The Last Witness (15 page)

  ‘What did you get?’ Venegas asked.

  ‘Coffee, bread, some burgers, tuna, a few tins of salmon.’ Roman waved one hand theatrically and smiled. ‘You want fresh fish, just cut a hole in the ice and put a line down.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Venegas fired back only a half, sly smile, and Roman wasn’t sure whether Venegas was questioning that there were fish there, or the fact that Venegas the back-woodsman cut such an unlikely image. He reminded himself not to get testy. Keep Venegas relaxed.

  ‘Sure. Plenty of fish down there, winter and summer. Just cut a hole, smile down at ‘em, and they’re leaping up out at you already.’ Roman chuckled.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Venegas sounded unconvinced as he looked away, blandly surveying the passing scenery.

  If that’s what it took, playing the oaf, thought Roman, then fine. Venegas was more relaxed than he’d seen him all journey. ‘A couple of summers ago, even Franky had a try and caught some fish. One look from him you think would scare them away. You know what we call him?’ Roman looked across. A sign flashed past:
Lac
Shawinigan
, 8 miles.
Venegas shrugged and smiled back weakly. Roman chuckled. ‘Franky-stein. All he needs is a bolt through the neck…’

  Roman kept the banter up on and off for the next few miles, with Venegas providing the occasional comment and smile, and Roman felt his jaw start to ache with the effort of forcing a smile beyond the tension drawing his nerves increasingly taut as they got closer to Lake Shawinigan. Roman felt as if his nervous system was plugged in directly to every minute detail: the thrum of the wheels on the road, Venegas’s slow blink as he surveyed the snow-bound landscape, Venegas’s left hand moving up… past his jacket to rub his nose as he turned to Roman.

  ‘You’re going to a lot of trouble with all this for me?’ Venegas said.

  With the silent lull after the chain of banter, Roman wondered whether Venegas had picked up on his tension. ‘Nooo… no problem.’ Roman pushed an easy smile and waved one hand from the wheel. ‘The fix you’re in is directly as a result of you doing something special for me. It’s down to me to put right, no question.’ He stared the message home, keen to re-assure Venegas; but he couldn’t discern any wariness in Venegas’s eyes. He looked back sharply to the road. The turn off for
Lac Shawinigan
showed fifty yards ahead.

  He slowed, indicated – though no traffic was approaching and only a single car was just visible a quarter of a mile behind – and swung in, gripping the wheel firm to stop his hands from visibly shaking. A rough track, in the summer is was bumpy, but now thick snow had evened it out. No visible tyre tracks: nobody had been down here in recent hours.

  ‘Which cabin is it?’ Venegas asked.

  Roman was thrown for a second. The one and only time he’d visited three years back it had been summer, the tree foliage thick; now foliage was sparse and the ice-bound lake and the cabins were visible through the trees. ‘Oh, uh… the third on the right,’ he made a guess. He remembered only it was on the right, but wasn’t sure between the third and fourth cabin. It hardly mattered: Venegas wouldn’t be making it that far.

  The cabin was a friend of Frank Massenat’s and his one visit had been to thrash out a drugs deal with the head of the bikers, Roubilliard. He wouldn’t have risked bringing Venegas out to a Lacaille family cabin. But now following Venegas’s gaze towards the lake and the cabins, he saw something that worried him: what looked like smoke rising from the fifth cabin along
… someone was out here!
Then it was lost behind some fir trees as he came up to the car park spread out on their right. No vehicles there.

  Roman swung in. ‘See… told you. Nobody around this time of year. You won’t see anyone now till end of April, May.’ But Roman was still wondering about that smoke, eager to get another glimpse. A line of fir trees bordered the edge of the car park and the first ten yards of pathway towards the lake; he’d have to wait until they walked past them.

  Roman got out and swung open the back door. Venegas opened the other side and took out his kit back, but reaching in for the grocery bags Roman paused: with both hands full, he’d be at a distinct disadvantage, especially if Venegas carried his kit bag in his left hand with his gun hand free.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Venegas asked.

