A Three Day Event (8 page)

He leaped up into the stadium bleachers into the overhung area. Carefully he slid the big heavy rectangle of paper from under the bunting that he left stacked on the table. The wrapping paper, surprisingly heavy, was the size of a kingsize sheet. Jumping down, again shoving Fleur out of the way, he laid the paper on the ground beside Liam, then rolled the body onto the paper with the shovel. Tucking one end around the head and the other round the feet, he rolled the body and paper up together like a rug. Tying the ends with baling twine from the truck bed, the oblong bundle was neutralized, a thing only, could have been a rug, a floor lamp, mattress pads, anything at all really…

Gilles was fit and strengthened by months of hard work. Liam was skinny and smallish. It was no exertion swinging him into the back of the truck. There he lay. Gilles almost covered him with a loose horse blanket, but no, there mustn’t be horsehair found on him. Anyway, why cover him? He might easily be mistaken now for any other package lately delivered from
Tissus Clar–Mor
whose name on the wrapping paper was boldly printed in purple and teal at regular intervals over a half tone background of the same name and font in miniature, endlessly inscribed in pale mauve on glossy white:
tissus clar–mor, tissus clar–mor, tissus clar–mor
…

It was six forty–five a.m. when he arrived at the Taschereau Blvd. mall. As he had anticipated, there was only light traffic on the arrow–straight autoroute linking Saint Armand to the Champlain Bridge. If he’d had to cross the bridge, he couldn’t have predicted his timing. Construction cordons, accidents and commuter build–up near the bridge could complicate entry to the city, especially in the spring and summer. But his route took him out of the heavier lanes and onto the south shore shopping strip he knew intimately.

He hadn’t passed any cars or people that he knew on the two–mile road into Saint Armand from the Centre. At six a.m. even Uncle Roch’s spry little father wasn’t bustling around the lower barns where the broodmares and workhorses lived. Only turning onto the town road a woman jogger passed close to the truck and glanced up at the cab, but he had never seen her, and she did not look at him with any sign of recognition. There were a lot of city people who had weekend houses near
le Centre
, tucked away in pseudo–rural pods around the golf course and ski hill. She was a city person, her stylish jogging outfit made that clear.

Now he pulled into the mall and headed directly towards the anchor store,
Tissus Clar–Mor
. The parking lot was enormous, and he knew, he’d been here recently, that it backed into a construction site for a mammoth new
Club Prix
. He headed for the far end. The only cars in the lot were clustered close to the stores, just a few. Where he was headed, his truck would be assumed to be attached to the construction site, if in fact it was noticed at all. It was an ‘87 Chevrolet, a boring, gimmick–less beige and brown model. No special antennae, no dangling dice or splayed Garfields on the window. A workhorse. Gilles figured there must be 50,000 like it on the road in Quebec.

He dumped the body in a ditch–like depression on the edge of the site. Thankfully, just as he’d imagined and hoped, there was a mixture of earth, sand, gravel, grass and the usual construction detritus in the immediate area. Unless the police were motivated to compare the sand on the body with what was here–it was the same colour and texture to Gilles’ eyes–they were bound to assume he’d been done right here.
Clar–Mor
was a hundred yards away. He would be thought to be an employee, then when that didn’t work, an intruder or an employee’s jealous lover, or something.

Gilles wondered what to do with the belt and the sweatshirt, though. He decided to keep them in his knapsack behind the seat for now. If anyone accused him, he would put them in a place where
they
would be implicated, and make damn sure they got found. They were insurance. He felt better.

Liam had often boasted about having no family here, making his own way in the world, a rolling stone and proud of it. Nobody would ask after him, everyone at the barn would think he’d just taken off. What else was new with stable lads? No missing person’s report would go out. Roch would be pissed at having to get a new boy, but it had happened before. Everyone else would say good riddance. Only the real murderer would be going nuts wondering…But then the real murderer thought he was safe until Monday when the government workers showed up. He might not try to move him until Sunday night, or maybe not at all, figuring the time lapse would make a precise alibi unimportant…

Gilles did not worry about whether they would connect the body with Mr. Jacobson. If they somehow did–and he really didn’t see how–Gilles himself at least would not be an obvious suspect. He couldn’t get further than this in his mind. He had to get back. He hoped he hadn’t made any mistakes.

