Life Is Short and Then You Die_First Encounters With Murder From Mystery Writers of America

by Kelley Armstrong

  “But if I don’t—”

  “If you don’t, we find another way. We’ll have the double agent’s name, and then it will only be a matter of time.” She spared me a look, moonlight flashing in her eyes. “Only kill if you won’t get caught. You’re the last blood I’ve got left, and as much I hate the Germans, I love you more. I won’t lose you to them like I lost your father.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I promised.

  After a moment, she reached across in the darkness and squeezed my hand.

  * * *

  We drove for forty-five minutes before my aunt turned off the road, steering the Citroën onto an unmarked track and killing the headlights. The world vanished and then re-formed in layers of blue on black, the moon touching lightly on trees, a field of grain, and the winding lane before us. Marguerite drove with confidence, barely slowing down, and when we came at last upon a crumbling stone farmhouse backed by a dense forest, she stopped.

  “There.” She pointed to a hulking darkness that spread out as far as I could see. “On the other side of those trees is the Occupied Zone. If you walk north by northeast, and don’t get lost, you’ll find yourself in a pasture when you reach the other side. There is no barricade because there is no road, but the Germans know this is a weak point, and so they patrol it to keep people from crossing over.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” The question wasn’t meant to be answered. “Be as quiet as you can. Stay low. Don’t get caught.” Reaching into the glove box, my aunt produced a bundle of papers, which she pressed into my hands. “Your name is Pierre Dupont. You were born in Besançon, but you live in Dijon now with your mother and father and your three little sisters. If there’s anything on you that identifies you as Fernand Bougnol of Saint-Étienne-du-Bois, give it to me now.” I hesitated and then removed my father’s watch from my wrist—his name engraved on the backing. “When you reach the pasture, stay low. Last time I crossed, the grasses were high. You can use them for cover. Continue northeast until you find the road, stick to the shadows, and one kilometer due north of the first crossroads you will meet your contact, a Maquisard who goes by the code name Rabbit.”

  “I have a contact?” I looked up, startled. “I thought I was on my own.”

  “You’re always on your own,” Aunt Marguerite returned seriously. “Never forget that, Fernand. Rabbit is the one who contacted us, saying someone was sharing information, but only you can decide who is trustworthy.”

  Slowly, I nodded. “North by northeast, stay quiet, look out for German patrols. Cross the pasture, make it to the road, and one kilometer past the crossroads, I meet Rabbit.”

  “Your code name is Mercury.” She hesitated; then she reached into her purse and pulled something out of it—a flat wooden shaft with a metal tab on the side. When she pressed it, a blade snapped out. She showed it to me, folded it up again, and put the pocketknife in my hands. “It was your father’s. He’d want you to have it. If need be, he’d want you to use it.”

  I studied her face. “On Volz?”

  A moment slid past, Marguerite’s eyes shielded by the darkness. Finally, she said, “Kill only if you won’t get caught. Good luck, Pierre Dupont.”

  Climbing out of the car, I headed for the trees. My aunt had started the engine again and was already driving away before I reached them.

  * * *

  Crossing the woods at night was even worse than Aunt Marguerite had made it sound. Every other step brought me to my knees, shrubs and vines tangling around my ankles, trunks and branches surprising me in the impenetrable gloom. Every rustle in the underbrush could have been a snake or a wolf—or a German. I was almost shocked when the trees broke at last, and I could see stars in the sky for the first time in what felt like hours.

  I crawled when I reached the pasture, slithering through high, pale grass and praying for invisibility. The Nazi patrol missed me—but only just. At one point the men came close enough that I could make out distinct voices, clipped German words carrying clearly on the breeze, and I went still. Unbreathing, my face tucked in the fold of my sleeve, I realized that I had hardly understood how easy it would be to get caught.

  Once I felt safe enough to move again, I was twice as careful, and when I finally reached the crossroads, my shirt was heavy with sweat. On the balls of my feet, I hurried up the roadside under the cover of plane trees that obliterated the moonlight—and when I had gone just about a kilometer, I came upon a small truck parked on the verge.

