Dead by Night

By Robert Geoffrion

A week-old baby lies in a coma—the victim of an accident, or of his mother's distress. Christened Hope, he is alive yet unable to live. Most of the characters in Hope's orbit are also in limbo, unable to make sense of their lives or to grasp what they feel they deserve. While they struggle with their emotions, betrayals and heartbreaks, their good and bad decisions in their quest for survival, happiness and redemption, a serial killer emerges with the gruesome discovery of a headless young woman in Beaver Lake on Mount Royal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Jul 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463641484

Robert Geoffrion

A career screenwriter, Robert Geoffrion has worked in all genres of feature films and television in North and South America, Europe, and Australia. He is a graduate of the University of Ottawa and the University of Montreal. Dead by Night is his first novel.

Book preview

About the Author

A career screenwriter, Robert Geoffrion has worked in all genres of feature films and television in North and South America, Europe, and Australia. He is a graduate of the University of Ottawa and the University of Montreal. Dead by Night is his first novel.

***

Dedications

For Gillian, Alexandre, and Sarah

***

***

***

***

***

Dead by Night

Published by Austin Macauley at Smashwords

Copyright 2018, Robert Geoffrion

The right of Robert Geoffrion Irving to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

***

A CIP catalogue record for this title is

Available from the British Library.

***

www.austinmacauley.com

***

Dead by Night, 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

ISBN 978-1-78823-666-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-78823-667-6 (Hardback)

ISBN 978-1-78823-668-3 (E-Book)

***

First Published in 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers.LTD/

CGC-33-01, 25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf, London E14 5LQ

***

***

***

Acknowledgments

My gratitude to Danièle Geoffrion, Michèle LePage and Carole Landriault, my first readers, for their insight and encouragement. To Jo-Ann Gregory for her friendship and support, and to Koula, who asked the question that opened the door.

***

***

Gwen was so hysterical that she called Morley instead of an ambulance. Cheek inflamed, baby in her arms, she had no idea what she was saying and he couldn’t understand a word she was screaming.

Morley was already in crisis mode with Maureen and Barry Fiddler. Their house had burned down three months ago and they were begging him to accelerate the insurance settlement so they could leave their dumpy, suffocating motel near Ville St-Pierre. But how do you tell your sister and brother-in-law that there would be no settlement? And something else, even worse.

You’re going to jail. Both of you.

Saved by Gwen’s call, Morley raced home fifteen minutes away. By the time he loaded Gwen and the baby in the car, stopped the school bus bringing Alex home, ran four red lights and went to the Montreal General Hospital because it was closer than the new McGill super hospital, the damage was done.

Gwen, claiming she could have died herself, blamed Tibby the cat for this tragedy. It was either that or she went out of her mind, which wasn’t a stretch considering she was halfway there.

Hope, she said, ice pack to her cheek, imaginary migraine kicking in. We’ll call him Hope.

Morley cringed. Hope, he said under his breath. Of all the names.

He’ll need all the hope he can get, said Alex, wondering how long she’d be an older sister, or how soon she’d return to being an unappreciated only child. Gwen burst into tears.

My God, what have I done?

Her knees buckled and down she went for the second time today. She came to, saw her baby being wheeled away, and wished she were dead.

Hope Ferguson, barely a week old, saddled with a name sealed in guilt and agony, had been sentenced to limbo. He was alive, yet unable to live.

It was almost ten when they left the hospital. Morley wanted quiet. An easy drive back home. Going with the flow and a smooth stop at every red light. No worries about smashing into a car at the next corner. But nothing was easy today.

I felt like a criminal, she said.

Gwen, come on, said Morley. You’re a victim, too. We all are. In a way.

If I’m a victim…

You are.

Then why did they ask so many questions?

Do you have any idea how many babies and children are mistreated or abused every day? The least they can do is get to the truth.

What’s the truth? asked Gwen. They come at you from all sides. Nurses. Doctors. The police. They twist things around to confuse you. You get one stupid detail wrong, you’re a liar.

They never said that.

From there, it’s one step to criminal.

They never said you were a liar.

I didn’t even know what I was thinking anymore.

You were in the living room. You wanted to change his diaper. Tibby ran out from under a chair and tripped you. You fell on the coffee table. The baby hit its head on the floor. That’s it. It’s simple.

It’s not so simple when your baby’s in a coma, your brain wants to pop out of your head, and they’re out for blood.

