Messenger of Death (34 page)

At last, the
funeral procession arrived. A long, impressive escort of
motorcycles rolled along the streets to the cemetery—the place
where the spirits of the dead live on in the good memories of the
living.

A few speeches
were made. Serge stood far away, watching the bikers, trying not to
be too conspicuous but mingling with the occasional visitor. Soon
the place was deserted. Serge waited a few minutes longer, after
the last biker had left, just to make sure that nothing else was
going to happen. A large crow flew over his head and settled on a
tree branch. Folding its black wings, the bird uttered a furious
cry, after which silence enveloped the beautiful and sad land of
death.

Serge was about
to leave when he noticed a lone figure, dressed in black,
approaching Stanley’s grave. It was a woman, apparently pregnant,
hiding her head under a hood. She walked up to the grave, threw a
single rose on it, and wiped silent tears from her eyes. For a few
minutes, she stood almost motionless, slightly nodding her head as
if talking to the one under the ground. And then she left,
stumbling and staring forward, as if blind. Serge followed her with
curiosity and very little compassion. This was his profession:
Every day he dealt with a river filled with human blood, filth,
tears, and despair, with no beginning and no end in sight. For him,
this woman was just a potential witness or source of information on
bikers. Although he couldn’t see her face, he had a strange feeling
that he had seen her somewhere before. But at that moment, he
couldn’t remember exactly under what circumstances they had met.
When she climbed into the driver’s seat of her car, he pulled out a
notebook and wrote down her license plate number.

Strangely
enough, he thought, a lot of the information he collected would be
about those who were already dead and therefore out of reach of the
law or revenge. For some reason, though, it was important for his
investigation to find the truth, to discover the victims and those
who had committed the crimes against them, even if they had ceased
to exist. All human sins are recorded in heaven, he thought; their
crimes are recorded in police files.

II

The election
campaign turned out to be a fierce struggle among savvy
politicians, many of them new to the political landscape. Monica
expected an easy victory on the huge wave of her achievements
against organized crime. Instead, she had been forced to defend
herself and her government for the poor handling of the biker’s
war, for an inability to stop the bloodshed sooner, for negligence,
incompetence, and lack of ingenuity—all the failures demonstrated
by politicians and the police in dealing with gangs and the illegal
drug trade. Her sharpest opponents accused her of compromising the
truth and public interest in favor of political correctness.

In an article
in one of the largest newspapers, a journalist called her a
chameleon. “She defends vocal minorities regardless of how just or
fair their requests are,” the journalist claimed. “Initially she
was against the anti-gang law on the grounds of its
unconstitutionality but changed her stand later, perhaps for
personal reasons.” Now, according to the journalist, she wanted to
get credit for her activity, which was more like a public relations
campaign than a show of the productive work of a politician
guarding her constituents.

Still, Monica
did get re-elected—by a very thin margin. After all the noisy
celebrations, congratulations, and speeches, she decided to relax
and gladly accepted an invitation to attend a concert of a famous
pianist from Europe. She entered the theatre lobby, following a
crowd of people who had already gone inside to wait for the concert
hall doors to open.

Many in the
crowd recognized her, some with appreciative smiles, others with
intense curiosity in their eyes. Throwing casual, sideways glances,
Monica noticed people talking while staring at her, likely
gossiping and exchanging views about her. She recalled how, in her
younger years, she had been sitting on a bench with a schoolgirl
friend when they saw a prominent person—she had forgotten her name
by now—walking by. No tiny detail escaped their attention then: not
the dress of that woman, not her gait, her looks, or her hair. Now,
Monica thought, it was her turn to be the center of attention and
to feel, sometimes, not very welcome.

Finally, the
doors opened and people began pouring into the concert hall. As
Monica took her place in one of the front rows, she had a strange
feeling that she was being watched by someone. When the pianist
came out and bowed to the public, her attention turned to the
stage. After a short round of welcoming applause, the European sat
at his stool and ran his fingers over the keyboard of the grand
piano. The magical sounds of Beethoven, magnified by the
outstanding performance of this musician, took her mind to a place
of pleasure and fantasy, a place that only true art can create, in
the way only true art can.

