Blindshot Page 12

  Jack and Zeph took hold of the antlers and pulled until the animal slid into the hole. Zeph fell back and down into the hole. He tried to make a joke of it, overplaying his fall, but the two Carignan brothers were not a good audience. Zeph cared enough for his friends to understand their moods, and simply stepped back out, took a shovel in hand and began filling the dirt back in over the buck. Every shovelful hit with a dull, sickening sound, made more bearable only by their motivation to complete their task. The three boys packed in the dirt. After twenty minutes of hard work, they could barely see the creature in the ground. After five more minutes, the final shovelfuls of dirt having been heaved, no one walking through the forest would have noticed the buck’s final resting place.

  The three friends dropped their shovels and sat down on thick tree roots, tossing each other soft-drink bottles from the cooler.

  “We’re done!” said Zeph, slapping a bug on his neck.

  “Should we put a cross on it, to finish it off?” asked Noah.

  “I’m Jewish,” said Zeph.

  “I didn’t know you were Jewish,” said Noah.

  “You never asked,” said Zeph.

  “But your name is French-Canadian?” said Noah.

  “My mother’s half-Jewish, half French-Canadian.”

  “We can make a cross and a Star of David then. We’ll put both,” said Noah.

  “We can make it with tree branches,” suggested Zeph.

  Jack wasn’t so keen on the idea. “Crosses, stars don’t mean anything to animals,” he said. “They have no religion.”

  “Oh well, if you put it that way,” said Zeph, not that concerned one way or the other. “Less work for us. So, what do we do now?”

  The question drifted to Jack like a leaf falling from the autumn trees, floating in the air, taking a long time to reach its destination, finally touching down ever so gently in the back of Jack’s mind. A seed well planted. A question Jack would ponder, with every neuron, every breath, until he found the answer. What was their next step?

  For now, there was only the silence of the forest.

  Tom found Chief Bernier at his desk in his office in the police station—a large wood-panelled room, overly decorated with trophies from his hunts and fishing expeditions. He looked very tired or very bored, Tom could not tell which, but Bernier did, as usual, seem to welcome Tom’s entrance.

  Tom sat down across from him and put the tiny used bullet on the desk between them. At least seven different pairs of eyes stared back, including a bear head, two deer heads, a trout, and Arthur Bernier himself. Tom said two words.

  “Paul Carignan.”

  Bernier sighed. “You found the bullet?”

  “No,” said Tom, “we haven’t. This is from our friend Jeffrey Lennox’s rifle. Paul Carignan’s son gave it to me. He delivered it to my house, hopeful that the local police would act responsibly and investigate his father’s shooting.”

  “Tom, Tom, Tom,” said Bernier, shaking his head.

  “Art, this isn’t the bullet that hit Paul Carignan, but it could be. Then, what would you want me to do?”

  “All the right things,” said Bernier. A silent pause filled the space between the two men. The static faces hanging on the wall, their mouths sewn, emphasized the unsaid. Tom had never gotten used to them, no matter how often he visited this office.

  “When are you going to sort out this mess with that church, Tom, and get a real house like the rest of us? It makes for bad blood between us and the Council.”

  “I don’t have a problem with it,” said Tom.

  “No, I don’t suppose you do, but the Council’s trying to uphold its by-laws. How do you think it looks that Beaufort’s own Deputy Chief ignores them?” asked Bernier.

  “Doesn’t look good for who? I’m taking an old building and fixing it. That’s all.”

  “Oh, come on, now. It’s a church. It’s not made to live in. Not zoned for it either. The Council wanted to have it torn down, you know, years before you ever thought of buying it.”

  “Well, they should have. But I bought it and would rather turn it into a ranch house!”

  “Tom, it’s a church!”