He looked around. Nobody. Scooping up some damp earth, he smeared his licence plate, just enough so it looked like it could have been sprayed by a passing car in a puddle, enough to foil an alert would–be witness, haphazard enough not to look deliberate.

It was seven a.m. It might take less than forty–five minutes back, because there was no traffic at all in that direction, and he could now drive at the speed limit, while coming in he had prudently stayed under. He was due at the barn at eight a.m. to receive the day’s instructions. He was still shaking, his hands were clamped painfully to the wheel and he felt light–headed, but the nausea was gone, just a tightness in the chest and gut. He was starting to be hungry even. He might stop for a McMuffin at MacDonald’s and certainly he must fill the tank to yesterday’s level, but not here. Maybe in Granby, a big enough town, and close to Saint Armand where his presence, even recognized, would be completely unremarkable.

Fleur licked Gilles’ face, very happy with her excursion, very happy to be with the most companiable human at
Le Centre Equestre de L’Estrie
.

* * *

Ruthie walked into the warm and spacious country kitchen and poured a cup from the automatic coffee butler, which Manon had thoughtfully programmed for her sister–in–law the night before. The air outside was a bit cool, but she was still glowing from her run, and she thought that even with freshly washed hair she would enjoy sitting out on the sweeping deck. Ruthie loved this solitary time in the early mornings. Funny how evenings alone were inevitably melancholy, but mornings alone were invariably happy, at least whenever she had just come in from running. Sunrise always gave her hope and a feeling that life was beautiful and worthwhile in spite of everything.

Especially today, with the sun climbing slowly up the horizon, the promise of a real spring day in the sweet country air, and this amazing view to feast her eyes on. Hy often boasted that on a clear day you could see virtually to Montreal, and he was right. This mountain was the first to break the flat landscape between here and Saint St. Hilaire, not far from the St. Lawrence River. The Centre was tucked about a third of the way up the mountain, and the views of the property, the stadium arenas backed by a craggy rock face, and the cross–country course, finally verdant and lush after a long winter, were postcard perfect.

How Daddy would have swelled with pride to see this place, and Hy so happy here. She imagined him standing on this deck after one of Manon’s gourmet dinners, as straight and tall as his elfin frame would take him, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, contentedly smoking his evening
Romeo y Julieta
, nodding approvingly at the site, and asserting for the hundredth time, “Now
this
is what I call a piece of real estate! You did good, Hymie…”

This morning was the first time she had run here. She could see that she could find any combination of terrains and routes to please her. Well, she would have lots of time to discover them all. She had decided to accept Manon’s invitation for an extended stay. It was only an hour back to the city if the girls wanted her. Meanwhile they were happy with their grandmother and their friends, making their summer plans.

Or they could come out here. They liked it here. Both were developing an interest in horses. Funny how the family passion had completely bypassed her. She liked to look at them, but that was it. Jenny and Aviva had been out to Polo’s place a few times, and Jenny said he’d offered to teach them to
really
ride, not the baby stuff they did at camp, now that they were back in Montreal to stay.

She smiled thinking about what a nice relationship they’d developed on their own with Polo. She’d never imposed them on him and Nathalie. Childless couples usually found their friends’ children boring. But he was genuinely fond of them. He’d seen them several times since Marvin died. Odd that he hadn’t called her, though. And hurtful a bit. He’d said at the shiva
, You’ll be surrounded by people for a while. I’ll be there when they think you should be getting over it.
And maybe things were ‘off’ again with Nathalie. He always retreated when that happened. Oh well, she was here now. And she’d probably see him later this morning when he came to check on the arena.

She relaxed into the languor of her post–run euphoria. She wasn’t a marathoner. About an hour’s medium jog suited her. Wonderful in this fresh air, no traffic of course, and lots of interesting little farms and gorgeous weekend homes to look at. On the return circuit she thought she’d seen someone she recognized. No, not someone, something. A car? No. Something, something…oh yes, that dog, sitting up in the truck and looking so pleased with itself. Wearing that cowboy bandanna. She’d seen it somewhere before. Oh well, not important now. Nothing important now, only this perfect day and nothing to do but relax and not think about anything, anything at all….

