by Louise Penny
The officer paused in his note-taking. “That’s quite an accusation.”
“I saw it, too,” said Reine-Marie.
“And you?” The agent turned to Annie, Daniel, Roslyn, and Jean-Guy, who was still catching his breath after sprinting after the truck, then running back.
“It didn’t stop,” said Annie. “Did you get the plates?”
“I got a photo,” Jean-Guy said, and showed it to the cop while the paramedics lifted Stephen carefully onto a gurney.
“That makes it a hit-and-run,” said the cop, leaning close to Jean-Guy’s phone. “But not attempted murder. This’s unusable, sir. I can’t make out anything.”
Jean-Guy looked at it himself and had to agree. It was just a blur.
“I’m a police officer in Québec,” said Armand. “This was a clear attempt on his life.”
“Québec,” said the cop, and lifted his brows. No need to ask what he was thinking.
“Yes, we’re senior homicide investigators with the Sûreté du Québec,” said Jean-Guy. “You have a problem with that?”
“Not at all, sir.” The cop made a note, then looked at Beauvoir. “Did you actually see the vehicle hit the man?”
Jean-Guy bristled, but shook his head.
“Bon. Did any of you?”
Annie hesitated, then shook her head. As did the others.
“I told you. I saw it,” said Reine-Maire. “And so did my husband. You have two witnesses.”
“Your name?”
She gave it.
“It’s Friday night, it’s dark,” said the cop. “The man’s in a black overcoat. The driver might’ve had too much to drink. Don’t you think it’s possible—”
“It was deliberate.” Armand took out his card, scribbled his Paris mobile number on the back, and handed it to the gendarme. “I’m going with him.”
Armand followed Stephen into the back of the ambulance, and after a very brief argument, the paramedics relented, realizing there was no way they’d be able to get the man out.
“I’ll let you know which hospital,” Armand shouted to Reine-Marie as the door slammed closed.
“Will he be okay?” asked Annie.
Did she mean Stephen or her father?
As the ambulance sped off, Reine-Marie took her daughter’s hand while Daniel put his arm around his mother’s shoulder.
* * *
All emergency waiting rooms looked the same, smelled the same, felt the same.
They’d taken Stephen to the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu, on île de la Cité. Almost in the shadow of Notre-Dame.
Armand stared at the swinging doors, where the paramedics had rushed Stephen. And which now separated Armand from his godfather.
He could have been anywhere. In any hospital in any city. Time, place, did not exist here. Did not matter here.
The others in the room, waiting for news of their loved ones, looked gaunt with anxiety and exhaustion. And boredom.
Armand had washed the blood from his hands and face. But couldn’t get it off his clothes. They’d be thrown away, he knew. He never wanted to see them again.
It was ridiculous to blame the shirt and tie, the jacket and slacks, for what had happened. But even the socks would be tossed out.
He’d called Reine-Marie first, to let her know where they were. She’d arrive soon. He suggested the others return home and wait for news.
Then he’d called his friend.
“I’ll be right there, Armand.”
Reine-Marie arrived within minutes, with Annie and Daniel. Jean-Guy and Roslyn had returned home to the children.
“Any news?” Reine-Marie asked, taking Armand’s hand.
“None.”
“He must be still alive,” said Daniel. He put his hand on his father’s arm.
“Oui.” Armand gave his son a thin smile of thanks, and Daniel dropped his hand.
“Armand,” came a voice from the entrance.
A slender man, in his late fifties, and wearing clothes clearly just thrown on, walked rapidly toward them. His hand out.
Armand took it. “Merci, mon ami. Thank you for coming. Reine-Marie, you remember Claude Dussault?”
“Of course.”
Dussault kissed her on both cheeks and looked at her gravely, then turned to the others.
“These are our children, Daniel and Annie,” Armand said. “Claude is the Prefect of Police here in Paris.”
“This is a terrible thing to happen,” said Monsieur Dussault. He shook their hands, then turned to Armand, noting the bloodstains and exhaustion. “How is he?”
“No word,” said Armand.
“Let me try.”
Dussault went over to reception and a few moments later returned to them. “They’ll let us in. But only one of you.”
“We’ll stay here,” said Reine-Marie.
“Go home,” said Armand.
“We’re staying,” she said. It was the end of any discussion.
As he went through the swinging doors, Armand felt himself light-headed for a moment. Swept back into memory. As bloodstained sheets were drawn over the faces of officers. Young men and women he’d recruited. Trained. Led.
Whose birthdays and weddings he’d danced at. He was godfather to several of their children.
And now they lay dead on gurneys. Killed in an action he’d led them into.
He’d had doors to knock on then. Eyes to meet and lives to shatter.
He took a ragged breath and kept walking, through those memories and into this new nightmare. His friend and colleague by his side.
“He’s in one of the operating theaters,” said Claude after speaking with a nurse. “We should make ourselves comfortable.”
They sat, side by side, on hard chairs in the corridor.
“Terrible place,” whispered Dussault, clearly struggling with his own memories. Of his own young gendarmes. “But they do good work. If someone can be saved…”
Armand gave a curt nod.
