Lemaire suggested Burke discuss how the accident happened, as well as if anyone had been charged in connection with the incident. Burke took a minute to think and then said he’d describe what happened but couldn’t get into specifics about the criminal case.
“Fair enough, I guess,” Lemaire said.
Burke took a few moments to compose his thoughts, and then, with Antoine filming him from a meter away, he recounted what he remembered.
After he was done, Lemaire suggested a second take, urging Burke to put more volume into his voice and more drama into his words. The editor could be a pain, but Burke agreed and did a second take, which seemed to please the newsman.
“That’s much better. Now, we’ll need to follow this up soon,” Lemaire said after watching Antoine double-check the quality of the video. “Maybe tomorrow, Antoine can come back and do a follow-up video. You could talk about how you’re coming along.”
“I’m coming along OK, according to the doctors,” Burke said.
“OK, but you can be a little more dramatic than that,” Lemaire said.
“I’ll think about it.”
That was the most Lemaire would get out of Burke on the matter.
“Any chance you can type on a computer?” Lemaire asked, frowning at Burke’s extensive injuries.
“Only with one or two fingers on my right hand,” Burke said. “So I’m going to say no.”
“That’s a shame,” Lemaire said. “It would be nice to have you do some written blogs. No matter. That’s not a big deal. We can work around that. Right now, the video blogs will be fine. You’re a hot commodity, Paul.”
Burke didn’t feel so hot. For the first time, he wondered about his new TV gig. He doubted the station would wait for him to recuperate. Television worked with the here and now. In a few months, he’d be just a distant name in someone’s memory.
Lemaire and Antoine excused themselves and left. Moments later, though, the big man was back in the room.
“I told François I forgot to tell you something about working on your next blog,” Antoine said. “I didn’t want him around when I ask you if I have anything to worry about from the flics.”
“What?”
“Do they know about our hack into the city video system?” Antoine asked with a worried expression.
“They know I was somehow involved in a hack, but they don’t really care who got into the system,” Burke said. “They wanted my information. The person who did the hacking is a small fish to them, so you don’t need to worry.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Antoine nodded. Then he smiled.
“That’s good,” he said. “Maybe we can work together again on something similar.”
“You mean another murder or hack?”
“I vote for both,” Antoine said, grinning.
Then he left.
A few minutes later, Hélène showed up. She was unusually bubbly, talking about new adventures at the café. After discussing a new menu she was working on with the chef, she leaned close to Burke’s bedside.
“I have a suggestion,” she said, smiling gently.
“For what?”
“You’re going to be in here for a while, and someone needs to look after your apartment,” Hélène said. “And then there’s what happens when you’re released and can go home. You’ll need someone to help you. I think that person should be me.”
Burke hadn’t thought at all about his apartment or what he would need when he was released. His mind had been tied up with his injuries and then with the Madame Marois situation.
She was right. He would need help, and there would be no one better than Hélène. But he didn’t want her to be a housekeeper or a nurse, and he told her that.
“I wouldn’t be there as either,” Hélène said. She blushed a little. “I’d be there as your partner.”
There it was. She wanted to move in with him, and this seemed the perfect time.
Burke’s heart beat faster. He had never lived with a woman before. He’d dated and had had a few extended female guests, but a full-time, live-in companion was an entirely new matter. He liked the idea.
“I accept your proposal,” he said with a smile.
“Excellent!” Hélène said, and they kissed.
Burke told her he would likely be in the hospital at least two more weeks.
“With your key, I’ll move in over the next two days,” Hélène said. “I’ll tell your landlady so she doesn’t think I’m squatting.”
Burke asked about her own apartment back in Nice.
“The lease is almost up, so this is perfect timing,” she said.
He wondered if she was actually just looking for a cheaper place to live, then dismissed the idea. Burke believed in their relationship. Now he just had to accept this new direction.
“I’ll pay my share of the rent, of course,” Hélène said, almost as if she had read his mind.
They kissed again.
“This will be perfect,” she said, beaming. “I’ll be close to the café, and I’ll be nearby to help you. And then when you’re better, you can pay me back.”
“Pay you back? How?”
“In a variety of ways,” Hélène said, “but I guarantee you will enjoy every one of them.”
THE NEXT TWO WEEKS drifted by in a routine of waking up, eating, doing physio, being updated on his progress by the doctor, getting visits from a handful of people—mostly Hélène, André Rousseau, Jean and Antoine—and trying to catch up on what was happening in the outside world.
Whenever she visited, Hélène had a load of stories about how well her move into his place was going, how much better it made her life and how she was looking forward to when they would share the apartment. She also disclosed she had changed his ragged bedroom curtains for something lavender-colored and willowy.
One day, he received a new visitor—a producer from the Nice TV station that had wanted to use him on the sports program. Burke expected he was going to lose the gig and paycheck.
But the producer surprised him, saying the job offer remained.
“A lot of people have been watching what’s been happening to you,” the producer said. “We’ve kept them up to date on your progress and have been promoting your participation on our panel.”