CHAPTER FIVE

R
och Laurin arrived at the stable every morning at 7:45
a.m. almost to the minute, six days a week. Mondays, the staff’s day off and a rest day for the performance horses, he arrived at 8:30 a.m. and spent the day on administrative backlogs and telephone calls.

Today, Friday, he arrived at the usual time, and as always, entered by the stable door in the back. He then performed the invariable routine of which he was by now quite unconscious. Pausing in the passageway linking the round barn to the main corridor, he stood motionless for a few seconds and appraised his domain.

During this time his senses were alert to the environment. His ears heard automatic water dispensers at work and the gentle whoosh of the fan. His nose told him the air was clean and smoke–free. He saw that the barn looked as it always did, with nothing out of place, no stall doors open. From where he stood he could see into the little round barn office; all was tidy and clean there. The bulletin board announced the day’s lesson assignments, blacksmith roster, instructors’ schedules, and the ‘order of go’ for schooling of the performance horses. It was all as he had arranged it yesterday.

He also took in the quiet, rhythmic munching of hundreds of blunt teeth on moistened hay, the first course of the morning feed. The hay was tossed in–one ‘flake’ each–over the chest–high door of each stall. For the second part, fifteen minutes later, when digestive systems were well prepped for the grain, the server would open each stall door to dump the oats into the triangular corner feed bin, at which point any untoward signs of change in the horse’s demeanour or behaviour would be noticed.

Morning feed was handled rotationally. Sometimes it was done by one of the working students, sometimes by Benoit, whose regular job it was to muck out twice a day. Occasionally Jocelyne did it, since she never allowed anyone else to feed her charges their special vitamin supplements, and so was there early in any case. Liam worked into the evening hours; so his day usually started around 8 a.m., the same time Gilles was supposed to show up. Today, it was one of Jocelyne’s shifts. As Roch began the usual circuit of his own and Michel’s horses, he passed her starting on the grain. They nodded cursorily to each other.

In the barn, unless he was chatting up clients, Roch wore the flinty, focused, vigilant expression of a general reviewing his troops. His word was law here, issued casually but obeyed without murmur. Once he had passed through the door leading to the administration quarters, though, his expression softened to that of a decisive but benign diplomat, a more collaborative personality, happy to delegate to others those realms of authority beyond his interest and skills. Away from the horses, in the restaurant and at home, he relaxed and assumed the host–like warmth and spontaneity for which he was generally known and appreciated.

The door from outside into the stable was never locked. This was in order to facilitate evacuation of the horses in the event of a fire, every horseman’s nightmare. It had happened once in the Centre some years before. Rats had gnawed through an electrical wire. Fortunately there had still been people in the restaurant and the horses had been saved. But from then on, someone always slept in the barn.

As Roch walked down the main aisle he automatically removed the keys for the admin corridor passdoor and his office from his pocket. He didn’t check these main barn horses individually, the clients’ and Bridget’s, although his peripheral vision was always tuned in for the unusual. He had no premonition today that any of the horses was in trouble.

But he knew something was wrong when he slipped the key into the passdoor and felt that it was already unlocked. His heart jumped fractionally. He hurried down the corridor and realized before reaching his office that its door was already wide open. He ran the last three steps to the threshold and, pausing there, took in the incomprehensible scene.

She–or he–Rock could not make out in the first instant of perception–stood, short, heavy, corduroy–clad legs spread slightly apart in a posture of stolid occupation, a large, mannish hand clutching a spray paint canister. She–he had unconsciously decoded her–had been looking into the inner office, but turned to face him, revealing a square freckled face curtained to shoe–button bright eyes with stick–straight brown bangs, framed by a chin–length Buster Brown bob, and dominated by the biggest, roundest glasses he had ever seen.

“Well, don’t look at
me
like that, mister,” she asserted truculently, “
I
had nothing to do with all this. Shit, I don’t even speak French!”

By “this” she meant the chaotic scene around her, both in Marie–France’s anteroom and in his own office beyond. Roch could not attach his shocked initial impressions to any coherent understanding of what had happened. The most arresting feature was the walls, every one covered with roller–coasting graffiti:
VENDUS…T’ES QUEBECOIS OU T’ES RIEN…LE CENTRE AUX QUEBECOIS
…

Papers were strewn everywhere and office furniture–chairs, end tables, desk lamps, and bookcases–were overturned. The word processor was upended on a desk. The telephone was off its hook, receiver dangling off the edge of the bureau.

