Moonheart by Charles De Lint

that's when I'm off. But not till then. Got it?"
    He didn't calm down until he was in his '79 Buick, cruising down the Queensway, listening to General Grant cracking stupid jokes on CFRA.

    ***

    9:30, Wednesday morning.
    Gagnon wasn't as old as Tucker had expected. At thirty-eight, he seemed young to be the Assistant Deputy Minister in charge of the Health Protection Branch. To get there at that age, Tucker reasoned, he had to be more than competent. They'd only met over the phone before. In person, Gagnon was the picture of a high-placed civil servant. He wore an expensive tweed suit, tailor-fitted, a cream shirt and a narrow brown tie. In his lapel was a small Canadian flag pin— two red bars and a red maple leaf in a field of white.
    Tucker had checked into Jean-Paul when they'd learned of his connection to Foy, but hadn't come up with anything sinister— either in his background or his present lifestyle. He was French Canadian, from St. Jérôme, a small town north of Montreal that had the honor of being home to the largest church in the Laurentians— the Cathédrale de St. Jérôme, built between 1897 and 1899. He'd taken his Ph.D. and M.D. at McGill University and worked for the Department of Health and Welfare from '70 onwards. He led a quiet life. He was not, so far as Tucker could see, a candidate for any sort of criminal activity. Unless he'd just never been caught.
    "Before you say anything," he said as the secretary showed him into Gagnon's office, "I want to apologize for your treatment so far and assure you that I'll make every effort to explain exactly what we're dealing with. After that, you make your decision, okay?"
    Jean-Paul blinked, unprepared for the Inspector's opening remark. He'd been steeling himself to an uncomfortable confrontation.
    "Bonjour, inspecteur," he said. Needing a moment to gather his thoughts, he added: "Did you have any trouble finding my office?"
    Tucker shook his head. "No. I just detected my way here."
    Jean-Paul smiled politely at the Inspector's attempt at humor.
    Tucker settled into a chair and leaned forward. "Why don't you let me tell it through and you can grill me all you like afterwards, okay? It'll save time."
    "As you wish, inspecteur. "
    "The name's John. John Tucker."
    Jean-Paul shrugged. Settling back in his chair, Tucker tapped his fingers together for a moment, then plunged into his explanation. Jean-Paul sat quietly throughout it, his features giving away nothing. When Tucker was done, Jean-Paul shook his head thoughtfully.
    "C'est incroyable," he said at last, "this Project Mindreach... all you have told me. I think I preferred your first explanation. It was, at least, more believable, n'est-ce pas? "
    "I haven't bought the whole show myself, to tell you the truth. But that's what's been going down so far."
    "And you think Kieran is one of these... spooks?"
    Tucker shrugged. "Let's just say we have reason to suspect that he's got some kind of— I don't know. Special powers, I suppose. That's if Hogue's theories are valid. Let's face it. The whole thing's a little farfetched when you come right down to it. But just suppose it was true..."
    Jean-Paul thought back to his conversation with Kieran last night. If what the Inspector said was true, it explained much that had been left unsaid— avoided even. But all he said was:
    "Is that still a reason to persecute him?"
    "Look. I know he's your friend..." Tucker's voice trailed off and he sighed. "What I'm asking for is your cooperation in keeping this to yourself. Not your help. Just... can you keep it out of the papers?"
    Jean-Paul shook his head. " Je regrette... I cannot agree with your methods, inspecteur. I wished no part of it. Now I am involved. And, as you mentioned earlier, Kieran is my friend— no matter how he might feel about my part in this at the moment."
    "Yeah. Well, I kind of thought you'd say something like that. Say, how'd you two ever get together anyway? I mean, you don't exactly move in the