. He panicked.
Now he finds himself laughing.
It’s nervous laughter — but at least it’s laughter.
Lessard doesn’t waste time wondering what this incredible apparition means. His denial is absolute. He hasn’t just seen a ghost or anything like that. There’s a perfectly logical explanation: this case has forced him to confront the trauma of his past. In his extreme sensitivity, he’s fallen prey to hallucinations.
End of story.
What does worry him, though, is the possibility that this episode could have an impact on the investigation, if the higher-ups find out.
As long as Adams doesn’t tell everyone that he found me wailing like a terrified baby.
Once again, Lessard becomes aware of something behind him — a gaze focused on his back.
This time, it’s not Raymond. He knows who it is. The little boy he saw yesterday is back at his window, wearing his sad expression. The boy waves.
Suddenly, Lessard has an idea.
He knocks at the door of the neighbouring house.
The mother is Moroccan, or perhaps Algerian. She wears a hijab and barely speaks any English or French. Is she the boy’s mother? His babysitter? Lessard isn’t sure. Whatever she is, she lets him in when she sees his badge.
Using a mix of sign language, sound effects, and a hodge-podge of French and English, he manages to make her understand that he’d like to talk to the boy.
She leads him upstairs.
Lessard doesn’t pay much attention to the elaborate décor. The woman leads him into a child’s bedroom, painted in bright blue tones and overflowing with toys and stuffed animals. On one wall, he sees a computer-printed banner.
WELCOME HOME, FAIZAN!
The boy is sitting at a low table. He stops drawing and looks up curiously at the detective sergeant.