  ‘Uh… yeah.’ Roman quickly thought of how to even the balance. ‘Last time after a long break the padlock was all rusted – we couldn’t get the key in. We might need something to break it. Hold that for me, would yer?’ He handed one grocery bag to Venegas and put the other under his arm as he went around and opened the trunk. He just hoped Funicelli had a tyre lever, and after a bit of rustling around he found the tool bag tucked in on the left. He took out the lever and shut the trunk.

  Roman’s breath showed heavy on the air as they paced away. His mouth was dry, his nerves racing uncontrollably. He could easily have pulled his gun on Venegas before grabbing the tyre lever, but still he needed to know about that smoke. He couldn’t risk it if someone was by the lake.

  Their feet crunched on fresh snow: no previous footsteps either that Roman could discern. The path ran for about forty yards to the lakeside. Between the fir trees, he caught flash glimpses of the cabins, but he just couldn’t tell if it was smoke or only mist rising.

  Venegas hunched and made a mock shiver. ‘Colder than the city here.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Roman said blandly:
but not half as cold as where you’re going.

  For some reason, Venegas had fallen in half a step behind him. Perhaps Venegas had picked up on his vibes, was being wary; or was he just letting him lead the way? But the motion of dropping the tyre lever
and
swivelling around, would give Venegas too much of an advantage. He needed to get Venegas in front and somehow distracted. Roman’s heart thudded hard and fast, marking almost a double time to his crunching footsteps.

  They cleared the fir trees bordering the path and there was a clear view of the cabins again. But still Roman couldn’t tell if it was smoke or mist – which suddenly struck him could be turned to an opportunity. He halted back, slowing his step. ‘Is that smoke I can see rising over there, fifth cabin along? Or just mist. I mean – if someone else is down here, you shouldn’t be here.’

  Venegas pulled a step ahead and peered through the trees. ‘No, I… I don’t think so – it’s not smoke. Looks like mist rising to me.’

  Roman tensed himself to pull his gun. ‘Are you sure?’

  Venegas squinted his eyes more intensely towards the cabin. ‘Yeah… sure. You can see where the sun’s coming through a gap in the trees and hitting the roof and…’

  Venegas heard the tyre lever hit the snow and turned to see Roman’s .44 pulled and pointed at him. Roman’s grocery bag followed. Venegas let out a sneering half laugh of disbelief on a burst exhalation. ‘…What is this?’

  Roman waved with the gun. ‘Drop the groceries and your bag and keep your hands above shoulder level.’ Venegas met his gaze steadily, defiantly for a second, as if he was measuring options of trying something. Roman waved again with his gun and Venegas finally dropped the groceries and his kit bag.

  Roman moved in quickly and took Venegas’s 9mm from his inside pocket and grabbed the kit bag. ‘Thanks. I’ll take the AK too.’ He tucked the 9mm inside the kit bag and prodded the air with his gun. ‘Now let’s move on down to the lakeside.’

  With another sneering half snort and a resigned shrug, Venegas finally turned and started pacing ahead. Roman kept three paces behind.

  After a moment, Venegas remarked, ‘What, you getting me all the way out here was just to shoot me?’ Venegas said this as if all the small puzzle pieces of their journey out had finally slotted into place. Or did Roman detect a faint note of hope and clinging disbelief in the voice?

  ‘No, I’m not going to shoot you, as it happens.’ Which was true, he wasn’t. ‘You’re just going fishing.’

  Silence, only their footsteps crunching on snow as Venegas grappled to make sense of this. He decided finally to disregard it as a bluff. ‘Come on, Roman. What happened to Martinique?’ Venegas half turned; his eyes pleaded, but his voice carried a partly joking tone, as if he knew he was clutching at straws.

  ‘Tickets were too expensive.’ Roman fired a trite half smile. ‘…And my mother said she didn’t want to see you there.’

  A few more paces, and the inevitability dawned on Venegas. Roman saw his shoulders visibly sag. He started to get desperate. ‘For fuck’s sake, Roman. Come on…’ His voice was shaky with mounting nerves, the words spluttering slightly. ‘You know I wouldn’t talk.’

  ‘Temptations are huge these days. Especially with the sort of plea deals going to nail people like me and Jean-Paul. Sorry.’