  It was a summer night, the air alive with the chirr of insects, and I rounded the vehicle with care. There was someone behind the wheel, the driver’s window down, the ember of a cigarette flaring like a signal in the dark. My heartbeat was almost painful. Was this my contact?

  The shadow behind the wheel moved, turning and leaning out of the cab, a man’s face materializing like a ghoulish mask conjured from nothing at all. “What the hell are you doing out here at this hour?”

  Swallowing hard, I replied with the code phrase I’d been taught. “It seemed like a nice night for a long walk.”

  A silence stretched out until I wasn’t sure I could take it anymore, and then the mustachioed driver answered with the corresponding phrase, “There’s no such thing as a nice night.” He tossed the cigarette butt at my feet, the end still smoldering. “You can’t be Mercury. Tell me they didn’t send a kid.”

  His disgust was palpable, and I gathered every bit of dignity I had. “You can’t be Rabbit. Tell me they didn’t send an asshole.”

  A beat passed, and he began to laugh. “All right, at least you’ve got spirit. Get in.”

  Rabbit drove slowly and carefully, sticking to dirt roads slung beside the rubble of demolished farmhouses and seemingly empty villages. I wondered what life was like on this side of the Line, with a constant Nazi presence. In Saint-Étienne-du-Bois, we felt them like humidity—something that stuck to the skin and made it impossible to sleep—but we rarely saw them. What was it like to live, day by day, alongside the people who’d ravaged your homes and killed your neighbors, and still insisted on a please and thank-you when buying a pint of milk in your store?

  “What’s your name?” Rabbit asked suddenly, disturbing the quiet. He was maybe in his thirties, a barrel-chested man with a permanently furrowed brow.

  “Pierre Dupont. I’m fourteen,” I answered, citing my new documents.

  “You have any family?”

  “Three sisters—Danielle, Marie, and Louise—and my parents own a restaurant in Dijon.”

  “A restaurant? What’s it called?”

  “The Twin Lanterns. It’s on Rue de—”

  “Stop!” Rabbit barked so sharply I jumped in my seat. “Stop offering information I didn’t ask for. The names of your sisters, your parents’ occupation, where their restaurant is … never give what you don’t have to. Every lie can be used against you.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes. As if my aunt and uncle hadn’t taught me the same rule already. As if I’d have volunteered those things if I hadn’t thought Rabbit was just trying to help me rehearse my story. Staring out the window, I watched as we rolled through another village, jagged German words painted along a whitewashed fence facing the road. “What will happen if we’re stopped?”

  “We won’t be.”

  “But if we are—”

  “If we are, I’ll do the talking,” he answered. “Just keep your mouth shut.”

  It sounded like an immediate order. Rabbit’s hands were large and chapped, and he exuded an air of unpleasantness that felt purposeful and calibrated. Maybe that was how he staved off inconvenient questions about his covert actions against the occupying army. Maybe he wanted to seem cold and unapproachable. But I was tired and unimpressed.

  I must have slept, because the next thing I knew, I was being roused in my seat. The truck idled in front of a half-timbered building with a wooden sign hanging over the door: L’AUBERGE DES LILAS. The Lilac Inn.

  Gruffly, Rabbit announ
ced, “Here’s where you’re staying for the next week. Do you know how to find the Chateau d’Armont?”

  “Yes.” Somewhere in my belongings was a map I’d been given by my aunt and uncle. “But I don’t know how I’m supposed to get there.”

  “You can borrow a bicycle from the innkeeper,” he told me. “Be at the chateau by six, present yourself at the kitchen entrance, and ask for Eugène—that’s the cook’s name. Understand?”

  “Yes,” I repeated, a little more sharply than I meant to. Pinning his eyes with mine, I stated, “Stop talking down to me. I’m a Maquisard, just like you, and I’m here to find and eliminate a traitor because you can’t do it yourself.”

  It was well past midnight, and soon enough the sun would rise. Mere hours stood between me and the moment I would share a roof with the man who shot my father. I was on a mission to kill for France and for freedom, and I was sick of being treated like a poodle that hadn’t been housebroken yet.

  With a glint of something like respect in his eye, Rabbit shifted his jaw. “Very well.”

