Roxanne Bouchard - The Coral Bride

Thérèse Roch was proud of herself. Not only had she protected her superior officer and ensured professional secrecy, but she had also played a role in accelerating a key intervention. When Constable Érik Lefebvre and fisheries officer Simone Lord had come out to the reception area, they had understood right away that this was an emergency, raced to their vehicles and hurried to the rescue of Detective Sergeant Moralès, targeting the most likely ambush points. Thérèse Roch knew this because she had tuned in to the police emergency-response radio frequency and was listening as the events played out. The Fisheries and Oceans Canada officer had waited for nearby patrol officers to arrive and taken them as backup to Clément Cyr’s house, while Constable Lefebvre, who wasn’t cut out for field work, decided to make sure everything was all right down at the wharf.

Moralès could pull the trigger and be done with Clément Cyr once and for all. But he knew he would always feel sickened by what he’d done.

‘I came to the station ready to turn myself in, you know,’ the fisherman said.

Moralès couldn’t believe he had been so quick to dismiss Cyr’s confession-of-sorts nearly a week ago. He had thought the man was simply blaming himself for what had happened to his wife.

Cyr tightened the cap on the oil reservoir and wiped his hands. ‘I’ll still go willingly, but not in handcuffs, and not with that gun pointed at me. This is probably the last time I’ll be aboard this boat of mine. I don’t want to walk off it like a criminal. So either we play it like that, or you’re going to have to shoot me. I’d rather die on board here than be carted off in shame.’

Moralès opted to negotiate. ‘Here’s how we’ll play it. You’re going to put your hands behind your head and walk past me. I’m going to keep my gun pointed at you as long as we’re inside. If I get the slightest inkling you’re changing your mind, I shoot. If everything goes calmly and smoothly, I’ll let you put your hands down when we get outside.’

‘And you’ll lower your weapon?’

‘Yes. I’ll lower my weapon.’

Cyr raised his arms and interlaced his hands behind his head. Moralès pressed himself against the wall across from the stairs and the giant of a man walked past him.

‘Could you turn off the lights behind us?’ the fisherman asked, as he moved towards the stairs.

Moralès followed and flicked the light switch as they went up the first flight of stairs. He still felt queasy, but relieved to have talked his way out of the tricky situation. They arrived on the deck above and Moralès turned off the light over the stairs they had just climbed.

‘Does my mother know?’ Cyr asked as he led the way down the corridor between the two flights of stairs.

‘I think she has her suspicions.’

‘Why do you say that?’

They started up the second flight of stairs.

‘When I spoke to her, she asked me why everyone was looking for someone to blame. I came to understand she was talking about you.’

‘What do you mean?’

The men arrived in the wheelhouse. Clément Cyr lowered his arms without turning around, pushed the door open and stepped out onto the deck. Moralès followed him.

‘You’re a loyal man. You were looking for someone to blame for your father’s death, because you wanted to avenge him, but it was an accident.’

‘No. It wasn’t an accident.’

Moralès lowered his weapon. He was a man of his word.

‘Your father was drunk and he made a mistake. That’s why the boat capsized.’

‘My old man wasn’t drunk!’

Moralès immediately realised his error and raised his arm to shoot, but he wasn’t quick enough. Clément Cyr whirled around in a flash and lunged at him. He tackled him so hard, Joaquin was thrown against the wall of the wheelhouse. In the impact, he let go of his weapon and heard it clattering across the deck towards the hold. Before he had time to react, the giant of a man grabbed him by the collar and dragged him towards the edge of the boat. Moralès extended his arms, grappling for something to hold on to. In vain. He could feel the wall of the wheelhouse sliding away beneath his fingers.

‘You just don’t get it, do you? My old man was murdered by the Robertses!’

Moralès could feel the guardrail of the trawler pressing into his back. Clément Cyr lifted him off his feet. Moralès saw three storeys of thin air out of the corner of his eye. En la madre! The giant was going to throw him overboard, and it wouldn’t be a splash landing.

‘Hands up, Clément Cyr. You put him down now, or I shoot!’

The fisherman froze and turned his head. Moralès tried to grab hold of something as Érik Lefebvre advanced across the deck with his gun pointed at Clément Cyr.

The fisherman laughed. ‘Give it a rest, Lefebvre, everyone knows there aren’t any bullets in that toy gun of yours.’

‘Maybe not in his, but believe me, I’ve got plenty of lead for you in mine.’

Clément Cyr turned to see where the voice was coming from. Standing aboard the neighbouring shrimp trawler was Bruce Roberts, pointing a rifle right at him.

‘Oh come on Roberts, you don’t want to shoot a cop in the back, do you?’

‘Maybe not, but I’ll be blowing a hole in the face of the man who murdered my sister.’

Clément Cyr was about to retaliate when Moralès heard the clinking of Lefebvre’s boot spurs on the metal deck. The next thing he knew, the giant was crumpling to the ground, as if he’d been knocked out cold. He heard a sound similar to the one his weapon had made moments earlier when it went clattering across the tween deck.

Lefebvre swaggered over to Moralès pumping his fists. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, he’s down for the count.’

Moralès realised that Lefebvre had thrown his revolver at Clément Cyr and hit him square on the head.

‘Strikeout for the Mariners!’ Lefebvre cheered, happy to have put his baseball training to good use.

Bruce Roberts unloaded and put his rifle down, while Moralès pushed the unconscious giant away from him and sat against the edge of the boat to catch his breath.

‘Cuff him before he comes around, will you?’ he said.

Lefebvre was only too happy to turn the man over onto his stomach and cuff his wrists behind his back.

‘I’ve never used it like that before. What a thrill.’

Moralès sat in silence, reflecting on the reasons why he had erroneously dismissed Clément Cyr’s confession. Was it simply that he had lacked awareness of the local tidal currents and been unable to see how the seemingly impossible could in fact be possible? Or had he let misguided empathy cloud his judgement? Through the dining-room window, he saw a sliver of a crescent lazing in the night sky. The moon was waning, casting the pale glow of a tired streetlamp on the autumn water. Somewhere out there, Joaquin thought, Cyrille was slowly turning to coral. In just a few days, it would be pitch-dark out there. A sudden eruption broke the surface before his eyes. It was a seal, launching itself into the air as if trying to snatch a shimmering of silver, then plunging back into the sea like a stone.

‘I have to say, I’m mighty proud of you, Moralès.’ Érik Lefebvre strode into the auberge and hung his jacket at the entrance.

Sébastien and Kimo had come down to the winter mooring yards to check on him, but Joaquin had been busy explaining to his colleagues from the Gaspé station what had happened, so he hadn’t had the chance to talk to them. His son had hugged him tight, then left him to it. When he had finally prised himself away, he had invited Érik Lefebvre and Simone Lord to join him for supper at the auberge.