“You did that like a pro, Hugues,” Létourneau says, a note of amusement in his voice.
“So I guessed right, then? I told people to take a different route. Now you’ll deactivate the bomb?”
“If you’re right, yes.”
“Well, am I right or not?” Hugues asks testily.
“You’ll know when the bomb is supposed to go off. If it doesn’t, you were right. Otherwise...”
“But... but why can’t you just tell me now?”
“So that you can experience stress, Hugues. Real stress. To the very end.”
The lunatic hangs up again and the reporter stares at the cell phone, then grabs it and hurls it to the back of the car. He regrets it immediately. Shit, that’s the Bell Mobility phone! Létourneau probably has a phone on the same plan and won’t be able to contact him if his is broken. Hugues pulls over, reaches back to grab the cell phone, and checks — it still works. Reassured, he sets it on its stand and slowly smooths back his hair, letting out a sigh that quickly turns into a gasp. He straightens up — if he stays parked too long, Létourneau won’t be happy. He gets back on the road and heads east on Sherbrooke. He feels ridiculous driving in circles like this, but does he have a choice?
He starts to wonder: Could I have guessed wrong? Hiding the bomb on a street near the airport seems to fall right in line with Létourneau’s logic, with his desire to be as faithful as possible to last year’s events...
A cell phone rings. Grudgingly, he answers. It’s a woman named Juliette who reports in an almost giddy voice that she’s calling for the first time. She starts telling him about her daily commute and Hugues is about to cut her off when she mentions that there’s a broken-down car in the Lafontaine Tunnel. Hugues thanks her, disconnects. He could call the cops and warn them of a bomb near the airport, couldn’t he? Létourneau told him that if he saw too many cops downtown, he’d set it off, which means that the lunatic must be downtown, not at the airport. So he wouldn’t be able to see the cops arriving there... He stops at a red light at the corner of Guy, frowning. This thought reminds him suddenly of the exact words Létourneau had used: he’d planted a bomb not just on any street in Montreal, but on a street downtown — he’d said that very clearly.
Hugues screams again, pounding his fists on the steering wheel. How could he have been so stupid to forget this detail? Besides, Roméo-Vachon isn’t big enough for an explosion to cause as many deaths as the crash. He has to start over from square one.
A cell phone rings, the indifference of its tone unbearable. The name of a regular comes up on the dash screen. “Fuck you!” Hugues spits in the direction of the phone.
He turns on Mackay, furiously massaging his right temple. He thinks through the details of last year’s tragedy and tries desperately to make connections with the present, with Montreal. At least he got the time right: 4:25. That leaves him seventeen minutes, and ten minutes before his next update. He’ll never make it in time. He stops at a stop sign and squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating with all his strength. The two planes crashed in New York... There’s no Rue New York in Montreal, so it can’t be that... What, then?
Startled by the sound of several car horns blaring behind him, he accelerates and turns east onto Sainte-Catherine. The traffic is dense, he can drive slowly and think. But his goddamn cell phone rings again and to save face from his blunder on the air, he has to answer.
“Hey, Hugues, where’d you get that info about the airport?”
It’s Denis, a traffic reporter from another station, the only other one who still works from his car. Denis tells him he had no problem on Roméo-Vachon and that Hugues’s last update caused total chaos on Jacques-de-Lasseps. Hugues mumbles that he’d obviously gotten a bad tip.
“Huh. Well, it happens!” Denis says. “Hey, pretty nice out, isn’t it? Soon we’ll be seeing all the ladies strolling around down—”
“Sorry, Denis, I’ve got to go.” He hangs up, but his other cell phone rings.
A caller gives him an update on Champlain. When it rings again a minute later, he ignores it; he can’t think if he’s constantly being interrupted. He turns onto Union, sweat running down his face. Less than four minutes before his next update. And it’ll be the last one before 4:25! It’s not possible. It’s just not possible!
He starts to moan involuntarily, racking his memory as he drives on autopilot, not registering when he turns west onto René-Lévesque, barely seeing the road or the cars in front of him. Crash in New York... Two airplanes... What airline was it, again? He’d read it earlier... Delta, yes... Shit, there’s no Rue Delta in Montreal.
But there is Hôtel Delta — downtown.
The buzzing in his brain stops all of a sudden. Could the bomb be planted there? Létourneau said it was on a street. Where is the hotel, exactly? On Avenue du Président-Kennedy... and the airport in New York was John F. Kennedy Airport!
This revelation arrives with such intensity that for a moment he sees nothing but a blinding white light. A shock brings him back to reality, propelling him forward with such force that his nose collides violently with the steering wheel. Dazed, he realizes he’s hit the car in front of him. The driver leaps out of his Lexus, curses, marches up to Hugues’s vehicle, and starts kicking the passenger door.
Hugues jumps out to calm the guy who, seeing the reporter’s bloody nose, stops kicking, but remains furious.
“Jesus Christ, learn to drive!” the guy says as he eyes the logo on Hugues’s car. “And you’re a traffic reporter? Bravo, genius!”
Hugues apologizes, says that the damage seems minor, and manages to remain polite even if he wants to tell the guy to fuck off; but the latter insists they call the police. Other drivers pass by slowly and cast jeering looks at the two of them.
With shaky hands, Hugues holds out the station’s business card to the man. “Call them, they’ll... It’s one of the largest radio stations in Montreal, they’ll take care of it!”
The guy stares at him skeptically and, grumbling, finally agrees to leave.
Hugues hurries back to his car, gets behind the wheel, starts driving again, checks the time: 4:20! He missed his 4:18 update! All because of that fucking imbecile.
A cell phone rings. He answers, sure that it’s Létourneau.
Damnit, it’s Diane. “Well, Hugues, I should have stopped at Rockland after all, my girlfriend just called to tell me there was a sale on—”
He disconnects, cursing. Then he dials a number and the voice of his program director comes on.
“Where’d you go, Hugues?”
“Technical problem, but I’m back! You can put me on the air now.”
“That’s okay. We can put you back on at 4:33,” the director says.
“No! Listen, Simon, it’s a circus downtown, I have to... I have to go on!”
“Come on, it can wait.”
The reporter glances at the clock on his dashboard: 4:21 p.m. Four minutes before the explosion. “No, it can’t! I need to go on right away!”
“Hugues, listen, you—”
“Simon, it’s the first time I’ve ever asked you this and I swear it’ll be the last, come on, just put me on the air!”
Simon sighs, baffled. “Okay, in thirty seconds, after Gaétan’s sports brief.”
Hugues disconnects, puts on his headset, wipes the blood flowing from his nose, stops at a red light. Chest heaving, he stares at the clock as if looking into the eyes of a dangerous beast. 4:23.
Valérie’s voice finally comes on: “And now, back to our friend Hugues with his traffic update—”