  I wondered if I’d see him again. I wanted to ask for leads and names—but I knew if he’d wanted to share that information, he’d have already done it. And I wasn’t about to waste a perfectly good exit line.

  Grabbing my bag, I jumped out of the truck and slammed the door shut. Trapped between close buildings on the narrow street, the sound echoed like a gunshot.

  The innkeeper, a stout and friendly man named Georges, wasn’t as bothered by being woken in the middle of the night as he had a right to be. He showed me to my room—small and spare and situated above a soot-blackened alley—and bade me good night. I fell into a dreamless sleep as soon as I crawled between the thin sheets, my father’s knife tucked beneath my pillow.

  A dismally short time later, I was awake again, groggy and exhausted, and headed downstairs. Georges, dressed and in the dining room, poured me a cup of coffee as thick as house paint before showing me where the bicycles were kept.

  It took twenty minutes to reach Chateau d’Armont, a straight shot out of town once I left the main road, hillsides rippling with grapevines under the lightening sky. I’d seen evidence of war in the center of Garance—the wreckage of collapsed walls, track marks left by smoke, places where the road cratered or disintegrated under my wheels—but out here, Burgundy remained pristine.

  The Lagarde home was a breathtaking sprawl of plaster-fronted stone surrounded by poplar trees. Capped with a slanted roof of gray shingles, its chimneys and turrets stabbed the sky. Flower beds greened, birds darted overhead, and an endless vineyard rose and dipped across the hills behind it. I couldn’t count the windows, couldn’t begin to imagine how many rooms there were, or how much luxury the Nazi who had killed my father enjoyed there.

  When I found the kitchen entrance, my knock was answered by a tall woman with a ruddy face and a hateful scowl. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m Pierre.” The words stumbled out of my mouth. “My cousin is Lucien, but he’s sick, and I’m taking his place. I’m to ask for Eugène?”

  Nervous, I’d volunteered information I hadn’t been asked for, and berated myself internally while the woman grumbled and stepped aside. “All right, then, you’d better get inside. You’re late.”

  “The road in the village is damaged—” I began, but she ignored me. Whirling, she started down a long hallway at a determined pace, putting two meters between us before I realized I was supposed to follow her.

  “The kitchen is this way,” she said briskly. “Tomorrow, you don’t need to knock. Get here on time, don’t bother the staff, and do not—under any circumstances—speak to the Lagardes or their guests unless they speak to you first.”

  “Understood.”

  “Eugène!” she barked as we swept around a corner and into a vast kitchen with great, tublike sinks and a butcher’s block that could double as a dance floor. “Lucien’s replacement is here. See that he doesn’t steal anything. And don’t forget the maids will be in your room to dust and collect laundry today, so if you’ve left personal articles around, go and put them where they belong.”

  With those words, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room, leaving me slack-jawed and speechless. Looking up from where he stood, chopping a pile of greens on the butcher’s block, the chef said, “Don’t mind Albertine. Her bark’s worse than her bite.”

  But it wasn’t the woman’s attitude that had me shaken. Eugène—the Lagardes’ cook and the man I’d be working alongside for the next week—was none other than Rabbit.

  Summoning my voice, I demanded, “What is this?”

  “Breakfast,” Rabbit retorted, and then pressed an emphatic finger to his lips, his eyes flashing to the open door. “Here—put this apron on and get ready. We have work to do.”

  We did a mad pantomime of normalcy as my contact took me on a tour of his domain, showing me where the cookware and cutlery were stored, explaining how the pantry was organized. Only when he led me into the cavernous isolation of the chateau’s wine cellar, at least four times as large as that of Le Chevalier—the tavern owned by my aunt and uncle in Saint-Étienne—did he drop the act.

  “Watch what you say when you’re in the house. Albertine listens at doors, and this family is not sympathetic to the Maquis.”

  “You’re already spying on him.” It was a statement, not a question, because I’d had time to figure that much out for myself.

  “On them,” Rabbit corrected me with a toneless sigh. “But it isn’t so easy. There aren’t many Resistants in Garance, but in a way, we’re all spying on each other already. And there’s no time for a prolonged match of chess; the traitor must be identified as quickly as possible.”

