Ice Lake by John Farrow Page B

the words spoken by a man who believes them. I want them spoken by a priest who is a man of God, not some molester of infants. Emile, be my detective. Travel about the countryside. Find the nearest priest who will be adequate.”
“Adequate?” the son asked.
“Who will not offend me. I do not wish to spend my last moments alive obliged to berate a priest. Or to bite my tongue to keep myself from doing so. I’d prefer to be comforted by a good man’s sincerity than made furious by his ineptitude.”
Cinq-Mars nodded. He understood. “I will find you a priest, Papa.”
“Thank you, Detective. It won’t be easy. If anyone can, it’s you. You know, don’t you, that I am proud of my detective son?”
Cinq-Mars held his father’s hand in both of his. “When you first started calling me ‘Detective,’ Papa, I sensed a certain disdain in your voice. Don’t worry. You haven’t fooled me. As the years went by, I heard the change of tone. I know that you’ve been proud of me.”
The old man shrugged, wanting, Cinq-Mars couldtell, one last jibe. “Who could not be proud? You were on television.”
They both chuckled, but what saddened Cinq-Mars, what caused the tears in his eyes to flow freely, was the realization that they had said what they had intended to say, and their conversation was over. Their words had been spoken. At least his father, always his pilot, had given him work to do. His father had delivered him from the helplessness of idly waiting for a loved one to die and given him an important chore.
He grabbed a sandwich in the kitchen and questioned the nurse on his father’s condition. She assured him that his pain and discomfort were being managed. Grateful for that, Emile Cinq-Mars left to track down a worthy priest. He brought to the assignment the same determination he’d have employed in chasing down a notorious criminal, and before the day was out, he had found his man.

5

A FIST AT THE SKY
Two and a half weeks later, Thursday, January 6, 1999
Preparing the truck’s cab as a mobile laboratory, Lucy Gabriel was constrained not by cost but only by time and an overriding desire to simplify. Modest electrical current could be generated by a bank of batteries the engine charged. If more power was necessary, she could plug into an AC outlet. The electrician explained that he could supply her with a generator on the roof, but she was dissuaded by problems of maintenance and noise. Instead, she’d operate only a small refrigerator and make do with a bare-bones system.
To brighten things up, the interior of the truck was slathered with a coat of white paint. As she needed to protect the lab from prying eyes, in lieu of side windows she had two tinted skylights placed in the roof to both admit daylight and expel the heat of a southern sun. Cabinets were installed, with shelves and locking drawers, and file holders were screwed into the walls. Bunk beds were added against the forward bulkhead, each with small portholes and ventilation hatches, and the sleeping quarters were separated from the lab by a sliding curtain. Lucy expected to spend most nights in motels, but she was also prepared for roadside naps and occasional, nervy overnighters in city slums.
A third bunk was fitted down one side for the casual use of patients while Lucy drew their blood, or while they rested after consuming a large dose of drug cocktail, and an interior lock was added to the fold-down rear gate.
The exterior changed only slightly. The doors were repainted, and Crogan’s Cartage became County Cartage. Ogdensburg was erased and became Champlain. Andrew Stettler had a fresh set of New York plates stamped. He was able to supply false registration and insurance papers as well, to match the legitimate plate number.
“How do you know how to do this?” Lucy asked him.
“Don’t ask,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Never ask that question.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Lucy,” he steamed, “you don’t ask that.”
He was a