Peter Kirby: The Dead of Winter

“Everything changed when his picture was published. That’s when he killed Audet. He went home and found Audet in his apartment. It was the day the sketch was shown on the evening news. John said that Audet attacked him, but he killed Audet instead. He called me, asking for help, and I drove him to the chalet. I couldn’t understand the Audet thing, because Audet had never been interested in John. I’m the one he was blackmailing. But I have to admit that I was relieved that Audet was gone.

“John stayed at the chalet for a while, and I arranged for new documents. I got him a passport, a driver’s licence, and a new credit card. I had arranged for him to be cared for in one of the Church’s establishments in Rome; very private, very secure, and he would be looked after until he got better, or forever. I had the flight booked, and everything looked like it was going as planned. We decided to finish the bottle of wine before we left, barely a glass each.

“But it wasn’t over. While he was bringing the suitcases out to the car, I switched our glasses. I don’t know why. Some other time I might have seen God’s hand in that, God working a miracle to serve his loyal servant. We sat at the table, saying nothing, and we clinked the glasses in a toast and drank the wine.

“He realized almost immediately that he had the wrong glass. He ran to the sink, trying to make himself vomit with a spoon, a little came out but it was too late. He sank down to the floor and was having trouble breathing. It didn’t take long, two, maybe three minutes, and then it was over. I didn’t move for a very long time. I just stared at his body lying on the floor. I had to do something, and I just thought, that was it, the end. His death and Audet’s death were the end of it. Life would be normal again. Eventually, I dragged his body outside and down into the woods. I covered it with a tarpaulin and left him there. It was supposed to be temporary until I could think of a more permanent solution. It was snowing hard, and I knew the tarpaulin would be quickly covered in snow. I walked back to the chalet and watched the snow cover the tracks into the wood, and then I drove back to the Cathedral. I still have his suitcase in my apartment there, I haven’t touched it.

“Three days later, I went back. I planned to put him in the trunk and drive him somewhere far away. I couldn’t bury him, because the ground was frozen, and I was in a panic because I knew that you had tried to get a warrant to search the chalet. But I couldn’t move him. He was frozen solid and stuck to the ground, locked in the ice that had melted under him and then frozen again. I tried to chip away the ice, but it was too much, he wouldn’t budge. I had no choice. I replaced the tarpaulin and covered it with snow. Can you imagine what I was going through? Every day, every minute, it’s all I thought about, and I couldn’t do anything about it.

“I began to imagine that someone had been to the chalet. I saw small signs, probably nothing, but in my state I built it up. Then, as I was saying Mass last night, I saw your Inspector Vanier in the congregation as I walked in, and a moment later he was gone. He was the one. I knew it. He was the one who had been to the chalet. Who else? I excused myself from Mass and drove up as fast as I could. And I was right. There were tire marks in the driveway, so I parked the car further up and walked to the chalet. From a distance, I saw a light in the woodshed and then it went out. I didn’t know where he was until I saw him hurrying back from the woods. By that time, I had the axe. It was obvious he had found John, and so I acted.”

“You tried to kill Inspector Vanier?” said Laurent.

“I tried to stop him reporting what he had found. I wasn’t thinking about how to stop him. But yes, I was going to kill him.”

“Let’s stop it there, shall we,” said Vanier. “I’ve had enough.”

St. Jacques stopped the video. “There isn’t much else, anyway. Laurent takes him through the story again, and it pretty much matches the first time.”

The curtain surrounding the bed parted, and Dr. Segal came in with a huge bunch of red and yellow tulips. They looked almost magical in an emergency room in St. Jerome, a sign that winter was ending.

“Dr. Segal, what a treat. My friends here were just leaving. They have work to do.”

St. Jacques smiled at Segal and grabbed Laurent by the arm. “We’ll see about getting you transferred to Montreal, sir.” The two officers left the patient with his visitor.

“They’re beautiful,” he said, nodding at the tulips. “They’re lying when they say that food is the fastest way to a man’s heart.”

“I know. I have a saw that’s much quicker.”

He laughed, but it hurt.

She leaned over and kissed him, a kiss of relief, and of hope.