THE intensive care ward at Century City Hospital smelled of antiseptic, overcooked food and fear. In one small room, a dark-haired woman sat on a chair close to a patient, bent over in anguish. The patient’s right leg and torso were bandaged and carefully arranged in a traction apparatus. At the door, the detective hesitated. Through the glass he saw the visitor reaching along the white cotton toward the motionless body mummified in plaster and gauze, to take hold of one of its pale hands. He put his briefcase under his arm, transferred his take-out coffee to his left hand and cracked open the door.
“Oh God,” he distinctly heard, “don’t die.” He heard the visitor sob, then whisper, “I’m so sorry.”
His ears were burning. He had been assigned to investigate, and nothing would have been sweeter than to let her words pour forth while he played the fly on the wall. But the visitor was very likely to give him the gears about matters of competence and integrity in any case. At the nursing station he’d been told who she was. She didn’t look too fierce at the moment. He closed the door behind him and cleared his throat.
The woman pulled sharply away from the bed and turned to face him. She brushed some tears from her face and regarded him warily.
“Good morning,” he said. “You’re the friend who called in her 911?
“That’s right.” She was exhausted, he could see it in the way her body sagged despite the effort she was making to be strong. She had a striking, intelligent face. She gave off … grief, certainly, in spades, but something else too. Anger? Fear? Her mouth was tight, her jaw clenched. Observant by long habit, he took in her khaki slacks, black T-shirt and sandals. The clothes looked like they’d been slept in, and in uncomfortable places.
“She was lucky to have you,” he observed sincerely. The visitor didn’t smile or loosen up. He put his briefcase and coffee down on the window ledge. “I’m with the Los Angeles Police Department,” he said, unfurling his identification. “I’m glad to have a chance to meet you.”
Still no relaxation, no relief. She watched him defiantly, refusing to move. Her eyes were red from crying, full of alarm and disapproval. But he found them remarkable, penetrating and luminous. Jesus, he thought suddenly, that expression. It reminded him so much of his daughter’s determined regard.
“So you called in her 911,” he repeated, “all the way from DC?”
“Uh-huh,” she said acidly. “Isn’t that something?”
What she saw was a tall man, somewhat stooped, with a face full of lines and folds all pointing downward. She took his world-weary expression for lack of feeling and braced herself, standing and holding the chair between them.
He sighed. “I’m not your enemy, ma’am,” he said, not unkindly. “Or hers, despite what happened.”
“So how was she shot with half the night shift on site?” Her tone was venomous. He had no good answer, so he shrugged, an eloquent, frustrated shrug that involved his whole body. She saw that he was losing his hair, wore a rumpled polyester suit, and a navy-and-red striped tie with a sizeable stain – ketchup? – right in the middle. Okay, she said to herself, he’s not exactly a storm-trooper. Then she pinched herself mentally. Stay vigilant! Don’t fall for the friendly appearances.
The detective’s eyes took a careful inventory of the damage the patient had sustained – the body cast, especially thick around the pelvis and abdomen, the bent right leg with a shapely foot hanging limply in the air, the total stillness of the body. Then his eyes reached her face. It was exquisite, angelic even. Despite his disavowed Catholic upbringing he wouldn’t have been surprised to find large wings sprouting from her back, right through the plaster. The bandages held the golden hair in a circle of light around her head like a halo; the effect utterly transfixed him. The doctor had informed him that she wasn’t expected to survive the day, or even to wake up again. He turned to her friend.
“Believe me, I’m very sorry. Early this morning I got called, special appointment by the Commissioner to investigate, and I’d really appreciate your help here, ma’am. No one else seems to know a thing. And she’s not giving us any leads. To say the least.” He got a stony silence. “Do you know who shot her?”
EIGHT months earlier …
Swiftly, the jet made its way through towering pewter and purple clouds, overflying the boreal forest of the Laurentian massif. Below, millions of hectares of snow-laden black spruce stretched to every horizon, slashed by clear-cut swathes and last summer’s forest fires, traversed here and there by the marching legs of huge power pylons carrying electricity from Manicouagan and Churchill Falls to the cities farther south.
Where deep and swift-flowing water would glint below in the spring, now, in January, soft, mysterious white shapes delineated the lakes, and white snakes described the paths of rivers. On the great Saguenay River fjord, hulking masses of white and gray ice were piled up along the shores. Gigantic ice crusts, pale blue like the winter sky and yellow like old ivory, rimed cliffs where frozen waterfalls formed baby glaciers. At the very apex of winter, the lands of the Charlevoix and Chicoutimi displayed their awesome power. William Ericsson Greele found himself breathless with excitement as he gazed down upon them.
They landed at Chicoutimi in a soft snowfall. Flakes plump as goose feathers clung to Greele’s black cashmere overcoat. Judging by the banks of snow piled high next to the small terminal building, plenty had already fallen. Inside the tiny terminal, Greele looked around, grimacing at the fug of cigarettes, stale coffee and fuel that permeated the warm humid air indoors. Gabor Mezulis’s ginger hair and bristling mustache identified him though he was wrapped like a sausage in his bulky down coat. Mezulis was chief executive of Seattle-based DM Engineering and Greele’s hydrologist and chief engineer on the huge project they were planning.
