A Three Day Event (36 page)

For all she knew, Fran had just pitched a suavely constructed story to conceal his guilt. Because maybe Bridget had been there and argued with Liam, and maybe Fran had waited, and
he
was the putative ‘third person’. And yet she did instinctively feel he had integrity. Oh dear, how was one to know?

Polo was right, she admitted to herself. The world was certainly full of creeps and hypocrites, she wasn’t stupid enough
not
to know that–she just didn’t happen to bump up against most of them. Polo probably did, it was a rough and tumble world he lived in, but he never brought those problems to their friendship. He was the protective type. Very manly, he probably felt, not to burden women with the seamier side of things. Very old–fashioned, really, considering the changes in gender relations over the years. But nice in a man, no matter what the feminists said.

At the very end of the corridor she could see a horse’s head poking out, but she also noticed that the stall door was almost wide open. That wasn’t right. She quickened her steps, but when she reached the door, she realized that someone was behind it. It was Guy, sitting on a low stool at the threshold, his head bent over, entering notes in columns on a steno pad.

“Oh, I didn’t see you from down there,” Ruthie said. “I saw the open door and thought the horse might just walk out.”

“Th–that was n–nice of y–you.”

“Oh well, not especially…oh, I see you’re keeping a log. Is this the stallion who–I mean who”–she pointed to his mouth, and made a face.

“Y–yes, this is R–R–Rockin’ R–Robin. I’mmmm k–keeping notes on his f–f–f–food intake. For an article.”

Poor man, Ruthie thought compassionately. Manon told me. But he’s fine on the telephone, she said, and almost normal in person with people he knows well. It’s me, a stranger, bringing it out. No wonder he can’t have a normal practice. Lucky he has this protective set–up. I’ll just chatter away for a minute, then leave him alone.

“It was so shocking. Everyone is so happy that he’s recovering so nicely. You know, I was talking to Manon about him. She mentioned that just by coincidence he was attacked on the day he was supposed to service her mare –– well, anyway, that’s just a coincidence, of course, but then she said that the last time he was supposed to–um, visit her mare, her mare didn’t ovulate or whatever the term is”–

“E–Estrus,” Guy managed.

“Oh, thank you. Anyway, that sort of got me thinking. We’re all into this kind of detective mode at the moment, and I thought to myself, is there any way I could approach this issue with the totally non–equine kind of background I have? And I said to myself, why not look at this from a kind of literary point of view–I teach literature, you see–so I asked myself what cutting a stallion’s tongue might signify? In a symbolic way? So I’m thinking–tongue, tongue. Okay, in a human, it’s language, language. Communication. Self–expression, you see.”

Guy frowned and moved his mouth as if to speak. Ruthie hastened to continue on with her theme to spare him the need to comment.

“But a horse can’t ‘speak’, can’t ‘express himself’. Or can he? Isn’t it his function in life, in a way, to express himself by transferring his characteristics to a new generation? Does a stallion not ‘speak’ through his issue? I mean, symbolically? And then, just now I found out that this stallion’s issue is called Robin’s Song.
Song
. What is more self–expressively communicative than a song?

“So it seemed to reinforce my symbolism theory, if you see what I mean. So in fact it may be that the tongue actually represents the, um–well–penis. But who is going to have the nerve to cut a stallion’s…well, you see the reason for the ‘transference’, as a psychiatrist might say.”

Or did he see? Guy was looking at her as though she had dropped in from outer space and had green dreadlocks and three eyes. She had been babbling, she realized, in order to save him the trouble of conversation. Now she felt like an idiot. Wasn’t he going to say anything at all?

Finally, Guy tried to go to work on a reply. “Th–th–th–thhhh”–

Ruthie couldn’t bear it. “Oh, I know, it’s so silly. I’m sorry to interrupt your work, you must think I’m the biggest pest”–

“Oh n–no, n–not at all.” He smiled shyly, but, she couldn’t help noting, a little fearfully too. “C–come b–back anytime.”

