The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “Where had he been?” Burke asked.

  “Léon was staying in the same hotel with the team and was desperately looking for a chance to get Den Weent alone to talk to him. When he saw Den Weent go out late that evening, he followed. He saw Den Weent meet a woman in the darkened alley, heard the voice and recognized it was his mother. When she stabbed Den Weent, he ran toward them. He got there just as Den Weent was starting to get the upper hand, even though he was badly hurt.”

  “And Léon took over, finishing off Den Weent,” Burke said.

  “That’s right,” Fortin said. “Léon had the element of surprise and that little extra strength to kill Den Weent.”

  Burke thought about the nicks he’d seen on Léon’s hands. He had been puzzled to see the hands of a gifted mechanic damaged in such a way. Now he knew why. And why Karin Petit had similar injuries.

  “But why did you go looking into Karin’s whereabouts?” Burke asked.

  “Because of your question to us yesterday, Monsieur Burke,” Fortin said. “I have learned that you sometimes have something useful to say.”

  Burke was surprised to hear that.

  “Once we considered her as someone involved in the case, we tracked her banking and credit card activity for the period and discovered she had taken out money in Carpentras just a few hours after Den Weent was murdered,” Fortin said.

  “Then we traced her purchases to a nearby women’s clothing store,” Côté said. “Basic police work.”

  “She had come just for the day, driving up on her own, and she expected she’d be going home the same day,” Fortin said. “She hadn’t planned to end up covered in blood and needing a new top.”

  “But she had brought a knife,” Burke said. “Doesn’t that mean she thought about using it? So, if she was thinking about killing Den Weent, why wouldn’t she bring different clothes to change into, at least to avoid anyone noticing her?”

  Fortin shook his head. “She had only thought through the part about protecting her son. Karin Petit is not a criminal, probably not even that bright. She just brought a knife in case. That’s it.”

  “After they killed Den Weent, Karin and Léon figured it was safer for her to use her credit card than for him,” Côté said. “It might have been, but it didn’t matter. We interviewed her, did some DNA testing and discovered Mark Den Weent’s blood on her body. She thought she had washed off everything, but she hadn’t. It’s a tough task to eliminate all DNA residue.”

  Fortin took over. “When we had that, she confessed, saying she had killed Den Weent all by herself and that Léon had taken the opportunity to save her.”

  Burke was puzzled once more. “But you had Léon for the McManus murder,” he said. “Why would she confess to the Den Weent murder?”

  “She wanted to protect him from a double murder conviction, which she thought would guarantee him an even worse situation in prison,” Fortin said. “But when Léon heard his mother had confessed to murdering Den Weent, he told us what really happened—to save her from a murder conviction.”

  “A mother’s love and a son’s love,” Burke said, feeling some sadness for the plight of the two Petits. Then he thought about his friend Mark Den Weent and brushed aside any sympathy for Léon and Karin Petit. “And thanks to them, there are two dead people, one of them a good man.”

  “Indeed,” Fortin said. “Now you have the story, although the news conference will convey most of that information in”—he glanced at his watch—“forty minutes.”

  Fortin stood and headed toward the door, Côté on his heels.

  “Better get to writing your blog,” Fortin said. “And by the way, this will only ever happen once.”

  Then they were gone.

  BURKE SAT THERE, TRYING to digest what he had heard. Fortin and Côté had confirmed some of his suspicions and filled in some gaps.

  He shook his head at the tragedy of what had occurred and then picked up his cell phone. He called François Lemaire. It took just one ring before the newsman answered.

  “I’ve got an update on the murders of Pierre McManus and Mark Den Weent,” Burke said.

  “What do you mean?” Lemaire asked.

  Burke told him about the visit from Fortin and Côté, and added there would be a news conference about the charges now facing Karin Petit. There was a pause at the other end of Burke’s phone. Lemaire was obviously sorting out what to do.

  “OK, you’ll give me all the basic facts that the flics and the prosecutor or investigating judge will provide at the news conference,” Lemaire said. “After that, I’ll write something quickly and post it on our website, with your byline.”

  “It’s not necessary to add my name,” Burke said.

  “It is. You’re the contact, and you’re the one who deserves the credit,” Lemaire said. “Next, I want you to do a background blog on this within the next hour. Three hundred words. Tell people what you did, what you think about it all. Then do a video version within a half hour of that.”

  “But…” began Burke, about to say he wasn’t sure he could handle such efforts—or even wanted to.

  “You can do it,” Lemaire snapped. “Now, give me the basics.”

  Burke expanded on his initial comments to Lemaire. He could hear the editor punching a keyboard as he related how new DNA testing and other police work had brought Karin Petit into the picture.

  More than once, Lemaire exclaimed, “Shit!”

  “Good work, Paul,” Lemaire said when Burke had finished. “I can polish this and get it online in ten minutes. I’ll also use social media to let the world know what to expect.”

  Burke said nothing.

  “OK, quit sitting around and get to work on those blogs,” Lemaire said. “I want them fast. Don’t worry about the news conference; I’ll get someone to cover it.” Then he added in a more subdued tone, “I expect we’ll have to increase your payment for your blogs after this. I shouldn’t have any issue with senior management. You’re about to boost our visibility.”

