by Seth Patrick
Christ, she thought. Still the same old Laure. “Always a police officer first, huh?” she sneered.
“I never stopped caring about you, Julie…”
“So why did you stop coming to see me in the hospital? And when I got out, you never came. Not once in seven years.”
Laure flinched. Julie knew she was being unfair, but she would do whatever she could to get this woman away from her door. For good. That was the past, and the past was dead. “But you didn’t want me to come,” said Laure, meeting Julie’s gaze. Julie could see the pain in her eyes. “You made it pretty damn clear.”
And Julie had, my God she had. Hurtful, spiteful things, all with the purpose of pushing Laure away. Laure’s great crime, in Julie’s eyes, was simple: she’d done as Julie had wanted. Julie had wanted to cut herself off so completely that she would never feel anything again, and she’d only succeeded because Laure had allowed what was between them to die. Laure had been the only person who could have stopped Julie from amputating her emotions, and she’d failed.
“I have nothing to say.” Julie closed the door. She got back into the bath, where the tears would be only so much extra bathwater.
• • •
An hour later, she and Victor were sitting watching television when the doorbell rang again. Whoever it was, they were impatient: a knock, a ring, another knock. Julie wondered if Laure had come back. Part of her hoped she had, but she silenced the thought at once.
“Julie,” called a voice. “It’s Mademoiselle Payet.”
Shit.
“I know you’re home, Julie.”
The woman’s voice had an element of taunting that worried her. She nodded Victor toward the kitchen and waited until he was out of sight before opening the door. “Yes?”
Her neighbor didn’t even bother with niceties. “Why were the police here earlier?”
“It’s none of your business,” said Julie. She went to close the door again. Her neighbor stopped it with her hand.
“He’s illegal, I’m guessing?” Her expression had the same kind of glee that had been there earlier when she’d told Julie of the stabbing. The woman only ever seemed happy when she could revel in other people’s misery.
“What?” Julie felt goose pimples rise on her arms; she realized the woman was a little drunk.
“You adopted the boy illegally, didn’t you? I saw a report on TV. Don’t try to deny it.”
“You watch too much television,” Julie said, scared now. The woman seemed hell-bent on causing trouble. “He’s family.”
“Prove it. I know you’re lying. You’re breaking the law. And I’m sorry, but I have to report you. For the child’s sake and your own.”
Julie had had enough. “Get out!” she said, pushing hard on the door, her neighbor resisting. At last she got the door closed. She was trembling.
“If he’s here tomorrow,” Mademoiselle Payet shouted, “I’m calling the police!”
“What’s your problem?” shouted Julie. “You old witch. Why don’t you just drop dead? It’d be better for everyone.”
Julie looked up to see Victor watching, fear in his eyes. She crouched down, and he ran over to her. She hugged him tight. “Don’t let her get to you, Victor. She’s all talk.” And there was a good chance she was, of course—that she’d just been fishing to see if there was anything more serious. The police wouldn’t pay attention to someone like her, would they?
The thought came to Julie of packing a bag, ready, just in case they needed to leave in a hurry. Then she realized how ridiculous that seemed. She stood and looked at the boy, wary of him. Why did she feel this way? He wouldn’t even speak to her, but she was willing to do anything for him.
He looked back at her, need and love in his smile, and she understood that whatever the underlying reasons, one thing was undeniable.
She couldn’t lose him. Not now.
When it was time to go to work, Julie was more reluctant than ever to leave Victor by himself. “I’m going now,” she told him. “Lock the door. Don’t answer for anyone, you hear me?”
Victor nodded and smiled. Julie hugged him and went on her way. She glanced at her neighbor’s door, hoping that her neighbor would find some other source of gossip, some other distraction to focus on. Anything, as long as the woman left her and Victor alone.
• • •
Nathalie Payet watched through the peephole as Julie Meyer left her apartment. God, she was itching to get the police back again—at the very least, to stir up a good dose of havoc for her stuck-up neighbor. The way that woman spoke to her! Sometimes, it was borderline criminal.
She was about to feed her five cats when the doorbell rang. She almost exploded with delight when she saw who it was. The little boy.
“Hello, young man.” She grinned. “Is something wrong?”
The boy said nothing, just looked at her with eager eyes. Dear Lord, had the Meyer woman abandoned him again?
“Has she gone?” she said. The boy nodded. “Are you hungry?” He nodded again. “I’ll make you something,” she said, relishing the prospect. She would get the boy to tell her everything, and then she could get the police here. She would be a hero. Maybe even be in the newspapers! She hadn’t felt so excited for months. “Come in!” she said. “What would you like to eat?”
The boy looked at her, smiling. Then he came inside.
26
The briefing on the CCTV footage had been disappointing. It wasn’t Pascal’s fault, Thomas knew. The task was huge. He, Pascal, and Bruno were in the CCTV observation room, two dozen monitors on the wall showing live feeds from the town’s thirty-camera network, as well as the station’s own internal cameras.
