THE FIRST HOLDUP

THE POLICE TOOK THEIR TIME getting there. Kilometres of Gaspésian winter and mountains and bad roads separated them from Cloridorme, a village squeezed between the flanks of the Chic-Chocs and the open sea. The alarm had been going off for a good five minutes by the time they ran out into the ice-cold air, balaclavas over their heads for masks. Attracted by the alarm, people had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the credit union to gawk at them as if they were some kind of alien life form. Embarrassed, Ben tried not to point the shotgun in their direction. Gode’s feet slid on the icy street as soon as he began to run, and he went down, holding the brown paper shopping bag full of money against his chest. On his knees in the snow, he tried to stuff the small and large notes back into the bag, but it was torn. He got up and ran, cradling the bag in his arm like a football, cursing under his breath as the money kept slipping out and flying onto the snow behind him. The car took off as soon as they reached it. The last thing Gode saw when he looked back in the rear-view mirror was the village diminishing behind him at full speed and people on their knees in the snow, gathering up the money.