  “You must have someone in mind,” I observed, studying his expression.

  “I’ve thought about it. Obsessively.” The man wiped his hands on the front of his apron. “Here or there, all members of the group have had opportunities to pass information … but only three of us have regular contact with Volz. There’s me, obviously.” He did me the favor of looking me in the eye as he acknowledged this fact. “There’s Josette Brunot, who serves drinks at La Belle Fontaine in the village center. She’s a good-time girl, and Volz goes to the bar sometimes to get soused and pay for an evening of her company. She’s learned things from him in the past that have helped the movement, but any street carries traffic in two directions, if you get my meaning.”

  “Okay.” There were good-time girls in Saint-Étienne-du-Bois, too—and even a few good-time boys. My aunt and uncle would probably have preferred me to remain innocent about such things, but I was hardly scandalized. War and its poverties made entrepreneurs of everyone. “Who’s number three?”

  “Him, you’ve already met.” Rabbit shifted his weight. “The man who owns the Lilac Inn—Georges Renard.”

  My brows tugged together, and I took a breath. “He’s the one you really suspect.”

  Again, it wasn’t a question. There was a reason the Maquis had fronted money not only to buy a week’s worth of illness from the Lagardes’ usual kitchen boy, but to put me up at the inn instead of having me sleep on Rabbit’s floor—which was apparently in a servant’s quarters right there on the estate.

  “No matter what is on the menu here at Chateau d’Armont, Volz dines at the inn at least twice a week.” The man’s face took on a rosy hue. “I’ve worked at Michelin-starred restaurants in Paris and Dijon, but he chooses to eat at that … that shabby little rathole, where they serve canned vegetables and boiled meat!”

  It took me a moment to realize he was insulted. His eyes were bright, and breath streamed through his nose. “Twice a week, he goes into town. Sometimes he has drinks, sometimes he has supper—and sometimes he spends the night at his favorite inn or with his favorite barmaid. But one of those two people, Georges or Josette, is whispering dangerous little nothings in his ear.”

  * * *

  My list of suspects had been both created and narrowed down for m
e—but unless I could disguise myself as Gerhard Volz’s shadow, how was I to listen in on his private conversations with the innkeeper and the barmaid? I turned the question over in my mind as I sliced tomatoes, slid proofed croissants into the oven, and arranged a selection of cheeses on a slate. No answer came to me.

  Breakfast was served in the traditional style, and I was ordered to join Albertine—who was housekeeper and head servant—in carrying the food to the dining room. The next hour was devoted to setting up a mise en place for lunch, based on a ludicrously elaborate menu, and then I had to assist in bringing the dishes back down to the kitchen. I was still scrubbing the flatware when Rabbit demanded my help in building a roux for a béchamel.

  As we were washing the dishes from lunch, Albertine appeared in the kitchen doorway again like an accusing specter. “There’s six at dinner tonight. Madame would like sole meunière.”

  “Sole meunière?” Rabbit reacted as if he’d been asked to produce the king of Sweden. “The menu she already approved called for cassoulet!”

  “Madame has changed her mind.” Albertine’s expression was deadpan.

  “I’ve spent two days curing duck legs and making confit!”

  “Nevertheless.” Albertine departed, her skirt swishing aggressively.

  “Damn it,” Rabbit cursed. “Hellfire and … and shit.” To me, he snapped, “Get ten filets out of the icebox and start a cold bath. Also bring butter, parsley, lemon, and … and some asparagus and mushrooms. Go.”

  We scrambled madly to prepare a sophisticated dinner for six. My aunt and uncle’s tavern wasn’t much different from the Lilac Inn, in terms of the fare, and as their kitchen boy, I’d never worked with so many fine ingredients or on so many complicated dishes. In truth, our regular patrons would have been confused by the mere notion of Michelin stars.

  With no time to plan, Rabbit conjured up golden sole filets in a rich sauce, a risotto of wild mushrooms and comté, asparagus and vinaigrette on toasted bread, a soup, a salad, an assortment of fruits and cheeses—and even a tarte tatin for dessert.