The Last Witness

‘I thought Saint Norbert.’

‘No, not good. The car park there’s only five storeys. He might survive the drop. Could still be alive and talking when he hits the deck.’

Michel’s hopes leapt: some fix on where they were headed at last! But at the same time the reason for the binding became clear, and he felt for Savard: they knew he’d start shouting and screaming at their new turn in conversation. Michel could hear Savard hyperventilating with fear, muffled grunts mixed with rapid nasal wheezing.

‘So where would you suggest?’

‘Place Philips car park. Eight floors, straight down. He won’t survive that.’

Savard’s grunting and wheezing was almost out of control, combined now with some heavy rustling and thudding. He was obviously writhing around in protest, the only movement he was left with.

Michel wished that he could reach out and hug and reassure Savard: Don’t worry. We know where they’re headed now. We’ll get to them before they can throw you.

Phil turned and dropped two blocks down to Rene Levesque to make better time heading into the city centre, and Michel alerted Mark on the radio phone. ‘We just got it on the wire that that’s where they’re headed.’

‘Saint Catherine entrance or Philips?’

‘We don’t know. You take Saint Catherine, we’ll take Philips.’

Silence again. Only the sound over the wire of Savard’s muffled, laboured breathing as Phil floored it through the night-time streets, touching seventy.

Within the cocoon of darkness of the hood, Savard’s terror had reached a peak. He’d found breathing difficult with the restriction of the hood as it was, had felt his own hot breath bouncing back at him; but now with something bound tight around his mouth over the outside, pushing the cloth in, it was practically impossible. With each breath the cloth felt as if it was sucking in, gagging him, and the binding had also pulled the hood tight against his nose. Upon hearing he’d be thrown, he’d writhed and banged about; partly in fear, partly in vain hope of catching the attention of cars or people they passed. But as the blood pounding through his head hit a hot white crescendo and he felt nauseous and almost blacked out, he stopped. He reminded himself of the wire. They’d handled him roughly bundling him into the van and tying his hands and feet, but he was pretty sure it was still there. Michel had no doubt heard where they were headed.

But with two entrances and five sections to the car park, what were the chances of Michel and his men getting to him in time? They could already be two minutes behind as it was, and could easily lose another couple of minutes finding the right section of car park. It did him little good if Michel caught up with his captors after he was thrown.

The night-time streets flashed by Michel’s window, with most cars pulling hurriedly over with the sound of their approaching siren. But half the time Michel kept his eyes closed, immersing himself deeper into the sounds on the wire: Savard’s fractured, muffled breathing falling almost in time with his own rapid pulse, feeling himself almost there alongside Savard to will home the message: we’ll be there, don’t worry. We’ll be there to stop them.

It took only just over three minutes before they hit the Place Philips entrance and started up. Mark had radioed in twenty seconds before as he entered on Saint Catherine Street, and was now winding furiously up towards the third floor. At Michel’s instruction, they’d both killed their sirens for the last few hundred yards of approach. Michel didn’t want Savard’s captors suddenly taking fright and shifting him somewhere else.

As Phil swung into the fifth floor, Michel heard over the wire the van stopping, a door opening, closing. Then the van’s back doors opening.

‘Okay. Should be good here.’

‘Yeah.’

Savard’s breathing again started to become more rapid, frantic. Brief writhing and thudding, and then some rustling and short muffled grunts from Savard. Michel pictured him being lifted out.

Michel clutched tight at the radio mike. Mark should be near the top now. ‘We’ve just heard the van stop — they’re taking Savard out. See anything from where you are?’

‘We’re just coming onto the eight now.’ Brief background squeal of tyres, then: ‘No… nothing on this first stretch.’

Michel drummed the flat of his left hand against the dashboard as they sped along the sixth and swung into the ramp for the seventh. ‘Come on!..’

Savard felt himself being carried away from the van, heard his carrier’s short shuffling footsteps, but they were crunching slightly, as if they had crepe soles? Then after a few yards they paused and his back was partly rested on the thighs of the man behind.

‘Okay, one last chance, Tony…’

Savard felt the binding around his mouth being untied and pulled free. His frantic breathing eased a bit without the constriction.

‘…Where’s our money?’

‘I told you, I don’t you… I don’t know,’ he gasped. ‘Please, you’ve got to believe me.’

Phil squealed up the last part of the ramp to the eighth. Michel’s eyes darted rapidly around as the car straightened and sped along. He couldn’t see anything immediately, no sign of the van or Savard being carried. He pointed. ‘Maybe in the next section.’ Then, into the mike: ‘Anything where you are?’

‘No, nothing. We’ve already checked two sections. One more to go.’

Michel’s hand drummed the dashboard more frantically as Phil swung into the next section. From the voices over the wire, he knew there were probably only seconds left.

‘We haven’t got to believe anything, Tony. Last chance…’

‘Fuck’s sake, guys… I really don’t know,’ Savard spluttered.’ If I did, don’t you think I’d tell you.’

A second’s silence, then the other man’s voice. ‘Let’s get him closer to the edge. He’s not going to talk.’

Faint rustling and movement, repeated mumbled protests from Savard, then: ‘We’ll not clear this rail unless we swing him.’

‘Yeah…’

Savard lost it then, his protests and shouts of ‘No!’ hit screaming pitch as Michel imagined him being swung.

Mark’s voice came over the radio-phone. ‘Nothing here. We’ve searched every corner.’

‘Okay.’ Phil had just turned into the last section and Michel’s eyes swung wildly around. Savard’s screaming filled his head. He had to be somewhere here, somewhere… Suddenly his rapid dashboard drumming changed to a sharp slap. ‘Stop! Stop the car now! Stop!’

Phil screeched to a halt and Michel immediately swung his door open, listening.

‘…Two. On the count of three.’ The words were all but drowned out by Savard’s raucous screaming.

Michel could hear everything clearly over the wire, but from the surrounding car park sounds there was nothing. Yet Savard was screaming loud enough to be heard two blocks away. He didn’t even trouble to check with Mark; he’d have heard it from Mark’s section from where he was. Michel’s stomach fell, a chill running through him. Savard was nowhere nearby, he’d been taken somewhere else. There was nothing they could do to save him.

‘…Three!’

Savard had already pictured clearly in his mind the eight-floor drop, and his final scream as he was swung high for the last time rattled his throat raw. And then he was sailing free… his mind spinning fast-reel frames within the hood’s darkness to match his sensation of falling, his scream echoing down through the floors — praying that mercifully he’d black out halfway down — gaining momentum ever faster, faster, until… but the ground hit earlier than he expected. Maybe no more than a few yards. And it felt soft, his fall dampened by a cushioning of snow. His screaming faltered into nervous, staccato exhalations; he hardly dared believe that he was still alive.

‘That’s just a practice run, Tony. If you don’t tell us where the money is, we’re going to do it for real.’

Savard swallowed hard. The terror was quickly back. He wished now they had killed him. He couldn’t face going through the knife-edge fear and anticipation a second time.