The Extinction Club (38 page)

Her detailed map, no doubt to scale, led me to the northern fringe of Ste-Madeleine and a tumbledown Centre du Pneu Express, where I could get “the best illegal mud/snow studded tires money can buy—ask for Ray.” In the same neck of the woods, coincidentally, Gervais and his clan resided, in a purple house she had marked with an X.

“He’s got a family?” I asked.

“Three boys.”

“Good Christ.” What kind of future, I wondered, could his sons expect? Which would come first—prison or coffin?

“And a doormat wife. Last time I saw her she had a couple of black eyes so bad she looked like a panda.”

“And what about Bazinet?”

“What about him?”

“Does he have a family?”

“Sort of. He hates women, especially if they’re in law enforcement, but somehow he’s got a daughter. Around my age. Who lives with her mom north of Tremblant.”

“You know her?”

“Never laid eyes on her.”

Ray, a gentle tattooed mountain of a man, wore a size of blue jeans that I didn’t know existed, and a belt with a silver buckle as big as a pie tin. He installed the new tires and said if I put four hundred pounds of sandbags in the back I’d stay on the road. “Or you could ride with me,” I didn’t say. The streets were all aviary. With the sandbags in the back I made a solid left on Rossignol, right on Hirondelle, left on Alouette. On sharp turns the right front tire rubbed against the fender and sang like a screech owl. At the end of Alouette, a short culde-sac, I spotted a black pickup parked some distance from the curb. I went for a closer look, pulling up beside it. It had a raised chassis and rack of lights, but no grille, no platform, no busted headlight.

On the driveway closest to it was a car that looked familiar: a silver Saab. It had backed in, so I couldn’t see the licence plate. Did it end with RND, I wondered, like the one I saw in the Walmart parking lot?

I was about to get out and check when I heard some
laughter. I looked left and right but couldn’t see where it was coming from. What I did see was a young dog, not far from the Saab, a golden retriever. He had a short rope around his neck, right under his jaw. The other end was tied to an aluminum fence post. He was gasping and choking for breath. The more he tugged the worse he made it.

Two boys, sitting on the steps of the porch, were laughing like jackals. I reached into the glovebox for a pen knife.

« Having a good time? » I yelled to the boys, in French, from the sidewalk.

“What’s it to you?” one of them yelled back in English.

I cut the twine and the dog breathed easy again. The grateful beast wandered off toward the van, shaking his head about.

“What do you think you’re doing, buttwipe?” said the same boy.

I closed the blade, pocketed the knife.

“Why don’t you mind your own business, limpdick?” said his friend.

“And get the hell off our property!” said the other.

I was innocent of what happened next. I arranged my mouth into the most beguiling smile and sauntered unmenacingly toward them. “What are you guys up to?” I asked with a kindly, avuncular tone.

“Bakin’ a fuckin’ cake. What does it look like?”

As I passed the Saab I glanced back at its licence plate. Within a couple yards of the taller boy, who had just spoken and was now spitting in my direction, I pointed back toward the dog. When he turned to look I lunged like a fencer and delivered a head-ringing slap. He was one mighty surprised boy. “Mommy!” he cried. The stockier one scrambled to get away but I grabbed him by the ankle and pulled his writhing
body toward me. I slapped his face too, backhand and forehand, movie style. Hard, but not as hard as I would’ve liked.

Both remained silent, in frozen recoil, their cheeks flushed and mouths an “o” of shock. “Next time I catch you doing something like that, you won’t get off so easy. Next time I’ll throw you in a jail cell.” I pulled out my wallet. “And if you’re too young for jail, I’ll slap your asses into next week. Is that clear? I said is
that clear?
”

The two nodded quickly, triple-speed.

“Here, take my card. Give it to your mother, tell her I videoed her beating that dog with a brush. Posted it on YouTube. I said
take it
.”

I got back in the van, which I’d left running. Not a good time to have ignition problems. The dog watched me from the sidewalk. The boys had skedaddled, but I saw the drapery move in the front window. Should I take the dog with me? Poor little guy, what a lousy roll of the dice he got with this family. I opened the door, called him, but he ran back toward the house.

Back to Hirondelle, then Héron, where I saw an elderly woman throwing handfuls of rock salt from a child’s wagon. As I approached I thought she was waving at me in a friendly way, so I waved back. But she stepped out onto the road, holding her hand up like a traffic cop. I stopped and rolled down my window.

« Officer, I was wondering if you could help me. »

« How’d you know I was an officer? »

« That’s your showcar, right? »

I paused. « I can’t comment on that. How can I help you, ma’am? »

« I lost my dog. »

« A golden retriever? »

« No, she’s a little terrier pup. Well, a mongrel actually. Almost all black with a little white on the muzzle. »

« I haven’t seen her, but I’ll be on the lookout. I’m on my rounds now. Where do you live? »

She pointed to a white wedding cake of a house behind her. A mini Santa’s Village was still on display in the front yard and driveway, incorporating a large Oldfolksmobile. « Thank you, Inspector. Or is it Sergeant? »

« I … it’s Detective Inspector, actually. »

« Thank you so much, Detective Inspector. »

« Any time. Oh, by the way, I’m looking for a black pickup with a big grille and broken headlight. You haven’t seen one like that by any chance? »

