cutters, he cut off the ponytail. The hair was thin and it only took a few seconds to saw through it. This he scattered around the ground. It had the exact texture and colour of horsehair. It would blow around and would not be noticed. Now for the hard part.
Muttering a combination of oaths and hail Marys, the boy undid the belt, trying hard not to touch the actual body. He slid the belt through the loops and rolled it up, buckle and all. Then the really disgusting moment. He pulled the identifying sweatshirt over the horrible mask of a face and yanked it free, shuddering and retching up nothing. Thank God the T–shirt underneath sported only a generic Expos logo. The jeans and sneakers were standard issue. He forced himself to look for tags or felt–penned names on both pieces of clothing, seizing the material by the tips of thumb and forefinger, taking care not to touch the skin that looked like sausage casing. Nothing.
He leaped up into the stadium bleachers into the overhung area. Carefully he slid the big heavy rectangle of paper from under the bunting that he left stacked on the table. The wrapping paper, surprisingly heavy, was the size of a kingsize sheet. Jumping down, again shoving Fleur out of the way, he laid the paper on the ground beside Liam, then rolled the body onto the paper with the shovel. Tucking one end around the head and the other round the feet, he rolled the body and paper up together like a rug. Tying the ends with baling twine from the truck bed, the oblong bundle was neutralized, a thing only, could have been a rug, a floor lamp, mattress pads, anything at all really…
Gilles was fit and strengthened by months of hard work. Liam was skinny and smallish. It was no exertion swinging him into the back of the truck. There he lay. Gilles almost covered him with a loose horse blanket, but no, there mustn’t be horsehair found on him. Anyway, why cover him? He might easily be mistaken now for any other package lately delivered from Tissus Clar–Mor whose name on the wrapping paper was boldly printed in purple and teal at regular intervals over a half tone background of the same name and font in miniature, endlessly inscribed in pale mauve on glossy white: tissus clar–mor, tissus clar–mor, tissus clar–mor …
It was six forty–five a.m. when he arrived at the Taschereau Blvd. mall. As he had anticipated, there was only light traffic on the arrow–straight autoroute linking Saint Armand to the Champlain Bridge. If he’d had to cross the bridge, he couldn’t have predicted his timing. Construction cordons, accidents and commuter build–up near the bridge could complicate entry to the city, especially in the spring and summer. But his route took him out of the heavier lanes and onto the south shore shopping strip he knew intimately.
He hadn’t passed any cars or people that he knew on the two–mile road into Saint Armand from the Centre. At six a.m. even Uncle Roch’s spry little father wasn’t bustling around the lower barns where the broodmares and workhorses lived. Only turning onto the town road a woman jogger passed close to the truck and glanced up at the cab, but he had never seen her, and she did not look at him with any sign of recognition. There were a lot of city people who had weekend houses near le Centre , tucked away in pseudo–rural pods around the golf course and ski hill. She was a city person, her stylish jogging outfit made that clear.
Now he pulled into the mall and headed directly towards the anchor store, Tissus Clar–Mor . The parking lot was enormous, and he knew, he’d been here recently, that it backed into a construction site for a mammoth new Club Prix . He headed for the far end. The only cars in the lot were clustered close to the stores, just a few. Where he was headed, his truck would be assumed to be attached to the construction site, if in fact it was noticed at all. It was an ‘87 Chevrolet, a boring, gimmick–less beige and brown model. No
Muttering a combination of oaths and hail Marys, the boy undid the belt, trying hard not to touch the actual body. He slid the belt through the loops and rolled it up, buckle and all. Then the really disgusting moment. He pulled the identifying sweatshirt over the horrible mask of a face and yanked it free, shuddering and retching up nothing. Thank God the T–shirt underneath sported only a generic Expos logo. The jeans and sneakers were standard issue. He forced himself to look for tags or felt–penned names on both pieces of clothing, seizing the material by the tips of thumb and forefinger, taking care not to touch the skin that looked like sausage casing. Nothing.
He leaped up into the stadium bleachers into the overhung area. Carefully he slid the big heavy rectangle of paper from under the bunting that he left stacked on the table. The wrapping paper, surprisingly heavy, was the size of a kingsize sheet. Jumping down, again shoving Fleur out of the way, he laid the paper on the ground beside Liam, then rolled the body onto the paper with the shovel. Tucking one end around the head and the other round the feet, he rolled the body and paper up together like a rug. Tying the ends with baling twine from the truck bed, the oblong bundle was neutralized, a thing only, could have been a rug, a floor lamp, mattress pads, anything at all really…
Gilles was fit and strengthened by months of hard work. Liam was skinny and smallish. It was no exertion swinging him into the back of the truck. There he lay. Gilles almost covered him with a loose horse blanket, but no, there mustn’t be horsehair found on him. Anyway, why cover him? He might easily be mistaken now for any other package lately delivered from Tissus Clar–Mor whose name on the wrapping paper was boldly printed in purple and teal at regular intervals over a half tone background of the same name and font in miniature, endlessly inscribed in pale mauve on glossy white: tissus clar–mor, tissus clar–mor, tissus clar–mor …
It was six forty–five a.m. when he arrived at the Taschereau Blvd. mall. As he had anticipated, there was only light traffic on the arrow–straight autoroute linking Saint Armand to the Champlain Bridge. If he’d had to cross the bridge, he couldn’t have predicted his timing. Construction cordons, accidents and commuter build–up near the bridge could complicate entry to the city, especially in the spring and summer. But his route took him out of the heavier lanes and onto the south shore shopping strip he knew intimately.
He hadn’t passed any cars or people that he knew on the two–mile road into Saint Armand from the Centre. At six a.m. even Uncle Roch’s spry little father wasn’t bustling around the lower barns where the broodmares and workhorses lived. Only turning onto the town road a woman jogger passed close to the truck and glanced up at the cab, but he had never seen her, and she did not look at him with any sign of recognition. There were a lot of city people who had weekend houses near le Centre , tucked away in pseudo–rural pods around the golf course and ski hill. She was a city person, her stylish jogging outfit made that clear.
Now he pulled into the mall and headed directly towards the anchor store, Tissus Clar–Mor . The parking lot was enormous, and he knew, he’d been here recently, that it backed into a construction site for a mammoth new Club Prix . He headed for the far end. The only cars in the lot were clustered close to the stores, just a few. Where he was headed, his truck would be assumed to be attached to the construction site, if in fact it was noticed at all. It was an ‘87 Chevrolet, a boring, gimmick–less beige and brown model. No
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