They have the latest technology, Gwen. They’re monitoring him day and night. He’ll be out of it in no time and all this will be forgotten.

Sure, Morley. You’re the crisis expert. Whatever you say. She clammed up. She didn’t want to talk anymore and say something that would get her into more trouble.

In the back seat, Alex cursed her rotten luck.

Born to those two? Jesus. And little Hope. Poor thing. Live or die, he doesn’t stand a chance. Not unless I take matters into my own hands.

That was quite a mission for a kid only ten years old.

Maureen, hair pasted on her face, stood at the front door. She looked as if she’d run a marathon in high heels and crawled the last three miles in pouring rain. Alex, stroking Tibby, finally opened.

I came to see about the baby, said Maureen. Is he okay?

Why did you burn your house down? asked Alex.

Upstairs, Gwen was dying to cut up the blue dress with a white collar she had worn today.

Stop it, that’s crazy, said Morley as calmly as he could.

So now I’m crazy.

It had nothing to do with the accident. You love that dress.

Not anymore.

Put it away. Please. Hang it in the closet and don’t think about it.

Don’t argue with me, snarled Gwen, waving the scissors at his face. Not tonight. Because I’m this close to gouging your eyes out.

Morley stepped back a little.

Not any night.

There was something else on his mind. He took a shot. Are you sure about that name: Hope?

What, you don’t think I meant it?

Fine, you meant it, but…

Maybe one day you’ll take me seriously. That I’m not just blowing smoke.

I take you seriously.

No, you don’t.

Fine, I don’t.

They heard Maureen scream. Morley! Morley! Come down here!

Jesus Christ, said Morley.

Go and see your stupid sister, said Gwen. Leave me alone.

Morley sighed and left the bedroom. Alex was coming up the stairs with Tibby.

Go to bed, okay? said Morley.

Morley! shouted Maureen again.

Have fun, said Alex.

Gwen stared at the dress. It wasn’t really a woman’s dress. More like an overgrown schoolgirl’s. It was sexy when you unbuttoned it slowly, which Gwen liked to do. She knew she couldn’t trash it and it wasn’t because of Morley’s lame arguments.

How that man can sell insurance and deal with all those idiots and their bullshit claims is beyond me.

Maureen, drying her hair into a frizzy mess with a tea towel, poured herself another scotch.

So this is what you do in this house, slime your own flesh and blood?

Swear to God, I don’t know where Alex got that because I never said a word.

Do I look like an arsonist to you? she asked.

No, you look like a scarecrow on crack.

Maureen, two houses burning down to the ground in two years. Barry can rig wires twenty different ways to trigger a fire and make it look like an accident. Those are facts. They add up and they all know it: the police, the fire department, the insurance company.

You’re the insurance company!

I’m an agent! It’s not like I own the whole damn thing!

We’re twins, Morley. We were made together. Half of me is you and half of you is me. You could’ve done something but you didn’t. You didn’t even try.

I couldn’t lie. And I don’t know what on earth you were thinking.

Barry told me it was a slam dunk. He said there’s no way they could prove anything.

Right. Barry, said Morley, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

It worked the first time, said Maureen.

And you pushed your luck.

That’s what I said. I warned him. Don’t push your luck. I told him and he promised. Next thing I know it’s our settlement check on a stupid football game. Teams I’d never heard of, from like Tennessee and I don’t know what. He was so sure he had me believing it, too. I even bought two bottles of champagne, did I tell you that?

No.

I was so angry I wanted to smash them on his head. But they were sixty bucks a pop, so I drank them. Straight from the bottle, and then I passed out.

She wanted to cry. She saw herself hanging in the motel shower, face blown up purple and red like a balloon, tongue sticking out, clothed or naked still to be determined. She might even take a selfie before the fatal drop. Not the greatest look for an ex-teenage beauty queen, but at least the nightmare would be over.

The first thing you need is a decent lawyer, said Morley. I can help you with that.

I can’t even afford a decent cup of coffee. I’m down to instant with hot water from the bathroom tap.

I have some Starbucks coupons, said Morley. You can have them.

I don’t want your fucking coffee coupons! yelled Maureen. And let me tell you, I’m not going to jail. I’m going to kill myself and it’ll be on your head because you’re a worse brother than Cain. You’ll be stinking of guilt till the day you die.

Morley wasn’t listening.

Women. The death of me.

Some of it had been good, it’s true. The first years with Gwen were special, until everything soured. He should have seen it coming. He didn’t.

