Beyond the Grave

by R. W. Wallace

  “Don’t mess with him,” I whisper urgently. “He’s not exactly mentally stable and he has a loaded gun. This is not the time to see if he’s scared of ghosts.” A nervous twitch and Evian could die.

  At first Clothilde’s expression is nothing but indignant anger at me cutting her off. In her current form, she’s downright terrifying and I can hardly recognize my old friend. But she’s still in there. And she hears what I’m saying. While Stéphane is still sputtering and the others remain motionless, she regains some of her usual shape and her eyes go back to normal.

  “We can’t just stand here and do nothing,” she whispers.

  “We won’t,” I promise her. “But we have to find the right time to intervene. At a point where an otherworldly distraction is a good thing.”

  I step to one side of Stéphane, finding a spot halfway through the table where I have a good view of everyone in the room, and Clothilde does the same on his other side. I can get to both Stéphane and Lambert easily, and Clothilde can get to Stéphane and Evian.

  When Stéphane doesn’t seem to have anything to say, Evian speaks up. “I take it you admit to killing Robert Villemur?”

  “I didn’t kill him! I put an end to his misery!”

  Okay, I know my life was far from perfect but killing me to “put an end to my misery” is taking it a little far, surely?

  “He was writhing on the floor and frothing at the mouth,” Stéphane yells. “He was as good as dead and I took mercy on him.” The gun wavers a little but it’s still aimed at Evian. He’s only three meters away from her—even Stéphane should be able to hit something at that distance.

  “Why was he writhing on the floor and frothing at the mouth?” Evian asks. I have to admire her calm. Even police officers will be freaked out at having a gun pointed at them but it doesn’t show in the least.

  “Because of the poison.” Stéphane waves his free hand in the air as if frustrated with everybody’s incapacity to follow along. “I didn’t give him the poison. But I had to sit with him until the end. And it took too damned long!”

  I exchange a look with Clothilde. I was poisoned?

  “Why did you have to sit with him?” Evian asks. “Why not take him to the hospital?”

  Stéphane snorts in derision. “As if that would have done him any good. He got a quadruple dose to make sure it’d be quick.”

  “Who gave him the poison?”

  “Who do you think?” When Evian doesn’t offer a proposition, Stéphane jerks his head in Lambert’s direction. “He’s always been the one calling the shots.”

  I’ve been keeping an eye on Lambert but so far he hasn’t moved a muscle since Stéphane pulled his gun. He hasn’t had any reaction to anything Stéphane has said and doesn’t seem overly bothered by the gun. Then again, it’s not pointed at him.

  Lambert stays cool in the face of this accusation. “I do not appreciate being accused of murder, Monsieur Petit. Unless you have proof, I suggest you retract your statement.”

  “I saw it! How’s that for proof?”

  “What exactly did you see, Monsieur Petit?”

  “You gave Robert that cup of coffee! Ten minutes later he was spasming on the floor!”

  “You saw me giving Monsieur Villemur a cup of coffee.” Lambert leaves a pause for effect and he offers a sigh that sounds like a long-suffering one that he’s doing his best to hold back. “I do not believe most people drop dead from drinking coffee.”

  Stéphane is still pointing the gun at Evian but most of his attention is on Lambert. I think that between the two of them, Doubira and Evian could take him out when he’s so distracted but I suspect they choose not to. They want to see how this conversation plays out.

  “You told me you were going to put something in that coffee,” Stéphane insists. “Then I had to bring Robert to the back room so he wouldn’t draw any attention. Ten minutes!”

  “Monsieur Petit,” Lambert says, and there’s steel in his voice now. “Did you see me put poison in the coffee? Did you see what poison it might have been? Do you have any proof?”

  “But that’s…that’s…you were supposed to— He couldn’t— I know you did it!”

  “Like I said, Monsieur Petit. I do not appreciate foundless accusations.”

  “They’re not foundless!”

