Bad Conscience Page 9

  “Stay calm, kids,” he pleaded.

  Serge and Max were both looking around wildly. Without consulting each other, they took off in opposite directions. P.J. shot at a seagull that landed on the roof of a Le Car. The bird got a double dose, since Ettore also shot it in the head. Panic ensued. The blonde ran toward the offices; the cocky teen raised his arm without knowing whom to shoot; the guy in leather guarded the exit, his arms spread wide like a goalie; and Lydie made her breakneck entrance on a bicycle, hurtling toward the R30 TX and into P.J. Pierrot started firing blindly. Ettore ran for cover. Without thinking, P.J. shot at random, threw Lydie into the R30 TX, and drove straight for the exit. Nothing could stop him. The R30 TX shot up the ramp in third gear, turned left, then right. In a few minutes, they were on the highway that led to the Alps, climbing gently over Aix’s countryside.

  Hearing the sound of gunshots, Imbert and Mercurey ran to the garage. They saw the car roar off into the distance.

  “What should we do, boss?” Mercurey asked.

  “We’re going to pick up my CX and follow those people, or what’s left of them!”

  They rushed back to Imbert’s CX, with the idea of taking the highway toward Venelles. Chewing on a Gauloise, Imbert was sweating.

  Back at the dealership, Pierrot and Rita were in a state of shock. That morning, the four friends had been playing soccer after a late night. Now, their bodies littered the dealership. Now, Pierrot and Rita were beginning to understand the true repercussions of their association with Ettore. Before, it had been a game: Martine’s death, ripping off Ettore. Rita was sitting on a slab of concrete, hugging her knees and shaking uncontrollably.

  “We can’t let them leave. We can’t,” Pierrot repeated as he inspected the bodies, his tone vengeful. “Muginello!”

  Ettore was searching the reception offices. He had laid out the keys, identifying each one by the pale light of the moon.

  “Fuck you, kid! So what? You’re discovering life and death at the same time. What’s the difference? You spend your whole life dying. Pick up the girl and let’s go. I don’t have anything to lose—or win! I’m taking my revenge.”

  He jingled the keys on a ring and made his way toward the new cars, his movements violent and furious.

  “All right, you fools, are you coming?” Ettore screamed. “I warned you! You’re in over your heads. You never should have gotten involved, but now it’s too late to turn back. Come on, let’s go!”

  Ettore opened the doors to a Renault 18 Turbo. Pierrot helped Rita stand and led her toward the car. The motor was already purring.

  “Morons! You think that stealing some stones gives you the right to fuck up my life? That guy, P.J. Sinibaldi, who just took off with the goods, is my boss. He’s The Gentleman!”

  Before shifting into first, Ettore slapped Pierrot, who seemed incapable of responding and was as contrite as a fisherman who comes home empty-handed.

  “The Gentleman is the kingpin of dope in Provence, and now we’re going to have to kill him.”

  On its way out of the garage, the car trundled over Max’s body. A strong wind rattled the detached pieces of sheet metal like pipe organs announcing a violent death.

  CHAPTER XXII

  Highway 96, between Aix-en-Provence and Meyrargues

  Saturday, August 16, 11:30 p.m.

  Drive, drive, drive. As fast and as far as possible.

  The radio claimed that the earthquake that hit Aix, its surrounding region, and the foothills of the Alps was stronger than the earthquakes that had shaken El Asnam in Algeria and Mezzogiorno in southern Italy in 1980—eight on the Richter scale. The authorities were having trouble controlling public panic in Aix. By some miracle, the Saint-Sauveur Cathedral had come out of the quake intact, and fanatics had gathered to chant prayers; according to them, God was taking His revenge on an era rife with unbelievers and terrorists. He was punishing the sacrilegious countries: Italy, which was unworthy of the Pope; Muslim Morocco; blasphemous France; and Spain, which was accused of spitting in Christ’s face.

  Drive, P.J., drive!

  The emergency response teams were overwhelmed. Messages of sympathy had begun to flow into the Ministry of the Interior.

  Drive, drive!