A large, gilt–framed photograph of a proudly smiling Roch standing with the Queen of England, taken at the closing ceremonies of the 1976 Olympics, hung askew on the wall, its glass crazed with spray paint blacking out his and her face. Just as pointedly, across the room, another picture of Roch and the original 1969 Hunt Club, a group of laughing men on horseback surrounded by a pack of Jack Russell terriors, was serenely untouched inside a symbolic oasis of clean wall.

Coffee cups, paper clips, pens, notepads, brochures, everything was everywhere in a welter of orchestrated malice and confusion.

In a daze, heart pumping, flooded with adrenaline, Roch whipped back to the strange–looking creature who was peering at him with cautious sympathy. Hoarsely he barked, “Who the hell are
you
? How did you get in here?”

“Sue Parker. That door,” indicating with a jerk of her head the main entrance around the corner, “and it was unlocked, in case you’re wondering,” she added hastily. Then, registering his absolute lack of recognition, she went on, “
Sue Parker.
Journalist. Here to do a backgrounder for the show documentary? Young Riders?”

Roch nodded absently. Some dim recollection had filtered through his amazement, which was rapidly turning to wrath. “Open? Not forced?” he demanded.
Keys. Me, Hy, Marie–France, Michel, Guy, Caroline.
That’s all. Who–

He turned to go and check the front door, then they both froze at the sound of a prolonged, high–pitched scream coming from the main barn. They stared at each other in stupefaction. Then Roch was racing down the hall as Jocelyne’s wailing voice cried out, “
O non, non, non
…” and Sue Parker, flinging down the canister, was right behind him.

Jocelyne had not yet moved since her first scream. One hand clapped over her mouth to stifle the sounds she wanted to make, but knew would frighten the horse, she used the other to steady herself against the end wall. Roch found her thus transfixed by what she was staring at, hidden from him by the still partially closed stall door. Swiftly but quietly he edged her aside, looked in, and drew a sharp breath of horror and disgust.

Calisse!

The stallion stood, swaying slightly as if in shock or drugged, his head hanging drunkenly close to the shavings. Thick gouty blood dripped from his open mouth. His long white socks were sluiced with brilliant streaks of crimson. The cedar shavings under his front hooves were wet, clumped and blackened. Oats had spilled on the floor in front of him where Jocelyne had dropped the scoop. Roch’s glance fastened immediately amongst the grains, nausea rising in him, on a rubbery triangular wad of pulpy flesh–a good half of the horse’s tongue–and a bloody length of very thin wire…

Fighting back the urge to vomit, he sank to one knee, swearing and fighting for strength. He heard sobbing behind him–Jocelyne, and the stranger’s loudly barked “Holy shit!” as she peered over his shoulder. The horse flinched at the sound. That lent him the surge of energy he needed.

Whirling and rising in a single fluid motion, he had the woman by the wrist in a vise of angry fingers, pressing hard, as he whispered, “Out of here, you.
Now
. Wait in the office.”

She winced and tried to free her hand, but his grip tightened. She seemed about to protest, but took a good look at the rising fury in his icy blue eyes, muttered “sorry”, shrank away rubbing her wrist and disappeared along the corridor toward the office.

“Easy, boy, easy,” Roch crooned softly before laying a tender hand on the horse’s shoulder. The ears twitched slightly at the familiar voice, the eyes rolled in puzzlement and a slight tremor passed along his flanks. In a few seconds Roch had ascertained that the animal was not in real shock. He was sweating just a bit, but his heartbeat was close to normal. Gently Roch passed sensitive fingers all over the horse’s body, under the belly, up and down the legs, searching for other wounds, but there was nothing. Now he turned to Jocelyne who was calm and awaiting instructions.

“Ç
a va
? I need you to do things.”

“
Oui.
I’m okay. What first?” She was pale but marginally more collected.

