Bad Conscience Page 11

  Pierrot leaped into the crevice, his gun cocked. His eyes wandered upward, where he saw a narrow ledge leading to the old road. He could gain access to it by climbing the jagged cliff. Despite the pain in his thigh, he began a fast-paced ascent over the rocks.

  As he’d anticipated, he found himself on a narrow path that led to the tower flanking the old bridge. Realizing that he was exposed, a moving target, he hurried to cover. Meanwhile, Ettore, winded, plunked himself against the rocky mountainside. His bad knee was throbbing.

  P.J. couldn’t see or hear anything except the sound of pebbles dislodged by Lydie’s footsteps. He figured she must be nearing the top. He walked around the pink stone foundation, scanning the landscape for the gun-toting kid. Suddenly, he heard a bang from above and jumped.

  Lydie, gasping for breath after her climb, her arms heavy with bags, arrived at the old road on all fours. She was just getting to her feet when she saw the kid. He was aiming his gun at her, point-blank.

  Pierrot pulled the trigger and Lydie fell backward over the cliff, her body sliding into the riverbed, her arms akimbo, the bags of jewels still in her tight fists.

  P.J. instantly understood what had happened, arriving at Lydie’s side just as her body reached the gravel. She was already dead. The bullet had entered beneath her left eye.

  Watching Pierrot climb the cliff with a wild look in his eyes, Ettore had had enough. “For Christ’s sake! What am I doing here? You’d think the earthquake had damaged my head.”

  There was an echo and the two shots sounded like one. Ettore didn’t move. When P.J. emerged from the bushes, Ettore was collecting rocks and waiting. He was so tired.

  Pierrot saw Sinibaldi leaning over the girl. He knew that he’d shot her in the head. As for P.J., he’d have to kill him, too. Blindly pulling the trigger, he hurtled down the slope. P.J. had no trouble putting two bullets in the kid’s chest. P.J. was down to one bullet. That left Ettore, and he was unarmed.

  P.J. retraced his steps, calmly. Ettore was still leaning against the gray-veined rock. Watching P.J. approach, he felt exhausted, resigned. Still, he held a rock in each hand.

  “It’s stupid. All that money—lost,” Ettore said. “They say that when the earth quakes, people go crazy, that it’s God’s way of punishing the heretics.”

  Awkwardly, he threw his rocks at P.J., missing his target spectacularly. Reaching his hand to his head, then to his heart, he tried to make the sign of the cross, but before he could finish, P.J. shot him in the head. A storm was growing in the east, its rumble echoing off the mountainside.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Mirabeau Bridge

  Sunday, August 17, 5:45 a.m.

  Mercurey’s got to be kidding me. I’m buying a carton of Gauloises and a case of beer—ASAP.

  That was Imbert’s first thought as they waited at an intersection near the Mirabeau Bridge and the Cadarache Center for Nuclear Research. Despite the early hour, the back of his jacket was already drenched in sweat. He cursed his dead wife for insisting on a leather interior. She’d said it would be easier to clean!

  Mercurey, in shirtsleeves and with his collar unbuttoned, was leaning against the guardrail on the other side of the road watching the scene unfold. He had a dual-focus camera with a 135 mm lens that allowed him to monitor the events and take pictures simultaneously. Suddenly, they heard two shots.

  “What was that?” Imbert asked.

  “The kid, boss! He shot the girl, then Sinibaldi killed him!”

  “Shit! Come back here! Muginello and Sinibaldi might reach an agreement and take off in the R18.”

  Mercurey was signaling for a Red Cross vehicle to pass when another shot rang out. Imbert got out of the car and ran toward the scene to get a better look.

  “Careful, boss!”

  “What, you want to hold my hand? Sinibaldi shot the soccer star. He’s probably going back for the bags of jewels, then he’ll load them in the R18.”

  Imbert was soon proven correct. They watched as P.J. picked up the bags lying next to the girl’s body. He then crossed the river, walked through the tree line, and made his way to the car.