“Thanks, Guy. Good luck with your article.” She walked down the passage to the resto exit, feeling extremely foolish. He probably thinks I am completely loonie tunes. Passing the office, she noticed that it was locked and dark. So Roch still wasn’t back. Hmm.

Hot, cranky and tired, Polo tucked up his stirrup irons, led the Irish gelding into the barn, took off the bridle, put on a halter, and hooked him up to the cross ties. Jocelyne appeared silently beside the horse, as though she had been waiting for his return. Polo was about to comment on his ride when he saw her face, and the words died in his mouth. Her eyes were puffed and red, her mouth a thin sliver of woe. Gloom and misery radiated from her whole being.
Fuck
! What the hell had Michel said to her?

Head turned from him, she began to unbuckle the saddle girth with mechanical efficiency. “Joc,” Polo said with embarrassment, “you don’t have to”–

“I want to. Just don’t talk to me.” Before he could even think of what he would say if she let him, as she swung the saddle and underpad off and set them down against the stall door, she went on with heartrendingly contrived, brittle insouciance, “Oh, by the way, I was wrong about Thursday night. It was Wednesday night that I spent with Michel. Thursday I went with the kids from Ontario to a pub in Granby. You can check that with them if you want.”

“Joc”–

“Just go away, Polo.” She was already removing the ankle boots and bells. She’d prepared a bucket and was going to sponge down the saddle sweat. “
Please
,” she whispered as he hovered indecisively.

He sighed and turned, and saw Guy, sitting and writing outside the stallion’s stall. He walked over. Guy looked up.
“You rode R–Robin’s Song.”

“Sure did.”

“He looks p–pretty wiped out.”

“There’s a good reason for that. He
is
pretty wiped out. And so am I,” Polo added testily.

“What do you th–think?”

“I think I know what a love–hate relationship is. No more comment for now–at least not until I speak to the owner. But I have a question for you–did you vet the horse when he came over from England?”

“No. He p–passed in England.”

“Hmm. Where can I find a pair of calipers?”

Guy raised his eyebrows in a wordless question, and started pointing to the small office at the end. At this movement his steno pad slid off his lap, and he dived to retrieve it. The tiny mishap seemed to fluster him. “Innnn R–Roch’s office, d–down thhhere,” he said.

Passing Jocelyne, Polo said, “Just leave him on the ties when you’re finished, okay?”

She nodded stiffly. She had sponged down the sweat patches and was already fastening a light cotton scrim over him. Then she half ran down the corridor and out. Fleur was waiting for her and jumped up on her, whining, but she pushed the dog out of the way, and stumbled to her beat–up gray VW Gulf. Polo watched through a stall window as the car lurched out of the parking lot and roared off. He sighed. Like he needed this on his conscience today. What the
fuckfuckfuck
had Michel said to her?

CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE

“D
oes it hurt very much, Uncle Roch?” Gilles asked
timidly, gazing sympathetically at the ugly red welt high up on Roch’s cheekbone. He would have a major black eye soon, probably a headache too, and Gilles would have liked to suggest stopping to find some ice to put on it or something.

No answer. Roch was either concentrating on his driving–much too fast for Gilles’ comfort–or his thoughts were elsewhere, as who could blame him. Or, Gilles sighed in humble acknowledgement of the possibility, his uncle was so pissed off at him that he didn’t trust himself for a civil response. The boy had never known Roch’s default good humour to disappear for so long. And oh, how Gilles longed for a glimpse of the famous sunny smile that had illuminated what he now considered his sharply terminated youth. On the other hand, he freely admitted to himself, you’d have to be something of a simpleton to be cheery under the present circumstances.

Gilles clutched his backpack closer to his chest, and bleakly assessed the potential for an accident at this speed. On the plus side it wasn’t raining. Traffic was light on the back roads from Knowlton. And they were in a big, solid Chevrolet, not a wimpy little Japanese compact. He checked his seat belt for the hundredth time.