  “It was! Look, who am I bothering? Those bullshitters gave a permit last year to the Turcottes, on Rue des Corbeaux, to build a condo complex, of all unnecessary things out here! Right at the intersection! I’m no expert, but it looks to me like a modern piece of shit! Why did Council permit that? Anything to do with the fact the Turcottes own the largest asphalting company in the region? No? I’m on a small road hidden in the far woods, practically in the next county! Why does Council care about my place?”

  “Because you’re irritating them! And, because you’re ignoring regulations!”

  “Well, let’s talk about that. Let’s talk about ignoring regulations,” said Tom. “Me and everyone else around here!”

  “Are you challenging me, Tom? After all I’ve done for you? Do you want my job? Is that it?”

  “I know what you’re doing, Art. I walk in here for one thing and now we’re arguing about another. You’re very good, I’ll give you that. You’re really good. My point walking in here was that Jeffrey and some of the other hunters in this town have got to tone it down, or one day I’m going to walk into your office with a bullet that I can match to someone’s rifle!”

  “We’ve got it good here in Beaufort, Tom, don’t go ‘brooding’ all over this and make it into more than we can all handle.”

  “That’s true,” said Tom, “we do have it good. One more reason to build my house out here, by the way.”

  “Tom, we sail our own ship in Beaufort and don’t need anybody breathing down our necks. We keep the government at bay, because they know we’re the apolitical gaming playground for how many officials of theirs, ministers of this or that, rock stars, movie stars, businessmen, you name it! It’s a good arrangement and has been for years. There’re only a few places like this in all of Quebec! Hunter-friendly and off the radar! We understand each other, Tom? Everything’s fine and we should keep it that way. Come on, we’ve talked about this how many times?”

  “No one was ever shot before. Well, no one except those Eckland brothers.”

  “And Ray Della Rocca, don’t forget him,” added Bernier. “And one case of DOA.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, no one important we figure. Body turned up in a freezer. Long time now.”

  “Whose freezer?”

  “The Markello place. Gone now. That goes way back. The County’s got a history. Every place does!”

  “This incident’s fresh,” pointed out Tom.

  “Well, let’s hope Paul Carignan recovers. What is it you want me to do, Tom? What?”

  Tom took the bullet again and rolled it across the desk to Bernier.

  “Tell Jeffrey Lennox the next time he goes near the Carignan house, or that anyone in that family even smells his stinking breath blowing downwind, he’s going to get a visit from me. I swear, Art, if he doesn’t listen this time—because there have been many, many times, and you know it—I’ll put his head on your office wall between that bear and those stags, so that whenever you and I have these conversations we can enjoy his ugly mug staring back at us as we talk. How about that? All I’m asking is that you make him understand as only you can.”

  “You give me too much credit, my boy.”

  Tom stood up.

  “Not sure about that. Oh and, Art, I don’t want your job. Really. I’m just trying to do mine. At least the basics. And you know that.”

  Bernier reached out for the bullet on the desk and inspected it. He turned to Tom before he could leave.

  “Tom, hold on!” called Bernier. “Are we alright on everything?”

  Tom considered his possible answers. Surrounded by his many trophies, in a room more like a small-town museum than a poli
ce office, Bernier looked more like a worn-out trail guide than a police chief. Yet there was respect and a friendship, however fragile and complicated, between these two men.

  “We’re fine. You know that.”

  “Good, Tom, I’m glad.”

  Tom left as Bernier continued to study the bullet.

  Catherine sat next to Paul, watching his respirations. The oxygen mask would fog and then dissipate almost immediately, then fog again. For most of the time Catherine sat with Paul, she was silent, reflective, just looking at him, hoping. Then she decided to speak to him, however awkward it was to talk with someone who couldn’t respond.

  “Paul, you son-of-a-bitch. Why did you have to let this happen now? You’ve let me down. You’ve let your boys down. You’ve ripped our world apart. Again.” She paused and thought over what she had just said.