  P.J. was blind to the bareheaded, weary statues on the side of the road. Masses of people carting furnishings filled the streets. Red-eyed women carried confused children. Drivers had to clear a space for themselves with a honk of the horn. The headlights made the people in the streets raise a hand to shield their eyes, as if in greeting. Some were sleeping on the road’s shoulder. Fleeing death, the escapees’ were headed north in their cars toward the scrublands, away from the valleys and the swarming flies.

  Drive, drive!

  Hospitals on the Italian Riviera announced that they were prepared to receive the wounded. The medical facilities in Montpellier and Lyon were already reaching capacity. They lacked beds, plasma, and blood for the people being brought in by helicopters and private planes. In a field in Venelles, two Cessna aircrafts collided during landing. Both pilots burned to death.

  Drive, drive!

  Lydie contemplated her hand, which was resting next to the small gash on her knee. It was shining red with blood.

  All military personnel were called upon to provide rescue services and to set up tents and makeshift hospitals in the countryside. Villages of trailers sprang up in open spaces. All the European mobile home manufacturers were donating in-kind relief.

  Drive, P.J.!

  Donations were pouring in, and precautions were being taken to avoid potential fraud. People might pose as mayors in order to receive aid. There was even some concern that the mobile homes might not be used toward their intended purpose.

  P.J. encountered a roadblock on a bridge just outside of Meyrargues. Floodlights illuminated an enormous overturned truck that had been carrying tents. The truck had taken the curve too fast and crashed into the metal guardrail. The cab teetered at the side of the bridge, its front wheels in the water. The trailer had slid across the curving road. The white tents had toppled off the truck, some now floating in the water. The accident had just happened, and the driver, soaked in mud, was sitting on the concrete, sipping a toddy.

  Lydie and P.J. spotted an inn not far from the accident, the Vauvenargues. They figured it was their shot at getting a decent night’s sleep.

  Imbert stopped in front of the dealership.

  “We should count the bodies. What saint’s day is it today, Mercurey?”

  “Saint Armel’s. Why?”

  Imbert was silent as they ascended the ramp. He pointed under the gate, which looked like it had been worked over by a giant can opener:

  “Because of the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. We may not be as big as Chicago, but this isn’t a bad start.”

  Mercurey saw Max’s body first. It was pressed into the concrete and looked as if it had gone through a meat tenderizer. Imbert was already gently prodding at Dédé and Serge with his foot.

  “These young kids didn’t know what was coming,” Imbert said. “Do you think Sinibaldi keeps a fridge stocked with cold beers?”

  Mercurey just nervously fingered his leather jacket.

  “Here,” Imbert said, offering Mercurey a Gauloise. “As they say where I come from up north, ‘Tobacco settles the stomach.’”

  “These kids were amateurs, boss. Muginello must have used them for the jewelry heist.”

  Imbert glanced inside the dealership and said, “I’d give anything for a good, bitter Rodenbach. There’s nothing like a dark beer in stormy weather. This breeze is only the beginning; tomorrow night, there will be a downpour. Come on, let’s check out the fourth musketeer.”

  Mercurey joined Imbert, who was searching Simon’s pockets.

  “These poor kids thought they could pull one over on Muginello, or on Sinibaldi,” Mercu
rey said.

  Kneeling beside the body, Imbert pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “Still in the race: Sinibaldi, the bird who was with him in the R30 TX, Ettore, the young man, and the girl with the plump thighs.”

  “So what should we do?” Mercurey asked.

  “We’re going to search this place. You check out the offices, I’ll take care of the garage. Fast, okay? We don’t have much time. Then, we have to go after those people who just left. Believe me, they’re going to have a hard time driving very far. The roads are in pretty bad shape—all the way to Meyrargues. We’ll let them deal with their business. They’ll shake the tree, and we’ll collect the fruit. Okay, let’s get a move on!”

  Imbert’s secret idea seemed to be checking out. He went straight to the workshop after peeking inside the carcass of a spare parts van. After his telephone call to headquarters, he almost knew what he was looking for. When he saw the antenna on the support van, he took a moment to light his last Gauloise and smiled.

