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  Packing those boxes into her car had worn her out. She moved into the living room and faced the valley.

  She took a deep breath, arms crossed tightly, holding down a torrent of emotion that was pushing its way out from her heart, her veins, her whole being. She could hardly hold herself together, and if these feelings grew, she was afraid she might lose control, spewing her mind out in molten bits, like lava smouldering with anxiety and self-consciousness, scalding everything.

  Disaster felt a breath away.

  She kept it in.

  She stood there quietly.

  The crow came out of the sky, over the valley, and boomed against the glass with stunning force. If the window hadn’t been there, it would have crashed into Catherine’s face. She reeled back, feeling the vibrations in the polished concrete floor and in the air around her. She couldn’t take her eyes off the bird, which fluttered for an instant after impact, a dark mess of feathers, and then slid downward, as if strings that had held it in the sky had suddenly been clipped.

  The bird connected hard with the ground, but it might not be dead. Catherine ran outside, through the oversized metal doors. The fresh air snapped into her lungs. She made her way along the perimeter of the house to where the bird had fallen. There it was, nearly motionless, a large black dot on the mound of grass that ramped up to the glass wall. She moved in slowly. It was still alive, its eyes flickering, its head jittery. It shuddered but never moved its wings, which were tight against its body, much as Catherine’s arms had been, crossed at her waist, a moment earlier, as she held down a volcano of emotions.

  Poor thing.

  She couldn’t tell if the bird’s wings were broken or not. She moved in closer, remembering the many times this had happened before, though never with such a large bird. Countless birds, of all kinds, had crashed into the façade. It was a solid wall of glass, boundary between the wild, green vastness and the house itself, though it had never been meant to divide or to hurt. From its perch on the rock crest that anchored it, Valhalla was meant to harmonize with nature, but the reality was that it was a massive dam of stone, wood, concrete, steel and glass, as immovable as the ancient hills of Beaufort, and it worked against nature. It fenced off earth-bound wildlife, redirecting feeding and migratory paths through the lower valley, and it stopped flying creatures hard, interrupting their swooping arcs, the sky beyond just an illusion on its mirrored façade.

  Catherine kneeled close to the crow, as if begging its forgiveness—or as all powerful saviour. She was generally scared of animals. Once, on a wealthy client’s property, she had handled a skinny farm-cat that had scratched her—a tiny scratch which proved nearly deadly. Her arm had turned an unnatural dark red and then black. She had spent ten days in intensive care.

  This was no time for her to fall sick.

  Catherine took the bird softly, but firmly, in her hands, arms straight out, keeping it as far from her face as she could. Considering its size, the bird was lighter than she expected, and it didn’t fight or squirm; it seemed totally unaware of Catherine’s presence. She took it fifty paces from the house to the woodpile, right on the edge of the forest, and set the bird down. Two runs of drying firewood, piled three feet high, formed a low bunker that would protect the crow, at least partially, from the elements and possible predators until it recovered its strength and could move off on its own. This is how Paul and Catherine had become accustomed to dealing with birds that flew into Valhalla. Most often the bird would be gone in a few hours, into the adjacent forest, or back into the sky. Other times, the birds were found where they had fallen, dead, dry, and stiff as firewood.

  Catherine went back indoors, washed her hands like a surgeon, and returned to the living room. She stretched out on the couch, as she had done a thousand times, staring out, seeing everything and nothing, focusing inadvertently on her melancholy again. She felt guilty about it. She had more pressing things to consider, but she was like the crow, she thought, still stunned from hitting the solid wall of her failed marriage. She hadn’t seen the thick, transparent glass. She lay there, injured, her wings unbroken, but sore and incapable of flight. She needed to find soft ground to rest on, and the couch would do for now.

  She closed her eyes.

  Dusk had painted soft highlights on the west-facing surfaces when Catherine awoke. She had slept half an hour, and it felt like a week. She took a deep breath, stretched, and shook off a chill, her muscles sore from the day’s packing. She panicked a moment, thinking it was far too late, then got to her senses and calmed down, but it was time to get going before Paul and the boys, and perhaps Anne, would arrive. Catherine preferred to be out of the way, because that had been the plan—and because she wanted to avoid the girlfriend. Catherine wasn’t ready for that.