  Lemaire rang off.

  Burke went to his computer. He’d have to work fast, but he didn’t know if he could. His stomach flip-flopped. He wasn’t any kind of journalist, and he didn’t want to be one, especially when they had to write under such deadline pressure.

  But to his astonishment, the words came out quickly, although he had no clue if they were any good. He recycled his “a mother’s love and a son’s love” and tied it to how such devotion can lead people to perform terrible deeds. He doubted he was saying anything original, but it felt right to focus on how Léon and Karin Petit had been very regular people until a few comments triggered a series of deadly actions. He figured Lemaire would clean up any legal issues in the copy.

  Burke was done within forty-five minutes. After sending it to Lemaire, he got to work on the video version. He had a rudimentary script—he doubted he’d be able to do anything better with the time restriction—and then grabbed his camera, figuring that shooting the video blog in the village green would work well as long as there weren’t many people around making noise.

  And there weren’t—just two maintenance workers pruning bushes.

  It took ten minutes to get an acceptable video blog done.

  As he started to head back home to upload the video, he felt something by his feet.

  It was Plato sniffing where he had walked. Holding the dog on his leash was Madame Marois, dressed, as usual, in black.

  “He is definitely fond of you,” Madame told Burke as he bent and scratched the dog’s head.

  “I like him, too. How’s he doing? I heard he was upset the other night and was howling.”

  Madame frowned and snapped, “Nonsense. He didn’t howl. He’s as quiet as a mouse. That was just the active imagination of some of my silly neighbors.” She paused then said in a calmer voice, “So, you were doing another one of your—what do you call them? Video blogs?”

  “I was,” Burke said. “Now I have to get it to my boss as quickly as possib
le.”

  “You have an unusual job, young man,” the old woman said.

  That made Burke pause for a moment. “I guess I do,” he said. “Excuse me, but I do need to rush this off to my employer.”

  “I expect you don’t have much time to go cycling,” Madame said.

  “Well, I think I can manage a ride right after I get this video to my boss,” he said. “It’s a perfect day to go out on the bike.”

  “Good for you, young man,” Madame Marois said.

  Burke excused himself, jogging up the stone stairs of the pathway and around the corner to his apartment. Fifteen minutes later, he was relaxing on the couch, his video blog now with Lemaire. It had been a hectic two hours, and he was tired. Maybe a bike ride wasn’t a good idea.

  He was just starting to nod off when his cell phone rang. It was Helénè, wondering if they could get together for a glass of wine in midafternoon before she started work at the café.

  Burke readily agreed. He hadn’t seen as much of her the last couple of days as he would have liked.

  They decided she’d come to his place around three.

  “But I won’t have time for anything more than a little wine,” Helénè said.

  Burke laughed. He would like to get her into bed, but he was happy just to spend a little time with her. Maybe when they both had settled on routines, they could manage more time together.

  The phone call had energized Burke, and he decided he’d go for a bike ride after all. It would be good to work on his fitness, and some hard exercise would clear his mind of the morning’s developments.

  He was munching on a pre-ride sandwich when his cell phone rang once more. It was Lemaire.

  “One of these days, I’ll get Antoine to show you how to do a better job of lighting, but overall, you did well,” Lemaire said. “It’s online already, if you want to check it out.”

  Burke didn’t, but he didn’t say that to the newsman.

  “Anyway, it would be wise to do another blog for tomorrow,” Lemaire said. “I expect there’ll be a lot of noise in the media after Karin Petit’s arrest.”

  Burke agreed to Lemaire’s suggestion, and they rang off. He’d do the blog either before Hélène showed up or early the next morning.

  He definitely needed a ride to freshen his mind. For a moment, Burke thought about going to the news conference, but he figured he wouldn’t learn anything new, and besides, Lemaire had a staffer to cover it.

  Ten minutes later, he was walking his bike down the pathway. The sky was cloudless, and the temperature was at least thirty degrees Celsius. As he strolled past the lovely stone buildings with their outdoor flowerpots crammed with vivid colors, Burke could hear songbirds, plus some voices from a couple of nearby cafés, including Hélène’s. He smiled, his desire to stay in the old village of Villeneuve-Loubet never a doubt.

  When Burke jumped onto his bike, he opted to do some climbing, and so he turned right and started on the long hill that would ultimately lead him to Grasse. It would be fun. And a perfect escape.

  AFTER THE INTENSE INTERVIEW with Fortin and Côté, and the time-pressured blogs for Lemaire, Burke was surprised he had, in cycling parlance, “good legs” as he hammered the pedals for the first couple of kilometers. The sense of strength could quickly disappear, but until then, he made the most of it and kept the power on.

  He passed a handful of other riders, a couple of whom praised him for his efforts as he shot by. The compliments felt good. Bit by bit, Burke knew he was getting fitter. Maybe he’d go into some veterans races if circumstances allowed.

  When he saw a side road that would lead him away from Grasse and into the hilltop villages farther north, Burke took it on a whim. The first village was at least another ten kilometers, but he expected his legs could handle the challenge.