Well, at least he couldn’t complain about his final meal, if that’s what it turned out to be. Roch had taken him to lunch at the Pizza Hut on Taschereau Blvd, and he’d let him order whatever he wanted. Roch only had spaghetti. But Gilles had ordered the large all–dressed classic and a big Pepsi. And chocolate cake with ice cream for dessert. And eaten it all! Gilles hadn’t realized how much the whole upsetting business had killed his appetite.

Roch had simply turned up at Gilles’ home that morning. What a shock it had been to find him in the house when he got back from speaking to Father Pascal. Roch never came into the city except for horse business or family weddings and funerals. Gilles had opened the front door and immediately seen him down the short hallway, sitting at the kitchen table in urgent conversation with his mother. Both had turned to stare at him,
maman
so anxious and fearful it made his heart turn over, and Roch a scary–looking study in controlled anger.

It didn’t take more than a few minutes to throw his things into a duffel bag. He was eager to go back. What he had to do now was nothing compared to his fantasies of being grilled by the police. Roch had obviously thought he was going to have to strong–arm him back to Saint Armand. But Gilles made it easy for everyone by explaining that Father Pascal had told him he had to make things right with his conscience and spill the beans anyway. So his uncle had naturally assumed he would spill the beans to
him
.

That’s how he got the big lunch at Pizza Hut. Roch had waited patiently for him to finish eating, softening him up with talk about family stuff, with all those great memories of
les bons vieux temps
. Gilles went along, no problem. But he knew a good cop routine when he saw one. Did his uncle think he was stupid as well as rotten?

Sure enough, soon Roch started to crank up the guilt. Did he know how worried his family were about him, and oh, how it broke his heart to see Gilles’ mother blaming herself for the sins of her poor, lost boy. Finally Roch began to ask the questions. But Gilles was prepared. All Gilles would say was that he hadn’t killed Liam and he didn’t know who did. He admitted there was more to tell, but that was all he was going to say about Liam to
Roch
. It hadn’t been very pleasant to tell his uncle that he wanted to reveal what he knew to somebody else.

“Why Polo? Why not me, your own flesh and blood?”

Gilles didn’t want to say that he was afraid of Roch’s temper, and that he felt Polo would give him a fairer hearing. “I have to tell somebody I trust who isn’t part of the stable, Uncle Roch.”

“Why?” Roch’s face with those unnervingly intense blue eyes homed in on him from across the table, but Gilles’ hour with the priest had cleared his brain, and fueled him with a surprisingly calm resolve. He felt emboldened. He would stand his ground. The past twenty–four hours had aged him. He had never been so frightened in his life. But through the endless hours of waiting and brooding over the events that had brought him to this crossroads, the experience had turned into a kind of pilgrim’s progress. Along with remorse and repentance, the passage had delivered him up and on to a new plateau of emotional transparency and self–possession.

“Uncle Roch, I don’t know who killed Liam. It could have been someone you know, someone you want to protect.”

“You mean Michel…” Wincing at the withering ferocity of Roch’s hushed voice, Gilles glanced quickly around at the neighbouring tables for reassurance. He could see veins cording up on Roch’s forehead. But amazingly, the boy found himself certain that he wouldn’t back down, even if his uncle got physical.

“Do you think I want it to be Michel?” Gilles whispered back hoarsely. “I love Michel, he’s my cousin, I’m so proud of him.” He swiped, unembarrassed, at his filling eyes. “But it could have been him. He hated Liam, and Liam was saying…things about him…”
O Seigneur
, here it came. He stiffened his spine.

“What? What was he saying?” Roch’s voice stayed low, but Gilles noted with horror that his fists were actually balling up, and he was very thankful they were still sitting in a public place.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Roch. I want to speak to Polo first.” He hoped he sounded implacable, but Gilles could hear the tremolo in his voice, and he held his breath while he watched the conflict playing itself out in Roch’s face and body language. He wished he could have thought of a more diplomatic way. He didn’t want Roch to be mad at Polo.

