The crimson maple leaf was barely visible through the driving white snowflakes. Leslie McAdam trudged through the deep accumulation of snow packed on the sidewalks. She paid little attention to the Canadian flag on the pole across the street. The flag's red borders and red leaf were discernible now as she was closer to them. But she chose to walk with her head down, not seeing the flag, back to the comfort of her small apartment.
The city of Montreal was being blanketed again by a heavy, freezing snow. Standard weather for January. Eight fresh inches.
That on top of the half foot they'd received four days earlier, which in turn had landed on top of a foot already fallen. All the auto routes of Quebec were closed, again, as were the airports. Whiteness was everywhere. Snow coated the buildings of McGill University, the giant illuminated cross which overlooked the city from the hills of Westmount, the stone statue ofjacques Cartier which dominated the old square which bore his name, and the ancient little church of Notre Dame de Bonsecours in the old town close by the gray frozen Saint Lawrence.
The snow was impartial and resolute, yet Montrealers had learned to shrug and live with it. The Metro always ran. And beneath the icy streets, "there were underground cafes, shopping centers, and a type of urban camaraderie among the natives, a sense of having defeated the elements above.
Leslie turned a corner, was blasted again by a ripping snowy wind, and then walked up the steps to the wooden row house where she lived. just a few blocks from the McGill campus. Behind her rumbled a massive, hulking snowplow, scraping out the street, flashing red, blue, and green lights and equipped with everything except a tail gunner.
Leslie's second winter at McGill. One more" plus a thesis, and she'd have her doctorate.
Once inside the house she shook the snow off her head and coat.
The warmth of the house was soothing. Thank God for Canadian oil, she thought. Much more dependable than the wood and coal used back in southwestern England near Exeter, where she'd been born and raised. At least Canada would never be frozen into submission by a cartel of greedy sheiks.
She pulled a wool scarf from around her throat and lower face.
She shook the snow from it and pulled a wool hat from her head, letting her brown hair fall to her shoulders. She clomped up the wooden stairs to her second-floor apartment, leaving wet tracks from her heavy boots on the worn carpeting in the stairway.
Five minutes later she was alone in her warm cozy apartment.
Her wet outer clothes were drying above an old bathroom. tub.
India tea was brewing in the small kitchen and a Mozart piano concerto was playing softly on a KLH system. She listened to the music as she made herself comfortable. On the walls of the apartment were numerous pastel-shaded prints, mostly nineteenth- and twentieth-century European impressionists.
She wasn't a bad artist herself. Had her past and childhood not been a factor, she might have been torn between pursuing either an academic career or a career as a painter. She had her father's gifted hands, she told herself. Gifted at creation, gifted in destruction.
She shuddered at the thought of him. The source of her greatest joy, the creation of art on a blank canvas, was also the root of her deepest fear. She could never exhibit her work, at least not under current conditions. She'd had several invitations to stage private showings.
But why bother? Her own name would turn into a death sentence.
She walked to the bedroom. The classical music from the next room was faint but still audible. She stood for a moment before the large bedroom window. The snow outside was still falling beautifully and lay untouched on the quiet street. It was illuminated by the soft light of the streetlamp.
She sighed. Snow. And she'd have to travel, anyway.
From a closet she withdrew a single suitcase. Within twenty-four hours she'd be gone, missing the last two weeks of the semester. Her professors, she hoped, would understand. If she fared well she'd be back within a few weeks, able then to see her thesis through to its conclusion.
But meanwhile, there was unfinished family business. Victoria Sandler was dead.
Leslie began to pack.