  “Oh, I don’t mean that,” she said. “Who did this to you, Paul? Who did this to you?” She sighed and stared a long time at an empty light green wall. “I’ll bring the boys to see you, count on it. It will be hard for them to see you like this. But, they’re tough. They’ll be okay, don’t worry. I know they’re feeling it, feeling angry and in shock, I suppose. I feel that in them, especially Jack. He’s angry. Really angry.” She waited, watching Paul. Nothing moved.

  “Normally, you would have a lot to say about all that. Nothing to say today?”

  Catherine drank from a small can of orange juice. It was tart. She didn’t like it much, but it was nearly all she’d had all day.

  “You must have really pissed somebody off for them to shoot you? And right outside our home?” She drank the remainder of the juice. “Right outside our home.” She thought that over a moment and then wound up and tossed the can at Paul. The can missed him but hit the metal tubing of the hospital bed, then rebounded to the floor where it rolled noisily.

  “If you weren’t shot, I would shoot you myself.”

  A young nurse entered, and froze, smiling at Catherine, realizing she had interrupted.

  “It’s okay,” said Catherine. “I was just talking to him.” The nurse nodded, smiled again, and reached over to pick up the empty can. Catherine smiled back, her guilt showing through. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I did that.”

  “You don’t owe me any explanations,” the nurse said, checking on Paul’s monitoring equipment.

  “Do you need anything?” the nurse asked Catherine.

  “I need him to wake up. Can you do that?”

  “Malheureusement pas,” said the nurse. “I do not know how.”

  The nurse smiled again and left the room.

  Catherine stood very close to the bed, touched Paul’s hand, then leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

  Jack was licking his wounds, like a mangled street dog, in his video game shrine. Posters and paraphernalia covered every corner of his room, depicting battles in other worlds and conquests of unbelievable scale. He peeled his stained sweater and undershirt off gingerly. He had smashed his left arm, his good arm, in his battle with Lennox, and it was heavily bruised from wrist to shoulder so that he could barely move it. The elbow was raw. Scratches and tears in his skin were filled with dirt and blood. The pain was excruciating, but not as bad as in his chest, where Lennox’s heavy boot had connected. Several large welts covered his stomach and chest. Every breath hurt. He knew he would have to disinfect the wounds with soap and water, at the very least, but for now, he tried not to come in contact with anything at all, as though he were seriously sunburned. He crawled onto his bed, stretched out on his less-bruised side, then tried not to move. The air coming from the open window felt good, much as it hurt. The silence and calm of the room was soothing.

  A multitude of heroes and anti-heroes he’d worshipped for years looked down at him from the walls and ceiling. And there was a whole other batch at the house in Kirkland. They were muscle-bound, armour-clad, wielding weapons of all descriptions, from traditional knives and swords to fantastically advanced technology. It seemed so naïve to him now, to have pretended physical superiority, invincibility, and resistance to pain. His father had often joked, with pride, about how Jack was their coureur des bois, their Daniel Boone, their Hawkeye, and other obscure figures. When Paul would mention such a name, Jack would act cool, as if it didn’t matter, but later secretly look them up on the Internet, taking pride in the characteristics projected onto him by his father. Truth was, his father was his only real, living inspiration, and that too had proven false. His father was flesh and bone. He was downed. Hurting. Unable to get back up again and finish the fight. There would be no points earned, no levels won or lost, no prizes claimed. The game was more than lost. There was no game at all, in the end. There was just flesh and bone and the truth of what people did to each other.

  Jack knew his body would heal. He would make sure of that. He would do everything he could to make himself well and as strong as a man could, stronger than his father, stronger than Lennox. He promised himself that. He rolled onto his back, hoping it would be easier, and thought of the many times he had been downed, or even killed, in virtual landscapes, at the hands of an electronic, intergalactic menace. Avatar crushed to smithereens. Player out of life. No more charge. Out of ammo.

  A reboot, reconfiguration is all there is. Start the mission over. Back to level one, wherever, whatever that is. Get a new life. Get a new spacesuit. Design it for battle. Reload.

  Your avatar is ready.

