assuming authority they hadn’t exercised in years. He rose slowly in disbelief. Markov and Romanenko had already left. There was nothing to do. Casting one last look at Beaudoin, he pulled the door open and left.
SIXTEEN
MARCH 25
Winter doesn’t end suddenly in Montreal; it withdraws slowly, in sullen resentment, like Napoleon’s army from Moscow. Day after day the temperature struggles to climb above freezing for a few hours around noon and quickly falls back in the late afternoon, leaving tiny rivulets of water to become icy traps for the unwary. The snow that fell weightlessly during innumerable snowstorms is packed tight in stubborn boulders of dirty ice grudgingly giving up their bulk to springtime, revealing the filthy detritus that has accumulated in the cold months: dog shit, torn plastic bags, newspapers, Styrofoam cups, meal trays, pizza boxes, and thousands of cigarette butts. Impatient citizens torment the withdrawing army with picks and shovels, breaking up the rock-hard ice and spreading it to accelerate its disappearance. The cycle of thaw and refreeze continues for weeks until finally the city is liberated, and Montrealers spill out of their winter caverns, and occupy every open space. Terraces and park benches fill up and the streets teem with the survivors of a long siege.
In the Turcot Yard, where the city’s snow is piled into dirty grey mountains, the melt is glacier slow and the land only returns to flat in late June. Such is the power of winter that the Stanley Cup is only awarded as the last evidence of winter disappears.
Vanier had watched the slow progression to spring. He had been present when they chipped Mary Gallagher from the river-ice that had held her for months and he had watched as Dr. Segal cut into the long-dead corpse to establish the cause of death. It didn’t take long to establish that she died just as the others had.
6 PM
The six o’clock Mass was starting, and Vanier was kneeling in a pew at the back of the Cathedral, his head bowed. When he saw Monsignor Forlini take his place in front of the altar, he got up and made for the door, listening to the droning voice over the loud speaker.
Vanier was outside before the response finished. He knew Forlini would be busy with the faithful for at least an hour. He was in Morin Heights in an hour and a half. This time the lights didn’t go on as he drove into the clearing before the chalet; he had pulled the wires out on his last visit. It didn’t make much of a difference. The whole area was bathed in the bright moonlight reflecting off the snow that still lay several feet thick. Vanier shut the motor and looked around. He had been inside the chalet three times since January and found nothing, amazed that Monsignor Forlini could leave so little trace of who he was.
With the motor shut off, it was getting cold fast inside the car. Vanier opened the door and stepped out, not sure what he was looking for. He walked the perimeter of the chalet, keeping close to the wall, where the snow hardly reached. He completed a full circle of the chalet, and then struck out through the thick snow towards a large wooden shed about 30 feet from the back door of the chalet. Just like the other times, he was leaving obvious tracks, but he had given up worrying about it. The door to the shed was locked with a shiny padlock from Vaillancourt. Two weeks ago, Vanier had stopped at the store and bought the same kind of lock, but the key that came with it didn’t fit the Monsignor’s lock. This time he was prepared. He took a crowbar from his overcoat pocket and inserted the business end between the wood and the metal plate, easily forcing the screws out from the old wooden door. He wouldn’t be able to replace the plate properly, but he didn’t care.
He pulled the door of the shed back and shone a torch around in the blackness. There was nothing but fireplace-sized logs, carefully stacked up against each wall, and a long woodcutter’s axe leaning against the wall. He flicked the torch off and pulled the door closed, slipping the screws back into place.
Outside, he looked to the woods beyond the shed. The area around the chalet was clear for about twenty feet, and then the trees formed a dark wall. But he could make out a narrow gap where the trees and underbrush seemed to part, as if it was an entrance into the woods. He struggled through the snow towards the gap in the trees. Up close, he could imagine a path that had been worn over years. He followed it through the trees and came to a clearing about 100 feet from the house, where trees formed a rough circle. Vanier scanned the clearing, trying to imagine what it might look without a blanket of snow. Snow, like water, finds its level, but unlike water it reflects the surface below. There was a Quebec artist known for placing buckets and boxes on otherwise flat land in the autumn. When winter came, his random junk would become erotic snowscapes as falling snow accumulated and formed undulating mounds that unmistakably defined naked women lying beneath a white blanket.
He immediately noticed the snow was raised in a smaller circle that looked like it could be a fire pit in the summer. Next to it was what might be a bench where the snow sat high over the ground. Then he saw it, a pronounced ridge in the snow that didn’t speak of a campfire clearing in the woods. It was out of place. He moved towards the pile and started to brush the fresh snow aside with his foot. There was crusted ice under the fresh snow, and he kicked at it, digging with the toe and heel of his boot, forcing it to give way. He quickly exposed a piece of blue tarpaulin. He grabbed an edge and pulled, straining to release it from the ice. When it finally gave and lifted he was staring at John Collins, frozen stiff, unburied and waiting for a better life. He was tempted to dig him out of his icy grave and drag the frozen corpse to his car for the drive back to his mother in Montreal. Instead, he turned to leave, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and pushing the on button. He kept walking as he waited for it to find a signal. He pushed Laurent’s number as he cleared the woods, but lost the signal.
He retraced his tracks back through the wood, and as he passed the woodshed, he heard a whoosh. He turned his face to the noise just in time to see the baseball bat swinging into it. He ducked instinctively but not quickly enough, taking the blow to his left temple. His knees buckled and his body fell to the floor.
When he regained consciousness, his back was freezing, and snow was melting in his neck. He slowly realized that he was being dragged by his arms through the snow. The snow riding down his back made him vaguely uncomfortable, but he wasn’t in pain, and the moon looked beautiful. He kept still, allowing whoever was dragging him to think he was still unconscious as he watched the tops of the passing trees. He could hear heavy breathing, almost grunting, from the person who had a tight grip of his wrists. Eventually, the dragging stopped and his arms dropped, falling with a light thump in the snow. He was wet and freezing and realized that he had to fight back, but lying quietly on his back in the snow seemed so comfortable. He felt the warm blood trickling down over his eye and tried to make a plan. He sensed movement and saw a giant black figure standing over him, arms raised with something like an axe in his hands. The figure started the downward blow and with an effort that seemed to materialize from nowhere, Vanier twisted out of the way of the descending axe. He heard it dig into the snow where his face had been. He had no idea what his second move would be.
It didn’t matter. There was a blinding white light, and Vanier looked up to see the axe hanging motionless as the black figure wielding it turned his head to the light.
“Drop it.”
Vanier blinked and then someone was holding a gun to the axe-man’s head, and the axe was dropped softly to the snow. The last thing Vanier saw before he closed his eyes was the axe-man on his knees in the snow, his head bowed as though in prayer.
Laurent kept his gun trained on Monsignor Forlini and felt for a pulse on Vanier’s neck. Vanier opened his eyes and looked at Laurent. He wanted to say something, but he just smiled and decided that he could let go and relax in the snow. He didn’t notice how cold he was becoming. He just kept shivering.
SEVENTEEN
MARCH 20
2 PM
Vanier was lying in a bed in the emergency room of the hospital in St. Jerome, in stable condition. He was still in the emergency ward because there wasn’t a bed available anywhere else. Laurent and St. Jacques were