“On the way over I looked up the preliminary notes of the flic who responded to the call.”
The Préfet had used the Parisian slang for “cop.” Les flics. Learned on the streets before he’d joined the force. Though it was not, strictly speaking, a compliment, most cops, between themselves, had adopted the word. Originally from Yiddish slang, “flic” had become a sort of term of endearment. Or, at least, of camaraderie.
Armand remained silent, his focus on the door leading to the operating rooms.
“He wrote that you said it was deliberate. Do you believe that?”
Now Armand turned to him. His eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. And emotion.
“It was. The vehicle was stopped. Then it sped up. It meant to hit Stephen.”
Dussault nodded, looked down at his hands briefly, then back up. “The other witnesses agree that the van left the scene. One of them, your son-in-law, I believe, got a very bad photo of it.”
“Reine-Marie also saw it speed up to hit Stephen.”
“Did she? After you left, she described what happened. She said you were both looking at the Tour Eiffel that had just lit up.”
“That’s true. I began to speak to Stephen—”
Armand stopped, and blanched. Suddenly feeling he might be sick.
“What is it?” asked Claude.
“I didn’t realize Stephen was in the middle of the street. When I spoke, he stopped and turned. He didn’t see the van. Couldn’t. He was looking at me.”
“This isn’t your fault, Armand,” said Claude, immediately understanding what he was saying. Feeling.
The swinging doors opened and a nurse came through.
“Monsieur le Préfet?” he asked, looking from one to the other.
The two men stood up.
“Oui,” said Dussault.
“Mr. Horowitz is alive—”
Armand’s face opened with relief, but the nurse hurried on.
“—but he’s in critical condition. We honestly don’t know if he’ll survive th
e surgery. And even if he does, there’s significant trauma to his head.”
Armand bit the inside of his lip. Hard enough to taste blood.
Dussault introduced him, as next of kin.
“You might want to go home,” the nurse said to Gamache. “If you leave your number, you’ll be called.”
“I’ll stay, if you don’t mind.”
“We’ll stay,” said Dussault, and watched the nurse return through the swinging doors before he turned back to Gamache. “Horowitz? The injured man is Stephen Horowitz? The billionaire?”
“Yes, didn’t the report say that?”
“It must have, but I guess I was focusing on your statement.”
“He’s my godfather. Excusez-moi. I’m going to tell Reine-Marie and the others to go home.”
Claude Dussault watched Armand walk back down the corridor, sidestepping doctors and nurses as they responded to other emergencies.
Once Armand had left, Dussault went over to the nurse in charge and asked for the bag of Stephen’s things. Not his clothing, but whatever had been in his pockets.
The Prefect looked through the wallet, checking every slip of paper, then picking up the shattered iPhone and examining it.
Replacing everything, he resealed the bag and gave it back to the nurse.
* * *
Reine-Marie, Daniel, and Annie hurried to meet Armand.
The others in the waiting room looked up, alert, afraid, then dropped their eyes when they realized he wasn’t a doctor bringing them news.
“He’s still in there,” said Armand, giving Reine-Marie a hug.
“That’s good news, right?” said Annie.
“Oui.” Her father’s reply was so muted, she immediately understood.
“Dad,” said Daniel. “I’m sorry—”
“Merci. He’s in good hands.”
“Yes, but I want to say I’m sorry I didn’t react when you asked for help. I think I was in shock.”
Now Armand turned to his son and focused on him completely.
If there was one thing the senior police officer understood, it was that everyone had strengths. And weaknesses. The important thing was to recognize them. And not expect something from someone who didn’t have it to give.
He knew he should never have turned to Daniel. Not in that moment. Not in a crisis.
Not, perhaps, ever.
“You’re here now,” he said, looking into that worried face. “That’s what matters.”
“Do you think the driver meant to hit Stephen?” Annie asked.
“Well, yes.”
“No, I mean, do you think he knew it was Stephen?” she clarified. Her lawyer’s mind working. “Or do you think it was a random attack?”
Armand had been troubled by that himself. He couldn’t see how the driver could have specifically targeted his godfather. And yet, if it was a random terrorist attack, another one using a vehicle as the weapon, why hadn’t the driver plowed into them, too? Why take out just the one elderly man?
“I don’t know,” admitted Armand. He looked over his shoulder at the swinging doors. “I need to get back. I’ll let you know. I love you.”
“Love you,” said Annie, while Daniel nodded.
Reine-Marie hugged him tight and whispered, “Je t’aime.”
CHAPTER 5
Once back in their apartment, Reine-Marie sank into a rose-scented bubble bath and closed her eyes. Trying to get the filth of the events off her. She took in deep, soothing breaths and could feel her body relax, though her mind kept working. Conjuring images.
Of Stephen, on the ground. Of Armand’s face. Of the van speeding by. And the car—coming straight at her.
She’d stayed rooted in place. Not leaping aside. If she had, the car would have hit Armand. And she’d be damned if she’d let that happen.
And then another image appeared. The expression on the face of the officer. Clearly not believing what she and Armand knew to be true.
This was no accident.
* * *
“You okay?” asked Jean-Guy. “You must be exhausted.”