“No one followed her from the pub as far as I can tell,” Pascal said, playing the key footage back on his own monitor. “We can track her much of the way, until she goes into the tunnel. Then, five minutes later…”
The attacker emerged, shadowed, in a hooded top.
“This is still the best image we have. I’ve tried everything to follow where he came from, where he went, but I’ve got nothing. There are some blind spots, of course, but the moment he goes down there…” The footage showed the man step off the pavement into a dark alley. “There are a few places he could have gone, but I haven’t been able to locate him on any of the cameras that cover those areas. It’s like he just vanished.”
“Get an extra pair of hands on the case,” Thomas told him. “Keep looking. There has to be something.”
“Yes, sir.”
That was when Thomas noticed the feed from the cells in the station.
The empty cells.
“Where is he?” asked Thomas.
Bruno blinked. “Who?”
“The suspect from the diner.” Thomas could feel his anger grow.
“The investigation was over,” Bruno said. “His hearing is in three weeks, and he’ll just get a suspended sentence anyway. I had him picked up by Pierre from the Helping Hand and told him to stay in town.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll stay in town if you told him to,” sneered Thomas.
Bruno paused, suddenly wary. “If he attempts to leave, he’s facing a guaranteed custodial sentence. Sir, this is all just standard procedure.”
“Fuck the procedure!” Thomas shouted. Bruno flinched, and Pascal looked away, keeping out of it. “You freed our only suspect in this stabbing!”
“There was nothing to link him to it, sir,” said Bruno, almost pleading. “We had no right to keep holding him for that.”
“A woman is on her deathbed,” Thomas hissed, “and you didn’t think to ask for an extension?”
Bruno opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.
Thomas scowled at him and left. Bruno was normally a good officer, but this was sloppy. Thomas wouldn’t allow him to forget it.
He drove to
the Helping Hand himself, trying to contain the anger he was feeling. The “ghost” had escaped, and it had been nothing more mysterious than sheer incompetence that had done it. Everything felt much more dangerous with Delaître on the loose, but he would be in custody again soon enough. And Thomas would make sure he stayed there this time.
Pierre Tissier greeted him at the door of the Helping Hand. Thomas wasn’t sure about Pierre. The man always came across as a real creep. Since becoming police captain, Thomas had gotten used to that kind of obsequious behavior from others, but with Pierre it made his skin crawl. “Can I help?” asked Pierre.
“The man you collected from the station earlier,” said Thomas. “I need to talk to him. Now.”
“Simon?”
“Yes,” said Thomas, his eyes scanning the interior. “Where is he?”
“Well, I suggested he come here, but…”
Thomas swore under his breath. “He’s not here?”
“He had business elsewhere,” said Pierre. “I dropped him off in the center of town.”
“What kind of business?”
Pierre shook his head. “No idea. I didn’t ask. But I doubt he would have answered—he wasn’t very talkative. Can I ask why you’re interested in him?” Pierre smiled, but Thomas could see it in his eyes. For whatever reason, Pierre was enjoying this.
“If you see him, let me know.”
“I have a certain amount of confidentiality to protect, Captain.”
Thomas leaned close. “Let me know immediately.”
“Otherwise, I’m an accessory?”
“Precisely.”
Damn, thought Thomas. He needed to get Delaître back under his control and off the streets before the guy went looking for Adèle. He didn’t want to think about what kind of shock it would be for Adèle to see Simon.
He had business elsewhere, Tissier had said.
Thomas went back to the station, frustrated and desperate. He would have to rely on the cameras in his house and monitor Adèle closely, but it didn’t seem enough. Then he had an idea. He went to see Pascal.
“I want to do all I can to help you in the case,” said Thomas. “Is there any way I can get access to the town’s CCTV footage?”
Pascal smiled warily. Of course, Pascal was trained, experienced; it was arguably unprofessional to step on his toes this way, to suggest that he could do a better job of it. He could understand the man’s discomfort. But he didn’t care.
“Of course, sir.”
“Can I access it from my own desk?”
“I’m sure you already have the access rights. It shouldn’t take long for me to show you the ropes.”
Thomas nodded, satisfied. He already had his own home monitored. This way, he could keep watch on the whole town. Wherever Adèle was, he could keep her safe.
And if he should spot Delaître before anyone else did? Then maybe he could take care of things himself.
27
The main thing that stayed with Léna after the funeral that morning was her impression of Pierre. Her mother had mentioned him often enough, and she’d seen him around, but that was the first time she’d really paid much attention to the man.
Her opinion of him had formed pretty quickly: creepy.
Back home, she went to her bedroom to get ready for college when someone knocked on her door. It was Camille. Léna had promised to make the effort, but despite her best intentions, an effort was exactly how it felt. She was still uneasy around her sister.
“You’re so pretty,” Camille said. “I bet the boys like you.”
Léna’s unease increased. She wondered where this was going. She’d noticed Camille looking at her, jealousy in her eyes. She could remember how she’d felt at that age, before the crash, when being older seemed like the best thing in the world.