  So, she gathered her keys and jacket, and made sure to pick up an envelope Noah had left for her. He had scribbled instructions for Catherine to open it only when she got back to Montreal. Noah had the habit of writing his parents brief, confidential notes. He’d begun this practice as soon as he could write. His notes were always surprising, always filled with love and creativity. Once, she had opened an envelope to discover elaborately drawn coupons giving her exclusive rights to his prompt services for any chore she might choose. She had discovered three coupons in the envelope. She had put one coupon in her wallet to carry with her always, the second she put in a family scrapbook, and the third she cashed in immediately in exchange for a hug and a kiss, which Noah gladly gave—but not before validating her coupon with his official stamp, a crest depicting a raging, flying dinosaur.

  Curious though she was, Catherine would respect his instructions and bring this latest envelope to Montreal with her, unopened.

  The Audi started with a familiar purr. Catherine backed it out cautiously, barely able to see with all the boxes in the car. Then she put it in drive and turned onto Chemin Van Kleet, which would lead her to the centre of town and then to the highway.

  There was another vehicle ahead of her. Jeffrey Lennox, a distant neighbour, sitting by the side of the road in his grey Dodge Ram, about fifty metres from the entryway to Valhalla. Catherine passed the pick-up truck, slowing to avoid kicking pebbles up from the dirt road onto the sparkling new vehicle. She smiled at Lennox politely, though she didn’t like him at all. He scared her. He was a vile man with strange habits. He liked to sit in his truck, on dirt roads like this one, his rifle propped in his arms and a bottle of whiskey in his lap. The angry look in his eyes, the lines in his sinewy leather face—something about him made him unapproachable, skittish. He reeked of danger like a predatory animal. Lennox nodded back slowly, eerily, staring at her from his open window.

  Once clear of Lennox’s truck, Catherine stepped on the accelerator and quickly forgot his creepy presence. Chemin Van Kleet could be a fun drive, with many dips and curves through the Beaufort woods. Catherine raised the volume and lost herself in the rhythm of edgy rock ‘n‘ roll.

  CHAPTER 2

  DEAD ANIMALS

  It wasn’t long before Paul Carignan drove up Chemin Van Kleet toward his Beaufort home with his older son Jack and Zeph, Jack’s best friend.

  Neither of these were the boys’ real names. Jack was named after Paul’s late father Jacques Carignan, who had been a notary in the Eastern Townships. ‘Jack’ came from his love of American movies. When he was nine years old, little Jacques had brandished a plastic gun at his father and insisted he be known only as ‘Jack’ from that day on. The predominant language in the Carignan family was English, so it was easy enough to call him Jack. Now fifteen years old, he was tall and muscular for his age so that he was easily mistaken for nineteen or twenty, which lent a confident edge to his demeanour.

  Zeph had adopted his name from a series of video games called Expedition X, a space fantasy adventure in which the main character, a boy called Zephyr, travels through a galaxy of warring planets in search of passage back to his own
world. With long brown hair and a burly physique, Zeph resembled the boy in the game. His real name was Stéphane Bowen.

  The boys went to the same high school in Kirkland, an affluent municipality on the West Island of Montreal. Paul had introduced Zeph’s family to Beaufort some years ago, and they were now spending part of the year in Beaufort, too, a few houses away. Paul liked Zeph, who was a good kid, but the Bowens had never demonstrated a strong need to have Zeph around, even if they didn’t quite neglect him. They gave their son all the latitude he could want, and he usually chose to spend his time with Jack and Noah, so that Zeph was pretty much a part of the Carignan family.

  Jack and Zeph snickered together in the back seat of Paul’s car, making rude gestures and faces at the car behind them. The second car was driven by Anne, Paul’s girlfriend, and she was accompanied by Noah, who was doing his best to ignore the boys in the car ahead. Noah hadn’t asked to ride in Anne’s car, that had been his father’s idea. They were on their way back from two days in Magog, where Paul had combined some business with pleasure. Anne had met up with them there.

