The Reunion

by Guillaume Musso

  Of course—the Eagle’s Nest.

  I ducked out of the gym and headed up the steep path leading to the ledge. There were candles and paper lanterns at intervals to guide my steps.

  Reaching the foot of the rocky outcropping, I looked up and saw the glowing tip of a cigarette in the darkness. Leaning over the railing, Maxime gave me a wave.

  “Careful as you climb up!” he called. “It’s really dangerous in the dark.”

  I turned on the flashlight in my phone. The ankle I had twisted in the church was still throbbing. Every step was painful. As I scrambled over the boulders, I noticed that the wind that had been blowing since morning had finally abated. The sky was overcast now, the stars gone. I had made it about halfway when a terrible cry made me look up. I saw two figures silhouetted against a gray wash. One was Maxime; the other was a stranger trying to push him over the railing. I let out a roar and climbed faster so I could reach him, but I arrived too late. Maxime had fallen almost ten meters.

  I set off in pursuit of his attacker but did not get far on my ankle. As I turned back, I saw that a small group of partygoers had gathered around Maxime and one of them was calling an ambulance.

  I blinked back tears. For a split second, I thought I saw the ghostly figure of Vinca moving among the alums. Translucent and bewitching, the apparition, in a black leather jacket thrown over a slip dress, fishnet stockings, and ankle boots, cleaved the darkness.

  Beyond all reach, the specter seemed more alive than all the people gathered around my oldest friend.

  Annabelle

  Saturday, December 19, 1992

  My name is Annabelle Degalais. I was born in Italy, in a little village in Piedmont, in the mid-1940s. At school, the other children called me the Austrian. These days, to the students and teachers at the lycée, I am the dean of the faculty. My name is Annabelle Degalais, and before the night is over, I will be a murderer.

  And yet nothing in this late afternoon gives any inkling of the tragedy that is about to occur on this, the first day of the Christmas vacation. My husband, Richard, has taken two of our three children on vacation to Tahiti, leaving me at the helm of the school. I have been on duty since first light, but I love being in the thick of the action. I love making decisions. The blizzard has caused chaos in the area. It is six p.m., and this is the first moment I have had to finally draw breath. My thermos is empty, so I decide to go get some tea from the machine in the staff room. I’ve just gotten up from my chair when the door to my office opens and a young woman strides in uninvited.

  “Hello, Vinca.”

  “Hello.”

  Looking at Vinca Rockwell, I have a flicker of apprehension. Despite the bitter cold, she is wearing a short plaid skirt, a leather jacket, and high-heeled ankle boots. I can immediately tell that she is stoned out of her mind.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You can give me another seventy-five thousand francs.”

  I know Vinca pretty well and I kind of like her, even though my son is in love with her and it’s breaking his heart. She is in the drama club and she’s one of my most gifted students, simultaneously cerebral and sensual with a crazy streak that makes her more endearing. She is sophisticated, artistic, accomplished. She’s played me some of the songs she has been writing, graceful melodies that have the mystical beauty of P. J. Harvey and Leonard Cohen.

  “Seventy-five thousand francs?”

  She hands me a plain brown envelope and, without waiting to be asked, slumps into the chair opposite. I open the envelope and look at the pictures. I am surprised without being surprised. I am certainly not hurt, because every decision I make has been influenced by a single precept: Never allow yourself to be vulnerable. And that is my strength.

  “You don’t look too good, Vinca,” I say, handing back the envelope.

  “You’re the one who won’t look too good when the parents’ committee sees these photos of your sleazy husband.”

  I can see that she is shivering. She looks feverish, agitated, and exhausted.

  “Why did you say another seventy-five thousand francs? Has Richard already given you money?”

  “He gave me a hundred thousand francs, but it’s not enough.”

  Richard’s family has never had a penny. All the money in our family is mine, inherited from my adoptive father, Roberto Orsini, who earned it working with his bare hands, building houses and villas along the Mediterranean coast.

