A Three Day Event (37 page)

* * *

“Does it hurt, Uncle Roch?” Gilles asked again now, a little louder.

“Not as much as Benoit’s mouth will when they try to shove his front teeth back in,” Roch growled. They turned into the unpaved ski condos road and drew up in front of Polo’s.

Polo had barely replaced the telephone receiver, when someone rapped hard on the door. He crossed the room quickly, but a second knock came harder before he reached it. He opened the door and it was Gilles, a duffel bag at his feet, clutching a knapsack in one hand, and his other up and poised to pound again. They stared at each other, Gilles seeming as shocked as Polo at the encounter. Before Polo could say anything, his attention jerked to the sound of a car peeling rubber, and he saw Roch’s chevvie taking off in a cloud of dust from the laneway.

The story poured out of the boy in a single torrent. He spoke so quickly it was difficult for Polo to follow, but he got the gist. When Gilles started to lag a bit from fatigue, Polo signalled for him to sit back and shut up. He got him a coke, which Gilles immediately and noisily gulped down. Then, pacing back and forth across the living room, Polo asked questions.

“Are you sure you weren’t seen leaving the stable?”

“I didn’t see anyone. It was so early.”

“You didn’t mention you took Fleur with you.”

The boy was visibly startled. “How did you know I took her?”

“Someone saw her in the truck. And later at the stable, she recognized the dog. But she didn’t see you.”

“But I’m sure I didn’t see anyone I know.”

“You don’t know her. It’s Mr. Jacobson’s sister. She just got there the night before.”

“The Lexus in his driveway…”

“Yeah. So maybe she wasn’t the only one. But let’s say she was. So. You find him in the sand, you take off the stuff that would identify him, you wrap him in the paper, you take him to the
Clar–Mor
lot…a pretty good plan for the spur of the moment, Gilles. It was wrong of you to move the body in the first place, but it took guts to follow through.”

Gilles blushed furiously. It was the first positive assessment of himself he’d heard in what seemed like an eternity, and he felt almost faint at being, as he saw it, hauled out of exile and reinstated in the small community he’d begun to hope might play an important role in his future.

“I–I was afraid it was Michel who did it, and I kind of panicked…”

Bon
, so that was it. “Michel didn’t do it, Gilles.” Polo had to smile at the radiance of Gilles’ expression, so much like his own when he first knew it was true.

“Are you–are you sure, Polo?” he gasped.

“Yeah. It’s a long story, but his alibi is going to turn out rock solid,” Polo said kindly.

“Oh jeez, Polo, that’s
super
”–he jumped up and flung his arms around Polo in a kid’s exuberant bear hug, euphoric at this unexpected and casual release from the gnawing torment of his worst fear. Conscious of the boy’s chest trying to suppress a sob of relief, Polo felt his own arms clasp and tighten round him, and he thumped him reassuringly on the back. Then Gilles stepped back, puzzled. “But how do you know that, and Uncle Roch didn’t?”

“I only found out this afternoon. Roch left this morning and nobody even knew where he went.” Polo felt a little shy about the boy’s artless gesture of affection. He’d hugged him back, though. Gilles had merged, for a fleeting second, with Michel. It had felt good to have the power to give such instant animal comfort. But was it a good thing to have this kid hero–worshipping him or not? His gut tightened a bit. He didn’t feel flattered. He was only conscious of a looming responsibility.
Anyway…

“Okay Gilles,
on y va
.
You cut off the ponytail…”

“…with the clippers from the toolbox–and I sort of scattered the hair around. It looked like horse hair.”

This is not a stupid kid, Polo thought. He just needs educating. “I guess you threw away his sweatshirt and belt,” Polo said, without much hope of contradiction.

Gilles grinned slyly. Without a word, he dragged the knapsack over to sit upright beside him, and opened it. He pulled out the sweatshirt and the belt, still sandy, unseen and untouched since he’d stowed them there. He laid them out on the coffee table. Polo threw him an approving smile, and Gilles beamed with rapture.

