Moonheart

  Hogue nodded. He cleared his throat. “What about Gagnon?” he asked. “Did you speak to him?”

  “Did I?” Tucker tapped his fingers irritably on his desktop as he thought back over his recent telephone conversation with Jean-Paul Gagnon. “He’s all set to raise hell. Wants to call the papers, his MP‌— whatever it takes. A Royal Commission. I have to go out and see him this morning and try to calm him down.”

  “Did you find out why Foy was here? Was it because of Thomas Hengwr?”

  “I had trouble getting much out of him. He was too worked up. He wanted to know why we’d lied to him. Wanted to know why we had a man staked out in front of his house. Wanted to know why his phone was tapped. Christ only knows how he found out about that!

  “Here’s what he had to say about Foy: He was in some little dump in Nova Scotia when he suddenly got this feeling that there was something wrong with Hengwr. He immediately dropped what he was doing‌—which was scraping the barnacles off of a fishing boat for some old geezer. . . . Say, tell me. If these spooks are so powerful, why’s one of them no better than a derelict and the other a beach bum? No. Never mind. I don’t think I’m up for one of your philosophical lectures at this time of the morning.”

  He took a swig of coffee. It was cold. Grimacing, he pushed the Styrofoam cup aside.

  “So, anyway. He drops what he’s doing and takes the first train to Ottawa. That all checks with the man we had on him. Then he goes to Gagnon’s place. They talk about old times and whatnot. Foy springs the question: Heard anything about Tom Hengwr? Gagnon gives him the lie like we told him to and Foy clams up. Goes all cold on Gagnon. They head off to their rooms for the night and bingo! Gagnon gets up in the morning and Foy’s gone. Out the back door, I’d guess. Like he knew we had a man out front.”

  “Did Gagnon say what kind of a feeling Foy had?” Hogue’s eyes betrayed his excitement. They’d gone from placid to calculating. “This is what we’ve been looking for.”

  “Re-lax,” Tucker said. “It was just a feeling, you know? You never get one like that? Everyone has ’em from time to time.”

  “But not everyone travels a thousand miles to check one out. No. There’s something between them. An intangible something‌—like a telepathic union. It fits!”

  “Yeah, well, if we ever catch up with either of them, you can ask them how it works, okay? I’ve put out an APB on both of them. You’ll have someone to play around with soon enough. Right now I’m more worried about Gagnon.”

  “You have to make him understand how important this is.”

  “He doesn’t give a shit about its importance. Not anymore. All he knows is we’ve screwed up a ten-year friendship for him and left him feeling like a heel, you know? He doesn’t buy the story about trying to entrap the master criminal Thomas Hengwr anymore. He wants to see warrants for both of them. Wants‌—oh shit! He wants the moon delivered to him on a silver platter.” Tucker shook his head. “What I can’t see is why he waited so long before jumping on the legality bandwagon. I know he didn’t care that much for Hengwr. I suppose when it came to his friend Foy. . . .”

  “Can’t you stop him from talking?”

  “How?”

  Hogue shrugged. “I thought you people had your methods.”

  “Like filling his pants with cement and dropping him in the Ottawa River? What do you think we are? The CIA? No. I’ll go out and talk to him. See what I can do. Lay it on him like it is, I suppose. I don’t know. I just hope we can keep the press out of it.”

  The press would cut them to ribbons. The press would have a field day. It’d be on the front pages and the six o’clock news in all its spectacular detail. They’d be screaming for another commission. It pissed Tucker off just thinking about it.

  He believed in the Force, what it stood for, the job it could do. What it had to do. But the image of the true blue Mountie in his red coat and flat-brimmed hat was getting a little tarnished. What kept the RCMP above so many of its counterparts throughout the world was the respect that they’d earned. That respect made their job easier, made them more efficient. Made the men proud of their work. A man with pride worked well.

  Tucker was a career man himself. He’d joined the Force when he was nineteen. In ’54. He’d done his bit with the horse and dress uniform, pulled the two-year backwater shifts from Newfoundland to the Yukon. Made corporal when he was twenty-four and worked his way up to where he was now. He wouldn’t go any further. Not because the commissions weren’t offered to him, but because he felt if he got any higher up in the hierarchy, he’d lose touch with his reason for joining up in the first place: helping people.