  To fight again. To bring hell.

  Jack promised himself that. Promised his father to do it for him.

  He lay there for a long time. His mother had told him they might be closing up the house, staying in Kirkland full-time. She needed to be closer to her practice and to the boys’ school. Catherine was looking for a way to tell Noah. It would be harder on him, she told Jack, to leave Valhalla, to leave his father indefinitely, and only return on occasion.

  So, this was a day of goodbyes. Jack closed his eyes and listened to the breeze buffeting softly against the outside wall. The high ceiling made it different from his Kirkland room. There was also a special smell he’d always liked, the smell of pine and cedar. He would miss this room.

  He would miss his father more.

  On her way from the hospital, Catherine stopped to meet up with her friend June Marino at Café Beaufort. She had put off the meeting for weeks, though June was a good friend, and finally Catherine was ready to talk. They caught up with each other’s lives for two hours, then wished each other well, and Catherine headed back to Valhalla.

  She parked the Audi and went inside. The large house felt too quiet. Neither of the boys was making a sound. Catherine made herself a tea and had just sat down when her cell phone rang. But where was the phone? She had left it in the vestibule, next to her purse. She ran for it and put it to her ear without reading the call display.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Catherine Martelle-Carignan?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m calling from BMP Hospital. Brome Missisquoi Perkins. I’m Rosie Schiller with the Bureau du soutien communautaire. Mrs. Carignan, we’ve been trying to reach you. I have difficult news.”

  “Just tell me,” said Catherine, calmly.

  “I’m afraid your husband passed away this morning. About an hour ago.”

  Catherine was stunned. “What? I was just there. How can that be?”

  “Your husband suffered a stroke, I’m sorry to say. We couldn’t do anything for him. You should know that it was actually rather quick, from the moment of the attack to his passing.”

  “That can’t be right. Paul Carignan?”

  “Yes, Paul Carignan. You’re Catherine Martelle-Carignan, do I have that right?”

  “Yes, you have it right,” said Catherine. She was numb. She felt alone. She wanted to be with her sons. She slid the cell phone into her jeans pocket and wen
t upstairs to find Jack. She heard the water running. He was in the shower.

  She entered the washroom and, though she hadn’t walked in on him for many years, this time she did not hesitate. She waited for him. He had forgotten to turn on the fan, and the bathroom was dense with steam. She flicked on the switch and the fan hummed, clearing the air quickly, and also letting Jack know that she was there.

  “Mom?” he called from the marble and glass stall.

  Catherine couldn’t answer him. She waited for him to wrap a towel around his waist and come to her. When he did, she caught sight of his bruises and wounds.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, looking at Jack’s torso, afraid to hug her eldest for the pain she might cause him.

  “I’m okay, Mom.” He wrapped a second white towel around his shoulders, as if nothing was wrong.

  “It’s your father. He’s gone. He’s really gone.” She explained the little she knew. She described the call she’d just received and the visit she had made to Paul earlier.

  Jack leaned back against the wall, disregarding his bruises. He didn’t breathe. He watched the tears well up in his mother’s eyes, though she was trying not to cry.

  “Where’s Noah?” asked Jack.

  “Downstairs,” answered Catherine.

  “One sec,” said Jack to his mom, striding out of the bathroom and into his room. Then coming back out into the hallway, having slipped on a jogging suit at record speed. He grabbed his mom’s hand, seeing she didn’t know what to do, what to say, or even where to stand, and pulled her along with him. He led her down the stairs to the living room, and slowly to Noah.

  Noah pulled his headphones off, letting them dangle off the chair by their wire to his tablet. Jack came close to him.

  “It’s Dad, bro.”

  Noah didn’t move. Jack continued, “He died this morning. Our father’s dead.”

  The two boys looked each other in the eyes and came to an understanding of a kind only two brothers who loved each other and their parents could fathom. Noah rushed into Catherine’s arms, holding her tight. There were no words.