by Seth Patrick
“Probably just the generator,” said Anton. “It does that sometimes. What’s going on?”
Eric didn’t reply. He closed the locker and turned to the door, eager to leave.
“Eric,” said Anton. “What’s this about?”
Eric leaned close, face-to-face and sincere. “The power’s gone. They’re giving up. You should get out while you can.”
“Stay here,” said Anton. There had to be something they could do. “Stay here for ten minutes. Let me try to find Dreyfus.”
“No.”
“Please. Ten minutes, that’s all. Just watch the systems. Please.”
Reluctant as Eric was, he nodded. “Just ten. Then I go.”
Anton drove down to the power plant. The parking lot was empty, save for one vehicle. As Anton ran to the entrance, Dreyfus came out of the building.
“What are you doing?” said Anton.
“It’s over,” said Dreyfus. He looked shaken, even more panicked than Eric. “The plant’s flooded.”
In the darkness, Anton looked over to the switchyard. He could see glints on the surface of water that must have been over three feet deep. “You can’t just leave. You said—”
“I’ve done what I can. I got everyone out, and now I’m going. You should go too. It’s pointless staying.”
“There has to be something we can do.”
“It’s dead. We tried everything. The power won’t come back now. Don’t you get it? This isn’t something we can fight anymore.”
“And what about the people in town?”
Dreyfus paused. He looked around in desperation, as if some solution might present itself. But he shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do for them.” Dreyfus hurried to his car and got inside.
“Someone has to monitor the dam, sir!” Anton shouted.
Dreyfus stared at him as though he thought he was mad. Then he drove away.
When Anton reached the dam control room again, he half expected Eric to have left, but the man was still there, sitting in front of the monitors, looking at the screens with absolute intensity.
“Did you find him?” said Eric. Anton nodded. “And what did he say?”
“To leave.”
“He’s right.” Eric stood and walked out of the door. He strode to his car, Anton following. Eric got in, then turned to meet Anton’s eyes. “If you knew what I know, you’d run from here. Do you understand? Run, and never look back.”
Anton gestured to the lake. “There’s still a mountain of water behind a dam that might be failing. We can’t just abandon it.”
Eric closed his eyes, shaking his head in frustration. Then he reached across, under the passenger seat. He pulled something out and offered it to Anton.
Anton looked at the small silver crucifix, bewildered. He took it.
“For what it’s worth,” said Eric, and then he drove away, leaving Anton alone.
55
After he had run from Camille’s room Frédéric wandered the dark streets, angry and scared. It was quiet, well past midnight. Was she lying to him? Was she lying, when she said she was Camille?
If the impossible had really happened, there was one way he could prove it. A plan formed in his mind. A plan he needed help to carry out.
He stood outside the town cemetery and called Lucho. Lucho had probably had as much to drink that night as Frédéric but without the sobering up that Frédéric had been through.
“Where?” Lucho said drowsily.
Frédéric told him again. “You’re not chicken, are you?” he said. “And I need you to bring some things. A shovel, a flashlight, and a crowbar.”
“What is this? Some kind of practical joke?”
“It’s important,” said Frédéric. “Just come.”
Lucho must have heard something in Frédéric’s voice, though, because when he arrived twenty minutes later, he didn’t look as though he thought it was a joke.
They climbed over the gate, Frédéric first. Lucho was showing little sign now of being drunk; the surroundings had sobered them both, thought Frédéric. Row after row of gravestones lurked in the space beyond the light.
“Tell me what we’re doing here,” said Lucho as they walked, but Frédéric said nothing until they reached the grave.
He looked at the headstone, thinking back to the funeral, to seeing her name there for the first time, carved into it. Camille Séguret. Frédéric looked at the date underneath the name and took a deep breath. “I’ve stood here so often,” he said.
“Tell me,” said Lucho, getting anxious. “What are we doing here?”
Frédéric looked him in the eye. “Alice. Last night. What Léna said. It’s Camille.”
Lucho’s eyes widened. He shook his head, but Frédéric nodded. Both looked at the grave in front of them. “You’re crazy,” said Lucho.
“So go home,” said Frédéric, but Lucho stayed where he was—scared but unwilling to abandon his best friend.
Frédéric grabbed the shovel and took the first turn at digging.
• • •
The ground was sodden. Every lump of earth he dug out oozed the same smell, like stagnant water. But the digging was easy otherwise; it didn’t take them long to reach the coffin.
Frédéric glanced up at Lucho. “Crowbar,” he said.
Lucho passed it down and took a long step back from the grave. He looked tense, ready to turn and run.
“Hold the fucking light, Lucho,” Frédéric hissed.
Frédéric braced himself. The coffin lid didn’t give easily, but when it came, it opened wide along its length. He shrank back as the same stench of stagnant water came from within.
It wasn’t the smell he’d expected, not the appalling reek of decay. He stared, lost for words, knowing what he’d been wanting to see, if want was the right word: Camille, shriveled and rotting in the coffin she’d been buried in four years ago.