  It was a somewhat naive attitude for this day and age, and Tucker knew it. But he’d played it straight this far. He’d never been involved in anything that compromised his personal sense of honor, though it wasn’t as easy now as it had been when he’d first joined. Everything was getting too complicated. Narcotics, terrorism, just general crime itself. It was all building up. It couldn’t be handled on the municipal or provincial levels. And it was getting hard on the federal level as well. The whole world was coming apart at the seams and Canada was going straight down the tubes with the rest of them.

  Project Mindreach was a perfect example. He understood the ramifications‌—if the theories of Hogue and his colleagues held up. But it just seemed like so much bullshit. There were more important things that needed to be dealt with and Tucker couldn’t figure out why he’d been assigned to this operation.

  Tucker was a troubleshooter, sent in when a situation got too sticky, or put on an operation that the brass was afraid could turn bad on them. But whatever his own thoughts on Project Spook, he was in charge for the duration‌—liaison and advisor, head of security, but his hands tied as he watched Hogue and his lab boys blow it, left, right, and center.

  The Paranormal Research Branch was a dismal failure. At least so far. They had an eight-million-dollar budget, unlimited access to computer time, half a floor of offices and labs, Hogue and his assistants, and a six-man squad on stand-by. And what had they come up with? Zilch. Without subjects, they had only speculation to work on. They should have picked up Hengwr immediately, but Hogue was convinced that the old man was only a go-between. Too shabby to be a leader himself. There had to be someone above him and that was who Hogue wanted in his lab. Right now, with the pressure coming down from above, Hogue’d settle for anybody. Even this Foy, if need be. If the PRB was closed down before it ever got on its feet, Hogue would have a hell of a time selling anybody on a new project.

  “You’ve got to stop Gagnon from talking,” Hogue said.

  Tucker shook his head. “I’m not going to force him. This is still a democracy. The private citizen still has some rights, for Christ’s sake. At least he does in my books. I’m going to reason with Gagnon and we’ll see what comes out.”

  He checked his watch. Five to nine. If he took the Queensway from Headquarters, he should be able to make Tunney’s Pasture in, say, fifteen minutes. Opening his desk drawer, he took out a snub-nosed .38 and clipped it to his belt. He wasn’t likely to need it, he just felt naked going out without it. Putting on his coat, he left it unbuttoned to hide the bulge the pistol made.

  “I’ll go now,” he told Hogue, “and try to calm him down.”

  “You were willing to pick up Hengwr,” Hogue said. “And Foy. We’ve got nothing on either of them. What makes their rights any different from Gagnon’s?”

  Tucker paused at the door and looked back.

  “I’ll tell you something,” he said. “It’s because I’ve read the reports on both of them. They’re bums, and one of them’s got a criminal record. Gagnon’s different. He holds down a responsible position. He’s earned the right to be treated with some respect. And it wouldn’t matter to me if Gagnon was a farmer or the president of IBM. He’s productive, and that’s what counts. Your two spooks haven’t shown themselves to be that yet. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes, but‌
—”

  “Look. I’m in charge of this operation, remember? I know what you’re thinking. ‘He’s going to spill his guts and blow the whole shebang.’ Well, I’ve got some news for you. Sometimes you try and trust people, okay? That’s what I should have done in the beginning with Gagnon, instead of pussy-footing around with that crock of bullshit you talked me into. Master criminal. Jesus H. Christ!”

  “Inspector‌—”

  “You don’t like it? Go cry to the Superintendent then. When he takes me off, that’s when I’m off. But not till then. Got it?”

  He didn’t calm down until he was in his ’79 Buick, cruising down the Queensway, listening to General Grant cracking stupid jokes on CFRA.

  9:30, Wednesday morning.

