Kingdom of the Blind

CHAPTER 29

“And what do you want from me?” asked Lucien as he looked at the two women in his office.

“I’d like to know why you said you’d never met the Baroness,” said Myrna, “when you had.”

She laid his father’s agenda on the desk.

Beside her, Clara tried not to fidget. All around them were towers of boxes. Each the same height. Six feet. Placed, it seemed, consciously, strategically, around the office. Like an obstacle course, she thought.

Though there was something else vaguely familiar about them. Were they meant to resemble those ancient rock formations? Like Stonehenge. Or the mysterious heads on Easter Island.

The boxes—files, she saw—were stacked one on top of the other and seemed far from secure. Why not just pile them along a wall, like any sensible person would?

But she could tell that Lucien Mercier was far from sensible. Rational, yes. In the extreme. But “sensible” demanded the person also be sensitive. In order to make good, sensible decisions.

This man was not.

Clara was all for creativity. But the precarious files looming around them were not works of art. They were, she felt, projections of something innate to Lucien. Something intimate, private. Unhappy.

It sounded almost silly to put it that way. Too simplistic. But how razor-sharp was that simple word? Unhappy.

“In fact,” Myrna went on, “you’d been at her house, with your father. You were there when the will was discussed. It’s in his notes.”

Lucien remained unmoving, except for his eyes. Which moved freely, from woman to woman. They flickered to a stack of boxes behind them. Then back.

He was like, Clara thought, a child who thinks that if his body is immobile, no one will notice his eyes moving. Or if he closes his eyes and sees no one, then he himself becomes invisible.

It was, she knew, a highly egocentric state. One most children grew out of.

Clara was watching him closely. Openly.

She was there at Myrna’s request. Her friend wanted a witness. Not because she was afraid of this reedy little man but because, after reading his father’s papers, Myrna realized the son could not be trusted. That he could say one thing to her, then change his story later.

“But you have to pay attention,” Myrna had warned Clara in the car driving over. “Promise me you will.”

“What did you say?”

“Come on, I’m serious. I know you. You look like you’re following a conversation, nodding and smiling, but in fact you’re trying to work out some issue with your latest painting.”

Myrna was, of course, right. As they drove over to the notary’s office, Clara had been letting her mind wander. Freeing it up. To see what her subconscious might do with Benedict. He of the silly haircut and goofy grin. And happy eyes.

She wondered if she might paint him as a sort of cartoon character. All bright colors and pastel outlines in bold strokes.

But now that she was in this office, all thought of the shiny young man was banished as she sat in the shadows of the boxes and watched Lucien.

And considered how she might paint him.

“I didn’t lie,” said Lucien. “I just hadn’t remembered. I meet a lot of people.”

“Why did you go there with your father? Why did he take you there?”

“He was a cautious man. He always wanted a witness when meeting with elderly clients. A second opinion.”

“About what?”

“If the person was competent.”

“And was the Baroness?”

“Of course. Otherwise he’d never have allowed her to do that will.”

Charcoal, thought Clara. That’s what she’d use.

Bright crayons for Benedict and the charred remains of something once living for this man.

“Why can’t I find David?” asked Amelia.

Marc shrugged.

He’d given it absolutely no thought. What was left of his mind was taken up with only one thing, the search for more dope. He was like a Neanderthal, completely driven by survival.

Though he recognized that while he was focused on one hit, the next hit, Amelia was looking at the mother lode. At having more shit than they knew what to do with, except use and sell. To get high and get rich.

But still, he couldn’t get past worrying. About the next hit.

Amelia was standing in his kitchenette, making peanut-butter sandwiches with the loaf they’d stolen from the convenience store. It was stale and beginning to mold. The fresh loaves had been lifted by others, earlier in the day.

She’d have to remember that.

“Here.”

She handed one to Marc, who looked at it with disgust. It was all he’d eaten for months. Peanut fucking butter. The very smell turned his stomach.

Taking a bite, he grimaced. It tasted like despair.

“He’s out there somewhere,” she said, walking to the window. “But if he has the new shit, why isn’t he selling it? What’s he waiting for?”

Marc joined her at the window. The sandwich hanging loose in his thin hand.

For just a moment, he allowed himself the aroma of pancakes and bacon on a Saturday morning.

Then he locked it away again. In the private room he was saving. He’d crawl into it, and curl into a tiny ball, and close his eyes. And sit at his mother’s table. Eating pancakes, and bacon, and maple syrup. Forever.

He stared down at the junkies and trannies and whores gathered out there. Waiting for Amelia. To do what?

They only wanted one thing. He only wanted one thing. For the pain to stop.

“This David doesn’t want to be found,” said Amelia.

And for good reason, she knew. If they were looking for the carfentanil, others would be too. And he wouldn’t have it in his pocket. He’d have to have a whole operation.

“Like a factory,” she said out loud, though she knew she was still just talking to herself. “Right? ’Cause he’d have to cut it. Package it. Prepare it for the streets. Thousands and thousands of hits. He’d need space. And time. He’d know that once it hit the streets, all hell was going to break loose. Between the cops, the mob, the bikers. Every piece of shit within thousands of miles will come to Montréal, looking for it. Looking for him. Right?”

Marc’s sandwich hit the floor with a soft thud. But he remained standing. Swaying slightly. Like a cow asleep on its feet. Not aware it was in the abattoir.

“So he’d have to sell as much as he could, as fast as he could, then get the hell gone,” said Amelia. “That’s why it’s not out yet. David doesn’t want to sell it until he can sell it all. It must be in some basement. Some drug factory.”

This David had marked her. To warn her off. Thinking she was just some newcomer junkie, making inquiries.

She might not know who David was, but he clearly had no idea who she was. And what she was capable of.