“You owe me, Michel. Don’t forget.”
“Did I say no? I’m just saying, I have to keep my credibility. I won’t be any use to you if I lose my credibility, will I?”
“I want to know about Marcel Audet. He used to be with the Rock Machine. What do you hear about him now?”
Degrange’s eyes lit up. “Audet? I remember him. Bad fucker, like all of them Rock Machine bastards. Don’t know why they wanted to go up against the Hell. Never made sense. I don’t hear of him these days. Wasn’t he sent up for assault?”
“He’s been out for four months. Did three years.”
“He’s not a player. I didn’t even know he was around. Know what I mean?”
“Well, there’s $50 for good information, not bullshit. Who’s he working for? What’s he doing? And an address. An address would be very useful.”
“Well, Inspector, I can ask around. See what I can find out. But $50, that’s minimum wage.”
A couple was about to sit down, and Vanier gave them a look that sent them looking elsewhere.
“I want to know who he’s working for. See what you can find out.” Vanier dropped a twenty on the table and left. Degrange reached for it quickly, like it might disappear.
9 PM
Beaudoin clicked the lights off in the children’s rooms, slowly closing the doors, one after the other, and walked down the carpeted stairs. Caroline was sitting on the couch watching the hockey game on a muted television. Beaudoin sat on the chair opposite the couch. She didn’t look up, feigning interest in the game while she used the remote to raise the volume just enough to discourage conversation without disturbing the children. She didn’t react when the phone rang. Beaudoin got up.
“Hello.”
…
“Yes, sir, I know.”
…
“Mr. Henderson, the regulations say that the notice has to give a clear explanation of the business to be conducted at the meeting. If it’s not clear, anything done at the meeting can be challenged later on the basis of an invalid notice.” Beaudoin walked into the kitchen with the cordless phone pressed to his ear.
“I know that, sir. It’s a delicate balance. But you have to protect yourself from future challenges. There’s no point of winning a vote if it’s overturned by the courts.”
…
“Yes, sir. I’ll do what I can. Obtuse, I’ll aim for obtuse, as you say.”
…
“Tomorrow. I’ll have a redraft ready for you tomorrow.”
He walked back into the living room, dropped the phone into its cradle, and sat down heavily on the chair.
“Caroline. We need to talk.”
The most feared words of any relationship. She didn’t say anything.
“This is not where I wanted to be. I thought I could do something, achieve something.”
She continued watching the screen.
“I’m ashamed of who I am, Caroline. I don’t like me. I don’t like what I’ve become.”
She pushed the mute button. “And you think it’s my fault?” she replied, looking at him for the first time.
“No, I don’t think it’s your fault. But you’ve noticed?”
“Pascal, I love you, but you weren’t made for this. You weren’t made for compromise. And that seems to be all you do these days. And the compromises are killing you. You used to believe in things, and now it’s just about earning money.”
“I don’t have the luxury to be an idealist, Caroline. We have two kids. They need a good home.”
“They need a father more. They need a father they can look up to. I married you because of what you were, a caring person with principles. Pascal, look at you. Any time Henderson calls, you jump. You’d do anything he asks.”
“That’s what I mean, Caroline. I think I’ve reached the end.”
Beaudoin explained the whole story. And his wife listened to the boy she had married years ago and hadn’t seen in years. Was the person she married really coming back? She didn’t know what to think, but she knew that if he was, she didn’t want to lose him again. They made plans. How life would be. How life didn’t have to be a series of compromises. She told him she didn’t need the big house, didn’t need the chalet up north, she needed him. And the kids needed him.
9.30 PM
Vanier poured the amber liquid over two ice cubes and swirled it around before sitting down in front of the pile of Prayer Cards that weren’t even cards, but recycled scraps cut from sheets that had been used to print the Cathedral’s newsletter, a sign of Mother Church’s schizophrenia. The Church wallows in opulence one moment and is as parsimonious as a Scottish pauper the next. No expense is spared on costumes and props for the theatrics, and the trust funds are nurtured with a mother’s concern, but messages to the saints must be scribbled on used scraps of paper, and the pious must pay for the candles burned in offerings.
Each rectangle of paper was dated in the top left-hand corner and had a hand-written note on one side. Printed scraps of unintelligible information from the newsletter filled the other. Most started with a variant of
Vanier sipped on his Jameson and began to read:
He counted them. There were 131 in all. He arranged them in chronological order. The earliest prayer was nine months ago, looking for a miracle to conquer inoperable cancer. The most recent was signed December 23. It read:
He grouped them by subject: financial, matrimonial, medical, and a single rectangle praying for scholastic achievement. He tried to order them by the colour of the ink, and quickly realized that Drouin had probably supplied a cheap blue Biro along with the papers. Sometimes a prayer would set him back.
It was signed with two crosses, symbols of sacrifice. Vanier knew where that prayer had come from. He had often prayed something similar for his mother while pretending to be asleep when his father came home drunk and angry. He had prayed it in army bases across Canada, and his prayers were answered a couple of times when his father was shipped overseas. But no sooner were they answered than his mother would lead an assault on the saints pleading for his safe return.
He refilled his glass and started again. This time he laid them all out on the table and stood up for a bird’s eye view. In a moment he saw it. He sat down and began selecting the squares that had names on them. Ten of them had first and second names, and each one was signed with an A. Each was a plea for a peaceful death, for an end to pain. They formed a single prayer mosaic. Five of the slips of paper had names he knew:
