The Returned

by Seth Patrick

  Toni would earn his forgiveness. Whether he could ever earn his mother’s he didn’t know.

  Then he rounded the last corner, and his headlights picked Serge out of the darkness: rifle in one hand, blood on his face, and his shirt soaked in red.

  Toni’s blood froze in his veins. No, he thought. Not now.

  He got out of the car and walked to where Serge stood in the headlights, slow steps taking him to hard truths.

  “Where’s that blood from?” he asked.

  Serge shook his head. “It’s not what you think.”

  Toni could hardly bear to look at him. “Have you started again?”

  “No,” said Serge. “It was just a deer. That was all, Toni. I went hunting and killed a deer.”

  “You can tell me, Serge,” said Toni. He was almost pleading. He’d only just started hoping that things could be normal again, for his mother to talk to him again. “You can trust me. I won’t do anything. Tell Mum too. Tell her I won’t do it again. We’ll find a way through this, but I’ll never do it again.”

  Serge frowned, puzzled. “Do what again, Toni?”

  “I had to stop you,” said Toni, begging him to understand. “You couldn’t fight it. I see that now. But it’s all in the past. I’ll protect you. Both of you.”

  Serge was staring at him in shock as the realization dawned. “What? It was you?” He looked to the side as if trying to remember, then looked back at Toni, scrutinizing him. “You killed me?” Toni’s eyes went to the ground, in confession. “You killed me,” said Serge. He swept the rifle up, pointing it at Toni’s chest.

  Toni looked up again, desolate. He saw the gun and wanted it over. If this was the way it had to end, so be it. “Shoot,” he said. He stepped forward until the barrel was against his shirt. He leaned into it, challenging his brother to do it. “Shoot! Go on. Go on.”

  Tears filled Serge’s eyes. “Toni…” he said, then lowered the gun.

  “Say you forgive me,” said Toni. The look in his brother’s eyes was burning his soul. Betrayal. Despair. The same look that had stayed in his mother’s eyes in the years before her death, the accusation there every single day. Your fault. Your fault. He couldn’t live with that, not from both of them. “If you forgive me, she will too.”

  Serge turned around and walked away.

  “Say you forgive me!” cried Toni.

  Serge walked on, out of the range of the headlights, into the dark.

  51

  Pierre’s day had taken a turn for the worse when Sandrine came to him, distressed. She’d noticed the little boy had gone missing, along with the sour-faced homeless woman. Bad that anyone could go missing, of course; worse though, for the reputation of the Helping Hand, if a child could be stolen so easily from their care.

  Sandrine had been in pieces, but there was only so much reassurance he could give her. She blamed herself, blamed the frequent toilet breaks that came with early pregnancy. He packed her off home for the day. Let her husband deal with the mess.

  And so Pierre was alone in the Helping Hand that evening when Victor’s face appeared against the dark sky at his office window, watching him with that unnerving lack of emotion he seemed to favor. Pierre felt immediate relief, of course, that the boy was safe—reputations were fragile things, after all—but now he regretted having sent Sandrine home. He would much rather leave the boy to her. There was something about his presence that made Pierre feel deeply uncomfortable, something skirting around the edges of his conscious thoughts. Something he didn’t want to examine closely.

  Pierre forced a smile. All were welcome to the Helping Hand, of course, however unpleasant their company. He went to the door and unlocked it, ushering the boy inside.

  “There you are,” he said. “At last. We were starting to worry.” He smiled at his own understatement. “You really shouldn’t have left like that. Where were you?”

  “I was dead,” said the boy, calmly staring at him.

  Pierre knelt slowly beside him, stunned that he’d not realized before. Dear God, all this time. All this time, it hadn’t just been Simon and Camille. There had been others right under his nose, just as he’d thought there would be.

  “What happened to you?” said Pierre.

  “You killed me,” said the boy, stating it as simple fact. “You killed my parents.”

  Pierre stared at him. The discomfort he’d felt around Victor made a terrible sense; he’d blanked the boy’s facial features from his mind, cut them from his memory. He felt weak, thankful that he was already on his knees. Even so, he had to place his hands on the floor to steady himself. “My God,” he said. “My God.” His mouth was dry. Judgment, at last—it had been a long time coming. “You?” he said. “Forgive me.” He reached out, and the boy shrank from his hand. “No, don’t be afraid. It wasn’t me who killed you. He lost his mind. It all went wrong. It was supposed to be a warning, that was all, but he started… I was trying to protect you. Don’t you remember?”

  The boy’s face took on an expression at last—sheer anger.

  “No,” he said, glaring at Pierre. “You didn’t try.”

  Pierre felt something then, a gathering sense of power, all focused on the boy in front of him. Suddenly the lights in the building clicked off. The windows behind the boy overlooked the town, and Pierre saw the blackout spreading until everything was in darkness.

  Victor looked to Pierre’s side.

  Pierre could feel it, the presence nearby. Dread filled him. Steeling himself, he stood and turned. Then he saw. His partner in crime, the man who had lied to him, who had killed a family in cold blood… The man raised his gun, aimed it at Pierre’s head.