  And they did. Feeling strong, he rode past the first village and then past the second, pushing higher as the scenery grew more rugged with craggy hills that climbed and climbed. Behind him, the communities along the coast got smaller and smaller.

  After forty kilometers of nonstop climbing, Burke stopped by the roadside, gasping for breath and sweating profusely but happy with his efforts. There might be prettier views in France, but Burke struggled to believe it. It seemed he could see all of the Côte d’Azur stretched out far below him. This was one reason he wanted to stay in the area, regardless of what happened to taxes. Hélène, though, was rapidly becoming the real attraction to remaining.

  To the north were steeper hills. Stone farmhouses were scattered along the distant slopes. The people who carved out a living up this high were tough indeed. Much tougher than a pro cyclist and definitely sturdier than a blogger.

  Burke relished that his mind had largely cleared away all thoughts of the Petits, Fortin, Côté, Lemaire and everyone else who had burrowed into his brain in recent days. All he had thought about on the way up was working on a good cadence and enjoying the spectacular scenery. Cycling could do that—take you away from your worries and into a different place.

  Burke decided to do one more hill. He didn’t have to worry about time since the descent would be fast—maybe forty-five minutes at most, and that would leave plenty of time to clean up before Hélène arrived. And after all the wild traffic along the coast, it was a pleasure to ride along a road that had virtually no traffic; he hadn’t seen a vehicle in twenty minutes.

  He did the next hill in five minutes and then turned his bike around. He thought about detouring into one of the villages, but the thrill of the upcoming descent appealed far more.

  With a gentle breeze behind him, Burke let his machine go, and soon, he was flying down the hill at sixty-five kilometers per hour. Always a good, fearless descender, he leaned into the twists and bends of the road with just the slightest touch on his brakes. He knew any car behind him would struggle to keep pace.

  On one stretch, he hit eighty on his odometer. His heart pounded with excitement.

  As he took another curve at maximum speed, Burke heard the engine of a car behind him. It must have come out of a country lane.

  As usual, he let his ears tell him what was happening behind. He had long ago learned that if he listened well, he could judge the exact position of an approaching vehicle by sound, as well as the distance between them. He didn’t need a mirror.

  The road straightened, and Burke shot a glance over his shoulder as he heard the driver accelerate.

  It was a black car, and it was coming quickly.

  The road turned gently to the right, and Burke kept a tight line near the side of the road. He was doing eighty-five kilometers per hour.

  The driver was getting closer, taking greater risks than even he was. It was time to let them pass. If another vehicle approached them at that moment, they’d all be in trouble, especially Burke.

  He feathered the brakes, instantly dropping to sixty.

  The vehicle was right behind him.

  “What the…” Burke glanced once more over his shoulder.

  He had only enough time to register that the car wasn’t lined up to go around him. Instead, it was only a few meters directly behind him and getting even closer. The driver seemed intent on hitting him or driving him right off the road.

  Burke yanked his handlebars to the right. It was his only chance.

  His bike jerked off the road surface, and for a second, he was airborne, flying over grass and rocks and right toward a clutch of trees. When his bike touched the ground again, he had no control. The front wheel struck a large rock and crumpled on impact, stopping the machine and dislodging Burke like a human payload.

  As he flew through the air, Burke knew he was going to die. This was his last millisecond on the planet.

  He crashed into the widest part of a tree trunk, his left shoulder, hip and leg taking all the impact. Blinding-white pain shot through his body as he rolled along the gnarled surface of the small forest.

  He came to a stop. Then he tried to move.

  The world went dark an
d silent.

  BURKE HEARD A VOICE in the distance. It was a woman’s, but he couldn’t understand the words.

  He opened his eyes with some effort, but he could only see shapes and bright lights. He couldn’t focus. When he tried to lift his head, little stars exploded in his vision.

  Burke retreated into unconsciousness.

  When he heard another voice, he wondered how long it had been since he’d heard the first voice.

  This voice was a man’s, but again, he couldn’t make out what was being said.

  He tried opening his eyes again. Everything was still fuzzy and bright. He remembered to avoid lifting his head.

  He tried to say something, but his mouth didn’t work. He couldn’t produce a sound. His lips were gummy, and his tongue was limp. He shut his eyes and told himself to get control. He needed to know where he was and what had happened.

  Then he remembered flying through the air and hitting something hard. He recalled feeling pain that overwhelmed him and took him far away.

  “Monsieur Burke,” came a soft voice.

  Burke opened his eyes. A man’s fuzzy face leaned toward him. The face had a moustache, dark eyebrows.

  Burke tried to answer, but still, he couldn’t make a sound.

  “Do not try to speak, monsieur,” the man said with a voice that was deep and warm and somehow reassuring to Burke.

  Burke shut his eyes. The simple effort of trying to communicate with this person had exhausted him.

  “You’re in a hospital, Monsieur Burke,” the voice said. “I’m Dr. Rossignol. You’ve had a terrible accident, but you’re alive, and you’ll get better.”

  Burke managed a single nod.

  “Good, you understand me,” Rossignol said. “Right now, you’re in a recovery room. We had to operate on you. I know you’re very tired, so don’t fight it. Go to sleep. I will see you again later.”