Tash left her phone on the arm of the sofa. She’d had time to prepare her alibis for the day, in case Pierre-Gabriel asked any questions. But he didn’t; why would he? He never did. In the last ten years, she couldn’t remember his ever asking about her work, her tastes, or her cat. Pierre-Gabriel did his own thing, and the only things they shared were the house and sex, from time to time (the sex, not the house). She recognized that he was cultured, and they had the same interests. They had traveled together and enjoyed it, but it felt like being with an old friend, not a lover.
One of her alibis was shopping. She’d done it online with her phone from the corridor of the ICU, and they’d delivered her groceries less than half an hour ago, after she got back from the hospital. She’d saved herself the trip, the parking, the seemingly endless aisles in the supermarket, and having to carry bags from one place to another. She was becoming less and less tolerant of doing the Saturday shopping. Even less so when it was raining and people smelled like wet clothes.
But it was all the same, and it wasn’t important. Today was a beautiful, wonderful day, the best day she could remember for a long time.
She’d seen him. Henri had opened his eyes and she was there, alone with him, her hand holding his. She squeezed it hard, very hard, almost hurting him, while he looked at her with tenderness that was difficult to express with words. And the most important part: he’d spoken, whispered her name, and she’d heard it perfectly. Tashhh, dragging out the end like he used to seventeen years ago.
25
When she crossed the threshold of the ICU pavilion, Valérie looked at the time on her phone—quarter to eleven. Nobody wore a watch anymore, unless it was beautiful and expensive. She stood waiting.
Pierre-Gabriel was nervous. What was that old cow doing here? It wasn’t because she didn’t have an umbrella—the rain had decided to take a break a few minutes ago. She wasn’t going to get wet. He, on the other hand, was soaking up to his knees, and his shoes were absolutely drenched. Half an hour earlier, a squall had invaded the hospital complex, turning his umbrella inside out and saturating everything not covered by his raincoat.
Valérie was happy. Henri Pichon had changed her life, and now he was awake and recovering rapidly. A few hours earlier, she’d gone out in order to leave him alone with Tash after he woke up. Seeing as everything was in order, Yvette went home and would return on Sunday with Etienne.
While Valérie sat waiting on one of the orange plastic chairs screwed to the corridor floor, the doctor made an entrance. But he wasn’t there to see his patients—he sat by her side to get to know Valérie better. They were there for almost two hours until Tash came out and joined them.
“He went back to sleep. He spoke a little, but he finds it difficult and gets tired.”
“That’s normal,” said the doctor. “Take into account that he’s been out of the coma for less than twenty-four hours. Now we have to let him rest and let time do its job.”
“I’m going home. My shopping will be delivered in half an hour, so I have just enough time to get back.”
“I’ll take over,” said Valérie as she stood up.
“OK,” said the doctor, smiling, “but only until a quarter to eleven—then I’ll take you out to dinner. Your protégé is out of danger and also needs some peace and quiet.”
“I’ll follow your advice.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs at the pavilion exit. I’ll try to be on time if my patients let me.”
When Valérie left Henri’s room to join the charming doctor, the patient continued to sleep peacefully. A middle-aged man was sitting in the corridor. He greeted Valérie politely.
A young man came over to Valérie, umbrella in hand, and they left together. Pierre-Gabriel let out a sigh of relief—his path was clear now.
He entered the building, looked at the main stairs but ignored them. He opened a door marked “Restricted Access, Medical Staff Only” and walked down a long corridor to discover another staircase and the forklift. The first floor was mainly technical, and at that hour only staff were on duty working in the wards, so he didn’t run into anyone. Thinking fast, he grabbed a white lab coat.
Pierre-Gabriel raced anxiously up the stairs to the intensive care floor and looked through the windows—the corridor was clear. He exchanged his raincoat for the lab coat, which released a funky smell mixed with cheap macho-macho cologne, and he couldn’t help but grimace. He folded the wet raincoat neatly and put it in a green bag with his umbrella. He looked through the windows again, and nothing had changed. In the glass bubble of the nursing ward at the other end were the silhouettes of two seated nurses, who were chatting with their backs toward him. Pierre-Gabriel quickly pushed open the doors, crossed the corridor, and went into the ICU.
He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was nobody in the room except the four same coma cases as last time; the rest of the beds were empty. The adjustable screens with green separation curtains created an unsettling effect. A chill ran down Pierre-Gabriel’s spine, but he got ahold of himself. He’d come here to give his future a chance.
Hundreds of millions of euros were reason enough to take drastic measures. And not-so-drastic ones—this was about prolonging Pichon’s coma for a little while, not sending him into the afterlife. He’d spent a part of the afternoon researching induced comas online, learning how to provoke the coma state in people with very severe trauma. The problem was that you couldn’t improvise with the doses, and it wasn’t his place to play apprentice. He would have abandoned the idea had he not remembered something the doctor mentioned the previous day: “Not everyone is in the same state. This patient, for example, is in an induced coma.” It would be enough to apply the same treatment to Pichon.