  “No,” said Pierre, timid again, terrified, relieved as the gun swung away slowly, pointing elsewhere. Pointing at the boy. An instant then while Pierre’s fear held him immobile, self-preservation winning out over what was right. But this was it. This was the time. He was being tested.

  “No!” Pierre shouted. He lunged at the man, grabbing for the gun. They fell, both of them together, and the gun went off. Pierre felt a searing pain in his chest, but he kept fighting, kept struggling, whatever the cost. The man wanted to kill the boy again, and it was Pierre’s role—his purpose—to stop it happening. He had failed before, failed God and himself. Not this time.

  The man swung his gun at Pierre’s head, connecting hard enough to make him fall. Then he stood over Pierre and kicked, kicked… Pierre tried to recover some strength, tried to stand, but despaired. He knew the fight was lost.

  Then there was a flashlight beam shining through the windows. The front door opened, and the light swung around the room. It paused on the boy, standing quietly by the wall, staring at Pierre, then the beam came around to Pierre’s terrified face.

  “What did you do to him?” came a woman’s voice. It was a police officer, the one who’d brought the boy in the first place.

  Pierre could only look around desperately, trying to see where his attacker was, but the man had gone. Vanished, he thought. He looked at the boy, who was still watching him.

  A second woman came through the door, rushed over, and embraced the child. He put his arms around her and held her tightly, as though he’d never let her go. The policewoman looked from the boy to Pierre, still lying on the floor. Pierre could see the suspicion in her eyes but couldn’t tell if it was him or Victor she was most suspicious of.

  The other woman just looked at him with disgust. With one arm around the boy, she shepherded him out the door. The police officer followed, giving Pierre one last look before she went. Her eyes held many questions, but Pierre had no answers for her.

  He put his hand to where he’d felt the shot hit him. There was no pain now. He pulled his hand away, clean. He lay still, trembling.

  Scared of the shadows, Pierre began to pray.

  52

  Frédéric had been
watching her all night.

  Alice, he told himself. Léna’s cousin.

  She’d been the life and soul, loud and laughing, talking about her Parisian boyfriend, saying how she preferred older men. Flicking glances at Frédéric over and over while he kept his distance. Whatever the bad feeling was between Léna and her cousin, he couldn’t understand the way Léna had behaved the night before. She must have known how hurtful saying something like that was.

  And he looked at the girl and couldn’t shake off the sense of foreboding.

  The others all liked her. She drank like a fish and seemed none the worse for it. Then, when it came to Frédéric’s turn to buy the drinks, she’d gone with him to the bar. He found himself terrified, standing beside her. What of, he wasn’t sure.

  “Was Léna OK after last night?” he asked her. It was the first thing he’d said to her all evening. “Her mum called my parents this morning and wanted to know if I’d seen her.”

  She pouted. “Don’t worry about Léna,” she told him.

  “Why did she say what she did, Alice?”

  “She’s jealous,” she said. “She knew what to say to upset you.”

  He nodded. Yes, Léna always knew exactly how to upset him. “Did you know Camille?” he asked. He couldn’t look at her as he said it. He was scared of what he’d see in her eyes.

  She paused. “A little,” she said. “Now, come on. I’ll challenge you this time.”

  She smiled at him. Despite his misgivings, he found himself smiling back.

  One by one, she downed the vodka shots as though they were water, to squeals and cheers from those crowded around. Then it was Frédéric’s turn. He’d already had too much, he knew, but he tried to keep up. One down, then the second… The third, though, was the last straw.

  He set the shot glass down half-full and shrugged.

  “Ha!” cried Lucho. “You lose! You have to do whatever she wants.”

  “Whatever I want?” said Alice. Her smile grew sly. She walked around the table and sat on Frédéric’s knee, then kissed him. Long, slow. Frédéric nearly pulled back at the chill of her lips, but his head was spinning too much to move. There were whoops of delight and catcalls from those around.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” came a raging voice. Frédéric opened his eyes to see Jérôme, Léna’s father. The man took Alice’s arm and dragged her from her chair. She looked as furious as Jérôme did.

  “Dad, stop it!” cried Alice.

  Frédéric stared after them both in horror. None of the others had noticed what she’d said.

  Just a slip of the tongue. It had to be.

  Frédéric drank Coke for the next hour, trying to get his head straight, but he wanted to know. Wanted to know if the thoughts he was having were just crazy.

  So he walked to the Ségurets’ house, scared but determined. On the way, another power blackout swept through the town, but walking in the darkness suited his mood.

  He didn’t stop to think as he climbed the trellis at the front and knocked at the window. Alice let him inside, silent, then led him to a bedroom.

  Camille’s bedroom.

  The only light came from candles. She sat him down on the edge of the bed and kissed him again. She was so hungry, demanding. Lost, he kissed back, letting himself push those impossible thoughts away, but they kept returning.

  Tears were pouring from him. She looked at his face, concerned, wiping the tears away.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  She looked at him. There was hope in her eyes. And fear. “You know who I am,” she said, her voice soft. “I love you. And you love me too. That’s all that matters.”