Burke was relieved. The TV gig would never make him rich, but it would pay a bill or two.
Another day, Fortin and Côté showed up.
“You won’t likely be called to testify in a courtroom,” Fortin said, forgoing any small talk. “It seems the lawyers for Madame and Gabriel Marois are ready to work something out.”
“But how could they do that? I mean, they plotted to kill Vachon—and then they killed him. That’s murder.”
“I’m aware of that,” Fortin said.
“And they tried to kill me,” Burke said, getting angrier by the second at the idea of some kind of plea bargain.
“There are other matters involved, and I can’t disclose them to you,” Fortin said.
Burke couldn’t change anything, and so he tried to calm down.
“Have you found out who drove the second car that hit either Vachon or his minder?” Burke asked.
Fortin shrugged. “Not yet, although we know it was the minder who got run over by that second vehicle,” he said. “We’re confident it was a genuine accident for that driver, though he or she should definitely not have driven off. If we find out who that person is, there will be charges, but we aren’t pushing hard to find out the driver’s identity. Right now, it’s just a case of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Fortin told him he wouldn’t be making any more visits. He had all the information he needed for the Marois and Petit cases.
“You’ve been a pain from time to time these last two months, Monsieur Burke, but you’ve helped us in subtle ways that allowed us to resolve the cases.”
Burke recognized he was being thanked.
“And because of our
successes in making good arrests, we are no longer being hammered by the media and the politicians and everyone else,” Fortin said. “In fact, we’re receiving praise from some quarters.”
Burke wondered if Fortin had been promoted.
“So, thank you, monsieur,” Fortin said, standing.
“You’re welcome,” Burke replied.
“And I say this with all respect, I hope I never see you standing in my office or in my police station again,” Fortin added and then left.
Burke watched him disappear.
He had the very same wishes as Fortin.
FOUR WEEKS LATER, BURKE was released from the hospital. Hélène and André Rousseau collected him and took him home.
Using a cane with his good arm, he struggled up the stairs to his apartment, but he didn’t complain. He felt fortunate. The medical staff at the hospital had done a superb job mending his injuries without further surgery, and he was improving by the day. Still, the routine at the institution had been stultifying. He had ached for fresh air and freedom.
When Hélène opened the door to his—their—apartment and Burke shuffled in, he was met with a cry of “Surprise!” from Jean, his wife, several villagers, Lemaire and Antoine. Instantly, a lump formed in his throat.
And so he visited and partied with his friends until he ran out of energy and sought the comfort of his bed in the bedroom, which looked surprisingly good with the new lavender curtains. He didn’t mind at all that the celebrations kept going on despite his absence.
A month later, the two Petits were sentenced after pleading guilty to different charges.
Léon Petit got life imprisonment for the assassination, or premeditated murder, of Pierre McManus. His guilt in the killing of Mark Den Weent guaranteed he would never be released. During the sentencing, he said nothing and barely moved. In one story, a reporter described Petit as being “sphinx-like” as he heard his future.
Karin Petit received six years for attempted murder, her lawyer arguing with some success that her mental capacity had been eroded by overwhelming concern for her son’s well-being.
A week after being incarcerated, Karin Petit suffered a fatal heart attack.
After Léon Petit heard about his mother’s death, he waited a week, then committed suicide in his cell.
When Burke learned about their deaths, he felt strangely depressed and even sought out André Rousseau for a beer so they could bid some kind of adieu to the Petits—two lost souls soon to be forgotten except in the annals of the Tour de France.
Two months after that, Gabriel Marois pled guilty to assassination. He got the same sentence as Léon Petit.
Before sentencing, Gabriel Marois’s lawyer argued his client had been driven by uncontrollable revenge to kill Vachon. He explained the head of FP Developments had once been business partners in both real estate and various developments with Gabriel Marois’s father, and had victimized him through some insider trading that had never come to light and couldn’t be proven in court at the time. Vachon had profited hugely, while Gabriel Marois’s father had lost almost all the family fortune and suffered such shame that he’d died a broken man, a weakened heart finally claiming him.
Moreover, it turned out Gabriel had largely turned his back on political activism years before for a career in small business, using financial support from his mother. Madame Marois hadn’t rejected him. She’d kept loving him, and they had reconnected after his prison term and after the death of Gabriel’s father. They made a pact that, one day, if the opportunity came, they would kill Yves Vachon, and until then, they would keep up a semblance of antipathy toward each other to avoid being linked to Vachon’s death whenever they had the opportunity to dispose of him. In the meantime, they found ways to see each other, driving thousands of kilometers each year to prearranged places for short visits.
The opportunity to deal with Vachon had come when he started to spend more and more time on his Riviera super development, not knowing that Madame Marois lived a short distance away. When protests erupted around the development, Madame had contacted Gabriel, and they agreed they could masquerade Vachon’s murder as the work of a crazed protestor.