  As the two-car caravan made its way toward Valhalla, Paul wondered if they might see Catherine going the other way. Their timing was about right for that to happen. He wondered how Catherine was dealing with the impending divorce, knowing how emotional she could be within her controlled exterior. He also knew that her way of dealing with issues was to sink herself into work. He was like that too, so he knew the toll that could take. He might have had to make a change in his life, now that his heart was leading him in new directions, but Paul was very conscious of the pain he had caused Catherine.

  As they approached Valhalla, Paul spotted Lennox’s pick-up truck at the side of the road—never a welcome sight—and that brought Paul back to the here and now. He didn’t know Lennox well, despite plenty of encounters over the years, but he had much the same feeling about him as Catherine did. Though not close neighbours, Lennox and his family owned a good stretch of land in the county. Paul suspected he might have close relationships with other Beaufort landowners and some kind of connection with the local police, perhaps through family.

  Lennox was about a hundred metres from his truck, bent down in a field of grass, absorbed in some sort of task. He was clearly inside Valhalla property lines, and that was enough for Paul. He brought the caravan to a halt.

  “What is it, Dad?” asked Jack, looking out to see why they’d stopped. Zeph was curious too.

  “Sit tight,” is all Paul said, leaving the car and striding out across his land.

  “Where’s your dad going?” said Zeph.

  They were about fifty metres from the entryway to Valhalla. Seeing Paul move off, Anne stepped out of her car for a better view, motioning to Noah to stay back. Paul said nothing, signalling with his hand for her to stay back.

  Anne leaned on the car, observing Paul without too much concern. She had complete faith in him as he approached the man.

  Lennox stood up slowly from a slain eight-point buck deer. Paul approached, gauging the man’s size. Lennox was well over six feet, and every part of him wide and solid. Paul thought of Catherine’s keen eye. She would have been able to tell within half an inch how tall he was and even guess his weight.

  Lennox stood perfectly still. The dead animal’s legs were splayed, and a wide red gap stretched from its pale lower belly to its throat. Lennox had already extracted the entrails and heart and lumped them together in a dark red pile, so dark it was almost black. He raised his leathery face to Paul, clutching a long, thick knife in his right hand. His left arm was red from his fingertips to his elbow, and both hands dripped with fresh blood.

  Sitting in the car with eyes wide open, Jack wondered if it was a good idea for his dad to confront this stranger without support and without any kind of weapon.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?” he heard his dad ask.

  “Obvious enough,” answered Lennox, in a dry, even tone.

  “You’re on my property,” said Paul.

  “Is that so?” said Lennox.

  “You should be going.” When Lennox didn’t move, Paul added, “Now would be good.”

  Lennox didn’t move. The two men stared at each other, two bucks about to clash in the great outdoors. But this was Paul’s land. His Valhalla.

  “Are you slow or what? Get the hell off my land!”

  Was Lennox registering his request at all? Lennox had dark eyes that were cold, menacing and dull, like the eyes of a shark. Paul didn’t take his eyes off him and didn’t budge. This wasn’t a question of pride, it was a question of principle. There was no legitimate reason for Lennox to be shooting on Paul’s land, never mind taking his time field-dressing his kill so close to Paul’s home. It was unacceptable.

  At the same time, Paul knew there was no point calling the police or even the environmental authorities that regulated hunting in these parts. They would not be effective with a type like Lennox, who was a chronic trespasser and free-wheeling, year-round game hunter.

  Paul considered his options, and there weren’t many. He stuck to his message.

  “You heard me. Get the hell out of here,” he said calmly.

  Lennox eased forward, arms straight down on both sides, reaching down to the buck, as though to drag the carcass with him.

  “Eh, eh!” said Paul. “My land, my game.”

  Only after a long moment of consideration did Lennox finally let go. His anger was palpable. He wiped his blade on his thigh, leaving streaks of blood on his clothes. He was about to speak again, perhaps even jump at Paul, when Noah sounded off from the edge of the road.

