Barely audible,
Even without the elaborate cue, Elena knew what was coming. She closed her eyes, surrendering the last faint light of the chine as the cloud washed deeper, making her temples ache. And Lorena was no longer with her, but back at her bedroom window looking out over a grey, misty sea: lost, forlorn. Elena’s legs were suddenly unsteady, and she felt herself sway slightly in the self-imposed darkness, nausea rising.
Elena felt the last vestiges of hope fall away. She wanted to reach out to Lorena, explain
Edelston’s expression was challenging, one eyebrow sharply arched. ‘So… no ulterior motive, you claim?’
Elena didn’t respond; she just looked down, embarrassed, as on tape Nadine pushed the idea of assessment to Lorena. Their position was untenable, no possible footholds from which they could bounce back. Ryall had won the day. There was nothing more they could say that would save Lorena from his grip. And from now she’d never even get close to knowing what went on beyond his high gates: she’d be lucky if she ever got to see Lorena again.
Roman slotted in the cassette tape.
He hadn’t got a chance to play the tape earlier with all the panic with Venegas, and only remembered now as he hit the freeway fourteen miles south of Lac Shawinigan. He’d planned originally to dump Venegas’s kit bag in a rubbish tip in Lavalle, but then became anxious about carrying it all the way back to the city: what if the RCs had worked out the car switch and he was stopped on the way? In the end he ran back from the shore and threw the kit bag through the ice hole.
His nerves were still racing now with it all, his hand shaking as he fed in the cassette. The voices were indistinct at first, could barely be heard above the engine and the thrum of the wheels. He turned it up a bit, then realized it was just the rustling of the bedsheets and Donatiens mumbling. He picked out only
Funicelli had told him that the worrying part came just after Donatiens broke out of his dream. Nothing significant so far. He started to get impatient listening through their banter about Terri Hatcher and Roseanne and Simone’s comments about her father, and he was about to wind the tape further on when the words hit:
Roman’s hand pulled back again, his shake now more pronounced. He realized that he’d swayed slightly from his lane as an overtaking truck blasted its air-horn from behind. He straightened up.
With the sound of rustling sheets and kissing, Roman stopped the tape and hastily re-wound. Funicelli was right to have alerted him, but it wasn’t Donatiens talking about that night with Leduc that was most worrying — it was what
It was all there in the silence between the words: Donatiens was about to tell Simone, then suddenly had a change of heart.
Roman stopped, re-wound, played it again, honing in keener on the silence in between: a siren wailed its way through the city in the background, a faint rustle of sheets… but Roman was tuned in solely to what Donatiens thoughts might have been in those few seconds.
He replayed the section again twice straightaway, then once more just as he hit the outskirts of Montreal. There remained little doubt: Donatiens had been only a second away from telling all. He’d been lucky this time, but what about next time and the time after that?
A weak, hazy afternoon sun flickered through the stanchions of the Anuntsic bridge as he crossed, picking out a faint film of sweat on his forehead. The burden of that night obviously weighed heavy on Donatiens, and at some stage he was bound to break. The problem was that ‘accidents’ had run their course, and he couldn’t get near making a move on Donatiens without Jean-Paul’s consent. How in hell was he going to convince Jean-Paul that his golden boy needed to be taken out?
Georges closed his eyes as he imagined Savard being thrown from the building, sailing free… but hadn’t newscasts said that Savard was shot? Maybe it was one of those cases of the police withholding information so that they knew when they had the right suspect. A soft thud came a second later, followed by another voice.
Chenouda was staring at him keenly. Chenouda’s eyes had hardly left him throughout, but there were selected moments of the tape playing, like now, when he pressed home a special message:
They’d locked horns earlier when it came over on tape that Roman’s BMW had pulled up only a moment after the van with Savard had sped off, and Chenouda had pushed the significance.
‘See. Clever. He shows up late, knowing that it would already have gone down — and has the cheek to hold his arms up in a “where is he?” gesture. He knows he’s on camera, so at the same time he gets an automatic alibi.’
Georges protested that just because Roman was there didn’t necessarily mean he had anything to do with Savard’s murder.
‘Then tell me: who else knew about the meet to be able to set up a bushwhack like this?’
Georges didn’t have any ready answers, and fell silent again through the rest of the tape. The sirens, the tension of the chase, the voices bouncing back and forth between Savard’s abductors and the police network, within minutes had Georges’ nerves ragged. He tried to keep a poker face throughout, not let his emotions be too transparent, but it was difficult. The ruse of Savard being thrown from a high building was frightening beyond belief, and now the clawing tension towards the finale: Savard’s abductors discussing whether or not to move Savard before finally deciding to do it there. Then the ominously expectant, time-frozen silence with the guns being taken out, with Georges suddenly aware of every small sound of the squad room: Chenouda’s shallow breathing, his partner, Maury, scratching a doodle lightly on a pad, a clock ticking on the far wall. As the two shots finally came with Chenouda’s scream of ‘Noooo!’, Georges physically jolted.