  He had to use a chisel to pry open the door, which had been reinforced from the inside by metallic plates. Mercurey, drawn by the racket, came to his aid. Together, it took them about fifteen minutes. Imbert was dripping with sweat, the pungent scent of his cologne filling the air.

  By the time the lock gave way, a dark stain stretched across the back of Imbert’s summer jacket. Mercurey raised his lighter to the opening. They had just uncovered an illegal lab. Inside, everything was neatly arranged for the production of heroin. The space may have been small, but its equipment was ultra-modern.

  Mercurey was inspecting the contents of the van as if it were a museum. Meanwhile, Imbert was too distracted by his thoughts to look.

  “Not bad! A mobile lab. You can be sure this isn’t the only one. This van is probably the link between Marseille—maybe even Paris and the Mafia—and the distribution sites. They pick up the supplies, and someone delivers the morphine to them. Then they transform it into dope while they’re on the road, and they deliver it to various drop-off points. Ettore does the rest. Well, it’s time to close up shop, old boys. Mercurey, you can add another name to the report: Paul-Jacques Sinibaldi, a.k.a. The Gentleman!”

  Ettore drove north, away from Aix, like a professional. After a few hundred yards, he had already gotten the hang of the Renault 18 and was a natural with the turbo function.

  Several sycamores had fallen in the road but hadn’t blocked it completely. On the right, Sainte-Victoire Mountain was a shadow against the night sky. Nearing the town of Venelles, Ettore revved the motor and began to weave through the other vehicles, which were filled with pitiful survivors and their possessions. There were even people camping on the green median.

  Rita was sitting in the backseat and hadn’t said a word. Despite the vision of these sorry groups of people, whom she saw from behind the car’s tinted windows, all she could feel was a kind of nauseated fatigue reminiscent of the end of a late night out. She hadn’t even thought of her parents. Not once. She wanted to throw up—or die—but she hadn’t eaten anything in a long time, and she didn’t have the courage to kill herself.

  Ettore laughed as he veered around the big-box furniture store that had collapsed like a house of cards. From there, he took Highway 556 toward Pertuis.

  Ettore stopped at a gas station. Five truckers were gathered around a fire, trying to comfort a young man who was weeping inconsolably. He hadn’t heard from his wife, Mireille, and was worried about their three-month-old daughter. Theirs was a one-bedroom apartment in a dilapidated building behind the courthouse in Aix, the part of town that was said to be the hardest hit.

  “Have you seen a blond girl pass through?” Ettore asked after commiserating for a moment.

  A redheaded trucker looked him up and down, creasing his eyes. “Sandy? Bottle blonde with short hair?”

  “That’s her.”

  “My friend, today is a special day. You’ve got to understand: whores aren’t stupid.”

  Ettore started the car in a rage and drove off toward the town of Meyrargues. Sandy was screwing truckers. She was soliciting at a gas station, a fine specimen like her, with ample breasts and long legs. As far as Ettore was concerned, her main asset was this: she was supposed to receive a delivery of coke and give Ettore a signal when she did, via Mélissa. Distribution to the resellers would take place the following day. Thanks to those asshole truckers, Ettore didn’t even know if the dope had arrived as planned—in emptied gas tanks—at the next station.

  “No, no,” he said to himself. “The Gentleman couldn’t have had them delivered. In any case, it’s all worthless product. Without Mélissa and the girls, I’ve got no way to unload it.”

  Not to mention that if he’d made the deliveries himself, he would have risked arrest. Just as he was coming to this conclusion, Ettore felt Pierrot’s hand on his arm and saw the tents scattered over the road. On the right, he spotted P.J.’s R30 TX parked in front of an inn.

  What neither P.J. nor Ettore knew was this: the chemist had considered the situation and decided to bury the delivery in a site outside of Les Salles-sur-Verdon, a town about a ninety-minute drive from Meyrargues, and he had disposed of any compromising equipment by throwing it into a very deep, dark lake.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Meyrargues

  Sunday, August 17, 12:15 a.m.