  “Can I see, Dad? Is it dead?”

  Paul turned toward his son’s voice. Concerned by the confrontation, Anne stepped to Noah’s side and gently held him back. “Stay here with me, Noah.”

  “Stay there!” shouted Paul.

  Lennox watched this carefully, seeing Paul exchange looks with Noah and Anne.

  Paul wondered if he was doing the right thing, hoping none of his doubt showed through to Lennox. If he backed down now, Lennox would believe he could do anything he pleased, whenever he wanted, on Carignan property.

  The setting sun glimmered off Lennox’s cleaned knife. He sheathed it.

  “Come on,” he said, “what are you gonna do with it?”

  “Not your concern.”

  “Eight points on him. Trophy material. You’re gonna make me waste it.”

  “Hell of a waste, I agree with you,” said Paul, though his moral point meant nothing to Lennox. “Now, get off my property.”

  Lennox moved back from the whitetail. He gave Paul one more angry look, then walked off toward his truck. Everyone stared at him, waiting for him to get just far enough.

  Noah broke from Anne and ran to his father. Paul scooped him up with one arm and turned him away from the bulky pile of flesh and red ooze.

  “It’s dead, right Dad?” sneaking a look.

  “Very much so.” Paul went back to the two cars with Noah in his arms.

  Lennox roared his truck engine, spun his wheels and, to Paul’s relief, took off. Peace came to Valhalla again.

  “Are you okay?” Anne asked.

  “I’m fine,” he said, and kissed Anne on the cheek. “The idiot’s probably bagged dozens over the gaming limit. Shoots wherever he wants. Nobody does anything about it.”

  “You just did,” said Noah.

  “For now. The guy acts like he owns the county, even the wildlife.”

  Lennox’s truck was disappearing along Chemin Van Kleet, and Jack and Zeph were already laughing about the incident in the back of Paul’s car.

  “Your dad’s really cool,” said Zeph. “I thought he was going to punch him!”

  “I hate that guy. He’s a Noofarg,” said Jack, referring to the worst of the villains from Expedition X.

&nbs
p; “Yeah, superior Noofarg!” echoed Zeph. “Ugly too. See his face how angry he got?”

  “You should’ve decked him, Dad!” shouted Jack to his father, acting it out with Zeph. Zeph feigned a direct hit to his forehead and reeled back onto the seat, tongue and arms dangling. Paul waved off the suggestion, ushering Anne and Noah back into her car. He took one last look out toward the field.

  Nothing moved but blades of grass bending in the breeze and flies gathering over the slain, half-gutted whitetail.

  Once inside, Noah went quickly to the fireplace to check the mantle where he had left an envelope for his mother. He knew she had come to Valhalla that day for one last visit. The envelope contained a special message to his mom, an expression of his love. Happy to see she had taken it, he ran back outside to join Jack and Zeph near the woodpile. They had found a dead crow and were using branches to hoist it back and forth to one another.

  From the kitchen, Paul and Anne could see the boys, but from that distance all they could make out was a small black mass sailing through the air then dropping down and back again. Paul thought nothing of it, as he got the coffeemaker going. They had all enjoyed themselves in Magog, mainly outdoors, but Jack, Zeph and Noah evidently still had energy to burn. Paul saw them chase one another in one direction across the expansive grounds, disappear, then make a beeline in the opposite direction. It looked like good fun until Noah burst into Valhalla, panting and dropping to his knees on a rug before the door.

  “What’s going on?” Paul was alarmed.

  With anguish screaming from his eyes, Noah lifted his face to his father. He had streamlined features, almost too symmetrical and perfect for a boy. Emotion showed in the slightest wrinkling of his nose, angling of his mouth, or squint of his eyes. He was a brilliant boy, with unusual poise and thoughtfulness for his age. There was a special place in Paul’s heart for his younger boy. A mere whimper from him was all it took to raise Paul’s concern.

  “What is it? What’s going on?”