“How are you, Gabe? Good to see you,” he said, shaking Mezulis’s hand.
“I’m good,” Mezulis replied. “Welcome to Chicoutimi.”
Mezulis had left the engine of his burnt-orange Grand Cherokee running, and it was warm and dry inside. They drove through the snowbound suburbs of modest clapboard houses, snowmobile trails criss-crossing streets and yards alike. On Boulevard St. Paul they passed a hideous strip of hotels and malls. Christ, this is ugly, Greele thought sourly, frowning out the salt-spattered window. But then the Jeep skirted a massive hilltop hospital and looked down onto a tall, spired cathedral. The clouds broke apart, and huge shafts of sunlight illuminated the town below.
“That’s better,” Greele said, sitting back with satisfaction, as though God had personally arranged the improvement for him.
“All these old Quebec towns are like this,” Mezulis lectured, maneuvering the jeep skillfully down the steep hill. “The big church, the big hospital. The Catholic hierarchy here took care of health and education till the fifties, if you can believe it.”
“Uh-huh.” Greele wasn’t interested. “Do you think we can get down to brass tacks, Gabe? I’ve been waiting for this conversation for–”
“Hold on, Bill,” Mezulis interjected gently. “Just hold on. Let me lay it all out for you properly when we get back to the house.” Greele sighed impatiently, but deferred. Mezulis would have his reasons.
The old town was built along the western bank of the Saguenay. A graceful bridge rose from snowy buttresses and spanned the frozen water. Houses climbed prettily up the opposite bank, spreading north and south, all glowing pearly gold and pink in the late afternoon sun. Greele’s spirits lifted. The narrow streets were charming, originally designed for horses and carriages, flat-roofed houses made quaint by wrought-iron staircases and balconies. Here and there, the historic homes of old notables, with turrets and wide, rounded verandahs, took up small city blocks. People popped in and out of diminutive shops, well-bundled against the cold, their coats and hats and scarves splashes of brilliant color against the head-high banks of snow piled everywhere.
Mezulis was going on like a tour guide. It was obvious to Greele how much he had taken to the place in the two months he’d been scouting the region, with his furry mucklucks and chapped lips and wind-burned cheeks. The sunset streaked the sky gold and mauve. They crossed the bridge, drove up the hill, traveled along the ridge until the houses thinned and they turned into a private drive off Terrasse du Fjord. The clouds gathered again and the north wind blew snow devils in front of a hulking, aggressively modern house, all glass and concrete and timber, as darkness fell. Lights blazed from its tall windows. If all went well, the place would do duty for the next ten years.
Mezulis lifted Greele’s light suitcase and they went in. He hung Greele’s coat next to a huge down-filled parka in the hall closet. Enormous snow boots stood beneath. “Those’re for you, Bill. You’re gonna need ’em.” He directed Greele up the stairs to a large room at the end of the hall. In his bathroom, Greele threw cold water on his face, dried it with a soft towel and came immediately back downstairs. He wasn’t willing to wait another minute.
He found Mezulis in the dining room at a colossal table of polished teak laden with charts, maps and books. Mezulis was in front of his laptop, checking e-mail. A meal of savory pastries, coq au vin, salad and profiteroles had been laid out on the buffet. Greele realized he was famished.
“Hey,” Mezulis said, looking up briefly, “why don’t you try the Maudite tonight. Exceptional beer.”
Greele’s French was filed away with a lot of other stuff he hadn’t used in the forty years he’d been out of college, but not entirely forgotten. “The cursed? The damned? What kind of a name is that for a beer?”
Mezulis smiled appreciatively. “Ironic, I guess. Best damn beer I’ve ever had.”
“Scotch will do,” Greele said coldly, helping himself to food. “Can we get on with it?” He moved into the living room and took the largest, most comfortable chair next to the blazing hearth. He put his feet on the ottoman. “I’ve read every one of your e-mails and faxes, Gabe,” he said between mouthfuls, “avidly, as you know. You’ve been pro-ing and con-ing me to death for the last month. So do me a favor. Back-fill after, okay? Is it, or isn’t it, doable?”
“Well,” Mezulis replied from the other room, drawing out the word. “From a technical point of view, I believe it is.”
Greele’s expression hardened. He saw the housekeeper emerge from the kitchen and take her coat from the closet. He waited while she quietly opened the massive front doors and stepped out into the night. The sound of a small car starting up and driving away reached them through the moaning wind. Then Greele snarled, “What the hell does that mean? Yes in theory, no in practice? I didn’t come all this way to hear that!”
Holding a beer for himself, Mezulis handed Greele a thick tumbler of Laphroaig and took his place on a mushroom-colored sofa. It irritated him the way that the tall, well-knit body occupied his customary chair. Greele was one of the wealthiest men on earth, somewhere in the top twenty, Mezulis guessed. Mezulis was rich, but Greele’s fortune dwarfed his own. Greele could finance projects on the mammoth scale that Mezulis loved to work on. And he could be an arrogant pain in the ass.