Roch seemed to understand there was nothing to be gained at the moment by further pressure. His big hands relaxed, though his laser glare never wavered from Gilles’ face. He ended up by changing tack. “What about Benoit? Do you know where he is?”

“Oh,” breathed Gilles in relief, “I don’t mind telling you that. He has a girlfriend. It’s off and on, but lately it seems to be on. She’s a waitress in Knowlton. I’m pretty sure he would have gone to stay with her.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“Sort of.”

Roch threw some money on the table and grabbed the bill. “Let’s go.”

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Roch began his interrogation. “Who did the office?”

“Benoit.” He hesitated, and added, “I borrowed Marie–France’s key on her lunch hour one day and had another one made, Uncle Roch. I’m sorry.”

“And the stallion?”

Gilles became agitated, remembering the terrible scene. “I swear, I never knew that was supposed to be part of the plan. I don’t think it was. Liam was a bad guy, but he really cared about the horses. I just can’t see him doing that. And Benoit–he wouldn’t have the nerve. He makes out like he’s really tough, but he’s kind of a baby underneath, you know?”

Roch sorted his thoughts for a few minutes, and Gilles struggled with his conscience. What hadn’t materialized shouldn’t matter, but he had to feel he’d emptied himself out on this side of the affair, as he intended to on the other side with Polo. “Uncle Roch, there was something else supposed to happen.”

“What?” Roch’s tone was gruff and contemptuous. Gilles felt himself close to tears again. Although he knew he was spiritually stronger, he felt helplessly emotional at every turn now. He hadn’t known how much he loved his uncle until yesterday. He knew that whatever affection Roch had ever had for him was forfeited already. This would be the final nail in the coffin of their connection.

“You know the new dressage arena that Mr. Jacobson is building near his house?”

Roch nodded impatiently. “
Et alors
?”

“Liam was going to set it on fire,” Gilles said glumly, hopelessly.

He stole a look at Roch’s face, and read complete bewilderment. Roch said stupidly, “Hy’s arena? On fire? Why the fuck would he do that?”

“It was his…mission.”

Roch took his eyes off the road for two terrifying seconds as he raked Gilles’ face. “Go on.”

Gilles sighed and plunged in. “Liam belonged to this group. I tried to explain it to Father Pascal, but he already knew all about that kind of thing. It’s a kind of club of guys who think they have to defend themselves against these enemies? Only the enemies aren’t like soldiers or another country or anything, they’re more like outsiders who live here, but don’t really belong in our society. And they’re rich and smart and have secret connections with each other. So they know how to take your stuff away from you, and have power over you. You know, like the Jews.

“For me it was the Jews just because I thought they’re like Liam said, but for Benoit it was not only because they’re Jews, but more because they took
le Centre
away from his family.” He sighed deeply. “Father Pascal explained it all to me. Why it’s wrong. And I don’t know why it was so easy for Liam to get me going on the Jews. I don’t even know any Jews. Except Mr. Jacobson. But he had me going. He definitely had me going.”

Gilles looked bleakly out the window, as if the answer to Liam’s powers might be found in the whipping procession of telephone poles they were passing at such intimidating speed. He felt Roch’s eyes on him and reluctantly turned to face him.

Roch was staring at him with–incredulity, as it seemed to Gilles. As if his uncle were looking into his soul and not believing what he was seeing, it was that black. Gilles squirmed with a sense of bottomless shame. Stoically he soldiered on. “Liam said we had to show them who was boss, who was superior. He said we should burn down the dressage arena. Benoit thought that was a cool idea. I was really scared, but at least nobody would get hurt. Anyway, Liam said I could just watch the fire. He said being a witness is as good as doing something, as long as you didn’t blab afterward.”

Roch’s anger seemed to have ebbed a bit. Now he seemed more stunned and saddened than anything else. But he kept his eyes on the road, as he asked, his voice husky with frustration, “Gilles, did you have any idea what this crazy shit would mean for
Le Centre
? Or for your family? Didn’t you even think about that?”