  Stéphane’s gun is no longer pointed at Evian. It’s halfway to pointing at Lambert instead but I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose. I can’t be certain since most of my focus is on Lambert and Stéphane, but I think both Evian and Doubira have their hands on their weapons.

  Stéphane’s panicked voice is about an octave higher than usual. “My accusations aren’t foundless since they’re the truth! You were going to poison Robert because he suddenly changed sides. Instead of being your lackey he decided to investigate the murder of Mademoiselle Grand and that wasn’t in your plan.”

  Investigate? Had I decided to question the orders I’d been given?

  I see no sign of nerves on Lambert. The man is made of ice. “Foundless accusations, Monsieur Petit. Find proof or stop talking. I may have to sue you for defamation—in front of the police, no less.”

  Uh oh. Stéphane is reminded that he’s waving a gun in a room with two police officers. Except his gun is no longer pointed at them, it’s now aimed at the unarmed lawyer.

  Evian and Doubira saw it coming, though. They both had their guns in hand under the table and now swing them up to aim at Stéphane. “Put the gun down, Monsieur Petit,” Evian says.

  Weasel that he is, I honestly expect Stéphane to drop the gun. He was never the type to do well under pressure. A follower. A type I know well.

  But he doesn’t drop the gun. He firms his grip on the gun and points it directly at Lambert. “You drop your guns or I shoot the lawyer. He’s the one you want here. You won’t be able to solve your case if he’s dead.”

  “Shooting a man will guarantee you a short life behind prison walls,” Evian counters.

  Stéphane shrugs. “I can’t win this. The way I see it, my best case scenario is walking out of this building without handcuffs.”

  “And spend the rest of your days running?”

  Shrug. “If I must. It’s better than prison.”

  Evian sighs. “We cannot let you walk out, Monsieur Petit. You were a police officer. You know this.”

  “What I know is that I’m holding a gun to a presumed innocent civilian—who is also the guy you’re after, you simply need to prove it—and saving his life is more important than making sure I don’t walk free.”

  He has a point, dammit. If Lambert really is the brains behind the murders of dozens of young women going so far back as thirty years—and because of Clothilde I know this to be the case—then Evian can’t afford for him to be killed, just to catch an old fart who pulled the trigger on a dying cop.

  Clothilde sidles up next to me and asks me in a whisper, “Will they be able to get Lambert after that confession?”

  I shake my head. “They can bring him in for questioning and hold him for forty-eight hours. But if they don’t find some sort of proof, he’ll be free to go. Everybody is presumed innocent until proven otherwise, remember?”

  “But I know he’s the one who killed me.”

  “I know. But ghosts don’t work so well as witnesses.”

  “We can’t let your partner get away,” she says. “He can work as a witness. He’s our best chance in getting at Lambert.”

  “You’re right.” I move us both next to Stéphane. “I think Evian will pick up on it if we do something. But Stéphane is a lot less attuned to us, so we have to be loud, all right?”

  Clothilde flashes an evil grin. “I can be loud. What are we aiming for?”

  “Distraction,” I say. “We need to confuse Stéphane so that Doubira and Evian can take him down. And so that he doesn’t kill anyone i
n the process.”

  Evian gives us the opening we need almost immediately. “You win, for now, Monsieur Petit. We’ll put our weapons down if you promise to walk out without harming anyone.”

  When both police officers start lowering their guns, Stéphane’s attention is split between the guns and Lambert, who he’s still pointing his gun at.

  “Now!” I yell at Clothilde and jump on Stéphane, screaming my head off.

  Clothilde follows suit.

  Forty-Four

  Nothing goes as expected. But at the same time…Emeline is somehow not surprised when Petit jumps as if scared of something invisible, his eyes bulging and mouth opening in horror.

  And arms flailing.

  He still holds the gun but it’s not aimed at Lambert anymore. It’s pointed somewhere between the door and the ceiling.

