Messenger of Death (26 page)

She arrived at
the studio just in time, and the interview started almost
immediately.

“You’re among
the few members of the Provincial Parliament who still stand
against adopting the new measures that law enforcement agencies
have proposed,” he began.

Monica judged
by his relaxed appearance that he didn’t have anything nasty up his
sleeve. This would probably be just another question-and-answer
session to entertain and pacify the public, she concluded. If only
her previous answers to those questions could remain the same
tonight. If only her own circumstances had not changed.

“Actually, in
light of some late developments and some recent considerations, I
tend to think that, with the removal of some extreme language, much
of this law could be adopted.”

“Isn’t this a
different stance than what you’ve been saying?” The interviewer was
fast thinking, she admitted, and knew his stuff. “How would you
single out biker’s clubs from other organizations? There is no
proof that their clubs have any purpose other than to provide
places for social gatherings. They publish their rules and even the
minutes of their meetings, which can be obtained—granted, with some
effort—by the media. How could you call an organization ‘criminal’
if its formal goal is not crime and if they have neither structure
for nor rules governing criminal activity?”

“Circumstantial
evidence exists, in abundance, to prove otherwise,” Monica said,
for she had been thinking about this point. “The club members help
each other in crimes, in prisons, and in all sorts of conflicts
with the law. Each member has to provide unconditional help to the
organization in all its activities and its troubles, be it the war
with other gangsters, the intimidation of our institutions, the
disruption of our public lives, whatever. Their organization is
obligated to provide help for its members no matter how hideous the
crime they commit. The issue of biker gangs has to be addressed as
soon as possible. I tend to think that a tough new law, with a few
temporary compromises to the constitution, has to be adopted,
rendering our police agencies the proper instruments to fight this
new form of organized crime.”

The eyes of the
interviewer got sharper. He asked a question that Monica had not
foreseen.

“But any
association renders help to its members, including legal and
financial help,” the interviewer said with a malicious flicker in
his eyes. “Take a look at religious institutions, professional or
political associations, trade or financial organizations, you name
it. Do you think that motorcycle clubs should be denied the rights
so common to other organizations?”

It took only a
moment for Monica to find her answer.

“There is no
generality that could be a common denominator in this issue,” she
said with a frown. “From coast to coast, bikers need legal help of
only one nature: criminal defense. Murders, drug trafficking, money
laundering, intimidation—that’s what all their chapters need help
for. I don’t know any religion whose communities need legal help
like that regardless of where they establish themselves. The same
with associations of professional engineers, architects, writers,
or nonprofessional groups with political orientation—they might
need occasional legal help for a civil dispute. But it would not be
fair to compare any of these organizations to outlaw biker clubs
whose cases are, with few exceptions, criminal in nature, and
related to their ‘profession.’ I don’t know any non-criminal
organization that actively and consistently helps its members when
criminal charges are laid against them.”

The eyes of the
interviewer glowed with apparent delight. A good answer for the
public could be an even better achievement for him than
embarrassing a prominent politician. Monica was pleased with
herself as well. Her experience in public speaking and her habit of
thinking with a cool head while heat raked her nerves had helped
her in another pinch.

III

For the next
two weeks Monica was busy preparing for the last meeting, at which
the final version of the bill would have to be adopted. Although
the draft stopped short of declaring the outlaw motorcycle clubs
criminal organizations, it did contain numerous provisions that
compromised the constitution to make investigation and prosecution
of bikers a much easier task for police.

In the late
evenings, she enjoyed the company of her nephew and his family, who
had moved in with her temporarily, until their problems could be
solved. One day before the final session of the task force, she
returned from work earlier than usual. The sun was already throwing
long shadows across the street, but dusk was still an hour away.
Monica was thinking about her husband and how nice it would be if
he was still alive. It had been three years ago . . . she had
arranged a small barbeque at home, and he had called and asked if
she needed any last-minute shopping.

“Some whiskey,”
Monica advised. “Don’t be too late, though, darling.”

