Joaquin walked down the slope towards the wharf. Not a soul in sight. He crossed the deserted parking area, sneaked behind the diving school and crept his way along the bottom of the bluff to the back of the kayak rental shack. From there, he had a clear view of the wharf and the Close Call II. He shivered, even though he was dressed warmly. The path wasn’t very long, but it was so wet and muddy he’d had to wade through the bushes to avoid the biggest puddles, so his trousers were soaked. He paced up and down behind the ramshackle building and checked the time. It was a quarter to two.
His phone battery was nearly dead. He should have told Lefebvre where he was going. He could have been better prepared. What was the plan now? What would he do if the poachers showed up? It was unrealistic to think he could use the radio on board the lobster boat if they were going aboard, and he could hardly commandeer one of the poachers’ phones to call for backup. And what if they didn’t come? He would have to walk back to his car. This time he would take the gravel road. It was a longer way around, but it would be easier going.
Still, he should let someone know where he was before his phone battery died. He could always call Sébastien. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier? He touched the screen to life and called his son’s number. It was ringing. Still ringing. Then Moralès remembered his son was going out in town. The call went to voicemail. Sébastien hated checking his messages, especially these days. And Joaquin hated leaving them at the best of times. Beep.
‘Holà, chiquito! I’m on a stakeout tonight in…’
Suddenly, the roar of an engine came down the road.
‘…the park and…’
All-terrain vehicles. At least two of them. Moralès should have thought of that. Lots of Gaspesians used ATVs for hunting. The poachers must have made their way around the barrier somewhere. A dying melody told him his phone had given up the ghost. Moralès pocketed the device.
The ATVs came down the slope, their headlights scanning the area like search lamps. Moralès reached for the weapon in his holster and crouched as low as he could behind the kayak shack. He took in his surroundings. As soon as the poachers left the wharf, the detective could hop onto one of their ATVs and go to fetch backup. He smiled to himself. It wouldn’t be that hard to collar them, after all.
That was when he saw the tyre tracks, an approaching beam of light illuminating the ground at his feet. How had he not noticed them before? There were several deep ruts leading from the parking area, which suggested more than one vehicle had recently driven behind the shack, reversed and gone back the way it had come, presumably on more than one occasion. The tracks ended right where he crouched. Moralès was filled with a sinking feeling as he realised this hiding place was not as safe as he had thought.
He puffed out his chest. That was where the music came in. Not through the ears, but the lungs and the belly. He raised his arms above his head and let the dancing begin. The movements of the others on the dance floor didn’t bother him in the slightest; he was oblivious to them. Dancing was his domain. It was the fire that pulsed through his veins, swaying his hips and haunches, legs and thighs, warming everything it touched with its glow. He bowed his head and clapped his hands in the air, channelling his inner rock star and tango king. With a laugh and a smile, Corine approached and gyrated around him. Men who liked to dance were few and far between. He took the young woman by the hand and the hip and pulled her towards him, then twirled her back into the crowd. Cool, untouchable Kimo was the one he wanted. Because dancing was a release for pain, and she must be a volcano just waiting to erupt beneath all those layers of stuck tectonic plates.
He caught her unawares, as she had her eyes on the band and her back to the dance floor. He walked up slowly, until she could feel the heat of his body behind her. He knew she could feel it, because he could see the goose bumps tickling the skin at the nape of her neck. She knew it was him, because he had provoked her the other day, because she was cold and distant, and he was a hot-blooded young man who would take it upon himself to try and remedy that.
He placed a firm hand on her hip, dug his thumb in just enough so she would yield a little, while he reached his other arm around her shoulders to hold her close. There was nothing vulgar or aggressive about his approach. He pressed a knee against the back of one of hers. She wasn’t watching the band anymore. Her stillness was an almost desperate struggle. He bowed his head. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck, her earlobe.
‘Let yourself go,’ he whispered.
Suddenly, she yielded. As if a giant pair of scissors had snipped the strings holding her puppet of a body to a wooden crosspiece, she succumbed to his embrace. And Sébastien Moralès held her tight.
The ATVs were coming around the foot of the bluff now, just behind the diving school. Moralès seized his chance to slip around the corner of the kayak shack and stay out of sight. Now there was nothing between him and the lobster boat to hide behind. If the men parked where the tracks suggested they usually did, he would have to sneak along the facade of the building and turn the other corner before they caught up, like kids chasing each other around the sides of the house when they played cowboys and Indians.
The ATVs slowed down and came to a stop behind the shack. The men jumped down from their vehicles. Moralès could hear their voices bouncing off the water. He flattened himself against the wall and scuttled to the other end. When the men came around to the water side of the shack, he would slip around to the back side behind them. He certainly wasn’t cold anymore. He could feel the sweat beading on his neck. On tenterhooks at the corner of the wall, he was watching, waiting.
Jimmy Roberts made a move towards the wharf, followed by another man, Jean-Paul Babin. Moralès seized his chance to dash to safety behind the shack, at the foot of the bluff. He breathed a sigh of relief, then poked his head out to see them going aboard. But the two fishermen had stopped halfway to the wharf. Moralès froze. They were looking right in his direction. He took a swift step backwards and instantly regretted it: he had just backed into the solid, unyielding chest of the third man.
Ti-Guy Babin grinned in the darkness. He had always wanted to teach a cop to mind his own business.
The music was choosing the rhythm. Sébastien guided Kimo slowly, rolling her like a wave against his body, gently breathing movement back into her. Now he slid his hand down to hers and turned her to face him, his other hand sliding from her waist, and drawing it to his.
He held her in a firm but gentle embrace. ‘Dance with me, Kimo, feel the beat of the music in your heart. Remember, we’re nothing but dust floating on the wind. Move your arms in mine, let’s twirl under the stars.’ But was it her he was trying to convince, or himself?
Sébastien Moralès leaned his face closer to hers. He lowered his eyes to look at her.
But Kim Morin stiffened and pulled away. ‘I’m going home.’
She left him on the dance floor. The gig was over, anyway. The audience was clapping as Sébastien made his way to the exit.
Sunday 30th September
Moralès could feel the pain before he even opened his eyes. It hurt just to breathe. His whole upper body ached, especially his ribs. He blinked his eyes open.
‘Good morning!’ said a nurse in blue scrubs, giving him a gentle smile.
Foggy recollections started to drift back to him. The one blow harder than all the others that had sent him reeling into the side of the building and crumpling to the ground. The yelling and the reasoning: ‘Are you nuts? He’s a cop! I’m calling an ambulance!’ ‘It won’t be able to get into the park.’ ‘The paramedics have the code to the barrier.’ The blaming and the panic: ‘You idiot, as if we weren’t in enough trouble already!’ ‘What do we do?’ The sound of the ambulance’s sirens approaching – ‘We have to get out of here!’ – then the men roaring off on their ATVs, and the others who picked him up and took him away.