The Dead of Winter Read Online Free Page A

Christmas. God it’s great to hear your voice. Where are you?”
    â€œChez Maman, in beautiful downtown Toronto, as they say.” She was whispering in a perfect English accent. He knew that she was talking softly so as not to let her mother know.
    â€œYou sound like you’re still in bed.”
    â€œI am, Papa. I wanted to call you to say Merry Christmas before the day gets started. It’s the first thing I did, Papa. I haven’t even checked to see if there is a sock from Santa at the end of my bed. Probably not, though. That was your job wasn’t it?”
    â€œWhat? Élise, how can you suggest such a thing?” he said, continuing the fable. “I had absolutely nothing to do with any socks – except for lending you one of mine, because they were the biggest!”
    She giggled like the child she no longer was. And then there was silence. He could hear her breathing. He listened, wanting the moment to last, enjoying the unconscious communication of love. Words would break it so he said nothing. Eventually, she stirred.
    â€œI got your present. I love getting parcels in the mail.”
    â€œI hope you like it.”
    â€œI’m sure I will, Papa. I haven’t opened it yet.” He knew it was probably in her room, out of the way, not to disturb Marianne with a sign of his presence. Élise would open it when she had time to herself.
    â€œWill you let me know what you think? It’s only a small thing.”
    â€œI’m sure it’s wonderful.”
    There was a silence. Then, “So, Papa, have you heard from Alex?”
    The moment was broken, and the tension flooded in.
    â€œNot yet, Élise. I’ve booked a call for tomorrow. It’s hard to get to speak to him, but he told me that you guys email each other.”
    â€œYeah. He emails me all the time, and we talk on Skype. You should get yourself set up on Skype. It’s easy, I’ll show you how next time I’m in Montreal. Alex would like that, I know he would.”
    He knew it would be a while before she was next in Montreal. Maybe in the summer, but he couldn’t ask. She would take that question as pressure.
    â€œThat would be great, Élise. How does he sound to you?”
    â€œIt’s tough in Kandahar. But he seems to be holding up. It’s like he’s found his place in the Van Doos. He’s assigned to protect the Provincial Reconstruction Team, that’s what he calls it. Says he’s doing good work too. But it’s dangerous. I think of him all the time.”
    â€œSo do I, Élise, so do I.”
    â€œSo, when you speak to him tomorrow, wish him Merry Christmas from me. And be easy on him, Papa. I know that you guys fight sometimes but he loves you, Papa, just like me.”
    â€œI know, Élise, I know. I am a lucky man.”
    â€œSo, Papa. Merry Christmas. Je t’aime.”
    â€œAnd I love you too, ma belle. Come back to Montreal soon. Merry Christmas.”
    â€œYeah. I love you too, Papa. Joyeux Nöel.”
    â€œJoyeux Nöel, ma belle.”
    With a click the phone went dead, and Vanier stared at the floor. The single thing that he wanted to do on Christmas Day, and it was done. He looked at the clock. 8.40.
    He rose stiffly from the couch and walked to the bathroom, replaying the conversation in his head.
    11.15 AM
    The Métro Security Headquarters consists of a small series of windowless offices deep under the street in the Berri Métro station. Vanier pulled the door open and walked in, already impatient with the diplomatic burden of not stepping on toes. Most people, even policemen, bristle at the sight of métro officers. They don’t carry guns, and they make up for that inadequacy with intimidating swat-team uniforms, complete with bulletproof vests and the swagger of schoolyard bullies. But when below ground in their system, even cops have to show them respect.
    An officer approached Vanier and introduced