PM • DAY ONE
A sudden breeze ruffled the “chateau”’ porch curtains. It was from the west, as it often was at this time of day, carrying with it a sound so filled with bittersweet memories that Grant’s gasp of pain was audible. It was that special song that crickets sing in northern latitudes as winter approaches. Not louder than in early summer, but somehow closer, more intense. As unmistakable a portent as the red and gold exploding in the maple crowns atop the nearby mountains.
Only two days ago Grant and Lee had sat in the middle of the lawn, just over there, recording the crickets’ autumn calls for a classroom science project. He remembered Lee with her head cocked to one side, bent almost into the grass, in hopes of hearing them even better. She squealed with delight when they played back the recorded songs.
He was trying to hide his tears from Carol when the phone rang again. This time it was for him.
4:23 PM • DAY ONE
It was Boisvert, speaking in his rapid and very formal English.
“I must inform you,” he said, “that the Department of the Solicitor General for the Province of Quebec has reviewed the situation and decided we cannot release the tape recorded threats. We are unwilling to negotiate with terrorists. There is also a question of national security. Given the political climate in the province today, we cannot be sure that hearing an appeal of this sort might not create acts of public disorder.
“We are retaining the tape recording for further investigation, but we cannot allow it to be broadcast for public consumption at this time. In the event you were to make any attempt to take to the airwaves yourself this evening, and reveal the contents of the tape, I must inform you, your stations have been notified of our decision, and warned that any contravention of our decision will result in an immediate and very strong complaint to the CRTC.
“We cannot, of course, prevent you from approaching the press with a story, but we must advise you, if you do that, we will do everything possible to blunt the effects of anything you might claim. As you are very aware, we have sufficient evidence to create doubt as to the actual events. If necessary, we are prepared to voice our suspicions concerning your role in all of this. Furthermore...”
A truck was roaring in Grant’s head. He heard himself screaming.
“You little bastard. They’ll kill my daughter. They’ll rape her. You’ve got to let us go to air with that recording. If she were one of yours, you wouldn’t think twice. You negotiated for Cross. You negotiated for Laporte. If you could negotiate with the FLQ and play their wild ramblings on the radio in 1970, why can’t you do it now?” Boisvert merely grunted and hung up the phone.
“He’s not going to get away with this,” he stormed at Carol, after briefly explaining the conversation. He was shaking with rage. “I’m going right to the top. Right to the prime minister.”
But the prime minister, well aware of what was happening, had no intention of talking to Grant Henry. Nor, as it turned out, did members of the cabinet, all of whom had either already made arrangements to be unavailable to him and the press, or were in the process of doing so.
It was almost six pm when Grant finally gave up trying to reach someone with the authority to order release of the tape. From the dozens of frantic calls he’d made to Ottawa and Quebec City, he had received only sympathetic, regretful excuses why there was nothing anyone could do. A decision had been made at the highest level of the Quebec government was the explanation and no one was prepared to challenge it.
Charron tried to placate Grant. “They aren’t going to touch your daughter Mr. Henry,” Charron said. “It would do too much damage to their cause.” Grant had thanked him, wishing desperately he could believe him.
5:45 PM • DAY ONE
Grant slammed the receiver down. Fifteen minutes to six. His daughter might have only two more hours to live, and for all his contacts, and all his fame, he couldn’t do a bloody thing to prevent it. He sank to his knees in the hallway and pounded the carpeted floor with his fists in rage and frustration.
He was thus occupied when Jake strode through the door and took hold of the back of his shirt, lifting him.
“Grant, it’s time for you and me to take a little walk,” he said. Rage barely under control, Grant followed him out the door and down the pathway to the lawn and the crickets.
Out of earshot of the house, Jake began to speak in a low, excited voice.
“Don’t look around, don’t do anything or say anything loud. I don’t want those two Dick Tracys in the house to hear or see anything to make them suspicious. They’ve probably got their noses stuffed right up that little rat-faced bastard’s ass. Grant...I have a copy of the recording we’re supposed to play tonight!”
Despite the warning, Grant stopped abruptly and spun around to face him.
“What...!”
“Turn around and keep walking,” Jake whispered urgently. “Nothing happened to my mother. She’s fine. It was all a ruse to get me to the hospital. When I arrived, there was an envelope waiting for me with a dub of the recording and a note telling me Boisvert and his buddies had vetoed the original. The instructions are that this one is to be delivered secretly to the radio station in time for the eight pm broadcast.”
Relief washed over Grant. His mind began to race as it always did just before airtime. “Jake,” he said glancing at his watch, “we can figure out just what kind of game is being played here later, but right now we don’t have any time to waste. I’ve got to reach Dennis Lessing right away and persuade him to go to air with this tape despite any warnings he’s had about the CRTC. Do these guys here know your mother isn’t injured?”
Jake shook his head.
“They’d have no way of knowing that. What do you have in mind?”
Excitement began to sound in Grant’s voice as he glanced at his watch again. “We’re going back into the house and announce that your mother isn’t well at all and I’m going with you to see her. The two cops will likely buy it. Unfortunately, we can’t risk telling Carol the truth. Her nerves are so shot, I’m afraid she might blow it, so I’m going to have to convince her your mother is in such bad shape, that despite Lee, I have to see her. You play along, say I’m executor of her will, or something, then we’ll get the hell out of here, and call Lessing and get the recording on the air before Boisvert gets wise.”
Convincing the two detectives and Carol wasn’t difficult. Carol was so distraught she scarcely heard what he was saying. The detectives had found some of Grant’s old Playboy magazines and could have cared less.
Convincing Lessing was another matter. Sandra Beale had told him the recording was to be played, come hell or high water, but she had also expressed concern over the reaction of the CRTC. She couldn’t be reached, having caught an early flight to Toronto and still in the air, so the decision was all Lessing’s, and with Boisvert’s threat of CRTC censure hanging over his head, he was having difficulty making it. It was Jake who convinced him.
“Let me talk to him,” he motioned to Grant, as Lessing continued vacillating on the phone. Shrugging his shoulders, Grant handed the phone to Jake, who pulled the car over to the side of the road