But Camille wasn’t there.
Lucho edged closer and peered down, the flashlight picking out the clear water that filled the empty coffin. They looked at each other, frozen by the sight, until shouts came from across the cemetery. They both ran.
56
Once he’d taken Camille home from the Lake Pub, Jérôme had gone back to searching for Léna. The look on Claire’s face when he’d arrived with Camille, sobbing and angry with her father, had been one of accusation. This is your fault, the look said, even though it had been Jérôme who’d brought her back, while Claire hadn’t even realized Camille had gone. She’d thought she was in her room, asleep.
He’d said nothing, though. Claire still had every right to be angry with him. Only when he got back to his search did he understand what must have gone through Claire’s mind: when Jérôme appeared on the doorstep, Claire would have thought, just for an instant, that it was Léna with him. Hopes raised, hopes dashed.
He went to the hospital again, just in case they’d heard anything. On the way, the dying street lamps announced another power outage. When he arrived, there was no news of Léna. The staff was a little less patient with him this time, but he could forgive that. The hospital still had power, so presumably it had its own generators. Even so, every now and again the lighting flickered off, returning in a cacophony of brief alarms, tired faces everywhere.
As he was leaving, he saw Alcide, a young police officer who often drank in the Lake Pub. Alcide asked if there had been any sign of Léna, which was encouraging; when Jérôme had called at the station earlier, they’d handled it with such blatant indifference that he was shaking when he left.
“I’m here to see Lucy,” Alcide told him. He was holding a small bunch of flowers. “These are to brighten her room.”
Jérôme nodded. The mention of Lucy left him somber. “She’s still holding on?”
Alcide looked just as somber, but he surpris
ed Jérôme by smiling slightly. “She’s actually doing well, they say. They’re amazed by how well. I heard one of them describe it as a miracle.”
“They think she’ll pull through?” At least there might be good news for somebody, he thought.
“She might,” said Alcide, emotional. “She really might.”
Jérôme went back to his apartment, wondering if Alcide had a crush on the girl. Must have been tough on him, hearing everything that had surely gone around the station about the company she kept, about what she did. If Jérôme had heard it himself, rather than experienced it firsthand, he didn’t think he would have believed it.
• • •
Alcide was sitting in Lucy’s room when she woke. It was three in the morning, deep into a blackout that was longer than he had ever known in the town. The hospital generators were struggling to keep the lights on.
He was off work the next day, and he liked to spend time with her. He liked to look at her, as well, in a way he’d never been able to while he was in the Lake Pub. It had always been enough for him to share a few brief words of conversation, even if she didn’t know his name. He’d never found the courage to introduce himself, let alone to ask her out on a date. He knew the rumors about her, but he didn’t care. She was perfection to him.
At first, there had been an official police presence posted outside Lucy’s room, but that hadn’t lasted long. Now Alcide had taken to spending whatever spare time he had near her, day or night. He slept well enough in the small chair outside the room, even if he woke cramped and disoriented. A small price, he thought, to spend time near such a woman, to make sure she was safe.
The doctors had been astonished, day by day, as the horrific wounds healed so rapidly. The only word they had to describe it was “miracle.” Lucy should have died.
And then as he watched, she opened her eyes at last, for the first time since she’d been brought in. She looked at him, then her eyes widened in terror, and she started to scream.
The lights in the room stuttered. Alcide pressed the alarm next to Lucy’s bed and tried to soothe her, but nothing he said seemed to calm her. She looked around the room, overwhelmed with a desperate fear.
He was almost bowled out of the way by the doctors who came running, despite being overworked and weary. Gradually she settled, and the doctors began to ask her questions, assess how she was feeling. There were half a dozen people in the room then, but most of them were only there to do what Alcide had been doing for days: they were simply watching, grateful to witness such a thing.
“What’s wrong with me?” Lucy called to them. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”
The group of doctors glanced at one another before one of them answered, “You were healed by a miracle,” with something approaching awe.
By daybreak, Alcide had managed some sleep in the chair outside her room. When he woke, he asked if he could speak to her.
He entered to find her sitting up in bed, still in her hospital gown, looking at the vase that held the flowers he’d brought with him the night before.
“Hello,” he said and could think of nothing to follow it with. Small talk. He was terrible at small talk, and he’d never been so acutely aware of it.
“These are beautiful,” she said, her fingers touching the petals.
“I brought you them yesterday,” he said. Beautiful as they were, he thought, none of the flowers even held a candle to her. “How are you feeling?”
“A little better, thanks,” she said. “When I woke, I was so confused, but I still can’t remember much. I didn’t even know my name until they told me. The doctors say it’ll improve over the next day or two. I hope they’re right.” She looked at Alcide carefully. “I feel like I know you. Were you here while I was asleep?”
“I was keeping an eye on you. My name’s Alcide.” He smiled. Finally, he’d managed to tell her his name.