  “I don’t have that kind of money on me, Vinca.”

  I’m playing for time, but she is not about to be browbeaten.

  “I don’t care what you have to do. I want the cash by Sunday night.”

  I can tell that she’s both disoriented and out of control. Probably under the influence of a mixture of alcohol and medication.

  “You won’t get money out of me,” I snap. “I can’t stand blackmailers. Richard was an idiot to pay you.”

  “Fine—you asked for it!” Vinca says, then stalks out and slams the door.

  * * *

  I sit behind my desk for a moment. I think about my son, so madly in love with this girl that he’s about to fuck up his education. I think about Richard, who thinks only with his prick. I think about the family I have to protect. And I think about Vinca.

  I spend a long time thinking, then I go out into the darkness and trudge through the snow to the Nicolas de Staël building. I have to try to reason with her. When she opens the door, she assumes I’ve come to give her the money.

  “Listen, Vinca. You’re not well. I’d like to try and help you. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong. Why do you need all this money?”

  She suddenly explodes and starts to threaten me. I offer to call a doctor or take her to the hospital.

  “There’s something not right with you, Vinca. But together we can find a solution to whatever the problem is.”

  I try to calm her. I use all my powers of persuasion, but I have no hold over her. She is like a woman possessed, capable of anything. Between racking sobs, she lets out a bitter laugh. Then, out of the blue, she takes a pregnancy test from her pocket.

  “Your darling husband did this!”

  For the first time since I can remember, I am shaken. I feel a fault line opening up inside me, a terrifying private earthquake I don’t know how to stop. I see my whole life going up in flames. My life, and my family’s. I cannot simply stand here and do nothing. I cannot let our lives be reduced to ashes by some nineteen-year-old pyromaniac. As Vinca continues to taunt me, I look around and see the replica of a Brancusi statue I bought at the Louvre for Thomas and that he immediately gave to her. A red mist descends, blotting out everything. I grab the statue and bring it down hard on Vinca’s skull. She crumples like a rag doll under the force of the blow.

  * * *

  The blackout lasts for a long moment. Time stops. Nothing exists anymore. My mind is frozen, just like the snow outside. When, finally, I come to my senses, I realize that Vinca is dead. The only thing I can do is to play for time. I drag Vinca over to her bed, lay her on her side to hide the wound, and pull a blanket over her.

  I trudge back through a landscape as mournful as a ghostly heath to the safe cocoon of my office. Sitting in my chair, I call Francis again and again, but he doesn’t answer. This time, it’s over.

  I close my eyes and, despite my agitation, try to think. Life has taught me that most problems can be overcome by the power of thought. The first thing that occurs to me—the most obvious—is that I simply need to get rid of Vinca’s body before she is found. It would be tricky, but possible. I consider a number of scenarios, but each time I come to the same conclusion: If the Rockwell heiress suddenly disappears from the lycée, it will trigger a shock wave. Every possible means will be used to find her. The police will search the school from top to bottom, bring in forensics teams, question students, investigate anyone Vinca has been seeing. There might be witnesses of her affair with Richard. Whoever has taken the photos Vinca showed me will probably try to b
lackmail us or turn us in to the police. There is no escape.

  For the first time in my life, I feel completely besieged. Forced to surrender. By ten p.m., I have decided to call the police. I am just about to pick up the phone when I see Francis walking around the Agora with Ahmed and heading toward my office. I run out to meet him. The look on his face is unlike anything I have ever seen.

  “Annabelle!” he calls, instinctively realizing that something is very wrong.

  “I’ve done something terrible,” I say, and I fall into his arms.

  * * *

  And I tell him about my confrontation with Vinca Rockwell.

  “I need you to be brave,” he whispers when I have finally finished, “because there’s something I have to tell you.”

  I thought I had already stared into the abyss but, as Francis tells me about the death of Alexis Clément, about how Thomas and Maxime are involved, I start to gasp for breath. I am completely at a loss. He explains that, since they were already at work on the new gym, he and Ahmed have walled up the body in the new building.