It took him more than ten minutes to find the patient in the induced coma, and he still wasn’t 100 percent sure. Pierre-Gabriel took out a small LED flashlight and tried to decipher the label on the bag of yellowish liquid hanging near the bed. It was the name of the inducing medicine, no doubt, but which one? And where would he find it? Surely in the nursing ward. At a pharmacy? Definitely not, especially not without a prescription.
Pierre-Gabriel’s mind went blank, and he felt cold sweats and a migraine coming on. Then suddenly, he made a decision. He went to the door and made sure there was no movement outside. He stood beside Pichon’s bed to confirm he was still asleep, then went back over to the patient in the induced coma. With the help of his flashlight, he tried to discover how the medicine transmittal worked. After thinking for a while, he put on some latex gloves to avoid leaving any trace, closed several valves, and pulled the tube to disconnect the bag. Then he quickly took the bag from the induced patient and carried it, dripping, over to Pichon’s bed. There he did the same thing with Henri’s IV, swapping it with the other bag. Minutes later, he’d connected Pichon’s bag to the induced patient.
Pierre-Gabriel almost slipped on the liquids he’d spilled. He took off the lab coat and used it to dry the footprints and puddles on the floor. Then he went out the door, not daring to look at Pichon as he walked by his bed.
He reached the end of the corridor without being seen, then retrieved his damp raincoat and umbrella—but he didn’t throw the lab coat into the green bag. He thought it best to take that with him and not leave any memento of his time in the hospital.
It was almost midnight when he stepped out onto the dark, wet street. The clouds poured down all their rage on him, but Pierre-Gabriel didn’t notice. He didn’t even open his umbrella, where the white hospital coat was hidden. He marched down Boulevard de l’Hôpital toward the Seine, crossed in front of Gare d’Austerlitz, and reached the river in no time. He crossed Place Valhubert and went down to Quai Saint-Bernard, walked until he passed the last of the river barges, and at last felt relief when he threw the lab coat into the black water.
Pierre-Gabriel recovered his composure and courage immediately.
He decided to go to the nearest subway station and head home. It was more discreet than taking a taxi and left less of a trace.
26
Not a minute had passed since Pierre-Gabriel fled, after completing his dirty work, when the curtain of one of the empty beds near Pichon’s moved. A silhouette appeared in the shadows, stuffing something into his pocket.
A middle-aged man peered into the corridor and, seeing the coast was clear, lunged toward Henri’s bed, confidently disconnected the bag that Pierre-Gabriel had swapped, then went over to the bed of the induced coma patient and did the same. Everything was in order, and he hadn’t spilled a single drop.
He stayed for a few minutes, looking at Henri, before leaving discreetly.
It was midnight when Herbert Lenoir abandoned La Pitié-Salpêtrière, trying to understand what could have caused Pierre-Gabriel to commit such a barbaric crime. Once again, his old bloodhound nose had allowed him to avoid the worst.
This investigation was going to be more complicated than he expected. He still hadn’t decided whether to call Jean-Philippe right away or try to find out more first. He had a feeling that he hadn’t been told the whole story.
He’d been following Maillard’s son-in-law’s every move and taking notes since the day before. Until now, Pierre had seemed like a normal, hardworking guy. The previous day, he’d left the office late at night. This morning, he’d been out to buy breakfast at the bakery near his house, and an hour later he was again working at La Défense.
What didn’t fit in was his visit to Pichon, and even less his fiddling with the IV bags. Maillard had asked him to also look into Pichon: a responsible, admirable programmer who had been in a coma for a week after an unforeseen accident. What was the relationship between the two?
That night, the detective assigned by Lenoir to cover surveillance called him to report an anomaly. Pierre-Gabriel de La Valette was hiding at La Pitié-Salpêtrière, and he was guarding the intensive care ward where Henri Pichon was recovering.
Lenoir didn’t hesitate for a second: he grabbed his little video camera and headed to the hospital. When he arrived, Lenoir’s man was waiting at the door under an umbrella that barely kept away the falling rain. Lenoir realized that Pierre-Gabriel was lying in wait, his eye on the door to the ICU.
Lenoir decided to go up to Pichon’s ward and leave his detective watching the suspect, with instructions given in case Pierre-Gabriel left the hospital. If he decided to enter the hospital, Lenoir would personally take care of what happened inside.
Lenoir went up to the ICU and, seeing that Pichon was resting peacefully with a woman by his side, waited patiently in the corridor. The woman stepped out a few minutes later, and he greeted her politely. A moment later, his assistant called to say that as soon as she’d gone, Pierre-Gabriel had decided to go in.
Lenoir couldn’t keep waiting in the corridor. If anything were to happen, it would be with Pichon. He decided to hide in the room, camera in hand.
The rain brought him back to the present. Pichon had narrowly escaped disaster.
Lenoir called his detective. “How’s everything going?”
“He’s heading toward the subway. He threw something white into the Seine.”
“The lab coat, not important. Carry on as agreed. Call me if anything weird happens again.”
“OK, boss.”
27
Pierre-Gabriel was shivering on a subway train, drenched to the bone. He couldn’t feel his feet anymore. He had planned to go straight home.