“Get a cotton scrim and a light cooler. And a halter. Not his. The big one from the warmbloods. Get me a thermometer. Then call Guy. Tell him to bring everything, tell him he’ll need an I–V unit. If Bridget answers, don’t tell her. Make sure you speak to Guy only in French, and tell him not to say anything yet. She’ll get here anyway later on, and by then he won’t look like this. You got all that?”

She nodded and did what he asked. With infinite patience and a good deal of soothing encouragement, Roch fitted the netted sweatsheet and light wool cover over the length of the horse’s back. He shifted restlessly but accepted the handling without overt tension. Jocelyne returned from the little office.

“Guy’s on his way,” she said. “Bridget doesn’t know yet”.

“Okay, I’ll stay here with him until he comes. Meanwhile, finish giving the grain to the others”–he had been conscious for moments of the throaty half–whinnies and stamps of frustration emanating from the stalls further along Jocelyne’s interrupted route–“and get a bucket of clean water and a new sponge. And–yeah–get Liam.”

Roch carefully inserted the thermometer in the rectum, clipping the attached string to the tail, then came back to examine the wound as well as he could. It was coagulating, that was a good sign, and the horse, although clearly tired and woozy, was in no danger of going down. It didn’t look like a panic situation, merely a horrible one.

An act of vengeance like this was a complete anomaly even in Roch’s lifetime of experience in horse sport. He had seen and dealt with severely injured horses, colicky horses, tied–up horses: all of these were upsetting, heartbreaking even, but were accepted as part of the risks of competition. He had seen many horses destroyed for one reason or another. None of it had prepared him for the dark thrill of disgust in seeing an injury so cold–bloodedly inflicted on a beautiful creature like this stallion. His mind whirled with possibilities and even, reluctantly, some probabilities.

Who hated him so much they would vandalize his office and attack him and Michel personally? Here a dark clot of suspicion was already forming
. I shouldn’t have exploded like that last week in the restaurant. Better to avoid open conflict in these things, never does any good to shove reality in people’s faces.

And if they hated him, why choose Bridget’s horse to hit on? Everyone knew he kept his horses separately. And if it was Bridget they hated, what use was it attacking his office? How had they got a key to the outside door? How had they opened the pass door? He could handle the sourpusses and the
politicailleurs
, but this was something else. Someone as ruthless as …
steady, big fella, don’t move, good boy, it’s going to be okay, poor guy, look at him, doesn’t know what’s happening, c’mon Guy, get a move on, let’s fix up the poor bugger…

The stable door opened and Guy Gilbert rushed in with his gear. He was by Roch’s side in a few seconds, his hands flipping open the bag even as he took his first look.

“J–Jesus,” he said softly.

Jocelyne came hurrying back at this moment. “Roch, I have to tell you something.”

Roch looked up impatiently. “What?”

Jocelyne shook her head and motioned him away from Guy. Roch frowned, but slipped aside and followed Jocelyne a few paces down the aisle. “What is it?” he asked brusquely.

“Liam isn’t there,” she said in a low, tense voice. “He’s gone–and so are all his things. He’s buggered off…”

They looked at each other and at the stall where Guy was quickly and efficiently laying needles, bottles and instruments out on a towel.

Jocelyne said flatly, “Bridget will kill him if she finds him.”

Roch shook his head at once. “Liam wouldn’t do this.”

“Then who?”

It was eight a.m. Gilles entered the barn with the dog. He was tense and he knew it must show. So he said immediately, “Why is Guy here so early? I saw–I saw his truck outside. Is–is something wrong?” His glance slid past them to Guy kneeling outside Rockin’ Robin’s stall.

Coldly Jocelyne replied, “Somebody cut off Rockin’ Robin’s tongue. He’s bleeding all over the place. And Liam’s buggered off. He’s gone.”

Tongue! Cut off! What was going on? Nobody said anything about–

“How–how can you just cut off–I mean a horse–you can’t just take a scissors and–”

Roch was looking intently at Gilles’ waxy face. Slowly he said, “With a thin wire, kid.” Roch stuck out his tongue, yanked two imaginary ends of wire quickly outwards at the sides of his mouth. “Easier than you might think if you know your way around horses and if they trust you.” He turned to include Jocelyne as he added–it seemed almost inconsequential now–“and the office was broken into. It’s a mess. I have to go and deal with it now–”