“None of your business,” said Ruth.
“I bet it is my business,” muttered Myrna as she put her boots on.
At the door the two women embraced and Myrna offered to walk Ruth home.
“We’ll see her home,” said Olivier.
Out of the darkness, just as she closed the door against the biting cold, Clara heard Gabri say, “Oh look. An ice floe. Come on, Ruth. It has your name on it.”
“Fag.”
“Hag.”
And a sleepy, soft “Fuck, fuck, fuck” as the door closed.
Armand greeted them at the door.
“Have fun?”
“Ruth was there,” said Jean-Guy.
Armand smiled. Understanding.
“You’ve probably already eaten,” said Reine-Marie. “But in case you’re still hungry.”
She offered him the container.
“Oh you savior. I’m starving.” Armand kissed his wife and took the container into the kitchen.
“Did you manage to translate the email?” Jean-Guy asked.
“Yes, I think so. At least the gist of it.”
“Which was?”
Armand was about to tell him but could see that Annie was waiting for her husband to join her.
“I’ll tell you in the morning. Do you mind if I drive into Montréal with you?”
It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but, to his surprise, Jean-Guy hesitated.
“I don’t have to,” said Armand. “I’m sure someone else—”
“Non, non, of course I’ll drive you. It’s just that I’m not coming back out, and I have an early meeting. We’ll have to leave here early.”
“I can drive you in, sir,” said Benedict. He’d had his head in the fridge and now came out with pie. “If you don’t mind my using your car. I really need fresh clothes and should check on the apartment building. Then I can drive you back out. My truck might be ready by then.”
“That would be perfect,” said Armand. “Merci.”
“Why’re you going in?” asked Reine-Marie.
“I’m having lunch with Stephen Horowitz.” He turned to Jean-Guy. “Horowitz Investments.”
Jean-Guy nodded. Hugo Baumgartner’s firm.
Annie and Jean-Guy said their good-nights, and Benedict took a huge slice of pie and a glass of milk to his room.
“Anthony Baumgartner must’ve been an interesting man,” said Reine-Marie as the leftover coq au vin warmed up.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, because Jean-Guy told us that he had Clara’s painting in his study.”
“Yes. Quite unexpected.”
Armand thought about the email he’d spent the evening translating.
Like the painting, it was infused with bitterness. But there was also hope. Though a different kind from the one in Clara’s painting.
This was hope of revenge. Of retribution. It reeked of greed. And delusion. And profound optimism that something horrible would happen to someone else.
And it had.
Hope itself wasn’t necessarily kind. Or a good thing.
Armand wondered what Baumgartner saw when he stood in front of the painting and looked into the eyes of the Virgin.
Did he see redemption or permission to be bitter?
Maybe, in that face, he saw his own mother. Glaring down at him.
In all her madness and delusion, disappointment and entitlement.
Maybe he saw what happens when false hope is spread over generations.
Maybe that’s why he liked it.
Maybe he saw himself.
“You go to bed,” he said to Reine-Marie. “I’ll be along soon. Still have a little work to do.”
“So late?”
“Well, Honoré wanted to watch the second Terminator movie, and then we visited the casino, so there wasn’t much time to work.”
“You’re a silly, silly man,” she said, kissing him. Her thumb traced the deep furrow of scar at his temple. “Don’t be late.”
She took her tea with her but left behind the delicate scent of chamomile and old garden roses, mingled with the rich, earthy aroma of coq au vin. Armand stood in the kitchen and closed his eyes. Then, opening them again, he headed to his study.
Henri and Gracie followed and curled up under the desk. Armand put in his password and saw that the photos and video he’d opened had finally downloaded.
Amelia and Marc had parted ways early.
It was dark now. The time when hungry people slipped out of tenements and rooming houses. On the hunt.
She’d gone from alley to back street, to parking lot, to abandoned building. Saying the same thing. Over and over.
“I’m looking for David.”
A few times she thought she saw a flicker of interest, of recognition, but when pressed—“Where is he? How can I find him?”—the person turned away.
She’d attracted, though, a group of mostly young women. Some prostitutes. Some transsexuals. Most hard-core junkies. Who’d steal, suck, tug anything for a hit.
They came to her because she didn’t ask anything of them. And she could fight. Had fought. And won.
They didn’t know it was possible. To fight back.
But now they did.
Armand looked at the photos of Amelia taken just a few hours earlier.
They were shot from a distance.
He could see that in one of them she was making a gesture. Grabbing her forearm in what he assumed was a fairly common curse. He could imagine what was also coming out of her mouth.
He looked closer.
She was grubby. Hair unwashed. Clothes dirty. The lower part of her jeans was soaked in slush.
He tried but couldn’t see her eyes. Her pupils.
Then he clicked on the video.
“You know, don’t you, you shithead,” she snarled. “Where’s David?”
“Why do you want him?”
“None of your fucking business. Tell me or I’ll break your arm.”
The dealer turned away.
A semicircle of young women stood behind Amelia. They were barely more than girls.
“Don’t you turn your goddamned back on me.”
Amelia moved swiftly. Much quicker than the stoned dealer could react. She pushed him into the wall. Then, grabbing his arm, she twisted it behind his back. Jerking it up in a quick, practiced movement.
He let out a shriek that scattered those around. The onlookers scampering away.
The man, barely more than a boy, slid to the ground, weeping. His arm hung at a terrible angle. Useless.
“Next it’s your leg. Then your neck,” said Amelia.
She squatted beside him and slid the sleeve of her jacket up, exposing her forearm.
“David. Where’s David?”
Armand moved this way and that, as though changing his vantage point would let him see better.
But her body was blocking it, and despite the fact there was sound in the recording, her back was to him and he couldn’t hear very well.
He did see her get up, and with her foot she pushed the man over.
He heard him cry out. Then Amelia, and her gang, left the picture. The young men who’d stood with the dealer now turned away. And followed Amelia.
Armand narrowed his eyes and scowled. Then went back to the beginning of the video and watched again and again. Until something caught his attention.
He froze the frame. Then enlarged it. As he did, the image grew less and less defined. But still he zoomed in. Closer and closer.
And brought his face closer and closer to his screen, until his nose was almost touching it.
She wasn’t just making a gesture with her forearm. That arm, he saw on closer inspection, was uncovered.
In minus twenty degrees, Amelia had shoved her jacket and sweater up so that her skin was exposed.
There were two reasons he could think of that someone might do that.
To shoot heroin, though she hadn’t.
Or to show someone something.
And there was something there. Her tattoos. He’d seen them licking out from the cuffs of her uniform but had never seen the actual images. Now he could.