The Extinction Club (18 page)

I tried the back door first, because it was closest, but the first five keys I tried didn’t fit. I would’ve tried the sixth, but I was distracted by a faint whistling, human whistling, coming from the front entrance. Darche?

As I walked round to investigate, the sound stopped, replaced by three hefty knocks. And then a fine tenor voice:
“On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me …”

I peeked round the corner, distinguishing nothing but a strange-looking foot. I took a bold step forward.

“… a partridge in a pear tree. On the second day …”

“Can I help you?” I interrupted, because the song went to twelve.

“Oh, hello there,” said an elderly man with a long silver beard. And Druidical aspect. “Happy Christmas.”

“To you as well.”

A bare light bulb between us caused him to squint, ramifying the lines on his face. “I’ve come regarding the vacancy.” His beard sparkled like a moonlit brook.

“The vacancy?”

He pointed to the rain-wrinkled poster on the church door. “In your firm, the position advertised. ‘Elderly volunteers wanted to work in merchandising …’”

“‘Neither age nor mental health a factor.’”

“Very crafty, that.”

“What is?”

“Hiring former asylumites.” He had a Welsh accent, or something close to that.

“Oh, but it’s not me who—”

“You declare them as employees, as tax write-offs, you get the government subsidies for hiring them. But you don’t have to pay them because they think they’re volunteers.”

“Oh, I see. But it’s not me who—”

“
Au fond
, they don’t even have to exist. A bit like Gogol’s
Dead Souls
, if you follow me.”

I stood there, not following him, but nodding as if I were. I must read more.

The man winked at me. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed, my mouth as tight as a choirboy’s arse.”

Did I mishear that last bit? I examined the man under the light of the naked bulb. He had the avuncular look of the man on the Quaker Oats cereal box, except that he was wearing dentures that didn’t fit him, a reddish tweed coat that looked like a dusty carpet, and galoshes over shoes fastened with duct tape.

“What type of merchandising are we looking at exactly?” he asked, coughing. A deep-lunged hack, so deep I
thought it might disgorge blood or bile or part of his esophagus.

“We are not looking at any type of merchandising. I did not put up that sign.” To prove it I tore it down, or what was left of it. “But I am looking for help. A cleaner or restorer, so if you know anyone around here who—”

“Destiny is a door that hangs on the hinges of chance.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m an antiquarian by trade, Mister …”

“Nightingale.”

“I once ran a shop in Wales, Mr. Nightingale. As my grandfather did before me. I was born there, in fact, delivered in a carton marked ‘This Side Up.’”

I smiled politely. “Right … But, you see, what I’m really looking for is someone to … well, restore the interior, seal and retile the roof.”

“My specialty was toys, antique toys. Lead soldiers, rocking horses, miniature musical instruments, that sort of thing. Wind-up monkeys who comb their hair in a mirror, who bang cymbals and dance jigs. I bought them, repaired them, sold them. Is there an organ in the church? I could tune it for you.”

“Uh, no I think the organ was … removed. Are you from …” I almost said “the Institute” but changed my mind. “Ste-Madeleine?”

“For the time being, until I can get back to my
atelier
by the lake. Lac St-Nicolas. You can’t miss it—it’s the little cottage with the red-and-white stripes. Like a candy cane.”

We stared at each other without blinking, like frogs. I wasn’t sure what to say next. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who drives a big black pickup with a broken headlight, would you?”

“I know everyone around here, and everything they own.”

I decided not to pursue this. “Listen, is there anyone around here who does church renovation? I’ve asked around, but it seems that no one—”

“You might as well try turning water into wine. They’ll accept you up to the fence, the villagers, but they’ll never let you open the gate.”

What the locals resented, I soon learned, was that I was trying to restore a symbol that was abhorrent to them; rationally or not, they viewed the church and its grounds as a dark sinkhole of death, a haunt of fiends and swamp devils.

“I shall work like a carthorse, Mr. Nightingale. Scour the place from top to bottom, renovate from stem to stern. I am in tip-top shape, a born athlete. Don’t let this pear shape fool you. I bloom at this time of year like a poinsettia. Leave things to me. I’m a lucksmith, you’ll see. Greypower is what’s required here. I shall wash the pews with Murphy’s Oil Soap and the floors with Heinz vinegar.” He extended his hand. “Myles Llewellyn at your service.”

I extended mine, which he squeezed several times in quick succession. Like a bulb horn or turkey baster.

“I can start tomorrow if you like. Or this very moment. Work does not deter me. It does not
faze
me. I am not one to hit the snooze button. Shall we get started, then? Hop to it?”

The old man was about as able to hop as he was to fly. I smiled and he smiled back, crinkling the corners of his eyes. The stamp
UNEMPLOYABLE
seemed to burn on his brow. How could I tell him, gently, that his services were not required, not now, not ever? How could I tell him this a week before Christmas?

“Mr. Llewellyn …” Adopting a mien of authority not unlike my father’s, I paused to clear my throat. In a maelstrom of
indecision I closed my eyes, and on the back of my lids my father’s face leered at me.
Just do it!
he hissed.
Tell him, for the love of Christ!
“Mr. Llewellyn, you are … just the man I need. You’re hired.”

I drove my new employee back to Ste-Madeleine, wondering how he got to the church in the first place. He was vague about this. And how did he know about the sign on the church door? “A little birdie told me,” was all he said.