“Let me remind you,” Mezulis said, “that ‘technically feasible’ was in very serious question from the beginning.”
“Not for me, it wasn’t,” Greele said curtly.
Mezulis bristled. “Bill, I’ve been telling you all along that this isn’t the paradise of eternal waters you think it is, despite appearances from afar.”
“But it can be done.”
“If we go farther northeast than we thought originally, yes. But don’t count on any consensus on that score here, because levels are down, to historic lows, as a matter of fact. I think it’ll be a very tough sell to the government. Who’ll be comparing levels now to what they used to be here, not to the drought in the Mid- or Southwest –”
“Okay. So what’s the real problem?”
“Politics,” Mezulis answered, sitting back. “‘The stability of the investment environment.’ To be precise.”
“Ah,” Greele replied, regarding the engineer. Deep lines radiated from Mezulis’s pale blue eyes. His attitude, Greele noted, showed respect but not an ounce of deference. That was just fine. Greele needed a very strong man to pull this project off, one who could assume the mantle of acting regent. He’d chosen Mezulis because he was a weathered veteran of the wild and wooly wars that always exploded and entangled and potentially suffocated such projects wherever they were mounted. “Elaborate,” he demanded.
“I will,” Mezulis said. “Most people think all that crazy separatism is finished in Quebec. The Wall Street Journal buried the Parti Québécois six years ago. The only reason they’re back in power is because the Liberal Premier went down in flames over a huge corruption scandal. They lost their referendums on independence in the nineties and don’t have another planned. Everyone under forty in Montreal wants to speak English so they can work in computers and aerospace and pharmaceuticals, blah, blah, blah.” He paused to formulate his words carefully.
“But I don’t buy it,” Mezulis said. “I’ve been here the better part of two months, I’ve looked around –”
“We agreed you’d keep a low profile!” Greele said sharply. “– Which I damn well have!” Mezulis’s pale blue eyes flashed as he shot up off the couch. “Jesus Christ, Bill,” he yelled, “what kind of a fool do you take me for?” Fuck you, you and the chair you’re sitting in, he thought.
“Take it easy, Gabe,” Greele said. “Go on.” Mezulis took a deep breath. “Listen. It’s my job as your senior expert to advise you. And as a major future investor, you can bet your ass I’m gonna protect myself too. I read the papers – well, the English ones – I listen to the radio, I watch the news, I keep my ears open, I pump the guy we’ve hired here and I know this business. Remember? So listen and listen good: the nationalist sentiment in Quebec isn’t dead. A politician won’t cut a ribbon for a new hockey rink without genuflecting to it. It’s the elephant in the damn living room, only the people outside can’t see it!”
A small smile played around the corners of Greele’s mouth. “You’re in Chicoutimi, Gabe,” he said. “You’re in the cradle of Quebec nationalism. It beats like a war drum here. And you’re absolutely right: it’s far from dead. I’m glad to hear your perceptions check out with mine.” The smugness came through his words. His little experiment had worked.
What the hell? Mezulis thought. “Thanks,” he said sarcastically.
“You’re welcome, Gabe. I have nothing but admiration for your work, and you know it. But I think you’ve misunderstood the situation.” “Misunderstood?” Mezulis was incredulous. Oh, the arrogance of the man.
“Quebec nationalism isn’t our main danger.” Greele leaned back into the big chair’s embrace, a predator’s smile on his face. “It’s our most potent lever. And we’re going to pull it for all it’s worth.”
William Greele was up at seven, relishing the housekeeper’s thick-cut bacon and French toast and several cups of her strong coffee. By eight o’clock, despite the pearl-gray snow clouds, he and Gabe were in the Jeep with a drawing-case bursting with charts and maps, heading up through Jonquière, then to points north and east. They didn’t make it back until ten o’clock that night, ate a late supper and fell into bed exhausted.
The second day the sun shone and the temperatures dropped. Through the blinding white snowscape, they drove down to Tadoussac, where the grand Saguenay empties into the even mightier St Lawrence. The Jeep’s tires left snakeskin patterns on the road and sheer ice lay beneath the snow. In the crystalline air, smoke rose from the chimneys on the south shore. Their eyes ached as the sun bounced off the multicolored houses and the red roofs of the turn-of-the-century hotel. Handcrafted signs creaking in the wind pointed to places where tourists could rent boats in the summer, to watch the four species of whale that came to play in the conflicting currents of the two rivers.
Early in the morning on the third day, they were borne much farther northeast in a Cessna, past the Pipmuacan Reservoir system. They flew due west for a couple of hours until they crossed the watershed, and surveyed the lands that drained into Hudson’s Bay. Greele was optimistic and ready to move forward as he flew home to Cincinnati.
Back at the teak table in Chicoutimi, Mezulis studied his maps and drew red circles around nine sites they had selected together. He began to finalize the report Greele would draw on when he called his new consortium together.
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