Gilles flushed. That word again.
Family
. The scope of his infidelity smote him so painfully it scared him. How many times could your heart squeeze up like this without doing some permanent damage? Again he felt those hot, ready tears glazing his eyes. “I–I don’t know how it happened, Uncle Roch. I didn’t think about anything. The way he talked–I don’t know, it made me feel…important…”

“Important.” Roch’s voice held no expression at all. Or rather it was an expression that went so far beyond contempt, Gilles felt, that it was like the frequency only dogs can hear. For him, lowlife that he was, there was no expression in Roch’s voice, but for people with character and standards, their ears would probably hurt just hearing him say that one word.

* * *

Polo returned the calipers to where he’d found them. He went back to the gelding on the crossties, checked him for a possible second sweat, found him reasonably dry, and put him back in his stall across from the stallion and Guy. Polo knew Guy had followed his examination of the horse’s hooves with ardent curiosity, but for reasons Polo could not yet articulate to himself, felt quite sure it would be wrong to discuss his suspicions with him.

Polo went to the lockers to put away his chaps and spurs. Opening the door he saw his driver’s coat hanging, and immediately recalled the bank draft to Bridget he’d stowed in the pocket. Impulsively he took it and walked back down to the stalls.

“Guy, have you seen Bridget this afternoon?”

“I think she’s not f–feeling too well. She’s p–probably sleeping.”

“It’s just that I happened to see this addressed to her when I was in the office before, and I was going to give it to her if I saw her.” Polo watched Guy carefully as he held the envelope out to him. No question about it, the sight of the cellophane window had unnerved him. His pen started to slip from his grasp and he fumbled quickly to retrieve it. More significant to Polo was that he was taking pains to disguise his surprise. Why should he, unless it was something Guy knew Bridget wouldn’t want others, or perhaps even he himself in particular, to see?

“Oh–ah–I c–could t–t–take it to her, if you l–like.”

“Thanks. Here.”

Polo had no idea what purpose the bank draft had served in terms of unlocking secrets about Bridget, but Guy’s reaction confirmed to him that he had been right not to discuss the gelding with him. Why, he didn’t know. Yet.

* * *

They drove in silence to Knowlton. Gilles remembered that the girlfriend lived in a tiny apartment above a little bakery on the main street. They found it quickly because the main street was short, and because Roch spotted Benoit’s Harley Davidson sticking out from behind the building. And Benoit, stripped to the waist, was working on it.

Later, when Gilles recalled having seen the wrench in Benoit’s hand, he felt horrible. Roch was so pissed off it probably hadn’t registered. Gilles should have run after him to back him up, or at least warn him. But instead, when Roch jerked to a stop and opened the car door, Gilles had slid as far down in his seat as he could. He hadn’t wanted Benoit to see him.

* * *

Polo lingered under the blessedly powerful shower spray with his eyes closed until the water turned cold. Dry, cool, in clean clothes, he felt immeasurably restored. He brushed his thick damp hair until his scalp tingled. He cleaned his glasses. He took a cold coke and an Aero bar from the generous stockpile he kept in a box in the fridge. He settled himself on the sofa to zone out for a few minutes, savouring every little chocolate block as it melted on the tongue. Soon he would make some notes on the horse while the ride was still fresh in his mind. But first, but first…

There was no answer at the house. He hung up when the machine came on. He tried the barn. The stable boy was alone and didn’t know where she was.

He called the house again, where she checked for messages more often. “Nath, give me a call. It’s”–he glanced at his watch–“3:30. I’ll be here til five. Then out. Back probably nine or ten. I’d–I really want to speak to you. Yesterday was…we shouldn’t be doing this shit on the phone, you know? So just to say…
é
coute
, I have to see this through, what’s going on here, but I’m coming home Monday latest, and then–well, let’s get somewhere on this, okay? Without…you know. And–wherever it is you’re going tonight, drive carefully, okay? You can call me as late as you want tonight. Call, okay? And…for whatever it’s still worth…I love you, Nath…”