For part of the way I followed a big cement truck with its tilted ovoid vat turning slowly. When it made a slow left onto the asylum road I was expecting Mr. Llewellyn to say, “Follow that truck.” But he didn’t. He asked me to drop him off at Les Trois Rennes, a
brasserie
about two miles on.

In the empty parking lot I was going to write down the phone number of the rectory, but then realized I didn’t know it.

“I’ll ring you at the rectory, Mr. Nightingale. Would St. Stephen’s Day suit?”

This is what the Irish call Boxing Day. “Fine. Here, take this.” I peeled off three twenties. “An advance.”

He squinted at the bills. He had a tired eyelid that drooped a little over one eye. “You’re the American forest ranger, am I right?”

How does this sort of thing get around? At bushfire speed, even to the asylum? “Where’d you hear that?”

“I won’t let the cat out of the bag, don’t worry. We need men like you up here. There’s all kinds of scoundrels and scamps on the loose—and I’m not talking about pot farmers or meth cooks. I’m talking about poaching rings with radios,
machine guns, spotter planes. Teenage motorcycle gangsters running animal parts. That’s your modern world for you.”

“What else did you hear?”

“That you and your partner are buying the church as a headquarters, a place to store your evidence. Freezers full of illegal wildlife, animal parts, that sort of thing.”

“My partner?”

“Céleste Jonquères. A real clever-boots, that one. Smart as a firecracker. There was an article about her in the paper.”

This gave me a start. “Céleste who? I’m afraid I don’t …”

“I also heard you’re trying to nab Bazinet and Cude, the worst scoundrels of the lot. A pair of black hearts, those two. They’re cousins, you know.”

“Yes, I … I’m aware of that.”

“Well, here’s something you may not be aware of. I’m the one who put Gervais Cude’s army boots on the mat. I found them in a ditch near the old bridge. With rubber gloves inside.”

Blessed are the cracked, for they shall let in the light.

He opened the door and stepped out of the van. “You take care of the cousins, I’ll take care of the Dérys.”

“The
dairies
? What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out.” With that he made his way swiftly, spryly, to the entrance of Les Trois Rennes.

Céleste was unsurprised at the rumours going around, given my run-ins with Gervais. And Earl. And throwing around American twenties left right and centre.

“What’s that got to do with it?” I asked.

“Because most of the buyers deal in American twenties. They think you’re trying to set up a cover. For stings.”

Gervais had already explained this to me. I told her what Myles Llewellyn had said about the army boots.

“Mr. Llewellyn? He put them there?” Her brain seemed to be turning. “How’d you meet him?”

“Just … ran into him. You know him?”

“Yeah, he’s a … senior delinquent. Used to be a hunter. He went a bit nuts after his wife left him and started buying bigger and bigger guns—I’m talking elephant rifles. But instead of using them on animals he used them to scare away poachers. Night hunters with jacklights and spikehorns. He ended up shooting a ranger. Accidentally. Or maybe not, since the ranger was on the poachers’ payroll. Anyway, they put him in the Saint Mad Institute. He escapes from time to time, as you … well, found out. But where’d you meet him?”

“At the church.”

“The church? What was he doing there? What were
you
doing there?”

“Just, you know, checking it out. Llewellyn seemed to think I was the new owner. He was looking for a job.”

“Did he tell you he was one of Santa’s elves and five hundred years old?”

“No, he … forgot to mention that.”

“Did he have a British accent?”

“Yeah. Said he ran an antique shop in Wales.”

“He’s never been out of Quebec. According to my grandmother, at least.”

I paused to think about this, about the mysterious Mr. Llewellyn. And his promise to “take care of the dairies.” “Oh, I almost forgot, he said something about—”

“What I don’t understand,” said Céleste, “is why he would think you’re trying to buy the church.”

I shrugged. “Well, maybe because … I don’t really know.
But now that I think of it, that might not be a bad idea. If we went there. You and I. Temporarily. We can’t stay here any longer, that’s for sure.” I hesitated to say the words I’d always dreaded hearing from my father:
We’re moving
.

“But we can’t go there, it’s not mine anymore, I was kicked out. There’s probably a new owner by now.”

“There is, actually.”

“Even though I keep ripping down the For Sale signs … There is? Already? I’m going to fight this, Nile, I’m going to get a lawyer, a pro bono lawyer, and take this right to the Supreme Court. It’s not right and it’s not legal, the house belonged to my grandmother—”

“Did she pay all the taxes?”

Céleste glared at me as if I were the enemy. “She might’ve been a bit behind near the end when she was running out of money because of repairs and vandalism and because the town kept raising the taxes because they were out to get her when they found out she was an atheist and spotting cougars and tracking poachers. But she did her best, she really did, she even sold her Piper Cub.”

“What’s a Piper Cub?”

“To someone she hated! Inspecteur Déry! I’m going to get a lawyer and I’m going to sue … It’s an airplane.”

“Who’s Inspecteur Déry?”

“Just … someone.”

“Who are you going to sue?”

“Who do you think? Whoever bought it. Illegally.”

“Do you know who the new owner is?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Who?”

“Alcide Bazinet. If it’s any of your business.”

“The guy in jail? The bishop?”

Her eyes focused sharply on mine, as if she could see into my skull and was surprised at what was there. “Who told you that? Mr. Llewelyn? Earl? Good for you. First you find a little thread. The thread leads you to a string. The string leads you to a rope that …”

“That what?”

“That you’ll be hog-tied with and dumped in the bog if you keep poking around. So just … stop asking questions, please, you’re making a fire burn in my head.”