The Last Witness (69 page)

  Three more strikes in rapid succession, Michel grunting and screaming with each, putting all his strength into it. And with the last with still no ice-break, Michel felt the last of his strength go with it, was about to roll over onto his back and give up, give one last cry of frustration and – then suddenly he remembered the sniper’s bullets.

  Michel took out his gun, measuring. He’d have to be careful with Georges’ body shifting with the current. A few inches out and he’d hit him. But no time to clear away more snow!

  He fired once, twice, just ahead of where he thought Georges would be. A crack appeared, and he fired a third shot to break the block free.

  He scrambled down, reaching into the icy water. Nothing,
nothing!
He was frantic. Try another shot or clear some snow to see where Georges was? He started to clear with his other hand – a glimpse of something, though not very clear, and a second later Georges’ body connected. He grappled on and yanked up hard, pulling Georges’ head and shoulders above the water. A quick breath, and then he yanked again, putting all his weight into it until he had most of Georges’ body solidly on the ice.

His breath vapour billowed hard in the freezing air as he leant over to resuscitate Georges – but at that moment he could see the ice-block they were on cracking with the weight. He had to desperately grapple and slide the body again, this time almost a full two yards – before collapsing in a heap at Georges’ side, exhausted, as only a foot away the ice-block gave way.

He was almost too out of breath to give mouth-to-mouth, he had to furiously pull in every breath he gave out, muttering repeatedly ‘Don’t die on me now… Don’t die on me!’ as he intermittently lifted off and pressed against Georges’ stomach.

And as the first coughs and splutters finally came from Georges’ mouth, Michel rolled onto his back and let out a great whooping victory cry towards the night sky and the swaying beam of the helicopter above.

EPILOGUE

July 8
^th
, Montreal, Canada.

Jean-Paul slowly surveyed the large reception room from the head table. The only one standing among the almost two hundred wedding guests.

  ‘It’s good to see the whole family together. Old friends, some that I haven’t seen for a while.’ His gaze fell on Art Giacomelli, who puffed on his cigar and nodded in recognition. ‘And new found friends.’ Jean-Paul briefly acknowledged Michel Chenouda at the far table, then looked more pointedly towards Elena Waldren only a few places away at the head table.

  The reception was in the Hotel de Ville, a spreading colonial style 5-star dating from the 1860s overlooking Place Jaques Cartier. The six-course dinner was finished, the telegrams read, and the only background sounds to Jean-Paul’s speech were the unwrapping of truffles and petit-fours, the hovering waiters replenishing brandy and liqueur glasses, and the gentle puff of cigar smoke sent twirling around rococo columns towards the high ceiling.

  Jean-Paul spoke about his joy at Simone’s birth, his eyes cast down for a second in memory of her mother, Clair, and Stephanie, whom she’d treated as a mother. Then he quickly lightened again with a few anecdotes from Simone’s childhood and early teens before getting to the subject of Georges.

  ‘…I’ve trusted him with my business affairs these past few years, and now my daughter. I’m not sure which I should be more worried about.’

  Murmur of laughter from the guests. Jean-Paul held one hand up slightly, changing the mood again. ‘But not to make light of Georges’ help. What we’ve tried to achieve these past few years hasn’t been easy – some said all along that it was impossible. And during that transition, there’s been some changes and transitions too in the family, some of them painful. There was the loss of my brother...’ Jean-Paul left a significant pause. ‘Pascal. My father. And there’s been some other close calls too…’

  As he looked towards Georges and Simone, Simone’s eyes watered. He could have meant Georges’ near death, or the fear of losing her that he’d told her about soon after. The ambiguity wasn’t lost on her either of the way he’d mentioned his brother, Pascal. He’d vowed that he’d never mention Roman’s name again, but to those not in the know he might have meant his brother Roman with Pascal mentioned separately.

  ‘…No, my friends. That transition has at times not been easy.’ Jean-Paul pursed his lips tight and looked down for a second before looking up again to pick out Giacomelli and Chenouda. ‘But hopefully we got there in the end.’

  Michel solemnly nodded his accord.
Not been easy.
The understatement no doubt to pay homage without too heavily shadowing the day.

  Their entire RCMP game-plan had changed in the aftermath of Roman’s death, Michel reflected. Frank Massenat had turned Crown’s evidence and spilt everything he knew about Roman’s side game with Gianni Cacchione, and they’d also found out who was their internal leak: Guy Campion, now facing three to five for corruption. Michel was relieved that it wasn’t anyone in his own department.

  Massenat would get a lighter sentence, even though what he’d passed on probably wouldn’t be enough to successfully prosecute Cacchione. But apparently, Art Giacomelli had spoken at length with Carlos Medeiros. Now that Medeiros knew that Cacchione had been duping him the past three years, bets were being made that Cacchione wouldn’t last the year.

  Strange, after all these years of pursuit of the Lacailles, Michel had felt a sense of gratification when he’d finally closed the investigation against Jean-Paul Lacaille. In a last meeting, Pelletier and Maitland had piped up about a few minor infractions that Jean-Paul could probably still be nailed over, but Michel was quick to remind them that if it wasn’t for that last-minute call from Jean-Paul, they’d have lost their main witness anyway. And with the final rub of salt in Maitland’s wounds about the damage caused by his boy Campion, the issue was closed.