Polo gently smoothed out the Tufts sweatshirt and looked it over carefully. It told him nothing he didn’t already know. Then he turned his attention to the belt. The leather part was ordinary, with no distinguishing marks. It was the heavy brass buckle that interested him, some kind of zodiac motif mounted on a captain’s wheel–like circle with tubular fluted–edge spokes extending past the rim. He slid his fingers underneath it to pick it up. The only fingerprints that were likely to be there now would be Liam’s and Gilles’. But wasn’t there a slight possibility that the killer had touched it when burying the body? He decided to put it in a plastic bag. You never knew.

Polo looked up and saw Gilles yawning and rubbing his eyes. Deep bruised crescents were appearing below them, and his face was noticeably paler than when he’d arrived. Poor kid, Polo thought, he’s completely wiped out from all the tension.

“I think we’ve covered enough for now, Gilles. Look, do you want me to take you back to your trailer”–he cut the question short as he saw Gilles’ face crumple with fear. He clearly didn’t want to be alone. You couldn’t blame him.

“Or maybe to your uncle’s house?” This produced a near–convulsion of recoil. He’s really hurting, Polo thought. Roch must have laid into him pretty hard over this.

Gilles peeked shyly through the bedroom door at the two double beds. Polo sighed. Gilles looked up at him in hopeful, mute appeal.
Eh bien
, what the hell. Polo picked up Gilles’ duffel bag and took it through. Gilles followed, tearful once more, this time with exhaustion and gratitude.

While Gilles was in the bathroom, Polo found a plastic bag, but before putting it to use, he studied the belt buckle, willing it to talk to him. Then, hearing the bed creak, he remembered something he had forgotten to ask Gilles before. He went into the bedroom.

“Gilles, one more thing.”

“Mmm?” He was already under the covers, his sneakers and jeans in a little heap beside the bed. His lips were moistly relaxed, his tear–streaked face half–buried in the pillow, his eyes slowly closing. Polo sat on the opposite bed.

“Gilles, don’t fall asleep yet. Listen, a fax was sent to the Jacobsons’ house at four in the morning yesterday from the office.”

“Not me. Not there then,” he said thickly, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“It was a kind of cartoon. It was meant to scare the Jacobsons.”

“Ohhh…Spider–Jew?”

“
Yes
. You know it? You saw it in the office?”

Gilles was semi–alert now. He raised himself up on his elbow. He was embarrassed too. “I–I forgot about that. I was supposed to send it. I mean, that was supposed to be my job. Liam said if I didn’t do something easy like that, it was like not being part of the team.” He kept talking through a huge yawn. “But just as I was going to send it, I thought about it and I decided not to. I was afraid someone would catch me. Anyway, there wasn’t any fire, and then in the morning the–the other stuff happened, so I forgot about it. And also”–he looked guiltily at the floor–“I felt bad about Mr. Jacobson seeing it. I mean”–he gestured vaguely in the direction of the stable–“he’s always very nice to me, you know…”

“So what did you do with it?”

“I left it in the office. I hid it before I went to the trailer for the night.”

“
Where
?”

“In the filing cabinet.” He had flopped back down on the pillow again.

“
Which one
?”
Tabarnouche
, this was like pulling teeth…

“The one beside Marie–France’s desk.” Gilles’ eyes were closing again and his voice was clotted, fading.

“Which
drawer
?”

“The top one,” Gilles mumbled. “In the first folder…Polo, can I…just sleep…for a few minutes? I’m so…” his voice trailed off as his face relaxed into the pillow. He was well and truly emptied out, and a faint smile played over his mouth as a delicious wave of sleep now carried him off beyond human command.

Polo sat on and watched the boy sinking out of consciousness. Gilles was small for his age anyway, and now in slack–muscled sleep looked about twelve years old. His silky dark hair, flopped forward onto his face, his eyelashes, fanned in dark wet clumps over the smudgy circles beneath, aroused a strong feeling of protectiveness in Polo. The kid looked so damn…vulnerable. And he
was
vulnerable, Polo thought angrily, because he was ignorant, and naïve.

This experience had clobbered him. Gilles was afraid of everyone now. But not of me, Polo mused. Gilles trusted him, otherwise he wouldn’t have come to him with his story, otherwise he wouldn’t have fallen asleep so fast. There was something so…sweet in knowing that. Looking down at the boy, he felt moved, he admitted that to himself. As he had when Gilles hugged him. As he had when he wished he had hugged Michel.