  Gagnon wasn’t as old as Tucker had expected. At thirty-eight, he seemed young to be the Assistant Deputy Minister in charge of the Health Protection Branch. To get there at that age, Tucker reasoned, he had to be more than competent. They’d only met over the phone before. In person, Gagnon was the picture of a high-placed civil servant. He wore an expensive tweed suit, tailor-fitted, a cream shirt and a narrow brown tie. In his lapel was a small Canadian flag pin‌—two red bars and a red maple leaf in a field of white.

  Tucker had checked into Jean-Paul when they’d learned of his connection to Foy, but hadn’t come up with anything sinister‌—either in his background or his present lifestyle. He was French Canadian, from St. Jérôme, a small town north of Montreal that had the honor of being home to the largest church in the Laurentians‌—the Cathédrale de St. Jérôme, built between 1897 and 1899. He’d taken his Ph.D. and M.D. at McGill University and worked for the Department of Health and Welfare from ’70 onwards. He led a quiet life. He was not, so far as Tucker could see, a candidate for any sort of criminal activity. Unless he’d just never been caught.

  “Before you say anything,” he said as the secretary showed him into Gagnon’s office, “I want to apologize for your treatment so far and assure you that I’ll make every effort to explain exactly what we’re dealing with. After that, you make your decision, okay?”

  Jean-Paul blinked, unprepared for the Inspector’s opening remark. He’d been steeling himself to an uncomfortable confrontation.

  “Bonjour, inspecteur,” he said. Needing a moment to gather his thoughts, he added: “Did you have any trouble finding my office?”

  Tucker shook his head. “No. I just detected my way here.”

  Jean-Paul smiled politely at the Inspector’s attempt at humor.

  Tucker settled into a chair and leaned forward. “Why don’t you let me tell it through and you can grill me all you like afterwards, okay? It’ll save time.”

  “As you wish, inspecteur. “

  “The name’s John. John Tucker.”

  Jean-Paul shrugged. Settling back in his chair, Tucker tapped his fingers together for a moment, then plunged into his explanation. Jean-Paul sat quietly throughout it, his features giving away nothing. When Tucker was done, Jean-Paul shook his head thoughtfully.

  “C’est incroyable,” he said at last, “this Project Mindreach . . . all you have told me. I think I preferred your first explanation. It was, at least, more believable, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I haven’t bought the whole show myself, to tell you the truth. But that’s what’s been going down so far.”

  “And you think Kieran is one of these . . . spooks?”

  Tucker shrugged. “Let’s just say we have reason to suspect that he’s got some kind of‌—I don’t know. Special powers, I suppose. That’s if Hogue’s theories are valid. Let’s face it. The whole thing’s a little farfetched when you come right down to it. But just suppose it was true. . . .”

  Jean-Paul thought back to his conversation with Kieran last night. If what the Inspector said was true, it explained much that had been left unsaid‌—avoided even. But all he said was:

  “Is that still a reason to persecute him?”

  “Look. I know he’s your friend. . . .” Tucker’s voice trailed off and he sighed. “What I’m asking for is your cooperation in keeping this to yourself. Not your help. Just . . . can you keep it out of the papers?”

  Jean-Paul shook his head. “Je regrette. . . . I cannot agree with your methods, inspecteur. I wished no part of it. Now I am involved. And, as you mentioned earlier, Kieran is my friend‌—no matter how he might feel about my part in this at the moment.”

  “Yeah. Well, I kind of thought you’d say something like that. Say, how’d you two ever get together anyway? I mean, you don’t exactly move in the same circles.”

  “We met at a friend’s lodge in the Gatineau. Pierre was having a party and had hired a folk group to play at it‌—fiddle tunes and the like. Kieran was a member of the group. They called themselves The Humors of Tullycrine‌—the name comes from an Irish tune, I think. I knew nothing of Kieran at the time. But we had the opportunity to speak later and I enjoyed his company very much. We‌—how do you say it? We ‘hit it off’ from the beginning, n’est-ce pas?

  “You would not know this‌—you would not even care, I should think. But Kieran is a very warm person, a loyal friend. That is why I feel so . . . sick with what I have done to him. Such an injust betrayal. I will tell you: I never liked Thomas Hengwr very much. There was something . . . étrange . . . strange about him. Feeling as I did, I did not find it hard to believe your story of his criminal activities and how you needed my help to capture him. Also, you were very convincing, non?”

