Grave Secrets

“How the hell should I know? Probably hung around outside my house.”

“And followed you to Tim Hortons.”

“Isn’t that how you found me?”

“Had you seen him before tonight?”

“We’ve been meeting secretly under the bleachers.”

“Chantale?”

“No.”

“What else did he ask about?”

She didn’t answer.

“Chantale?”

The ambassador’s daughter looked up, anger crimping her features into a cold, hard version of the little-girl face in the embassy photo.

“My father,” she said in a tremulous voice. “My famous, brainfucking, goddamn father. It’s not about me. It’s never about me.”

Chantale reached into an embroidered bag slung diagonally across her chest, removed dark glasses, and slid them on. A distorted version of my face jumped onto each lens, two fun-house Tempes, each wearing the same confused look.

Ryan tossed two looneys on the bar.

“Your mother is worried. We can talk tomorrow.”

Chantale allowed herself to be escorted out of the restaurant, down the escalator, and through the lobby. As we were approaching the glass doors leading to Ste-Catherine, Ryan caught my eye and gestured at the SAQ wineshop. Ollie Nordstern stood near the entrance, ostensibly studying a selection of French Chardonnays.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“A job with the CIA is definitely not in this guy’s future. Let’s see if he follows us.”

Ryan and I hurried Chantale out the door and around the corner. She did one of her eye rolls, but said nothing.

Nordstern stepped onto the sidewalk twenty seconds behind us, looked around, and began hurrying west. At Atwater he reversed direction and doubled back.

I watched him stop at Lambert-Closse, look left toward the mountain, right toward Cabot Square. My eyes moved with his, then went past him across the intersection. It was then I saw the man in the baseball cap. He was walking toward Nordstern, a Luger nine-millimeter angling from his waistband.

What followed were ninety kaleidoscoping seconds that felt like a triple eternity.

“Ryan!” I indicated the gunman.

Ryan drew his gun. I pushed Chantale to her knees, crouched beside her.

“Police!” Ryan bellowed. “Everybody down! Par terre!”

The gunman drew to within five feet, extended his arm, and leveled his nine-millimeter at Nordstern’s chest.

A woman screamed

“Gun! Arme a feu! ” The words rolled down Ste-Catherine like a balloon being bandied at a football game.

Another scream.

Two explosions ripped the air. Nordstern flew backward, a pair of red blossoms darkening his shirt.

There were maybe fifteen people on the street. Most dropped to their knees. Others scrambled to get into the Forum. A man grabbed a child, wrapped himself around her like an armadillo. Her muffled crying added to the pandemonium.

Cars pulled to the curb. Others sped up. The intersection emptied.

The shooter stood with legs spread, knees slightly bent, sweeping his Luger in wide arcs in front of him. Left to right. Right to left. He was about fifteen feet from me, but I could hear his breath, see his eyes under the navy- blue brim.

Ryan was crouched behind a taxi parked on Lambert-Closse, gun aimed at the shooter with a two-handed grip. I hadn’t seen him move from my side.

“Arretez! Freeze!”

A dark barrel swung around and sighted on Ryan’s head. The shooter’s finger twitched against the trigger. I held my breath. Ryan hadn’t shot for fear of wounding an innocent bystander. The shooter might have no such compunction.

“Drop your weapon! Mettez votre arme par terre! ” Ryan shouted.

The shooter’s face registered nothing.

One block over, a car horn sounded. Above me, the traffic signal clicked from green to yellow.

Ryan repeated his command.