Maureen slogged to the car in the rain. She felt as if a bowl of maggots had been dumped on her head and were crawling all over her naked body, having a feast on what little was left of her sorry state.

Morley stood at the front door.

Good riddance.

Maureen had been driving him up the wall for years. From the day she met Barry the charmer, the serial winker with hair like a steel wool hat and all those teeth, it had been nothing but downhill.

Barry stepped out of the car. Gone were the weepy eyes in Morley’s office when he and Maureen were begging for a settlement. He looked mean and dangerous. Morley was convinced the maniac was sizing up the house for a three-alarm blaze.

He went back inside and made a mental note to have a digital security system installed. He turned off the lights and sat in the living room, insides tumbling like a washing machine. His eyes drifted towards the second floor. Gwen would have taken her sleeping pills and knocked herself out. Alex would also be asleep, she had to be. He didn’t want to go upstairs.

I don’t want to be here at all.

He slipped quietly out of the house for an easy drive. Worries fading away. Let the silent streets take you where they will.

Away from everything and everyone I’ve ever known. Including me.

Wally Brunelle enjoyed his pre-dawn jog on Mount Royal. His life was one routine after another but today was different. Decisions had to be made. Option one: quit his job at the bank and travel abroad. He had never left the country and three months incognito in foreign lands sounded just about right.

Jogging in London, Paris or Barcelona, how amazing would that be?

Option two: get married and have children. If he could find a girlfriend. Either way, he’d have to leave home.

What would Mother say?

It always came down to that. What would Mother say? Equally terrifying: what would Mother do? Heading towards the man-made Beaver Lake as the sun began to rise, he glanced at his stopwatch. He was doing good time. And then he froze. The leg of a young woman was poking out of the dark waters.

Holy smoke.

He craned for a closer peek. He scanned the landscape of trees and open grass. He was alone. He took a deep breath and reached for his cellphone. He didn’t need some half-baked Sherlock to tell him what this was, he already knew. It was murder.

And then he saw the head.

Jane Curtis woke up tired and a little sore.

She had been out with her girlfriends. They called themselves The Six Pack. They went to a Thai restaurant and the spicy food made her body crave something wild. They went dancing. A new club called Luna on Crescent. It was wall to wall. The music throbbed. It was hot and clammy and perfect. Her body prickled.

He entered Luna shortly after one. She spotted him from the corner of her eye.

Wow!

Jane didn’t sleep until something like three-thirty when Carlos left. She wasn’t sure that was his name; he might have made it up. A lot of men on the prowl did. He was slim but strong and well-equipped. His skin was the softest she’d ever felt. His breath was nice, too. It smelled of raspberry daiquiri. That surprised her.

Men aren’t really big on raspberry daiquiris, are they?

Not the kind of men she liked anyway. She wondered if it was a lozenge or a gum. She’d look it up. She loved his accent. Argentina.

Carlos was proud of his moves. The choreography, so well-rehearsed, everything in synch. This wasn’t making love, it was a performance and Jane was his sidekick.

He’d enjoy watching himself in a mirror. How gorgeous he’d look.

She thought of getting one if Carlos became a regular, but those odds were slim. If he ever saw her again in that club or another, it was almost a given she’d be a stranger.

They did it twice, forwards and backward. His hands were all over her. Not for her pleasure, his. That was okay; she loved being rubbed whatever the intent. The spicy Thai had not gone to waste.

He didn’t leave a phone number. He didn’t say goodbye. Bliss had closed Jane’s eyes while her mind drifted into the float zone. Maybe he thought she was asleep. That was okay, too. She’d be good for a few days and then she’d go off with The Six Pack and burn the night all over again. She could always count on them. Everything else was just, well, everything else.

Jane lived south of downtown in Griffintown, once a thriving industrial sector now losing the battle to cheerless condos she wouldn’t be caught dead in. At precisely seven-thirty, showered, dressed and caffeined in record time, she left her coach house apartment above a two-car garage sheltering a Porsche and a Ferrari no one ever used. Twenty minutes later, she was on Death Row.

Alex got dressed, made her breakfast of orange juice, cereal, and peanut butter toast, brushed her teeth, kissed Tibby goodbye and stepped outside to wait for the school bus. This routine was nothing new to her. Dad had already left although he’d gone out last night and only came back at around four. Mom, head buried under her pillow, pretended to have another migraine. They had argued till God knows when but she didn’t want to feel sick over that. She just didn’t want to care.

