of his more lucid moments.
It had been raining that night too, pouring.
After that, their handball games remained as hard fought as ever. The shouted obscenities continued, but the bruising, save for the occasional “miss,” ended.
Hull 1:08 AM • DAY ONE
Chief Superintendent Marcel Charron of the Quebec Provincial Police (Sûreté du Quebec, Hull District) was, above everything else, a Montreal Canadiens fan. Along with almost every male raised in Quebec, he had dreamed about playing for them when he was a boy. Charron’s affinity for the Canadiens was common knowledge in the department, the subject of countless jokes. What wasn’t as well known was that Superintendent Marcel Charron was a separatist. Not a rabid and vocal one, as were some of his wife’s university friends, but he had been convinced for some time that Quebec’s independence from the rest of Canada would be the best for all concerned; the only thing which would ever resolve the differences driving many Canadians crazy.
Fluently bilingual, he often listened to Grant Henry’s two-hour weeknight talk show. It was broadcast from just across the river in Ottawa, but as one of his wife’s friends remarked, “Only a few metres from here, but like the rest of this crazy place, we’re light-years apart!”
In recent months, Grant, along with most of his Anglophone callers from across the country, had been complaining bitterly about the manner in which English speaking Quebeckers were being treated following the third referendum defeat for the separatists in fifteen years. He shared a growing belief with many that the separatist government was intent on driving the Anglophones out of the province in order to assure themselves of a victory in a fourth referendum.
The inspector didn’t believe a word of it, and was convinced that the growing threats of partitioning off federalist strongholds and Indian lands in Quebec after a separatist victory were nonsense. As for the Cree Indians in northern Quebec threatening to take up arms to defend their Canadian citizenship—“Ah, just ship them a few more million and watch them take down their maple leaf flags!” he told anyone who would listen.
A few weeks ago Grant had launched a campaign to, in his words, “expose a campaign of calculated discrimination against the English minority in Quebec.”
“Great for the ratings,” the superintendent had grumped grimly to his wife one night, “but a long way from the truth.” As far as Charron was concerned, the English in Quebec were still the most pampered minority to be found in any jurisdiction in the world. “The English sure as hell get a lot less discrimination here in Quebec than the French do in Ontario!” he had shouted at his radio one night, as a particularly bigoted caller began ranting and raving about Quebec’s sign laws.
Charron’s sentiment was shared by many who lived in Quebec, including some whose mother tongue was English.
Tonight though, the superintendent was in an especially good mood. The Canadiens had pounded the Buffalo Sabres and he’d tuned in to the last part of the Grant Henry show just in time to hear an obviously very well educated separatist present his case very skillfully, refusing to back down from the host’s biting, satirical wit.
“It’s not often,” Charron told his wife, “that anyone beats up on that son-of–a-bitch Henry the way that caller did tonight. Hot damn! I’d sure like to know who he was.” Charron was still chuckling about it when he fell asleep.
It would be a long time before Superintendent Marcel Charron felt like laughing again.
His sleep, and although he had no way of knowing it, his life, were interrupted by the phone. It was the desk sergeant speaking rapidly in French.
“Sorry to wake you Superintendent, but the shit is in the fan. Looks like someone’s kidnapped that radio broadcaster Grant Henry’s daughter up in Poisson Blanc. The housekeeper, Therese Gratton, she’s missing too. There’s apparently been some shots fired. I’ve already dispatched Charlebois and Larose. They should be halfway up there by now. Pichè just pulled out of the yard here. I sent Ryde with him. Do you want me to call in some off-duties?”
Charron, with a spryness belying his fifty-six years, sprang to his feet beside the bed.
“Who kidnapped his daughter? Who’s shooting? What the hell is going on here?”
There was a pause as the sergeant checked his notes. “Sir, we received the call at 1:03 this morning from Mr. Henry himself. He told us that when he returned home from work early this morning, someone had broken into his house, his daughter and their housekeeper were missing and he’d heard shots only a moment before he called us. He said he believed someone was shooting at him, or possibly at Constable Jack Barr of the Ottawa City Police, a friend he’d called for help. He started to say something else but the phone went dead. The operator says a wire must be down.”
“Did he say if he knew who was shooting? Does he have any idea how many there are? What were they shooting at? Why are the Ottawa Police involved? This isn’t their jurisdiction.”
“No sir. I didn’t have time to ask him anything. All he said was that his daughter and Madame Gratton were snatched and someone was shooting. Constable Barr is a friend of his sir,” said the Sergeant. “I’ve played a couple old timers games against their hockey team.” He couldn’t resist adding, “neither one of them can play worth a shit.”
The superintendent’s mind was racing.
“Do any of our off duty men live in that area?”
“Stapley, sir. He’s at Ste Rose de Peche, maybe ten minutes to the north of the Henry residence.”
“Get him to set up a roadblock at Ste Marie right away,” instructed Charron. “Get another one up immediately at Domville too, that will cover us to the north. Down here to the south, let’s see, set one up at the Meech Road. Tell them to be very careful. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. Everybody gets checked at the roadblocks you understand? No driver’s licence, no identification, anything strange, they don’t get through. Be sure to tell them to search all the trunks. No one with a young girl gets through without checking with me first. Got it? And tell all our men to be very, very careful. Don’t take any chances. We have no idea what we’ve got going here, but we must assume we are dealing with armed and very dangerous people.
“Call in all off duty officers and have them assemble at the Chelsea intersection and await further orders. And sergeant, tell your men not to be taking pot shots in the dark unless someone’s shooting at them and they have a damn good look at who’s doing it.
“Oh yes, be sure to tell them to make sure Henry knows who they are when they approach his house. He may be scared shitless but I understand he’s no pattycake and living in the country he probably has a gun and may be spooked enough to shoot at anything. Let’s not be having any stupid accidents. I’m on my way right now; should be there in less than half an hour.”
Charron was about to hang up when another thought struck him. “Sergeant?” “Yes sir.” “The media doesn’t get this. Not a peep, do you hear me?” “Absolutely, sir. Not a peep!”
1:22 AM • DAY ONE
Charron was just climbing into his car when Sergeant Albert Larose and Constable Eugene Charlebois skidded their cruiser into the Henry laneway, almost ploughing into the rear of the car blocking their way. Suspecting an ambush, both men dropped
