My October by Claire Holden Rothman Read Free Book Online Page B

arrows.
    â€œWhat was your father doing with a Luger?” asked the man.
    Luc turned, unable to hide his annoyance. “May I ask who you are?”
    The man glanced at Bonnaire. There was something going on here, some plan being followed.
    â€œThis is Detective Sergeant Audet,” Bonnaire said. “Of the Montreal Police.”
    Luc’s heart started to race. “My father fought in the Second World War,” he said, struggling to sound calm. “He brought the Luger home when he returned from overseas.”
    The detective regarded him with professional blandness.
    Luc felt his face redden, as if some ugly secret had been laid out before them on Bonnaire’s scrupulously clean desk. His right shoulder began to twitch. He reached over, trying to keep his hand steady, and picked up the gun.
    The contraction in his shoulder unwound itself. The Luger was smaller and lighter than he remembered. He pressed his palm painfully into the grip. He had held his father’s gun only once, when he was ten years old. It had been kept in a locked strongbox, the only key to which was on his father’s key chain. One day, Luc had stolen the key.
    â€œThere are quite a number of them in Montreal,” Detective Sergeant Audet said, almost casually. “You’d be surprised to learn how many. Collectors’ items. Souvenirs.”
    Souvenirs. A memory of the big dark basement of the Laporte Street triplex sprang up, uninvited, in Luc’s consciousness. As kids, he and Rémi had played there with their father’s souvenirs: a mildewy gas mask and a canteen that made tap water taste like rust.
    â€œYou didn’t keep your father’s gun after he passed?” asked the detective.
    Passed. Luc hated that euphemism. And from a man who had no doubt seen a corpse or two in the course of his career. “No,” he said.
    â€œA valuable item like that?”
    â€œValuable?” Luc looked at the thing in his hands.
    â€œPeople pay thousands for them.”
    Luc didn’t know where his father’s Luger had ended up. He had no desire to know. “I’ve never had any interest in guns,” he said.
    Audet was staring at him openly now. “So you don’t own one?”
    Luc shook his head.
    â€œAnd your son?”
    â€œYou think this gun is Hugo’s? Is that what this is about?”
    Neither man spoke. Audet’s eyes narrowed. He was making his mind up about Luc, and the verdict didn’t appear to be positive.
    â€œLook,” Luc said, struggling to sound calm, “I’d like to help you, but I can’t if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
    Bonnaire finally took pity on him. “That gun was found in your son’s knapsack at ten o’clock this morning.”
    Luc tried to absorb this piece of news. A gun. In Hugo’s knapsack. The two things refused to conjugate in his mind.
    â€œSo, to your knowledge …” began Audet.
    Luc straightened his back and took a deep breath. “To my knowledge, my son has never set eyes on a real gun, let alone owned one.” That felt better. The bewilderment was starting to dissipate. A welcome sense of righteousness had taken its place. Luc was a pacifist. It was implicit in every book he had written. Did this man not know who he was?
    â€œJust to be clear,” said Audet. “You yourself have never seen this firearm before?”
    â€œOf course not,” said Luc sharply. “And even if Hugo somehow managed to get his hands on a weapon like this, why would he bring it to school?”
    â€œThat’s the question,” said Bonnaire. “That certainly is the question.” The little man was smiling at Luc through tented fingers.
    Luc met the condescending gaze. “Where is he?”
    Bonnaire didn’t answer. This was obviously part of some insulting game plan.
    Luc felt a prickling heat in his face. He had a sudden comic vision of himself with