Get some stupid sleep, okay?

Maybe the bus would get stuck at the Westminster crossing in Montreal West and they’d all be trying to squeeze out the windows not large enough for a beagle before the train totaled them. Like what happened three years ago in an American town, Bedford Fields or something like that. She had seen the pictures on the web. Everybody dead, some torn to pieces and their body parts hanging here and there in the wreckage. Blood and guts everywhere.

It could happen again.

Or maybe Mom could burn the house down like nutty Aunt Maureen and creepo Uncle Barry who winked all the time, never kept his hands to himself, and made you sit on his lap. So many things you had to watch out for when you thought about it, it was hard sometimes to juggle them all and keep track. If only you could decide once in a while.

Sure. Fat chance.

Gwen watched Alex from the living room window. She was wearing the floral bathrobe Morley had given her for Christmas. She hated it but felt guilty about buying a new one. Maybe she could pour bleach all over it and run it through a wash cycle.

A laundry accident. That might work.

She waited for the school bus to disappear up the street and shook the bag of treats.

Here, Tibby. Here, Tibby. Come.

Tibby came running and saw the cage. She didn’t mind the cage. It meant she was going to that nice vet for a couple of shots and some pills. With any luck, she’d also get a butt trim, a shampoo and a blow dry. She loved the cool blow dry. But today was different.

Alex wasn’t coming like she always did. And Gwen was acting really weird. This wasn’t so good anymore. Even the treats tasted strange. She couldn’t finish them.

She saw Gwen’s hands come at her. They looked like claws. She tried to make a run for it. Too late. She cried out and twisted and steeled herself and spread her legs and tried to bite her.

Gwen swore, tightened her grip, dug her nails into Tibby’s sides and managed to stuff her into the cage.

She went upstairs, had a shower, and fantasized about someone being in there with her. Not Morley.

An hour later Tibby was in the back seat of Gwen’s car, on her way to a terminal vacation at the animal shelter.

***

Jane had just arrived when she saw the baby in an incubator with tubes and wires and monitors being wheeled down the corridor after being transferred from Montreal General. Someone so young in this ward was unheard of but there was no other space in the entire, overcrowded St. Mary’s. The baby disappeared into Room 622 at the far end of the corridor.

Don’t worry, we won’t have to take care of it, said Beatrice, back in her civvies of jeans and an oversized T-shirt.

His name’s Hope, said Jane, reading the file.

Beatrice shrugged. Hey, they could’ve called it Poodle for all I care.

Beatrice wanted out of here. She hated Death Row. The only thing on her mind was the lumberjack breakfast at Fern’s Diner across the street. And Naomi. Always Naomi.

Maureen and Barry had worked it out. Their suitcases were packed after a sleepless night and they were going to make a run for it. Barry knew it was in the bag.

Screw the bill and all the morons in this shit city.

Did you check the drawers? he asked.

Yes. And the bathroom and under the bed, said Maureen, heart beating so fast she thought she could see the pulse on her wrist.

Barry peered out the window. It’s go time, he said, getting into the sneaky spirit of things.

This is exciting.

He lugged the two suitcases to the door while Maureen grabbed an armful of coats. He winked and pecked her with his clammy lips.

Let’s do it, babe. He opened the door.

Maureen and Barry Flipper found themselves staring at three police officers wearing bulletproof vests, guns drawn.

Maureen shrieked like a hyena. Startled, the youngest officer almost pulled the trigger.

Beatrice sat in her usual booth by the window and ate her lumberjack special of three fried eggs, hash browns, beans, pancakes, toast, and an extra side of bacon. She didn’t look at anyone. She barely gazed at the morning paper.

That’s a big breakfast, said the man, nicely dressed in an expensive linen suit, watching her devour the plate. He was sitting in the booth across the aisle. His name was Harry Stenmore, although on special occasions he called himself Neil.

Graveyard shift, I need this, said Beatrice. A couple of beers would be nice, too.

You work at the hospital, he said.

It’s a job. She made it sound like a prison sentence.

It’s an important job. Dealing with life and death every day.

Mostly death. I work on Death Row.

Well, not too many people can say that, said Harry.

Not too many people would want to, said Beatrice. And then we get paid shit. Thanks a lot. Really appreciate it.

My name’s Neil, by the way.

Have a good one, Neil, said Beatrice, meaning this conversation was done. She