During
intermission, she went to the lobby for a glass of wine. Gently
pushing her way through the crowd, she heard a soft voice behind
her right shoulder.

“Good evening,
Monica.”

She turned
around. A short, stocky man stood there. His round face and cold
blue eyes seemed familiar. A blonde woman was holding his hand, shy
admiration on her face.

“Have you
forgotten me?” The man smiled, as if hoping Monica would more
easily recognize him that way. Indeed, in the next instant, she
smiled in apologetic, pleasant surprise.

“Oh—Serge
Gorte!” Monica stretched both arms towards him for a handshake.
“How could I possibly forget you? You’re the expert on biker gangs
in Canada. How nice to see you.”

“That’s very
flattering,” Serge bowed. “This is my wife, Miriam.” He nodded
toward the lady beside him. “She must be given a great deal of
credit for my career. Without her patience, understanding, and help
I wouldn’t have done much.”

“Come on,
Serge,” Miriam said. She was slightly embarrassed and threw him a
loving, happy glance.

“How is
Toulouse doing these days?” Serge asked.

“Actually, very
well. The collection agency stopped threatening him—perhaps after
your interference. They sent him a few reminder letters but didn’t
bother him much. He’s returned their money to them. Do you know
what happened to the agency?”

“Its owner was
killed,” Serge said. “He was one of the high-ranking members of the
Devil’s Knights gang. His own gang killed him.”

“How awful
those people are,” Monica remarked. “I’ve been busy with other
matters, particularly so after you arrested so many of them in both
gangs. But I know that there is much less violence lately, thanks
to your efforts.”

“I’m just a
small cog in a huge machine,” Serge said. Monica noticed that
something distracted his attention from her. She followed Serge’s
stare and saw a man passing by with a delicate woman clutching his
arm. Monica remembered his neck—big and thick like a wrestler’s—and
was trying to recall where she had seen him. His face radiated
strength and confidence.

“Hi,” Serge
said as the couple was passing by. “What a surprise.”

“It’s better to
meet here than at your place,” the man responded sharply, obviously
stopping only out of courtesy. His stare and posture were a weird
mix of animosity, ridicule, and mocking obedience.

Monica raised
her eyebrows. The man had appropriate manners, but should not have
spoken or acted that way.

“This is my
wife, Kathy,” the man continued more casually, looking directly at
Serge. The woman beside him smiled amiably to Monica and Serge.

“How do you
like the concert?” Serge asked.

“I’m not fond
of classical music, but my wife is,” the man said. “I have to treat
her, once in awhile.” He bowed slightly toward Serge, and turned,
ready to depart without another word.

“See you
later,” Serge bowed in return.

“I hope not,”
the man was quick to respond, with a feigned friendly smile. He
left, his wife following him.

“He looks like
a decent man,” Monica remarked, her bewildered face turned to
Serge. “How could he speak that way? I’m surprised that you talked
to him.”

“That man,”
Serge informed her, “is president of the Devil’s Knights, Marcel
Barette. I’ve talked to him a few times in my office. He has a good
reason for not wanting to see me there later.”

Monica was
astonished.

“Unbelievable!”
she exclaimed. “I’d never have taken him for a hoodlum.”

“So far as a
‘hoodlum’ is concerned, he isn’t. If he was one, it would have been
a long time ago. As to why he’s here, I’ve noticed a few other
members of their club strolling in the foyer. Nobody would suspect
bikers would gather at a symphony music performance. They can
discuss urgent business matters here without worrying about
surveillance. My guess is something important is cooking.”

“There was a
lot of ballyhoo in the newspapers about a former biker who turned
informant. Is it true—that at last you have a live witness against
Marcel? Yet he’s still a free man, walking around and probably
getting along with his hideous crimes.”

