“I’ve just been informed that Avenue du Président-Kennedy is closed near Hôtel Delta! Completely closed!” the reporter interrupts in a jumpy voice. “I suggest taking Maisonneuve, via City Councillors or de Bleury. It’ll be much faster! Okay? Is that clear? Président-Kennedy closed near Delta!”
“Very well, thanks, Hugues... And for the rest of the traffic?”
“Eh? Ah, well... let me...” He grabs his notepad, disoriented, and turns north on Peel. “It’s... There’s still heavy traffic on the 15 and the 640; Lafontaine Tunnel is backed up from Anjou; for the other South Shore bridges, expect half-hour delays, except for Victoria, which isn’t too bad for now.”
Valérie thanks him again and he tosses his headset onto the passenger seat. He parks on the side of the road and keeps his eyes on the clock, his heartbeat pulsating in his head like a death knell. 4:24 p.m.... My God, please tell me I didn’t guess wrong, I beg you... 4:25! He holds his breath.
Hugues hears nothing but the reassuring hum of traffic. No explosion, no loud or unusual sounds. He turns his head in the direction of Président-Kennedy, at least a kilometer away: no black cloud on the horizon. He keeps studying the sky for a moment, then looks back at the clock: 4:26 p.m.
He starts to chuckle, a nervous, ambiguous chuckle, punctuated by convulsive sobs.
A cell phone rings: Unknown Number. Hugues switches the speaker on.
“You were late with your update,” says Létourneau.
Hugues wants to tell him he can shove his bomb up his ass, but he knows that the lunatic could reactivate it. “I did it! It’s 4:27 and the bomb hasn’t gone off!” he crows.
“When people realize that Avenue du Président-Kennedy wasn’t closed, they won’t be happy... You’ll lose your luster, my poor Hugues.” Létourneau laughs. “I was sure you’d tell them to take Maisonneuve via City Councellors or de Bleury. I’ve been listening to you for a year, Hugues, I can predict every piece of advice you give.”
“I figured it out, damnit, that’s all that matters!”
A long silence, then Létourneau calmly murmurs, “Drive to Rue Sherbrooke, just east of Saint-Marc. I think it’ll interest you.”
Hugues winces. “Why? You... you aren’t gonna cheat me, are you?”
“I don’t cheat, Hugues. Come on, hurry.” And he hangs up.
Hugues hesitates, then gets back on the road, torn between curiosity and anguish. While he drives toward Sherbrooke, three different calls come in, but reading the regulars’ names on the dash screen, he doesn’t answer. He turns right on Sherbrooke and weaves through the slow traffic; confused, angry, and intrigued, all at the same time. Does Létourneau want to meet him? To convince him not to warn the cops? Is he really that insane? His cell phone rings: Unknown Number. It must be him. “Traffic?” he says.
“You’re on your way?”
“I just crossed Lambert-Closse, I’ll be there in a minute. What do you want, Létourneau?”
“The point was for you to live through every stage of what I experienced.”
“And I did, so?”
“No, you didn’t. You didn’t feel guilt. I did, Hugues. I sent more than a hundred people to their death.”
“Goddamnit, Létourneau! The deal was I had to guess where you hid the bomb!”
“Yes, that was the deal.”
Hugues passes Saint-Marc when out of nowhere a pedestrian steps off the sidewalk and plants himself in the middle of the street, in front of the vehicle. Hugues slams on the brakes, but the stranger, who must be around forty, long-haired and shabbily dressed, doesn’t move. A cell phone against his ear, the stranger stares at the reporter with an unsettling intensity. In a second, Hugues realizes who it is and a shiver runs through him. He calls out in a voice both victorious and enraged, “I did what you asked me to do, Létourneau! Admit it!”
The man smiles, then moves his lips close to his phone. Hugues hears Létourneau’s voice in his ear: “Well, if you say you succeeded, then it’s all over.” As he says this, the ex-controller takes a pistol out from under his belt, points the barrel to his temple, and pulls the trigger. Hugues’s scream is muffled by the sound of the explosion.
Cars stop in the middle of the street and cries of shock erupt. While a crowd gathers around the body, Hugues remains frozen, gripping the steering wheel. He gets out of his vehicle slowly, but stays close to it. The crowd blocks his view of Létourneau’s body. Almost all the cars on the street have stopped, and curious bystanders arrive from all sides: Sherbrooke is in total chaos.
You didn’t feel guilt. I did, Hugues. I sent more than a hundred people to their death.
Is that why he killed himself? To make Hugues feel responsible? Well, his plan failed. All the reporter feels is a great sadness. And yet, he can’t help but sense another meaning behind Létourneau’s words, though he doesn’t know what.
His console alarm tells him he’ll be on the air again soon. Shaken, he gets back in the car and puts his headset on. Then, at 4:33, he starts the update in his normal, professional voice, but a bit more restrained than usuaclass="underline" “Valérie, a terrible event has just taken place on Sherbrooke, at the corner of Saint-Marc — a man has killed himself, in the middle of the street.” The host exclaims in surprise while Hugues continues: “Obviously the street will be closed for a while. Since the Collège de Montréal campus is just north of Sherbrooke, drivers will have to take a detour to the south. Those heading east on Sherbrooke can take Lincoln to Guy, those heading west can take Maisonneuve.”
He gives two or three directions for the other bridges, then disconnects. He rubs his eyes and lets out a long sigh, his body drained of strength, more tired than he’s ever been.
Policemen start to appear from all over, and one of them approaches Hugues’s vehicle. He gets out again, introduces himself, and rambles off the whole story in a minute. Stunned, the officer listens, then says he’ll send a team to Delta immediately to remove the bomb, even if it is deactivated.
“You stay here, all right?” the cop shouts as he walks away. “We’ll have to question you further on this whole affair.”
Hugues sits back behind the steering wheel, his eyes closed, indifferent to the chaos that reigns on the street. A cell phone rings. He wants to ignore it, but he glances at the dash screen and sees that it’s Muriel, the fact checker. He answers.
“Sorry it took me so long to find what you asked for, Hugues, but like I told you, I’m swamped.”
“That’s okay, Muriel.” Hugues sighs weakly, closing his eyes again. “I don’t need it anymore.”
“You sure? I have all the information right here: the controller was named Létourneau, the crash took place at 4:40...”
Hugues opens his eyes. “You mean 4:25.”
“Eh? No, no. Oh, I understand: 4:25 was when Létourneau told the pilot he could land on the runway.”
Hugues sits up straight. Then he remembers the beginning of the article he’d read earlier: Yesterday, at 4:25 p.m., Philippe Létourneau, an air-traffic controller at John F. Kennedy Airport, changed the course of this city’s history... Shit, if only he’d read the rest of the article, he would’ve realized that it was Létourneau’s call, and not the crash, that had changed the course of history. The accident had happened fifteen minutes later. Hugues checks the time: 4:38. Panic threatens to overwhelm him again, but he forces himself to stay calm: even if he got the time wrong, he still found the right spot. Létourneau must have deactivated the bomb before killing himself. He’d promised him he wouldn’t cheat, after all. But why hadn’t he told him he’d guessed correctly? Hugues starts sweating again.