“Thanks, Alcide,” she said.
“Lucy, I was wondering…” He paused. “It may be too soon, and tell me if you think it is, but I was wondering if you remembered anything about the attack. If you saw your attacker’s face and could give a description.”
Lucy was thoughtful for a moment, then she nodded. “I think so,” she said. “I can’t remember much about anything, but I remember that face.”
Alcide fetched his laptop. He’d brought it every time he came, just in case, hopeful that this moment would come, the photo fit software ready to run the instant it was required. He sat by her bed and guided her through the process, helping her assemble an image of the man who had brutally stabbed her, the man who had left her for dead.
It was the only way he could help her, Alcide knew. The only way to prove himself.
He was patient, flinching now and then if her hand should brush his as he pointed out something on-screen but buoyed by the rare smiles she gave him. And the image built up, inexorably, until Alcide saw the recognition fill Lucy’s face. He could feel a chill down his spine.
“That’s him,” she said.
Alcide looked at the image on his screen and felt the full weight of justice on his side. They would have their man soon enough.
He would have nowhere to hide.
57
Claire got a call from Pierre early that morning. He asked after Léna, and Claire told him that she still hadn’t come home. “A stubborn girl,” Claire said, managing to hold in the deep fear she had for her daughter. But then, she’d always had that fear. For both of them.
She told him too of Frédéric, that Camille believed he knew the truth. Pierre didn’t seem fazed by the news. He said he wanted to see Claire, to talk to her in person about something very important. She thought he sounded odd, and it was only when he arrived at the house that she could see how tired he looked.
“Are you well, Pierre?” she asked, but he waved it away, almost impatiently.
“I didn’t sleep much,” he said. “I was thinking. I realized that I’d been selfish to keep the news of Camille back from the other parents. I think it’s time to tell them.”
Claire nodded. Since she’d kicked Jérôme out, the prospect of moving away had vanished. She needed to share the news and get what support she could. “Can I ask what changed your mind?”
For a moment he looked uneasy, haunted almost. “I believe I was tested, Claire, to show me that I was failing and had to try harder. To do better. There are others, Claire. Not just Simon and Camille.” She could see a sudden excitement in his eyes. She felt it herself too. “They will all need our help, so we have to have more people on our side. Do you think Simon managed to get out of town?”
“He left here before the power went off yesterday,” she said. “I think he was headed for the bus station.”
Pierre looked disappointed. “Very well. I think we should ask as many of the other parents as we can to come here and meet Camille. That would be enough of a shock for now. With your permission, of course.”
“And Camille’s,” said Claire.
Pierre smiled and nodded. Then his expression became guarded. “And Jérôme?”
She shook her head. “Jérôme doesn’t get to make decisions like that for us. Not anymore.”
She went to fetch Camille, and the three of them talked. Camille was easily persuaded—the idea of not having to hide was welcome, and Pierre’s confidence was hard to resist. Pierre set about contacting the parents, telling them only that something important had happened, something they should know about. With almost everywhere closed due to the power outage, most of those he called agreed to come. Two hours later, the small group convened in Claire’s living room, everyone looking a little uneasy, a little awkward, having no idea why they’d been brought there. Outside, the day was cold and the midday sky overcast. The room was gloomy without artificial light, and there was a chill in the unheated air.
“I’m afraid I can’t
offer you anything hot,” Claire told them, smiling.
“Any idea when the power might come back?” one of them asked. “Pierre, surely you’ve heard something by now?”
Pierre shook his head. “The dam and power plant are both undergoing some maintenance. The recent brief power outages weren’t unexpected, apparently, but I’ve not heard anything encouraging about this one. Nobody seems to know when the power will be back. Of course, you can all stay at the Helping Hand if you like. We have a generator and plenty of supplies. The dormitories are warm, and we have more than enough beds.”
There were smiles and nods from around the room, but Claire thought most of them would be happier staying in their own homes until everything was resolved.
“Now,” said Pierre. “I’m sure you realize we have something important to say. A few days ago, Claire…” He paused and smiled at her. “Claire had an experience that was extraordinary. She shared it with me, for which I’ll always be grateful. Now we both want to share this news with you—because we trust you, and we need your help. What you are about to see goes beyond reason, and it will change how you view the world. I know it won’t be easy, but you have to open your minds. From now on, we’re all on the same journey.” The parents in the room looked suddenly wary, sharing anxious glances. Pierre turned to the stairs and called: “Camille? It’s time.”
Camille came slowly down the stairs. She was nervous, looking around the room as every mouth fell open, all eyes went wide.
Sandrine stared at the ghost she’d already seen. “Camille?” she whispered, unable to believe it. She turned to Claire, distraught. “But…but you know this is impossible.”
“It’s real,” said Claire. “If Audrey came back, you’d know her immediately.” She could sense the unease in the room; she’d hoped the reaction would be acceptance, at least. Perhaps even celebration. Instead, everyone was looking at everyone else, their agitation visible and growing.