Madame Marois’s age was a mitigating factor in her sentencing. It was also discovered she was suffering from the early stages of vascular dementia. Doctors suggested she sustained microscopic bleeding of the brain as a result of being in her car when it slammed into two people and later into a stone wall. In turn, those two incidents prompted some minor strokes. Considering her age and her deteriorating mental condition, the judge sentenced her to five years for conspiracy to commit murder, but not in a prison. Instead, she was sentenced to a mental health institution after doctors testified she wasn’t likely to live more than another two or three years, given her rapidly failing health.
One day, on a whim, Burke went to visit the old woman in the hospital.
They sat opposite each other in a large, sterile room among other visitors and patients. Hospital staff were tucked in corners to ensure nothing went amiss during any of the conversations.
Madame Marois stared at Burke like he was a dot on a wall.
“Do you remember me, Madame?” he asked.
She stared and said nothing. He studied her eyes. Was she playacting like she had been all those times at Claude’s café, her vision fixed on the opposite wall? Her eyes remained glazed, and he thought she was truly someplace else.
“I live—lived—near you in Villeneuve-Loubet,” Burke said. “I’m a cyclist. You were in the car that ran me off the road. I was badly hurt, but I’m much better now.”
Madame continued looking ahead.
“How are you feeling?” Burke asked, knowing it was a dumb question since she was in a mental hospital and, physically, looked even frailer than before.
Nothing from Madame.
“I know the story about your husband and Yves Vachon,” Burke said. “Vachon was not a good man.”
No reaction.
He looked around. The place was totally depressing.
“I see your dog Plato all the time,” he said. “He’s doing very well. Jean and his wife are treating him to all kinds of walks.”
Not to mention all kinds of treats. Plato was at least two kilos heavier than he’d been a few months earlier. On a small Jack Russell frame, Plato was looking a little chunky.
“I miss him,” Madame said, breaking out of her trance. “Who did you say has Plato?”
“Jean, the newsagent in our village,” Burke said.
He could see Madame trying in vain to put a face to the name.
“Would you ask him to visit me, please?” Madame said.
Jean, as bid, paid Madame Marois a visit the next day. Afterward, he came knocking on Burke’s door, with Plato on a leash at his side.
“I met with the old lady this morning,” Jean said. “She’s in rough shape, but she knows one thing: She wants you to have little Plato here. She says you understand him, and he understands you.”
“But you’ve been looking after him,” Burke protested.
“Yes, we have, and he’s a fine dog. But Plato is Madame’s dog, and we have to go with her wishes. I know you’ll treat him well, Paul.”
Jean handed Burke the leash and a bag that contained food, toys and a dog bed. The newsagent had a sad smile on his face.
As Plato strained at the leash to investigate his new apartment, Burke wondered about adding Plato to his life. He realized he was fine with the idea, even after Madame Marois had plotted to kill him. Plato was a grand dog.
“Who is this?” came Hélène’s voice. “Ah, it’s Plato.”
The dog rushed to greet her. It was clear they felt mutual admiration.
Burke explained Madame’s request, and Hélène looked at Jean with sympathy.
Burke had an idea.
“You know, Jean, they say it takes a village to raise a child,” he said. “I think it also takes a village to raise a dog. We’d love to have Plato with us, but only if we ca
n share him with you and Bianca. How about if Plato lives with us but spends part of his days with you folks while we work at whatever we do? That way, he gets the best of both worlds: a home with us, plus exercise and a chance to say hello to everyone when he’s at your shop. After all, he’s a very social dog.”
Jean smiled at the idea and looked at the small dog. “He is very friendly,” Jean said. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Agreed.”
They all shook hands, then looked at Plato, whose tail was wagging madly.
Standing there, Burke thought back a few months to what his life had been like.
It was definitely different now.
THE STORY AND CHARACTERS in The Bastard is Dead are fictional.
However, the issue of too much development along the French Riviera has its basis in fact. Many people are trying to figure out how to maintain the culture, beauty and accessibility of this special area of France. It will not be an easy task, given the limited space and the increasing day-to-day costs of living. The same challenge applies to Provence in general.
As for the Tour de France, which began in 1903 and has run annually except for breaks during the First and Second World Wars, it continues to attract twenty million spectators a year, all eager to view cycling’s preeminent race in one of the most beautiful countries in the world. The race has faced scandals in recent years, but organizers have corrected many of the problems, and today, it can be argued that professional cycling is tougher on itself in terms of doping than many other sports. As an event, its spectacle, beauty, difficulty and history are unparalleled. Whether you are a cycling fan or not, if you ever see a single stage in person, you will never forget it. The Tour de France is indeed special.
THE LEADER OF THE vintage bicycle race followed the Mediterranean coastal road around the bend and studied the next stretch ahead. It wasn’t going to be fun. The road ramped up at a 10 percent elevation gain—a steep climb for anyone riding a new, lots-of-gears carbon fiber bike, but a nasty challenge for someone using an old-time steel machine with half the gears.
The Bastard is Dead Page 30