The Dead of Winter

That the tormented suffering of Joe Yeoman be soon over and that he join his Holy Father in everlasting life.

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For Edith Latendresse, that her inhuman suffering may end peacefully.

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That the Lord welcome Celine Plante into His arms. A spirit too beautiful for this world.

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Dear St. Jude.

Your servant George Morissette has suffered enough. Give him release. Allow him to escape his suffering and join you in everlasting life.

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For Pierre Brun, during his last days on earth. May his pain be short and the joy of everlasting life be his.

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That left five cards in the pile with names. Vanier read the remaining cards.

For Antonio Di Pasquale, ease his suffering and make his transition peaceful.

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Mary Gallagher’s time is coming soon. Accept her into your arms Lord, and test her no more.

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Duane Thatcher, a young man who will never know middle age deserves your intervention to ease his pain. Let him not suffer any more. Settle his mind and give him peace.

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For Denis Latulippe, may fate — and this world — be kind to him in his last days.

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My fellow man, Gaetan Paquin, deserves better. He has been sorely tried by life’s hardships and continues to struggle to overcome them. May his final days be free of pain. And may he finally realize your love.

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He stared at the five new names, wondering who they were, or even if they were still alive. He picked up the phone and punched the speed-dial. It picked up on the third ring.

“St. Jacques.”

“Sylvie, it’s me.” He could hear ABBA playing in the background. “ABBA?”

“It’s a documentary on TV, sir. I was surfing the channels.”

“I wouldn’t have put you down as an ABBA fan.”

“I’m not. Like I said, I was surfing. But I’m sure you didn’t call to discuss my musical tastes.”

“You’re right. But we’ll pick up on this later. You were looking into the typical number of homeless deaths in a year, right?”

“Right. But nobody keeps numbers. All we have are estimates and they vary like crazy.”

“And?”

“Well, the Coroner’s office says there are about ten to fifteen a year. But GimmeShelter, a group that lobbies for the homeless, says the number’s closer to 40. Seems to be a question of definition.”

“So that’s not going anywhere. Could you check some specific names with your contacts? I need to know if they’re alive or dead. They could be on Santa’s list.” Vanier explained about the prayer cards and gave her the five names. “And I think we should go and see the priest first thing in the morning.”

“The priest? Drouin?”

“Yeah. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Ok, sir. I’ll see you then.”

“Oh, and by the way.”

“Sir?”

“I love ABBA. Enjoy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Vanier flipped through the channels looking for the ABBA documentary but there wasn’t one. Maybe she has satellite, he thought, and pulled out their Greatest Hits CD and put it on. Then he started sorting through the piles of newspapers and magazines that lay in the hallway waiting for recycling. They had been waiting for months. He pulled an old copy of the Journal de Montreal from the pile and went to the table; he only bought the newspaper when there was something of interest in it — which was rarely. The front page carried a large photograph of Vanier walking into police headquarters, guiding a handcuffed piece of shit with his hooded jacket pulled over his head. There was also a small photograph of Carole Thibodeau that the piece of shit had raped and strangled two days before. Vanier turned to the classified ads in the back pages and found what he was looking for: two columns of small ads thanking St. Jude for his intervention, often with a small photo of the man himself. The deal was, if St. Jude answered your prayers, you had to publish your thanks, and the Journal de Montreal gave them a special place every day. St. Jude had been busy, Vanier counted fifteen separate ads. All were more or less the same, no details of the answered prayers, just a standard thanks for intervention.

SEVEN

DECEMBER 29

8.30 PM

Vanier and St. Jacques were sitting in a pew close to the back, waiting for Drouin to finish his eight o’clock Mass. When it ended, they followed him and two altar boys through the side door and into the sacristy. The boys bowed with the priest towards the crucifix on the wall and then went off-duty, dashing on either side of the two officers as though they were avoiding furniture, trying their best not to break into a sprint in their rush to get out of the room and back into their street clothes. Drouin stood in his mass regalia and tried a wan smile.

“What can I do for you, Inspector?”

“I’ve looked through your cards, Father.”

“My cards? They’re not my cards. I don’t own them. They are simply the prayers of the faithful.”

“Did you know that all five of the victims are named in your prayer cards?”

Drouin’s face lost what little colour it had, and he stared at Vanier, as though willing him to say more. Vanier looked back. Drouin turned to St. Jacques and saw he wouldn’t get anything better from her.

“I’d thought about that. I don’t remember all of the cards, there are so many. But I recalled praying for some of the victims.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“It didn’t seem important.” Drouin removed the stole, absentmindedly kissed its cross and hung it on a wooden valet.

“The prayers call for their release from suffering. Could that have been a message? Could someone have acted on it?” said Vanier.

“You think that someone in our group took it upon themselves to ensure that our prayers were answered? That can’t be true. It must be a coincidence, Inspector.”

The priest reached down and grabbed the hem of his white and gold chasuble, pulling it up over his head and draping it carefully over the valet. He turned back to them standing in his white alb, a symbol of purity.

“This is the Church. Human life, all human life, is sacred. You must know that, Inspector. It is inconceivable that any Catholic would do such a thing. Inconceivable.”

“So you think it’s a coincidence that your group has prayed for five people in the last few weeks and now