  Jean-Paul was quick to offer his thanks when he heard, but Michel brushed it off. ‘You did nothing wrong. You were telling the truth all along – just that with Roman running interference in the middle, it took us a while to realize it.’ Michel felt almost embarrassed how close to the edge his obsession had taken him. If only Jean-Paul knew.

  When Michel had gone to visit Georges in the hospital, Georges had squinted up at him quizzically at one point. ‘You know, Roman said the strangest thing just before he died. He said he had nothing to do with my abduction and planned hit; he was trying to make out that you had something to do with it.’

  ‘Strange.’ Michel shrugged. ‘Roman certainly was losing it towards the end.’

  ‘He said that you probably knew he was about to kill me, so did it to get me away to a safe-house and save my life.’

  Michel smiled tightly back. ‘     I already saved your life once – so let’s not get too carried away.’

  From the way Georges’ stare lingered on him a second longer with a challenging wry smile, he could see that Georges wasn’t convinced. But that was probably as far as it would ever go: an ambiguous secret held just between the two of them.

  Everything had settled back to normal at the Rue Sherbrooke Club. Azy had phoned him to say that Viana had returned from
Haiti
within a week of Roman’s death. And hearing her account of events through Azy, his suspicion that Roman had been about to kill Georges was confirmed: no more lingering doubt or guilt whether he’d done the right thing getting Georges away.

  At Michel’s side, Sandra gently squeezed his hand as Jean-Paul came to the end of his speech.

  The day had hopefully been as much a joy for them as it had been for him and, with the announcement that there’d be a firework display outside in forty minutes, Jean-Paul hoped that they enjoyed the rest of the evening. ‘…And if you see anyone reaching nervously inside their jackets with the first bangs, they’re nothing to do with me.’ As a muted chuckle rose, he closed his eyes briefly, as if in penance. ‘Not any more. From now on, there’s only the future to look forward to. A future that belongs to Simone and Georges…’

  Michel squeezed back. They’d started seeing each other socially outside of just when he went to pick the kids up. Nothing too serious, just a dinner date now and then and functions like this – but the kids lived in great hope. It was almost as if his obsession had crowded out everything else in his life, left no space for her and the kids. And now that he’d finally let it go, she’d somehow sensed it: perhaps there was room for them again.

  One step at a time, and while his future looked far less bright and certain than Simone’s and Georges’ on this day as almost two hundred strong rose to join Jean-Paul in toasting them, maybe there was some hope for him too.

The star-burst firework lit up the night-sky over the St Lawrence.

  Elena watched it fade-out in raindrop-tears of light, then another two dazzling bursts exploded in quick succession to its side. Bright sparks of hope among the darkness. 

  The guests had clustered two deep on the open balcony, and the rest had gone downstairs in front of the hotel for a clear view. Elena had managed to get a front position on the balcony next to Georges and Simone.

  The fireworks were being set off from a barge moored to the jetty. Elena’s first night back in
Montreal
two nights ago she’d sat only fifty yards away on the terrace of the
La Marée
restaurant having dinner with Georges and Simone. They’d taken a horse-drawn buggy ride there, and on the way Georges had pointed out the
Basilica de Nôtre Dame
where the wedding would take place, the hotel for the reception, then the river as he mentioned Jean-Paul’s firework plans. ‘He got the idea apparently from the Jean-Baptiste day displays.’

  Now, as they looked on wide-eyed at the spectacular display, Georges commented: ‘Looks like Jean-Paul’s keeping to his promise of trying to outdo them.’ Then, in a brief lull, he smiled warmly and reached out and clasped Elena’s hand. ‘I’m so glad you could make it, mom.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ She felt her eyes mist and flickered them down slightly in acknowledgement. She was about to say not half as glad as she was, but it would have sounded trite. ‘I’m just sorry that it took me so long to get here.’

  Georges grimaced tightly and gave one last reassuring grasp before letting go, as if to say ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.’

 
Mom
. Only the second time now he’d said it. The first time had been at the end of the dinner at
La Marée
, as if she’d finally earned the spurs to the term, enough had now passed between them.

  The Donatiens were a few people away from them, not close enough for Odette to have heard; though she probably wouldn’t have minded. She’d spoken to them at length earlier, and from the brief acknowledging smile now as she caught their eye, they seemed to approve of this new-found affection between her and Georges. It had been a while in coming, and while the main push had come initially from her, in the end Georges had worked equally towards it.

  Though this was only her first time back to Montreal since the nightmare night of their first meeting, she’d stayed on an extra five days then while Georges was in hospital, and there’d been hours on the telephone and a chain of letters between them since.

  He’d asked everything they hadn’t covered at that first meeting: more about her father, her mother, Gordon, her children – which then also included Lorena, the
other
new-found member of her family.

  Lorena had looked worse than she actually was when
Crowley
’s men first arrived. All of the blood was Ryall’s and she was unconscious from the fall; but it was only mild concussion, no skull fractures, and the most serious result of the fall was a broken arm.

  Nicola Ryall would face a manslaughter charge, but with the mitigating circumstances would probably only get three years. With the prosecution and the disclosure of her lesbianism, there’d been no hope of her keeping Lorena. Elena and Gordon had been granted fostering rights, with the final adoption order expected within six months.