The other possibility was that Juliette was on the wrong trail, and that was why she’d said nothing to Béatrice or Patterson, though she had mentioned it to Max when he’d phoned the day before. He wasn’t convinced either, and Juliette was beginning to doubt her theory. She had to be wrong. A trip to the South Shore would just confirm it.
Born and raised on Chambord Street in the east end, Juliette’s only experiences of the countryside were the greenhouse at the Botanical Gardens and pedal-boat rides on Beaver Lake. Outside Montreal lay a hostile world of shady puppy mills, septic ditches, and an anachronistic universe of drunk drivers, incest, and Ski-Doo races. Never mind. A first glance told her Madeleine Morency didn’t earn her living from farm produce. The buildings were tumble-down, the fields had gone to seed, and there was a rusted-out truck with no wheels in the yard. In the back, she found the usual bric-a-brac country-dwellers couldn’t do without, apparently: mismatched furniture, abandoned tools, an old bike, and two water heaters.
Juliette parked her rental car near a plastic mailbox. Next came a streaking, barking dog trained to eat mailmen. She was confused. Here in this backwater, she felt even more lost than in the alleyways of Old Delhi. How could she let someone know she was here? Yell, maybe, and alert the whole neighbourhood? Suddenly, a woman appeared at the door.
“Brutus, Brutus, here, Brutus!”
Juliette wished she’d prepared them for her visit, and now she was bound to be sent away. The woman — she had to be Madeleine Morency — was already stepping toward the gate. Close up, she looked a lot less hardened than her surroundings. One couldn’t tell her age — sixties, maybe — erect and dignified, not the kind to give ground easily. Most fascinating was the long grey hair that fell to her waist. Once blond, she refused to dye it. An aging hippie, maybe?
Without opening the gate, she called across, “What do you want?”
“I’d like to see Rodger.” No point beating about the bush. I guess I should have been cooler, Juliette thought. Invented some waterproof pretext, maybe. Well, too late now.
Madeleine thoroughly examined the visitor’s clothes, more curious than aggressive. Perhaps this was the country way. First impressions were everything.
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
Madeleine Morency sighed and opened the gate. Brutus put up some more barking, which she silenced with a wave of her hand. Juliette followed her to the house, mindful of where she stepped. The kitchen was immense and modern, nothing like the outside of the house.
“He promised me he’d get in touch with you,” Madeleine said, taking off her shoes.
Juliette wondered if she should do the same, but she hadn’t brought anything else.
“No, it’s okay, keep them on,” Madeleine said, signalling her to sit down at the table. “You prefer coffee, or is it tea, like your partner?”
“Excuse me?”
“Aren’t you with the police?”
“No.”
Her face hardened at once, and the respect, or rather deference she showed to the authorities was no longer called for.
“What do you want Rodger for?” Madeleine asked aggressively.
“I need to talk to him, ask him some questions.” Juliette was getting in over her head, and she knew it.
“What kind of questions?”
Time to think fast. “Oh, questions about his life … you see … I work at the university … in criminology … on what happens to delinquents … that is …”
“You’re here to help him?”
Juliette was on the point of saying, “No, I just want to get to know him, that’s all,” but it sounded desperate, so she said, “Yes.” Now, where to go from here? She had no idea. “Just putting him back in prison every time won’t solve anything.”
“Exactly what I’ve been saying for years,” replied Madeleine, “but the police aren’t interested. All they care about is filling their quota of arrests each month, period.”
Juliette was relieved. “At the university, we think there’s another way.”
“The cops don’t care.”
“But I’m not them, Mrs. Morency.”
“Rodger never had any luck, sure, but that’s no reason to be on his back all the time.”
“Mrs. Morency, I’m here to help him, not to put him down.”
Rodger’s mother watched her without moving, and all of a sudden Juliette felt despicable for making this woman believe she could “fix” her son’s criminal tendencies.
“But to do that, I have to get to know him, understand what got him into this in the first place.”
Not once did Madeleine Morency shift her gaze from Juliette.
There was more silence.
“So, what’ll it be, coffee or tea?”
The life of Rodger, according to his mother, followed the same path as the police reports, but her voice somehow gave it a more personal, intimate hue. According to Demers, Rodger had plunged headlong into crime on purpose, but his mother preferred to talk about his repeated bad luck, one incident leading to another, no matter how hard he tried. There were unscrupulous accomplices, but, according to her, they were opportunists who’d taken advantage of his naïveté and good nature. His long slide to hell had a few bright moments when Rodger could have split from his “negative milieu,” but they didn’t last. Although his mother kept sending out “positive energy,” his lucky star didn’t shine bright enough or long enough.
Oh, okay, New Age stuff. Now Juliette twigged to the long grey hair. Madeleine Morency was into pop spirituality, perfumed candles, et cetera, to free her kid from a life of crime, but it wasn’t working too well for them, no matter what Rodger promised. He was already too far gone by the looks of it. She wouldn’t see him again till the next disaster, probably a call from the police station.
By her third cup of tea, Juliette figured she had enough information. Rodger’s path was twisted and tiring. There had been one incident after another, but nothing to connect him to David. He didn’t read the papers (“all lies”) or watch TV (“more lies”). Above all, Rodger never ever mentioned international politics. The only thing he cared about and his sole subject of conversation was one thing: money. He often got it from his mother.
Just as Juliette was leaving without providing her phone number (“I’m always on the road, but I’ll call him”), she saw Rodger’s mother blocking her way. Juliette couldn’t get out. She had to see Madeleine’s photo album.
“Another time, Mrs. Morency.”
“I want you to see how much I love him. Please.”
There was no refusing Madeleine Morency. Her sanctuary at the back of the house, her “elf garden,” as she called it. In the living room and kitchen, she must have been holding back, because here it was a festival for the senses: little angels, clouds, incense sticks, lace, and fine linens. The place was a medieval dump, and it was from here that she sent her positive vibrations to a son who at the same moment was probably emptying the cash drawer of a pizzeria or a car wash.
The album itself seemed to come from the personal collection of some amateur wizard. An oversized, elongated scrapbook held letters his mother had lovingly glued in and news articles relating his criminal career, every petty arrest or incident connected with his shady world, all of it dated and pasted with loving care. It was a painstaking