  He takes me into his arms and tells me that he will find some way out of this, reminds me of the ordeals that we have already faced together.

  * * *

  He is the one who comes up with the idea.

  He is the one who points out that, ironically, two people disappearing will seem less suspicious than one. That Vinca’s murder might make it easier to disguise the murder of Alexis and vice versa, if only we can find some way to link them.

  For two hours, we try to come up with a plausible scenario. I tell him about the rumors of the affair and the letters Thomas found that give credence to the story. Suddenly, Francis feels hopeful, but I don’t share his optimism. Even if we can make the bodies disappear, any investigation will still focus on the lycée, and the pressure on us will be unbearable. He agrees, weighs the pros and cons, even suggests confessing to the murders himself. This is the first time in our lives that we are prepared to surrender. Not for want of strength or courage but simply because there are some battles that cannot be won.

  Suddenly, in the silence of the night, we are startled by a loud hammering. We turn toward the window. Outside, banging on the glass, is a girl whose face is haggard and distraught. It is not the ghost of Vinca Rockwell come back to haunt us. It is Fanny Brahimi, who is staying in the dorms over Christmas vacation.

  “Dean Degalais!”

  I shoot Francis a worried look. Fanny lives in the same building as Vinca. I am convinced she is about to tell me that she has just found Vinca’s body.

  “It’s over, Francis,” I say. “We’ll have to call the police.”

  But the door to my office flies opens and Fanny falls into my arms, sobbing hysterically. In that moment, I do not yet know that God has just sent the solution to all our problems. The God of the Italians. The one we prayed to as children in the little church of Montaldicio.

  “I killed Vinca!” she wails. “I killed Vinca!”

  15

  The Prettiest Girl in the School

  1.

  By the time I left the emergency department at La Fontonne Hospital it was two a.m. What does death smell like? To me, it is that smell of medication, bleach, and cleaning products that pervades the corridors of every hospital.

  Maxime had fallen at least ten meters and landed on the paved path below. Shrubs and branches on the slope had broken his fall, but that had not been enough to prevent multiple fractures to his vertebrae, pelvis, legs, and ribs.

  Taking Olivier with me in the car, I followed the ambulance to the hospital and caught a brief glimpse of Maxime as he was being admitted. His body was covered in bruises, immobilized by a rigid brace and a cervical collar. His face, pale and expressionless, half hidden by IV tubes, was a painful reminder that I had not been able to protect him.

  The doctors that Olivier managed to talk to had been pessimistic. Maxime was in a coma. His blood pressure was very low despite an infusion of norepinephrine. He had suffered a skull fracture and bruising to the brain, possibly even a subdural hematoma. We sat for a long time in the waiting room until the hospital staff made it clear that there was little point in our hanging around. The prognosis was not good, although they were taking Maxime for a CT scan to get a clearer picture of the extent of his injuries. The next seventy-two hours would prove crucial. I knew from what they did not say that Maxime’s life was hanging by a thread. Olivier refused to leave, but he insisted that I go and get some sleep.

  “You look terrible, and anyway, I’d rather wait on my own—you understand.”

  I nodded. In fact, I had no real desire to be there when the police came to take statements. Stepping out into the parking lot, I was met by driving rain. In only a few hours, the weather had changed drastically; the wind had dropped to make way for a lowering gray sky streaked with flashes of lightning.

  I climbed into my mother’s Mercedes with some difficulty and checked my phone. No messages from Fanny or from my father. I tried calling but neither of them picked up. This was typical of Richard. He had probably found his wife, and now that he was reassured, everyone else could go to hell.

  I turned the key in the ignition but stayed there in the parking lot with the engine idling. I felt cold. My eyes were heavy, my throat was dry, and my mind was still hazy with alcohol. I had rarely felt so exhausted. I hadn’t slept on the red-eye the night before and not much on the night before that. I was suffering from crippling jet lag, too much vodka, and too much stress. I could no longer control my thoughts, which were careening off in all directions. As rain hammered on the hood, I slumped against the steering wheel.