« A souped-up monster for hunters? With a mean bulldog face? »

« That’s the one. »

« I don’t know if it has a broken headlight, but I’ve seen one like that two blocks down. On Rouge-gorge. Turn left. A dilapidated purple house on the right, you can’t miss it. »

Purple? « On Rouge-gorge? It doesn’t belong to a man named Gervais, does it? Tall man, scruffy black beard? »

« Gervais Cude, that’s his stinking place all right. »

« Much obliged, ma’am. Here, take my card. »

The swaybacked house of leprous lavender was more of a barn, with a roof built partly of canvas and odd-shaped boards. An automotive boneyard lay out front, a Quonset hut out back. There was a fence around the property, a sagging wire affair, and a sign,
DÉFENSE D’ENTRER
, on the makeshift
gate. But no vehicle in sight. Or any member of the Cude clan. Where were they? In the barn, eating baked beans out of a can, sharing the fork? In the hut, playing their fiddles or stabbing one another to death with ice-fishing implements?

Back on Héron a black pickup came at me, in my lane. In a game of chicken? No. Its monster tires made a squealing right on Rossignol, which led straight to the highway.

From beneath the passenger seat I pulled out the portable beacon. Put the magnetic cherry out the window and clapped it onto the roof, its power wire strung across my lap. Hit the siren and light switch on the console. Then pressed on the accelerator.

   XXVII   

I
followed the truck into the parking lot of a two-storey eyesore with a red neon sign. Through falling snow I watched it stutter with two burnt-out
e
’s:
BAR CAV
. The driver pointed his electric key at the truck from twenty feet away and its doors obediently locked themselves. He didn’t even turn to look at me.

I pulled in beside the pickup and could see right away this was not what I was after. It was a 4 x 4 double cab with a gun rack and spotlights. But no reinforced bumper, no steel platform. I yanked off the cherry, killed the engine. Took off my parka and tossed it in the back. If anyone knew about a one-eyed bear truck, this would be the place to find him.

The Bare Cave might have had charm when it was first built—back when stamps cost 2 cents—but its original wood and stone had been covered with aluminum siding and its large windows painted over like a mortuary. The padded front door, which further sealed the place from all natural light, was covered with Day-Glo stickers and Magic-Marker scrawls, among which:

SAVE A HUNTER—ROADKILL AN ACTIVIST

DO YOU WORK FOR A LIVING—

OR ARE YOU AN ENVIRONMENTALIST?

SAVE THE POLAR BEARS—FOR DINNER

REGISTER HOMOS, NOT FIREARMS

There were only two dissenting voices on the entire door,
one at the top and one at the bottom, both obscured by hand-drawn penises:

HUNTER: THE VEGETABLE IN QUEST OF THE ANIMAL

IF YOU KILL FOR MONEY YOU’RE A MERCENARY.

IF YOU KILL FOR PLEASURE YOU’RE A SADIST.

IF YOU DO BOTH YOU’RE A HUNTING GUIDE.

I pulled on the caribou antler that served as door handle and entered a fluorescent foyer that smelled like an Amsterdam café. A black bear greeted me, standing on three legs in an attack stance. I drew closer. Its menacing paw was extended, but its claws seem to have been lacquered, manicured. Its chipped tongue was made of red plastic, and one of its marble eyes was blue. A brass plate at its feet read: “Shot by Didier Cude, Mont Rolland, 1979.”

On the wall beside it was a plaque outlining the history of the Bare Cave, originally spelt Bear Cave. It was built as a hunting lodge by a nineteenth-century industrialist from Philadelphia named Harold K. Beechum, who wanted to host large hunting parties and wild-game banquets for celebrities and politicians. When it opened on November 22, 1906 (the same year as the church), it was remote and hard to get to; it was now on a highway.

Next to the plaque was a framed photocopy of the lodge’s inaugural Thanksgiving Dinner Menu:

Procession of Game

S
OUP

Venison (Hunter Style)

Game Broth

F
ISH

Broiled Mullet, Shrimp Sauce

Baked Black Bass, Claret Sauce

B
OILED

Leg of Mountain Lion, Ham of Black Bear,

Venison Tongue, Buffalo Tongue

R
OAST

Canvasback Duck, Black Duck, Northern Pintail Drake

Blacktail Deer, Ruffled Grouse, Snowshoe Hare

Loin of Bison, Ham of Grizzly, Leg of Elk

Opossum, Wild Turkey, Sandhill Crane

B
ROILED

Labrador Duck (when available), Passenger Pigeon (when available)

Jacksnipe, Eskimo Curlew, Bufflehead

Plover, Woodcock, Northern Flying Squirrel

E
NTREES

Marsh Rabbit Braise, Cream Sauce

Fillet of Grouse with Truffles

Ragout of Bear, Hunter Style

O
RNAMENTAL
D
ISHES

Pyramid of Game Québécois Style, Prairie Chicken en Socle

Pyramid of Wild-Goose Liver in Jelly,

Red-Wing Starling on Tree

Boned Quail in Plumage, The Coon Out at Night

I pulled on another antler and walked into a bank of bluish-grey smoke. Beer signs, glowing like beacons in a fog, guided
me to the bar, where a half-dozen men in faded camo jackets and ball caps sat on high-back stools, barely moving. In front of them was an ashtray big enough to serve an entire cancer ward.