Crossing a
large intersection with the yellow light, he had been hit by a
heavy truck and died instantly. How fragile human life is, she
thought. How stupid and premature death could sometimes be. Bikers
have no respect for life or for death, she thought, be it their own
or others. What makes them so fearless, so thoughtless, and so
disrespectful of all that governs the rest of humanity? Why did
even the most sophisticated of them choose this terrible way of
life and its inevitable outcome of a premature and painful death?
What a puzzle.

She pulled her
car up to her house and stepped out. Only then did she notice a man
stashing an envelope into her mailbox on the porch.

“What are you
doing here?” Monica asked. Her voice had a menacing tone, a tone
that could have intimidated a tiger. The man turned slowly, as if
he had more business to do. As his face came into view, she was
stunned with what she saw: The man’s face was hidden behind a mask
suitable for Halloween—the distorted face of a woman, mouth opened
wide in a cry of despair, and red tears of blood painted under the
eyes, running down one after another until they reached the bottom
of the mask.

“Happy
Halloween,” the man said and passed by.

“It’s not
October yet. What kind of Halloween is it?” Monica yelled after
him.

The man uttered
an ugly, rowdy laugh and hopped onto his motorcycle.

“Who are you?”
shouted Monica. The man had already fired the engine of his
bike.

“A messenger,”
he shouted back, raising his voice above the noise of the roaring
engine. “Read the message.”

The motorcycle
jumped forward and disappeared with an angry rattle. Monica removed
the envelope from her mailbox, opened it up with trembling fingers,
and read the short note:

Death
Certificate:

Name of
Deceased: Monica Godette

Occupation:
Political Prostitute

Date of Birth:
July 3, 1953

Date of Death:
October 1997

Delivered by:
Messenger of Death

With a huge
knot in her stomach, she glanced around. No one was on the street,
but its very emptiness was more frightening than a crowd would have
been. She ran up the short flight of porch steps, unlocked the
door, and sneaked inside. Toulouse and his family were already
waiting for her, peacefully sitting at the table.

“Anything
wrong?” Toulouse asked anxiously. Monica made an effort to
smile.

“Everything is
okay, dear. Oh, dinner is ready. How nice. Give me five minutes,
though.”

She climbed to
the second floor and went into the bathroom to wash her hands. The
nauseating spasms in her stomach did not go away. Monica splashed
her face with cold water, but it didn’t help.

Back in her
bedroom, she pulled out the biker’s note and read it again. It
seemed even more frightening than it had the first time. They had
issued her a death certificate! How terrifying. Despicable. What
kind of a sick mind does one have to have to intimidate this
way?

Monica went
downstairs to the dining room and said in the calmest possible way,
“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel well. I can’t join you for dinner.
Please, excuse me.”

An outcry of
sympathy and regrets was the response.

“I have a very
important meeting tomorrow morning,” Monica continued. “I’d better
retire early tonight. Enjoy your dinner, darlings.”

Lying in the
bed, she leafed through some papers that were pertinent to the
proposed change in legislation, but she was not able to concentrate
on anything. Exhausted, she fell asleep. In a dream, she saw a tall
man with the face of a very ugly, tormented woman. Under her eyes
were large tears of blood. The man chased her, crying like a woman.
She woke up, terrified, disoriented. Listening to the feeble sounds
and cracks of the house, she fancied that somebody was walking in
it with the cautious steps of an assassin. She was expecting a
sudden bang on the door, after which the killer would appear in the
opening, pointing his gun at her. Nothing happened, though, but in
the morning, she left the bed tired, as if she had already worked a
full day.

The final
meeting of the task force was scheduled for 10 o’clock, but coffee
and a continental breakfast were supposed to be ready by 9:30. Some
task force members took advantage of it, having neither the time
nor the desire to cook at home. Monica had never shown up for it,
but she did arrive early, not for breakfast, but with the hope of
meeting Bertrand. Luckily, he was there, sitting at the table
alone, enthusiastically devouring a large doughnut. He noticed her
at once: This man would not miss an ant under the table, Monica
thought. Chewing with an enviable appetite, he waved his hand at
her in genuine welcome, inviting her to join him for breakfast.