Suddenly he felt his right leg vibrating even more, and he was worried about the strange sensation until the ringing started. Startled, he undid his raincoat as best he could, given that the buttons didn’t want to pop out of the rigid wet holes; dug his hand into his pocket; and pulled out his shiny new cell phone, which looked more like a portable TV.
He struggled to use the touch screen and answer the call with his cold, wet hands. But at last he managed, answering in an irritated tone. “I’ve told you a thousand times not to call me at this hour. I could be at home.”
“But you’re not—how did it go?” asked a pleasant female voice.
“Fine. I swapped his IV bag with one from a patient in an induced coma.”
“Great idea! You sound a bit strange, anything wrong?”
“I’m in the subway soaked from head to toe, freezing cold, with a migraine coming on,” he answered, raising his free hand to his temple.
“Come home. I’m alone today. I told him not to come over, that I wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to see anybody. We’ll put your clothes in the dryer and have a drink. I have a surefire remedy to warm you up and heal migraines. I’ll even iron your clothes so they look good. Did you have time to get some dinner?”
Pierre-Gabriel stopped for a moment to think before replying to such a tempting offer. She was a special woman, and they had a dangerous relationship—or, more precisely, they were having an illicit affair that had lasted more than ten years. She emanated sensuality and passion and had a chilling severity that bordered on sadism. It’s not that he was a masochist or anything, but he felt an irresistible attraction to her.
He stretched out his arm until the watery sleeves of his raincoat, jacket, and shirt rolled up enough to reveal his luxury watch. It was already after midnight, and if he went back home, he’d have to arrive soaking wet, eat the usual four seasons pizza, and give explanations. But if he went to meet his mistress, he’d get home even later and still have to give explanations—only they’d be more complicated. He already needed to call now to say he was working late.
“We haven’t seen each other since you’ve been working for him,” said the pleasant voice, trying to encourage him.
Pierre-Gabriel remembered that Tash had bought him four-cheese and anchovy pizzas, as well as ones with herring and onion. Another subway car went by in the opposite direction, causing a sudden gust of air, and a cold shiver ran through his body.
“It’s better for me to go straight home, I don’t feel well. And tomorrow I have to carry on with our issue. Our friend Pichon is a perverse genius, and I’m finding it very hard to locate what I’m looking for. Time is running out.”
“Whatever it takes for our future. Call me if you find out anything.”
“You too.”
Pierre-Gabriel hung up without saying good-bye. He wasn’t feeling well at all.
28
It was Monday at last.
Tash hadn’t been able to leave the house all day Sunday, and her nervousness bordered on hysteria, which she found highly difficult to control.
Pierre-Gabriel had spent Sunday in bed with a fever, eaten up by impatience, watching time slip away.
Someone called Pierre-Gabriel’s cell phone repeatedly from a hidden number until he picked up angrily, responded with grunts, and yelled, “Get a life. Call an operator, but for God’s sake, don’t call this number again. I’m in bed with a fever, and I want to rest.” There were no more calls.
Jean-Philippe had an appointment first thing in the morning with Silvano Garibaldi, a programming expert who’d been looking at Henri’s transaction programs since Friday afternoon, trying to analyze and discover how the pennies were being routed.
Herbert Lenoir and his detectives had a boring Sunday and wanted a bit of action to justify their elevated fees.
Henri Pichon was getting better. He spoke and listened normally, they’d exchanged his feeding tube for solid food, he’d been to the bathroom by himself, and he’d asked for Tash a million times.
On Saturday evening, Pierre-Gabriel had arrived home in a pitiful state. The rain had caught him again on the way from the subway, and he didn’t have an umbrella to protect himself. He’d abandoned it on the seat intentionally before leaving the train. It formed part of the story that his numb brain had barely managed to muster as an excuse.
He wen
t inside and shuffled to the living room, where a faint light flooded the hallway, indicating that perhaps Tash wasn’t in bed yet.
He stood there like a child, dripping on the parquet, waiting for someone to make it all better.
Tash peered over her book to examine him from head to toe, not quite understanding what her husband was doing there all stiff, not saying a word, waiting, putting on a “poor me” face. Finally she understood the situation and jumped up from the sofa, throwing Émeraude on the floor. The cat protested with a shrieking meow. This was turning into an unpleasant habit.
After turning up the thermostat, Tash took Pierre-Gabriel into the bathroom and started to fill up the tub. While she went about undressing him, he shivered and wheezed heavily. She helped him step into the hot water, and he went along with it like a small wounded animal. She stayed by his side the whole time to make sure nothing happened.
About an hour later, when she was sure the chills had gone, she carefully helped him out of the water and into a fluffy warm bathrobe that she’d left on the radiator. Once he was nice and dry in his blue flannel pajamas and woolly bathrobe, which she always thought was horrible but still got the job done, she forced him to have one of those instant microwave soups that taste amazing when you’re very hungry.
Then she put him to bed with an ample dose of medicine that supposedly cuts a cold short if you take it in time. She lay down beside him, hoping the medicine would work so tomorrow they could go and take care of Henri Pichon, each in their own way.
The Penny Thief Page 7