  They had barely said a word in the car. The horrors of reality weighed heavily on Lydie and P.J. Whenever the image of Gérard’s dead body came floating through Lydie’s mind, she wanted to run away.

  The innkeeper had been receptive to P.J.’s show of cash, offering the couple his own room. It had also been a way for him to cede to his wife’s fear; she had been on the verge of panic all day and preferred sleeping outside with the displaced persons rather than in her own bed. This, despite the fact that the area had hardly been affected; the electricity hadn’t even gone out.

  Lydie, her back resting against the walnut headboard, her legs folded beneath her, watched P.J. pace around the room, his hand stroking his stubble. She considered his skill with a pistol and all the dead bodies they had left behind them. He was a dark mystery, but this comfortable and quaint room made him seem harmless.

  “Who are you?”

  Troubled by Lydie’s question, P.J. stopped at the foot of the bed and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Why do you ask? Is it because of what happened in the garage? Or did you see what was inside those?” he said, pointing to the bags of jewelry sitting on a mosaic table.

  Suddenly, he felt annoyed. Lydie could feel the tension rising in him, but she also noted that his expression remained placid.

  “It’s a long story, but know that when I found the jewels in the R30 TX, that group of kids threatened me and I defended myself. Just like I defended you this morning.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. Don’t worry. I wasn’t thinking when I asked you that just now. You’re dropping me off with my aunt in Manosque. That’s it. You go wherever you want. It’s none of my business. If there’s an investigation into the death of Gérard and the caretaker’s son, I’ll tell the authorities that I acted alone.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. You should get some sleep. Later, I’ll check to see if they’ve managed to clear the truck off the road.”

  The scent of greenery and the sound of cicadas drifted through the shutters. P.J. peeked outside and saw a farm tractor clearing the road.

  “They’re going about it all wrong!”

  “How so?”

  “They should unhitch the cab and let it fall into the water. Without the engine, it will be easier to maneuver the trailer to the side of the road.”

  Lydie joined P.J. at the window to watch the tractor’s fruitless efforts, which seemed to bellow with anger with each gust of wind.

  P.J. was aware that the tall woman with aquamarine eyes was leaning into him. Her touch sent a shiver t
hrough him. He turned his head and kissed her. He saw his own reflection drown in the night-blue pool of Lydie’s eyes. She cried in an uninterrupted torrent, clearing away the fog, showing him the tragedies he had been suppressing all day. P.J. thought of Valérie.

  Pierrot sat against a locust tree, its rough bark bruising his back. Rita’s head lay on his lap. She had slept for a while and was just opening her eyes. She looked up at Pierrot’s face. His attention was drawn toward the other side of the road and a shuttered window to the right of the inn. The jewels were there. Ettore had chatted with the innkeeper, telling him that he’d seen his friends’ R30 TX in the parking lot. Ettore ended up buying some expensive deli meat; the innkeeper hadn’t wasted any time in setting up a small-scale black market of necessities. During this excursion, Ettore had determined that the jewels were in the room with P.J. The trunk of the car was empty; it hadn’t even been locked.

  Ettore had considered putting a boot on the R30 TX, but it wouldn’t be easy with all the people who were sleeping outside and keeping watch from the inn’s nearby terrace. In any case, he was exhausted, and so were the kids. He was staking everything on this operation. He rejoined Rita and Pierrot by the R18.

  “Finish your food and get some sleep. We’ll plan our attack first thing tomorrow morning.” Before drifting to sleep, he added, “Don’t try anything without me. One time was enough. I should have killed you earlier. I’m sixty-four years old, and I have to start over because of you two. The least you can do is wait until tomorrow to claim your fortune.”

  The handsome Ettore, with his mop of disheveled hair and the face of a Roman patrician, was soon snoring, his mouth slack-jawed and his suit wrinkled. Very quietly, Pierrot and Rita got to their feet. Without saying a word, they both knew what they wanted. Pierrot’s gun still had four bullets.

  They crept toward the tents, which had finally been removed from the road and piled into a vineyard.

  “How should we do it?” Rita asked.