Free Ice Lake by John Farrow Page B

We’re finished now?” The man shrugged. “You’re all right?” The man shrugged again, but fright or relief or tension or the snapshot of his children brought tears to his eyes. “Button your coat up,” Luc directed. “Don’t catch cold.”
Luc drove off. About a mile down the road his own car pulled out from a driveway ahead of him with Andrew Stettler at the wheel and Lucy Gabriel in theback seat, turned to observe him. The vehicles continued down the country road in tandem, heading for a back entrance into the reserve.
Luc was pleased that nobody would be bleeding on Indian land, that everything had gone well. He didn’t know how many crimes remained for him to commit in his lifetime. Time was becoming precious. He wanted to make the few jobs he had left to him count.

4

HEARTLAND
The same day, Monday, December 20, 1998
Sergeant-Detective Emile Cinq-Mars drove deep into the hinterland, through towns known to him as a child and across the hills, fields and woods of his youth. He was moving toward his family home, where his father continued to live, in the village where they had both been born, St.-Jacques-le-Majeur-de-Wolfestown. If the winter roads stayed clear, the trip would take less than two hours, driving west and north from Montreal. His heart was heavy, the journey a sad one, for he knew it might be his last trip home with anyone there to greet him. His father was dying.
The senior Cinq-Mars, Albert, had argued his way out of hospital, demanding the dignity of death in his own house, in his own bed. Imagining the scene did bring a rise to his son and caused the corners of his lips to curl upward. He sympathized with the doctors and administrators trying to reason with his father, only to be rebuffed in no uncertain terms. Albert Cinq-Mars held no illusions about his circumstances—in a short time he would die—but as a gesture of both courage and dignity, perhaps also as a tribute to his own life, he had insisted on choosing the environment for the great event. It was almost, his son was thinking as he drove—and this part did not cause him to smile—as though his father wanted to turn his passing into an occasion.
Albert had called his son to let him know that if they were to talk again it was now or never. If they had anything more to say to one another, this would be the moment. “Emile, leave the thieves to count their loot in peace. Let the murderers sleep unmolested for a night, it’ll give them time to reflect. Who’s not worthy of a day’s rest? Come on home, Detective, visit your old man.”
‘‘What’s up, Papa? You know how it goes. I’m kind of busy right now.”
“I’m busy too, Detective. My bags are packed. My passport’s been stamped. I’ve accepted an invitation to knock on St. Peter’s Gate, and apparently there is no time but the present. Christmas, you know, Christmas will be hectic. Even for those of us at death’s door. Come before. I don’t want to take chances.”
“Papa—?” He immediately felt burdened, by the impending loss, by his silly excuse to delay a visit.
“One month. Next month. I’m betting on the one after that. If I lose, how does the winner expect to collect? In other words, I can’t lose. For the time being, Emile, I’m home.”
“You’re home? The hospital discharged you?”
“I insisted. I have a nurse. I want to die in the house where I was born. You know me, I value symmetry.”
Symmetry. Wasn’t it just like his father to cling to modes and concepts even as his hold on life lapsed.
Driving into St.-Jacques-le-Majeur-de-Wolfestown, Emile Cinq-Mars braced himself. This was not yet the time for grief, he reasoned, that hour lay ahead of him. Obviously his father remained alert, as crafty and as philosophical as always. Tears later. Now, final words. Words from the heart.
Emile Cinq-Mars parked alongside the curb in front of his father’s house. The driveway, which ran along-sidethe cottage to a tumbledown garage in the back, had not