  Emeline abandons the action of putting her gun down and instead aims it straight at Petit. In her peripheral vision, she’s happy to see Malik doing the same thing.

  “Put the gun down, Monsieur,” she says in her most commanding voice.

  Petit seems to be fighting with what Emeline would qualify as voices in his head, his eyes darting wildly from side to side as if trying to catch a glimpse of whatever he’s imagining, but his grip on the gun is still firm.

  And when Emeline speaks, his gaze focuses back on her.

  His arm lowers, the gun’s aim approaching Emeline.

  “Put the gun down or we will shoot,” Malik warns. His voice is solid, as is his aim.

  Petit doesn’t put the gun down.

  He aims his gun at Emeline.

  The hand holding the gun wavers a little and his left hand goes up to cover his ear. This man is seriously deranged. He should not be carrying a gun, especially one that seems to be a service gun. Why does he still have it?

  “Monsieur—”

  Malik doesn’t get more than one word out before Petit firms his grip on the gun and crooks his finger on the trigger.

  He’s going to bloody shoot.

  Malik gets there first. Without hesitation, he aims for Petit’s leg and pulls the trigger.

  Emeline throws herself to the floor. Chances are Petit will follow through on his action.

  A second bang goes off.

  Petit fired his shot.

  While she’s still falling, Emeline feels the air of the bullet flying past her head.

  On the floor—alive and ears ringing—Emeline keeps her grip on her gun and aims it toward Petit under the table and office chairs.

  Petit’s gun drops to the floor at his feet. Then the rest of the man follows; first one knee on the ground, then his rear, and finally his head and shoulders. He’s clutching at his left thigh, where blood is already coloring his pants, spreading out in all directions.

  Malik makes a quick call on the radio, calling for backup and an ambulance.

  Emeline decides to keep her gun on Petit while Malik approaches to relieve the man of his gun and to put him in handcuffs. Except, suddenly, she feels the need to touch her head, where the bullet sped past a short moment earlier.

  Her hand comes away bloody.

  Ah, looks like the shot was a little closer than she thought.

  She touches the wound again, trying to judge the quantity of blood pouring out. It doesn’t seem like a hemorrhage, although head wounds always bleed a lot. The left part of her jacket is already soaked.

  Malik, swearing, brings Emeline’s focus back where it should be—on their suspect. Emeline places her left hand where she thinks her head wound is and pushes down as hard as she can. It will have to suffice until the ambulance gets here.

  Malik is bent over Petit but not to put him in handcuffs. He’s making a tourniquet around Petit’s wound, his movements ragged and hurried.

  Why hasn’t he first secured the suspect? And the gun is still lying there, within reach.

  Emeline crawls around the table on one hand and two knees, her left hand continuing to push down on her own wound. She wants to get to the gun and then have a talk with Malik on priorities.

  She never makes it to the gun. When she comes around the table and Malik no longer hinders her view of Petit, her direction changes and she goes straight for the old man now lying prone on the floor.

  “What happened?” she asks. She grabs for Petit’s neck, looking for a pulse, but it’s complicated because her hands are slippery with blood.

  “I think I hit the main artery,” Malik says, his voice terse and clipped. His eyes are on his task, dark and focused, and the muscles of his jaw jump at regular intervals. “Now I think he’s having a heart attack.”

  Oh, no, he won’t. He’s not getting away that easily.

  Emeline lets go of her own wound, bleeding be damned. She dries off one hand on her leg and tries again for a pulse. She might have felt one beat but she’s not even sure.

  “I’m doing CPR,” she says and opens Petit’s shirt to make sure his airways are clear and to do the CPR directly on his chest. As he lies there, she’s reminded of how old this man is. They shot a man in his mid-seventies.

  They keep working on reviving Stéphane Petit until the paramedics show up. Lambert has apparently let them into the building but other than that, Emeline has no idea what the lawyer’s been up to since the shots were fired.