  We need to talk, Thomas. I’ve found out something—something really fucking serious that…Maxime’s last words rang in my ears. What was it that he needed to tell me so urgently? What could he have discovered that was so serious? The future seemed grim. Though I had not yet reached the end of my investigation, I was forced to accept that I would never see Vinca again.

  Alexis, Vinca, Francis, Maxime…the list of victims was growing. It was up to me to end this, but how? The smell inside my mother’s car took me back to my childhood. It was the perfume she had always worn—Jicky by Guerlain. An intoxicating, mysterious perfume that combined the scents of Provence—lavender, citrus, rosemary—with lingering notes of old leather and civet musk. For a moment, I soaked in the smell. Everything led back to my mother…

  I turned on the overhead light. A frivolous question occurred to me: How much did a car like this cost? Somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty thousand euros, probably. Where had my mother gotten the money to pay for it? My parents both had decent pensions, and they had a beautiful house they had bought back in the 1970s, when the middle class could still afford to buy on the Côte d’Azur. But this car did not fit with my image of my mother. Suddenly, it occurred to me that Annabelle had not left me with the convertible by accident. It had been a deliberate ploy. I thought about the scene this afternoon. Annabelle had presented me with a fait accompli. She had given me no choice but to borrow her car. Why?

  I looked down at the key ring. I recognized the keys to the villa and the mailbox, but there was another one, a large impressive key with a black head. The expensive oval key ring of calfskin leather was monogrammed in chrome with the twined initials A and P. I assumed that the A stood for Annabelle, but what did the P stand for?

  I fired up the GPS system and scrolled through the preset addresses but found nothing suspicious. I pressed the first item—HOME—but though the hospital was barely two kilometers from my parents’ villa in La Constance, the GPS showed a winding route running for twenty kilometers along the coast toward Nice.

  Confused, I released the hand brake and drove out of the parking lot, wondering what this place was that my mother considered home.

  2.

  Despite the pitch-dark and the driving rain, traffic was moving smoothly. In less than twenty minutes, the GPS told me I had arrived at my destination, a gate
d community midway between Cagnes-sur-Mer and Saint-Paul de Vence. This was Aurelia Park, the place where Francis had had his bachelor pad and where he had been murdered. I pulled over about thirty meters from the imposing wrought-iron gates. Since the wave of home invasions, security had been drastically ramped up. A night watchman who looked like he was ex-army was on duty.

  A Maserati drove past and pulled up to the gates. There were two lanes; the left was for visitors, who had to report to the security guard, and the right was for residents, who drove past a sensor that scanned their license plates and automatically opened the gate. Letting the engine idle, I took some time to think. The initials AP referred to Aurelia Park, the development Francis had had a stake in building. Abruptly, I remembered that Aurelia was my mother’s middle name—one she much preferred to Annabelle. Instantly, I had another realization: Francis had given my mother the Mercedes convertible.

  Had my mother and Francis been lovers? The thought had never occurred to me until then, but it didn’t seem entirely far-fetched. I put on my signal and turned into the lane reserved for residents. It was raining so hard that the guard would not be able to see my face. A sensor scanned the license plate of the Mercedes, and the gate swung open. If the plate was in the system, it meant my mother was a regular visitor here.

  I drove slowly along the path that wound through a forest of pine and olive trees. Built in the late 1990s, Aurelia Park was famous for its landscaped Mediterranean grounds with its rare and exotic plant species. The development’s pièce de résistance, much praised by Architectural Digest, was an artificial river running through the vast gardens.

  There were only thirty houses in the community, each secluded from the others. From the article in the Nouvel Observateur, I knew that Francis’s villa was number 27. It was at the top of a hill, surrounded by lush vegetation. In the darkness, I could make out palm trees and magnolias. I parked in front of another wrought-iron gate, this one flanked by thick rows of cypresses.