  “I suckered you,” Tucker admitted. “But if we ever get a hold of Foy I’ll tell him the truth about your part in all this.”

  “ ‘Get ahold of him.’ And what will you do with Kieran, once you ‘get ahold of him’?”

  “That’s not really up to me.”

  Jean-Paul sighed. “You have given me this explanation because you respected me, is that not so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you have so little respect for Kieran? His values are, perhaps different, but does that make him a criminal?”

  Tucker thought about that for a moment, recalling his own tirade against Hogue.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll give you that. But now you listen to this: Suppose‌—just suppose‌—that Hogue’s theories are valid, that powers like that do exist. Don’t you understand why we have to get a handle on them ourselves? Imagine such power in the hands of terrorists. Or . . . or anyone to whom human life means nothing. Then where are we?”

  “Once again you make a strong argument, inspecteur.”

  Jean-Paul looked away. He felt uncomfortable. For all the Inspector’s brash mannerisms, he had a golden tongue. He wondered if Tucker lost very many arguments. He went over the Inspector’s explanation, trying to convince himself that it was only so much imagination, but was not able to. Thomas Hengwr‌—the old man was odd. And Kieran‌—for several years now he’d been sending Jean-Paul occult books for Christmases and birthdays. The Don Juan series. Colin Wilson’s The Occult and Mysteries. The books hadn’t convinced him of anything. But what if they were a way of preparing him for . . . for what? Admittance into some secret sect? Jean-Paul found that hard to believe. But surely even the RCMP would not make up such an outlandish story to cover up some more sinister plot?

  “I will do this, inspecteur,” Jean-Paul said at last. “I will keep my information to myself. For now. But you must promise me: If you find Kieran, you will get in touch with me immediately. You will let me speak to him, before you do anything to him.”

  “That I can promise you,” Tucker said, his relief evident. “And if for some reason Foy gets in touch with you?”

  “That will be my affair. I will speak with him first. Who knows? Perhaps he will agree to meet with you. But I find the thought unlikely. He will not overcome his feeling of betrayal so easily, I think.”

  “Then it’s a deal,” Tucker said.

  He stood up and offered his hand. Sighing, Jean-Paul shook it.

  “And the wiretap, inspecteur?”


  “Perfectly legal. We ran it by Judge Peterson for authorization. I’ll have it taken off. Say, how did you pick up on it?”

  Jean-Paul smiled. “I didn’t. It was an educated guess.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  “I hope not, inspecteur. Also, there is a man who followed me to work and another watching my house.”

  “I’ll take them off. But listen up, Mr. Gagnon. Don’t blow this on me. I’m trusting you. If I’m wrong about this. . . .”

  “I, too, am trusting you, non?”

  “Yeah. I guess you are at that.”

  “D’accord. And now . . . we both have work that requires our attention, is that not so?”

  Tucker nodded. “Thanks, Jean-Paul. Do you mind if I call you that?”

  Jean-Paul shook his head. “No . . . John. Now please. I have much to think on.”

  When the Inspector was gone, Jean-Paul sat staring into nothing. Had he made a mistake in agreeing to go along with the Inspector? The man was . . . persuasive. Ah, Kieran, he thought. Q’est-ce que tu fais? What are you doing?

  12:10, Wednesday afternoon.

  RCMP Superintendent Wallace Madison shook his head as Tucker finished his report. Madison was sixty-three, due to retire in a couple of years. His life, like Tucker’s, was the Force. Period. He was tall and distinguished looking and needed a cane because of a hip injury in ’69 that hadn’t been treated properly.

  “I don’t know, John,” he said.

  “Know what?”

  “Whether to promote or demote you sometimes. I really didn’t think you’d have any luck with this Gagnon over at Health Protection. When Hogue came crying to me. . . .”

  Tucker lifted his gaze despairingly.

  “What can I say, Wally?”

  Madison sighed. “Not much.” The bantering tone left his voice. “I need something hard for the Minister, John.”