  The impossible, he thought. “Camille?”

  She nodded, once. The truth hit him hard. Shaking, he stood and backed away. Camille watched him, the pain on her face matching the pain in his heart. She held out a hand to him.

  Frédéric ran.

  53

  Adèle sat in her house and watched the clock as the hands crept forward, until the time of the last bus had come and gone. She’d made her choice, and she knew it was the right one. She even felt some relief at it.

  When the power outage came, she and Chloé fetched candles and lit them. It felt almost ceremonial, lighting a candle for the dead or as a prayer for hope. Here, now, what had died was her love for Simon, and her hope was for the future, with or without Thomas. Another decision to make, and make soon.

  Then the patio door slid open, and Simon stepped out from behind the curtains. She’d thought he might come, but she was strong enough now, strong enough to send him away again.

  He was disheveled. Puzzled and angry, he looked like a child who couldn’t understand why things hadn’t quite gone his way. “Why didn’t you come?” he said. “Was it Thomas? Did he keep you here?”

  Adèle looked at him, the passion and pain worn so openly on his face. Her heart ached, but she had to make him see. “I’m not coming, Simon. You should leave.”

  He shook his head, stubborn. “Not without you. Not without Chloé.”

  She moved to stand in front of him, looking him straight in the eyes, willing him to understand. “And what I want doesn’t matter to you?”

  “What you want? How would you know what that is, Adèle? You’re under this man’s spell. You can’t think for yourself. You never could. I have to think for both of us.” He looked across the room to where Chloé was watching. “For all three of us.”

  “You can’t stay.”

  “I came for you.”

  She nodded. If he wouldn’t listen, she would have to ask the one question she knew would break him. “Why did you do it, Simon? You said that I saved you. That you were happy. That you stopped thinking about suicide.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course I was happy.”

  “I believed you. But you finally did it, Simon. You killed yourself.” She saw him flinch, confused. “It should have been the happiest day of our lives, but you killed yourself. You betrayed me. You betrayed all of us.”

  “No,” he said. “That’s not…” He shook his head. “Please, Adèle,” he said. “Come with me.”

  He held out his hand. She shook her head and started to back away. “You’ve been dragging us to the grave,” she told him. “Now you have to let us live. We don’t need you. Not anymore.”

  There was a flare of anger in his eyes. He reached out and grabbed Adèle’s arm, pulling her toward him with a firm hand, but Chloé stepped forward. She moved between her parents, looking into her father’s face with the same stubborn determination reflected on his.

  “Go away,” said the girl. “We’re not coming with you. You chose to die instead of staying with us. It doesn’t matter that you came back. You’re still dead to me.”

  Simon let go, his anger turning to confusion and pain. He stared at his daughter, stared at Adèle, appalled at the rejection.

  They all heard the car speeding up to the house, then the brakes screeching.

  “It’s Thomas,” said Chloé. “I called him.”

  Simon turned to the door he’d come through and stepped back out into the night. Chloé took Adèle’s hand and clung to it.

  Outside, they heard a car door slam, heard Thomas cry out, “Don’t move! Don’t move!”

  They heard Simon shout, his voice full of anger and despair.

  “Stop!” shouted Thomas. “Stop!”

  Then gunfire.

  Then silence.

  54

  At Dreyfus’s request, Anton spent most of the rest of his shift on the phone.

  The dive team hadn’t had any time to examine the lake bed before the discovery of the animal carcasses brought everything to a standstill. They’d only been available for that day too. As things stood, it would be another two weeks before they or any other team in the country cou
ld return to the lake.

  Anton was told to try to arrange something sooner. The best he could manage was an Italian team that could come in five days, but when he tried to phone Dreyfus to let him know, the man wasn’t answering his calls.

  It was only then, once night had fallen, that he’d realized the other engineer on shift, Claude, wasn’t in the control room. Anton thought back; the last he remembered, Claude had mumbled something about a check he needed to make. At the time Anton had been on the phone, deep in argument with the leader of the departing dive team, who’d been angling for extra money—given what he described as the “distressing circumstances” of the discovery of the animal corpses during the dive.

  Claude had gone outside and simply hadn’t returned.

  Puzzled, Anton stood and walked to the door of the control room, only for it to burst open. Eric stormed in, eyes wide, out of breath.

  “You still here?” said Eric.

  “Waiting for the night shift guys,” said Anton.

  “They’re not coming.”

  “What?”

  “Haven’t you seen?” He went outside, and Anton followed. Eric pointed to the town below, in darkness. “The power went out an hour ago.”

  Anton stared out across the town. No, he hadn’t seen: the dam control room had its own generators, and the only windows looked out across the lake. If there’d been a problem, the power plant should have called him. “Did they have another outage scheduled?”

  “It’s been out for over an hour, Anton. This is different.” Eric hurried back inside and went to his locker. He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and started to fill it with the locker’s contents. “Thought I’d grab things as I drove past. Everyone else probably took the south road to avoid crossing the dam.” There was a deep mechanical thump from nearby. Eric looked frightened.