LITMIR.BIZ

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steeple on the town’s Roman Catholic church and the polluting funnels of the pulp mill further downstream, no other building rose above the low rise of the town’s five hundred odd residences. Although Somerset offered little in the way of citified amenities, it was the closest thing we had to civilization, the major attractions being a large chain-owned grocery store, a government run liquor store and a main street of bars.

      I ran up the cement stairs of the hospital and along its antiseptic halls to Yvette’s room. Although I tried to downplay my fears, I jumped to the worst conclusion when faced with an empty bed, where less than three hours ago the injured young woman had lain.

      I made a beeline to the nursing station and breathed with relief when told my imagination had got the better of me. Yvette was very much alive, just no longer in the hospital. She’d left less than an hour ago, against the advice of her doctor. In fact, the nurse had been calling me to see if I could convince Mademoiselle Gagnon to remain another day in the hospital.

      When questioned further, the nurse admitted it wasn’t so much Yvette who had wanted to leave, but her male visitor pressuring her. Needless to say, the image of Papa Gagnon hauling his daughter out by her broken arm sprang to mind. But he was immediately ruled out when the nurse described this visitor as being in his thirties. Nonetheless, I was convinced Papa Gagnon was behind this abrupt departure. It smacked too much of his brand of paranoia. He’d want to remove his daughter from the threat of any outside influence and get her back firmly under his control.

      I decided to drive straight to the Gagnon farm to satisfy myself that no further harm had come to her, and if need be, extricate her from her father’s grasp and return her to the hospital.

      five

      I followed the tracks of the vehicle that had probably brought Yvette home, up Gagnon’s snow-covered lane, past his empty fields to the farm buildings whose sparkling appearance never ceased to annoy me. Although Papa Gagnon couldn’t seem to find the spare change to dress his daughter in anything other than hand-me-downs, he obviously had more than a dollar or two to spend on his farm.

      Unlike the drab, unpainted barns of most farms in the area, the two Gagnon barns sported fresh coats of emerald green paint, made more vivid against the backdrop of white. Their red metal roofs, partially hidden by the fresh, wet snow, had also been redone the past summer. And the farmhouse, built in the traditional Quebec style of the main roof extending over the front verandah, was similarly painted the same rich green. It too wore a new red roof.

      But even though Papa Gagnon’s farming income might provide enough to pay for these beautifying touches, I doubted he had the money to buy the sleek but mudsplattered Mercedes parked in front of the house. I assumed this sporty import belonged to the man who’d removed Yvette from the hospital.

      I brought my pickup to a stop behind the car’s filthy bumper and jumped out. Papa Gagnon was waiting. He must have been on the other side of his front door, watching the road, for he was standing on the top step with his shotgun in hand by the time I rounded my truck.

      I didn’t hesitate. Although I’d retreated yesterday from his pointed gun, today I wasn’t going to let it prevent me from seeing his daughter.

      “Bonjour, monsieur,” I said in my nicest high-school French. “I believe Yvette is home from the hospital. I would like to see her.”

      He replied in a fury of joual, the Quebec dialect whose blurred pronunciations and colloquialisms are unintelligible to those of us not born real Québécois, or, as they jokingly call themselves, pure laine, meaning “pure wool”.

      “Please speak slower,” I asked. “She is okay. Now leave.”

      “Not until I’ve seen her,” I persisted. “Impossible.”

      “I’m sorry, but I won’t leave until I’m satisfied she is all right.” I planted myself on the bottom step and looked directly into his gun barrel.

      His rheumy eyes glared back at me. The wind lifted the few wisps of grey hair on his otherwise bald head. Once he might have been tall, even good-looking. Now he canted slightly to the left, his back bent from over-work, his legs bowed, his face ravaged by the outdoors. Holding his gun steady, he propped his back against the verandah post as if intending to wait me out for as long as it would take.

      Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the lace curtain of the front window fall back into place. Next, a man in his midthirties with a lean build and the dark colouring of Yvette stepped out onto the porch. I had little doubt that I was staring at the man who’d removed Yvette from the hospital.

      “My father has asked you to leave,” he said in precise English. “Please do so immediately.”

      Father? Yvette had never mentioned a brother. “I am Meg Harris, her friend. I’m very worried about her. Please, just give me a few minutes with her.” I stepped back to get a better view of this older brother, clad so elegantly in designer black.

      His thin lips firmed up in the same grim line as his father’s. As an afterthought, I added, “I saved your sister’s life.”

      He looked at me with Yvette’s brown almond-shaped eyes, except that rather than projecting the wariness of a deer, they were cold and threatening like a cougar. He turned to speak with his father. After a couple of sentences of guttural joual, he turned back to me.

      “D’accord, we agree. But you can visit with her for only a few minutes.” He opened the door for me to pass through and added, “My father and I thank you for saving Yvette.”

      I glanced back at the old man, expecting to find him following two steps behind me to make sure I didn’t stray from the agreed-to path. Instead he remained on the porch. He was reaching down to a small cat with dark auburn fur. Emitting a plaintive meow, the animal leapt into his arms. I didn’t need to see Papa Gagnon’s face to know that his scowl had softened. His gentle caress on this purring furball told me. Too bad Yvette wasn’t a cat.

      I followed her brother into a narrow hallway. This was the first time I had ever been inside the Gagnon house, and as with the outside, I was surprised, very surprised. The front parlour could’ve been the movie set for Kamaraska, an old film about Old Quebec. It was filled with the kind of priceless antiques collectors fought over, perfect examples of early Quebec furniture, including a curly-armed settee made from birds-eye maple, a carved pine armoire and a grandfather clock. And in the middle of this two-hundred-year-old scene clashed the modern day reality of a home entertainment centre, a system I certainly couldn’t afford, complete with a fifty-two inch HDTV screen, DVD player and surround-sound.

      Watching my perusal, Yvette’s brother said, “A son must support his family as best he can.”

      And judging by the quality of his clothing, I could believe it. He was dressed in the Italian answer to country chic, complete with an Armani suede jacket and Gucci loafers. The clothes fit the Mercedes.

      We walked up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. As our footsteps echoed along the bare wooden floor of the hall, I said, “You must have a good job. What do you do for a living?”

      “Investments,” came his quick reply.

      Made sense. You only had to read the financial papers to know the kind of money investment brokers made. Still, it seemed a bit surprising that a person from the backwoods would end up in this fast-paced, highly aggressive, urban industry.

      Familiar with some of the brokerages through my own modest investments, I asked, “Who do you work for?”

      Expecting him to jump at the opportunity to brag, as any broker I knew was inclined to do, I was surprised when he ignored my question and said instead, “My sister is very weak. I ask that you do not stay longer than a few minutes.”

      “If she’s so weak,” I hazarded, “why did you remove her from the hospital against the doctor’s advice?”

      He ignored this question too and stopped in front of one of the closed doors that lined the unlit hall. He opened

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