Outside, he looked to the woods beyond the shed. The area around the chalet was clear for about twenty feet, and then the trees formed a dark wall. But he could make out a narrow gap where the trees and underbrush seemed to part, as if it was an entrance into the woods. He struggled through the snow towards the gap in the trees. Up close, he could imagine a path that had been worn over years. He followed it through the trees and came to a clearing about 100 feet from the house, where trees formed a rough circle. Vanier scanned the clearing, trying to imagine what it might look without a blanket of snow. Snow, like water, finds its level, but unlike water it reflects the surface below. There was a Quebec artist known for placing buckets and boxes on otherwise flat land in the autumn. When winter came, his random junk would become erotic snowscapes as falling snow accumulated and formed undulating mounds that unmistakably defined naked women lying beneath a white blanket.
He immediately noticed the snow was raised in a smaller circle that looked like it could be a fire pit in the summer. Next to it was what might be a bench where the snow sat high over the ground. Then he saw it, a pronounced ridge in the snow that didn’t speak of a campfire clearing in the woods. It was out of place. He moved towards the pile and started to brush the fresh snow aside with his foot. There was crusted ice under the fresh snow, and he kicked at it, digging with the toe and heel of his boot, forcing it to give way. He quickly exposed a piece of blue tarpaulin. He grabbed an edge and pulled, straining to release it from the ice. When it finally gave and lifted he was staring at John Collins, frozen stiff, unburied and waiting for a better life. He was tempted to dig him out of his icy grave and drag the frozen corpse to his car for the drive back to his mother in Montreal. Instead, he turned to leave, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and pushing the on button. He kept walking as he waited for it to find a signal. He pushed Laurent’s number as he cleared the woods, but lost the signal.
He retraced his tracks back through the wood, and as he passed the woodshed, he heard a whoosh. He turned his face to the noise just in time to see the baseball bat swinging into it. He ducked instinctively but not quickly enough, taking the blow to his left temple. His knees buckled and his body fell to the floor.
When he regained consciousness, his back was freezing, and snow was melting in his neck. He slowly realized that he was being dragged by his arms through the snow. The snow riding down his back made him vaguely uncomfortable, but he wasn’t in pain, and the moon looked beautiful. He kept still, allowing whoever was dragging him to think he was still unconscious as he watched the tops of the passing trees. He could hear heavy breathing, almost grunting, from the person who had a tight grip of his wrists. Eventually, the dragging stopped and his arms dropped, falling with a light thump in the snow. He was wet and freezing and realized that he had to fight back, but lying quietly on his back in the snow seemed so comfortable. He felt the warm blood trickling down over his eye and tried to make a plan. He sensed movement and saw a giant black figure standing over him, arms raised with something like an axe in his hands. The figure started the downward blow and with an effort that seemed to materialize from nowhere, Vanier twisted out of the way of the descending axe. He heard it dig into the snow where his face had been. He had no idea what his second move would be.
It didn’t matter. There was a blinding white light, and Vanier looked up to see the axe hanging motionless as the black figure wielding it turned his head to the light.
“Drop it.”
Vanier blinked and then someone was holding a gun to the axe-man’s head, and the axe was dropped softly to the snow. The last thing Vanier saw before he closed his eyes was the axe-man on his knees in the snow, his head bowed as though in prayer.
Laurent kept his gun trained on Monsignor Forlini and felt for a pulse on Vanier’s neck. Vanier opened his eyes and looked at Laurent. He wanted to say something, but he just smiled and decided that he could let go and relax in the snow. He didn’t notice how cold he was becoming. He just kept shivering.
SEVENTEEN
MARCH 20
2 PM
Vanier was lying in a bed in the emergency room of the hospital in St. Jerome, in stable condition. He was still in the emergency ward because there wasn’t a bed available anywhere else. Laurent and St. Jacques were standing by his bed. There were no seats for visitors, the result of a hospital policy designed to discourage concerned relatives from getting too comfortable and cluttering up the emergency room. It didn’t work, people still milled around sick relatives and friends, but it did make for a lot of disgruntled visitors.
“So, how are you feeling, Boss?” said St. Jacques.
“There’s a lot to be said for drugs.” Vanier turned to Laurent, “I owe you, my friend. How did you know?”
“Mme. Collins called me. She had been wandering around outside the Cathedral and saw you leave. The Monsignor left right after you. Apparently he excused himself after the Mass started and took off for Morin Heights. She thought you might need help.”
“How right she was. That was a little too close. And how is the Monsignor.”
“Cooperative. In his own way.”
“Why don’t you see for yourself?” said St. Jacques, pulling her laptop from her bag. “We have him on tape.” She plugged in the computer and waited for it to start.
“Have you spoken to Mme. Collins?”
“I called her this morning with the news,” said Laurent. “She didn’t seem surprised that John was dead. I knew, was all she said.”
St. Jacques put the computer on the bed with the screen facing Vanier and pushed some buttons. A video began to play, and Vanier recognized the inside of Interview Room 6 and the view from the camera mounted high up on the wall. The image was of the Monsignor and Laurent sitting at the table.
“This is all my fault,” said the Monsignor.
“That’s a good start,” said Vanier.
On the screen, Laurent asked, “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I did what I had to do to defend the Church. But I failed. It’s such a sordid story.”
“I have all the time in the world, Monsignor.”
“Don’t call me that. I have no right to the title. I have disgraced myself and the Church.”
“Well let’s start somewhere. How long have you known John?”
“I have always known him. He was my son. I refused to acknowledge it. When he first showed up, I didn’t know how to react. He was my son, and I had spent my life denying it. I couldn’t jeopardize my position. I refused to see him in the Cathedral, but I met him from time to time in various places. He’s my son, you can understand that. He persisted, and I found him a job at Xeon and tried to help him along. I forced Henri Drouin to act as a go-between. Henri and I were at seminary together, he trusted me.
“When he needed money, I would give it to Drouin to deliver. The arrangement was satisfactory. I could avoid direct contact with John, but I could help him from time to time. Father Drouin got John involved with the homeless, and he seemed to take to it. He was good with those people and seemed to find some fulfillment. I thought the boy was trying to be a good Catholic, but over the years he became more disturbed. He started wearing a cassock, never to the Church, he didn’t go that far. It’s as though he knew there were limits. But Drouin would report back to me that he was wandering around the city in a black cassock like a priest. I should have seen then that he was just mocking me.
“Things really started to fall apart in October. He was behaving very erratically, and then that awful man Audet showed up. Apparently he had noticed John’s relationship with Father Drouin. He was a predator looking for opportunity. He broke into John’s apartment and found letters between the Archbishop and that woman, John’s mother. He took them and came to see me. Imagine, that man in my office in the Cathedral. He wanted money, and I gave him some, but he refused to give me the papers. He showed up twice in November and again just before Christmas.