snow brush. He handed it to Laurent.
“You do the snow and I’ll get it warmed up.”
Laurent took the brush and began clearing the snow off the car. It was light and came off without effort. He finished and got into the passenger side, throwing the brush onto the floor in the back.
“So. Denis Latulippe,” said Laurent.
“Yeah.”
“You think he was killed?”
“We’ll know that soon enough. Either that, or I gave him too much money and he went on a bender and blacked out in the snow.”
They drove back to headquarters in silence.
6 PM
Two men sat in comfortable armchairs watching flames in a wood stove lick through foot-long logs of maple. An invisible sound system filled the room with a Bach English Suite. The older man was carefully dressed for the country, like he had planned to look relaxed; a thick maroon cardigan over a checkered flannel shirt and brown corduroys, all new. His hair was dyed a youthful dark brown but failed to hide his age. The younger man looked out of place beside him in jeans and T-shirt, with a borrowed sweater draped over his shoulders.
The older man looked at the firelight playing on his companion’s face. “John, when was the last time you went to confession?”
“I couldn’t say. Years for sure.” He didn’t break his gaze on the burning logs, but his eyes became distant.
“It’s a powerful sacrament, John. It reaches deep into the soul.”
“I know. But a good confession takes two people. An understanding listener is essential and they’re hard to find. Hearing confessions is routine for most priests, the same sins repeated week after week. They stop listening. I mean really listening.”
“Yes, I know what you mean. That’s always a danger. We’re all human, and human sins tend to be an unimaginative repetition of human frailty. But a good priest learns to listen with his heart. The words aren’t important. It’s what’s behind them. You try to understand and provide comfort and hope, maybe even some guidance. It’s a heavy responsibility if it’s done properly.”
“Standing between God and man is a heavy responsibility.”
“You have to destroy your own ego to separate God’s message from your own. An old priest once told me you should be a pipeline, not a filter. Sometimes we manage it. Sometimes not. Our egos are strong and you must always ask the question:
“And how do you tell, Father? How do you know?”
“I don’t know, John. You can never know. You must keep testing yourself. One thing I do know is that certainty is a red flag. Only saints and charlatans are ever certain. I am neither, so I always wrestle with doubt.”
“Are you certain of that, Father?”
Father Michael Forlini smiled, “Well, I’m certain I’m not a saint. A charlatan? I hope not.”
Silence settled as they watched the fire. Outside, snow continued to fall in big flakes covering the woods in a thick blanket, silently covering the tracks of their arrival.
The cottage was simply furnished, but in the storm it had a womb-like quality. Two armchairs and a couch filled the small living space, and an intricately woven Persian carpet lay on dark, polished wooden floorboards. Apart from the murmured conversation and the almost imperceptible harpsichord, the only noise was the occasional burst of the refrigerator motor from the kitchen.
“So, what are we to do?”
The question went unanswered for a long time, both men staring at the flames.
“I have not sinned, Father. I have done God’s work.”
“So you believe, and if your belief is true, even if you are mistaken in that belief, then it is no sin.”
“Do you believe God speaks to you?”
“To me personally?”
“No. I mean that God does speak. To his people, if we have the courage to listen.”
“Yes, John. I believe that God does speak to his people, to all of us. The problem is we don’t listen. Too often, we hear only what we want to hear.”
“God has spoken to me. I believe, with my whole being, that God has spoken to me. I have that certainty that you spoke of. But I am not a saint, or a charlatan. I’ve struggled for years. I fought against it. I know all the arguments; that it’s human vanity, that I am delusional, that I am too unimportant. You cannot imagine how I resisted his voice. And then, one day, I came to the realization that it was wrong to refuse to listen.”
“My child, God speaks to us all, but our minds are fragile. We are unreliable.”
“That is why I resisted.”
“That’s good.
“But I didn’t give up. I didn’t cut him off. I examined what people were asking; good people, people with faith. When there was an answer to a sincere prayer, I became an instrument.”
“Ah.”
“I can stand before anyone and tell them that I have done only good. All that I have done is to provide answers to the sincere prayers of the faithful. That’s all.”
“I know, my child. But who would understand?”
“You’ll help me, Father?”
“Of course I will help you. I understand your faith. But you must promise me it has stopped. There are serious theological issues we must understand before you do anything else. These acts must stop.”
“I know that, Father.”
“Was Father Drouin’s death an answer to a prayer?”
Again, a long silence.
“He was going to interfere with God’s work. What he was going to do would have destroyed everything. It would have harmed the Church and it was against God’s wishes. Good Catholics have always done what is necessary to protect Mother Church.”
“The Church must be protected. And sometimes that involves very troubling decisions.”
“Isn’t it our most sacred duty? To protect the Church?”
“Scandal must be avoided. The world is full of evil people, always waiting for any opportunity to destroy us.”
“Father, I realize that it has gone too far. But I need help to know what to do, what is right. I need help. I need to understand what I am doing. I need the support of the Church.”
“You have our support and you can stay here as long as necessary. I will come and see you, bring all that you need. You must pray and study. Here is the perfect solitude. We need to understand this holy connection of yours. But John, this thing must stop.”
6 PM
The jarring ring of the cell phone in Vanier’s pocket forced a couple of the more aware drinkers to look up from their beers.
“Vanier.”
“Inspector, it’s Pascal Beaudoin. My daughter, Stephanie, she’s disappeared. You’ve got to do something.”
“What?”
“My daughter, Stephanie.”
“We’re in St. Sauveur. Stephanie came off the hills about an hour ago. One second she’s standing next to the ski runs. The next second she’s gone.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in 40 minutes, max,” said Vanier. “Wait for me.” Vanier folded his cell closed and
