Monday Mourning

I rolled my eyes.

“That’s it.” Ryan’s hand moved to restart the engine.

“All right,” I said, pulling on my mittens. “I’ll obey orders. Sir.”

“No nonsense. This is dangerous work.”

Ryan and I got out and quietly closed our doors.

Overnight the weather had changed. The air felt moist and icy, and heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky.

Seeing us, the stable dog started in. Otherwise, there wasn’t a sign of life on de Sebastopol. No kids sticking pucks. No housewives hauling groceries. No pensioners gossiping on balconies or stoops.

Typical Montreal winter day. Stay indoors, stay in the metro, stay underground. Hunker in and remain sane until spring. The barking sounded all the louder in the overall stillness.

Ryan and I angled across the street. As we approached the Impala, the dynamic duo got out.

Claudel was wearing a tan cashmere overcoat. Charbonneau was in a big shaggy jacket, the composition of which I couldn’t have guessed.

We exchanged nods.

“What’s the plan?” Ryan asked in English.

Claudel spread his feet. Charbonneau leaned his fanny on the Impala.

“One unit will stay here.” Claudel jerked a thumb toward the cruiser at the far end of the block. “I’ll send the other around to de la Congregation.”

Charbonneau unzipped his parka, shoved his hands in his pockets, jiggled his change.

“Michel’s going to take the back door.”

A walkie-talkie screeched from Charbonneau’s hip. Reaching back, he fiddled with a button.

Claudel’s eyes flicked to me, back to Ryan.

“Brennan knows what to do,” Ryan said.

Claudel’s lips thinned, but he said nothing.

“We’ll show Menard the judge’s Christmas greeting, order him to sit, then toss the place.”

Charbonneau rested a hand on his gun butt. “Wouldn’t ruin my holiday if this pogue decided to pull a Schwarzenegger.”

“All set?” Claudel slipped a two-way from his waistband, rebuttoned his coat.

Nods around.

“Allons-y,” Claudel said.

“Let’s go,” his partner echoed.

Pushing off the Impala, Charbonneau strode toward the far end of de Sebastopol. He spoke to the driver, then the cruiser disappeared around the corner. Charbonneau reversed direction and cut diagonally across the vacant lot.

Thirty seconds later, Charbonneau’s voice came across Claudel’s walkie-talkie. He was at Menard’s back door.

Claudel waved a “come on” to the other team of uniforms.

As we picked our way up the icy walk, Claudel in the lead, Ryan and I following, the second cruiser slid to the curb behind us.

Stumbling along, I felt the same formless dread I’d felt on Friday. Heightened. My heart was now thumping like a conga drum.

At the turn, Claudel stopped and spoke into his walkie-talkie.

I stared at Menard’s house, wondering what it had been like when the real Menard’s grandparents, the Corneaus, owned it. The place was so dark, so menacing. It was hard to imagine chicken being fried, baseball being watched, or kittens chasing balls in its gloomy interior.

Claudel’s radio sputtered. Charbonneau was in position.

We stepped onto the stoop. Ryan twisted the brass knob. The bell shrilled as it had on Friday.

A full minute passed with no response.

Ryan twisted again.

I thought I heard movement inside. Ryan tensed, and one hand drifted toward his Glock.

Claudel unbuttoned his coat.

Still no one appeared.

Ryan twisted the bell a third time.

Absolute stillness.

Ryan pounded on the door.