“Have you slept with Frédéric?” asked Camille.
Shit, she thought. Well, it had only been a matter of time. “What? We aren’t together.” She felt flustered, her guilty conscience flaring up.
“Why not? You used to like him, and he liked you.”
“But we agreed, didn’t we?” said Léna. “You liked him more, so you had first say.”
“Exactly,” said Camille. “So after the accident you were free.”
“Nothing happened.” She couldn’t meet Camille’s gaze. The old Camille would almost certainly have known she was lying.
“You’re still friends, though? You still hang out?”
“Sure. Us, Lucho, and a bunch of others.” Léna was desperate to change the subject. “Look,” she said, “once I’m done, I’ll go to the pub to find that guy I mentioned. The manager might have seen him around.” She started to change clothes.
“OK,” said Camille. “If he really is dead, maybe me and him can start a club.” She smiled.
“I’ll let you know if I find out anything,” said Léna. She took off her shirt and looked pointedly at Camille. “Haven’t you got anything else to do but gawk at me while I change?”
Camille shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
Léna sighed and turned her back to her sister. “Whatever,” she said.
“What’s that on your back?” said Camille. “Is it a scar?”
Léna twisted her head to get a look in the mirror on her wall. There was a small red patch in the middle of her back, just on her spine. She’d felt it that morning, an itch, and one she’d had a good scratch at. She’d assumed it was an insect bite or something. It looked pretty angry now. She’d scratched too hard, that was all. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Can I get changed now? In peace?”
• • •
Her dad offered her a lift to college. Normally she wouldn’t have bothered, but he looked as though he needed to feel useful. With the way things were, she actually felt as if they were both in the same boat concerning Camille, trying to make the best of things and still very cautious, while her mum was so positive about everything it was almost scary. She thought that, for the first time in years, she and her dad might actually agree on something. Instead, he’d brought up the idea of moving away from town, and they’d started bickering before she got out.
The irony was, moving away might be good for her too. Frédéric had been standing on the college steps, waiting for her and watching, the first person she saw as she got out of the car. Her best friend, in theory. Saying good-bye to him could well be a good thing for both of them.
“Hi,” said Frédéric. “Talking to your dad again?”
“If you can call that talking,” Léna said. “You got much this afternoon?”
“No, I’m all done. I’ll see you later.”
In the pub, of course. Went without saying.
She only had basketball and one class for the afternoon, but in basketball her back started to act up. She could feel it whenever she stretched the skin. She bowed out early and had a look. The flesh looked much angrier than before, raised and red. She thought it might be infected.
She had a shower, washed it carefully, and vowed not to scratch at it again, although since it was getting painful, she didn’t think that would be a problem. With luck it would settle.
Afterward she headed for the Lake Pub to see if she could get any information on the man she’d seen, Simon. She wondered what it would mean if she did find him. When she’d asked Frédéric before about the idea of the dead coming back, he’d laughed it off: Just as well, or we’d all be fucked, he’d said. Since she’d told Camille about Simon, Léna had wondered if she’d been reading too much into their encounters. The more she thought about it, the more she thought it might be better if she was wrong about him.
The pub wasn’t open yet, but the front door was unlocked so she walked in. There was a guy she hadn’t seen before sitting at the bar.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Is Toni here?”
The man jumped
. “I don’t know,” he said.
He looked in his midtwenties. A little rough around the edges, but in a good way. She threw him a smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, it’s fine,” he said, smiling back, but his smile was awkward. Shy, Léna thought. Shy, but cute. “I’m his brother. Serge.”
“I didn’t know he had a brother. You don’t look alike.” By which she meant: You’re not six feet tall and built like an overweight tank. But she liked Toni enough not to voice that.
There was a yell from the back of the pub. Toni’s voice. “Shit. Shit.”
“He sounds happy,” said Léna. She nodded farewell to Serge and headed to the source of the voice: the bathroom.
“It stinks in here,” she said. All the sinks were blocked, filled with murky water. On cue, one bubbled.
Toni was on the floor in one of the stalls. The toilet bowl, like the sinks, was full, and Toni was mopping up the overspill. He looked up at her. “Hey, Léna,” he said, sounding defeated. “Don’t get too close. I don’t know what’s wrong. The plumber can’t come until tomorrow, says there are problems all over the place. Maybe the sewers are blocked, but I hope not.”
“Whoa, Toni. Don’t tell me you’re not going to open up?”
“We’ll open on time,” he said. “Fingers crossed. We have the disabled toilet working still, somehow. For now. At least it won’t be a busy night, huh? There’d be one hell of a line.”
Léna nodded. “Yeah, good luck,” she said, then moved things on to the reason she’d come. “Toni, remember that strange guy who came in yesterday? Dark hair. I was talking to him.”
He shrugged. “Vaguely.”
“Do you know him? Had you seen him before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You sure? Any idea where he lives?”
The toilet bowl bubbled, effluent sloshing onto the floor with a stench that made Léna retch.
