Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

The cameraman was having a field day, and Henderson knew he looked like an asshole.

“Marianne, Marianne,” he said, trying to be heard over the noise, finding his best smile. “I am sorry about that. I thought we were being attacked. Look, if you want some sound bites, I can give you some. Let’s start again. OK?”

“Let’s go,” she said, taking a moment to let the cameraman set up in from of them.

“Mr. Henderson, there has been some objections to the sale of the Holy Land Shelter’s land to developers. What do you say to the critics?”

Fuck them , he thought. “The Holy Land Shelter is one of Montreal’s finest institutions, and its Board of Directors and its Foundation members are committed to Montreal’s homeless. Believe me, none of us would do anything that would be against the interests of those that do not have a voice. Tonight, what we are considering is a proposal that will allow the Shelter to continue for decades to come. It’s a transaction that will allow the Shelter to build a brand new, state-of-the-art complex. Earlier this evening the Board of Directors recommended approval of Blackrock’s offer, and I am sure that the members of the Foundation will do the same thing, because that offer addresses the long-term funding needs of the Shelter and guarantees its future for years to come. I expect the Governors of the Foundation have been rigorous in their examination of the proposal.”

“Are you saying it’s not a done deal, it needs to be studied?”

“We’re saying that if any proposal is approved, it will be because it’s in the long term interest of the most vulnerable members of our society. We have a duty to protect those people, and the Foundation takes that duty very seriously.”

Two uniformed security guards arrived, and began moving people out of the hall. They went peacefully but not quietly, yelling slogans as they left. Henderson called Markov to tell him he could come back. As he clicked the disconnect button, the doors opened again, and the seven absent Foundation Governors entered, followed by Beaudoin.

Henderson stared in disbelief as they hobbled and limped their way into the room. One of them looked at Henderson, “Is this the place for the meeting of the Holy Land Foundation?”

”Yes,” he said, realizing that his proxies had just become worthless scraps of paper.

Beaudoin was beaming. “Hi, boss.”

“Don’t even bother coming in to get your stuff. We’ll send it to you.”

The seven members of the Foundation joined the other four around the table.

“If there are no objections, I will act as Chairman,” said Senator Breslin.

He looked up and saw Markov and Romanenko enter the room.

Breslin looked up at them, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I believe that this is a private meeting.”

They looked at Henderson, who was seated in a chair, his head hanging down and his chin resting on his chest.

“Mr. Henderson. That applies to you also,” said Breslin.

Henderson raised his head and looked at the Governors seated around the table like they owned the place, assuming authority they hadn’t exercised in years. He rose slowly in disbelief. Markov and Romanenko had already left. There was nothing to do. Casting one last look at Beaudoin, he pulled the door open and left.

MARCH 25

Winter doesn’t end suddenly in Montreal; it withdraws slowly, in sullen resentment, like Napoleon’s army from Moscow. Day after day the temperature struggles to climb above freezing for a few hours around noon and quickly falls back in the late afternoon, leaving tiny rivulets of water to become icy traps for the unwary. The snow that fell weightlessly during innumerable snowstorms is packed tight in stubborn boulders of dirty ice grudgingly giving up their bulk to springtime, revealing the filthy detritus that has accumulated in the cold months: dog shit, torn plastic bags, newspapers, Styrofoam cups, meal trays, pizza boxes, and thousands of cigarette butts. Impatient citizens torment the withdrawing army with picks and shovels, breaking up the rock-hard ice and spreading it to accelerate its disappearance. The cycle of thaw and refreeze continues for weeks until finally the city is liberated, and Montrealers spill out of their winter caverns, and occupy every open space. Terraces and park benches fill up and the streets teem with the survivors of a long siege.

In the Turcot Yard, where the city’s snow is piled into dirty grey mountains, the melt is glacier slow and the land only returns to flat in late June. Such is the power of winter that the Stanley Cup is only awarded as the last evidence of winter disappears.

Vanier had watched the slow progression to spring. He had been present when they chipped Mary Gallagher from the river-ice that had held her for months and he had watched as Dr. Segal cut into the long-dead corpse to establish the cause of death. It didn’t take long to establish that she died just as the others had.

6 PM

The six o’clock Mass was starting, and Vanier was kneeling in a pew at the back of the Cathedral, his head bowed. When he saw Monsignor Forlini take his place in front of the altar, he got up and made for the door, listening to the droning voice over the loud speaker.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. ”

Vanier was outside before the response finished. He knew Forlini would be busy with the faithful for at least an hour. He was in Morin Heights in an hour and a half. This time the lights didn’t go on as he drove into the clearing before the chalet; he had pulled the wires out on his last visit. It didn’t make much of a difference. The whole area was bathed in the bright moonlight reflecting off the snow that still lay several feet thick. Vanier shut the motor and looked around. He had been inside the chalet three times since January and found nothing, amazed that Monsignor Forlini could leave so little trace of who he was.

With the motor shut off, it was getting cold fast inside the car. Vanier opened the door and stepped out, not sure what he was looking for. He walked the perimeter of the chalet, keeping close to the wall, where the snow hardly reached. He completed a full circle of the chalet, and then struck out through the thick snow towards a large wooden shed about 30 feet from the back door of the chalet. Just like the other times, he was leaving obvious tracks, but he had given up worrying about it. The door to the shed was locked with a shiny padlock from Vaillancourt. Two weeks ago, Vanier had stopped at the store and bought the same kind of lock, but the key that came with it didn’t fit the Monsignor’s lock. This time he was prepared. He took a crowbar from his overcoat pocket and inserted the business end between the wood and the metal plate, easily forcing the screws out from the old wooden door. He wouldn’t be able to replace the plate properly, but he didn’t care.

He pulled the door of the shed back and shone a torch around in the blackness. There was nothing but fireplace-sized logs, carefully stacked up against each wall, and a long woodcutter’s axe leaning against the wall. He flicked the torch off and pulled the door closed, slipping the screws back into place.

Outside, he looked to the woods beyond the shed. The area around the chalet was clear for about twenty feet, and then the trees formed a dark wall. But he could make out a narrow gap where the trees and underbrush seemed to part, as if it was an entrance into the woods. He struggled through the snow towards the gap in the trees. Up close, he could imagine a path that had been worn over years. He followed it through the trees and came to a clearing about 100 feet from the house, where trees formed a rough circle. Vanier scanned the clearing, trying to imagine what it might look without a blanket of snow. Snow, like water, finds its level, but unlike water it reflects the surface below. There was a Quebec artist known for placing buckets and boxes on otherwise flat land in the autumn. When winter came, his random junk would become erotic snowscapes as falling snow accumulated and formed undulating mounds that unmistakably defined naked women lying beneath a white blanket.