  “Should we turn around and pick him up, boss?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. We’ll follow him to wherever he’s going, and then we’ll nab him,” Imbert replied as he calmly returned to the CX. “For now, let’s wait for him to pass us. He might lead us to his hideout.”

  “What if he doesn’t pass us? What if he goes back to Aix?”

  “You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you, my friend? If you could go somewhere else, would you go back to Aix, that stinking hellhole? Don’t you worry! He got out of Aix. He’s not going to return. Be patient, he’ll pass us any moment now.”

  He stepped into the CX and slammed the door shut.

  Mercurey nodded his disheveled head and muttered, “We’ll see. I hope we don’t lose him.”

  P.J.’s mind was blank save for thoughts of Valérie. He was trying hard not to think about Lydie, though he hadn’t given another thought to Ettore’s dead body, from which he had taken the keys to the R18. He’d gone back for the jewels. He’d have to find a way to fence them; otherwise, he’d leave them somewhere. All he cared about now was his immediate future: take the car, pick up Valérie and the kids, and head for Switzerland. So long as the cops weren’t after him, he had a good excuse for the border patrol: after the disaster, he wanted to rest somewhere peaceful, a rented lake house in Lausanne. They had a bank account in Zurich. He just had to get out of this shithole!

  Before taking the jewels, P.J. respectfully closed Lydie’s eyes. The contact with her warm skin brought to mind all the horrible deaths he had witnessed or caused in the past twenty-four hours. He stood, swaying slightly, wiping his forehead. He was surprised to discover that for the first time in a long time he was sweating profusely. In a way, he was the one who’d killed Lydie.

  The cool water of the shallow river felt good on his legs. He set down the bags for a moment and splashed himself. When he reached the R30 TX, he was careful to take the papers from the car and tear off the temporary license plates. That would slow down investigators for a few hours. Then, he put the jewels in the trunk of the R18 and calmly started the car, merging with the traffic and those fleeing the disaster. These people didn’t look any different from commuters or weekenders in Haute-Provence.

  He didn’t try to drive faster than the others; he didn’t pass anyone. When he reached the crossroads, he didn’t turn right, as he had planned, toward Cadarache, Vinon, and Gréoux, but crossed the Durance River toward Manosque. He saw two men studying a map in a CX parked by the side of the road, but he didn’t notice when they started following him.

  Everything appeared normal after the Mirabeau gorge. The earthquake’s impact on the area was strictly psychological. Rubberneckers had gathered in the streets, at their windows, and on their porches to watch the live spectacle of displaced persons, about whom they had heard reports on the radio and TV. Some wore hostile expressions, worried the flood of refugees would invade their villages and beg for water, food, and medical supplies.

  A few miles before the town of Sainte-Tulle, the gas light in P.J.’s car came on. He stopped at a station shaded by immense mulberry trees. While he waited for the attendant to serve the three cars ahead of him, he thought of how much he loved Provence and its old silk farms, and the Occitan writer, Frédéric Mistral.

  The attendant, an old man, wore a red hat embroidered with a yellow shell. Reaching into the car window, he shook P.J. by the shoulder, waking him from his dream.

  “You’re the only one who isn’t in a hurry today.”

  “Sorry, I’m really tired,” P.J. replied, getting out of the car to open the gas tank.

  The road was swarming with people—shameless gawkers and horrified families.

  “Where are you headed?” the old man asked, his t
one at once friendly and indifferent.

  “Don’t know. How is it in Manosque?”

  “You’d better not stop there. They’re setting up roadblocks and quarantines. They say that sickness isn’t uncommon in these circumstances. Epidemics are known to follow earthquakes, what with all the rats, the flies. I’m not talking about you. You look healthy. Tell me, is it true what they’re saying about gangs springing up in Aix, that they’re raping and killing people?”

  “I’m coming from Pertuis,” P.J. replied, not wanting the old man to remember him.

  “Really?” The old man began replacing the pump. “Your license plate says département thirteen. Pertuis is eighty-four!”

  P.J. opened his checkbook, perturbed. “This isn’t my car.”

  “Sorry, no checks. Cash only. Sometimes checkbooks are like cars, in that they don’t belong to you.”

