Chapter Seven

“Why did he do that?”

I was trying to watch a rerun of a NBA playoff game, but Clay kept interrupting with dumb questions.

“Why are they letting him take an extra turn?”

“He’s got a free throw, you big idiot.”

I didn’t really say that. But I wanted to. The guy’s totally clueless when it comes to B-ball.

It was the Pistons versus the Lakers and the game was really heating up. I dug my fingertips into the couch. Not because I was anxious about the game. More because I was sure Clay was about to ask me another dumb question.

“That’s called an assist, right?”

I was thinking about telling him he could assist me by shutting up, when the screen went blank. My first thought was that the picture tube had blown. But then this lady news reporter with wavy black hair suddenly appeared on the screen. At least the TV was

still working. “We regret having to interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you this news alert,” she said in a tense-sounding voice. “We have breaking news about Montreal’s home invader — news we believe our viewers need to know.”

“News we believe our viewers need to know,” I said, imitating the woman’s voice. Why couldn’t they break the news after the game?

“Shh,” Clay said, without looking at me. “This sounds serious.”

“Montreal Daily News — the city’s premier news station — has learned that the home invader struck again two hours ago. Preliminary reports indicate the home invader broke into a home in Monkland Village in Notre-Dame-de-Grâce at about 4:15 PM.”

“Monkland Village,” Clay said, whistling. “This guy’s in our neck of the woods now.”

“It is still not clear how the home invader managed to gain entrance into the house, a gray brick bungalow near the corner of Sherbrooke Street West and Madison Avenue,” continued the broadcaster.

You could tell from the glassy look in the reporter’s eyes that she was reading off a TelePrompTer. “What is clear,” she added, “is that the home invader ambushed the house’s residents—a thirty-four-year-old woman and her six-year-old daughter—tied them up and ransacked the home, stealing a portable computer and DVD player, as well as items of jewelry. The home invader is believed to have escaped on foot.

“Both victims are in hospital, where they are being treated for trauma. But Montreal Daily News has managed to obtain an interview with a neighbor.”

The neighbor had white hair and a long face like a horse. “I had no idea anything was wrong until the husband came home at around six. We were chatting while he was waiting for his wife to answer the door. He started to get nervous when she didn’t come. She always answers the door. In the end, he let himself in. About five minutes later, I heard sirens. He must have phoned the police. They took the woman and the little girl to the hospital. They’re nice, quiet people. I don’t know why someone would do something like this.” The old guy’s face was turning red, and he was starting to sound out of breath. You could tell he wasn’t used to talking so much.

I couldn’t help shivering when the camera focused on the street where the family lived. I recognized the huge weeping willow tree at the corner. I passed that corner every day on my way to the community center.

The reporter’s face popped back on the screen. “Montreal Daily News — the city’s premier news station —”

“Don’t you wish they’d stop saying that?” I asked Clay.

“— now brings you Professor Andrew Tourneau, a professor of criminology at McGill University. What can you tell us, Professor Tourneau, about the kind of person who’d invade homes? Who’d take pleasure in terrorizing innocent citizens?” continued the reporter.

Professor Tourneau looked exactly as you’d expect a professor to look. He had a big mop of messy hair like Albert Einstein’s, wire-rimmed glasses, and he was wearing a tweed blazer. “You have hit the nail on the head, Miss,” he told the reporter. “A home invader is someone who takes pleasure in terrorizing others. The home invader may be motivated partly by greed — after all, he steals computers and stereo equipment and jewelry — but I’d venture to say the home invader gets his real thrills from having power over helpless individuals. From watching them cower in fear.”

“When you say ‘he,’” the reporter interrupted the professor, “are you saying you believe the home invader is a male?”

“Forgive me,” Professor Tourneau said. “I stand corrected. I understand the police have not yet determined the sex of the home invader. However, according to the literature, most home invaders are male.”

“Thank you, Professor Tourneau.” The reporter reached out to shake Tourneau’s hand. “Before we end our special broadcast, we have a final guest: Constable Marie Leduc, a police spokesperson. Constable Leduc, I believe you have some tips for our viewers about how to keep the home invader from entering their homes.”

I could tell from the way the police officer was tapping her pen on the table that she was nervous. It had been over a month and the police still hadn’t caught the home invader. That didn’t exactly make them look good. “Despite the hot weather,” Constable Leduc said, “we are urging Montrealers to keep their windows completely sealed.” I thought about how the Levesques had left their window open, with only the screen to cover it. Then, as if she was reading my mind, Constable Leduc added, “Screens do not provide sufficient protection. We also recommend that homeowners ensure all doors to their houses are properly locked. We’ve even heard reports of some individuals accidentally leaving their keys in their locks.”

“Imagine doing something like that,” Clay said.

“People do it all the time,” I told him.

I could feel Clay watching me.

“We’re not here to create fear in our viewers, but Madame Leduc, could you tell us what to do should the home invader make his — or her — way into our homes?”

Constable Leduc looked up into the camera. “The main thing we recommend is that you cooperate with the home invader.” She stopped to clear her throat. “The home invader is armed and dangerous.”

“Holy Toledo,” Clay said.

“Holy what?”

“Toledo. It’s a city in Ohio. But it was named after an old Spanish city. El Greco painted it.” For a second, I thought Clay had distracted himself by telling me about some old painter and that he’d forgotten all about the home invader. But then he surprised me by getting back on topic. “You know, Josh,” he said, “we better make sure all the windows are sealed.”

“If you didn’t smoke up the kitchen, we wouldn’t need to keep opening them.”

Clay ignored my comment. “If the home invader wanted power,” he said, “he should’ve gone into politics.”

“Maybe he’s just curious.”

Clay looked at me. “What do you mean?”

I looked out the window toward the other houses that lined our street. “Maybe he’s curious about other people. About what kind of lives they have.”

“How would you know?” Clay asked.

“I wouldn’t. Let’s watch basketball.”

Only then there were commercials: one for detergent, another for guard dogs. By the time they were over, so was the game.