  The paramedics take over, their machines much more effective than Emeline and Malik with their bare hands.

  Emeline doesn’t feel too confident it will be enough, though.

  She moves away to sit with her back against the meeting room wall, wanting some calm to collect her thoughts but one of the paramedics, a small black woman with startlingly blue eyes, follows her with bandages and God knows what else in hand.

  “Will you let me look at your wound, officer?” The paramedic doesn’t wait for an answer and starts applying something to Emeline’s hair.

  “It’s nothing serious,” she says but lets the woman do her job.

  “I know.” Her smile is kind and wide. “But you’re bleeding a fountain and I think it’s best if we don’t scare the shit out of the civilians you’re bound to run into when you go back outside. Besides, even if the wound itself isn’t serious, if you lose enough blood, that can become a problem.”

  Emeline enjoys the attention during this short little break.

  Lambert is still there. He’s staying out of the way, leaning against the wall not far from the door, his hands in his pants pockets and a perfectly neutral expression on his dignified face as he observes everything. His eyes meet Emeline’s across the room and though his face doesn’t really change at all, Emeline gets his message loud and clear.

  She has nothing on him and her key witness was just rushed out of the building on a gurney.

  He’s going to a walk free.

  Forty-Five

  Stéphane isn’t going to make it.

  Clothilde and I both hover over Evian and Doubira as they do CPR and then over the paramedics when they arrive. We try to not step through anyone, in case they’re sensitive enough to be bothered by it but I’m not entirely certain we succeed. In any case, everybody is focused on the dying man on the floor.

  “What happens if he dies?” Clothilde asks, her eyes laser sharp and her mouth in a thin line. “Does what he said still count as a testimony against Lambert?” She hovers with her face mere centimeters from Stéphane’s chest, looking for signs of a breath or a heartbeat.

  I sigh. “They can put it in the report and it will go on record—but it’s not going to be enough to put away someone like Lambert.” It wouldn’t be enough to put away anyone, except if the testimony made the other guy freak out and admit everything.

  Lambert certainly won’t admit a thing.

  We watch the paramedics work for another minute, pushing air into Stéphane’s lungs and using machines to jump-start his hear
t. They move him onto a gurney.

  “Even if he lived, I don’t think it would have been enough to get to someone like Lambert,” I say. The man in question has been standing in a corner observing everything since the beginning. He doesn’t seem affected in the least, neither by guns being fired inside his meeting room, nor by the fact that an old man is dying.

  “We could have gotten more information out of him,” Clothilde says. “More clues about other people who could help.”

  I shrug. It’s a setback, but not a big one. I’m convinced Stéphane wouldn’t have helped us much anyway. In fact, the whole process of questioning him, of preparing his trial, of running after people he knew but who were surely not much more important than him in the large scheme of things, would just have taken up a lot of the police’s time.

  “The man has been involved in dozens of murders,” I say to Clothilde. “We know about several of the victims and have names galore of people we need to look into. We’re not exactly lacking in leads.”

  As the paramedics strap Stéphane onto the gurney, Clothilde bends down to pretty much shove her nose into Stéphane’s neck. “I think he’s turning into a ghost.” She looks up at me. “Is that possible?”

  I join her at the gurney, ignoring the fact that I completely cover a short woman making sure one of the machines is securely attached. I bend down to look.

  There’s a faint shimmer. Something white or gray, just below or running along the surface of Stéphane’s skin.

  “He’s already turning into a ghost,” Clothilde says with awe. In our cemetery, we only saw people emerge as ghosts after several days underground. But this is the first time we’ve been outside in the real world when someone passed away.

  “The first thing I remember is from being trapped in the casket,” I say.

  “I was aware of things happening around me during short periods,” Clothilde says. “I wasn’t completely in control of my mind until I was properly buried, though. I’ve never heard of anyone else that happened to. Maybe the ghost is always there from the start? It’s just that everybody don’t remember, or don’t come to at all until they’re under ground?”