Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

DECEMBER 30

11 AM

Vladimir Markov was sitting alone in a booth in a nondescript cafe on Notre Dame staring at the door and talking on his cell phone. Romanenko was sitting at the counter behind him nursing a coffee. The waitress and cook, the only staff in the place, were taking advantage of the holiday quiet and the absence of the owner by drinking surreptitious shots of cognac in the kitchen.

“Yeah, OK. You did great to get the shit out on bail. What do you want me to say? I’m paying you enough that I don’t have to say thanks. And, frankly, Audet can rot in prison for all I care. But I want this whole thing closed down, you hear me?” said Markov. Then he listened, keeping his eye on the door.

“Whatever. I don’t give a shit about excuses. I just want this problem to go away as fast as possible. Do whatever you have to do. If Audet has to plead guilty, that’s his problem. If that’s what it takes, he’ll plead guilty. Gotta go. Just get it done.” Markov clicked the phone off and watched the door as Marcel Audet walked in, all attitude, like he owned the place. He walked over to Markov’s booth and eased himself in.

Audet was smiling. “Hey, thanks for the lawyer, Mr. M. He got me out this morning on a promise to keep the peace.”

Markov didn’t respond. The waitress walked over and opened a notepad, pen in hand.

“Get you something?”

“You have a menu?” asked Audet

“He’ll have a coffee. He’s not staying,” said Markov.

The waitress left and came back with a pot of coffee, a cup and a saucer. She poured the coffee, pulled two creamers out of the pocket of her nylon one-piece, and dropped them on the table.

Markov waited for her to leave and said, “I told you. I wanted things kept quiet.”

“Listen, Mr. M. I haven’t done anything to mess things up.”

“Loan sharking? Money laundering? The way I hear it, you’ve been running a fucking bank down there.”

“So, I helped some people out, that’s all. Nothing criminal. I didn’t even make much money out of it.”

“People connected to me gave you the job. And that means I’m connected to you and your fucking schemes. I got a visit from some fucking cop yesterday afternoon who already made the connection.”

“Look, like I said, it’s not a big deal. I helped people out, that’s all.”

“You’re in trouble, asshole. And that means I have to waste my time thinking about problems you’ve created.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll all blow over. It’s just that the police are all over the place with these murders. They’re jumping on everyone.”

“That’s what I mean. You think our deal can go through when everyone and their mother are worrying about the fucking homeless? And now the police connect you and me.”

“Well, I can see that it creates problems. But what can I do? I’m here to help you, Mr. Markov. You know that.”

“First, your private banking scheme is over. Whatever money you took, you give back. And get receipts. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Markov.” Audet was beginning to sweat.

“Second, who the fuck is the sick bastard killing these people? I want you to find out, and get to him before the police do. If the police find him, this story stays in the papers for the next two years while he goes to trial, and every bloody politician and friend of the poor will be wringing their hands over the plight of the homeless. I don’t want the homeless in the newspapers for the next two years. We need to shut him down.”

“Well, I suppose I can ask around.”

“Listen asshole. You’re the one slumming around with these scumbags. Someone must know him. Get rid of this guy, and the press will move on in two weeks. Soon as you deal with him, things will settle down. Not before. You need to do your civic duty with this maniac. Do you understand?”

Audet looked into Markov’s eyes and understood perfectly.

“Yes.”

Markov looked over his shoulder. Romanenko appeared at the table and dropped his hand heavily on Audet’s shoulders.

“So, the chat’s over, Mr. Markov?” said Romanenko.

“Yeah, it’s over,” said Markov.

“And Mr. Audet is leaving?” he said, pulling Audet to a standing position in the booth.

“Yeah, he’s leaving.”

Audet struggled out of the booth with Romanenko’s hand still gripping his shoulder.

“I understand, Mr. Markov. I understand.”

“Good, now, get the fuck out of here. And listen. I can’t take any more fuck-ups. You’re on very thin ice, my friend.”

11.30 AM

In the still of the empty Cathedral, Fr. Henri Drouin sat on a straight-backed chair in St. Jude’s Crypt, his rosary beads swinging almost imperceptibly as he fingered each prayer marker. It was one of his favourite times: after morning services but before the lunchtime show. In the old days people would always be dropping in for quiet prayers, but it hardly ever happened these days. Drouin sensed a presence in the stillness before he heard the shuffling feet. He turned to see a man approaching in a long black winter coat. Snow was still visible on his shoulders and hair, and Drouin smiled gently.

“John, thank you for coming.”

The man approached the chair and stood over Drouin.

“I was worried, Father Henri. You sounded concerned.”

John was so close that Drouin had to lean back in the chair and tilt his head back to look up at the looming figure.

“I am concerned. Did you hear about the deaths on Christmas Eve?”

“I did, Father. It’s shocking. But they have gone to their Lord. Isn’t that a good thing? Perhaps this answers our prayers. Didn’t we pray for their deliverance from pain and suffering?”

“We prayed for these people, John. But not for their death. Murder cannot be God’s answer to our prayers. Do you know anything about this?”

“Who are we to question how the Lord answers our prayers? Who are we to question His works?”

“I’m not questioning His works. The Lord didn’t kill these people, John. Tell me the truth, do you know anything about this?” His eyes pleaded.

The man smiled.

“No, Henri. I know nothing. I am as shocked as you are. But why do you think it was anything but God’s work, calling his servants home after desperate suffering? That’s how I would like to remember them. That in their last hours, the Lord took an interest in them and called them to his arms.”

“I don’t know, John. I just have a bad feeling.”

“Father Henri, the police will do what they have to do, and we will see that our friends simply passed on peacefully to a better place. To their reward.”

“Perhaps you’re right, John.”

“I am right, Father. It was inevitable they would die soon. It saddens me that they left, but it’s my loss that I mourn, not theirs. They are all much happier now. Remember the struggles of Joe Yeoman. Isn’t he better off? And Mary Gallagher, how much more was she going to be forced to endure?”

“Mary Gallagher?” Drouin, blurted, immediately wishing he could take the words back. John said nothing, but both men knew. Drouin tried to rise but John didn’t budge, he was still standing over him, and Drouin was forced to remain seated.

The tension was broken when John smiled. “Father, while I am here, could you hear my confession?” He stepped back and allowed Drouin to rise from the chair, the rosary beads still hanging from his hands.

“Of course, John.”

They walked together to a confessional box that looked like three wooden phone booths against the wall. The central one was for the priest with a small grille on each side linking into the other two. One penitent would kneel and whisper his confession through the grille, while the other penitent waited for the wooden slat to open the grille when the priest was ready. Drouin hesitated, he didn’t want to hear a confession because he knew too much already. He entered the centre box and sat down heavily, taking comfort in the familiar, polished wood smell, leaning forward to pull the door closed. The door stuck, then swung back open, and John entered the priest’s box. He had put on latex gloves. He grabbed Drouin by the neck and pushed his knee into the priest’s chest to hold him in place.