A kind of yearning, a weird form of homesickness, rose up in him like warm sap. Something is happening to me, he thought nervously. He was trying to be a detective, but it seemed that in adventures of this kind you couldn’t pick and choose amongst your clues. Some might lead to the murderer, others…

If I had a son, and if he were in trouble and told me about it, and finally fell asleep because he knew his trouble was in good hands and he could let it go, I would be sitting here just like this, just sitting and watching over him, so no harm would come to him. If someone walked in here right now, and laid even a finger on this boy, I wouldn’t stop to think, I would beat the shit out of him. If Nathalie knew I was sitting here like this, and feeling the way I’m feeling, she would hate me. If she doesn’t already. For all the lost years. And she would be right to
…

Polo considered life’s ironies. Here he was, himself ‘in flight from fatherhood’, as Nathalie put it, for all this time, yet Michel had come to him with his problem instead of to his own father. And Gilles had chosen him instead of his parents or his uncle. It wasn’t a coincidence. He had something special to give them, something they needed, something they knew they wouldn’t find with Roch. He didn’t feel he had done anything special. He had just been himself. He had never before imagined that just being who you were could be a
necessary
thing to another person.

But the two boys had given
him
something too. He had shared that story with Michel, willingly brought his buried shame to the altar of friendship. He had happily invited Gilles into his temporary home. And he had hugged him. These acts, trivial in the scheme of things, were not trivial to him. They had given him a feeling–joy–the purest kind you get from an unexpected gift, the one thing you wanted above all, but didn’t know until you received it. Because it could only come as a gift. You couldn’t will it or buy it. This gift, this–joy of connection–once would be a random thing. But it had happened twice in one day. That was a kind of evidence, wasn’t it?

Was it their need that was the gift? He had to deal with this idea. Maybe not now. Was it too late? Where was Nathalie going tonight? And if she didn’t call later, how would he know if she was safe? How did he even know if he would ever see her again? His heart galloped. Now there would be an irony…

Call, Nathalie. Please call. I am suddenly a little scared myself to be alone. And I am so ready to talk. I am so afraid it may be too late.

Polo leaned forward and listened to Gilles’ deep, adenoidal breathing. He touched the smooth, pale cheek with a tentative finger. He caressed his hair, soft and fine as a baby’s, and pushed it gently off his face. He closed the blinds, smoothed the covers, and neatly folded the jeans.

Polo stared at the belt buckle and thought about the unexpected collateral effects of the detective role he had undertaken with such naïve enthusiasm. What had he found out, objectively speaking? That Liam was a racist and his passing unworthy of regret or any emotion–apart from relief–in this small community. That Michel had solid values and was neither gay nor a killer. That Gilles was smarter and psychologically more complex than he would have believed. That Roch’s devotion to Michel’s career was more fanatically intense than he knew. That Jocelyne’s obsession with Michel was even more consuming and unhealthy than he’d thought. That Guy and Bridget were hiding information that might or might not be relevant to the mystery. He still had no idea of who had killed Liam. He could hardly be said to have moved forward in terms of his mandate.

But subjectively, in his own relationships, this short sojourn in Saint Armand had sucked him into a maelstrom. The assault on the stallion and the invasion of the office now seemed thematically linked to his personal life, they seemed to have been the orchestrated prelude to, or prophecy of a general implosion in his once contained and well–defended emotional universe. He had assumed he would be married to Nathalie forever. Now Nathalie was poised to leave him. He had distanced himself from any involvement with dependents. Now two young men had trustingly placed themselves under his protection.

What he had thought was a rock–solid friendship with Ruthie, which had been nothing but a source of quiet pleasure for most of a lifetime, was softening, shifting, changing shape under his feet. Everything had shifted, with more turmoil to come when he met with Thea. Soon Thea would tell him something about Morrie that might weaken his connection with the whole Jacobson family, maybe even corrupt his perfect comradeship with Hy.

Finally there was Roch. Gilles had told him about Benoit, the fight, and about his anger at Gilles wanting to confide in Polo, not him. To add insult to injury, when he did see Roch at dinner in the
resto
, Polo was going to have to convey–in front of other people since the others had to know it too–the fact that Michel had a strong alibi for the time of the murder without revealing what it was. It was for Michel to choose his time and place for telling Roch about Claude.