  Silence again. Both of them tuned into every small sound from the surrounding woodland and the lake: faint scurrying fifty yards to their right as a bird alighted from a bush, the cawing of a crow in the distance.

  Roman’s nerves had settled back a bit from their wild hammering just before pulling the gun, but still he was tense. Lightning-speed reflexes was one of Venegas’s traits. Roman reminded himself not to get too close.

  They reached the edge of the lake and Venegas turned. He was noticeably trembling, and Roman wasn’t sure whether from the cold or with what he knew was about to happen.

  ‘Please, Roman… you don’t have to do this. Your secret with Savard’s safe with me.’ His voice was cracking, almost on the edge of tears.

  ‘It sure is. Because the secret’s staying here with you. Forever frozen.’ Roman smiled drolly and made a sharp prod with the gun. ‘Now let’s go for a walk on the lake.’

  Venegas looked down and around apprehensively.

  Roman prompted, ‘Don’t worry, the ice’s thick – it’ll hold you. And I’ll be walking right with you to keep you company.’

  Another air stab with the gun, and Venegas finally, reluctantly started heading out. Roman dropped Venegas’s kit bag and followed, keeping a clear four paces behind.

  Venegas’s eyes continued darting for options – or perhaps he was unsure that the ice wouldn’t give way at any second. His gaze finally settled on the lake-shore cabins.

  ‘You know – I think that
is
smoke coming from that cabin.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Roman didn’t even trouble to look; he wasn’t going to risk taking his eyes from Venegas for a second. ‘I think it’s just you blowing smoke.’

  The lake was only half a mile wide, but its fourteen-mile length snaked out of sight in both directions, with a strong river run-off at one end which made its currents lethal. They could feel the wind whip sharper as they went deeper out, shifting the thin layer of snow on the ice in flurries.

  At sixty yards from the shore, Roman announced, ‘This’ll do.’

  Venegas turned. ‘What now?’ His breath was heavy on the air with the walk and his rising panic; though his eyes were curiously dull, as if part of him had accepted what was going to happen. ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to shoot me.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Roman allowed himself a last second gloating that Venegas still hadn’t worked out what was planned for him, then slowly lowered the gun and eased off a shot by Venegas’s feet. A burst of snow and ice sprayed up.

  ‘What the fuuuu…’ Venegas jumped a step to the right like an off-balance flamenco dancer.

  Roman fired the next shot the other side and this time heard the ice crack. Another quick shot a yard behind, and with a louder crack Roman watched in satisfaction as a four foot square block broke away. Venegas leapt back in horror from the shifting block, his eyes registering only then what Roman intended.

  Roman smiled, easing off a quick shot just behind where Venegas had leapt to. Another heavy ice-crack and leap from Venegas. This was fun, thought Roman: like
Riverdance
with bullets.

  He fired another shot two foot behind and the crack spread still further, the ice-block Venegas was standing on threatening to break away. The panic on Venegas’s face was absolute, and he tried to leap clear – but the sudden thrust of his push-off snapped the last resistance and the block broke free.

  Venegas toppled and fell, but with the inertia of his lunge he managed to grip onto the rim of the ice bordering the hole; he was submerged only from the chest down.

  The shock of the water hit Venegas like an ice truck. As he frantically scrambled to pull his body out, Roman fired another shot two foot beyond his fingers. A crack, but not enough, so Roman fired again just behind.

  Ice and snow erupted and the block fell away. Venegas slipped sideways and tumbled completely under, his arms thrashing frantically at the water. His head bobbed back up quickly, and he managed finally to get a fingers grip on the next solid ice edge.

  Roman became frantic. An eight-chamber automatic, he had only two bullets left. It had seemed a good idea at first, making it look like a straightforward drowning rather than a hit; now he began to wonder. But he could see that strong currents were dragging at Venegas, surely he couldn’t last long: he had trouble keeping grip and his face was purple from cold and the effort.

  Roman fired again, spewing up an impressive spray of snow and ice, but to his consternation the ice held firm. Roman’s heart pumped wildly. He’d have to get in close to make this last bullet count, and Venegas’s pleading, frantic eyes lifted towards him as he moved in – almost as if Venegas knew this was the coupe de grace.