  P.J. opened his wallet and handed the old man two hundred-franc notes. The attendant smiled, satisfied with the transaction. Without taking the time to put his wallet back into his jacket, P.J. was off.

  “Hey, boss, he’s stopping for gas.”

  “I see that. We’ll continue and wait for him down the road. This is getting old,” Imbert said. “What a job, waiting around for these gentlemen drug traffickers. Gentleman, my ass!”

  A few minutes later, Imbert slipped the CX into an empty garage on a private lane. They had just backed into the spot, readying themselves for the next phase of the pursuit, when a young brunette in white boots and a summer dress came running.

  “Please, go right ahead. It’s not like this is private property or anything,” she said sarcastically.

  Without listening, his eyes glued to her breasts, Imbert sighed and showed his badge. Then, he turned to Mercurey and said, “You see, they’re all pain-in-the-ass bitches.”

  Then he turned his attention to the road, while Mercurey smiled weakly at the woman in white boots and offered an apology.

  P.J. covered the short distance between Sainte-Tulle and Manosque quickly. He could have gone directly to Pierrevert from Sainte-Tulle, but he wanted to see Manosque for himself. He climbed Avenue Jean-Giono toward Porte Saunerie. Before turning left toward Apt, then left again toward Pierrevert, he had time to see the quarantine roadblocks, a large group of old and young people carrying guns. The highway leading north to the Alps seemed clear.

  As he drove, he suddenly feared that the Toutes Aures Hospital had been commandeered and that a militia controlling access to the facilities had blocked the entrance to the road to Pierrevert, which was adjacent to the medical center.

  It was an irrational fear. There was a lot of traffic around the hospital, and its parking lots were full, but that was it. The narrow road leading to Pierrevert was open. P.J. knew the way to the Provençal town by heart. He accelerated, quickly weaving through the vineyards and driving past the cemetery toward the wine co-op and the entrance to the village.

  Someone had left nail-studded wooden planks in front of the cemetery. It was too late to avoid them. His four tires exploded, and he crashed into the cooperative.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Pierrevert

  Sunday August 17, 6:25 a.m.

  The CX was exiting the final curve before the cemetery when they saw the tires on P.J.’s car explode like rubber fireworks. The R18 crashed into Pierrevert’s wine co-op. Imbert stopped the car and stepped out into the street. Mercurey did the same, readjusting the holster he’d taken off earlier. The heat was becoming unbearable. Flies were swarming in the pearl-gray light and a roar of airplanes could be heard in the distance.

  They were parked on one of the private lanes that led to residences protected by walls and gates. The properties in this hilly area were nestled between rolling hills camouflaged by pine, oak, and chestnut trees.

  The two cops cautiously approached the co-op. Imbert felt like he was breathing cotton candy.

  “Mercurey, pass me a cigarette.”

  “I’m all out, boss.”

  “Then it really is the end of the world.”

  The wine tanks were shaking, on the verge of collapse. When they stopped moving, P.J. realized he was trembling. He didn’t have time to breathe a sigh of relief; someone’s hand was on his shoulder, forcing him out of the car.

  “The vandal is in one piece. Not even a scratch!”

  P.J. recognized the bean pole who oversaw the sale of wine at the co-op on Thursdays and Saturdays. He was a formidable captor, especially considering that his friends were armed to the teeth, with guns in the crook of their arms and yellowed cartridge belts strapped to their waists.

  They pushed him toward the back of the co-op, into a dark room so cool he shivered.

  Before locking the door, his jailer said, “You’re going to stay here! You may be the first, but you won’t be the last. We’re not crazy. We don’t want your city diseases. So you’re going to stay here for five days. Don’t worry. We’ll feed you, and there’s plenty of wine so you won’t die of thirst. If you’re healthy in five days, we’ll let you go. Otherwise, you can die here. There’s a cemetery just across the street.”

  “Wait,” P.J. replied. “I own a villa here in Pierrevert. It’s called Cantagrelle. It’s right before the junction to Saint Pancrace and Manosque.”

