The Dead of Winter

10.30 PM

The small room was lit by two flickering candles that cast their light upwards to a crucifix holding the tortured body of Christ in eternal pain. A figure knelt before the crucifix at a wooden prayer desk, his head bowed into his hands, rosary beads entwined around his thick fingers.

“Dear Lord, I have sought to do only your bidding. With your grace and love, I have done what you have asked of me. I have helped your chosen ones join you in eternal life. I have joined with you in this sacred task. But it is difficult, Lord. I’m weak and need your help. My faith falters, and I need your hand to reach out and touch me. I’m afraid and I need your strength. Restore my soul. Strengthen my conviction. Help me overcome these human frailties and proceed with your work. Lord, I know you have called me. Please understand that I am not rejecting that calling. Just give me the strength that I need.

“You were right. They did not suffer. They left all suffering behind as they joined you in paradise. And they are blessed. How I long for my own time to be with you, to be united with you in your eternal love. As your chosen disciple here on earth, this should be a joyous time for me, but I’m filled with fear and doubt.

“Give me the gift of faith. Give me a sign. Even you, my Lord, even you in your darkest moments asked for help. Remember, in the Garden of Gethsemane, as you waited for the Romans to come to bring you to your death, you asked your Father: if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; yet not as I will, but as Thou wilt. Dear Lord, it was God’s will that you drink deeply from that cup of human suffering, that you sacrifice yourself for us. But your Father did not desert you: and there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. Lord, you who were once a man. You who walked this earth as a man know how weak I am. I am only a man and I am nothing without you. So I beseech you, my Lord and Saviour, help me to be strong.

“There are more, Lord, and I am testing them to see if they are ready. But there are also obstacles to our mission. There are those who would stop me. If your mission is sacred, how far must I go to protect its fulfillment? I need your guidance.”

EIGHT

DECEMBER 30

11 AM

Vladimir Markov was sitting alone in a booth in a nondescript cafe on Notre Dame staring at the door and talking on his cell phone. Romanenko was sitting at the counter behind him nursing a coffee. The waitress and cook, the only staff in the place, were taking advantage of the holiday quiet and the absence of the owner by drinking surreptitious shots of cognac in the kitchen.

“Yeah, OK. You did great to get the shit out on bail. What do you want me to say? I’m paying you enough that I don’t have to say thanks. And, frankly, Audet can rot in prison for all I care. But I want this whole thing closed down, you hear me?” said Markov. Then he listened, keeping his eye on the door.

“Whatever. I don’t give a shit about excuses. I just want this problem to go away as fast as possible. Do whatever you have to do. If Audet has to plead guilty, that’s his problem. If that’s what it takes, he’ll plead guilty. Gotta go. Just get it done.” Markov clicked the phone off and watched the door as Marcel Audet walked in, all attitude, like he owned the place. He walked over to Markov’s booth and eased himself in.

Audet was smiling. “Hey, thanks for the lawyer, Mr. M. He got me out this morning on a promise to keep the peace.”

Markov didn’t respond. The waitress walked over and opened a notepad, pen in hand.

“Get you something?”

“You have a menu?” asked Audet

“He’ll have a coffee. He’s not staying,” said Markov.

The waitress left and came back with a pot of coffee, a cup and a saucer. She poured the coffee, pulled two creamers out of the pocket of her nylon one-piece, and dropped them on the table.

Markov waited for her to leave and said, “I told you. I wanted things kept quiet.”

“Listen, Mr. M. I haven’t done anything to mess things up.”

“Loan sharking? Money laundering? The way I hear it, you’ve been running a fucking bank down there.”

“So, I helped some people out, that’s all. Nothing criminal. I didn’t even make much money out of it.”

“People connected to me gave you the job. And that means I’m connected to you and your fucking schemes. I got a visit from some fucking cop yesterday afternoon who already made the connection.”

“Look, like I said, it’s not a big deal. I helped people out, that’s all.”

“You’re in trouble, asshole. And that means I have to waste my time thinking about problems you’ve created.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll all blow over. It’s just that the police are all over the place with these murders. They’re jumping on everyone.”

“That’s what I mean. You think our deal can go through when everyone and their mother are worrying about the fucking homeless? And now the police connect you and me.”

“Well, I can see that it creates problems. But what can I do? I’m here to help you, Mr. Markov. You know that.”

“First, your private banking scheme is over. Whatever money you took, you give back. And get receipts. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Markov.” Audet was beginning to sweat.

“Second, who the fuck is the sick bastard killing these people? I want you to find out, and get to him before the police do. If the police find him, this story stays in the papers for the next two years while he goes to trial, and every bloody politician and friend of the poor will be wringing their hands over the plight of the homeless. I don’t want the homeless in the newspapers for the next two years. We need to shut him down.”

“Well, I suppose I can ask around.”

“Listen asshole. You’re the one slumming around with these scumbags. Someone must know him. Get rid of this guy, and the press will move on in two weeks. Soon as you deal with him, things will settle down. Not before. You need to do your civic duty with this maniac. Do you understand?”

Audet looked into Markov’s eyes and understood perfectly.

“Yes.”

Markov looked over his shoulder. Romanenko appeared at the table and dropped his hand heavily on Audet’s shoulders.

“So, the chat’s over, Mr. Markov?” said Romanenko.

“Yeah, it’s over,” said Markov.

“And Mr. Audet is leaving?” he said, pulling Audet to a standing position in the booth.

“Yeah, he’s leaving.”

Audet struggled out of the booth with Romanenko’s hand still gripping his shoulder.

“I understand, Mr. Markov. I understand.”

“Good, now, get the fuck out of here. And listen. I can’t take any more fuck-ups. You’re on very thin ice, my friend.”

11.30 AM

In the still of the empty Cathedral, Fr. Henri Drouin sat on a straight-backed chair in St. Jude’s Crypt, his rosary beads swinging almost imperceptibly as he fingered each prayer marker. It was one of his favourite times: after morning services but before the lunchtime show. In the old days people would always be dropping in for quiet prayers, but it hardly ever happened these days. Drouin sensed a presence in the stillness before he heard the shuffling feet. He turned to see a man approaching in a long black winter coat. Snow was still visible on his shoulders and hair, and Drouin smiled gently.

“John, thank you for coming.”

The man approached the chair and stood over Drouin.

“I was worried, Father Henri. You sounded concerned.”