“Well, you
see,” Serge began, “lawyers are fairly vocal about how trustworthy
such testimonies are. ‘How could the judge trust the informant?’
they ask. ‘Look how many benefits the collaborator gets,’ they say.
‘He gets off the hook with his crimes; he gets money. For a
criminal with no virtues, it’s an easy escape from punishment at
the expense of others. Why wouldn’t he testify against
everyone?’”

“But . . . the
confession this man gave makes it obvious that this . . . Marcel .
. . is the one who masterminded many assassinations. You can’t, you
mustn’t let him off the hook. I don’t believe that whoever the
judge is, he or she could be that stupid.”

Serge
smiled.

“It’s not a
matter of stupidity, Monica. The case is gaining publicity. The
judge must now enter into the political game—from now on, he’ll be
dealing not only with the jury, but also with the general public.
The public now becomes the jury. You see? He has to make a
political decision. You know better than I do what that means. By
the way, that’s where publicity helps the bikers. They challenge
our adherence to the constitution, specifically to the principle of
being innocent until proven guilty.”

“I understand
that,” Monica said firmly. In her area of expertise, she spoke with
great authority. “I assure you that the public would support the
judge against the Devil’s Knights. The political climate is ripe
for such a decision, even in the absence of material evidence.”

Serge was
nodding as she spoke. His eyes got shiny and kind, as if he had
just finished a good dinner with a bottle of excellent French
wine.

“I’m not so
sure. Mind you, publicity and public opinion are no substitutes for
each other. The most vocal groups get the most attention. Who are
the noisiest ones? Different kinds of leftists, libertarians,
feminists, lawyers, you name it. They would kick-off a screaming
campaign about the abuse of civil rights and freedoms. They would
inform the public that the presumption of innocence has been
trumped. No one, they would say, including the Devil’s Knights,
should be denied fair justice.”

Monica’s stare
hardened. She happened to lean toward all the groups Serge had
mentioned. She was a civil rights activist, a feminist, and a
prominent supporter of minority group rights.

“I appreciate
your comments, Serge,” she said, grimacing in displeasure. “I
suspect we should be getting back inside. Have a nice evening.”

III

Claude was kept
in a cell at the police station, under the watchful eyes of police
guards. He was too valuable a witness to risk his life in jail,
where both the Devil’s Knights and the Iron Ghosts would be able to
carry out numerous ways to kill him. To allow Claude to feel better
about his new position as a traitor, a rat despised by all in the
criminal world, he was allowed privileges far beyond the normal
limits.

For example,
Leila was allowed to visit him in his room—a depressing, confined
space with bare walls, dirty stains of unidentifiable origin, a
filthy floor, a small bed, a toilet, and a single plastic chair,
which was not strong enough to withstand the abuse of two
sex-obsessed lovers. Claude used the furniture to its fullest: He
turned Leila this way and that on it, arranging the parts of her
body into positions that could have been used in a textbook for a
yoga class. His love for this girl, his physical intimacy with her,
became more blissful and thrilling than all the adventures of his
brutal life.

She smuggled in
some pot for him—thoughtful girl that she was. He enjoyed it
immensely because it sharpened all his senses. When she left, he
felt the pain of separation and loneliness. This feeling grew
stronger from visit to visit. There was a period of a week or
more—he lost track of the passing days because they were dull and
uneventful—when, for some reason, the police did not grant them
their date. One of those nights, she came to him in his dreams. She
was sweet, as usual, but did not yield to his passion, or speak. In
fact, she slipped out of his hands, like a snake. The following
morning, he fancied himself in the future, at the end of his
fifteen-year sentence, as agreed upon in his deal with the justice
system. That future was wonderful, and Leila was an integral part
of it.

It may not be
that bad, after all, to spend only fifteen years, he pondered. Of
course, there was a risk of being killed by bikers, but who cares?
Death had been his everyday reality. The dead feel nothing. Life,
that’s what counts. He would come out of the system almost a
millionaire, a rich man, with a different identity, and, perhaps, a
different mentality. His life would become an endless journey of
love with Leila, travel to different lands, motorcycle rides, and a
secluded home somewhere on the ocean shore of British Columbia.