them — and then they were past.
Roman didn’t speak again until they were thirty yards clear.
‘See, told you.’ He let out a long, slow breath. ‘My plan with switching cars worked.’
Roman Lacaille’s black BMW was stopped eighteen minutes earlier on Boulevard Viau, en route to Carlo Funicelli’s shop in St Leonard — he wouldn’t return to listen in to Donatiens again until that night.
Frank Massenat was driving, and three squad cars converged — two following who raised the siren to push them over and another that arrived seconds later from the opposite direction.
Five guns were trained on Massenat and Funicelli while they were summarily searched, faced away, hands on the roof of the car. No guns were found: Massenat knew that even a simple carrying violation could get him six months. And when their names were found not to match those of the alert, the lead Constable put a call back in to Dorchester Boulevard.
Chac came on within a minute, and fired a chain of questions relayed through the Constable.
‘Where’s Roman Lacaille now, and why are you driving his car?’
Frank Massenat answered that he didn’t know where Roman was, and he only had the car because it had to go to a garage later. ‘It’s playing up. Ticking noises from the engine.’
‘What’s Roman driving now?’
‘I don’t know. He said he was going to hire a car.’
‘Where from?’
Chac didn’t believe any of it for a minute, but there was nothing he could do. He instructed the Constable to let them go, then headed for the interview room to tell Michel the bad news.
Venegas’s photo came up on the small TV at the back of the counter by a display of sweets, and Roman tried not to look too interested as the cashier totted up the last of the groceries in his basket. Morning news on TQS, one of the main Quebec TV stations; the sound was on low and Roman could hardly pick out what was being said.
He’d turned off the freeway for Lac Shawinigan and stopped at the first gas station with adjoining store to pick up groceries for Venegas’s stay. Venegas wouldn’t be needing any of it, it would all end up in his own kitchen cupboards — but it was important to keep up the illusion, not give any reason for Venegas to become suspicious or tense. For the same reason he’d made the journey alone. Frank Massenat in the back seat might have sent the signal that it was a one-way trip.
‘Fifty-eight dollars, forty.
The news had moved on to a light plane crash near Jonquiere as Roman paid and got his change.
His breath showed heavy on the cold air making his way out to the car. He wondered whether to say anything to Venegas about the news flash, but decided finally against it. It would only make Venegas edgy and tense again. He’d only in the last twenty minutes managed to get Venegas’s nerves settled back to anything near normal after the patrol car edging past. Venegas was starting to think of two weeks quiet rest in a log cabin, then off to Martinique. Keep him thinking that way.
‘There.’ Roman dumped the bags in the back seat, started up and pulled out. ‘Should keep you going for a while.’ He gave a brief glance in the rear-view mirror before joining the road. The front of the car and Venegas had been faced away; even if someone had paid heed to the news flash, Roman doubted they’d have noticed Venegas.
‘What did you get?’ Venegas asked.
‘Coffee, bread, some burgers, tuna, a few tins of salmon.’ Roman waved one hand theatrically and smiled. ‘You want fresh fish, just cut a hole in the ice and put a line down.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Venegas fired back only a half, sly smile, and Roman wasn’t sure whether Venegas was questioning that there were fish there, or the fact that Venegas the back-woodsman cut such an unlikely image. He reminded himself not to get testy. Keep Venegas relaxed.
‘Sure. Plenty of fish down there, winter and summer. Just cut a hole, smile down at ‘em, and they’re leaping up out at you already.’ Roman chuckled.
‘Yeah, sure.’ Venegas sounded unconvinced as he looked away, blandly surveying the passing scenery.
If that’s what it took, playing the oaf, thought Roman, then fine. Venegas was more relaxed than he’d seen him all journey. ‘A couple of summers ago, even Franky had a try and caught some fish. One look from him you think would scare them away. You know what we call him?’ Roman looked across. A sign flashed past:
Roman kept the banter up on and off for the next few miles, with Venegas providing the occasional comment and smile, and Roman felt his jaw start to ache with the effort of forcing a smile beyond the tension drawing his nerves increasingly taut as they got closer to Lake Shawinigan. Roman felt as if his nervous system was plugged in directly to every minute detail: the thrum of the wheels on the road, Venegas’s slow blink as he surveyed the snow-bound landscape, Venegas’s left hand moving up… past his jacket to rub his nose as he turned to Roman.
‘You’re going to a lot of trouble with all this for me?’ Venegas said.
With the silent lull after the chain of banter, Roman wondered whether Venegas had picked up on his tension. ‘Nooo… no problem.’ Roman pushed an easy smile and waved one hand from the wheel. ‘The fix you’re in is directly as a result of you doing something special for me. It’s down to me to put right, no question.’ He stared the message home, keen to re-assure Venegas; but he couldn’t discern any wariness in Venegas’s eyes. He looked back sharply to the road. The turn off for
He slowed, indicated — though no traffic was approaching and only a single car was just visible a quarter of a mile behind — and swung in, gripping the wheel firm to stop his hands from visibly shaking. A rough track, in the summer is was bumpy, but now thick snow had evened it out. No visible tyre tracks: nobody had been down here in recent hours.
‘Which cabin is it?’ Venegas asked.
Roman was thrown for a second. The one and only time he’d visited three years back it had been summer, the tree foliage thick; now foliage was sparse and the ice-bound lake and the cabins were visible through the trees. ‘Oh, uh… the third on the right,’ he made a guess. He remembered only it was on the right, but wasn’t sure between the third and fourth cabin. It hardly mattered: Venegas wouldn’t be making it that far.
The cabin was a friend of Frank Massenat’s and his one visit had been to thrash out a drugs deal with the head of the bikers, Roubilliard. He wouldn’t have risked bringing Venegas out to a Lacaille family cabin. But now following Venegas’s gaze towards the lake and the cabins, he saw something that worried him: what looked like smoke rising from the fifth cabin along
Roman swung in. ‘See… told you. Nobody around this time of year. You won’t see anyone now till end of April, May.’ But Roman was still wondering about that smoke, eager to get another glimpse. A line of fir trees bordered the edge of the car park and the first ten yards of pathway towards the lake; he’d have to wait until they walked past them.
Roman got out and swung open the back door. Venegas opened the other side and took out his kit back, but reaching in for the grocery bags Roman paused: with both hands full, he’d be at a distinct disadvantage, especially if Venegas carried his kit bag in his left hand with his gun hand free.
‘Something wrong?’ Venegas asked.
‘Uh… yeah.’ Roman quickly thought of how to even the balance. ‘Last time after a long break the padlock was all rusted — we couldn’t get the key in. We might need something to break it. Hold that for me, would yer?’ He handed one grocery bag to Venegas and put the other under his arm as he went around and opened the trunk. He just hoped Funicelli had a tyre lever, and after a bit of rustling around he found the tool bag tucked in on the left. He took out the lever and shut the trunk.
Roman’s breath showed heavy on the air as they paced away. His mouth was dry, his nerves racing uncontrollably. He could easily have pulled his gun on Venegas before grabbing the tyre lever, but still he needed to know about that smoke. He couldn’t risk it if someone was by the lake.