He’d carried Honoré home, fast asleep in his arms, the two blocks from Daniel and Roslyn’s apartment. After putting his son to bed, he’d waited up for Annie, texting her now and then short messages of support.
Now Annie and Jean-Guy lay in bed as she tried to get comfortable. The lights out. Honoré’s baby monitor confirming he was sound asleep.
But sleep wouldn’t come for the boy’s parents.
Annie was days away from giving birth, and Jean-Guy was worried this shock could be harmful.
“I’m okay. She’s kicking. Must know I’m trying to get to sleep.”
Jean-Guy smiled and cupped his wife and unborn daughter in his arms. “Who’s this friend your father called?”
“Claude Dussault,” said Annie.
Jean-Guy sat up in bed. “The Prefect of Police for Paris?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“Only by reputation. A good one.”
“Dad met him years ago on an exchange program, when they were just agents.”
She almost asked why he’d told that cop at the scene that he was a homicide cop in Québec. When he wasn’t.
Or maybe, she thought, he was. Still. Always.
But she didn’t ask. As a lawyer, she was trained to never ask a question if she wasn’t prepared for the answer.
Instead she said, “That cop didn’t believe that the van meant to hit Stephen.”
“Non.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” It would not occur to Beauvoir to doubt Gamache. “The question is, will this Claude Dussault believe it?”
* * *
It was the middle of the night, though they couldn’t tell in the windowless, airless corridor.
The activity just down the hall, where emergency cases first arrived, had not let up. Accidents. Coronaries. Strokes. Victims of violence.
There were screams of pain, and shouts for assistance by medical personnel.
Armand was beginning to recognize voices. There was the overwhelmed intern. The harried paramedics. The firm nurse. The cool senior doctor and the janitor with his almost eerie whistle.
The noise and activity had gone from a cacophony, jangling Armand’s nerves and bringing back deeply unpleasant memories, to almost soothing in their familiarity.
Armand found his eyelids heavy and his head falling back against the wall.
It was two thirty in the morning, and he hadn’t slept for two days, since the overnight Air Canada flight from Montréal.
Claude had found a vending machine and bought them coffee. Wretched but welcome. But even that weak shot of caffeine couldn’t keep him alert.
Armand’s head hit the wall, and he jerked awake. Wiping his face with his hands, he felt the beginning of stubble, then looked over at Claude, who was reading.
“You can go, you know. You have to be at work soon.”
Dussault looked up. “It’s Saturday. The boss gave me the day off.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Convenient, that. I’m staying.” He lifted the tablet and said, “The report from the responding officer mentions alcohol on your breath, and that your eyes were bloodshot.”
“I’d had two glasses of wine with dinner. I wasn’t drunk.”
“But with jet lag, it’s possible it affected you more than you realized.”
“It’s been a while since I was drunk, but believe me, I know what it feels like. I was, and am, completely sober. And I know what I saw.”
“You think that van meant to hit Stephen Horowitz.”
“Not just hit, kill. Not just think, but know.”
Dussault took a deep breath and nodded. “Then I believe you. But it does raise some questions.”
“Really?” said Gamache and saw Dussault smile.
“I’ve assigned this to my second-in-command. She works out of the Quai des Orfèvres,” said Dussault.
“She? I though
t your number two was Thierry Girard.”
Dussault shook his head. “Like your second-in-command, mine has also jumped ship. I think they just might be smarter than us, Armand. They’re not getting shot at, and they’re managing to make more in a year than I do in five.”
“Ahhh, but we have a dental plan,” said Armand.
“Unfortunately, we need it. Still, I have an excellent replacement in Irena Fontaine. I’ll arrange a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Merci.”
“We’ll keep the details, and our suspicions, quiet of course. I had no idea you knew Stephen Horowitz.”
“Know him,” Armand corrected. He knew he was being pedantic, but he needed to keep Stephen alive, even if it was just grammatically. “He practically raised me, along with my grandmother.”
Dussault was familiar with that part of Armand’s life, so didn’t need to dredge it up again. But he did have more questions.
“How did you meet him?”
“He was a friend of my father’s. They met at the end of the war. Stephen was acting as an interpreter for the allies.”
“He’s German, isn’t he?”
There was, quite naturally, an assumption in that question.
“He was born in Germany, but escaped and came to Paris. Worked with the Resistance.”
“Escaped, you say. Is he Jewish?”
“Not that I know of. More of a humanist really.”
Dussault was quiet, and Armand looked over at him. “What is it?”
“Not that I’m doubting you, or him, but my father used to marvel how many men and women suddenly fought with the Resistance when the war ended.”
Armand nodded. “My grandmother used to say the same thing.”
“I’d forgotten that she was from Paris.”
“The Jewish Quarter. Le Marais, yes. Before…” But he left it at that. “Stephen never spoke of the war. She did, but rarely.”
“Then how do you know he was in the Resistance?”
“I heard my mother and father talking about him.”
“You must’ve been just a child.”
“I was. I didn’t completely understand, of course. Later Stephen told me that my father helped him get to Montréal and loaned him the money to start his business. When I was born, they named him as a godparent.”