“What brought
you in so early?” he asked.

“To tell the
truth, I wanted to see you,” she responded.

“Me?”

“Why not? I
need your advice, possibly your help.”

She produced
two papers: one, the letter of appreciation from the Devil’s
Knights; the other, her death certificate.

“I got these
two notes within a short time period,” she said. “This one was
brought to me yesterday by a biker wearing a terrible mask. It was
rather frightening, Bertrand.”

Bertrand read
the notes and shook his head.

“They went too
far,” he said.

“It’s beyond my
comprehension how these people have the guts to fight against the
government.”

“It’s very
simple—they believe in our democracy.”

“Don’t be so
cynical, Bertrand. Anyway, what do you think about this death
certificate? Is it serious?”

“Everything the
bikers do must be considered seriously. However, I don’t think
you’re in any immediate danger, but some precautions must be
taken.”

“What
precautions?”

Bertrand
shrugged his shoulders.

“Move
temporarily to another location. If you have relatives, move into
their home for awhile, until everything is settled. I’m sure that
after the bill is adopted, they won’t be a threat. Why would they
need to hurt you after that?”

“That’s the
advice of a policeman?” Monica asked more loudly than she had
intended, which attracted unwelcome attention from different
corners of the cafeteria.

“What else
could you do?” Bertrand raised his eyebrows in sincere
surprise.

“I can’t do
much. You should do something.”

“For instance?”
Bertrand asked.

“For instance,
provide protection for me and possibly the other members of this
task force.”

“Protection?”
Bertrand echoed in a disapproving note. “Where could we find the
funds to provide protection for everyone who’s scared of criminals?
Somebody has to foot that bill, don’t you know? Give us the budget,
madam, and we will do whatever you want.”

He picked up
another doughnut and began eating it, a gleam of appreciation in
his eyes. Monica saw that the last one was still on the plate, and
she felt a great temptation to throw it in Bertrand’s face. He had
called her “madam” instead of “Monica.” She was no longer a
prominent politician to him, but simply one of those citizens whom
the criminals had threatened—madam.

“A week ago
there was an article in one of the newspapers that the police had
aborted the assassination of Marcel, leader of the Devil’s
Knights.” Monica was speaking in a stern voice, which she hoped
would precede a devastating argument. “This tells me that you have
the means to know what gangsters intend to do. With the information
I’ve given you, could you provide protection for us?”

“Not for us.
For you, Monica. Your understanding of the subject matter, though,
is not correct. We don’t have information of any kind about what
bikers intend to do. We just arranged to have around-the-clock
surveillance for the most notorious leaders of both gangs. We know
some of the places they frequent. Our people happened to notice the
preparations for Marcel’s assassination and aborted it. What else
were we supposed to do?”

“Nice!” Monica
uttered in a sarcastic cry. “The most dangerous leader of one of
the notorious biker gangs is in fact under police protection.
You’ve found funds to protect his life, but not mine!”

“Good gosh,
Monica, what are you talking about? Don’t you think I would
single-handedly arrange around-the-clock surveillance for you?”
Bertrand wanted to say something else, but a voice from the meeting
hall made him stop.

“Please, take
your seats, ladies and gentlemen,” Robert said, appearing at the
doorstep.

“Let’s continue
during the break,” Monica suggested, rising to her feet.

“The draft of
the bill, along with some supporting materials, has been
distributed around the table for everyone. There’s no need to study
the papers—every paragraph of this important document has long been
under the scrutiny of each member in this room,” Robert told them.
The current version had a rather loose definition of a criminal
organization, one that could easily be interpreted as needed, or
desired, by a judge or the police. Monica knew that every member of
the task force sincerely thought that common sense and honest
integrity would prevail when application of the law became
necessary. After all, the final verdict of guilt or innocence would
still rest upon a judge and a jury.