  “Yeah, right. We’ve never seen you before.”

  “Ask Raymond, the mayor, to check in the land registry. The villa is registered under Pasturel. That’s my wife’s name.”

  The man hesitated, then set some bread and a bottle of rosé on the ground. “That’s for you. We’ll check your story. In any case, it doesn’t matter. If you’re poisoned, you might as well die alone.” He smiled wryly and, as he closed the heavy door, added, “We’re not criminals!”

  The wallet that P.J. had left on the passenger seat landed at his feet. Bank notes and papers fluttered to the ground. He collected his various ID’s and credit cards before uncovering an old sepia photograph. It was a photo of his father, a soft-eyed and smiling ten-year-old kid, taken at a festival of Rognac. Around him, fairgoers were lined up for the carousel. In the background, a tightrope walker balanced above a world that P.J. had never known. This figure had always seemed familiar to P.J. He was like a premonition of P.J.’s own lonely and stressful life.

  P.J. lowered himself to the cool ground, resting his back against a surprisingly soft wall. He reflected on the tightrope that was his life and drifted to sleep.

  “Careful, my friend! That’s how you become a murderer!” Imbert said to the young wine attendant and his band of camouflage-clad friends outside the co-op.

  The kid was carrying a rifle, which he waved at the cops, gesturing for them to enter the co-op. The rest of the gang was tending to their makeshift blockades.

  Imbert stopped and said, “May I show you something?”

  The wine attendant nodded silently. Imbert held out his badge.

  “Lower your bazooka and tell me—”

  Imbert didn’t have time to finish. The kid took a step toward him and jabbed his gun into his gut.

  “Careful, boss, these kids are completely wasted. They must have started drinking when they decided to form their militia.”

  The leader jutted his chin toward the co-op.

  “Go inside!”

  The slurred speech confirmed Mercurey’s hypothesis. Imbert pretended to obey. As he passed the faux soldiers, he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. Then suddenly, he seized the rifle by its butt and barrel. Before anyone could react, he had a knee in the militiaman’s kidneys and was strangling him with his own gun.

  Mercurey was now holding his revolver, and before the little group could intervene, he yelled, “Come one step forward and drop your weapons. Try anything and I’ll shoot!”

  “And I’ll snap your friend in two,” Imbert added.

  The boys,
not feeling they were in a position to argue, quickly did as they were told. Mercurey nabbed P.J.’s jailer, who was coming out of the co-op, whistling and holding a bottle of rosé in each hand, his gun tucked in its holster. Mercurey pressed his revolver into the boy’s temple just as he stepped out into the sun, confiscating his weapon. The kid dropped the two bottles, which shattered on the ground.

  “Is everyone here? Good,” Imbert said. “Listen to me. You can play cowboys all you want. We don’t give a shit. But we want the guy you’ve just locked up. Do you understand? I have a warrant for his arrest.”

  “We’re really sorry,” said the leader. “We thought we were performing a public service. Of course you can have him. Say, would you mind lowering your guns? We’re not gangsters.”

  “Aren’t you?” Mercurey asked.

  Imbert entered the dark cellar. The wrecked R18 had come to a halt in the middle of the wine tanks. The little gang followed Imbert, curious.

  “Where’s my customer?” Imbert asked.

  “Over there. In the old winepress. I’ll show you.”

  “A bunch of idiots. Like I’ve always said, wine isn’t good for you,” Imbert grumbled. “To think of all the people this guy has killed!”

  Suddenly, the bean pole was less excited. His friends busied themselves, remembering that they shouldn’t leave their hunting equipment out in the sun.

  Imbert and Mercurey withdrew their weapons.

  “Do you have any beer in this fucking wine cellar?” Imbert said.

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Idiots! Okay, let’s open the door.”

  P.J. was sitting under the window, facing the door, his eyes looking straight in front of him, as though awakened by the sound of the latch.

  P.J.’s recurrent nightmare always ended with a fall, but the fall itself wasn’t the end. Dizziness would overcome him and then quickly subside. In real life, the nightmare turned out differently on that fateful Sunday many years earlier.